Bring It Close

by Helen Hollick

  Going aboard, stepping down from the greater height of the Sea Witch’s varnished rails, Jesamiah made a cursory inspection of the smaller boat, but there was little of value to be plundered; a few kegs of rum, some salt pork. A pile of decent canvas hoarded in the sail locker, no doubt recently stolen from some poor wretch. Sea slugs such as these did not attack the French or Spanish, or ships with guns and weaponry. They went for coastal traders, small fry. And accumulated little of value to show for their trouble. Blackbeard himself attacked bigger fish, but as with all sharks, there were always the scavengers idling along behind.

  There was also a pile of quality timber stacked aboard, suitable for replacing broken spars. Jesamiah ordered everything of value to be swung aboard Sea Witch.

  If a vessel surrendered it was usual for the crew and passengers – beyond being lightened of their valuables – to be left alone, but Jesamiah had no intention of being soft-hearted with these scumbag miscreants.

  He stood them in the waist while he mounted the narrow ladder to the quarterdeck. They huddled together, some too drunk to notice what was going on around them, others afraid, the majority grim-faced and resentful. He took his time to inspect the compass, which was poor quality, and to rummage through the stern locker where various flags and ensigns were crammed in jumbled disarray. His own were always neatly folded. Several, on close examination, were little more than moth-eaten rags, but a few would prove useful. A new English Jack, two Spanish colours and one French. He tossed them to Rue. Nothing else aboard was worth bothering with, for it was too dirty, valueless, broken or worn.

  As if he had all the time in the world, he walked to the quarterdeck rail, leant his arms on it, scratched at his nose and tipped his hat to the back of his head. Surveyed the sour faces below him.

  “Not much point in us boardin’ you,” he finally said using a sailor’s lazy drawl. “All you’re haulin’ is a pile o’ shite. Bit of a pathetic excuse fer pirates, ain’t ‘ee?”

  The pirates shuffled from foot to foot, glowering at the men of the Sea Witch and the barrels of primed and cocked pistols and muskets pointing directly at them.

  “Can any one of you give me a fokken good reason why I shouldn’t just sink this tub o’ lard right ‘ere an’ now? Send you all down to Jones’s locker?”

  More shuffling, a few coughs, some muttering. Several crude comments about Jesamiah shoving himself up a dark place.

  “No?” He stood up straight, scratched at his right buttock, then his crotch, and ambled to the lee rail where Sea Witch dozed alongside. “Might as well put you all out o’ yer misery then, eh?” He stepped up to the rail, grasped a halyard and prepared to swing himself to his own deck.

  A voice cried out, desperate. “Sir! Cap’n Acorne Sir! I’ve a wife and bairns. Och, I did na’ have nay wish t’be aboard a pirate. I beg thee, fer pity’s sake t’ grant a Scotsman mercy.”

  Pausing, Jesamiah studied his mainmast. That t’gallant shroud looked in need of attention. “How much are ye willin’ t’pay me fer y’life then, Jock?”

  The man fumbled eagerly inside his shirt. “I’ve a pouch of silver.” Pushing his way through grumbling shipmates he held it towards Jesamiah. “I’ll pay fer me life, Captain. I’ll pay. Take me aboard y’fine ship an’ I’ll be o’ service however thee may wish.”

  Slowly Jesamiah stepped down from the rail and descended the ladder into the waist. Walking towards the man he looked him up and down then held out his hand for the pouch, which he pocketed. “Any one else ‘oldin’ back on me with the specie?”

  A hostile silence so thick it was solid.

  Pushing his way through the crowd of ragged seamen, Jesamiah inspected each one closely, touched the occasional shoulder or nodded; “You. You. Aye an’ you. You.” Those chosen were shoved or kicked by his men to line up along the windward rail. Twelve in all.

  “The rest of you, lower those boats and bugger off. The coast is that way.” He jabbed a finger westward. Withageneralscurrying, anxious-to-be-gone rush, the gig and longboat were swung out and lowered, men scrabbling down the hull cleats even before the vessels were secured.

  “What about me?” the Scotsman protested, refusing to move. “You said you would have me as crew.”

  “I said nothing of the sort. You go in the boats.”

  “But –”

  “But?” Jesamiah shoved his hands in his pockets, raised a single eyebrow.

  Lamely the Scotsman indicated the selected men, “But you are taking those murderers and rapists, yet leavin’ me t’m fate?”

  Very slowly Jesamiah strolled up to him. Leant forward and whispered in his ear. The Scotsman blanched and scuttled after the others into the boats.

  Isiah came up from below with Nat Crocker. Gave a single nod. “All set Captain.”

  “Very well. Let’s get on with this and be gone.”

  Some of the men at the rail were grinning and nudging each other, tossing lewd gestures at their erstwhile companions as oars were shipped and they began to pull away. The coast was a long haul for those small boats; with no water, no food, only luck and skill would get them safe ashore. And this rabble possessed little of either. But they had the chance to survive, which was more than they usually gave their own victims who had failed to surrender.

  The swaggering on deck came to an abrupt halt as Jesamiah’s men produced twelve lengths of rope, each one fashioned with a noose at one end.

  “What the –?”

  Jesamiah smiled benignly. “As the man said, murderers and rapists. I know you, John Chatham, and you Horace Skelton. Tunny. Ralf White, Bones Bradford. Oséas da Silva. I know you all and what you’ve done. How many innocent lasses have you raped Cyril Munk? And you, Dan Pikesley, how many children, how many little boys, how many terrified, screaming little girls who hadn’t even budded their tits did you bugger before slitting their bellies open?”

  Pikesley returned the stare, eye to eye. “Enough t’satisfy m’need. Y’want t’try it Acorne. It’s better’n swivin’ a poxed harlot.”

  “You’re filth. You are not even worth pissing on.” Jesamiah turned away, disgusted, and stepped aboard the cleanliness of his beloved Sea Witch.

  “Hang them,” was all he said.

  The twelve, with bound hands, kicked and struggled as the nooses tightened into the slow strangling death, their bodies evacuating piss, semen and faeces.

  Those aboard the Sea Witch saw none of it, for they cast off and made way as soon as the twelfth man had been strung up.

  In the solitude of his cabin, still cleared for action, Jesamiah sat on the wooden locker beneath the stern windows. There were no red velvet cushions and the paned windows were bolted up beneath the beams. It was cold with the wind streaming in. He gathered his coat tighter, called for Finch.

  “We got any rum handy?”

  “Aye. You be wantin’ some then?”

  “No. I was just enquiring. ‘Course I do, you old faggot.”

  Any sour reply Finch was about to make was cut short by a sudden commotion a quarter of a mile behind. Fire and black smoke mushroomed against the blue sky as the fuses set and lit aboard the sloop ignited barrels of gunpowder.

  Sipping at the tankard of rum that Finch brought him, Jesamiah wondered whether any of the twelve had still been alive when she blew. He disliked hanging people, it was a slow, evil death. But then, all of those bastards had been evil. Not one of them deserved to live, and he’d had no intention of allowing the ones cast adrift a chance to return to their vessel and sail after him. Not that they had the wits or savvy to do so. Their captain was the only one who could navigate, and he, Dan Pikesley, had danced a jig at the end of a rope. Jesamiah hoped there was a Hell, for Pikesley deserved to rot there for what he had done to innocent children

  “What’ll I do about ‘er?” Finch asked. Jesamiah looked blank.

  “‘Er in the ‘old. Mrs Mereno. She’s screamin’ blue murder down there. Do I let ‘er out?”

  Another sip of the rum.
“Screamin’ y’say?” Jesamiah scratched at his scalp. “Nah, maybe leave ‘er there a while.”

  “Cap’n?” Nat Crocker ducked into the cabin, he was taller than Jesamiah, a good six feet two inches in height. “We’re taking on water. One of those shots Blackbeard hit us with was lucky for him. Chippy wants to see you, urgent.”

  The pumps were going, Jesamiah could hear the steady thump, thump. He stood quite still for a moment his head cocked on one side, listening to and feeling Sea Witch move. She was sluggish, reluctant. Almost – almost – he could hear her whimper, like a wounded animal crawling away, wanting to find the solace of darkness to lick her wounds.

  “How much water?” he asked, finishing the rum in one gulp.

  “Couple of feet.”

  “Sod it, this puts paid to us hurrying back to finish Teach off. Stand the men down. We’ll have to sort him out another day.”

  Going below to the hold Jesamiah stopped halfway down the ladder; raising his lantern he could see water slopping about. In the distance, where the hull curved inward towards the bow, the faint glow of a lantern glimmered. Voices.

  “I reckon you’d best send someone to let Mrs Mereno out, Nat, ‘else she’s likely t’be swimmin.” Grimacing, Jesamiah stepped into the black, cold water, the movement sending a drowned rat bobbing away.

  He made his way along the carpenter’s walk, the narrow space between the side of the ship and the tiers of stacked casks and barrels. He hated it, the darkness and the confined space. Several times he stopped, put his hand on the smooth wood of the inner hull, the unease of his ship giving him courage to move on, not turn back and run for the open space of the deck and the natural light of day. The life-rhythm movement beneath his sweating palm told him all he needed to know. Sea Witch was holed, she was wounded. If she were not helped, she would fill with water and sink. Would die. Every man, woman and boy aboard with her.

  Near the bow the carpenter greeted him with a nod upwards that indicated the stream of water trickling down. “Damage to the hull just on the water line; each time we roll or a bigger wave hits us we ship more.” As he spoke, Sea Witch rolled, and water gushed in. “I can patch it easy enough, but I’m concerned, look ‘ere,” he pointed with his knife then poked it into the wood – the blade sinking in for over an inch. He withdrew the knife and more water seeped into the dent to run in a single line downwards and disappear into the foul water slopping around their legs.

  Jesamiah took the knife, probed again. “D’you reckon something’s split? Backlash from the strike?”

  “I reckon so. I’ll be needin’ a proper look. We’re due a careen anyways.”

  Jesamiah grunted as he poked and pricked to either side of the seepage. Sound as a bell. They could not lay her up on a beach, empty her, send down the topmasts and give her a thorough overhaul just yet. For that, they had to be safe. Very safe. Careening within Blackbeard’s territory was about as unsafe as you could get. Especially now that they had poked the hornets’ nest with a very large stick.

  “Would a few hours anchored in a river at low tide suit you?”

  Chippy took the knife back, stored it safely in one of his leather apron’s capacious pockets. “Possibly. For a temporary measure.”

  “Enough to get us to Virginia? My father’s plantation has a graving dock, he insisted on maintaining his own vessels.”

  Chippy broke into a broad grin, “Couldn’t be better Cap’n. Couldn’t be better. But we’ll be havin’ t’do sommut about that hole and this crack first.”

  “Fother a sail?”

  “Aye, I reckon. It’ll get us to this ‘ere river of yours, if ’n we sail steady an’ don’t meet no storms or stop another ruddy ball.”

  Curtly nodding, Jesamiah made his way back to the deck, calling for hands as he did so. “We’re fothering – get a heavy sail thrummed and over the side.”

  The crew worked willingly and quickly, expertly pummelling coarse wool and hempen yarn into a mat-like surface then greasing and tarring it onto a spare sail. It took a while to heave the canvas over the side and pass it under the keel, to manoeuvre it into place and make all secure. If the water pressure did not force the tarred oakum into the openings and seal the leak, they would have to do it all over again with a second sail, and maybe a third. But the first held like a patched bandage. Would hold until they could make the quieter waters of the Pamlico River.

  Sea Witch had been returned to normality; the removable bulkheads of Jesamiah’s cabin bolted back into place, the square of carpet laid over the scratched wooden deck, his mahogany table set straight and laid with silver cutlery and china plate ready for dinner. The comfortable chairs were set in position, cushions plumped. In the galley, Finch had re-lit the cooking stove and the aroma of the captain’s dinner, frying mutton chops and roasting potatoes, was wafting through the ship.

  Tired, with dusk approaching, all Jesamiah wanted to do was seek the solitude of his cabin, have another rum, enjoy his meal and roll into bed. He had completely forgotten about Alicia.

  “If you dare, if you just dare shut me in that filth and stink again, so help me Jesamiah Acorne, I’ll geld you! There were rats down there. Rats running over my shoes, up my legs. Look at my stocking!” She hauled up her petticoats, showing a ruined pink stocking, “They locked me in, your bloody men locked me in with those rats –”

  It had been a long day. Jesamiah walked to the cupboard where he kept the drink, selected two bottles of finest brandy, and with one in each hand headed out of the cabin. He would find somewhere quiet to sleep. If it had to be the hold, or up the mast, then so be it.

  “I’ll leave you on deck next time then,” he snapped. “You can be the pleasure of a different sort of rat.”

  Fourteen

  Monday 7th October – North Carolina

  Tiola stepped ashore exhausted. Once the birthing was over she would have to find a way to deal with this debilitating problem of hers. A life at sea with Jesamiah while harbouring an inability to cross an ocean without losing her energy, awareness and concentration was ridiculous. Only in fairy tales were witches unable to cross water, and much of that belief was derived from the Christian Church’s hideous witch trials. A woman, the poor souls were usually women, was accused of witchcraft and put on trial, often after various tortures to confess her crime. Water was the proof of guilt. If she floated she was a witch and was hanged or burnt. If she did not float, then she was no witch. But she was dead anyway. Drowned.

  The fresh air, the solid ground, was reviving Tiola a little. She closed her eyes, attempted to centre her balance and equilibrium into the healing Earth. To shut her mind to the screams of the dead from the past.

  The stupidity of the bigoted! The fear those men had harboured! Fear for their position, their wealth and status. Fear for their immortal souls because of a woman’s touch or glance in case she might corrupt them more than they already were. Fears sown by the malevolence of the Dark.

  Was there an element of truth in the superstition of witches and water, she wondered? Had she overlooked a small and insignificant morsel of her inherited knowledge? Was there something she had missed?

  Oh what nonsense! This problem of crossing seas had not been so dire before she had known Jesamiah – had not bothered her for the countless thousands of years that her spirit had been in existence, dwelling in one body form or another. She stood on the jetty gazing down into the deep water of Bath Town Creek that ran into the larger Pamlico River, at the debris and scum that collected against the supporting pillars of the wooden landing stage. Gazed into the depth of water, her Sight wandering over the riverbed, the scatter of rocks and stones, the mud and sand, the creatures that lived there. The pull of the current, the influence of the distant sea fifty miles away.

  At the edge of the jetty, Tiola felt herself being drawn in, coaxed down towards the murky depths, the twilight darkness of the water. Drawn, down, down…

  “Mistress van Overstratten!” A hand grabbed her arm, pulled her
from the edge, and Tiola gasped in alarm, surprise and relief.

  “You were about to fall, Madam. Do you feel faint? My, but you are as white as a lily. Come, let me help you to the carriage. You must be hungry and exhausted.”

  “Why, yes, I –”

  “Permit me to introduce myself – Nicholas Page, husband to Elizabeth-Anne, Governor Eden’s niece. The lady you have come to tend. I cannot express how grateful we are for your agreeing to help us.”

  He was tall, about as tall as Jesamiah, but not as athletic and carried more flesh on his face and midriff. He was dressed well, with a white wig on his head beneath a jauntily feathered three-corner hat. Gloves, walking cane. A well-to-do family man in, Tiola judged, his late thirties.

  She smiled into his eyes, received a genuine smile in return. She liked this Nicholas Page, who had sent all the way to Nassau for a midwife who, he had heard, had a special gift for the birthing of babies.

  “I am well,” she answered, realising the headache had lifted, and that the life-force strength of the Earth had returned into her. “I was but momentarily giddy. The adjustment from spending several days at sea to being once again on land.”

  Master Page offered his arm, directed her towards a waiting carriage. “In faith, I spew m’guts up stepping across a puddle. Why sailors profess to liking the ocean is beyond my comprehension.” He settled her comfortable, spreading a blanket over her knees, pushing a cushion behind her back.

  “I will see to your baggage.” He turned to do so, swung around again, his clean-shaven face anxious. “Mistress van Overstratten. You will be able to help m’wife, will thee not? This is the fifth child she is to bear. She had some bad times. Two were dead before they took a living breath.”

  He broke off, hesitating to say more, then said all in a gabble, “The last was such a tiny, frail little thing. She survived but one hour; I held her so close and loved her so dearly for that one, short moment.” The emotion choked his throat. “Girls, they have all been girls. We do so need a son. My wife insisted we try again, but I am so afeared that I may lose her. We have been told she carries a son. A peddler-woman read Elizabeth-Anne’s palm. Do you believe in such things? Superstitious nonsense of course, but if it is a son, if it is…”