Pirate Code (21 page)

Jesamiah abandoned the idea of asking questions about Chesham. It was of no consequence now, let Jennings do his own bloody digging. His mind went back to the
Kismet
,

“I could fetch you plenty of brandy in that brig you have down there.”

Louis Escudero smiled expansively. “She is my boat, were you to set foot upon her, you would not be leaving my property. And if ‘Cesca were to sail with you, then we would be fulfilling the terms of parole exactly to the letter would we not?”

Shaking his head Jesamiah raised his hands and backed away a few paces. “Ah no, no,
Señor
, I could not take a woman on a smuggling run.”

“
Capitán
Acorne, I would appreciate the chance of my daughter- in-law having time away from, how shall I put it? From doing what is expected of her.”

I bet you would
, Jesamiah thought.
You would like nothing more than to find out where I would go and who I would contact. And if she ain’t with me she won’t be in my bed, wheedling out the secrets I hold, like picking weevils from a lump of hard-tack
.

He would have no objection to her being in his bed, for she was after all, rounded in all the right places, but it was Tiola he wanted. Tiola he loved.

Tiola he could not have.

Suddenly he knew exactly what he was going to do.

“Before I even consider smuggling brandy, I have a mind,” he said, his thoughts racing as he wandered over to a chair, sat, “to visit the plantation my half-brother owned until recently. The new owner wishes me to collect some merchandise stored there.”

“Your brother’s plantation? La Sorenta?” ‘Cesca queried. “The place was in a sorry state when last I saw it. Phillipe Mereno abandoned it.”

Jesamiah slid his chair backwards, the legs scraping on the tiles as he hurried to his feet. “Say that again?”

“Phillipe Mereno abandoned it.”

“No, no, you said
la Sorenta
.”

“
Sí
. One of the last indigo plantations here on Hispaniola – many of the others are growing sugar cane now; it is easier and cheaper to produce.” Catching Jesamiah’s expression, she added, “The plantation in Virginia, is that not also called la Sorenta?”

All manner of memories were again swarming into Jesamiah’s mind. The box had been unlocked, its lid flung wide and the contents were rushing out haphazardly in all directions. “We had always been told it was named after my father’s ship.”

“It was,” Escudero confirmed with a single nod of his head. “And the ship was named after the plantation here in Hispaniola. The vessel belonged to a good friend of mine and your father’s,
Capitán
Carlos Mereno.” He watched, Jesamiah’s astonished expression as the information sunk in. “Your father and Carlos were partners, the vessel
la Sorenta
was a joint venture; Charles was to transport the cargo, Carlos to run the Hispaniola estate.”

Jesamiah’s head was reeling. All this new information to be taken in – why had Papa never said anything of all this? “So what went wrong? Did they argue or something?”

Gravely Señor Escudero shook his head. “Carlos Mereno fell in love…”

Cynically, Jesamiah interrupted; “And they fell out over wanting to bed the same girl, I suppose?”

“Carlos was murdered on his wedding night. He was dragged from the bridal bed, gelded and disembowelled. The woman was screaming, there was nothing she could do to stop it. The man who did the deed then raped her.”

A feeling that he really did not want to hear anything more crept into Jesamiah’s belly. “My father?” he asked. He had cultivated a deliberate indifference towards the man who had shown little obvious interest in his younger son, but he would never have believed him capable of such barbarism.

“No, not your father, her brother. The bride was raped by her own brother. Your father found her the next morning; he bundled her on to his ship and got her away. Much later, two years, maybe three, we discovered he had purchased a tobacco plantation in Virginia, taken Mereno’s name, and for the sake of decency, married Constella del Gardo himself.”

Coldness as solid as ice spread through Jesamiah. His heart seemed to stop beating, he felt his guts twist in his stomach. His throat dry, the words sticking to his tongue, he repeated, “Constella del Gardo?”

“Don Damian del Gardo’s twin sister,
sí
. Phillipe’s mother.”

Jesamiah sat down heavily. He felt sick. “I never knew who she was, or where she came from. I don’t think Phillipe did either. If he did he never said.” He looked up, the shock ashen on his face. “Bloody hell, Don Damian’s sister? Was that the cause of the feud?” He shook his head, finding it difficult to think straight. “Of course it was. I had no idea of any of this. None at all.”

Linking his fingers, he chewed his thumb, thinking, digesting it all. Did knowing this matter? Not really. The information belonged to the past, and the past was done with. The present, the future, held the importance. Except, the past had a nasty habit of making a damned nuisance of itself by lingering in the shadows and leaping out to trip you up when you least expected it. And the future? Who gave a damn about the future when it stretched away empty and desolate? When it was to be without the woman he loved?

He rubbed his hands along his thighs, decision made. “Is there any indigo stored there?” he asked, trying to outrun the insidious whispering of the resurrected memories that, already, were like burrs irritating against his skin.

“Indigo?” Señor Escudero repeated. He puffed his cheeks, shook his head, “There has been no indigo stored at la Sorenta for many years.”

Frowning, Jesamiah considered the statement. “Oh. It’s all sold and shipped for trade then is it? None of it’s kept?” He wondered if it was wise to trust these people. Jennings had talked of rebellion and spies – whose side were these Escuderos on? Del Gardo’s or the rebels’? Did it matter? Even if the delightful Francesca passed every detail to her bedmate he would soon be gone from here. It was regrettable if they got into trouble because of his broken parole, for they appeared to be decent folk who were trapped in difficult circumstances. But it really was not his problem. He had enough of his own to be dealing with without shouldering theirs as well.

Reaching a decision he threw caution to the wind. “I was told of a secreted cache of indigo. I’ve been commissioned to collect sixteen barrels and ninety-seven kegs of it.”

Francesca had been pouring more coffee, her hand slipped, the cup, saucer, crashed to the tiled floor, coffee spilling everywhere, the sound masking her simultaneous gasped cry.

“Oh!” she said, flustered, “how stupid and clumsy of me.”

Jesamiah went to help her pick up the broken pieces of china, although she insisted the servants would do it, but it was an opportunity to smile at her, to brush his hand against hers.

“If you permit me to use your boat,
Señor
Escudero,” he said in Spanish as casually as he could, “I will undertake to do what I came here for, and find you some brandy at the same time.”

The old man stroked a disfigured finger down his neatly trimmed moustache, pursed his lips. Answered in Spanish, “Ninety seven kegs you say?”

“And sixteen barrels.”

The Señor pursed his lips, shook his head. “I am afraid I know nothing of any cache of indigo, but there would be no harm in you taking the
Kismet
to la Sorenta I suppose, but as we said, because of your parole, ‘Cesca must accompany you. The steward there, a
Señor
Mendez, would be the better man to ask about this indigo.” A smile twitched over the Spaniard’s lips. “And while you are there you may as well fetch my brandy. He will know where Wickham stored it.”

Narrowing his eyes, tilting his head, Jesamiah smelt a distinct whiff of rat. “And why would he be knowing that?”

‘Cesca glanced briefly at her father-in-law who nodded almost imperceptibly. She laid one hand lightly on Jesamiah’s arm. “I am afraid I lied to you. We knew James Wickham well.
Señor
Frederico Mendez is his grandfather.”

Nine

Sunday Afternoon

~ He is in love with someone else you know. ~

Tiola heard Rain’s soft whisper and stirred in her sleep. The words echoing, meaningless, in her head.

He is in love with someone else…He is in love with someone else… In love… in love… Someone else… Someone else…

~ I have seen him kiss her. ~

~ Who? Who is ‘he’? ~

Somewhere very distant the rain pattered its sing-song chatter as she scurried against the leaves of trees and bright-coloured flowers, and green, refreshed plants. As she dabbled and danced into shining puddles.

~ Unless you stop him, he will make love to her. ~

~ You stop him. ~ Tiola wanted to sleep. She did not want to wake.

~ Why should I? He is nothing to me. ~

Tiola smiled drowsily. That, she was aware, was not true. ~ Do you not love him, then, Rain? ~

~ No! ~ Untrue.

The smell of fresh-washed earth, of wet grass and clean air filled Tiola’s senses. Almost, she was awake. Almost.

Again, she repeated, ~ Who? Who is he, this spirit you do not love? ~

~ He is no spirit. He is a man. He is Jesamiah. ~

Jesamiah.

Jesamiah?

It took a great effort for Tiola to wake, to force her mind to concentrate and to make the silence, that had lulled her in its depth of oblivion, heard. An effort to catch the words she needed and to shout them aloud.

~ Jesamiah? There is but one woman he will ever love. And I am that woman. ~

“Jesamiah?”

“My dear?” Stefan laid the damp towel across Tiola’s forehead, held her hand as her eyes fluttered and she began to rouse. That slut who called herself a maid was dead drunk somewhere in the hold, her skirts stained with semen. How many of the crew had been at her? Huh, all of them by the look of her!

Stefan had dismissed her on the spot, told her she would receive no wages, that if he saw her anywhere near his wife again he would personally send her over the side. The reason for Tiola’s prolonged sleep was plain; Stefan had found the vial of laudanum.

Guilt, compassion; a feeling of fondness, maybe even a slight tinge of love? For whatever reason, he sat with Tiola as she began to wake. He patted her hand, smiled at her as her eyes fluttered open.

He kept the false smile as she whispered a name.

“Jesamiah?”

Ten

The Brig handled well. Taking a minimum of crew they had set sail in the early afternoon, when the rain had washed itself out and a watery sun had broken through the mist. Reluctantly Jesamiah had agreed for ‘Cesca to sail with him – not that he’d had much of a say in the matter, one of his keepers had to accompany him, and it could not be the old gentleman. Part of him wondered why ‘Cesca was so eager to join him on a choppy sea in a strong wind, with the possibility of more rain not far away. Another part of him, situated in his breeches, knew exactly why she was here.

Luffing the
Kismet
in towards la Sorenta’s jetty, he began to experience renewed feelings of doubt about this whole escapade, his suspicions growing stronger as they neared the shore and he realised the estate was not merely dilapidated, but was in an advanced state of decay. It had been so for years, by the look of it. He glanced across the quarterdeck at ‘Cesca, saw her chew her lip, her fingers drumming against the rail.

Now why is she so agitated
? he wondered.
She’s been like a dog with fleas since we slipped our mooring
.

He returned his attention to critically assessing the place. There was no tactful way to word it, the estate was a dump. Van Overstratten had been sold a pig in a poke. The thought cheered Jesamiah immensely as
Kismet
bumped against the jetty and two of the crew leapt nimbly ashore, two others tossing them mooring lines.

“I wondered,” he said to ‘Cesca as the boat was made secure, “why my brother was allowed to keep this estate. I would have expected del Gardo, because of his greed, spite and the old feud, to have confiscated it. I see now why he didn’t bother. It’s valueless. There’s nothing worth claiming, there hasn’t been for years has there?”

She made no answer.

The house was three-storied and had many windows, most of which were broken or boarded up with wood and sacking and looked as forlorn as everywhere else. Shutters were hanging off their hinges, the white lime on the walls was faded, cracked and peeling, in several places the bricks beneath were showing through.

To the left stretched weed-choked fields. Only one small acre of stubble with a few straggled root vegetables had been cultivated. There had been no indigo grown, harvested and produced here for decades. To the right, a straddle of buildings also in desperate need of repair. Stables – empty – workshops, processing huts, storehouses. Over it all, a lingering, unpleasant odour, a mixture of stagnant sewage, damp, mildew and rotting vegetation. No trace of the strong, distinctive, smell that would emanate from the production of indigo dye.

A short way along the shoreline half a dozen thin and wretched slaves huddled under the crude shelter of an open-sided thatched hut which did little to stop the prevailing wind. No men, only weary white European and black African women.

As a pirate captain Jesamiah had proven, over and over again, that a man with a free choice worked harder than one with resentment in his heart. His father had often argued that enslavement was a better sentence than the noose, which, now he was a man grown, Jesamiah had to concede was true. Arrested in England for stealing, poaching and other minor offences, convicts were shipped to the Colonies as an alternative punishment – women and children mostly, the men were drafted to serve in the army and navy. And then there were those here in the Caribbean who were the offspring of the Irish wretches who had suffered under Cromwell’s rule – but while many an Englishman quibbled over the squalid treatment of a man or woman with a white skin, very few balked at the cruelties heaped on the Negroes. Jesamiah disliked all slavery, took no part in the trade. Most pirates avoided the slavers; the ships stank too much for one thing, the cargo was riddled with disease, already dead or close to dying and there was very little else of value aboard. The only attraction was access to the women, and Jesamiah had never been that desperate. Blackbeard attacked slavers, but unlike him, Jesamiah was not insane.

A man was standing in the doorway of the house, shielding his eyes from the bright sun, his grey hair betraying that he was no longer young. He moved to the top of a parade of worn steps, but did not come down to greet them.

Tempted to jump ashore, Jesamiah waited for a plank to be set and offering his arm, escorted ‘Cesca to dry land. She knew the man, for she waved and gathering her skirts hurried ahead, running to greet him fondly, kissing his cheek. Jesamiah, following sedately behind, had no doubt that her animated conversation involved a brief but precise explanation of his presence here.

“
Capitán
Acorne,” ‘Cesca said, beckoning him up the last few steps, “may I present
Señor
Frederico Mendez, steward and overseer of la Sorenta.”

Removing his hat and bowing respectfully, Jesamiah acknowledged the introduction. “
Señor
, at your service. Although forgive me for saying there does not seem to be much here worth stewarding.”

Shoulders back, head high, Mendez made no attempt at a greeting, formal or otherwise. All he said in English was, “Acorne. I know the name.”

“My fame’s spread as far as ‘ere then, ‘as it?” Jesamiah chuckled as he fiddled with his acorn earring.

The Spaniard met the attempt at humour with stoic indifference. “Not fame
Señor
, infamy. I do not welcome pirates.”

“Yet, from what I hear you have no objection to smugglers, and I have no doubt you do not disapprove of the Jolly Roger when it is hoisted from a Spanish masthead?” In the face of hostility, Jesamiah dispensed with formality and went direct to the point. “I do not particularly care whether you approve of me or not,
Señor
. I am here for a reason and the sooner it is sorted the quicker I can be on my way again.”

As he spoke he realised how much he meant the words. This situation was ridiculous. He suddenly, desperately, wanted to go home. Not that Nassau was home, but Tiola was there and where she was, was home. Glancing around he very much doubted there was any indigo here. Whoever had told van Overstratten of it had been a liar or… The line of thought hit him like the blow from a poleaxe. Who had told the Dutchman of it? Not Phillipe, that bastard would not have told his own shadow of something worthwhile. So who? Who would have wanted van Overstratten to come here? A wry smile twitched at the side of his mouth as realisation dawned. Someone had told van Overstratten. Someone who knew the Dutchman would promptly commandeer someone else to come and fetch it. If it existed – which Jesamiah was beginning to think was highly unlikely.

Jennings. The cunning bastard. There was something deeper going on here, and it smelt overwhelmingly of rebels and rebellion. Very well, he would play along with the game, see how far he could move the pieces. And see who else was dancing a posy around the maypole.

“I have come for the barrels of indigo which, I believe, have been retained in storage for exclusive use by the owner. I would be obliged for you to haul it out and have it stowed aboard my vessel. There is a matter of some brandy as well, so I understand. I am to deliver it to
Señor
Escudero.”

He was a captain, he was used to having his orders instantly obeyed, was somewhat disconcerted to find Mendez offering an arm to ‘Cesca to escort her within-doors.

Over his shoulder the Spaniard remarked; “There is no indigo. The last shipment left here more than ten years ago.”

Annoyed that he was being so easily riled by an old man, but equally aware he was losing control of the situation, Jesamiah dropped his hand to his cutlass hilt, the rasp of steel grating as he withdrew it slightly. “That was not what the new owner of this estate was told. I come as his representative.”

There was no prevarication or hostility as Señor Mendez turned back to face him, just a flat statement as he answered, “Then he was not told the truth.”

The cutlass withdrew another inch. “I do not believe you.” Jesamiah was over-reacting, but he suddenly resented being ignored and so blatantly made to appear a fool.

“Are you calling me a liar
Capitán
Acorne?” Mendez indicated the general dilapidated air of the place. “Does it look as if I have anything of value here?”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” ‘Cesca interrupted, patting the Spaniard’s arm and holding the other hand, pleadingly, towards Jesamiah. “There must be a simple explanation, obviously there is a misunderstanding.
Señor
Mendez,
Capitán
Acorne is my guest, he has come to Hispaniola to fight on the side of Spain in this idiotic war that we have become embroiled in. He is not here to fight against us, but with us.” She gave a light-humoured laugh, “And my father-in-law does indeed want his brandy.”

Not wishing to offend, Mendez clicked his heels together, bowed his head towards Jesamiah and apologised with good grace. “My regret
Capitán
. I spoke out of turn.”

Under no disillusion that this Spaniard, despite his age, would be only too happy to slide a knife between his ribs at first opportunity, Jesamiah accepted the temporary offer of pax. He sheathed his cutlass, removed his hand from its hilt and returned a curt nod.

Indicating the house, Mendez offered, “Shall we discuss matters in a more civilised manner? Over a glass of wine perhaps? My wife is in poor health, but she will welcome company.”

Jesamiah felt he would rather discuss things here and now, but it would appear churlish were he to refuse, aside, a glass of wine never went amiss, especially if he could manage to upgrade it to some of the brandy that had been cached away.

Inside, Jesamiah reckoned it was not just the wife who was in poor health, the house looked pretty bad too.

When Carlos Mereno lived here, it must have been a beautiful place
, he thought, gazing at the peeling paint and the cracked plaster, his nose wrinkling in disgust at the unpleasant smell of permeating damp and widespread mould.

Frowning, he strode across the empty entrance hall to stare at a cobweb-strewn painting hanging on the far wall. He recognised her, Phillipe’s mother. He had never known her – she had been dead several years when he was born – but he recognised Phillipe’s face in hers. She was standing, pearls dangling from her ears, an exquisite necklace decorating her milk-white throat, drawing the eye to the froth of lace framing the swell of her bosom. Her gown was saffron and blue, a little old fashioned, showing the age of the painting. It had bustle panniers at the hips, not the current inclination of whalebone hoops.

Her lace-gloved hand rested on the shoulder of the man seated beside her. Don Damian del Gardo. Her brother. The old, out of favour curl of the wig, the cut of his coat, the fall of lace on his shirt and the length of his cravat also gave away that this was not a recent portrait. Jesamiah was not interested in their costume, but their faces. They had identical cheekbones, the same angled jaw and sharp chin. Phillipe had boasted the same features. Naturally, del Gardo was younger in the portrait than the man Jesamiah had spoken to yesterday. Good God, was it only yesterday? Surely, last night in that cell had been a lifetime away? This image of del Gardo was not the flab-jawed, paunch-bellied toad he was now.

Feeling renewed anger rising, Jesamiah restrained an urge to draw his cutlass and slash at the thing. Why had his father said nothing of this estate? Why had he kept so many secrets?

Footsteps coming behind! Jesamiah whirled, his hand automatically pulling his pistol from his belt, raising and cocking the hammer back in the one, fluid, movement. His heart was pounding; he hated people coming up behind him!

Frederico Mendez lifted his hands in surprise and surrender. “My pardon
Capitán
Acorne, I did not intend to startle you.” He indicated the painting. “Constella was a beautiful woman.”

Exhaling to calm the pounding bloodrush coursing through him, Jesamiah pushed his pistol back through his belt.

Not noticing there was anything amiss, Mendez continued talking about the painting. “They were twins. Some said their mother must have lain with different men on the same night, so different were they in character; but you only have to look at their eyes and features to realise they were of the same siring.” He tapped various aspects of the painting with his cane, pointing out the areas of likeness. Eyes, nose, mouth; the jaw, the chin.

“I assume you are aware Phillipe Mereno was my half brother?”

Señor Mendez bowed his head. “
Sí
, ‘Cesca told me, but I knew your father well enough to recognise you.”

Jesamiah snorted. “You knew Papa, yet I do not hear you condemning him. He too was a pirate.”

“He considered himself a privateer, but it is immaterial, I do not condemn him because your father was my friend. You have yet to prove yourself worthy of him, or my friendship.”

His fingers going to where his ribbons should have been, Jesamiah growled and narrowed his eyes. “I have no need to prove myself to anyone,
Señor
.”

Mendez shrugged. “Any man must earn respect. It is not an honour lightly given.”

“After my father died, did you respect Phillipe when he took this place over?” Jesamiah asked, the animosity slurring his words.

“Phillipe Mereno has never been here. I have not met him.”

“And now you won’t. He’s dead.” Jesamiah walked abruptly across the hall, heading to where he could hear ‘Cesca talking. “Where is this wine
Señor
? I find I have developed a thirst and grown bored with art.”

Mendez’s wife was not merely unwell, she was dying. Jesamiah had seen plenty of men on the verge of death to recognise the waxy sheen on her skin and the gaunt, almost skeletal appearance. If she did not have the wasting disease that crept through the body, eating it away as it advanced, then he was a Dutchman. If only Tiola were here! She had once explained the nature of this illness; consumption, a cancer, she had called it. He knew for a fact she had healed some people. Not all though, he felt in his bones it was too late to help this lady. She had been a pretty thing in her younger days, he guessed, for the smile in her eyes, despite her pain, was genuine as he took her hand and kissed it.