Ripples in the Sand (The Sea Witch Voyages) (29 page)

Ten

Four soldiers came five hours later to escort Jesamiah onto the battlements. The heat of midday had passed, and a cooling breeze was wafting in from the Atlantic. The day must have been hot for the crew if they had been held imprisoned on board the Spanish ship, but maybe they had been ashore all the while, as they were now mustered in a group on the parade ground, looking tired, dirty and shabby. Three scaffolds had been erected. Three men were standing, balanced, hands bound, rope around their necks, on barrels. All three looked up at Jesamiah, his own hands bound behind his back. He was pushed roughly to stand at the edge of the wall walkway.

Finch, Jansy and Jasper.

Jesamiah stared across the parade ground and beyond the opposite wall to the harbour.
Sea Witch
was there, looking ragged and forlorn, but men were aboard and the faint sound of hammering reached his ears. They were already repairing her, turning her into a Spanish warship. He felt sick. Told himself it was for the loss of his beloved
Sea Witch
; knew he could not face seeing his friends and companions hang.

Three ranks of Spaniards stood to attention, their blue and red uniforms looking impressive in the afternoon sunlight. The General and the Marqués de Molina, Antonio Luis Calderón, were walking slowly up and down the lines of men, the General stopping every now and then to pat a lapel straight, point at an unfastened button. The display, Jesamiah reckoned, deliberate for his benefit. A twofold exercise; to show him the strength of the fortress and to give him time to consider the fate awaiting his men. Damn it! Even the powder monkey boys were down there. Every ship had children aboard, the boys who, for various reasons, hankered for a life at sea. Jesamiah himself had not quite been fifteen when he had gone aboard the
Mermaid
to learn everything he now knew about ships, the sea and fighting to stay alive. Two of those boys down there, though, were only twelve years old – and there was Ben, Tiola’s brother. If he let these hangings happen he would have failed Tiola and everyone back in Devon – but dear God! What more could he do? He had told the truth – or most of it. Ironic, all the times he had nearly hanged for something illegal that he had done – piracy, stealing, murder, debauchery, running contraband – all the times he had, one way or another, managed to escape – and now here he was about to watch his friends die, with himself to follow as last on the list, and all for doing something legitimate! He did not even have any of the contraband aboard
Sea Witch
, all of it was safely stored in Carter’s cellar. His hold was filled with hogsheads of tobacco – legal, legitimate, his own Virginia-grown tobacco. Damn it! Damn it, but he hated tobacco!

There was a disturbance at the black tunnel of the gateway. A carriage rumbled through, iron wheels and the clattering hooves of four striking chestnut horses echoing beneath the arch. It pulled up on the far side of the parade ground where domestic and officers’ quarters were situated. Someone alighted, but on the far side, and anyway Jesamiah was not interested. He was watching the faces of his three friends. Old Jansy. No one quite knew how old Jansy was. He was probably younger than he looked, and the various anecdotes of his, ‘
I remember when…
’ tales were mostly all made up yarns; he could not possibly recall all the things he said he did. No one believed that as a small boy he had met ‘Old Warty’, Oliver Cromwell himself, for instance, nor that he had been there as they had lopped off the head of King Charles. Jesamiah reckoned he was about fifty, fifty-five at the most, with Finch not far behind in years. Curmudgeonly, grumpy, a lousy cook who fussed like a scrawny, broody hen, but who had saved Jesamiah’s life on more than one occasion. He would never say, but Jesamiah was fond of Finch, as fond of him as if he were a father.

Then there was Jasper. Young Jasper with the fluff of a youth’s beard and the innocence to match. He was a good lad, Jasper. A little simple-minded, maybe, but he was loyal and would do anything for Jesamiah. And Jesamiah had to stand here and watch them hang?

The Marqués had disappeared behind the carriage. The General was mounting the steps leading from the parade ground to the battlements, walking slowly, openly pleased with himself. At the top, he stood a little apart from Jesamiah and his escort, rocking on heels and toes, hands clasped behind his back, that wretched cane he always carried tucked under his arm.

He is enjoying this
, Jesamiah thought.
The bastard
. “Sir,” he said, looking straight at him. “I wish to speak to the Marqués.”

The General ignored him.

Jesamiah bit his lip. What should he do? Beg? In Spanish? He could tell everything he knew about the Jacobite plotting in England, the names of the men he was certain were on the side of James Stuart, but how would that help? It was the names of those
not
supporting the Catholic King they wanted. The only other thing that would help him would be to produce that bloody list of names – if the sodding thing existed. Should he mention Jennings? Would that help, or hinder? He had not reckoned, yet, what side Henry was on, possibly the wrong side, although he was not yet sure what was the wrong, or the right side. It probably depended on what company you were keeping. Maybe he ought to declare his Jacobite sympathies, not that he actually had any, but he could acquire them if he had to. He made a decision; said in Spanish,
“Señor
!
Henry Jennings, Capitán Jennings…
”

The General did not listen; turned his back on him. A door was opening at the end of the walkway and two people stepped through emerging from an internal stairway. The Marqués came first; offered his hand to assist a woman down the two shallow steps to the battlement walkway. Her silk gown rustled, her shoes tapped on the worn stone. She smiled a thank you to her gallant escort and looked up, straight at Jesamiah.

“
Hóla, Capitán Acorne
,” she said, her green eyes shining, her red hair arrayed in a cascade of perfect ringlets beneath a green velvet bonnet with a white feathered plume. “I knew we would meet again, but I did not expect it to be in such,” she offered an apologetic smile, “awkward, circumstances.”

Jesamiah stared back, stunned. The last time he had seen this woman, on Hispaniola, he had made love to her. Two things he had not expected: to meet with Francesca Ramon Ramírez Escudero again, and that she should be full-bellied with an obvious pregnancy.

Eleven

“Is it mine?” he asked, not knowing what else to say.

Francesca smiled. She walked over to him waving the guard aside, and kissed his cheek. “Given your present circumstances, Jesamiah, I would consider my condition to be the least of your worries.” Her smile broadened; she placed one hand on the bulge beneath her gown. “Would you like it to be yours?”

“Not particularly.”

“You have your answer then, don’t you?”

She turned to the General and the Marqués, her smile retaining its radiance, despite the almost apoplectic fury on the General’s reddened face. In Spanish she said, “
I assure you, gentlemen, Capitán Acorne is no spy – or if he is, he is most assuredly on our side.”

“I am not on anyone’s side but my own,
” Jesamiah protested – also in Spanish. Calderón raised a quizzical eyebrow; the General’s rage increased.

“
Habla español?
” Calderón said.

“
Si, I speak Spanish
,” Jesamiah confirmed. “
My mother was Spanish
.”

The General’s fists clenched, the snarl on his face was akin to a bullmastiff about to attack. “
How much has he heard? I insist, now, that he hangs
!”

Spreading a fan and fluttering it in a disapproving manner – Francesca had as little liking for the General as did Jesamiah – she altered to English. “Antonio, you were right to send to Cádiz for me. I confirm, unequivocally that this man is who he says he is, he is my friend and, on the life of my child, I vouch for him. He is no spy sent to betray us. He can be trusted implicitly.”

The Marqués tapped his heels together, bowed to her then gave curt orders for the prisoner to be released. Ignoring the General’s vociferous grumbling he called down for the other prisoners to be freed also.

“They are to be fed, given fresh water and returned to my ship,” Jesamiah stated as the guards untied his bound wrists. “
My
ship. The one you will return to me and continue to repair, seeing as how you damaged her.”

The Marqués offered him a half bow. “We have apparently made a mistake, for which we apologise. Your ship will be restored to you as she was.”

Attempting to protest, but finding he was speaking to deaf ears the General retreated down the steps to the parade ground, where he snapped at various soldiers for a variety of reasons.

Jesamiah rubbed his left wrist; cradled the hand in his right. Fresh blood was seeping through old bloodstains on the grubby bandaging. “I want my own carpenter overseeing the work. None of your shoddy Spanish short cuts.”

“It shall be so.”

“And decent food and clean clothes for myself.”

“
Si
.”

The blustering was a ruse. Jesamiah felt sick and his head was pounding with a drum roll akin to a native war dance.

“You are injured?” Francesca took his left hand in hers, drawing back as he suppressed a gasp. She swung around to face the Marqués and tongue lashed him in a spate of rapid Spanish.

The day was hot, but Jesamiah found he was shivering. Francesca’s scolding voice sounded far away, and the Marqués seemed to be moving and talking in slow motion. Fortunate that Calderón was close by; Jesamiah fainted, and would have toppled to his death thirty feet below had the Spaniard not caught him.

Twelve

The Devonshire weather had been dull and drizzly throughout the morning, but the wind had swung round and by late afternoon the blue sky over the estuary at Appledore was streaked by only a few ragged clouds.

The birds were pairing up, noisy of a morning with the orchestra of the dawn chorus. Tiola had been watching a robin busy about building a nest in an old basket that had been abandoned in a corner by one of the Tawford Barton outbuildings. Looking through the window of Bethan’s bedchamber, the blue sea, the two rivers and the spring green countryside appeared benign and serene. Catkins were dancing on the hazel trees, and hidden in the hedgerows, violets and primroses were starting to peep, shy and tentative through their concealing leaves.

Sheep grazed on the rounded hill behind Crow Point; the fishing boats had come in with the tide and were at anchor near the Appledore side of the harbour. Men were busy unloading their catch, their womenfolk selling the fish, fresh caught, to the crowd of people gathered on the quay. A few of the boats had entered the rivers Taw and Torridge, bound for Barnstaple and Bideford. Pamela had taken the ferry across, braving the surliness of Jethro Kildy, hoping to purchase something tasty from the fishermen to tempt her aunt.

Bethan was unwell and had been abed since the day after they had buried her mother, Jennet. Elderly and frail, the succession of events had taken their toll on Bethan – the fright of the carriage overturning, the shock of those men attacking Nicholas Hartley, then threatening her own niece, and losing Jennet. The old lady had been the lynchpin of the family for so many years that carrying on seemed almost an impossibility. There was a gaping hole left in the household, one that was raw and bleeding and could not be easily filled, and would always leave a mark of sorrow.

Offering her skill of healing, and for want of something to do, Tiola had gladly opted to nurse Bethan, although she feared that her presence was merely a comfort for her last days rather than a healing process. There was no cure for old age.

From the window, Tiola watched Pamela return, her basket laden. She saw Rue walk out across the beach to meet her. They were in love, and it showed.

The sunset was glorious. The clouds reflected the light from the water into the sky, swamping the west with an entire spectrum of reds, pinks, oranges and golds as the sun sank lower in a shouted blaze of triumph. Bethan awoke; she had been drifting in and out of sleep all afternoon, and asked to be helped to the window to see the closing day. She sank into a chair, a little breathless from the exertion of moving from bed to window. Tiola tucked blankets around her and made up the fire with aromatic applewood logs. She drew up another chair and they sat, companionably together.

“I have had so much beauty and happiness in my life,” Bethan said. I am fortunate to have such wonderful friends and family; to have had the best of men to love as a husband, and as sons.” She turned to smile at Tiola as the sky’s artistic palette of colour began to fade into purples and violets, then darken into blue. “I am eager to see their dear faces again. They were taken too soon from me, and in too cruel a manner.” She sighed, rested her head on the chair back, closed her eyes. Her breathing was laboured, rattling a little in her throat.

Tiola sat quietly, using her Craft to ease away, as best she could, some of the discomfort that bothered an old and fragile body.

“There were many bad things done,” Bethan said suddenly, her eyes flicking open. “Too many died for the wrong reasons and too few had the courage to make amends for words spoken in anger.” Her fingers gripped Tiola’s a little tighter. “You have a good man, my dear, do not judge him for his faults, but love him for his qualities.”

A short while ago, those first few days here in England, Tiola would have answered ‘
What qualities would they be
?’, but that would have been a remark made from damaged pride, spoken and instantly regretted. Beneath his weaknesses – and there were several – Jesamiah was loyal to his comrades, and would put himself in danger, even in the face of death, for those he cared about. He would give his life for Tiola, that she knew – for he had already proved he would take punishment rather than allow her to suffer, and yet he carelessly tossed aside his feelings, and her patience, by swiving any woman who cared to lift her skirts. No matter how often Tiola told herself that sex to Jesamiah was like breathing air, a thing done as a base need, it still hurt when he turned from her for pleasure. Would he change? Would he only look at, want, her in the future years of their marriage? She gazed out of the window at the sea, did so miss him, so loved him. She had barely slept and had eaten little, found it hard to concentrate. Jesamiah possessed her, and without him she could not live. She wanted him to come home!

“He is young and unsure of himself,” Bethan said, correctly reading the thoughts that were plain in Tiola’s expression. “We all make mistakes when the ground is not firm beneath our feet, and your Jesamiah is so much like his father and grandfather.”

“You recall Charles, then?” Tiola asked, glad for the chance to move her thoughts away from this craving for Jesamiah to return. An image of Bethan’s deceased half-brother came into her mind. A restless spirit whom she had recently helped to achieve peace.

“I did. I knew his wife also, Dona. Oh she was a beauty! Big dark eyes, black, black hair – blacker than the night.” Bethan sat quiet a moment reflecting on thoughts from the past. “They had so many terrible arguments, Charles and my father. Charles resented that Papa refused to acknowledge him as his legitimate son and heir. I think Papa resented the freedom Charles enjoyed. Certainly he disapproved of his lack of responsibility.”

She sighed, shook her head, took a while to ease her laboured breathing. “I recall one night when there was such a disagreement of cursing and shouting we thought the two of them were going to kill each other. It was over a girl, Mary Drummond, a kitchen maid here at Tawford Barton. Charles had come home from sea and got her with child, but he refused to have anything to do with the pregnancy. He said there was no proof it was his. Mary’s parents were Bristol merchants, strict Protestants – Cromwell’s kind of people – and threw her out. The poor girl was penniless; ended up on the streets of Bristol. It was not until much later that we discovered Charles had been providing for her and the child, but she squandered every penny on gin. Charles even took the boy as his midshipman.”

“Edward?” Tiola said, suddenly realising who Bethan was talking about. “That was Edward?”

“Yes. Before she had the baby, Mary married a man called Albert Teach, and gave his name to the child. Edward Teach.”

“Who went by the alternative name of Blackbeard, and who was killed last November. Jesamiah was there at his death.” Tiola added bitterly, “And was near killed himself. The man had sold his soul to the Devil. He was a monster.”

Bethan was shocked. “He was, indeed, a bad apple, but I had no idea of that side of his identity. Goodness! How it would have upset Jennet had she known. None of us liked him, he came here two or three times with Charles, a surly, gruff young man, who gave the impression that he thought he deserved more than he had. So he turned pirate? I am not in the least surprised. Father did not like him either, but there were other reasons they quarrelled. Papa wanted my half-brother to fight with the Duke of Monmouth. His father, the King, and Papa were close friends – did you know that?”

Tiola shook her head, “You mean King Charles the second of that name?”

“Yes. Papa helped him escape after the Battle of Worcester.”

Tiola cocked her head on one side. “I heard tell that he hid in an oak tree. I have always wondered if that was the truth or rumoured fancy.”

“It is true! Papa often told us the story. He would have been executed like his poor father had Cromwell captured him.” Bethan paused, nostalgia misting her eyes. “Whatever folk say of Charles’s ‘merry’ ways, once he was restored to his throne he proved himself to be a good king. When he died, we as a family, supported his son, Monmouth, even though he was born illegitimate and King Charles had expressed a wish for his brother, James, to succeed him. Papa thought that decision a wrong one, and he told the King so, in no uncertain terms, but Charles would not offically acknowledge any of his by-blow children because of a care of duty towards his wife.” Bethan sighed and stared a while out of the window, remembering those distant days, even though many of the events were nothing more than stories, anecdotes and passed on gossip. How much of them were truthful, she had no idea. “Papa said the Queen was a small, mouse of a woman, but very elegant and as sweet natured as they came.” Bethan suddenly laughed. “Although I do not know if that is true either; she was admired by many men, including her husband, despite not producing children. I think King Charles loved her, even if he did stray to other beds and had a weakness for dropping his breeches whenever a bosom heaved beneath his nose.”

“And so he elected to honour his marriage vows by not legitimising Monmouth as his son?” Tiola said. “I wonder, mayhap many people would be alive, and hearts and families would not have been torn apart had he not been so chivalrous towards his wife, and had not such a roving sexual inclination.”

“Alas, you are right. Despite Papa’s loyalty to the King, he knew James would plunge us all back into religious turmoil.” She started coughing, the spasms hurting her chest, causing her to gasp for breath. Tiola fetched a soothing cordial, held the glass to Bethan’s lips to aid her to drink.

“Thank you, my dear. I bless the day your Jesamiah brought you here.”

“You need to rest, Bethan. Let me help you to bed.”

“Permit me to finish my tale first?”

“Very well.” Tiola sat down again and waited for the elderly lady to gather her thoughts. She was intrigued by these things that joined together the snippets she already knew of Jesamiah’s past.

“My half-brother Charles refused to fight. Papa accused him of being a coward, they argued, they shouted, they – oh it was horrid! Charles insisted on returning to the Caribbean because his friend, Carlos Mereno, another handsome man, needed assistance in helping a lady who was in trouble. Our father was furious that he should put lust for a woman before fighting with honour alongside his family.” A tremble came over Bethan as she confided, “I can hear them now, arguing in Papa’s room. Charles shouting that his loyalty rested with Armand St Croix, the man who had nurtured him through childhood, saying that Papa was not worthy of his support.” She sighed. “It always hurt Papa that Charles called himself St Croix, not Dynam.”

Tiola shook her head at the sorry mess. “And then he changed St Croix to Mereno in honour, and in guilt, of his friend. In turn, Jesamiah refuses to use Mereno, calling himself Acorne. Men can be such stubborn clods.”

They sat together, watching the first stars appear, the darkness of the falling night enveloping the room like a blanket, or a shroud.

“Did they never make amends?” Tiola asked.

“Charles tried. He brought his wife here to give birth to their first child – your Jesamiah – but Papa was furious because Charles had remained a Jacobite, intent on assisting the French and the Spanish to restore James II to the throne. Papa was also a stubborn man; he realised his mistake when Jesamiah was born, I think. Perhaps the new life of his grandson brought the truth of the situation home to him. You see, although Papa was in fact legitimate-born, he did not discover it, nor the identity of his father ‘til it was too late. For most of his early years he had assumed himself illegitimate. The shame of thinking he was bastard had always made him angry and, I think, he unwittingly passed that anger on to Charles.”

“Who passed it on to Jesamiah,” Tiola said. “I fear history has repeated itself down the generations, and all because men will not admit to their lust for swiving a woman, and the resulting consequences!”

Bethan patted Tiola’s hand. “Then you must ensure that the pattern is broken when you have a son.” She smiled and touched Tiola’s cheek. “And do not leave it too long, my dear, life has a habit of passing us by at the gallop.”

As the night darkened, the stars glowed brighter. Jewels scattered against black velvet. “Would you light the lamps, Tiola dear? Then fetch me a box you will find in that chest at the foot of my bed.”

The box proved to be a casket of what appeared to be ebony. Carved on its lid, a peculiar mask of a devil-like man, his green eyes made from glittering emeralds.

“This is a most strange thing,” Tiola said as she laid the heavy box carefully on Bethan’s lap.

“It was given to me by my father. My sister had one also, but hers was stolen during the bad times of the rebellion. We had no idea from where he got them. We assumed from Ireland. He spent some time there when he inherited the Dynams’ lands in Munster. I believe the mask is one of the Little People, a leprechaun.”

Tiola studied the carved face carefully. It was not one of the fairy folk, this was a creature of the night, and the wood was not ebony, it was bone, but she kept the facts to herself.

Opening the box Bethan rummaged through various papers. “Most of these,” she said, “are letters written to me by my husband – my beau as he was before we wed. I would wish them to be buried with me. Do you think you could arrange that?”

Tiola inclined her head. She could.

“Ah!” Bethan brought out a parchment scroll. “Mama gave me this for safe keeping some years ago. We, neither of us, ever thought we would be able to pass it on. She reminded me of it the night of the carriage accident. I think she intended to say something herself but…” Bethan paused to contain her emotions, “But I confess, until this afternoon I had forgotten all about it. Which is remiss of me with so much happening, though…” Bethan blushed, reached for more of the cordial, “…I also confess that I was tempted to hold my tongue. What is the saying? ‘Let sleeping dogs lie’? By giving you this to read I am poking the dogs wide awake, and they may turn vicious.”