Sitting in the lamp-lit gloom of a below-deck cabin, Tiola fought to repress her anger against that blonde-haired, blue-eyed cunny who had bewitched the man she loved. Bewitched him! Ais, yes! Did the Dark not empower its own witches and warlocks who lusted for the giving of pain and grief? Who sold their souls to the Dark for the promise of immortality? A false promise, for the negative energy of the Dark never fulfilled promises or set truth among the whispered lies.
She slammed her fists on the hard wooden cot, no more than a two-foot wide plank slung from ropes and covered by a thin mattress stuffed with straw. This was stupid jealousy, the green-eyed Malevolent which wormed into the heart, consuming to the core.
Alicia Mereno was nothing more than an ambitious woman who held the acquirement of material wealth as her ultimate goal. She was no Dark Witch. Her assets were her bosoms and the allure of the slit between her legs. To be sexually attractive was not the work of the Dark. The act of love when given with pleasure – or even indifference – was a natural thing. Rape, sexual violence and sadism, ais, that fed the Dark Energy, but Jesamiah took pride in his ability to make love. There was never anything brutal about his passionate couplings.
Smiling at the thought, at the memories, the rise of anger left Tiola. Jesamiah was a man who had a weakness for enjoying a woman’s body. His attention to the ladies made no less of his love for her. Or did it? Was he already becoming tired of her? He had, when all was said and done, once admired Alicia. Even loved her?
One arm across her eyes Tiola lay back on the bed. Her deep love for a human ought not to have happened; she had control of her body, her existence, but not her soul’s adoration for a damned pirate! That it was perhaps meant, that possibly her unity with Jesamiah Acorne was for some as yet unrevealed purpose may well be, but at this moment as the wind filled the sails of the Fortune of Virginia she could not give a bent penny for meanings, explanations or predictions. For the Good of All with Harm to None. The mantra of the Old Ones, the Immortals of Light. She loved him. Loved him with every fibre of her being. But did he love her? Had he ever loved her?
Oh this was nonsense! Less than two hours at sea and already the headache and the doubts were invading her senses and exaggerating her weaknesses, making her think foolish thoughts!
It was the sea causing it, she was sure, the mere presence of the sea. Tiola was a creature of the land, surrounded by salt water she was vulnerable to the pull of the tides that were draining her of energy and rational, sensible thinking. She had to learn how to master this debilitation! Had to!
But what if they were not so foolish? What if he wanted Alicia?
A solitary tear trailed down her cheek. Jesamiah did not understand that she had her duties to attend, that she was honour-bound to put others before herself. Her Craft, her knowledge and her wisdom, would all be for naught if she turned aside from what she was, a healer and a midwife, a Wise Woman of the Old Ones of Wisdom – a witch. To be nothing except Jesamiah’s wife would be to give everything away. And she could not do that. Or could she?
Tiola felt so safe when she was with Jesamiah; safe and protected, for he was strong and brave. Invincible. Almost!
And she did so love him.
Seven
The cask only scraped the wall, barely touched it, but the wood burst open and foul, stinking water gushed out. The fourth cask to break.
“For fok sake!” Jesamiah yelled, looking up from the ship’s list of required supplies and shoving the sheaf of papers into Rue’s hands. He strode across the jetty to the open warehouse door. “Masters? You empty-bellied seaslug, these casks are as rotten as the water they hold. You’ve sold me shite!”
He stormed inside, took a flight of stairs three at a time and hurtled into the small office. Jonathan Masters, owner and merchant trader, sprang to his feet while fumbling at the desk drawer for a pistol. Jesamiah was faster. His own pistol was cocked and levelled straight between the merchant’s eyes.
“You’ve been trying to cheat me, Masters. You’ve sold me scum water. And what state’s the flour and pork in I wonder? Rancid and riddled with weevils and maggots? Let’s go see, shall we?”
Roughly, Jesamiah grasped the man’s coat collar and hauling him to the door kicked him, slithering and half falling down the stairs, deaf to Masters’ cries of outraged protest.
“No cockroach merchant bilks me, savvy?” Manhandling him outside, Jesamiah thrust the spluttering man against the sea wall and holding him there, one hand gripped into his collar, the other digging the pistol between his ribs, called down to the men in the longboat.
“Jansy, Jasper; break open a couple of those casks. Mr Masters ‘ere is insisting on inspectin’ the quality of the contents. Wants t’make sure we’re takin’ fresh produce aboard.”
A pause, a splintering of wood, then growls of outrage.
“Meat could practically walk into the ‘old of its own accord, Cap’n,” young Jasper, self-appointed cabin boy to Captain Acorne, announced with a snarl.
“Flour’s rank too,” the older man, Mr Janson, echoed. “I’ve seen better vittles dished out to slaves.”
Kicking Masters in the back of his left knee, Jesamiah forced him down to the grubby cobbles. “The stores you showed me were in fine fettle; decided to switch good for bad, did you? Well I suggest you change things around again pronto, or for these last few minutes of your miserable life you’ll be regrettin’ crossin’ me.”
Letting go of him, Jesamiah marched back into the warehouse. Masters stood, brushed the grime off his breeches, and straightened his wig. He was a short, weedy little man with eyes like a weasel’s. “You threaten me, Captain Acorne, and I’ll have the militia on you! I don’t stand no truck from you pirates! These are the barrels you approved, these are the barrels you’ll be getting!”
From a few yards away, leaning against the trunk of a shading palm tree, Rue sniffed loudly. Exaggerating his French accent, Jesamiah’s second-in-command tutted and shook his head. “It is not good to be annoying le capitaine, Monsieur. ‘E does not threaten, ‘e promises. And le capitaine’s promises ‘e always keeps.”
Moments later Jesamiah reappeared at the doorway, backing out, unravelling a line of fuse. He laid it on the ground, stood with his pistol raised in one hand, the fingers of his other fiddling with the three blue ribbons threaded into his hair.
“You start shifting shipworthy provisions this instant, Masters, or you’ll be ’avin’ bugger all to ship in about two minutes.” With a smile, Jesamiah tipped his three corner hat to the back of his head and shrugged. “Bugger all except smouldering timber and a pile of ash and rubble.”
He squatted beside the fuse, clicked the hammer of his pistol and checked there was a resulting spark in the pan. “Not a good idea to store gunpowder along with other supplies, Mr Masters. Not a good idea at all.”
“You, you scumbag! You bastard miscreant! You–”
Nathan Crocker – Nat – and the African, Isiah Roberts appeared on either side of Masters, linked arms with his. Nat, first mate, an ex-Royal Navy Lieutenant, lifted the money pouch from the merchant’s coat pocket and tossed it, with a satisfying chink of coin, to Rue. Isiah felt into the man’s inner pocket, removed the banker’s draft.
“We’ll be having this back, I reckon,” Nat drawled while Isiah rested a dagger blade against Masters’ throat.
Jesamiah held the end of the fuse to the spark. It sputtered and as he gently blew on the slight glow the fuse began to fizz. He set it on the ground, stepped backwards a pace and watched the hissing plume of smoke and array of sparks disappear slowly into the dim interior of the warehouse.
“I suggest all you slaves inside there get out now,” Jesamiah called after it, “or start preparin’ t’meet your maker.”
They ran, shrieking and frightened: black men, women and children; a sprinkling of white convicts.
Masters squirmed but all he could do was watch in horror as Jesamiah Acorne stood, ambled a few paces, shoved his pistol through
his belt and turning away from the now deserted warehouse, put his fingers in his ears.
Nat was counting. “Forty-four. Forty-five. Forty-six …”
“All right! All right! I agree! Put it out! Put it out!”
Nat continued counting. “Forty-eight…”
“Eh? Pardon? I didn’t hear.” Jesamiah cupped a hand around his ear.
“I said I agree. For God’s sake put the fuse out, this warehouse and its contents is all I have! My entire wealth, my entire life! Please, put the fuse out!”
“I have your word you’ll provision us with best quality at your own expense?”
“Forty-nine. Fifty.”
“What? No! No, no I cannot afford to give my stock away!”
“Oh well then,” Jesamiah put his fingers in his ears again.
“Fifty-three. Fifty-four.”
“All right, I’ll not charge you one whole quarter of our agreed price!”
“Half.”
“Fifty-six.”
“Half then. Please – the fuse!”
As if he was on a Sunday stroll, Jesamiah sauntered into the gloom of the warehouse.
“Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight, fifty-nine…” Nothing happened.
“Judged the fuse wrong, I reckon,” Jansy muttered from where he was leaning on the gunwale of the longboat, then sent chewed tobacco spittle into the sea. “Never was a good judge of fuse length.”
Jesamiah reappeared at the door, grinning. He walked up to Masters, shoving his face close to his, said, “Bang!”
Masters visibly jumped, then scuttled inside, not trusting that the burning fuse had been put out and removed.
Laughing, Jesamiah turned to his men, “The stuff I bought is at the back, lads. Take what’s ours and get a move on. We’ve missed one bloody tide already.”
He whistled to the slaves, beckoned them from where they were cowering behind walls and bales of hemp, sail, wool and cotton. “I promised them a shilling each for their co-operation and help with loadin’. Pay ‘em when you’ve finished, will you, Isiah? Any wishin’ t’sail with us will be welcome.”
Jonathan Masters stood inside the door fists on hips, puzzled. The trail of burnt fuse covered about twenty feet and ended abruptly where Jesamiah had stamped on the flame. Beyond another two feet of unburnt fuse there was no more tarred cordage. No line of fuse snaked across the concrete floor towards the store of gunpowder, fifty feet away. Just the twenty feet of burnt fuse and the two more that were untouched. Twenty-two feet. Only twenty-two miserable feet. The bastard had never intended to blow the gunpowder! The bloody bastard!
Coming up behind him Rue laughed, slapped Masters hard between the shoulders. “Ah Monsieur, Capitaine Acorne ‘e is not stupid, and ‘e is good at the deception, non?”
Nat, organising a chain-line of slaves, added his laughter, “You don’t think he would be so daft as to walk into a warehouse where barrels of gunpowder have a lit fuse attached to them, do you?” He broke off, shouted, “Aye – those barrels there, yes, those mate, they are the ones we should have.” He leaned close to Masters. “Played you like a fiddle, eh?”
The laughter spread. Even the slaves grinned.
Jesamiah, clambering down the rusted and slime-slippery rungs of the iron ladder into a second, smaller boat, gave orders to cast off. He was not looking forward to this voyage, and with things already going wrong he had nagging misgivings lumping in the pit of his belly. Maybe the sooner they were out of Nassau the better.
“Cut the cackle up there!” he grumbled before he took his captain’s place in the stern. “Put your energy into getting us loaded and under way.”
Only later, after several fortifying glasses of brandy to calm his nerves, and after watching the Sea Witch haul her anchor and drop sail, did Masters realise that Acorne had not returned any of the money those degenerate knaves had removed from his pockets. They had not paid a penny-farthing piece for best provisions! Not a penny-farthing piece!
It was too late to make a fuss, the Sea Witch was slipping towards the sand bar. “You’ll be back, Acorne,” he cursed. “And when you are, by God I’ll see you hang for this!”
Eight
Sunday 6th October – North Atlantic Ocean
The wind was freshening, blowing off the Carolina coast, and although the sun shone bright, a few lingering patches of early morning sea mist clung obstinately to the distant horizon.
Once clear of Nassau Jesamiah had spread as much canvas as he dared: courses, tops’ls, t’gallants and sprit’sl, all trimmed and set with the efficiency and speed he expected from his crew. Though they were running northward with the Gulf Stream current, the wind had been annoyingly capricious. They would have to wear ship again soon. Jesamiah eased the helm a point, watched with approval as the men met her and made the necessary adjustments to the sails.
Sea Witch felt alive beneath his firm, nursing hands, bucking and tossing as she skipped over the lively sea. The Atlantic rollers were breaking in quick succession against her bow, sending arcs of spray frothing over the bowsprit and foredeck. A trail of white, as straight as a cannon’s bore, creamed behind. She was responding to his caresses like a mistress beneath a lover’s touch, his skill as a seaman keeping her at the right edge of her best, gentling, coaxing her to perform like the duchess she was.
This was living. This made Jesamiah the man he was. The feel, sound and smell of the sea; the shrill of the wind as it whined through the rigging and bullied the sails into groaning billows; as it buffeted his face, tugged at his hair and blue ribbons. The exhilaration of his ship. The lift and roll and dip beneath his wide-planted feet as she sang to him, every fibre of her oak keel, every inch of her cordage and acre of canvas. Every single thing about her shouted a vibrancy of joy and life. And freedom. For this was freedom; to be at the helm of your own vessel with no man to give command or comment. To go where you pleased, how you pleased, at the mercy of nothing but the natural forces of wind and tide. That was freedom, total, euphoric, freedom.
His good mood faded the instant Alicia Mereno appeared on deck. She looked somewhat green about the gills as she lurched tentatively up the narrow companion way and stepped onto the quarterdeck. Clinging to the rail she made her way to where Jesamiah stood, apparently oblivious to her approach.
“Can’t you stop this awful pitching? Slow down or something?”
Jesamiah continued to ignore her as she turned to face the sea and leaned over the side, retching. Nothing came up. After three days of seasickness, lying in Jesamiah’s own bed convinced she was about to die, there was nothing left in her stomach to bring up.
Before they left harbour she had insisted on making use of his cabin. If she’d hoped he was going to share it with her she had soon been disappointed. Jesamiah had promptly ordered Finch to remove his personal belongings into Rue’s cabin. Where Finch had put Rue’s effects, Jesamiah did not much care. But then, Rue often spent more time below deck with the crew, unless he had a favourite woman in tow and required the extra pleasure of privacy. Despite the resulting grumbles, Jesamiah had also left Finch to see to Alicia’s needs.
“You there, sailor. What be your name, boy?”
“Alexander Banks, Sir.” The young lad who had finished swabbing the quarterdeck over to leeward touched his forelock in formal salute, “But I’m more generally called Sandy, on account of m’hair colour, Sir.”
Jesamiah laughed. “Sandy Banks?”
Banks scowled. “Men seem t’think it be funny.”
“Could’ve been worse.” Jesamiah laughed again; “Sandy Bottom, Balls, Cock. There’s half a dozen names more embarrassing.”
There were several new crew, half a dozen from Masters’ warehouse, two white Irish convicts transported to the Caribbean for the crime of poaching, and four black slaves. Taking their chance at sea had appealed more than the miserable life they were enduring as slaves. There were several women ensconced below deck too, but, as always, Jesamiah turned a blind eye and deaf ear to their presence,
and to the cherub-faced molly boy who was prettier than all the whores put together. Sodomy was illegal, a hanging offence in the eyes of the law. Jesamiah had no respect for the hypocrisy of pious laws. The lad was of age and had come aboard of his own will. Which of the men were poking him was their business, not Jesamiah’s.
As long as there were no disputes he was tolerant of what went on during leisure hours below deck, and made no censure about off-watch entertainments. The only rules were no excessive drunkenness, fighting or rowdy behaviour, and no gambling for money. The crew were to keep their weapons clean and ready for action and there was no smoking of pipes or cheroots on the lower decks. The whores – female or male – received their fair share of food, rum and ale, and were paid a set fee at the end of the voyage. In return, they earned their keep without bickering or squabbling.
A dozen other men had volunteered as crew, some were ex-pirates bored by sitting around with nothing to do; a few, like Nat Crocker and Alexander Banks, judging by his formal responses, were deserters from the Navy.
“Well then Sandy, I suggest you put the mop and bucket away and then coil down those lines correctly. I disapprove of a slovenly muddle on my quarterdeck. And stop calling me Sir. Cap’n’ll do. I’m Captain because this is my ship, what I say goes; beyond that you are a free man. We divide any profit we make should we come across a Spaniard or Frenchie, and we pull our weight with the work. Savvy?”
“Aye Sir.” The boy grinned, “I mean Cap’n.” He set to with a will, although not until taking another lascivious look at Alicia who was now leaning against the mizzen stay, her eyes closed, one arm flung dramatically across her forehead.
Noticing, Jesamiah said nothing. When the boy stared again, commented, “Take the helm, Nat, will you? Another five minutes or so and we’ll wear.”
Nat Crocker also touched his forehead in acknowledgement. Old habits died hard.
Bring It Close Page 4