Ripples in the Sand (The Sea Witch Voyages) (8 page)

Twelve

Tiola wanted to walk. She had watched
Sea Witch
haul around the bend, out of sight, and now suddenly felt vulnerable and alone. It was as if, with Jesamiah’s going, all life and love had drained from her, which was such nonsense. At most he would be gone two days and he was little more than three miles away, for Fate’s Sake!

Shivering as apprehension tingled down her spine Tiola grasped at the woollen shawl covering her head as the wind made a spiteful tug at it. Pegget Trevithick, understandably not so interested in standing out in the cold, had already returned inside the inn; things to see to, she had said. Her husband being one of those things, Tiola assumed. Later, after she had walked and cleared her head and mind a little, she would offer to attend him, use her gifts of healing to ensure his wound was, as Jesamiah had insisted, merely superficial. The militia had marched away to some new duty; she was not certain what had occurred last night, knew nothing beyond Jesamiah recounting his finding of a wounded man – Master Trevithick – and an inconsequential encounter with a watch guard. Past experience had alerted Tiola to not pursue further detail where Jesamiah Acorne was concerned. The bits he did not tell her were best not heard, or so she told herself as she walked slowly along the quay. Her strength was returning, by nightfall she should be fully restored now her feet were on dry land, so why this continuing feeling of restless unease?

The sea was washing against the stone wall that dropped away to her right, splashing angrily on the vertical wooden struts of the next wharf ahead of her. Each shorefront building had its own narrow jetty pointing like widespread fingers into the steadily rising tide; two chandlers’ warehouses shared a longer one between them – the middle finger of the hand. There had been talk, Pegget had told her, of combining the individual jetties together to make one continuous quay, but people stubbornly preferred their independence and the lucrative profit from mooring fees. Most river-bound traffic put in at Appledore to wait for the tide before going up to Bideford or Barnstaple. Traders, merchants and taverners did well out of it. Officially, all cargo had to be accounted for and declared at the harbour master’s offices in Bideford or Instow, nothing could be imported outside of regulated bureaucratic scrutiny. Officially.

For loyal service in the Great Armada, Good Queen Bess had granted the right to free anchorage for all Appledore, and neighbouring Northam, residents and their kindred. No successive government had repealed that right, despite the frequent complaints of various Customs and Excise officials frustrated by the ample opportunities to flaunt the King’s Regulations. With no statutory collection of duty, who was there to check what boats came and went, or what they carried? Appledore residents notoriously boasted very large extended families, the authenticity of which could never be proven.

The harbour was not very busy. The fishing boats would not return until the next high tide. One small vessel had ploughed her way across the Bar and had disappeared into the low mist lingering over the river forking off to the left, the Taw. Bound for Barnstaple, Tiola assumed.

Walking along, head bowed against the wind, Tiola tried to settle the misgivings within her. Appledore was a homely village, the people of a friendly, goodly nature, so why did she feel this gnawing unease? She came to Irsha Street, notorious for its brothels, and the last row of houses. Beyond was a tavern set on its own near the headland, and beyond that, the grey, open sea. With her arms wrapped around her waist as a defence against the wind, she stood at the edge of the quay gazing down as wave after wave crashed into the wall, spindrift lunging into the air like hissed venom.

Tiola breathed slowly, emptying her mind of thought, saw with her gift of Craft not the winter landscape but the sea of a time long past. A dark, muddied ocean beneath a hostile sky that swirled with noxious gases and turbulent storms under a bright, bright sun. A waterworld that fought and clawed and howled in anger as the land forced its way free of its power. Layer upon layer of rock heaving upward and upward through the passing of millennium. The groan of granite, sandstone, chalk – screeching in agony as it thrust towards the heavens to become mighty mountains and vast continents of jungle, forest, desert and savannah plain. Tiola watched as lizard-like reptiles crawled from the sea and breathed the air of the land. More life escaping the possessive clutch of Tethys at the dawn of Time. And then the sea, cold, frozen and still as ice came and went, and came again. Rivers of white glaciers, gouging out valleys and scouring the mountains into incredible shapes. Their meltwater uniting with the sea, giving Tethys new hope of reclaiming her realm.

And watching the scenes of the past, Tiola saw the first humans: small, monkey-like beings come down from the trees, stand up on hind legs and walk out of the hot lands of Africa in search of sweet water and nourishing food. She saw it all as an eternal being bound by the souls of the Earth Mothers, the Wising Women, the Old Ones – the Witches – who passed their existence, knowledge and wisdom from grandmother to granddaughter through generation to generation.

Through it all, that hush of the sea calling its song in the ebb and flow of the tides, and the swish of the spindrift as it came crashing upon the rocks, or whispering upon the sand…

~ Jesshh…amiah…Jesshh…amiah…Jesshh…amiah… ~

Thirteen

“Mistress? Be you alright?”

The boy, twelve years old, grubby about the face and hands, but well shod and clothed, touched Tiola’s arm. “Mistress?” he repeated, concerned, “be you ill?”

Confused, bewildered, unsure where she was in time and place, Tiola stared at him; his blue eyes, his mop of dark, wind-tousled hair. In his hand a fishing pole and two sea bass. His mouth moved but the words reaching her ears seemed to come from far, far, away, as if they were spoken in another world, in another time.

“May I fetch help?” he asked again. He saw Tiola as chalk pale, the wind had whipped her shawl from her head. She wore no bonnet, and her hair had been torn loose from its pins and combs, the long black strands flying and tossing as if trying to break free of her head. She was slim, not tall, dark lashes framed her darker eyes. He thought her the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. He touched her again, his hand, clasping her wrist, felt the ice coldness of her skin.

“Mistress? Do you need assistance?”

“What?” Her voice croaked, she swallowed hard, concentrated. “No, I am well, thank you.”

“Pardon me from saying, miss, but you do not look it.”

Tiola felt the wind on her face, the chill of its biting sting; heard the sea smashing against the wall, saw the flecks of spindrift tossing high into the air, to be snatched by the wind and stolen away. Time was as it should be, a February morning, the Devonshire coast in the year 1719. She smiled. “I assure you, I am quite well, Master Benson, a momentary daydream that took me too far away.”

The boy grinned. “Dreaming of a lover who’s sailed off to sea, with no knowing when he will return? My sisters are always yabbering about such things.” He looked a scruffy urchin, but his manners and speech belied the fake impression. He was educated and from a good family.

Securing her shawl over her head, Tiola laughed. “Not quite. My husband has only sailed as far as Bideford.”

They were walking now, heading back along Irsha Street.

“To Bideford?” the boy asked eagerly. “Be that the
Sea Witch
then? Lawks, but she be a booty!”

Tiola was amused that the lad’s polite, correct accent had degenerated in his excitement to a lilt more base and local. She suspected his mother or father would clip his ear or backside if they were to hear.

“
Ais
,” she answered, moulding her deeper Cornish vowels to those of a Devonshire dialect. “That were she. My man be the cap’n.”

“Jesamiah Acorne?”

They turned left down Meeting Street, their faces momentarily ravaged by the full force of the wind blowing straight off the quay. Ducking her head away from the icy blast, Tiola saw the gallows standing empty at the top of the hill. She shuddered and followed the boy quickly into the relative shelter of Market Street, his boots clattering on the cobbles as he walked beside her.

“
Ais.
Captain Acorne. You know him?”

The boy momentarily lost his expressive smile, shook his head. “Nay, but I wish I did. Father were speaking of
Sea Witch
this mornin’. I want t’go t’sea, but he’ll not allow it. He’s a merchant, says as I ‘ave t’be a merchant an’ all.”

They had reached the
Full Moon
, were standing outside the door. He suddenly grinned. “D’you reckon as you could ask the cap’n to let me see aboard his ship?”

Tiola smiled at his enthusiasm. “I will ask, but I cannot promise an answer.”

The boy shuffled an excited dance. “Well, that’s better’n nothing! I’d best be goin’, ma’ll whip m’backside if I don’t get home with these fish, an’ you’ve got colour in your cheeks now, ma’am, so I reckon as you be alright.” He ran a few paces, skidded to a halt and turned. Tiola was lifting the latch of the door; he called out. “Ma’am? Mistress Acorne? How did you know my name?”

Stepping over the threshold, Tiola pretended she had not heard. She had masked the trembling well, the unease swirling inside her, but as they had walked and the boy’s chatter had anchored her senses firmly back into the present, the rise of uncontrolled panic had eased.

How had she known his name was Thomas Benson? She did not recall him from her past, nor could she scry into the future, but something had nudged time and had caused a ripple to run through the natural order of things. Thomas Benson was a mere boy of twelve years old, yet when first he had spoken to her Tiola had seen him as a man in his forties. A man fleeing the excisemen, and a man fleeing his conscience for being the cause of a sea captain meeting his death on the gallows – but what sea captain? She had clearly, very clearly, also seen the boy standing beside Jesamiah.

Was this her distorted fancy or events of the future? Or something inside her, some corruption of her Craft, swirling like a rudderless boat caught in an eddy of the tide? She would have to put a stop to this disorientation, and harness whatever it was that was so upsetting the balance of the flow of Time.

Fourteen

Not in a very good mood, Jesamiah walked towards a third warehouse. The first one he had called at had not wanted to discuss buying his tobacco.
“We have our regular merchants, thank you.”
The second had shown a little more interest, but the overseer had scowled and pontificated, and then decided that he did not want tobacco that should have been delivered, fresh, several months ago. Before these visits Jesamiah had spent over an hour with the Customs officer who had poked and pried at the legitimate cargo down in
Sea Witch’s
hold, and then another hour form filling in the wretched man’s cramped, damp and cold office. As for the tax duty he’d had to pay… Jesamiah had no idea selling stuff legally was so damned difficult, or expensive! By contrast, clearing a hold of contraband was as easy as falling off the mainmast, even with all the accompanying hazards of excise men and the possibility of dancing a final unpleasant jig.

“Try John Benson,” someone had suggested. Jennings had also mentioned Benson, which was why Jesamiah had wanted to avoid him, but needs must, so he was heading for a green-painted warehouse at the far end of the wharf, ducking his head and holding his hat firm against the wind, and not feeling very keen on the whole, probably wasted, effort.

Peering inside a partially open side door into the warehouse he could see barrels, kegs, casks, and hogsheads; bales, bundles and boxes. As he stepped inside a variety of aromas assaulted his senses. Timber, hemp, paint; rum, brandy, and the acrid smell that indicated gunpowder stored somewhere. As he walked further in, his footsteps echoing on the dusty, worn, floorboards, he identified a variety of spices, a subtle waft of tea, and the unmistakable presence of tobacco. Mixing with it all, rotting wood, a tomcat’s sprayed mark and the unpleasant musk of rat piss.

Lit by dusty, grimed, glass windows ranged high along the walls to allow in daylight, the warehouse was not full, but nor was it anywhere near empty. Towards the back goods were piled almost to the ceiling. To one side, great gaps showed where things had stood and had been removed. There did not appear to be anyone about.

“Ahoy!” Jesamiah called, his voice echoing into the cavernous building. “Ahoy! Anyone aboard?”

Movement to his right. He spun around, hand going to his cutlass hilt. A cat appeared through a broken windowpane, jumped down a descending succession of stacked barrels, then sat on a crate and began to wash himself. “Hope you’re earning your keep,” Jesamiah muttered.

“Can I help you?” A tall young man in his mid-twenties, dapper: dressed in white breeches, pale blue embroidered waistcoat, an exquisitely cut coat and with a froth of lace cravat at his throat, appeared through a door to the far side. He glanced inquisitively at Jesamiah, bolted the door behind him then walked confidently forward. His wig, Jesamiah noted, was in a style he had not seen before – undoubtedly the latest fashion from London. He carried a hat, heavy riding cloak, riding stick and a bunch of jangling keys.

With a flourish, Jesamiah removed his hat, made the customary bow, the man returning the courtesy with a half bow and a nod.

“I wish to speak to the owner,” Jesamiah said, closing the distance of the last few remaining yards between them. “I have a cargo to sell.”

“A cargo of what, sir? From your accent I would perceive sugar, cotton, tobacco or rum. You are from the Colonies, are ye not?”

Tempted to answer that the Pirate Round was his hunting ground, Jesamiah refrained from the sarcasm. “Virginia tobacco. From my estate along the Rappahannock.”

The man’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Your estate? We do not usually deal direct with plantation owners.”

“Maybe that is because most owners are too fat, lazy, and stupid to cross the Atlantic themselves in order to ensure they get a fair price here in the homeland. I prefer not to be cheated.”

“I assure you, Squire John Benson does not cheat his customers – buyers or sellers.”

Jesamiah nodded his head slightly, smiled. “I’m glad to hear I’ve not had a wasted journey then. I’ve come all the way from Virginia especially to negotiate trade with Master Benson.”

He meant to impress. It seemed he had hit the mark.

“It is a little late – or somewhat too early – for tobacco, Mr er…”

“Acorne. Captain Jesamiah Acorne.”

“… Mr Acorne.”

“Captain.”

“As I said, we would not expect tobacco this late – or early – in the season.”

“All the better; I’ll be your only supplier.”

The man indicated a stack of about eighty hogsheads over to the left. “As you see, we have stock to clear. Poor quality stuff that has little value, which is why it remains in this warehouse.”

That did not bode well.

“Not even for those who don’t give a toss for quality? I’m thinking the rabble, the masses, here. Dirt poor folk who put anything from rat’s turds to ground acorns in their pipes?” Jesamiah had been around sailors and harbours long enough to know that coin changed hands for the foulest stuff.

The man grimaced. “We do not deal with those sort of trash goods or persons, Mr Acorne.”

“It’s Captain. Maybe you don’t, but others do. An’ make good profit from it. Sell to where there is a market, and maybe you would not have those hogsheads taking up floor space.”

The man moved to the doorway behind Jesamiah. “I regret, Mr Acorne, that the Squire is not here today.” He opened the door wider than Jesamiah had left it and settled his hat on his head before swinging his cloak around his shoulders. “However, I will put your witty suggestion to him.”

More likely the imbecile would forget all about the subject the moment he stepped outside the door. Jesamiah was not prepared to allow that to happen. He kept a steadfast smile fixed to his face; inside he was cursing. “I am particular to finish my business today. Where might I find him?”

“He is on the moors, stag hunting.”

Turning slightly, Jesamiah peered out the door at what remained of the day. Another hour and it would be dark.

“And I,” the man said, gesturing towards the outside world, “Wish to close up for the night. I have a young wife to get home to.”

So have I,
Jesamiah thought,
but until I get rid of this bloody tobacco, I’ll not be able to do so.
“Where does Benson live? Maybe I can call on him this evening and put a proposition I have to him?”

“A proposition you say? A lucrative one, I assume?” The man frowned, leaned a little closer. “I trust you are not contemplating anything illegal? Squire Benson is a respected merchant. He does not hold with receiving contraband.”

I bet he don’t
, Jesamiah thought. “Perfectly legal, I assure you,” he lied.

Ushering Jesamiah outside the man followed, closed the door and set one of the keys into the lock and turned it. There was a click, and removing the key he gave the door a hefty push. “Come back tomorrow,” he said. “Eleven of the clock, Squire Benson will mayhap see you then.” He nodded curtly and disappeared inside a lean-to stable abutting the warehouse’s end wall.

Mayhap? Oh no, there were no maybes or mayhaps in Jesamiah’s book, but it was no good pushing the matter with this fellow, he clearly had what little mind he had on other things. Like returning home to a wife. Wondering how young she was, Jesamiah settled his hat back on his head, bid a goodnight and strode off. Damn it, the thought of a pretty young wife was arousing his male interest.

Think of other things,
he told himself. Putting his fingers to his lips he shrilled a whistle to attract attention from
Sea Witch’s
deck, and raising his hat, circled it twice around his head. Satisfied that his signal to send a boat to fetch him had been seen, he walked beyond the stable to where a woodland copse abutted the riverbank, and leisurely unfastening his breeches, peed against a tree. The man led a sturdy chestnut cob from the stable, and not noticing Jesamiah, mounted and trotted towards the town. He kept up the steady pace across Bideford Bridge and on the far side, kicked into a canter heading down river in the direction of Instow.

Jesamiah fastened his breeches. The warehouse was the last building, nothing except the trees and the curve of the river lay beyond. Apart from a few of the crew on
Sea Witch’s
deck, and some sailors on two moored vessels nearer the bridge, there was no one around. Jesamiah sauntered to the locked door, took a slender-bladed knife from where it nestled inside his boot, and deftly inserting it into the lock, heard a satisfying click as he jiggled the blade slightly. He opened the door quickly, nipped inside, shut it again.

The cat had gone. The wind was moaning through the broken pane of glass, its passage lifting the piece of shabby sacking half covering it. Jesamiah peered around. Quite what he was looking for, or why he was looking for it anyway, he was not sure. Curiosity? Boredom? A nose for smelling out what wasn’t all it appeared to be?

He walked slowly down one side of the warehouse, peering into any open barrel, shifting a few to see what lay behind. Several of the crates at the back were old, their nails well rusted, a heavy layer of dust on the top, some of the wood rotten. Rats had chewed into one. He heaved at the lid, expecting it to be firm, staggered backwards as the timber almost disintegrated in his hands. Inside, the straw packing was musty; as he touched it a rat whisked out from the hole at the bottom. Jesamiah shuddered but continued rummaging. China plates and matching tureens, in need of a clean but otherwise serviceable. He lifted out a dinner plate. Blue and white Delftware. Nice. If there was a full set it would be worth a shilling or two. In a second, smaller, crate he discovered silverware – knives, forks, spoons, matching silver serving dishes, bowls and platters. He pocketed two sets of the cutlery, walked on, picked up a crowbar that had been left propped against the barrels near the broken window and prised off the lid from another. Damp gunpowder. Useless, harmless stuff. Even if it were dry it would take an inferno to ignite, for it had nowhere near enough saltpetre in it to raise a spark, let alone an explosion. Why keep it? Why not dump it? Or was some poor wretch going to be duped into purchasing worthless stuff? He replaced the lid, walked away then turned back again. With his cutlass he prodded deep into the barrel. Hit something hard.

Ah.

He had half a mind to find out what was of value hidden among the black powder, but to what point? His curiosity had been satisfied; he did not need to know detail. A good hiding place, gunpowder barrels. Anyone not familiar with it would not go near, let alone prod about in it.

This Squire John Benson was not the honest man that young fellow with the fashionable wig and the young wife had made him out to be.

Whistling beneath his breath, Jesamiah headed back to the door. He stepped outside, failed to see the man who grabbed his arm, hurled him against the wall and put a knife to his throat.