Pirate Code

by Helen Hollick

  “You no hit my men! You bloody bastard!” he snarled in broken English. He made to draw his sword but with a hissing scrape of steel Jesamiah had his cutlass pressing beneath the man’s double chin.

  “You got something to say to me mate? If so, I suggest you say it with a touch more politeness. Savvy?”

  The leader’s hand went to one of several pistols thrust through a bandoleer across his chest. With speed, Jesamiah slashed with his cutlass, spinning the gun away, sending it clattering down the cliff face.

  “You make another move and it’ll be your hand I send over the edge. Now, shall we proceed or do you want to really annoy me?”

  Glowering, the Spaniard walked away, tossing over his shoulder, “I will not forget this insult, English.”

  “Viva the rebellion,” Jesamiah quipped as the line of mules began to move and ‘Cesca approached with his horse. He noted as he mounted that she had his coat over her mount’s withers. He grinned into the darkness as he encouraged his rescued mule to walk nicely beside his horse. Whatever was in these kegs, at least he now had hold of two of them.

  “I have a talent to make friends,” he said. “It’s keeping them I find difficult.”

  ‘Cesca laughed.

  Twenty Nine

  They had reached the woodland, the track winding dark and ominous through its overhang of gloomy shadow. Even the moon had deserted them, for the cloud cover had gathered in.

  One of the men ahead, apparently on foot for he had no horse, had pulled aside and was urinating against a tree. As Jesamiah rode past, the light from a lantern caught his face and hat. The distinctive ostrich feather.

  “Hey, you’re not with us,” Jesamiah said, partially looking back over his shoulder, then realising he had to duck under a low branch; cursed as another whipped back from the rider ahead and caught his horse’s face. Simultaneously, two distinctive flashes and loud bangs. The smell of smoke and gunpowder. Firearms! The animal tossed its head high, almost hitting Jesamiah’s nose, then, squealing, it shied violently sideways and the mule, bucking wildly, plunged forward. Jesamiah was thrown as the horse stumbled a few paces, tried to regain its balance then pitched onto its nose, quite dead.

  In a straggle of arms and legs Jesamiah tumbled down the steep hillside. He grabbed at a branch, which snapped, and grasped another which stopped his fall. Looked up in time to see the mule, still bucking violently, blood cascading from its flank, slip and fall downward crashing through the trees. The night sky lit up in a flare of light and a booming blast. Instinctively, Jesamiah ducked his head and threw his arm across his face as the woodland below him burst into flame. Gunpowder! The kegs contained gunpowder!

  Pistol and musket shots were pop-popping, the flash of sparks in the pans; the puff and acrid stink of smoke. Men shouting and cursing, horses neighing, mules panicking. Militia; Spanish soldiers; del Gardo’s men! Ambush!

  On his feet again, Jesamiah automatically had his pistol drawn. He took aim, sighted a man above him on the partially burning hillside; fired, did not wait to observe the resulting spatter of blood, bone and brain. Had other, more important things to think about.

  Scrambling upward, moving more by necessity than agility, his eyes were riveted on ‘Cesca and her horse which was rearing almost vertical. He shouted as she fell backwards, noting incongruously that she was clinging to his coat, her mouth open in a scream he could not hear above the shooting of pistols, muskets and the shouting. Riderless, the horse bolted, reins and stirrups flying, several equally as terrified mules galloping in its wake. Jesamiah bellowed her name, scrabbled that last yard upward and ran, arms pumping, feet scrambling for a foothold on the track that was already churning with spilt blood.

  A face, distorted by the killing-frenzy, loomed in front of him; reversing his pistol, he hammered the butt between the eyes and then stamped on the fallen man’s knee. Elbowed someone else aside – Spanish militia or rebel mercenary he never noticed. No time to reload, it was to be blade against blade at close quarters now.

  Men were using fired muskets like clubs. The noises were macabre: the scream of a dying horse and the bray of wounded mules. Grunts of effort and sharp intakes of breath; the occasional curse, and the clash of steel on steel. Men had no breath left for shouting. Every desperate effort was being put into staying alive.

  Jesamiah shoved his useless pistol through his belt and drew his cutlass; used it like an axe, holding the hilt two handed, swinging the heavy blade from side to side as he drove forward to where he had last seen ‘Cesca. Strike. Strike again, wrench the blade out from bone, guts and flesh. Ignore the sweet smell and sticky warmth of fresh blood; the sickening squelch as the blade sucked free.

  He killed a militiaman by slicing his bloodied cutlass blade through the throat. Where the bugger were they coming from? How had they known to be waiting here? Briefly he thought of the ostrich feather, the two men following them. How had they known they would be coming back down this track? Another enormous bang and whoosh of exploding air, and more of the dark woodland burst into bright-lit clarity, trees were on fire, the flames spreading westward, fanned by the wind. The few mules left fled onward down the track. Incongruously, Jesamiah had time to reflect that at least they were heading for Puerto Vaca.

  He slashed to the left, taking the cutlass through a man’s eyes, deep enough to sever into the skull and brain; whirled around, the momentum carrying the cutlass through its own weight to slice through another’s chest. The cutlass, a killer’s weapon, and Jesamiah, for all his congeniality, for all his charm, daring and humorous jesting, was a man who knew how to kill. Especially when he was angry. And he was. Very, very angry.

  He had no idea whether a single one of those barrels and kegs had any indigo or brandy in them, or whether they were all gunpowder. While the black powder was useful it was not exactly valuable.

  The smoke from fired guns was thick and choking although the bang, bang, bang, had almost ceased as the last bullets were fired. A few of the dying men were moaning for help; two injured horses were struggling to get up, but nothing, no one, was in Jesamiah’s mind except the need to reach ‘Cesca.

  The glint of a sword in front of him. He parried with his cutlass, the fighting madness devouring him, making him kill by instinct and reaction. A sweating brow; a black moustache. A leering grin a grimace of fear – glimpses only of men appearing briefly before him. Another silver blade lunging, hot fire along his arm, blood trickling down to his hand. He swept the blade aside, struck again, and again, and again with precision and strength, speed and ability. But his injured arm was growing heavy, his muscles weary. He would not be able to fight like this for much longer.

  Without pity; strike with your blade, kick with your feet. Do not think – do!

  Fight! It’s you or him Jesamiah! Fight! Malachias Taylor’s voice in his mind. Malachias, who had taught him how to stay alive.

  A pistol exploded beside his head, he jerked aside tripped over something, a root, a severed arm? Almost fell, recovered. Slashed at a shape beside him, felt an impact, wrenched the cutlass free, and plunged on. ‘Cesca was screaming, he could hear her above all the other sounds. Could see her – two men were dragging her, one by the arm the other by her hair. One of them had a lantern, its crazed whirling creating a moving pool of light around them as they plunged downward through the trees, away from where the fires raged. Blood was on ‘Cesca’s face, she still had his coat, was clutching it to her as if it were a shield.

  Something ricocheted off Jesamiah’s blade, a numbing shock shot up his arm, a pistol bullet most likely. He ignored the pain, glared into a pair of white, staring, eyes heard the hiss of a sword sweeping inward, but he jumped backwards and it glanced off his belt buckle. Instantly he stepped forward, slammed the hilt of his own cutlass into the wielder’s jaw with such force that it snapped the bone.

  He wanted to cry out to ‘Cesca, shout he was coming, but had no breath or energy. Someone else was blocking his path – how many were there for God
’s sake? Their blades grated with a shower of sparks as the steel ground together, blood-red blade sliding along blood-red blade until the hilts locked and each man held ground. Face to face leering at each other, breath hot, bodies exhausted.

  The taverner. The scar on his face unmistakable.

  “I’m on your fokken bloody side!” Jesamiah panted, heaving against the man’s superior weight, trying to push him off.

  For answer, a snarl and an elbow jabbing into ribs that were already cracked and bruised, and Jesamiah realised that Scarface was the one who was not on the right side. His cutlass felt like a lead bar, his arm so heavy, so very heavy. All the other wounds and abuses were betraying him, screaming their protest, the agony coursing with quivering tension across his shoulder muscles and rippling down his forearm. He would have to submit – would have to… Scarface thrust harder at Jesamiah, pushing him off balance. He staggered, stumbled, and fell backwards. Looked up to see his opponent’s blade, coming forward and down. Knew this was the end. Hoped it would not hurt too much.

  He shut his eyes, thought of Tiola. Her dear, sweet face. Her eyes that shone with laughter, the taste of her mouth, the feel of her body against his as he made love to her. Opened his eyes as he heard a shattering bang at close range and a startled grunt.

  Angelita, Juliana – whatever her damned name was – lowered the pistol in her hand and gave him a quick smile, began reloading it, the light of the burning trees more than enough to see by.

  “I thought you said nuns did not possess guns,” he panted from where he was sprawled in the blood and mud.

  Apart from the crackling and roar of flames, the moans of the wounded and the sound of the rising wind in the trees, the clearing had fallen quiet. The others would be making no more sounds.

  “We do not. This is not mine, it is his.” She nodded at another dead man nearby. The short, fat, Spaniard, the arrogant leader.

  Aye, short friendships, Jesamiah thought. “I think you’ll find this bastard here, was your tongue-tattler,” he said, nodding towards Scarface and pushing himself, grimacing, upright.

  The Reverend Mother, as bloodstained and gore-grimed as himself, nodded. “One of them. That is why I shot him, too many of our people have suffered because of the likes of him. As they say, dead men can tell no tales. But he was not alone, there is at least one other, a woman we think.” But she was speaking to herself. A shrill scream had sheared up from where the trees dropped away. ‘Cesca!

  Jesamiah sheathed his cutlass and hurtled down the hillside, her hysterical screams guiding him through the darkness as efficiently as any wrecker’s beacon luring the unwary ashore.

  He slithered a fair way, ducked beneath trees, slipped, fell and rolled. His face and hands were caught by clawing branches. He slithered some more, but was up on his feet and running. Shoving branches aside by instinct more than sight. The light dim, but because of the fires, enough to see vaguely by. He tripped over a fallen trunk, was up again. Clinging to a supple branch he jumped down an expanse of bare rock, stood, breathing hard, heart hammering, in an open clearing.

  Behind him, and way over to the left, the night sky was lit by the burning fires of the two gunpowder explosions. Nearer, a dim light bobbed through the darkness of the trees, coming towards him, coming closer. He moved quietly behind a rocky outcrop. Barely taking his eyes from the lantern, reloaded his pistol. He had done it so often he did not have to think about it, barely needed to look at what he was doing.

  Bending slightly, he rested his left arm on one of the rocks and steadied the end of the barrel on his wrist, only now, in the orange glow, noticing the gash that had sliced through his shirt and arm. It had already stopped bleeding. He’d had worse; it would heal.

  ‘Cesca had also stopped screaming. As the three entered the clearing she was no longer struggling, and only one of the men had his hand gripped on her arm. Jesamiah took several breaths to lessen his laboured breathing and narrowed his eyes; took aim.

  It was a good shot. Right between the eyes, the man with the lantern never knew what had hit him. One second he was alive, the next, dead, the lantern falling to the ground where it rolled down the slope, flickered and went out.

  Thirty

  For one whole minute the second man was transfixed, standing bolt upright, eyes staring like a startled rabbit; and then he grabbed the coat from ‘Cesca’s arms and fled.

  Jesamiah scurried for the dead man’s pistol, yanked it from his belt and taking a chance that it had been loaded correctly and would not go off half-cock, he thumped the hammer back with the side of his palm, aimed and pulled the trigger. A satisfying flash as the pan ignited, a billow of smoke, a bang and a second flash. The running man cried out, dropped the coat, staggered a few paces, his arms whirling like windmills and fell, face down.

  Closing his eyes in sheer exhaustion, Jesamiah leant one shoulder against a tree. He ought to check the man was dead. Ought to reload his weapon. Ought to go to ‘Cesca, but at that moment all he cared about was staying upright. And suddenly he did not even care about that. He sank to his knees, knelt there, head drooping against the tree, wondering if it would feel a lot better to just die and have done with it. Did not even feel the first few drops of rain.

  He could hear ‘Cesca weeping. Opening his eyes he looked across the clearing at her. There was enough diffused light to see, and the temporary blindness from the pistol flash had worn off. Like many sailors Jesamiah had good night vision. They needed it aboard ship, for apart from the lamp to illuminate the compass, and occasionally the stern lantern if in harbour or near other vessels, they did not use lights on deck when at sea.

  Holding on to the trunk he hauled himself upright, wandered the short way down the hill and after toeing at the man – he seemed dead enough – he retrieved the man’s hat and his own coat.

  “Are those real tears or are you putting them on for my benefit?” he said as he returned to ‘Cesca and stood about a yard from her. “You have been playing me for the fool right from the start, haven’t you?” He had dropped his own pretence at the common sailor’s uncultivated accent that he had used since sailing into Santo Domingo harbour. Jesamiah was an educated man, he could talk with perfect correctness when he needed to.

  “No,” she whispered, shook her head, “but what is the point of denying it? You will not believe me.”

  “Too bloody right I won’t!” He tossed the hat at her. “Oh you made plenty of noise when you thought we could still hear, but you got friendly with Ostrich Feather pretty quick, didn’t you? Did you suddenly decide to change sides, or did you know the bastard anyway? Are you his whore as well? Or maybe he’s your pimp? Oh, no, forgive me. My mistake, your pimp was Scarface. He’s dead. Don’t waste your tears on him.”

  The tears, however, were streaming down her face. “Please Jesamiah, you must believe I intended you no harm.”

  “You set them on me at the tavern. You had them beat me up. You knew we would be returning down this track with a load of sodding gunpowder, and you told them where to set an effective ambush. You have been making sure this rebellion does not get to fire even one shot right from the start, haven’t you?” He was shouting.

  “No! No,” she screamed, utterly distraught. “You do not understand!”

  “Understand? Understand! Oh I bloody understand. I understand that you are a liar and a traitor. That all those pathetic little tales of how bad del Gardo treats you were to make me feel sorry for you. Well I do feel sorry, I pity you; want to know why? Because you are worthless. You’re of less value than that strumpet I bedded last night!”

  “No!” she screamed again at him as she got unsteadily to her feet. “I am not a traitor! It was not me who betrayed you, it was her – that strumpet! Oh I’ve just found out all about her! Him over there,” she tossed a contemptuous look in the direction of the dead man, Ostrich Feather. “He always was a fool and he surpassed himself tonight! He blabbed everything!”

  She took a breath, ranted on, “Del Ga
rdo pays her – I don’t know why we didn’t realise it, Feather Hat, or whatever you call him, is her brother after all.” Her voice was rising shrill, almost hysterical. “He has just told me that Scarface tattled on Emilio to get the Sickle Moon, that was a fact he kept damned quiet from everyone, even his wife. My sin is that I suspected they were planning something for tonight but I said nothing of it to Juliana Maria, so all that up there is my fault! I should have told them del Gardo was watching the convent, but I didn’t!”

  “Of course you didn’t! You wouldn’t tell because you wanted to get this didn’t you?” As he was yelling, Jesamiah reached angrily into his coat pocket. He pulled out the casket and waved it under her nose, dropping the coat.

  “You knew this was at the convent but you couldn’t get your grubby little hands on it could you? You had to wait for the code word for it to be released from safety. Wickham was wise to you wasn’t he? He knew you were the bitch who led those traitors. He knew all you wanted was this!”

  He opened the lid and tipped out the contents, expecting only the solid gold crucifix to fall at his feet. Was not expecting the cascade of sparkling, exquisite, rare, diamonds to tumble from beneath the velvet.

  He saw ‘Cesca’s face, the dismay. Saw her look beyond him, heard her gasp, felt her hand reach to his chest and fiercely push him aside; then the sharp, deep, jolt on the side of his head. Thought, as he crumpled to the ground that he should have ensured her colleague was dead.

  Thirty One

  Señora Isabella Mendez passed to her God as the moonlight faded behind a bank of cloud. She felt no pain as she held Tiola’s hand, but smiled into the young woman’s eyes, knowing only peace awaited her.