Bring It Close

by Helen Hollick

  July – 1685

  More memories. More gut-wrenching haunting from the past. More seeing the truth through the lies. Lies he had believed and the lies he had told.

  Full of joy and celebration, the woman waited alone save for two trusted servants, alone in the house that her mother had bequeathed her. The house where she had been born and raised; her house where she would soon welcome her new husband and begin her life as his wife.

  Two days past, the priest had met them secretly in the little chapel halfway up the hill and married them: Carlos Mereno and the woman he adored. Their love had burned as bright as the candles, their eager vows murmured and exchanged through the blessing of their God. The ring, passed to Carlos by his friend, Charles St Croix, sliding onto her finger as if it had always belonged there. Encircling and eternal.

  They had waited the two days for her brother to be gone to the far side of the island of Hispaniola, leaving them safe to come together as a man and his wife should. Her brother was possessive and jealous; he would permit no man to take his twin sister from him. But Carlos loved her, and she him, and so it had all been done in secret.

  When Carlos came, as afternoon drifted into evening, their laughter and their love filled the house. It would be safe here for this one night, and then tomorrow the ship would come and take them away forever. Love eternal, love enduring, love, so, so, easy!

  Charles stood, raised his glass and proposed a toast; drank to happiness and love, and laughing, Carlos Mereno scooped his bride into his arms and whisked her away to the privacy of upstairs.

  Wishing them well, Charles took the bottle – and another in his other hand – and stumbled, the worse for drink, out into the heady scent of the warm night air. He raised the bottle to the watching stars and cried aloud his blessing for the future of his two friends, and for the consummation of their love. It was good to see Carlos happy, though he did admit to himself, out here in the dark where the cicadas chirruped, that he regretted it was not he undressing in that bedchamber.

  He tossed the emptied bottle away, opened the second one. Brandy. Best brandy. He looked towards the house. The two servants had cleared away the dinner things, had extinguished the lights and gone to bed somewhere around the back. Only a few lights glowed, the one from the open door and the hallway beyond; through the window halfway up the stairs, the one on the upper landing and the large double window to the left, overlooking the sea – the bedchamber where a husband was making love for the first time to his virgin wife.

  Drink-sodden, Charles sat – half fell – beneath the stand of trees to the far side of the lawn, near where the steps zig-zagged down to where the creek formed a secluded anchorage. The crew would be bringing his sloop in soon, gliding in with the tide, using the darkness to hide her. They had brought her in many times, her cargo of contraband ready to be swung ashore with the minimum of fuss or noise. The vessel gone again by first light. It was a perfect place to smuggle goods under Spanish noses. To the house of the Don’s own sister, who hated his arrogant domination.

  Charles swigged the brandy. This night the smuggling was to be different. No cargo to bring in, but one more precious to take out. The new Mrs Mereno. If her brother was to learn of the plan, if he were to know…Ah, but the secret had been kept, and all was well.

  Slumped against a tree, grinning inanely at the upstairs window, he sat in the pale light of the moon shimmering through the wind-tousled leaves, rippling them into silver shadows. He drank again, lay down, looked up at the stars whirling and the two moons flickering. He could smell the sea and the flowers; the scent of the baked earth cooling after the heat of the day and the satisfying aroma of tobacco and the strong sweetness of brandy. The sounds were soporific. The swish of the sea as it ran against the shore, the insects in the grass; the rustle of the wind through the canopy of leaves. He closed his eyes. He was drunk. Very drunk.

  Was that the crack of a canvas sail? The squeak of cordage and tackle? The soft call of a command, the crunch of boots on the gravel path? He did not know, for the drink had claimed him. He lay on his back with the empty bottle clutched in his hand, his mouth open, snoring. Unaware that a ship had come and men were stealing ashore. That they were not his men.

  The path of yellow lamplight seeped into the garden from the open door, gleaming like a lighted beacon. Voices, laughter.

  And then the screaming.

  On and on, an unending scream that tore the night into pieces, shattered the stars and chased away the moon.

  Men. Men were everywhere; everywhere with the bobbing lantern light and the flickering shadows behind the windows that stared blindly out into the darkness of the garden and reflected the blood and the fear, and the woman’s screams that would not stop.

  He tried to rise, to get up, but he could not move. His legs would not work, the world swam and his stomach heaved. He was drunk, too drunk to get up, too drunk to help, too drunk to do anything to stop that incessant, high-pitched screaming that pierced through his brain as if someone were stabbing him with a knife. He crawled, dragging himself over the coarse grass, his breath held in his lungs as he clawed at the earth and willed the throbbing and spinning in his head and stomach to go away; as he implored his body to do what he asked of it.

  The drink had consumed his senses. All he could do was lie there and give in to the sodden sleep of inebriation.

  Lights swinging back down the path roused him. He ought to get up. Get to the house. The moon had gone, the patterns of the stars had changed – an hour had passed? Two? He half raised himself, supported on one crooked arm, his head down, nausea regurgitating into his throat. The screaming had stopped. Thank God, he thought. Thank God. It has stopped.

  More laughter, chattering, excited male voices coming nearer, passing him by. From the creek, orders were called. Indistinct words a befuddled haze in his muddled head. They were making ready to leave.

  St Croix raised his head. The path was ten, twelve yards away. He was in the darkness, no one could see him, but he could see them. Spanish sailors, going back to their ship.

  Another man. Not a sailor, for he was too elegantly attired and those in his way parted with respect to let him pass. Charles St Croix saw him, recognised him, and all thought of getting to his feet, getting to the house, vanished. The nausea had gone, the blinding spinning, the confused inebriation went. Suddenly, he was iron sober as realisation hit him as hard as a hammer blow.

  Don Damian del Gardo. Her brother. Her twin brother had come. And the screaming had stopped.

  As quietly as he could, ashamed at his cowardice, Charles St Croix dropped to his belly and wriggled backwards into the darker, deeper shadows where it was safe.

  Sounds from the creek of a sloop about to set sail. No more lights, no more footsteps. No more screaming. He risked raising his head, and there, not five yards from him stood Edward Teach pissing against a tree. Ending his stream of urine he buttoned his breeches.

  “We left thee tha whore t’do with as thee please,” he said over his shoulder, his back to St Croix. “After he had done with ‘er tha Don shared ‘er with us, his friends. I ‘ads ‘er twice. She were good.”

  He turned, looked straight at where St Croix huddled. “Many a year back I killed ‘er what birthed me, fer she were a whore an’ a witch, an’ the Devil said as ‘ow he’d see me right’ if’n I choose t’serve ‘im. An’ he ‘as. He ‘as an’ ‘e always will.”

  *

  Sitting there beside the River the memories he had no wish to recall flooded into his mind and mocked his weakness. Charles St Croix covered his face with his hands. The tears of shame were streaking his cheeks. He was supposed to have guarded the house, kept his friend and his wife safe. But he had got mindlessly drunk, then cowered there and lost his honour beneath the trees, while Carlos had lost his life, and the woman her sanity.

  He had gone inside where the blood was everywhere. It ran down the stairs and pooled on the black and white tiles of the hall. Was daubed on the walls a
nd stair-rail and on a picture of a sister and her evil brother.

  Carlos was on the landing at the top of the stairs. What was left of him. He had been castrated, disembowelled and dismembered.

  More blood. On the floor, on the sheets, on the bed. On her. The wife, the widow.

  She lay there, naked, staring up at the torn curtaining of the bed canopy above her. She had been used and abused over and over, again and again. By her brother first, and then the men who followed him.

  And by Teach, who had betrayed his own.

  Charles St Croix had crumpled beside the bed and sobbed for what had been done.

  And for what he had failed to do.

  Twenty Three

  Tuesday 15th October – Virginia

  Sailing into the Chesapeake and then negotiating the lower reaches of the Rappahannock had been one of the worst voyages Jesamiah had ever made. If he’d had the use of both arms he may well have picked Alicia up and tossed her overboard. On several occasions the only thing to prevent him from attempting to do so had been the necessity to keep his attention on a safe course – and the knowledge that such a strenuous application of muscles would hurt his healing shoulder.

  A good part of his irritation was the nervousness of returning home. Home? It had never been home. Home had been bewilderment and fear, nothing more. His agitation had climaxed as they had rounded the last point and there, ahead, was la Sorenta in all its opulent autumn glory. His mind and body had congealed into a solid lump of self-doubt and for maybe the first time in his sailing life his mind went blank and he could not remember the orders to bring Sea Witch into her mooring.

  “All hands! Stand by!” For his sanity he could not recall what came next! This was stupid – it was like forgetting how to walk or use knife and spoon to eat!

  As a crew they had nursed her through the heavy swells and strengthening winds of the Atlantic, were grateful for the comparatively calmer waters of the Chesapeake Bay. Yet despite the temporary repairs and the pump being manned continuously, the water in the bilge had risen. Once into the Rappahannock, with the wind and tide in their favour, the last few miles had been plainer sailing. To make a mess of things now, as they were approaching his father’s plantation, his childhood home, mortified Jesamiah.

  ~ Haul taut, Son. Shorten sail. ~

  Jesamiah exhaled, breathed in again. It was enough to steady his nerve and revive his concentration. “Haul taut. Shorten sail. Man t’gallant clewlines, fore, main, clewgarnets; buntlines.” With the first words remembered, it all come back to him. He smiled, relieved, watched the men as they eagerly and efficiently carried out his orders. Not that they needed them, they knew perfectly well what to do without him standing here shouting, but it was his ship, his responsibility to bring her safely in. And leaving things uncoordinated could result in a haphazard shambles.

  “Haul taut. In t’gallants. Up fores’l, mains’l. Furl t’gallants.”

  With short, hasty jerks, the great sails were gathered in, the men strung out along the yards fisting the canvas with all the ease and skill of their years at sea.

  “Helm a-lee…Man tops’l clewlines, buntlines…haul taut; let go tops’l sheets. Top bowlines. Clew up.”

  Sea Witch glided as stately as a swan towards the jetty, bumped slightly and men leapt ashore to secure her to the wooden bollards. “Very good. Settle away. Take over if you please, Rue.”

  With a malicious vengeance all the fears and inner turmoil returned like a flood tide into Jesamiah’s mind and stomach. He wanted to be sick, dare not let anyone notice his discomfort. By walking to the taffrail, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles whitened, and peering steadfastly astern he was able to counterfeit that he was studying the plantation; the state of the house, the fields, the slave quarters. The house was immaculate, not so the rest of it. Phillipe had permitted neglect. A sloop was moored at the far end of the jetty. The Jane. She appeared seaworthy enough, although his experienced eye could tell she had not sailed for quite a while. He would have to take a closer inspection later, she probably needed attention to her keel, toredo worm was always a scourge to wooden-hulled boats. The distraction gave him time to calm himself. To summon the courage he would be needing to go ashore.

  As Rue ran out a gangplank, Alicia gathered her skirts and hurried across, masking her slight chill of fear at its steepness and the drop beneath her. Thankfully, she stepped on to dry land.

  News ran like wildfire along the Rappahannock when there was something worth telling, and laboriously tacking Sea Witch had given word plenty of time to spread. Seven people, two of them gentlemen, were waiting on the wide porch. Three elegant carriages, the horses sweating in the humid air, waited on the sweep of the drive. Nearby, a third man held the reins of a lathered mount, impatiently tapping his boot with a riding cane. He stepped forward to meet Alicia, walking several yards to be out of hearing of those waiting in the cool shade of the wide porch.

  From the way he was gesturing, and Alicia was answering by emphatically shaking her head, the pair appeared to be in disagreement. She raised her hand as if to strike him, but he caught her wrist, put his face close to hers and said something more.

  She broke away, looked across the gardens at another rider waving his riding crop and coming at a smart trot along the track following up-river. Seeing him, the man with Alicia glowered, mounted, and adding another curt remark, spurred his horse down the drive. Beneath its hooves, gravel scattered in a wide-flung spray.

  Unaware of the altercation, the newcomer removed his hat and waved it in a circle above his head then swung away from the river and jumping over a hedge, cantered across the green sward of lawn. He reined to a skidding halt, kicked his feet from the stirrups and slid from the saddle. Alicia smiled as he kissed her hand.

  In thoughtful interest, Jesamiah tilted his head slightly, narrowed his eyes. A friend? A lover? From his appearance, he seemed no more than a wet-behind-the-ears youth. Folding his arms and leaning on the rail, Jesamiah wondered whether to charge an account for the repairs that would be needed to the grass. The rider was well dressed and mounted on a quality horse of good breeding. There were several plantations along these lower reaches of the Rappahannock, all with wealthy owners, most of whom boasted various broods of sons. Jesamiah barely remembered any of them.

  The youth looked towards the Sea Witch and leaving Alicia to join those visitors awaiting her on the porch, led his horse towards the jetty. “Captain Acorne? Welcome home, Sir!” he called across to Jesamiah. “Did you have a good voyage?”

  “Thank you, aye.”

  The lad noticed the sling around Jesamiah’s neck. “Are you hurt, Sir? Do you require a doctor?” He half turned as if making preparation to mount. “I can fetch him straight-way if you so wish.”

  “No, no, it is nothing serious. Please, go join the others, I will come ashore directly.” Jesamiah tipped his chin upwards towards the drive. “Who was that fellow? Do you know him?”

  Frowning, the young man gazed at the dispersing cloud of dust. “Sorry, I have no idea. I do not recognise the horse either. Shall I enquire for you?”

  “Nay, ‘tis not important. Mrs Mereno’s business is her own, not mine.”

  Jesamiah watched Alicia disappear into the house with one of the gentlemen, her arm linked through his. She would not find it difficult to acquire another husband. In Jesamiah’s opinion Alicia had a knack for making friends, she could chatter to anyone, discover a life story within fifteen minutes and be an inseparable companion in another ten.

  “I’ll be going in then, will meet with you again shortly?”

  Jesamiah nodded, saw the young man walk halfway to the house, falter, and return to the jetty, his face downturned in disappointment.

  “You do not remember me, do you, Captain?”

  Jesamiah lied. “Of course I do.” He had a vaguely familiar face, but a name refused to come to mind.

  “I am Kennick Trent’s youngest son.”

  Trent. Jesamiah remembe
red the family, but he’d had very little interest in the estates or their owners as a boy. Always, for him, it had been the river and the shipping that had drawn his attention, not the people or the plantations.

  The river! Of course! Samuel, the scrawny stick of a boy who’d always had tear streaks on his dirty face and bruises on his legs and ugly-tempered brothers.

  “Now why would I be forgetting young Sam?” Jesamiah said, smiling, easily masking his lapse in memory. “We had a lot in common, you and I, as I recall.”

  “That we did,” Samuel answered, his grin almost splitting his face in two. “We’ll talk inside then? Yes?”

  “I reckon.”

  Coming up beside him Nathan Crocker watched with Jesamiah as Trent tethered his horse, went into the house. Nat spoke quietly, keeping his voice and stance discreet.

  “Captain, I think you ought to know, some of the men are a little disgruntled to discover that the nearest town is more than ten miles away.”

  “Are they now. They’re too bloody lazy to row down river then?”

  “It’s the rowing back, I believe, Cap’n.”

  Jesamiah adjusted his sling, settled his hat more comfortable. “No one goes anywhere until this ship is laid up and Chippy figures what men he needs.” He pointed to a suitable place beneath some trees where they could set up camp, then to an artificial, gated, side channel of water dug into the bank.

  “My father built that graving dock when he had a disagreement with a shipwright down near Jamestown; something along the lines of him being a thieving scoundrel who put more holes in a hull than worms did.”

  Leaning his elbows against the top rail on Jesamiah’s other side, Rue sniffed loudly. “Quel age? It does not look, ‘ow you say? In Bristol ship-shape fashion?”

  Scowling, Jesamiah scratched at three days’ worth of beard growth. Noticed one horizontal panel on the open gates was missing, the others were covered in lichen and slime. Near the ground the bottom panels could not be seen because of choking weeds – the wood was more than likely rotten. Quite probably the entire basin was weed-choked. They would have to wait for low tide to conduct a careful inspection.