Pirate Code (15 page)

Twenty Five

Thursday Evening

“Ah, Stefan. Dag. How be y’wife?”

Closing the Governor’s sitting room door behind him Stefan van Overstratten walked gravely in, accepted the brandy Henry Jennings offered and sat, one leg elegantly resting over the other, opposite Rogers. He had told him several times already that
dag
meant goodbye not good evening but could not be bothered to continue correcting the error.

“The physician bled her again this morning and your wife has been most kind,
dank u
. I can only apologise for the inconvenience I am causing your household.”

“Nonsense, nonsense. Women are fragile creatures, eh?” Rogers did not like to add what he was thinking; that if he were in van Overstratten’s shoes he would take the woman aboard ship and clear off back to Cape Town as soon as possible. That would make an end to the matter of Acorne, and if she did not recover, aye well, that was one of those things.

Jennings, seated on the far side of the room away from the blazing fire held his counsel. This whole business was turning more sour by the day. Reneging on an agreed amnesty, Vernon, in a rage after the destruction of the
Challenger
was commandeering ships as if there were no oak trees left in the entire world to build another. His temper increasing by the hour as he discovered the leaks, the sprung timbers, split sails, worm-riddled rotten keels. So many pirates never bothered taking care of their ships. Why should they bother? When one rotted they just helped themselves to another.

It also galled Jennings that they had not been completely open with Jesamiah, a man he had liked to think of as a friend. He sighed. If Wickham had not drowned, if this fellow Chesham had come forward…oh, the ifs and buts! What a confounded nuisance they were! War was war, but for all that, war stank sometimes.

“Vernon will get the pirate swab,” Rogers was saying in between generous puffs at his pipe. He took the poker, stabbed at a log on the fire. The Caribbean was a hot place during the day, but a chill often rolled in from the sea at night, and this persistent rain was making everything so damned damp. “Mark my words, Stefan, the rogue will pay with his life for what he has done.”

It was not Acorne’s life Stefan wanted, but those barrels of indigo. Vernon would not be going off in outraged pursuit until he had salvaged what he could in the way of arms and supplies from his own ship and had them transferred to the
Delicia
– once he had finished the extensive repairs needed to her hull. It was unlikely he would catch Acorne now. Jennings opted to remain silent on the fact, however. Rogers had been furious at losing his best ship to the Royal Navy. Perhaps it was not a good idea to re-open another torrential spate of swearing and blaspheming. Nor had he mentioned to the Governor any of his carefully orchestrated manipulations. Rogers had too large a mouth and too small a sensible discretion to be trusted.

“I told you to not underestimate Acorne,” was all Jennings remarked solemnly. “He is not a man to be pushed. Back him into a corner and he will not surrender but fight his way out.”

Rogers made a crude noise through his lips. “Acorne will hang for what he has done. Mark me I say, he will hang from his own yardarm. I made it quite plain those electing to return to piracy will forfeit any rights.” He thumped the arm of his chair twice. “I will give no mercy. No quarter.”

In an attempt to swallow the scathing retort hovering on his lips, Jennings sipped at his brandy. Failed the attempt. “What did you expect him to do, then? Sit back and watch Vernon steal his ship? I do not hear you being best pleased to lose the
Delicia
! How is it different for him?”

“Different? I tell you the difference! I do not let people down. I do not go back on m’word! And my ship, Sir, will not be commandeered into the shame of piracy!”

Avoiding a new conflict, Jennings refrained from reminding Rogers that he had initiated much of Nassau’s unrest by withdrawing the agreement of amnesty. Men like Acorne did not take kindly to being buggered about.

Only mildly following the exchange, van Overstratten lit one of his cheroots. Today had been a wretched day; the worry was reaching his stomach now, he had developed indigestion and frequently had to visit the seat of ease, where his stools ran from him like water. Last night he had not slept, doubted he would sleep tonight, either. These men assumed his distraction to be caused by concern over his unconscious wife. A proud man, he did not disillusion them.

She lay upstairs in her bed, eyes closed, not moving, not uttering word or sound. The water the maid had managed to spoon into her mouth trickling down her throat as a natural action, nothing more.

For the sake of appearance Stefan had sat with Tiola as often as he could. She reminded him of an abandoned house; it appeared to be a home on the outside with its glass windows and painted sills, but inside everything was covered by dust sheets, the clocks were unwound, the cupboards bare. Except for the mice and the spiders no one was at home.

She was a witch! She had to be! How else had he fallen for her beguiling charms? How else had he been lured into asking her to become his wife? God’s Breath but there was nothing of her, she was a skinny runt with no teats and no seed in her belly. What had he seen in her?

He flicked ash into the hearth then inhaled the comforting taste of his cheroot, rested his head on the high chair-back, closed his eyes. It was the indigo he wanted. The indigo and Acorne! Both Rogers and Vernon claimed he had returned to piracy; they must know, they would not be wrong. To think that he, Stefan van Overstratten, had been so duped by the bastard’s daring escape last night! He had been so pleased to see him scuttle away in more or less one piece – had expected him to go, although not in quite so spectacular a fashion. He had assumed Acorne would take the Letter of Marque Jennings had offered him, be gone at first opportunity, fetch the indigo and be back again as soon as may be for his whore.

Dunwoody had put him right. Acorne, he claimed, had refused the letter and had returned to the Sweet Trade. The indigo? Stephan slowly exhaled a stream of aromatic smoke. What madness had possessed him to trust Acorne? Damned, bloody, stupid fool! He tossed the cheroot into the fire, suddenly finding he was not enjoying its taste. Oh, Acorne would be getting the indigo – but he would be keeping it for himself! What? Give up a small fortune for a skinny broom like Tiola? Return for her when he could bed the pick of the whores? Stefan snorted self-contempt. He had actually believed the cockscomb cared for Tiola? How naive could a man be? He sat, brooding, staring into the flames, not hearing the sharp words tossed between Jennings and Rogers, not noticing as a servant came in and discreetly spoke into Rogers’ ear.

“What? Yes, yes, send ‘im in, I’ll see ‘im.” Impatient, Rogers waved the man away, then leant forward to tap Stefan’s knee to gain his attention.

“We have a renegade from Acorne’s crew come to share valuable information with us, it seems. I expect his pockets are empty an’ he wants a few shillings fer the privilege of tellin’ us his captain’s returned to a life of piracy, eh?”

Mild curiosity made van Overstratten look up as the man entered, anxiously twirling his woollen cap around and around in his hands. He was grimed, in need of a shave and a wash; his coat stank of damp mould, his body of worse. So, this was the sort of degenerate Acorne commanded?

Jennings was on his feet, beckoning the man forward, thought better than to invite him near the fire for the foetid smell he exuded was bad enough without a toasting. “What be your name lad?”

“Speak up!” Rogers bellowed, remaining sprawled in his chair. “Spit out what ye’ve come to say then get ye gone. Ye’ll get only a thre’pence fer y’information though, so don’t expect anythin’ more.”

The sailor cleared his throat twice, fiddled again with the red cap then touched his forelock. “I’m Perkins Sir, me name be Elijah Perkins. I were on the
Sea Witch
fer nigh on a year. I been ‘idin’ in one o’ those ‘alf derelict ware’ouses down by Gallows Rock. Been tryin’ t’decide what t’do, like.”

“Decidin’ which one of us to rob while in our beds? You dog.”

“No Sir! I swear, no! I came ashore a’fore Cap’n Acorne made sail. Being brought up a firm Protestant I wanted no truck with what ‘e ‘ad in mind.” He fumbled quickly into a pocket in his coat, brought out a crumpled, dog-eared piece of paper. “The Cap’n gave me this t’give t’you Cap’n Jennings. Said as ‘ow it would show I wanted to stay legal.”

Jennings took it, read, walked across the room and handed it to Rogers, “He’s telling the truth. He left the crew before Acorne cut his anchor cable.”

Perkins expression was one of confusion and pleading. Of abject misery and fear. “I didn’t know what t’do Guvn’r, its been playing on me conscience badly. I mean m’gran’pap, he fought fer Cromwell, it ain’t right what Cap’n Acorne’s goin’ t’do.”

“What be ye babblin’ about man?” Rogers snapped as he tossed the letter to van Overstratten. “What the bugger has that old Roundhead got to do with it? Acorne’s turned pirate not Puritan!”

Van Overstratten permitted himself a shallow grimace of distaste as he read the hastily scrawled note. A falling out among thieves? If they did not even trust each other, how had he ever imagined he could trust just one?

“What ain’t right Perkins?” Jennings coaxed. He poured the man a brandy, despite Rogers’ frown of disapproval gave it to the wretch, who drank it down in one gulp.

“Thank’ee Sir, I be mighty grateful. I meant Cap’n Acorne’s idea t’sail t’ ‘Ispaniola t’ain’t right.”

A moment of silence. Van Overstratten half rose from his chair, not daring to hope. Had he been wrong? Did Acorne intend to stick to their bargain after all?

Rogers jumped up, excited. “Hispaniola? Is he doin’ as we asked him then, after all? Well Huzzah for that! Always said Acorne was a fine fellow, did I not? Ha, ha!”

“Aye,” Perkins said, disappointed that these fine gentlemen seemed to know Jesamiah’s plans already. He had intended to bargain for a passage home to England. “Aye, he’s gone to Santo Domingo. To offer ‘is service and ’is ship and fight this war on the side of the Dons.”

Roger’s delighted laughter ceased abruptly. Silence. Only the crackling of wood in the fire, and along the corridor outside, the somnolent chime of a clock.

Consumed by fury, Rogers swept his hand through his wife’s treasured collection of china ornaments arrayed along the mantelshelf.

“Spain?” he roared. “He has gone to fight for Spain?” He tipped over a table, then his chair. “Spain? The god-damned, turncoat! The whoreson, bloody traitor! Bugger him! Bugger him! May he rot in Hell! I’ll geld him for this – so help me, I will geld him then burn him at the stake!”

Jennings pretended to drop his pipe. With his gout it was difficult for him to bend. Reaching down to the floor was the only way he could hide the smile.

By God
, he thought,
Acorne’s going to bloody help us! He took my laid bait
! He wondered whether to point out to Rogers that this fighting for Spain was one of Acorne’s more elaborate plans, but decided to keep quiet. Rogers would never be able to fake annoyance, and anyway there was the possibility that Acorne might not be bluffing. He had been very angry, and maybe he really had turned his coat and gone over to the Dons?

Twenty Six

Friday Morning

Stefan was a man who usually managed to contain his emotions. He thought in black and white, occasionally shades of grey, but he was not given to flights of fancy or the glorious rainbow colours that painted an imagination. Nor did he usually act on impulse or whim but thought out what was needed rationally and sensibly. Unless he was playing cards. Cards were his weakness, Whist in particular. That and the compulsive need to impress his sister’s husband.

The man was a conceited wastrel, but he came from minor Dutch nobility and never let anyone, particularly Stefan, forget his high-status breeding. Stefan’s father and grandfather had been merchants lucky enough to buy into the right trade at the right time and had then risen into the new class of self-made wealth. When his brother-in-law discovered he had squandered half the family fortune on bad investments – and on losing at cards – there would be one monster of a row. Stefan’s only option was to ensure he did not discover it.

Dawn was brightening into a new day, yet still Stefan sat gazing out of his bedchamber window. He had been there all night. He had to settle the gambling debts he owed, and had to restore a healthy balance to the estate’s dwindling bank account; to do both it was imperative he obtain that indigo. He sighed and rubbed at his stiff neck, ran his hand down his face. The same thoughts had been trudging through his mind all night, since he had learnt that Acorne had gone over to the Spanish, and had made everything hopeless.

Until yesterday he had convinced himself that Acorne would come back, but that man, what was his name? Perkins? Perkins had made him see the futility, that it was a useless hope. He stood up abruptly. Who was he fooling? Acorne had never intended to bring him that indigo. What? A pirate pass over the chance of making a fortune? Huh!

Going over to the laver he poured water into the bowl, dipped in his hands and splashed it over his tired, drawn, face. He had one option. One last option. Get the indigo himself. He stood, staring into the mirror at his hollow cheeks, the dark circles under his eyes. Inhaling deeply he washed his face, felt better for the cold water on his skin, the plan beginning to form in his mind.

He was a merchant he did not require permission to leave harbour, all he needed to do was inform the captain of his sloop that they were to set sail and where they were headed…

I will leave Tiola behind, he thought. She is of no more use to me. Naturally I will tell Rogers that I will return for her – I can pretend I am going to fetch a physician from Port Royal. This one here is nothing more than a charlatan. What word did he use? Coma? What nonsense. I will leave and not come back. They can send her to the poorhouse or throw her out to whore on the streets for all I care.

He began to dress, feeling better now he was doing something positive. Paused as he was buttoning his waistcoat. There were two possibilities he had to take into account.

What if there is no indigo
? He wandered to the window again.
Jennings said there might not be. Or what if Acorne is already there, has already stolen it
?

Two solutions.

If Acorne had got there first it might be possible to find him and bargain; the barrels for the bitch.
Ja
, he would take Tiola with him. It made no difference to her whether she lay unconscious in her bed here, or in the one on his sloop. He need not inform the pirate, when he found him, that in the physician’s opinion, if she did not wake within a few days she probably never would. If there was indigo, then he could salvage his dignity and return home to Cape Town with no one any the wiser of his predicament. And if, by chance, he still had Tiola with him, assuming she recovered, he would be saying nothing of her indiscretion, and neither would she. He needed a son and he could not face the tittle-tattle, the knowing nods and winks – the sheer boredom – of having to find a replacement wife to give him one. Maybe Tiola would oblige in time; so many ifs and buts!

Stefan put on his coat and hat, picked up his walking cane and left the room. When Tiola woke she would resume her duties as his wife. He would lay with her every night, if necessary, until he impregnated her. She would bear him a son – she damned would! He shut the door and walked down the stairs, happier now that he had made a decision.

By midday they were under sail. Mrs Rogers had twittered about moving Tiola, but only half-heartedly; Stefan had the impression she was actually relieved to be rid of them.

At sea, heading for Hispaniola, Stefan stood on the deck watching Nassau disappear from view, and made one more decision. If he could not get that indigo he would not return to Cape Town. He was a proud man, he could not stomach the thought of everyone knowing he had made an almighty cock-up of everything from his business to his marriage. He stared down at the rush of foam as it seethed around the bow and curled along the hull. It would be so easy to jump. Quick. Final. And if he jumped, he would be taking Tiola with him. He smiled, satisfied.
You will be so sorry that you never came back for her Acorne
.

Throwing the stub of his cheroot into the sea Stefan headed below. There would be glowing obituaries and dabbed tears. He would be mourned by his family and remembered by his peers as an honourable, worthy, man. And not for months would they discover the truth that the tragic drowning of Master Stefan van Overstratten and his wife was likely no accident, given the poor state of affairs that he had left behind

The eternal void of Nowhere stretched away in all directions, on and on in an expanse of forever. It was pleasant here, tranquil and silent. Tiola’s soul was weak and tired, drained of all energy, almost of existence, but here, out here in the emptiness where there was nothing except peace and solitude, she could rest and sleep. And forget.

The white silence washed over and through her as she drifted aimlessly outside of time and place. Drifted, unconcerned and free from mass and weight. Free of care and memory. She did dream, slightly, of being swathed in a blanket and carried – somewhere. Dreamt she felt the rocking motion of the sea, but she was lulled by the timeless winds of the un-being, and paid no heed to things that seemed unimportant.

She had no recollection of anything except the Here and the Now. No recollection of anything. Or anyone.

Not even Jesamiah.