Sea Witch (30 page)

Seventeen

A heavily built man in seaman’s boots climbed silently up the ship’s cleats and dropped over the rail to the deck. He whispered down to the boat alongside, beckoning the others waiting there to follow. Agitated,
Sea Witch
bobbed very slightly as several men came aboard.

Vaguely, Jesamiah was aware someone stood outside his cabin door; a sixth sense; instinct. He knew every nuance of his ship, all her moods, all her manners. Every creak and complaint and sigh she made. Something was upsetting her.

“Rue?” he mumbled, his speech slurred, not bothering to glance over his shoulder as the cabin door opened letting in a movement of air to rustle at the papers scattered on his desk. A shaft of light from a held lantern slanted across the floor. His own light had guttered some forty minutes past. Jesamiah stood at the stern windows, five panes spreading across the entire four and twenty feet of the rear of the ship; stood staring into the night at the anchored vessels, at the town. At nothing. More than a little drunk he had stood there for over an hour.

“Took your bloody time, Rue? Couple of hours you said, been more like four.” Then he caught the illuminated reflections in the glass, two men standing sixteen feet away at the door. He stared a moment, registering their presence, felt his throat run dry and swallowed down the sickening jolt of horror scrambling up from his stomach into his gullet. Felt sweat trickle down his spine. He thought the fear of his brother had gone. It hadn’t.

When he turned, slowly, to face them he was cold, stone sober.

“Hello Brother,” Phillipe Mereno drawled from where he leant against the doorframe, his arms folded. “We have been waiting for your arrival. We almost thought you were going to pass up the invitation to come to Nassau, which would be most remiss of you, given your predilection for attending parties.” He gestured towards the man beside him, the one holding the lantern. “I believe you know my business partner, Master Stefan van Overstratten?”

“
De goede avond
– good evening,” Stefan acknowledged as he hooked the lamp to a nail on the nearest beam ahead of him. Removing his feathered hat he offered Jesamiah a sweeping, formal bow. “I see you have taken a few liberties with my ship. She did not carry those ugly gun ports when last I saw her.”

Stepping further in as if seeing it for the first time, van Overstratten gazed around the cabin. A lovely room, even when not lit by the magic of snail-trail silver from the moon. Barely a right-angle in sight, the design of the interior mirrored the shape of the outer hull; the curved deck-head, the cushioned lockers curving below the stern windows. The desk built into the inclined sides.
Sea Witch
could have been made for Jesamiah, for the panelling was of light oak, some of it carved with a detail of oak leaves and acorns. This cabin, as a crowning glory, had made Jesamiah so want the ship for his own when he had first inspected her those months ago in Cape Town. An easy done thing – take a bottle or two of rum aboard at an hour when the watch was growing bored; sweet talk an invitation to look around.

Stefan walked towards the desk, poked through the scatter of papers and rolled charts, tossing those of no interest to the floor. When he found a ship’s log book he smiled. The false leer of the alligator.

“Ah,” he said, thumbing through it. “The
Berenice
. You ought not keep trophies, my friend. This is evidence. I have the sworn statements of the few wretches who survived the indecencies you inflicted on them, of course, but it is always better to be having irrefutable proof, is it not?”

Jesamiah said nothing.

Lazily pushing himself away from the door Phillipe waved in three men, broad-shouldered, mean-mouthed. As mean-minded. He pulled a chair from beneath the table, settled himself comfortably onto it.

“Master van Overstratten and I share a common interest,” he explained superfluously. “We are recently established in the excitement of pirate hunting.”

“Of punishing the scum who are thieves and murderers. Who steal ships,” van Overstratten added as he too found a seat.

“And what about cheats and liars and bullies?” Jesamiah answered. “I won this ship fair in a game of cards, yet you conveniently forgot that small fact, Master Dutchman, did you not? And you Phillipe? What did I ever do as a child to make you hate me so?”

Phillipe crossed his legs. “What did you do Brother? Why, you were born!” Raising his right hand he beckoned for the men to come forward. “You may proceed.”

They made a thorough job of beating Jesamiah senseless. Not Mereno or van Overstratten, they were not prepared to soil their hands, not when it was more interesting to watch while others, professionals, undertook the kicking and punching. Jesamiah did not have a chance to defend himself for they twisted his arms behind his back and while one held him, the other two laid into his ribs and the soft parts of his belly and groin with their fists, a length of chain wrapped around their knuckles.

When he was down, blood streaming from his face, nose and mouth, gasping for air, gagging against the pain, they used their knees and boots instead.

Eighteen

Tiola paused as she entered the east-facing breakfast room with its large and, in her opinion, ugly, Tudor-style furniture. Strangely it was empty of occupants. Normally, Governor Rogers filled the small room with his wide-bellied, loud-voiced presence; nor were Stefan or Phillipe Mereno at the table breaking their fast. Not that she missed Mereno. Beyond acknowledging the basics of politeness she had deliberately avoided him as much as possible, although she knew he constantly watched her with those suspicious soulless eyes.

Only once had he arrogantly questioned her about Jesamiah.

“You were my brother’s whore, I believe?”

The insult had stung, but Tiola had answered with proud dignity. “I was no whore, Surr. Your brother used me ill. I am here to see him hang for it.” She had despised denying Jesamiah, but for as long as it was necessary, had to pretend she had no care or feeling for him beyond that of hatred.

Henry Jennings was seated alone at the table. He greeted her with courtesy and enquired after Mrs Rogers’ progress. “You have a compress placed on the ankle, I trust? And keeping it tight-strapped?” Bowed an apology. “Forgive me, I was forgetting you have somewhat of a reputation as a healer.”

Of all the men Tiola liked Captain Jennings, a considerate and affable gentleman. She could understand why Jesamiah had so admired him.

“Do you know where my husband has gone?” she asked, attempting to restrain her anxiety. “He was absent for much of the night. I have an urgent necessity to ask something particular of him.”

Something had occurred last night, Tiola had sensed its imbalance, but she had been unable to pursue it for Mrs Rogers’ distress had required her full attention. At least now the woman was sleeping, the palpitations of her heart ceased.

“I believe your husband had reason to accompany the Governor and Mr Mereno to the fort this morning,” Jennings said casually as he spread honey on fresh-baked bread.

Tiola’s face remained passive, not a muscle moved.

Monitoring her reaction he continued, “Last night, your husband and Mereno claim they were in the fortunate position of apprehending another vessel, preventing it from leaving in a similar despicable fashion to Charles Vane.” He took a bite of bread, chewed, swallowed. “As you must be aware, any pirate who refuses the King’s amnesty will be subject to hanging without clemency.”

He finished the bread, poured tea for himself and Tiola; observed, “Although it seems strange to me, as a seaman, that a man should attempt to sail his ship out of harbour barely four hours after he has dropped anchor. Especially while his crew are ashore sampling the delights Nassau has to offer. Curious, do you not think?” While busy with the tea his attention had glanced away from Tiola, now he observed her closely. “As much as I admire him – he is, I concede, an excellent mariner – I doubt even Captain Acorne could take the
Sea Witch
out of harbour on his own.”

He had sat here, anxious, for more than half an hour waiting for her and received the reward he had been hoping for. Tiola’s cheeks drained pale, a muted gasp left her lips and she was thrusting back her chair, scrambling to her feet. “Jesamiah is here?”

“The
Sea Witch
dropped anchor half an hour after moonrise last night, but her captain, because of this fabricated nonsense, has been a guest of His Majesty’s Governor for most of the hours of darkness. He is reclining with the rats and the filth in the dungeons of Nassau’s dilapidated fort.”

She was off, running like a rabbit up a bolt-hole escaping from hunting ferrets.

Jennings drank his tea. So, the rumours about Jesamiah’s lost love were true then? Van Overstratten’s wife had indeed been Jesamiah’s woman, she was the one he had been pining for all these months. Jennings could quite see why. The only thing he could not understand – the tongue wagging had not extended that far – was why Acorne had left her behind in Cape Town in the first place. The damned fool. Women as attractive as she had no right to be abandoned, nor did they deserve to have mean-minded toad spawn such as van Overstratten as a husband.

Jennings was fond of Acorne; he had already tried reasoning, unsuccessfully, with Governor Rogers against this disgraceful imprisonment. Mereno and van Overstratten were men who assumed they could get whatever they wanted by paying enough money and damn the cost in human terms. Men like these were building personal empires and making their fortune from the miserable labour of others throughout the Colonies.

Fervently, Jennings hoped this pretty young woman would have more persuasion over Rogers than he so far had managed. If the Governor chose to continue turning a deaf ear and blind eye to what was happening in the dungeons of his fort, then, God help him, Acorne would be dead by the morrow morning.

Nineteen

Jesamiah moaned, attempted to move, thought better of it. Stayed where he was on his back in the cell they had dragged him to, somewhere in the bowels of the fort. His eyes were closed. He would open them soon, when the spinning stopped. Something warm and wet was dribbling down his face from his temple, from his cheek and mouth too. He tried moving his arms, gasped as an angry shout from protesting muscles shot up and down his body. His muzzy brain registered several sluggish facts; he could not move his arms, they were tied together at the wrists behind him. Tied too tight, the rope was biting into the flesh. Cramp was swarming from fingertip to shoulder.

He squeezed open his eyes and the early morning sun streaming in through the high, narrow bars of the cell’s single window hit him smartly in the face. Another mean blow from another bully.

He shut his eyes again. Concentrated. He was bleeding. Loss of blood was not desirable but he was still alive – he thought – therefore he had not bled to death. Not yet anyway.

Slowly, very slowly, he built the courage to alter position. It was going to hurt but he had to move, had to roll to his side because if he did not the vomit churning in his gullet would choke him. He took a breath, released it in a sudden gush as the pain from several broken ribs lunged into his torso. Tried again.

He rolled, half pushing half squirming. Passed out.

Groaning into the bloodied dirt beneath his face, Jesamiah felt even more wretched than he had before. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious, some while he assumed, for the sun was no longer directly on him, slanting instead to his left. He had been sick, the stink of it was beside him, spewed down his clothes, dribbled into his beard.

Pushing himself to his knees with his elbow and sheer brute force, ignoring the discomfort and another wave of nausea, he attempted to rise to his feet. Abandoned the idea as the wall swam by in a series of dizzying circles. Decided he preferred to be lying down. At least the floor kept still.

He stared up at the window, at the clear blue sky beyond. Why had they not simply killed him? Strung him up from the yardarm and left him dangling? He laughed, a mocking sound that echoed against the damp walls and was instantly bitten back into a blood-frothed cough. He knew the answer to that riddle.

Because they had not finished with him. There was more of this to come.

He dozed, slipping in and out of consciousness. When he awoke again the sun had moved another inch and van Overstratten, his brother and Governor Rogers had come to gloat.

Go on kick me as well
, Jesamiah thought through gritted teeth, peering at Woodes Rogers, one eye half blinded by congealed blood.

By design prison cells were disgusting places. Covering his nose and mouth with a linen kerchief, his expression wrinkling in distaste at the assault by a variety of obnoxious odours, Rogers bent over Jesamiah and tipped his chin upward, examining him.

To van Overstratten he said, “Jesamiah Acorne y’say? I met him in Cape Town? I do not recall him.” He straightened, wiped the blood smeared across his fingers on the square of linen then dropped it to the floor. He tutted, shook his head, uncertain about all this. It had a bad smell as foetid as this cell. “He has as much right to the offer of pardon as anyone. I cannot have one law for one pirate and one for another.”

“With respect, Governor, he has no intention of seeking a pardon,” Phillipe argued, keeping his patience with difficulty. They had discussed this subject, up and down and in endless circles for the past hour.

“We caught him in the act of preparing to make sail,” Stefan added, refusing to come further than the doorway because of the filth. “If he were to leave and continue with piracy, think of the havoc he would cause. Vane is already making himself a damned nuisance out there. With Acorne joining him…” He let the implication trail off.

It was true. Charles Vane was becoming a thorn in the backside even after these few days, but there were several inconsistencies in all this. Henry Jennings had flatly stated there were no crew aboard the
Sea Witch
, that Acorne had been alone. And these two, van Overstratten and Mereno, clearly had a personal goal of revenge to achieve.

“You must understand,” Phillipe said, from where he leant against the wall beside the open cell door, his voice slick with enticement, “my aim is to see an end to the pirates who are decimating our tobacco and sugar convoys.” He stepped forward to toe his boot into Jesamiah’s side. “This sorry specimen is one of the worst of the rogues. I am ashamed to admit he is my kinsman, although the fact he is my brother has not deterred him from attempting to ruin me.”

He spread one hand. “If you deny my request Governor, then I may be forced to divert my portion of finances. You will need to seek alternative funding for your guardship.” He let the threat hang, poignant.

For his own contribution van Overstratten expanded the threat. “To secure our generosity, all we ask is what we have already pleaded; while we are available to state our personal evidence you convene a trial and find Acorne guilty. He can hang this evening and our honour will be satisfied. A quick end to this sorry matter.”

Mulling his thoughts Rogers ambled from the cell, his hands clasped behind his back, unsure. He did desperately require the money. This was going to be an expensive business harnessing these rogues into lawful behaviour – and the British Government had not been over generous with their aid.

There again, Captain Jennings had put a significant counter argument. Many of these pirates had come to Nassau on trust. “Hang one while under your word of unconditional amnesty, Governor,” Jennings had pointed out, “and the rest will weigh anchor and leave. You will never entice them back and that will be an end to law and order – and profitable trade – here in the West Indies.”

He was right of course. Rogers chewed his lip, sighed, stroked his grey-grizzled moustache.

“Or I could consider
increasing
my aid,” Phillipe coaxed, sensing Rogers’ doubt. “Between us, van Overstratten and I could, with the right incentive, perhaps see our way to financing your guardship for two years instead of the one?”

From where he lay on the floor Jesamiah coughed his mockery. “And I thought you were beyond corruption, Governor. How bloody naive of me.”

Woodes Rogers chose not to hear. He did not consider payment intended for the general good of the community to be bribery. If the gold was for personal gain it would be different – but he had given his word; every pirate who came into harbour before the close of August would be offered a pardon. It had to include this fellow.

Unconditional terms meant the slate was to be wiped clean of everything – of stolen goods and ships, of committing rape and murder. Which was why they were here in this stinking cell; Van Overstratten and Mereno were not interested in justice or pardons. They wanted vengeance against Acorne. This brutal treatment of the fellow, proved it.

“Let me think on it,” Rogers said, making a partial decision. “I will let you know by noon.” He nodded curtly, the matter temporarily dismissed and hurried up into the fresh, clean air, pleased to be leaving the stink behind. A stink that was not the odour of human discomfort alone; a lack of personal honour and a lust for deliberate cruelty always harboured its own foul stench.

Phillipe kicked Jesamiah’s broken ribs and his victim bit back a scream. “Rogers is not going to accommodate us, van Overstratten. He is going to allow this bag of scum to get away with all he has done to us.” Maliciously he kicked again and when his brother gasped, kicked a third time.

Ruefully the Dutchman agreed with Mereno’s observation, answered, annoyed, “We ought to have hanged him last night as I suggested. We would have got what we wanted, quickly and quietly.”

“What? A few minutes squirming at the end of a rope, pissing and shitting himself as his tongue swells and then it’s all over? I think not, sir! I think not!” Phillipe squatted beside Jesamiah’s head, whispered very quietly. “For humiliating me in front of my friends and, I suspect, for making a whore of my wife, I intend for you to suffer. Really suffer. You will end your life begging me to let you die.”

“What more can we do?” van Overstratten protested, not hearing and reluctant to step forward on to the filth that squelched and stank and crunched on the floor. He glanced up at the low ceiling at one of the supporting roof beams. “Do we ignore Rogers and string him up ourselves? Here?”

“It wasn’t my fault we had a lousy father,” Jesamiah gasped, surreptitiously trying to curl into a more protective position. Thought,
It wasn’t my bloody fault he preferred me to you when he was at home
.

Leaning closer, Phillipe’s spittle dribbled on to Jesamiah’s cheek. “Are you suggesting the fault was mine?”

Jesamiah returned the icy stare as best he could through the blood and bruising. “No…but we are…grown men…we ought not squabble over the failures…of our parents.” He spoke slowly, taking several shallow breaths to fight the pain. “Let me go. Let’s talk sensibly about this.”

“You are pathetic,” Mereno jeered.

Jesamiah closed his eyes, remembered all the hurts he had endured. All that he had suffered. Dreaded the thought that he was about to suffer them again.

He had asked his mother once, when he was eight years old, why his father spent so little time with Phillipe, why he disliked him. As a child on the receiving end of the torments and the brutalities he could understand why he hated him, but not Father. Mama had smiled indulgently and ruffled his hair. Had told him not to be silly: “
Qué sandez, mi niño
…Your father thinks the world of you both.”

But she had then added something else, something that as a child Jesamiah had not absorbed. Only now, remembering, crumpled here in this stink, with blood on his face and pain in his ribs and balls did he realise its significance. “He cannot look at Phillipe, he is too much like his mother,” she had said. “Your father’s first wife. He did so adore her.”

Very quietly Jesamiah said, “I pity you Phillipe. You were so full of hatred, you never gave anything else a chance. You never will.”

“Save your pity for yourself, I have no need of it.” Making a pretence at appearing thoughtful, Mereno stood, crossed the cell to join the Dutchman. “Rogers Governs New Providence, he holds no jurisdiction elsewhere.” He spoke slowly as if he were only now thinking of an alternative solution. Had in fact been calculating this for many months – and now it was all falling sweetly and effortlessly into place, aided by the stroke of fortune of trading with this Dutchman. He would not have persuaded Rogers even thus far on his own. But with van Overstratten as partner? He smiled, sated with pleasure.

“What if I were to take this bastard to Virginia for trial instead? We do not hold with the fool idea of amnesties and pardons for pirates along the Chesapeake.”

Jesamiah closed his eyes, through his split lip said, “If you give me to my brother, Stefan, I shall not reach Virginia alive.”

The Dutchman carefully stepped over the debris, stood looking down at Jesamiah then hunkered to his heels and leant forward. He reached out a hand to peel one of the pirate’s soiled and bloodied ribbons from where it had stuck to a congealed clot of blood.

“Do you know something, Acorne?” he said. “If that is so, what makes you think I care?”