Pirate Code Read Online Free

that wandered, intrusive, through her sleep. A dream of watching eyes and of light footsteps running like the patter of rain on the deck and skylight. A dream where puddles shimmered like the sheen on a silken gown, and where Jesamiah drowned in one that was as deep as the ocean.

Three
    “Ah, Acorne! Come in, come in, won’t ye? Will ye take a glass o’ brandy with us? Ha, ha!” Rogers was on his feet, heartily beckoning Jesamiah forward, his cheeks red-spotted from an excess of good food, strong drink and the smoke-fugged heat of the first-floor dining room. Three men were seated at table, other places where the women had sat were vacated, the debris of a fine dinner scattered around.
    “Sit, sit! Find y’self a chair. It’s a damn foul night eh, lad? Ha, ha!“ The Governor, with his irritating habit of adding a meaningless guffaw to his statements, poured Jesamiah a generous measure of best French brandy, his amiability attempting to mask an obvious unease. One of the men was Stefan van Overstratten. As Jesamiah had known it would be.
    Deliberately selecting a chair opposite the Dutchman, Jesamiah nodded a greeting to his friend Captain Henry Jennings, and the respected Benjamin Hornigold, two older men and one-time pirates. Both, as did Rogers himself, insisted they had been privateers, although the difference between privateer and pirate was a fine line; one acted against enemy ships during the time of declared war with the knowledge and consent of a Government, the other not giving a torn sail for who he plundered or when.
    Jennings had made his fortune along with Jesamiah salvaging Spanish gold from a fleet of storm-wrecked treasure ships. Not exactly salvaging. Eleven galleons had gone down in a hurricane off the Florida coast and pirates had flocked like sharks to blood for the spoils; only Jesamiah had come up with the idea to go one better. Teaming up with Jennings the pair of them had cockily raided the warehouse where the Spanish had been storing the re-claimed treasure. Had come away as wealthy men. Jennings had retired, buying himself a modest estate here near Nassau, Jesamiah had sailed on to Africa, to Cape Town. Where he had met Tiola Oldstagh and fallen belly-deep in love with her.
    The brandy was good quality – probably smuggled contraband. Jesamiah sipped at it, declined a cheroot offered by Jennings and a fill of pipe tobacco from Hornigold.
    “My thanks gentlemen, I do not smoke. I had enough of tobacco as a child. When you’ve grown up in misery on a tobacco plantation you tend to want nothing more to do with the foul weed.”
    “Unless it is to steal it and line your pockets with another man’s hard-earned profit.” Van Overstratten lifted the brandy decanter, poured himself a large refill. Pointedly, neither he nor Jesamiah had greeted each other.
    “There are those who steal more of the profits than a pirate could ever accomplish,” Jesamiah commented. “Governments, of all nations, have powder burns on their fingers when it comes to reckoning taxation levies and trade tithes.”
    Hornigold, a man nearing his sixties, and like Governor Rogers wearing a shoulder length, heavily curled grey wig, took his pipe from his mouth and guffawed. “Aye, you have it right there lad! I’d wager there are more dishonest men in Parliament than in London’s Newgate Gaol!
    “And wiser men in Bedlam, eh?” Rogers added.
    “Except,” van Overstratten countered ignoring the joviality, “men in prison do not have the opportunity to unbutton their breeches and make free use of other men’s wives.”
    “Nothin’s free in gaol,” Jesamiah retorted taking excessive care to set his glass down, not slam it as he was itching to do. “Wardens charge a high price for a five minute poke at a woman.” His eyes lifted, stared direct at van Overstratten. A lean man in his late twenties, with high cheekbones, aristocratic brow and slender hands. His dress and appearance were immaculate; a man who