~ Did you find him, Daughter? Did you see him? ~
Tethys was eager, excited, with the high, quick laughter of a young girl, although she was as old as Time.
Her daughter remained silent, oblivious of her sodden state. Yes, she had seen him, but she would not, yet, be telling her mother of it. A handsome man, gentle but strong. Lean but muscled. Black hair that curled below his shoulders, a moustache and a jaw line beard. Large, dark, expressive eyes. A golden acorn dangling from his ear. Blue ribbons were laced into that black hair. A handsome man? No. He was beautiful.
She watched the pretty woman from the little boat talk to the two men wearing the cherry-red coats. Watched as she walked away with them.
Mother had said nothing about her!
Melting from sight as the Witch came nearer, she faded into the curtain of rain, masking her presence from the exploring feel of questioning thoughts that had briefly touched her existence.
No, Mother had said nothing of the Wising Woman, the Witch.
Five
Jesamiah was seated on a hard, wooden bench at the far corner of his cell, one knee bent, the other leg straight, arms loosely folded, back wedged into the corner. His three-cornered hat was tipped well down over his eyes. He was asleep. A gentle snore the only sound, apart from the squeak of rats and rustle of cockroaches. Three walls of solid brick and a fourth of iron bars. Gaol. At least on this occasion he was not expecting the prospect of a noose tightening around his neck in a few day’s time. Mind, the absence of a tot or two of rum was almost as hard to face.
The outer door opened, a shaft of light bobbed in adding to the one feeble lamp giving a faint apology of illumination. Voices, footsteps; the crunch of snail shells beneath treading boots. It was always cold and damp and stank of rat pee, mildew and human waste in these dungeons. There were two cells, both eyeing each other across a narrow corridor. The other one was full of mouldering straw – straw that very possibly hid things of a lot more value than dried, musty, wheat stalks. Kegs of fine French brandy or hogsheads of tobacco? Caskets of Spanish gold? An ideal secret cache, a prison cell. No one bothered searching where the dregs of life spent their last hours.
Opening one eye, Jesamiah peeped at the door to his cell as it spine-chillingly grated along the stone floor. Hornsea. No one more important. Closed his eye, was instantly asleep again, his mind partially registering the one they were putting in here with him must be dead drunk unconscious, for he was very quiet. The door clanged shut, the key turned with a click of finality, the stronger lamplight receded with the crunch of footsteps. The outer door opened; closed. Jesamiah lapsed into a rasping snore.
“You stupid, stupid idiot! Can you never think before you act?” Someone was swiping at his head, knocking his hat off, tugging his leg away from the bench. He half fell, half rolled.
“What the fokken sod d’ye think ye’r…?” pulled up short. Grinned meekly. “Ah. Tiola. Sweetheart.”
“Do not ‘sweetheart’ me, you cock-shrivelled, scabrous barnacle!”
Jesamiah took a step away from her flailing arms, held his hands up, palm outermost in pliant surrender. “What you doin’ ‘ere darlin’? I ain’t in trouble, don’t you go makin’ a harvest out of a pinch o’ corn. The Gov’nor thought I ought to cool me temper off a bit, that’s…”
Tiola slapped his cheek, her strength enough to send him reeling backwards. He sat down, hard, on the bench. Winced as the repercussion shot up his spine. Put his hand to his stinging face.
“Not in trouble? Oh yes you are, Jesamiah Acorne. You are in big trouble! With me!” She slapped him again, harder, the blow taking his breath away. She looked nothing standing no more than about three fingers taller than five feet in her stockings, and as skinny as a maid’s broomstick; a deceptive appearance.
She raised her hand to slap again but he moved quicker, caught her wrist. “I said I am sorry. I thought I…”
“You thought? Jesamiah, when do you ever think?”
“I was trying to buy your husband off!” he shouted, losing his temper, his expression like God’s wrath against murder. His hand grasped her other arm, his long, tar-grimed and callused fingers encircling her wrist as if they were a bracelet. “I was trying to swallow my bloody pride and do things legal and not kill the bastard! It didn’t bloody work, alright?” He shook her, once, pushed her away from him as he let her go.
He strode to the bars of the cell door, clutched his hands around two of them, his knuckles as white as his face.
“It didn’t soddin’ bloody work! ‘E was ‘avin’ none of it. I was as useful as fetchin’ a dead ferret to ‘unt rabbits!” Agitated, his speech degenerated into the clipped slang of a seaman and a pirate. He slammed his palms on the bars, rested his forehead against them and closed his eyes. Took several steadying breaths. Said calmer, “I failed. I’m sorry.”
Coming behind him, Tiola slid her arms beneath his rain-damp coat that had once been blue but was now a faded grey, entwined them around his waist, her head resting on his back. Squeezed.
~ You will never fail me, luvver. You tried. Thank you. ~ Meeting no solid barrier now, she spoke into his mind, a more intimate, more loving and personal contact.
He turned, hooked his arms around her, bringing her inside his coat close against his body, his chin resting on her head.“ No, I’ve failed you twice over, sweetheart. I’ve antagonised that ditch-wader of a Dutchman beyond sensibility, and now you’re arrested too. Messed it right up, ain’t I?”
She shook her head, raised her face for him to kiss her. “You are hopeless, you know that don’t you?”
“Aye, but you love me because I’m also handsome and irresistible.”
“I do not love you at all. You are a prize imbecile and a degenerate sea crab.”
“Oh aye, that an’ all.”
They stood quiet, each enjoying the comfort of the other’s embrace, then Jesamiah sighed, moved her aside. “Sorry sweetheart, I’ve a need to pump ship.” He kissed her again, his lips warm and firm on hers, went to the bucket set in the corner and relieved himself with a satisfied grunt. Finished, re-adjusting his breeches, he settled himself onto the bench again, opened his coat for her to snuggle inside; as it often did, her closeness raised a throb of desire that twisted in his stomach.
“So why are you in bad bread, eh? Pinched the Governor’s pocket watch ‘ave you lass?” He tried to make a jest of the situation. She laughed.
“Don’t suppose you fancy a quick tumble?” he asked after a moment’s thought. “Contrary to popular belief, I’ve never done it in a cell.”
She fixed a stern expression, said imperiously, “Do not push your luck too far, Acorne. I have not yet forgiven you.”
He ran his fingers down his moustache. Grinned at her. “I take it that means no?”
Feigning annoyance she slapped away his hand inching into her bodice, said in a serious tone, “Corporal Hornsea informs me I am to stand trial tomorrow morning.”
Jesamiah’s chuckle faded along with his lust. “Like bugger you will!”
“I will plead guilty to the charge. There is no sense in denying what everyone knows.”
“No!”
“Jesamiah.” Tiola put her hand to his cheek, caressed where she had slapped him, regretting her anger. “Jesamiah, I am grateful for your concern but it will do no good. It would be best to let the tide take us and get the thing done. I do not mind. A public punishment will be a small price to pay to be rid of Stefan and have you for my own.”
“No, I will not leave it!” Fierce, his arm wound tighter about her waist, his stern gaze boring into hers. “You do not know what this punishment is do you? A woman convicted of adultery is paraded through the streets to the market square. There they strip her naked to the waist, tie her to the whipping post and flog her. And, believe me, it ain’t the women who come to watch. Half the men of this island will be there for their own vulgar pleasure, the whole thing has nothing whatsoever to do with justice!”
&nbs
p; She put her finger to his lips attempting to silence him; knew perfectly well what was to happen. Throughout existence women had paid the price for the perverse sexual needs of men.
Irritably, he pushed her hand away, clutched it within his own. “I hold my hand up to having gawped in the past – the sight of a woman’s breasts will get many men up and ready for business. Nor have I ever denied I use whores for the benefit of satisfying my own need, but any man who pursues even a token nod towards fair justice should be able to see this particular law stinks.”
Jesamiah kissed the tip of each one of her fingers, added, “Anyone with half a brain can see it is only the young women who are so punished. Never those who have lost their looks and have sagging tits and wrinkled skins.”
He folded her hands within his own, determined and possessive. Declared, “I swear, Tiola, you are not going to be humiliated before a pack of scratching dogs.”
Quite how he was going to stop it, however, he did not know.
Six
Monday Morning
There was nothing Jesamiah could do when they came to take her away except rattle and kick the bars of the cell, and scream his protest.
“You bloody leave her alone, you whoresons!” His knuckles were white, tears of frustration and impotent anger swamping his eyes. “Don’t you dare harm her! Hear me? Do you not dare!”
He clutched at the bars, shaking the door, willing the hinge to give or the metal to break. Savagely, he kicked at the unyielding barrier between him and freedom.
At the outer door, Tiola half turned to call out, “I will be alright Jesamiah. I promise you.”
How could she convince him her ancestors had suffered far worse violations and horrifying deaths in the name of justice? Her great-grandmother had burnt at the stake as a witch because she knew the uses of herbs; her grandmother had been tortured to gain a confession of fornication with the Devil before being hanged. Far better to receive a few lashes on the back than face the fires lit by superstition and ignorance.
The door shut. She was gone, marched away between two guards.
“Tiola! No!” Again Jesamiah screamed, heaved at the bars; defeated, sank to his knees.
~ They cannot hurt me, luvver. Please believe me. ~
~ I can’t bear it sweetheart. I cannot let them do this. Not to you. ~
All she could answer was a repetition of before.
~ I will be alright. ~
He knew enough of courtrooms and legal procedures to know what would happen next. The crowd in the gallery, all men, pushing and elbowing each other to see better; Governor Rogers in his fine-dressed pomposity presiding. The selected jury making a pretence at honouring unbiased justice – the hypocritical bastards. He doubted there would be one among the twelve who had not slept with another man’s wife. And Dunwoody would be there, smirking and discreetly rubbing himself beneath his desk as he recorded in his official book everything that was said.
Someone was coming. Jesamiah shot to his feet. “Jennings? Thank God man. Open this door – get me out of here!”
Captain Henry Jennings, leaning heavily on a cherry-wood walking cane, limped slowly to where Jesamiah stood, offered the prisoner a cheroot. Remembering he had an aversion to tobacco, he put it between his own lips and lifting the lantern down from its hook, lit the cheroot and exhaled a cloud of strong, aromatic smoke.
“I am sorry Jesamiah, I have no authority to release you.”
“What do you mean no authority? Of course you have the authority, you are Rogers’ Vice Governor.”
Henry Jennings shook his head. “Governor’s orders, you are to stay here until it is over.”
“Like fokken hell I will!” Jesamiah roared his fury, hurled away from the bars and swept a pitcher of brackish drinking water from its shelf; for good measure, kicked the piss bucket, sending urine flooding over the dank earth and musty straw scattered on the floor. He swung back to Jennings, his fist raised. “Fokken get me out!”
“I like this no more than you do, lad.”
“Save me the platitudes. Bloody do something!”
Patient, Jennings replied, “Will you calm down?”
“No, I will not! My woman is going to be flogged, I’ll not sodding calm down!”
“There is one way I can be of influence, only one. If you stop shouting at me I might be able to discuss it with you.”
Kicking at the bars Jesamiah scowled, remained silent except to ask after a long pause in a gruff, terse voice; “Well?”
Looking around for a stool or something to sit on, Jennings perched his backside on one of the barrels set against the end wall near the outer door; considered the proposition he had been sent to put before Jesamiah. He liked it no less than flogging a pretty girl, but as the Governor had said this morning, Acorne is available, why not use him?
“Spit it out man,” Jesamiah snapped. “I can see by your face the medicine will taste foul.”
“The landowners on Hispaniola are on the brink of rebellion.”
“That’ll please the smugglers,” Jesamiah retorted wryly. Disruption always pushed up the profit when running contraband; both he and Jennings had benefited in the past as free traders when chaos overruled discipline. Brandy, tobacco, tea; indigo, expensive lace and quality cloth – smuggling carried the penalty of being hanged on the spot if caught, but the quick-come, easy-made gain was worth the risk, especially if the militia and excisemen were otherwise occupied. Rebellion on Hispaniola would have the smugglers out in droves for Spain was no different to any other country; imports and exports of luxury goods were taxed to the hilt. Taxes accrued essential revenue, revenue that kings, of whatever nationality, had a penchant to spend without consideration for how it was raised. But unlike the English King, George of Hanover, Felipe V of Spain was in the process of bleeding his Caribbean colonies dry. The long-suffering citizens of Hispaniola, both Spanish and native Creole, had been creeping nearer the edge of tolerance for several years. It did not surprise Jesamiah that they were now on the edge, and in order to survive, were ready to take that last step.
“The Governor of Hispaniola is anxious to prove his loyalty to his King,” Jennings continued – he was a respectable man now, smuggling, piracy and privateering were in his past. He could not afford, personally or politically, to stand to the wrong side of the mast. Aside, he was getting too old for high-sea adventure, and his gout was most terribly painful. Best leave it to younger men like Jesamiah Acorne.
He added with a chuckle, “Hispaniola is on the verge of bankruptcy and the additional possibility of rebellion is making the poor fellow feel quiet insecure. I have no sympathy for him. He’s been a thorn in our backsides for too long. We would do anything to be rid of him.”
“Your backside,” Jesamiah corrected, “Governor Don Damian del Gardo ain’t nothin’ t’do with me.”
Jennings ignored him. “We have been surreptitiously encouraging this rebellion. Whispering the right words into the right ears, providing arms and ammunition – you know the sort of thing. Everything, as we understand it, is ready. All we need is for the spring to be released from the cable and Hispaniola will fall into British hands.”
“I sense a but.”
“You are correct, there is a but. Did you hear of Wickham?”
“James Wickham of the Fortitude? Aye. She went down five days ago in the first of these bloody storms. All hands lost.”
Jennings sighed, gave a rueful nod. “Wickham was our man. Like you, his mother was Spanish – from Hispaniola. Her husband was an Irish Catholic hanged by del Gardo for outstanding debts. Del Gardo forced her to become his mistress to repay the money her husband owed. Oh, it was a long time ago now, Wickham was a lad, five, six years old when all that happened. He once told me all he remembered of his childhood was his mother coming home and scrubbing at herself in the washtub.” He paused. “As I understand, she left the boy in the care of her mother and threw herself off a cliff. Don’t know if it is true.” Jennings pursed his lips, sho
ok his head. “We do some god-awful vile things to women y’know.”
“Like flogging them for adultery?”
Almost imperceptibly Jennings nodded, then said, “We are in difficulty Jes lad.”
Jesamiah folded his arms. Had a nasty feeling he was not going to like this.
“We need someone to replace Wickham. Someone who can speak fluent Spanish to go in on the quiet and finish what he started. You, of course, learnt the language from your mother. You would be an ideal substitute.”
“And you’ll require someone like Wickham who is clever and quick enough to sneak past the patrol boat of the guardacostas.” Jesamiah snorted mockingly. “Despite what my woman says, I am not a fool Henry! The last time I went within cannon range of La Española I was threatened with a very nasty end.” He held one finger up to silence Jennings’ attempt at interruption, continued; “If I’m caught I’ve been promised the entertainment of being drawn and quartered, after a few rather unpleasant preliminaries.” Cynically he added, “If you are asking me to bail you out it’s because no one else has the balls to help. And if I volunteer I’m likely to lose mine. Literally.”
“If we British held Hispaniola, we would have free trade here in these waters.”
Jesamiah laughed. “You mean Parliament will increase its tax revenue three-fold. Hardly free trade, Henry!”
“Felipe of Spain permits only one British merchant vessel a year to trade with Hispaniola. One! The rebels will welcome trade – it is the lack of trade that is crippling them, that and the fact that del Gardo is a monster.”
“I know who and what del Gardo is, as well as he knows me. I call myself Acorne but by birth I’m a Mereno. I’m not privy to the reason, but he and my father were enemies and his hatred has spilled over on to me. As I’ve a fancy to hang on to m’personal bits I avoid Hispaniola, and if it’s all the same to you, I intend to continue with me hanging on and avoiding.”
Patient, knowing he would have his work cut out on this, Jennings smiled. “Would you not find it rewarding to be rid of del Gardo then?”
Pirate Code Page 4