Pirate Code

by Helen Hollick

  Seeing a glass on a shelf, Madelene dusted the cobwebs from it with the hem of her skirt, offered it to him. “‘Cesca has told me why Capitán Acorne is here,” she said to her husband. “Had you bothered to ask me, you idiot, this unpleasantness would have been avoided.”

  Refusing the glass, Jesamiah unstoppered the bottle and drank straight from it. Aye. Finest French. He hoped ‘Cesca had kept the matter of the indigo – and the brandy – to herself. He did not want its whereabouts broadcast to the entire island.

  “The Capitán is here to fetch home the daughter of Señor and Señora Mendez.”

  A laugh almost broke from Jesamiah’s face, would have done had his ribs and cheeks not been so sore. Scarface’s expression at his wife’s announcement was a picture. First surprise, then puzzlement, then doubt. Every feature, every wrinkle, fold and crease was working to understand the implication. His laugh faded as Scarface finally digested the statement and spat it back out like a belch.

  “Then she lies. Why would Frederico send a pox-riddled scum-boat of a pirate to fetch her? He would not be trusting the likes of him with a nun.”

  After another generous swig, Jesamiah gingerly tested whether he could now flex his arms or not. He could, just about. “Mira, te lo dije, I am no longer a pirate. I was granted amnesty and I am here to fight for the Spanish with del Gardo’s fleet.”

  The Spaniards laughed belly gusts of mirth. Scarface bent double, his hands resting on his knees. Tears of amusement rolling down his face he lifted his head to point at his wife. “And you call me the oaf? You actually believe this nonsense?”

  He moved quickly, rising up, his fist bunching ready to land square in Jesamiah’s belly. Only Jesamiah was the quicker. He spun sideways, kicked, catching the Spaniard sharp at the back of the knee. Already off balance he toppled forward and Jesamiah finished the manoeuvre by smashing the bottle down on his head.

  Brandy, blood and glass spread in a nasty puddle on the floor. Indifferent, Madelene stepped over her unconscious husband without much care, and selected a second bottle; good brandy but not the same expensive brand. She handed it to Jesamiah who was breathing heavily from the agony of protesting muscles.

  “Anyone else?” he asked, holding the bottle by its neck and raising it high. The other two shook their heads, backed away.

  Wandering over to the chest where so long ago Emilio’s wife had pleasurably serviced him, he tipped off the hat and sat, gulped down the brandy enjoying the warm fire as it slid down his throat. Wondered whether, if he drank the bottle dry, it would deaden the pain where the cat had cut him. Damn it, only a short while ago he’d thought he was on the mend. Bugger these stupid turds!

  “My husband made a mistake,” Madelene said. “You are our guest. How can we make amends?”

  Her face was blurring, her voice ebbing and flowing. Jesamiah had no intention of accepting an apology. He did have every intention of finishing the brandy, however.

  Amends? Mistake? By God, when he was able to get to his feet again he would teach these bastards a lesson they would not forget in a hurry! But in a minute, not right now. In a minute, when the brandy was gone.

  Nineteen

  Monday Morning

  Cold water splashing on to his face awoke Jesamiah abruptly. He moaned, pulled the now wet blanket higher over his head and muttered an expletive as would have shocked even his quartermaster, Rue.

  Another dousing. “I suggest you wake up and get up. It is ten of the clock. The horses are saddled and I have been waiting for over an hour.”

  Jesamiah thought of burrowing deeper, but once awake he rarely went back to sleep. He emerged from beneath the covers, ran a hand through his tangled hair. His mouth tasted as if it were filled with sand, his head ached and his eye throbbed. Touching it tentatively he winced. He could do with a shave too, his face was itchy. It would have to wait.

  “That should have been tended,” ‘Cesca said, tossing his clothes at him as she retrieved them from the floor. “I assume you got drunk, picked a fight, then celebrated your victory with her?” Irritably she pointed at the covered, lightly snoring hump at his side.

  Through the hazy fug of his spinning brain, Jesamiah gradually become aware that he was not alone in the bed. He frowned, peered under the blanket, shook his head in bewilderment and instantly regretted the action as the room spun dizzily for several turns.

  “Don’t remember,” he confessed. “I remember three bastards asking me questions in a not very polite manner. And a bottle of brandy. Might ‘ave been two bottles. Don’t remember ‘er though.” He looked again. Mireya was naked and on her back, her mouth open.

  Finding the second of his boots beneath the bed, ‘Cesca stood it with its pair. “I suppose you had no difficulty in accommodating her over-sized charm,” she said cuttingly, her expression rigid with disapproval.

  “Can’t say as I recall what I did. Not often I forget those sort of charms though.” Half-hearted he attempted a grin, mimed holding large breasts, but feeling the pull of bruised muscles and clearly remembering receiving the blows that had caused them he swung his legs from the bed instead; stood, stretched. He too was naked.

  ‘Cesca suppressed a gasp, hastily looked away on the pretence of searching for something. His nakedness did not embarrass her, but the scars on his body were terrible. So many of them! The zigzag of white was patterned along his forearm, two marks on his chest from bullet wounds; newer scars on his thighs and buttocks and raw lash marks across his back! She blinked away shocked tears. He had been flogged, and only recently – how much he must have endured!

  Unaware of her pity, Jesamiah let the room settle its whirling then reached for his cotton shirt that she had tossed to the bed, pulled it on, its length hiding any further need for modesty. Scratching his backside he wandered over to the piss pot. He looked at her, one eyebrow cocked upward. “Do ye watch del Gardo take a piss then?” he drawled.

  Blushing scarlet, ‘Cesca whirled around, turning her back on him. Directing his stream of water, he said, attempting to appear unperturbed by her presence, “You ever ‘eard of Master Samuel Pepys?”

  “Naturally. I received an excellent education. He wrote a vibrant description of the Great Fire that swept London during the reign of Charles II.”

  “That’s right. 1666.” He finished urinating, yawned, searched for his breeches and pulled them on. “Did y’know he had a balcony built outside his upstairs dining room? He put a pot out there for his guests to use so they wouldn’t ‘ave t’leave the room and miss any conversation. Mighty civilised idea if y’ask me.”

  Vaguely he was remembering the rest of last night. He had said something to Madelene about Mireya’s amazingly long legs – was that before or after they had offered her as recompense? His coat was strewn over a chair. Unsteadily, he checked the pockets, was relieved to find his money pouch was where it should be. Leaning his shoulder against the wall he closed his eyes while the room continued its mad spinning. He had been drunk many times but had never forgotten the pleasures of fornication before. He took pride in his lovemaking, even with paid whores he was never clumsy or negligent. Last time he was here he had spent an entire afternoon in bed with Mireya, and had still wanted more of her inventive delights. He sighed, either she had lost her touch or he had drunk more of that brandy than he realised.

  To cover her embarrassment ‘Cesca snapped, “The horses are outside.”

  Water, Jesamiah discovered, was in the jug on the washing stand. It was dusty and had a distinct brackish tinge as he poured some into the cracked china bowl and splashed his face and neck, then rubbed at his teeth with a finger. “I don’t much like horses.”

  “I have no intention of going to the convent on foot, nor will a carriage take us. We are going into the hills where the tracks are narrow.”

  “How do we fetch these barrels then?”

  “I expect the convent has pack mules we can hire.”

  Pulling on his stockings and boots, then his waistcoat,
he mulled over what to say next. He was aware of the nunnery but he tended to avoid convents and monasteries. The second because celibacy horrified him, the first because being a nun, in his opinion, was a waste of a woman. He did not want to add to ‘Cesca’s obvious pique, decided silence was his best ally.

  His hat, cutlass and pistol were heaped on a wooden blanket box in one corner. Buckling the scabbard across his chest Jesamiah took another look at the sleeping whore. She was not as pretty as she used to be, but then, no one was pretty compared to Tiola. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed again, his head sinking into his hands, guilt gnawing at his innards. Hell’s teeth, poking a whore was not a betrayal! Was it? Taking a doxie was nothing more than a few moments of personal comfort and release. It was not love, it was not passion. It was sex, nothing more. All the same, discounting the aborted attempt with ‘Cesca this was his first time with another woman since he had committed himself to Tiola. Tiola was the one he wanted in his bed, Tiola was the one he wanted to make love to.

  Then he remembered his dream of seeing her with van Overstratten; the obvious pleasure they were sharing. He knew her Craft, knew she could put thoughts into his head. Was that her way of making it quite plain that she wanted nothing more to do with him? If so, did it matter who he bedded? This whore or ‘Cesca? There was no need to stay faithful. Tiola had gone, had sent him away, shut him out of her life. He groaned, tried to tell himself that it was not true, that Tiola would never be parted from him – but if that was so, why had she not spoken to him in their special way? Why did he feel empty and abandoned? He put his hand on his heart. Why was she not in here, with him, where he loved her?

  Now he was gathering his senses last night was coming back to him. Mireya had been as drunk as he was. They had stumbled up the stairs together, got as far as undressing and she had more or less passed out. Had he taken her anyway, to prove he could do it? For the life of him he could not remember. He reached out to touch the sleeping girl’s shoulder, fingered her hair. He’d best leave her some money, in case he had. Even if that bitch of a landlord’s wife had given her for free, he would not take advantage. Whores earned little enough as it was.

  ‘Cesca was standing at the open door. Seeing him touch the girl’s hair raised her hurt again. He had rejected her and spent the night with a ragged slut. She was being stupid and childish to mind, but emotion and desire were two very difficult things to control. Jealousy was even harder.

  “Did you manage to get it up for her, then?” she remarked spitefully. “Or did she have to work for her shilling? If you are not downstairs in fifteen minutes I will leave without you.” The words tumbled out from her mouth harsher than she had intended.

  Ignoring the first part, mortified that she had realised his difficulty, Jesamiah answered as tartly. “Go then, that’s fine by me!” Then lied, “And since you wanted to know, aye, I filled her belly.”

  Furious and ashamed at her outburst, ‘Cesca slammed the door behind her.

  Jesamiah flinched as it banged, held his head tighter. Damn it, could the woman not at least try to be quiet? The girl in the bed turned over on to her side, began snoring again. He swore, crammed his hat on his head and went out, leaving the door wide open.

  Scarface was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. He extended one hand, palm uppermost as Jesamiah slowly descended.

  “Diez escudos, por favor.”

  “Qué?”

  “Ten escudos. We agreed ten escudos for the girl.”

  Narrowing his eyes, his hand quietly dropping to his cutlass hilt, Jesamiah walked very close to the landlord of the Sickle Moon, and jabbed his shoulder with one finger. In English, said; “Listen bastard, I ain’t ever paid ten escudos for a whore, and I ain’t goin’ t’start now, savvy? Especially as the way I recollect things, we agreed she’d be on the ‘ouse on account of that little matter of a mistake you made.” He prodded harder. “In my book, you ought t’be paying me the escudos, and a damn sight more of ‘em than ten. Not even a fresh virgin would be enough recompense for what I’m sufferin’ this mornin’.”

  As bluff went it was good, but then Jesamiah had a knack of knowing when someone was attempting to cheat him. He grinned, a nasty leer. “I’ll tell you this for free though mate, she’s lost ‘er talent an’ sailed on past ‘er prime. It weren’t nothin’ memorable.”

  That should put a stop to any embarrassing gossip should it happen to arise. Jesamiah winced, wished he had not thought of that particular turn of phrase.

  Feigning his usual cockiness he whistled as he stepped out into the sunlight, his hand thrust deep into his pocket to conceal the bottle of rum he had lifted from the bar as he had passed by.

  Twenty

  ‘Cesca was already mounted on a drab looking flea-bitten grey mare. To avoid eye contact, she was tweaking the lay of her dark blue riding habit arranging the folds of skirt to fall elegantly over her immaculate boots. It did little to conceal the shape of her thigh. The groom holding the second animal, a scrawny bay gelding with a ewe neck and cow hocks, was busily picking his nose.

  Jesamiah patted the animal’s thin neck, checked the girth cinch was tight – he had no intention of making a fool of himself by trying to mount with a loose saddle. “Hope you packed something to eat Señora, M’stomach thinks m’throat’s been cut.”

  “If you had got out of bed earlier you could have breakfasted.”

  This is going to be delightful, he thought mournfully as he adjusted the stirrup length and settled in the saddle. He produced the bottle from his voluminous coat pocket that already bulged with a variety of acquired items and pulled the cork out with his teeth. “Want some?” he offered, waving it in her general direction.

  Tilting her nose upward ‘Cesca kicked her horse into a trot, its shod hooves clattering on the cobbles. Taking a mouthful then tapping the cork into the neck and sliding the bottle back where it would be safe, Jesamiah encouraged his nag to amble after her.

  On the corner, where the street began to narrow, a pie shop displayed a few sorry-looking specimens in a basket. Reining in, Jesamiah surveyed the limited choice. “Qué es esto?”

  “Cabra, Señor,” answered the black slave boy half-heartedly brushing flies away with a horsehair swish.

  “Got anything that ain’t goat?”

  Chewing his lip, the lad solemnly shook his head.

  “I’ll have goat then.“ Feeling in his pocket Jesamiah flipped the boy a sliver coin. “Make it two.”

  The track rose up sharp and steep from the village, the going muddy and slippery after the rain, the horses squelching, fetlock deep, through the narrower areas between outcrops of rock. In the shade the mud would stay for several days, but with few clouds in the sky and the heat rising as noon approached, already some areas were drying into crusted ruts.

  Taking his coat off, Jesamiah laid it on the horse’s withers. The animal was already sweating. So was Jesamiah; ‘Cesca looked cool and elegant.

  How do women do that? he wondered. Concluded it was because they did not have breeches, waistcoat, an array of weapons to carry and had thinner blood. Followed his musing by contemplating a lady’s undergarments. Did stays and such soak the sweat away?

  She was an attractive woman, but very different from Tiola. Five inches taller, plumper, especially at the hips and bosom. Tiola had neat little apples. Why was he thinking of Tiola? Why couldn’t he set her aside as he did any other woman he encountered? The answer to that was simple. Because he did not love those other women.

  Munching on the second pie, swilled down with more rum, he was pleased to discover the headache had almost gone, but within two miles his back was beginning to ache, and his thighs to protest. Riding, he mused was not congenial to a sailor who had not sat astride a horse in more than ten years. He was considering whether to get off and walk, would have done, but he reasoned his boots would rub and ‘Cesca would mock him.

  Turning left-handed on to another track the view opened up below to show the wide sweep o
f the sea, the sun sparkling in all the varied shades of blue from sapphire to turquoise and azure. Looking down on the roofs of the village he could see it was spread out in a narrow, s-shaped ribbon, a busier place than he expected. The Kismet was safe at her mooring. His keen seaman’s eyes picked out a smudge on the horizon. Reining to a halt he hurriedly fished out his pocket telescope, extended it. T’gallants and tops’ls, the rest hull down. Disappointment ripped through him, for a moment he had thought it could have been Sea Witch. He couldn’t be certain at this distance, but had a nasty feeling it was the guardacostas. The guard ship.

  He studied the Kismet. Men were aboard. As he watched the maincourse spilled from the yard. What the…? Ah, he remembered now, he had mentioned to the sailing master that he was not happy with the state of the canvas; it needed inspecting for worn patches. Good, he was being obeyed at last. He collapsed the telescope, was about to return it to his coat pocket but out of the corner of his eye caught a slight movement. Extending and raising the telescope again, he focused on two riders following in their wake along the lower level of the track. One wore an ostrich feather in his hat. Tiola liked ostrich feathers, he’d promised to get her an armful one day. Blue ones he had said, to match his ribbons. Waste of a promise.

  “Many people visit this convent?” he asked as he persuaded his nag to move forward.

  “I do not believe so. It is a small sanctuary of about thirty nuns. Columbus himself founded it in honour of his wife.” ‘Cesca was also observing the riders. They were ambling along at a walk, appeared to be dressed in no particular fashion – no sign of uniform or muskets. “I expect they will continue along the main track, not branch off as we have done. Unless you are seeking God or medical aid, there is little to draw people to the convent.”

  “There’s virgin nuns,” Jesamiah retorted with a lascivious grin, baiting her.