Bring It Close

by Helen Hollick

  A stir of surprised incredulity rippled through the spectators and swelled in volume.

  Teach’ll come and finish the job of shooting me when he hears this, Jesamiah thought. He’ll have to ‘urry; get in before they ‘ang me.

  “Silence!” the bailiff cried.

  “And where is this letter?” Spotswood enquired, leaning forward and patiently folding his hands together.

  “In the drawer of my desk, aboard the Sea Witch.”

  “And why was this letter not produced?”

  The Court Secretary glanced up from writing in his ledger. “Because no such document was found, my Lord. Lieutenant Maynard discovered nothing of use or value anywhere aboard the said vessel.”

  More chatter. To be heard, Jesamiah shouted above the noise. “I had one, my Lord! Ask Captain Henry Jennings, he it was who issued it! Send word to him!”

  “Silence! Silence!” The gavel banged twice. “Jennings is in Nassau, this is Virginia. Enough of this time wasting. Council, how do you find?”

  A moment of conferring, nodding heads. “Guilty, my Lord.”

  Alexander Spotswood passed his papers to the Secretary. “You are found guilty of an act of piracy against the vessel Fortune of Virginia. The sentence is that you shall be taken to a place of execution and there hanged by the neck until you be dead. And thereafter your body shall be bound in chains and left upon the gibbet as a deterrent to others.”

  The gavel banged down, a sharp sound of dreadful finality.

  Jesamiah stared at Spotswood, his mind in turmoil, stomach churning, throat dry. Twice he opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out. He tried again; “Sir. I beg leave to appeal.”

  The hush fell over the noise that had been rustling through the courtroom, all faces turned towards the ragged pirate.

  Jesamiah repeated himself, louder, more confident. “I beg leave to make appeal. I am entitled to a stay of execution for a period of three weeks from this date in order to present evidence. I am innocent of this charge and I ask the Court to write to Captain Jennings of Nassau in order that I may prove it so.”

  Spotswood considered for a few moments. Acorne was correct, he did have the right. The Governor was a fair man who respected and abided by the law; was it possible that Acorne could supply evidence of carrying a Letter of Marque? If that was so, and he did indeed have a commission to hunt pirates, then, as Maynard had once suggested, he could prove to be of great benefit to Virginia.

  He nodded once, curt and abrupt. “So be it. Secretary to the Court, you will write to Captain Jennings and ascertain the truth.”

  The gavel banged down for a final time and Spotswood rose, swept from the courtroom where the bailiff pleaded unsuccessfully for silence. Above the uproar, he could not be heard.

  Fifty

  Monday 28th October

  They did not hang people on Sundays and the horse racing had occupied attention on Saturday, so Jesamiah was left alone in the cell to await his potential date with the noose. So far, it was proving to be a long, lonely and anxious wait.

  Not every governor or judge abided by the three-week adjournment. They were a corrupt lot, easily persuaded by necessity, and if a crowd grew ugly and demanded a hanging, it was likely the demand would be granted – and as this was the end of Publick Times it was quite possible they would want something memorable as a grand finale. The hanging of a notorious pirate would provide an attraction to round things off nicely.

  It was still night outside, but Jesamiah was awake staring through the grill on the gaol door, waiting for the rectangle of darkness to start turning pale blue. He could see a small scatter of stars, they made him think of nights at sea, his ship ploughing through the Atlantic rollers, her bow lifting then plunging downward as the stern rose; the phosphorescence twirling and dancing around her masts and rigging, and the frothing glow of her wake. His hands loose but confidant on the spokes of the wheel, his balance subtly shifting, moving as one with her joyful, vibrant motion. Each individual sound of wind, sea and ship like a lover’s secretive murmur in his ears. He had his hands around the bars of the door, closed his eyes; could feel Sea Witch beneath his feet. Could hear her voice.

  ~ Jesamiah? Are you all right my luvver? ~

  Tiola! He sprung away from the door, guilty, as if he had been caught in a mistress’s arms.

  ~ Missing my ship, ~ he admitted. ~ If they do not hang me soon I will die of boredom. Otherwise, I’m fine, sweetheart. I smell a bit. Wouldn’t say no to a bath. Especially a tub big enough for two. ~

  He felt her warmth infuse him. What would he have done without the comfort of Tiola’s dear, sweet, voice in his mind? Or the feeling of her close presence? There were occasions when he awoke from a deep sleep certain she had been lying next to him. He had reached out, once, to touch the dank straw but it had been cold, no sign of any indentation. She had been with him in spirit only and he had not tried touching again for it was too disappointing to discover she was not physically there.

  At the start of it all she had said, ~ I will come; tell them the truth. ~ But he had insisted no. Once Teach found out who she was, there would be no going back to Bath Town for her, and beside, she had been below on the Fortune of Virginia for the entire voyage, unaware of what was happening. What could she tell the Court that they did not already know?

  ~ You cannot lie, Tiola, ~ he had said, ~ and the truth will damn me as much as I am already damned. We must trust in Jennings sending a replacement Letter of Marque. Though I would give much to discover what happened to the original. ~

  She spoke to him, was with him, on the rare occasions when Teach was gone from Bath Town to conduct his business. No one ever asked what that business was, where his sloop had been or from where he had obtained a cargo. No one ever asked questions of Edward Teach.

  The minutes crawled by. Half hour. An hour. Two. A lively wind stirred the fallen leaves that lay scattered in the enclosed courtyard, swirling them into little eddies as if they were chasing each other around and around in an endless race. Above the wall between the gaol and the outside world he could see the sky, bright now with full daylight, and the tops of autumn-painted trees rapidly thinning of their coloured foliage. His entire world had shrunk from the exhilarating freedom of the open sea to this stark view of a brick wall. Jesamiah hated being shut in enclosed spaces, the darkness of the hold sometimes terrified him – another legacy from the cruelties of his damned brother. Even now, knowing it was a lie, he could still only think of Phillipe as his brother, damn him to hell and back. Jesamiah kicked the wall in frustration; if he had not been able to see the tops of the trees and the sky, he did not know what he would have done to retain his sanity. Occasionally, when the gateway was opened he would catch a glimpse of what lay beyond: a lane, more trees, people walking past. Yesterday, as the gaol keeper, John Redwood, had left by that route bound for church, Jesamiah had seen a small boy gazing at the gaol in fearful wonder. Redwood had said something and the boy’s eyes had widened a moment before he had hared off as if all the Hounds of Hell were after him. They probably were. That is where they put you before you be hanged. It did not take much imagination to know what that heartless misery Redwood had said.

  Beyond the rustling of leaves and a faint moan of the wind Jesamiahcould hear the plod of hooves in the lane and the rumble of wheels. The noise stopped. Voices, but too muffled to follow precise words. The gate opened, John Redwood trotted through accompanied by four red-coated, musket-bearing militia guard.

  This was it then. A dawn hanging. They were not prepared to wait for a reply from Jennings. The feeling in the pit of Jesamiah’s stomach had been right: that had been his last night, this his last morning. Tomorrow he would be – God alone knew.

  ~ They are not going to hang you, Jesamiah ~ Tiola had said to him once, during the lonely hours of darkness. If only it were true.

  “Well, here be a merry party,” Jesamiah drawled, his hands draped through the bars as the soldiers halted in a ragged line a
safe distance from the door, muskets raised.

  Fumbling with the keys Redwood gestured for him to step back and then unlocked it, drew the bolts and swung it open with a heavy creak to the rusting hinges.

  Making a low bow Jesamiah flourished an invisible cocked hat and with an elaborate gesture invited the men inside. “You are welcome to enter but I warn you, the chambermaid is a lazy bitch. Me room’s in a bit of a mess. I reckon it needs a dustin’, a touch of polish ‘ere an’ there an’ a new carpet, mebbe?” The stench emanating from within and from Jesamiah himself was ripe. The youngest of the militia guard put his hand over his mouth and gagged.

  Used to the smell, Redwood produced wrist shackles. “Enough of your fooling. It will be no bother to disable you with a musket ball to your knee.”

  With a sigh, Jesamiah retrieved his hat and settled it on his head, pulled on his coat and held out his arms. No point in making a fuss. Not with loaded muskets holding the balance of opinion over an argument. Mind, to be shot would be a quicker death than hanging – assuming they aimed straight. On second thoughts, hanging would perhaps be the better option; this lot barely knew which end of a musket was which.

  Leg irons were fitted. Did they really expect him to run? It was a thought that occupied his attention as he was marched outside and bundled awkwardly into the cart. Would he run if given the opportunity? Or would he face death with dignity? He supposed it would depend on weighing the options: how far he was able to run – if he could run at all; how likely an escape would be. And if death was inevitable, would he have the strength to stay silent? He’d cut out his tongue before he’d beg for mercy. Or would he? There was no way of knowing until the moment came. But to be hanged for a crime he did not commit? The final irony.

  It was early morning, admitted, but everywhere was strangely quiet. There were no spectators, no one jeering or cheering as the cart moved off, its wheels rumbling. The only sign of life, a she-cat heavily in kitten slinking beneath the shelter of a bush. The wind had a vicious chill in it, but it was an unlikely reason to keep people away. No one had been told. His hanging was to be secret then, that was the only explanation. Spotswood knew full well that to hang him before the respite of three weeks was up was illegal. Huh, he might have guessed, Virginia’s Governor was no more honourable than the rest of them.

  They went west along the undulating back lane of Nicholson Street, the bay cob plodding lazily between the shafts, Redwood, the driver, not hurrying the animal. Jesamiah was grateful for the fresh wind on his face, its touch caressing his grimed skin. He closed his eyes. The wind, unless it was in a temper, was always a friend to a sailor.

  The cart turned north into England Street, passing the timber-framed skeleton of what would be a large house when finished and, further along, the mill, its sails turning sprightly, creaking and clanking and groaning. Then west again at the next junction. Ahead, at the far end, the Governor’s grand palace. Jesamiah frowned; this was an odd route to be taking to the gallows, was it not?

  A man of about forty years was mending a broken fence to the front of a newly built house; a one-and-a-half storey building clad with four-foot lengths of white-painted weatherboarding and a clapboard roof, not shingles. A typical design of the Williamsburg properties that were springing up like mushrooms. He banged in another nail, wiped his hands and leant on a sound section of the picket fence.

  “You are up early, John Brush,” Redwood observed as the cart drew level.

  “My eldest daughter was daft enough to tether her pony here yesterday. Stupid beast pulled away and took the fence with it. I reckoned the Sabbath was a day of rest though, so left the fixing ‘til today. He for hanging then?”

  “None of your business,” the eldest militiaman answered, suggestively cradling his musket across his chest. “You get on with that mending, else that pretty daughter of yourn may tell your Missus about you slacking.”

  The pretty daughter in question was pegging wet laundry to a length of stout rope strung between two trees, taking advantage of a fine drying day. The girl was staring wide-eyed at the sight of a real pirate no further than a few feet beyond the fence. Her father turned to glower at her and she hurriedly reached for the next item in the basket at her feet. Blushed scarlet when pulling it out, she realised it was a personal undergarment. Hastily, she stuffed it out of sight and glancing up, saw the pirate grinning at her.

  “Ma’am,” Jesamiah touched his hat and then ruined the polite effect by winking at her.

  Reddening deeper she hid behind the screen of a flapping sheet.

  “Bit strange you coming this way, Redwood, is it not?” Brush had no intention of returning to work when there was a chance to gossip. “Gallows was the other direction last time I noticed.”

  The same thought was in Jesamiah’s mind; a twist of unease knotted in his stomach, one that had nothing to do with a noose going round his neck. What were they intending to do with him? Torture him perhaps? Make him tell all he knew of Teach? Well there would be no problem, he’d clack straight out as cheerfully as a hen announcing she’d laid!

  John Redwood clicked his tongue at the cob in an effort to make her walk faster. The mare flicked her ears and swished her tail but did nothing more. “Like you were told, Master Brush; none of your business.”

  Directly ahead now, the Governor’s palace. From the front it looked splendid; dormer windows for the third storey, a balustrade around the high cupola – but a network of scaffolding was erected at the rear and as they passed the stable yard it became clear that no one could use the side entrance, for builders’ materials were piled in haphazard heaps right up to the walls. Spotswood’s project to create a dwelling fit for a man of his rank was taking longer – and more money – than he had originally planned. Some of the cost he was now having to foot at his own expense, for Williamsburg refused to advance him any further financial assistance. But even incomplete, the building was probably the finest in British Colonial America.

  Governor Spotswood had determined to create a palace and grounds of formal grandeur and symmetrical balance. It was to reflect the Colony’s – his – dignity and status. Sited at the top of a broad green and a drive that swept up from Main Street towards the iron gates and brick walls enclosing the forecourt, the palace completed Williamsburg’s primary north-south axis. Why he was being brought in this direction though, Jesamiah still had no idea. To prove a point? That Governor Spotswood was all-powerful and Jesamiah was a mere nothing about to hang?

  To his surprise the cart turned in through the main gates with their supporting pillars, each adorned with a heraldic beast rampant atop, and halted. With elaborate waving of muskets he was ushered out of the cart, up the steps and in through the front door. Not easy to accomplish with dignity wearing leg irons and shackles.

  “Goin’ to ‘ang me in style, are they?” Jesamiah quipped, baffled at what was going on. A prisoner about to hang being escorted through the front door of the Governor’s palace? Why? Again his stomach churned. Why did they not just get on with it? Finish him?

  If the intention of the entrance hall was to impress, then Jesamiah was suitably impressed. Was it octagonal in shape? Was an octagon eight-sided or ten? He could not remember, started counting, stopped. What the heck was he doing? Did it matter what bloody shape the entrance hall was? Did he care?

  To one side a marble fireplace, doors leading off to left and right; ahead, the main doorway and beyond, the staircase to the private family residence. The elegant floor was black and white marble set as a vague flower petal pattern; the walls wood-panelled. And the walls were the reason he had been brought here, for they were adorned with a dazzling display of weaponry. Each panel formed an intricate pattern of blade overlapping blade, or gun barrel over gun barrel. Gleaming swords, immaculate polished pistols and muskets. The Brown Bess, weighing fifteen pounds with a ball three-quarters of an inch in diameter. Used in battle by rank upon rank of men – you knew about it when one of those got you. But individually? T
hey were slow to load, inaccurate and unreliable. There was enough of an armoury displayed here to fight a small war, though. To attack Williamsburg was not a sensible option. Was that why he was here? To be shown resistance was futile?

  That they were expected became apparent when the butler appeared and made no protest at having a degenerate standing in his entrance hall. He did, however, register his disapproval by sniffing loudly and curling his lip in distaste. Redwood and the militia were ushered outside, although John Redwood did try to get a word in to ask if the Governor had agreed the funding for his house yet?

  “My lodgings are a mite inconvenient. Tell the Governor that if we could get on with building my house next to the gaol, there’d be less chance of any escapes and such.” No one took any notice of him. For the past few months, Redwood’s sole line of conversation had been the promised building of his house.

  Jesamiah alone was shown through the right-hand door into the Governor’s parlour. Two men awaited him. Governor Spotswood sat at his desk writing in a ledger book; seated in a chair, Samuel Trent. He rose, a smile of delight on his face. He took a couple of steps towards Jesamiah his hand outstretched – his nose wrinkling, thought better of it and sat down again.

  On the desk were two documents. Jesamiah recognised Captain Henry Jennings’ distinctive writing on the Letter of Marque he had issued, and beside it a sealed parchment bearing his own name. Jesamiah Charles Mereno. He said nothing, stood, wrists bound by the irons.

  “You owe your life to Master Trent here,” the Governor said returning his quill to its stand and dusting the wet ink with fine sand. He blew the excess off, closed the book, set it aside and finally looked up. “He has informed me that Mrs Alicia Mereno found your Letter of Marque. It seems it had inadvertently been placed among her own papers.” The cadence of his voice conveyed that he did not believe a word, but no gentleman would openly call a lady a liar.