Seven
The cask only scraped the wall, barely touched it, but the wood burst open and foul, stinking water gushed out. The fourth cask to break.
“For fok sake!” Jesamiah yelled, looking up from the ship’s list of required supplies and shoving the sheaf of papers into Rue’s hands. He strode across the jetty to the open warehouse door. “Masters? You empty-bellied seaslug, these casks are as rotten as the water they hold. You’ve sold me shite!”
He stormed inside, took a flight of stairs three at a time and hurtled into the small office. Jonathan Masters, owner and merchant trader, sprang to his feet while fumbling at the desk drawer for a pistol. Jesamiah was faster. His own pistol was cocked and levelled straight between the merchant’s eyes.
“You’ve been trying to cheat me, Masters. You’ve sold me scum water. And what state’s the flour and pork in I wonder? Rancid and riddled with weevils and maggots? Let’s go see, shall we?”
Roughly, Jesamiah grasped the man’s coat collar and hauling him to the door kicked him, slithering and half falling down the stairs, deaf to Masters’ cries of outraged protest.
“No cockroach merchant bilks me, savvy?” Manhandling him outside, Jesamiah thrust the spluttering man against the sea wall and holding him there, one hand gripped into his collar, the other digging the pistol between his ribs, called down to the men in the longboat.
“Jansy, Jasper; break open a couple of those casks. Mr Masters ‘ere is insisting on inspectin’ the quality of the contents. Wants t’make sure we’re takin’ fresh produce aboard.”
A pause, a splintering of wood, then growls of outrage.
“Meat could practically walk into the ‘old of its own accord, Cap’n,” young Jasper, self-appointed cabin boy to Captain Acorne, announced with a snarl.
“Flour’s rank too,” the older man, Mr Janson, echoed. “I’ve seen better vittles dished out to slaves.”
Kicking Masters in the back of his left knee, Jesamiah forced him down to the grubby cobbles. “The stores you showed me were in fine fettle; decided to switch good for bad, did you? Well I suggest you change things around again pronto, or for these last few minutes of your miserable life you’ll be regrettin’ crossin’ me.”
Letting go of him, Jesamiah marched back into the warehouse. Masters stood, brushed the grime off his breeches, and straightened his wig. He was a short, weedy little man with eyes like a weasel’s. “You threaten me, Captain Acorne, and I’ll have the militia on you! I don’t stand no truck from you pirates! These are the barrels you approved, these are the barrels you’ll be getting!”
From a few yards away, leaning against the trunk of a shading palm tree, Rue sniffed loudly. Exaggerating his French accent, Jesamiah’s second-in-command tutted and shook his head. “It is not good to be annoying
le capitaine, Monsieur
. ‘E does not threaten, ‘e promises. And
le capitaine’s
promises ‘e always keeps.”
Moments later Jesamiah reappeared at the doorway, backing out, unravelling a line of fuse. He laid it on the ground, stood with his pistol raised in one hand, the fingers of his other fiddling with the three blue ribbons threaded into his hair.
“You start shifting shipworthy provisions this instant, Masters, or you’ll be ’avin’ bugger all to ship in about two minutes.” With a smile, Jesamiah tipped his three corner hat to the back of his head and shrugged. “Bugger all except smouldering timber and a pile of ash and rubble.”
He squatted beside the fuse, clicked the hammer of his pistol and checked there was a resulting spark in the pan. “Not a good idea to store gunpowder along with other supplies, Mr Masters. Not a good idea at all.”
“You, you scumbag! You bastard miscreant! You–”
Nathan Crocker – Nat – and the African, Isiah Roberts appeared on either side of Masters, linked arms with his. Nat, first mate, an ex-Royal Navy Lieutenant, lifted the money pouch from the merchant’s coat pocket and tossed it, with a satisfying chink of coin, to Rue. Isiah felt into the man’s inner pocket, removed the banker’s draft.
“We’ll be having this back, I reckon,” Nat drawled while Isiah rested a dagger blade against Masters’ throat.
Jesamiah held the end of the fuse to the spark. It sputtered and as he gently blew on the slight glow the fuse began to fizz. He set it on the ground, stepped backwards a pace and watched the hissing plume of smoke and array of sparks disappear slowly into the dim interior of the warehouse.
“I suggest all you slaves inside there get out now,” Jesamiah called after it, “or start preparin’ t’meet your maker.”
They ran, shrieking and frightened: black men, women and children; a sprinkling of white convicts.
Masters squirmed but all he could do was watch in horror as Jesamiah Acorne stood, ambled a few paces, shoved his pistol through his belt and turning away from the now deserted warehouse, put his fingers in his ears.
Nat was counting. “Forty-four. Forty-five. Forty-six …”
“All right! All right! I agree! Put it out! Put it out!”
Nat continued counting. “Forty-eight…”
“Eh? Pardon? I didn’t hear.” Jesamiah cupped a hand around his ear.
“I said I agree. For God’s sake put the fuse out, this warehouse and its contents is all I have! My entire wealth, my entire life! Please, put the fuse out!”
“I have your word you’ll provision us with best quality at your own expense?”
“Forty-nine. Fifty.”
“What? No! No, no I cannot afford to give my stock away!”
“Oh well then,” Jesamiah put his fingers in his ears again.
“Fifty-three. Fifty-four.”
“All right, I’ll not charge you one whole quarter of our agreed price!”
“Half.”
“Fifty-six.”
“Half then. Please – the fuse!”
As if he was on a Sunday stroll, Jesamiah sauntered into the gloom of the warehouse.
“Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight, fifty-nine…” Nothing happened.
“Judged the fuse wrong, I reckon,” Jansy muttered from where he was leaning on the gunwale of the longboat, then sent chewed tobacco spittle into the sea. “Never was a good judge of fuse length.”
Jesamiah reappeared at the door, grinning. He walked up to Masters, shoving his face close to his, said, “Bang!”
Masters visibly jumped, then scuttled inside, not trusting that the burning fuse had been put out and removed.
Laughing, Jesamiah turned to his men, “The stuff I bought is at the back, lads. Take what’s ours and get a move on. We’ve missed one bloody tide already.”
He whistled to the slaves, beckoned them from where they were cowering behind walls and bales of hemp, sail, wool and cotton. “I promised them a shilling each for their co-operation and help with loadin’. Pay ‘em when you’ve finished, will you, Isiah? Any wishin’ t’sail with us will be welcome.”
Jonathan Masters stood inside the door fists on hips, puzzled. The trail of burnt fuse covered about twenty feet and ended abruptly where Jesamiah had stamped on the flame. Beyond another two feet of unburnt fuse there was no more tarred cordage. No line of fuse snaked across the concrete floor towards the store of gunpowder, fifty feet away. Just the twenty feet of burnt fuse and the two more that were untouched. Twenty-two feet. Only twenty-two miserable feet. The bastard had never intended to blow the gunpowder! The bloody bastard!
Coming up behind him Rue laughed, slapped Masters hard between the shoulders. “Ah
Monsieur
,
Capitaine
Acorne ‘e is not stupid, and ‘e is good at the deception,
non
?”
Nat, organising a chain-line of slaves, added his laughter, “You don’t think he would be so daft as to walk into a warehouse where barrels of gunpowder have a lit fuse attached to them, do you?” He broke off, shouted, “Aye – those barrels there, yes, those mate, they are the ones we should have.” He leaned close to Masters. “Played you like a fiddle, eh?”
The laughter spread. Even the slaves grinned.
Jesamiah, clambering down the rusted and slime-slippery rungs of the iron ladder into a second, smaller boat, gave orders to cast off. He was not looking forward to this voyage, and with things already going wrong he had nagging misgivings lumping in the pit of his belly. Maybe the sooner they were out of Nassau the better.
“Cut the cackle up there!” he grumbled before he took his captain’s place in the stern. “Put your energy into getting us loaded and under way.”
Only later, after several fortifying glasses of brandy to calm his nerves, and after watching the
Sea Witch
haul her anchor and drop sail, did Masters realise that Acorne had not returned any of the money those degenerate knaves had removed from his pockets. They had not paid a penny-farthing piece for best provisions! Not a penny-farthing piece!
It was too late to make a fuss, the
Sea Witch
was slipping towards the sand bar. “You’ll be back, Acorne,” he cursed. “And when you are, by God I’ll see you hang for this!”
Eight
Sunday 6th October – North Atlantic Ocean
The wind was freshening, blowing off the Carolina coast, and although the sun shone bright, a few lingering patches of early morning sea mist clung obstinately to the distant horizon.
Once clear of Nassau Jesamiah had spread as much canvas as he dared: courses, tops’ls, t’gallants and sprit’sl, all trimmed and set with the efficiency and speed he expected from his crew. Though they were running northward with the Gulf Stream current, the wind had been annoyingly capricious. They would have to wear ship again soon. Jesamiah eased the helm a point, watched with approval as the men met her and made the necessary adjustments to the sails.
Sea Witch
felt alive beneath his firm, nursing hands, bucking and tossing as she skipped over the lively sea. The Atlantic rollers were breaking in quick succession against her bow, sending arcs of spray frothing over the bowsprit and foredeck. A trail of white, as straight as a cannon’s bore, creamed behind. She was responding to his caresses like a mistress beneath a lover’s touch, his skill as a seaman keeping her at the right edge of her best, gentling, coaxing her to perform like the duchess she was.
This was living. This made Jesamiah the man
he
was. The feel, sound and smell of the sea; the shrill of the wind as it whined through the rigging and bullied the sails into groaning billows; as it buffeted his face, tugged at his hair and blue ribbons. The exhilaration of his ship. The lift and roll and dip beneath his wide-planted feet as she sang to him, every fibre of her oak keel, every inch of her cordage and acre of canvas. Every single thing about her shouted a vibrancy of joy and life. And freedom. For this was freedom; to be at the helm of your own vessel with no man to give command or comment. To go where you pleased, how you pleased, at the mercy of nothing but the natural forces of wind and tide. That was freedom, total, euphoric, freedom.
His good mood faded the instant Alicia Mereno appeared on deck. She looked somewhat green about the gills as she lurched tentatively up the narrow companion way and stepped onto the quarterdeck. Clinging to the rail she made her way to where Jesamiah stood, apparently oblivious to her approach.
“Can’t you stop this awful pitching? Slow down or something?”
Jesamiah continued to ignore her as she turned to face the sea and leaned over the side, retching. Nothing came up. After three days of seasickness, lying in Jesamiah’s own bed convinced she was about to die, there was nothing left in her stomach to bring up.
Before they left harbour she had insisted on making use of his cabin. If she’d hoped he was going to share it with her she had soon been disappointed. Jesamiah had promptly ordered Finch to remove his personal belongings into Rue’s cabin. Where Finch had put Rue’s effects, Jesamiah did not much care. But then, Rue often spent more time below deck with the crew, unless he had a favourite woman in tow and required the extra pleasure of privacy. Despite the resulting grumbles, Jesamiah had also left Finch to see to Alicia’s needs.
“You there, sailor. What be your name, boy?”
“Alexander Banks, Sir.” The young lad who had finished swabbing the quarterdeck over to leeward touched his forelock in formal salute, “But I’m more generally called Sandy, on account of m’hair colour, Sir.”
Jesamiah laughed. “Sandy Banks?”
Banks scowled. “Men seem t’think it be funny.”
“Could’ve been worse.” Jesamiah laughed again; “Sandy Bottom, Balls, Cock. There’s half a dozen names more embarrassing.”
There were several new crew, half a dozen from Masters’ warehouse, two white Irish convicts transported to the Caribbean for the crime of poaching, and four black slaves. Taking their chance at sea had appealed more than the miserable life they were enduring as slaves. There were several women ensconced below deck too, but, as always, Jesamiah turned a blind eye and deaf ear to their presence, and to the cherub-faced molly boy who was prettier than all the whores put together. Sodomy was illegal, a hanging offence in the eyes of the law. Jesamiah had no respect for the hypocrisy of pious laws. The lad was of age and had come aboard of his own will. Which of the men were poking him was their business, not Jesamiah’s.
As long as there were no disputes he was tolerant of what went on during leisure hours below deck, and made no censure about off-watch entertainments. The only rules were no excessive drunkenness, fighting or rowdy behaviour, and no gambling for money. The crew were to keep their weapons clean and ready for action and there was no smoking of pipes or cheroots on the lower decks. The whores – female or male – received their fair share of food, rum and ale, and were paid a set fee at the end of the voyage. In return, they earned their keep without bickering or squabbling.
A dozen other men had volunteered as crew, some were ex-pirates bored by sitting around with nothing to do; a few, like Nat Crocker and Alexander Banks, judging by his formal responses, were deserters from the Navy.
“Well then Sandy, I suggest you put the mop and bucket away and then coil down those lines correctly. I disapprove of a slovenly muddle on my quarterdeck. And stop calling me Sir. Cap’n’ll do. I’m Captain because this is my ship, what I say goes; beyond that you are a free man. We divide any profit we make should we come across a Spaniard or Frenchie, and we pull our weight with the work. Savvy?”
“Aye Sir.” The boy grinned, “I mean Cap’n.” He set to with a will, although not until taking another lascivious look at Alicia who was now leaning against the mizzen stay, her eyes closed, one arm flung dramatically across her forehead.
Noticing, Jesamiah said nothing. When the boy stared again, commented, “Take the helm, Nat, will you? Another five minutes or so and we’ll wear.”
Nat Crocker also touched his forehead in acknowledgement. Old habits died hard.
Slipping off his coat, Jesamiah walked easily across the swaying deck and placed the garment around Alicia’s shoulders.
She tried a wan smile. “So you do care about me?”
“Nope. But I do care about the effect you are having on my crew. I’ll thank you to cover those apple dumplings more discreetly when coming on deck, if you please, Ma’am. Show your wares ashore as much as you like, but don’t display them aboard my ship. Not unless you want to join the women below.”
Affronted, she drew the coat closer. Her bosoms were her main asset. What was it the Bible said? Do not hide your light under a bushel?
“You’ve never objected before,” she grumbled. “Not in bed, anyway.”
About to answer that bed was somewhat different to his quarterdeck, Jesamiah’s words were halted by a shout from the masthead.
“On deck. Sail ho!”
He tipped his head back, cupped his hands around his mouth, “Where away?”
“Three points, larb’d bow!”
Hurrying to the larboard rail, Jesamiah squinted over. Could see nothing except a blue sky with patchy clouds, a sea as blue, and the bright sun.
“I think it’s ‘er, Cap’n,” Joseph Meadows’ ethereal voice called again from aloft. “Sure looks like ‘er set o’ sail.”
“How far? I can’t see a bloody thing from down here.”
Standing beside Jesamiah, Alicia was bemused. “Who? Who does he think she is?” Craning her neck she squinted up the hundred and fifty feet or so at the figure silhouetted against the sky.
Placing his hands on Alicia’s shoulders, Jesamiah moved her firmly aside and strode to the binnacle box beside the wheel. He glanced at the compass bearing as he took up the telescope – the bring it close – and opening it to full length, returned to the rail. Cursing under his breath he scanned the ocean ahead; where was she? Ah! There! He had her!
“Aye, it’s her,” he announced. “Crammin’ enough sail on, ain’t they? Why’re they in such a hurry?”
“Who? Tell me. What are you talking about?”
Staring steadfast through the glass, Jesamiah was studying the vessel miles ahead. Did not even hear Alicia. Frowned as he saw the ship’s sails haul round. “She’s veering towards the coast. Whatever for? We’re well past Charleston.”
“Who?” Alicia persisted, impatience riddling her tone. “What ship?”
Witheringly Jesamiah stared at her. “What d’you bloody think? The
Fortune of Virginia
of course. I’m tryin’ t’catch up with my woman.”
Alicia’s face fell. She had not bargained on this. “But we are heading direct for Virginia, are we not? The Chesapeake?”
“Not yet we ain’t. We catch up with the
Fortune
first, see my Tiola safely delivered to Bath Town, and then we go to Virginia.” He chuckled, “Delivered for a delivery.” He nudged her ribs, “Get it?”
Her answering smile was none too sweet; it took a great effort not to stamp her foot in obdurate frustration.
“On deck! There’s another sail! Coming out that patch of mist!”
Jesamiah raised the telescope again, could see nothing.
“Wait…aye Cap’n, thought so. There’s two of ‘em runnin’ in consort.”
Not liking the sound of that, Jesamiah slammed the glass shut, thrust it through his belt and jumping down the ladder into the waist, grabbed hold of the mainmast shrouds and began to climb, aware his crew were watching him critically. The jests about the easy life of a captain had not escaped his attention; here was a chance to prove he was as fit and agile as any one of the swabs.
Refraining from taking the easy route through the lubbers’ hole, he made the more difficult outward climb up the futtock shrouds, even though he was breathing hard. There were bound to be several wagers being laid on how far he would get without stopping. The men thought nothing of clambering from the lowest depth of the hold to the height of the main truck without pause.
Panting heavily he reached the masthead and settled himself to point the telescope at the blue sweep of the ocean.
“Not one word, Skylark,” he growled when he had caught his breath. “I’m as fit as any of you.”
Joseph Meadows had moved aside to allow his captain room, was sitting five feet away astride the yard. They called him ‘Skylark’ on account of his fine singing voice, his liking of spending hours alone on lookout, and his surname.
“M’lips are sealed, Cap’n.”
“See you keep them that way.”
The motion of the mast was swinging them in a corkscrew circle, forward, sideways and down; it took a while for Jesamiah to focus the glass, to find what he was looking for.
There was the
Fortune of Virginia
, and there about four miles to windward of her, well clear of the mist now, a sloop running with a smaller companion giving Chase. Jesamiah swore colourfully. He had been a pirate for ten years, had been in enough Chases to recognise the early stages of an attack. And the larger sloop was instantly recognisable. As distinctive as the oak leaf and acorn tattoo Jesamiah sported on the left side of his chest.
“The bugger!” he said with feeling, “The fokken bloody bugger!”
Hand over hand he slid quickly down the backstay, before his boots touched the deck was bellowing orders. “All hands! All hands on deck! Clear for action!”
Marching past Alicia, Jesamiah took control of the helm. “Sandy, stop your ditherin’ with the running gear and escort the lady below. Give ‘er to Finch and tell ‘im to stow ‘er somewhere safe.”
Furious, Alicia shook the boy away as he took her arm. “I am not a keg of cargo to be manhandled. I am going nowhere unless you tell me what is going on here!”
“We’re clearing for action, Ma’am.” Polite, Sandy Banks gestured towards the ladder steps. “You’ll be safer tucked down in the hold with the Cap’n’s belongings when we start firing.”
“Firing?” Alicia squeaked, turning back towards Jesamiah. “We are to fight?”
“Not if I can ‘elp it,” Jesamiah answered. “But I can’t guarantee what that bugger Edward Teach, old Blackbeard ‘imself, will do once ‘e spots us.”
She squeaked again, a sound nearer a scream, “But we could be killed!”
Jesamiah sniffed, wiped his nose with the cuff of his coat. Repeated, “Again, not if I can help it.” He paused, added bluntly, “You’d best fetch her a pistol, Sandy. See it’s loaded and primed.”
“I will need no such thing. If you think I will be aiding you to fight in an act of piracy, think again Jesamiah Acorne!”
Jesamiah barely glanced at her, dispassionate. “It ain’t for our benefit, Madam. If Teach gets the better of us you’ll be wanting a quick death. As you said yourself, he ain’t known for his nice treatment of the ladies. See the whores have weapons for the same purpose, Sandy. Even they don’t deserve Blackbeard’s brutality.”
Banks nodded, proffered his arm again. “Ma’am? If you would care to accompany me?”
Men were spilling onto the deck from below, more than a few buttoning breeches or the loose-legged, knee length striped trousers most sailors preferred. Every man had his place: at the masts ready to haul the great sails or beside the guns, loosening the securing tackle on the wooden trucks; fetching shot, loading. Making ready.
Sea Witch
carried twenty-four cannon – Jesamiah had taken the opportunity these few idle weeks to increase her firepower, using as an excuse the fact that he had recently had a severe disagreement with the Spanish, with whom England had been embroiled in a short tit-for-tat war. Being half Spanish Jesamiah had briefly considered fighting on their side – as had several pirates, the English not being relied upon to keep a given word regarding amnesties and governor-granted pardons. In the end he had decided that the Spanish were even less reliable, and anyway, the disagreement had lasted for only the blink of an eye.
Eight guns a side on the lower gun deck, six on the open waist, three each to larb’d and starb’d; two seated in Jesamiah’s cabin as stern chasers. And to complete the armoury, several swivel guns were placed fore and aft, the weaponry complemented by pistols, muskets and a quantity of grenados. The four boys, lads of between eleven and thirteen, were scurrying with buckets of sand to spread around the wheels of the gun trucks. There would be blood, there always was. Sand gave a foothold when the decks became slippery.
Sand, too, spread in a cramped area of the forward hold, safe below the water line where Mr Janson was setting out his surgical implements beside the table. He had served as loblolly boy for more years than he remembered, the title a traditional one for the surgeon’s mate, even though he was mature in years. And even though they had no surgeon aboard. Not that it had made a difference when there had been. Jackson had always been too drunk to wield anything more than a bottle. Jansy had taken over as surgeon the day Jackson had been about to amputate the wrong leg from some poor wretch. A pity Miss Tiola was not here; her healing skills and dextrous hands would have been appreciated if the worst came to the worst. Still, Jansy did not quite hold with her insistence on cleanliness. What was the point of scrubbing instruments when they were going to get all bloody again? Though he had to admit she lost fewer wounded, but then, she had a woman’s touch so that could be expected.