Ripples in the Sand (The Sea Witch Voyages) (5 page)

Seven

Capricious winds, combined with a solid bank of sand inconveniently placed by nature at the entrance to the Taw and Torridge estuary were not favourable to shipping. The hazardous difficulties in negotiating the Bar were well known to West Country seamen. Even on calm, windless days the waters churned uneasily, while in rough weather the breakers raged in a fury of white foam.

Ships found it hard to beat in and harder to beat out of the estuary. To do so with a modicum of safety, daylight was imperative. Negotiating the Bar at night in a tide running at six knots was a fool’s game for the ebb was a mere three fathoms deep, rising to six on the flood. Equally, to attempt anything without a pilot was madness. Jesamiah, however, was hesitant of hoisting a signal flag and dropping anchor. The tide was in flood with about half an hour or so to meet its height, the wind was right; were he to wait, by the time a pilot came aboard both would have changed. Not to wait could wreck his ship and drown everyone. How would that help Tiola? He had to get her ashore, though, and she had flatly refused to be taken in the longboat – a reaction that had scared him more than any symptom of her malaise. Tiola did not panic. This abject fear of hers was frightening him.

“Permission to come on the quarterdeck?” Henry Jennings was part way up the ladder, head cocked to one side, following etiquette to the letter. The quarterdeck was the holy of holies aboard ship, only those about their business or with the captain’s permission stepped on to its decking.

At the helm, Jesamiah sniffed, squinted a moment at a slight shiver along the edge of the foremast sail. “This ain’t no Navy frigate, Henry. We don’t stand on daft rules and regulations here.”

Gesturing a salute, Jennings scrambled up the rest of the ladder with a degree of difficulty, failing to mask the throb of pain in his foot. “Maybe not, but I have never been one to assume or push my weight about.”

Jesamiah put the helm down half a point, his firm hands gentling his ship back to where he wanted her. “Is that so?”

Jennings grinned as he went to the binnacle box to check the compass heading. “Well, not that often. You want to bring her up a point.”

Waiting a full half-minute, Jesamiah also glanced at the compass, then complied.

“Rue said something about fetching the pilot?”

“Did he, Henry?”

“He did. You’ve no need for a pilot. I know these waters.”

The wind was whipping Jesamiah’s hair about his face, the blue ribbons he customarily wore tied into it stinging his skin like needle pricks. He looked at the man sceptically. “You do, eh?”

“I do.”

A long pause while Jesamiah doubtfully considered the implications. “How well is well?”

“Well enough to get us to harbour in one piece, and a damn sight quicker than waiting for that pilot.” Jennings patted Jesamiah’s shoulder and grinned. “Son, I was sailing these waters when I was knee-high to a foremast jack. I did a fair bit of smuggling in my youth – and even more with your father. You’ll not find the Gentlemen of the Trade waiting for a pilot!”

The doubt lingered. The thought that his father had often been in these waters was unsettling Jesamiah slightly. “I don’t know, Henry.”

“Trust me. I’m no more interested in drowning than are you.”

Growling something that vaguely sounded like, “I don’t trust anyone who says trust me,” Jesamiah graciously stepped away from the wheel. If they were to end up aground on the Bar… but it was obvious that, for whatever reason of his own, Henry Jennings was also eager to make landfall. Jesamiah shrugged and walked away to lean on the rail. Henry’s business was not his business.

With Jennings at the wheel and all sails clewed up, except topsails and jib, the
Sea Witch
slid as meek as a lamb towards the Bar. Jesamiah peering over the side, pretending not to be anxious about the churn of foam beneath her keel, the swell, the strength of the current, and that he was not listening intently to Isiah Roberts, for’ard in the bows, solemnly calling the cast of the lead line. The bank of sand was visible as a lighter area, the sea above it an agitated froth. Even the sound was different as Jennings nudged
Sea Witch
over, taking her slow, but steady and straight.

Jesamiah held his breath, could all too easily imagine how a sudden change in wind would send them, helpless, on to the hard sand to their doom, but the tide was nigh on full in, and
Sea Witch
glided forward almost disdainfully. Ahead, two sandbank ridges created by the confluence of the two rivers, the Taw and the Torridge, but the severest danger was negotiated. Direct ahead the coastline of North Devon with the huddle of cottages that was Instow, dominated by the ruin of an old windmill that squatted on the hill behind the village. Over to starboard, the wharfs, boatyards, warehouses and the straggle of Appledore clinging to the wind-beaten hillside.

Safe within the calm part-salt, part-fresh water of the bay, Jennings stepped away from the helm and gave Jesamiah a slight bow. “She is all yours, Captain. I would anchor over there, direct opposite that white-limed inn. Used to be a good place. I cannot guarantee it still is, of course.”

The crew were at braces and halyards, the usual eager chatter buzzing along the deck. Landfall was always exciting, no matter the destination. A chance to spend the silver burning holes in pockets and money belts, to find and bed a pretty whore. To get drunk in earnest. There was none of the pleasure for Jesamiah, though, as he curled his hands around the spokes and took possession of his ship. All he wanted was to get Tiola ashore and make her better again.

Nearly there. Nearly there… “Lee braces! Hands wear ship!”

Bare feet thudded along the deck and blocks squealed as men threw their weight to the snaking lines.

“Tops’l sheets! Tops’l clew lines! Come on, you lubbers, look lively there!” Jesamiah’s voice rang out, impatient, although the crew were working as fast as they were able.

Steadily, he brought the helm a’lee and a smile finally creased his tense face as the ship came slowly round and into the wind. Her remaining sails were already beginning to disappear as her way fell off and the men began to drag and fist the canvas into submission.

Sea Witch
drifted a yard or two… “Let go!” Jesamiah shouted and a great splash followed almost immediately as the anchor was freed and the sound of the cable running out rattled and rumbled through the hawse-hole.
Sea Witch
came to a sedate and serene rest next to a deep water marker, directly opposite the white lime-washed inn. The
Full Moon
, according to the sign swinging backwards and forwards in the wind. Three storied, stone-built with a slate roof. A large place kept in good repair with two windows each side of the low wooden door and the paintwork recently freshened. An alleyway tottered uphill beside it and on the companion corner, what appeared to be a chandler’s. In front, a wide, cobbled quay with individual piers pointing outward into the full tide. Appledore looked a busy place, men and women about their business, others standing talking. A cart laden with barrels rumbled into motion, the rattle of its iron wheels on the cobbles audible even at this distance. A group of children were playing with a hoop further along, seaward. A few more houses beyond the chandler’s, then two large warehouses, and the quay came to an abrupt halt where the river meandered around the hump of the hill, the tide surging onward towards Bideford.

Jennings pointed as he spoke. “Boatyards are around the corner where it’s more sheltered, though
Sea Witch
will do well enough anchored here.You might find her keel rests on the sand for a while at low tide, but the channel’s deep enough to support her as long as you set your anchors right to ensure she doesn’t swing. If you intend to go up to Bideford, wind’s never in the right direction this time of year. Go up on the next flood, it’ll not be too difficult. That inn used to be Sam Pengeddy’s
Hearth and Heather
.” Jennings squinted at the sign swinging outside, added, “Mayhap got a new landlord now, seeing as its name’s changed.”

Jesamiah frowned. Had he detected a slight hesitation in those words? A trace of uneasy concern in Jennings’ tone? “I’ll send Finch over with you in the gig first,” he offered. “I want to make sure there’s suitable accommodation a’fore I bring Tiola across.”

“I really wanted to get to the other side, Instow Quay…” Observing Jesamiah’s bland expression Jennings shrugged. “No problem, I’ll take the ferry from Appledore.” Already the men were lowering the boat and their passenger’s dunnage. A trunk and a canvas bag were being passed down into it.

“I’ll be leaving you then, Jes lad. I thank you for the passage and wish Mrs Acorne well. John Benson’s a good man. He owns that first shipyard yonder, plus the warehouse beyond, and another upriver. He might be interested in that ‘baccy of yourn. Tell him you know me, and if you get opportunity give my regards to Sir Ailie Doone. You’ll like him. He has a son, Winnard, I’ll be interested to hear what you make of him.” He hurried down the ladder cleats and settled himself in the stern, coat clasped tight about his body against the bite of the wind, the canvas bag across his knees.

“I ain’t interested in your friends, Henry. Nor any secrets and schemes.”

“There’s no secrets, lad, but what Doone don’t know ain’t worth the knowing!” The boat shoved off and Jennings raised a hand in farewell. “M’regards to your wife.”

Jesamiah touched his hat in response, muttered, “If it ain’t worth knowin’, then I don’t want t’know it either.” He watched the men pulling to the quay, stayed watching as Finch jumped ashore and headed at a trot towards the
Full Moon
, drummed his fingers impatiently on the rail, waiting for Finch to reappear. Henry Jennings had commandeered one of the street urchins to carry his dunnage towards where the ferry bobbed in the swirl of the tide. Jesamiah watched Henry pay the ferryman and scowled as the boatman shoved off none too steadily. When Jennings was halfway across the river he lost interest and returned his attention to waiting for sight of Finch. Jennings was gone, as far as Jesamiah was concerned. For good, he hoped. He did not want to get mixed up in another of his friend’s schemes, nor did he wish to mix with the man’s associates. He had enough problems and worries of his own without taking on plots and intrigues, and that Jennings was involved in skulduggery was as plain as the nose on his face.

Eight

The rain had started to lash down as Jesamiah kicked open the door to the
Full Moon
and negotiated his way through, taking care not to scrape or bump Tiola enfolded in his arms and wrapped in a swathe of blankets.

The landlady, a homely woman in her early thirties, bustled from behind the counter, concern bubbling from her as energetically as the wisps of hair escaping beneath her lace cap. “Oh my, the poor maid looks nigh on exhausted.” She shooed away an elderly man sitting before the fire, ushering him to another seat. “Set ‘er down ‘ere, Cap’n. The girl’s lighted the fire upstairs an’ put a pan in t’warm the sheets. It be a nice corner room overlookin’ the harbour, it’ll do you cheerily.” She pursed her lips and tutted. “I suggest you keep them shutters closed ‘cross the smaller side winder though, sir. The view o’ the drang oft’n be not respec’able.”

Grumbling beneath his breath the old man, as bald as a coot but with a great bush of a white beard, took his half empty tankard of cider along with his pipe and baccy pouch, and shambled to a settle near the window. He sat, sniffed disdainfully and wiped his nose on the cuff of his coat, which he ostentatiously drew closer around his chest, then turned the collar up against the draught. “It be goin’ t’snow on them moors,” he predicted. “Prob’ly ‘ere an’ all. Vruzzen in, us’ll be.”

“Drang?” Jesamiah queried, not recognising the word and struggling to understand the conversation. Tiola had a slight Cornish burr, but his ear was not attuned to this unfamiliar Devon dialect. He shrugged, guessed he would pick it up soon enough.

The old man chuckled. “Nowt wrong with Cock Lane tha’ an ‘ealthy prick can’t be makin’ good use ov.”

Getting the gist of the statement Jesamiah raised an eyebrow, was about to repeat his ‘drang’ question, but let it pass. As if she were a doll made of delicate porcelain, he set Tiola down, removing the outer, damp, blanket and tucking the one beneath tighter around her legs.

“I am all right,” she whispered. “I am only tired.”

“You ain’t. You’re ill.”

The landlady fetched two generous measures of brandy. “Get that down your gullets. Good brandy’ll warm the cockles.”

“Less’n thee be enjoin’ yersel’ in Cock Lane,” the old man piped up, his crude guffaw turning into wheezed coughing.

Jesamiah politely touched his hat to the woman. “I was told that a Sam Pengeddy used to run this place. And it used to have a different name.”

Smiling as broad as a ripening cheese the woman answered eagerly, “Aye, sir, the
Hearth an’ Heather
. Sam were m’pa, ‘e passed away back along a few year ago. I be Margaret Trevithick, all as calls I Pegget, though.” She was a respected landlady, broad of waist and heart, running her inn with an equal mixture of welcome and discipline; permitted no brawling, excessive swearing, spitting on the floor or whoring. The
Full Moon
was not a bawdy house. There was enough of
that
going on in Cock Lane. Her customers were farming, sailing and fishing folk, mostly Appledore and Instow men, but she expected anyone who stepped through her door to behave with the manners of a gentleman.

“Darn spoiled een ‘ere naw Sam bist deed,” the old man commented. “You dith neever git viddled vrom tha vire bist
‘im
. Blidden vruzzed ‘ere along o’ tha winder.”

Jesamiah frowned, just about understood that the old bugger was complaining that the place was not as good as it used to be, and Sam Pengeddy would not have moved a regular customer to a cold window seat.

Mistress Trevithick put her fists to her hips and cocked her head to one side. “Hush thy maunderin’. Gor bugger I, this maid be poorly an’ you be ‘grudging ‘er the warmth?”

Tiola had sipped at the brandy but it had little effect beyond increasing her nausea. She handed the glass to Jesamiah who, about to drink it himself, offered it to the old man by way of recompense.

For the principle of indignation he scratched indecisively at his nose and then accepted. He drained the glass then stared wistfully at its emptiness.

Hiding amusement Jesamiah ordered another. “And maybe one for yourself, ma’am?” Fetching out a handful of silver from his pocket, along with two gold coins, he tossed the money to the serving counter. “This should be enough to cover the room for a couple of nights?”

Payment in advance, in gold? Mistress Trevithick bobbed a curtsy in acknowledgement. “More’n enough, Cap’n; that be ‘andsome, thank ‘ee.” She glanced at Tiola and her heart melted. Poor maid, it didn’t look like she would survive the one night, let alone several. “Mebbe set ‘er t’bed, sir? Third door along up they stairs. I’ll send summat t’eat; broth p’raps? An’ summat ver yoursel’?”

Jesamiah lifted Tiola into his arms and shook his head. “I’ve t’see t’ m’ship first, ma’am. I’ll fill me belly later if I may?”

“Aye, m’kitchen serves goodly vittles.”

Pegget’s assessing gaze followed Jesamiah as he carefully carried his wife up the narrow staircase and at the top, disappeared from view round the corner. She heard a door open and close. The creak of footsteps across the ceiling. Jesamiah’s muffled voice talking to the chambermaid. After a few moments the girl came hurrying down the stairs, her face flushed.

“My eye, but ’ee be summat t’ gan ‘ome to,” she remarked, glancing over her shoulder up the stairs. “Not see’d a man as ‘andsome as he a’vore!”

Pegget tutted loudly. “You as lace that clacker o’ yourn, young miss; the Cap’n be wed an’ you’ll be goin’ ‘ome t’ thy own man.”

“Bein’ wed dain’ make nort div’rence t’most’ bucks ‘bout ‘ere,” the old man cackled as he resettled himself near the fire. “Not t’them as makin’ use o’ Cock Lane. Got more o’ tha brandy, missus? Put’n to tha Cap’n’s bill, ‘uld ‘ee?”