Ripples in the Sand (The Sea Witch Voyages) (26 page)

Three

“Do you think Grandmamma is at peace?” Pamela asked Tiola, her hand fondling old Rum’s ears, her expression anguished. “She has gone to Heaven hasn’t she?”

“She was a good woman. Her passing would have been a relief for her. She was in much discomfort from those swollen joints, although she hid the pain well.” Tiola squeezed Pamela’s arm. How to comfort without revealing what she was, what she knew? “Be certain of her peace, dear heart, be certain.”

The younger dogs were with Thomas, who had been speaking to his father. They were barking at something on the sand that the boy was poking with a stick. He flipped it into the air, the terriers leaping and jumping to snap at it. To Pamela, it looked like a dead fish.

“Oh no! If those two horrors roll in it…Tom! Thomas! Keep the dogs away!” Pamela hurried to stop the game, gathering her skirts into her hands so that she may walk the faster, Rum following at a waddling trot. Tiola stood alone at the sea edge, her arms folded about herself, staring outward at the froth of the Bar. A boat was coming in, its sails spread – for a moment she thought… No, it had but two masts, was half the size of
Sea Witch.

~ Where are you, Jesamiah? Where are you
? ~

She missed him so much. It was as if her life, the world, everything, had stopped. Was this how all wives and sweethearts of sailors and soldiers suffered? That empty longing inside to hear his voice, feel his arms about her, his lips on her mouth, his hands on her body. To lie with him, make love, to share that exultant passion that fuses husband and wife, lovers, together. He was gone, was far, far away with his ship and his men. And who else?

Who else?

She turned, intending to join in the forlorn effort of avoiding the dogs rolling in the stink of rotting fish, and Time shifted…

Men! Fierce, big men with fair hair, beards, axes and swords. Their flat-keeled boats pulled up on the sand, the great dragon prows leering death and destruction. The villagers of Appledore were running from their houses, the women scooping their children into their arms, running for the safety of the hill and the woods behind them. Their menfolk hurrying towards the shore, weapons raised, defending their land and families from the terror of the i-Viking Kind.

Tiola hid her face in her hands, unable to watch the bloody fighting, but she had to – for she was meant to see, was obliged to be witness to the carnage of the raiding Sea Wolves.

There he was, a black-haired boy, a youth, barely old enough to fight but bearing the pride and bravery of his fathers before him. She watched as he grappled with a man twice his strength, almost twice his height, watched as the axe hewed into his arm, severing it at the elbow. The blood ran, red, into the sea. The boy fell to his knees, the salt water making him cringe in pain as it stung at his gushing wound.

The woman was there beside him, Tiola, herself in a previous existence, unheeding that the sea and the blood were staining her gown, unseen by the men who were fighting further up the beach. She tore her undershift into rough bandaging and bound the wound tight, stemming the flow of blood; dragged the unconscious boy from the water and into the safety of the shielding trees, to where she could tend him properly. Another black-haired boy stolen from Tethys, his life saved and the line to Jesamiah continued because of Tiola’s intervention.

He is not yours, Tethys,
Tiola said with decisive finality as the present flooded back into her mind, and Pamela’s voice scolding Thomas and the dogs filled her ears.

He is not yours. He never was, never will be.

Four

Jasper peered around Jesamiah’s partially open cabin door. “She’s still there, Cap’n. Clinging to our wake like a bloody barnacle.”

In the shadows of the lantern’s swaying light Jesamiah paused in the delicate operation of shaving. He stared into the mirror at the boy’s reflection and thought,
Bugger.

“Let me finish up here. Tell Rue…” He mentally cursed again,
bugger
. “Tell Isiah I’ll be on deck as soon as I’m dressed.”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

She was a Spaniard, of that they were certain. She should not be any threat – England and Spain were not at war. Peace was a situation that would not last long; England, Spain, France were always falling out over something or other. As far as Jesamiah could remember from his inconsistent history lessons the various ugly disparagements between the eternal triangle had lasted on and off for several centuries, dating from the Norman Conquest in 1066. The rumour of Catholic Spain supporting the latest Jacobite attempt at rebellion would alter the balance, but James Stuart might win his crown, and the matter of hostilities would be settled. Miracles sometimes happened.

With the last signing of a treaty, however, the Bay of Biscay was not supposed to be hostile territory – not from Spanish ships. The inclement weather was a different matter, but then it was rare to have benign seas in this part of the ocean. Conditions in Biscay could take their toll, for rough seas and unexpected storms were a challenge to all sailors, whether experienced or new hands. Tidal currents of four knots, even in summer, could prove tough. Biscay was a three hundred and ten mile stretch of lee shore along the western coast of France and northern Spain, the wide sweep of the bay and the prevailing westerlies blasting in from the Atlantic were a feared hazard, but every mile further south meant calmer conditions. Initially, Jesamiah had considered sailing in close to Cape Finistère to avoid being caught in the open by the worst of a blow, but Finistère was as legendary as Biscay for its strong winds that typically raged at gale force. By going a little more than ten degrees west of Ushant he had avoided the worst of the steep Atlantic swell, although not being familiar with the seas around Finistère he had taken great care to listen to Skylark who knew the coast well.

Several times Jesamiah had regretted not having Rue with him; Skylark’s advice had been to stay a good distance out to keep the crew’s nerve in one piece. A high wind at sea could be dealt with. A high wind and the distinct possibility of being blown onto rocks could not. Skylark knew his business, but he was not Claude de la Rue, who knew all there was worth knowing. Jesamiah missed him, was not certain what he would do if Rue decided to stay ashore permanently. Come to that, he was not sure what he would do if
he
decided to stay ashore permanently. Those were issues for pondering at a later stage. For now, that Spaniard following close at heel was the problem of the day. Jesamiah was to sail to Cádiz and ask for a merchant named Antonio Luis Calderón. “
You will find him near the Admiral’s House
. I will draft a letter of introduction for you to prove your credentials,”
Doone had said. Jesamiah had broken the seal and read the letter. Doone had written it in very poor Spanish, not a difficulty for Jesamiah to translate, despite the appalling errors and odd wording.
“Comes you to in tobacco… cargo to delay…”
Jesamiah assumed that Doone either did not speak very good Spanish or was not proficient at writing it down.
Should have asked me to do it
, he had thought as he had carefully replaced the seal. Despite the peculiar wording, it had been all Sir Ailie had said, an introduction to Calderón suggesting he would be interested in a cargo of Virginia tobacco. Even so, Jesamiah was certain there was some sort of code hidden in it somewhere, but if there was, he was blowed if he could unravel it. The letter was safe in Jesamiah’s desk, and Cádiz only a few more hours’ sail away; all well and good, but that ship following in their wake looked very much like she intended to stop them reaching their destination.

Sea Witch
rolled particularly heavily and the razor blade slipped, nicking the skin beneath Jesamiah’s chin. “Sod it,” he muttered, seizing a cloth and wiping blood and shaving soap away with the one action. His beard would have to stay as it was. Aside, if this damned Spaniard was intent on mischief it wouldn’t particularly matter how ragged his shaving was. God in His Heaven probably did not care how new arrivals looked in appearance.

“He don’t shave anyway, not with that great long beard of His,” Jesamiah said to the empty cabin as he shrugged on a waistcoat and longcoat. “Who’s He to complain?”

Five

Dawn had broken, sending the sky a bruised purple, then pink and streaked gold. The sun rising half an hour later had flooded the whole sky from horizon to horizon with light. There was not much warmth in it this early in March, but it was warmer than the iced chill of Devon. Jesamiah stood at the taffrail, wet beneath his hands from dew and spray. The Spaniard was too far away to see detail clearly, but experience told him it was definitely no merchant, and no idle fishing boat either. She was a warship, and one determined to make trouble. Experience had taught him that as well.

Even through the telescope he could not see her sufficiently from down here on deck for the early morning sea mist obscured his view. A wind would soon clear it, but as often happened in the southern reaches of Biscay, the sea could roll in massive waves and toss a boat about as if it were a child’s toy, while the wind played in the rigging as gentle as a kitten batting at a dangled ribbon. He glanced at the sails; a breeze was pushing at the canvas, enough to make headway. Not enough to make a run for it if that unwanted companion decided to become more of a nuisance than she already was.

To confirm his fears, Crawford at the masthead on lookout called down, “Deck there! Ship is settin’ ‘er t’gan’s’ls.”

This would put her on a possible converging tack, which probably meant she was not benignly following. Jesamiah had a sudden feeling of
déjà vu
. Twice within the month he had been hounded by some bastard interfering with his plans. Only this time he had no sick wife aboard, and he had a nasty feeling this was not to be a friendly encounter. He hesitated; should he brush this Spaniard off as inconsequential, or listen to intuition? He would look a right fool if he cleared for action and it turned out that this other vessel’s master was taking as much care as he was with the weather conditions and choice of sea lane. Cádiz was a busy port, there was absolutely no reason why two ships could not be heading for the same destination, using the same stretch of water, looking for the same wind. No reason at all. Except… He decided to be prudent, wait a while.

The breeze picked up as the sun rose higher and the sky turned bluer.
Sea Witch
thrust gallantly through the rollers, white foam gurgling and churning each side of her bow, along her hull and frothing behind as a wake, her gun ports almost awash as she heeled in the strengthening wind. Fifteen minutes later the mist had lifted, dispersed by the wind and burnt off by the sun. Jesamiah looked again through the bring-it-close. Still too far away to make out who or what their companion was, but much as
Sea Witch
was doing, she heeled as well and he caught a sudden glimpse of her gun ports.

“On deck! She’s signalling.”

Jesamiah muttered a curse beneath his breath as he raised the telescope again.

“Hoisting colours,” Crawford called again. “She’s a Don!”

Jesamiah could see that for himself, didn’t need bloody Crawford to tell him. God’s eyes, but that man irritated! What the signal flag meant, he had no idea. It could be anything. Not that it mattered, he had no intention of paying heed to a Spanish request anyway.

“Hoist our own colours,” he snapped.

“Which ones?” old Toby Turner queried. “We’ve several.”

It was a fair enough question, but Jesamiah was not in a complacent mood. He snarled an answer. “We’re British ain’t we? Use His Majesty’s soddin’ ensign.”

He strode to the helm, indicated curtly to Skylark that he was taking over. Said to Roberts, “All hands, Isiah. I want every inch of sail we’ve got. Set handkerchiefs, drawers and the sheets from my bed if we have to. And clear for action.”

As the call for all hands reverberated through the lower decks, men scrambled up from below, uncertain of the reason for the urgency but with enough experience to guess. Some glanced at the ship closing in their wake as they started climbing the rigging to set more sail. Jansy, peering over the rail as he hauled on a line. He saw a glint as the sun caught on metal, shouted, “She’s opened her ports!”

Almost as he spoke, three bright flashes of yellow and orange-tongued flame followed by a banked curl of smoke burst from the Spaniard. The distinctive
whoomph
of sound… Automatically Jesamiah ducked as chain and round shot whistled overhead, slamming into rigging and spars, through canvas as if the great sails were no thicker than that morning sea mist. Men fell, screaming, from the rigging, some landing broken and bloody on the deck – the lucky ones were instantly dead. Three fell into the sea. There was nothing Jesamiah could do, he could not stop to recover them, could do nothing except shriek at his men to get the guns loaded and run out. Great splinters of torn and shattered wood burst into the air as an iron ball crashed through the quarterdeck railing. Skylark, a yard away, yelled something that sounded like
God Almighty save us
, but Jesamiah could not hear. His head was spinning, thunder roaring in his ears. Blood was in his eyes, covering his cheek, matting his hair. Something had smacked against his head. He had no idea what but had been vaguely aware of something hard and heavy striking his skull. He looked at his hands clasping the spokes of the wheel. The left was covered in blood. There was something odd about it… most odd…

Another
whoomph
, the displacement of air, more splinters and shattered wood. An iron ball slammed straight into one of the guns, blowing it, and the men frantically trying to work it, to pieces. Along with them, the ten year old powder monkey boy about to pass the men the fetched gunpowder.

Whoomph
…Pitiful cries, frightened and angered shouting. The last sounds of fatally wounded men, the moans and pleas for help by those not blessed by instant death.
Sea Witch’s
deck was littered with the dead, dying and wounded. Blood was running down Skylark’s arm, Isiah Roberts’ leg had a five-inch splinter of wood gaping from his thigh. Another man was dead, a splinter stabbed, like a spear through his throat, severing the jugular. Toby Turner. Old Toby, who Jesamiah had known since his first day aboard a pirate ship lay dead in a heap, the blood-smeared ensign flag that had been in his hands covering him like a grotesque shroud. His decapitated head rolled towards Jesamiah’s feet. He stared down at it, mesmerised. Toby’s eyes were wide, surprised, looking back at him. The eyes blinked several times and the macabre expression changed to bewildered puzzlement. The mouth opened, closed, as if the man inside the head was trying to speak, then white eyeballs rolled back beneath the open lids into the sockets. The oblivion of death had conquered the life pulse lingering in the brain.

Jesamiah turned away; spewed vomit onto the deck. He hoped, prayed, that what he had witnessed had been no more than a normal body function, like the twitches of slaughtered animals. He had been decapitated for God’s sake? How could Toby have still been alive for those long seconds? He spewed again, the swirling in his head worsening. Bent double, a shadow fell across the deck beneath him. He managed to look up, wiping vomit from his mouth, replacing it with blood. Watched, unnervingly detached, fascinated, as the mizzen topmast, creaked, groaned, and then fell sedate and slow, carrying rigging, cordage and men with it as it came down. It crashed through the starboard rail into the sea, the wreckage trailing like a bird’s broken wing.
Sea Witch
rolled, and Toby Turner’s head rolled with her, went through the hole torn through the bulwark, and splashed into the sea. Jesamiah stood there, transfixed, unable to move or speak. More round shot slammed into the hull, shattering the gun deck, two guns and the men trying their damnedest to get a shot of their own fired. Too late now. Too late.
Sea Witch
was wounded, crippled. Jesamiah tried to call out orders, but his mouth would not work, no sound would come from his throat. Everything was as if he were trying to wade through knee-deep, thick mud. He was surrounded by fog as dense as soup; his head was ringing, his eyes blurring. He looked again at his left hand still clasping the wheel, his movement difficult to control, every ounce of concentration and energy taken by the effort of looking at his own hand and the blood that covered it.

And then everything went black.