Bring It Close

by Helen Hollick

  Spotswood chewed the end of his pipe. It had remained unlit this past fifteen minutes. “So,” he said at last, “do we admit Secretary Knight and listen to what he has to say? Or do I send him away; grant him audience on the morrow?”

  “I believe we should at least hear him out, Sir. He has been reliable in the past and may have more pertinent rumour.”

  “As reluctant as I am to admit it,” Brand replied, “I agree with Captain Gordon. I have no liking for Knight and I am aware, as are you, it is probable that he has been extremely selective in what information he has passed to us. He is a weasel of a man if you ask me. His only interest is in feathering his own nest. But it could be possible that Blackbeard has at last outstayed his welcome in Bath Town. It was a bad business that with his wife, poor lass. There’s many folk would now gladly see the back of the rogue whatever the truth of the matter. If so, then aye, let us hear what Master Knight has to say.”

  When he entered, Tobias Knight was gushing and obsequious, his speech liberally patterned with reverent ‘my lord’, ‘your honour’ and ‘my dear sir’. When Spotswood remarked that to date Bath Town had appeared to have openly welcomed the pirate Blackbeard, Knight had a ready and plausible answer.

  “What could we do, Governor? He held us to ransom. If we had not co-operated with his vile and devilish wishes he would have turned his cannon on us! Look how he treated Charleston. We have only just recovered from the Indian troubles. Surely you do not expect us to blithely let our homes be burnt down, our women raped, our men enslaved?”

  “No, I do not,” Spotswood answered formidably, “but neither do I expect you to ask him to dine at your tables and offer him a daughter of the town in marriage! I expect you to fight back, damn it!” Clenching his fist, the Governor struck the desk he was sitting at.

  “Fight? With what?” Knight was indignant with his answer. “We have hardly any militia, and the few we do have carry arms that saw better days fifty years ago! We are not Virginia, Sir – we do not have the King’s patronage. We do not have excessive crops, rich plantations and chests of gold to spend on elaborate palaces or for fighting pirates who outnumber us three to one!”

  “He has a point, Governor,” Maynard commented.

  “We beg aid from Virginia to destroy Blackbeard before he re-enters the Pamlico. We do not want him back in Bath Town.”

  Conceding to the sense of that, the discussion moved on to what could be done. Knight confirmed that Blackbeard was lazing at Pilot Point with several other pirate ruffians. He had no idea of their plans of course, but given the proximity to Virginia, it did not take much of a leap of imagination to guess.

  “We need to take steps,” Spotswood decided, “some secret, some public. Let it be known I am to offer a handsome reward – £100 to the person who can capture or kill Blackbeard, £59 for his officers and £25 a head for his crew. Dead or alive, I will accept either.”

  “I think a two-pronged attack on Pilot Point,” Captain Brand added, spreading out another chart marking the Ocracoke and the North Carolina coastline of the Pamlico estuary. “Gordon here to take the Pearl and attack by sea – pen these buggers where they are. I will lead my men along here,” he indicated the coastal route, “land and attack from the rear. The pirates will have nowhere to go.”

  “But are not some of those waters rather shallow?” Maynard asked dubiously.

  “Our cannon can fire quite adequately from deeper water,” Brand assured him, “those scumbags will probably surrender as soon as they catch sight of us. Everyone knows pirates are a cowardly lot when cornered.”

  It was a good plan – to be kept secret lest word reach the pirates. Tobias Knight was given the task of returning to Governor Eden with a request that he was to muster the North Carolina militia and bring them downriver to partake in the final demise of Blackbeard.

  Spotswood himself escorted Knight to the main stairs, watched him descend and go out through the front door. He returned to his office, shaking his head. “Alas, Gentlemen, I fear most of that little performance was charade. Eden has allowed Blackbeard to get out of hand and now has no idea how to curb him. But he will not fight. Oh no, he wants us to do his dirty work in case we fail. That way he can claim innocence of the whole affair.”

  Captain Ellis Brand grinned. “But we will not fail, will we, Sir?”

  They at last played several rounds of cards. Only Maynard, being dealt four bad hands in a row, had his doubts. The plan would not work. Down to his boots he knew it would not.

  Thirty One

  North Carolina

  Luncheon in grand houses was a modest meal; cold meats, pastries, fruit. It was a modern way of thinking, as only the well off could afford three meals in the one day. For the poor, breakfast at dawn and a dinner half way through the day had to suffice, with perhaps a hunk of bread and maybe some cheese before going to bed with the sundown. But the rich could afford tallow and beeswax for candles and so could dine by artificial light. With the day extended into the night, and it being a long time between breakfast and the evening pleasantry of dinner, the partaking of a midday meal had become a popularity.

  The house at Archbell Point had been in subdued mourning, the grieving made all the worse by Eden’s refusal to acknowledge Perdita as kindred. She had shamed him in the eyes of the community and the Lord, and as Governor and temporary spiritual leader, he had refused to permit her burial in holy ground. She had an unmarked pauper’s grave outside the church walls and none save Tiola and Nicholas Page had attended her burial. A pall of gloom hung over the house as if it were a suffocating fog. The one thing that relieved Tiola’s sadness and sense of failure was that the depression was caused by these outside events, not from the Dark seeking her out. Unless she used her Craft, she would remain undetected – although the Malevolence was out there, lurking, waiting, sensing that there was something, somewhere, and drawing the Dark inward.

  Elizabeth-Anne was not hungry. She nibbled some cold beef, but set it aside and then tried bread and honey. It made her feel nauseous. She had not slept, from grief, from discomfort, the two marching side alongside.

  Tiola was watching her carefully and when the mother-to-be winced and attempted to stretch a niggling pain from her lower back, interpreted the signs. She said nothing until the gentlemen had left the table to collect their guns for an afternoon of shooting.

  “My dear,” she said, reaching across to rest her hand lightly atop Elizabeth-Anne’s, “I do believe your son has at last decided to rouse himself from his bed.”

  Thirty Two

  Virginia

  A week to get to Hampton Roads – an entire week. The frustration had annoyed at first, but Jesamiah had employed the time wisely while waiting at Pilot Point near the mouth of the Pamlico River for a suitable Chesapeake-bound vessel. The Point was expanding into a small hamlet, more than just an anchorage for ships awaiting an experienced pilot to take them up river. Besides the pilot’s house and offices, there were now chandlers’ stores, two taverns, and a barber’s. Jesamiah took advantage, had a professional haircut, shave and hot bath. Paid extra to have his clothes laundered as well, so it was a clean, fresh young man who paid his passage and stepped aboard the Judy James, heading for the Chesapeake, Hampton Roads and then to Annapolis in Maryland.

  He’d also had a stroke of luck while skulking in the pilot’s office waiting for the fellow to sort a payment disagreement down by the jetty. Rifling through some promising looking charts, he had found an architectural plan for a house. He had slipped it into his copious pocket, along with several other items that could be of use in the future – old habits lingered for an ex-pirate – and realised he now had the perfect disguise for getting to Williamsburg unnoticed. No one would recognise him if he were to assume the guise of an architect eagerly seeking patronage in the blossoming town. He purchased a leather bucket box, some more parchment and played his part well. Two people aboard the Judy James asked to see his designs; he showed them the one he had stolen and spo
ke convincingly of porticoes, cornices, foundations and load bearing walls – while having no idea what he was actually talking about. But neither did they so it was no matter.

  The Judy James was a good little craft, short in the beam, but sprightly at sea. Jesamiah spent a while with the captain, trying not to show that he was an experienced sailor, although it must have noticed for Captain James remarked how at ease he seemed, even though the wind was not being kind and the Atlantic was somewhat rough. Jesamiah shrugged it off by saying he had inherited his sea legs from his father. A true-enough statement, but a low chuckle from behind his shoulder unsettled him. When he spun around, no one was there. He was still hearing his father’s voice then.

  Captain James had not noticed anything amiss and had continued praising his ship, explaining that the craft proudly carried his mother’s name; a remarkable woman who had faced down a bear and an Indian, and as a girl had explored the forests near Jamestown. She lived in Williamsburg – the Captain offered to give the young, ambitious architect a letter of reference. “For you never know,” he had said, “my mother may be able to help set you on the right path.”

  Jesamiah was gracious, thanked him; regretted that perhaps in other circumstances this Mistress Judy James would have been a delight to know. Privately, he doubted she would be keen on welcoming a man who, last time he was in Williamsburg, had been about to hang.

  Another delay had been the sailing time. Few ships sailed from, or entered, Pamlico Sound in the afternoons, only early mornings or at dusk, notwithstanding the run of the tide or the vagaries of the wind.

  “Pirates, you see,” James had explained. “Blackbeard himself lurks among the marshes of the Ocracoke. If he spots us then, pshht, we are goners.” He had drawn his thumb across his throat in a gruesome manner. Jesamiah had added a suitable gasp of horror to those of the other passengers.

  “But we’ll be safe in the mornings and at dusk. The buggers are too drunk to wake with the sun and too busy getting drunk with its going down.”

  The pirate in him had immediately made Jesamiah realise that there was a fortune to be made by attacking at dawn or dusk. Still, he was no longer a pirate. He did not need the information. All the same, he looked with interest at another merchant ship sliding inward to the Pamlico as the sun began to warm the day and the Judy James skipped cheekily past the Ocracoke and the rabble of snoring scumbags.

  Nearing Hampton Roads he had almost had a change of plan. Tiola, after these days of silence, spoke to him.

  ~ Luvver? I think Elizabeth-Anne is in labour. ~

  ~ Thank God for that! I’ll turn around as soon as I can and come and get you. ~ And I’ll forget Blackbeard and get out of here, he added to himself.

  ~ No, I have a feeling that labour will be long and slow, and I will want to remain here for a few days, to see all is well. ~

  He had been going to argue, but ahead was the harbour and as the Judy James heeled landward he studied what vessels lay at anchor; several fishing boats and two sloops; the Ranger and the Lady Annapolis. Was puzzled to see two he knew well – his own Jane from la Sorenta and his beloved Sea Witch, clearly renamed again as Sea Siren. Explanation was soon uncovered, for he found Rue easily; there were only two taverns. An exchange of information had to be brief; Jesamiah had no fancy to walk or hire a horse. Once the Judy James had unloaded the cargo destined for Williamsburg it would be taken there by wagon. He had about half an hour before it left, three quarters at the most.

  He took advantage of the short wait by going across to the Sea Witch, listening to Rue’s various accounts as he did so. Samuel Trent and Alicia Mereno, it seemed, were in Williamsburg. How fortuitous. Jesamiah would have his chance to give the strumpet the spanking she deserved.

  As soon as he set foot on the deck he felt a thrill of elation; the men aboard cheered, glad to see him, and Sea Witch shifted slightly. Anyone else would have said the tide was turning or a wind was getting up. Jesamiah knew better. He touched a stay, a light caress with his hand. The tingling warmth in his fingers felt like a welcoming greeting. Hurrying to his cabin he batted Finch aside. He knew exactly what he wanted and did not have time to listen to a litany of complaints. “I want clean clothes, some fresh powder and flints for my pistol and some money, nothing else. Go on, Rue, you were saying?”

  Jesamiah listened as he stripped off his old clothes – becoming ragged now, despite laundering – and replaced them with new. “Are the men happy about sailing to England when this mess I’m embroiled in is done and buried?”

  Rue nodded. They were. Many of them, those who were Navy deserters or had been press-ganged had not seen their families for years. And the novelty of Virginia was already wearing thin. It was not a welcoming place for those on the wrong side of the law.

  “We loaded the ‘ogs’eads of tobacco as you asked, though much of it is poor quality. We are keeping silent on our cargo – I ‘ear there are rules about exporting the stuff?”

  Pushing his mahogany table aside, Jesamiah flicked the square of carpet back. With his knife he prised up a loose plank of the deck, reached into the black hole beneath and brought out a small wooden chest. Said to Rue, “I’ll claim I’m taking it to Cadiz if anyone asks. No one bothers about trash going to Spain. But I don’t want you hanging around here too long, Rue. Take the Sea Witch to Pilot Point beyond Pamlico Sound, will you? When I join you, we will collect Tiola and leave this damned coast. Sail into the Pamlico at dawn or dusk. I have it on good authority it’s a wise thing to do, but be cleared for action, just in case.”

  Rue’s face lit into a broad smile at the prospect of Tiola coming aboard. “Oui! Certainement! Miss Tiola is ready to come ‘ome? Bon, bon!”

  Jesamiah opened the chest. Inside were various small canvas bags and pouches. He took one out, tossed it to Rue. It was heavy and it chinked. “Not quite, but she will be by the time I’ve done. Take this and share the coins between the men, they deserve some pay. I’ll be wanting the Jane. Send those landlubber daisies that crew her back to la Sorenta, I need experienced men who know how to shoot straight and don’t mind being shot at. Volunteers though.” Jesamiah emphasised the words, “Only volunteers.” He laid two more bags on the floor and slid two small pouches into his waistcoat pocket.

  Rue was observing him quizzically. Concerned. “I like not the sound of that, mon ami. You are expecting a fight?”

  “A battle. Wait for me at Pilot Point. You’ll hear the outcome. If it is not favourable you will look after Tiola for me?”

  The answering nod was slow, not because Rue had any doubt about caring for Tiola, quite the opposite, for he looked upon her as a daughter, but Jesamiah was implying that he might not be surviving this. “Does Miss Tiola know of what you are to become involved in? A fight, per’aps to the death?”

  Jesamiah replaced the plank, stamped it down and kicked the carpet over it. Shoved the table to where it should stand. He shook his head. “Nope. Nor is she going to.”

  Originally he’d had no intention of keeping his promise to Teach. He would take word to Spotswood, fulfil his side of the bargain and then be gone, but those few quiet days aboard the Judy James had caused a change of mind. There had been shocked talk of Mary Ormond’s death and the tailor’s mutilation. The scandal of the other girl’s suicide, even though it had been hushed up. And Tiola’s own grief. It was something she had let slip that altered his plans. When he attacked me that night, she had said.

  ~ What night? What do you mean? ~ Jesamiah had immediately leapt in with questions, but she had made little to no reply.

  ~ It was nothing, ~ she had said. ~ Nothing. ~

  Jesamiah had already learnt that nothing, where Tiola was concerned, usually meant something big. Teach had to be dealt with. And sailing north towards the Chesapeake, Jesamiah had realised that he could not trust the Royal Navy to deal with it efficiently. And if the bastard had indeed attempted to assault Tiola then he had no intention of letting someone else put a bullet through his bloody head.


  Thirty Three

  The wagon set its passengers down near Bruton Church opposite the Market Square, then trundled off towards the Sir Christopher Wren College. Hefting his bag of dunnage over his shoulder, Jesamiah stood, getting his bearings and deciding what to do.

  Williamsburg, as a capital, was only nineteen years old. The Virginia Colonists had abandoned the previous location at Jamestown after their statehouse had burned down for the fourth time. The new site, known then as Middle Plantation, had already been expanding into a prosperous neighbourhood of stores, taverns and houses, and with its church, college and the William and Mary Hospital, the area had already cultivated a prestigious air. No one had objected to the founding of the town, nor its naming for the man who was, then, its King.

  Mid-afternoon. There were a few stalls set up, quite a bustle of people milling around. There was a population of about one thousand, or so Jesamiah had heard, although whether this included the black slaves or not he had no idea. Would slaves – black or white – count as population? The number of people almost doubled during Publick Times, but that was over, visitors had gone. Any poor soul locked in the gaol would now have to wait for the next quarter session of Court for trial. Relieved he was not one of them, he strolled eastward along Main Street, glancing briefly up the grand, tree-lined avenue of Palace Street. Should he risk being open and simply march up to the palace and demand to see the Governor? Without credentials it was unlikely he would get one foot in the door. Ironic. In shackles he had walked right in, as a free man, he dared not approach those fancy wrought-iron gates. He would have to get word to Spotswood somehow, but according to the law, in Williamsburg he was a pirate due to be hanged. No, he would stick with his alias of Joshua Oakwood and await a suitable opportunity. One would come, they always did. Although sometimes you had to go after them under full sail and with cannons loaded and run out.