Bring It Close

by Helen Hollick

  Suddenly, he strode across the room, stood beside the bed, tall, straight, his arms folded. “Once, when I was eight years old, my brothers were swimming in the river. Phillipe was with them, having a grand game of throwing me in. I could not swim. They had a rope tied around my waist, thought it amusing to haul me out when I started to drown, drag me on to the jetty and throw me in again.” His attention wandered to the window, to where the river lazed by outside, reliving the horror in his mind.

  “I can still taste the choke of water in my mouth, my lungs bursting for air, the fear that writhed through me as they took hold of my arms and legs, one limb each, and swung me back and forth then tossed me in. Again and again.” His voice faltered, the memory too vivid, too cruel. He pulled a chair forward, sat, wiped his sleeve across his eyes. “And then Jesamiah came along. Only a few years older than me, younger than those bastards – already afeared of his brother.” He stared at Alicia. “And do you know what he did?”

  Slowly she shook her head.

  “He tried to defend me; shouted at them to leave me alone, but of course they only laughed and threw me in the water yet again, then pitched him in as well.” Samuel Trent laughed, a short, sharp sound. “They were no brighter then than they are now, my brothers.” Another laugh. “You see, Jesamiah could swim. He grabbed hold of me, cut the rope, towed me to a safe distance and took me to his mother. We told her I had fallen in. She dried my clothes and gave me honey cakes and lemonade. But it turned out she had seen what had happened and she promptly marched over to my father and gave him a piece of her mind. She was a lady, was Mrs Mereno. My brothers left me alone after that. But not Jesamiah. He suffered for intervening. So I did the only thing I could, I copied Mrs Mereno’s example and stomped right up to Captain Mereno and told him what had happened. Told him everything. The Captain scared me witless more than all my brothers ranged together. But tell him I did. I was expecting him to do something. To stop Phillipe’s abuses. But you know what he said?”

  The tears had almost stopped as Alicia had listened. She dabbed again at her eyes, mumbled, “No. Tell me.”

  “He said Jesamiah was on his own. He had to learn to look after himself. And he said it would be better for me if I learnt to swim. Jesamiah said the same a few days later. Took the time to teach me, in that rocky inlet the other side of Urbanna.” His voice trailed off. “I will always be grateful to him for that. Always.”

  Alicia was silent a while, digesting everything. She had known none of this but then, why should she? Phillipe had never spoken of Jesamiah, or the past here at la Sorenta. And then the way in which Samuel had said ‘I will always be grateful to him for that’, sank into her brain. And she suddenly realised something.

  “My God,” she said, her hand going to her breast, her mouth opening, astonished. “You love him. You are in love with Jesamiah. You are a sodomite – that is why you are different! My God!” She did not know whether to be shocked, outraged or disgusted: sodomy was illegal in the eyes of the Church and the law; but then, she had known many a molly boy in her days as a prostitute. Not one of them had been evil like her husband.

  Slowly Samuel wandered towards the door. “Love is a strange thing, Mrs Mereno. Jesamiah believes I love you – I do not. I never have, I never will. But I used to admire you. I used to think of you as my friend.” He shook his head, lifted one hand, dropped it, defeated, to his side. “No longer. I have no interest in sluts who lie and would see a man hang for their own gain.”

  Stunned by his words, made all the more vehement by the dull, flat tone in which he spoke them, Alicia shoved the covers aside, swung her legs from the bed. “No! I only wanted him in gaol for a day or two, nothing more!”

  She hurried to her dressing table, yanked a drawer open and rummaged through the froth of laced underwear. Retrieved the Letter of Marque with a modest flourish of triumph. “I have it here. I have the proof Jesamiah needs!”

  In three strides Samuel was across the room. He snatched it from her, glanced quickly to ensure it was the correct document and shoving it into his coat pocket was back at the door.

  “Where are you going?” she cried, running after him, suddenly afraid. He was halfway down the stairs. She leaned over the banister, her hands gripping white-knuckled on the mahogany rail. “Samuel! What are you going to do?”

  He did not pause, did not look up. “Rescue Jesamiah. What do you think I am going to do?”

  Alicia crumpled to the carpet runner on the landing, incongruously noted a stain across the red and blue of the pattern. It was a Wilton weave, purchased from the catalogue from England. The carpeting for the house had cost Phillipe a fortune. Except it had been her fortune and there was now none of it left.

  Samuel’s footsteps rapped smartly across the tiled hall, the door slammed as he went out. She rested her forehead on the turned wooden spindles, closed her eyes. He was going to sort this mess out. Jesamiah was not going to hang. “Oh thank God,” she breathed, “thank God.”

  Only later, as her maid helped her back to bed, a fever on her cheeks and beading her brow, did Alicia pause to wonder what she was now going to do about that foul little man who knew so much about her past. She would have to sell some of her jewellery. She no longer had a choice.

  Alicia turned on her side, buried her face in the pillow and sobbed.

  Forty Eight

  “But how long before she can sail?” Trent was almost dancing in frustration as he hopped from one foot to the other. “We need to sail. I need to get to Williamsburg. We need to get to Williamsburg.”

  Nat Crocker scratched at his unshaven chin, sniffed loudly, shook his head. “You see, it is like this. If any one of us goes within spitting distance of Williamsburg we will be arrested and hanged. So we stay here.”

  “And leave your Captain to hang? Good God, you spineless worms!”

  Several of the men nearby stopped the work they were doing – finishing the paintwork of the hull – and glowered at him, offended. The Sea Witch was almost finished. They had worked hard cleaning, repairing, restoring her to her full beauty. All it needed was for the paint and varnish to dry, the rigging to be completed and the next high tide to float her clear of the graving dock. Then her cannon would be swung back aboard, her ballast replaced, food and water stores replenished, and she would be ready for sea.

  “It is not a matter of leavin’ our Capitaine to ‘ang Monsieur. There is nothing we can do to stop it. ‘E knows that. ‘E is not a fool.” Rue spread his hands, at a loss for what else to say. “Without a letter of authority, we are marked as pirates. And as pirates we shall ‘ang.”

  Trent almost screamed with annoyance; “But is that not what I have been trying to tell you?” He fished in his pocket. “The Letter of Marque has been found. Somehow it was inadvertently put among Mrs Mereno’s personal papers.”

  Forty Nine

  Friday 25th October

  The two-and-a-half storey brick built Capitol Building of Williamsburg, Virginia, was essentially in the shape of an H. It was actually two structures of seventy-feet by twenty-five, connected by a central arcade. Each wing on the southern side terminated in a semicircular apse, with the ground floor punctuated by three circular windows. The classical, corniced architecture was topped by a six-sided cupola crowning the ridge of the hipped and dormered roof. To most observers it was an impressive building, but Jesamiah, being marched and prodded across the road from the gaol to the rear entrance and the single small holding cell beneath the courtroom in the west wing, was not overly enamoured. The Capitol Building was only thirteen years old and this cell seemed to have accumulated every bit of dirt and muck from every one of them.

  In a room no more than a few yards square, the unwashed and unshaven prisoners sat in near darkness along a bench, their shackles chafing at wrists and ankles from the short but uncomfortable walk.

  Yesterday, some of Jesamiah’s fellow prisoners had been taken to their doom. Immediately after trial and sentencing the eight-year-old boy
had been given a severe thrashing to his backside and sent on his way. Two of the men had spent the rest of the day in the stocks being gleefully pelted by rotten vegetables, mud and dung – human and animal – and three had been branded on the cheek as thieves and set free. Were they to be caught again for the same crime they would hang without trial or deliberation.

  This morning, three men had been hanged, one of them the whoreson Jesamiah had attacked. Another had been Henry. His trial was short, a foregone conclusion. He had been caught performing a sexual act of gross indecency with another man twice his age in a tavern’s miserable back room down in Jamestown. The man had escaped leaving Henry to take the full wrath of Christian moralistic judgement. He had pleaded guilty and had walked with pride and dignity to the gallows. It had been the bully who had pleaded for mercy, broken down and wept as the noose had been laid around his neck. He had taken twenty minutes to die, slowly strangling, accompanied by the sound of hisses and boos. The crowds did not like a coward.

  Jesamiah’s invitation to join the proceedings was the last to be issued. He dared not say anything as the bailiff prodded him towards the door and the short flight of stairs beyond. What was there to say? This was all a lie, a misunderstanding? He had been saying that since his arrest, with only Maynard to speak up for him. But Maynard was not here in Williamsburg. He was at Jamestown with his ship, or at sea somewhere, it did not matter where.

  It was difficult walking with the leg irons, twice Jesamiah stumbled up the steps, only to be punched in the back and grumbled at. He halted at the top, blinking in the brightness of the light and airy courtroom, the sun streaming in through the circular windows making his eyes water. The level of talk from the spectators – a gladiatorial audience – increased as he stood there, disorientated, his heart beginning to thump with apprehension. This was no jested prank, this was a courtroom where he could very well be sentenced to swing alongside poor Henry’s corpse come tomorrow morning. The spectators were seated on wooden benches placed in rows as if they were pews in a church; those come to gawp who had no room to sit, stood along the back, the muttered words of pirate and murderer galloping around the room and soaring up to the ceiling many feet above as Jesamiah appeared.

  The room was all polished wood and windows, dust motes swirling in the shafts of sunbeams. At the front, the clerks were poised with their ink and quills, all staring at him as if he were a horned, tailed devil hissing fire and brimstone from his mouth and arse.

  Jesamiah was prodded again, chivvied to move forward. He was aware that he stank, his clothes were stained and torn and his matted hair, like his body, was filthy. He had not washed or shaved since the day of the ball. Proud, determined in his innocence, Jesamiah squared his shoulders and walked with as much dignity as he could, considering the restrictions of the irons, to the bench at the front which the bailiff was pointing at.

  The muttering died a little as Jesamiah sat, his back straight, but the whispering continued. The staring, the pointing, the wrinkled noses of utter disgust at his appearance, at what he supposedly was.

  Is Alicia here, Jesamiah wondered, enjoying the entertainments of Williamsburg’s Publick Times? Enjoying the mischief she’s created? He was certain, now, that she had procured his letter. Quite why he had not fathomed, but probably for some selfish, mean-spirited reason of her own.

  “All rise!”

  The voices stopped but the coughing and shuffling of feet was as loud. Governor Spotswood entered walking, as if in royal procession, down the centre aisle and took his place at his judge’s bench, a throne-like chair raised on a dais. The clerks dipped their quills in the ink, bent their heads and began to write.

  Spotswood was handed some papers. “The Court may be seated,” he said, then began to read. He had not looked at Jesamiah.

  More rustling and shuffling. Unable to keep silent, the whispers began, then grew louder as if a wind was getting up in distant trees.

  “Bailiff,” Spotswood stated without glancing up, “I remind you, this Government Court is in session. On several occasions this day I have found cause to remind you that I will have silence. If there is one more sound I will order the room cleared. Do you understand?”

  The whispering ceased as if the little rise of wind was running off over the meadows.

  The members of the Council who sat as jury were, to a man, merchants and traders. Each one strictly biased against piracy. The bailiff jerked Jesamiah’s chains and he was brought to stand at the low wooden bar.

  At last Spotswood raised his head, stared at him.

  “You are Jesamiah Charles Mereno, better known as Jesamiah Acorne?”

  “I am innocent of this charge, I…”

  Spotswood slammed his gavel with a resounding crack down on the bench. “You will answer the question and speak only when spoken to. I repeat; you are Jesamiah Charles Mereno, better known as Jesamiah Acorne?”

  Jesamiah took a steadying breath to control his rising temper and the sudden galloping fear. This was not going to be a fair trial. He nodded. “Aye, Sir.”

  The Secretary of the Court rose, began to drone the legal necessities.

  Jesamiah listened to the first two words then stared at the nearest window, gazing out at the blue sky beyond. Had Rue rounded the lads up? Had they started on Sea Witch – finished? Would they have completed all the repairs in a week? They could usually careen in two or three days, and in the graving dock she would have been easier to get at – although there was a lot to do. Were the sails repaired? The rigging overhauled?

  He sighed, listened to the secretary’s boring voice for a few sentences. He had missed the nature of the charge brought against him, but he knew what that was anyway. Piracy with intent to commit theft, arson and murder upon the High Seas.

  “How do you plead?”

  They had to repeat the question.

  Lifting his chin, standing as proud and straight as the manacles and leg irons would allow, Jesamiah stared direct into Governor Spotswood’s eyes. “Not guilty.” A ripple of conversation ran like an Atlantic roller around the room. Spotswood used his gavel again.

  A few witnesses, men Jesamiah did not know, were called, men who, he discovered, were crew of the Fortune of Virginia. They all said the same thing, as did Captain Daniel Lofts, although his testimony was more elaborate and succinct in detail. Their combined testimonies and depositions were damning; the Sea Witch, captained by Mereno-Acorne, had boldly and blatantly attacked the Fortune of Virginia with intent to damage, rob, and murder.

  Jesamiah was forced to listen to the drivel, not permitted to say a word in his own defence.

  Governor Spotswood studied some of the papers again for a few minutes, then looked ponderously at Jesamiah. “Prisoner at the Bar. You have heard the words of these witnesses. Jesamiah Mereno, have you in turn any defence to make or witnesses to declare on your behalf?”

  “I prefer to be called Acorne, my Lord, if it so please the Court. I have not used the name Mereno for many years.”

  Someone among the spectators called out, “Aye, not since you beat your brother to a pulp then ran away to a life of theft and debauchery!”

  “And eventually to murder him!”

  Spotswood banged his gavel for silence, then scratched his nose and considered a moment. He nodded, spoke to the clerks. “I will accept the name Acorne.” He transferred his attention to Jesamiah, waiting for him to speak.

  Jesamiah remained silent for a moment, considering his best option. Tiola would testify, but this Court would only see her as his mistress, would treat her words with scorn, and aside, there remained the problem of keeping her identity secret from Teach. For the same reason, would they listen to Alicia? On the other hand she was Phillipe Mereno’s widow, how could the Court misinterpret anything she said as his witness?

  “Mrs Alicia Mereno was aboard the Sea Witch,” he said boldly, doubting as he said it that the words would be of the slightest use. “She will testify that I did not attack Captain Lofts.”r />
  Spotswood glowered at the faces in the Court. “Is the lady here present?”

  The Secretary to the Court stood, “My Lord, I understand she was questioned by Lieutenant Maynard when he took the militia to search for this fellow’s accomplices. His report is included in your papers.”

  The Governor shuffled through the papers and impatiently tossed them to his table. “You have a copy? Read me the relevant information.”

  Complying, the Secretary found what he was looking for, and cleared his throat; “Mrs Mereno was questioned as to her presence aboard the vessel Sea Witch during the interval of the offence of piracy. She answered that she knew nothing as she had been forcibly incarcerated below deck. She was abandoned there and possibly left to drown, for water was up to her waist before her screams secured her release.”

  The bitch, Jesamiah thought. “I sent her below because I had every intention of engaging Teach and drawing his fire from the Fortune of Virginia,” he interrupted. “On deck during an engagement is no place for a woman.”

  “So you admit she was below?” Spotswood responded. “If that is so then how can she prove witness to what occurred?”

  Captain Lofts jumped to his feet, dramatically pointing his finger at the Governor then at Jesamiah, “Do you seriously believe this rag’s lies? That out of the goodness of his heart he was trying to save my ship from Teach’s ravaging?”

  Peering at him sternly Spotswood repeated that he would have silence in his Court, then added, “Your statement is noted, Captain, but as to the accuracy of it, are we not all assembled here to ascertain that fact?”

  “My Lord Governor,” Jesamiah said, aware that everything was tumbling down around him. It felt like the ceiling was caving in, the floor giving way and he was falling into an abyss of panic. He grabbed at the bar, the manacles grating against the wood. Fought down rising nausea and made one last plea. “Governor, I carried a Letter of Marque with a precise remit to aid the Admiralty in the clearing of undesirables from the oceans. To hunt pirates. That was why I attacked Teach and went to the defence of the Fortune of Virginia. I was doing what I was commissioned to do.”