He tipped his head back and guffawed. “By, but that put me in m’place eh, Knight? Thee has a tacker tongue in thy mouth, Mistress Oldstagh, an’ I stan’ here suitably ashamed by thy lecture.” He did not appear to be in the least ashamed, but Tiola acknowledged his feigned remorse with another, small, curtsey.
“Mistress Oldstagh is here to attend Mrs Page’s confinement,” Knight informed his companion. “She has a reputation of skill, I believe.”
Teach again chortled, “I bain’t interested in birthin’, only begettin’. Know of that then, doos thee?”
Her head tilted to one side, her eyes bright like a bird watching for its next meal. Her retort was succinct, her Cornish accent filtering to the fore. “Ais; an’ ah knows a cock be only as good as ‘is crow.”
Amused, Teach saluted the retort by removing his hat and waving it in his nether regions, said, “I’ll be pleased t’ crow fer thee any time thee be wantin’, missee.”
Gesturing to Knight that he wished to move on, he paused, frowned. There was something odd about this young woman. Something he could not quite put his finger on. Had he seen her before? He truly did not think so, he would have remembered, and she was a beauty. For some reason the memory of Acorne suddenly came into his mind.
Outright, he asked; “A young lass like thee’d be wantin’ a man in ‘er bed. Be it thee Acorne were swivin’ las’ nigh’?”
Wary, Tiola chose her answer carefully, instinct warning her to keep silent about Jesamiah. She hushed her accent, spoke with a genteel manner. “I am here alone, Sir, a recent widow.” Neatly done, neatly said. Not untrue, but the full truth not told.
“Ah, but thee bain’t wearin’ widder’s weeds, is thee?”
“I do not need to drape myself in black to remember my husband.”
Whether it was because Teach realised he was making no impression, or because she was no longer frightened of him, he turned his attention to Perdita Galland.
“Mebbe it were thee he were thrummin’?”
The tailor’s son, young Gabriel, bristled red with outrage and clenching his fists in a semi-upright position, set himself between Teach and the woman he adored. An ant squared against a giant.
“I will have you take that remark back, Captain Teach. You insult the lady.”
Blackbeard merely cuffed the boy aside and glanced up and down the street. “Do I be hearin’ a piddle of a pup yappin’ somewhere?”
As often he did, he lost interest in the taunting. He slapped his arm around Knight’s shoulders and steered him in the direction of the jetty. “Come Master Knight, thee be havin’ a ship t’board an’ business t’be ‘tendin’, I b’lieve? Mark as how thee were t’be obtainin’ those financials thee promised me. I’ll no’ be patient with more of ’n thy excuses.”
“As I said, Captain, I have been trying my best to secure payment, but there are those who owe me, and getting their money is like squeezing blood from a stone.”
“Squeeze tha balls then. Or their necks.” Teach stopped walking swivelled on his heel and regarded Tiola through narrowed eyes.
“Thy’ve nay need t’ fret fer Acorne, Missee. I tooken care of him. He be dead. I shot him.”
Tiola’s face drained pale, her heartbeat lurched and the sound of a torrent rushed through her ears as the world tumbled, crashed and fell. She staggered, Jonathan Gabriel was at her side, his arm supporting her. His voice, asking if she was all right sounding distant and muffled.
No! Jesamiah! The scream was in her head, she managed to control herself enough to stop it reaching her mouth.
~ Jesamiah! Jesamiah! ~ She shouted his name, attempting to connect her mind with his. Met a wall of solid blackness, and instantly the Dark sent a wraith of shadow striking towards her. She slammed her mind shut. Quickly recovered her poise.
How she managed to answer Teach with such an air of indifference she did not know. “You have already quizzed me on the subject, Captain Teach and I have answered you. I find your boasting offensive.”
Teach shrugged, resumed his conversation with Knight as they strode away. He did glance back once at the slight, very pretty woman. Felt an itch beginning to want to be scratched. She knew something of Acorne – by the way she had reacted he was certain of it. She would be telling him: in his own time he would discover what she knew of the whelp. Or if she insisted on this pretence of secretiveness, would regret it. As would Acorne, if fortune had aided him to survive that bullet.
“Horrid, hateful man,” Perdita hissed. “He is crude and spiteful. Why so many think he has charm and is entertaining I will never understand.”
“They flirt with him because he is a man of wealth, my dear,” Jonathan answered gloomily. “My father thinks the sun shines from his backside because he has requested his entire wedding attire to be fashioned by us. Teach says he will pay us when the work is completed, but I full expect him to renege on the agreement. He never pays anyone else in this town! For my part I would have told him to walk from the shop and keep walking.”
Brave words. He would have done no such thing. No one gainsaid Edward Teach.
~ Jesamiah? Please answer me? ~ With Teach now out of sight, Tiola tried again to reach Jesamiah, her senses alert for danger. ~ Jesamiah? ~
He was not dead. She would know if he were, for her soul would have ripped in two with his passing, and an empty, aching void set in its hollow place.
~ Jesamiah? ~
~ Mmm? Tiola? Tiola sweetheart? ~
The words were slurred, groggy and etched with pain, but they were his words and his voice in her head.
~ Are you all right? Do you need me? ~
~ I just want t’sleep. ~
~ Then sleep. Sleep well. ~ She withdrew hastily, aching to send her healing to him, but daring not for there was something slithering along the lane, an odourless smell, an intangible feeling, an invisible hand stretching out, fingers clawing and writhing searching for something: something it desperately wanted to find. Her.
“Wedding attire?” she queried, reluctantly forcing her attention away from Jesamiah and concealing her Craft from the presence of Malevolence. “He is invited to a wedding?” She could think of no worse guest than Captain Edward Teach.
“Not invited, no. He goes to his own ceremony. He is to wed Mary Ormond, daughter of John Ormond, a plantation owner of great means. She will be turned sixteen on her wedding day, and as his only heir…” Jonathan Gabriel cynically let the implication drift.
Tiola was appalled. “He cannot marry! The idea is abhorrent, what is this John Ormond thinking of?”
The tailor’s son shrugged. He despised Teach but many in Bath Town did not. People came to gawp, fascinated by him, and those same people spent money which the town desperately required. Teach’s presence brought wealth.
With regret Jonathan Gabriel took his leave, his gaze lingering on Perdita with the longing for some hope that somehow they may be together. If only this was his wedding coat that he had to sew. But it would never be. He was a humble tailor’s son, and she was the stepdaughter of a royal-appointed Lieutenant Governor.
Perdita waved to the others who were walking sedately towards them, Elizabeth-Anne leaning on her husband’s arm, her face lined with the onset of tiredness. “In return for his daughter’s hand Ormond gets the assurance of a safe passage for his cotton and tobacco cargoes,” she explained. “With Captain Teach as son-in-law and heir apparent, no pirate would dare attack a single one of the Ormond fleet.”
Would they not? Tiola thought as Nicholas handed the ladies into the waiting carriage. I can think of one who would.
Twenty One
Friday 11th October
A fever attacked Jesamiah and intruded into his dreams, stabbing ferociously at his mind. The pain coursing down his arm surged relentlessly through his fitful sleep and the intermittent bouts of agitated consciousness. He was unaware, most of the time, which was the reality of awake and which was not. Hushed whispers permeated through the searing redness; the
touch of a cool hand on his skin, the feel of a wet cloth on his sweating body. Finch’s surly grunt. Mr Janson’s smell of tobacco and his gruff but soothing voice; “Lie still, lad; lie still.”
Or was it Jansy? Sometimes the tone was deeper, familiar yet undetermined.
~ Be still, lad. ~
The same dream kept coming back. Each time it started he desperately tried to wake, tried to run, tried to help – to do something, anything, but each time he failed and the dream faded into screams and laughter. And tears. His tears. His failure.
Night. He was outside under a stand of trees. The wind was rustling through the leaves and he could see the stars and a thin crescent moon high, high above, bright against the tar-black, star-pocked sky. There was other light somewhere, behind and to the left. The pale glow of lamplight seeping into the garden from an open door. And there were sounds. A man’s low voice, a woman’s murmured response.
He could smell the sea. The pleasant fragrance of exotic flowers, the scent of the earth cooling after the heat of the day. The aroma of tobacco and the strong sweetness of rum.
That part of the dream was all right. He lay there, looking at the stars, aware he ought to get up. Ought to go to the house and close that door. Lock it. But it was pleasant here beneath the trees. And then the screaming started and the manic laughter of a madman. The blood. Blood was everywhere. Spattered on the flowers and the grass; on the floor, on the walls, on the bed. The sheets. On the woman. She was covered in blood. Hers and the man’s. He could see her, hear her screaming. Hear a man laughing. But he could not get up, could not move from where he lay, staring up at the stars and the moon, which had also turned red and was weeping tears of blood.
With a gasp Jesamiah awoke. His shoulder was throbbing, his throat was dry. He lay a while, the breath shuddering from his open mouth, his heart drumming. He had failed again. Had not been able to get up, had not been able to stop the killing, to help her.
Vaguely he was aware he was in a bed for there was a pillow beneath his head, a blanket covering him and the ceiling was moving, swaying. It was daylight, gold and silver patterns glittered and rippled on the woodwork.
That same dream. That same, damned dream! A tear of despair eased from the corner of his eye. It was only a dream, but he had not been able to help her, whoever she was, and the fear and guilt lingered in his consciousness.
Low voices. Mumbling. A man and a woman. Tiola? He turned his head, realised he was in his own bed in the small quarter cabin situated to the starboard side of his great cabin, aboard Sea Witch. She was under way; that was the movement, the patterns were the reflection of water and sunlight.
He recognised Rue’s French-accented voice from somewhere above shouting at the crew to look lively. Felt a slight shift – watched the patterns skim and skitter across the overhead beams. Heard the grumbling, predominant sound of the rudder head; no slap and gurgle of water against the hull, no crack of canvas, no chatter of rigging. There was little wind then, yet from the shift of sunlight and shadow clearly they were moving. A duck quacked raucously, and very distant a dog barked. They were near land then. A river? Were they drifting downriver? Why were they not at sea?
He lifted his head, recognised Finch standing beside the table. A woman had her back to him, her head bent over her lap. Sewing?
“Tiola?” he croaked. “Sweet‘eart?”
The woman rose, put her sewing down on the table, gathered her silk skirt in one hand and came swiftly to his side. Her mouth smiling, her blonde ringlets bobbing against her neck.
Alicia.
She saw the disappointment flood through his face, to her credit, retained the smile. “Now you just lay quiet, Jesamiah Acorne; you’ve been pretty poorly these last few days.”
“Where’s…?” Jesamiah was going to say Tiola. He saw the slight frown crease across Alicia’s brow, saw her lips press together, changed to, “Where’s Rue? What course are we on?”
Fussily busying herself, Alicia straightened the blanket, patted at the bandaging around Jesamiah’s shoulder and chest. “Now don’t you go thinking about that. Finch assures me Rue is perfectly capable of handling this boat without you poking your nose in. All you have to do is get strong and well again.”
“Ship,” Jesamiah muttered, “she’s a ship.” He suffered about a minute of administration, then throwing the blanket aside, swung his legs from the bed. Realising he was naked he grunted, pushed Alicia aside and lurched towards the clothes chest. “I need m’shirt and breeches.”
Alicia got there before him and sat on its lid. “You need no such thing. You get back into that bed this instant!”
Finch was in the doorway, hand raised, finger pointing. “You’m do as she says. You’re not fit t’be…”
Jesamiah cut him short. “I can arrange for you to be on heads duty if you so please. Where are my clothes?”
Folding his arms, Finch stuck his chin in the air.
Shove Finch or Alicia aside? Jesamiah doubted he had the strength to push a flea out of the way.
“Bugger the both of you.” He stepped past his steward and marched across the cabin, determinedly telling himself that his head was not spinning, he did not feel sick and he was not going to pass out. The door was open. He ducked beneath the low lintel, stumbled along the short, narrow corridor and was out in the sunshine, standing below the quarterdeck in the waist. A quick glance to each side confirmed his assumption. They were gliding downriver. The Pamlico. Judging by the width, were only a couple of miles from the sea.
Sense made him think twice about attempting the ladder, so he strode a few paces and shading his eyes, shouted up at Rue.
“Why the fokken hell are we still on this river? We should bloody be at la Sorenta by now!”
Rue appeared at the rail, a look of puzzled concern changing almost immediately to a broad grin. “Maybe just as well we are not, mon capitaine,” he nodded at Jesamiah’s state of undress.
A few tittered giggles rose to a sudden chorus of full laughter. Jesamiah turned abruptly, clenched his fingers into fists, resisting the instinct to cover his genitals with his hands. The entire company of the ship’s whores were draped around the deck, some sitting, a few leaning over the rail. Several had wet hair, drying in the hot sun. Some were sewing, more than a few held bottles in their hands. One had a baby at her breast. Most were showing more flesh than was considered decent.
“I like a man ready prepared,” the nearest, a large-breasted redhead tossed at him.
“Ooh Sir, may I join you in a duet?”
Jesamiah glared at the molly boy who was mincing across the deck. “Rue!” he bellowed. “My cabin. Now!” He stormed back into the privacy of his own quarters.
“Seems our Captain’s on the mend then, least, one bit of him looks in fine fettle,” another of the whores chuckled.
“You mind your manners, Lily Makepiece,” Rue chided as he stepped down into the waist.
“I’ll be happy to mind the Captain’s!” More hilarious laughter.
Rue schooled the grin from his face as he forced a glowering reprimand, “Prenez garde, Master Paget, there is only so much I will tolerate from a molly boy.” All the same, he smiled when he turned his back.
Ducking into the cabin Rue offered a rare formal salute, his face remaining straight as Jesamiah struggled, one-handed, into a pair of breeches, both Finch and Alicia refusing to be of help.
“Vous desirez, Monsieur?”
“Stow it. I ain’t finding this amusing.”
“Non, mon patron.”
Jesamiah swore, glowered and, finally managing his breeches, pointed to the view beyond the stern windows. “Why are we still on the river? Why aren’t we out on the Chesapeake, or sailin’ up the Rappahannock?”
“Well, Cap’n –”
“I gave orders to set sail, Rue. I weren’t unconscious when they brought me aboard.”
“No, you were awake and swearing, but…”
“I distinctly remember giving orders to
sail!” Jesamiah’s voice was rising, getting angrier.
Rue too became angry. “Merde! If you would let me finish!”
Opening his mouth to protest, Jesamiah shut it again. Sat down in his comfortable chair.
Taking a breath, Rue continued more calmly, “We ‘ave not been able to sail. The split in the side was deeper and longer than Chippy thought. We ‘ave ‘ad a job to fix it. We need to bring ‘er out the water, strip ‘er down and mend ‘er properly.” When Jesamiah said nothing, Rue added, “We are damned lucky to be sailing at all. If our carpenter was not as good as ‘e is, we would ‘ave been in big trouble.”
Alicia had been rummaging for some linen, fashioning a sling, and ignoring his protest she slid Jesamiah’s arm into its fold, knotting the ends behind his neck.
He fiddled with it, mumbling beneath his breath until he had it comfortable. “What were all them women doin’ on deck? You know I don’t permit them to be about when I’m around.”
“You were not around, were you?” Alicia retorted before Rue could say a word. “I told them to come into the fresh air two days ago. The hold stinks and so do they. I made them all bathe in the river before we weighed anchor.”
“Well you can damn tell ‘em to get their arses down below again. I’ll not have women or pretty-boys prancing all over my deck and drying their underwear on my rigging.”
Leaning forward Alicia re-tweaked the sling to where it ought to be. “My God, you can be a miserable bastard at times, Acorne!”
“‘E can be a miserable bastard most the time, Ma’am,” Finch contradicted, handing Jesamiah a glass of rum. He gave a second glass to Rue, whispered, “The women’ve got a few ‘ours yet. Cap’n’ll be sleepin’ like a babbie soon.”
Rue frowned, not understanding.
“Don’t do t’ave the Cap’n awake when ‘e’s got ‘oles in ‘im. Right proper misery ‘e is. A couple drops o’ laudanum added to ‘is rum does wonders, so it does.”
Twenty Two
Bring It Close Page 11
