Pirate Code Read online

  “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 he
r, 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!”

  The Dutchman ignored Jesamiah’s cackle of delight, he was playing a delicate game here and he was making each move with careful consideration. “My cargo is awaiting collection in a plantation warehouse a few miles along the coast from Santo Domingo.”

  Realising where the conversation was leading Jesamiah lost the grin. “You want me to take you there? To risk my ship and my balls to smuggle you in and out again for blue dye indigo? Forget it.”

  Van Overstratten’s expression remained passive. He took another long inhalation of his cheroot, slowly exhaled the aromatic smoke. “On the contrary, I have no intention of going anywhere near the place. However, as I understand matters, you will be in the vicinity, you can, therefore, collect it for me.”

  Jesamiah leant forward slightly. “Dunwoody’s sailin’ under the wrong canvas, Master Dutchman. I take it you did get the tattle from that little shite? He is misinformed. I ain’t goin’ to Hispaniola.”

  Dropping the butt of his cheroot to the floor Stefan hid his anger. He disliked being gainsaid. More, disliked being misled. Dunwoody would be giving back those gold pieces that had been slipped into his pocket this morning. The Dutchman stood, ground the butt out with his heel. “I thought you were seeking to buy my wife’s divorce, Acorne. I have obviously assumed wrong, you do not want her. Will you inform her of this, or shall I? Good day to you.” He retrieved his hat from the table, began to leave.

  “Alright damn you, sit down,” Jesamiah cursed. He had no intention of going to Hispaniola for Rogers, Jennings or van Overstratten, but that was no reason to not listen.

  Condescending to take his seat again van Overstratten regarded Jesamiah coldly. “Had I not been,” he paused, cleared his throat, “hrrmph, distracted, my business deals in London would have been completed by now. From a letter I received this morning, however, I discovered affairs must be concluded no later then the fifth day of November. It is almost October. It will take a minimum of five weeks for you to sail the Atlantic with those indigo barrels.”

  “Fifth of November? You sure it’s indigo not gunpowder?” Jesamiah drawled facetiously.

  Van Overstratten growled his annoyance. “By God, how have you managed to stay alive? Do you take nothing seriously? The ship you have re-named Sea Witch is fast. She is a splendid vessel, which is why, of course, you stole her. I begrudge to admit it but you are a good sailor. You know how to quietly retrieve my cargo without people noticing, and you can get it to London and sell it.”

  Jesamiah tucked his pistol through his belt, wincing as his back suddenly caught him. “I don’t want to go to London. And as I told you, I ain’t goin’ to La Española.”

  “Oh, but you are Captain Acorne. I do not care how you manage it, but if you want me to divorce my wife you will have to give me something I want in return. I want that indigo. You will tell the plantation overseer that you have come for those ninety-seven kegs and sixteen barrels of indigo that are in storage.” He stood, buttoned his coat, set his hat to his head. “I will draft you a letter to my clerk in London. In it I will write instructions that upon delivery of the indigo he is to provide you with a letter of annulment. The lady in question is barren, that is sufficient grounds. When you have that, you may collect her and do what you wish with her. She will await you in Cape Town. I have no desire to remain here over long.”

  “That’s one heck of a bloody run-around! You’re talking eight months at least!”

  Van Overstratten walked behind Jesamiah, gripped one of his shoulders and leant in close. “That, Acorne, is the deal. It is non-negotiable. The quicker you leave, the quicker you’ll get the woman t’y’self.”

  He straightened, slapped his hand, hard, between the shoulder blades. Jesamiah did not bother suppressing the sharp intake of breath or the grimace of pain. What was the point? Van Overstratten had known it would hurt, that was why he had done it.

  “And hope, Acorne, that she don’t uncross her legs long enough for me t’get her with child. Eight months eh? She could have a fat belly by the time you next see her, in which case, the deal will be off until the child is born. Unless it’s a girl brat.”

  Gritting his teeth, fists clenched, both to
fight down the swirl of nausea and the impulse to ram his knuckles into the bastard’s mouth, Jesamiah stood. “Give me an excuse to kill you…Just one little excuse, van Overstratten, that’s all I need. If you think I am going to trade Tiola for a few barrels of stinking indigo, then you’d better think again. With or without a divorce she’s mine, so you’d best get used to the fact. You ain’t touchin’ ‘er ever again – get your own bloody indigo.”

  He stamped outside, letting the door slam behind him, angry. Angry with van Overstratten, with Tiola, with himself. Mostly with himself. He could have got that indigo. Could have walked back up this hill, asked Jennings for that Letter of Marque and slipped out of harbour. He had smuggled enough contraband in the past to know exactly how to do it. But he was buggered if he was going to dance a jig to this Butter Bag’s piped tune! Aside, though he would never admit it, Hispaniola and Governor del Gardo frightened him.

  The last time he had been there was four years ago. He had been aboard the Mermaid serving as crew with Malachias Taylor. A good friend, a good teacher. From him, Jesamiah had learnt all he knew of piracy. The memories flooded back. That had been just before they had sailed for Africa, before they had dropped anchor in Cape Town harbour and he had met with a dark haired girl called Tiola Oldstagh. A few months after that, Taylor had been hanged in Port Royal. They had both, so very nearly, died in Santo Domingo.