Bring It Close (19 page)

Thirty Eight

Sunday 20th October – Virginia

“She is a fine ship.”

Rue glanced up from prodding his knife into the
Sea Witch
’s keel in search of soft, wet spots, to see a gentleman standing atop the graving dock bank. His cocked hat adorned by an extravagant, blue-dyed ostrich feather was pulled low, hiding his face, though there was a glimpse of silver hair and a short, well-trimmed grey beard. The collar of his great coat was hitched up around his neck to stave off the cold wind that was blowing in from the river. Finely dressed, his boots were of good leather, his coat and breeches quality cloth. One of the neighbours? Certainly a man of means.

“
Oui
, that she is.”

“English built? I watched you sail in, was curious about her rigging. Copper cladding is new to me too. I assume it must be of great benefit to stave off worm? The set of the jib sails is unfamiliar to me – and be that what they call a dolphin striker? I have heard of them being placed on the very newest ships, but never had the privilege to see one.”

Closing the knife and slipping it into his pocket, Rue shielded his eyes against the sun to see all the better. He could not make out a face. Asked; “You are a seaman then?”

“Not now.”

“She is a mere couple of years old, but our Captain had a few innovative ideas of his own, so made changes and had her re-rigged.” Rue answered easily, suddenly aware they were conversing in French.

“She is fast?”

“Very. You are from France?” he queried.

The stranger inclined his head, added, “As was my mother, and the man who brought me up as his son.”

A pause, neither knowing what to say next

As an offer of friendship, Rue gestured for the man to come on down, take a closer inspection. “We have almost finished our repairs. A few more days and she will be afloat again. As beautiful as ever.”

The man shook his head. “Sadly, my friend, that may not be. I came to warn you, the Governor has arrested your Captain. The militia are on their way here to take the rest of you to gaol.”

Rue cursed, “
Merde
! Why did you not bloody say? Standing here making petty chit chat…”

“You have plenty of time. They have not yet left Urbanna.” The man pointed towards the woods that swept up the hillside. “Take shelter in there. I doubt they will search the trees, but if they do, there are plenty of places for you to hide for a day or two.”

Calling his gratitude, Rue shouted for the men to stop what they were doing, to run to the woods. No one questioned him. Not on a ship where not so long ago they were sea-faring pirates. When Rue, Nathan, Isiah Roberts or Captain Acorne said run, they ran.

As Rue was pushing through the thick and unyielding undergrowth he realised he had no idea who the man was or why he had instantly believed what he had said. For that last though, he needed no confirmation. One of the lads had shinned up a tree, could see easily down the hillside.

Red-coated militia were swarming all over the estate.

Thirty Nine

This had been a wild goose chase. Maynard was frustrated: there was nothing of interest or value on board the
Sea Witch
– literally. She was stripped down and laid up for careening. Nor, in the warehouse, had he found anything among the piles of stuff that had come from the ship.

Mistress Mereno had been of no assistance, and those scoundrels who were lurking in the kitchens claiming they were household servants, were no better. If they were not of Acorne’s crew then he was a brass monkey. Just how the rest of the crew had known to run for it he had no idea, but someone had tipped them the wink for tools lay where they had been dropped, tasks abandoned, jobs uncompleted.

This was a waste of time – he had known it would be, but orders were orders. Add to that, he was certain Acorne was innocent of the charge laid against him. Captain Lofts was a myopic old fool who blustered more than a dented blunderbuss. Of the two, in Maynard’s opinion, Jesamiah Acorne’s testimony would be the more reliable.

“Do we search the woods, Lieutenant?”

Maynard shook is head. “No point. They are all long gone – unless you fancy traipsing through thick forest, I suggest we agree that we have done our duty to the best of our ability.”

“Aye, aye, Sir. Shall we return to Urbanna?”

“Aye.”

Climbing back into the gig, giving orders to shove off, and idly watching the river pass by as the oarsmen rowed steadily but easily back downstream, Maynard considered the afternoon’s strange experience. The Governor himself had issued orders to round up any lingering pirate crew. Maynard had not protested, but neither had he hurried. He was certain they were barking up the wrong tree. If Acorne did indeed carry a Letter of Marque, his arrest could prove most embarrassing. But there had been no letter. In fact, there had been nothing of value, nothing untoward whatsoever.

Except for the old man. He had been sitting on the bank up above the graving dock. Had watched the militia come, search everywhere, had not moved position, just sat there. They had left him alone for he was old, not, in Maynard’s opinion, one of the
Sea Witch
’s crew.

Maynard had spoken to him; asked his name, what business he had to be sitting beside a known pirate ship. The answer had been most curious.

“I have more business than you to be keeping this vessel company. She is on my land. Nor is she, or her captain or her crew, a pirate. They carry an official Letter of Marque. I suggest you go back to whence you came, son, and tell your cock-proud Governor to get his priorities aright. It is Teach you want to be going after. Not Acorne. Acorne be on your side of the mast, Sir. He be on your side. You want Acorne to advise thee, not hang him. He knows Teach. Knows the waters Teach sails in. Do you?”

Maynard watched a pair of ducks take off into flight amid a flurry of quacking, wildly flapping wings and sprays of water. The man was right. Maynard had no doubt whatsoever that he was right. But the odd thing, when he had later asked Mrs Mereno she had said there was no old man on the estate, let alone one who owned it. The only person who may have fitted the description, she had said, was Captain Mereno.

And he had been dead these many long years.

Forty

The tolling of Urbanna’s church bell calling to Sunday morning service awoke Jesamiah. He was cold, stiff, and the mood of feeling sorry for himself had depleted into one of indignant outrage. Getting to his knees then his feet, he shuffled awkwardly to the door and began hammering on the wood with his fist.

At least it was light now, sunshine streamed in through the window opening and seeped in through the ill-fitting gaps around the door.

“You cannot imprison me without trial! What about Habeas Corpus? The 1679 act, eh? My right, my body? Or whatever it sodding means.” He muttered the last, aware his banging and shouting was having no effect on anyone outside – there were people around, for he could hear voices. He was about to try kicking at the door when the sound of bolts being scraped open stopped him. He overbalanced and fell backwards. Heaving himself to his knees again he looked up angrily into the face of a militia guard.

“I demand to see the Governor. This is all a bloody mistake.”

“Guv’nor’s at Church. God’s more important than a raggedy-arsed pirate. An’ if ye want t’be a corpse I’ll gladly oblige with shootin’ thee.” Too late, Jesamiah saw the bucket of water being raised: he tried to scrabble away but most of it sluiced over him.

“Now keep yer noise down or I’ll be dousing ye and yer lice again!” The door slammed. The bolts grated on rusting locks.

Cursing, Jesamiah crawled into the small patch of sunlight. Within fifteen minutes it had disappeared and he was shivering violently in the dank coldness. He wore nothing except thin, fancy clothes; missed his buckram long coat and canvas breeches that had been worn soft and comfortable through constant use. He only had one shoe. Angrily he kicked it off and sent it flying across to the far side of the cell.

“I want to speak to Spotswood!” he yelled again. Was not surprised when no response was forthcoming.

He stood up and walked around as best he could. Another half hour passed. He thought he could hear singing, a rousing God-fearing hymn, then shortly afterwards the drift of voices, horses’ hooves and the rumble of carriage wheels. Church was over then.

“I’ll talk to anyone!” he tried as an alternative plea. “I have money!” Awkwardly he attempted to feel into his waistcoat pocket, the wrist shackles inhibiting movement. No coin pouch. It must have dropped out. Damn!

A long hour ambled by, and then another, the time kept by the clang of the church bell. The wafting smell of food being cooked was unbearable; he had not eaten since yesterday afternoon.

The day dragged by as slowly as snow melts in winter, the small patch of sky beyond the grating turning to vivid golds and pinks as the sun began to set. Outside, there were no sounds except natural ones; a bird calling, a cat fight somewhere. The rustle of a wind getting up in the trees.

The tide will be turning soon
, Jesamiah thought,
the wind always shifts with the ebb
.

“Cap’n! Cap’n Sir!”

Jesamiah was on his feet and craning his neck to see better through the bars of the small window.

“Jasper?”

A face appeared. “Cap’n? You all right?”

“No I bloody ain’t! Send Rue here. I need to know what’s happening. Have they found Mrs Mereno yet?”

Jasper was puzzled. “Found her? She ain’t lost, she’s at home. Came home last night with Mr Trent. Mr Finch were waiting up for you. Got right narked when you didn’t appear, you know what he’s like. An’ I can’t send Rue. He’s gone.”

”Gone? What the fok do you mean gone – gone where?”

“They’ve all gone save me, Mr Finch, Jansy and Toby Turner. I ‘ad t’run an’ warn ‘em. They was in the house y’see, sittin’ in the kitchen, but Mr Finch says there were no need fer us to go, on account of Mrs Mereno would vouch as ‘ow we were servants.”

With extreme difficulty Jesamiah kept his patience, though his fingers were curling in a desire to throttle the boy. “Would you care explaining, or do I have to play this damned game of riddles?”

“I brought these for you, Cap’n.” Grunting with effort, Jasper was squeezing various items of clothing through the gaps of the barred grating – shirt, breeches, woollen socks. “The militia came with the intention of arresting everyone – bloody said we was pirates! Only your friend Mr What’s-‘is-name had already tipped us the wink. The men scattered into the woods. Reckon they’ll be laying low for a couple of days.”

Jesamiah stared down at the clothes.
How the bugger am I going to get these on
? he thought. Said, “But did Mrs Mereno not try to stop the militia?”

“No, Cap’n. She said she hoped they’d find everyone, she weren’t keen on having pirates on her property.”

Jesamiah squatted on the floor, ran his hands despairingly through his hair, the chains clanking annoyingly. What in the name of all the oceans was happening here?

“They searched through the ship’s accoutrements.”

That news did not improve Jesamiah’s bad mood. “Find anything?” he sneered.

“Took away your brandy barrels. I was right cross, we’d took special care to assure they were stored safe, but I couldn’t do ‘owt.”

If searching for contraband and stolen property, they would have been disappointed and found nothing. The brandy had been smuggled, but not by Jesamiah, and there was a legal bill of sale for it in his desk drawer. As there was for all the provisions, from salt pork to candles – though he had not, in fact, paid Masters a penny for any of it back there in Nassau. The merchant would have a hard job proving it though, since Jesamiah had the signed bill.

There had been nothing illegal aboard
Sea Witch
, at least nothing obvious or findable. It was either secure in a bank or safely stored in various warehouses. Jesamiah was not so stupid that he would sail with a hold full of stolen goods or contraband into a colony that disapproved of piracy and was governed by a stickler for the law. Nor was he so stupid as to leave what he did have where it could be found. “They searched my desk?”

“Aye Cap’n. And a right job it was an’ all. Darn thing was at the back of where we’d stored everything while careening. Them bloody soldiers made us muck in with the slaves to shift everything out. Toby’s wrenched his back again and Jansy’s cut his hand open. There were blood everywhere.”

The relief outweighed Jesamiah’s displeasure. While he resented anyone leafing through his personal papers, the desk was where he had stowed the Letter of Marque from Henry Jennings that Alicia had presented him with. It clearly stated he had Governor Roger’s permission to go pirate hunting. And while that would possibly get back to Teach, who would then know he had been told a hold-full of lies, Jesamiah did not particularly care. Once freed from these shackles and an unjust confinement, and as soon as
Sea Witch
was seaworthy, he would be rounding up his crew and setting his stern to the American coast, the Caribbean and the entire Spanish Main. He’d had enough of it. Although where he was going to sail instead, he had no idea.

Then a thought hit him. “If they’ve been at my desk how come I’m still in here? Did they not find my official papers?”

“They took nothing away except the brandy, as far as I could tell, Cap’n.” Jasper’s voice faltered, his bravado leaving him. “Mr Finch says they’re going to hang you. That ain’t goin’ to happen, is it, Sir?”

“No. This man who warned you, who…”

“You! Get away from there!” a voice bellowed.

Jasper glanced round, saw two militiamen with muskets pointing straight at him, and bolted.

Jesamiah cursed. All he could do was sit and wait. He was buggered if he would do so quietly, however.

The flare of pitch torches sent shadows leaping up the cellar walls. It had grown dark quickly once the sun had set, and despite Jesamiah’s resolve to be a nuisance, he had fallen asleep.

The door opened. A guard came down the steps and kicked him awake. “Come on, let’s get moving. Tide don’t wait for degenerates who are going to hang.”

Jesamiah stayed where he was. He did not understand any of this and refused to co-operate. “I ain’t going nowhere; not until I see Governor Spotswood. An’ you can’t hang me without a trial.”

That had been Jesamiah’s only comfort. Being a stickler for the law worked both ways. Spotswood would not permit a lynching. And by law, all pirates had to be tried in the Colony’s main courthouse, which meant Williamsburg. Until a few years ago it would have been London, Marshalsea Gaol and a hanging on the low tide-line at Wapping. The Admiralty had insisted that it was their duty to punish acts of piracy, and their responsibility to warn others of the consequences of crime upon the seas. Funny how they had changed their tune when the Navy had been unable to catch any pirates to take to trial.

The second guard, standing at the top of the steps casually raised his musket. “Suit yourself. We have orders to set you aboard the
Pearl
. No one said nothing about you having to be alive. If you insist, I can shoot you now and save everyone a lot of trouble.”

Distracted, Jesamiah did not see the first man step behind him, felt only the blow from a pistol butt to the back of his skull. They dragged him from the gaol, hauled him onto a cart and headed for the river and the jetty. The street fell quiet. It was Sunday evening and only the militia, the Governor’s staff and the crew of the
Pearl
were abroad and making ready to set sail. The wind whipped cold from the direction of the Chesapeake Bay, and most citizens of Urbanna were pleased to see the back of Governor Spotswood. Had no interest whatsoever in a reprobate of a pirate who would soon be swinging from a gibbet.