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.
“Damn.” Tiola held the sketched drawing away from her, eyeing it critically.
From the window seat where she sat, knees tucked beneath her, sewing lying limp on her lap these past fifteen minutes, Perdita turned to look at her. “Is it not going right?”
Sighing, Tiola grimaced. “I cannot get the stern lantern as it should be. It is too flat. The base is not quite straight.” Wrinkling her nose, she held it up.
Perdita scrutinised the drawing. A ship at anchor, viewed from the stern. One of the great cabin windows hinged open. The rigging was intricate, the clouds and the sea echoing the rainstorm that was lashing the horizon. The name was across the back, with a motif of oak leaves.
“
Sea Witch
,” Perdita said, “is she a boat you know?”
Tiola had another attempt at altering the lantern that would, on the real vessel, stand almost as high as a man’s shoulders. It was a huge thing which the men crawled inside to clean. Her tongue poking between her lips in concentration she did not look up. “Mmm?”
“I said do you, then, know a boat called the
Sea Witch
?”
“Ship. She is a ship, she has three masts – a boat has only one or two – and
ais
, I know her.”
Perdita set the sewing aside and uncurling her knees felt for her slippers, which she had discarded and left on the wooden floor. She put her hands on the window seat, leant forward eagerly. “And you know more than just this ship?”
Cocking her head on one side, Tiola added a little shading. Did that help? Not really.
“The Captain for instance? Do you know the Captain?”
Putting the drawing and her charcoal aside, Tiola smiled at the girl, admitted that she did.
Leaping to her feet, with her arms outstretched, Perdita did a few excited twirls, then brought her arms in to hug herself, her head tipping back, eyes closed. “A handsome sea captain sailing to distant and exotic lands of the eastern Indies. He is to bring back teas and spices, and silks and perfumes.” She opened her eyes, carved the air with an imaginary sword. “With brave gallantry he will save his crew from cannibals and pirates.” She clapped a hand to her shoulder, staggered a few paces. “Oh! He has been wounded.” She fell into a chair, the back of her hand held against her forehead. “Oh, my poor captain!” She pretended to faint then planting a kiss to her fingers, threw it into the air. “Love will revive him! He dreams of his sweetheart, and her dear face gives him strength and hope!”
Tiola was amused at the girl’s mummery. “Don’t be so absurd. His ship is in the Chesapeake undergoing repairs.”
Perdita ceased the dramatic pose, her expression that of disappointment. “No tea or spices?”
“No tea or spices.”
“Silks and perfumes?”
Tiola shook her head. “No.”
With an exaggerated sigh Perdita wandered back to the window and wiping the condensation from the glass with her hand, peered out into the grey gloom.
“He is at least handsome?”
Tiola wondered whether to hold her silence, then realised she desperately wanted to share her secret with someone. Needed so badly to talk of Jesamiah. Of her hopes and fears, of her love for him. But she could not. For all that she trusted this dear, sweet girl, she dared not risk the accidental spilling of a wrong word, for Jesamiah’s safety – and her own.
“
Ais
,” was all she said, “Yes, I assure you he is at least, most extremely handsome.”
Forty Six
Virginia
Publick Times were in full and boisterous swing. The gathering of men and women of Virginia – and beyond – for the purpose of the Quarterly Trial Sessions, conducting official business, selling exorbitantly priced wares on the market stalls and enjoying the wide range of entertainments. The latter included horse racing and the excitement of the court trials and subsequent hanging of convicted murderers, felons and pirates.
Jesamiah’s grant of parole aboard ship had been short-lived, lasting only for the sea voyage from the Rappahannock to a safe anchorage at Jamestown. There, the shackles had been replaced, his freedom removed. The Williamsburg town gaoler and the miserable gaol he was dubiously in charge of had played host to Jesamiah for three days. He was not overly impressed by the poor hospitality, dreadful accommodation or mouldering victuals. The square, wooden-built cell that housed nine men was like a bake-oven during the day and an icehouse by night. The wind came straight in through the grid window, swirled around the floor then whipped out beneath the inch-high gap under the firm-bolted door. The only place where there was no draught was beneath the window, but that was directly next to the seat of ease. The hole was situated on the highest of three steps, several feet from the ground; natural gravitation took the effluence to a cesspit outside. There was a lid that covered the hole and it was an efficient utility – but it stank to high heaven.
With his back firmly wedged into a corner, Jesamiah was resting his head on the wall, trying to ignore the obnoxious surroundings. Trying to sleep. It was not easy. At the window stood a boy, no more than eight, who had alternately been snivelling or whining all day. At first Jesamiah had felt sorry for him, arrested for stealing a loaf of bread, but the constant belly-aching had soon made him want to call for a noose and hang the little grub himself. Four of the other men awaiting trial for theft and assault were bickering between themselves and arguing with two of the others. The eighth was a molly boy, arrested for sodomy. He sat in the opposite corner to Jesamiah locked in his own world of horror and terror. There would be no hope for him, he would hang.
A hatchway slit was drawn open revealing a rectangular hole large enough to pass a tin plate through. Food. The wrangling halted for a few seconds, then began again as the men barged and shoved to be the first and grab a plate. It was always first come first served, the first getting the food warm as opposed to stone cold. Jesamiah heaved himself to his feet, couldn’t be bothered to elbow his way in. He waited until each man had dispersed then took the plate as it was thrust into the opening, his nose wrinkling. Corn mush. They had been served the same for yesterday’s single daily meal. And the day before, and the day before that. Indian corn mush was quick to prepare, cheap to provide and just about kept a man alive.
He bent and put the plate on the floor, thrust his hand quickly into the opening. “Oi, John Redwood, you thief,” he complained as the hatch began to slide shut, “we’re one short. Hand it over or I’ll make sure Spotswood hears you’re a fokken swindler!”
It was the duty of the gaoler to keep his charges alive, to spread clean straw on the floor and provide decent food from the allowance per head that he was granted. John Redwood took his duties seriously, but he was paid only thirty pounds sterling per annum, which in his opinion was nowhere near adequate. If he could make extra he stayed a happy man. Hence the sparse diet and mouldy straw.
The last plate appeared accompanied by a curse, and the hatch snapped shut. With the prisoners fed in this way the main door was never opened except for the daily privilege of an hour’s meagre exercise shambling around the high-walled courtyard, or someone was taken out or put in. And that door was double bolted and locked from the outside. Unless you were heading for the courthouse or the gallows there was no way out.
Jesamiah took the second plate to the molly boy, toed his leg then hunkered down next to him. Persuaded the boy to look up. He was fifteen maybe, hardly had the first fuzz of a beard.
“You got to eat, Dick, it could be a while yet before we get to be taken to trial.”
The boy looked up, eyes hollow, face gaunt. “I’m not hungry.”
“Aye well, this ain’t exactly food, it’s more like pig slop, an’ I doubt it’ll do much against hunger anyways, but you still got to eat.”
“You fancyin’ the arse-pricker, pirate? Want us t’look away while you try ‘im fer size?”
Ignoring the crudities, Jesamiah put the plate in the boy’s hand. At fifteen it was highly unlikely the lad had chosen to be used for sex. Whores, male or female, rarely had a choice. “Eat up,” Jesamiah repeated as he picked up his own plate. The stuff looked revolting. He wandered back to his corner, trying to decide if he was hungry enough to eat this mess. The man who had been crude was sitting there, looking smug. Jesamiah stood in front of him. The man said nothing.
Tempted to empty his own meal over the whoreson’s head, Jesamiah thought again. The food was lousy but it was better than nothing and he’d had worse. On the long Atlantic crossings the stored flour, meat and butter, went off and weevils moved in. Eating rancid food was nothing new.
He scooped the mush into his fingers, ate as he stood there. Finished, he wiped his hands on the seat of his breeches and took the plate to the hatch, left it there for Redwood to collect later. Wandered back to the corner.
“That’s my place, mate.”
“No it ain’t. You decided you wanted the sodomite over there, go cuddle up with ‘im.”
Patient, Jesamiah repeated; “You are in my place. I sit there. Move.”
The man grinned showing rotten teeth. “Make me.”
He then made a mistake. He licked the plate, took his attention off Jesamiah – who moved fast. Kicking out, Jesamiah caught the bottom of the plate with his foot and rammed it, hard, onto the man’s nose. Spluttering blood, the antagonist tried to get to his feet, but ignoring the twinge of protest from his healing shoulder, Jesamiah was already following up with three punches, one to the belly, one to the face and the third to the groin. He grabbed the man’s hair and jerked him forward, sending him sprawling; kicked his backside for good measure.
“I said this is my place. I suggest you learn to listen.”
The man lay groaning, blood frothing from his mouth and nose. Jesamiah lifted his ankles and dragged him, face down, to the centre of the cell.
From outside there came the sound of the militia marching past heading in the direction of the Governor’s palace, the crowds cheering and applauding the rat-a-tat of their regiment’s drums and piping of flutes and whistles. An entire world away from the sordid existence within Williamsburg’s gaol. Sitting astride his victim, Jesamiah twisted an arm back savagely. The man screamed.
“Now, I’ve said this before an’ I ain’t goin’ to say it again. You leave that lad alone; he ain’t done nothin’ to offend you, but you offend me.” Jesamiah twisted the arm higher. “An’ I get seriously mad with those who do that. Savvy?” Releasing him roughly, he went to his corner, intent on another attempt at sleeping.
The mollyboy forced a quivering smile. “Thank you, Captain,” he whispered, then louder, in frail defiance; “My name is Henry, not Dick.”
Not bothering to open his eyes, Jesamiah responded; “Dick’s more appropriate though, don’t y’think?”