Pirate Code

by Helen Hollick

  He kissed her, physically demonstrating his feelings for her. Was so frightened for her, so loved her.

  Hesitating, reluctant to say what was hovering in his thoughts, the thoughts that had been churning in his mind this last hour or so, he took a breath, said, “You are a witch. Can you not do something? Use your Craft?” He was tentative and uncertain for he was wary of what she was, even though she had assured him, many times over, that she would never intentionally cause him harm.

  “Of the two of us,” she had once said, “as a pirate, you are by far the more dangerous.”

  Tiola put her arms around his waist. “And what would you have me do? Turn Stefan into a toad? Smite him with lightning? Fetch up a greater storm than the one making a nuisance of itself outside? I am not of the Dark, Jesamiah. To save myself from a few moments of humiliation I am not permitted to hurt others.”

  “Well then, do something else, damn it!” Jesamiah thrust the sheets and blanket from him, swung his legs over the side of the wooden box bed that rocked violently on its rope-hangings as he got to his feet. “I’ve seen you use your voice to make a man do your bidding; seen how you can blur your features to make it seem you are old and haggard. Put a spell on him Tiola, make him forget you exist!”

  If only it were that easy.

  Patient, pulling the covers up to her chin to compensate for the removal of his warmth she explained, yet again. “My Craft is not infinite, nor can I do ‘spells’. I create illusion by subtly altering the perceived truth. The eye sees what it wants to see, it is not difficult to change what someone thinks he is looking at. Ais, yes, I can make Stefan believe he has not been wronged, but his forgetting would be like ice beneath the sun. It would soon melt. There are too many others who know of us, Jesamiah. I would have to change all their memories lest someone speak of it and cause Stefan to remember, and that I cannot do. It is impossible.”

  She sighed, watched him strike a flint and light a lamp. How else could she illustrate her point?

  “If one strand of cordage frays it will hold, perhaps with two or three unravelling it will still be usable, but would you trust such a line to brace a sail in a storm wind? I cannot always rely on my Craft, luvver. For some situations its strength is inappropriate. If I alter this thing I run the risk of drawing attention to what I am.” She paused; what more could she say that she had not already said? “The penalty for witchcraft is far greater than a few lashes with a whip for adultery.”

  He grunted an answer. “So you will not save yourself?”

  “I cannot. There is a difference.”

  He did not wholly understand why, did not want to understand, just wanted her to be safe. Walking into the great cabin he grunted again. The window had been left open, rain was puddled on the floor, had soaked several of the cushions. As if watery fingers had poked and pried, there were rain drops scattered on the muddled books and papers on his desk, and small pools dotted among the debris of empty coffee cups and wine glasses on his mahogany dining table.

  Hardly surprising that the window had been forgotten. After reading that summons his anger had changed into despair, and that had led to the only way he knew of showing Tiola how much he loved her. His lovemaking had been fierce, driving into her to prove she was his, her own response as demanding and urgent, taking him in deep, her arms and legs curled around him; their bodies and souls united as they reached the breathless crescendo of mutual pleasure.

  As far as Jesamiah was concerned Tiola was his and no one, no one, would be touching or hurting her. Not even if he had to return to a life of piracy and kill van Overstratten to prevent it.

  Two

  Jesamiah had promised Tiola he would not do anything stupid, but he could not do nothing at all! By the intermittent flare of the lightning and the glow of the single lamp, he gathered the damp clothes that he had dropped to the floor in his eagerness to make love, and dressed quietly.

  “Where are you going?” Tiola mumbled from the small alcove that was their bedroom.

  “To check the anchors,” he lied. “Go back to sleep.”

  He pulled on his boots, buckled on his cutlass. Ensuring it was loaded, he thrust a pistol through his belt and slid his arms into his coat. Finally, swinging a battered oilskin boat-cloak around his shoulders he crammed his three-corner hat on his head and half turned to go back and kiss Tiola goodbye. Thought better of it. If she guessed he was up to something she would stop him.

  Automatically ducking beneath the door lintel Jesamiah walked the few yards along the narrow corridor and stepped out on to the deserted waist of the ship. Wind-driven rain hit him smart in the face like the slap of a duellist’s glove demanding satisfaction. He hunched his coat higher, glanced towards the scuttle forward of the main mast that led below to the crew’s quarters. Rue would not be in his own cabin but down there with the lads, and probably a few giggling lasses as well. Nassau had its attractions but the Sea Witch was home and Jesamiah’s quartermaster, his second in command, like himself, preferred the comforts of familiarity. When a once full pocket of coin was rapidly dwindling and the novelty of carousing ashore was waning, the call of the sea began to hush louder in your soul.

  A crack of swaying light drifted from one corner of the not-quite covered hatch, a roar of laughter booming out in a lull of the wind. The African, Isiah Roberts. Jesamiah could recognise his first mate’s deep guffaw anywhere. He thought he heard the lighter tone of a woman’s voice, but a roll of thunder masked anything positive; another grumble obscured the creek of the oars as seating himself in the jollyboat warped alongside the entry port, Jesamiah pushed off and began to row. The wind was against him, he found it hard work to take the rowboat over the short distance of the harbour to the nearest jetty; was glad to toss her mooring-line ashore and make her fast. He was already soaked, the rain, dripping from his hat finding its way inside the neckband of his coat; his breeches were sodden.

  Pulling the round-turn and half-hitch tighter, he secured the boat and turned into the wind, thought he saw movement in the shadows beyond the corner of the fort wall. A woman? He was certain he had seen the swirl of grey skirts and the toss of silver hair. One of the town’s whores he assumed, hurrying to or from her night’s work.

  He crammed his hat down firmer, dipped his head against the wind and made his way uphill to the Governor’s house, the great pink-walled building dominating George Street and the more affluent quarter of Nassau. Affluent in the sense it was not as full of scoundrels and degenerates as the rest of the town, and smelt less pungent of excrement, pig muck, spewed vomit and raw sewage.

  If he followed his usual pattern, Woodes Rogers would be relaxing after dinner, boasting to his guests, yet again, of his daring sea adventures circumnavigating the globe. Personally, Jesamiah could think of nothing worse than listening to Rogers continuously clack on about it, nor could he see any sense in spending almost three years sailing around the world for virtually no financial gain. Rogers’ recompense had been the appointment as King’s Governor of this God-forsaken place; the fool seemed to regard it as an honour. In Jesamiah’s opinion the man was barking mad. Although he did concede Rogers had managed to get almost one thousand scurvy degenerates to sign their name or put their mark in his Book of Amnesty and, so far, hold to their pledge to forsake piracy in exchange for the King’s pardon. Himself among them.

  As he approached the Governor’s house, Jesamiah remembered a time, a few years ago, when he had come knocking at this same door with innocence on his face and the intention of robbery on his mind.Absent-mindedly he fingered his blue ribbons. A different Governor then, a man as corrupt as fake gold. Woodes Rogers was a rarity, an upright and honest man. Jesamiah had sailed away several thousand pounds sterling the richer that night. He had also become a captain. Jealous of his ability, the man who had previously held command had tried to murder him, not reckoning on Jesamiah being the one who was quicker on his feet.

  Murder was not so far from Jesamiah’s mind, either, this night.
He shrugged, resigned. Murdering van Overstratten would solve a few problems but would create as many more. He hammered again on the door, his right hand going to the hilt of his cutlass, the palm itching to draw the blade. The cutlass, shorter and less cumbersome than a sword, was a killing weapon, heavy and solid, designed to slash and maim, to slice through flesh, muscle and bone. Jesamiah had used it, to full effect, often.

  A white-wigged black man wearing spotless knee-length breeches, silk stockings, black shining shoes with silver buckles and a scarlet coat with gold braid and brass buttons answered the door. He looked the pirate up and down as if he were a rat crawled up from the stink of the bilge and reluctantly granted admittance. Taking Jesamiah’s hat, oilskin cloak and long coat with a fastidious grimace, he bade him wait while he ascertained whether the Governor was at home.

  Of course he was. Jesamiah could hear Rogers’ flat, booming guffaw meandering all the way down the ornate staircase.

  Totally unaware he had gone, Tiola drifted back to sleep, the sound of the wind-driven rain influencing her dreams. A prowling dream that wandered, intrusive, through her sleep. A dream of watching eyes and of light footsteps running like the patter of rain on the deck and skylight. A dream where puddles shimmered like the sheen on a silken gown, and where Jesamiah drowned in one that was as deep as the ocean.

  Three

  “Ah, Acorne! Come in, come in, won’t ye? Will ye take a glass o’ brandy with us? Ha, ha!” Rogers was on his feet, heartily beckoning Jesamiah forward, his cheeks red-spotted from an excess of good food, strong drink and the smoke-fugged heat of the first-floor dining room. Three men were seated at table, other places where the women had sat were vacated, the debris of a fine dinner scattered around.

  “Sit, sit! Find y’self a chair. It’s a damn foul night eh, lad? Ha, ha!“ The Governor, with his irritating habit of adding a meaningless guffaw to his statements, poured Jesamiah a generous measure of best French brandy, his amiability attempting to mask an obvious unease. One of the men was Stefan van Overstratten. As Jesamiah had known it would be.

  Deliberately selecting a chair opposite the Dutchman, Jesamiah nodded a greeting to his friend Captain Henry Jennings, and the respected Benjamin Hornigold, two older men and one-time pirates. Both, as did Rogers himself, insisted they had been privateers, although the difference between privateer and pirate was a fine line; one acted against enemy ships during the time of declared war with the knowledge and consent of a Government, the other not giving a torn sail for who he plundered or when.

  Jennings had made his fortune along with Jesamiah salvaging Spanish gold from a fleet of storm-wrecked treasure ships. Not exactly salvaging. Eleven galleons had gone down in a hurricane off the Florida coast and pirates had flocked like sharks to blood for the spoils; only Jesamiah had come up with the idea to go one better. Teaming up with Jennings the pair of them had cockily raided the warehouse where the Spanish had been storing the re-claimed treasure. Had come away as wealthy men. Jennings had retired, buying himself a modest estate here near Nassau, Jesamiah had sailed on to Africa, to Cape Town. Where he had met Tiola Oldstagh and fallen belly-deep in love with her.

  The brandy was good quality – probably smuggled contraband. Jesamiah sipped at it, declined a cheroot offered by Jennings and a fill of pipe tobacco from Hornigold.

  “My thanks gentlemen, I do not smoke. I had enough of tobacco as a child. When you’ve grown up in misery on a tobacco plantation you tend to want nothing more to do with the foul weed.”

  “Unless it is to steal it and line your pockets with another man’s hard-earned profit.” Van Overstratten lifted the brandy decanter, poured himself a large refill. Pointedly, neither he nor Jesamiah had greeted each other.

  “There are those who steal more of the profits than a pirate could ever accomplish,” Jesamiah commented. “Governments, of all nations, have powder burns on their fingers when it comes to reckoning taxation levies and trade tithes.”

  Hornigold, a man nearing his sixties, and like Governor Rogers wearing a shoulder length, heavily curled grey wig, took his pipe from his mouth and guffawed. “Aye, you have it right there lad! I’d wager there are more dishonest men in Parliament than in London’s Newgate Gaol!

  “And wiser men in Bedlam, eh?” Rogers added.

  “Except,” van Overstratten countered ignoring the joviality, “men in prison do not have the opportunity to unbutton their breeches and make free use of other men’s wives.”

  “Nothin’s free in gaol,” Jesamiah retorted taking excessive care to set his glass down, not slam it as he was itching to do. “Wardens charge a high price for a five minute poke at a woman.” His eyes lifted, stared direct at van Overstratten. A lean man in his late twenties, with high cheekbones, aristocratic brow and slender hands. His dress and appearance were immaculate; a man who flaunted his wealth and everything he had. Tiola, he had wanted for her beauty and for the begetting of a son. And for getting the better of Jesamiah Acorne.

  “Of course,” the Dutchman countered disdainfully, “you would be knowing of the debauchery that occurs inside a prison, having extensive personal experience of such places.”

  Prudently Jesamiah held his tongue, accepted the offer of several cheeses Governor Rogers hurriedly pushed in his direction.

  “Try the goat’s cheese, lad, it has just the right blend of herbs. M’cook makes it himself, fine man. As black as tar o’ course, indentured into m’service. Not a slave. I don’t hold with keeping slaves as cooks, couldn’t trust the buggers not to put something nasty in the soup, eh? Ha, ha!” Rogers had not changed in the few years since Jesamiah had first met him. A paunch-bellied, opinionated man who relished the sound of his own voice. But he was well meaning, and there were those – especially back in England – who muttered that he proffered too much of a soft touch where the taste of the lash would serve better purpose.

  He was right about the cheese.

  Before Jesamiah’s arrival Hornigold had been recounting some sea adventure of his youth and the conversation returned to his rambling anecdote. Jesamiah sat quiet, apparently politely listening, his mind dwelling on how easy it would be to draw a pistol, cock the hammer and shoot van Overstratten right between the eyes. Except, out of courtesy he had handed the weapon to the servant at the front door, along with his cutlass. It did not do to sit at the Governor of Nassau’s table with a primed pistol tucked through your waist belt or a cutlass nestled at your left hip. Pity.

  The conversation faltered. Taking a breath to steady the anger churning with the sickness in his stomach, Jesamiah wiped his fingers on a napkin. It would not serve any purpose to lose his temper. Not here.

  “I have come to plead clemency, Governor,” he said. “To offer payment for any wrong I have committed against this Dutchman, Master Stefan van Overstratten.”

  “You could not afford the bill, Acorne,” van Overstratten snapped as reply. “You are personally responsible for the loss of at least three of my ships and several thousand pounds in value of cargo. Not to mention the innocent men you killed in the process of your plundering.”

  “For all of which I have received the King’s pardon of amnesty.”

  “Your king’s pardon. I am Dutch. George is not my king. Nor have I granted you pardon.”

  Swallowing bile and his temper, Jesamiah again stared direct at the man opposite him. He could afford a large payment in compensation. Were he to bother tallying the gold he had stored in various banks he would probably find himself richer than this Dutchman. In the recent-formed Bank of England alone he had a hoard of more than £15,000. With the comparison of a naval captain’s wage of £1 per day on a first rate vessel, Jesamiah was a rich man. He had almost two-thirds as much again stowed in Dutch and Portuguese bank vaults – and that without the value of gems and mercantile goods, barrels of expensive indigo and nutmeg; the fine wines, silks, china, and spices stashed in warehouses in various scattered ports. That all his wealth had been made from stealing other people’s proper
ty, some of it, aye, from van Overstratten’s merchant fleet, was immaterial to Jesamiah.

  Quietly he offered; “I will return the Sea Witch to you in exchange for Tiola’s freedom.”

  It was not an easy offer.

  Jennings, Hornigold, and even Rogers, all three of them captains and seamen, sat staring at him, dumbfounded. A captain to give up his ship voluntarily for a woman? Had such a thing been heard of before?

  Van Overstratten was no sailor, he did not see the significance of the proposal, nor the effort it had taken to make it. He threw back his head and laughed outright.

  “Of what use is a worm-riddled, rotten-keeled hulk to me? Before you stole her she was a pristine, new-launched ship. You have ravished her, turned her into a stinking, rat-infested pirate menace.” He swiped his hand sideways, dismissive. “She is naught but a violated whore. Utterly valueless to me. Worthless.”

  Feeling his hand inching towards where his cutlass would have been, Jesamiah swallowed a curt retort. The Sea Witch was as much a part of him as an arm or a leg – more, she was his life and livelihood. He could survive without a limb but not without a ship. As a counterbalance, though, he could not survive without Tiola. The pain would be unbearable were he to lose the Sea Witch but he could, somehow, replace her. He could never replace Tiola.

  Van Overstratten failed to mark Jesamiah’s bitter silence. With sneered contempt added, “As, of course, you have also prostituted and poxed my wife.”

  The insult went one fathom too far. Jesamiah half rose, his face a curled mask of fury. “Then you are no judge of ships, you bastard, nor women!”

  Alarmed, Rogers patted the air with his palms calling with authority for the younger man to stay seated. “Gentlemen, gentlemen! I will not have insults traded at my table. Calm yourselves.” As a diversion he sent the brandy around again. “If you cannot control your emotions Captain Acorne, I will be obliged to ask ye to leave m’hospitality.”