Bring It Close (25 page)

Two

Teach bade farewell to Eden where the path divided, one direction leading through a shrubbery into Archbell Point’s substantial gardens, the other to the town. Teach had a fitting of his new clothes: his wedding apparel. He was not eager for the experience, for all this poking and prying and fal-da-rolling was becoming tedious. Why in the devil’s several names could he not simply marry the wretched girl, bed her, impregnate her and be done with it? John Ormond wanted a pirate’s services to protect his valuable cargo, well, there would not be much protecting being done while the
Adventure
lay at anchor, would there?

This whole performance ashore was becoming more of a nuisance with every passing day. Was it worth it? Was it worth all this bowing and scraping and pretending to be a gentleman? Aboard ship he could do as he pleased, whatever he commanded was instantly obeyed – by God he ensured it was so! Yet not here in this pockmarked pretentious town, where not a-one of them if stripped of their lace-edged finery and curled wigs were any better than he underneath. If you peered close enough they were all thieves and scoundrels: lying knaves and poxed whores; townsfolk turning a blind eye to the fact that he and his entire crew were wanted men and should be dancing a jig at the wrong end of a rope. Ormond was only interested in making money from the safe shipment of his cargo – the man cared not a frayed bowline for what his daughter thought. Mind, neither did Teach as he swaggered along Main Street tipping his hat left and right to person after person who feigned pleasure at seeing him. Mary Ormond was a ripe fruit ready for plucking and virgin maids were a rare treat for a sailor to sample. Eden and Knight, for all their official status, were another pair of mendacious rogues doing secretive deals with a pirate to swell the gold in their private coffers. They were nothing more than greedy thieves, using people for their own gain, and they were either fools or not the God-fearing men they pretended to be! How many times now had he brought them stolen goods? Tea, cocoa, sugar, brandy, rum. Timber, silver plate, furniture, silks, spices. Every bit of it delivered with the same yarn: he had found a vessel run aground and abandoned in the shallows of the Ocracoke, so he said. By the law of the sea, whoever found such a boat was entitled to whatever he could salvage. Just his luck that each one had a full and valuable cargo.

Teach was careful to give the larger portion of the spoils to Eden and Knight, who not once had murmured a single doubt about his claim of salvage. And naturally, Teach ensured any Chase he captured was blown to pieces and burnt, every soul aboard sent to a watery grave. There was never to be any evidence to gainsay his plausible stories.

The tailor’s shop was ahead. Another obsequious buffoon. Did Master Gabriel seriously think he was going to be paid? Hah! Not by Teach he was not! Teach guffawed to himself as he stepped into the tailor’s shop, his eyes taking a moment to focus in the shadowed interior.

“Good day to you, Sir, your garments are ready. If I may say, the coat is exceptionally exquisite. You made a superb choice of cloth and colour.”

Almost retching at hearing his father’s grovelling, Jonathan Gabriel remained in the rear of the shop; he knew he would be summoned to assist with the fitting. He was sweating from running and a little dishevelled, but if his father noticed anything amiss he could easily make some excuse. When his name was tetchily called with the order to fetch out the coat and waistcoat, Jonathan ran a hand through his hair to smooth it, calmed his nerves and stepped through the curtained doorway fixing a professional shopkeeper’s servile smile to his face.

A smile which he managed to retain when a moment later Teach stated; “Been walkin’ ‘long tha river, have thee, lad? Thy boots be muddy. Were it thee in tha bushes tumblin’ tha young Missee from tha house?”

Three

Tuesday 29th October – Virginia

According to his own written account, in 1610 Captain John Smith had ordered the demoralised and close to starving New World settlers to build a fort at the mouth of the James River. Although the land had not been officially named as ‘Earl of Southampton Roadstead’ until over half a century later, it had not taken long for the name to be colloquially shortened to ‘Hampton Roads’.

Jesamiah had read the account as a child, and even then he had considered those early settlers to be either simple-minded or brain-mashed. They had argued with Smith, who in a fit of pique had gone off on his own expedition, only to return months later to find the colony barely surviving on a daily ration of one pint of wormy grain boiled in water.

Shoving the bowl of succulent lobster across his dining table – the wood newly polished and gleaming – Jesamiah urged Samuel Trent to eat.

“You may profess to not be hungry boy, but I have been treated to a diet of corn mush. I am taking advantage of something worth eating while I may.” He selected a lobster claw and sucked out the meat. “Those early settlers had no idea these creatures, abundant in these waters, were suitable for eating. Can you imagine?”

Samuel made no answer. He was not hungry and he did not feel like talking.

Jesamiah was ignoring the sultry mood. Trent was not sailing with them to North Carolina and that was final.

“Not being a sea-fellow you may not realise that in maritime parlance, ‘roads’ means safe anchorage. Even without the lobster this would be one of the best harbours in the area. Williamsburg was found to be a better place to build and live, though – too marshy down here, too many mosquitoes and those years ago, not enough friendly natives.” He tossed the claw away, selected another, “Mind, old Captain Smith found himself an Indian girl as a friend. According to popular myth they were lovers, though I always understood from Smith’s writings that she was only thirteen. Did you know she went to England? She is buried at Gravesend along the Thames.”

Gruff, shoulders hunched, mouth turned downward, Trent muttered, “I am sorry, I have no idea what or who you are talking about.”

Jesamiah sighed. “Ain’t you learned any history? I’m talking about Pocahontas.”

Trent retained his blank expression. Jesamiah gave up with the small talk. “Look. You ain’t coming. You are no use to me aboard ship and you will be no use to me once I get to Bath Town. Can you fight? Can you fire a pistol?”

“You know I can. I challenged you to a duel, remember?”

“Aye well, maybe you can shoot a gentleman’s duelling piece when you have a fair chance to take your ten paces, turn and fire at your leisure. Could you do so when others are running rampage and are determined to shoot you first? And aside of that, have you ever actually killed a man?”

Belligerent, Trent folded his arms tighter, shook his head and pouted. “No.”

“No. An’ going against Blackbeard ain’t the best of occasions t’start practising.”

The great cabin door opened, Rue peered round it. “The water is aboard and stowed,
mon ami
.”

“Very good Rue. We will sail as soon as Mr Trent here gets himself ashore.”

Rue approximated a rough version of a Navy salute which went only as far as his chin. “
Oui Capitaine
.”

Jesamiah stood, gestured towards the door, which Rue had left open. “I will not change my mind Samuel. I thank you for retrieving my Letter of Marque. I thank you for taking it direct to Governor Spotswood – and aye, I thank you for bringing my ship here to Hampton Roads, but I as much thank you to go ashore and return to Urbanna.”

One last, desperate try. “But I have nothing to go back to. No reason to be there or stay there. I do have a reason to be here.” He pointed at his feet.

“And what reason would that be?” Jesamiah answered with gentle patience. “To get yourself killed on my behalf? That ain’t no reason.”

With a drooping head and dragging feet Samuel allowed himself to be escorted along the short, dark corridor and out onto the open deck. A harbour boat was bobbing alongside and the men of the
Sea Witch
were waiting for it to be gone. Even though they had disguised her as a merchant ship, the
Sea Siren
, not one of them had felt easy idling here at Hampton under the suspicious eyes of the pirate-hating Virginians. They were ready to make sail; leaning on the shipped bars at the capstan, waiting to heave the anchor cable in; ready to run aloft. Braces, lifts, tacks, sheets were all coiled down clear and ready for running. The topsail halliards were of new rope and had been well stretched to prevent any kinks when first used. An awning that had been rigged was stowed away, as were the many other things that crept on deck when in harbour. In the tops, gear was coiled down and the lubber-holes left clear.

So many other things that to Trent went unnoticed but to Jesamiah’s experienced eye told him both ship and crew were ready and waiting. The pumpwell would have been sounded, the flaps on the scuppers were of new leather. The splashboards were fitted and caulked around the gun ports, and tompions were in place to protect the bore against salt corrosion. The guns themselves run in and secured.

Jesamiah walked with Trent to the entry port; held out a hand. Despite his moroseness, Trent had a firm, solid handshake. He was a good lad, would become a good man. One to be trusted, no matter what. With genuine feeling Jesamiah said, “I sincerely thank you, Samuel, but you cannot come with me.”

Nathan Crocker stepped forward, handed Samuel a canvas-wrapped package.

“This is for you,” Jesamiah explained, “a token of my appreciation. There is a letter in there too, for Alicia.”

There was another letter waiting on Jesamiah’s desk. The one from his father, sealed, unopened, untouched. At the right moment Jesamiah would read it, but not here. Not now.

As Samuel settled himself in the stern thwarts, the package on his lap, he looked upward and Jesamiah caught the stark anguish in the young man’s eyes; took it for acute disappointment. “Take care of Mrs Mereno for me,” he called down. “I wish to deal with her myself when I am finished about my present business.”

The bumboat began to pull away, Jesamiah saw Samuel mouthing some words but could not hear them, for the strengthening wind took them away and Nat was shouting at the men to stand ready to loose the headsails. Those at the capstan began to strain at the bars, pushing their weight against that of the anchor. The capstan jerked as the men began to stamp around and around, then cranked steadily bringing the dripping cable slowly inboard.

“Hands aloft! Loose tops’ls,” Jesamiah shouted. The rigging and shrouds were suddenly alive with men running upward like agile monkeys.

The men at the capstan broke into song, a chanty to keep the rhythm steady and make the work less arduous. A single voice refrained the main line of the verse, everyone eagerly joining the chorus, their tones varying from deep tenor to light soprano.

We’re bound for the wide sea, no more land now for me…

So heave ho, heave ho, heave ho m’lads.

The crew are me best mates, the rest are a right state…

So heave ho, heave ho, heave ho m’lads.

The bosun’s a daisy we know he’s half crazy…

Rue stepped up beside his captain and friend, leant his arms on the rail as Jesamiah was doing. “It took that lad a long while to persuade us to come ‘ere,
mon ami
, but ‘e is as persistent as a terrier down a rabbit ‘ole. ‘E is, I think, most fond of you?”

“He will be even fonder when he opens that package. I have written instructions that he is to manage la Sorenta until we return.”

“And if we do not?”

“Then he will be managing it for a long time, won’t he?”

They watched as Trent climbed the wooden ladder on to the jetty, the package clutched firmly in his hand.

“Alicia may change her mind about him now he has a position of authority.” Jesamiah remarked as he raised an arm in farewell.

The pawls went
clack, clack, clack
, as the men pushed their weight against the capstan, the sound of their bare feet hollow on the wooden deck. The thick, heavy anchor cable coming in inch by slimed inch was fed down the hatch. Many a pirate ship let it pile up wet and stinking where it fell, leaving it to gradually rot, for they would simply replace it with a new one on the next Chase. But Jesamiah ran an efficient ship. He would not tolerate slovenliness. Men would be down in the cable tier wrestling with the tons of sodden rope to lay it neatly on the wooden slats that drained, dried and aired it. A horrible, filthy, disgusting job, but a job that had to be done.

Rue chuckled, pressed Jesamiah’s arm. “Madam Mereno may, but my friend, ‘e will not.” He slapped Jesamiah’s shoulder. “It is not only the ladies who adore you,
Capitaine
, over there is another who is smitten by your ‘andsome
visage
,
non
?” He walked away, the chuckles becoming loud guffaws.

Jesamiah frowned after him, not understanding. It took him a full two minutes to comprehend what Rue had meant. He reddened, embarrassed, then realised what chanty the men were singing. Knew the next line:

“
The Captain’s a bugger but his friend buggers better…So heave ho, heave ho, heave ho m’lads!”

“Anchor’s hove short!” Nat called, neatly halting Jesamiah from berating the men with the sharp side of his tongue. Grumpily he stomped up the ladder to his accustomed place to leeward of the helm on the quarterdeck and kept them all waiting for several seconds, aware that many of them were grinning. Why had he not seen the obvious about Trent? Everyone else had apparently, damn it. Damn it!

“Man the braces! Lively there, Crawford!” Annoyed by the jest at his expense, Jesamiah found the man’s repeated slackness all the more irritating. “That man has one more chance, Nat,” he said. “If he catches my attention again he’s off this ship. Make sure he knows it.”

The great topsails were billowing down, flapping and cracking in the wind like wild confused beasts set free from their cages, the seamen clinging on to the yards, taming them, chivvying the expanse of canvas to obey, to come to order.

“Aye Cap’n.” Nat hid a grin; best to keep from Jesamiah that Crawford had not pulled his weight during the careen either. If ever there was an idler it was Bob Crawford.

Isiah Roberts was at the helm, his steadfast gaze watching the set of the canvas.

“Set course to take us out of here, Isiah. Or are you too busy chortling to steer straight?”

“Me Sir? Chortling Sir? No Sir. I wouldn’t be chortling.”

Rue, remaining down in the waist, doubled over with laughter, the tears drizzling down his cheeks. It was infectious, the entire crew joined in, the sound of hilarity rippling through the ship like the upsurge roll of a wave.

“When you have all quite finished,” Jesamiah remarked sternly, “perhaps we can get under way?”

“Aye Sir; certainly Sir.”

Jesamiah looked from Nat at the rail to Isiah, who stood legs planted apart, both hands on the spokes staring solidly at the widening expanse of canvas. “And cut the fokken piss-taking, the pair of you. If this were a Navy ship I’d be ‘avin’ the lot of you flogged round the fleet for insubordination.”

“Don’t you mean for insub-arse-ination, Cap’n?” Nat’s quip was crude but it set everyone laughing again.

Rue joined Jesamiah on the quarterdeck, scrubbing at the laughter tears on his face. “Ah lad, lad, if this were a Navy ship, we would not be sharing the friendship of a
très bonne blague,
would we, eh?”

“A very good joke you call it, do you? I do not.” Jesamiah shrugged, then conceded defeat. “All right, I admit it is funny. But I would prefer to retain some form of discipline aboard my ship – even if it is only to get under way with a glimmer of efficiency. Savvy?”

Rue nodded. Fair enough, the jest had served its purpose but was now outstaying its welcome. Time for the serious business.

“Anchor’s aweigh!”

Sea Witch
moved forward taken by tide and wind, set free of her restraints.
Clank, clank, clank,
the capstan continued to turn, the anchor swinging like a pendulum as it rose, dripping and weed slimed above the surface of the water.

“Lee braces! ‘Eave away!” Rue called sharply. “Jump to it! Main and fore course!”

With a roar like thunder the sails filled and hardened to the steady thrust of the wind, no more confusion or lazy flapping. Isiah threw himself to the spokes of the helm to hold her steady.

Jesamiah felt the deck cant over in the sweetest possible way as the
Sea Witch
paid off into the wind and showed a faint gleam of the new-cleaned copper bottom. She was under way, sliding gracefully forward through the water, a beautiful, almost living thing, her sail pressure balanced against the rudder. His dull temper lifted as she spread her wings and flew; he tipped his head back and guffawed, at last seeing the jest for himself. “I hope that molly boy ain’t no longer aboard, Nat,” Jesamiah said against the roar of the wind, the rumble of canvas and the sound of the water rushing past the keel. “If he is, toss him overboard. One lover-boy is enough to be dealing with, thank you very much!”

The yards braced round to take maximum advantage of the wind and the anchor being hauled towards the cathead.

“Ain’t seen any of those whores since we reached la Sorenta. They scarpered as soon as we moored. Reckon the lot of them made for the brothels in Urbanna,” Rue said.

Jesamiah grinned back at him. “Thank God for that!”

Everything was creaking and banging. The wind whined through the rigging as if an orchestra of demented fiddlers were playing some god-forsaken devil’s tune.

“She seems well,” Jesamiah said a few minutes later, nodding his head at his ship. “You did a handsome job. I’m proud of you all.” He stepped towards the mizzen stay, reached out and scratched it affectionately, felt
Sea Witch
’s deck ripple beneath his feet as she shifted balance. Could have sworn that he felt her smile.