Sea Witch

by Hollick, Helen

  “We don’t hold with pirates in these waters,” Vorst answered huffily, affronted at the offensive word pirate.

  “Rightly so, but the distinction between privateering and pirating depends on which side the wind is blowing from, does it not?” Jesamiah smiled, friendly, at ease. “If I were Spanish for example, I could blast the shit out of Duke and Duchess and claim I had every right to do so.”

  “Except the heavy artillery of this fort would be blowing you to kingdom come before you could get more than one shot fired.”

  Conceding the point, Jesamiah grinned, adding, “Unless the Dutch government decide to change alliance and side with Spain.” At the disapproving glare he thought it prudent to alter tack. “You said one is mad?”

  “As one of your English March hares. Dampier. William Dampier. Had too much of the sun boiling his brains if you ask me. Obsessed with detailing every living thing he comes across, always scribbling in his notebook. I saw him flat on his belly down on the beach the other day, wig askew, studying a crab would you believe? I mean, for God’s sake, the things are only fit for eating. What point in drawing the little sods?”

  Jesamiah’s eyes had lit up, glowing with excitement. “Dampier? Now him I have heard of.”

  William Dampier here in Cape Town? The most famous, most successful buccaneer to torment the Spanish – a man who had drawn a very fine line between legitimate privateering and the hanging offence of piracy! He had first rounded Cape Horn and crossed the Pacific to the East Indies in 1680, had circumnavigated the world yet again since then – three occasions if this Woodes Rogers had indeed commanded another successful expedition. Jesamiah’s copy of Dampier’s book, so well read it was dog-eared and falling apart. To meet him? Ah, the questions he would ask! He had no intention of attempting such a venture, but that did not deter Jesamiah’s enthralment of reading about it.

  Vorst was weary of the subject. He pushed himself from his chair, his hand holding the bulge of his belly. “Talking of crabs, I would not recommend too many of the blighters. Give you belly ache.” He gestured Jesamiah towards the door. “If you would excuse me, I need to sit on the comfort stool a while. If you are a follower of adventure try presenting yourself at the Golden Hind, one of our more respectable taverns. Rogers is billeted there, he will delight in boring the wax out of a fresh ear.”

  Sketching a half-hearted salute to the harbourmaster’s disappearing back Jesamiah casually rummaged through the scatter of papers on the desk, found a few documents that might prove useful in the future and stuffed them into his coat’s cavernous inner pocket. Along with a bag of coin and an attractive pocket watch left lying there on the desk for anyone to pick up.

  Outside, standing on the civilian side of the arch he considered what to do next. The brothel first or a tavern? He turned up the street, away from the range of buildings that served as slave quarters for inbound wretches. The wealth of South Africa, as with the Caribbean islands of the West Indies and the tobacco and cotton colonies of the Americas, were being built by the captive labour of Irish and British convicts and African blacks. Only on a pirate ship were men treated as equal. The Sweet Trade, where a man could be free of the law and bigotry.

  A neat, pretty town with streets set in an orderly grid pattern, the overall effect spoilt by the rough roads, wandering animals and the stink of an open sewage system. Warehouses, shipyards, chandlers and carpenters were arrayed along the seafront. Behind them the more wealthy townhouses were double-storied, typically Dutch in design, all standing alongside taverns, lodgings and workshops. A scatter of churches, a few mosques. And brothels. There were always brothels.

  The uphill ground swayed and dipped as he walked, a common problem for those who had been a while at sea, the movement of the ship staying with the body even on solid land. From experience Jesamiah knew to keep his eyes looking straight ahead and ignore the uncomfortable feeling that he was about to fall, but all the same, his gait rolled and he almost tripped up twice when misjudging the height of steps. He turned left and the street suddenly widened into a market square cluttered with stalls and bothies, a multitude of people, buyers, sellers, browsers, beggars and thieves.

  Buying a coconut-shell bowl of minced lamb and rice he strolled along while eating, scooping the food with his fingers, enjoying the delicious mess it made. Wiping his hands every so often down the front of his coat he glanced casually at the trade stalls, wondered how Malachias was faring with selling some of the cargo wharf-side. Well that was his problem; Jesamiah had played his part. He stopped to inspect a few bedraggled parrots and wandered on. He was tempted to make his way to the Golden Hind, it would be wonderful to meet Dampier. Would such a move be sailing too close to the wind? If anyone could spot a pirate masquerading as a trader it would be Dampier. Jesamiah sighed, he would have enjoyed personally meeting the man. Best not.

  Enthusiasm for these few precious hours ashore was draining away, his mood turning sour, the prospect of sport in bed with one of Cape Town’s doxies losing its appeal. Perhaps a tot or two of rum would rekindle his interest?

  Dismally, he inspected the several taverns on the uphill side of the square. Nothing seemed inspiring. He wove his way through the crowd, seemingly every race, colour and creed from every continent; a babble of languages, a variety of costume and clothing. Was it any wonder Cape Town had earned for itself the title ‘Tavern of the Seas’?

  He paused at a stall where a German was enquiring after the tobacco pipes for sale, picking each one up to closely inspect it with a squinting short-sightedness. Jesamiah slid in beside him, feigning interest in purchasing a pipe for himself, his eyes lingering on the fat money pouch the fool had carelessly put down on the table. His fingers twitching towards it, Jesamiah grimaced. So tempting to quietly take it up, slip it into his pocket…He was not here to draw attention to himself. He withdrew his hand then abruptly changed his mind, swung back to lift the pouch, clasping his fingers neatly around it – just as the German remembered the thing.

  Jesamiah’s reaction was the quicker.

  “Your money, mein Herr? It is not sensible to leave it where any common cut-purse could so easily steal it.” With a smile, he took up the astonished man’s hand and put the pouch securely into the palm. Touching his hat in genial salute, Jesamiah strolled on, puffing his cheeks. That had been close! The penalty for stealing was no different than piracy. Hanging.

  Turning into a side street he headed back downhill in the direction of the harbour, then frowned at a sudden disturbance outside a blacksmith’s bothy at the far end of an intersecting alley. A girl’s shrill and furious shout.

  “Leave him be! Can you not see he cannot carry you? He is lame!”

  A man was beating a sweat-sodden saddle horse about the head with his riding crop, and a dishevelled girl was as vigorously pummelling the man with her fists and feet.

  “Damn creature threw me. This be none of your business girl, clear off!” One side of the man’s apparel was dusty, the horse’s knees were scuffed. He raised the crop again, about to set the lash into the animal’s sweating hide – the girl grabbed his arm and bit his hand, her teeth clamping into the pad of soft flesh beneath his thumb. The man turned with a yelp of outrage and started hitting her instead, his curses a stream of blasphemy, the blows coming down on her shoulders and back. “I will do what I want with my own horse, you little she-devil!”

  Tempted to ignore it as none of his business Jesamiah scowled then stepped forward. He disliked bullies. His hand encircled the man’s wrist staying the next fall of the crop. “That, Sir, is not a gentlemanly attitude. She is but a girl and I can see, even if you cannot, despite the fact I am a seaman not a horseman, that this animal is lame. He probably stumbled because he is favouring the off-fore.”

  The man wrenched his arm free and made to strike Jesamiah’s face. With a hiss of steel the pirate’s cutlass slid from its scabbard, the tip of the blade pricking through the white cravat beneath the man’s double chin.

 
“Perhaps you did not hear me?” Jesamiah repeated, wearing a charming smile but with menace rasping in the tone of his voice. “The horse requires attention.” He called into the smithy. “Ahoy there!”

  The sound of hammering ceasing the smith, a grizzle-haired Dane, sauntered from the shadows of his forge, sweat beading his forehead. He smelt of horse and smoke.

  “This animal is unsound,” Jesamiah said, not lowering his blade. “My friend here would be obliged if you would kindly investigate the problem.”

  Grunting indifferently, the smith lifted the gelding’s forefoot and inspected the inside of the hoof. From the pocket of his leather apron, produced a hoof-pick and prised loose a stone wedged beneath the iron shoe. “Been there some while, I reckon,” he said as he set the foot down, his hand automatically going to the horse’s neck to calm it. “Not surprising he’s lame.”

  “Thank you, I am indebted t’you.” Jesamiah felt in his coat pocket for a coin, flipped it at the smith. “I appreciate your service, even if this tub of melted lard don’t.” He lowered the cutlass, did not sheathe it. “I suggest, Sir, the next time you find your fat backside cannot stay in a saddle, you question whether the fault be your own poor ability, not the creature’s.”

  He slid the cutlass into its scabbard and touched his hat, with his other hand took hold of the girl’s arm and forcefully marched her away before either she or the man realised it. He rounded a corner and set her loose with an aggressive shake.

  “And I would suggest to you, young lady, that you stay out of grown men’s business or you will come to a sorry and sticky end.”

  She stared innocently up at him, her head cocked to one side, her dark eyes meeting square with his. “I am not frightened of imbeciles like him. I can look after myself.”

  “Oh aye?” Jesamiah countered, taking her chin in his hand and twisting her face to the side. The mark was livid across her cheek, spots of blood oozing in several places. “A tad higher and he could have had your eye out, lass.”

  He moved her face the other way, inspecting it more closely. She was no urchin. Her nails were not bitten or dirty, her hair had no sign of lice and her gown, if plain, was of a passable quality. She smelt and looked clean.

  Nor was she as young as he had first assumed. Fourteen, he guessed. Maybe fifteen? She was as thin as a stick, although not malnourished, more along the lines of a late developer – her bosom had not yet rounded, but even in maturity she would probably boast nothing bigger than small apples. Unlike the ripe melons on some of the strumpets he knew. His own height of two inches below six feet exaggerated her petite stature.

  Frowning, he looked at her more intently. There was something familiar about her. “Do I know you?” he asked.

  “We have not met, Surr,” she answered truthfully, giving a bobbed curtsey of good manners. “My guardian has employment at the Golden Hind but we came here from England.” Her hint of a Cornish accent was a slight, burred lilt; pleasant.

  The coincidence of the Golden Hind was too much to resist. Jesamiah grinned. He firmly believed in grabbing opportunities as they presented themselves. Only, sometimes, you had to go after them with a club.

  “Then, if you will be so kind as to show me the way, I shall escort you to your guardian and strongly suggest he gives your backside a thorough paddling.”

  Tiola said nothing, trotted meekly at his side, her eyes occasionally lifting to study his handsome face, taking in every subtle detail of the man with the blue ribbons. The pirate.

  He did not recall her. She did not expect him to. In his eyes she was nothing more than a lanky, undeveloped child – hardly the sort of female he would normally notice! And here, this moment, was not the right place to be revealing herself to him; to be undoing the Craft-manipulated fact that he had completely forgotten her.

  Five

  Jesamiah found Captain Woodes Rogers to be a stout man, full of his own self-importance and liking the sound of his own voice. Unsightly scarring marked what was left of the upper part of his left Jaw.

  “Pistol ball shot it away,” Rogers explained, offering his hand and seeing Jesamiah’s eyes stray to the scarred damage. “Can’t go capturing the Dons’ ships without expecting some form of retaliation, eh lad?” He slapped Jesamiah heartily on the shoulder, ushering him down an unlit corridor towards the private saloon of the tavern.

  On behalf of the girl’s guardian, Rogers thanked Jesamiah repeatedly. “The dear lady has been frantic with worry about the lass these past two hours – ye’ll join m’party for a glass of wine?”

  Jesamiah preferred the taste of rum or brandy, but flattered at being invited, did not refuse.

  “I thank you again Sir, for your kindness with the young miss,” Rogers enthused as he waved Jesamiah ahead of him. He lowered his voice, although even then he had a tone that could carry a quarter of a mile. “Child’s been here five weeks, but has already caused no end of disruption. Needs a good thrashing if you ask me. Comes from Cornwall. Rough lot, those Cornish. Like the Welsh, untameable.” He shrugged. “Her guardian is a wonderful woman, for all she is of the servile class.” Impatient, he gestured for his guest to open the door, go through. In the sudden light of a room full of sunshine, Jesamiah realised Rogers’ foot was swathed in bandaging.

  “Another misfortune,” the captain explained as he hobbled into the room. “Shot through the heel. Blasted thing has played me up the entire voyage, these two years or so. The girl’s guardian, Mistress Pendeen, bless her, knows a thing or two about poulticing, almost has it to rights now. Damned good woman.” He gestured a large bosom with his hands. “Shame I have a wife, eh?” He laughed. “Come, let me introduce ye. William, we have a saviour of errant young ladies among us! Sir, meet my friend and navigator, William Dampier.”

  “Er, Acorne,” Jesamiah said, politely bowing, unexpectedly flustered. “Jesamiah Acorne, with an ‘e’, at your service, sir.” He could not believe his fortune; here he was making the acquaintance of the great William Dampier himself!

  A third man, tall and thin with a grey beard and a head of thick, white hair, was rising from a chair. Rogers introduced him also. “Alexander Selkirk. Found him marooned some several hundred miles west of Chile. Been there over four years had ye not, Selkirk?”

  Jesamiah did not know whether to gape in admiration or guffaw out loud. Were these men serious? If it were not for the credentials he could merit to Dampier, the conversation would have seemed nothing more than a mother’s telling of a fabulous bedtime tale. Marooned for four years? How had the man survived?

  Seating himself, Rogers, oblivious to Jesamiah’s amusement, forged on. “My good friend Defoe, back in England, so his prattling letters mention, cannot wait to meet Selkirk here. He intends to write his experiences down as an adventure story. Says he’ll call it Robinson Crusoe to protect the innocent involved in the tale. Absurd eh? Ha, ha!” He had a habit of laughing at his own poor jests.

  Selkirk had the manners to blush. “Nothing to tell. I had a falling out with the captain and demanded to be put ashore for m’own safety and sanity. Hadn’t bargained on another ship not coming by the sooner.”

  “Now my book,” Rogers interrupted, “I shall call A Cruising Voyage Round the World: first to the South Seas, thence to the East Indies and Homeward by the Cape of Good Hope. What think you of that? A title to stir the vitals, eh?”

  Politely, Jesamiah agreed. What was it the harbourmaster had said?

  “I wish to God he’d stay his mouth, and clear off back to England.” With that, too, Jesamiah found himself agreeing. He so wanted to talk to the quiet and polite Dampier, but Rogers was not the sort to heave to in a following wind. Nothing was going to stop him from bending a new ear to his account of heroic privateering.

  “It is interesting to hear you talk so freely of your commission,” Jesamiah said at one point, while Rogers was issuing a refill of wine. “There are more than a few who insist privateering has much in common with piracy.”

  Rogers splu
ttered indignation. “Good God man, pirates are the dregs of this Earth! Rogues the lot of ‘em. I took only ships at war with my country, and every last gold and silver piece shall go back to m’sponsors.” He cleared his throat and brushed at the stains he had splashed over his embroidered waistcoat. “Of course, I shall receive my share of the profits. I carry about two million on board, ye know.”

  “I would not let any self-respecting pirate hear you boast that fact too often,” Jesamiah said quietly, with a deceptively charming smile.

  “They do not scare me, son. Let ‘em come! Let ‘em try at me! I’d wipe my arse with them, as easy as pissing.”

  “Even so…”

  “The difference between a pirate and a privateer, my boy, is that of a matter of honour. The former has no idea of the meaning of the word.”

  Jesamiah was beginning to weary of Roger’s arrogance. “What is the Government to do with all these privateers who carry the excuse of a Letter of Marque, such as yourself, when this current skirmish with Spain is over? As it soon shall be. It is only a matter of time for a treaty of peace to be signed. What do the politicians expect the privateers to do then? Shuffle off home to sit with their feet in the hearth, smoking pipes of heavily taxed tobacco? Or go on the Account?”

  “Pirates?” Rogers repeated. “Swabs, the lot of them. Washed up, drunken, swabs. I have no concern for pirates, they hold no threat for me.”

  Jesamiah was tempted to prove this blustering idiot wrong by suggesting to Malachias they board one of those ships sitting idle in the harbour and strip it of everything of worth. Ah, Rogers was right, no pirate would think of attacking him. Pirates tended to pick on the weak, the stragglers, the undefended merchantmen. Those ships in the harbour? Too many guns and experienced gunners.

  “Nevertheless,” William Dampier suggested after a silent pause, “Pirates do roam these African waters, and they are a threat. The Christina Giselle was attacked, was she not?”