Ripples in the Sand (The Sea Witch Voyages) (36 page)

Twenty Eight

Standing at the edge of the headland on Crow Point, Tiola shielded her eyes from the wind and rain and stared at the ship coming in towards the Bar. She was being a fool. So she had told herself as she rowed across the River Taw; more of a fool to climb up here where she was openly exposed to the elements, but there had been a compulsion to do it, and seeing that ship battling through the sea’s rage, Tiola understood why she had been so driven. It was
Sea Witch
, there was no mistaking her. The fear churned inside Tiola. Jesamiah was sailing her blind, trusting to instinct and luck, and neither were protection enough against Tethys. With concentrated effort Tiola had created the image of the white tower of St Anne’s Chapel, and prayed to Anu to help her maintain it. She had sent the message to Jesamiah, hurling the words across the waves into his mind:
~
Look for the white tower above Crow Rock. Steer straight for the tower. ~

It was all she could do. Whether he heard, whether he could hold his ship against the force of the sea, she did not know, for her vision blurred suddenly as Time shifted and she was hurled away from the present into the past. A deliberate diversion instigated by the power that Tethys held over Tiola whenever she was close to the water? Or some other deliberate force as strong as the pull of the tide, strong enough to affect and distort Time?

Twenty Nine

The Spanish woman was at the edge of the churning surf, on her hands and knees, head back, shoulders and spine arching against the intensity of the coming child. The pains had been coming all day, but nothing more than twinges and an ache in her back. Perhaps it had been the upset, the men arguing, or her own fear and tears that had brought labour on to this great crush of contractions squeezing and pushing her baby out of her womb.

Or perhaps it had been the fall? She had been wading through the shallow surf, the cold water soothing on her swollen ankles, the soporific sound of the tide, its slow, heartbeat rhythm of the ebb and flow of each wave. She did not see the deeper pool; stepped into it and tumbled to her knees, red fire striding up her leg from he bone that had snapped like a dry twig in her ankle. She had stayed there, her bulging belly hanging, the sea relentlessly thrusting against her, unable to stand or to move. She needed help but no one knew she was here, and the beach, this side of the estuary, save for grazing sheep and wading birds, was deserted. With the bright orb of the sinking winter sun dazzling her eyes she saw the woman running towards her, recognised the green cloak and red skirt, and she knew that blessed Saint Anne had come in her mortal guise to assist her through the peril of labour. She closed her eyes against the stabbing pain of her broken ankle and surrendered herself to the ultimate of all women’s work – giving birth.

As Tiola ran across the sand she became aware that this was different to the visions previously shown. This was
real
time, not an image of the past; she was not a bystander, a mere Watcher of events as they repeated their patterns of the past. She was here, now, as events happened. Past and present had merged as one; this was Tiola herself kneeling in the surf, using all her skills of midwifery to aid the birth of a breach-born boy on the fourth day of December, in the year 1693.

This
, Tiola thought as she rubbed Dona’s back and encouraged her to breathe with the swirl of pain, not against it,
is another opportunity for Tethys to claim Jesamiah for herself. But I shall again deny her, even though I shatter the Laws of Life and Death. She shall not have him.

Thirty

The ship had cleared the Bar, and by entering the harbour was sailing away from the clutching grasp of the sea. With rampant fury Tethys hurled herself in a great rage, battering mercilessly at the keel and hull, desperate to have the one she wanted. Gathering her roaring might into the force of a bore tide, her current tore over the Bar in a great rush of water; a breaking wavefront with a roller that rose higher and higher. The momentum carried her, fast and deadly, into the narrow channel of the harbour mouth, the bore surging inward across the bay. The turbulence and rumbling noise caused the men aboard the
Sea Witch
to halt what they were doing, the cheers of their elation dying on their lips as they stared in horror at the wall of water, rising more than fifteen feet high and hurtling towards them faster than a man could run.

Without mercy, Tethys took hold of the
Sea Witch
,
shook her as a dog would shake a rat, and tossed her aside below Crow Point.

The bore tide had come from nowhere, and caught within its immense strength
Sea Witch
was no more than a piece of driftwood flotsam. As she ran aground on the sand banks below Crow Point all her forward momentum was halted, and Jesamiah heard his ship’s petrified shriek as her wounded cries drove into his heart and mind. Her spars and masts swayed as she came to a sudden stop, the fore and main top masts tumbling down as if they were trees felled by a woodsman’s axe, bringing with them a mass of tangled rigging, canvas – and screaming, terrified men. Her length of keel, hull and decking jerked as if a fist had punched hard into a man’s chin, thrusting his head back, snapping the neck with that one blow. Men were crushed by the falling wreckage, others entangled in the rigging drowned quickly in the thrashing sea; those who had been flung over the rails struggled to reach the shore but they were dragged under by the pull of the bore tide current.
Sea Witch
was on her side, the sea rushing in through gun ports and across the deck, pouring down through hatches and scuttles into the below-deck world, Tethys claiming the lives of those poor souls who could not fight against her.
Sea Witch
settled to larboard, her deck slanting at an obscene angle, her cries of protest as pitiful to hear as the fear of the men who had sailed her.

“Get the boats over!” Jesamiah shrieked as he ran, as best he could, across the wildly sloping quarterdeck and slid down the ladder. “Get those boats out!” he repeated as he lurched along the corridor that was already filling with water, but the boats could not be lowered, the men were too frightened, too panicked to even try. The shore was near, only a matter of yards away, and most of them jumped, their arms and legs whirling like windmills, attempting to swim. The turbulence and backlash of the bore was too strong, too determined to claim lives, and the men were brushed aside as easy as a hand swats a fly. Only a few yards, yet so many drowned.

“’Cesca! ‘Cesca!” Jesamiah burst into the great cabin, kicking the door open. The maid was sprawled on the floor, blood seeping from her shattered skull, split open as she had fallen against the bulkhead. She was dead. Jesamiah could tell by one look, or if she wasn’t, soon would be. Francesca was wedged in the opposite corner, her knees drawn up, arms clutched around her swollen abdomen, the pains of labour wracking through her as sharp as the fear consuming her.

Jesamiah did not hesitate. He scooped her up in his arms and headed back towards the deck. Crawford was there, blocking the narrow corridor.

“Get out of my way!” Jesamiah snarled. “Get out my fokken way!”

“The King!” Crawford yelled, pointing frantically at the small side cabin. “What about the King?”

“What fucking about him?” Jesamiah pushed past and in a moment of conscience shouted over his shoulder, “Do what you can!”

‘Cesca was gripping tight to his sodden clothing, her face buried into his shoulder, her teeth clenched into his collar. Jesamiah could feel the ripples shuddering through her body as each contraction followed swiftly one after the other.

He did not want to tell what remained of his crew that it was every man for himself, but that is what he had to do, for his only priority was to get ‘Cesca ashore. He had to find Tiola, even though his heart was breaking and his mind was being battered by the sound of
Sea Witch
pleading for him not to leave her. He clambered over the side, pushing, pulling, carrying ‘Cesca, and was mildly startled to see Crawford right behind him with the King clutching at his arm as if he were a frightened child. Le Roy was weeping, tears and nasal mucus dribbling down his unshaven chin. His clothes were filthy, his body stinking of vomit, urine and faeces. Eyes wide, hollow and bruised. He was scared. They all were.

The water was cold as Jesamiah slid into it, one hand gripping ‘Cesca’s gown. “Swim!” he shouted at her. “Kick your legs, swim!” He dare not look back, dare not look over his shoulder at his ship. At his beloved, dying ship.

‘Cesca tried her best; the salt stinging her eyes and throat, making her want to retch, she struck out for the land that she could see ahead of her, Jesamiah beside her. Her foot touched solid ground, Jesamiah was standing, hauling her up and out of the water as best he could. Isiah was there, behind him, and Jasper and Finch. Skylark and Crawford hauled the King ashore, manhandling him as if he were a barrel of brandy, and falling to their knees, struggling for breath, left him shivering in the rapidly falling darkness.

James Francis Edward Stuart stood there weeping and pleading for his God to protect him. Jesamiah ignored the man. He too, was close to sobbing. Again and again he was calling, frantic, for help,
Tiola! Tiola! Where are you? Tiola, I need you!

He turned intending to help Francesca to her feet. Something sped past his cheek. He put his hand to the sensation of burning on his skin, thought it was a bee, or a hornet.

At dusk? This season of the year?

Francesca was on her knees in the surf, hugging her belly. “It’s coming,” she gasped, “oh my God, it’s coming!”

So were excisemen! Redcoated militiamen were swarming down from the headland and over the dunes, the white of their cross belts bright in the gloom of the dusk. Other men, Sir Ailie Doone’s followers, the Jacobites of Devon, were appearing from behind rocks and from the shadows, the sudden fighting fierce between the two groups, but eerily silent apart from the sound of fired guns, blows being traded, and the cries of the wounded and dying. There were faces Jesamiah recognised – Kildy, the ferryman, the taverner from Instow, John Benson – God help them, was that young Thomas beside his father? He thought he saw Carter; did Tiola know he was here? The survivors of Jesamiah’s crew joined the melee knowing that if they were caught they would hang. Fighting for their life and their freedom.

Jesamiah had no weapons, not even the dagger he usually carried in the small of his back for he had lost it in that desperate slither from the ship. All he had was a bedraggled blue ribbon entangled in his dripping hair. What use that against pistol and musket? He saw Finch fall, blood spreading on his wet shirt. Bewildered, he stared from his wrecked ship to the desperate struggle of men trying to stay alive among the dunes, then back again to the King who was standing there alone and confused. They had been betrayed! The militia were waiting here for them, only they had not expected such a dramatic arrival. Then Jesamiah saw another face he recognised among the redcoats, and he forgot ‘Cesca, her desperate state and need of assistance. Forgot the Jacobite King, forgot everything as a tide of blind rage consumed him.

“You!” he sneered as he stepped forward. “You bastard, Nicholas Hartley, you betrayed us all – for what?”

Hartley stood there, his arm outstretched, a pistol aimed direct at King James. “For reward, Acorne. I need the money. I have debts and the Whigs have promised to clear them down to the last shilling if I obey their orders.”

“You can clear your debts, you bastard, but what about your conscience?”

“I lost that years ago,” Hartley countered, “and I have done only as I was bid.” He paused, frowned, shook his head. “At least, my master believes so, but he should never have sent those scum to threaten me in my own home. Should never have accused me of withholding information about that damned list.”

He turned suddenly and pointed his pistol at a man behind him, but he was too slow and too hesitant. The other man fired first, shooting Nicholas through the forehead. Without a flinch or any apparent remorse he bent to retrieve Hartley’s dropped pistol, raised it, clicked the hammer home and finished the job the poor wretch had been supposed to do: murder the Jacobite King as he came ashore.

James Francis Edward Stuart clasped his hands to his chest, astonished at the sticky moisture seeping through his fingers. He murmured a few words and fell forward. He felt nothing more as the life within him soaked away into the wet, churned, sand.

Disbelieving what he was seeing, Jesamiah stared at the cold-eyed murderer. “You knew every plan, every detail, everything except who was named on that list. And you had to know if you were there because you needed to keep your treachery from your father, didn’t you, Winnard?”

Winnard Doone glanced at the last affray of the fighting that had moved further along the shore. Most of the rebels had fled, melting away into the darkness, heading for the safety of the moors, the survivors of the wrecked
Sea Witch
running with them. Those who had not been so lucky lay dead or, with arms raised, were surrendering.

“No wonder you didn’t want your son on that first ship – I assume you were responsible for that shoddy betrayal? Nor did you want him to come with me aboard
Sea Witch
. It must have been a blow to you to discover that he supports his grandsire, not you,” Jesamiah said. “Why, Doone? Why betray even your own father?”

Stepping past him, Winnard Doone bent to ensure that James Stuart was dead. “Because the old ways are finished. George of Hanover is our king now, there is no going back, but my father cannot see it. And because I do not want to grow old living on a windswept moor with nothing to my name except that of a remembered legend of a band of cut-throat outlaws.” He glanced at Jesamiah. “For crushing the rebellion and putting an end to any future hope of one, I can leave behind the cold and the wet, and live in respectable style.”

“And you would risk the lives of good people, good men and women, to achieve it?”

Winnard shrugged. “No one forced them to become Jacobite rebels.” He leaned forward to search through the dead King’s coat pockets, tutting with annoyance. “There is nothing to prove that this is the King,” he said with irritation. “Were there papers? A ring? Anything? How do I know this is James Stuart?”

They were alone. The militiamen were moving their prisoners to the headland where they were being bound and tied with rope and chains. Jesamiah snorted amusement at Doone’s comment. He had been thinking the same for most of the journey. “I think you have been outsmarted, Doone. There was no list. It was a ruse to flush you out – as this poor sod was also used for the same reason. King James, I would wager, is safely tucked in his bed in Cádiz.”

Doone, ignoring the jibe, continued to search the dead man for clues of identity, ripping open his bloodstained shirt, going as far as starting to unbutton his breeches to search there.

Moving slowly, Jesamiah tugged the bedraggled blue ribbon from his hair and fumbling slightly, unused to the missing fingers of his left hand, tied a killing knot at its centre. Two strides and Doone was struggling as the silk garrotte tightened around his throat, the knot pressing against his windpipe. His hands grappled at the strangling band, his breath gurgling, feet scrabbling in the loose sand, lips turning blue. Jesamiah was efficient with his practiced method of killing, and like his victim had no remorse about putting an end to a bastard.

He kicked the dead, twitching body towards the sea – and with a jolt remembered Francesca. He turned to run along the beach to where he had left her, saw the redcoated lieutenant who had, those many days, weeks, ago, been tormenting Pegget Trevithick appear beside him. Felt the blow of a musket butt slam against his temple.