Ripples in the Sand (The Sea Witch Voyages) (4 page)

The contempt that swept Jesamiah’s face was bitter. “Good God, man, since when have you cared whether fat German George or Papist James sits his arse on the throne?”

Looking down at the silver buckles on his shoes to conceal his embarrassment, Henry answered, “I have always been a King’s Man, Jesamiah.”

Jesamiah also leaned forward, the thought coming quickly.
Which King
? Abruptly he snapped, “What is in it for you? And how do you know of these suspected names? Is your informer reliable? God help you if you have the wrong information.”

Jennings’ turn to remain silent a while; with a sigh he said, “We have suspicion but no proof, and I respect the person who sent me the information. He has never been wrong before.”

“Huh! One of your damned spies, I assume. Duped him to work for you, did you? Like you duped me?”

“As it happens, aye, a very good spy. The best there is, in fact.” Jennings paused, as if choosing his words, then said quickly before he changed his mind, “Out of interest, does the name Dynam mean anything to you, Jesamiah?”

“No. Nor do I want it to mean anything.” Dismissing the subject Jesamiah returned to the chart he had left out. This business smacked of things he did not want to become involved in.

Jennings then fired the verbal equivalent of a broadside. “What about Chesham? Remember that name? Francis Chesham?”

Jesamiah looked up sharply. Aye, he knew Chesham!

Very quietly, very intently, Henry Jennings added, “He is the one who sent word about a traitor.”

For a full minute Jesamiah sat motionless. He had never expected to hear that name again; had last seen Chesham on Hispaniola. “I reported that Chesham was dead.”

Jennings set his glass on to the table. “You were mistaken. He is not. Because of this imperative information, Francis Chesham, for matters of convenience, decided to return from the grave.”

Almost as carefully, Jesamiah set his glass next to Jennings’ empty one. Said slowly, looking directly at his friend with a neutral expression, “Did he now?”

“Chesham has always been invaluable to us. We are pleased to have him resurrected.”

Leaning back in his chair, Jesamiah crossed his legs. “Even though you have never met him? Have no idea what he looks like?”

Jennings chortled, amused. “My dear boy, if the identity of most spies was common knowledge, they would not be very good spies would they?”

Nodding consent, Jesamiah stretched, linked his hands behind his head. Henry Jennings, then, seemed to have no idea that his precious informer spy was a
she
not a
he
. Franc
es
, not Franc
is
. Jesamiah knew that as fact. He had made love to her a few hours before they had parted company, and she had sworn him to secrecy regarding her identity.

Everyone else knew her as
Señor
a Francesca Ramon Escudero, the English ex-actress and recent widow of a Spanish Don. Jesamiah remembered her as red-haired, green-eyed and extremely beautiful.

Five

Tiola never broke a promise or deliberately told a falsehood.
I will keep out of the way.
She stood in the relative shelter beneath the overhang of the quarterdeck, heard someone call out that the coastline was ahead, and suddenly she wanted to see the land, even if it was a distant, hazed blur beneath a storm-laden sky. Once on solid land this intense draining of her energy would go and she could replenish her fading life force.
Maybe
, she thought,
even sight of land will help.
And by going for’ard she would not be breaking her word.

Sea Witch
was battling through a heavy sea, the wind strong on the larboard quarter, the sails filled and straining. With each lift of her bow over a white-capped, curling roller, spray fountained over her fo’c’sle, hissing as it seared the deck.

“Watch your step, ma’am,” one of the several Africans advised as her foot slipped on the wet planking. He shot out a hand to steady her, held her elbow while she regained balance and reached for the rail.
Sea Witch
plunged again through a great wave, her stern higher than her bow, then began to rise, the water frothing and churning as it rushed along the deck gullies.

Breathless, for she had almost fallen, Tiola smiled her gratitude. “Thank you, I am obliged.”

“No problem, ma’am. Best you take care out here. It be breezy.”

Tiola broadened her smile. Breezy? This was almost a gale!

One hand clutching the varnished, salt-rimed and ice-sparkled rail, Tiola walked carefully. Aware her legs were as unstable as sand washed by a running tide, she made her way forward slowly. At the beakhead, she huddled into her cloak and clutched the woollen shawl tighter at her throat, the savage wind determined to snatch it away. Her eyes watering from the sting of the cold air and the forward rush of speed, she peered out along the length of the bowsprit that pointed towards the grey blur of land several miles away.

Behind her, in the sails and rigging, the wind was screaming as it tore past, canvas thundering under the strain, blocks and tackles clattering against spars and masts. The surf creamed away to each side of the keel as
Sea Witch
ploughed her way through wave after wave with a shrug of disdainful contempt; each great roller trundled beneath her, lifting her bow higher and higher, her stern sinking lower, until the sea, in turn, lifted her rear and her bow began its next downward plunge. The serpentine motion, rising and falling, her power and speed both exhilarating and frightening at once.

Staring at the sea Tiola was mesmerised, the sound, feel, smell of the sea surrounding, entering and consuming her. She was aware of the men about their tasks; adjusting the sails, nurturing every inch of effort from the ship, but it was the sea that drew her attention, pulling her down into the white toss of bubbling agitation below the surface. Down, and down some more. Down through the swaying, clearer water into the secret depths, the light fading to a murk of darkened green. Down through the darting fishes and the trailing weeds. Down, and down, and down to the sand and the rocks, and the peaceful tranquillity. Down to the very depths of darkness where the sun could never penetrate, where there was silence, where there was…

~ Well come, my dear… ~
A voice in Tiola’s head that sounded like the hush of the sea, whispering alongside her own thoughts:
Let go. Give in
.

All you have to do is let go.

Let go.

~ Let go; come join me. Come join me for ever… ~

With a gasp Tiola jerked her senses back to the awareness of reality. Such an effort to raise her head! She stared at the far off haze that edged the horizon. Land. Was it Cornwall or Devon? She had been born into this body in Cornwall, her eternal soul transposing into the child of a Wising Woman’s granddaughter – and a loathsome bastard of a father. He had been a man of the cloth, a Christian Reverend. Full of pious bigotry and lust for young girls. Her mother had been hanged for killing him, the bloodied knife used to protect her ninth child and only daughter all that was needed to condemn her. By law the execution should have been by burning, for the murder of a husband was petty treason, and treason was punished by fire. Except that the rain had been falling and everywhere so sodden that wood, faggots and reeds would not ignite. Outraged that a woman, the witch, could slay their parson the villagers had not cared to wait for more clement conditions. Tiola’s mother had been dragged to the yew tree in the churchyard and hanged, without trial and without mercy, to the jeers of derision and shouts of superstitious hatred. The irony? It was Tiola who was the witch, not her mother.

The fear and grief of that afternoon trampled into her tired and confused mind. This while with Jesamiah she had almost forgotten that awful time. Hiding, scared, overnight the secret escape on a smuggler’s boat, all arranged by her beloved brother. And dear Jenna Pendeen, as loyal as a faithful hound. Jenna had packed a few belongings, managed to squirrel away some of her mistress’s jewels, and had endured the sea voyage to Cape Town and safety with Tiola. Refugees with a new identity, a new life and new beginnings on the far side of the world – and the chance meeting with Jesamiah.

Only Jenna, too, was gone now and nothing, where souls were linked and locked to each other by the warp and weft of fate, was by chance. Tiola could not live without Jesamiah. Not now.

He is not yours, Witch Woman. He is mine.

That voice in her head, the sound of the sea filling her ears, mind and consciousness. The grate of shingle upon the shore, the
ssshush, ssshush
, of the waves.

~ He is mine. I shhh…all have him! Jessssshh…a…miah ~

Tethys!

Aware of each nuance of energy that bound and contained every single, tiny particle of the Universe Tiola recognised the hatred that consumed the elemental goddess of the oceans. Tethys, the soul, the spirit of the depths. Felt the violence of that hatred slam into her brain and course through every fibre of her body.

He is mine, Witch Woman! Mine!

Sea Witch
slid through a deep trough then hit the next oncoming wave hard, as if she were slamming into a wall of rock. Her stern lifted high towards the grey-clad, cloud-filled sky, her jib-boom submerging in the froth of white, boiling water, that pointing finger no longer indicating the land ahead, but casting downward into the foam of the surging tide. The ship shuddered, unable to free herself. Her timbers creaked in protest, sounding as if they were about to split open from the strain, the unease juddering from bowsprit to rudder, shivering through planking and joists, deck, bulkheads and beams. A maelstrom of spray fountained up and over the bow, reaching out towards Tiola, to ensnare her and drag her into the water world realm where Tethys ruled supreme.

Tiola flung up her arm, the last remaining spark of energy flying from her fingertips to form a shield of light that swept in a circle around her body. Aware of the shouts and cries of alarm behind her, Tiola could do nothing except maintain her own protection. This was for the ship to battle on her own, aided by the skill of her crew. There was nothing Tiola could do to help. Nothing. She did not have the energy, no longer possessed enough power.

Six

“What the…?” Jesamiah grabbed at the edge of the table as the sound of an impact boomed through the oak timbers of his ship. Everything slid from the table to the floor, glasses, cups, Jennings’ hat and cloak. The cushions from the locker seats. Even the chair he was sitting on began to slide forward across the square of worn carpet.
Sea Witch
shuddered, all her carried weight moving as she plunged downward, her stern soaring high, hanging there suspended. Jesamiah grasped an overhead beam, almost toppled forward as he let go, heading towards the door.

Jennings was still seated, hands gripping the arms of the chair, face ash pale, alarm swamping his expression. “My god! We’ve hit something!”

Jesamiah was at the door, his feet skidding on the slope of the wood. The sound of men running up from below to reach the open deck, their voices rising in panic. When a ship hit, she could go down in seconds.

His hands feeding along the bulkheads to steady himself, Jesamiah ran also. On deck everything was confusion. Bewildered men clinging to backstays and shrouds, peering up the masts, over the rails. Every stay and shroud was vibrating and quivering as the strain tightened; masts and rigging close to breaking point. The gun trucks pulled at their tethers, balls rolled for’ard. Anything that was loose tumbling and toppling. Rue and Roberts together at the helm were struggling to hold onto the ship. One crewman lost his footing. He slid along the deck, frantically attempting to grasp at something but there was nothing to stop his fall; the deck was too wet, the angle too steep. With a cry of terror he was gone. There was nothing they could do to save him, save pray for his soul.

The downward plunge eased, and slowly, slowly, the bow began to come up. There was a half-hearted cheer, men scrabbled to make ready to lower the boats – their only hope of survival.

“Belay that!” Jesamiah roared as he hurried forward, reaching hand over hand to anything he could hold on to. “We ain’t sinking.”

The sea loomed over the bowsprit seeming to be wanting to swallow his ship whole. The wave hung there a moment, then spray descended in a slow cascade, as slowly, slowly,
Sea Witch
righted herself, but Jesamiah could see one thing only: Tiola. Her hands clinging to the rail, sea water swirling about and around her. Claiming her.

How in God’s name had she not already been swept overboard? He shouted her name, desperate, as he clawed his way towards the bow. He was almost there. He stretched out an arm towards her, felt a tingling as if a cold fire were burning through his skin, and he had her. Gripping tight he hauled her away from the rail, enfolding her within the safety of his embrace as
Sea Witch
shook herself free and surged forward, barely lifting over the next wave, lurching through the next, then settled on to an even keel, excess water gurgling out the scuppers and down the open hatchways and scuttles.

As she righted, a cheer tore through the men, relief coursing as rushed as that water, but short lived as every man hurried to the sides to peer over. What had they hit? Was the hull damaged?

“Tiola?” Feeling the sharp sting of salt in his mouth and eyes Jesamiah wiped his face with his sleeve. He shook his wife none too gently. “What are you doing out here, you daft wench?” He shook her again, her head lolling as her body rattled. “You could have been drowned, you silly fool!”

Tears were falling from Tiola’s eyes, almost indistinguishable from the sodden wetness of her hair and clothes. “No,” she whispered, her legs buckling. “I cannot drown.”

Someone offered Jesamiah a coarse-spun woollen jacket and he tucked it around her shoulders. Another man produced a leather flask of brandy. Jesamiah took a quick swig himself. He too was soaked to the bone and starting to shiver. He offered the flask to Tiola, but she wearily shook her head. Passing it back to its owner, Jesamiah lifted her into his arms and she curled her own around his neck, rested her head on his shoulder.

He was angry with her. He had every right to be; she had put them all in danger.

She looked up, directly into Jesamiah’s eyes, attempted a smile but more tears of tiredness fell. “I was trying to find a reason for this war,” she whispered. “Unless I find what I seek I will have to fight. Only one of us will win.”

She was delirious then. Jesamiah kissed her forehead. “We are not at war, sweetheart, least not as far as I’m aware. Jennings says the Jacobites are shaking their fists at fat George of Hanover, but there ain’t no war.”

“Captain!” Crawford barred his way. “What of the ship? We hit something. How do we know she ain’t sinking?”

Jesamiah stared at him through narrowed eyes. He was tempted merely to shove this troublemaker out of his way and make no reply, but other men were gathering around, faces taut with concern.

“We ain’t sinking,” he said.

“How do you know? I say we heave-to and make sure.”

It took effort for Jesamiah to control his temper, already rubbed raw by the fright Tiola had given him, but reason whispered to him. He knew how his ship felt because he had an affinity with her. What was he to say?
I know she ain’t sinking because she told me
? As if they would swallow that! He settled on a simple, “I know because this is my ship, and I know when there’s anything wrong. We ain’t sinking.”

As frightened as the rest of the crew, Crawford was not going to let the matter rest. “So what did we hit?”

“Something, anything, nothing. Maybe it was the weight of the sea hitting us. I don’t know and don’t care what we ‘it, Crawford. We ain’t sinking.” Annoyed at being questioned, Jesamiah shouldered the man aside. “If you’re so bleedin’ concerned, I’ll be more’n ‘appy to pitch you over the side so you can take a look.”

Chippy, the carpenter, stepped forward to make his own suggestion. “Captain, maybe an idea for me to go below and check?”

More than an idea, it was what Jesamiah should have suggested in the first place, but his anxiety, and Crawford’s persistent belligerence, had clouded his judgement. He grunted, agreed, and scowled at Crawford, his expression plain:
Happy now
? Finishing with the conversation, he ducked into the low corridor and carried Tiola to their cabin, stepping over the broken and scattered debris. Jennings, his wig askew, was attempting to set right a chair.

“Leave it, Henry,” Jesamiah said. “Finch’ll clear up.” He laid Tiola on the bed, began removing her wet clothes, paused and looked over his shoulder. “I’d appreciate your presence on deck if you’d be so obliged, Henry. We might need the pumps going, and the men are shook up. Mayhap you could steady ‘em a little?”

Jennings straightened his wig. Easier to do than the heavy chair. “Well aye, but I don’t see how I can…”

“I want privacy with m’wife!” Jesamiah snapped.

Jennings flushed. “Ah. Aye. I see. Of course.” He snatched up his hat and coat and left at a hobbling trot.

“What were you doing?” Jesamiah repeated as stripping her naked, he awkwardly rubbed Tiola dry with a linen towel, then manipulated her into her nightgown and then bed.

Her voice frail, Tiola answered in a whisper. “I needed to see the land. I need to be on the land, Jesamiah.”

“We’ll be ashore soon, in another couple of hours unless we have to wait to navigate past Appledore Bar.” With the way the crew were shaken he had no intention of taking a chance to run the hazard of the Bar himself.

Finch appeared, handed Jesamiah a generous glass of brandy and gathered up the wet clothing.

Her eyes burning with fever, even though her skin was colder than the touch of the ice wind blowing outside, Tiola clutched at Jesamiah’s hand. “I cannot wait. If I am to fight, I have to be ashore.”

Jesamiah sat on the bed, drank the brandy, ignoring Finch’s mutter that he’d fetched it for the lady.

The steward added to his grumbling, “You ought t’get out them wet clothes.”

“Go do something useful. Get the fire going again, heat a couple of bricks to put by m’wife’s feet, she’s frozen.”

Finch found another blanket, set it around his captain’s shoulders, fetched a second brandy – having a sip from it himself – then did as he was bid.

“You ain’t got to fight, darlin’. For once, England isn’t fightin’ anyone. If the tide and wind is against us we may have to wait for a pilot.” Every sailor knew that without the aid of an experienced pilot only an idiot attempted to enter the estuary where the Rivers Torridge and Taw met.

Tiola gripped his hand, her nails digging into his palm like miniature daggers, her eyes wide and afraid. “I have to get to land. I have to get away from her. She is killing me.”

Having no idea what she was talking about, Jesamiah shrugged, did his best to reassure. “If we need to heave-to I’ll take you ashore in the longboat. It’ll be a pull, especially against the tide, but we’ll manage.”

“No!” Her reaction was almost a scream. She sat up, clung to him, fresh tears streaming, the terror catching in her throat. “No! I – you – will be vulnerable in a small boat. Promise me we will stay aboard the
Sea Witch
until we moor! Promise me!”

“Hey, hey! Sshh. There’s no danger, everything will be fine, but we’ll be dropping anchor, not mooring. We’ll have to row ashore.”

Her fingers gripped tighter, her expression anxious. “But that would only be a few yards and in the river, wouldn’t it? Not the sea?”

“Well, aye, a tidal river on the flood…”

“She is not so powerful when her waters mix with those of her daughter rivers.”

With no idea how to answer, Jesamiah opted to humour her. “Ain’t she? Well that’s good then, eh?” He held her close, stroked her hair, patted her back, the worry etched into his face. He had never known Tiola like this. She was usually calm and capable – afraid of nothing. There was something wrong here. Very wrong.