Rogers seated himself on the chair on the other side of the desk, legs spread, broad belly climbing over the red cummerbund tied around it. Face glum. The rebel leaders had promised a handsome profit for the English provision of guns and ammunition, for powder and shot. A payment that would have far exceeded the value of what he and Jennings had surreptitiously supplied to James Wickham.
Grimacing, Jennings rubbed at his leg, the pain was getting more intense, travelling upward from his foot. He would have to see the barber-surgeon again soon, ask to be bled and purged; it would have to be in a day or two though, this situation must be sorted first. Curse Wickham! Why did he have to get himself drowned? He was supposed to have collected and delivered the payment before the next full moon. Next week. Next bloody week! Pulling a few charts from the teetering pile, he selected the one for Hispaniola. Stared at it as if he had never seen it before, although he had been studying practically nothing else this last month.
“We will get nothing, Governor,” he repeated, “unless we can find this Chesham fellow. And to do that, we need to slip in before Vernon gets himself organised.”
Massaging his chin, Rogers shook his head in frustration. In England he was being ridiculed for his ideas of reform. He had not received a shilling from his share of the prize money owed to him by the companies who had sponsored his circumnavigation of the globe – this despite the fortune he had plundered in their name. He needed money, and he needed it desperately. He did not like this situation one bit; regretted, now, becoming involved in the first place. Wickham, with his glib tongue and persuasive air had made it all sound so easy and straightforward. You supply us with arms and we will pay you handsomely for them. Huh! And now Jennings had suggested getting Acorne involved. One of the wiliest pirates Rogers knew! Were it not for the fact that he was desperate for finances, Rogers would have counselled to forget the whole thing.
He was getting confused by all this, though. Spies, counter spies, passwords, surreptitious trading. Give him a ship to sail and a chart to navigate by, that was all Rogers understood or wanted. Not this secretive bally stuff. “It was this Chesham fellow we’ve lost touch with who was supposed to bring us payment, was it not?”
Henry Jennings sighed. Occasionally he agreed with those few people who implied the Governor had a tendency to be stupid.
“No, we do not know who Chesham is. Wickham told me that if del Gardo ever found out about the fellow who was helping us while pretending to spy for the Spanish, well...” Expressively, Jennings drew a finger across his throat. “Wickham was clever, he never told everyone everything. He trusted nobody.”
“Weren’t so bloody clever when it came to sailin’ a ship that had sprung ‘er timbers though, was he?” Rogers jibed.
Jennings ignored the remark. “Wickham ensured that different people knew different things, that way, if one was captured and tortured they’ll not endanger the entire plan. From our point of view, Chesham is important because he knows where our payment is hidden and what we are owed. With Wickham dead, he will guess we will be sending a replacement courier to make contact with him. I suggested Acorne because he is the best man for the job.” Jennings raised a finger, “But it is important he does not learn too much. Jesamiah may be a friend of mine, but I would not trust him further than a gnat can piss. The slightest inkling of what we are owed and we will never see it, or him, again.”
They sat in silence, each man mulling the implications. “I had best send word to the Sea Witch that Acorne will not be required this afternoon.” Rogers said after a while. “The Commodore’s invited ‘imself to run through his orders; be best for the two of ‘em not to meet, do y’think? In case Acorne lets somethin’ slip?”
Jennings nodded. Any normal Naval officer could have been supplied with drink and kept out of the way. Not Vernon. The only thing to stop him would be to destroy his ship! Why at this precise moment with all the incompetents the British Navy had on its vast payroll, did they have to send their one able commander?
From what Wickham had last implied, the rebellion was on the verge of reaching its head. In a matter of days del Gardo could be overthrown and everything sorted nicely. Had Wickham not drowned he would have fetched their payment, he and Rogers would have been several thousand pounds the richer and none would have been any the wiser of it.
“I’ll send Dunwoody with a message then?” Rogers queried.
Again Jennings nodded. He was thinking; a small idea had sparked in his mind to ensure Vernon stayed in harbour a while. He shook his head, no a stupid plan! Forget it! All he needed was a key, a hook, to get Acorne fully interested. He drummed his fingers on the desk. He would think of something, no doubt. “I’ll row over to see Acorne myself later.”
He lifted his gaze to meet Rogers’. The Governor’s eyes were a pale grey, set against a face that was beginning to sag with the onset of old age, although he was only in his late fifties. “That flogging yesterday was a bad business. You ought to have stopped it. Acorne might not go along with us now – he might not even be able to, I don’t know the extent of the damage done to his back. Your Beadle laid the cat on pretty heavy, you know.” He did not add the reason: because too many men standing there watching yesterday, the Beadle included, were disappointed at being denied the opportunity to ogle a woman.
His confidence returning Rogers heaved himself to his feet. “Offer him something in recompense. Gold, an estate or some such.”
“And how will we pay it? Until the rebels settle their debt, I barely have a shilling. Aside, all Acorne wants are the divorce papers for Mistress van Overstratten.”
Looking around for his hat and cane, Rogers found them a-top a cabinet. “And as I have already said, I cannot grant them. He will have to resolve the issue with the Dutchman, not with me.”
“He is our only hope of finding Chesham and getting our money.”
“Then promise him the moon, and we’ll sort payment for him if – when – we get ours.”
Jennings half rose in protest, then sank down again as pain shouted at him from his foot. “He’s a friend, I’ll not betray a friend.”
“Then ye’d better think of another way to find this Chesham fellow and get our payment, had ye not?”
Twelve
Leaving his office an hour later, Henry Jennings almost collided with van Overstratten in the outer hallway. Removing his hat he offered a courteous, if somewhat clumsy, bow. “Good day to you. I see from your cloak it be damned raining again?”
Van Overstratten did not respond and noticing his unusual inattentiveness, Jennings took the liberty of guiding him to a chair. “Are you ill? You look most pale. May I summon a physician? Or fetch you wine perhaps?”
“No, no, I am well, thank you. A momentary set back, I assure you.”
All the same, Jennings clicked his fingers at a passing maid and bade her run for a brandy. Pulling up a second chair, Jennings seated himself. “This business with Acorne and y’wife, it must be vexing. I know the man; alas, he can be most stubborn.”
“As am I, Captain Jennings, but on this occasion the problem is not Acorne.”
The maid returned, Jennings took the glass and handed it to the Dutchman with a conspirator’s wink. “It’s Rogers’ finest; he is most reluctant to share it.”
Grateful, van Overstratten sipped, appreciating the restorative palette. “This war,” he confided, “it could ruin me.”
“As it could ruin us all,” Jennings agreed wryly. “I b’lieve many have fingers poked into pies that could become overbaked or remain undercooked. Especially if, God forbid, the Dons manage to win.”
Blanching, van Overstratten glanced up, horrified. “You do not think they will do you?” He shook his head, puffed his cheeks. Not that it mattered. He had been sold a midden heap and his creditors in London were breathing down his neck for the settlement of outstanding debts – that was the letter he had received, a curt demand for him to sort his financial affairs. If he did not, he could find himself in
a debtor’s prison.
He had first voiced plans to expand into the Caribbean a year ago, his brother-in-law, a boorish man of minor Dutch nobility and lazy to the bone, had poured scorn on the idea and mocked Stefan’s ability to achieve success in a new market. The bastard had also kicked up a stink about Tiola’s lack of breeding and status, for one reason only – he did not want any of Stefan’s progeny to take precedence over his own pack of mewling brats. Stefan’s mouth twisted at the thought. Well, he could set his mind easy there! These months wed to Tiola and no sign of a child. Another gall to rub a sore in van Overstratten’s already injured pride: his brother-in-law and sister bred like rabbits.
He sipped the brandy, it was indeed good, but not good enough to quell the disquiet swilling in his gullet. Maybe Jennings possessed useful information? Outside of the family, van Overstratten rarely talked of himself or his business matters for he was a private person, but desperation often had a tendency to tilt judgement into indiscretion.
“Tell me,” he asked, “do you know anything of this indigo plantation I recently purchased from Phillipe Mereno? I hear from its steward the place is run down and of little value.” To contain his anger and embarrassment he sipped again at the brandy. “Loathe as I am to admit this, Captain Jennings, I believe I have been cheated. Mereno, when he sold it me, gave entirely the wrong impression.”
Jennings was no longer feigning polite interest. He had a quick wit and the ability to seize a useful situation when it presented itself. So, Stefan van Overstratten was in an awkward personal situation was he? How interesting. Another reason why he so resented Jesamiah perhaps? Acorne had never made any secret of his wealth, nor that some of it had been gained at van Overstratten’s loss. An idea began to worm its way into Jennings’ thoughts. One way or another they had to get someone, preferably Acorne, to Hispaniola as soon as possible. Could this Dutchman’s predicament be the key?
“Tell me, Master van Overstratten, why in all sanity do you not just sell Acorne your wife? If you asked the price of the entire Spanish Main he would pay it.”
The Dutchman regarded him with a look of utter disdain. “And have the world and his wife know I am in financial difficulties? Have Acorne gloating at me? Has he not already publicly shattered my pride, has he not already humiliated me? I will not let him win so easily. He will have to earn my terms, and earn them damned hard!”
Conceding, Jennings returned to the previous line of conversation, steadfastly keeping the leap of excitement from his expression and voice. Here was the lever they needed, by God! If only he could cast the bait and make the fish bite!
Casually, he said, “It is several years since I have been anywhere near Hispaniola. Must have been,” he puffed his cheeks, considering, “oh, before Charles Mereno died, more than ten years ago. From what I remember that plantation never carried a healthy bloom, that’s why Charles did not bother with it, although it must have a value of some sort because he never sold up.”
He tapped the side of his nose, winked. “Indigo can fetch a high price if placed in the right market, if you know what I mean.” He paused, thoughts racing. Said slowly, his voice lowered, “I do know some, small, snippet of information about the place however. Mereno – Phillipe Mereno that is – must have told you he had some dye of exceptional quality held in, how shall I say, private storage there? He went to some length to avoid the duty on it – some sixteen barrels and ninety seven kegs of high grade indigo as I recall.”
His eyes suddenly brightening, van Overstratten’s head lifted. “No, he did not. The deceitful rag!”
He knew nothing of any secreted barrels! That slime-riddled bastard had kept their existence to himself, no doubt to remove them without his gullible purchaser finding out. Had not bargained on his younger half-brother getting the better of him by tossing him overboard. God rot his slimed soul!
The Dutchman’s face twisted with contempt. He might have known! Mereno was no better than Acorne; all the family were pirates. The whole damned lot of them!
Jennings hid a smile. Hooked. Now, play the catch slowly, else the line might break. “Mayhap the indigo is no longer there? Mereno may have disposed of it prior to selling you the land. Do not ask me how, for I cannot answer, but I know it was there two months ago. It might be worth your while asking after those barrels, seeing if they can be, er, quietly removed, if you catch my drift. Sixteen barrels and ninety seven kegs. That is a lot of indigo.”
“All I know of the place is what the steward, a Señor…” van Overstratten fumbled in his coat pocket with his tobacco-stained fingers, brought out a well-read letter and glanced at the signature. “…A Señor Mendez has written me.” He tapped the paper, “This made sorry reading.” As did the other letter in his pocket, the debt demand from London, but of that, he said nothing.
Jennings only knew of Mendez through Wickham. He had never met him. “This Mendez? He made no mention of the barrels either?” The incredulity sounded convincing. When van Overstratten shook his head, Jennings appeared to be baffled.
“Perhaps he is being cautious. There is no love lost between the plantations and Governor Don Damian del Gardo. Mayhap your steward does not wish this valuable commodity to fall into the wrong hands? All legal trade from Hispaniola carries a heavy tax burden, and this indigo,” Jennings spread his hands apologetically, “again, please do not ask questions that I am not at liberty to answer. All I can say is, I have information that this particular indigo was definitely not intended for legal trade.”
Digesting Jennings’ implications, the glass of brandy in his hand quite forgotten, van Overstratten remained silent. Sixteen barrels and ninety-seven kegs of purest grade indigo waiting for the right moment to be smuggled out of Hispaniola to avoid export tax? The profit on such a lucrative cargo could see him clear of all financial difficulty and leave him some to spare. Indigo was a prize worth having, no wonder it had been hidden away until it was safe to move it!
Henry Jennings shook his head slowly, lifted one hand, let it drop; now to reel in.
He sighed deeply. “If it is still there it will have to remain where it is. We are now at war with Spain, it will be impossible to remove it. Only someone who knows those waters and is, how shall I say, willing to take a risk, could fetch it. You are a wealthy man, though, so I suppose a wait will not matter. Mayhap it will be a short war?” He sighed again, shook his head regretfully. “On the other hand, history tells us of the Hundred Years’ War. If memory of my history lessons serves me correct, I recall England lost all of France, except Calais, because of those exchanges.”
The hope that had been rising in van Overstratten dwindled; he drained his glass in one gulp. He would not be able to get at that indigo whether they be kegs, barrels, hogsheads or sacks. Whether they be six, sixteen, or sixteen hundred and ninety seven in number.
“War will have closed the waters around Hispaniola to merchants and traders,” Jennings muttered again as he took the empty glass and handed it to the discretely hovering maid. “Only smugglers and the Royal Navy will risk going anywhere near there now.” Added, keeping his voice casual, “And pirates, of course.”
Van Overstratten stood, began to walk towards the door. He needed more air, needed more time to think what to do. Was already regretting confiding his embarrassing predicament to Jennings. “Alas, I am merely a wine merchant and land owner. I am none of those three. There is nothing I can do.”
Jennings masked a satisfied smile as the Dutchman walked out into the rain, shoulders hunched, head drooping. Hooked and landed!
No, but you know someone who is, he thought. You know someone who is!
Thirteen
Tuesday Afternoon
Pleading. “You do not have to go.”
Terse, Jesamiah snapped an answer. “Tiola. I do have to go.”
“You have already shown your manly strength and courage, Jesamiah, there is nothing more for you to prove.”
His fingers pressing into her shoulders, Jesamiah moved T
iola aside so he could reach his hat. His coat he had already awkwardly shrugged on, suppressing any outward show of pain, desperately trying to pretend his back did not hurt like all the tortures of hell.
“I am many things, sweetheart,” he said. “If it weren’t for this amnesty, in most places where a ship can float I’d be wanted for piracy, pilfering, arson, smuggling and murder. Then there’s poaching, thievin’, general acts of debauchery, drunkenness and the saints alone know what else. But I ain’t got the accusation of dishonour among that lot, darlin’ and I don’t intend to go adding it now.”
Tiola sighed. When Jesamiah was in one of his belligerent moods there was never any moving him. She surrendered, helped him buckle on his cutlass, which had been returned to the ship along with his other weapons last evening as Rogers had promised. “Very well, but do not dare get yourself into a fight with Stefan. And I meant what I said earlier, Jesamiah. If you offer him money I will walk out that door and not come back. I will not be purchased like a sow.”
He kissed her cheek. “I am meeting with Rogers, not van Overstratten. And if he does happen to be around I promise I’ll smile sweetly, kiss his arse and be as nice as apple pie to him.”
Knowing him well Tiola did not believe a word, but held her tongue except to say, “Get your permission to sail and return to the ship, then let us be gone from here.” She shuddered, clutched her arms about herself. That damned headache had returned, and she felt so tired, a little nauseous as well. She swallowed bile, concentrated on Jesamiah. “I have an unease here in Nassau which I cannot fully explain.”
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