Daughter of Satan (32 page)

But when she looked at him with those smouldering lights in her eyes, she was telling him, ‘Humility, you deceive yourself. Lust there was, and one day you will stand before the throne of Almighty God and you will have to admit it.'

He shut his eyes, shut out the sight of her beauty and her wildness and the wanton knowledge in her eyes. He prayed that the ship might weather the storm, that all might be saved to lead good lives in the promised land; and he prayed that he might overcome the temptation which this sensuous, wanton woman was holding out to him; he asked for the salvation of the ship, but his secret prayer was for the salvation of his soul.

After the storm there were a few days of calm. Now there was hardly a ripple on the water; and the sky was the same colour as the Captain's eyes. The boatswain and his mate sat on deck mending and patching the sails, repairing all the damage which the storm had wrought; the cooper and his mate were busy on their tasks. The cook and the steward were preparing delicacies, on the Captain's orders, for some of the sick among passengers and crew: a little buttered rice flavoured with sugar and cinnamon, a few stewed prunes, or minced mutton and roast beef.

Humility was holding a meeting on the top deck. Tamar could hear them, singing the psalms with feeling. They had come through the storm safely; they were still limp from fear and exhaustion. But this, said Humility, was a sign. The Lord had intended that they should make their homes in the promised land.

Bartle came and stood beside Tamar.

She turned and looked at him. ‘Rice with sugar and cinnamon!' she said. ‘And for your most humble sailors. It is a surprise to me to see that you could show such consideration.'

‘It is no pampering. Merely good sense. Those fellows – wet to the skin, shaking with cold – would fall into a raging fever but for the few comforts I can give them. Such delicacies as buttered rice and mincemeat, green ginger, a little fresh water brewed with sugar, ginger and cinnamon – to say nothing of a little good sack – can save a man's life. Whereas, give him salt fish with oil and mustard or salt and peas . . . and he'll not rally. Such fare is good indeed for ordinary occasions, but after such a storm, if I wish to keep my men with me, I must treat them to their delicacies. This crew of. mine is too precious – every man of it – to risk such loss. What if we run into further storms? What if we meet with our enemies? Nay, mere common sense. God! How the preacher rants I Tamar, Tamar, why did you marry him?'

She turned away, but he laid a hand on her arm and, although she tried to shake it off, she could not do so.

‘Life at sea,' he continued, ‘is full of dangers. We should have stayed at home . . . both of us . . . Oh, not now. Seventeen years ago.'

‘How you hark back! I prefer to look forward.'

‘And so do I now. When, Tamar?
When?
'

‘I do not understand you.'

‘You hold him off. You want me. But what is the use of wanting if we do nothing to ease our desire?'

‘As I told you years ago, you have a great conceit of yourself.'

‘It is justified.'

‘Are you sure of that?'

‘I am. You cannot bear to have him near you, so you lie to him. You tell him you are with child. And you lied for me. Oh, Tamar, I have gone without you too long.'

‘You might try Polly Eagel for a substitute.'

‘Who?'

‘You feign ignorance, but I know of your adventures. I said Polly Eagel.'

‘I know her not.'

‘It is idle to pretend to me that you have not been her lover. I suppose you would have me believe that you have forgotten.'

‘It matters not whether or no you believe it. It is so. There have been so many, Tamar.'

‘And you think I should be happy to join such a crowd!'

‘Whether you are happy joining it or not, you have already done so.'

‘There! You see, I can but hate you. You taunt me. You mock me. How could I love such as you?'

‘And yet you do.'

‘Leave me, I beg of you.'

‘Not till you have heard my plan.'

‘What plan is this?'

‘A plan for us two.'

‘Such a plan could not interest me.'

‘You repeat yourself. You have said that to me before.'

‘Then you invite repetition. You tire me. I pray you, leave me.'

‘And I pray you, Tamar, for your own sake, not to anger me. When I am truly in a rage, I am incapable of controlling my anger. You
will
listen to me. This is my plan. We shall reach our destination; our passengers will disembark; and you and I, with your children – and Richard if he wishes it – will sail for home. We will leave your husband here with his pilgrims. He shall have them and, as a reward for bringing him safely to port, I shall have you.'

‘An interesting plan,' she said coldly. ‘But, as I told you, you would be foolish to include me in any plans you might make.'

He came closer to her. ‘I would have you know that I am tired of waiting. We cannot go on like this. One of us . . . will . . . quite soon . . . do something to end this intolerable state of affairs.'

She had begun to tremble. She could not meet his eyes, so she stared beyond him, across the translucent water.

It was night and there was tension throughout the ship. Even the sailors were subdued and spoke in whispers.

There were no lights on deck, nor on masts, nor at portholes. The Captain had ordered it so.

‘Anyone showing a light,' he had bellowed, ‘be it man, woman or child, will be clapped in irons.'

At dusk a ship had been sighted on the horizon, and every seafaring man aboard had known her for a Spaniard.

Below, the passengers muttered together. The old ship was limping along, for she had suffered some damage in the storm. She was not equipped to fight; she carried men and women in search of a home, not a battle and plunder; stores and furniture instead of ordnance. And Catholic Spaniards could strike as deep a note of terror in any heart as could the barbarous Turk.

Annis came to Tamar's cabin, breathless in her agitation. Tamar could hear her panting in the darkness. Poor Annis! She was getting old; she had borne too many children, and of late there had been a bluish tinge about her lips when she was out of breath. Tamar remembered her suddenly as a little yellow-haired girl who had looked in at the Lackwell cottage door and put out her tongue. When death was near, she supposed, you thought back over the past.

Annis said, ‘Mistress, Mr Brown is preaching to some on the lower deck. He be a very brave man, for if the Spaniards take him, it'll be burning alive after months of torture that'll be his lot. Sir Bartle – he's on the upper deck. He did ask me to bring you to him, there, as he has something to say that is important. He says not to fail . . .'

Tamar put her cloak about her and went on deck. It was a cloudy night with a light fresh breeze which hustled the clouds every now and then bringing a group of stars into view. Bartle had seen her and came swiftly to her side.

‘Tamar?'

‘Yes, Bartle?'

‘Thank God for the dark of night.'

‘Yes, thank God.'

He put an arm about her and she did not resist; she thought of the mighty galleon that might at this moment be sailing towards them.

He said: ‘With the dawn we shall know. But there is some
hope. She may not have seen us. I have changed our course. Tamar, you must not be taken by the Spaniards. Better that you should die by my hand than that.'

‘Yes,' she answered firmly.

‘Keep close to me, my love. When the dawn breaks, I wish you to be at my side. We never lived together, and it may be that now we never shall. But we can die together; and that we will do.' He had moved his hand up her arm, caressing it. He drew her to him and kissed her with such tenderness as she had never known in him before. ‘What,' he went on, ‘an unholy mess we have made of our lives! But it is too late for regrets now.' He kept his arm about her. ‘You do not move away from me. I wish I could see your eyes. They are soft and tender, I'll warrant. They do not now flash with pride and anger.'

‘No,' she said. ‘I do not move away from you now.'

‘And never will again?'

She did not answer, and he went on: ‘Tell me that marriage of yours was no true marriage.'

‘There are children to prove it,' she said.

‘There may be only a few hours left to us. Let them be truthful hours. What did you feel when you heard that I was lost?'

‘Desolation. Yes; I know now that it was desolation. I sought for peace, and I thought that I should find it with Humility Brown.'

‘As we are given life here on Earth we are surely meant to live it. Why should we be born into this world with its trials and problems if we are to spend our time thinking only of another?'

‘Oh,' she said, ‘you are a pagan.'

‘I should never have thought of that if you had let me live my life. We should have married, done our duty to our line and home. We should have brought our children up to obey the Church and State. You are the pagan, and you have made a pagan of me.'

They were silent and she felt his lips on her hair. Then he went on: ‘Where are we going, you and I? To death when the dawn comes? That will be easy. That will be quick. But
if it is not death, what then, Tamar? Where are we going then?'

‘We cannot think beyond the morning.'

‘Why can you be only gentle and truthful with me when we may have to die?'

‘Why are
you
different now?'

‘Oh, Tamar, let us think of what might have been! Seventeen years ago we had a chance to live. I went to slavery and torture; you to slavery of another kind; but both of our own choosing. We might have been together in our home. We might be there . . . now. Think you that any grass is as green as Devonshire grass, any air as temperate? Nowhere in the world is the sea quite the same colour as that which breaks about our shores. Nowhere else does the mist rise up – so soft and warm – and disappear so suddenly to let the sunshine through, the warm and kindly sun that never burns too fiercely. Yet you threw that life away. You banished me to slavery and yourself to life with a Puritan. I could hate you, Tamar, if I did not love you.'

‘I could hate you too,' she said, ‘if I did not love you.'

They kissed with passion now; and she saw herself regaining all that she had carelessly thrown away; she knew that their kisses were a pledge for the future . . . if they lived through the next day.

She heard Bartle laugh suddenly, and it was a laugh she remembered well.

‘Tamar,' he said, ‘we cannot die. We must defy the Spaniard. We have powder and shot, arms and fireworks. We'll give an account of ourselves. You will go to your cabin, take your children with you. You will stay there until I come. For come I will. I promise you I'll fight as I never fought before. I'll not die when I am just about to begin my life with you.'

She clung to him. ‘We must not die. Of course we must not die!'

When dawn broke the whole ship's company was on deck.

Eager eyes scanned the horizon.

The Spaniard had disappeared.

The ship was moving forward.

‘How long before we sight land?' Each member of the crew was asked this question every day.

‘A week mayhap. Perhaps more . . . perhaps less.'

A week! When they had been nearly three months afloat. Excitement ran high. All around them was the heaving water, but any day now land might be sighted.

The map which Captain Smith had made over ten years ago was studied with eagerness. The very names delighted them: Plymouth, Oxford, London; the river Charles and Southampton; and farther along the coast there were Dartmouth, Sandwich, Shooters Hill and Cape Elizabeth. Such names truly had a homely ring.

‘See this point, Cape James. That was first called Cape Cod; it was named after the fish that abound there. We shall have fresh cod instead of salted herrings. There will be meat too. No more danger from pirates. No more fear of being captured by the Spaniards or the Turks . . . or the Dutch . . . or the French.'

‘What of the savages that were first here?'

‘Oh . . . a friendly people. Did you not see the little Princess when she came to Plymouth?'

Tamar's uneasiness had grown since that night of fear. Bartle filled her thoughts – not this new country. She had avoided him since that night of mutual understanding, but she could not continue to do so. She could not banish Humility from her thoughts. What had she done on that night? She had exposed her secrets to Bartle; she could no longer deny her feelings for him.

Yet she had her children. She was married to Humility Brown. How could she return to England with Bartle?

Humility was aware of the change in her. Her temper with him was shorter than ever; she seemed again and again to be endeavouring to make their life more difficult by picking quarrels.

If he were not such a good man, Tamar told herself, I should not feel I wronged him so deeply and I should not hate him so fiercely.

But hate him she did; she wished he were dead. What an
easy way out his death would give them. She watched him speculatively. He looked very ill; the journey had tired him, strained him beyond his strength, for he was not a robust man. He fasted a good deal and she believed he did this as a penance; she believed he had been thinking what he would call ‘evil thoughts', and these thoughts would be concerned with herself.

Perhaps, thought Tamar, he is not such a good man as he thinks himself to be. If I could prove that to him I should not feel I wronged him so deeply in doing what I long to do.

The more she thought of him, the more irresistible was the desire to show him and herself that he was no better than other men. As the ship drew nearer to the New World, she thought continually of this.

One evening, when they were in their cabin, he looked at her intently and said: ‘Tamar, what has come over you? You have been slowly changing as we have made this journey. You have become more and more like the wild girl you were before your conversion. I feel you have need of guidance. I beg of you to let me give it to you.'