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  Van Overstratten regarded her with disappointment. Whatever had initially lured him into wanting this woman? She was pretty, but what use were looks if the belly was empty? She gave no pleasure in bed, was as cold as a fish to his touch.

  Tiola guessed what he was thinking. He was not a man to query that perhaps the fault was his own lack of skill. He would have been surprised had he been given the opportunity to witness the intense passion that burnt between herself and Jesamiah during their lovemaking. But then, Jesamiah was a different man entirely. A man who truly understood what it meant to make love; who knew how and where to touch and caress, who knew when to be easy and gentle or to push, hard, and bring that final thrill of consuming ecstasy to its release. Momentarily lost in thought, Tiola smiled.

  Her expression increased the Dutchman’s anger. How dare she look at him so! With contempt, he insulted her; “You, Madam? Nean. I call you whore.”

  Jesamiah lifted his head, sight and senses swimming against the carol of pain; glared at the Dutchman. “Then you will not be wishing to keep her as wife, will you?”

  He glanced at Rogers who was trying his best to bring law and order to these pirate-riddled Caribbean waters. He would not succeed. He was too indecisive, wanting to please all sides at once, and Rogers assumed all men followed the unwritten code of honour and unswerving loyalty. He was unaware that chivalry had vanished centuries ago. If it had ever truly existed. But Jesamiah also conceded that Rogers had integrity, faith and guts; he held fast to his personal beliefs whatever carnage was happening around him. Even if he failed here in Nassau, Jesamiah admired him for at least caring enough to try.

  Pushing himself, with effort, and with a strength of fortitude that came from God-alone knew where, from Rue’s supporting arm, Jesamiah stood as straight as he could. If nothing else, Rogers was a man of his word.

  “Can you assure me, Governor, that you will see to it that Tiola is set free of her marriage bond? If I come tomorrow, will you give me her divorce?”

  For his part, Rogers knew his limitations and his fallibilities. He also admired bravery; what Acorne had done here today was foolish, but undoubtedly brave. To expose your back purposefully for a flogging to save a woman’s honour placed this rogue high in the Governor’s esteem. He knew, full well, that had he been called upon to do such a thing for his own wife she would have been abandoned to a flogging.

  Ignoring the Dutchman’s snort of contempt Rogers confirmed, “You have my word, Acorne.” When van Overstratten began to splutter a protest, Rogers hushed him with a flap of his hand. Repeated, “Ye have m’word.”

  Suppressing a wince, Jesamiah nodded at him. “Then I will be there.”

  With a snarl of disapproval Rue shoved Rogers aside and walked Jesamiah away, Isiah at his side, urging Tiola to hurry; others of the crew, young Jasper, old toothless Toby, Finch and Jansy going ahead, shouldering a clear path to the jetty and the waiting longboat. Men already seated there were slipping the oars, the blades feathering the swell of the sea.

  In the stern, Tiola carefully took Jesamiah in her arms and as the oarsmen gave way and pulled for the ship, cradled his head into her shoulder to mask the moan of pain that escaped him. His body was shaking, breath hissing through his clenched teeth. The blood ran in streaks down his back soaking through the thin cotton of his shirt.

  The rain squall that had come in so fleetingly hushed away towards the sea, the raindrops shimmering in the brilliant sunshine creating a series of rainbows across Sea Witch’s deck. The ship bobbed, dipping her bowsprit as if in homage.

  Tiola kissed Jesamiah’s rain-damp hair. “You are a silly, stupid man who never listens to what I try to tell you,” she whispered. “All the same, thank you.”

  She kissed him again as his arms tightened in an acknowledging squeeze around her waist. She added, “And I love you.”

  Nine

  Taking extreme care not to hurt him, Tiola helped Jesamiah to the great cabin and to the smaller side alcove where, with a sigh of relief, he lay face down on their bed. Chippy, the ship’s carpenter, had made it for them; a wooden box-bed slung from ropes secured to the underside of the decking above, and just large enough for Tiola and Jesamiah to snuggle intimately together. She turned away hurriedly as his hands gripped the pillow and he buried his face into its sanctuary of privacy. All the same, she saw the agony ripple through his rigid body.

  “Fetch me a bowl of hot water with a handful of salt in it please,” she said to Finch who had followed, trotting at their heels.

  Expecting the request he answered, “Which is ready. I left the kettle singin’, Ma’am.” Did not comment he had assumed its need would be for her, not their captain. He did add, “Will ye be wantin’ the vinegar and paper?”

  Tiola shook her head. The traditional sailor’s treatment for a flogging; swill the lacerated back with seawater then liberally apply vinegar-soaked brown paper. A cure that sounded as brutal as the punishment itself, but in a world where few understood infection and medical practices were governed by superstition and false ideas, a cure that was at least effective. Tiola had better healing methods, ones she used with guarded care as they ran against the orthodox ways of thinking. Her healing came with the ability of Craft; inherited knowledge handed down from the ancient and long-gone civilisations of India, the Far East, and Arabia. A sophisticated knowledge which in the present bigoted world, despite the supposed new age of science and enlightenment, would have had Tiola marked as a witch faster than a spider traps a fly.

  As far as the crew of the Sea Witch were concerned, they never questioned her methods. All they cared about were the results. They were healthy, their wounds healed fast, broken bones knitted straight and only a few of them carried the cock-pox. And those few were the ones who did not have the courage to seek Tiola’s assistance in matters relating to the frequent visiting of whorehouses, or who would not contemplate using the lamb’s intestine cundums she insisted on issuing them all.

  From a small, rowan-wood chest she produced rolls of clean linen, cleansing herbs and salves. She was a White Witch of Craft with the gift of healing, but even she did not know where to start with the mess that was now Jesamiah’s lacerated back. A small portion of his shoulder blade showed white where the skin had been flayed to the bone; the rest was mangled, bloodied, bruised and swollen. He sucked in his breath as she bathed the congealing wounds, tending and inspecting the damage as gently as she could.

  “You are an idiot to have done this,” she said tersely as he flinched and gasped aloud as her touch probed a little too insensitively.

  “What was I supposed to do then?” he objected into the pillow. “How could I have stood where you are now, looking at you lying here?” He shifted position, eased onto his side and half raised himself to face her, suppressing the groan. “How could I have lived with myself if I had let you suffer?”

  As she had to watch him suffer; Tiola said nothing, instead, showed him her answer by bending forward and kissing his mouth. A lingering kiss expressing her love, understanding and appreciation. A more pertinent answer than any spoken words could have conveyed.

  Indicating he was to lie down again, she smeared the wounds with a sweet smelling salve, lightly placed a bandage and then mixed laudanum with the generous tot of rum that Rue, waiting in the outer cabin to offer help where he could, had measured into a tankard.

  “This will help you sleep, luvver,” she said, handing it to Jesamiah who sat up awkwardly. “Sleep and time are the best healers of all manner of ills.”

  “And the pleasure of a good poke,” he said, smiling at her, attempting to lift the tension from her face, the tremble from her hands. He well realised she was holding in her tears, that once he was asleep she would go up on deck to the bow where it was private, and weep. “Though I must confess, I don’t feel up for it at this precise moment, darlin’.”

  As he hoped, she laughed outright. “By the height of the mainmast, that, then, must be a first!”

  He
grinned back at her, settled himself more comfortable. The rum was already taking effect, the laudanum following rapidly in its wake.

  “Do not let me sleep on the morrow, sweetheart. I have to meet with Rogers.”

  From the day cabin, Rue, pouring himself a rum and Tiola a glass of wine, swore in his native French. He was still seething fury at his impotency to do anything to help either of the two people he admired and loved. “Merde, like ‘ell you will! Rogers can shove ‘imself up ‘is own derrière!’”

  He caught Tiola’s expression as she accepted the proffered wine and nodded an apology for his crudity, “Pardon ma chère.”

  She waved her hand, dismissive. “Be as coarse as you like, Rue. I could not have put it better myself.”

  Jesamiah lifted his head, the need to sleep growing stronger, on the brink of overwhelming him. He scowled at his second in command and his woman. “I gave my word I would be there. Be there I will.”

  Ten

  Tuesday Morning

  Dawn had sauntered over the eastern horizon, and a feeble sun was attempting to vie with the lingering rain clouds. On foretopsail only, a Royal Navy frigate inched her way over the sandbar and manoeuvred into a position to half block the exit from Nassau harbour. Most of the pirate vessels anchored, higgle-piggle with no order or symmetry, were nothing more than leaking buckets with sprung timbers and riddled by toredo worm. Their keels and rudders were mouldering beneath the cling of barnacles and rotting weed; spars were draped with patched sails that looked more like a careless array of last week’s abandoned laundry.

  A mere handful of ships appeared neat and cared for; Governor Rogers’ small fleet, or so Commodore Edward Vernon assumed from where he stood on the quarterdeck of the Challenger. Through his telescope he inspected a blue-hulled, square-rig resting, immaculate, at anchor; read her name painted in gold lettering along her stern. Sea Witch. Ah. He knew her, many a newspaper had reported the numerous exploits of the degenerate rogue who captained her. Sea Witch was a prime example of the idiocy of Governor Rogers’ experiment of offering an amnesty to cut-throats and thieves. In Commodore Vernon’s frequently expressed opinion, pirates should hang without trial and without question. String them up and make them dance. Acorne, a prime candidate.

  Vernon nodded his head at his first lieutenant and the boom of two cannon belched a salute shattering the quiet of the harbour. Roosting birds screeched into flight and everyone who had been curled asleep and snoring leapt into a frenzy of startled panic.

  The fortress should have responded. His lips thinned further into tight disapproval. Did this godforsaken backwater not know the tradition of the salute? Rogers’ lackadaisical attitude again he supposed. By truth, unless he achieved something glorious this cruise was going to be most obnoxious. He had beaten the Spanish at Barcelona back in ’05 and no Don, nor powdered-wigged blustering British Governor was going to ruin his reputation. He had plans for furthering his naval career; bumbling around in the Spanish Main was not ranked among them!

  “Drop anchor, if you please, Mr Tyler,” he said to his first lieutenant who relayed the order at a sharp bellow. “And have my gig swayed out, I am going ashore immediately. I assume Governor Rogers is aware of his position of authority, and not a man to laze abed of a morning.”

  Rogers was not. Vernon found him partaking of a hearty breakfast.

  “Come in, come in! Do not stand on ceremony, sit, sit. Eat. Hi there, bring fresh tea for the Commodore, ha, ha!” Rogers was all bonhomie as he ushered the new arrival to join him at table. “May I introduce Master van Overstratten and m’wife?” Seating himself again he began to tuck into the black pudding he had temporarily abandoned.

  Returning the courteous greetings, Vernon bowed politely but obstinately remained standing. He cleared his throat and began to unwrap the canvas package he held beneath his arm. “I am on my way to take up my new command at Port Royal, Governor, from where I will conduct our strategy in these waters against the Spanish. I bring the mail and news from England.” With a flourish he produced a pile of official letters which he placed on the table. A smaller bundle he passed to the Dutchman.

  “Your presence here, Master van Overstratten, is most fortuitous, these are addressed to you. And this,” he removed the last sealed document, “I must present direct into your hands Governor. It contains your orders.” With reverent care he placed the package on the table, its royal seal uppermost.

  “Is the news sensitive or secret?”

  “No Sir, by now I would assume it to be common knowledge in England.”

  Rogers spoke through a mouthful of buttered toast, “Then you can tell me just as precisely what this damn thing contains while being sociable and drinking a cup of tea, can ye not? Standing as if ye have a broom handle shoved up yer backside is puttin’ me off m’food.”

  Normally an affable man, Rogers had taken instant dislike to this officious rule-stickler, and thanked God it sounded like he was only passing through. Let Port Royal have the tedious bore, they were welcome to him!

  Four and thirty years of age, Vernon was a tall, ample man, with a long, straight nose, a fleshy face and an inclination towards a double chin. He walked with a slight stoop to his shoulders, and his legs had no muscle to the thighs and calves beneath immaculate white breeches and silk stockings. Equally disliking Rogers, the Commodore seated himself but refused the tea. He detested the stuff, thought it a drink for simpering women and over-indulgent popinjays.

  With a grave expression he slid the package along the white linen of the tablecloth nearer to Governor Rogers’ hand. “I believe it would be more appropriate for you to read it for yourself.”

  Rogers sniffed, glowered, and continued eating. Mrs Rogers began questioning her husband on some trivial domestic matter, while van Overstratten broke open the seal to one of his four letters and began to read, a frown deepening on his face. Rogers may prevaricate over his correspondence, but van Overstratten did not, especially when he had been anxiously awaiting the arrival of this particular communication from his London lawyer. Now he had received it, his anxiety had increased twofold. He read it through again, then stared out of the window, oblivious to what anyone was saying.

  Sitting motionless and quiet for a full two minutes while Mrs Rogers prattled about new curtains for the drawing room, Vernon finally could not contain his exasperation. Interrupting her he stamped to his feet.

  “With respect Governor. I made full sail most the way here. I believe I have clipped four days off the fastest passage; London to Nassau in four and fifty days.” He did not mention how he had driven the men, or the number of severe floggings he had issued. Nor did he mention the three deaths by accident and misadventure. Tersely he added, “I was ordered to make haste, to reach you as soon as humanly possible with this pressing news.”

  Setting his knife and fork down with a clatter Rogers came to a wrong conclusion and scurried to his feet, exclaiming, “Good grief man, is the King dead?”

  His wife hurried her hand to her mouth, suppressing a squeak of distress. Van Overstratten momentarily glanced up at them.

  Bewildered, Vernon shook his head. “Whatever made you think that?”

  Resuming attention to the last of his breakfast Rogers expressed a muttered opinion that nothing beyond the welcome demise of that wretchedly useless, non-English speaking fart-arsed king, George of Hanover, warranted such undue haste.

  On the verge of losing his temper Vernon spluttered, “War Sir! War is of what I am speaking! We are at war with Spain; the Treaty between us has been breached. Hostilities have resumed.”

  This time, Mrs Rogers did not suppress the slight scream of alarm. Van Overstratten folded his letter away and grimly slid it into his coat pocket, Rogers, however, without thinking, slammed his napkin down delighted. He banged the table with the flat of his hand.

  “By Gad! How splendid! Ha, ha!”

  A few minutes later, when he had read through the Admiralty’s dispatches he realised the grave erro
r of his enthusiasm. War would bring complications to their carefully laid plans.

  “Bugger,” he muttered to himself. “Bugger.”

  Eleven

  Governor Rogers stood at the open window gazing down into the harbour, at the Navy frigate, Challenger in particular. He dabbed at his florid face with his kerchief. The day was but a few hours old and already hot, sultry and airless. These damned storms were making the climate intolerable. He was a well intentioned man, but when it came to thinking ahead and being sharp with political matters, he was somewhat naive. Some, unkind people, even said stupid.

  “I do not see what more we can do, Henry. After all, war has been declared and Vernon is to take command of all naval shipping here in the Caribbean, so he says. Oh, I’m being friendly and jovial towards him, naturally, as Governor of Nassau I have no choice, and I admit I have an enthusiasm for war. Never ‘ave liked the Spaniards, eh?”

  Jennings was sitting at his cluttered desk, one elbow on the top, chin cupped in his hand. Thinking. He had been sitting like that for the past five minutes while Governor Rogers prattled on.

  “You said y’self, everything is ready for the rebels to act, we’ve done all we can, we’re not expected to do any more are we? I mean, it’s up to them now ain’t it? Ha, ha!” Rogers was trying to convince himself that the situation was not as dire as Jennings thought. “War is just the opportunity they need. That damned man, del Gardo, will be distracted and the Islanders will not be best pleased to fund a conflict that has nothing to do with them, will they? It is an ideal opportunity for them to rise, don’t ye think?”

  “But don’t ye see!” exasperated, Jennings slapped the desktop with his hand. “Vernon has orders to blockade Hispaniola. That will make it difficult for anyone to get in or out. In a week or so he can dance a jig in Santo Domingo’s Cathedral for all I care but for now, both of us are near bankrupt because of our involvement. If the rebels do not rise or if they fail, well, it is a pity, we could have done very satisfactorily out of it, but if Hispaniola is cut off to us – God alone knows if we shall ever see the agreed payment we are due for our efforts!” He slapped the desk yet again. ”They have not paid us, and unless we get what we are owed before Vernon sets sail, we will get nothing! Nothing at all!”