She made no answer.
The house was three-storied and had many windows, most of which were broken or boarded up with wood and sacking and looked as forlorn as everywhere else. Shutters were hanging off their hinges, the white lime on the walls was faded, cracked and peeling, in several places the bricks beneath were showing through.
To the left stretched weed-choked fields. Only one small acre of stubble with a few straggled root vegetables had been cultivated. There had been no indigo grown, harvested and produced here for decades. To the right, a straddle of buildings also in desperate need of repair. Stables – empty – workshops, processing huts, storehouses. Over it all, a lingering, unpleasant odour, a mixture of stagnant sewage, damp, mildew and rotting vegetation. No trace of the strong, distinctive, smell that would emanate from the production of indigo dye.
A short way along the shoreline half a dozen thin and wretched slaves huddled under the crude shelter of an open-sided thatched hut which did little to stop the prevailing wind. No men, only weary white European and black African women.
As a pirate captain Jesamiah had proven, over and over again, that a man with a free choice worked harder than one with resentment in his heart. His father had often argued that enslavement was a better sentence than the noose, which, now he was a man grown, Jesamiah had to concede was true. Arrested in England for stealing, poaching and other minor offences, convicts were shipped to the Colonies as an alternative punishment – women and children mostly, the men were drafted to serve in the army and navy. And then there were those here in the Caribbean who were the offspring of the Irish wretches who had suffered under Cromwell’s rule – but while many an Englishman quibbled over the squalid treatment of a man or woman with a white skin, very few balked at the cruelties heaped on the Negroes. Jesamiah disliked all slavery, took no part in the trade. Most pirates avoided the slavers; the ships stank too much for one thing, the cargo was riddled with disease, already dead or close to dying and there was very little else of value aboard. The only attraction was access to the women, and Jesamiah had never been that desperate. Blackbeard attacked slavers, but unlike him, Jesamiah was not insane.
A man was standing in the doorway of the house, shielding his eyes from the bright sun, his grey hair betraying that he was no longer young. He moved to the top of a parade of worn steps, but did not come down to greet them.
Tempted to jump ashore, Jesamiah waited for a plank to be set and offering his arm, escorted ‘Cesca to dry land. She knew the man, for she waved and gathering her skirts hurried ahead, running to greet him fondly, kissing his cheek. Jesamiah, following sedately behind, had no doubt that her animated conversation involved a brief but precise explanation of his presence here.
“Capitán Acorne,” ‘Cesca said, beckoning him up the last few steps, “may I present Señor Frederico Mendez, steward and overseer of la Sorenta.”
Removing his hat and bowing respectfully, Jesamiah acknowledged the introduction. “Señor, at your service. Although forgive me for saying there does not seem to be much here worth stewarding.”
Shoulders back, head high, Mendez made no attempt at a greeting, formal or otherwise. All he said in English was, “Acorne. I know the name.”
“My fame’s spread as far as ‘ere then, ‘as it?” Jesamiah chuckled as he fiddled with his acorn earring.
The Spaniard met the attempt at humour with stoic indifference. “Not fame Señor, infamy. I do not welcome pirates.”
“Yet, from what I hear you have no objection to smugglers, and I have no doubt you do not disapprove of the Jolly Roger when it is hoisted from a Spanish masthead?” In the face of hostility, Jesamiah dispensed with formality and went direct to the point. “I do not particularly care whether you approve of me or not, Señor. I am here for a reason and the sooner it is sorted the quicker I can be on my way again.”
As he spoke he realised how much he meant the words. This situation was ridiculous. He suddenly, desperately, wanted to go home. Not that Nassau was home, but Tiola was there and where she was, was home. Glancing around he very much doubted there was any indigo here. Whoever had told van Overstratten of it had been a liar or… The line of thought hit him like the blow from a poleaxe. Who had told the Dutchman of it? Not Phillipe, that bastard would not have told his own shadow of something worthwhile. So who? Who would have wanted van Overstratten to come here? A wry smile twitched at the side of his mouth as realisation dawned. Someone had told van Overstratten. Someone who knew the Dutchman would promptly commandeer someone else to come and fetch it. If it existed – which Jesamiah was beginning to think was highly unlikely.
Jennings. The cunning bastard. There was something deeper going on here, and it smelt overwhelmingly of rebels and rebellion. Very well, he would play along with the game, see how far he could move the pieces. And see who else was dancing a posy around the maypole.
“I have come for the barrels of indigo which, I believe, have been retained in storage for exclusive use by the owner. I would be obliged for you to haul it out and have it stowed aboard my vessel. There is a matter of some brandy as well, so I understand. I am to deliver it to Señor Escudero.”
He was a captain, he was used to having his orders instantly obeyed, was somewhat disconcerted to find Mendez offering an arm to ‘Cesca to escort her within-doors.
Over his shoulder the Spaniard remarked; “There is no indigo. The last shipment left here more than ten years ago.”
Annoyed that he was being so easily riled by an old man, but equally aware he was losing control of the situation, Jesamiah dropped his hand to his cutlass hilt, the rasp of steel grating as he withdrew it slightly. “That was not what the new owner of this estate was told. I come as his representative.”
There was no prevarication or hostility as Señor Mendez turned back to face him, just a flat statement as he answered, “Then he was not told the truth.”
The cutlass withdrew another inch. “I do not believe you.” Jesamiah was over-reacting, but he suddenly resented being ignored and so blatantly made to appear a fool.
“Are you calling me a liar Capitán Acorne?” Mendez indicated the general dilapidated air of the place. “Does it look as if I have anything of value here?”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” ‘Cesca interrupted, patting the Spaniard’s arm and holding the other hand, pleadingly, towards Jesamiah. “There must be a simple explanation, obviously there is a misunderstanding. Señor Mendez, Capitán Acorne is my guest, he has come to Hispaniola to fight on the side of Spain in this idiotic war that we have become embroiled in. He is not here to fight against us, but with us.” She gave a light-humoured laugh, “And my father-in-law does indeed want his brandy.”
Not wishing to offend, Mendez clicked his heels together, bowed his head towards Jesamiah and apologised with good grace. “My regret Capitán. I spoke out of turn.”
Under no disillusion that this Spaniard, despite his age, would be only too happy to slide a knife between his ribs at first opportunity, Jesamiah accepted the temporary offer of pax. He sheathed his cutlass, removed his hand from its hilt and returned a curt nod.
Indicating the house, Mendez offered, “Shall we discuss matters in a more civilised manner? Over a glass of wine perhaps? My wife is in poor health, but she will welcome company.”
Jesamiah felt he would rather discuss things here and now, but it would appear churlish were he to refuse, aside, a glass of wine never went amiss, especially if he could manage to upgrade it to some of the brandy that had been cached away.
Inside, Jesamiah reckoned it was not just the wife who was in poor health, the house looked pretty bad too.
When Carlos Mereno lived here, it must have been a beautiful place, he thought, gazing at the peeling paint and the cracked plaster, his nose wrinkling in disgust at the unpleasant smell of permeating damp and widespread mould.
Frowning, he strode across the empty entrance hall to stare at a cobweb-strewn painting hanging on the far wall. He recognised her, Phill
ipe’s mother. He had never known her – she had been dead several years when he was born – but he recognised Phillipe’s face in hers. She was standing, pearls dangling from her ears, an exquisite necklace decorating her milk-white throat, drawing the eye to the froth of lace framing the swell of her bosom. Her gown was saffron and blue, a little old fashioned, showing the age of the painting. It had bustle panniers at the hips, not the current inclination of whalebone hoops.
Her lace-gloved hand rested on the shoulder of the man seated beside her. Don Damian del Gardo. Her brother. The old, out of favour curl of the wig, the cut of his coat, the fall of lace on his shirt and the length of his cravat also gave away that this was not a recent portrait. Jesamiah was not interested in their costume, but their faces. They had identical cheekbones, the same angled jaw and sharp chin. Phillipe had boasted the same features. Naturally, del Gardo was younger in the portrait than the man Jesamiah had spoken to yesterday. Good God, was it only yesterday? Surely, last night in that cell had been a lifetime away? This image of del Gardo was not the flab-jawed, paunch-bellied toad he was now.
Feeling renewed anger rising, Jesamiah restrained an urge to draw his cutlass and slash at the thing. Why had his father said nothing of this estate? Why had he kept so many secrets?
Footsteps coming behind! Jesamiah whirled, his hand automatically pulling his pistol from his belt, raising and cocking the hammer back in the one, fluid, movement. His heart was pounding; he hated people coming up behind him!
Frederico Mendez lifted his hands in surprise and surrender. “My pardon Capitán Acorne, I did not intend to startle you.” He indicated the painting. “Constella was a beautiful woman.”
Exhaling to calm the pounding bloodrush coursing through him, Jesamiah pushed his pistol back through his belt.
Not noticing there was anything amiss, Mendez continued talking about the painting. “They were twins. Some said their mother must have lain with different men on the same night, so different were they in character; but you only have to look at their eyes and features to realise they were of the same siring.” He tapped various aspects of the painting with his cane, pointing out the areas of likeness. Eyes, nose, mouth; the jaw, the chin.
“I assume you are aware Phillipe Mereno was my half brother?”
Señor Mendez bowed his head. “Sí, ‘Cesca told me, but I knew your father well enough to recognise you.”
Jesamiah snorted. “You knew Papa, yet I do not hear you condemning him. He too was a pirate.”
“He considered himself a privateer, but it is immaterial, I do not condemn him because your father was my friend. You have yet to prove yourself worthy of him, or my friendship.”
His fingers going to where his ribbons should have been, Jesamiah growled and narrowed his eyes. “I have no need to prove myself to anyone, Señor.”
Mendez shrugged. “Any man must earn respect. It is not an honour lightly given.”
“After my father died, did you respect Phillipe when he took this place over?” Jesamiah asked, the animosity slurring his words.
“Phillipe Mereno has never been here. I have not met him.”
“And now you won’t. He’s dead.” Jesamiah walked abruptly across the hall, heading to where he could hear ‘Cesca talking. “Where is this wine Señor? I find I have developed a thirst and grown bored with art.”
Mendez’s wife was not merely unwell, she was dying. Jesamiah had seen plenty of men on the verge of death to recognise the waxy sheen on her skin and the gaunt, almost skeletal appearance. If she did not have the wasting disease that crept through the body, eating it away as it advanced, then he was a Dutchman. If only Tiola were here! She had once explained the nature of this illness; consumption, a cancer, she had called it. He knew for a fact she had healed some people. Not all though, he felt in his bones it was too late to help this lady. She had been a pretty thing in her younger days, he guessed, for the smile in her eyes, despite her pain, was genuine as he took her hand and kissed it.
“Am I not fortunate,” she said with a coughed giggle, “to have such a handsome young man come visiting my sick bed? If I were many years younger, then how fast my heart would be beating!”
“Many years? Nay, Señorita, surely you are yet but a girl?” Jesamiah responded.
She laughed, had to pause to cough blood into a linen kerchief, then gain her breath. “How I do love a gallant!”
Like the rest of the plantation, this living room had seen better days. Although it was clean and tidy, the walls were shabby and there were lighter patches where pictures had recently hung – several gaps on shelves and in cabinets. For how long had these two been selling their possessions in order to survive? For as long as there had been no indigo? For more than ten years?
‘Cesca sat on a stool beside Señora Mendez, chatting quietly of family and women’s things, while Mendez served Jesamiah wine. It was passable stuff to drink, but only just.
“This van Overstratten. He is a businessman?” Mendez asked suddenly. “He understands the running of an estate? What is needed?”
“Primarily he is a wine merchant, but he also owns a few sugar plantations. He may know how to regenerate life here, but I doubt it.” Thought, although he’ll be a better owner than ever Phillipe was. “I am surprised my brother did not take more interest. Indigo is a crop worth growing.”
The Señor shook his head, exhaled a long sigh. “The soil is wrong, the estate has never been profitable, and your father did not require an additional income. He paid us to keep it from becoming a total ruin in the hope that his son would one day be interested in taking responsibility of it.” He looked up sharply at Jesamiah, said accusingly, “He never did. Why was that I wonder?”
“I have no idea why Phillipe abandoned you, Señor. For my part, until today I had no idea you, or this estate, existed.”
“We have received not a shilling since your father passed away.”
Jesamiah shrugged, sipped at the wine, grimaced. It really was poor quality. “Yet you have managed to survive. From the little I know of producing indigo, the Carolinas are becoming dominant in the market. The old days of it being a rare commodity shipped from the East Indies to Europe are long gone.”
Mendez leant forward to refill Jesamiah’s glass; “True. Once, only the rich could afford indigo. When the great artists made their portraits of Our Lady they gave her blue to wear because indigo was the highest honour they could grant Her.” He smiled, “But now it is grown in the Colonies and used to dye cotton cross-weaves like the new de nim that is becoming so popular.”
Jesamiah shook his head, put his hand over the glass; wanted no more of this rank cat’s piss that passed for wine. “I am sorry for your situation, Señor, but the matter is nothing to do with me. Stefan van Overstratten is the owner now.”
Mendez gazed at him steadily, a proud man, unused to begging. “What will become of me and my wife? She is dying and I am too old to serve a new master.”
Ashamed of his earlier outburst, Jesamiah felt pity for them both. It was his dead brother he had been annoyed with, the ungrateful wretch, not this couple who had been trying their best to hold together what little there was. But how could he make promises? That was for van Overstratten to do.
Oh bugger him, he thought. If my father liked these people then they are good enough for me. “I personally will see to it that the Dutchman attends your needs, and if he does not comply, then I will provide you with a suitable home. That is, if you are prepared to accept the aid of a pirate?”
Lifting his head Frederico Mendez challenged him. “And why would you do so?”
Setting his barely touched glass down on the side-table, Jesamiah answered with a half smile. “Because as I said earlier, Señor, I have no need to prove myself. Unlike my brother I am not a bastard. I did not love my father as much as I should perhaps, but I respected him, and I believe he had respect for you.”
Señora Mendez had overheard, she was trying to rise, her grateful tears brimming, h
er frail body trembling. “You are so kind, Capitán Acorne, but we could never repay your generosity.”
“All I want is the brandy Wickham left with you for Señor Escudero, and those sixteen barrels and ninety seven kegs of indigo.”
Silence held its breath. Outside the window a bird shrilled in a swirl of wings and squawked alarm, a man called something, the words indistinguishable. Jesamiah recognised the voice as that of the Kismet’s sailing master.
Raising one eyebrow Mendez exchanged a discreet nod of agreement with his wife and flicked a glance towards ‘Cesca who also, imperceptibly, nodded.
“Alas, the brandy is not here. Del Gardo comes, every so often, to poke and pry into the weeds and the ruins. I have never given him opportunity to find anything of worth.”
“So where is it?”
“At the convent of Our Lady de Compostela.” An hour’s sail away, more than that if the wind was not favourable, and then a trek inland.
“I know it. It sits in the hills above the village of Puerto Vaca.” Jesamiah did not add that when he had sailed as a pirate aboard the Mermaid, they had frequently put in at Puerta Vaca. They had slid easily in and out under the cover of darkness and those sheltering cliffs. The jut of a headland had made the village a good, safe, place for smuggling. Or so they had thought. Four years ago they had smuggled in a cargo, ironically, of brandy, spent a couple of days enjoying themselves and when ready to sail, had taken on some new hands. Only they had not realised they were del Gardo’s men. When the Guardship came up on them it was obvious they had been waiting to pounce and the bastards had over-powered Malachias’s crew. If they had not escaped from that Tower; had boats not been left for them to row to the Mermaid, anchored, thank the Lord, not too far out into the harbour; had those guards supposedly keeping watch not been dead drunk, then the crew of the Mermaid, himself included, would have died in the dreadful place. Some had. Very badly, some had.
Pirate Code Page 21