Pirate Code

by Helen Hollick

  ‘Cesca ignored him. After the loss of her husband she had been tempted to join the nuns, not for any piety, more for the peace and the protection against the parade of men who had very soon taken an eager interest in filling his place. For the money she had been left, not for her. Had she known del Gardo would send for her one night eighteen months into her widowhood, she would have gone to the Sisters. She had refused him, claiming she mourned Ramon. He had appeared to accept her excuse, entertained her at dinner and provided a carriage to take her home. There she had discovered the house ransacked, the stables burnt down, her father-in-law bleeding and beaten, and her son taken. When Don Damian del Gardo next sent for her she did not refuse him again.

  And now, here she was these long, weary years later, riding with the most handsome man she had ever seen, wondering how she was going to be able to betray him. She would have to do so, for she needed to stay in del Gardo’s good graces, and for her son to survive she would have to tell that fat bastard something relevant about Jesamiah Acorne, and the truth of why he was here.

  The track remained steep but had become heavily wooded. Trees swarmed up the hill to their left and marched steeply downward on the right, giving only glimpses of turquoise sea through the rich, green foliage. The air was heavy with the smell of citrus fruit, exotic flowers, damp leaf mould and earth; was alive with the calls and trills of birds. Peering through a gap where several trees had been flattened by a recent hurricane, Jesamiah could no longer see the men below, but ten minutes later when the woods gave way to heavy scrub and barren rock, they re-appeared on the track lower down. They had not gone straight on where the tracks divided then.

  “Why do I get the feeling we are being followed?” he asked casually.

  ‘Cesca looked over her shoulder and down through the tangle of shrubs and trees cluttering the hillside. She recognised the familiar bob of an ostrich feather. That man was such a fool. Why del Gardo used him as a spy she had never understood, he was hopeless at concealing himself. Well maybe he was useless at his job, but she was not.

  “Maybe they are traders?” she lied casually. “The convent requires supplies, after all; or maybe they are making a pilgrimage? It is nothing sinister. Do you always see shadows Captain Acorne? Or are you just nervous because you are nursing a surfeit of drink and a tired pizzle?”

  Tightening the reins as his horse stumbled, almost pitching him off, Jesamiah could not respond immediately. Once he had shifted his sore backside into the saddle again he turned to her. “I assure you Ma’am, it don’t get tired.”

  She arched an eyebrow at him. “No?”

  “No,” he snapped back. “It just gets reluctant around governors’ sluts sometimes.”

  He winced as he saw the look of dismay colour her face. What in the world had possessed him to say that? It was unkind and unnecessary. He liked the woman, it was not her fault del Gardo was using her, no more than it was his fault that he was in a bad mood because of missing Tiola.

  She kicked her mare into a trot, pushed past and urged it to canter.

  “I’m sorry!” he called, genuinely apologetic. “I didn’t mean it!” The wind took his words, sent them outward, floating down over the scrub and bushes towards the dazzle of the sea.

  Her mare was thin and unfit, the hill rising steeper and she could only canter a short way. Soon, puffing and blowing, ‘Cesca had to bring her back to a walk.

  Jesamiah bullied his tiring beast into a trot to catch her up.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I’m sorry I didn’t share your bed last night. I’m sorry I’m a bastard of a lying pirate and I’m bloody sorry that the woman I love ain’t here to prove to you that I’m sorry!” It all came out in a rush.

  “I had to leave ‘er behind,” he confessed. “The situation in Nassau made me choose between saving m’ship or being with her. I chose m’ship and I’m bloody regretting it. So I’m sorry I’m takin’ me anger out on you, but there ain’t anyone else ‘ere I can trust to talk to like this. Only you. And I ain’t certain I can trust you neither.”

  “At least you had the opportunity to make a choice,” she answered tartly, “I do not.”

  Assuming she was referring to del Gardo, Jesamiah forced the bay to trot a few more shambling paces to come up beside the mare. He reached across, took ‘Cesca’s hand. “You can always make a choice, darlin’. If you make the wrong one, all you have to do is find the strength to put it right.”

  “Will you put your wrong right?” She meant his not making love to her last night, bit her lip when, misunderstanding, he answered:

  “Don’t know if I’ll be able to. She’s gone back to ‘er ‘usband and my prick’s bein’ rubbed to a stub by this saddle, so there ain’t much ‘ope fer me is there?” As he had calculated, despite her annoyance, she laughed.

  The track narrowed and they had to ride in single file. ‘Cesca was grateful for several things had began to occur to her. Those men following, the one with the ostrich feather the rebels had known about for months now, but who was the man with him? Was it the landlord of the Sickle Moon? What had Jesamiah called him? Scarface? Scar Soul would be as appropriate. He was a surly, bad tempered man, nothing like his elder brother. Emilio had been a gentleman. And he had been loyal.

  Riding in silence she pondered on Wickham’s theories. He had been certain that Scarface was also del Gardo’s man, but they had never, yet, found proof of it. And there was a third person, she was convinced of that.

  She had tried worming the information from del Gardo, but he never made any secret of the fact that he did not trust her. That was why she had to be so careful, that was why she had to ensure she told him just enough information to keep him sweet, to make him believe that she was serving him and not, where and when she could, the rebel cause. She peeped back over her shoulder, smiled at Jesamiah, tried to peer down the hillside but the woods were thickening again. It had just occurred to her; maybe those two were not following Jesamiah, but were watching her.

  Del Gardo was planning something, she was sure of it. Once they reached the convent she would let the rebel leaders know of her suspicions, and when they made their move, they would have to be careful. Very careful indeed.

  Unaware of her musings, Jesamiah had been making a few of his own.

  “Angelita,” he said. “That’s an unusual name for a nun. Don’t they adopt saint’s names when they take their vows?” Hastily clarified, “Not that I know much about nuns.”

  “Usually, but not always.”

  “I had a governess called Angelita.” No answer.

  “She lasted about a month. My brother didn’t want a governess, he was too stupid to learn anything. He had a habit of making sure they didn’t last long by hiding headless rats where they would do most damage. Angelita found hers when she dressed one morning. It was in her undershift. I got the blame, Phillipe always ensured I got the blame. Papa himself whipped me for that one.” Bitterly, he added, “Six stripes with a birch to m’backside. It wasn’t the beating I minded but the injustice. I’d tried to tell Papa it wasn’t me, but he always favoured Phillipe. He never believed my side of the story, never listened to me. He would say things like ‘be a man’ and, ‘you will never survive life by whinging, boy.’ He knew Phillipe was a bastard, I’m bloody sure he did, but he never did anything to stop it. Six stripes? Oh aye, and the other six Phillipe gave me for trying to tattle to Papa!”

  ‘Cesca turned in her saddle to stare at him, appalled. She nearly spoke, but what could she say?

  “I liked Angelita, she was young and pretty and a good governess. I thought she’d liked me.”

  That had been the real hurt, seeing her tears as she had left the house. “You betrayed me,” she had said to him. “Maliciously betrayed me.”

  Scarface had said the same last night. “You betrayed Emilio.” Jesamiah had never betrayed anyone in his life, but it seemed, yet again, he had been accused of another’s deceit. And the beating for it had been as painful.

/>   Emilio had not been a spy, but he had been a rebel and he had been a friend.

  Jesamiah looked out to sea, the immense stretch of shaded blue, the silver line of the horizon where dark clouds were massing. That ship would be hull up now, if he was to get out the telescope and have a look. Why? It was not the Sea Witch. Why would he want to look? He closed his eyes, felt the chill of the wind on his face, smelt the sweet tang of citrus fruit, wet grass and earth, the warm, hay smell of the horse. Heard the wind sighing through the palm trees, the jingle of the bit rings, the occasional clink as the horses’ shoes rapped on a stone. The buzz of insects. He did not want this! He wanted to feel the woodwork of the taffrail vibrating beneath his hands, Sea Witch’s deck trembling beneath his feet; hear her rudder grinding and mithering, listen to the creak of the stays, the clatter and slap of the halyards and blocks. Wanted her lift and dip and roll, the boom of her sails.

  How had they all escaped from that Tower? Few got out of there alive and in one piece. Had Malachias Taylor betrayed Emilio? Taylor, the man who had taught Jesamiah everything he knew about ships, sailing, fighting, getting drunk and bedding a whore. The man he had worshipped as a hero and a friend; who was never, even now he was dead, far from mind. Not one of the crew had questioned that escape. When the door to their cell had been left open they had run, and kept running. It had never occurred to him that maybe Malachias Taylor had made a bargain. Had he told all he knew about the rebellion, betrayed Emilio and his wife in exchange for forgetting to lock a door? It grieved Jesamiah that maybe Malachias Taylor had been a traitor. On the other side of the mast, had they not escaped, he, Jesamiah would now be dead, put in his grave by unbearable agony. And did telling what you knew about one friend to save your others count? Betrayal carried a hideous price. Someone always had to suffer for its cost. Never betrayed anyone? Huh, had he not? He had betrayed Tiola by choosing the Sea Witch and running. So who was it now suffering? Tiola? Him?

  “Why did you ask about Angelita?” ‘Cesca asked, breaking his thought and jolting him back to the present.

  “It’s the meaning of the name I’m interested in.”

  The path ahead narrowed to wind around a tumble of rocks that, judging by the growth of grass and shrubs, had come down many years before. On the far side a stream formed a hollowed pool across the track, several yards wide, before continuing in a cascade down the sheer drop.

  Jesamiah allowed his horse to stop and drink, then kicked it forward, splashing through the almost knee-deep churn. Angelita. The governess had talked to him about the Greek and Roman origin of names. What had he been? Nine? Ten, years old? He could not remember any of those meanings now, except for one. Hers. He had asked if her name had a meaning. Angelita.

  “I’m just curious to know,” he said as casually as he could to ‘Cesca, “Whether Señor and Señora Mendez know that Angelita means ‘messenger’.”

  Was he still seeing shadows where none existed? Maybe, but he would bet his last shilling that they did know.

  Twenty One

  Monday Afternoon

  Looking through the telescope, Rue studied the sail with care. An English trader outward bound from Jamaica. She would be rich laden, and an easy picking. He passed the telescope to Isiah Roberts, who peered through it a moment then solemnly handed it on to Mr Janson, old Jansy.

  “Well?” Rue said. “What do you say?”

  Although they often called Mr Janson old, he was, probably, only in his early fifties. He actually had no idea of his age. He was a man grown when William and Mary were invited to England as King and Queen in 1689. He remembered hearing stories, as a very young nipper, of Henry Morgan’s exploits in the Caribbean, although at a tender age the names and places had all sounded exotic and meaningless. He had gone to sea, he reckoned, when he was about ten. Had seen more battles, served aboard more ships under more captains, than the rest of the Sea Witch’s crew put together. He handed the telescope to Nathan at his side, chewed thoughtfully on his wedge of tobacco. Spat the residue over the side.

  “I don’t like it,” he finally announced. “The moment we touch an Englishman we might as well put our own ‘eads in a noose. I signed an agreement of amnesty, swore on me name as it were. I ain’t ‘appy with goin’ back on m’word.”

  General mutters of agreement from the rest of the crew. Rue looked at them all, Jimmy Stradler, Old Barnsey, Peter Piper. Joseph, young Jasper. Chippy Harrison. Finch. The rest of them. “So it’s a vote of non?” he said after a moment.

  Some just nodded their heads, a few muttered aye. That was the way they did it aboard a pirate ship. Democratically. By the vote. Even though, technically, they were not, now, pirates. Not until they attacked another ship again, although Rue did not want to point out that after what they did to the Challenger they were probably under sentence of death anyway.

  Nathan had been the only one to remain silent. “And what of you, Nat? What say you?” Isiah asked.

  Being quartermaster, Jesamiah’s next in command, Rue had taken charge as soon as they were clear of any Spanish guns and had reached open water. Isiah Roberts was the first mate, but since the start of this waste of time disagreeable cruise, Nat had slid into his shoes as Rue’s second. Isiah was quite happy with the arrangement, he was a good sailor but not as good as Nathan Crocker.

  “If we pass her up,” Nat said slowly and carefully, “we could be signing Jesamiah’s death warrant. Del Gardo will kill him if we do not show up with a captured Prize. And that beauty over there is a Prize worth taking.”

  “I’d lay my life down for C’pn Acorne,” Finch announced. “You know I would, but there has to be another way. I ain’t too keen on swinging. And he could already be dead.”

  That was true. Several of them nodded.

  “We could be returning to piracy for nowt.”

  “He ain’t dead!” Jansy stated with a firm nod of his head. “You all ‘ear me? He ain’t dead. We start thinkin’ like that we’re as likely t’make it true. He is not dead.”

  Silence as they all studied the Trader. She was making good headway, if they did not give chase soon they would lose her, they would never catch her up. Sea Witch was fast but she was not sailing her best, even close hauled as she was now, she was sullen. She was whinging as if she were a toothless old lady with severe joint ache. If ships could sulk like a woman wronged, then Sea Witch was a wench in one dandy of a petticoat strop.

  “And what do we do with our Spaniard?” Jasper asked, his arm in a sling to ease his healing shoulder, his free hand reaching out to take the telescope and pass it to Toby Turner.

  The Spaniard. Capitán de Castilla. They had sorted him almost as soon as they had weighed anchor; Finch knew where Jesamiah kept the best brandy and Jansy had access to the laudanum. The two combined had provided an immediate solving of the problem. De Castilla was sound asleep locked in the sail locker.

  “I still say we feed him to the sharks,” Toby said.

  “And I say that could be a waste of something to bargain with,” Rue answered firmly.

  “I might only be young,” Jasper offered, “but don’t del Gordo need all the captains ‘e can get if we’re at war?”

  “Gardo,” Nat corrected. “His name is Gardo not Gordo.”

  Jasper grinned. “I think Gordo suits ‘im better, it means fat or pig or something.” It was his turn for the telescope. To compensate for having the use of only one arm, being that Jansy was a good deal shorter than himself, he rested it on the older man’s shoulder. Squinting, peered through the eyepiece.

  “I think we ought t’try an’ swap ‘im fer the Cap’n. We anchor somewhere, march across land and make our demand. De Castilla for Jesamiah. Fair trade.” That was Toby. He had been making the suggestion ever since they left Santo Domingo. No one had listened to his daft idea then; were not doing so now.

  “Stop hopping about Jans. You’re jiggling me.” Frowning, Jasper peered again, re-focused. “I ain’t certain,” he said slowly as he handed the glass
to Rue, “but ain’t that a sail coming out from the other side of that headland?”

  Rue snatched up the bring it close. Studied where Jasper pointed. Cursed. “Merde! It’s the guardacostas!”

  A moment of flurried panic.

  “We’re fighting for Spain, we fly Spanish colours,” Isiah pointed out. “You reckon those bastards will take that small fact into account?” Rue snapped as he began to issue orders to get under way.

  “We’ll not outrun her,” Nat added, shaking his head. Sea Witch was grumbling and muttering to herself, no matter of cajoling or bullying would get her to outrun that guardship. She was fretting, and not one man on board did not know why.

  “We could always drop anchor at Puerto Vaca,” Jansy offered. “It’s only a couple o’ miles further. They’ll mebbe not bother with us if we don’t make an exhibit of ourselves. Got a nice tavern there, they ‘ave.”

  Jasper was staring through the telescope again. “They’ve not seen us,” he announced, excitement and relief in his voice. “They’re turning for the trader – look!” He flung out an arm to point.

  The guardship was heading straight for the Englishman. This was war, it was not wise for ships, especially when full laden with a rich cargo, to sail into enemy waters.

  “Thank the Lord we didn’t draw attention to ourselves by chasing ‘er!”

  Jasper’s comment spoke for them all.

  Twenty Two

  The nunnery was perched beneath a high, rocky outcrop; an austere place with blank stone walls and a gateway that was shut and bolted.

  To keep us out or them in? Jesamiah wondered with amusement as they waited for the porteress to squinny through the grill at them, then sourly permit entrance. They rode through into a dank courtyard and dismounted. It reminded Jesamiah of a prison.

  “Is this a silent order?” he asked warily peering around. “I ain’t keen on being in with a habit of nuns at the best of times. If all they’re goin’ t’do is stare at me, I think I’d rather wait outside.” His legs felt like marrow-jelly and his backside, tool and tackle chafed raw; he doubted he could walk a yard without groaning, but outside he would go if necessary.