so for the whole of the return voyage across the Atlantic. Now, locked in a dank, rat and cockroach infested prison cell these past four weeks, he wished he had said it louder.
The boredom was the worst of it. There was nothing to do except sleep or walk up and down the few yards to the far end of the cell and back again. Entertaining if you took into account the crunch of the insects beneath your boots and the necessity to step over or around the other fourteen people also incarcerated in the same cell, while avoiding the accumulation of spewed vomit, piddled urine and excreted shit.
There was one small, grilled window at eye level about two feet long by one high. Its view was mostly of the protruding rear wall of Fort Charles’ extensive armoury, but Jesamiah had discovered if he stood to the side and screwed his head around he could glimpse a portion of the harbour. Or if he looked upward, the sky.
Watching a single cloud amble across a small patch of blue, he concluded, was as exhilarating as watching a new coat of paint dry on a ship’s hull. The harbour view had not been agreeable either. Not since the day he had seen some thief sail the Mermaid away. She had been claimed and sold as a Prize by the Royal Navy – and they did not consider that an act of piracy? Commandeering someone else’s ship and selling her for profit without a by your leave?
The fact Malachias had stolen her from someone else originally was beside the point.
Jesamiah scratched at the growth of his beard, he hated having so much clinging to his chin; found a louse, crushed it between his thumb and finger. Wearily he sank down from the window to sit on the musty straw scantily covering the damp, disgusting floor. Today was the eighteenth. He knew that because yesterday, the seventeenth, they had hanged Malachias Taylor and Daniel Wickersley down on the shore below the high-tide line. Their bodies would dangle there until three tides had washed over them and then they would be cut down. Daniel’s corpse would be sent for medical dissection at the naval hospital. Malachias, coated in tar, put in tight-fitting iron bars and displayed for all to see until the flesh and bones rotted to nothing. The twentieth would be Jesamiah’s own hanging. Not the most enthralling prospect to look forward to.
He sighed, tried to get comfortable and spent ten minutes fidgeting before giving up and getting to his feet again. God’s tears the place stank! He frowned down at a drainage hole; s’trewth, even the rats were leaving! He watched as two in succession whisked out, frowned as a third followed. Puzzled, he scanned the cell. The place was normally riddled with vermin. He counted only four – then he felt it, slight, indistinct, unmistakable. The ground was trembling. Tentatively, he put his hands up to the iron bars of the grill. Faint, almost undetectable, but it was there. Movement.
Another man, a Frenchman with a tumble of brown hair and a bush of overgrown beard was on his feet, his expression curious. “What is it do you think?” He spoke in heavily accented English, putting out his hand to touch the wall.
Jesamiah shook his head, tried to remember – 1692 was it? Yes of course, the year before he was born. An earthquake had carelessly tossed half of Port Royal into the sea. The governor had rebuilt Fort Charles as a military and naval base, the rich moving their mansions across the bay to establish the present town of Kingston, leaving the poor to salvage what they could from the rubble. Stepping back from the wall he stared, fascinated, as a crack appeared above the rat hole and spread upward, zigzagging through the lines of mortar.
“If it’s what I think it is,” he answered slowly, “we might not have to worry too much about being hanged.”
Men were getting to their feet, some bewildered, others starting to shout their panic. Then Jesamiah was pulling the Frenchman violently aside, yelling a warning as the entire wall began to
The boredom was the worst of it. There was nothing to do except sleep or walk up and down the few yards to the far end of the cell and back again. Entertaining if you took into account the crunch of the insects beneath your boots and the necessity to step over or around the other fourteen people also incarcerated in the same cell, while avoiding the accumulation of spewed vomit, piddled urine and excreted shit.
There was one small, grilled window at eye level about two feet long by one high. Its view was mostly of the protruding rear wall of Fort Charles’ extensive armoury, but Jesamiah had discovered if he stood to the side and screwed his head around he could glimpse a portion of the harbour. Or if he looked upward, the sky.
Watching a single cloud amble across a small patch of blue, he concluded, was as exhilarating as watching a new coat of paint dry on a ship’s hull. The harbour view had not been agreeable either. Not since the day he had seen some thief sail the Mermaid away. She had been claimed and sold as a Prize by the Royal Navy – and they did not consider that an act of piracy? Commandeering someone else’s ship and selling her for profit without a by your leave?
The fact Malachias had stolen her from someone else originally was beside the point.
Jesamiah scratched at the growth of his beard, he hated having so much clinging to his chin; found a louse, crushed it between his thumb and finger. Wearily he sank down from the window to sit on the musty straw scantily covering the damp, disgusting floor. Today was the eighteenth. He knew that because yesterday, the seventeenth, they had hanged Malachias Taylor and Daniel Wickersley down on the shore below the high-tide line. Their bodies would dangle there until three tides had washed over them and then they would be cut down. Daniel’s corpse would be sent for medical dissection at the naval hospital. Malachias, coated in tar, put in tight-fitting iron bars and displayed for all to see until the flesh and bones rotted to nothing. The twentieth would be Jesamiah’s own hanging. Not the most enthralling prospect to look forward to.
He sighed, tried to get comfortable and spent ten minutes fidgeting before giving up and getting to his feet again. God’s tears the place stank! He frowned down at a drainage hole; s’trewth, even the rats were leaving! He watched as two in succession whisked out, frowned as a third followed. Puzzled, he scanned the cell. The place was normally riddled with vermin. He counted only four – then he felt it, slight, indistinct, unmistakable. The ground was trembling. Tentatively, he put his hands up to the iron bars of the grill. Faint, almost undetectable, but it was there. Movement.
Another man, a Frenchman with a tumble of brown hair and a bush of overgrown beard was on his feet, his expression curious. “What is it do you think?” He spoke in heavily accented English, putting out his hand to touch the wall.
Jesamiah shook his head, tried to remember – 1692 was it? Yes of course, the year before he was born. An earthquake had carelessly tossed half of Port Royal into the sea. The governor had rebuilt Fort Charles as a military and naval base, the rich moving their mansions across the bay to establish the present town of Kingston, leaving the poor to salvage what they could from the rubble. Stepping back from the wall he stared, fascinated, as a crack appeared above the rat hole and spread upward, zigzagging through the lines of mortar.
“If it’s what I think it is,” he answered slowly, “we might not have to worry too much about being hanged.”
Men were getting to their feet, some bewildered, others starting to shout their panic. Then Jesamiah was pulling the Frenchman violently aside, yelling a warning as the entire wall began to
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