Ripples in the Sand (The Sea Witch Voyages) (27 page)

Six

Tiola heard her name being called, and startled turned to see that the dead fish had been buried in the sand, and Thomas was running along the beach towards the dunes with the two younger dogs chasing at his heels. Pamela called again to Tiola, and retraced her steps, the old dog happy to potter at her side.

“My dear, are you well?” Pamela asked, concerned, as she approached. “You look pale.”

The returned smile was one of reassurance, despite the troubled feeling that hung like yesterday’s porridge in the pit of Tiola’s stomach. There was something wrong with Jesamiah, but he was too far away, and she did not have enough energy to reach him. This random scrying into the past made her so very tired.

“I was daydreaming about Jesamiah. Hoping he is safe, and has not met foul weather in Biscay.”

“It is hard to be a sailor’s wife,” Pamela agreed as they walked, arm thread through arm in the direction of the dunes and Tawford Barton. “Although I would, I confess, be happy to have a sailor as my husband rather than no husband at all.”

“Rue is a good man.” Tiola responded, with only a hint of teasing. “Although he is not of the status of your kindred. Would some of them, perhaps, disapprove of any liaison you may have with a Frenchman from the sea?”

“If they do they can go whistle!” Pamela retorted hotly. “I would as soon elope than be gainsaid against the way I feel.”

Again Tiola smiled; squeezed her companion’s hand. “Then you are becoming fond of master Claude de la Rue?”

Pamela blushed and dipped her head, then lifted it again boldly to look back over her shoulder. The man in question was sitting in Tawford Barton’s small boat, anchored in mid-current in the River Taw, legs outstretched, hat tipped over his eyes, a fishing pole dangling lazily into the water. “I am. I could love a man like Claude.” Pamela suddenly covered her mouth with her hands and drew in a little gasp of shocked breath. “Oh! Is it wrong of me to talk of love and happiness on the day my dearest Grandmamma has passed to God?”

“Not in the least. In fact I think it a fitting tribute for a lady who held so much love within her own heart.”

The dogs were barking again. Two men had come on to the beach, striding past Thomas towards the women, Lorna and Poppy running after them. Thomas himself was half hidden by the long grass in the dunes, his head and shoulders visible; by his stance, busy relieving himself. Pamela called the dogs but they mischievously ignored her. Thomas appeared, running, waving his arms and shouting something. Pamela assumed he was calling the dogs, for they ran to him, hoping to resume the game of chasing sticks in and out of the incoming tide.

“I will miss Grandmamma,” Pamela said, “although I do not begrudge that she is no longer in pain. She was so reluctant to divulge her discomfort.” She stopped suddenly, grasped Tiola’s hand, said urgently, “There is a Heaven? I know it is wrong to doubt, but I cannot bear to think of Jennet not being where she belongs.”

It was a question Tiola was often asked by women facing their last moments when childbirth was to take their life, or by grieving relatives when she was preparing a corpse for burial. She answered as she always did. “She is in a place of peace and love, where no harm or hurt can touch her soul.”

“Glad t’ ‘ear it, missy. What a pity you ain’t.”

Pamela squealed as one of the men closed the gap between them and grasped her around the waist. The second man lunged to catch hold of Tiola but she was the faster and whirled aside, a hiss of surprised anger leaving her lips, annoyed that she had not been alert to their approach.

“You stand still, miss,” the first man said into Pamela’s ear, but meaning Tiola, “or this knife in my ‘and just might accidentally slip.”

Pamela froze, fear turning her face chalk pale. Tiola stood still.

The second man moved beside her. He had a knife also. “Now,” he said, “there’s a few questions me an’ my friend wants answers to. Your ‘usband stopped us askin’ the ‘uvver day, so I’d as likes ‘t continue now.” He poked the knife tip into Tiola’s ribs. “Where be th’ list we wants, an’ who be named on it?”

“I know nothing of a list. You will have to wait for my husband to return and ask him.”

“Nay, nay, you ask around yer fancy friends missus, an’ get us them answers, or you and yer friends, an’ their little doggies ’ad better stop walking on this ‘ere beach. It can be dangerous, what wiv ‘igh tides and plenty o’ sand to bury stuff in so it’ll never be found agin.”

Unblinking, Tiola stared into the man’s eyes, summoning the energy she needed to use her Craft, but a second before she was ready to move, a stone whizzed through the air clipping the man’s ear. A second one followed, drawing blood from his cheek. He yelped, released Pamela and shielding his head with his arms hurried off towards the dunes.

Thomas was running and shouting, ready to bowl a third stone overarm. “They threatened my pa! They were the men who were at Instow House!”

The man holding Tiola released her, and backed away. He dropped the knife, fumbled at his belt for his pistol…
Crack!
The sound of a shot reverberated from the river. He cried out, his eyes widening in disbelief as blood trickled from his mouth and he fell, dead before he hit the ground. Rue, standing up in the boat was wreathed in musket smoke. He sat down abruptly, cut quickly at the anchorage cable and abandoning the fishing pole, plunged the oars into the water and pulled hard for the shore.

Cleve Hartley, Lord Westley, was on the far side of the Dunes, making his way towards Tawford Barton. He heard shouting, then a shot, and was startled to be almost knocked over by a man shambling past him, blood streaming from cheek and ear. One of the men who had been threatening Benson and was responsible for that disgraceful attack on Instow House. Scum who did not deserve life. He raised his shooting piece, aimed at the man’s back and shot, clean and straight. As calmly as if he were shooting a rabbit or a pheasant for the kitchen pot.

Seven

That he was on a moving vessel was Jesamiah’s first sensed awareness; that he was not in his own cabin, or on his own ship, the rapid and alarming, second and third. He groaned, tried to turn over, for lying on his back was making his spine and shoulders ache. He usually slept on his right side, usually with his left arm around Tiola. Pain from his hand shot up to his elbow. He grimaced, opened his eyes and discovered why it was difficult to move. He was wedged between Jansy and Finch with other men crowded close, the quarters noxious and dark, apart from squares of daylight filtering through a small scuttle-hatch cover.

“What the fok…?”

“Lay still, lad, you took a bit of a blow on yer ‘ead.”

“I’m fine, Jansy, don’t fuss.” Jesamiah managed to sit by grasping hold of Finch with his right hand and levering himself up. His head spun, bursts of light darting behind his eyes. He swallowed down the inclination to vomit and sat quite still a moment, allowing the dizzy spinning to cease. He shifted slightly, put his left hand down to steady himself and yelped. He looked down, eyes watering, breath gasping; his hand was swathed in a bloodied, not very clean bandage.

Leaning against Finch, he cradled his wound taking deep breaths to control the hot pain hurtling up and down his arm.

“You’ve injured yer ‘and.” Jansy said. “I did what I could, it should ‘eal. Given time.”

Jesamiah took several more breaths, then peered into the gloom. Blank, frightened faces stared back at him. Skylark, Jasper, Isiah Roberts… most of the men wearing bloodstained bandages.

“I take it,” Jesamiah said, swallowing hard, talking slowly, “that we are prisoners?”

A few voices answered in subdued unison, “Aye, Cap’n.”

“All of us?”

Silence.

Ah. Several had been killed then. “Who is here? I can’t see all of you at the back. Shout out your names.”

Crawford was there – he would be, the only one Jesamiah would be happy to lose. Isiah Roberts, Jasper, Chippy Harrison and, thank God, Ben, Tiola’s brother. A roll call of names, but not as many as Jesamiah had hoped.

“Where’s Toby?” he asked. Finch cleared his throat, finding it hard to speak. Jesamiah closed his eyes as vomit threatened to rise up into his mouth again. “It’s alright, he’s dead. I remember.” Remembered all too clearly, but prudently kept the details to himself. He queried instead, “So, who are our generous hosts granting us such luxury quarters?”

Finch spat, which earned him a black look from Jesamiah.

“Spanish,” Skylark answered. “Poxed Dons.”

“They think we are English spies.” Isiah added. “They say we will all hang.”

“If they thought we were that,” Jesamiah observed, “they would have hanged us straight off.”

“Well they are going to hang us aren’t they?” Crawford declared. “You’ve brought us to our death, you and your grand schemes.”

“You didn’t have to come, Crawfy.” Finch growled. “In fact I’ll be more’n ‘appy to see you fuck off.”

Jesamiah stared at Crawford, matching his open hostility. “Took the words right out of m’mouth, Mr Finch.”

Noises filtered down from the deck; the ship heeled, orders were shouted. Listening, Jesamiah caught a few commands. “Sounds like we’re about to drop anchor.” His translation was confirmed a short while later by the rattle of the cable and the splash of an anchor. The ship came to a halt.

Jesamiah managed to get to his feet. The waiting was excruciating. Were they going to be left here to starve? Marched out and hanged? Taken ashore, tortured and questioned? For the sake of his crew and as much as he wanted to pound on the door, scream and shout, Jesamiah had to keep calm, and pray that these particular Spaniards had no idea exactly who he was.

“Does anyone know how they treated
Sea Witch
?” he asked forlornly.

A rustling of movement for reply as heads were shaken. “No idea, Captain. They would have been fools to scupper her. She’s a worthwhile prize.”

Memory was vague. Jesamiah could recall the mast coming down and Toby’s gruesome end, but not much else. “Was she very damaged?”

“Nothing that can’t be repaired.”

Jesamiah shot a smile at Skylark. “That’s good to hear, mate, ta.”

Footsteps, a bolt being drawn… Jesamiah was in two minds to suggest they make a fight of it. He bunched his fingers into fists and instantly regretted it as pain tore through his left hand. By the time the red agony had cleared from behind his eyes the door was open and two men were standing in its space, with several others ranged behind them, all with primed muskets raised.

“
Fuera
!” A corresponding movement with the gun, motioning everyone out.

“
A cubierta
,” growled the other man.

Several of the
Sea Witch
crew had a spattering of Spanish. Jesamiah could talk the language fluently, but he decided it might be prudent not to give that fact away. He smiled expansively and said, “I think they want us on deck, lads,” adding for their captors, “
Si, si
. Non speaky de Spanish.”

None too gently they were herded up the ladders and onto the open deck. They were anchored in a harbour, a small fishing town by the looks of it. Not Cádiz.
Sea Witch
rested at anchor a few hundred yards away. Battered, the worse for wear, but as Skylark had said, nothing that could not be repaired.

Awash with relief Jesamiah swayed on his feet, collected himself, asked, “Anyone recognise this place?” Peering over his shoulder as he and his men were lined up along the deck he received a musket barrel poked into his back.

“
Silencio. Quéedaos quietos.
”

“I think ‘e wants us to shut our gobs and stand still.”

“Ain’t very friendly these Spaniards are they?”

“That’s a’cause we’ve the equipment to satisfy their women better’n they do.” Chippy suggested. “They’ve all got stumps fer winkles.”

“Pissing Dons!” That was Crawford; the first time that Jesamiah had agreed with him.

Jesamiah grinned. “Ah, there’s nothin’ like a black-eyed
señorita
with a welcoming black-haired cunny to…”

“
Silencio
!” One of the officers marched in front of Jesamiah and deliberately brought his reprimand cane down, hard, on his bandaged fingers. The blow took Jesamiah’s breath away, and he fell to his knees, cradling his hand, tears filling his eyes. A hiss of anger rippled through the crew, and again the demand for silence ripped from the officer’s mouth.

Kneeling there, bent double, breathing hard to control the throbbing pain, all Jesamiah could see was the man’s black shoes, red stockings and blue breeches.

“You is
Capitán
?”

Jesamiah looked up at the officer’s broad frame clad in a blue coat with red cuffs and lapels, a red waistcoat straining over the expanse of his belly, gleaming brass buttons. A soldier’s uniform, militia, not Navy. The thought,
Va chingarte
, hurtled through Jesamiah’s mind, the obscenity clear in his expression, for the cane stick cracked again, but this time across his shoulder. It hurt.

“I say again. You is
Capitán
?”

“
Si.
I am the Captain.” Forcing himself not to show his discomfort, Jesamiah got to his feet, had the satisfaction of discovering that at five feet ten in height he was at least three inches taller than this fat toad. “And as captain I demand to be treated with respect.”

The officer spat on Jesamiah’s boot. “You come,” he pointed to Jesamiah, then to the men, “you, below.”

The crew were herded back to their foul prison, and beaten and struck with anything that came to hand if they resisted. Jesamiah’s arms were grasped by two soldiers, another aimed a musket at his head as he was bundled out of the entry port and into a waiting boat. Sprawled in the bottom of it, unable to move, the feeling that something not at all pleasant was about to befall him wallowed heavy in the pit of Jesamiah’s stomach. A feeling confirmed when, as the boat ground ashore he was hauled to his feet and half marched, half dragged, towards the stone-built fortress at the edge of the little town. The sort of place Jesamiah did not like very much, for fortresses tended to have dungeons and other not very nice facilities. Their boots echoed beneath the arched gateway tunnel, then they were out in the sunlight of the courtyard parade ground. There were soldiers on watch along the ramparts, some at rest, sheltering in the shade of the walls, cleaning their guns, smoking pipes. A few – new recruits by the fresh-faced look of them – were drilling, marching up and down the centre space, muskets aslant across their shoulders. Left, right, left, right, stamp, stamp, stamp. Mules were tethered to one side, all with drooping heads and one hind foot resting in the drowsy heat. A wagon loaded with barrels. Piles of baskets, crates – all the essential paraphernalia of the military. For all there were, at Jesamiah’s reckoning, only these visible one hundred or so men, that was ninety-nine too many for his liking.

He was bullied across the courtyard, marched up some steps, shuffled along a series of dark corridors and pushed into an empty room where the sun crashed in through a small, square, barred window. The door was shut behind him, bolts shot home.

As he had feared, these places always boasted a dungeon. At least this one was not below ground and running with excrement, cockroaches and rats, but it still reeked of oppressive foreboding.