Ripples in the Sand (The Sea Witch Voyages) (6 page)

Nine

There was no snow, but by dark the rain was falling as a miserable sleet. Up on the high desolate ground of Exmoor it was indeed snowing, but no one in Appledore cared to look towards the moors. The
Full Moon
had more custom than earlier in the day, the best seats by the fire taken by a rowdy group of redcoated soldiers, the local men sitting at the benches and settles in alcoves and shadowed corners ignoring them as best as may be. Few trusted the militia.

Nursing a tankard of cider, Jesamiah was at the table beside the window where the old man had sat earlier in the day. It looked out on to Cock Lane,
the drang
, a local term he had discovered, for a narrow alleyway. The faint light from one lantern hanging from a corner bracket pooled on the slick cobblestones, making them wink and glisten. Beyond the safe haven of light, nothing but blackness. If it was a prostitutes’ workplace, there was no soul plying her trade this cold, wet night. Before him, an empty plate – good china – was pushed to one side, only a few crumbs and a streak of gravy remaining of the venison and rabbit pie he had devoured. It had been enjoyable to eat something hot containing fresh meat and no unpleasant extras. His belly full, Jesamiah sat content, legs stretched out under the table, head resting against the back of the settle. Tiola was upstairs, asleep. The colour had started returning to her face, the fever subsiding. He was finally beginning to hope that she had been right – all she needed was to be on land and to get a restful night’s sleep. He sighed, drank more of the cider. One problem replaced by another. If his wife could not go to sea, then how could he? He had not taken a wife to leave her ashore while he sailed off for months on end, never knowing when he would be back. Add to that, why would he be sailing off? To what purpose? Ostensibly, he was a merchant trader looking for a buyer for his tobacco. Did he really want to ply back and forth across the Atlantic with a hold full of baccy, season after season? What would he do in the meantime? Set root at the Virginia plantation and grow the damned stuff?

He dabbed at the last of the gravy on the plate, licked the residue off his finger. A sedentary life ashore would drive him insane, but how could he leave Tiola behind? Maybe if she had a brood of children to care for it would be a different matter. He put the half empty tankard down. Cider was not really his preference, but Pegget Trevithick had presented him with it ‘on the house’. If he had children, sons, daughters, would he be pleased to stay at home? See them grow, teach the boys how to fight, how to sail? He chuckled quietly to himself. See off the young men who came sniffing round his daughters when they turned into young ladies. No fluff-chinned youth would ever be good enough as a prospective husband.

The door opened, sending in a swirl of wind that fluttered the candles and whirled across the floor, rippling it into little eddies and piles of sand. Two men came in. One removed an expensive oilskin cloak revealing the red uniform and gold braiding of a lieutenant’s rank, the other had an old battered seaman’s hat and canvas cloak which he removed as he sat down opposite Jesamiah.

The lieutenant joined the militiamen beside the fire, nudging them to move along the bench so he could feel the warmth.

“
Sea Witch
all settled?” Jesamiah asked, sliding the cider across to Rue. “You drink this. I’ll get us something else when Pegget comes back.” He pointed to the door leading to the kitchen, grinned. “She’s fetching me fresh-baked apple pie. With Devonshire cream.”

“
Très bon
, that will suit me also.
Oui
, the ship she is at rest. I ‘ave left a small guard aboard – young Jasper and a ‘andful of men. The others are makin’ of themselves a nuisance along the quay in the taverns. They ‘ave orders not to trouble you ‘ere.”

Jesamiah nodded his thanks. Rue was a good second in command. Reliable, honest and loyal.

“‘Ow is Mistress Tiola?”

“Well enough. If I’m not satisfied she’s improving by the morrow I’ll send for that physician Jennings recommended. Did you set someone after him by the way?”

Rue wiped cider from his lips. A Breton, he enjoyed the taste, the rich apple smell reminded him of his childhood and his grandmother’s orchards. “
Oui
, ‘e went to that first farm‘ouse over at Instow.”

“The one beside the Taw?”

“
Oui
.”

Jesamiah rubbed his chin. Was it worth sending someone to stay on Jennings’ track? Mentally he shook his head. To what point? Jennings could end up anywhere, and of what interest were his movements anyway? Satisfied with the decision, Jesamiah grinned wider as Pegget Trevithick appeared bearing a large dish of steaming apple pie.

“There, put that down ‘ee, Cap’n.” She smiled at Rue. “An’ can I get you summat, sir?”

“Give him what I had,” Jesamiah said through a mouthful of pastry, “and I’ll have a large rum if I may?”

Rue’s gaze followed Pegget’s rump as she turned her attention to the other tables, chatting to her customers, retrieving empty tankards, wiping a spillage from one of the benches with the cloth in her hand.

“Keep your lust t’yerself,
mon ami
.” Jesamiah chortled. “Did you not see she wears a marriage band?”

Rue helped himself to a morsel of apple, blew on it to cool it before popping it into his mouth. “She could be a widow. ‘Ow will I know unless I ask?”

“Fancy yourself as a taverner then, rather than my first quartermaster?”

The question caught Rue unaware. If, for whatever reason, he could not be a seaman what would be the next best thing? Landlord of a tavern might suit well. Maybe here, or in Brittany. Would it be good to go home after all these long years away? His reflective musing was interrupted as Mistress Trevithick approached the four militiamen.

Coming to his feet the lieutenant, a robust man with a scarred cheek and fair hair, grasped her wrist and bent it back so hard she cried out. “Where is your husband, madam? Where is Carter Trevithick? We know he was on that cutter. Was his brother there an’ all, eh? We’ll get ‘em both, believe me we will.”

Another of the men also stood, stepped to Pegget’s other side and pressed his face close to hers. “I reckon ‘er ‘usband’s among the drowned, Lieutenant. Or pissed himself with fear and run off. Ain’t much to hold ‘im here, is there?”

The lieutenant twisted Pegget’s wrist harder, she tried to muffle the pain but a squeak left her lips. “Is that it, woman? Has your thief of a man, caught with his breeches down, made a run for it? We’ll catch the rest of that scum crew and send them on their way to spend a while as guests of the King. They’ll rot in gaol until they try the fit of the noose.”

Jesamiah swallowed the mouthful of fruit and pastry, set his spoon down in the bowl and rested his hand on the hilt of his cutlass. Across the table, Rue loosened the dagger from the sheath at his hip.

The inn had fallen quiet, each man set into stillness waiting, breath held, for the spark that would ignite trouble.

“I repeat. Where is he?”

“I says the same as did I a’vore. They’ve gone up Exeter doin’ a task for Squire Benson. In the rain an’ snow they bain’t be ‘ome t’night.” Pegget jerked her arm and broke the man’s grip. “You let I alone, Lieutenant, or I’ll complain t’ thy Major. He knows I keeps a goodly inn.”

The lieutenant released her, but sneered contemptuously. “Aye, the Major knows what this place is, a rat’s nest for thieves and smugglers.” He looked around, his gaze wavering from one man to another, flickered over Jesamiah, stopped. “Thieves, smugglers and pirates.”

Jesamiah lifted his rum glass and took a sip. Eyes slightly narrowed he said to no one in particular, “Better keep your hand on your money pouches, my friends. We appear to not be in very good company.”

The locals understood his meaning – that the militia were not to be trusted – and a roar of laughter burst out. The tension broken, someone produced a fiddle and began to play; feet began to stamp a rhythm, hands to tap on the tables. Another man raised his voice in song, a bright melody which steadily developed into crude lyrics.

Pegget disappeared into her kitchen, the door banging firmly behind her.

“What was all that about?” Rue asked in a lowered tone.

“Sounds as though some Free Trade gentlemen got caught red-handed,” Jesamiah remarked quietly. “Our stuff is well stowed ain’t it?”

Rue grinned. “
Naturellement
.”

A boy took Pegget’s place fetching cider and ale, rum, brandy, clearing away the empty tankards, plates and bowls. To an outsider the inn appeared convivial, a fug of warmth curling through the smoke of candles and pipe tobacco. Men sharing the companionship of a drink, a bite to eat, enjoying the pleasure of a few rousing songs, but the unease was there, crawling outward from the table where the redcoated militiamen sat in disagreeable silence.

Something is wrong.

Jesamiah looked up, startled, Tiola’s voice sounding clear in his mind in the special, secret, way they had of communicating with each other.

Sweetheart? Do you feel worse? Do you want me to come up?

No. Outside. Someone is in trouble.

Raindrops patterned the square glass panes of the windows, the lower ones misted with the heat of indoors contrasting with the cold. Jesamiah wiped away some of the condensation. Apart from that one pale lantern, it was dark out there.

~ There’s no one out there, lass. ~

The boy came from the kitchen, steam gushing from the central vent in a meat pie he carried. He set Rue’s dinner down on the table, the Frenchman’s grin almost as wide as the dish. Jesamiah returned to savouring his rum.

He is hurt.

Who? I saw no one.

The boy glanced at the window. He started, his eyes widening, mouth dropping open. Discreetly nodding towards the militiamen to his left he mouthed, “No!”

Jesamiah looked quickly again at the window, caught a glimpse of a man’s bloodied face peering anxiously in.

“I’ll vetch ‘ee more cider, sir.” The boy lifted Rue’s almost empty tankard of ale, turned and tripped, sluicing the remaining contents over the lieutenant’s fine red jacket and white breeches.

As a deliberate distraction it worked well.

Enraged, the officer leapt up, cursing and wiping at his wet attire. He grasped the boy’s hair and yanked his head back, calling him every foul name under the sun as he rattled him like a terrier shakes a caught rat. One of the men handed him a riding crop, and bending the boy over the table he lifted his arm intent on giving a thrashing of a lifetime.

Only he found a man’s hand gripping his upraised wrist.

“The fault be mine, Lieutenant.” Jesamiah lied. “I had my feet protruding. I tripped the boy up. ‘Tis no clumsiness of his own doing.”

A sour look swept over the lieutenant’s features as he stared suspiciously at Jesamiah, his nose wrinkling, lip curling in distaste. “And who are you?”

Jesamiah swept him a deep, courteous bow. “Captain Acorne at your service. From the Colony of Virginia. I’m here with a cargo of tobacco and to renew acquaintance with some old friends of my father’s, Sir Ailie Doone and John Benson.” He took a chance with the names, assuming Jennings would not have mentioned these men if they were not of some sort of significance. The gamble was that for all Jesamiah knew, this Doone fellow could be a notorious highwayman robber wanted for murder and Benson a rag of a charlatan. The hunch proved right, however, for the lieutenant growled a non-committal response and released the boy, though he cuffed his ear as he made to dart away.

Jesamiah caught hold of the lad, preventing him from scampering off. “If you would excuse me, gentlemen, I have a need to visit the seat of ease.” Jesamiah also gave the lad a shaking. “You, you scruffy urchin, can show me where it is.”

Not waiting for a reply, and apparently oblivious to the fact that the boy wore only a thin shirt, Jesamiah put his own long coat and hat on, marched the lad to the door and pushed him out into the wet night. His fingers digging painfully into the boy’s shoulder, Jesamiah demanded, “Who was that man? Mistress Trevithick’s husband? Answer me. No lies now!”

Frightened, determined to say nothing, the lad clamped his lips together.

“Your silence is commendable, but misplaced. I want to help. I don’t take kindly to the militia.”

Gripping the boy’s collar, Jesamiah trundled him the few yards along Main Street to where Cock Lane began. The light from the window spilled out, glittering on the falling rain. Inside the inn, in the fug of warmth, blurred by the misting of the glass, Rue was tucking into his meal.

Jesamiah glanced upward. Tiola stood at the small, narrow window, looking down at him.

Go back to bed, woman.

~ He is hiding behind those barrels. You must… ~

And do I tell you how to mend wounds and birth babes? Leave my doing to me and you do as you are told. Get to bed.

The lantern on the wall provided a feeble glow, the stack of barrels visible as a darker patch a few yards into the lane. Jesamiah had good night sight, did not miss the movement of shadow drawing itself further into hiding.