Pirate Code (10 page)

Sixteen

Taking his time, walking slowly, Jesamiah wandered along George Street, heading downhill towards the harbour. Rogers had already started making his mark on the town, at least in this, the wealthiest area. The streets here were not so rubbish-strewn and the pigs had been removed from inside the church, although their stink lingered. One or two of the buildings were even being repaired and repainted. The church clock struck, cracked and late as usual. Jesamiah half smiled; ah well, perhaps some of the Governor’s ideas for improving Nassau would take longer than others to complete. The clock apparently sat at the bottom of his list.

He could see
Sea Witch
dozing at her anchor, tugging gently on the fore and aft cables as the lively wind scurried across the water. She was so beautiful. Her dark-blue hull, her three masts, square rigged sails furled, neatly trimmed. Her brass gleaming, rails varnished. She was stern-to; Tiola had the middle window open, was probably sitting sewing on the locker bench; he fancied he could hear her singing. Tiola had a beautiful voice, an exact pitch. Her songs, especially her favourite folk ballads and one or two laments, heart-achingly haunted the mind. Tiola was beautiful also. He did not want to lose her or his ship, ever. But if there was a choice,
Sea Witch
or Tiola? Jesamiah stopped walking, turned his collar up against another squall of rain and thrust his hands deep into the voluminous pockets of his long coat. If he had to choose? He had once, it seemed years ago, chosen
Sea Witch
over Tiola. He had expected her to join him aboard; it was not his fault she had been prevented from doing so, except, except…he had chosen his ship not his woman, and he had nearly – very nearly – lost Tiola because of it. He did not want to risk doing so again. But without the
Sea Witch
what would, could, he do with his life? There were always other ships; he had the money to buy several, to set up his own merchant business if he wanted, but he was as one with
Sea Witch
, they were partners, wedded and bonded. She was wife, mistress, lover, whore. She was his damn it! Both of them were his!

“Bugger!” he murmured as he realised he had left that Letter of Marque on Jennings’ desk, for although he refused it in principle he had intended to pocket it, just in case. He turned around, took a few paces back up the hill, halted, and stood, considering. Why did he need it? If he was to start up as a merchant of some sort he would be free to come and go where and when he pleased. He was not beholden to Rogers and Vernon or the King, none of them. As long as he stuck to what was legal they could not touch him. He kicked at a stone. Could they? For himself he did not care, but he had Tiola and his men to take into account. If there was an embargo on vessels leaving, he would have to get that letter first.

Sod it, I’ll sort it tomorrow, I ain’t walking all the way up there again now
. Decision made, he ambled on down the hill wondering whether he might call in somewhere for a quick tot of rum. Normally he would pay for a whore too, but his back was agony and he didn’t need tavern wenches now he had Tiola. He sniffed, wiped beneath his nose with the back of his hand then scratched briefly at his crotch. Or did he? A quick poke at a whore was hardly betrayal was it? Tiola he loved, whores were…? He chewed his lip, considering. Whores were available, like pots to piss in. A nibble at a pasty did not stop him enjoying his full dinner did it? Dipping his wick was hardly comparable to the pleasure of making love. And what of those days when Tiola was indisposed? Her flux, or when she was away birthing a babe or tending the dying? Was he supposed to sit and whistle, or something?

By the time he had reached the bottom of the hill he had convinced himself that whores were there for the convenience of those who could afford them, and that it would be a shame to waste a provided pleasure. All the same, he decided that perhaps it would be best not to share his conclusion with Tiola.

Stefan van Overstratten sat in the window of the King’s Head sipping quality wine, his legs stretched before him, eyes narrowed as he watched Acorne wander down the hill. How unkempt the thieving bastard looked with his shoulder-length hair matted by the wind and rain, his unbuttoned coat, old and faded, boots worn and cracked. Shaking his head dismissively the Dutchman returned to re-reading the letter in his hand. No matter how many times he read it the words did not alter. He sat, pondering, the worrying thoughts revolving around in his mind. If he did not settle those heavy gambling debts he had accrued in London when he was last there he would be charged as a debtor. And now these ill-judged investments he had made. The profit from those was supposed to have paid off the debts.

What had he to sell? The estates, the house, the wine business none of it was solely his; the business was a family affair with most of the assets entailed. All he owned for himself was the vessel he had sailed here on and this wretched indigo plantation on Hispaniola. He retrieved the second letter from his pocket, the inventory sent to him by the steward of the place. Inventory? It was more like an obituary, and there had been no mention of any indigo. It would be worth a fine price. Since few knew about its existence he could sell it, pay off what he owed in London and no one in the family would be any the wiser. The idea appealed. He was not, under any circumstances, going to let that pig-arrogant brother-in-law gloat over his misfortune. He was not!

Stefan glanced up the street, glowered at Jesamiah. This voyage to Nassau was meant to have been his honeymoon. Not that the family would object to him returning home wife-less, but oh, the I-told-you-so’s he would have to endure!

He returned the letters to his pocket. Unless he could get to Santo Domingo he had no way of salvaging his pride. Perhaps he ought to sell Acorne Tiola’s divorce? He could ask several thousand pound sterling – more maybe. But would Acorne then guess how desperately he needed it? He glanced out of the window as another rainsquall clattered against the thick glass, thoughtfully massaged his clean-shaven jaw.
I wonder. Sixteen barrels and ninety-seven kegs. No one would be any the wiser about anything if he had that indigo,
he mused. Said aloud, “I bloody wonder?” He stood, strolled to the shelter of the entrance porch.

“You look as if you have lost a ship and found a wreck, Acorne.”

The Dutchman’s voice, coming unexpectedly from the doorway of the tavern startled Jesamiah from his reverie. Automatically his hand bolted for his pistol, pulled the gun from his waist sash, half cocked it and aimed.

“How fortuitous, you’ve saved me the bother of searching for you. I told Jennings I was going to solve my dilemma by shooting you. Give me one good reason why I should not.”

Emerging from the shadows Stefan stopped four paces ahead of Jesamiah, gestured simply with his hand. “One? That is not difficult. My wife.” He smiled, more of a leer than a smile, remembered what Jesamiah had said at the Governor’s table. “Tee-oh-la,” he drawled. His smile broadened into a smirk. A small score, but he could see he had annoyed Acorne. In truth he had been totally unaware he had not been pronouncing her name correctly, she had never mentioned it. He had always said it that way, right from when he had first met her in Cape Town.

For half a minute Jesamiah, seething hatred, stared at the Dutchman, his thumb clicked the hammer full home, his finger pressed harder on the trigger and at the last moment as the flint fired, he jerked the weapon away and aimed the barrel upwards, the ball spinning harmlessly into the air.

“Sensible,” van Overstratten responded. “I suggest you remain so and join me for a drink.”

“I have no intention of drinking with you, you bastard.”

“Not even to listen to a proposition? You surprise me.” The Dutchman retreated inside the tavern, resumed his seat at the window table, called for his wine to be refilled and rum to be brought.

Tempted to snub him, Jesamiah almost walked away but he needed a drink, and if this proposition concerned Tiola, as undoubtedly it did, perhaps he ought to listen?

Kicking the tavern door open, he sat down opposite van Overstratten and ostentatiously reloading his pistol he laid it on the table before touching the rum.

“So what pile of steaming bull’s shit are you offering me?”

Stefan clicked his fingers, called the pot boy over again. “What form of weevil-riddled food do you serve here, boy?”

“We do stew Sir. Good stew, full o’ suet dumplin’s it is. Gravy’s made wiv best ale.”

“The dumplings are sawdust and gristle. The gravy is made from ale dregs and ground rats’ turds,” Jesamiah corrected. “Should be suitable for you, Dutchman. Matches your personality exactly.”

Fastidiously, the Dutchman waved the boy away, to Jesamiah said, “The wine, however, is excellent. It is one of my own, of course; most of the taverns in this pigs’ byre of a town take it.” He sipped, swallowed, added, “In fact, I think all of them do.”

“And not by choice, I don’t suppose.”

Stefan raised his glass in confirming salute, drank, set the empty glass down and brushed fluff from his waistcoat; took a thin silver case from his pocket, removed a cheroot, lit it. “I’ll come to the point. You want my wife.”

Jesamiah did not deign to answer.

“How much are you prepared to pay?” Stefan blew a perfect smoke ring.

“I told you. You can have
Sea Witch
.”

Pedantic, van Overstratten answered, “And I told you, I do not want my ship back, it is pirate soiled.”

To hold his temper in check, to stop himself picking up his pistol and firing it, Jesamiah looked out at the drizzling rain. There was that woman again, on the other side of the street standing in the open, her bluish-grey gown sodden, raindrops dripping from the hood pulled low so that he could not see her face. The sun was breaking through the cloud, arcing in a triple rainbow. It glinted on something at the woman’s neck, the flash of a single diamond cut as a teardrop. Jesamiah’s eyes were drawn to her ample cleavage, back to the necklace.

Not a teardrop, a raindrop,
he thought.

“So what is your price? You obviously have one, else you’d not be buying me rum in one of Nassau’s less wholesome taverns,” Jesamiah said with a resigned sigh. He could not buy her, nor could he shoot van Overstratten. Tiola would never forgive him an act of cold-blooded murder no more than she would him buying her. “I assume it is something illegal or dangerous. Too dangerous for you to piss your breeches over?”

It had to be. Why else this sudden change of attitude? He leered a mocking grin. “Something to do with this war with Spain by any chance?”

When first he had met him, Stefan van Overstratten had dismissed Jesamiah as a fool and a lazy good-for-nothing wastrel, but that was before he had realised the apparently harmless buffoon was wily and sharp- brained. And a pirate. Good-for-nothing and wastrel still applied, but not lazy, and certainly not a fool. Taking his time, one leg neatly crossed over the other at the knee, van Overstratten studied the man sitting before him, noted he was perched stiffly upright on the edge of the chair. Had to admit, grudgingly to himself, that despite the loathing he felt for this sea- wretch, he had courage. Or if it was not courage, the insolence of bravado. And it was bravado, and insolence, he was in desperate need of.

Van Overstratten did not possess courage, he made use of people to his own advantage. If he wanted something, or someone to do his bidding, he always got his way. Always. It was how he had persuaded Tiola to consent to marriage, by being charming, caring and persuasive; by preying on her vulnerability and wearing down what was left of her spirit. No one said ‘no’ to Master Stefan van Overstratten. Rarely, very rarely, did he regret his successes. Winning Tiola Oldstagh was one of those more annoying exceptions. Were it not for his pride, and his determination to not be made a fool of by this upstart knave, he would have been glad to be rid of her.

“I find I am in an awkward position. This war, as you rightly assessed, has disrupted my plans. How would you seafarers put it? Scuppered me.”

Finishing his rum, Jesamiah put the tankard on the table. His expression neutral, said; “My heart bleeds for you.”

Irritated, van Overstratten clicked his fingers for more wine, another rum. One more sarcastic remark and he would forget this ridiculous idea, get up and walk out. Then what would Acorne do? He certainly would not be getting Tiola! “I deal mainly in wine. As a subsidiary to my vineyards I trade in sugar, and more recently, tobacco. I have also, of late, made an investment into indigo.”

Jesamiah stared out through the rain-wet window, reached forward to wipe away the condensation misting the glass. The woman was gone, the rain had ceased and bright sun was dazzling everything as if someone had scattered handfuls of jewels everywhere.

If she’s a whore, how come she has such a valuable necklace
? he wondered.

He fished a few pieces of silver from his pocket, paid for the drinks, was damned if he would be beholden to this Dutchman. The tobacco deal, he knew, had been made with Phillipe Mereno, his half brother; a partial deal. The other part had been connected with the kidnap and torture of himself. For their individual reasons both men had wanted Jesamiah dead. Van Overstratten manipulated people, wanted, always, to get his own way, but he was not the sadistic bully Phillipe had been. Although, thinking back… He rubbed his hand along his ribs, some of the vicious kicking had come from this Dutchman’s foot. Jesamiah mentally shook his head. No, that had been false bravado, egged on by Phillipe’s boundless cruelties. Van Overstratten would never have initiated outright brutality. Mind, he had made no attempt to stop it, either. Jesamiah snorted. Van Overstratten was a man well capable of turning the proverbial blind eye when it suited him. He sipped his rum. “Indigo eh? Expensive.”

“Very. And I have sixteen barrels and ninety-seven kegs of it awaiting a sale. The expected profit should double my outlay.”

Making an astute guess, Jesamiah grinned nastily. “I take it this indigo is in Hispaniola?” The grin altered to an outright guffaw. “Unless you can get at it, your investment is worthless!”