Sea Witch (13 page)

Nineteen

The party was ruined. Embarrassment was Phillipe’s worst mortification and it was embarrassing, standing on the jetty listening to all the commiserations that were as false as the smile he wore.

“Bloody pirates,” the Governor of Virginia was saying. “How’d they get up this far? That’s what I want to know.” Amiably he patted Phillipe’s arm. “Do not worry y’self lad, the guardship will catch the buggers down river. Ye’ll have your ship back by noon on the morrow, y’have m’word. Ye’ll see ‘em hang, ye’ll see ‘em hang. I’ll not have pirates making the fools of us, no sir, I will not have it.”

The Governor’s intention may have been well meaning but Phillipe knew the words for what they were; flatulence trumpeted in a silent room, quickly apologised for and hastily waved away. The guardship hired and kept at great expense by the Colony was useless. She would be moored somewhere up river and her crew dead drunk. They always were. An entire fleet of pirates could invade before those useless ragamuffins were aware of it. And even if they were aware, they were inept and incapable of doing anything about it.

“D’ye know who he was, this blackguard masquerading as a Spaniard? Fooled us all eh? Don’t blame y’self lad, fooled us all. Looked and spoke the part, some half-breed servant’s brat, I’ve no doubt.”

Reluctant to admit the truth Phillipe hesitated. Yes, he knew the bastard, what had he to lose by being honest? “He was my half-brother, the swab my father sired on the Spanish whore he lived with. You must remember her? I did not recognise him until it was too late.”

Indeed, the Governor remembered the woman well, not least for the reason that she had refused his advances on several occasions. “Skinny, pale-faced boy?” he queried. “Always mumbled if I recollect, scared of his own shadow. Wouldn’t have had the courage to piss into a tin pot.”

Phillipe nodded. That was him.

Slapping Mereno’s shoulder the Governor declared with enthusiasm, his curled wig bouncing on his shoulders, “By Gad the fellow’s changed then, eh? Has found out how t’use the prick in his package. Impudent bugger.”

Phillipe merely glowered.

The servants managed to persuade everyone back into the house, the damp of a rising river mist helping them along. Phillipe, feigning laughter, made light of the affair, agreeing he could see the amusing side; damned fine entertainment, most unusual. Yes, the fellow had been his half-brother, the one he had thrown off the plantation some years ago now, and yes, he would see him hang.

“Young Jesamiah? I always said he had a bad streak in him,” someone said, one of the older men who had been a close friend to Charles Mereno. “To turn on you the way he did that night? Ah, a sorry business. A sorry business indeed. You did right to throw him out, the dog that bites the hand that feeds him is a dog that should be shot, I always say. Pity you did not hang the fellow there and then. Always said he was a bad ‘un.”

He had never said anything of the sort but Phillipe let it pass.

The orchestra made a valiant attempt to raise enthusiasm for dancing, a wasted effort, the party had been effectively ruined. A good two hours before expected, several of the guests were making their excuses to leave. The plantation owners with estates fronting the river, anxious to get home and ensure their houses had not been plundered or burnt by pirates. Damn fools. Did they think themselves so important? Only one ship had been stolen, one poxed, leaking ship! But it had been Phillipe’s ship and the bastard who had stolen it was the brother who had ruined his life all those years ago. And now here he was doing so all over again!

From across the room Phillipe’s cold stare met with Alicia as she happened to glance up while talking to some overdressed old biddy, and the rage already congealing in his stomach settled there like a solid lump of porridge. If he thought for one moment the words his brother had shouted were true…

Alicia saw the look on her husband’s face, blanched. She had been a fool to marry him – had been swept up by his apparent charm and wealth, by his promises and declarations, only to discover soon after their wedding night it had all been lies. He had wanted her money, nothing more. Now he had it he did not care what happened to her or her three-year-old son. He treated them both with contempt and indifference.

Jesamiah was a handsome bastard, his touch as it always had in the past, instantly firing her desire. He too had lied. In Port Royal where life as a prostitute had been a squalid hand-to-mouth existence he had taken her to the dizzy heights of hope for something better. Then casually dropped her back into the dung-heap. Yes! These two were certainly brothers! Her disappointment and the guilty realisation at what she and Jesamiah had so casually done upstairs now appalled her.

She said something, hoped it sounded sensible, to the foul old woman who smelt of mould and urine. Dreaded the moment she would find herself alone with her husband. Her mind returned to the room upstairs where she had allowed Jesamiah to...Oh good God, what had she done?

Distracted by someone seeking conversation Phillipe moved out of the line of her vision. She breathed a sigh of relief. What was undoubtedly to come would not be the first beating she had received at his hands, he was a vindictive, jealous man. Fleetingly she wondered, if she saddled a horse and galloped it hard would she catch Jesamiah downriver, could she plead to be taken aboard? A foolish idea. What would be her option then? To return to prostitution, give up both her sons? All this? The occasional beating she could endure, a lifetime of hopeless poverty she could not.

Playing the charming hostess, another half hour passed the stolen ship and Jesamiah’s identity remaining the only topic of conversation, the same words going around and around like a spinning cartwheel. Alicia squeaked alarm as a hand clamped on her arm, hauled her into a shadowed recess. Phillipe was not to wait for the guests to go then, was to say something now. She flinched, expecting a blow.

He did not hit her but came straight out with what he intended to say. “I have the impression you knew who he was all along.”

Indignant, she countered, “Of course I did not! How could I? I assumed he was someone you knew, a friend of yours. I was shocked when he told me he was your brother! As shocked as you were.”

“Oh, you knew who he was, my lady. I am not naive. And now I know who you were too. Who and what you were. I never thought I would be grateful to my brother for something.”

Alicia was an excellent actress. A good prostitute always was, for she had to pretend she was enjoying her client’s attention, that he was special and well endowed in size and performance. Praise brought better payment. The truth of boredom and a man’s inept clumsiness would have left a working woman penniless.

She tried to wrest her arm away from the grip hurting her. Her anger was real, fuelled by guilt. “I know not what you mean. I was the fool to be taken in by his charm, but he charmed you too, did he not? The foul man attempted to seduce me. I put him firmly in his place and returned to our guests. Had I accommodated him mayhap he would have been satisfied and not stirred muddied waters by revealing who he was. Had I lifted my skirts for him, perhaps he would have left your stupid ship alone!”

It was a good performance and Phillipe believed it because he had to – and the lie sounded plausible. He desperately wanted to believe Alicia, for the alternative was sickening. From the day his father had returned home with the slut who claimed she was his wife and the son she had dropped, his life had been ruined. Father had been besotted with the woman, only had interest for her and that puking brat she cooed over. And when Papa came home from his sea voyages – he was often gone for months at a time – who was it he greeted first? Oh no, not his eldest, not his firstborn! It was always Jesamiah he swung into the air and played with!

Every time Phillipe had tried to attract Charles Mereno’s attention to tell him things he thought his Papa ought to know, what the man made him do in the stables for instance, he had been ignored or shunted aside; passed over for that pretty boy with black curls and dark eyes.

How he hated Jesamiah!

“If ever I discover what my brother told me is true, Ma’am, before I have you thrown out I will see you publicly flogged and humiliated for the whore you may be. Do I make myself clear?”

Alicia just hoped, prayed, Jesamiah had not left her with a child. Decided she had best take steps to assure her continuing status and safety. She walked a few yards, turned and said, “I must inform you of something I had been intending to tell you in the privacy of our bed, perhaps it might help you conclude whether you value me as your wife or not.” She put her hand on her stomach, not as flat as it had been before she had birthed her sons. “I believe I am with child again. My flux has not come.”

As a second lie it was perfect. If there was no child it would be easy to “lose” it within the next month or so. And if there was one, well, men were hopeless at counting and calculating women’s dates.

Phillipe let her return to their guests. What choice had he? Make a scene here, add to the talk that would be buzzing and frothing through Virginia for months to come? He had wanted to be on the lips of every man and women, but as a superb host, as a respected man, not as the idiot made a fool of by his own half-brother.

Well intentioned, the Governor had said he would get his ship back, Phillipe doubted it, did not particularly want it back. All he wanted was Jesamiah Mereno or Acorne – with an ‘e’ – as he now called himself, to pay for this night’s bad work. Oh he would be paying dearly! It might take a while to track him down, to capture him, but at some time in the future, whether it was months or years ahead, Jesamiah Acorne would make a mistake, and when he did, he, Phillipe Mereno, intended to be there to force him to his knees, make him beg for his life. Oh yes, the bastard would regret this day. Would regret he had ever been born.

What was it Jesamiah had said? That he was no longer frightened of his elder brother? Phillipe’s lip curled in a small, humourless smile. Even if it took him years to do so, he would prove him wrong. Very, very, wrong.

Twenty

“Not fast enough!” Jesamiah roared. “Do it again!”

Gun practice. No use having a ship with ten six-pound guns if the crew were so damned useless only one or two of them could be fired efficiently.

“Mr Rue, Mr Roberts,” Jesamiah continued, ignoring the swathe of muttered grumbles and derogatory oaths, “I want you to time each side, starb’d against larb’d. Those gunners who finish first will get extra rum. Do it nearer one minute than two and I’ll double the ration for a week. Losers swab the decks. We need these guns firing with speed and precision, lads – unless you want our new partner over there to get the pick of the plunder?”

Catcalls, a few blasphemous remarks and gestures were directed at Captain Henry Jennings. It had not been in the original plan to team up with another vessel, but practicality had won the argument. As Jennings himself had said to Jesamiah in a Jamaican tavern to the western end of Kingston’s main street, “If you want to sweep up, lad, you are going to need a hefty broom.”

Jamaica had not been an ideal choice to find a crew and to re-fit the
Alicia Galley
– renamed
Inheritance
. She had needed guns and gun ports cut; extensive worm damage repairing, a new fore topmast and bowsprit, replacement sails. Kingston harbour had the best material and men, and as long as Jesamiah kept his face away from the fort, who was there to recognise him? Perfectly legal and innocent, he was a merchant selling his cargo of tobacco, re-fitting and having a decent bath and shave all at the one chance. He was glad to be rid of the excess of facial hair, preferring his more usual neat-trimmed moustache and jaw line beard.

Henry Jennings had been a friend of Malachias Taylor, naturally, he and Jesamiah had spent a few evenings yarning together. Jennings was a privateer, ostensibly, in the Caribbean at the commission of His Majesty King George to hunt pirates. A pity, he had declared, there did not appear to be any.

“They’re loitering along the Florida reefs,” he had complained as he poured another generous tot of rum for them both. “All turned salvage experts diving for treasure.”

“Fools’ errand.” Jesamiah had responded. “Why put all the effort into collecting it, when the Spanish can do it for you?”

Jennings had looked at him quizzically, and Jesamiah, grinning, had outlined his plan. “The King of Spain is shitting his breeches to get his bloody fortune back. And the Florida reefs are crawling with Spanish divers trying to find the sodding stuff, which is then,” he had paused, taken a long swallow of his drink. “Which is then shipped up the coast under heavy guard against us pirates.”

He had laughed derisively. The Spanish idea of efficient guardships did not match his own; there was not a Spaniard he could not take.

“The way to become rich, Cap’n Jennings me ol’ mate, is simple.” Jesamiah, rapidly becoming drunk, had banged the table with the flat of his hand, making the scatter of empty bottles and the sputtering candle leap. “I sail into wherever it is they’ve put this ‘ere store’ouse. I talk Spanish, I look Spanish, who’s to say I ain’t Shpanish? Least, not ‘til I shail out again with as much in me ‘old as m’ship can carry without sinkin’.” Enthusiasm and an excess of rum made his eyes shine, and his slurred speech degenerate into the lazy, shipboard pattern of talk.

Impressed with the idea, Jennings had suggested it would be even easier to dance to that piped tune if Jesamiah would accept him as partner.

The plan was simple, and as with most of Jesamiah’s simple plans it should work as sweet as honey. Except, to make honey you required bees. And bees if annoyed, stung. Spanish bees in particular – hence the need to practise with the guns. Just in case.

Superiority in battle was obtained only by regular training, the raw energy of men, and teamwork. A second broadside of cannon fired simultaneously in under two minutes could be devastating, as Jesamiah to his cost had occasionally discovered. A cannon ball weighing six pounds fired at close range, even if it did not penetrate through the thickness of a hull, could send up a cascade of splinters that maimed as effectively as the shot itself. Or rip down the rigging and tear holes in the sails – and men. But guns were only as good as the gunners who manned them.

Once fired, the heavy iron cannon had to be hauled in the old wadding, muck and residue swabbed out, and the whole process of reloading started again. It was this routine Jesamiah wanted to perfect. The quicker it was done the better the chance of winning. And staying alive.

“You, lad,” Jesamiah called to one of the younger crew, there were several under the age of fifteen. “spread more sand on the deck behind number three gun. Look lively there, I ought not have had need to tell you!” Wooden decks became slippery when blood was running; sand helped men keep their footing.

“Make ready,” Jesamiah shouted. “Run out the guns. Powder monkeys, on your toes!”

The youngest boys aboard had the task of bringing the gunpowder up from the magazine in the lowest deck. Too dangerous to keep the stuff elsewhere, and even below the store was protected by curtains of wet canvas to stop sparks from flying in and sending the lot sky high, ship and crew with it. Raising his arm Jesamiah checked that the minute-timers were ready, paused, looked down the length of the gun deck.

Do it for me lads
, he thought; said aloud, “Let’s show Jennings he has a partner to reckon with, eh?” He spread his fingers dropped his hand, shouted, “Fire!”

The guns roared, the ship shuddered as the cannon boomed out across the sea. The men worked hard, damned hard. They admired Jesamiah, a fair captain who never expected anything of any man that he could not do himself. Aside, he had promised a personal fortune at the end of this cruise.

Run in, swab, reload, run out. The larboard battery went off a moment before the starboard, the gun captains yelling and cursing and urging their men on; the powder monkeys skittering about like the creatures they were named for. Men were sweating, the muscles in their arms and backs and legs aching from exertion.

“One minute and twenty,
Capitaine
!” Rue shouted, elated, as the last gun hurled its shot into the sea. “They ‘ave done it!”

The gun deck was awash with smoke and the stink of gunpowder and sweat. Jesamiah carolled his delight along with the cheering crew. “Well done! Well done my lads! Rum all round I reckon, that was as near as damn it to being perfect!”

He strode forward, patting men on their backs, on their shoulders, shaking hands, his face a beam of genuine delight. Of course, they would have to do the same under enemy fire, which would be a different rig of sails entirely, but if they practised and practised again, the procedure would become second nature, whatever the foul conditions. Many pirate ships did not care a cock’s crow for practice, or discipline and order, but Jesamiah had made one thing clear. He was Captain and when there was work to be done, it would be done to the best of their combined ability. If anyone did not approve of his way of running things then they could clear off out of it. And forget the reward of Spanish treasure.

He walked the length of the deck, back again, sharing the achievement of his men, smiling as a keg of rum was broached. Starting to head for the privacy of his cabin he halted, swung slowly around on his heel and fixed the nearest man with his formidable stare; held the gaze until his victim submitted and lowered his head.

“One thing,” Jesamiah said with rigid authority, staring, one by one, at every man present, his dark eyes briefly locking into and holding each returned gaze.

“The next time you grumble about my orders, if I hear any one of you scabrous dogs calling me a bloody bilge-sucker again you’ll be shark bait.” He snapped the last, loud and succinct. “Do I make m’self clear?”

Several men looked away, ashamed. The few who had deserted the Royal Navy saluted. A general embarrassed, mumbled, answer rolled along the gun deck.

“Aye, aye Cap’n.”