The knocking grew louder. “Señor? Capitán Acorne?”
“Yo voy! I’m coming.” He opened the door, rubbing at his groin. Found a nun he had not seen before standing outside. Hastily he shoved the rubbing hand behind his back and grasped the top of his partially unbuttoned breeches with the other.
In her early forties she had curves in all the right places, was a few inches shorter than himself and extremely pretty. What a waste, he thought.
“I would be obliged if you would get yourself dressed and to the courtyard. We must leave immediately.”
“Whoa, whoa, heave to there Sister! Why?” Jesamiah raised his hands, remembered his loose breeches and made a grab for them. “And who exactly do you mean by we?”
She handed him his boots. “They have been repaired for you. I am Juliana Maria, the Reverend Mother of this convent.” She smiled at him, not a shy, tentative little whisper, but a full broadside of confidence. “You would know me as Angelita Wickham.”
“So you do exist. Your mother was asking for you.”
“Her exact words were, I believe, ‘I am ready for my daughter, Angelita, to come home.’ Is that not correct? I have already spoken at length to ‘Cesca.”
Code. He had been right then.
“I’d be happier if I knew what was going on. This is like sailing into unknown waters without a chart on a cloudy night. I ain’t sure about hitting the rocks.”
“God will guide you, Capitán Acorne.”
He was not certain about that either, but kept his doubts to himself. The Reverend Mother drew breath, “I have no time to explain, please, just do as I say.” She handed him an ebony casket, about five inches long, three deep and four wide. The carving on the lid was exquisite, if somewhat macabre; a face of a man with scimitar fangs that appeared to be inlaid with a shimmering type of silver ivory. Delicate, thin-cut slivers of what could only be sapphires formed the eyes. No whites, just the blue jewels. For his shoulder-length hair the wood was polished to a high shine. On the side were howling wolves and coiled dragons. For all that he was obviously meant to be the devil, the creature was most wondrously beautiful.
“What’s this?” Jesamiah asked.
“It is for Captain Jennings, a thank you gift. I would ask you to deliver it to him.”
Jesamiah shrugged, tossed the casket to the bed. “Can’t promise it.” He had no intention of going anywhere near the man ever again.
“He would not have sent you if he did not trust you.”
Oh great, Jesamiah thought. “I’ll try. Will that do?”
“I too have faith in you. Now, I am concerned about those men who were following you, we must be gone from here. We may need your pistol; ensure it is primed. Naturally, I do not possess a firearm.”
“Naturally.”
She whirled to leave, her habit and veil flying out like spread wings.
“May I ask…”
“No Capitán, you may not. We have work to do.”
Suddenly feeling as if he were steering with a shattered rudder, Jesamiah protested: “But the indigo? I ain’t leaving without my barrels!”
Hands on hips, head cocked to one side she turned to him. “The barrels and kegs we have are already secured on to pack mules. We are to take them to Puerto Vaca and load them aboard the Kismet. Please, get your boots on and,” she looked pointedly at his crotch, “button your breeches. We are waiting for you.”
Despite himself he was aroused. She was beautiful in an elegant, mature way. Her skin was flawless, her cheek bones perfectly angled. Wide, dark eyes. It did not seem fair or right, to Jesamiah, for a nun to be this alluring.
He grinned, content that his personal bits seemed to be in a satisfactory working order again; found his boots; arrayed his weapons as he liked them – pistol through his belt, with the canvas cartridge bag and powder flask in the hollow of his back. Cutlass nestling, like a lover’s familiar hand, into his hip. Everything handy and comfortable. He slipped on his coat, picked up the casket. It was definitely ebony because it was black, but it was an ebony like he had never seen before. He stared at the face, drawn to it, almost mesmerised, then curiosity got the better of him. He flipped the gold catch, opened the lid. Purple velvet lined the box, snugly nesting inside was a plain, gold, crucifix almost the same width and length as the padded interior. The gold would be worth a bit, but as a gift it was nothing spectacular. Shutting the lid he shoved the casket into his pocket. Put on his hat. Nothing he liked better than the prospect of a fight. Not that he had ever fought alongside nuns before, but he had discovered in the past that some first time experiences turned out to be quite enjoyable.
The courtyard was full of mules and about thirty men, some on horseback, others on foot. Hard, tough men; fighters bristling with weapons. Jesamiah touched his hat at the one with a trailing moustache who was watching everything with the eyes of a hawk. Their leader. He had to be. Gruffly, the Spaniard acknowledged Jesamiah’s respectful salute.
Not at all like a demure nun, the Reverend Mother was swinging herself up into the saddle. A servant held a horse for Jesamiah, not the scrawny, knock-kneed nag he had arrived on but a chestnut with clean lines and spirit. ‘Cesca was already mounted on another new, good horse.
“Don’t often see their sort in a convent,” Jesamiah remarked about the men, as flicking aside his coat and gritting his teeth, he set his foot in the stirrup and mounted. Lowered himself gingerly into the saddle, was pleased to find the ache of muscles was not too bad.
“That is because a convent does not often get the call to raise a rebellion,” ‘Cesca answered with a smile.
“So that’s what we’re doing is it?”
‘Cesca laughed, pointed behind her to where the hills rose black against the night sky, that although cloudy was clear of mist. ”Look,” she said, “we have been busy while you have been snoring.”
Against the blackness a flare of light, flickering and burning, bright and fierce. A signal beacon. There would be another in the chain, and another beyond that, Jesamiah guessed. “Just as well the rain’s backed off,” he remarked.
“We kept the beacons dry and they are saturated with tar, they would burn in any weather.”
Jesamiah had actually meant visibility could have been impaired but these people did not need him stating the obvious. They probably had an alternative method of communication. If they did not, well that was their problem, not his.
“And they indicate?” he asked, but his words were drowned by the noise of the pack mules being urged forward, each one led by a mounted man. The courtyard echoed with the clatter of hooves, braying mules, the shouts and a wild, spontaneous cheer as the leader kicked his horse into a trot and ducked out through the gate, the Reverend Mother close behind.
Not exactly a silent order, Jesamiah mused wryly.
Rubbing at his beard, the extra growth beginning to irritate, Jesamiah was counting the mules as they were led through the gate. “I see twenty beasts,” he remarked. Did another quick tally in his head. “Eight carried one barrel, the rest two kegs apiece. By my reckoning, I make that thirty-two. Not exactly sixteen and ninety-seven is it?”
No one answered him.
‘Cesca had kicked her horse into a trot.
“Will someone tell me what we are bloody doing!” he shouted at her back, then cursed vehemently as his horse skittered sideways to avoid the kick of a belligerent mule.
“Comencemos la rebelión!” she called over her shoulder. “We go to start the end of that pig, Don Damian del Gardo!”
“I don’t want to get involved!” he protested. “I only want my indigo!” Guessing as he said it, that if there was indigo in those barrels, then ‘Cesca was as chaste a nun as he was a monk.
Twenty Seven
Stefan was pleased with himself, it could not have gone better had he planned it. The Spaniard had turned out to be la Santa Isabella, Governor Don Damian del Gardo’s flagship, with the Governor himself aboard. And he had been most interested in wh
at the Dutchman had to tell him about Jesamiah Acorne. Interested enough to invite him aboard.
Sitting in the pleasant surroundings of the Governor’s dining room aboard the ship, the table scattered with the debris of a most excellent meal, Stefan felt a warmth of contentment wash through him. It could have been the company. He was surprised, for he had always assumed Spaniards to be harsh and arrogant men, yet these were most congenial companions. Or it could have been the after taste of the roast pork, or the brandy, or the fine cheroot he held between his fingers, but it was more likely to be the pleasing fact that, according to Don Damian del Gardo, Jesamiah Acorne was not going to see the coming of another dawn.
Stefan inhaled deeply, then watched the smoke plume from his lips. He had to make conversation through the first officer, the only one who spoke a mutual language of French; Stefan knew no Spanish, the others very little English, and no Dutch.
“Forgive my questioning, but can you be certain Acorne will be at this village we are making for, Puerto Vaca, you say? He is not always a predictable man.”
The first officer translated and Don Damian leant back in his chair, belched, then patted the bulk of his stomach. “I think I can safely predict he will be there. I have signal stations along my coast. His movements have been closely watched, one way or another. I merely wait to spring the trap that he and others of this silly little rebellion have so casually walked into.”
His grin was self-satisfied. The men around the table laughed, one even applauded.
“These rebels think they are so very clever,” Don Damian added, gloating. “Yet they have no idea of the woman who has so consistently betrayed them. When they find the courage to creep out from their sordid little hovels and try to march on Santo Domingo, they will be cut down like weeds with a scythe. I have no fear or worry of them.”
About to translate, the first officer was interrupted by a discreet knock at the door. The officer of the watch. A brief exchange, a few flurried words and Don Damian ordered the brandy to be sent around the table again.
“What is it?” Stefan asked, leaning sideways to talk discreetly to his willing translator. “What has happened?”
The first officer turned his head to speak into Stefan’s ear above the sudden roar of the Governor’s guffaw of amusement.
“It seems we may catch the two birds with the one stone. Is that not the English expression?”
Stefan spread his hands, looked blank.
“We have come up with our guardship, she has taken us a fine English prize it seems, but that is incidental. We have the Sea Witch cornered. She is anchored at Puerto Vaca.”
Stefan did not quite understand. He thought they had said Acorne was already there. He shook his head, he must have heard wrong, but he was pleased. If the Sea Witch was there, then maybe so was his indigo. He did begin to wonder how he was going to be able to get it, as his sloop was now sailing in consort and was under the constant eye of the Spanish. Ah, he would worry about that later. He had to find that damned thieving scum of a pirate first!
He also wondered why these men had been talking of another vessel called the Kismet. Of what relevance was she? But with Acorne penned like a monkey in a cage, what, at the moment, did the rest matter?
Twenty Eight
The acrid smoke from tarred torches filled the night air, and the covered lanterns bobbed, making wildly swinging shadows and eerie pools of light ahead and behind. The laughter and excited chatter had died away after the first mile, most of the men were riding or walking in silence; only the murmur of low conversation and the occasional muttered curse broke the natural sound of the night noises.
Juliana Maria, the Reverend Mother, was riding at the head of the column behind the gruff Spaniard who took the lead. Somewhere ahead of them a man was riding point.
So many things had become clear to Jesamiah; as many remained to be answered. His main thought was that he did not much like being used. And used he had been.
“Jennings manipulated me coming here right from the start, the bastard. He’ll owe me for this,” he grumbled.
“Diego spoke often of Captain Jennings,” ‘Cesca said, her horse’s head level with his left leg. “Is he a friend?”
“Not any more he ain’t.”
The track narrowed again and she had to drop behind; not for another ten minutes was she able to resume a conversation. “When del Gardo forced me into his bed and first violated me, I joined the rebellion. Until then I had no interest in the things men pursued, but I did care for my husband and my son. And I began to care deeply about that monster being deposed. I cannot believe it is at last about to happen.”
Jesamiah made no comment. Some of these men here seemed to know what they were doing, the Reverend Mother certainly did – but most of them were farmers and servants, probably one or two were slaves. Their weapons were old, some, he had noticed, were rusty and bent. They were nothing more than a hotch-potch rabble. If the others being summoned to the rendezvous, a few miles from Santo Domingo, were of the same uninspiring quality, then this rebellion would be over before it started.
How many, he wondered, will turn tail and run at the first sound of gunfire? Few of them will stand and fight against a trained soldier. He shrugged, it was none of his business. All he wanted was his cargo, although he had extreme doubts about the existence of any indigo. These mules were carting something though. Gold with any luck. Whatever it was, he was going to have it.
The full moon sailed out from behind a ragged patch of cloud to peep briefly at them before hiding her face again, and a breeze ruffled the trees. The quick glimpse of light had illuminated the dark, night-shadowed sea spread way, way below, creating a silvered path that looked solid enough to walk on. Not a sail in sight, not that it would be easy to spot a ship that was being sensible and not sailing with her topgallants spread.
Already he was missing the sea, craving its motion, its smell. He wanted a deck beneath him, not an uncomfortable horse. Wanted to be on board a ship, not riding down a steep hillside in the dark with a bunch of rebels who would probably get themselves killed in their first skirmish.
“Did Juliana Maria give you the gift for Captain Jennings?”
Jesamiah patted his pocket, nodded. “She did.”
Some of the mules, always contrary creatures, were nervous of the dark and the moving shadows. Maybe they were catching a little of the apprehension that was there in some of the men. The sound of a waterfall tumbling down the hillside and of animals splashing through the hollowed pool, which Jesamiah remembered from the trek upward, disturbed the night. Then the sound of cursing and men starting to shout, the column shambling to a standstill. The anxious bray of a frightened mule, more splashing and vigorous shouting. It appeared the animal was refusing to step into the deep water.
“Cut its throat if it won’t damned move!” someone roared, his voice louder than the rising stir of activity. Their fiercesome leader, Jesamiah assumed. He had intended to ask ‘Cesca his name, but had decided he did not need or want to know. After this was over, except for ‘Cesca, he had no intention of meeting a single one of these people again. Half of them would probably be dead within the week, anyway.
The man on the horse behind ‘Cesca dismounted and marched purposefully forward. Jesamiah had already judged him to be one of those men who claimed loudly to know everything and promptly showed their appalling ignorance.
“I’ll get the son of a knock-kneed nag to move!” he proclaimed, as raising his riding whip, he began to help the mule’s handler to beat the animal in an attempt to make it go through the water. Inevitably, the creature became more terrified and kicked out. The crunch of shattering bone was loudly audible as its handler’s leg was broken. The beating from the other man became twice as savage.
“Fok this,” Jesamiah muttered as he dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to ‘Cesca.
Stretching his aching shoulders and back, realising now that he was on the move again the pull of the lashes
had not been bothering him quite so much, he sidled past the several agitated horses and mules ahead and stopped at the edge of the pool. It was deep and black, looked for the world as if it was a gaping pit with no bottom.
On the other side, those who had already crossed were shouting impatient advice, on this side, the man with the broken leg was on the ground screaming his pain. No one seemed particularly concerned about him.
“Listen, friend,” Jesamiah said to the brute with the whip, “stop hitting the animal. Can’t you damned see it’s frightened? You’re making things worse.”
He was tossed a particularly foul obscenity for his effort.
As the Spaniard raised his leg to boot the animal in the belly, Jesamiah moved in fast, punching his fist hard into the man’s back, then again, catching his jaw. The Spaniard dropped like a stone, unconscious.
“I don’t go much on cruelty to children, women, animals and pirates,” Jesamiah stated, wiping his knuckles on his coat. “Not when they ain’t able to fight back.” He took up the trembling animal’s lead rope and rubbed its sweating face with his hand, crooning to it; talking nonsense. Slipping off his coat he handed it to the nearest person, then pulling a handful of grass from the wayside, waded into the pool. It came up almost to the top of his boots, even through the thick leather, was ice cold. With a grunt of satisfaction he realised the cracked sole had been mended well.
“Come on then you daft mule-brain, if I can stand in here so can you.” Holding out the grass he tempted the animal forward a step; one leg plunged into the water. “That’s it you lump of brainless bone. Another step. Yes. Good boy.” He let the mule eat the grass, then rubbing its face again, calmly led it across to the other side.
There was movement along the line in front and behind, a ripple of laughter, but the leader, dismounting and pushing past his men, was not so amused. On foot he was several inches shorter than Jesamiah, stockier, running to fat and full of his own self–importance. His fist was raised.
Pirate Code Page 28