Bring It Close (29 page)

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.

“If ’n ‘e ain’t one o’ us,” Gibbens snarled from behind Teach, “then what’s ‘e doin’ ’ere?”

Mary lay on her back, rigid with fear, naked, spreadeagled across the table. Blood smeared her thighs, her face was bruised; her lip was cut. Marks of bites and scratches were on her throat and breasts. Her eyes were open, blank like a corpse, staring and staring at the overhead beams, seeing nothing while the scream went on and on in her head.

Teach prodded Jesamiah in the back with the pistol. “Get on with it.”

Slowly Jesamiah crawled on top of her. She whimpered as his weight pressed down. What to do? What to do! She was just turned sixteen; a child for fok sake! He nuzzled her neck, kissed her; nibbled her ear. His hand fumbled between her legs then went as if to unbutton his breeches.

“Mary. Bite me,” he whispered urgently. “As hard as you can. Do it girl! It is the only way I can save you!”

Terror had frozen her senses but she recognised this man as the one with nice eyes – such nice dark eyes.

“Bite me,” he urged.

Instinct made her obey. She turned her head and sank her teeth into his ear. In genuine pain he roared his outrage.

“You bitch! You bloody whore!” He slapped her, making the blow look harder than it was, hauled her from the table and hoisted her over his shoulder. “Bite me, would you? I’ll fokken learn you how to behave, Madam! So help me I will!”

The black mood had lifted, the men were laughing, following along behind as Jesamiah stamped up the ladder to the open deck, joining in his torrent of abusive language. Suggesting a few crude things he could do to her as punishment, all of which he paid no heed to.

He hefted her on to the rail, sat her there – she was screaming again, terrified of the drop behind her, clinging to his hair, his shirt, her poor battered face flooded with tears.

“Listen to me,” he hissed, “the bank’s only a few yards away. Get yourself ashore. Find Tiola.” He shook her to get her attention, made it look as if he was shaking her out of anger. “If you can’t swim, kick your legs, splash your arms. Get to shore and find the midwife at the Governor’s. Go to her. Go to Tiola!”

He heard Teach coming up behind him, knew he had to get Mary away from here. It was her only chance of survival, Teach and his men would use her until she was dead beneath them. Aye, and even after then.

“You little cow!” Jesamiah shouted. “I’ll fokken learn you your manners!” He tipped her over the side, swivelling her body in the direction of the shore. She gasped but did not scream. The fall was quick, there was a splash.

He stood at the rail waiting for sounds of her swimming or splashing about. Prayed she was all right. It was too dark to see, there was no sound beyond the normal night noises. Should he dive in? Help her? No, apart from distracting Teach to give her time to get away, he had done all he could. She was on her own now.

“That be my wumman thee’ve tossed o’er board.”

His hands spread apologetically Jesamiah turned cautiously. “The bitch bit me. Done you a favour I reckon, what would you be wanting to keep a harridan like that for?”

Teach peered over the side and sniffed noisily; unbuttoned his breeches and pissed where he stood on the deck.

“Thee nay be so clever as thee make out, Acorne. Thee be stupid nay to ‘ave drubbed ‘er first.”

Jesamiah peered over the side again, thumped his fist on the rail. “Shit, I never bloody thought of that.”

Teach chortled, slapped his shoulder. “Nay mind lad, thee’ll learn tha way o’ things after a couple o’ months aboard me vessel. M’lads an’ me’ll show thee ‘ow t’use yer cock proper.” He wobbled, almost fell, guffawed again.

“I think you’re ready for your bed, eh?” Jesamiah said, settling Teach’s arm around his shoulder and steering him below. Surely he was drunk enough to sleep now? Surely, poor Mary would have struggled to the bank?

Encouraging Teach to lie down, making crooning noises, Jesamiah covered him with a blanket and thanked every god he could think of when he was rewarded with a stentorian snore. Stood there, considering whether to kill him here and now. A pillow over his face would do it. Or one quick slash with a dagger across the throat.

“There’s always one among us who thinks of murderin’ the Captain,” a voice grated from behind. “But then, there’s always another to persuade a change of mind.”

Jesamiah stiffened. He hated people coming up behind him. Looked around. Gibbens. “I could always kill you too.”

“Oh aye?” Gibbens stubbed the barrel of his pistol against Jesamiah’s spine. “Give me an excuse t’pull this trigger, Acorne.”

Slowly, Jesamiah turned around, raising his hands, a lazy smile on his face. “Sorry Gibbens, I hate to disappoint you. I can leave you in charge of sleeping beauty then, can I?” He walked away, headed for the open deck.

As much as he wanted to kill Teach, he did not want the infamy of doing so. The bugger was disliked, but he was also admired by those who saw themselves as his equals. Charles Vane, Stede Bonnet, Howell Davies, Black Bart Roberts. It went against the Pirate Code to kill another of the brethren in cold blood, especially a captain. That’s why marooning was favoured; when a man starved, died of thirst or shot himself, no individual could be held responsible. Not that Teach respected the Code, but there were plenty who did. Men who would use any excuse to hunt down a pirate who broke with honour – Jesamiah was not afraid for himself, but such feuds escalated. Tiola, Alicia, la Sorenta, his crew, his ship, everyone and everything he cared for could be destroyed. Aside, murder was not part of Spotswood’s hard-driven bargain.

‘I need an excuse, Acorne, I cannot touch Edward Teach while he languishes in North Carolina, but were he to threaten Virginia – ah, that would be a different matter.’ That is what he had said, along with, ‘I need an informant. Someone reliable to tell me where Teach is and what he intends to do. The moment we are alerted that he is a threat to us, the Navy will do the rest.’ That was fine by Jesamiah. Let the bloody Navy do the dirty work.

The others were asleep, draped like poppet dolls abandoned at the end of a children’s game. He went up on deck; stumbled on a ladder rung, his footsteps dragging with weariness. He peered again over the side. Was it worth getting the jolly boat out? Should he search for her?

“Mary? Mary lass?” He dared only call softly. “Mary!”

“She is dead.”

“She may not be. She had a good chance of getting ashore.”

Stepping from the shadows, Charles Mereno spoke with compassion. “Son, she is dead. Believe me, I know.”

Laying his forehead against the rail, Jesamiah shut his eyes tight. A few hours ago he had been so deliriously happy to have made Tiola his wife – and now all he had was this! He had not meant Mary to drown. He had been trying to help her!

“Do you think she would have wanted to live after that, lad?”

Jesamiah did not answer his father. He did not speak to ghosts.

“The same happened to Phillipe’s mother – Teach was among those who raped her.” Charles hesitated. Did he tell his son everything? Should he be honest? “I have reason to believe that Teach was Phillipe’s father, Jesamiah. Not the Spaniard.”

Looking out into the darkness, at the trees black against a star-studded sky Jesamiah choked back a sob. “That explains a lot,” he said miserably. “The pair of them, as mad as each other. As mad as I appear to be.”

“Why are you denying my existence? All I want to do is explain. To talk to you.”

Jesamiah spun around, would not accept what his eyes saw – his father. Father was dead and ghosts did not exist. Or if they did, Jesamiah did not want to believe in them. He did not want to hear, speak to or see the man who had been his father. He’d had a belly full of the past, and the immediate future was not that promising either. Anger, at himself, at Teach – at not being able to be with Tiola – directed itself to the one man he really wanted to hurt. His father.

Stamping across the few feet between them, Jesamiah poked Charles Mereno in the chest. Was surprised to discover that he felt solid, real. It was an illusion. It had to be. “There were a lot of things I wanted to say to you not long ago, Father. A lot of things I wanted you to say to me. About my so-called brother, about why you abandoned me to his tortures. Why he got my home and I did not. But do you know something?” Jesamiah prodded his father harder. “All of a sudden I don’t give a toss. For you, for Phillipe, for Teach, for none of it. It is done. Over. Finished. I’ve weighed anchor and left that wretched harbour behind. I have a wife, a ship and a chance to gain an unequivocal pardon for what I was – and with it, as soon as I take what information I can back to Spotswood, I get my freedom. On top of all that, I ‘ave no intention of conversing with a bloody phantom that don’t exist outside of my raving mind! So go away and let me live my life in peace.”