Bring It Close

by Helen Hollick

  “I keep ‘em tha wrong side of sober deliberate,” Blackbeard confided, pulling the sea chest he had been sitting on out from the encroaching shade. He removed his coat, sat, tipped his face to the warmth of the sun. “Don’t get as much lip that way.”

  “You mean sober, one or two of them just might find the courage to oppose you.”

  Teach made no reply.

  Jesamiah was inspecting the box where various pennants and colours were kept. Most of them were ragged and stained. He shoved them back, not bothering to fold them neatly. A couple of seams along the decking were splitting open, he noticed. “When did you last have the men holystone this deck?” he asked; then, “And are you aware the rudder chain is loose?”

  “Got any more comments?”

  “Aye. Not one of those lazy buggers has bothered coiling the anchor cable correctly, the thing’s rotten and you’ve more rats and fleas in your hold than ballast.”

  “A few rats don’t bother me.”

  “Don’t bother me either, but it ain’t good t’be havin’ so many.”

  “Leave it, Acorne, or I might decide t’shoot thee now instead o’ later.”

  The men were returning. Making a lot of noise, but without much fuss the filled kegs of water were brought aboard and stowed. Teach stayed where he was, soaking up the late afternoon sunshine, but even though his eyes were apparently closed Jesamiah had the feeling he was watching every movement. A feeling confirmed when one of the last kegs to be swung aboard was dropped. It fell to the deck and split open, water sluicing everywhere.

  “Who let this boy aboar’?” Teach questioned as he got up and swaggered down into the waist. He stopped before Jonathan Gabriel and poked his shoulder, “What I be wantin’ with a tailor? Eh?”

  “I want to become a pirate.”

  “Then thee’d best learn not t’let go o’ tha bloody rope and lose all tha bloody water, eh Archangel?”

  “I did not let go. It broke. The thing was rotten. And my name is Jonathan Gabriel.”

  Watching from the quarterdeck Jesamiah had to admire the lad’s audacity.

  “Archangel. Show me thy hands.”

  Again Jesamiah gave the lad his due, he did not hesitate but held out his hands, showing the backs and palms. “I am not afraid of hard work Captain. I can haul a rope along with the rest of them.”

  Blackbeard nodded and began to walk away, but then Jonathan Gabriel made a fatal error. He pointed to Israel Hands. “Why did that man over there hide Mary Ormond’s wedding gown beneath a tree? Will she not be wanting it?” He glanced around, puzzled. Innocent. “Why is she not here? I heard you brought her aboard.”

  The crew froze, all eyes looking towards Blackbeard walking back towards Jonathan Gabriel, his boots a slow, tread on the deck; thump, thump, thump.

  “Show us thy hands again, boy.”

  A cold dread twisted in Jesamiah’s stomach, he was on the verge of calling out, but he kept quiet. Him and the boy against this rabble? There was nothing he could do for the lad. Not without getting himself killed.

  Without hesitation, without realising the grave danger he was in, Jonathan Gabriel held out his hands.

  “I have no trace of shakes or trembling, Sir. A firm grip and agile fingers.”

  “Thee be tha lad a’courtin’ tha Guv’nor’s stepdaughter.”

  It was not a question but Jonathan Gabriel answered as if it were. “I am. I love her, we are to be married.”

  “Are thee now?” Teach shook his head, his eyes narrowing like a snake’s before it strikes. “I think not, Archangel. I don’t hold with whores who refuse me my pleasure. An’ she ‘as a lesson t’learn, that ‘un.”

  Moving fast, faster than anyone would credit a man of his size and bulk, Blackbeard’s hand shot out and grasped the boy’s right arm, dragged him, spluttering a protest of alarm, to the nearest cannon. With his free hand Teach lifted an axe that had been left on the deck, raised it and brought the blade down twice, severing the hand at the wrist.

  Jonathan screamed. Jesamiah too, “No!” but Teach was insane and possessed not a half ounce of pity. He neither heard nor cared. Gripping the boy’s left arm, ignoring the lad’s frantic writhing and desperate kicking he struck off that hand also. Blood from the arteries was fountaining grotesquely over the deck, the cannon, Teach, the men nearby. Jonathan was shrieking, the sound soaring louder in pitch and fear as Teach hefted him over the side. A splash. The noise stopped.

  The river turned red as Jonathan Gabriel tried to swim away, his lifeblood pumping from him with every desperate stroke. Stunned, gorge rising into his throat, Jesamiah watched as the tailor’s attempts to get away became feebler. He went under and did not come up again. The blood spreading on the surface eased. Stopped.

  “Rufus.”

  “Aye Cap’n?”

  “Take them two trophies t’ tha great cabin. I’ve a use fer they.”

  “Aye Cap’n.”

  “An’ Rufus.”

  “Cap’n?”

  “I has a task for thee, once tha sun sets.”

  “Aye Cap’n.”

  The men were silent, not one daring to make comment or show disapproval, for if he did he would be next. Teach was aware of the silence, though, of the hardness in their eyes. It would not take much for them to turn against him. He had to keep them loyal, keep them yoked and there was only the one way to do it.

  “Thee did well getting’ tha water lads, but who wants t’be drinkin’ water eh?” He swaggered to the nearest scuttle hatch and kicked it aside. “Least, not when we have rum in tha hold! Break it out, m’lads! Break out a keg or two!”

  There was a cheer, a shout of approval. Two men hurried below, within moments two kegs were on deck, broached, and they were dipping pewter mugs into the liquor within. Toasting Blackbeard for the fine captain he was.

  Jesamiah remained at the taffrail and glared with hatred at the man who was making himself comfortable again on his seat in the sunshine. “What kind of monster are you, Teach?”

  “The ‘I be alive he be dead’, kind,” Blackbeard answered from beneath his hat. “No one makes a fool o’ me Acorne. No one. Remember that.”

  Twenty One

  Sunday 3rd November

  “Something unpleasant has happened.”

  Tiola was becoming used to Charles Mereno appearing from the shadows without warning, but she had been lost in private thought and was short on patience. She did not hide her annoyance at his intrusion.

  “What? More unpleasant than a young girl’s brutal rape and death? Please Charles, do what you need to do and be gone. I have the living to care for, I can no longer attend the dead. Please go.”

  Charles Mereno leant one shoulder against a tree trunk, folded his arms, crooked his head to one side. He was a handsome man, even in his older age with the grey hair that had once been a fair-haired red; the wrinkled and rumpled skin. The traces of his son, Jesamiah, were there too, in the shape of his chin, the set of his jaw. The way he stood there, as Jesamiah often stood. The only thing missing was the acorn earring and a flutter of blue ribbons. “You do not mean that.”

  “I am afraid I do.”

  He raised his hand, fiddled with his earlobe, exactly as Jesamiah did with his earring.

  Despite her impatience, Tiola smiled at the unconscious similarity. She relented, put down the book. It was not engaging and she had not read a single passage for over half an hour. “Very well. What has happened?”

  “I am not easy with Jesamiah being aboard that ship.”

  “Nor am I, but neither you nor I can do anything to alter the situation.” She paused, stared at him. “Or can you? Why are you still here, with me? Why are you not doing what you came back to do?”

  “Because the time is not right. He is not where he has to be.”

  Tiola lifted her head slightly, frowned. Again the feeling that had been nagging her raised its awareness. There was something wrong, something Charles had not told her.

  “Edward Te
ach must be destroyed,” he said.

  “Ais. But I cannot do it.”

  Mereno moved away from the tree, stood beside the bank, his hand resting where, in life, the hilt of his cutlass would have been. He cast no shadow, though the sun was bright. “Teach does not deserve life.”

  “No, but it is not for me to judge him. And even if it were, I still could not kill him. Only his creator has that right.”

  The water was rippling, little eddies and flurries stirred by the breeze. It was clear here, Charles could see down to the bottom like peering into an upside down world. The other River, the one he had sat beside for so long, long a time had been dark, as black as night and as cold as the touch of death. He bent down, smoothed his hand through the water, scooping some of it up and watching as it ran through his fingers, the sun turning the cascade into sparkling, vibrant colours. He had noted what she had said.

  “Jesamiah will fight Blackbeard, do you know that?”

  Tiola bit her lip. Ais, she knew that. “As much as I love him,” she said with an ache in her throat and her heart, “I am not his keeper. Jesamiah will do what he wants to do. What he has to do.” She looked up, her black eyes flashing a defiant challenge. “Do I chain him in a hold? Lock him in a prison? Or do I endure his chosen paths of freedom?”

  Charles shrugged, it seemed they all had to endure, one way or another.

  “A package has arrived for the girl, for the one they call Perdita,” he stated. “You should go to her. Jonathan Gabriel is dead.”

  He watched Tiola gather her skirts and run, the book forgotten. To the trees, to the river and the dappled sunshine, he said, “Would you set aside your rules and laws, my dear, if you knew that the taking of a life was the only way to end all this? I am dead. I can do only what I have come back to do. Nothing more. When the time is right, when Time itself stops, I must take the life of my son. If I could change the past, if I could do other things to put right these sorrows, do you not think I would? With all my heart, God help me, so I would!”

  Approaching the house it was plain there was something amiss. Elizabeth-Anne’s distressed sobs could be heard from the open drawing room window. A servant was being violently sick in a flower bed. Eden was striding down the drive, hatless, without the walking cane he usually carried.

  Tiola hurried through the front door that had been left flung wide. Nicholas Page was in the hallway, ash pale, his hand over his mouth. At his feet an opened, discarded package. Tangled string, a length of tarred canvas. All of it stained. Brown stained.

  He saw Tiola, looked at her helplessly. “We do not understand. Why? Who would send this – this hideousness to Perdita?” Nicholas Page ran a hand over his head, knocking his wig askew. He gestured at the strewn packaging. “I offered to clear this up, but I find I cannot do so. I…I…” He shook his head, covered his mouth with his hand and fled, pushing past Tiola and bolting through the open door. She heard him retching outside.

  Tentative, Tiola peeled back one corner of the canvas reluctant to discover what lay within. For all her wisdom, for all her Craft and Knowledge, her capabilities, she gasped and backed away, her hands going to her mouth, the nausea rising from her stomach. She sat down heavily on the first stair, put her head between her knees while the sickness swept through her and the world reeled in a cry of revulsion.

  I would rather be condemned to Hell for murdering that bastard than live, knowing had I shot him, someone else would remain inviolate. Alive.

  Perdita’s words reverberated inside her skull. Tiola closed her eyes as she fought down the churn in her stomach. But even with her eyes closed she could see what was in the package. Could see what Perdita had found upon opening it.

  Hands. Two male hands severed at the wrist. Distinctly recognisable from the tailor’s calluses on the fingers.

  Twenty Two

  Friday 8th November

  The Ocracoke. Bordering the entrance to Pamlico Sound; the waters here were suitable only for ships with a shallow draft. The channels were narrow and likely to change. It was a notorious graveyard for shipping and an ideal place for pirates.

  Ocracoke Island was an expanse of marsh, sixteen miles long and not very wide, with a few wind-twisted trees, heaped sand dunes and not much else. Except for the bones of men and ships. Two vessels lay at anchor, riding low as the evening tide ebbed outward. Teach’s sloop Adventure, and a twelve gun brigantine.

  Not a soul was aboard either one, the crews were ashore enjoying themselves. Fires fuelled by gathered driftwood burned brightly, dotted here and there along the spit of land that many claimed God had forgotten existed. The smell of roasting fish and pelican wafted with the wind. At one fire a group of men were singing raucously; at another, a squabble over the last portion of meat. Where the clumps of scrubby marsh grass gave way to a stand of wind-tortured oaks, some men were fornicating with the few whores who had been aboard the brigantine, brought here especially as part of the entertainment. Not far away, more than a handful of men were raucously sodomising each other.

  The Ocracoke marshes were open, and bleak. Even with a gregarious rabble of pirates deep into their drunken celebration of carousal, the place was dismal. The group of men around Edward Teach’s fire had finished their meal and were talking while passing the rum around. Bones sucked dry of the marrow lay everywhere, tossed into the sand. The fire was the largest, built carefully in the lee of a series of dunes that gave some shelter from the intrusive wind. The flames rose and fell, flickering blues, yellows and greens as the salt in the wood caught and burnt.

  Beside Teach sat the only man he had ever respected; Charles Vane. Vane had a price on his head at a value similar to Blackbeard’s for he was wanted personally by Governor Rogers of Nassau. He had thumbed his nose at Rogers in the summer when the Governor had first arrived from England to take up his position of authority. Amnesty had been offered but Vane refused the prospect and destroyed a naval ship as he fled the harbour. There had not been much support for him from the pirate community who had been pleased to see the back of him. He was a cruel, vindictive man who cheated his crew of prize money. Those who went against him he delighted in punishing by the barbarity of keelhauling. He and Blackbeard were a matched pair.

  Beyond an initial scowl, Vane had ignored Jesamiah since stepping ashore several hours ago. Ignored also his own quartermaster, seated next to Jesamiah and sharing a bottle of rum. John Rackham, known as Calico Jack, the fancy dandy of the pirate brethren. Rackham also detested Vane.

  “You want to sail with me, Jack?” Jesamiah asked, returning the bottle back to him. “I can offer you a better life than the one you have with Vane.”

  “Will you make me a captain?”

  “No. Sea Witch – when I get her back – is mine.”

  “Then I thank you for the offer, but I have an idea to get my own vessel and my own captaincy.”

  “Jack, that will lead only to the noose. Take amnesty and life. A long, quiet life.”

  Jack Rackham drank a few gulps, handed the rum back. “So why are you here, eh? Amnesty means a long quiet life of tedious boredom. Nay, give me the short but merry one, Jesamiah.” Jack winked and nudged him with his elbow. “The ladies prefer a pirate in their bed, you know. They enjoy the added excitement.”

  Jesamiah’s thoughts did not exactly tally with Rackham’s theory. He did not need the added excitement of saying he was a pirate to pleasure a woman. Aside, so far, since signing Governor Roger’s book of amnesty he had been flogged, threatened with torture, sent spying in Hispaniola, and was now charged with spying on Blackbeard. Amnesty? It was not proving restful or pleasurable, and was certainly not tedious or boring! He drank, swallowed; said grimly, “Aye, I’ve heard that a man as he swings on the noose and evacuates his bowels and piece can be pretty excitin’ for those watching.”

  “You’re turning into an old maid, Jesamiah Acorne.”

  Jesamiah grinned. “Nay, just a married one.”

  Rackham raised his eyebrows in sur
prise. That Acorne had a wife was news to him, though there had been rumour of him being with a handsome black-haired lass. “Wife?” he asked. “When did this happen?”

  “Not long ago. Before I got myself too deeply into this damned mess.” Jesamiah tossed more wood on to the fire, eyed Teach and Vane roaring at some jest one of them had made. “I tell you Jack, this ain’t no life. Not once you find a good woman to love and to keep you warm at night.”

  Rackham shook his head in disbelief and upended the bottle, disappointed to find it empty. “I like bedding the lasses too much to have just the one. A wife ain’t for me.”

  For answer, Jesamiah just smiled. He liked Jack Rackham, an honest man – as far as a pirate could be honest. They had shared a few adventures in the past, and a few bottles – and more than a few women.

  Getting to his feet, Rackham went to relieve himself, returned with another two bottles, one each.

  “I thought Stede Bonnet was to have come?” he said to Israel Hands, seated on his other side. “Why is he not here I wonder?”

  Overhearing, Vane growled contempt. “You’re soft you are, Rackham. As soft as a spent prick. It don’t matter about Bonnet. If he ain’t interested in joining us then he can go kiss his arse and be damned. I never trusted the drunken sot anyway.”

  “Thee’s never trusted anyone,” Teach observed dryly, “not even thy own quartermaster over yonder.” He pointed at Rackham.

  “That’s because he’s a traitorous little runt.”

  Rackham was on his feet, pistol in hand waving it unsteadily. “You take that back, Vane, you turd! It ain’t my fault the men want me as captain instead of you! You’ve been bloody useless these past months. I’d make a better job of it than ever you will.” Worse the wear for drink he waved the pistol again.