“Damn.” Tiola held the sketched drawing away from her, eyeing it critically.
From the window seat where she sat, knees tucked beneath her, sewing lying limp on her lap these past fifteen minutes, Perdita turned to look at her. “Is it not going right?”
Sighing, Tiola grimaced. “I cannot get the stern lantern as it should be. It is too flat. The base is not quite straight.” Wrinkling her nose, she held it up.
Perdita scrutinised the drawing. A ship at anchor, viewed from the stern. One of the great cabin windows hinged open. The rigging was intricate, the clouds and the sea echoing the rainstorm that was lashing the horizon. The name was across the back, with a motif of oak leaves.
“Sea Witch,” Perdita said, “is she a boat you know?”
Tiola had another attempt at altering the lantern that would, on the real vessel, stand almost as high as a man’s shoulders. It was a huge thing which the men crawled inside to clean. Her tongue poking between her lips in concentration she did not look up. “Mmm?”
“I said do you, then, know a boat called the Sea Witch?”
“Ship. She is a ship, she has three masts – a boat has only one or two – and ais, I know her.”
Perdita set the sewing aside and uncurling her knees felt for her slippers, which she had discarded and left on the wooden floor. She put her hands on the window seat, leant forward eagerly. “And you know more than just this ship?”
Cocking her head on one side, Tiola added a little shading. Did that help? Not really.
“The Captain for instance? Do you know the Captain?”
Putting the drawing and her charcoal aside, Tiola smiled at the girl, admitted that she did.
Leaping to her feet, with her arms outstretched, Perdita did a few excited twirls, then brought her arms in to hug herself, her head tipping back, eyes closed. “A handsome sea captain sailing to distant and exotic lands of the eastern Indies. He is to bring back teas and spices, and silks and perfumes.” She opened her eyes, carved the air with an imaginary sword. “With brave gallantry he will save his crew from cannibals and pirates.” She clapped a hand to her shoulder, staggered a few paces. “Oh! He has been wounded.” She fell into a chair, the back of her hand held against her forehead. “Oh, my poor captain!” She pretended to faint then planting a kiss to her fingers, threw it into the air. “Love will revive him! He dreams of his sweetheart, and her dear face gives him strength and hope!”
Tiola was amused at the girl’s mummery. “Don’t be so absurd. His ship is in the Chesapeake undergoing repairs.”
Perdita ceased the dramatic pose, her expression that of disappointment. “No tea or spices?”
“No tea or spices.”
“Silks and perfumes?”
Tiola shook her head. “No.”
With an exaggerated sigh Perdita wandered back to the window and wiping the condensation from the glass with her hand, peered out into the grey gloom.
“He is at least handsome?”
Tiola wondered whether to hold her silence, then realised she desperately wanted to share her secret with someone. Needed so badly to talk of Jesamiah. Of her hopes and fears, of her love for him. But she could not. For all that she trusted this dear, sweet girl, she dared not risk the accidental spilling of a wrong word, for Jesamiah’s safety – and her own.
“Ais,” was all she said, “Yes, I assure you he is at least, most extremely handsome.”
Forty Six
Virginia
Publick Times were in full and boisterous swing. The gathering of men and women of Virginia – and beyond – for the purpose of the Quarterly Trial Sessions, conducting official business, selling exorbitantly priced wares on the market stalls and enjoying the wide range of entertainments. The latter included horse racing and the excitement of the court trials and subsequent hanging of convicted murderers, felons and pirates.
Jesamiah’s grant of parole aboard ship had been short-lived, lasting only for the sea voyage from the Rappahannock to a safe anchorage at Jamestown. There, the shackles had been replaced, his freedom removed. The Williamsburg town gaoler and the miserable gaol he was dubiously in charge of had played host to Jesamiah for three days. He was not overly impressed by the poor hospitality, dreadful accommodation or mouldering victuals. The square, wooden-built cell that housed nine men was like a bake-oven during the day and an icehouse by night. The wind came straight in through the grid window, swirled around the floor then whipped out beneath the inch-high gap under the firm-bolted door. The only place where there was no draught was beneath the window, but that was directly next to the seat of ease. The hole was situated on the highest of three steps, several feet from the ground; natural gravitation took the effluence to a cesspit outside. There was a lid that covered the hole and it was an efficient utility – but it stank to high heaven.
With his back firmly wedged into a corner, Jesamiah was resting his head on the wall, trying to ignore the obnoxious surroundings. Trying to sleep. It was not easy. At the window stood a boy, no more than eight, who had alternately been snivelling or whining all day. At first Jesamiah had felt sorry for him, arrested for stealing a loaf of bread, but the constant belly-aching had soon made him want to call for a noose and hang the little grub himself. Four of the other men awaiting trial for theft and assault were bickering between themselves and arguing with two of the others. The eighth was a molly boy, arrested for sodomy. He sat in the opposite corner to Jesamiah locked in his own world of horror and terror. There would be no hope for him, he would hang.
A hatchway slit was drawn open revealing a rectangular hole large enough to pass a tin plate through. Food. The wrangling halted for a few seconds, then began again as the men barged and shoved to be the first and grab a plate. It was always first come first served, the first getting the food warm as opposed to stone cold. Jesamiah heaved himself to his feet, couldn’t be bothered to elbow his way in. He waited until each man had dispersed then took the plate as it was thrust into the opening, his nose wrinkling. Corn mush. They had been served the same for yesterday’s single daily meal. And the day before, and the day before that. Indian corn mush was quick to prepare, cheap to provide and just about kept a man alive.
He bent and put the plate on the floor, thrust his hand quickly into the opening. “Oi, John Redwood, you thief,” he complained as the hatch began to slide shut, “we’re one short. Hand it over or I’ll make sure Spotswood hears you’re a fokken swindler!”
It was the duty of the gaoler to keep his charges alive, to spread clean straw on the floor and provide decent food from the allowance per head that he was granted. John Redwood took his duties seriously, but he was paid only thirty pounds sterling per annum, which in his opinion was nowhere near adequate. If he could make extra he stayed a happy man. Hence the sparse diet and mouldy straw.
The last plate appeared accompanied by a curse, and the hatch snapped shut. With the prisoners fed in this way the main door was never opened except for the daily privilege of an hour’s meagre exercise shambling around the high-walled courtyard, or someone was taken out or put in. And that door was double bolted and locked from the outside. Unless you were heading for the courthouse or the gallows there was no way out.
Jesamiah took the second plate to the molly boy, toed his leg then hunkered down next to him. Persuaded the boy to look up. He was fifteen maybe, hardly had the first fuzz of a beard.
“You got to eat, Dick, it could be a while yet before we get to be taken to trial.”
The boy looked up, eyes hollow, face gaunt. “I’m not hungry.”
“Aye well, this ain’t exactly food, it’s more like pig slop, an’ I doubt it’ll do much against hunger anyways, but you still got to eat.”
“You fancyin’ the arse-pricker, pirate? Want us t’look away while you try ‘im fer size?”
Ignoring the crudities, Jesamiah put the plate in the boy’s hand. At fifteen it was highly unlikely the lad had chosen to be used for sex. Whores, male or female, rarely had a cho
ice. “Eat up,” Jesamiah repeated as he picked up his own plate. The stuff looked revolting. He wandered back to his corner, trying to decide if he was hungry enough to eat this mess. The man who had been crude was sitting there, looking smug. Jesamiah stood in front of him. The man said nothing.
Tempted to empty his own meal over the whoreson’s head, Jesamiah thought again. The food was lousy but it was better than nothing and he’d had worse. On the long Atlantic crossings the stored flour, meat and butter, went off and weevils moved in. Eating rancid food was nothing new.
He scooped the mush into his fingers, ate as he stood there. Finished, he wiped his hands on the seat of his breeches and took the plate to the hatch, left it there for Redwood to collect later. Wandered back to the corner.
“That’s my place, mate.”
“No it ain’t. You decided you wanted the sodomite over there, go cuddle up with ‘im.”
Patient, Jesamiah repeated; “You are in my place. I sit there. Move.”
The man grinned showing rotten teeth. “Make me.”
He then made a mistake. He licked the plate, took his attention off Jesamiah – who moved fast. Kicking out, Jesamiah caught the bottom of the plate with his foot and rammed it, hard, onto the man’s nose. Spluttering blood, the antagonist tried to get to his feet, but ignoring the twinge of protest from his healing shoulder, Jesamiah was already following up with three punches, one to the belly, one to the face and the third to the groin. He grabbed the man’s hair and jerked him forward, sending him sprawling; kicked his backside for good measure.
“I said this is my place. I suggest you learn to listen.”
The man lay groaning, blood frothing from his mouth and nose. Jesamiah lifted his ankles and dragged him, face down, to the centre of the cell.
From outside there came the sound of the militia marching past heading in the direction of the Governor’s palace, the crowds cheering and applauding the rat-a-tat of their regiment’s drums and piping of flutes and whistles. An entire world away from the sordid existence within Williamsburg’s gaol. Sitting astride his victim, Jesamiah twisted an arm back savagely. The man screamed.
“Now, I’ve said this before an’ I ain’t goin’ to say it again. You leave that lad alone; he ain’t done nothin’ to offend you, but you offend me.” Jesamiah twisted the arm higher. “An’ I get seriously mad with those who do that. Savvy?” Releasing him roughly, he went to his corner, intent on another attempt at sleeping.
The mollyboy forced a quivering smile. “Thank you, Captain,” he whispered, then louder, in frail defiance; “My name is Henry, not Dick.”
Not bothering to open his eyes, Jesamiah responded; “Dick’s more appropriate though, don’t y’think?”
Forty Seven
A raised voice aroused Alicia slightly. She lay a moment listening, then burrowed deeper beneath the bed covers, her head throbbing, her stomach threatening a renewed attack of the nausea that had plagued her since Monday morning.
“Sir. I insist. You cannot enter. My lady is unwell.”
“All the more reason to permit me to see her. Let me pass or I will forcefully remove you from barring my way.”
The maid must have moved, for Samuel Trent entered Alicia’s bedchamber.
Momentarily disorientated by the gloom within, he stood inside the threshold – leaving the door open behind him for propriety’s sake. The room was spacious, well furnished, but the windows that were on two sides of the room were shuttered and curtained. With the day being dull and inclined to a light drizzle, and although it was not far from noon, the room was quite darkened. Allowing his eyes to adjust, he went to the bed where he could see Alicia’s form hunched beneath the covers.
“My dear! They said you had caught a chill. Has the physician been? Has he examined you?”
Muffled, Alicia begged him to leave her be. “Please Samuel, I thank you for your concern, but I will be well soon, I am sure.”
“Can I do aught? Fetch you brandy, wine, something tempting to eat? A little chicken broth perhaps? Or coddled egg?”
“No. Please, just go away.”
Was that a sob he heard in her voice?
“I would do anything to assist you if you are in trouble, Alicia. You know that.”
“Yes. Please go.”
What more could he do? Forcibly pull back those blankets and sheets? Bully her into telling him what was amiss? He could do neither such thing! He rose, returned to the door from where the maid was anxiously peering in at him. “If there is anything, anything at all that I can do…” He paused, chewed his lip. Should he say? Perhaps, aye, he should. “Has your malaise to do with Captain Acorne, Ma’am? He is taken to Williamsburg for trial. I am certain he will be acquitted after a fair hearing. Governor Spotswood is a man who well observes the law.”
The sob that issued from the bed was like a child in pain. Fearful, Trent sprinted across the room, heaved back the covers and took Alicia into his arms, cradling her to him, her face buried into his shoulder as she wept great gasps of dread. He stroked her hair, patted her shoulder, unsure what to do.
“My dear, please, do not distress yourself so. Captain Acorne will be able to show that this is all a matter of a mistake. He had a Letter of Marque, after all, and…”
The sobs burst into a crescendo of anguished wails. “You do not understand! Oh you do not understand!”
All Samuel Trent could answer was the truth. That no, he did not understand. What was there to be understood?
The shout of rage a few moments later silenced the rest of the house. Trent’s bellow of, “You did what? You stupid woman! In God’s name, why? Why?” echoed from room to room, only silenced by the abrupt slamming of Alicia’s bedchamber door to shut the listening servants out. Several moments passed before Samuel could calm his furious temper. He took a series of deep breaths, spoke deliberately; slow and measured.
“Tell me again. You took Captain Acorne’s Letter of Marque and hid it. Why? For the sake of God, woman, when Maynard came searching for it, why did you not give it him?” The anger was rising again. He choked it down. Shouting would get them nowhere.
Hunched, miserable, her eyes red-rimmed, her cheeks blotched, Alicia buried her face in her hands, the tears trickling through her fingers. She had never heard Samuel shout before. Never seen him so very angry.
“I was being blackmailed,” she hiccupped. “I needed to get some money to keep an odious little man quiet. I thought that if Jesamiah was arrested I could let him worry for a day or two, then offer him back his letter for the amount I needed.”
“Which is how much?” Samuel spoke in almost a growl.
“Two hundred pounds,” she whispered.
He did not hear. “How much?”
Her temper getting the better of her; embarrassment, confusion, distress, all of it combined made Alicia slam her hands to the bed covers and shout, “Two hundred bloody pounds! Where was I to get such money? What choice had I? What was I to do? Sell my jewellery? Have everyone know I need money?” She shuddered at such a detestable thought. “Were you in a similar position you would have done the same!” She drew breath, screeched on, “Do not tell me you have not thought of ways of getting money. Had you thought of it, had you had access to that letter, would you not have used it to your advantage?”
Samuel swung away, disgust gorging bile into his throat. He stood at a window – the curtain thrown wide and shutters opened now, for he had not been able to tolerate the close confinement. If he craned his neck slightly he could see the graving dock. The men had come back on Tuesday morning. From here he could see only Sea Witch’s masts and the tangle of half-completed rigging. Nothing of her decks or keel, but he had walked down there this morning and seen that she seemed, to his landlubber’s eye, almost ready to return to the water. She was most certainly an exquisite vessel.
To his reflection in the glass, not daring to look around for fear the anger would boil to the surface again, he said, “I thought you were a lady. Ever
since I first saw you I thought you a goddess. Why? Because you were arguing with your husband and he was getting the worst of your tongue. God’s good truth, but I thought you the most wonderful woman in the world for that. I so despised Phillipe. Twice I had resolved to shoot him. Did you know that? Twice. But I did not have the stomach to do it.”
Alicia blew her nose.
“How I rejoiced when I heard the rumour that his own half-brother, that Jesamiah himself, had finally done away with him.” He turned around slowly, his fists clenched at his side, his expression like God’s own wrath. “They condemned him, you know, those bigots in the town. Condemned Jesamiah for throwing that louse overboard. You should have heard my father! ‘Like father, like son,’ he kept saying. ‘Mereno Senior was a fish-gut scavenger. So is his son. So is his son.’ God’s teeth, but the times he said it! Over and over, and each time I wanted to hit him. I wanted to pummel his face and shout that Jesamiah was a good man – that Phillipe was the fish-gut heap of offal!”
Blowing her nose a second time, Alicia had become curious. From the first day when she had arrived here as Phillipe’s bride, she had been aware of the boy from the next plantation up-river. A skinny, shy, lonely lad, the youngest of a brood of sons. She had befriended him initially out of pity. He was a cuckoo in the nest if ever she saw one. Out of place among his brash, bold family; out of place anywhere, probably.
Trent hesitated and moved a step closer, ”I was aware of what Phillipe did to his brother, how he tormented him. I used to hide in the bushes down by the river to escape my own brothers. They were as foul and evil as your dead husband.”
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