Bring It Close (7 page)

Tired, with dusk approaching, all Jesamiah wanted to do was seek the solitude of his cabin, have another rum, enjoy his meal and roll into bed. He had completely forgotten about Alicia.

“If you dare, if you just dare shut me in that filth and stink again, so help me Jesamiah Acorne, I’ll geld you! There were rats down there. Rats running over my shoes, up my legs. Look at my stocking!” She hauled up her petticoats, showing a ruined pink stocking, “They locked me in, your bloody men locked me in with those rats –”

It had been a long day. Jesamiah walked to the cupboard where he kept the drink, selected two bottles of finest brandy, and with one in each hand headed out of the cabin. He would find somewhere quiet to sleep. If it had to be the hold, or up the mast, then so be it.

“I’ll leave you on deck next time then,” he snapped. “You can be the pleasure of a different sort of rat.”

Fourteen

Monday 7th October – North Carolina

Tiola stepped ashore exhausted. Once the birthing was over she would have to find a way to deal with this debilitating problem of hers. A life at sea with Jesamiah while harbouring an inability to cross an ocean without losing her energy, awareness and concentration was ridiculous. Only in fairy tales were witches unable to cross water, and much of that belief was derived from the Christian Church’s hideous witch trials. A woman, the poor souls were usually women, was accused of witchcraft and put on trial, often after various tortures to confess her crime. Water was the proof of guilt. If she floated she was a witch and was hanged or burnt. If she did not float, then she was no witch. But she was dead anyway. Drowned.

The fresh air, the solid ground, was reviving Tiola a little. She closed her eyes, attempted to centre her balance and equilibrium into the healing Earth. To shut her mind to the screams of the dead from the past.

The stupidity of the bigoted! The fear those men had harboured! Fear for their position, their wealth and status. Fear for their immortal souls because of a woman’s touch or glance in case she might corrupt them more than they already were. Fears sown by the malevolence of the Dark.

Was there an element of truth in the superstition of witches and water, she wondered? Had she overlooked a small and insignificant morsel of her inherited knowledge? Was there something she had missed?

Oh what nonsense! This problem of crossing seas had not been so dire before she had known Jesamiah – had not bothered her for the countless thousands of years that her spirit had been in existence, dwelling in one body form or another. She stood on the jetty gazing down into the deep water of Bath Town Creek that ran into the larger Pamlico River, at the debris and scum that collected against the supporting pillars of the wooden landing stage. Gazed into the depth of water, her Sight wandering over the riverbed, the scatter of rocks and stones, the mud and sand, the creatures that lived there. The pull of the current, the influence of the distant sea fifty miles away.

At the edge of the jetty, Tiola felt herself being drawn in, coaxed down towards the murky depths, the twilight darkness of the water. Drawn, down, down…

“Mistress van Overstratten!” A hand grabbed her arm, pulled her from the edge, and Tiola gasped in alarm, surprise and relief.

“You were about to fall, Madam. Do you feel faint? My, but you are as white as a lily. Come, let me help you to the carriage. You must be hungry and exhausted.”

“Why, yes, I –”

“Permit me to introduce myself – Nicholas Page, husband to Elizabeth-Anne, Governor Eden’s niece. The lady you have come to tend. I cannot express how grateful we are for your agreeing to help us.”

He was tall, about as tall as Jesamiah, but not as athletic and carried more flesh on his face and midriff. He was dressed well, with a white wig on his head beneath a jauntily feathered three-corner hat. Gloves, walking cane. A well-to-do family man in, Tiola judged, his late thirties.

She smiled into his eyes, received a genuine smile in return. She liked this Nicholas Page, who had sent all the way to Nassau for a midwife who, he had heard, had a special gift for the birthing of babies.

“I am well,” she answered, realising the headache had lifted, and that the life-force strength of the Earth had returned into her. “I was but momentarily giddy. The adjustment from spending several days at sea to being once again on land.”

Master Page offered his arm, directed her towards a waiting carriage. “In faith, I spew m’guts up stepping across a puddle. Why sailors profess to liking the ocean is beyond my comprehension.” He settled her comfortable, spreading a blanket over her knees, pushing a cushion behind her back.

“I will see to your baggage.” He turned to do so, swung around again, his clean-shaven face anxious. “Mistress van Overstratten. You will be able to help m’wife, will thee not? This is the fifth child she is to bear. She had some bad times. Two were dead before they took a living breath.”

He broke off, hesitating to say more, then said all in a gabble, “The last was such a tiny, frail little thing. She survived but one hour; I held her so close and loved her so dearly for that one, short moment.” The emotion choked his throat. “Girls, they have all been girls. We do so need a son. My wife insisted we try again, but I am so afeared that I may lose her. We have been told she carries a son. A peddler-woman read Elizabeth-Anne’s palm. Do you believe in such things? Superstitious nonsense of course, but if it is a son, if it is…”

He looked at Tiola, appealing for her to understand. “Why is God so cruel? Why does He put a woman through so much and give only death at the end of it?”

What could Tiola answer when there was no answer to such a question?

“We do not know the why of these things, Master Page. Why do the rains not come or why does it flood? Why can the wind blow a ship safe to harbour or wreck it upon the rocks? Why does one child live, another die? It is the way of things and all we can do is keep love in our hearts and trust that we, in return, are loved.”

He nodded, “Yes, yes of course you are right. Of course you are.”

Tiola placed her hand over his. “Until I see your wife I will not know how fares mother and child, but you have my word I will do my best for both of them.”

His smile broadened, spread again into the shine of his blue eyes. “And that is all I ask of you, Mistress van Overstratten.”

“Please, use my midwifery name. As a baby-catcher I prefer to be called Mistress Oldstagh.”

He nodded, trotted off to ensure her luggage was safely brought ashore.

Tiola stared out of the carriage window as a golden moon rose beyond the river, large and dominant against the rapidly darkening sky. An October moon. The Hunter’s Moon.

But who, she wondered, suddenly fearful, were the hunters? And who the prey?

Fifteen

Wednesday 9th October

It took the
Sea Witch
a couple of days to reach Pamlico Sound, another half a day to wait for the tide to flood and take them safely across the sand bars and then longer than Jesamiah would have wished to sail the fifty miles up river. A wise man would have summoned a pilot to aid them; Jesamiah was wise, but not stupid. Edward Teach had influence, and for all Jesamiah knew the river pilots could be living in his gold-lined pocket. Or even if not, pilots had tongues that clacked as much as any idle housewife’s. Weighing the risk of gossip against navigating the river, Jesamiah chose the river. He had been here before anyway, with Malachias Taylor and with his father. He could remember the shallows, the turgid currents. He never forgot a place he had sailed, and he had a sixth sense for those he had not.

The mouth of the Pamlico River was five miles wide, but even with the benefit of the incoming tide, the wind was, as ever, not in their favour so they had to tack and tack again, each change of direction and hauling of sails adding time to the voyage and strain to the seeping leak. And the shortening of Jesamiah’s temper.

Sea Witch
was not a small ship, but she was not designed to help a busy captain avoid an irritating passenger. In the end Jesamiah took his meals with the men, slept in a hammock alongside them and developed a fancy for the solitude of the maintop. At least there he could sit cross-legged, his back against the mast and read the fine poem Alexander Pope had written.
The Rape of the Lock
. He was enjoying it. Enjoying as much the excuse to be alone.

The height of the maintop also had the advantage of a good view.

Somewhere along here was a partially hidden creek where, when Jesamiah had been a boy, his father had anchored his sloop,
Acorn
.

Acorn
. A noble and spirited little vessel that had turned in her own length and slid over shallows and sand bars as if she had no depth to her keel.
Acorn
. Promised to Jesamiah. Phillipe had set her ablaze the day they had buried their father. For that, for her destruction, Jesamiah had finally lost the suppressed temper and latent fear and had turned on Phillipe, beating him almost to a pulp. Fearing that he had killed him, Jesamiah had fled, found Taylor and become a pirate. He had taken his name from that sloop. Acorn; adding an ‘e’ for unique distinction.

But now secure the painted Vessel glides.

The sunbeams trembling on the floating Tydes,

While melting Musick steals upon the Sky

And soften’d Sounds along the Waters die.

Smooth flow the Waves the Zephyrs gently play

Belinda smil’d, and all the World was gay.

Jesamiah glanced down at the deck. Old Toby Turner’s fiddle had lost a string and, out of tune, the sounds he was coaxing from it were more like a cat being strangled than music melting upon the sky.

Alicia – Belinda – taking a turn along the deck was probably not smiling, the wind was not gently playing, at least not from the right direction, and the world was not gay.

“Heigh-ho for the drama of poetry,” he said, and stared again at the gloriously coloured mass of autumn trees edging the north bank of the river. He recognised the bend ahead. Was fairly certain the secluded tributary he wanted was not far beyond.

Father. His father.

It had been summer when they had come here. A long, hot summer of blissful days with endless blue skies. They had come, or so his father, Charles Mereno, had insisted, to make a courtesy visit to someone he knew in Bath Town. For the life of him, Jesamiah could not remember who that someone had been: a merchant was all he could recall, and one of wealth, for the house inside had been quite grand, the cook in the kitchen fat, jolly and happy to supply him with fresh-baked pie. The memories of a thirteen-year-old boy: the feeding of his stomach! Even had he been left to starve while Papa completed his secretive business, the trip would have been utter heaven. Phillipe had not accompanied them because he hated the sea and brought his guts up within the first mile. After trying it twice Papa had refused to take him again, for the boy had whined and moaned and bellyached. Jesamiah always paid a heavy price afterwards for the bliss and freedom, Phillipe taking his revenge on a brother several years his junior. But it had always been a price worth paying.

Surely Father had known? Surely he had been aware of the beatings, the tortures and degradations Jesamiah had endured at the hands of that bastard? Had he known and turned a blind eye? Why? Why? Jesamiah shut the book, leant his head back and closed his eyes.

Phillipe had always been sly and careful, the hurts had never been made in places that showed. Never to the face, always to belly, back and legs. Or inwardly, to the mind and the soul. And Jesamiah had never complained to his father or mother, for Father despised those who spilt tears, who whimpered and bleated. ‘Be a man!’ he had shouted at Phillipe as he had spewed over the side of the boat. ‘Be a man; hide your discomfort! I cannot abide snivelling brats – perhaps I should toss you over the side now and be done with you!’

If only he had! Jesamiah had done it instead, all these years later. Resting his elbows on his knees, Jesamiah steepled his fingers and propped them against his bearded chin. The only comfort had been that Father had also despised Phillipe. That had puzzled Jesamiah as a boy. Hah, it puzzled him as much now! If he had so disliked Phillipe why had Papa tolerated him – why bring him into the house, treat him as a son – allow everyone to assume he was his son? In preference to his own real son.

~
I had to, boy. I had no choice. It was a matter of honour
. ~

The words drifted into his brain. Where did they come from? Another thought. One that made Jesamiah bite his lip and frown deeper. What if he wasn’t Charles Mereno’s son either? There were so many lies here, so many tales to hide the truth. And no way of learning which was lie and which was not. Charles was his father, surely? He had disliked Phillipe; had rarely paid him much attention, always spoke gruffly, with impatience. Not that it had been of much help to Jesamiah. Mother, when once he had asked why Papa so hated Phillipe, had laughed and said he was talking nonsense. ‘Your Papa loved Phillipe’s Mama. Loved her dearly.’

His mother, aye. But not Phillipe. And not himself, not Jesamiah. One did not abandon a loved child to torture.

“Why did you not help me?” Jesamiah said aloud. “Why did you leave me to suffer?”

He cocked his head to one side, listening to the wind, the sound of the rigging, the creak of the ship. Heard nothing else.

Yet, now that he thought about it, Papa had paid attention to his younger son. He had employed governesses and tutors, for one thing. Had ensured Jesamiah had received a copious education – history, geography, literature; Latin, mathematics and even the sciences. And Jesamiah remembered that his father had personally taught him to sail, to tie knots, read a compass, navigate a course. To hold a sword, how to load and fire a pistol. To speak French. Oh aye, Malachias Taylor had taught him much more when he had gone aboard the
Mermaid
, but it had been Papa who had shown him the basic lessons. He must have shown Phillipe too, but if he had, Jesamiah had no recollection of it. For certain his half-brother had rarely attended the lessons in the sunlit schoolroom in the converted attic at the top of the house. Maybe that was why he had enjoyed them so; those Phillipe-free hours of pleasure.

Rue calling an order broke into his thoughts. The men ran to trim the sails. Jesamiah watched them, approving.

The men on that trip here to Bath Town all those years ago had been good too; quietly removing the
Acorn
’s illicit cargo under the light of a full moon and storing it, Jesamiah knew not where. All he had known was that by the next morning the
Acorn
lay somewhat lighter than when they had slipped silently into that narrow, hidden creek.

What had they smuggled? Jesamiah wondered as he studied the treeline.

~
Brandy. We smuggled best French brandy
. ~

Jesamiah peered downward, expecting someone to be climbing up the rigging or creeping through the lubber’s hole. No one. His frown increased. He was hearing voices now! Or were they just echoes of his own thoughts?

Was this other voice in his head something to do with Tiola? How could it be? This was a man’s voice, a voice very much like his father’s. Jesamiah shied away from thinking any deeper and concentrated on where he was sailing his ship.

There was the creek! An excellent place to hide
Sea Witch
and make stealthy repairs while her Captain paid a visiting call to Bath Town, five or so miles up river.

Slipping the book into his pocket Jesamiah took the quick way to the deck, down the backstay. Gave his orders, pleased with how his crew abandoned their apparent ease of lethargy and hopped to it.

Instead of dwelling on memories of the dead, of a father who had never much cared about him, he ought to be applying his mind to a very much alive black-bearded pirate. And a woman who had hair as black, but who was a damned sight prettier.