Bring It Close

by Helen Hollick

  Her words were soft, but sure. “Three times, I honour thee with my words. Three times, I honour thee with my touch. Three times, I honour thee with my love.”

  And again they circled.

  “Once, I walk the Circle to bind thee to my body. Twice, I walk the Circle to bind thee to my heart. Thrice, I walk the Circle to bind thee to my soul.”

  A third time. “Seven times the Three do I want thee. Eight times the Three do I worship thee. By Nine, the Power of Three by Three, do I wed thee and take thee as mine own.”

  Jesamiah repeated the words as Tiola spoke them. They stood, holding hands, and the candles and the watching stars became motionless.

  She smiled directly into his eyes, and through them to his soul, knew that he was looking at her in the same way for she could feel his loving presence deep within her. She spoke in barely a whisper; the sealing of her vow was too great to be shouted, and too intimate. “I love thee. I love thee. I love thee. So may it be.”

  Jesamiah squeezed her hands, his throat felt tight with emotion, his heart full. “I love thee. I love thee. I love thee. So may it be.”

  Tiola reached for the acorn earring that she had on a chain around her neck and put it over Jesamiah’s head. “When you can, wear it as it is meant to be. I have blessed it, the charm will protect you.”

  “I need no charm, sweetheart. I need only you.” He pulled her close, kissed her. She was his wife and he, her husband, and he did love her so.

  As he broke away, stepped back, the candles disappeared and the clouds covered the sky. Only the lantern burning with a single flame was on the path between them, as if nothing else had ever been there.

  Thirteen

  “Someone comes!”

  Jesamiah looked up, startled. A man was there, not four yards away pointing along the path, his features in shadow. That same man, the one who had been beside the grave. His father. No! His father was dead, buried, gone!

  “It is Teach!” Charles Mereno shouted. “Be gone, Tiola! Boy, extinguish the lantern.”

  Jesamiah was flummoxed, but his bewilderment was shoved aside by an inrush of anger. How dare this stranger give him orders! “I do not know who the fok you are, mister, and I don’t p’tickly care. I will handle this my way. No one orders me about. Savvy?” Muttered, “Especially not some bloody dead ghost.”

  He glanced at where Tiola had silently stepped into the darkness beneath the trees. He thought he saw a movement of her gown, but when he stared harder there was nothing there. Coming nearer, the unmistakeable sound of footsteps treading heavily on the path, squelching in the occasional patch of mud. Mereno obstinately remained standing where he was.

  Jesamiah ignored him. He lifted the lantern, held it high and stood, waiting for Teach to come nearer.

  “What be thee doin’ ‘long here, Acorne?” Teach asked, his tone suspicious, craning his neck in an attempt to see past Jesamiah who was blocking the way.

  “Unless we agree to be partners, Teach, my business remains my business.”

  “Tha’s why I doos come t’find thee.” Teach scowled again over Jesamiah’s shoulder at the indistinct shape of a man leaning against a tree. “Who be this’n then?”

  Charles Mereno stepped forward so that the feeble glimmer from the lantern would shine on his face. “I think you already know who I am, Edward.”

  Teach blanched and his hand dropped to the cutlass at his side. The words flew from him in a hoarse whisper of disbelief. “Nay! Thee be dead!”

  “Am I? Mayhap you are not the only one to make pacts with the Devil?”

  And he was gone. In the silence only the river could be heard gurgling past; the wind rustling in the trees. An owl called some way off; nearer, its mate answered.

  Teach turned slowly, glowered at Jesamiah, the whites of his bulging eyes gleaming in the pale lamplight. “What thee be doin’ consortin’ with that bugger?”

  Swinging the lantern Jesamiah peered up and down the empty path. “You are the only one who knows about buggers, Teach, and I see only you. I’m here to make an agreement. If you want to see things that are not here, then that is between you and your conscience; it ain’t nothing to do with me. Perhaps you’ve had too much to drink?” He spat on his palm, held out his hand. “Now, do we have an accord or don’t we?”

  Teach glowered. Ghosts? Phantoms? What did he fear from either? No ghost was going to do Beelzebub’s partner any harm. That apparition, Mereno, must’ve been some trick of Acorne’s – and what was there to fear from this young pup?

  “Too much t’drink? I’ll see thee under tha table any day!” Teach spat on his own palm, slapped his hand into Jesamiah’s. “Yass, we have accord.”

  For all his bravado, Teach, Blackbeard himself, was glad he had Jesamiah to walk with, and that the candle in the lantern lasted until they reached the jetty at Bath Town’s apology for a wharf. Mereno’s likeness, whether it was a trick or a ghost or his mind playing games, had unsettled him. He had forgotten all about Charles St Croix Mereno. He did not especially want to remember him, alive or dead.

  He stood on the jetty, staring across the river in the general direction of his own property and at the patch of darkness where the Adventure was moored, her masts and rigging black against the night sky. He looked in the opposite direction, upriver, to where there was a blaze of lantern and torch light, the sound of music and voices and laughter. John Ormond’s estate. The wedding carousal. Only it was not the sort of do that befitted a pirate. Genteel manners, dainty bites to eat that would not fill a gnat’s belly. Wine and champagne that tasted like piss to his way of thinking, served in pretty glasses – not kegs of rum to fill tankards to the brim.

  Teach set his back to the light and noise, spoke plain to Jesamiah. “I’ve had me fill o’ they dullards. I be goin’ aboard me ship. Will thee b’joinin’ me?”

  The last thing Jesamiah wanted was to spend a wedding night – his or Teach’s – anywhere except in Tiola’s bed, but what he wanted and what he was going to get seemed likely to be two different things. That Teach was after Sea Witch was all too evident, but he was going to be very disappointed, wasn’t he?

  “Why not?” Jesamiah said, shrugging one shoulder and forcing enthusiasm. “I’ll just be tellin’ the tavern I’ll not be wantin’ a room after all.”

  The excuse was a good one, creditable. Teach nodded, walked on across the bridge towards Plum Point, his footsteps rattling on the wooden planking. “Dint’ thee be dallyin’ long, Acorne. I weigh anchor within tha hour.”

  It took Jesamiah only a quarter of that to find Joe Meadows and tell him what to do. “Find Miss Tiola, tell her I’ll be finishing what we started as soon as we have the chance. Then get yourself downstream to the Sea Witch and tell Rue to take her back to la Sorenta. I do not want her anywhere near here or that madman. Tell Rue to employ time usefully by stowing what tobacco there is. I have a mind to take it to London and sell it. If we can.”

  Finally, as the night neared its midway zenith, Jesamiah stood at the head of the path that led along the river. He did not have to go with Teach. He could find Tiola, make love to her; make her properly his wife. But then that would go against his reason for being here, would it not? He had to clear his name, no matter how much the doing stuck in his throat, and to do so, he had to find out what Teach was up to. He might as well get on with it.

  And as for his father? Aye well, Tiola may have something different to say if he asked her, but in his book, ghosts did not exist.

  Fourteen

  A frawze, spoken in Teach’s dialect as frawzee; a feast, a celebration. An excuse to get skimmished, drunk. Not that Teach or any of his ramshackle, degenerate crew needed an excuse.

  Mary Teach wrinkled her nose and leant away from the red-haired man sitting on her left, Red Rufus they called him. His breath and body stank. She was not certain which was the worst offence, his stench or the fact that three times now she had slapped his hand away from her breast.

  The only decent man
was Captain Acorne, but he sat over the far side of her husband’s great cabin, propped in a corner with a bottle of rum as a companion. By the looks of him he was asleep. She rather regretted being churlish with him earlier, about the tar on his hand. Compared to the disgusting state of these men, that was a minor offence.

  There were about twenty-six men. Where the rest of the crew were she did not know or care, nor had she listened to the names of these ruffians, let alone remembered them: Morton; Gates; a Negro. Hands of course, she knew him. He spoke well, kept himself as clean as a sailor could and knew his manners – after a fashion, but he was on his back flat on the floor, dead drunk. Garrett Gibbens, the bo’sun, was continuously leering at her. She did not like him, was a little afraid of him. In fact, she was afraid of them all.

  As a captain’s cabin this was pitiful. Ten feet by twelve, shoddy, dirty, barely any furniture save what was essential. No curtaining to make the tiny compartment to one side, which was apparently her bedchamber, private.

  Nor was there any privacy for the necessary. The only provision was what they called “the heads” – a hole up at the front of the boat which you positioned yourself over. How was she to manage that with her fine gown and array of petticoats? She wanted to relieve herself, but was not going to use that dreadful place. It stank of faeces and urine – most of which was on the deck, not evacuated down the hole. The mere thought made her gag. And nor was she going to lift her skirts with all these men watching. She would have to ask for a bucket, she assumed.

  Where was she to hang her gowns? Set her hairbrushes, powders and perfumes? Where was she to dress? What was she to do during the day? What of tonight – what was left of it.

  This was not what she had intended.

  At her home, her father’s house, the big bed had been made with fresh linen sheets and soft-woven blankets. Petals and perfume had been strewn about, sweet-smelling candles stood ready to be lit, a fire laid in the hearth with scented wood. A bottle of Papa’s expensive wine, crystal glasses; sweetmeats on a silver dish. It had all looked so beautiful, and here she was in her wedding gown that was muddied at the hem and torn in two places, aboard a rat-infested ship! She blinked back tears, and pushed Gibbens away as he tried to kiss her.

  Mary had expected to be mistress of Plum Point. Edward had talked of rebuilding it, of adding a wing and another storey; of buying slaves to tend the gardens. She realised now, now it was too late, that it had all been nothing more than talk. She had been bewitched by his false charm, the romantic allure of being singled out by a pirate – by a man of fame and fortune whom everyone courted and fawned over. Along with the rest of them in Bath Town she had failed to see the rotting hulk she was now shackled to. Not that she’d had a choice, but had her father – had any of them – known the reality behind this barbarian’s gentlemanly façade, would she be here, drowning in this nightmare?

  Perhaps, when he decided to set sail she could feign seasickness and persuade him to send her home? He had said he was going to sea, but they had only drifted a few miles down river and then dropped anchor again. Apparently it was too much bother to go any further.

  Captain Acorne had been furious. His ship had gone. She was supposedly anchored where they were now, but there had not been a sign of her. He had stamped up and down the deck yelling obscenities into the darkness about ungrateful bastards stealing his ship; and then he had found the rum and stopped shouting.

  She glanced across at the narrow, box-like bed. One grey, grubby sheet, a worn blanket. Was she expected to share that with Edward? Maybe there was somewhere else they would go to? She glanced at it again. She was so tired she doubted she would notice the fleas, lice and bed bugs. Most of the men were asleep. Surely it would not be long before her husband dozed off? Then she could go to the privy and get to bed. And in the morning? She had not the energy or inclination to think of the morning.

  Gibbens again tried to kiss her. She slapped his face. “Do you not care who insults your wife?” she snapped.

  Teach laughed and emptied the bottle he had in his hand, throwing it across the cabin, the glass shattering against the bulkhead. He belched and reached for another.

  “Nought wrong with a kiss, wummun. Us shares what we ‘as on this’n ship.”

  Fifteen

  Jesamiah was not asleep. He felt uneasy at being aboard the Adventure, but the agreement was for him to keep an eye on Teach and report back to Spotswood when anything significant happened – if anything happened. Until then he would have to stay here. If the sum of their sailing was going to be all of five miles a day, his staying was going to be interminable.

  Why in all the names of all the seas was he doing this? Why? Because otherwise he would be a corpse mouldering in an iron body-cage on the gibbet. Because his crew would be wanted men and because, at the time, there in Governor Spotswood’s comfortable office, all this had seemed a good idea.

  “Why did I agree?” he mumbled, his eyes closed, trying to distance himself from what was going on around him.

  “Because you have a disagreement to settle? Teach shot you, I recall.”

  “I could do that without having to be aboard this shite-hole.”

  “Well then, it is because you are now an honest man and must prove your honesty?”

  “I told you to leave me alone.” Jesamiah put down the bottle he was clutching, opened his eyes and glowered. His father was standing there, leaning against the bulkhead. “I am here because I was backed into a corner, and I did not exactly have much of a selection as regards choice. Leave me alone. Go away. You are dead. You do not exist.”

  Charles Mereno walked over and sat down beside his son. “I am dead, but to those I wish to show myself to, I exist. The woman you have taken as your wife has made it so in order that I may settle things.” When he received no answer he continued, “There is much that I have done wrong; much that I must put right. No, Phillipe was not your brother, but because of me he was born and I undertook responsibility for him and his mother.”

  Jesamiah staggered to his feet. He had drunk more than he realised. “I am not interested. Go save your corrupted soul elsewhere.” Pointedly, with no intention of sharing and not considering that perhaps ghosts could not drink rum, he picked up the bottle and tottered to another corner near the stern windows. He stepped over the prone body of Red Rufus, on his back, mouth open and snoring loudly, stated irritably; “Not a lot of interest happens aboard this bloody ship, does it, Teach?”

  “Tha’ be because I bain’t yet undertook m’ marital dooties.” Teach was very drunk; his slurred words were barely understandable but the crude gesture near his crotch was meaning enough. He belched again, removed his hat and flung it across the cabin. His coat and waistcoat followed.

  Only five of his crew were awake to applaud. They were easily entertained Jesamiah assumed, for he saw nothing to get excited about. His father’s ghost, he noted, had gone.

  Impatiently, Teach gestured for Mary to stand up. Her face was pale, rings beginning to darken beneath her tired eyes. She glanced towards the wooden bed, dread swamping her, the implication of a loveless, ill-matched marriage hitting her with all its stark finality.

  “What thee still wearin’ this’n fer?” Her husband wound his fingers into the lace at the neck of her wedding gown and wrenching it, ripped the dress beyond repair. She cried out in dismay but he had a dagger at her throat – she backed away, whimpering. He crowed the louder and with a few deft strokes cut the lacing of her corset. Without giving her chance to protest he tore her undershift, exposing her breasts to the accompaniment of drunken cheering.

  No romance, no love, no consideration, he dragged her to the bed and tossed her on to it. No matter that these men of his crew watched, no matter that they stamped their feet on the floor and banged their fists on the table in time to his thrusts into her. No matter that she begged him to stop for he was hurting. He slapped her face and heaved and pushed and grunted some more as he tried to maintain a failing erection
.

  These last months it always happened. Every time he took a woman his piece faded before he could relieve his need. He took his disappointment out on her. There were other ways of receiving gratification.

  “As I said, we shares aboard this ship.”

  He twisted his hand into her hair at the nape of her neck and pulling her, screaming, from the bed threw her face down onto the table, scattering the bottles and tankards to the floor.

  “Durn’t any of thee say thy Cap’n bain’t gen’rous. Those o’ thee not so skimmished thee casn’t find thy cock can have thy turn!”

  He opened a new bottle of rum and sat on his captain’s chair at the head of the table, one leg hooked over the arm, and watched indifferently as his wife was raped. The bo’sun, Gibbens, took his pleasure first, then the Negro, Caesar. Mary stopped screaming as the third man used her.

  “Bain’t thee takin’ a turn, Acorne?”

  Teach stood over Jesamiah, swaying, the half empty bottle in his hand.

  How much drink does it take to knock him out? Jesamiah wondered, he feigned sleep, had tried not to hear the girl’s screams. He had raped a girl once when he was seventeen. Had never done it again. The shame still turned his stomach. He took pride in his lovemaking, always ensured the women he slept with received as much pleasure as did he. This was not pleasure. This was sadistic brutality.

  Teach kicked his shin.

  Jesamiah waved his hand. “Too drunk.”

  “I said it be thy turn.” The click of a pistol hammer. “Thee’ll not insult me by turnin’ down me gen’rous offer, would thee, Acorne?”

  Jesamiah got unsteadily to his feet. He wanted no part of this, but Teach’s mood was becoming ugly, and maybe he could do something to help the girl? He certainly would not be able to as a dead man.