Sea Witch

by Hollick, Helen

  Conceding his point, Tiola thought, Or to hang a woman for doing away with her husband because he was about to rape her daughter.

  “That does not make piracy acceptable, however.”

  He shrugged. “Life is not fair. I suppose I enjoy evening out the balance a little.”

  “By killing the innocent?”

  “The captains of a Chase are to blame for any killing. If they were to heave to when first threatened no one would get hurt. All I want is what they carry, it serves no purpose to make a fight of it.”

  “How convenient. Their fault for being murdered, not yours.”

  For a moment he made no answer to the sarcasm; then said, “If there was a way to be free without being a pirate,” he shrugged one shoulder, “there is not and so I am on the Account and I sail under my black flag of a skull and crossed bones.” He fiddled with the rum bottle in his left hand. Added, his voice and eyes lowered, “Or I did. Until I lost m’ship.”

  She recognised the anguish in his voice, a rawness he had been desperately suppressing these past days.

  The false bravado gone, he asked, “I suppose she has sailed? The Inheritance? I doubt she stayed in harbour.”

  Reaching forward Tiola laid her fingers sympathetically on his arm. “I am sorry. She sailed three days after I found you.”

  He scowled, then philosophically toasted the air with the bottle, counterfeiting a grin to disguise the hurt. “Good luck to you Rue. Sail her well.”

  “Is there no loyalty among pirates?” she exclaimed, sorry for him, aware Jesamiah was a person who kept his feelings close to his chest and this glimpse of exposed emotion an unintentional rarity. “Could he not have waited?”

  “In a pirate ship? What, and risk his life and the entire crew? He did what’s right, he had to. Aside I expect he assumes I’m dead. You say he sailed on the third day? He would have been looking for me, did not find me.” He toasted the air again. “Good of him that was. He is a good friend.” Added under his breath, “Was a good friend.”

  The rum was taking effect, damping the ache of loneliness, numbing the despair. Tiola leant across, removed the bottle from his hand and returned it to the shelf. His mouth turned down but he made no protest.

  “So what will you do once you are able to go your way?” She motioned that he was to remove the old, tattered shirt and held the new one out for him, marvelled at the calm way in which she spoke of him leaving.

  “Commandeer another vessel,” he stated without hesitation as he pulled the garment over his head, the touch of her hand on his skin sending his stomach into knots.

  “Steal one, you mean.”

  “Nautical term, commandeer.”

  “Land term. Steal.”

  Because of the rum he laughed more merrily than he would have done half an hour previously, tweaked one of the seams more comfortable. “If you insist, but piracy is what I do, sweetheart. Would I not be damned useless at it if I did not steal?”

  His eyes crinkled at the sides when he laughed, rippling the line of the faint white scar, bringing light and life into his mobile face. His eyes, she had noticed, seemed darker than they really were because of the sun and wind-tanned skin, and because of his curled mass of dark hair, now free of lice. She had been vigorous with the comb those first few days while he slept. Pirates and ne’er-do-wells in need of help were welcome; not the crawlers they carried.

  She began tidying her sewing things away into the basket. “And a wife? Is there one of those?” Again she spoke casually although her heart was hammering in case he spoilt everything and told her of one.

  He guffawed outright. “Marriage and piracy don’t make suitable companions.”

  “Not even if the wife was to sail with you?”

  He was standing, tucking the shirt into his breeches. Answered with the simple truth. “It is not practical to have a woman aboard. Women produce children, children mean responsibility. They take away a man’s freedom.”

  “A man is not forced to have intercourse with a woman,” Tiola retorted sharply. “And he is well able to withdraw, to mind his pull back.”

  “What? Make a coffee house of her – go in and out and not spend anything?” Jesamiah stared at her, incredulous, and she had to smile at his astonishment. The common innuendo for coitus interruptus had reached even here, as far as Cape Town, made popular from the London coffee houses where men could sit and gossip all day without making a single purchase.

  Used to bedding whores and loose women of the street, Jesamiah had not found it necessary to consider the consequences of his sexual pleasures. He scratched at his chin, asked, bemused, “What use is a woman like that?”

  “I would say a woman is there to serve hot coffee when a man desires it, and entertain him while he savours its flavour, neen?”

  Both Tiola and Jesamiah jumped, turned, startled to see a man, elegantly dressed in a pale green coat and lavishly embroidered waistcoat, standing at the head of the stairs chuckling at his own jest. He removed his cocked hat, plumed with an ostrich feather. Swept Tiola an exaggerated bow.

  “Stefan!” she squeaked, disconcerted. What was he doing here?

  Twenty Five

  Stepping into the room, Stefan van Overstratten directed his smile at Tiola; towards Jesamiah, an expression of solemn disapproval. He considered Miss Oldstagh to be the most beautiful woman in South Africa. He admired beauty, in all its forms. He was also conceited, vain and possessive, and resented those who had things he did not. If anyone was going to be Tiola’s husband it would be himself. And once Stefan made his mind to something, no one stepped in his path.

  He offered a smaller, polite bow. “Pardon my intrusion, I met with Mistress Pendeen outside, she bade me enter.” He strode forward, took the liberty of kissing Tiola’s hand and then her cheek. With a flourish, produced a package from beneath his coat and announced, “Happy birthing day, liefste.”

  Flustered at his endearment, her face tingeing pink, aware Jesamiah was staring at her, Tiola took the gift. Removing the ribbon and cloth, revealed an emerald bracelet; exclaimed, “Stefan! Dank je.” Solemnly, she handed it back. “Regrettably I cannot possibly accept this. You are more than generous towards Jenna and myself already.” With a shy smile, added, “May I ask, how did you know this day is my birthday?”

  The Dutchman ignored her protest and fastened the clasp around her wrist, the green stones sparkling in the sunlight, scattering flying motes of colour across the wooden floor and up the walls. “Mistress Pendeen informed me of the date a few days past. Your modesty does you credit, my dear, but for the giving of gifts the pleasure is wholly mine. I must, therefore, insist you indulge me.”

  Leaning against the windowsill, his arms insolently folded, Jesamiah snorted. Who was this dandy? And why had Jenna not informed him it was Tiola’s birthday?

  The two men eyed each other like circling dogs with their hackles raised.

  Breaking the awkward silence, Stefan asked, “Are you not going to introduce us, Tiola?”

  She smiled, benign. “Jesamiah, this is Master Stefan van Overstratten a kind and most generous friend. Stefan, may I introduce Captain Jesamiah…”

  Jesamiah flashed her a startled warning not to betray his identity. Which she ignored. She was not a fool.

  “…Oakwood. Mr Oakwood was attacked almost three weeks ago not far from here by cutpurse thieves who left him for dead. We have not troubled to report it, of course.” She gave a dismissive gesture. “What use are soldiers in any matter not concerning the military?”

  “Despite them being my own countrymen, I agree, they are a useless bunch of layabouts,” Stefan replied, critically assessing Jesamiah. So, this was the stranger Tiola had been tending? Jenna had indicated he was of a base class. She was correct, by the look of him, to have hinted concern at his low morals. This situation was not acceptable. Not acceptable at all. “It is unfortunate, Mr Oakwood, unless you are Dutch the law in Cape Town cannot assist you. It is a matter of resources, you under
stand.”

  Jesamiah understood very well. Dutch marines were lazy, cowardly, snivellers.

  “Even for us Dutch, the local militias can keep the law only within the confines of the Peninsular. Anything beyond is outside their remit. As example, they could not even go after the pirates who ravished one of my ships some weeks ago.”

  Stefan set his hat and cane down on the table, seated himself, thought, Who is this fellow? An hour before noon and not yet dressed? His shirt half hanging out; without stockings and shoes? He brushed at his coat sleeve. Tutted to himself, the censure aimed at Jesamiah’s state of undress, not the fluff.

  “What ship was that?” Jesamiah asked offhand, finally remembering to shove the last of his shirt inside his breeches, and wondering whether the subject of pirates had been raised intentionally.

  “The Amsterdam. Three mast, square-rigged. She was carrying a cargo of finest wines destined for King George’s own cellars.” A chink showed in Stefan’s charm. Anger puckered at the corner of his mouth.

  “Amsterdam?” Jesamiah echoed as he stroked his thumb and finger down his moustache, frowning as if in thought. “Nope, can’t say I’ve ‘eard of her.” He toed the stool nearer the window, lifted down the rum bottle again. Sitting, he stretched his bare legs out before him crossing them at the ankles. “I don’t much care for wine. I find it often tastes more like cat’s piss.”

  Scathing, Stefan quipped, “I would not be in the position to compare. I am unfamiliar with the taste of feline urine.”

  Ignoring the insult, Jesamiah almost retorted that the Amsterdam’s cargo had tasted superb, and had fetched a handsome price from a merchant higher along the coast. That several bottles were stowed safely in his cabin aboard the Inheritance. But, of course, he could not. Instead, glancing with one eyebrow raised towards Tiola, who was unnecessarily tidying things away, he asked, “Anyone killed aboard her?”

  Stefan’s answer was pinched with annoyance. “The Captain was most disgracefully terrorised.”

  “But not killed? Wouldn’t tell where the specie was, I expect.”

  Removing Stefan’s hat from the table and hanging it on a hook beside the doorway where it would not become soiled, Tiola asked the Dutchman, “What is specie?”

  Amused that she was ignoring him, Jesamiah answered before Stefan had a chance to speak. “Money. Cash. The extra a captain carries for emergencies.”

  “He had thirty pounds sterling,” van Overstratten grumbled. “More than the wretched man’s monthly pay.”

  Jesamiah scowled. The dog! That captain had insisted he had only fifteen! Where in hell had he hidden the rest? Damn him – they had torn the ship apart searching for it! He took another swig of rum, said, without looking towards Tiola, “Anyone raped?”

  Embarrassed at the indelicacy Stefan cleared his throat. “There were three female passengers aboard with their husbands.”

  “And?”

  Indicating Tiola the Dutchman answered with disapproval. “This is not a suitable topic to speak of before a lady, but since you ask, neen, they were not touched. They were encouraged to donate their jewellery and were then permitted to remain in their cabins.”

  Turning his head to gaze square into Tiola’s eyes, which were blazing anger at him, Jesamiah mouthed, ‘Told you’ and winked at her, earning himself an indignant shrug and an audible snort of disdain. Grinning at her annoyance, he relaxed. If this buffoon had suspected him of being involved in piracy he would have shown the fact by now.

  Tiola busied herself at the fire, noisily swinging out the kettle to make a pot of coffee, clattering her best china cups.

  Stefan drummed his fingers on the table as the uncomfortable silence lengthened. He did not wish to make conversation, but manners dictated otherwise. Cordially he enquired, “What line are you in Mr Oakwood?”

  None of your bloody business, Jesamiah thought. “I am a trader. I will consider taking anything if it is worth selling for a profit.” He smiled mischievously at his double meaning.

  An inkling of suspicion returning, Stefan flapped a hand in the general direction of the harbour. “Which is your ship? I do not recall seeing one I do not know riding at anchor?”

  “She’s sailed on to the Indies and the China Seas.” Jesamiah indicated his injured arm, as if it explained everything; the lies came easily, he was well practised. “She will pick up a cargo of china, tea, silk and spices, that sort of thing, and will collect me on her return passage in a few months. I trust my first officer implicitly.” The last was the truth, the rest? There was no certainty Claude de la Rue would ever come near Cape Town again. The Inheritance could be anywhere. Near any harbour, on any ocean.

  Van Overstratten’s dislike for this cocksure mariner was rapidly increasing, although he had nothing more to go on than appearance and prejudice. The fellow spoke as if he had received an education of sorts, was obviously familiar with matters of navigation and seamanship, but he was nothing more than an opportunist trader. What was his background? His position in society? Tiola ought not associate with this form of lowborn riffraff. Bad enough her insisting to live here in this squalid area of town among the layabouts and drunkards – to have taken one of them into her home! Stefan pursed his lips, his disapproval hardening. As well he had come today. This situation must be terminated as soon as possible.

  “You have no concern for pirates then?” he queried, accepting coffee from Tiola with a nod of gratitude.

  Again Jesamiah wondered whether this fop was on a fishing expedition for shrimps. He answered truthfully. “None whatsoever.”

  Glaring her displeasure at Jesamiah Tiola removed the rum bottle from his hand, exchanged it for a china cup. “And do not break it,” she threatened under her breath. “I have only three left.”

  “Liefste, have you any of those delicious wheat cakes mistress Pendeen bakes?” Stefan enquired with a congenial smile, adding more frostily to Jesamiah, “She is a wonderful woman, devoted to her ward. She would not allow anything to upset her.”

  Retrieving the rum Jesamiah added a generous dose to his coffee. “Medicinal,” he lied as the Dutchman raised a censoring eyebrow. For anything, he guessed the interfering busybody meant anyone. “I may be wrong,” he drawled, “but my impression of Tiola is that she is more than capable of taking care of herself.”

  Van Overstratten’s response was one of surprise. “Mistress Tiola is a woman. No woman is capable of caring for herself.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, the women I’ve come across are capable of doing many things.” Jesamiah grinned, toasted the air with the rum, took a swig and set it down on the floor.

  “This woman has ears and is more than capable of speaking for herself, thank you.” Tiola snapped, slamming the coffee pot down on to the table and marching over to retrieve the half-empty bottle of rum.

  Into the following silence, a crash came from downstairs, then Kisty’s piercing screech and Bella’s scolding.

  “I came,” van Overstratten said to Tiola as he finished his coffee and placed the cup on the table, “to arrange a carriage for this evening. Will six of the clock suit?”

  His head shooting up, Jesamiah’s brows furrowed downward. What was this?

  From where she sat on a stool at the far side of the table, Tiola thanked Stefan, replied that six would suit nicely.

  Jesamiah, lasting a full minute of pretended disinterest, commented, “Going out are you?”

  When Tiola made no answer Stefan felt obliged to explain. “This evening has been long arranged. The Governor holds a midsummer ball at the fort, Miss Tiola and Mistress Pendeen are to accompany my party as my guests.” He smiled indulgently at Tiola who forced herself to respond graciously, and not scowl.

  “That’s nice for you,” Jesamiah retorted, totally ungracious and scowling at both of them.

  Another silence. The atmosphere was becoming as tense as the prelude to a lightning storm. Downstairs, Kisty was weeping; outside, a peddler was shouting he had ribbons and trinkets
for sale. A group of children ran past, chattering and giggling, the sound of an iron hoop rattling over the cobblestones as they bowled it along.

  Clearing his throat van Overstratten stood, fetched his hat. “You are welcome to join us, Mr Oakwood.” His unfriendly tone firmly implied the opposite.

  “I thank you, but I am not one for dancing and fancy to-do’s, even when I am in fine fettle.” Jesamiah waved his arm, showing the livid scars. “Do not mind me, you go off and enjoy yourselves. I am quite capable of finding my own entertainment. I can always toddle downstairs if I want company.” Ah, he thought, as Tiola gave him a frosted stare. That stirred her attention.

  “Then it is settled,” Stefan said, relieved at this ruffian’s refusal. He caught Tiola’s hand and elegantly kissed it; smiled. “Until tonight then, my dear.” And he produced another package from an inside coat pocket. “I trust you will grant me the pleasure of wearing these also?”

  He unrolled the velvet, and drew out a necklace and matching earrings, sisters to the bracelet.

  “Oh!” Tiola was taken aback, her expression dismayed for she had been annoyed at Jesamiah and had behaved so churlish towards Stefan – and now here he was offering her more gifts. She smiled up at him, genuinely delighted, murmured, “They are beautiful.”

  His response was predictable. “But not as beautiful as you, my dear.” Stefan fastened the gems around her neck, declared with pride, “I thought these would look charming with the green silk gown I purchased for you. You are to wear it tonight, are you not?”

  “Why, ais, of course,” Tiola stammered.

  Kissing her palm, van Overstratten nodded curtly at Jesamiah and took his leave. His thoughts as he entered his waiting carriage were less than complimentary. This Oakwood fellow, who was he? Where had he come from?

  More important, when was he leaving?