Sea Witch

by Hollick, Helen

  ~ Jesamiah! Do not come! Do not come! ~

  The shout of his name leapt into his brain as if someone were in the room yelling into his ear. He sat up, wiped at the sweat beading his top lip. The words reverberated in his head, shunting around like a capstan being turned. His hand was shaking as he walked into his day cabin. He did not bother pouring into the glass, but drank straight from the bottle.

  What was the term for delusion? For hearing voices? Insane? Aye, that was it. Insanity.

  Sixteen

  The shielding wall disintegrated, shattering as if a pane of glass had been broken by a tossed brick. The darkness erupted into a splintering of fragmented rainbow colours, shooting out in all directions like exploding gunpowder. Tiola gasped as the door opened – and she shrieked her warning.

  ~ Jesamiah! Do not come! ~

  No one who had been about to seat themselves at the Governor’s dining table would have noticed anything different about her. Why should they? Woodes Rogers was too full of his own self importance, Henry Jennings too much the gentleman and Stefan would not see because he did not know what to look for. He was unaware of her Craft – unaware of anything concerning Tiola beyond his disappointment in her. And Phillipe Mereno? Of them all, perhaps only he would be suspicious; he was a man suspicious of his own shadow. He was not here, however; was rarely away from the harbour or his ship.

  ~ Do not come! ~ Tiola shouted in her mind, but the wall had immediately solidified again, the splintered glass merging together to become whole, as impenetrable as before. At least she now knew Jesamiah had been blocking her thoughts, he had built a screen to shelter behind, shutting her out because of his loneliness and hurt. Something had jostled him into allowing the door to open though – admittedly, to slam it shut again – but it had opened and she had touched him. Her concern: had he heard or listened?

  Mrs Rogers hissed, gritting back a cry of pain, trying to control both her dignity and her tears. Tiola swung her attention away from Jesamiah to the immediacy of the Governor’s hallway, the curve of the stairs and the lady sprawled, undignified, at the bottom of them having fallen most of the way down. Everyone was talking at once, offering advice, making suggestions with not a single practical idea between them. The servants in the background anxious because dinner was served and the Governor was known for his tempers if the soup was cold. With light care Tiola moved her hands over the rapidly swelling ankle, explored the damage. Part of her mind concentrated on the injury, the other desperate to reach Jesamiah again.

  “It is only sprained I think,” she commented, certain there was no fracture. “You will be needing rest for some while though, Ma’am. And something for your discomfort?”

  Rogers himself lifted his wife, carried her to their bedchamber. She buried her head in his shoulder choking down a whimper of pain. Tiola followed, making a mental inventory of the remedies she had brought with her. Not many, for Stefan had destroyed most of her stock, assuming that as his wife she would have no necessity for potions and cure-alls.

  Where the banisters curved in a wide sweep and would have looked elegant were it not for the peeled paint and gouged wood, she glanced into the hallway below. Mereno had hurried in, his coat flapping, hat awry. He almost ran to Stefan talking with animated, excited gestures.

  Dread infused Tiola. She loathed that man! He reminded her of a weasel. Sharp eyes that missed nothing, always watching and waiting its opportunity to dart out and destroy its victim. Too clearly could she remember what he had done to Jesamiah as a boy. The man had succumbed to the clutch of evil – and her husband called him friend? She shuddered, felt the press of the Dark huddling closer, heard its low chuckle of conquest. Whatever was causing it, she could do nothing at this moment, for Mrs Rogers needed her skills as a healer. Tiola hurried on up the stairs in Governor Rogers’ wake. She did not like the pallor of the woman’s face or the racing of her heart and perspiring skin. If she was not tended with skill and care, there could well be worse than a sprained ankle come morning.

  Engrossed with thoughts for her patient she did not, therefore, witness the slow smile of triumph spread over Phillipe Mereno’s face as he spoke to her husband. Did not see Stefan eagerly collect his hat and coat. Did not see the both of them hurry away, out into the night.

  Seventeen

  A heavily built man in seaman’s boots climbed silently up the ship’s cleats and dropped over the rail to the deck. He whispered down to the boat alongside, beckoning the others waiting there to follow. Agitated, Sea Witch bobbed very slightly as several men came aboard.

  Vaguely, Jesamiah was aware someone stood outside his cabin door; a sixth sense; instinct. He knew every nuance of his ship, all her moods, all her manners. Every creak and complaint and sigh she made. Something was upsetting her.

  “Rue?” he mumbled, his speech slurred, not bothering to glance over his shoulder as the cabin door opened letting in a movement of air to rustle at the papers scattered on his desk. A shaft of light from a held lantern slanted across the floor. His own light had guttered some forty minutes past. Jesamiah stood at the stern windows, five panes spreading across the entire four and twenty feet of the rear of the ship; stood staring into the night at the anchored vessels, at the town. At nothing. More than a little drunk he had stood there for over an hour.

  “Took your bloody time, Rue? Couple of hours you said, been more like four.” Then he caught the illuminated reflections in the glass, two men standing sixteen feet away at the door. He stared a moment, registering their presence, felt his throat run dry and swallowed down the sickening jolt of horror scrambling up from his stomach into his gullet. Felt sweat trickle down his spine. He thought the fear of his brother had gone. It hadn’t.

  When he turned, slowly, to face them he was cold, stone sober.

  “Hello Brother,” Phillipe Mereno drawled from where he leant against the doorframe, his arms folded. “We have been waiting for your arrival. We almost thought you were going to pass up the invitation to come to Nassau, which would be most remiss of you, given your predilection for attending parties.” He gestured towards the man beside him, the one holding the lantern. “I believe you know my business partner, Master Stefan van Overstratten?”

  “De goede avond – good evening,” Stefan acknowledged as he hooked the lamp to a nail on the nearest beam ahead of him. Removing his feathered hat he offered Jesamiah a sweeping, formal bow. “I see you have taken a few liberties with my ship. She did not carry those ugly gun ports when last I saw her.”

  Stepping further in as if seeing it for the first time, van Overstratten gazed around the cabin. A lovely room, even when not lit by the magic of snail-trail silver from the moon. Barely a right-angle in sight, the design of the interior mirrored the shape of the outer hull; the curved deck-head, the cushioned lockers curving below the stern windows. The desk built into the inclined sides. Sea Witch could have been made for Jesamiah, for the panelling was of light oak, some of it carved with a detail of oak leaves and acorns. This cabin, as a crowning glory, had made Jesamiah so want the ship for his own when he had first inspected her those months ago in Cape Town. An easy done thing – take a bottle or two of rum aboard at an hour when the watch was growing bored; sweet talk an invitation to look around.

  Stefan walked towards the desk, poked through the scatter of papers and rolled charts, tossing those of no interest to the floor. When he found a ship’s log book he smiled. The false leer of the alligator.

  “Ah,” he said, thumbing through it. “The Berenice. You ought not keep trophies, my friend. This is evidence. I have the sworn statements of the few wretches who survived the indecencies you inflicted on them, of course, but it is always better to be having irrefutable proof, is it not?”

  Jesamiah said nothing.

  Lazily pushing himself away from the door Phillipe waved in three men, broad-shouldered, mean-mouthed. As mean-minded. He pulled a chair from beneath the table, settled himself comfortably onto it.

  “Master van Ov
erstratten and I share a common interest,” he explained superfluously. “We are recently established in the excitement of pirate hunting.”

  “Of punishing the scum who are thieves and murderers. Who steal ships,” van Overstratten added as he too found a seat.

  “And what about cheats and liars and bullies?” Jesamiah answered. “I won this ship fair in a game of cards, yet you conveniently forgot that small fact, Master Dutchman, did you not? And you Phillipe? What did I ever do as a child to make you hate me so?”

  Phillipe crossed his legs. “What did you do Brother? Why, you were born!” Raising his right hand he beckoned for the men to come forward. “You may proceed.”

  They made a thorough job of beating Jesamiah senseless. Not Mereno or van Overstratten, they were not prepared to soil their hands, not when it was more interesting to watch while others, professionals, undertook the kicking and punching. Jesamiah did not have a chance to defend himself for they twisted his arms behind his back and while one held him, the other two laid into his ribs and the soft parts of his belly and groin with their fists, a length of chain wrapped around their knuckles.

  When he was down, blood streaming from his face, nose and mouth, gasping for air, gagging against the pain, they used their knees and boots instead.

  Eighteen

  Tiola paused as she entered the east-facing breakfast room with its large and, in her opinion, ugly, Tudor-style furniture. Strangely it was empty of occupants. Normally, Governor Rogers filled the small room with his wide-bellied, loud-voiced presence; nor were Stefan or Phillipe Mereno at the table breaking their fast. Not that she missed Mereno. Beyond acknowledging the basics of politeness she had deliberately avoided him as much as possible, although she knew he constantly watched her with those suspicious soulless eyes.

  Only once had he arrogantly questioned her about Jesamiah.

  “You were my brother’s whore, I believe?”

  The insult had stung, but Tiola had answered with proud dignity. “I was no whore, Surr. Your brother used me ill. I am here to see him hang for it.” She had despised denying Jesamiah, but for as long as it was necessary, had to pretend she had no care or feeling for him beyond that of hatred.

  Henry Jennings was seated alone at the table. He greeted her with courtesy and enquired after Mrs Rogers’ progress. “You have a compress placed on the ankle, I trust? And keeping it tight-strapped?” Bowed an apology. “Forgive me, I was forgetting you have somewhat of a reputation as a healer.”

  Of all the men Tiola liked Captain Jennings, a considerate and affable gentleman. She could understand why Jesamiah had so admired him.

  “Do you know where my husband has gone?” she asked, attempting to restrain her anxiety. “He was absent for much of the night. I have an urgent necessity to ask something particular of him.”

  Something had occurred last night, Tiola had sensed its imbalance, but she had been unable to pursue it for Mrs Rogers’ distress had required her full attention. At least now the woman was sleeping, the palpitations of her heart ceased.

  “I believe your husband had reason to accompany the Governor and Mr Mereno to the fort this morning,” Jennings said casually as he spread honey on fresh-baked bread.

  Tiola’s face remained passive, not a muscle moved.

  Monitoring her reaction he continued, “Last night, your husband and Mereno claim they were in the fortunate position of apprehending another vessel, preventing it from leaving in a similar despicable fashion to Charles Vane.” He took a bite of bread, chewed, swallowed. “As you must be aware, any pirate who refuses the King’s amnesty will be subject to hanging without clemency.”

  He finished the bread, poured tea for himself and Tiola; observed, “Although it seems strange to me, as a seaman, that a man should attempt to sail his ship out of harbour barely four hours after he has dropped anchor. Especially while his crew are ashore sampling the delights Nassau has to offer. Curious, do you not think?” While busy with the tea his attention had glanced away from Tiola, now he observed her closely. “As much as I admire him – he is, I concede, an excellent mariner – I doubt even Captain Acorne could take the Sea Witch out of harbour on his own.”

  He had sat here, anxious, for more than half an hour waiting for her and received the reward he had been hoping for. Tiola’s cheeks drained pale, a muted gasp left her lips and she was thrusting back her chair, scrambling to her feet. “Jesamiah is here?”

  “The Sea Witch dropped anchor half an hour after moonrise last night, but her captain, because of this fabricated nonsense, has been a guest of His Majesty’s Governor for most of the hours of darkness. He is reclining with the rats and the filth in the dungeons of Nassau’s dilapidated fort.”

  She was off, running like a rabbit up a bolt-hole escaping from hunting ferrets.

  Jennings drank his tea. So, the rumours about Jesamiah’s lost love were true then? Van Overstratten’s wife had indeed been Jesamiah’s woman, she was the one he had been pining for all these months. Jennings could quite see why. The only thing he could not understand – the tongue wagging had not extended that far – was why Acorne had left her behind in Cape Town in the first place. The damned fool. Women as attractive as she had no right to be abandoned, nor did they deserve to have mean-minded toad spawn such as van Overstratten as a husband.

  Jennings was fond of Acorne; he had already tried reasoning, unsuccessfully, with Governor Rogers against this disgraceful imprisonment. Mereno and van Overstratten were men who assumed they could get whatever they wanted by paying enough money and damn the cost in human terms. Men like these were building personal empires and making their fortune from the miserable labour of others throughout the Colonies.

  Fervently, Jennings hoped this pretty young woman would have more persuasion over Rogers than he so far had managed. If the Governor chose to continue turning a deaf ear and blind eye to what was happening in the dungeons of his fort, then, God help him, Acorne would be dead by the morrow morning.

  Nineteen

  Jesamiah moaned, attempted to move, thought better of it. Stayed where he was on his back in the cell they had dragged him to, somewhere in the bowels of the fort. His eyes were closed. He would open them soon, when the spinning stopped. Something warm and wet was dribbling down his face from his temple, from his cheek and mouth too. He tried moving his arms, gasped as an angry shout from protesting muscles shot up and down his body. His muzzy brain registered several sluggish facts; he could not move his arms, they were tied together at the wrists behind him. Tied too tight, the rope was biting into the flesh. Cramp was swarming from fingertip to shoulder.

  He squeezed open his eyes and the early morning sun streaming in through the high, narrow bars of the cell’s single window hit him smartly in the face. Another mean blow from another bully.

  He shut his eyes again. Concentrated. He was bleeding. Loss of blood was not desirable but he was still alive – he thought – therefore he had not bled to death. Not yet anyway.

  Slowly, very slowly, he built the courage to alter position. It was going to hurt but he had to move, had to roll to his side because if he did not the vomit churning in his gullet would choke him. He took a breath, released it in a sudden gush as the pain from several broken ribs lunged into his torso. Tried again.

  He rolled, half pushing half squirming. Passed out.

  Groaning into the bloodied dirt beneath his face, Jesamiah felt even more wretched than he had before. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious, some while he assumed, for the sun was no longer directly on him, slanting instead to his left. He had been sick, the stink of it was beside him, spewed down his clothes, dribbled into his beard.

  Pushing himself to his knees with his elbow and sheer brute force, ignoring the discomfort and another wave of nausea, he attempted to rise to his feet. Abandoned the idea as the wall swam by in a series of dizzying circles. Decided he preferred to be lying down. At least the floor kept still.

  He stared up at the window, at the cl
ear blue sky beyond. Why had they not simply killed him? Strung him up from the yardarm and left him dangling? He laughed, a mocking sound that echoed against the damp walls and was instantly bitten back into a blood-frothed cough. He knew the answer to that riddle.

  Because they had not finished with him. There was more of this to come.

  He dozed, slipping in and out of consciousness. When he awoke again the sun had moved another inch and van Overstratten, his brother and Governor Rogers had come to gloat.

  Go on kick me as well, Jesamiah thought through gritted teeth, peering at Woodes Rogers, one eye half blinded by congealed blood.

  By design prison cells were disgusting places. Covering his nose and mouth with a linen kerchief, his expression wrinkling in distaste at the assault by a variety of obnoxious odours, Rogers bent over Jesamiah and tipped his chin upward, examining him.

  To van Overstratten he said, “Jesamiah Acorne y’say? I met him in Cape Town? I do not recall him.” He straightened, wiped the blood smeared across his fingers on the square of linen then dropped it to the floor. He tutted, shook his head, uncertain about all this. It had a bad smell as foetid as this cell. “He has as much right to the offer of pardon as anyone. I cannot have one law for one pirate and one for another.”