Ripples in the Sand (The Sea Witch Voyages) (2 page)

Two

Topmen raced up the rigging as agile as monkeys and swarmed out along the yards.

“Cast off gaskets!” Jesamiah had no need to call orders, but it made him feel better to be doing something positive.

The stiff, half-frozen lines that kept the acres of sail furled tight to the yards were unfastened, and the great mass of canvas was held within the sailors’ strong grip as they waited for the next order in the familiar sequence.

Taking one last look along the churn of their wake, the foam sparkling now as the day strengthened and a pale winter sun began to rise, Jesamiah hesitated a second. If they did pile on all sail would that frigate hurry after them? It was a risk he had to take.

“Let fall… sheet home… hoist away! T’gans’l sheets. Hands to braces there, look lively – we ain’t on no nobs’ afternoon picnic! Belay!”

Sea Witch
healed abruptly as the icy wind caught the spread of canvas. Lying right over by almost twenty-five degrees, white water surfed along her lee rail. Jesamiah grabbed for the backstay and hooked his arm around it as his feet nearly slid from under him. At the helm, Rue let
Sea Witch
pay off, then brought her back into control as she shook herself from the clutch of the sea and water foamed along her deck and out through her scuppers. Spindrift sluiced over her bows in a crash of spray as she met the next roller and hurled through it as if it were no more than a fragile sea mist.

Black hair blowing about his face, the cold wind stabbed at Jesamiah’s cheeks as he watched his friend handle his beloved ship, a twist of ridiculous jealousy knotting in his stomach. Rue was as capable of sailing
Sea Witch
as himself, but did he have that same feel beneath his feet? Within his palms? Did Rue sense her life? Hear her sing?

The ship responded to Rue’s nursing, a little more nervous, maybe, than she would have been had Jesamiah stood in his place. Closer and closer to the wind… They were all staring up and forward now, Jesamiah and every hand on deck, watching, breath held. There! The foretopgallant sail shivered and Rue, as nonchalantly as if he were strolling down Nassau’s main street, eased her off.
Sea Witch
was flying as if she were a hound loosed in pursuit of a hare. Except, she was the hare and the hound was a Navy frigate.

The seventy or so men on board were a good crew, more like brothers than colleagues. Men who were as quick to set to work as they were to laugh, who could be trusted in a fight to watch your back, or to willingly run up the rigging to set sail despite knowing that within an hour they could be looking down the gaping mouths of a frigate’s cannons. Men like Skylark who remained in the tops carefully marking that dogged pursuer; men like Rue, Isiah Roberts, young Jasper, old Toby Turner and Mr Janson – Jansy.

Chippy Harris came up the ladder to the quarterdeck, shifted his toolbox to his left hand and touched his forelock in salute. “Permission to knock out the deadlights from the skylight, Cap’n?”

The wooden shutters – deadlights – had lain snug around the glass panels of the skylight to keep any glow of light from dazzling whoever stood at the helm. Unless at anchor, when the stern lantern was lit, only the natural illumination of moon and stars, and the shielded candle in the binnacle box beside the compass were permitted on the open deck during the hours of darkness. Most sailors had good night vision; the silhouette world of grey and black could not be compromised by the flare of unnecessary flame.

Jesamiah agreed then scowled at the man assisting the carpenter, Bob Crawford, a lazy sluggard who was under warning to pull his weight. Jesamiah had been considering setting the troublemaker ashore for some while, regretted not leaving him in the Azores, but the man was good in a fight and an accurate shot.

A good few of his original crew had remained in Carolina, not wishing to be England-bound. A few more waverers had opted to take what was owed them when they had reached the halfway anchorage of Ponta Delgada. The new life of a merchantman had not been enough for hardened pirates bent on adventure and the lure of making a fortune. Jesamiah’s cargo of brandy had not been enough to hold them. So be it. That was the way of the Brethren; men were free to come and go as they pleased. The best of the men had stayed, though. And the trouble-stirrer, Crawford.

“Well done, lads,” Jesamiah called to his crew, then, apparently as carefree as his second in command, he walked to the binnacle box and glanced at the compass heading. Satisfied, he reckoned
Sea Witch
was making about eight or nine knots, possibly even ten. He glanced towards the horizon, the entire vault of sky now a pale blue with rays of gold striking outwards from where the orb of the sun was rising higher. Without his telescope Jesamiah could see nothing of the frigate, but it made no matter, the wind was on the starboard quarter and, with all sail set, their pursuing hound would see what
Sea Witch
was capable of, and God curse those Navy buggers if they decided to make a fight of things!

“Keep ‘er on this course, Rue, I’m goin’ below.”

Rue merely grunted an answer, his concentration and attention on the ship and the quivering of her sails.

Jesamiah half jumped, half slid down the ladder to the main deck, winked at young Jasper and told Isiah Roberts to send the men for their breakfast. Passing Finch, sitting on the deck huddled in a blanket and darning a hole in a woollen sock, he ordered his own meal. “Give me an hour for some shut-eye first though.”

“You wants breakfast? An’ what am I supposed to find fer it? You tell me that.”

Aware the stores were running low Jesamiah made no answer. The rats had got at the meat and the flour was more weevil than flour. All but one of the chickens in their wooden coops had ceased laying days ago – the hens had consequently provided two meagre stews that had been more broth than meat. Removing his hat he walked along the narrow, dark corridor between the open waist and his captain’s great cabin, opened the door at the end and ducked through.

“Sweetheart?” He flicked his hat on to the table, removed his coat and went over to the side quarter cabin, peering through the open door at the woman who sat on the edge of the bed, her body bone thin, her skin ash-grey. He stood a moment looking at her, unsure what else he could do to help. If she felt as bad as she looked, what could he do? “Why have you got up, love? Stay in bed, eh?”

Tiola managed a wan smile. “I am up this day for the same reason as every day. It is morning, I cannot laze abed.”

“Pah, of course you can. You need rest, sleep.”

“Jesamiah, I cannot sleep. If I do not make myself get out of this bed and wash and dress myself I might as well give in to whatever it is that is trying to kill me.”

He drew a short, sharp breath of sudden fear and sat beside her, his arms enfolding her. “I’ll not allow it, sweetheart. I’ll not allow anything to harm you. It’ll have to go through me first.” He held her close, her head on his chest, her black mane of hair all tangled and dishevelled. “We’ll get through this, sweetheart. I promise you we will.”

Glad of his comfort and strength, Tiola closed her eyes against the tears that threatened behind her lashes. How could she say that the reason she was so ill was because of him? That spite and jealousy was causing the energy to drain from her life force like water pouring out through the scuppers? Were she to give in, give him up, cease loving him, the force manipulating all this would maybe release her. But would Jesamiah then suffer? She could not, would not, condemn him for her own safe being.

“Are the dreams still bothering you?” he asked.

She nodded, swallowed more tears. She was so tired of those dreams. Nightmares that haunted her sleep and her waking mind. Nightmares of the sea, always, always of the sea. Covering him, drowning him. Possessing him.

Even ill she could not drown, she was a witch, there were only certain ways she could die. Drowning was not among them, but Jesamiah was human and in each dream she followed him down and down to the cold, dark depths, screaming for the sea to take her instead. A conundrum. She, Tiola, could not drown, so how could she exchange her life for his?

“I’ll be all right,” she said. “If I go on deck, perhaps the fresh air will do me good.”

Jesamiah had closed his eyes, was almost asleep. There had not been much rest for him the day before or through the long night. An hour, maybe two at the most. He had been too preoccupied trying to lose that frigate. Thought he had succeeded. “It’s cold enough to freeze a mermaid’s tits off out there, sweetheart. Stay here, where it’s warm.” Not that his cabin was much better. Ice rimmed the inside of the small side windows and the five larger ones running across the width of the stern. He fumbled for the top blanket, flicked it over their legs. “I’ll get Finch to bring in another brazier.”

“No, please. Even ill I do not feel the cold as do you.”

Disbelieving her, Jesamiah took her hand in his and rubbed his thumb over her fingers. He opened one eye, raised an eyebrow.

She repeated, “I am not cold.”

Jesamiah wriggled his body more comfortable and stretched a cramped ache from his leg. “For all you are a witch with the gift of Craft, Mistress Acorne, you will never be as good a liar as I am.”

She did manage a smile at that. “Well, you’re good at it because you’ve had plenty of practice. “

“I’ll take that as a compliment, darlin’, though I’ve a suspicion one weren’t intended.” He grinned as he pulled her nearer, one arm firm and protective around her waist, the other cupping her breast. He wanted her badly. Couldn’t have her. To distract his mind from the throbbing urge in his breeches he mentally recited the compass points, getting as far as sou’ sou’ east before falling asleep.

A sleep that seemed to last a mere few minutes, but it was over an hour later when Finch hammered at the outer cabin door and, without waiting for a response, stamped in bearing a laden tray.

“Breakfast. Ain’t much. I told you we needed to get stores at them Azoreses.”

Groggy, Jesamiah sat up, glowered at realising Tiola was not with him, that she was sitting on the window seat lockers, fully dressed, her legs drawn up beneath a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Another had been placed over his own body. He had not noticed, so had slept deeply then. “And I told you that I couldn’t buy what weren’t there. The Navy fleet was in harbour and there was nowt to purchase.”

Finch set the tray on the table with a thud, spat on his finger and rubbed at a coffee stain on the white tablecloth, making it worse. He set a cup and saucer over it.

“Toast and jam,” he announced then, winking at Tiola, lifted a tin cover from one of the plates. “An’ an egg I saved for you, ma’am. Made it into a nice cust’rd for you. Used the last of m’ cinnamon.”

Tiola smiled across the cabin at him. Finch was a curmudgeonly old basket, but he thought the world of his captain’s wife. Of his captain too, although he would never admit openly to it.

“Come on, miss, food’ll do you good.” Jesamiah crossed the cabin and scooped her into his arms, carried her to the table and, setting her down, tucked a napkin into the neckband of her gown.

Scowling, Finch yanked it away and replaced it with one that was a little cleaner.

Jesamiah fetched a blanket from the bed, put it around her shoulders, scowled back at his steward. “Thank you. You may go.”

“Ain’t poured the coffee yet.”

“I can do it.”

Finch sniffed and stumped towards the door. “I knows when I ain’t wanted. Anything else you’ll be needin’, Miss Tiola?”

Answering for his wife, Jesamiah snapped, “No!”

A second sniff. The door slammed shut.

“He means well,” Tiola soothed, “do not always be so cross with him.”

“He’s a nosey old bugger.”

“He is not. He takes the best care he can of us.”

The toast had charcoal edges and marks where Finch had scraped the burnt bits away. The butter was rancid and the last of the jam was dotted with splotches of mould. The food was poor, but they ate better as free men aboard a ship that had once sailed as a pirate than those poor beggars on that frigate.

Pouring coffee that looked distinctly non-coffee coloured, but at least produced hot steam, Jesamiah grunted. Another who, like Finch, would never admit the truth of feelings about other people close to him.

Tiola tried a mouthful of the lovingly made breakfast but it stuck in her throat, made her want to retch. Her stomach was chewing at her insides – the mere thought of eating was making her nauseous.

Two months ago Jesamiah had asked if the queasiness was anything other than seasickness. He had been abed himself, nursing a broken collarbone and a two-inch gash to the back of his skull; movement had been painful and at first he too had been sick and dizzy the moment he lifted his head from the pillow. She had fought her illness then, as well as she could, in order to care for him and the other men who had taken wounds in that savage battle against Edward Teach, Blackbeard, an evil man she had no wish to remember. Her leaning over the privy hole in the side cabin opposite their bedroom, spewing bile from her stomach, had soon been noticed by her husband.

The disappointment that had flooded Jesamiah’s face when she had laughed and stated it was definitely seasickness, not a pregnancy, had stabbed to her soul. He wanted a child? Wanted to be a father? One better than his own maybe. She regretted that laugh and casual answer, but she could not give him a child yet, not while this force of hatred was consuming her. This force of virulent envy emanating from Tethys, who knew Tiola for what she was and wanted what she had. Jesamiah.