Sea Witch (31 page)

Twenty

Tiola sprinted down the hill ignoring the stares of curiosity following behind. A woman without cloak or coat, bonnet or outdoor shoes? Running? Even among pirates and their doxies she drew attention. Slithering to a halt on the rough boards of the jetty she saw
Sea Witch
across the harbour dozing peacefully at her anchor, as Jennings had said. She was as graceful and as beautiful as a slender thoroughbred against feather-heeled cobs. The sails on all three masts, fore, main and mizzen, were neatly furled with the yards set square, as if she had the discipline of a Royal Navy crew. The shrouds and stays were taut and freshly tarred, her rails gleaming from a recent coat of linseed oil. Her hull, blue painted, was clean, without dribbles of bird lime or trails of clinging weed. Twenty cannon, ten a side, sited with thought and care, their weight spread evenly along the waist and lower deck, their presence hidden behind closed ports. Two lanterns sat high on the taffrail at the stern, polished and gleaming. The busty figurehead, blonde-haired, pink fleshed.

Chiding herself with reprimands at her stupidity, Tiola raked a hand through her hair, scattering pins and combs, sending the coiffured curls into a dishevelled tangle. Why had she not felt Jesamiah’s presence? Why had she not walked down here last night, as she had every other night to see if he had come? Why!

Why? Because of the barricade he had built against her – the barricade he had needed to survive the chill of his own despair. Believing she did not care for him, he had blended into his surroundings and shut her out.

It had not been her fault, but yet again she had failed him. She could not do harm to another living person, but at this moment Tiola was tempted to turn aside from the honour binding her to her Craft and hurl her power into the four winds. To destroy the whole damned lot of the human race for daring to hurt the man she so desperately loved.

The spinning blackness of unconsciousness alternated with a red agony as Jesamiah felt himself being half lifted, half dragged. His legs and heels bumped up the steps slimed with slugs and snails, the double crunch of shells breaking beneath his captors’ boots. Outside, the sunlight dazzled his eyes. He tried to struggle as he became aware of what was happening and where they were taking him; the attempt was futile. His arms were trussed like a chicken ready for the spit and he was as weak as a kitten, helpless to do anything to stop them trundling him along the jetty and hauling him aboard a ship as if he were a barrel of cargo. As he would be helpless to prevent Phillipe doing whatever he wanted once they were at sea.

Oh God
, he thought, knowing what his brother was capable of. Then, resurrected out of desperation, hope suddenly sprang alive. There was something van Overstratten had said last night after they had bound his wrists and ankles and were dragging him, half conscious, from his cabin.

Tiola was here in Nassau. In between the beatings they had delighted in telling him how she hated him, how she was here to see him hang. Van Overstratten had added his own crudity, explaining every intimate detail of his marriage to her. Jesamiah had schooled his face to reflect nothing, but the inner hurt at discovering she had turned from him and married this louse was as agonising as the broken ribs and the bleeding cuts. He was sorry to learn of Jenna’s death, bloody mad this bastard had blamed it on him – had Tiola thought so little of him to believe he would deliberately shoot a woman in the back? Had their months together meant nothing? And then, after the last beating, the Dutchman had said something. Jesamiah struggled to remember it – they had been pulling him along by his ankles. The Dutchman had spoken to Phillipe, had not intended Jesamiah to hear. A gull flew low, screeching – and the words came back to him!
Her indifference is all pretence of course. Why she still loves this bastard I cannot understand.

The barrier disintegrated, the shield his weeping soul had erected shattered, and in his mind he screamed the words he needed.

~ By all that is good, help me, Tiola! ~
And he felt her instant presence filling him, heard her wonderful, beautiful, comforting voice answer him!

~ Jesamiah? ~

~ Thank God! Oh thank God! Please Tiola, please help me, I’m in big trouble here! ~

~ Where are you? ~

They were pulling him along the deck towards an open hatch. He guessed where they were going to stow him, down in the cable tier above the bilge, along with the rats. He had put his own prisoners down there in the cramped stench and blackness, although they had never been half beaten to death beforehand.

Ignoring the protesting muscles he summoned the strength to shrug his captors aside, stumbled to his feet and lurched to the larboard rail; had some vague thought of throwing himself overboard. Better to drown now, quickly, than endure what Phillipe had in mind. He looked up, looking as well he could across the bay at his beloved
Sea Witch
. Probably the last time he would see her. And then he glanced at the jetty on the far side of the harbour.

She was standing there, Tiola, her image as clear and close as if she were right here on this very deck in front of him. Her beautiful eyes meeting directly with his, her soul reaching out as it had when first he had seen her aboard the
Christina Giselle
– and all those years ago beside his mother’s grave! The realisation slammed into him with the same force as those kicks and punches. It had been her, Tiola! Her voice telling him to get up, to fight back. Bloody Hell! Why had he not seen it before? She had been there with him, right from the start. That was why she knew everything – everything – about him.

Her overwhelming love flooded into and through him, shunting aside the dread in the pit of his stomach.

~ They lied to us Jesamiah. I have never stopped loving you. I never will. ~

He had only a moment before they grappled him again and thudded their fists into his stomach, sending him to his knees gasping for air. He didn’t care, it had been long enough for him to find her again and he screamed her name aloud across the harbour.

“Tio…la!”

He was still in trouble, but Jesamiah was smiling as they chained him into the darkness. There was one thing van Overstratten and Phillipe had not counted on, one thing they had missed. They did not know Tiola Oldstagh was a witch.

She saw them hit him, felt his agony, watched them drag him away, and she forgot every law of her Craft. She screamed. The high octave of her voice piercing and unnatural, the sound splitting the heavens as lightning ripping from thunder clouds. The wind rose to meet the keening sound and the sea lifted in anger as the witch howled her fury, and his name, across the harbour that separated them.

“Jesamiah!”

Anger consumed Tethys, her immense power exploding in a response of outraged protest to the furious sound that boomed and shouted and then fled away out to sea, carried by the rush of a gusting wind. The sky shuddered as that terrible scream tore across Nassau and swept over the entire island of New Providence.

Summoned by the call made by one who had no right to enter into her realm and give impertinent command, Tethys echoed the shrilled, shouted name in her own sea-song voice; the sound of a white-foamed angry breaker crashing against rocks.

~ Jesssha..miah…! ~

Birds, squawking and flapping their alarm swirled from their mast-head roosts, and as agitated as they, the sea rolled. A single great wave churned beneath the keels of anchored ships, sending them leaping and prancing, tugging at their cables; it slapped at the jetties and hurtled against the shore, the swirl of froth spewing up the steps and washing onto the sand of the beach. It swamped the tents and bothies, doused bonfires and the ardour of sailors coupling roughly and drunkenly with their whores.

And still the residue of that distraught sound boomed with the shout of the wind and the crash of the sea.

Twenty One

Mereno grimaced at the sudden squall scurrying across the harbour, the disturbed birds, the whipping pennants and ensigns on the ships. Were they in for a storm? August was the hurricane season, not the best of months to be in these waters. He usually came earlier in the year, January and February, to ensure all was well on his wife’s inherited plantation. A good excuse to be away from the winter fogs that could plague the Rappahannock. Alicia usually accompanied him, but he had not thought it suitable for her to be involved in this particular venture. A wise decision as it turned out, with his brother now chained like an animal down in the bilge.

Despite giving her several beatings, Alicia had not changed her story. He was certain she lied. He intended to ask Jesamiah about it, see if, under his present circumstances, he still wanted to crow that she was a whore. Phillipe’s lips turned up into an unpleasant smile. Somehow, once he got started on what he intended to inflict upon his brother, he doubted Jesamiah would be crowing about anything.

Courteously he spoke to the vessel’s sailing master, asking whether it was possible to make way immediately in view of a storm possibly brewing; was satisfied to hear the opinion that it was wiser to be on the open ocean where a ship could run, rather than be trapped at anchorage. The quicker they left this island behind the better, before Woodes Rogers learnt of what they had done. Van Overstratten was to cover Phillipe’s back by ensuring a sufficient amount of gold found its way into the Governor’s pocket but confident the Governor would be only too pleased to have the dilemma quietly solved. Phillipe had not been as sure of the Dutchman. He had expected him to protest against the plan, was surprised at van Overstratten’s delight; his only concern was the disappointment at not personally seeing Acorne hang, at not seeing for himself he was quite dead. Mereno had been able to reassure him on that.

“He will be dead, Stefan, I promise you. If you wish I am happy to send proof; would his head suffice?”

It was no idle boast. Standing on the quarterdeck watching the crew haul in the warping lines Phillipe was already planning what type of container to use. A pottery urn? A large glass bottle? Vinegar, he assumed, was best as pickling brine. Brandy would be a waste of good liquor. Or would it be wiser to coat the thing in tar? Preserve it that way? He thought he might keep the hands for himself, give another, intimate, part as a present to Alicia. He grinned maliciously, eager to see the look on her face when he presented her with her lover’s pickled prick and balls. The only lie Phillipe had made to Stefan; he no intention of permitting Jesamiah to die easily.

The wind was pushing the ship from the jetty, once across the sandbar they would make full sail and put water between themselves and Nassau. It was only here within the harbour someone might decide to stop them – but then, why would they try? Mereno was no scoundrel reverting to a degenerate life, he was a respected plantation owner, entitled to come and go as he pleased.

Phillipe Mereno went below. He had questions to ask. Things to do.

The pain Jesamiah was enduring fused through Tiola with such violence she stumbled to her hands and knees, sobbing for breath. This world and the next spun around her in a vortex of red and blazing white, in shards of iridescent glass and spears of shining iron. His scream pierced her mind, more primeval than the first sound made by the first creature to experience agony. Mercifully, it lasted a few moments only. Oblivion crowded behind the torture delivered and suffered in the darkness of the below-deck world of Mereno’s ship. Jesamiah sank into unconsciousness, releasing both himself and Tiola.

She knelt on the wooden jetty, her hair dishevelled her stockings torn, the frills and fancy lace edging her petticoats were splashed and dirtied; knelt and helplessly watched Mereno’s ship with its red-painted hull clear the sandbar and tack to larboard as the wheel was put hard over. Hands were scurrying to draw the foresail sheets, bringing her bow round. Heeling over a degree or two the vessel caught the wind and picked up speed. Leaving. Taking Jesamiah, bruised and bloody, away.

Tiola could snap a halyard or a brace, could cause the sails to rip into shreds that would shriek and flog in the wind. Could even tear a great gash in the keel – but what if in stopping the ship someone should be hurt or killed by cause of her command? For Mereno she had no sympathy, but were his faults and cruelties to be paid for by his crew? Or Jesamiah? It could as easily be him who drowned because of her action.

Her grandmother’s voice whispered in her mind, gently consoling and guiding.

~ You are right to be careful what you wish for child. ~

Struggling to her feet, forcing aside the aftermath of disorientation and sickness caused by Jesamiah’s plea for help, Tiola accepted there were things she could not do. Unless it was imperative for her own protection, to deliberately do harm would bring upon her a permanent curse. There had to be balance in everything. Good countering evil, light revoking dark. Right contradicting wrong and hope outweighing despair. Her Craft could do nothing to change the rigidity of the laws of Existence, and in this instance, could do nothing to cause Mereno’s ship to heave to.

And then two cannon were fired in quick succession, their urgent sound,
whoomph, whoomph
, booming startling and unmistakable across the harbour. Tiola raised her head, stared towards the cause of the glorious noise –
Sea Witch
! Men were aboard, hurrying about the decks. A blue ensign was raised as she watched, to flutter in the tug of the breeze at the very top of the foremast, another in almost the same instant was set to the mizzen. Everything had its opposite – despondency replaced by elation!

At the blast of those cannon several heads bobbed up above the parapet of the semi-ruinous fort. Heads all along the jetty and the shore were swivelling towards the ship, all curious, some, those few not of the pirate persuasion, momentarily alarmed. Scrambling to her feet Tiola dusted the grime from her skirts, tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear, a smile as wide as the Atlantic Ocean spreading across her lips. Someone aboard
Sea Witch
was aware her captain needed help.

Once – long ago it seemed – Tiola had asked Jesamiah how he gathered his men together should there be the necessity of hurry. His answer had been precise and practical.

“A blue signal is raised on the foremast and we fire two rapid shots of our largest cannon. Men know the sound of their ship’s guns, they’re as distinctive as voices. Anyone not aboard within one half turn of the half-hourglass, fifteen minutes, forfeits his place in the crew and we sail without him. A second blue signal at the mizzen gives them half that time to get their arses aboard. A lot of them do not make it, although a good man always stays close to his ship when in hostile waters.” He had grinned, she clearly remembered the glint of his gold teeth, the matching sparkle in his eye. “That’s why most brothels and taverns are built along the shore. I’ve had to scuttle aboard without m’breeches many a time!”

Tiola had laughed with him, her arms going around his neck, his lips finding hers. His hands, strong and firm on her body as he had made love to her.

“And a third flag?” she had asked later, when they lay quiet, the sweat of passion cooling on their skin. She could so vividly recall his taste and his smell. The feel of his hands caressing her breasts. The wonderful feel of his hardness inside her.

“A third signal on the mainmast, sweetheart? Shift your arse we’re about to cut the anchor cable!”

Two blue flags. In seven minutes
Sea Witch
’s sails would unfurl, the sleeping vessel would rouse to life. Tiola could do no deliberate harm to a ship, but others could. Pirates could.

“Madam!”

She whirled at the sound of the disapproving, appalled voice, her skirts flying out like the flutter of a pigeon’s wings; gasped as her husband’s broad hand clamped possessively around her forearm.

His demand for explanation slapped as vicious as any blow. “What are you doing here? And in this disgraceful state? Look at you!” Disgusted, Stefan indicated her ragged appearance, his face contorting into blazing anger.

Blankly, she stared back at him.

“You have the appearance of a harlot, woman! Do you want the filth that are these sea-scum to think you are the sort of slut they can offer a penny for a poke beneath your petticoats?” The Dutchman snatched at her other wrist, shook her as if she were a pebble trapped in a bottle. Oh, it was obvious where her feelings rested! The tear stains streaking her cheeks? The way she had been staring at Mereno’s ship? He would tolerate no more of it, she was his wife and Acorne was gone. Would soon be gone for good.

He was certain Phillipe Mereno’s obsession for wanting to make an end of Acorne was the trait of a madman, but there again, he was not privy to the full circumstances behind the seething hatred. If Acorne had, as he suspected, cuckolded Phillipe at some time – in addition to commandeering his ship and making a public fool of him – Stefan could well sympathise with his determination to see the fellow hang. Mereno’s lust for excessive brutality unsettled him somewhat, but there were men who received satisfaction from inflicting pain on others. Was it for Stefan to judge another man’s private pleasures?

Almost, he could feel sorry for Acorne. Almost, but not quite enough to feel remorse. After all, he too wanted an end of him; and he had, even if he would never admit it, enjoyed watching him suffer. The thing was ended. Done. It was time to pick up the pieces and salvage his marriage as best he could.

“I will not have you behaving in this demeaning manner, Madam. I will not have you publicly embarrassing me.”

Very slowly Tiola blinked her eyes; said, ominously low, “What have you done to Jesamiah?”

Stefan shifted the grip on her arms with the intention of ushering her back to the privacy of the Governor’s house, away from the curiosity of prying eyes where he would deal thoroughly and finally with this intolerable behaviour.

Tiola shook him off as if he were nothing more than a sand fly. “I said, what have you done to Jesamiah?”

“Enough of this nonsense, people are staring. We will discuss this in private.”

Low, dangerous. “I will not ask thrice, Stefan.”

“Acorne? He is to die.” Impatient, van Overstratten indicated Mereno’s ship, the sails that had tumbled in a crackling cloud of canvas from her masts, her blood-red hull. “He will be as insane as his brother by the time they reach Virginia I would wager. Once there, what is left of him is to hang.” He chuckled his delight, a sudden, unexpected petty feeling of triumph over her.

Again he took Tiola’s arm, managed to drag her two paces, jerked his hand away, his palm stinging. He rubbed at the skin, stared at the reddening mark. She must have a pin or something caught in the material of her gown. He grabbed again, firmer, and yelped as he staggered backwards, almost fell to one knee.

He caught his balance, stood, angry, raised his hand, “You bitch!”

Someone caught his arm that was rising to strike, hauled it forcefully aside. Captain Henry Jennings.

“I do not hold with violence towards women, Sir. I believe it to be a coward’s act, for a woman is not in a position to return the blow. Odd, is it not, how a man can beat his wife to death, yet if she so much as strikes him in self-defence she has every chance of being flogged or sent to the gallows?” Contemptuously he released van Overstratten’s arm. “Odd too, how a man can be dragged aboard a ship and taken to sea while under the protection of amnesty.”

Stefan shrugged, dismissive. “Odd it may be Jennings, but there is nothing anyone can do about it.”

A half smile tipped the corners of Tiola’s mouth. Nothing? Ah, but there was! Stefan and Mereno had not taken
Sea Witch
and her crew into account, had not calculated the loyalty of Jesamiah’s men. Or her love.

Holding her husband’s sneering gaze her eyes narrowed, reflecting the contempt she had for him. “You would be surprised, probably horrified, Stefan, were you to discover exactly what I can or cannot do.” She gestured her appreciation to Jennings. “I desire to go aboard the
Sea Witch
, Captain. I would be most grateful for your assistance.”

Van Overstratten snorted disdain. “You are thinking to persuade them to go after your pimp? Think again Madam. If that crew leaves this harbour without authorisation to do so, they will be branded as pirates who have refused amnesty.”

Jennings was at the jetty edge, beckoning one of the bum-boats plying for trade between the anchored ships.

“Ah, but I am empowered to issue such authorisation,” he stated as he caught the line the ferryman tossed him. “I am, after all, deputy to Governor Rogers in everything concerning this offer of pardon.”

He handed Tiola down into the boat, delighted she had outmanoeuvred this pompous oaf. “Go save your lover, my dear. He will be a better man for you above this stuffed peacock. Tell Rue he has official permission to fetch back whatever cargo he can salvage from that red-hulled schooner. He must return here before the end of August, however, when the application for amnesty ceases. And remind him I have no jurisdiction to protect the crew from any commissioned ship of the Royal Navy or the Colonies. Mark that Mistress Tiola, you have four weeks. No longer. I cannot extend authorisation beyond then. Should you meet with difficulties, you are on your own.”

“Thank you. Thank you Captain Jennings,” Tiola called as the little boat was pushed off. “Go back to Cape Town Stefan,” she advised. “Forget about me. As I shall forget about you.” She glanced over her shoulder, urged the ferryman to hurry.

Shading his eyes against the glare of the sun Henry Jennings endorsed her suggestion. “Aiding and abetting a prisoner to escape from gaol, Sir, is not well thought of here in Nassau.”

The Dutchman spluttered a protest. “You know damned well I did no such thing!”

Abrupt, Jennings cut him short. “I know nothing of the sort. All I saw was your conspiracy in smuggling Captain Acorne aboard that ship currently heeling out to sea. To my mind it looks very much as if you were aiding his escape.”