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 spoke 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.
He bought some cheese from a stall, nibbled at it as he wandered on, leaving the busy market behind. Main Street was a broad thoroughfare that swept along for one mile on an east-west axis. The first Governor of Williamsburg, Nicholson, had known what he was doing when he had drawn up the basic plans for what was to be the grandest town in all the Colonies. So much of it was new: it all had an air of fresh paint, fresh-cut wood and pristine cleanliness, although the smells and quality of buildings changed along the back streets, where there was a jumble of small houses, ramshackle stores, and shacks and sheds for the slaves to live in.
Jesamiah decided to find a tavern and a room for the night. He did not much fancy sleeping under a hedge. He chuckled as a thought came to mind. How would the bear-fighting, Indian-chasing Mistress James react to a pirate curled beneath her shrubbery? Had he known where she lived he might have been tempted to find out. On the larboard side, rain was in the air and a warm dry bed appealed more to his sense of comfort.
He skirted around a fresh pile of horse manure and crossed the street. The
King’s Arms
appeared clean and comfortable, but expensive. The
Raleigh
, opposite, would suit his pocket more. As Jesamiah Acorne he could well afford luxury; as Joshua Oakwood the architect, he could not.
The
Raleigh
was one of the older taverns, built before Williamsburg became the capital. It certainly looked as if it had stood here for eternity. Inside, the dim gloom was a fug of pipe and candle smoke, men sat in groups around tables made from barrels sawn in half, the rushes spread on the floor had not been changed in months. The place smelt of damp, rot and mould. The woman behind the bar had a pleasant smile and cheerfully served Jesamiah his request for rum.
“Any chance of a room for the night?”
“Certainly. We ask for payment in advance though, young sir.”
Jesamiah set two silver shillings on the counter then added another. “A single room? At the front, overlooking the street?”
The smile did not waver. “Yes Sir. Our best.”
He added another shilling to the pile. “Clean sheets and hot water?”
The woman scooped up the money. “Top of the stairs, first door on your right.” Taking the rum, Jesamiah nodded his thanks and went upstairs.
The room was at least tidy. Sparsely furnished with essentials only, as musty as downstairs and the sheets a dull yellow and slightly stained, but he had slept in worse places. A lot worse! He tossed his coat, hat, cutlass and pistol onto the bed and pulled the only chair up to the sash window. Tried wiping the grime from the glass with his elbow; some came off, most was on the outside. With a bit of persuasion the window opened. He peered out. Riders passed by; a wagon loaded with hay, another, piled with furniture; a carriage with a pair of handsome chestnuts. Mothers walked with their children, husbands with wives; young couples, the elderly leaning on walking canes. Men about their business. Women shopping. Slaves of all ages and both sexes everywhere.
Sitting down, he propped his feet on the low windowsill, sipped his rum and pondered how to get to Governor Spotswood. Find an open window? Climb in? Wait by the gates for the Governor to come out, catch his attention? Or could he approach John Redwood, the gaoler? He frowned; that man coming from the
King’s Arms
looked familiar. Where had he seen him before? The man headed east down Main Street, walking quickly. Jesamiah forgot about him.
Would it be an idea to visit this lawyer fellow of his father’s? Probably, except he did not know who he was or where to locate him – beyond somewhere here in Williamsburg. There would be dozens of lawyers, where did he start? Why had he so stupidly thrown that letter of his father’s away without reading it first? If nothing else of importance it would have had the lawyer’s name on it!
He would have to try and find him to sort out la Sorenta. He had already decided to leave the estate permanently in Trent’s hands. If the lad made a profit, then all well and good, if not, he did not particularly care. He had no need of the income; had done well enough without it thus far. He would give Trent five years to turn the estate around, if the boy failed, then he would sell the land and be done with it. As for Alicia…She could do what she wanted, stay or go. It was her choice, although from what Rue had said, she had already decided not to stay.
That woman approaching the
King’s Arms
was just like her. Even to the sassy swagger of her hips. Jesamiah moved his feet to the floor, leant forward to see better. It
was
her! He stood, shoved at the window to open it further. It refused to budge. He scrubbed at more grime. Who was that man with her? Not Trent. It was the fellow who had left the tavern a moment ago – suddenly Jesamiah recognised him. Knight. Tobias Knight – and he was the one who had greeted Alicia so curtly that first day at la Sorenta, the one who had ridden off in a huff. Tobias Knight: Secretary to the Colony of North Carolina, right-hand man to Governor Eden and Edward Teach’s friend. Well, well.
There was no reason to query his being in Williamsburg, there must be a lot of communication between the two colonies. But had Spotswood not said something about Blackbeard always being one step ahead? What if that was because somebody fed him titbits of relevant information? That was not to say it was Knight who tattled, but it was certainly a possibility. Why was he accosting Alicia?
Jesamiah tried to lean out, cursed the window for not opening wider.
Knight had her arm in a fierce grip and was shaking her so violently her head was lolling. Several bystanders were taking a curious interest then turning away, not wanting to interfere, assuming it was a domestic squabble. Alicia tried to shrug Knight aside but he only tightened his hold and thrust his face closer. Even from this distance, Jesamiah could interpret the nasty sneer etched on it. What was it Trent had said? Alicia had needed money. Was that why she had hidden the Letter of Marque, hoping to sell it or something?
Money! Knight was a money-grubbing shark. Ah, things were starting to make sense.
Unsure whether to stay and watch what happened, or buckle on his cutlass, put on his coat and go and intervene for the fun of it, Jesamiah’s decision was made for him. A man appeared from nowhere – from the side street presumably. In a flurry of arms and legs he laid into Knight, swatting him three times with three well aimed punches. Left and right to the face, the third to the belly. Knight crumpled, blood welling from his nose. A crowd had gathered, the women twittering like sparrows, the men grunting disapproving noises, but making no move to stop the fracas. Samuel Trent – for that’s who it was – grasped Knight by the collar and the seat of his breeches and bundled him down the steps, across the street and plunged him, head first, into the horse trough directly below Jesamiah’s window.
“And bloody stay away from Mrs Mereno, else next time you will get more than a bloodied nose and a dunking, you scumbag!” Brushing his hands clean then straightening his cravat, Samuel strode back to the
King’s Arms
, looped his arm through Alicia’s and escorted her inside.
Jesamiah smiled, sat down again and returned to his drink. He had not thought Trent had it in him! Good for him, the lad had spirit after all!
Knight hauled himself from the trough amid amused laughter. He did not see the funny side, apparently, for when someone offered a hand to assist him he gruffly knocked it aside and squelched off down the street, leaving a dripping trail in his wake.
It was brave of Samuel Trent to take him on, but a man like Knight would not notice a few punches from an untried boy. Especially a man who had an established friendship with a pirate and the ear of a Governor. But then, Trent also had an established friendship with a pirate – who had the ear of a Governor. If he could only get close enough to bend it!
~
I do not like this. There is something deeper going on
. ~
“Too right there is!” Jesamiah was out the door and descending the creaking stairs before he realised he had answered his father’s disembodied voice without a single thought.