Sea Witch (Sea Witch Voyages)

by Helen Hollick

  Tiola attempted to pull away. “You are hurting me.”

  “Do you think me a fool?” he snapped, tightening the grip. “Since our first night you have lain beneath me as a frozen block of ice. It is him you think of; his touch, his kisses. His prick poking into you!” Abruptly he jerked her close against him, the feel of his arousal hard beneath his breeches pressing through her gown.

  “He has nothing I have not got, Madam!” His mouth covered hers, the kiss dominating, devoid of love or passion.

  She made no response, movement or sound. He pulled away, annoyance puckering his nose. “You have no regard for me at all, have you?”

  Restraining an instinctive urge to unleash her power Tiola said, as calm as she could, “If that is so, then why did I marry you?”

  Releasing her, Stefan turned away to quietly close the door. “Why? Because you knew I would never have permitted you to leave Cape Town, and you wanted so desperately to come here, did you not, liefste? Wanted to be here in Nassau because you hope he will be coming.”

  There was no point in the telling of lies. “Had I wished it, Stefan, you could not have stopped me. It is the other way around, I would not have allowed you to leave without me, but being your wife was the easiest way of travelling without drawing undue attention or comment from others.”

  As Madame van Overstratten, who had queried her presence aboard his ship? Had she been alone, ah, the Craft she would have had to use to ensure her privacy and safety! Day after day, hour after hour concealing herself, blending illusion, bending the truth; always afraid someone would be immune or the Dark Power, delighting in creating mischief, would expose her for what she was. A witch. Women were permitted so little freedom, were treated as chattels and servants; a means to ease a man’s sexual need. Unlike Stefan, Jesamiah had treated her with respect. Another reason to love him so.

  Stefan regarded her with distaste, his feelings for her beginning to turn to hatred. Wrongly, he had assumed once a married woman with responsibility – and children on the way – she would behave as did his sister, dutiful, obedient and attentive. He had not expected Tiola to continue with this stubborn streak of wayward independence. He had wanted her because she was beautiful: a woman he could parade before others and watch the envy in their eyes. Now he feared those same men would soon be openly mocking him for taking a wife who was empty-bellied, as useless as a broken piss-pot. And he knew well the snide comments of men. How many of them were sniggering that the fault rested with the stallion not the mare?

  “I promised you once that you would see Acorne hang. Cheat on me, woman, and I can promise you this also; you will hang beside him.” He turned the key in the lock, the sound of the slight click small, but ominous. “Unless, of course, you begin breeding.” His hand went to the buttons of his breeches. “I think now is as good an opportunity as any to try again? Do you not agree?”

  He was a fool if he thought he could make her fear him. Tiola raised her hand, her eyes, blazing contempt, staring into his own – and a great blast of gunpowder roared from the harbour, rattling the glass in the windows and startling birds, sending them squawking and cawing into the early evening air. Then cannon fire, two, three guns booming and echoing across the entire island.

  Stefan darted to the window. A single-masted sloop was adrift and full ablaze, her powder magazine evidently exploded. A second vessel, sails tumbling from the yards, anchor cable cut, was racing for the harbour entrance, while a third, the inbound frigate, slewed wildly to starboard to avoid collision with the one afire. Half her crew were running to fend her off with boat hooks, the other half manning the guns to make a retaliatory volley at the ship that had fired at them. But they were too slow and too late. The fleeing vessel was over the bar and away.

  Someone was rattling the door handle; Captain Henry Jennings’ voice cursing explicitly. Tiola crossed to the door, snapped open the lock and Jennings, pushing heavily from the far side, almost fell into the room.

  The same Jennings who had sailed with Jesamiah Acorne to acquire for himself a fortune in gold. Labelled a pirate by the Spanish, he vehemently opposed the slur to his character, protesting he was a legitimate privateer. With an estate a few miles from Nassau, the ability to read, write and tally numbers, and respected by pirates, the Royal Navy and the British Government alike, he was an ideal candidate to become adviser, mediator and personal aide to Governor Rogers; effectively, an unofficial Vice Governor.

  “Bloody doors are all warped!” he cursed as he hurried to peer out of the window. “Half of them don’t close properly, the other half get stuck! What was that explosion? What has happened?”

  “One of your damned pirates appears to be making a run for it. Vane’s brig, I believe,” Stefan announced with a disdainful flourish of his hand. “I heard rumour he had fallen out with you over who is to be appointed second in command to your authority. From the disruption he is causing out there, I take it the rumour is true?”

  Jennings regarded the Dutchman with distaste; thought him an arrogant fop. But then, he thought the same of most wealthy merchantmen. “I must correct you, Sir, rumour is most certainly not true. Below the Governor I hold sole commission for legal jurisdiction, my position of authority has not been in the least gainsaid. It is correct, however, that Vane and I did exchange harsh words. He requested a Letter of Marque in order to hunt down those on the Account who do not respond to this amnesty. I refused him on the grounds he is unreliable.”

  Retrieving a telescope from a small table beside the window, Jennings extended it and peered down into the harbour. Commented after a moment’s study, “The fellow appears to have confirmed my objections.” He swung the telescope slightly, assessing the situation. Vane was a fool if he thought flouncing off in a temper was the best option because he could not get his own way. As a dramatic gesture, setting that old hulk afire achieved his aim of seeking attention, but Jennings doubted the British captain coming into harbour would be impressed by the little tirade. He shut the telescope with a clatter, opined, “I would wager this Navy fellow has been sent ahead to inform us of our new Governor’s imminent arrival.”

  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 bene
ath, 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.