Interested, Spotswood rubbed at his chin. “Go on.”
“We then have a choice. We sit here waiting for him to attack or we attack him first.” Maynard was warming to his subject. He had been thinking about it all day. “Governor, we must turn pirate ourselves.”
The blustered response of outrage from the two gentlemen was predictable. Obstinately, Maynard ignored the indignant protestations and waded onward. “We turn pirate regarding tactics. We go out, meet the bugger and beat him at his own game. We find him, attack him. Destroy him.”
Spotswood could see the logic in that. “Ah, now you are talking my language young man! But still I do not understand what this has to do with Acorne?”
Lieutenant Maynard smiled knowingly, “Do you not? As I said, we need someone who can get close to Teach. So close he will know when the devil needs to piss, how often he picks his nose – and when he intends to set sail. Rather than hanging him, we could make Acorne that man. In fact, he suits the task of spying on Teach most admirably.”
Captain Gordon’s laugh was derisive. “What utter nonsense! Let Acorne go? He will suck his thumb at us and join the pirate’s bloody crew!”
“No, Captain. He will not.”
“You sound pretty certain of that Maynard?”
“Aye, Governor, I am. First, I am convinced Acorne is innocent of the charge. What he says is the truth. Second, I have made enquiries – I am friends with that lad, Samuel Trent. He tells me Acorne has no liking for Teach. We may be able to persuade him to work with us.”
Pursing his lips, Spotswood shook his head. “I will not manipulate justice, Lieutenant.”
“I would not expect you to, Sir. If Acorne is innocent and we have shown him compassion, he may well aid us of his own volition. If he is guilty, then he can work with us or hang. Either way we get the result we want. Someone who can report back to us from Blackbeard’s camp.”
Gordon rose to his feet. “I am sorry, but I do not agree with this nonsense. Such talk is heading for trouble, and Acorne is trouble.”
Quietly Maynard answered, “Acorne has been persistent with claiming his innocence, and to make trouble would go against him most assuredly. If we can think of some hold that we can have over him to ensure his loyalty, then Sirs, what have we to lose? We use his pirate knowledge to go against Blackbeard. If we succeed we win everything. If we lose…” Maynard paused. It slightly went against his honour to say the next, but say it he did. “If we lose, then we blame it on Acorne.”
Captain Gordon remained unconvinced. He was not a great man for seeking out action, wanted only a fast, safe passage to Williamsburg. One where he would have little to do and even less to worry about. “I say no. ‘Tis best to leave him fettered in the hold, then take him to trial and see him hang.”
Any trouble aboard this ship would be caused because you are too lazy to get off your backside. Very nearly Maynard spoke his thoughts, bit them back. For all his liking of Jesamiah Acorne he had no intention of finding himself also clapped in irons for insubordination.
Spotswood saw the clenched jaw, however; read the thought only too well, for it was precisely his own. He had small regard or respect for Gordon. Like too many sea captains he had bought his position with family money and had not an ounce of sea sense when it came to anything beyond the ordinary.
He stood, offered his hand to Maynard. “I agree with you. I think it an excellent plan. We show compassion to the fellow while he is aboard ship, give him a fair trial, then use him as we see fit. He can do no harm if set free of those shackles while we are at sea. Were he foolish enough to jump overboard we would not be heaving-to, as he is probably well aware; and if he is not, well, it will save us a hanging.”
Spotswood yawned expansively. “I give him into your care, Lieutenant. But mark this,” he wagged a warning finger, “If I lose my prisoner, I will hang you instead.”
Maynard nodded, saluted smartly and left before his superiors could change their minds.
Some minutes later, calling for the bo’sun, he hurried down through the for’ard scuttle into the darkened gloom of the below-deck world of the common sailors. Hoped he was not about to make the biggest mistake of his life.
Forty Two
Jesamiah was feeling wretched. He needed to urinate, had a head that was throbbing like all the drums of a massed battalion and felt nauseous because he had not eaten for over twenty-four hours. The shadows of a carried lantern bobbed and flared alternately as he heard footsteps approaching, but he did not look up. What would be the point? No one would have any sympathy for him; probably the opposite, he had already been kicked several times by jack tars as they had hurried past. His only pleasure, setting sail had not been as smooth and efficient as his own crew would have achieved. Either these men were lubberly raw recruits or the Captain was not respected. Maybe both.
“Acorne.”
Looking up into the bo’sun’s scowling, cragged face, Jesamiah made no answer. Was surprised to find the bosun’s cane that he carried and used with malicious spite was tucked away beneath his armpit. That cane was normally in constant use rapping legs, arms, buttocks, backs and heads; ‘starting’ anyone who was slow to move or obey. Bo’suns were a sadistic lot who could make life aboard ship one of utter misery for their victims. The harsh, often undeserved, discipline they wielded could not be avoided for there was nowhere to hide aboard a ship. Jesamiah was more surprised when the man bent down to unlock the ankle and wrist shackles that tethered him in an uncomfortable sitting position to the deck.
“On your feet.”
There was someone else standing behind him, but Jesamiah dared not look around, for that would be playing into this bastard’s hands. He flexed his legs, suppressed a gasp as cramped muscles screamed a protest.
“I said get up!” The cane dropped into the man’s hand.
“Easy, Bo’sun, I’ve told you before you are too handy with that cane. Captain Acorne is trying his best to comply.”
Maynard. Robert Maynard. What was this? Were they to hang him now? Where no one would notice or give a damn?
A pair of sturdy hands slid beneath Jesamiah’s arms and assisted him to rise, held him firm while the blood flowed back into his legs in an agony of needles and pins.
“I can manage from here, Bo’sun, thank you.” Maynard’s voice was pleasant, rich and deep, like a mug of steaming, velvet-smooth hot chocolate.
Grunting disapproval, the bo’sun marched away, his raised voice floating back a moment later as he reprimanded some unfortunate found lacking.
“I was unable to convince the Governor that you would appreciate a cabin, but you can at least get reasonable shelter to leeward beneath the Captain’s gig. And I have ordered the galley cook to fetch up hot food and a tankard of something equally warming. I’ve had to pay him of course; I’ll be expecting you to reimburse me at your earliest opportunity.”
Bewildered, Jesamiah took a sideways look at Maynard as the Lieutenant attempted to support his waist and aid him to walk a step or two to get the circulation going.
“It would help,” Maynard said, “if you were to put your arm around my shoulders and at least try to put one foot in front of the other.”
Jesamiah draped his arm as directed, but stood still. “I don’t understand. What the fok is going on?”
“I assume you have no objection to giving me your word that you will make no effort to escape, nor cause me embarrassment?”
Jesamiah looked blank.
“You have the title of Captain. Your rank, in my opinion, deserves courtesy. I have therefore secured your temporary parole – and I tell you this, if you let me down I will personally put the noose around your neck and kick you off a barrel.”
Taking a few tentative steps, Jesamiah nodded his gratitude. “Where are we headed?”
“Williamsburg.”
A few more steps and the cramp began to ease.
Maynard released his hold and fetched a bundle he had left at the foot of the lad
der. He tossed it to Jesamiah, who caught it awkwardly. Then passed Jesamiah two old, worn, longboots. “Your boots and clothes. Your boy left them behind, I managed to retrieve them. They will be more suitable than what is left of that finery you have on.”
Clutching the bundle to his chest, Jesamiah remained quite still, utterly perplexed. “Jasper said the militia came to arrest my crew.”
“That they did.”
“Was it you who warned them? Told them to run?”
Maynard shook his head. “I would not be that disloyal to my rank. Though I happen to believe you are telling the truth.”
Jesamiah began to strip off the disgusting apparel he had on and to replace them with his old familiar clothes – equally dirty but far more comfortable. “Navy believing a pirate? Now I’ve ‘eard everythin’.”
“I also happen to admire your sailing skills. I think it stupid and a waste to hang someone who can handle a ship as well as you can.”
Jesamiah laughed. “So you want to recruit me into the Service, do you? I hate to disappoint you, mate, but I’d rather hang.” His wrists and ankles, he noticed in the faint lamplight, were chafed raw; the blood dried into a black mess. The sores would sting like mad later. He put the embroidered waistcoat back on, then his beloved long coat and rummaged in the pockets. No weapons, nothing, every pocket was empty.
“Our bo’sun gave it a thorough search,” Maynard apologised. “I’m sorry. It was that or keep on what you wore previously.”
Touching the gold hoop in his right earlobe, Jesamiah remembered his acorn was not there, then felt for the ragged ribbon tying his hair back. It was loose, he re-tied it, said; “No matter. I have all I need, should I need it.”
With Maynard’s occasional assistance Jesamiah found he could move reasonably well now the cramps had eased, even up the steep, narrow ladder to the open deck above. The night was cold and fresh, the blackness overhead studded with bright stars. He took a few deep breaths then made his way to the heads for’ard. He had been tempted to piss where he stood on the deck but some poor sod would only be punished for it, and it was not the crew’s fault he was here.
Maynard was waiting in the waist. “You are not thinking of jumping, I trust?” he queried, as Jesamiah stood at the rail peering at the black solidity of the distant shoreline. “I would hate to admit to Governor Spotswood that I made a fool of myself.”
Turning slowly, Jesamiah rested his elbows on the rail, leant back, “There are many things that I am, but stupid ain’t one among ‘em, Rob. There’s a lot of cold water and strong currents between us and the shore, an’ I ain’t keen on swimming at the best of occasions.” He paused, looked directly at the Lieutenant. “Mrs Mereno. She should have vouched for me.”
Maynard shook his head. “I questioned her personally. She said she was sent below. Saw nothing except you chasing after the Fortune of Virginia, and heard cannon fire.”
“And my Letter of Marque was in my desk drawer. I put it there myself before I sailed from Nassau.”
“There was no letter, Captain Acorne.”
The cook’s boy delivered a bowl of stew. Most of it was weak stock and gristle, but sitting cross legged on the lift and dip of the deck and spooning it down, Jesamiah reckoned he had tasted worse. The tankard of rum which followed was well watered, but tasted as good as the elixir of the gods. Figuring this could well be his last drink for quite a while, he swallowed the lot down, then wrapping his coat tight about his body, went to sleep thinking, as he dozed, that his shoulder was healing remarkably quickly, considering.
There was only one reason why the letter had not been in that drawer. Alicia had removed it. Which left a new riddle to be answered.
Why?
Forty Three
Monday 21st October
Alicia had gone to church yesterday morning as she did every Sunday. She had no particular faith in God but she enjoyed singing the hymns, and sometimes the Reverend Gull’s sermons were entertaining in their own, banal way. Besides, Sunday morning worship was a weekly chance to attract the eye of young gentlemen. There was always new blood in church, for Urbanna was a busy port.
Samuel Trent had been in church too, sitting frustrated in the family pew alongside his dowdy mother; his father and brothers cleaned and polished. Trent Senior was adamant about the Lord’s Day, no one on his estate worked or played on a Sunday. God, he insisted, must be granted the respect of peace and dignity on the Sabbath. It was a pity, in Alicia’s opinion, and she rather assumed, in Samuel’s, that the miserable bugger did not pursue similar Christian values on the other six days of the week.
Peering closer into the mirror on her dressing table Alicia inspected a spot below her cheekbone. Rummaging through the array of jars bottles and phials she found a lead-based cream, dabbed it on the blemish and then coloured her cheeks with a Spanish Paper impregnated with cochineal.
For half a minute she considered whether to use red crayon on her lips, but it did so blur and smear. She bit her lips a few times. There, that had reddened them.
One final inspection in the mirror. She looked perfect. “Is the carriage ready?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” The maid, perplexed at all this activity bobbed a quick curtsey. Unless it was a Sunday, it was rare for the mistress to be from bed before ten of a morning, let alone go out.
As the carriage swung at a smart trot down the drive and Alicia caught a glimpse of partially replaced masts, she wondered when the men would be returning to complete the repairs. Presumed they would reappear in a day or two the worse for wear, and drunk. The visit from Lieutenant Maynard and the militia had alarmed her yesterday. She had not expected soldiers, nor had she calculated that her scheming might affect the entire crew of the Sea Witch. She had no quarrel with them, but they had made themselves scarce, so no harm had come of it. She had been quite proud of her answers to Maynard’s questioning. Her apparent indifference towards Jesamiah had convinced him that she was not compliant with having pirates inhabit the estate.
A pleasant journey into town; the day was sunny but not over-hot. All the same, Alicia raised her parasol to protect her skin. She was pleased and happy. Today was going to be the last day of her problems.
Urbanna seemed quiet for a Monday morning. Several ships, she noticed, had gone from port although she had no idea which ones. A slight frown of unease wrinkled her forehead as the footman handed her down from the carriage. The gaoler usually came eagerly running from his drab little house whenever someone called. More often than not shrugging on his coat and wiping food from his capacious mouth. Or buttoning his breeches. It was no surprise his wife was constantly pregnant. Mind, Alicia, along with half the town, was of the opinion that whenever any females occupied the second small cell, his wife had a chance to get off her back and put her legs together.
People paid to view the prisoners. A shilling, sometimes two, depending who was behind the bars. It was a welcome addition to the gaoler’s modest income.
She walked to the back of the house, towards the larger cell. Stopped short, her mouth open, her heart beginning to thud.
The gaol door was open. Wide open. In a confused daze she moved forward, peered inside, down the steps and into the squalid interior. Empty. She ran to the next cell, the smaller one. Nothing. No one.
In a panic she dropped her parasol and lifting her gown, ran along the lane to the square of unkempt grass behind the church. She fell to her knees, her heart almost bursting with fear, tears of relief trailing down her face leaving ugly white streaks in the cochineal.
The gibbet was empty. Thank God. Thank God!
Forty Four
Tuesday 22nd October
Charles watched the men return from the forest. They had fared well enough among the trees, for these were men used to living rough – indeed, sleeping and living on the land was easy compared to the many hardships and squalors of shipboard life. Here, there was food in abundance, fresh water to hand, shelter from the rain and the warmth of a fire to keep away
the cold. But to a sailor, it was not the same as the sea. The sounds were different, the smells. And once the food was caught and cooking on the fires, once the wood to keep the fires lit was gathered, what was there to do?
The boy, Jasper, had come up into the woods to find Rue and to say the Governor and his navy and militia soldiers were gone. That Jesamiah, too was gone.
And so it was that Charles St Croix Mereno watched the men come out from the forest with dragging feet, lowered heads and heavy hearts.
They built another fire beside the Rappahannock River, and sat around it – those men who had come back, for several were missing; those who had decided to give up a life at sea, who thought that hanging, even though they were supposed to be free men with a grant of amnesty, was too much of a risk. They had sweethearts and wives, families, so they had drifted away. A few, just a few had left for the opposite reason – they missed the life of reckless plunder, of giving chase and fighting. Amnesty was not for them, nor this skulking in the woods alert for the merest sound.
“So what do we do?” Nat Crocker asked, as he sat hunched and mournful.
“Can we find a way of setting the Captain free?”
“How? If we go to Williamsburg, then we too will be arrested.”
Charles stood in the shadows and watched and listened. He felt so helpless! There was nothing he could do except damned watch! Oh yes, he could shout at them, tell them to get up, get working, finish setting the Sea Witch fair, but he could not make them do anything!
But then, as they said themselves, what could they do?
Forty Five
Thursday 24th October – North Carolina
The rain, pouring down as if the sky were a waterfall, provided an adequate excuse for Tiola to stay within doors. No one thought to query her decision, no one else had any intention of going out either. For the most part she stayed in her room, pretending a chill, admitting only the servants and Perdita, although as one dismal day drifted into another, even her presence was becoming a little difficult to endure. Tiola had to exercise extreme patience with the girl, who was moping and bored. Not an ideal combination to conduct congenial companionship.
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