Ripples in the Sand (The Sea Witch Voyages) (35 page)

Twenty Five

Sea Witch
drove up through the Celtic Sea and into the Bristol Channel, storm battered and leaking, her pumps going non-stop, under a single treble-reefed main topsail and storm stays’ls. How they had managed to get to within the vague outline of Lundy was no one’s knowing. Several of the crew were whispering that they must be sighting Ireland, France, or even Newfoundland as there had been no observation of a proper course for a long time. There had been no sun, no stars, nothing except wind-whipped, rain-sodden sky to steer by, and Jesamiah’s uncanny instinct for dead reckoning, but there, ahead, was Lundy, hidden by the poor visibility of pouring rain, unmistakable in the occasional glimpses. Now all they had to do was steer round it, and not into it. The prospect of a safe harbour not far ahead cheered them all and drew out the last reserve of their strength. Captain and crew were exhausted. Jesamiah was struggling to keep his ship afloat. He could not remember when he had last slept, eaten or moved far away from the helm. He was existing on the necessity to stay alive; the dogged will to not give up or give in.

They had lost three men overboard, and had nearly lost Jasper as well. Two of the men had fallen from the top masts when a sudden squall had veered round with unbelievable speed. Bellowing orders, Jesamiah had clung to the mizzen stay, while it seemed that
Sea Witch
would never rise again, and then the wind took her aback. It came howling across the sea as if all the devils and demons of every faith had been released to rampage their wrath of destruction. The two men had lost their footing and had fallen together, as Jesamiah watched, unable to do anything to help them. The third man was one of le Roy’s servants. He had come on deck – God knows why. A breath of air away from the ordure and stink of below, perhaps? The poor sod had been swept overboard as a surge of water had gushed along the deck and Jasper, trying to grab the man as he had screamed for help, had likewise had his feet taken from under him. Only the chance of a rope tangling around his ankle had saved him.

“Concentrate on what you are doing, boy!” Jesamiah had yelled, his horror at almost losing the young lad as well as those others had put a curse into his anger. “Use the fokken lifelines, that‘s what they are there for!”

He could vaguely hear cries from below. The maid, he guessed, for ‘Cesca would never be so indelicate, but he could not spare thought to wonder at what was amiss, for it took a long struggle to bring
Sea Witch
under control again. The shift in the wind had made the sea more merciless than ever and as she lurched over the wild, white-topped troughs he realised that things had altered into something more sinister. They were interlopers in this ocean realm, and it had become apparent that they were not welcome, that if they wished to remain afloat, and alive, then they were going to have to fight for the privilege.

“Well, you ain’t havin’ my ship, you bitch!” Jesamiah muttered as he took firmer hold of the helm, even though his fingers were numb. It occurred to him that it did not matter that he had lost two as he could not feel the rest of them either.

Valiant,
Sea Witch
battled on, bursting her heart for her captain.

“Cap’n!” Finch appeared, ashen faced, his hands clinging for his life to the rails as he inched along. He reached for Jesamiah’s arm to attract his attention. “Cap’n! There’s trouble!”

“Tell me about it,” Jesamiah retorted with a shout, “I’ve got a plateful of damned trouble as it is. If the bloody King is sick of being sick, tell him he can jump over the side and fucking swim for it!”

“Nay, it’s the
señora
. She’s ‘ad a fall.”

“So what can I do? Tell her t’sit down, put her ‘ead between ‘er knees, or something.”

Sea Witch
lurched over another great wave. It took all of Jesamiah and Isiah’s strength clinging to the helm together to hold her.

“She’s bleedin’. The babbi’s comin’.”

Everything slowed and went dim in Jesamiah’s awareness, as if time itself had ceased.
My God
, he thought.
Oh My God!

Tiola! Tiola I need you in my head! Tiola? Where are you?
But she was not there, no answering voice, no feeling of her tender, calm and capable, presence and then reality tore back in.

Crawford was the nearest man. Jesamiah screeched at him to come and take the wheel; did not even glance back to see if he had done so as he ran from the deck, slid down the ladder and hurtled along the narrow, dark corridor. He almost tripped over the King’s remaining servant who was on his hands and knees curled into a miserable ball. From behind the closed door came the sound of whimpering. Jesamiah’s only thought was that at least the Catholic bastard was still alive.

He burst into his cabin, cleared of furniture, books, all the accoutrements that made the place into home, all of it stowed away in the hold by Finch when the storm – the first storm – had initially reared its ugly head. One lantern, unlit, swung crazily around and around on its hook, the dim daylight from the fading grey afternoon casting eerie shadows through the single unshuttered salt-grimed window. Francesca was on her knees clinging to the bare wood of the lockers across the stern – no red velvet cushions now. Her maid was beside her, padding rags and towels about her. The seeping blood on ‘Cesca’s grey gown looked black and menacing.

“’Cesca?” Jesamiah knelt beside her, with no idea what to do. “We’ve no surgeon on board, does your maid know how to deal with this?”

Not able to speak, ’Cesca shook her head.

If only I had Tiola here!
He thought, but she wasn’t, so it was no use wishing for the impossible.

“All I can do is tell you to hold on. We are not far from Appledore. I’ll get us in over the Bar as soon as I can. Help will be there for you, I guarantee it. My wife will know what to do.”

The pain shuddering through ‘Cesca was acute but she managed a half smile as Jesamiah took her hand. “Will you look after the child if anything happens to me?” she managed to gasp.

“You don’t even have to ask, love. Nothing is going to happen, savvy? I won’t let it.”

Sea Witch
rolled, ‘Cesca half fell but Jesamiah steadied her with his strong arms. “Bloody hold on,” he said. “Just hold on!”

Twenty Six

From the open door of the shippen, Tiola watched the rain lashing down, blown almost horizontal by the wind. She had, once, not so long ago, been able to communicate with Rain, the daughter of Tethys, but content within herself, the elemental had faded into the ethereal spirit world. Rain in the human dimension was nothing more than cold, wet precipitation.

In the past, a bright winter’s day was fading into an orange and gold sunset. The Spanish woman was there, walking on the beach in a state of distress. Tiola could feel her anxiety and grief. See her tears. She was walking aimlessly across the sand towards the surf line of the incoming tide, her heart torn into pieces by the arguments between her husband and father-in-law. Did her husband not realise that his father was old and frail? Was dying? Could Charles not, for the sake of the old man’s eternal peace, forgive and make amends? But no! He was determined and stubborn. He would not relinquish his loyalty to the Jacobite cause, and would not set aside the danger of running contraband for the sake of his coming child. Dona loved her husband dearly, had given up all she knew as the daughter of a Spanish Marqués to be with him as wife, but she despaired of healing the rift between him and his father, Alexander Dynam, Viscount Westley.

She walked, unheeding of where she was placing her feet, for the words spoken between the two men had been terrible. Unable to bear the shouting, Dona had fetched her cloak and left the house, not caring that night would soon be descending and once the sun had set it would be winter cold, nor that the tide was sweeping inward.

She saw the little boat and some madness possessed her to climb in and row the short distance across the river, scrabble ashore and walk on the sand beneath the place they called Crow Point. There was a ruined chapel up there on the headland, she had heard, but the climb looked too steep and her back was aching so. She decided to stay on the beach, to watch the water as it meandered up the narrow channels and rippled in the hollows of the sand. There was nothing Tiola could do to help her, except watch as the shift of Time revealed what had already been.

She felt Pamela behind her, and the vision was gone. “Will it ever stop raining?” Pamela sighed as she set the bucket of fresh, frothing cow’s milk down. “I fear we will have flooding if the rivers rise much higher.”

“It is worse at sea,” Tiola stated, her anxiety quivering in her voice. “I know Jesamiah is out there, close to home.” She turned to Pamela, fear crumpling her expression, “And there is nothing I can do to save him.”

Pamela instinctively hugged her friend, her own concern showing plain. “Rue says Captain Acorne is the best sailor he knows.”

“Even the best sailors cannot compete with the sea when she is in a temper.” Tiola felt ungracious at being so despondent, but the dread was weighing heavily in the pit of her stomach. Jesamiah needed her – she had heard him call, but she did not have the ability to answer him. An idea came to her: perhaps if she were nearer the sea, maybe that link of Tethys’s petulance would channel her thoughts?

The problem would be in leaving the house, for neither Pamela nor Rue would permit her to wander on the beach in this storm, much less, make her way across to Crow Point. She had to get there, something was telling her so. Mayhap Anu would be there, her spirit-presence granting the energy Tiola so desperately needed?

Fate, Weird, or mere coincidence came to her assistance. Word arrived from Instow House that Isabella was on the poorly side. She had been enduring a touch of uncomfortable mastitis. Could Tiola send some more of her soothing salve? Indeed she could, and she took it herself, despite Pamela’s protests about the foul weather. Isabella Hartley was in Tiola’s care, so the protests fell on unhearing ears. The truth that the visit to Instow House would be but a short one Tiola failed to mention.

Twenty Seven

With
Sea Witch
on the larboard tack the squall veered again, and threw her aback. Over she went, with the upper dead-eyes of the lower rigging stabbing into the foaming water like Lady Macbeth’s dagger. She was a brave vessel, and with a great effort of determination she came to herself again. There, ahead in the fading light of evening was Bideford Bay with the tide running high and inward, in their favour. It was madness to attempt to cross the Bar without guidance, but ‘Cesca’s desperate screams could be heard above the wind and the incessant wild thrumming of the rigging. Jesamiah had to get her ashore, to Tiola. Had to trust to instinct and risk the sandbank.

With the sea already a-froth and in a temper that few of the crew had ever witnessed before, the shallows of the Bar were not so visible – unless you knew what you were looking at. A strip of boiling vehemence, a monster with jaws agape waiting for its next victim. Jasper was in the chains, swinging the lead line, his soundings repeated, man to man, along the deck to Jesamiah at the helm who stood with legs spread, hands firm, meeting the bullying of the sea and the gale head on. With him, Isiah, also gripping the spokes, fear widening his eyes and hammering in his chest like the drums he remembered from his tribal village in Africa. He wanted to plead with Jesamiah to heave-to, but he kept his mouth closed and tried to shut the desperate words from his mind.

“Bar ahead!” came the call.

This was it! When approaching rocks, any unexpected hazard, it was normal to put the helm hard up and steer fast away from the danger, but here they knew what was before them and were aware that they were heading straight into it. Every man of the crew was praying, some silently, some with mouths moving, praying that the tide was deep enough to carry them over in one piece, that
Sea Witch
would not be caught aback, or that another sudden squall would not lift her like a toy ship and smash her on the rocks beneath the headland. Every man of the crew aware that these, possibly, were his last minutes alive.

“Keep her steady!” Jesamiah said to Isiah. Thought,
If only I could see a marker to guide me in
– and Tiola’s dear, sweet voice flooded into his mind.

Look for the white tower above Crow Rock. Steer straight for the tower.

~Tiola? Tiola, sweetheart! Thank God! I’m in fokken trouble here! ~

But she had gone, there was no further familiar comfort of her presence, and even if there had been he had no time to respond to it.

“I can see the marker!” Jesamiah shouted with renewed hope. “All we need do is steer straight!”

No one queried that through this murk and rapidly failing light he was the only one who could see anything that looked remotely like a marker, but then, no one had opportunity, or inclination, to make such a query. Ahead, the white gleam of a line of churning froth; the ocean heaving over the banks of sand and shale that, if she ran aground, would disembowel a ship as easy as a man scooped rice from a bowl.
Sea Witch
lifted her bow and ran at full gallop towards it. The roar of the sea was as loud as the bellowing of the storm wind as she rocked and tossed, caught in its unforgiving current.

“Come on, my beauty,” Jesamiah muttered as he struggled to hold her. “Come on, sweetheart, you can do this. You can do this for me!”

Sea Witch
bucked as the waves clawed at her keel, her bow dipping, stern rising. She slewed a little. Jesamiah hauled at the wheel and straightened her; the bow lifted again as the swell tore beneath
Sea Witch
, desperate to catch her and hold her in its grasp, to bring her down. The depth was almost nothing as Jasper, dry mouthed with terror, continuously called, barely able to see anything as the waves spewed up and over the fo’c’sle. They were almost across! Almost there!

The muscles of his arms were cramped and shaking with the effort as Jesamiah clung to the helm. The sea was boiling and hissing as if it were a witch’s cauldron, but
Sea Witch
had her own spells and she shoved the foaming fury aside, thrusting herself through, inching her way to safety. Her keel scraped on the sand. There came a grating, rasping sound and she juddered, but her momentum kept her going, kept her afloat – just – and heading straight for the white tower on the headland that only Jesamiah could see. She made it! They were clear of the Bar and in the safer confluence of the Rivers Torridge and Taw! They had done it!

The cheer that rose upward from the decks drowned the thunderous roar of an angry sea.