Sea Witch (14 page)

Twenty One

October – 1716

“By the deep, nine; by the mark, eight.”

Isiah Robert’s steady drone, in Spanish, and the regular splash of the lead-line sounding the rapidly decreasing depth of water as the
Inheritance
nosed her way through the sandbars, was the only sound – beyond the squeal of blocks, straining cordage and canvas, and the familiar groan of the hull. From the quarterdeck, Jesamiah surveyed his ship, the idle swivel guns, the length of white, scrubbed deck, the soaring masts and the reduced spread of sail. He could barely remember being so happy. Had he been younger than these two and twenty years – nearly three and twenty, it would be his birthday in nine weeks, come the fourth day of December – he may have been tempted to caper a jig. Except it would not be dignified for a captain to behave so childishly. He contented himself with a grin, instead.

The Atlantic Ocean, around the 27º north latitude. Half a mile or so to the north–east of the starboard beam, a wide, brackish river shimmered in the evening sunshine and snaked away into mangrove swamps, lush trees and vegetation. Southward, stretching down the coast, mile after mile, the froth of breakers scurried up the slope of the beach, or washed over the sandbars on which heron and pelicans, and a host of other wading birds were already beginning to forage for food as the tide fell away. The waves moved against the shore with a musical lilt, a rolling sing-song sound as it hushed in and out.

Dense vegetation covered the dunes beyond the sand, the shorter stuff of sea oats and palmetto, broadening into taller, thicker sea grapes and wax myrtle.

The current was very strong, the channel of deep water through the shallows no wider than two lengths of anchor cable. No captain in his right mind would risk bringing his boat in close along here without good reason. From the distance of a mile out Jesamiah had been tempted to shake out the reefs in his sails, loose the topgallants and stretch away for the open ocean. Were it not for the beckoning spirals of campfire smoke, the jutting, man-made jetty and the stone-built storehouse he would have done so.

This was the coast where some of the Spanish Fleet had perished; this was where the fortunate ones who had survived the hurricane had been swept ashore, and had endured those first few terrifying days and nights of shipwreck in this desolate, God-forgotten place. Alligators roamed the mangrove swamps and hostile natives hunted the land that spread westward.

As they nosed in, Isiah calling the depth, Rue careful at the helm, inching the
Inheritance
forward, Jesamiah used his telescope to observe the huts and bothies packed in along the far side of the dunes where the land dropped sharply away. Men were standing on the jetty, some with their arms folded, others fists on hips, many pointing – all of them with weary, annoyed expressions. They had not been expecting a second vessel to come in from the further salvage grounds many miles to the south, not on top of the one just leaving.

The Spaniard had pushed her way from her mooring and unladen, slid over the shallows with comfortable ease. Her sails were gathering the wind as she came about and tacked. Once clear of the sandbars she would be setting course to fetch another load from the forty-mile stretch that was the graveyard of the lost treasure ships. Over one thousand men had perished with them.

“And a quarter five,” Isiah’s voice was steady in its chanting. Jesamiah had patiently taught him how to say the words in Spanish. Planned everything down to the last, precise, detail.

“Stand by fore and aft,” he said, his voice low, “Bring her up Rue, if you will.”

Rue nudged
Inheritance
into the wind, her foresail backing and Jesamiah dropped his hand for the signal to bring her to. The yards came around, the spread of canvas shrank, the rasping sound of halyards, bunt-lines, clew-lines and brails racing through their blocks. Again speaking in Spanish, knowing his voice would carry to those watching along the shore, Jesamiah gave the order to drop anchor.

The cable tumbled out, the fluked anchor splashed into the shallows. Neatly the
Inheritance
tugged at her anchorage and they put the gig over the side. Jesamiah taking his place in the stern, directing his coxswain to take him ashore.

Somewhere out there, riding the swell, out of vision and lying on bare poles, was Henry Jennings. Half an hour until dark. There was much to do in the next half hour. The sweeps would be run out and the men would bring
Inheritance
to the jetty under oar. She appeared to be heavily laden – she was, but her cargo was nothing more valuable than rocks and barrels filled with seawater. A cargo which come nightfall would be dumped quietly overboard and, if all went well, replaced by something worth the carrying.

First, Jesamiah had to convince whoever was in command that he was a legitimate Spaniard making a maiden voyage to this storehouse, his hold full of salvaged coin. He climbed up the weed-slippery rungs to the jetty. Discreetly, the men in the boat settled their fingers around the butts of the pistols thrust through their belts, or loosened their cutlasses. If things did not go well for Captain Acorne they would be required to move fast.

As Jesamiah had hoped, the day had been hot and long the shore-men were weary and wanting their dinners and night entertainments. They were not best pleased at the prospect of having to unload another cargo. A short, rotund man of middle age, with curled moustache and pointed beard, ducked out from a mud and grass hut; from the braiding and style of his uniform, the man in charge. Disgruntled and gesticulating wildly, speaking in a torrent of abusive words as if there was no tomorrow, he stamped across the sand and on to the jetty.

Raising his hands in supplication Jesamiah strode forward to meet him, assuming a meek expression he apologised profusely, his Spanish fluent and perfect, and produced two bottles of best brandy from beneath his coat. One of which he slapped with a flourish into the Spaniard’s hands.

Jesamiah had to admire the tenacity of the Spanish. All this, once the alarm had been raised, built and operational within a few weeks of the disaster. The Dons always were quick on their feet when it came to the matter of gold.

“My regrets, Admiral, the tide is ebbing and I am not familiar with this shore.” Deliberately, Jesamiah promoted the man’s rank, although it was doubtful he was anything above an ordinary captain. Playing to a man’s vanity always established a quick, easy relationship. “You surely could not expect me to risk running aground?” He laughed at his own jest, an expansive belly-rumble of mirth. “All that gold on the seabed once-over already. Wouldn’t do to have it snagged there again would it,
Señor
?”

He slid his arm around the officer’s shoulders, steered him towards the hut he had emerged from. “I am in no lather to return to those shoals, it’s a devil of a job down there, you know – what with those scurvy pirates roaming on the edge of it all like basking sharks. Frankly, I do not know why I volunteered for the damned commission. If I had known it was to be like this I would have opted to go home and harass the British in Biscay instead.”

Inside the hut, a table, two chairs, a wooden chest, little else except piles of papers and ledgers. Jesamiah stood inside the door, laid his right finger alongside his nose, his gold acorn ring glinting in the brief, vivid glow of the sunset. “Now, a night ashore would be most welcome, especially if...” he peered out at the distant tents and shanty buildings, deliberately keeping his attention from roaming towards the storehouse. “Especially if there are any women here?”

Of course there were. They would have been brought in along with the supplies.

He nudged the Spaniard with his elbow, whispered, “I have an itch needing a good scratch, if you get my meaning. What if I left my crew to lay the Cariola alongside and we unload at first light? She will be safe, no?” Jesamiah sat on the nearest chair. “I am not going anywhere, you are not going anywhere and the gold as sure as the sun shines, isn’t! Stand these good, tired men of yours down,
Señor
, mine will take care of my ship. What say you?”

A little reluctantly the Spaniard set his bottle of brandy among the cluttered mess and seated himself on the far side of the table. Jesamiah handed over the ship’s papers. They were authentic, with only the name of the vessel altered. Gun practice had paid dividend; the real carrier of the documents was at the bottom of the Atlantic with all hands, minus her load of gold, silver and casks of gems, which were now stacked snugly in the
Inheritance
’s forward hold – the one portion of cargo that would not be jettisoned after dark.

In the dim lamplight, the Spaniard frowned over every word written, Jesamiah prattling a continuous banter of nonsense. After a few moments he wavered, put his brandy bottle in his pocket and stretched across the table to reclaim the other one.

“Of course,
Señor
, if you would rather get on with the work now? It will not take us long to rig tackle…”

“
Está bien
,
ningún problema
,” came the quick reply as the officer made a hasty grab for the brandy and unstoppered it; drank straight from the bottle. “This appears to be in order. You can leave everything to your crew?”

“
Claro
. Of course.”

“
Bueno, bueno. Excelente
!” The Spaniard dropped the papers on to the pile, heaved himself up from his chair and gesturing to the doorway, invited Jesamiah to proceed outside. “Come, let me introduce you to a friend of mine, she has sharp nails, ideal for getting into those places difficult to reach.”

With night settling and the stars showing bright against the darkening blue, Jesamiah rested his arm companionably along the duped officer’s shoulders as they strolled, deep in conversation, towards the encampment. He lifted his hat, waved it in a circle, clamped it back upon his head and disappeared over the crest of the dunes, his trailing ribbons fluttering as an off-shore breeze scuttled in with the night.

Nodding satisfaction at the received signal the men took the longboat back to the
Inheritance
– the
Cariola
– and under Rue’s direction added their weight to bringing her in and mooring her alongside the now deserted jetty. By the time Jennings brought his vessel silently into the cove, with no lights showing and the least amount of noise – warping her in, towing from the longboats – it was late and the Spanish salvage teams were either drunk or asleep. No moon, only the clear brilliance of stars studding the sky with silver light. Perfect.

Before they were even moored, Jennings’ men were rigging hauling tackle to the main yard ready to sway the bullion aboard. Like a silent tidal wave men of both crews flooded ashore from the decks, knives and cutlasses drawn, bare feet padding. No pistols or muskets, there was to be as little sound as possible. The bray of drunken, boisterous pleasure-taking drifted from the encampment, drowning the choked-off grunts of the storehouse guards as their throats were cut, and the rustle of more than two hundred men working their way to raking in an easy-made fortune. The only misplaced sound, the sharp-bladed axe striking twice through the chain securing the doors. The only suggestion something was amiss, the steady flicker of moving shadows in the shrouded lantern light, as with organised efficiency the men transferred chests containing fantastic wealth from storehouse to ship.

Strolling into the almost emptied storehouse two and a half hours later, Jesamiah was well pleased with himself. Just as he liked things, clean and simple. He would not be admitting to Jennings he had employed his time ashore in a three-some with a dark-skinned, slender-waisted beauty. What else could he have done? His new Spanish friend had insisted they share her, and afterwards it had taken both bottles of brandy to send the idiot to sleep.

They were almost done; both ships were set low but were riding the shallows well. The last chests were sent swinging into the
Inheritance
’s hold and the lifting tackle brought down, the hatches secured. Jennings’ quartermaster cut the lines holding them fast to the
Inheritance
and as the boat swung away Jesamiah himself took an axe and severed the warps. Her jib was already set and the mainsail half hoisted, she drifted free and the oarsmen began to row, the sweeps muffled, the men heaving in unison to take the boat out across the bar into the safety of deeper water. The advantage of a galley, it did not rely on sail alone. No calling aloud of the depth this time, no creaking of yards as they were braced around. Isiah spoke their passage softly, passing word back along the deck to Jesamiah who had taken the helm himself. No noise, save for the dip of the oars and the creak of timber, sounds which were hidden by the indifferent roll of the sea. Clean away. Simple, so damned simple.

Ten days on a secluded island to count the spoil and celebrate, and Jesamiah found he was personally the richer by a sum in excess of £30,000 sterling. When a senior Royal Navy captain earned less than £340 per annum, was it any wonder piracy was alluring and the Trade called sweet?

There was always a black cloud to stifle the sun, however.

They returned to Jamaica ready to crow their grand fortune only to find the Spanish were already there, loudly complaining at the audacity of British pirates. Jesamiah and Jennings pleaded the excuse of privateer, but the Governor was having none of their fluid interpretation of the word. Declaring them to be the pirates they were, he agreed the Spanish demand for justice and promised their property back. Fortunately, like most officials, he was also greedy. A generous donation into his personal funds and a turned blind eye would perhaps go in the pirates’ favour? Providing they were gone from Kingston by sun up.

With a shrug, an obscene gesture and a hold full of wealth Jesamiah bid farewell to Jamaica. Jennings, who was to head for Nassau, he saluted with a broadside of cannon fire and then set sail for Africa and Madagascar. A sensible precaution, Nassau and the Bahamas was too close to Phillipe who would probably not have taken the commandeering of a ship – and illicit intercourse with his wife – in the best of spirits.