Pirate Code

by Helen Hollick

  And then Tiola was with him. Tiola! Tiola!

  ~ Jesamiah? My dear? What is wrong? ~

  He stopped short, jerking to a halt, clung to a young tree for support.

  ~ Sweetheart, oh darlin’! Where’ve you been? Why weren’t you with me? ~

  ~ I could not be with you, I’m sorry. ~

  ~ No! You were with him weren’t you? You decided you’d rather have your husband than me? Well bloody stay with him! I don’t need you! ~ Stupid, irrational anger possessed him. He needed to hit out and Tiola was the one he punched.

  ~ No Jesamiah, I do not want him. I want you. I love you. Please, what is wrong? What is troubling you? ~

  ~ Nothing’s wrong. ~

  ~ Let me help you. ~

  He snapped a belligerent answer. ~ You can’t help me. No one can. ~

  ~ I can try. ~

  ~ No. Leave me alone! Go back to your husband. ~

  Tears began to course down Jesamiah’s face, masked by the falling rain. ~ I thought you had left me. I needed you and you weren’t there. ~

  All the compassion, the love, all her devotion to him flooded her answer. ~ I will never willingly leave you Jesamiah! Never willingly! I will always, always, be with you, unless I am kept from you by a force stronger than mine own. ~ Tiola wanted to be there with him, to hold him and caress him, to help him through whatever was so grievously tearing him apart, but she was at la Sorenta, and he was in the hills above Puerto Vaca – but distance had never hindered her before. It did not hinder her now.

  He felt a warmth seep through him, the feel of arms going about him, her breath on his cheek. Her smell was in his nostrils, her voice in his ear and mind. He was aware of every fibre of his being quivering as her soul blended into his. The ache in his bones eased, the soreness of the cut on his arm, the lashes on his back, all of it disappeared as she entwined her life-force with his, doing all she could to remove his mental and physical pain. But she could not reach where the stab had plunged and was twisting and twisting and tearing his heart into broken pieces. All she could do was mingle her tears with his and love him.

  ~ Tell me, ~ she said. ~ Why can you not tell me? ~

  He tried.

  ~ My father. My father he isn’t, wasn’t…~ But the words choked, his despair was too great for him to say the words that were driving him almost beyond sanity.

  He walked on down the hill, at every opportunity checking to see that Sea Witch was still there, at anchor in the harbour. What if they were about to sail? What if at the next glimpse of her through the trees he was to see canvas tumbling from her spars? What would he do if he were to see that anchor cable being weighed?

  Oh God, oh God, don’t sail. Rue, don’t sail! He ran a few paces to the next opening. By the Lady of the Sea, by the Queen of the Ocean do not sail!

  Tiola tried again. ~ How can I help? ~

  Again he repeated, abrupt and curt, ~ You can’t. ~ And he shut her out, slammed the door. The rage, the hatred, the pain, had totally consumed him, and only one thing, now, drove him. To reach Sea Witch and finish this.

  “Get a move on,” he yelled at the men, “Can’t these bloody beasts go any faster than a crawl?”

  The track turned and the harbour was hidden from view again. Another two miles, that was all they need go and they would be there on the jetty; another half hour, less, if they hurried. And then again the track twisted and he saw the mouth of the river and two other ships. Two Spaniards. One was the coast guard, the other, the larger one, he recognised as la Santa Isabella. Don Damian del Gardo’s ship.

  He fumbled for the telescope in his pocket brought it out, focused on the colours flying from her masthead. The flag of Hispaniola, and the personal pennant of its Governor. Del Gardo was aboard. He was here, not at Santo Domingo where the rebels were massing. He was here, and he was manoeuvring into position to blockade the harbour and blast Jesamiah’s beloved Sea Witch into firewood. He screamed at the men to hurry, to run, to shift their sorry arses. He could not wait for them; shouted at them to come as quickly as they could to the jetty, and abandoning the track, plunged down through the scrub and undergrowth, slithered over scree and rocks; went straight down the hillside, his gaze fixed on the roofs of Puerto Vaca and the masts of his ship, the Sea Witch.

  When the door of the Sickle Moon burst open, thumping against the wall behind, the men inside paused and turned, almost as one, to stare at the figure who was striding in. He was bloodstained and grubby, his breeches were torn, a few leaves were caught in his hair. His face and hands were scratched.

  He stood there, just inside the door the rain-laden daylight streaming in behind him, casting his outline into silhouette. But they knew who he was, and the men rose to their feet and shouted and cheered. They surged forward to embrace him, pump his arm.

  “Jesamiah, Jesamiah! Mon ami, mon brave, mon frère!” Rue did not know what more to say as joyfully he clasped Jesamiah’s hand then abandoned pride and hugged him close, kissed both cheeks. “You are returned, you ‘ave escaped? Ah oui, très, très bien!”

  “You think so?” Jesamiah retorted, as he extricated his wounded arm and firmly persuaded his quartermaster to release him. He glared at the crew’s eager faces; young Jasper, Jansy, Toby, Isiah, Nat. Nearly all of them were here, some with tankards of ale, others with tots of rum, most with empty platters on the tables in front of them with the remains of bread and cheese and ham.

  “Who is guarding the Sea Witch?” he asked gruffly. “I went to the jetty. There’s no one bloody there. So while you are in here, filling your bellies and waiting to take your turn in that bed I can hear creaking away upstairs, who is watching my ship? Who is watching your back and the harbour entrance?” His anger was intense.

  The euphoria died away. The men exchanged glances then looked towards Rue.

  “We ‘ave a watch, mon Capitaine. Men ‘ave remained aboard.”

  “And how many women are with them? If they are there they ain’t watching, Rue. La Santa Isabella is a few bloody miles away! We’re under blockade, we can’t fokken get out and at any moment it’s quite likely they’ll blow my ship from the water!”

  Thirty Six

  Always a stickler for discipline, not one of Jesamiah’s crew dawdled or dallied when he said jump. Within a flicker of an eye they were hurrying for the boats and pulling for the Sea Witch. The Kismet’s crew had also been ensconced in the Sickle Moon, Jesamiah sent them running to load the gunpowder that should soon arrive at the jetty. Before joining them, he had his own small task to complete.

  Taking the wooden stairs two at a time, he stamped along the corridor and kicked Mireya’s door open. She was naked, sitting astride a man, her head back, circling in time with her hips as she worked him to climax, her large breasts bouncing grotesquely against her stomach. Jesamiah grasped her loose hair and yanked her backwards. Her screech sounded like a scalded cat. The man’s roar of protest was abruptly silenced as Jesamiah’s cutlass rasped across the flesh at his throat.

  “You got an objection, Travis, you can make it to me later in my cabin. Not ‘ere, not now. Fetch up y’breeches put y’tackle away and fok off. I want a private word with the lady.”

  She was hurling abuse at Jesamiah, trying to kick out with her feet, scratch with her nails; hissing and spitting. Jesamiah had dealt with furious whores before, knew how to keep one at arm’s length. He pointed the cutlass at her belly, forced her to back away, shouted at her to shut up.

  “Shut it I said! Stow it!” He raised his fist, making it seem as if he had every intention to hit her. She screeched again, fled into the corner of the room, grabbing up her gown from a chair as she ran; clutched it to herself to protect her nakedness.

  “Now, I ain’t goin’ t’repeat this,” Jesamiah said. “Your pimp, or whoever he is, has buggered off with a fortune in rare diamonds. He’s probably half way across Hispaniola by now. I very much doubt he’ll be obeying orders and taking the casket he stole from me to Del Gardo. He’ll be finding a ship and
telling himself how fortunate he is to be rid of the fat slut he’s left behind.”

  Mireya hurled another string of abuse, cut short by Jesamiah’s cutlass pricking into her throat. “I’m doin’ the talkin’, not you.”

  He lowered the weapon, wandered over to a small table that held combs, brushes, hairpins and pots and jars. He sorted through the clutter, grunted when he could not find what he wanted, went instead to the clothes press at the foot of the bed. Throwing the lid open he tossed out, one by one, the few, badly folded garments. A none too clean lace-edged petticoat made him smile. He put down his cutlass produced a dagger from where it nestled within his boot, began to cut away at the lace.

  “You leave that alone you English pig bastard!”

  “I can easily make you keep quiet,” he drawled as he pointed the dagger at her. He ripped the last bit of lace and unthreaded the strand of blue ribbon that was woven through it. Cut it into two suitable lengths and rapidly braiding a few strands of his hair threaded the ribbons through it.

  “Now then,” he said, sheathing the cutlass but not the dagger, “I strongly suggest you pack what possessions you have, plunder your store of coin and find someone who has a little boat who can take you far away. Very far away. I wouldn’t advise you t’stay ‘ere, because they know about you y’see. They know what you are an’ ‘ow easily that tongue of yours clacks into the wrong people’s ears. I’m leaving ‘ere so I don’t give a shit about you. But there might be one or two on this island who aren’t as gentlemanly as me. Who wouldn’t stand ‘ere givin’ you a polite warnin’ but would merely remove your tongue an’ ‘ave done with it. Savvy?”

  He left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. Was not surprised to hear what sounded like the chamber pot and the chair crash against it, accompanied by the resumption of a torrent of foul language.

  The landlady, Madelene, was at the foot of the stairs, anxiously peering upward.

  “I reckon its ‘er wrong time of the month,” Jesamiah quipped menacingly as he pushed past her. “Yours too, you traitorous bitch. You were made a widow a couple of hours ago.”

  Thirty Seven

  ~You said you were going to help me. ~

  ~ No, Mother, I said I would think about it. ~

  Tethys whined as if she were a petulant child. ~You promised me. ~

  Rain made no answer, instead, she played with sending a spray of rain over a palm grove, and watched the leaves sway and bounce as she passed by. She paused above a mountain lake and studied her reflection in its perfect stillness. Was she pretty? No one had ever said she was. No one, not one person, had ever called her beautiful.

  She asked her mother.

  ~ Am I beautiful? ~

  Tethys was annoyed with her daughter. She slapped high waves up against a rocky shore and drove a tide inward into a river, washing away the banks and felling trees as she passed.

  ~ You? You are grey and black and you turn the land to mud. And when you lose interest you leave everything to dry and rot into dust. You? Beautiful? You are naught but an ungrateful wretch! ~

  Hurt, Rain ran away, not caring what destruction she left in her wake.

  She would ask the Witch Woman, she thought, but she could not find her. She searched, but still could not find her. Instead she saw the man again, he was striding up and down a wooden jetty, waving his arms at his men who were hauling barrels on to a boat.

  He looked magnificent as he walked, his black hair tossing, his blue ribbons flying behind him. She liked blue, it was a nicer, happier, colour than grey. She wished she could be dressed in blue.

  Wished the man could be hers, for unlike her, he and his blue ribbons were beautiful.

  And then they had finished with the barrels and he was stepping aboard the boat, and the boat, she knew, was going to sail upon the sea. He was going back to her mother!

  Thirty Eight

  Thunder was rolling in from the open sea; storm-black clouds were streaming overhead, building thicker and denser by the minute. If the storms they had already experienced had been bad, this one promised to be worse. The sea was churning into a rising swell that slapped and ground at the keels of the two Spanish ships lurking beyond the river mouth. That was one hope in Jesamiah’s favour, the wind was wrong for them. All Don Damian could do was ride the swell – and he would have to keep relatively clear, for too easily he could be blown on to the rocky shore on the western side, or into the mangrove swamp, where the water ran too shallow for his keel.

  In harbour, the Kismet was tugging at her moorings. Sea Witch anchored in the river, was lifting and dipping with each incoming wave that swept below her, to wash with a boom and toss of spray against the jetty and the shore. Jesamiah had secured his belt on the outside of his coat to stop it flapping and getting in his way. He tightened the buckle one notch. His cutlass, his pistol, bullet pouch and powder flask, had all gone across with most of the men to the Sea Witch. He would not be needing them aboard the Kismet.

  Ensuring the last keg of gunpowder was roped into place in the forward hold, he nodded at the landsman to cast her off, yelled for the topmen to loose sail and meet her as she rapidly swung away with the wind the moment she was set free. Rue was wrestling with the tiller to keep control. They needed as much sail as she could carry. It did not matter if it was too much; they did not have far to go, as long as she held for as long as it took to reach la Santa Isabella. Glancing across at the Sea Witch, Jesamiah was relieved to see her, in the capable hands of Nat and Isiah, weighing her anchor, the men trundling around and around the capstan, hauling in the heavy cable. She was to follow behind, but ease over to near the swamp, and heave to in the lee of the wind. Shallow on the draught she could sit over there quite comfortably until she was needed to play her part. It would be a tricky manoeuvre, but Sea Witch was capable of doing it, even in this worsening weather.

  Kismet’s fore tops’l was set; main tops’l set. Jesamiah cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled angrily at the men aloft, asking what the fok did they think they were doing.

  “Who said to reef? I never gave no orders for no reefs! Shake it out! Loose all sail, there!”

  The orders went contrary to normal storm routine, but this was not normal. It was definitely not normal for a vessel to be making way as the sky turned black, with lightning splitting it almost in two. Nor was it normal for such a vessel to be heading bow-straight towards an enemy, but that was what the Kismet was doing.

  “Is the gig away?” Jesamiah asked Rue.

  The Frenchman nodded, “Oui, trailing right behind us as if she is a puppy-dog’s tail, Capitaine.”

  Good. The risk was that la Santa Isabella, or the guardship, would open their ports and start firing, but the sea was so rough would they be fool enough to do so? They would be awash in minutes.

  Without warning the wind hauled round three points and the Kismet lurched to larboard, her canvas cracking like shot muskets before she paid off again. They were nearing where the river widened and spilt into the sea, the waves had grown higher and lumpier, causing her to plunge and buck. She had too much sail; the masts and stays were creaking and straining. The crew were white faced, anxious. Several crossed themselves.

  Sea Witch, approaching her station, had been caught nearly aback, but Nat knew what he was doing. Jesamiah paid them no more heed. He had to concentrate on what he was doing here, else this whole stupid idea would be a waste of effort. The wind was shrieking as if it were an Irish Banshee and the rain tipped down as a solid sheet. Kismet dipped to below her forward rails as the open sea rose to meet her, came up again with water streaming from the forward scuppers. Already there were several inches sloshing around below deck. Jesamiah grimaced; if the powder or fuses should get wet…

  Any minute now la Santa Isabella could fire at them, but so far she was too busy merely staying upright as the wind and sea tore at her. They were in trouble out there. The men aboard her were frantically trying to bring her round into the wind, but Jesamiah could se
e they had left it too late – they missed stays and she lumbered to a halt.

  All Jesamiah needed were a few more minutes, but at sea, with a ship at the mercy of the elements, a minute was a long time. Anything could happen in those long, sixty seconds.

  Another squall whooshed across the river mouth and caught the guardship. Further out than la Santa Isabella, not so well built, she was wallowing like a fat old hog. As the wind hit her, and the rain almost blurred all visibility, she suddenly laid right over.

  Hanging on to the mizzen rigging Jesamiah almost lost his footing as Kismet also rolled, but lighter, better handled, she steadied, plunged on. The wind was howling around them and through the rigging, the sea yawning ahead, almost engulfing her bow as she dipped, the ship clawing her way out from the clinging grasp of Tethys’s lust and greed, as she struggled upward again.

  Rue yelled something. Instinctively Jesamiah looked back at his beloved Sea Witch but she was in position and in no relative harm.

  “Non, non! There, there!” Rue was pointing ahead, to where the guardship had been.

  “My God, she’s gone down!” Jesamiah said, and cursed. Why could it not have been la Santa Isabella? But then that would have ruined everything. He did not want the sea to finish del Gardo, he wanted to do it himself.

  This was it. They were near enough. The point of no return. Jesamiah hurried forward, slipping and sliding on the wet decks, ducking his face against each sweep of spray as it surged over the rails. He let himself down the forward scuttle, was relieved to find the lantern he had left there was still burning. Was satisfied that it was dry enough down here for what he wanted to do. He took up a slow-match, lit it, blew it to life. Held it to the hastily arrayed trail of fuses and waited those few precious seconds to ensure they were fizzing and sputtering towards the stacked barrels of gunpowder. Would they be sufficient, he wondered? Fawkes had reckoned he needed about thirty barrels or so to blow up Parliament. These few should be ample.