Pirate Code

by Helen Hollick

  Looking as fresh as a dawn-kissed daisy, ‘Cesca’s smile was amused as she saw him surreptitiously ease at the seat of his breeches. “In discomfort?” she asked.

  “I ain’t fashioned for straddlin’ a nag,” he growled. The ride, added to last night’s beating, a flogging several days ago and not properly healed wounds from his brother’s vicious treatment were severely taking their toll. All he wanted to do, despite it being only early afternoon, was go to bed and sleep. Preferably forever, but if that was difficult to arrange, for a few years at least.

  A high ranking official swept down a flight of stone steps, her wimple billowing like sails come loose from the yard; hands folded into the drape of her sleeves. She acknowledged ‘Cesca with a slight nod of welcome, glowered fiercely at Jesamiah.

  Undaunted, he made as polite and graceful a bow as his body would permit, and rounded his speech into that of an educated Spanish gentleman.

  “Sister, I give you God’s good greeting, and crave your forgiveness for this intrusion into the sanctuary of your peace. We have come with a message for the nun called Angelita.”

  The sister’s eyes darted from him to ‘Cesca, back again, then she sniffed haughtily. In her late fifties, Jesamiah reckoned, and if she was innocent of a man, then he was a virgin. Her look of disdain was not merely because he was unshaven, with tangled hair, grimed hands and torn nails. Nor, despite his display of manners, had it anything to do with him being a knave and a scoundrel.

  Spurned by a lover? he wondered, or ill-used? Being deliberately provocative he gave her one of his most dazzling and lascivious smiles.

  Her look of iron made him lose the smile. “I know of no one here with that name.”

  Now why had he guessed she was going to say that?

  “Your Mother Superior, Sister, will know of whom we speak. Angelita’s mother is dying and wishes to see her.” ‘Cesca had a knack of being able to lower the cadence of her voice, to make it subtle and charming. The actress in her again. She could coax a bird down from the trees, Jesamiah reckoned.

  The nun’s antipathy softened somewhat. “Alas she is not here. She will be back tomorrow. You are more than welcome to rest in our guest quarters until then.”

  Thank God and the angels for that, Jesamiah thought, not relishing the pain of getting back on a horse again too soon.

  The nun beckoned to one of the novices gathered to one side of the courtyard and, pretending not to be interested in the newcomers, and sent her to fetch someone to take care of the animals; ordered someone else to escort their guests to the lodge situated to the rear of the convent. Before they turned a corner Jesamiah glanced over his shoulder, observed the sudden flurry emanating in their wake. A servant was cramming a hat on his head as he ran out of the gate, the sister, her habit lifted almost to her knees, was hurrying up a long flight of steps. The calm tranquillity sent into battle frenzy.

  Now what is going on? he thought. Clear for action? They’ll be running the guns out next.

  Twenty Three

  The afternoon dawdled by. The sun was hot, there was not much wind, although the heaviness in the air made it a reasonable assumption that the storms were not yet over. Flies buzzed, but not much else moved.

  Tiola had refused to return aboard Stefan’s sloop. Señora Isabella Mendez was dying; she needed someone with medical knowledge to ease her through the last few days of intense pain, and with an adequate strength to help Señor Mendez watch her die. Not that Tiola was certain she possessed that strength, but she could not, would not, abandon these elderly people.

  A lizard scuttled across the cool floor tiles. Tiola wished she had its energy.

  “I will not come back for you!” Stefan had shouted.

  “I do not want you to come back,” Tiola had answered mildly.

  “You are ill. How can you help that woman? You can barely stand on your own feet!”

  Had Stefan shouted it with even a hint of compassion, Tiola would not have answered as she had. “Then maybe we will die together. That will please you, will it not?”

  Unable to disagree, ashamed of his anger and the truth, the Dutchman had whirled on his heel, ordered the mooring ropes cast off and had sailed away an hour after dawn.

  Tiola was not a seer, she could not tell, or predict, the future, but she did know she would never see him again. She was sorry for it, for she had once been fond of him and all that had happened had not been entirely his fault. But would she see Jesamiah again? That was what worried her, not Stefan’s fate.

  She had to regain her strength, and gain it quickly. At least here on solid land she had more chance to do so. Hispaniola was so much larger than New Providence Island with its untidy sprawl of Nassau Town. Here there were rivers and fields and hills and mountains. Miles and miles of rock and earth. Here, Tethys could not reach her. Here, she could find herself and properly restore her ability of Craft. And then, once she had regained her strength, there would be nothing that Tethys, Rain, any one or any thing could do to stop her speaking into Jesamiah’s mind. Except for Jesamiah himself.

  Twenty Four

  The nuns called their rooms cells. Jesamiah could quite see why. Unpainted stone walls, a small grilled window with no glass, and not much more than ten feet by eight. Two blankets were on the bed; there was a shelf and a table on which stood a jug of water and its accompanying pewter laver. Nothing else. On one of the walls a crucifix was nailed; irreverently he hung his hat on it. His coat went on the hook behind the door and his boots, he tossed with a grunt of pleasure at their removal, to the floor. He chuckled. Not one of the nuns had dared find the courage to look directly at him, although he guessed several of the younger noviciates had been staring through lowered lashes. Wondering what they were missing?

  “You’re a bad lad, Jesamiah Acorne,” he said aloud as he put his pistol and cutlass on the table. “Thinking shameless thoughts about those dedicated virgins. All the same,” he added, “I’d not say no to showing a few of them me wicked ways. Not ‘avin’ done it before they won’t know ‘owt is wrong if I can’t get it up will they?”

  He stretched out on the bed, disappointed to find it was hard and unyielding. Soft down would have been nice; fell instantly asleep. Was awoken half an hour later by someone tapping on the door, and not waiting for a response, walking boldly in.

  Regarding ‘Cesca, one eye half opened, Jesamiah drawled; “D’ye make a habit of entering bedchambers unannounced? Or is the privilege reserved for me alone?” With a sudden thought he sat up, regarded her suspiciously. “You’re not plannin’ on chucking water over me again are ye?” He patted the bed to show it was empty, “I swear I ain’t abducted some innocent novice and ‘idden ‘er under the blanket.”

  Despite her resolve to be prim, ‘Cesca found herself laughing. He was so absurd! She amended her resolve, it had been a ridiculous one anyway. If I am falling in love with him, God help me, she thought.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed she folded her hands in her lap, took a few moments to gather herself. Jesamiah lay back, re-closed his eyes. She would spit out whatever was stuck on her tongue as soon as she was ready.

  “I have not been entirely honest with you,” she finally admitted.

  “I know.”

  ‘Cesca glanced sideways at him. “This is not easy to say, Jesamiah, please do not make it harder for me.”

  He grunted, threaded his fingers together over his stomach and waited.

  “Can I trust you?”

  Without opening his eyes he shook his head slowly. “I’m a pirate darlin’. The only thing you can trust about me is that you can’t trust me.”

  She smiled. A good enough answer. “There are things you ought to know.”

  “I’ve already guessed half of ‘em.”

  She looked up sharply, her breath catching; he could not possibly have guessed!

  “One thing’s for certain,” he said, sitting up and swinging his legs to the floor, “I’m laying a wager that Reverend Mother will be here
long before she was expected.” He went over to his coat, fumbled in the pocket, brought out what was left of the rum. Holding the bottle up he offered her a drink first, she refused. There was less than a quarter of it left. He drank most it straight down.

  “Ah, that’s better.” He wiped the residue off his moustache, “The only thing I ain’t figured is what the code words are for. I assume they’re just triggers.”

  Her brows furrowed, puzzled. “Code words?”

  “Sixteen and ninety seven. Nobody twitched until I said those numbers. It’s a date ain’t it?” He was walking about now, up and down the narrow cell, waving the empty bottle. “You all fair ‘opped a jig after I mentioned it. Even Señora Mendez.” He stopped before ‘Cesca, peered close into her face. “I’d lay a wager sixteen ninety-seven was the year del Gardo became Governor. Am I right?”

  He waited for her to answer. She said nothing. He continued his walking. “Alright, Angelita then. No such nun? I saw how that old biddy’s eyes flickered. The name means messenger, an’ that’s what I am ain’t it? A messenger boy.” He stopped in front of her, took hold of the hair at the nape of her neck and putting a finger under her chin, tilted her face upward. ”Jennings was wetting his breeches to get me here and the cunning old bugger managed to contrive it didn’t he?”

  ‘Cesca closed her eyes, visibly sagged. It was futile to deny everything. “The code has been in place for months. Wickham set it in case anything happened to him. As it unfortunately did. And you are right about the date and del Gardo. When someone came from Nassau and mentioned that date, in whatever disguised form, we were to take him to Señor Mendez.”

  “Who was primed with a second code word. His daughter’s name. Very clever. It was lucky I came across you right from the start then, eh?”

  She shook her head. “Luck had nothing to do with it. Diego – James – knew that if Jennings sent someone he would be picked up somewhere and eventually brought to me or Mendez.”

  “So you’re not spying for del Gardo then? You’re bluffing him?”

  She half shrugged. “I do what I have to do. We have our supports in all villages. Several at del Gardo’s court.” She smiled up at Jesamiah apologetically. “We were expecting someone to come. It took us a while to be certain you were the right person; we had our doubts that you would be released so easily into our care.”

  Jesamiah brushed his finger slowly down her cheek. His lips were very close to hers as he said, “Don’t you dare tell me I was beaten up last night as a way of making sure.”

  She gasped. “No! That was nothing to do with me!”

  He noted she had not denied it though. “That man with the ostrich feather hat. He was one of the bastards. He has been following us today. Is he del Gardo’s man?”

  Very steadily she looked at him. “I do not know. He could be. Diego Wickham always suspected Mireya.”

  He kissed her on the lips. Said, “And the indigo? Please don’t tell me there ain’t no indigo.”

  She gave him a half smile. “My father-in-law’s brandy is here, Diego brought everything to the convent for safe keeping, disguised as provisions for the nuns; flour, grain, and such. It is the one place del Gardo would not dare search.”

  Not quite the reassuring answer he wanted. He kissed her firmer, more insistent; moved his hand to inch up the folds of her skirt. “And what are you going to tell del Gardo about me?” he murmured.

  Half way to putting her arms around him she pulled away. “The day I keep quiet, is the day my son dies. I have to tell him things. I try to keep it trivial but convincing.”

  He nodded. “You told him about Emilio.”

  Emphatically she shook her head. “No. He already knew. I did go to don Damian to plead for my husband though. Do you blame me? I was trying to save Ramon and his father from torture.” She looked at him steadily, tears pricking her eyes. “They were arrested after helping their friend, Malachias Taylor and Mereno’s son – you – escape.”

  Puffing his cheeks Jesamiah sat on the bed next to her, his hands rubbing his thighs. Relieved. It was not Malachias who had betrayed Emilio then, thank God for that. He did not want to think of Malachias as a betrayer.

  “That information don’t exactly make me feel any better. Because of me, Emilio and his wife were hanged – your husband killed and Señor Escudero tortured.”

  The tears were beginning to trickledown her cheeks. She shook her head, took his hand. “No, not because of you. Because of whoever betrayed Emilio.” The tears were falling freely. “Del Gardo told me there was only one way to free my husband, and that was for me to sleep with him. I prostituted myself to get Ramon back. Only I didn’t know he was already dead.” She stared into Jesamiah’s eyes, hoping he would not despise her. “Months later, when he sent for me to become his mistress, I told myself it did not matter what I did, for I was already soiled and filthy from his foulness.”

  Very, very gently Jesamiah kissed her again, only this time he did not touch her. “You are not soiled or filthy, ‘Cesca. You are very beautiful. And if I were your husband I would be proud of you.”

  She rested her head into his chest and wept a little. Through her tears, sniffed, “Even though I must tell del Gardo something about you?”

  Jesamiah stroked her hair, lowered his hand to her back. “I’m sure we can think of something plausible to keep him happy.” He shrugged; “I think I already suggested it once, why not tell him you have discovered who Chesham is – was? Even Henry Jennings didn’t know it, so I suspect del Gardo would bust a gut to have the information.”

  She frowned. “Chesham?”

  “Aye, you remember, Chesham. The poor sod who died. I was told he spied for England, that his identity was a well kept secret. Tell del Gardo I came here specifically to find him for Jennings; that I am bloody mad I found him to be very dead.”

  She smiled, wiped at her tears. “I suppose it might be useful to tell him that.”

  Jesamiah stretched out on the bed, he was very tired, did, desperately, want to sleep.

  Turning slowly around, ‘Cesca laid her hand on his chest. “I was being silly last night and this morning. I’m sorry. I am scared for my son, and I so want to find a way to take him from del Gardo, so want to be free of that evil monster. But I am starting to love you Jesamiah Acorne.”

  She sighed, picked up his boots and took them with her. They needed soles and heels. A good clean. The nuns’ cobbler would make a good job of all three.

  Jesamiah was snoring gently. It seemed that making love with this pirate was never going to happen.

  Twenty Five

  Monday Evening

  The rage that consumed Stefan van Overstratten was a new experience to him. Yes, he had been angry before – bloody angry – but never in such a fury that his whole body shook and his legs turned to marrow jelly.

  He knew, knew, Mendez had lied to him! All his threats, his promises to burn the place to the ground, to throw the pair of them out into the wilderness had come to nothing. The Spaniard had consistently stated there was no indigo. Acorne had been there though, Stefan had discovered that much – a coin tossed to one of those skinny slaves. She had babbled it all; how a boat had tied up to the jetty, how the handsome man with curled black hair and a gold acorn dangling from his ear had swaggered ashore and then sailed away again. To fetch the indigo – van Overstratten was sure of it. Mendez was telling the truth, it was not at la Sorenta. Not now, neen. Acorne had it!

  The Dutchman’s anger multiplied and then turned against Jesamiah. The bastard had taken everything he had. His ship, his wife, his pride, his fortune. Well Acorne would regret it!

  He strode up and down the deck, peering every so often over the larboard rail. His sailing master had spotted a sail fifteen minutes ago – something large and moving fast, a distance off, but she had three masts, could well be Sea Witch.

  The fact that she could be any ship at all did not occur to Stefan. He was willing it to be Acorne, praying it was. Nor did it o
ccur to him that Jesamiah would not be with his own ship. There was no reason for him not to be, so why would he have even thought to ask Mendez?

  “There she is Sir!” One of the hands leant eagerly over the rail, pointing, grinning his triumph. Then his enthusiasm faded into disappointment. “Oh. It’s a Spaniard. Probably the guardship.”

  Van Overstratten grabbed the telescope from his sailing master, with shaking hands steadied it in the direction where the man pointed. It was all blurred. He could only see the sky, then sea, then… he swore. He had been so sure! So certain it was that pirate!

  “Spanish,” he spat as he shut the telescope with a snap. “You are right, a damned Spaniard!”

  “Begging your pardon Master van Overstratten,” the sailing master said with a certain degree of caution. “It is the English who are at war with the Spanish, not us Dutch. It would be perfectly in order for us to hail him. Would it not be possible that he has seen the ship we seek? Perhaps he would be willing to help? The Sea Witch would be a handsome prize for him to capture. And unlike us, he knows these waters.”

  Van Overstratten nodded. It made sense. Good sense. “Catch her up, flag her down, raise a signal flag – I don’t know, do whatever you have to do, just attract her attention. I need to speak with that ship’s Kapitein.”

  Twenty Six

  Monday Night

  The persistent knocking on Jesamiah’s door woke him from several hours’ worth of a deep sleep.

  “Fokken hell, where does a man have to go to get a decent rest around here?” He rolled off the bed, found his legs gave way as he tried to stand, a combination of rough treatment from various boots and fists and whips, and a horse’s unyielding backbone. He grabbed hold of the wooden bed-head, massaged some life into his inner thighs, bent and straightened his knees, grunting and wheezing as he did so.