Ripples in the Sand (The Sea Witch Voyages) (30 page)

Frowning with curiosity, Tiola took the parchment from her, puzzled. It was cracked and ragged; one edge scorched with burn marks.

“Read it, my dear.”

Astonishment flooded Tiola’s face. “This has a royal seal,” she declared, “it bears the signature of Charles II.”

Bethan indicated the letter. “Read it.”

The fire crackled and fairy sparks danced up the chimney. A log fell slightly; settled. Sounds from below indicated that supper was nearly ready.

Tiola read the elaborate legally-worded writing. “This should have been given to Jesamiah’s father years ago!” she said, looking up as she finished.

“So it should, but mistakenly Papa kept it secret. He was disappointed in Charles, and I think ashamed of him, not merely because of the boy’s Jacobite leanings.”

Tiola could understand that. “Your father had lain with another woman, got her with child. He would have been aware how that knowledge had affected your mother, Jennet.”

Bethan inclined her head. “Jennet knew of the boy’s siring, but I think to protect her status among others he maintained the pretence that Charles had been conceived illegitimate. Technically he was. Papa never married Bella; he continued to conceal the fact that he had acknowledged the child and had declared him legally as his son and heir, though.”

“And I assume,” Tiola said with sadness, “that had Charles not been a Jacobite, and had they both not been so wretchedly stubborn, your papa would not have retained the secret once it was clear Jennet would not give him a son?”

“Yes. Papa tried to give the document to Charles on the night Jesamiah was born, but he refused to accept it. Papa was so angry at the refusal that he attempted to destroy it. Mamma rescued it from the fire and put it away for safe keeping, hoping that one day the two men would come to their senses.” Bethan sighed and started to rise from her chair. Tiola sprang to assist her.

“I need the comfort stool, Tiola my dear, then I think my bed.”

“Why did Charles refuse to accept the truth?”

“He said he would then have to become a King’s Man instead of a Jacobite, and that Papa’s declaration of legitimacy had come too many years too late. As soon as his wife had recovered sufficiently from the birth he sailed away with her and the child. He never came back to Tawford Barton, although we often heard that he was in Devon to trade with the Doones and John Benson.” Bethan touched the scroll of parchment. “You keep it safe, make sure your husband gets it. With no man in our household now, it is perhaps time these wrongs were set right.”

Throughout the long night of restless dreams, Bethan’s words chimed in Tiola’s mind.
Wrongs put right… He never came back…

The dreams were of a red-haired woman alone on the beach, her belly heavy with child as the birth-pain of labour devoured her. The tide was sweeping around her as she knelt in the wet sand. A red-haired woman, not the black-haired Spanish lady.

“Who are you?” Tiola murmured in her sleep. “Who are you?”

All Tiola heard in response, was the hushing voice of the sea;
I am Tethys, and I claim the one given to me.

And still those words, around and around.
He never came back… He never came back…

Thirteen

A Spanish breeze blew through the open window, stirring the delicate curtaining, wafting in the smell and sound of the sea. The sky was draped in funeral black, no moon hung there, only an array of diamond-bright stars. Apart from the hush of the sea washing against the shore there was silence, not even a night bird called, or a dog barked. Jesamiah lay in a bed, aware that the sheets were crisp white linen and smelt of lavender. He lay staring out of the window at the night sky; it was good to feel the breeze on his face. All he could remember of the past hours – no, it must be days. He vaguely recalled other dark nights of feeling so hot that he thought he was roasting in the fire-pits of hell.

There had been the gentleness of a woman’s hand and voice, someone sponging cold water on him, then warm towels to dry him, and the softness of this bed. He closed his eyes, hoping that the dream of loving tenderness would return. He wanted to tell her how soft her hands were, how beautiful was her voice…

When he awoke again, the sky was a cornflower blue with white clouds daubed in an occasional careless patch. There were noises now, a man with a loud voice shouting orders. The tramp of feet, the braying of a mule. Seagulls were crying. The smell of baking bread. He remembered hearing rain, the sound beating down, rattling on the roof and at the windows. They must have been closed then, for he suddenly recalled opening his eyes and seeing lightning flash through the glass and hearing the rumble of thunder. All gone now, for the day outside was quite charming.

He turned his head on the pillow, wondering where he was; heard a rustle of silk and smelt the delicate perfume of roses.

“You are awake then? I was starting to wonder if you would sleep forever.”

Jesamiah managed a smile. “Hello, ‘Cesca. You are not a dream then? Nor is that bump in front of you. When is it due?”

“May. The merry, merry month.”

Counting on his right-hand fingers, Jesamiah figured the relevant dates;
September, October, November…
on his left hand,
February, March, April…
“Shit! That fokken hurts!” He half pulled himself up; stared at his left hand swathed in bandaging.

“You have sustained an injury. The wound was infected, but you have a guardian angel watching over you, for the fever lifted and the wounds are healing.”

Jesamiah studied the shape of the bandaging. “Still got the hand then? No one’s cut it off?” He had seen plenty of amputations – performed some himself, doing them as quickly and cleanly as he could, but for all the familiarity the thought of losing a limb filled every sailor with dread.

Francesca sat on the edge of the bed to feel if there was any heat lingering on his forehead. “You have not lost your hand, no. You were lucky.”

The silence dangled, awkward, between them a moment. “Unlike most of my crew,” Jesamiah said quietly, the loss of friends hard to accept. He lifted his left hand to wipe at his eyes; realised there was something wrong. “Undo this bandage.”

“It will start bleeding again if I do.”

“Either you do it, or I’ll pull the damn thing off myself.”

“Tomorrow,” ‘Cesca insisted. “The bandaging will need changing tomorrow.”

Jesamiah fixed his gaze on her green eyes. “Either you show me the damage now, or I will look for myself the instant you leave this room. Do it, ‘Cesca, let me see.”

She waited a moment before carefully unwrapping the linen. ”You really are a stubborn man.”

“But you love me for it.”

“Love you! Whatever gave you that idea?”

With his right hand Jesamiah touched her swollen belly. “It was our lovemaking that created this.”

One layer of bandaging was off, she started on the second. “Do not flatter yourself, Captain Acorne. If I recall you had a slight ‘upright’ problem last September.”

He smiled to hide the embarrassed tinge to his face. She was not supposed to have noticed his difficulty of not being able to perform. When it had really mattered, though, his ability had returned to normal. More than normal if the size of her belly was anything to go by. He grinned. “Not in those woods I didn’t. At least twice, if I recollect.”

‘Cesca stopped the unravelling. “That was a shared need, Jesamiah, heat of the moment, nothing more. I was an unwilling whore to another man before you touched me, and thank God,” she crossed herself, “he is now dead, so will not be able to crow his masculinity.”

Jesamiah snorted. “It’s del Gardo’s? I do not believe you.”

“You may believe what you like, but I suggest you cease speculating about your ability and turn your mind to the wife I believe you now have.”

Looking direct into Francesca’s face, Jesamiah realised that the woman in his fevered dreams had not been Tiola. Guilt swept through him. Was this what she had been afraid of? That the instant he saw another pretty face he would have his breeches unbuttoned, and his prick in active use? Well, she was wrong this time. He did not feel he had the energy to raise a pennant up the mizzenmast, let alone an interest in fornication, and besides… He mentally shrugged as he watched ‘Cesca unbandaging his hand. She was beautiful, he was fond of her, but it came as a bit of a surprise to find he did not want to make love to her, only to Tiola. Wanted her here! now! Her tending his hand, not ‘Cesca.

Tiola?

Why could he not hear a reply? Why had he only seen her in mist-shrouded dreams? Were they perhaps too far apart. He caught his breath, a sudden gasp of fear. Too far apart in miles, or in intimacy? Had Tiola decided he was the no good louse he often was?

“Sorry, did that hurt, I am trying to be as careful as I can.”

‘Cesca’s words brought him back to the present. “No, no, it’s fine. I was thinking of something else.”

Unaware of his unease, Francesca removed the last of the dressing, and his thoughts of Tiola were suddenly exchanged for other, nauseous, feelings.

Jesamiah looked down, his breath coming quicker in his chest. Half of his ring finger, from above the joint was missing, and all that remained of his little finger was the stump of the knuckle. The flesh was bruised and swollen, the back of his hand was gored by three ugly, deep and uneven slashes that had cut diagonally from wrist to the little finger stump.

He bit his lip. Tiola’s name tattooed across his knuckles was almost obliterated by the raw gashes. Only the ‘TI’ and part of the ‘A’ remained. It was as if her name had been gouged out, viciously removed.

‘Cesca saw his tears; assumed he was upset because of the damage to his hand. She leant forward and enfolded him within her arms, comforted him while he wept. Heard the faint words, “I want to go home. I want my Tiola.”

Fourteen

Evening. A whole night and another day had passed. The breeze was still blowing in from the sea, billowing the lightweight curtains making them look alive, as if they were frantic beasts, tethered and chained, desperate to escape. Jesamiah had been dozing in a chair on the balcony, the afternoon sun pleasant on his face in the sheltered corner. Activity from the fortress across the river had roused him. This was a private house, belonging, so ‘Cesca had said, to the Marqués de Molina, Antonio Luis Calderón. A good friend of hers, it seemed, although Jesamiah had not managed to discover quite
how
good.

“
He is one of us,
” she had said. “
You and he have much in common
.”

Jesamiah had not been quite sure what to make of that, so had not answered. He must have been dreaming about it, however, for the man’s face came vividly to mind as he woke, along with his mother’s. That was odd. He had not thought of her for some time. Another cannon fired and he realised it had been a first cannon shot which had awakened him. He sat up, peered over the balcony, saw a third puff of smoke belch outward from the fortress battlements, followed by a resounding bang. He frowned.Apart from the usual fishing boats, three Spanish frigates and his own
Sea Witch
, there was nothing in sight, so why the formal salute?

He heard the door to his bedchamber open and close; assumed it was Francesca. Dozing here this afternoon, he had decided that tomorrow he would cease this invalid laziness, get on his feet and return to normality. He had lost one and a half fingers, that was all. Not anything vital. He felt restless, on the edge of boredom, he wanted to go aboard
Sea Witch
to ensure that all was well with her. Her masts were restored, and most of her rigging. To the unknowing eye she seemed perfectly alright, but Jesamiah could see bits here and there that were not to his satisfaction, and what were conditions below deck? Was all the damage repaired adequately? There had been quite a bit of coming and going throughout the afternoon; small boats rowing back and forth between his ship and the shore, taking goods aboard. Cargo? Provisions? Was she almost ready to sail? Not without him she wasn’t!

He did not look round, but peered, scowling, at what looked like bundles of muskets being hauled aboard. Muskets? “What’s happening, ‘Cesca? What’s all the banging and belching about? There seems a beehive of activity going on over at the fortress, and on my ship. Those are muskets. I don’t want bloody muskets…”

A man’s voice answered. “But we do, Capitán Acorne.
Buenas tardes
. The cannon was for the arrival of an important guest, and your ship, she is being provisioned. Fresh water, meat, flour. Your steward, Finch? He is to know what is required.”

Calderón.

Jesamiah stood up, his face flushing with anger. “Aye, he does, but I do not want muskets. I ain’t a bloody warship.”

Calderón indicated a chair. Without waiting for Jesamiah to give permission he sat down, elegantly crossing his legs. He fetched a pipe and tobacco from his coat pocket, began to press tobacco into the bowl, the rich aromatic smell of a Virginia Orinoco blend. He offered the tobacco pouch to Jesamiah, who shook his head.

“I don’t smoke the weed.”

“You no mind if I do?” the Spaniard asked. His English was good. Almost.

“It’s your house. Your lungs.”

Calderón reached into another pocket for his tinderbox. “Indeed. Do sit down,
Capitán
.”

Belligerent, Jesamiah remained standing. “And that is my ship.”

“Indeed,” Calderón repeated, blowing smoke into the air and snuffing out the glow of his slow match. “But she is in my harbour.”

“Not, through, choice.” The words came slow, one at a time. Angry.

“Indeed.”

Jesamiah almost punched him.

“Do sit down, Acorne. There are matters of importance that I need to discuss with you. Your ship is being repaired and provisioned. I have apologised to your crew, and made good for their inconvenience with excellent Spanish brandy, and our town whores for their entertainment.”

Wonderful,
Jesamiah thought as he moved aside the lightweight blanket and stretched out on the couch, elbowing a cushion more comfortable behind his back, and crossing his legs at the ankles.
What remains of my crew are now drunk and riddled with the pox
.

Calderón ignored the scowl. “
Espero que se haya recuperado
? Are you recovered?
Si
, I see you are. Your hand, they is not now so sore?”

“Unlike many of my crew, I’ll live. No thanks to you.” The hostility was there in Jesamiah’s face, his voice, even in the clenched, taut muscles of his body.

“
Señor
Acorne, it is not my faults that the General is an arsehole imbecile. We expecting an English ship, some days ago, but wind and the weathers is not always accommodating, eh? The code in Sir Ailie’s letter, she confirmed you are who you say you are. As has Francesca also, of courses, but at first we were not certain you were who you saids you were. Any government spy could have stolen that letter.”

Code? Jesamiah kept the thought to himself. He had bloody known there was something odd about that letter. He almost asked how the code worked, but was too proud to admit his ignorance.

“The General,” Calderón continued, sucking and puffing at his pipe, “gets, how do I say? Overzealing when he meets the English ships. He does not like you English.”

“I noticed.”

“He has suffered in wars in unpleasant circumstances. His forebear was one of those men humbled by your Francis Drake, when he attacks Cádiz, and further humbles at the failure of the Great Armada. Humbles? This is the right word? I speak not well your English.”

“Humble’ll do, and you speak good English,
señor
. This General is not a man to forgive and forget then. That’s a bit of grudge weighting his shoulders.”

Jesamiah had intended to be sarcastic, but Calderón, misunderstanding, answered with seriousness,

“
Si
. You are most observing.”

“Look,” Jesamiah swung his legs from the couch and leant forward, “I do not know what mischief you are up to, what plans you and Doone – and Francesca – are involved in, but I am not interested. All I want to do is sell my tobacco and go home to my wife. Savvy?”

A stream of blue smoke left Calderón’s lips as he blew upward into the air. “Your tobacco is sold. I have purchased it and gived you a good price. There are two chests of silver stowed in your cabin. Your steward insisted it be safe there. I assume you trust him?”

“More than I do you.”

The Marqués laughed. “A fair statement, my friend.” He also leant forward and tapped the last of the tobacco from his pipe into a bowl. “I have paid more than tobacco is worths. Your crew also is regrown from Spanish sailors.”

“I don’t want your Spanish
macaques
with their filthy habits aboard my ship.”

The Spaniard grinned, made a play on Jesamiah’s lewd insult. “I assure you,
Capitán
, they are good men with no need of hands in breeches to give upstanding performance.”

Despite his annoyance, Jesamiah was amused by the quick-witted response. He reached for a decanter of port, and raising it gestured whether Calderón would like some. The Spaniard shook his head. Jesamiah refilled his own empty glass. “I thank you for the offer, Marqués, but I do not want your muskets, nor your men. I do not want any part of whatever it is that you and Doone think I’m willing to play the whore for.”

Spreading his hands Calderón stood. “There is nothing sinister in our need. A few men and a few weapons transported to England. That is all.”

“
No. Y en caso que usted no oyó. No
.”

Calderón ambled towards the door. He said over his shoulder, “I hear you well,
señor
. You are very like your mother, you know, Jesamiah. May I call you Jesamiah? She also was stubborn.”

That feeling of being trapped, thrown into a deep, dank, dark place with no windows, no light, no fresh air swamped Jesamiah’s senses. The breath caught in his chest, his throat tightened.

Turning back to face into the room, the Spaniard said, “You have your mother’s eyes, her temper too, I think?”

Jesamiah was suspicious. “My mother left Spain seven and twenty years ago; has been dead for twelve of those years. You,” he waved his bandaged left hand towards the Spaniard, “can be no more than five and thirty. How would you be knowing of her?”

“You flatter me, but I am soon turned forty. I was a young boy when I knew her, I admit, but I recall her, and your father. I was,” he paused, searching for the right word, “enamoured, of him. A handsome sailor with courage. Dona fell for him like a star tumbles from the sky.”

Jesamiah did not know what to make of it. So many secrets and unknowns had been revealed to him these past few months – days – that his head was reeling. There was the added dilemma as well: did he want to know? He had lived this long without a family, so what use was the truth of things now? Tiola and his
Sea Witch
crew were his family. Maybe one day a son or daughter, or both, would be good, but did he need any others? His mother and father were dead. The half-brother he thought was a brother hadn’t been a brother, and a man he shuddered to think of as a half-brother had been. Families and the details of relations were all too complicated. “All I want is to get back to my ship and weigh anchor. Your reminiscences are none of my business.”

Antonio Calderón smiled congenially, clicked his heels together and gave a slight acknowledging salute. “A pity about my recalls of the past, but for the other, your ship she shall be ready to sail tomorrow morning. With you, if you agree to delivers the weapons he requires to Sir Ailie, and to take with you two passengers and their servants.”

“I don’t carry passengers.”

“Yet among your crew is one who is no sailor? A young man you rescued from hanging?”

Damn! Jesamiah should have guessed this man would have interrogated everyone aboard
Sea Witch
– and why would Ben have hidden the truth? Snorting contempt, he growled, “What passengers?”

“I wish you to take
Señora
Francesca to England, and with her a friend of mine.”

Francesca? Jesamiah did not mind taking her. “Very well, I will do as you ask, on two conditions.”

The Spaniard cocked his head on one side. “Which are?”

“I go aboard my ship now, and you keep that young man, Ben, safe here, as your guest, for a few months. He’ll be better off not showing his face in Devon, especially if I have to smuggle your damn muskets ashore.”

Calderón agreed; they were fair requests. He opened the door then stopped as Jesamiah asked, “Am I to know this other passenger?”

“Regrettably, no,
señor
, not until you are ready to sail. No word can get back to the shores.”

Taking a few steps towards the door, accepting the statement, Jesamiah said, “One other thing.”

“
Si
?”

“How, exactly, did you know my mother?”

“How does you think,
Capitán
?”

Jesamiah shrugged. He had been told so many untruths as a boy that he did not rely on any of them now. “She said she was the youngest daughter of a nobleman, but I don’t know what is true and what isn’t any more.”

Calderón smiled, nodded. Understood. “You look like her when you frown your face. It was a bad business. When she runs away with Charles St Croix, her father no longer had more to do with her. Dona, to him, was gone, dead. He forbade us to talk of her. He could not stops me thinking of her, though, for she was my sister. I loved her much, and I miss her. I would have liked to take friendship with her son, my nephew. If he would consider it possible?” An abrupt bow, and he left. Jesamiah sensed the hurt that was within him; had not missed the catch of sadness in his voice.

For a long while Jesamiah stared at the closed door. He had an uncle. He laughed beneath his breath, a self-mocking sound. “I’ve got kindred crawling out the bloody woodwork like teredo worms.”

The question rolled around his mind for the rest of the evening; were these new family members worth encouraging, or should he run like smoke and oakum from them, as his father had done?