“And who will man these sloops?” Brand had asked.
“The Jane is mine, so I will have my men. You can put who you like in whatever other vessel we can acquire. As long as they are volunteers and they know what they are doing.”
“And what if Blackbeard sees through your scheme?” Captain Gordon had been scathing, reluctant to admit Jesamiah had the right of it. “What if he slips out, as you said he might, and attacks Virginia? How do we defend ourselves?”
Not wanting to confide that Teach might be less fearsome than they thought – at the last count he had only eighteen men left, assuming those who had taken Jesamiah and the injured Israel Hands ashore had not returned – Jesamiah had a simple answer to Gordon’s question. “Why not remain here with the Lyme and the Pearl. Use them and your valuable experience to keep guard over the Chesapeake. Also, if you were to stay with the frigates, if Knight has told anyone of what you had previously planned, they will be none the wiser that we are about to attack. No one will notice us sailing away in two sloops. They will notice you leaving, Captain Gordon.”
Gordon had liked the idea. It meant he did not have to become involved in any unpleasant fighting. Maynard too was pleased. Gordon was more hindrance than help. They would do better without him.
Brand had offered his own suggestion. “Are there not some of Blackbeard’s men remaining at Bath Town? If the Lyme or Pearl were to drop me off higher up the North Carolina coast as soon as may be – and return straight-way back here to quell any rumour, I could take my men overland, be in Bath Town at roughly the same time as you reach the Ocracoke. Cover your rear.”
Jesamiah failed to see the point, but he had held his tongue. Let the Navy think they were being useful and they would stay out of his way. There may well be some pirates remaining in Bath Town – the wounded Hands for one, but most of them would have melted away as soon as their captain had sailed out of sight. They were the ones who wanted to stay alive, who’d had enough of Blackbeard’s devilry.
Having to keep the new plan secret, Jesamiah and Maynard realised they could not simply march to Hampton Roads and demand the owner of the Ranger give her up. Jesamiah had the solution to that also. He bought her. A scatter of gleaming diamonds tipped from a second pouch sealed the deal within five short minutes.
The only man to be suspicious was the armourer, John Brush, as he tallied the number of boxes of muskets and small arms being taken on board both craft. He had recognised Jesamiah as soon as he laid eyes on him. A quiet word from Lieutenant Maynard had silenced him – helped along by Jesamiah placing two diamonds into the armourer’s palm.
“One for you, one for your daughter,” he had said with a smile.
For himself, Jesamiah had driven a hard bargain with Spotswood. He would provide the ships, the men to crew the Jane and the knowledge and experience to get close to Blackbeard. Virginia would supply the weapons, the crew for a second ship – and agree that Jesamiah could have a quarter of whatever they found aboard the Adventure when the fighting was all over. No one had said anything about maybe not being alive to collect what was due.
Jesamiah knew for a fact that there were at least a dozen chests of gold dust in Teach’s hold. Three of them would be enough to reimburse his outlay. And nor did he intend to stick to an agreement of a mere quarter! He had a rough idea of where Teach had hidden his own secret cache. Somewhere the Navy would not think of looking.
His men from the Sea Witch had been waiting aboard the Jane. Good men, though a couple Jesamiah had been tempted to refuse, but he had not dared suggest they stand down. Sailors, especially those aboard a pirate ship, were proud men. Thirty-three in all; among them, Nat Crocker, Finch, Joe Meadows, Sandy Banks, Isiah Roberts and Crawford. Twenty others and seven Navy Jacks made up the number. The Ranger had another twenty-five. With Jesamiah and Maynard they tallied sixty men. Teach had eighteen under his command, unless more had joined him since Jesamiah had been away. It was possible. Maybe Vane and Rackham had come back? There was no way of knowing until they arrived and could see for themselves. And even if Teach did have fewer men, he had cannon, the Virginians did not.
Jesamiah had not been sure about taking Crawford, he could be sullen and did not like taking orders, but he was good in a fight and a crack shot. In the end, Jesamiah let him stay.
To Finch, he had said, “You are not coming.”
“An’ why not?”
“Because I say so.”
“You expect me t’let you go off by yerself? T’get yerself killed?”
“I said no.”
“Why not?”
Close to losing his temper, Jesamiah had shouted, “Because for some utterly stupid reason I care about you!”
Finch had chewed his gums a little then spat a globule of spittle into the sea. “So you don’t care about these others then?”
“Of course I do!”
“Well then.”
His hands going as if to throttle him, Jesamiah had given up. “All right, but I’m warning you; if you get killed you’ll have me to answer to.”
Finch had grinned. “Aye Cap’n.”
The one other disagreement: Maynard had insisted on being aboard the Jane, leaving Midshipmen Hyde from the Lyme to command the Ranger.
“It is my orders, Jesamiah; I am sorry,” he had said.
“Spotswood don’t trust me, eh?”
“Would you trust you?” Robert had asked cynically.
Jesamiah had laughed. Admitted, “Nope. Never trust a pirate, except to trust that you cannot trust him.”
There were no cannons, only the minimal essential supply of food and water; nothing in excess, nothing that was not necessary. No one took any dunnage aboard. No clothes, no personal possessions. Just weapons. They needed to be light. The last thing they wanted was to run aground in the shallows of the Ocracoke under the baleful stare of Blackbeard’s guns.
At three in the afternoon of Sunday the seventeenth day of November, with men, ammunition, weaponry – including grenados – but little else aboard, the two sloops set sail from Hampton Roads bound south for the Ocracoke, off the North Carolina coast. For some of them it would be their last voyage; their last fight.
Forty Four
North Carolina
Clean sheets, a clean gown for Elizabeth-Anne, her hair brushed, the babe swaddled in a blanket; Nicholas sat on the bed with the little one gathered in his arms, a joy of wonder glowing on his face. The serving girl had made up the fire.
As, many miles away, the Jane and the Ranger were preparing to set sail from Hampton Roads, Elizabeth-Anne was propped against the pillows, her eyes closed. She had slept a little, had drunk some tea and swallowed a few mouthfuls of broth. The child had suckled at his first essential milk, but soon he would need to be fed again. Tiola had not insisted; there was no immediate hurry. The boy was asleep and Elizabeth-Anne would benefit from the rest.
Tiola was tidying away the last of the soiled linen, and felt Nicholas look up at her. She smiled across the room at him; at the perfect picture they made, the father with his son in his arms, the mother peacefully recovering. Only she was not. Tiola frowned. Elizabeth-Anne was pale and her breathing was coming in small gasps. Something was wrong!
Dropping the linen to the floor, Tiola was there at her side.
“What is it?” Nicholas asked, but Tiola hushed him, her fingers around Elizabeth-Anne’s wrist, counting the pulse-beat that was drubbing as if it were the summons of war drums. Elizabeth-Anne was sweating, yet her skin was cold to touch; white, almost translucent.
Tiola ripped back the bedclothes. The clean sheets, the clean gown, Elizabeth-Anne’s thighs and legs were saturated with blood.
Forty Five
Virginia
The Jane was much smaller than the Sea Witch, and Maynard’s frigate, the Pearl. A sloop this size, when handled by merchantmen would require as a minimum, no more than a third of the thirty-three hands presently on board. Rigged fore and aft, the single mast was stepped one thi
rd of her overall length aft of the bow. Stripped of all that was unnecessary she seemed spacious, although Finch had already been grumbling about the cramped conditions below.
“Ain’t room to swing a rat, let alone a bloody cat.”
“Remind me again why I agreed you could come?” Jesamiah had commented wryly.
The wind was gusting, but there was no need to adjust the amount of sail, the Jane could take the strain. She was proving to be a good little craft. Maybe his brother had done something right after all in acquiring her? Jesamiah walked up the steeply sloping deck to join Rob Maynard at the weather side, noting that it took him more effort than he would have expected. These weeks of sitting around in various gaol cells had not helped with the flabbiness of his muscles, though his weight had improved for the better. The poor diet of corn mush had been beneficial in one way. Grabbing the rail atop the bulwark, he grinned at Maynard who had one hand jammed on to his hat to keep it in place. Jesamiah had left his below, but now the threaded blue ribbons and the hair escaping from its tied queue were flogging about his face, stinging against his skin like miniature whip lashes. His coat flapped about his legs and he had to shout to make himself heard.
“She’s handling well – if we can keep this up we’ll be at the Ocracoke by Wednesday.”
“Don’t tempt fate, Acorne! We’ve a long way to go yet!” Maynard cupped his hand around his mouth to be heard; what with the wind, the thunder of the spread of canvas and the slap of the water against the hull he was having a hard job of it.
Jesamiah peered over the rail at the water churning past. They were making seven knots at least he reckoned. Above, the sky was as blue as a robin’s egg. He tipped his head, smiled. It was good to be aboard a vessel again, racing southward through the rollers of the Atlantic, although he would have been happier to be aboard his own Sea Witch. Still, she should be there at Pilot Point, waiting for him – if he managed to survive what lay ahead. Spray surged over the bow, soaking the men for’ard. Jesamiah could see them laughing, their mouths open, heads tossed back. Even Crawford had joined in. They too were pleased to be doing something positive, to be at sea.
“They seem a cheery lot,” Maynard observed. “I am amazed at the discipline you hold over them. They offer you minimum respect yet make no argument when you give a disagreeable order.”
“That is because we work as a team, as brothers, not master and slave. I give no order that is not necessary, and if any man dislikes the way I do things, he is free to leave at the next port. We have no floggings aboard my ship.”
“So how do you handle insubordination? It cannot just be an anarchic free for all.”
Jesamiah was watching the wake foam away, the sun gleaming on the churned water. Over to leeward, half a mile away, was the Ranger. He had already told Maynard he was impressed by the choice of Midshipman Hyde to command her. The man knew his job.
“Discipline?” he answered. “I get most of it by earning respect. They know I know what I am doing, that I am fair, and they will get a share of whatever prize we win.”
“And if they go against you?”
“Like I said, they have a choice to sail with me or not. Anyone pushing his luck too far loses that choice.”
Nat, at the tiller, adjusted the Jane a point and her sails cracked, the mast bending under the weight of the wind pressure.
Jesamiah looked Maynard square in the face. “If any man riles me, he gets two warnings.”
“And if there should be need of a third?”
The answer came as straight as the look. “He don’t get a third. I tip him over the side.”
A stronger gust of wind took Maynard’s disapproving reply away with it.
“They make the rules,” Jesamiah responded, “I don’t write ‘em. It’s the price of being free men. Work together or not. Their choice. Do you get such a choice in your Navy?”
Maynard stared ahead not wanting to answer. It seemed disrespectful to his king and the captain he served. All the same, he had to admit he was enjoying himself for the first time in months, being here with Acorne.
“You can go below if you wish, Rob, I’ll take this watch.”
“No, I’ll stay a while.” Maynard laughed, added, in case Jesamiah took his intention wrong, “Too excited to miss out on anything!” Nearly losing his hat he took it off and tucked it under his arm.
“There’s another reason the men are in a good mood,” Jesamiah said, thinking that perhaps he ought to be honest. He liked Robert Maynard, was grateful to him for the consideration he had offered. “There’s prize money aboard the Adventure. Gold dust mainly, a few chests of pieces of eight; another of gold coins. You’ll find it all stowed in the aft locker in Teach’s cabin. There’s a false floor. If you look at the outside of the locker then compare the depth with the inside, you’ll see what I mean.”
“Gold?”
“Aye, gold. Enough for you to retire on, mate, even after dividing it into the agreed shares.”
“I will get my provision of the hoard from the Admiralty.” The answer was rigid with disapproving starch. What Jesamiah was suggesting bordered on piracy.
“Will you? You sure of that? Look at Woodes Rogers! Think how little he got of the considerable prize money he collected: a mere handful of coin and the dubious reward of being made Governor of Nassau? And they call us pirates! You’ll not see a penny of it, Rob, believe me.”
It was a sad thing to have to say, but Maynard did believe him. He nodded, hesitated, said, “I have a sweetheart back in England. I would so like to have the money to be able to make her my wife.”
Jesamiah slapped his shoulder. “You live through this, Rob, you’ll be rich enough to buy yourself a whole harem of wives. Just make sure the plunder is taken quietly and put somewhere secure. Give your men a decent share to keep them quiet and lay low for a few months. Then find a reasonable excuse to buy yourself out of the Navy. The rest of your life will be yours to do with as you will.”
Finch had come on deck to announce he had managed to make something that vaguely resembled coffee. He overheard the last comment, had to add his own farthing’s worth. “Wives? You don’t bleedin’ want to be buying wives – better to bloody sell ‘em, not buy ‘em!”
Forty Six
North Carolina
Blood loss was the major cause of death after childbirth. Tiola knew it only too well. In the right way of things, after the birth and expulsion of the placenta the uterus contracted until it was hard, like a ball. If it did not, the empty womb would be as an open wound with a flowing blood supply and nothing to stop the bleeding. The reduction of the uterus stopped the blood flow, but if it relaxed, failed to harden, there was no compression to the wound site and the mother haemorrhaged. And went on haemorrhaging until she bled to death.
Tiola padded Elizabeth-Anne with towels, but no sooner was the blood mopped up than more soaked through. As it clotted it looked like lumps of raw liver had been dumped on the bed. Tiola was covered in it, her hands, her gown, her face. Her hair. She looked like something out of a macabre theatre play, but she was not able to clean herself, not even to wipe her hands, for she was racing against time, and against Death.
She could see its pitiless shadow in the corner of the room, waiting. She was not afraid of Death – Death was benign, not evil or cruel, for every living thing had to die and move on to the next existence. It was the manner of its summons that brought the pain: the corruption of hatred that committed murder; the brutal unexpectedness of natural disasters, fire, flood, famine. And the waste of a woman dying in childbed.
No mother having gone through labour deserved to die in this way, so Tiola battled to keep her in the world of the living. She had the right to enjoy her son, and he to have a mother to love him. Too many good people had died; Tiola was not going to allow it to happen to another.
Elizabeth-Anne was conscious, Tiola had laid her flat, raised her legs, told Nicholas to hold her hand, talk to her. Keep talking to her. There had been n
othing to feel inside Elizabeth-Anne, no hardening lump, only a wet, sticky mass as if Tiola was plunging her arm into a morass of mud. That at least told her the problem and she knew how to deal with it – if only she had time!
She had her hand on Elizabeth-Anne’s abdomen and was pushing it in and down, rubbing in a circular motion, hard and firm. At first it had seemed as if nothing was happening. Elizabeth-Anne was pale and faint, her body trembling and so cold, but Tiola kept rubbing, around and around and around; pressing hard, pressing firm, on and on, around and around. The bleeding continued, seeping out of the mother’s womb as if someone were wielding a pump. When Tiola pushed hard, over to the left, the blood streamed faster. She was the one operating the pump handle! Push down, blood squirted. Push down, more blood. But Tiola kept on with her hand regardless, working to stimulate the uterus to contract. Elizabeth-Anne was moaning piteously for the motion was painful, but there was nothing Tiola could do about that, except rub and rub and rub, hard and strong.
“Am I going to lose her?” Tears were streaming from Nicholas’s eyes. The baby was crying in his cot, abandoned and forgotten for the moment. The serving girl, as useless as before, stood by the door, her hand stuffed in her mouth, weeping.
And there it was! A small hard lump, the size of a shilling piece forming beneath Tiola’s pressing hand. She kept rubbing, could not stop. If she did, the uterus would relax again and all this effort would be wasted. “No,” she said to Nicholas, panting as she rubbed and pushed. “I am not going to lose her. I am not.”
The hard lump became the size of a guinea piece, was expanding, but still she kept on. The bleeding had eased, but she would have to continue for a while yet. She wiped her arm across her face, smearing more blood. Her arms were aching, her fingers stiff and she looked as if she had butchered a pig.
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