Pirate Code (31 page)

Thirty Three

~ The Witch Woman said I was beautiful. ~

~ You are not beautiful, Mother, you are ugly. Ugly because you are always angry. ~

Tethys did not answer that the Witch Woman had said that to her as well.

~ You were as angry as me. I heard you. ~

~ I was not! ~

But Tethys was right, Rain was angry. She did not like the pretty red-haired woman. She had tried to stop him liking her, but had failed. She had tried to wake the Witch Woman but had failed in that too. And now her mother was mocking her. Her mother had always mocked and goaded her. She did not like being mocked or thought of as worthless.

Out over the sea, thunder grumbled and began building into black, ominous, storm clouds.

Thirty Four

As the light began to strengthen, they found several diamonds beneath his coat. Many, Feather Man, as Jesamiah called him, had hastily collected up, most were lost beneath the leaves or had rolled away. Some lucky person, some day, might find them. Jesamiah gave half of what they scavenged to ‘Cesca, kept the rest for himself.

Scrabbling up the hill proved to be harder than the descent had been. Going down, Jesamiah had let gravity and his own momentum take him. Going up, he felt every ache, bruise, bump and cut. He felt like a tired old man as he grabbed at branches and forced his body to take another and another step. At the top, in the pale light of a cloud-covered dawn, the destruction was depressing. Dead mules, dead horses, some with their throats cut to alleviate their suffering. Dead men; the wounded lying, sitting, slumped under the shelter of the trees. Juliana Maria, her habit torn, face and hands smeared with blood, was tending them, a few of the surviving men fetching water, doing what they could to help. Six mules had been caught and were tethered, still harnessed, still with their loads. The gunpowder kegs that had remained intact had been removed from the dead animals and stacked to one side. Parts of the woodland, the scrub, the trees, were charred and burnt; smelt of wet, acrid smoke and soot.

Tipping his hat to the back of his head Jesamiah counted how many men he could use. Eight. The extra kegs would be heavy for the mules, but there was not much further to go.

He waited for the Reverend Mother to finish a prayer over a man who was near death, then taking her by the arm, steered her to one side.

“You look tired, Lady. Have you sent someone up to the convent to fetch help?”

She nodded, she had.

Compassionately, Jesamiah brushed his fingers against her cheek. “It’s not the end Angelita, this is only a beginning. So your little band has not managed all it was supposed to do, but you still have gunpowder, you still have me, and you still have the
Kismet
down in Puerto Vaca harbour.”

She looked up at him a vague light beginning to glow in her eyes again. “You are willing to help us?”

He chuckled. “Not much else I can do, is there? Until I can find my ship, I’m stuck on this island. And I hate del Gardo as much as you do. Although I suppose, hate is not an emotion a nun should be entertaining?”

She smiled. “I am the servant of the Lord and I do his bidding.” With her finger she drew the pattern of the cross on Jesamiah’s chest. “And He works in mysterious ways. He has sent me you.”

“Well actually it was Henry Jennings, but I won’t quibble.”

She laughed. “What are you going to do?”

“I am going to take this gunpowder and I am going to load it aboard the
Kismet
. Then I am going to sail up the Ozama River and find your rebels.”

“You are a good man, Jesamiah Acorne.”

“Nope. I’m an idiot, but that fact has never stopped me before.”

Twenty minutes later all the kegs were strapped to the remaining mules and Jesamiah was ready to move off with the eight men who were willing to continue and do what they could. At least they had bested del Gardo’s ambush but at what cost? The rebellion, for this side of the Island, anyway, was almost dead in its tracks.

When ‘Cesca came up to him he was not surprised as she said, “I am returning to the convent, I can help with the wounded and,” she sighed, the tiredness and despair quivering in her breath. How could she say ‘
And I cannot come with you’
? He would not have her, he would not take her aboard his ship, love her as he obviously loved this other woman he had spoken of.

She took another breath, started again, “I cannot return to del Gardo. I cannot.” Tears were brimming, one trickled down her cheek. After she had known Jesamiah? How could she?

“Del Gardo will leave
Señor
Escudero alone, he is an old man who can tell him nothing, and as fond as I am of him, that bastard knows, for all my sins, I would not die for my-father-in-law. But,” another tear followed the first, and another, “but I can only pray that he leaves my son alone, for him I would willingly give my life.”

Jesamiah brushed the tears away with his thumb. “Well, so there you have it,
Señora
. If he believes you dead, ‘Cesca, Don Damian will have no reason to hurt the boy, will he? The Reverend Mother over there successfully killed her persona of Angelita so her son could live. You could do the same. Go back to being Frances, only, don’t stay in the convent too long. You’re not a nun. You never will be.” He gave her a kiss, chaste, on the cheek, turned to go, waving to the man at the head of the depleted column to move out.

‘Cesca caught his arm, stopped him from walking away. “Jesamiah there is something you ought to know. Something
Señor
Escudero told me about your father.”

“What about him?”

‘Cesca told him. Quickly, the plain facts without embellishment.

He said nothing. Merely nodded once, turned and strode away down the hill, shouting impatiently at the men to get the mules moving faster, that this was not a family picnic. His fingers, as he reached the head of the column, went to where his blue ribbons would have been tied into his hair. He dropped his hand to grip the hilt of his cutlass instead. Felt the nausea churning in his stomach and rising into his gullet. Told himself it was the carnage behind him that had stirred this bitter taste in his mouth.

He wanted to scream; wanted to rage and shout, to draw his cutlass and kill someone. Anyone, he didn’t care who!

~
Jesamiah
? ~ Tiola’s soft voice eased into his sobbing, confused, angry, mind.

Distraught, he did not hear her.

Thirty Five

Only the sight of the sea brought Jesamiah out of his dark and brooding mood. It was grey, white capped where the wind was tossing the surface into leaping, mane-flying seahorses. Grey to match the sullen sky that drizzled its persistent fall of rain, and his emotional turmoil.

The sight of the sea and the two ships, one moored, the other at anchor in the harbour roused him.
Kismet
was where he had left her, and the other…the other he would know anywhere!
Sea Witch
. His beloved
Sea Witch
! Her presence filled his senses, joy and relief pouring through him almost as if he were drunk. He quickened his pace, ran. Everything would be alright now. All he had to do was reach his ship. Once he was aboard, once they were sailing all this would not matter any more! Oh,
Sea Witch
was there, waiting for him!
Sea Witch
!

And then Tiola was with him. Tiola! Tiola!

~
Jesamiah? My dear? What is wrong
? ~

He stopped short, jerking to a halt, clung to a young tree for support.

~
Sweetheart, oh darlin’! Where’ve you been? Why weren’t you with me?
~

~
I could not be with you, I’m sorry.
~

~
No! You were with him weren’t you? You decided you’d rather have your husband than me? Well bloody stay with him! I don’t need you
! ~ Stupid, irrational anger possessed him. He needed to hit out and Tiola was the one he punched.

~
No Jesamiah, I do not want him. I want you. I love you. Please, what is wrong? What is troubling you
? ~

~
Nothing’s wrong
. ~

~
Let me help you
. ~

He snapped a belligerent answer. ~
You can’t help me. No one can
. ~

~
I can try
. ~

~
No. Leave me alone! Go back to your husband
. ~

Tears began to course down Jesamiah’s face, masked by the falling rain. ~
I thought you had left me. I needed you and you weren’t there
. ~

All the compassion, the love, all her devotion to him flooded her answer. ~
I will never willingly leave you Jesamiah! Never willingly! I will always, always, be with you, unless I am kept from you by a force stronger than mine own
. ~ Tiola wanted to be there with him, to hold him and caress him, to help him through whatever was so grievously tearing him apart, but she was at la Sorenta, and he was in the hills above Puerto Vaca – but distance had never hindered her before. It did not hinder her now.

He felt a warmth seep through him, the feel of arms going about him, her breath on his cheek. Her smell was in his nostrils, her voice in his ear and mind. He was aware of every fibre of his being quivering as her soul blended into his. The ache in his bones eased, the soreness of the cut on his arm, the lashes on his back, all of it disappeared as she entwined her life-force with his, doing all she could to remove his mental and physical pain. But she could not reach where the stab had plunged and was twisting and twisting and tearing his heart into broken pieces. All she could do was mingle her tears with his and love him.

~
Tell me
, ~ she said. ~
Why can you not tell me
? ~

He tried.

~
My father. My father he isn’t, wasn’t
…~ But the words choked, his despair was too great for him to say the words that were driving him almost beyond sanity.

He walked on down the hill, at every opportunity checking to see that
Sea Witch
was still there, at anchor in the harbour. What if they were about to sail? What if at the next glimpse of her through the trees he was to see canvas tumbling from her spars? What would he do if he were to see that anchor cable being weighed?

Oh God, oh God, don’t sail. Rue, don’t sail
! He ran a few paces to the next opening.
By the Lady of the Sea, by the Queen of the Ocean do not sail
!

Tiola tried again. ~
How can I help
? ~

Again he repeated, abrupt and curt, ~
You can’t
. ~ And he shut her out, slammed the door. The rage, the hatred, the pain, had totally consumed him, and only one thing, now, drove him. To reach
Sea Witch
and finish this.

“Get a move on,” he yelled at the men, “Can’t these bloody beasts go any faster than a crawl?”

The track turned and the harbour was hidden from view again. Another two miles, that was all they need go and they would be there on the jetty; another half hour, less, if they hurried. And then again the track twisted and he saw the mouth of the river and two other ships. Two Spaniards. One was the coast guard, the other, the larger one, he recognised as
la Santa Isabella.
Don Damian del Gardo’s ship.

He fumbled for the telescope in his pocket brought it out, focused on the colours flying from her masthead. The flag of Hispaniola, and the personal pennant of its Governor. Del Gardo was aboard. He was here, not at Santo Domingo where the rebels were massing. He was here, and he was manoeuvring into position to blockade the harbour and blast Jesamiah’s beloved
Sea Witch
into firewood. He screamed at the men to hurry, to run, to shift their sorry arses. He could not wait for them; shouted at them to come as quickly as they could to the jetty, and abandoning the track, plunged down through the scrub and undergrowth, slithered over scree and rocks; went straight down the hillside, his gaze fixed on the roofs of Puerto Vaca and the masts of his ship, the
Sea Witch
.

When the door of the
Sickle Moon
burst open, thumping against the wall behind, the men inside paused and turned, almost as one, to stare at the figure who was striding in. He was bloodstained and grubby, his breeches were torn, a few leaves were caught in his hair. His face and hands were scratched.

He stood there, just inside the door the rain-laden daylight streaming in behind him, casting his outline into silhouette. But they knew who he was, and the men rose to their feet and shouted and cheered. They surged forward to embrace him, pump his arm.

“Jesamiah, Jesamiah!
Mon ami, mon brave,
mon frère
!” Rue did not know what more to say as joyfully he clasped Jesamiah’s hand then abandoned pride and hugged him close, kissed both cheeks. “You are returned, you ‘ave escaped?
Ah oui, très, très bien
!”

“You think so?” Jesamiah retorted, as he extricated his wounded arm and firmly persuaded his quartermaster to release him. He glared at the crew’s eager faces; young Jasper, Jansy, Toby, Isiah, Nat. Nearly all of them were here, some with tankards of ale, others with tots of rum, most with empty platters on the tables in front of them with the remains of bread and cheese and ham.

“Who is guarding the
Sea Witch
?” he asked gruffly. “I went to the jetty. There’s no one bloody there. So while you are in here, filling your bellies and waiting to take your turn in that bed I can hear creaking away upstairs, who is watching my ship? Who is watching your back and the harbour entrance?” His anger was intense.

The euphoria died away. The men exchanged glances then looked towards Rue.

“We ‘ave a watch,
mon Capitaine
. Men ‘ave remained aboard.”

“And how many women are with them? If they are there they ain’t watching, Rue.
La Santa Isabella
is a few bloody miles away! We’re under blockade, we can’t fokken get out and at any moment it’s quite likely they’ll blow my ship from the water!”