Pirate Code

by Helen Hollick

  Stefan put on his coat and hat, picked up his walking cane and left the room. When Tiola woke she would resume her duties as his wife. He would lay with her every night, if necessary, until he impregnated her. She would bear him a son – she damned would! He shut the door and walked down the stairs, happier now that he had made a decision.

  By midday they were under sail. Mrs Rogers had twittered about moving Tiola, but only half-heartedly; Stefan had the impression she was actually relieved to be rid of them.

  At sea, heading for Hispaniola, Stefan stood on the deck watching Nassau disappear from view, and made one more decision. If he could not get that indigo he would not return to Cape Town. He was a proud man, he could not stomach the thought of everyone knowing he had made an almighty cock-up of everything from his business to his marriage. He stared down at the rush of foam as it seethed around the bow and curled along the hull. It would be so easy to jump. Quick. Final. And if he jumped, he would be taking Tiola with him. He smiled, satisfied. You will be so sorry that you never came back for her Acorne.

  Throwing the stub of his cheroot into the sea Stefan headed below. There would be glowing obituaries and dabbed tears. He would be mourned by his family and remembered by his peers as an honourable, worthy, man. And not for months would they discover the truth that the tragic drowning of Master Stefan van Overstratten and his wife was likely no accident, given the poor state of affairs that he had left behind

  The eternal void of Nowhere stretched away in all directions, on and on in an expanse of forever. It was pleasant here, tranquil and silent. Tiola’s soul was weak and tired, drained of all energy, almost of existence, but here, out here in the emptiness where there was nothing except peace and solitude, she could rest and sleep. And forget.

  The white silence washed over and through her as she drifted aimlessly outside of time and place. Drifted, unconcerned and free from mass and weight. Free of care and memory. She did dream, slightly, of being swathed in a blanket and carried – somewhere. Dreamt she felt the rocking motion of the sea, but she was lulled by the timeless winds of the un-being, and paid no heed to things that seemed unimportant.

  She had no recollection of anything except the Here and the Now. No recollection of anything. Or anyone.

  Not even Jesamiah.

  Part Two

  Hispaniola

  One

  Saturday Morning

  Finding a chase – a Frenchy – soon after dawn, the crew of the Sea Witch had fended off a brief effort at resistance, boarded, and helped themselves to what they needed: replacement sail, timber, and three fine anchors with attached cable. The essential repairs had been carried out at sea, and without losing much time, they had raised Hispaniola in the early morning light of this bright and sunny day.

  A tropical paradise with magnificent beaches, palm tree groves and luxuriant meadows set beside a hilly landscape where cotton, tobacco and sugar plantations were framed by the high, greenery-covered mountains. Pico Duarte, purple-hazed and visible from several miles out to sea, soared to over ten thousand feet – the highest point in the entire West Indies. Closer to shore, on the western bank of the Ozama River, the walls of Santo Domingo, the oldest town in the New World, steadily became clearer as Sea Witch ploughed joyfully through the surf.

  It all looked lovely beneath the clear blue of the sky and the sparkle of the sun. The backdrop of lush, tropical forest tumbling down to white beaches and swaying palm trees.

  A pity, Jesamiah thought, the tranquillity is spoilt by that bloody fortress.

  He watched, transfixed, the dread growing heavier inside him as the sixty-five solid feet of the Torre del Homenaje, the Tower of Homage, loomed nearer. The place of despair and death, where tortured, pathetic wretches were incarcerated behind walls seven-foot thick to await their doom. He knew all about the horrors behind those walls. He’d been there.

  If it was not for the fact that the tide was taking the Sea Witch into the estuary that led into the Rio Ozama, Jesamiah may well have changed his mind, ordered the men to wear ship and scuttle away as fast as they could. But it was too late, the tide was making and they were in the river. The day was hot, but as they neared that tower he found he was shivering.

  Poke a sleeping guard dog and it comes leaping to life, barking, hackles raised, teeth bared and ready to bite. The only strategy was to offer it a bone and hope it was hungry enough to want it. Jesamiah prayed the bone he held was suitably tasty.

  Sea Witch carried twelve powerful cannons on her lower gun deck, four in the waist, two lighter guns for’ard and the two stern chasers in Jesamiah’s cabin. With the addition of six swivel guns mounted fore and aft she was a formidable vessel against poorly manned merchant ships, although Jesamiah rarely attacked opponents who appeared to know what they were doing. As with most pirates, when it was more sensible to run, he ran; not an act of cowardice, just one of self-preservation for himself, his crew and his ship. Why start a fight you have every possibility of losing? Especially when the next sail on the horizon may offer better odds. They were sitting ducks out here though. For all her firepower Sea Witch could not hope to match the might of those land-based cannons ranged along the ramparts of the fort.

  A single warning shot reverberated with a whoomph of sound and a puff of smoke from the walls. The ball, whistling through the air as it came, arced over the bowsprit and splashed into the sea a mere two feet away. From where he stood on the quarterdeck Jesamiah could see at least a dozen cannons aimed directly at Sea Witch. Their presence up there was no empty threat, nor, when Jesamiah swung the telescope towards the town, did the array of armed militia hurriedly lining up along the jetty show any sign of a warm welcome.

  Glancing up at the makeshift white flag of truce – Tiola’s white lace-edged cloth flying high from the main topgallant mast – Jesamiah attempted to put a brave face on the situation. “At least we’re being taken seriously. Treated with the respect due our position.”

  At the helm, Rue growled at him, his brows deeply furrowed. “They are ready to blast us out the water. That, mon ami, is not respect, nor is it a good position for us to be in.”

  Digging his quartermaster in the ribs with his elbow, Jesamiah answered, “If they did not respect us, mate, they’d have smashed us already. The only reason they ain’t done so, mi amigo, is because they’re curious about us, and that is a good position for us to be in.”

  Another shot fell with a fountain of spray three feet from the larboard midships.

  Rue glowered doubtfully at his captain, who in return forced a wavering grin and steadfastly assured, “They ain’t missing us by accident, Rue.” Fervently thought, I hope.

  A third ball would prove him right or wrong. The previous two were either precisely aimed as a warning or they were ranging shots. In which case the third would…

  Squinting against the bright sun Jesamiah refused to follow that line of contemplation. Sea Witch was gliding sedately forward as if she had no idea that these could be her last few minutes intact and afloat. But then, she trusted her captain implicitly, had never had a reason to doubt him.

  “The line if you please, Isiah,” Jesamiah said surprising himself at the calm in his voice. “And fetch the courses in.” Five ships were anchored ahead and to larboard, but they were Spaniards, they knew these waters, he did not.

  “By the deep nine, Cap’n!” Isiah called a few moments later, reeling in the lead-line and preparing to toss it outward again.

  Under topsails, Sea Witch crept towards the shore.

  “And a half eight,” Isiah chanted. Then, “And a quarter eight.” The tide was on the flood, at least if they went aground the sea would lift them off again.

  “Larboard a point, Rue. Straighten her up. We don’t want to look tawdry,” Jesamiah said quietly, aware that many critical eyes were watching from the shore. He could not afford to make a poor show of this. He wondered whether he ought to clear for action – no that could give the wrong idea, he needed to show he came in
peace, not to fight. “Nat, fire a rolling broadside salute from the larboard battery if you please. Powder only. No shot.”

  Nathan nodded, turned to run off. “And Nat,” Jesamiah added, “I’d be obliged if you make sure it’s done ‘andsomely in Navy fashion. I’m attempting to make a good impression ‘ere, savvy?”

  “Aye, Cap’n. Handsomely it is.”

  Within a few minutes the larboard cannons blasted smoke and noise; one, two, three, four, five … A salute, to show respect and make it clear that the guns were not loaded for any action of hostility. Jesamiah nodded. Nicely done. If that did not convince those ashore that they were here under friendly terms nothing would.

  The whole crew were on deck, standing rigid, watching, waiting – like their captain, waiting for that third firing of the fort’s cannon, knowing that if it came it would not fall short.

  “Keep that lead going in the chains there!” Jesamiah commanded, his anxiety finally taking its toll in his voice. His stomach was churning; he suppressed the urge to vomit over the side. He could not take his gaze off that tower, that bloody tower.

  “By the mark eight,” Isiah called.

  Well enough still, but this was a river, channels could be fickle, could run shallow at any moment. Again Jesamiah asked Rue to adjust course, the men quietly turning to the braces to tend the yards and meet her.

  “And a half seven.”

  The water was smooth here, Sea Witch crept over the glassy surface, gliding above her own reflection, the only sound the ceaseless harping of the rigging, the chuckle of the water under the keel and a slight moan from the wind. The western shore was drawing nearer, the spread of the town with its white-walled houses showing up clearer than those built in darker stone. From the great cathedral a flash of sunlight blazed on the gold crucifix on its roof. The walls of that fort coming nearer. The tower looming higher.

  “And a half seven.” A pause, a splash, then, “By the mark seven.”

  “Is the anchor clear?”

  “Aye sir.”

  “By the mark seven.”

  No point in going further, they were almost up on the nearest of those five ships now.

  “Let go the anchor!”

  The newly acquired cable roared out through the hawsehole while the men sprang to furl the topsails, and Sea Witch swung round to the wind and the tide. For good or ill, they had arrived.

  Isiah wiped a hand beneath his nose, indicated the shore. “Seems someone’s comin’ out to greet us, Cap’n. They must be mighty eager to say hello.”

  Jesamiah angled the telescope at the longboat. In addition to the oarsmen, a dozen Spaniards, all of them bristling with muskets and pistols.

  Assuming there would be some form of reception committee, Jesamiah had already attired himself in the best clothes he could muster; standing in the waist waiting for the boat to come alongside he suddenly wondered if perhaps his old clothes would have been more appropriate. These would be ruined the instant he was thrown into the dungeons of that tower.

  His fingers fiddled with the blue ribbons in his hair, sense kept his hand away from cutlass and pistol as a man he recognised stepped aboard. Jesamiah groaned. Captain Augustine de Castilla.

  ”Buenos dias. We meet again, mi amigo,” Jesamiah said in fluent Spanish, knowing de Castilla spoke very little English. He offered a polite bow, then his hand. Both were ignored by narrowed eyes, a glower of intense disapproval and hostile dislike.

  “We thought it was you. Your ship, with her blue hull, she is distinctive.” There was no trace of hospitality in his manner or reply, but then, Jesamiah expected none. He had once, after all, right under de Castilla’s nose, emptied an entire warehouse of gold and silver that the Spaniard had been guarding.

  De Castilla shoved his face close to Jesamiah’s, the sneer lurid. “If I had my way, Acorne, you would be strung by your balls from your own yardarm here and now, but I have orders to fetch you ashore. I have not been ordered to ensure you remain in one piece, however. I will be delighted to deliver you in bits, should you attempt resistance.”

  Moving with slow deliberation, Jesamiah took the pistol from his belt by its barrel, solemnly handed it to de Castilla who passed it to the officer at his side; the cutlass followed, drawn with equally slow measure.

  “As you see, Señor, I come to Santo Domingo in peace. I have no wish to fight against you, in fact I come to offer my services to fight with you.”

  Captain de Castilla planted his legs wide, set his fists to his hips and tossed his head back in a great belly-deep guffaw of amusement. He then hoiked spittle into his throat and spat disrespectfully at Jesamiah’s feet. “Your ship we will accept as a small payment towards the amount you stole from España. For the other part, your flayed hide dangling from the foremast will suffice. Estoy claro?”

  Glancing up at the fortress, Jesamiah absent-mindedly toyed with his ribbons, “Yo entiendo, Señor.” Then added in the corrupted slang that many in the Caribbean had adopted, and so annoyed the Spanish, “yo sabe.” In English, repeated for the third time, “I savvy, I understand.”

  He then forced a smile, said, as pleasantly as any sarcastic comment could be made; “I know for a fact your gunners up on those battlements are accurate, but that is because you have three or four capable gun captains. The rest of the men behind those ramparts are probably drunk out of their tiny skulls and cannot even stand upright, let alone shoot straight.” Pointedly, he nodded at the blue-coated soldiers arrayed along the jetty. “They look very pretty, most impressive. From a distance. How many have no more than two rounds of ammunition in their pouches? How many of those muskets have rusting barrels and worn flints? I also note their line is only one deep. That is not many men, Señor.”

  He turned slightly, indicated the ships at anchor. “Fine frigates. One is listing to starb’d, she’ll be taking on water like a rabid dog if put to sea. That one over there is the Señorita Doña Medici. Now, how many times have I already bested her? Three is it, or four? Then those other two, the Dolce and the Asunción. Unless you have replaced the dolt who is master of the Asunción you may as well not bother with her. He does not know east from west – and that’s when he’s sober. As for the Dolce, well, I admit I have never robbed her. For me she is a prim little virgin.”

  De Castilla interrupted sharply. “No one can, or will, better her. She is the finest ship in the Spanish Main; she has the speed of a dolphin, has…”

  “…The waddle of a flat-footed pelican. I’ve never beaten her in a fight, Señor, because she is rarely at sea! She sits there like a beached whale for God’s sake!” Jesamiah threw his hands in the air, exasperated by this rotund, moustached idiot. “And this is the sum of your Spanish Navy here in Hispaniola? Hell’s tits, I could sail rings around the lot of you, one handed and with my eyes shut!”

  “One handed and blind we can arrange,” de Castilla snarled. He too indicated the ships, the fifth one. “You have not mentioned la Santa Isabella.”

  She, Jesamiah had to admit to himself, looked in pretty good shape. “I do not know her. I will have to see her in action to make judgement. Who captains her?”

  De Castilla leant forward, spoke directly into Jesamiah’s face, his breath stinking of onions and sour wine. “I do, Capitán Acorne. I do.”

  Tempted to say something along the line of: “Oh, nothing to worry about then?” Jesamiah held his tongue. Several of his men who spoke enough Spanish to understand the exchange must have read his thoughts, however, for there was a ripple of sniggered laughter.

  De Castilla jerked his arm and angrily gestured towards the waiting gig.

  “What of my crew?” Jesamiah asked as he turned to descend the hull cleats. “I fly a flag of truce. I expect your word of honour for the safety of my men.”

  “Honour? Among thieves and pirates?” For a second time, de Castilla spat derisively on the deck, reluctantly had to repeat the orders he had been given. “They will remain unharmed provided they sit quiet and remain still. Yo
u will order them to be so.”

  This was a pirate ship, pirates made their own rules, but then, even pirates realised when they did not have a choice. “Do as he says, Rue. Set your backsides and stay quiet. Keep a sharp eye though, savvy?” Stepping down into the boat, Jesamiah settled himself where de Castilla had sat on the outward journey, stared nonchalantly ahead ignoring the Spaniard’s glower as the oarsmen pulled for shore. Inside, his stomach was quaking. This could turn out to be a very short, very painful, trip ashore.

  Escorted – marched – into the Governor’s residence he was not surprised to find himself greeted with blatant discourtesy by the two dozen or so men and women occupying the gilded and elaborately decorated room. Gaudy and of no practical use in Jesamiah’s opinion, but then, that precisely described both the room and the florid-faced Governor of Hispaniola. In his late fifties, he had acquired a bulk of girth and lost the glossy black hair and handsome appearance of his youth. His skin was pockmarked by a residue of smallpox scars, and his teeth were yellowed. A foul man in all respects.

  Standing or sitting in small groups, their animated talk wilting into silence, most of the men stared disdainfully at Jesamiah, one or two even turning their backs as he walked past. He recognised several faces; merchants, three of whom he had robbed. The ladies present were more charitable, secretively assessing him from behind the rattle of fluttering fans. He waited patiently while de Castilla spoke into the Governor’s ear then swept off his hat and bowed low and formally as he was beckoned forward with a single tweak of one fat, raised finger. Ah, so curiosity, as he had bargained, was getting the better of Don Damian del Gardo. There could be no other reason for his agreeing to this interview; del Gardo hated Jesamiah’s guts. The feeling was distinctly mutual.