Sea Witch (24 page)

Four

Jenna stood with her fists bunched, knuckles pressed into her hips. She had never been so angry with the Tiola before. “You leave here with that good-for-nothing wastrel over my dead body young lady!”

Tiola folded the shawl around the small bundle on her bed, knotted it securely. Despite what Jesamiah had said there were some things she had to take with her. Her personal needs for instance. Men did not think of these things; the necessities for dealing with her monthly flux; a block of soap. She doubted he would have any of
that
on board!

“You are to be provided for. There is money in the bank for you, Jesamiah is to have arranged it this morning. I am sorry, I am going. I am fond of you and I am grateful for all you have done, but it is Jesamiah I love.”

“Do you seriously think van Overstratten will permit him to leave?”

No, Tiola did not think that, neither did Jesamiah. He had not told her his plan but he had one, and until now his schemes usually worked. And if she was to admit the truth? The thought of stealing away beneath Stefan’s nose excited her.

“I would rather go with your blessing than without it, Jenna,” Tiola spread her hands, fighting back her tears. “There is nothing you can do to stop me, though.”

Defeated, Jenna slumped into the chair before the fire, her hands covering her face, her shoulders shaking in a paroxysm of weeping.

Tiola ran to her, enfolded her dear friend in her arms, wept with her for a moment. “I would that you could come with me, but you do so hate the sea,” she said, wiping at her tears with the back of her hand.

Jenna snorted. “The sea I can tolerate, pirates I cannot.”

There was no use in attempting to explain that Jesamiah had given up piracy. Jenna would not believe it. Neither did Tiola, for that matter.

Taking a deep breath, resigned – all fledglings had to leave the nest – the older woman composed herself. “Very well, if your mind is set then go with my blessing.” Fabricating a smile she busied herself putting the kettle to boil, then unfolding the bundle, tutted at all the things Tiola had left out, surreptitiously picked up the little glass bottle nestled among a cushioning bundle of herbs. “You’ll need more than these few meagre items, my lass. Go fetch the valise from beneath my bed. Oh, and you had best take the blue shawl from behind the door; it was your mother’s, you ought to have it.”

Tiola hugged her, whisked away and Jenna took the bottle of laudanum, unstoppered it and poured a generous dose into a cup.

In a moment Tiola was back and Jenna was packing the bag with neat care. “You will have a cup of hot chocolate and something to eat? I will not be permitting you to go from here with nothing in your belly. And you sort some warmer clothes, too. It will be cold come nightfall at sea.” Jenna indicated the clothes chest as she bustled to the kettle. ”You will need wool stockings, another layer of petticoats. Drink this first.”

Obedient, Tiola sat at the table, sipped at the chocolate. It was strong, how Jenna preferred it, tasted bitter.

“All of it mind,” the older woman admonished, wagging her finger. “Lord knows when you shall see decent food and something hot to drink again.”

Jenna placed bread and cheese on the table, seated herself opposite her ward, sipped her own cup of chocolate. Watched, impassive, as Tiola drank – and realised, too late, what she had swallowed.

Tiola stared at her, appalled. Laudanum. The drug that brought sleep and numbed the senses, that could claim the soul and destroy it. For Tiola, a poison which could obliterate her ability of Craft.

She dropped the china cup which shattered on the floor, the stain of the tainted chocolate spreading in a pool, her hand going to her mouth, her eyes wide, tears of betrayal beginning to fall.

“Oh Jenna, what have you done?” she whispered.

The guiding voices of her ancestors fled from her mind, screaming in terror, and the giggling, insipid chuckle of a Malevolent crept in to replace them.

To all things there was a balance. Hot and cold, gay or sad. Salt, sweet, rough, smooth. Day. Night. The White Craft and the Dark Power. Without the balance of strict, disciplined awareness, the Dark was always eager to penetrate and control. Terror, doubt and fear were always there, hovering outside the white shield wall of protection, ready to rush in when the barricade fell. Devouring all sense, ability and confidence in one quick gobble of greed.

Tiola stood, the room swirling, the rush of demons possessing her. Stared at Jenna, horrified. “What have you done?” she whispered. “Oh Jenna, what have you done to me?”

She tried to call Jesamiah, to send her thoughts to his mind but it was too late, her gift of Craft had been plundered. It had gone, fled, leaving her totally alone within the Darkness.

Five

A few minutes to noon – and she was not here!

Official papers authorising ownership, promised by the Dutchman, had not arrived; the surprise, nor had the militia. Van Overstratten was expecting some move towards the ship, did he really think Jesamiah was stupid? He had a strong suspicion if he went anywhere near, set one foot on her deck he would be riddled with lead shot faster than blinking. To get aboard in one piece there had to be a diversion. Jesamiah was not certain what van Overstratten was expecting, hoped it was not for his precious warehouse on the far side of the harbour to blow up.

As with all his ideas this one was simple, but it would require exact timing and expert help. The hard part had been locating the captain of the decrepit pirate ship anchored in Table Bay. Eventually, Jesamiah had discovered the man in the arms of a plump-breasted brunette; gained his immediate attention by tipping the naked doxy from the bed.

Offering a placating smile and a diamond the size of a thumb nail, which effectively diverted the intensely annoyed captain from shooting him in the balls, Jesamiah had said, “I need a crew and gunpowder. You can either resume your carnal pleasures or come and help me.”

“What do I get in return?”

“The position of quartermaster aboard a ship that won’t sink the moment it hits rough water, passage to Madagascar where I intend to refurbish, and another diamond as big as that one.”

“Although I don’t suppose it’s going t’be quite so simple?” the man had answered, pulling on his breeches and boots.

“Well, no, I grant there are a few barrels I want your men to move first, and there might be a bit of a scrap before we sail.”

Grinning, Jesamiah’s new quartermaster had pocketed the diamond and gone in search of his men.

The Anchor
, a tavern squeezed between a chandler’s and a cooper’s bothy, gave a decent view of the harbour. Since eleven of the clock Captain Acorne had sat in the front window, the place busy with sailors and dock-side workers; the inevitable whore displaying her wares and touting for business. Observed by van Overstratten’s lackeys, he sat engrossed in a book and drinking coffee, apparently oblivious to the comings and goings of the world outside.

Tiola was not here! He could not wait, she knew that.
Knew
he could not wait!

Tentative, he tried locating her, thinking her name, speaking to her through thought as she did to him.

~ Tiola?~

Nothing happened.

As the fort’s cannon fired an announcement of midday, he innocently dropped his book to the floor, bent to retrieve it from beneath the table and stayed there as the blast of a second explosion, dwarfing that of the signal gun, hurled through the town. A shower of glass, wood and dust burst through the shattering window, women were screaming, children crying. Dogs barked. Chaos and confusion as a cloud of debris-choked black smoke rolled through the streets; everything knocked sideways by the aftermath of the shockwave of the blast. People were running, milling, uncertain what to do, where to go. Inside the tavern men were scrabbling to their feet, darting outside, tables being knocked over, glasses of ale and drink, cups of coffee, plates of food all scattered to the floor. Jesamiah hurried with them.

Shouting and confusion. Were they under attack? At war? All eyes along the wide curve of Table Bay were turning to the awesome spectacle of destruction. Where there had been Stefan Van Overstratten’s warehouse, filled with silks and cottons, china, pewter, spices and tea, there was now only a reek of smoke pluming into the sky and gushing flames roaring thirty feet upward in its wake.

The gunpowder had been easy to set in position; pirates knew all about its volatile properties, how to stack it for maximum effect, how to lay a fuse. At Jesamiah’s suggestion the captain of the pirate vessel had chivvied his crew into unloading the barrels from the leaking hold of their ship, placing them instead along the frontage of the warehouse with the green-painted woodwork. The dock-master had complained, but happily accepted the bag of gold slipped into his pocket and then, with only a little encouragement, had gone in search of a tavern in which to spend a portion of it.

Shops, bothies, ale-houses, all buildings emptying as people ran to gawp. From the brothels, whores tumbled, clutching sheets to hide their assets, men pulling on breeches, hopping into boots or shoes.

Tiola was not here!

No one in the mêlée noticed Jesamiah walking quickly in the opposite direction from the destruction, towards the far jetty.

The fools who were Stefan’s crewmen were gathered along the seaward rail of the moored ship, pointing excitedly at the spectacle of the burning building, orders and weapons entirely forgotten as Jesamiah had known they would be. Without a shot, without one of them knowing what was happening, they were being tipped over the side, heel over head, splashing helpless into the sea their places taken by a ragged-dressed pirate crew.

Equally lack-witted, the men who manned the fort were standing gaping at the spreading fire, some of the officers at last mustering the sense to hurry and organise bucket chains.

With her aft cable cut by three blows of an axe, the south-easterly wind began to nudge
Sea Witch
from her moorings.

Tiola had not come!

Jesamiah could not wait. He stood on the quarterdeck staring anxiously towards the upward climb of the sprawling town, at the flat stretch of the beach. Where the damn was she? The pirate captain was frowning at him, impatient to be gone; arson was as much a hanging offence as piracy. Any moment now someone on the bastions of that star-shaped fort might come to their senses and remember the reason for cannons to be pointing down into the harbour.

Gulls, disturbed by the great boom of the warehouse disintegrating into smoke and fire swooped and mewed their displeasure, circling and wheeling around the height of the masts as Jesamiah stared upward.

“Away aloft!” he called waving his arm, and instantly men were scurrying into the shrouds, racing up the rigging. Still he waited, his eyes darting between the streets feeding the foreshore and the sails tumbling from the yards.

Then, “Jenna!” He sprinted across the deck, jumped down the ladder into the waist, was out over the entry port, bellowing the woman’s name, leaping ashore across a widening gap of sea between the stern and the jetty. “Jenna!”

Shambling at a waddling, jog-trot run, her bust heaving, her bonnet ribbons flying, face red, Jenna was shouting something at him. Something he could not hear above the shriek of the gulls, the crack of sails.

The fear that he should come searching for Tiola had prompted Jenna to walk to the dockside. She had to ensure he had gone – either to sea, or to Hell.

His hand outstretched, intending to grasp her arm, Jesamiah met a torrent of fury. Jenna flung his touch away and pointed towards the burning warehouse.

“Are you responsible for that? Did you order this carnage? Are you not concerned for those many you may have maimed or killed?”

Ignoring her he shouted back. “Where is Tiola? She said she would be here!”

“There will be people dead in there! Who knows how far such a fire shall spread? Do you not care, you despicable malignant!”

“Where is Tiola?” he repeated, not hearing her.

Folding her arms Jenna took a step away from him, certain she had done the right thing, her head bobbing to emphasise her words. “She is not coming. She has realised her life here is more important than running off with ne’r-do-well scum. She bids you be gone and stay gone.”

Jesamiah stared at her, the hurt and hatred running through him like the primed fuse laid to those barrels of gunpowder.

“She knows you for what you are, a liar, cheat and murderer. Do you seriously believe a young woman such as Tiola would commit herself to a man who, as soon as his eye settled on a suitable ship, is off sailing away in it and damn the consequences?”

The fuse ignited the powder, exploded. He screamed at her, drawing his pistol aimed, arm outstretched thumb pressing on the hammer to click it home. “You lie you bitch! You bloody lie! She loves me! She said she would come with me!”

Jenna’s contemptuous scorn seared across her face. “Then why is she not here?”

Men were racing along the foreshore from the fort, men in the militia uniform of the Dutch Guard, with pistols and muskets. Among them Stefan van Overstratten. The pop, pop of small arms fire, the whistle of shot slicing through the air.

Automatically Jesamiah ducked his head. “You lie Jenna, I know you lie! You tell her I’ll be waiting for her in Madagascar!” He unlocked the hammer, rammed his pistol into his belt, leapt for the ship swinging further from her moorings. Clinging to the cordage draped along the bows, he scrambled upwards, willing hands coming down to haul at his coat, to help him. One of the crew brought his axe down on the final warp and the ship was free, Jesamiah still only half way over the forward rail.

“Tell her I’ll be waiting, you hear me?” Jesamiah screeched flinging his arm out, finger pointing, accusing, as he ran aft, dipping his head as musket shot whined through the rigging. “You fokken tell her, Jenna!”

He bellowed for more sail to be spilled off the yards, issued a stream of urgent orders as he ran; “Let fall…Sheet home. T’gans’l sheets…Hands to braces – look lively there!”

“Shoot him! Shoot the bastard!” van Overstratten was ordering.

His concentration flickering between the need to get
Sea Witch
under way and Jenna, Jesamiah did not see the Dutchman. A gust from the wind sent the ship bounding forward, sail trimmers ready to meet her, to send her skimming out onto the ocean.

“Tell Tiola, Jenna, or by God I’ll come back and rip your bloody black heart out with my bare hands! You hear me, woman? Tell her or I’ll see you burn in Hell!” Jenna was not listening, was walking away.

Van Overstratten saw the woman. What she was doing here? Alarmed that the lack-wits he had hired to ensure Miss Oldstagh did not leave her premises had failed as miserably as these along the jetty, he darted through the smoke of inadequate musket fire. Clasping Jenna’s arm he spun her around, demanding to know what was happening. Where was Tiola?

“She is safe at home,” Jenna reassured him. “I gave her laudanum to make her sleep. I will not be having her running off with that reprobate.”

He smiled, his hands on her arms rewarding her with an approving squeeze. Half a victory perhaps?

Leaping on to the quarterdeck, nodding at the helmsman to bring the ship up into the wind, anger flooded into a torrent of frustrated rage as Jesamiah glanced over the rail and saw the Dutchman talking with Jenna. He grabbed a musket from one of the men, checked it was primed, aimed at van Overstratten, fired, and turned immediately away. He had always been a good shot but he doubted he would hit his target; the aim was careless and the distance widening too rapidly. He did not wait to see if the shot struck home, word on the wind would tell him soon enough.

Horrified, Stefan saw Jesamiah raise the gun, put it to his shoulder. He was not a brave man. His hands were on Jenna’s arms – he had been leaning forward wondering whether to plant a grateful kiss on her cheek – saw the flash and the puff of smoke. He reacted instinctively, without thought or consideration – swung Jenna in front of him, using her as a shield. And she gave a small, surprised gasp. Fell, limp, against him.

Sea Witch
was moving, the ebbing tide taking her; another gust of wind caught the sails that flapped once, uncooperatively, then another and another. The canvas filled, the wind merged into one steady thrust and the ship was gathering speed, skimming cleanly through the surf, sleek and fast. Belatedly, the fort fired two cannon, the first shot whistling between the main and mizzen topmasts to splash in a plumed spout of water several yards beyond the hull, the second dropping hopelessly short in the ship’s lengthening wake. They were too late,
Sea Witch
was gone, was free.

The bow wave foamed to either side of her, the rigging beginning to sing, the sound exultant as
Sea Witch
flew before the wind, her sails mithering, wooden keel and decks griping as she came to life.

With the wind strengthening, tangling his hair and whipping his ribbons forward over his shoulder, Jesamiah took the wheel and headed his ship into the open water of the Atlantic, spindrift foaming high over her lee rail. He let her pay off until a particularly exuberant flurry had scuttled by and then took her up a point, his strong hands gripping the spokes, the feel of her, alert and beautifully responsive beneath his fingers. The vibration of her rudder flowed upward direct through the deck and into his feet, into his body and soul, her very existence becoming a part of him. Captain and ship, lover and mistress. A bond so intense that for a short moment Jesamiah forgot everything except this feeling, like that of sexual release, of utter consuming exhilaration.

The ship was enjoying the elation of forging into each oncoming wave, shouldering her way through the ocean as if it were of no more consequence than a sedate village pond. Nothing could catch her now!

Watching for the telltale shudder on the fore topsail that would tell him he had pushed the spars to the limit of endurance, Jesamiah brought his ship closer and closer into the wind. There! She was racing as fast as she could, any more and a sail would split or a spar crack under the immense strain of pressure. He eased her off a point, let her settle into her full-gallop pace.

Glancing at the binnacle, at the steadying of the swinging compass, he nodded, pleased.

“We’ll run on this bearing for now,” he said to his new quartermaster who had said not a word but had watched, with critical admiration, a true seaman sail a ship.

“Keep ‘er so until we’re beyond sight of eyes studyin’ our course,” Jesamiah added, handing him the helm and slipping, already, into the clipped, lazy, speech of a pirate. “Then we’ll turn south down the coast, round the Cape and head east’d to the Indian Ocean. In this wind we’ll ‘ave to work ‘er ‘ard.”