Rallying a more relaxed atmosphere, the old man asked for coffee, and then said, “So, Capitán, while you are under our jurisdiction, shall we attempt to at least make an appearance at friendship? I had great respect for your father.”
“My father?” Jesamiah’s head shot up.
“You are the son of Charles St Croix, are you not?”
Relaxing, Jesamiah shook his head, he had been worried there for a moment. “Alas, Señor, you are mistaken, I am not. His name was Mereno.”
Escudero laughed, not mocking but clearly entertained. “And before he took that name he used the alias of Charles Cross. You surely know the French for Cross?”
Croix.
Jesamiah poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue. Croix. Charles St Croix. So that was it, the name he had not known.
From politeness Señor Escudero had remained speaking in English; “You are much like him, although you have your mother’s dark eyes.”
Jesamiah’s attention had wandered to the Kismet again but with a gasp leaving his lips he focussed fully on the Señor. “You knew my mother?”
He was a grown man, his mother had been dead these many years, so why this absurd lurch of grief dancing a jig in his innards at an unexpected reminder of her? He missed her. Missed her sweet singing voice, her giggling laughter – even missed her scolding tongue that could rattle off a dozen reprimands in the one breath. Missed her as he was missing Tiola. Ah no, he was missing Tiola more. A mother was the one you were born to, you loved her out of respect and duty. A wife? A wife was the woman you chose to be with for the rest of your life. Except Tiola was not his wife, and now, never would be. He swallowed hard, thrust the thought aside.
“Charles brought your mother to this house every year; Don Damian never knew, for he was a master of disguise, your father.” Escudero chuckled, then added with regret, “I was sorry to lose them as friends, they were good people. Your father was a good man.”
“Not according to del Gardo!” Jesamiah snorted, the pain of bitter memories stabbing at him. Every year when his father had prepared to make sail in one or another of the estate’s ships, he had asked where Mama and Papa were going; had begged to be taken with them, not left behind. And always he had received the same answer; “To somewhere that is not suitable for small boys. Your brother will take care of you.”
Oh aye, Phillipe had taken care of him. He still bore the physical and mental scars to show how much care he had taken. Phillipe; his father’s firstborn, who had so hated Jesamiah’s mother that he had taken his spite out on her child.
Jesamiah’s lips drew back in a savage snarl, “You must have known his first wife as well, then. Was my half brother like my father too? Did he also have his mother’s eyes?” He saw no reason to mask the hatred.
The old man frowned. “Was? You use the past tense.”
“Phillipe is dead. I had occasion to kill him before he killed me.”
Nodding slowly, Señor Escudero digested the information; the implications. “The boy never came with them, so I would not know if he was alike his mother or father. You killed him? May I ask why?”
“Aye, I killed him and no, you may not ask why.“ As an afterthought Jesamiah added, “All you need to know is that he was a bastard.”
The old man nodded slowly. “As was his father.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Jesamiah answered quickly. “Phillipe was born in wedlock. As for Papa, I have always guessed he was born illegitimate; why else would he not use his real name. St Croix you say? I have never heard of it until today.” He attempted a smile, although he was finding this stirring of emotions difficult. “Phillipe was a bastard in the other sense of the word, however.”
‘Cesca was standing near him, she heard the pain in his voice. Compassionate, she reached out, laid her hand on his arm.
A renewed burst of rain stuttered at the window; the catch must have been loose for suddenly it flew open. Cold rain and a swirl of wind rushed in, the curtains crazily lifting, items rattled, the tablecloth billowed upward, knocking over a jug of fruit juice and Jesamiah’s empty cup. Señor Escudero cried out, ‘Cesca ran to help Jesamiah slam the casement shut, his face, hair and front of his shirt and waistcoat were wet. She did not hear the wild cry of frustration, the scream of annoyance as the window slammed; Jesamiah did, but he told himself it was nothing more than the sound of the wind. And the face he had seen at the window, before it had burst open, had been his unease calling up fanciful notions.
He failed to notice the puddle in the shape of a woman’s footprint on the tiled floor. Had he done so perhaps he would have questioned his sanity.
“Tell me,” he asked Señor Escudero, “do you know of a Captain James Wickham?” The thing Jennings had said had at last come into his mind. It had been about del Gardo and Wickham’s mother; a little boy watching her distress after being used. Abused. Had Señora Wickham also gone to del Gardo because, like ‘Cesca, he had threatened the life of her child? If so was it any wonder Wickham had wanted to destroy him.
“Diego? Of course. Everyone who appreciates a fine brandy knew him.”
Turning to look at the old man, his head cocked on one side, Jesamiah queried, “Then you knew he was a smuggler? Did you know him as anything else?”
‘Cesca answered for her father-in-law. “Was he anything else? We assumed he was a privateer. Did he have family? It is a sad thing for a man of the sea to drown.”
She had answered too easily and Jesamiah had the sudden distinct impression that she knew more about James Wickham than he did. Very casually he stated; “I believe he knew Chesham.”
“Chesham?” Her brows furrowed, then she understood. “Oh, you mean that poor man in your cell? Forgive me, Captain, maybe he did, but how would we know if they were acquainted? And since both are dead, what does it matter?”
After a pause, Señor Escudero passed a slight chuckle, “When you have your ship returned, Capitán, maybe you could find me an alternative source for my brandy? I have very little left. Diego’s talents will be sorely missed along this coast.”
Jesamiah abandoned the idea of asking questions about Chesham. It was of no consequence now, let Jennings do his own bloody digging. His mind went back to the Kismet,
“I could fetch you plenty of brandy in that brig you have down there.”
Louis Escudero smiled expansively. “She is my boat, were you to set foot upon her, you would not be leaving my property. And if ‘Cesca were to sail with you, then we would be fulfilling the terms of parole exactly to the letter would we not?”
Shaking his head Jesamiah raised his hands and backed away a few paces. “Ah no, no, Señor, I could not take a woman on a smuggling run.”
“Capitán Acorne, I would appreciate the chance of my daughter- in-law having time away from, how shall I put it? From doing what is expected of her.”
I bet you would, Jesamiah thought. You would like nothing more than to find out where I would go and who I would contact. And if she ain’t with me she won’t be in my bed, wheedling out the secrets I hold, like picking weevils from a lump of hard-tack.
He would have no objection to her being in his bed, for she was after all, rounded in all the right places, but it was Tiola he wanted. Tiola he loved.
Tiola he could not have.
Suddenly he knew exactly what he was going to do.
“Before I even consider smuggling brandy, I have a mind,” he said, his thoughts racing as he wandered over to a chair, sat, “to visit the plantation my half-brother owned until recently. The new owner wishes me to collect some merchandise stored there.”
“Your brother’s plantation? La Sorenta?” ‘Cesca queried. “The place was in a sorry state when last I saw it. Phillipe Mereno abandoned it.”
Jesamiah slid his chair backwards, the legs scraping on the tiles as he hurried to his feet. “Say that again?”
“Phillipe Mereno abandoned it.”
“No, no, you said la Sorenta.”
&nbs
p; “Sí. One of the last indigo plantations here on Hispaniola – many of the others are growing sugar cane now; it is easier and cheaper to produce.” Catching Jesamiah’s expression, she added, “The plantation in Virginia, is that not also called la Sorenta?”
All manner of memories were again swarming into Jesamiah’s mind. The box had been unlocked, its lid flung wide and the contents were rushing out haphazardly in all directions. “We had always been told it was named after my father’s ship.”
“It was,” Escudero confirmed with a single nod of his head. “And the ship was named after the plantation here in Hispaniola. The vessel belonged to a good friend of mine and your father’s, Capitán Carlos Mereno.” He watched, Jesamiah’s astonished expression as the information sunk in. “Your father and Carlos were partners, the vessel la Sorenta was a joint venture; Charles was to transport the cargo, Carlos to run the Hispaniola estate.”
Jesamiah’s head was reeling. All this new information to be taken in – why had Papa never said anything of all this? “So what went wrong? Did they argue or something?”
Gravely Señor Escudero shook his head. “Carlos Mereno fell in love…”
Cynically, Jesamiah interrupted; “And they fell out over wanting to bed the same girl, I suppose?”
“Carlos was murdered on his wedding night. He was dragged from the bridal bed, gelded and disembowelled. The woman was screaming, there was nothing she could do to stop it. The man who did the deed then raped her.”
A feeling that he really did not want to hear anything more crept into Jesamiah’s belly. “My father?” he asked. He had cultivated a deliberate indifference towards the man who had shown little obvious interest in his younger son, but he would never have believed him capable of such barbarism.
“No, not your father, her brother. The bride was raped by her own brother. Your father found her the next morning; he bundled her on to his ship and got her away. Much later, two years, maybe three, we discovered he had purchased a tobacco plantation in Virginia, taken Mereno’s name, and for the sake of decency, married Constella del Gardo himself.”
Coldness as solid as ice spread through Jesamiah. His heart seemed to stop beating, he felt his guts twist in his stomach. His throat dry, the words sticking to his tongue, he repeated, “Constella del Gardo?”
“Don Damian del Gardo’s twin sister, sí. Phillipe’s mother.”
Jesamiah sat down heavily. He felt sick. “I never knew who she was, or where she came from. I don’t think Phillipe did either. If he did he never said.” He looked up, the shock ashen on his face. “Bloody hell, Don Damian’s sister? Was that the cause of the feud?” He shook his head, finding it difficult to think straight. “Of course it was. I had no idea of any of this. None at all.”
Linking his fingers, he chewed his thumb, thinking, digesting it all. Did knowing this matter? Not really. The information belonged to the past, and the past was done with. The present, the future, held the importance. Except, the past had a nasty habit of making a damned nuisance of itself by lingering in the shadows and leaping out to trip you up when you least expected it. And the future? Who gave a damn about the future when it stretched away empty and desolate? When it was to be without the woman he loved?
He rubbed his hands along his thighs, decision made. “Is there any indigo stored there?” he asked, trying to outrun the insidious whispering of the resurrected memories that, already, were like burrs irritating against his skin.
“Indigo?” Señor Escudero repeated. He puffed his cheeks, shook his head, “There has been no indigo stored at la Sorenta for many years.”
Frowning, Jesamiah considered the statement. “Oh. It’s all sold and shipped for trade then is it? None of it’s kept?” He wondered if it was wise to trust these people. Jennings had talked of rebellion and spies – whose side were these Escuderos on? Del Gardo’s or the rebels’? Did it matter? Even if the delightful Francesca passed every detail to her bedmate he would soon be gone from here. It was regrettable if they got into trouble because of his broken parole, for they appeared to be decent folk who were trapped in difficult circumstances. But it really was not his problem. He had enough of his own to be dealing with without shouldering theirs as well.
Reaching a decision he threw caution to the wind. “I was told of a secreted cache of indigo. I’ve been commissioned to collect sixteen barrels and ninety-seven kegs of it.”
Francesca had been pouring more coffee, her hand slipped, the cup, saucer, crashed to the tiled floor, coffee spilling everywhere, the sound masking her simultaneous gasped cry.
“Oh!” she said, flustered, “how stupid and clumsy of me.”
Jesamiah went to help her pick up the broken pieces of china, although she insisted the servants would do it, but it was an opportunity to smile at her, to brush his hand against hers.
“If you permit me to use your boat, Señor Escudero,” he said in Spanish as casually as he could, “I will undertake to do what I came here for, and find you some brandy at the same time.”
The old man stroked a disfigured finger down his neatly trimmed moustache, pursed his lips. Answered in Spanish, “Ninety seven kegs you say?”
“And sixteen barrels.”
The Señor pursed his lips, shook his head. “I am afraid I know nothing of any cache of indigo, but there would be no harm in you taking the Kismet to la Sorenta I suppose, but as we said, because of your parole, ‘Cesca must accompany you. The steward there, a Señor Mendez, would be the better man to ask about this indigo.” A smile twitched over the Spaniard’s lips. “And while you are there you may as well fetch my brandy. He will know where Wickham stored it.”
Narrowing his eyes, tilting his head, Jesamiah smelt a distinct whiff of rat. “And why would he be knowing that?”
‘Cesca glanced briefly at her father-in-law who nodded almost imperceptibly. She laid one hand lightly on Jesamiah’s arm. “I am afraid I lied to you. We knew James Wickham well. Señor Frederico Mendez is his grandfather.”
Nine
Sunday Afternoon
~ He is in love with someone else you know. ~
Tiola heard Rain’s soft whisper and stirred in her sleep. The words echoing, meaningless, in her head.
He is in love with someone else…He is in love with someone else… In love… in love… Someone else… Someone else…
~ I have seen him kiss her. ~
~ Who? Who is ‘he’? ~
Somewhere very distant the rain pattered its sing-song chatter as she scurried against the leaves of trees and bright-coloured flowers, and green, refreshed plants. As she dabbled and danced into shining puddles.
~ Unless you stop him, he will make love to her. ~
~ You stop him. ~ Tiola wanted to sleep. She did not want to wake.
~ Why should I? He is nothing to me. ~
Tiola smiled drowsily. That, she was aware, was not true. ~ Do you not love him, then, Rain? ~
~ No! ~ Untrue.
The smell of fresh-washed earth, of wet grass and clean air filled Tiola’s senses. Almost, she was awake. Almost.
Again, she repeated, ~ Who? Who is he, this spirit you do not love? ~
~ He is no spirit. He is a man. He is Jesamiah. ~
Jesamiah.
Jesamiah?
It took a great effort for Tiola to wake, to force her mind to concentrate and to make the silence, that had lulled her in its depth of oblivion, heard. An effort to catch the words she needed and to shout them aloud.
~ Jesamiah? There is but one woman he will ever love. And I am that woman. ~
“Jesamiah?”
“My dear?” Stefan laid the damp towel across Tiola’s forehead, held her hand as her eyes fluttered and she began to rouse. That slut who called herself a maid was dead drunk somewhere in the hold, her skirts stained with semen. How many of the crew had been at her? Huh, all of them by the look of her!
Stefan had dismissed her on the spot, told her she would receive no wages, that if he saw her anywhere near
his wife again he would personally send her over the side. The reason for Tiola’s prolonged sleep was plain; Stefan had found the vial of laudanum.
Guilt, compassion; a feeling of fondness, maybe even a slight tinge of love? For whatever reason, he sat with Tiola as she began to wake. He patted her hand, smiled at her as her eyes fluttered open.
He kept the false smile as she whispered a name.
“Jesamiah?”
Ten
The Brig handled well. Taking a minimum of crew they had set sail in the early afternoon, when the rain had washed itself out and a watery sun had broken through the mist. Reluctantly Jesamiah had agreed for ‘Cesca to sail with him – not that he’d had much of a say in the matter, one of his keepers had to accompany him, and it could not be the old gentleman. Part of him wondered why ‘Cesca was so eager to join him on a choppy sea in a strong wind, with the possibility of more rain not far away. Another part of him, situated in his breeches, knew exactly why she was here.
Luffing the Kismet in towards la Sorenta’s jetty, he began to experience renewed feelings of doubt about this whole escapade, his suspicions growing stronger as they neared the shore and he realised the estate was not merely dilapidated, but was in an advanced state of decay. It had been so for years, by the look of it. He glanced across the quarterdeck at ‘Cesca, saw her chew her lip, her fingers drumming against the rail.
Now why is she so agitated? he wondered. She’s been like a dog with fleas since we slipped our mooring.
He returned his attention to critically assessing the place. There was no tactful way to word it, the estate was a dump. Van Overstratten had been sold a pig in a poke. The thought cheered Jesamiah immensely as Kismet bumped against the jetty and two of the crew leapt nimbly ashore, two others tossing them mooring lines.
“I wondered,” he said to ‘Cesca as the boat was made secure, “why my brother was allowed to keep this estate. I would have expected del Gardo, because of his greed, spite and the old feud, to have confiscated it. I see now why he didn’t bother. It’s valueless. There’s nothing worth claiming, there hasn’t been for years has there?”
Pirate Code Page 20