Sea Witch (29 page)

Van Overstratten had withdrawn to stand beside Tiola, his hand gripping her arm, leaving a bruise to mark her skin. In her ear he hissed a warning. “You are my wife, I expect you to behave as such. You belong to me, not that pretty pirate.” He shook her, a rough expression of annoyance. “I brought you here because I want you to watch him hang. Once he is dead you will forget him. Do you understand me?”

Tiola understood him all too well. How could a man so apparently charming alter so abruptly after the exchange of marriage vows? What had happened to the wooing? The congenial concern? With distaste she removed his fingers from her arm and walked towards the door, from where she said, not caring that Captain Jennings would hear,

“He may not come. Unlike Charles Vane, my Jesamiah Acorne is not a fool.”

Van Overstratten smiled, lazily presumptive. “Oh he will come. He will not wish to be left outside of all that is happening here. Do you not agree, Captain?”

Belatedly realising he had walked in upon a marital squabble, Jennings tactfully made no answer.

Stefan laughed, a cynical sound. “If he does not come, it is no matter. As the good Captain Jennings has indicated, there is adequate provision being made for the hunting down of those who choose to disregard the law.”

Fourteen

Pirates were considered the dregs of the earth, detritus floating as scum on the surface of the sea – they also had a flair for parade and ostentation. As Governor Woodes Rogers stepped ashore in the early morning of the twenty-sixth day of July the pirates were waiting for him. Wearing their finest and their best, all decorated with ribbons and bows, beads and buckles, they trooped into George Street to line its shabby length of ill-built taverns, crammed stores, ordinaries and hotch-potch of houses. From the harbour to the Governor’s residence each man stood and cheered, cutlass drawn to form an arch for Rogers to walk beneath, his timid wife clinging nervously to his arm. There were huzzahs of welcome and enthusiastic applause, all of it sodden with the distinctive, sweet waft of rum.

Rogers took their welcome in the spirit it was intended: as good will and good fortune. Aware the congenial atmosphere would last only as long as did the rum.

He had arrived aboard a Royal Navy man o’war, escorted by three companies of red-coated marines scattered through three frigates, three more vessels of his own and a former East Indiaman, the
Delicia
of thirty-six guns. She was to become a guardship, her purpose to patrol the waters of the Bahamas against rogue pirates who refused to accept amnesty. The men ashore were impressed by this show of strength. As Rogers had intended them to be.

Flanking the door of the Governor’s residence, waiting to greet him with ceremony and formality, were two impeccably dressed men. On one side, Captain Henry Jennings, on the other, a man Rogers remembered from Cape Town. A Dutchman of wealth and influence who had personal experience of the lusting greed of pirates – and who had partially funded the cost of commissioning the
Delicia
. Master Stefan van Overstratten had honoured Nassau’s new Governor by expressing his desire to offer practical aid in ridding the sea-routes of the blackguard devils. Trade – cotton, sugar, tobacco – was suffering because of piracy and unlike many who were making heavy losses, here was someone who had not confined himself to belly-aching and whining. Rogers was indebted to the man for his generous foresight and greeted him warmly.

Jennings, slightly irritated that van Overstratten had been greeted first, removed his hat and swept the Governor an elaborate bow. He took Mrs Rogers’ hand and elegantly kissed it.

“Welcome Sir. Madam. We bid you long life, peace and prosperity.”

“Aye, with many a sleepless night thrown in while trying to fathom how to keep the upper hand over yon bunch of swabs, eh? Ha! Ha!” Rogers guffawed, taking Jennings’ offered hand and vigorously pumping it up and down as if it were a rusted spout. Despite the unfortunate incident of Vane’s act of insult yesterday, this appeared to be a good start. A very good start indeed.

There was much to do, much to discuss and implement. The detail of the pardon issued by His Majesty’s Government stated any man who, with his hand on the Bible, swore to relinquish piracy and then signed his name, or made his mark, in the leather-bound book Rogers reverently carried beneath his arm, would be pardoned of all crime, including murder. That might sit well with the pirates and the Government in England, but it rankled with those ship owners who had been plundered and would not see a glimmer of their stolen property again.

Among them, van Overstratten and Phillipe Mereno. Rogers treated the Dutchman with respect and friendship, aware he and his partner expected something in return for their generosity. Something in the line of waiving taxes or turning a blind eye to a venture not quite legal, he assumed. Providing whatever it was they desired was not too outrageous, he would probably accommodate them.

When Phillipe Mereno’s fine new schooner moored alongside the jetty, eight and forty hours later, Rogers discovered the blind eye to be turned was somewhat distasteful to a man of his high morals. Did it matter? The rogue they wanted him to hang was not in Nassau, and until he was, their asking was mere mist on the sea. And if he came? The Governor shrugged, said he would consider their petition and left it at that.

But between the last night of July and the first dawn of August, another ship on reefed topsails slid across the sandbar, the phosphorus of her bow wave rippling under the impartial gaze of a sickle moon and a serene, star-studded sky.

Reluctant, wary, and with many misgivings, Captain Jesamiah Acorne had brought the
Sea Witch
into anchorage within Nassau harbour.

Fifteen

August – 1718

Rue had wanted the amnesty, or at least had wanted to find out more about it. So had Isiah Roberts, although as an African he had expressed concern over the attitude towards his black skin.

“I smell a rat,” Jesamiah had protested. “A big one with a nest of smaller rats waiting to do their mischief.”

“There are rats in the bilges,” Rue had answered philosophically, “but we still go down into the ‘old.”

“Aye, but when we do we take a damned big stick with us.” Jesamiah hated rats.

Slapping his captain’s shoulder Rue had chuckled, “And I ‘ave no objection to taking the same precaution with the rats in Nassau,
mon ami
! None at all!”

Crossing the sandbar, Jesamiah luffed
Sea Witch
up into an anchorage, insisting the hands set her fair before disappearing ashore, probably never to be seen again. He took pride in his ship and would not have her dishevelled as if she were a drunken slut with her petticoats draped around her ankles, her shoes scuffed and her stockings torn. As he pointed out to the few who bellyached, they would be glad of it should they need to take their leave in a hurry. Within thirty minutes
Sea Witch
rested, neat and tidy, as close to the harbour exit as Jesamiah could safely trail an anchor cable. Rocking gently, her furled sails glistened as the pale moon caught the rime of salt that always covered everything, turning her into a shimmer of silver.

The town lay off her larboard beam, the torches outside buildings flared and the campfires burnt and crackled, sending sparks high into the darkness. The merriment of carousing drifted across the water, the excited shriek of a drunken harlot, a barking dog. Wandering in from starboard, the north-easterly wind was pushing
Sea Witch
’s stern around as she tugged against her restraining cable, as apprehensive at being here as was her master.

The boats were lowered to ferry the crew ashore, the men keen to be away, their mood jubilant at the prospect of enjoyment. Nassau’s fort reflected the moon off its white-limed walls and Jesamiah could all too easily imagine the muzzles of loaded cannon pointing straight at him. Would not have been at all surprised had one of them erupted to spit grape shot into the rigging. His last visit here had been profitable; he could only hope no one in authority up behind those bastions recollected it. Or him.

Rue swaggered on deck from his small cabin, sited forward of the captain’s grand luxury running across the entire width of the stern.

Slapping his thighs, Jesamiah guffawed amusement. “Well and are you not dressed for the ladies! Look at this!” He fingered the gay canary-coloured waistcoat, the white breeches; pointed at the buckled shoes. “Are we the dandy then!”

Embarrassed, Rue scowled at him. “If I am to be a man of ‘onest leisure from now on, I intend to find myself a wife. I will not be doing so dressed as a tar-smutted deck-swab.”

Tears of laughter were pricking Jesamiah’s eyes. “Listen mate, the harlots ashore over there’ll be too damned pickled in rum t’notice your paunch of a belly, whatever fancy dress it’s covered in!”

“It ain’t his belly he wants noticed!” Isiah Roberts called his two shillings’ worth of banter as he stepped down in the gig. “The bit he wants rubbed hangs below his sagging gut. He ain’t been able t’see it for himself these last few years!”

Saluting the both of them a crude gesture, Rue prepared to descend down the cleats.

“You not coming, Captain?” Roberts called as he took his seat near the stern. Rue paused, his head level with the rail.

“Come on Jes, we will watch your back for you.”

“Aye, until you get too drunk to know which is back and which is front – or you find someone prettier than me to be watchin’!”

Those in the boat chorused their good humour. “That should not be too difficult!”

“Prettier than your ugly mug, Cap’n? No chance!”

Rue shrugged. From experience he knew it was futile to argue with Jesamiah when he was wallowing in one of his black moods. “Isiah and me we will ‘ave a look around, ask a few questions, do a bit of listening. One of us will come back in a couple of ‘ours, tell you ‘ow the wind blows. Does that settle your stomach?”

“Nay, I’ll be alright. You enjoy yourselves. Go on, stop your chantering and clear off out of it.”

“I would enjoy myself more if I knew you were not being so maudlin,” Rue countered. “As I said, one of us will be back in a while.”

“As long as you don’t make it a couple of days; I’m not wantin’ to be stuck here on me own from now ‘til eternity. If I do change me mind, aside o’ swimming or a bum-boat pulling over ‘ere, I’ve got no means of getting ashore.” Jesamiah waved them off, watched them pull for the nearest quay, his hands resting on the rail, his gaze roaming over the shapes of buildings straggling up the hill towards the governor’s house. Some of them had only a faint light showing from behind closed shutters; others with all windows open and ablaze. Rue had marvelled at the speculation that this appointed Governor was incorruptible. Having met the man, Jesamiah had set his quartermaster straight.

“Think of the most corrupted man you know, then turn him inside out – you are left with Captain Rogers. He would sell his grandmother into slavery rather than take a bribe. The man is a trusting fool.”

Jesamiah stroked his fingers down his moustache. So what was it turning his bowels to water? He stared again at the town. Something was wrong. Some warning was shouting at him from out of the watching shadows. The moon was bright on the church, on the sea – all seemed as it should, nothing amiss. When was the last time he had felt something like this? This prickle across the nape of his neck, down his spine? He brushed the unease aside, made for his cabin and poured himself a generous measure of rum; stretched out on his bed not bothering to remove his boots, the cot rocking gently with the mild motion of the ship as
Sea Witch
turned with the tide. He balanced the empty glass on his chest, put one arm behind his head and stared at the beams on the underside of the quarterdeck.

How many bumps and bruises had he sported from moving clumsy and careless below deck those first few months as a boy at sea! After all these years he ducked by instinct, thinking nothing of low door-lintels, beams and cramped spaces. And then he remembered! As he drifted into sleep the memory flooded back as clear as the moonlight peering through the curve of the stern windows beyond the open door of his sleeping quarters. He had felt these same misgivings when the
Mermaid
had given chase to an East Indiaman off the African coast. When the
Christina Giselle
had gotten the better of them, and a girl – a child as he had thought – had stood in the stern watching him. He had felt a presence, her presence, when he had seen Tiola that first time.

~ Jesamiah! Do not come! Do not come! ~

The shout of his name leapt into his brain as if someone were in the room yelling into his ear. He sat up, wiped at the sweat beading his top lip. The words reverberated in his head, shunting around like a capstan being turned. His hand was shaking as he walked into his day cabin. He did not bother pouring into the glass, but drank straight from the bottle.

What was the term for delusion? For hearing voices? Insane? Aye, that was it. Insanity.

Sixteen

The shielding wall disintegrated, shattering as if a pane of glass had been broken by a tossed brick. The darkness erupted into a splintering of fragmented rainbow colours, shooting out in all directions like exploding gunpowder. Tiola gasped as the door opened – and she shrieked her warning.

~ Jesamiah! Do not come! ~

No one who had been about to seat themselves at the Governor’s dining table would have noticed anything different about her. Why should they? Woodes Rogers was too full of his own self importance, Henry Jennings too much the gentleman and Stefan would not see because he did not know what to look for. He was unaware of her Craft – unaware of anything concerning Tiola beyond his disappointment in her. And Phillipe Mereno? Of them all, perhaps only he would be suspicious; he was a man suspicious of his own shadow. He was not here, however; was rarely away from the harbour or his ship.

~ Do not come! ~
Tiola shouted in her mind, but the wall had immediately solidified again, the splintered glass merging together to become whole, as impenetrable as before. At least she now knew Jesamiah had been blocking her thoughts, he had built a screen to shelter behind, shutting her out because of his loneliness and hurt. Something had jostled him into allowing the door to open though – admittedly, to slam it shut again – but it
had
opened and she
had
touched him. Her concern: had he heard or listened?

Mrs Rogers hissed, gritting back a cry of pain, trying to control both her dignity and her tears. Tiola swung her attention away from Jesamiah to the immediacy of the Governor’s hallway, the curve of the stairs and the lady sprawled, undignified, at the bottom of them having fallen most of the way down. Everyone was talking at once, offering advice, making suggestions with not a single practical idea between them. The servants in the background anxious because dinner was served and the Governor was known for his tempers if the soup was cold. With light care Tiola moved her hands over the rapidly swelling ankle, explored the damage. Part of her mind concentrated on the injury, the other desperate to reach Jesamiah again.

“It is only sprained I think,” she commented, certain there was no fracture. “You will be needing rest for some while though, Ma’am. And something for your discomfort?”

Rogers himself lifted his wife, carried her to their bedchamber. She buried her head in his shoulder choking down a whimper of pain. Tiola followed, making a mental inventory of the remedies she had brought with her. Not many, for Stefan had destroyed most of her stock, assuming that as his wife she would have no necessity for potions and cure-alls.

Where the banisters curved in a wide sweep and would have looked elegant were it not for the peeled paint and gouged wood, she glanced into the hallway below. Mereno had hurried in, his coat flapping, hat awry. He almost ran to Stefan talking with animated, excited gestures.

Dread infused Tiola. She loathed that man! He reminded her of a weasel. Sharp eyes that missed nothing, always watching and waiting its opportunity to dart out and destroy its victim. Too clearly could she remember what he had done to Jesamiah as a boy. The man had succumbed to the clutch of evil – and her husband called him friend? She shuddered, felt the press of the Dark huddling closer, heard its low chuckle of conquest. Whatever was causing it, she could do nothing at this moment, for Mrs Rogers needed her skills as a healer. Tiola hurried on up the stairs in Governor Rogers’ wake. She did not like the pallor of the woman’s face or the racing of her heart and perspiring skin. If she was not tended with skill and care, there could well be worse than a sprained ankle come morning.

Engrossed with thoughts for her patient she did not, therefore, witness the slow smile of triumph spread over Phillipe Mereno’s face as he spoke to her husband. Did not see Stefan eagerly collect his hat and coat. Did not see the both of them hurry away, out into the night.