Sea Witch

by Hollick, Helen

  He managed a few paces, found his legs were shaking, Rue took one side, Isiah the other their arms entwined around his waist to give support, Tiola moving ahead with the lanterns; Jesamiah biting his lip to stop the cry from getting further than the groan in his throat.

  They were being too slow, there were ladders to climb yet – dispensing with nicety Rue muttered an apology, hoisted his captain over his shoulder and scurried above, shouting urgent orders as he took long strides across the open deck. Setting Jesamiah down he propped him against the gunwale near the bow and marching astern, bellowed further commands.

  “We are leaving. Belay what you are doing you scurvy dogs, and return aboard! Belay it I say!”

  The bright light dazzled Jesamiah’s eyes. He closed them, rested his head against the bulwark and sucked in lungfuls of the sweet, cool air, relishing the feel of the wind on his face. He was hurting, several of his ribs were broken, his ring finger on his right hand. His thighs, buttocks, lower back – internally and externally – were bruised and sore from the repeated beatings, and other unpleasant things that Phillipe had inflicted upon him. His limbs were shaking as if they were made of marrow jelly, but none of it mattered, none of it, now he was out of that black darkness. Tentative, he opened his eyes, blinked several times, water streaming from them; smiled a lop-sided reassurance at Tiola kneeling beside him, her face lovely.

  “I don’t think I feel very well,” he admitted.

  She stroked her finger tenderly down his face, hovering over the bruises, the swellings and the cuts; some would need stitching, one or two would be leaving scars. She assessed the obvious injuries, wondering how deep ran those she could not see. The ones in his mind, especially. She knew how he hated the dark, and had a rough, idea of what Phillipe had done to him. She thrust those thoughts aside, however.

  “I am a healer I will soon get you better.” She had to sound positive, to believe it. “Let’s get you aboard the Sea Witch, to your cabin.” Her arm supporting him, she helped him to his feet.

  Shouts. Someone running. Sudden confusion. Someone was slamming into Tiola from behind, pushing her and Jesamiah, shoving them aside by brute force.

  Taken by surprise Tiola screamed as they fell, tumbling over the rail, plummeting straight down into the cold Atlantic that wallowed where Sea Witch had swung a few feet outward, Ruby being pulled in the opposite direction by the trail of her fallen mainmast dragging in the water.

  Phillipe Mereno had seized his chance. Herded with the ship’s master and first mate on to the quarterdeck, threatened with pistols and muskets, he had fumed, impotent to do anything, failing to realise this was not a run-of-the-mill pirate attack. His anger reached the level of apoplectic rage as it became apparent this was specific, this dross, these dregs, had come to rescue his half-brother. He found it incredible that someone would actually want to bother.

  His disgust was aimed at the filth who were invading his ship and the cowardice of the men who were supposed to be his crew. To have surrendered so quickly? To have not put up a fight to the last man? Words failed him.

  And when he saw his brother on deck, supported by the woman who was van Overstratten’s wife, his anger boiled over into a livid rage. This son of the whore who had replaced his mother and who had stolen his father’s love and attention would not see his freedom again!

  He was not concerned for his own safety, Phillipe truly believed no one would dare harm him. When something distracted his captors’ attention he took full advantage of it.

  They had not bound their prisoners, had merely ushered them to the stern and held them there by the threat of weapons. Guardship! the word was whispering, running like wildfire. Phillipe Mereno thought these men, this scum, were like frightened rabbits, their scuts white-bobbing as they darted in frantic circles. He seized his chance and hit out with his fist, throwing a punch to a Jaw that sent the recipient reeling. He ran, sprinting across the deck, hearing not seeing his officers at last find the grit to fight for their lives. Ran, head down, for the man leaning groggily against the rail towards the bow.

  The satisfaction as he watched his brother and that adulterous harlot tumble overboard was as intense as any excitement of sexual pleasure. It was not the end he had planned for Jesamiah but anything was better than seeing him rescued and delivered from misery.

  Twenty Nine

  Tethys crowed her delight, the unpleasant sound clawing through the depths of her undersea world. With the speed of a darting fish she thrust upward towards the surface, her glee trailing behind in a stream of air bubbles.

  ~ I have come for my payment. For the gift you promised! ~

  ~ As is your right. I am of the Craft, I honour a promise made. ~

  The intense cold shocked Jesamiah into awareness, his fuddled mind snapping to attention as he plunged down through the water. He was bare-foot, wore only a loose shirt and breeches, apart from the shrilling pain had nothing to impede his arms and legs. The coldness of the Atlantic rapidly numbed all feeling, although his mind registered he was going to hurt like hell once he got out of this. Salt water seeping into open wounds would be unbearable. Kicking out, he swam upward thankful that unlike many a seaman he could swim. Saw Tiola face down, her gown spread around her as if they were the skirts of a jellyfish. Her arm, somehow, caught on the encrusted barnacles of Phillipe’s ship.

  And he knew, knew before he reached her that she was dead.

  Three minutes? Four? He was in the water no longer. Sailors knew the dangers, were quick to re-act. Seeing Jesamiah come up nearer to the Sea Witch’s bow than the schooner’s, the crew had boat hooks out. Rue and Isiah Roberts leapt from one ship to the other to haul Jesamiah aboard as he clung, one handed, to a tossed line, his other arm, aching from the damage Phillipe had inflicted, locked tight around Tiola’s limp waist, holding her close. Telling himself it would be better to leave her for she would only have to be put back, knowing he could not. The struggle to free her had taken the last of his strength.

  He crumpled on the deck of Sea Witch, shivering, his teeth rattling, the unbelievable stinging from the salt hurting his entire body. Everything, internal and external, agony; his hand with the broken bone in the ring finger swollen; his joints, knee, shoulder, ankle, all bruised, sore to a point almost beyond endurance. He ignored all of it. The other pain shouted the rest of it into non-existence. She was gone. He had lost her. And this time, this time, there would be no finding her again. This time, it was final.

  Rue put a coat around his shoulders, someone shouted for Finch to fetch rum. Jesamiah heard, felt, wanted, none of it.

  Tiola had cried out as she fell, the surprise gushing the sound from her lungs. Her mouth open she took in water as she went down and her sleeve snagged against the Ruby’s keel, stopping her from sinking. She kicked with her feet but she was caught tight. She tried to tear at it, the material refusing to give, the sharp, serrated barnacle shells obstinately clinging.

  It was cold, so cold here in the water, and the two ships loomed, frightening, above her. If they should swing inward, come together while she was trapped here…She tried again to tear herself free and realised it was hopeless, nothing mortal or natural was binding her.

  ~ I want my gift. I want him. I want Acorne. ~

  ~ Of what use is he to you, Tethys? He is mortal, his body will decay and rot and then you shall have nothing but his bones as your prize. Do you not have enough of those already? ~

  Malicious. Insistent. Demanding. ~ Then give me something of his which shall not rot! ~

  For Jesamiah’s life, it seemed fair exchange.

  Thirty

  Jesamiah sat, devoid of all thought staring, blank, at Tiola lying lifeless on the deck of the Sea Witch, her wet hair clinging to a face as white as alabaster. Her lips were tinged blue, there was no breath, no beat of her heart. She had gone. Gone forever from him and suddenly he did not care about anything any more, whether he hurt or not, whether he lived or died. Nothing mattered. Not now. Not ever againr />
  They covered her with the pirate flag and Rue, squatting in front of him, asked what he wanted done with Mereno and the men of the Ruby. Jesamiah made no answer.

  “Come on lad, let me get you below. Get you dried and warm, non?”

  As if he were a father tending his invalid son Rue lifted his friend to his feet, threaded his strong arm around his waist and began to guide Jesamiah towards the sanctuary of the captain’s cabin.

  For a few steps Jesamiah meekly complied, then he paused to check they were tending Tiola with reverent care and he glanced across at the Ruby warped alongside. Saw his brother standing there on the fore-deck, hands on hips, laughing. Openly, derisively laughing.

  Phillipe could not resist the opportunity for an extra half mile of vindictive taunting. “Dead is she?” he smirked, safe in the knowledge that the piece of filth he had been forced to call brother was not able to retaliate. Jesamiah was weaponless, beaten and broken. He stank of his own filth and vomit; had been shamed and humiliated, had pleaded to be left alone. Oh, it had been good to see him grovel, to hear him beg!

  Swaggering forwards a few paces, arrogantly presumptuous, Phillipe jeered again. “Well, well Jesamiah, my intention was to incarcerate you in the deepest pit and leave you there to starve or gnaw at your own limbs. I appear to have achieved my aim. I have sent you there!”

  Blind rage consumed Jesamiah. All pain, all physical feeling disappeared with that blood-rush of hot fury. He shook Rue free and ran, yelling something, some wild animal noise of hatred that had no meaning beyond a ululation of bereaved sound. He was up on the rails, a loose line of cordage in his hands, swung across the narrow gap between the Sea Witch and the Ruby; landed awkwardly, rolled, was up running again, oblivious to everything except Phillipe’s malicious crowing. And as Jesamiah ran his hand went to a bedraggled ribbon tied into his hair, tugged it free. It was filthy, but it was a ribbon he needed, no matter its colour or condition.

  From the age of almost fifteen, when something, someone – Tiola – had awakened his ability to fight, Jesamiah had been a pirate. Pirates were hard men, piracy a hard life dominated by the stench of blood and the constant threat of the gallows. For a few, for those like Jesamiah who were intelligent, capable men, the life was easier, but they still met their share of staring death in the face and the brutality of killing, of never knowing if the Grim Reaper was waiting, dark-hooded, on the next chase or at the next anchorage. In the indignity of the noose.

  Malachias Taylor had taught Jesamiah all he knew. Had taught him well – how to sail a ship, how to feel her moods, to get that one last, essential knot of speed. To navigate, use a sextant, read charts. How to enjoy a woman, drink rum. And how to fight. How to kill.

  “Anyone can kill, boy. Anyone, even drunk, can fire a pistol or stab with a knife – and hope it finds its mark, that the one who’s dead don’t get up ag’in. I’ve seen many a good pirate end ‘is life by turnin’ ‘is back an’ makin’ a last mistake. To kill proper you need to kill quick, clean and thorough. No messin’ about, a’tauntin’ and pussy-footin’ with one o’ them fancy swords. I’ll show you two ways of ‘ow to kill a man Jes boy, so ‘e stays killed. As y’father once showed me.”

  As he ran, his fingers not feeling the broken bone, Jesamiah automatically tied a particular knot in the centre of the ribbon. A knot Taylor and Charles Mereno before him had used when it was especially needed. Quick and clean and thorough.

  And Phillipe realised his mistake. Saw his doom coming straight at him. He screeched his panic and fled; on a ship, there was nowhere to run.

  With his back pressed hard against the bulwark he stretched out one hand, a gesture pleading for mercy. As so many, many times Jesamiah had pleaded for mercy from him. He glanced down, below was the grey roll of the sea. Phillipe could swim but not well, and where would he swim to?

  Again he looked at Jesamiah approaching at a walk now, menace and intent contorting his bruised face, the wet shirt and breeches clinging to his battered body, the bedraggled ribbon wound around his hands, the length between them stretched taut.

  Forcing an ingratiating smile, his gaze darting about the deck desperate for something to use as a defensive weapon, Phillipe spread both hands wide and lied through his back teeth. “Brother! It was an accident, I did not mean for her to drown. Surely you realise that?”

  A few feet away there was a pistol on the deck, could he reach it? He inched to the side not daring to glance at what he hoped would be his salvation.

  “Jesamiah? You said yourself, we are grown men. Can we not put the mistakes of the past aside? Look to the future?” Another inch; the pistol was beside his foot. “You can have half the plantation. All my ships. Whatever you want is yours. Anything, just name it.” Almost added, You can have Alicia, but thought better of it – he plunged downward, scooped up the pistol and standing upright levelled it at his brother’s heart, his quivering fingers desperately trying to drag the hammer back.

  Still Jesamiah came on, stepping silently in bare feet over a bloodied corpse its eyes open, staring. Walked on, every fibre of his body, every nerve of his senses focussed on the coward snivelling in front of him.

  The sweat on Phillipe’s palms was making it difficult to grip the pistol butt, his thumb could not get enough purchase on the hammer to draw it back – he used the palm of his shaking hand to do it, as a woman would – aimed, shut his eyes, squeezed the trigger…

  Nothing happened. No flash of a spark striking the flint, no puff of igniting smoke, no sharp bang or jerked recoil. Nothing. Nothing, except an empty hollow click.

  Urine trickled down Phillipe’s legs, puddled in his shoes and stained his breeches. And then the smell of fear; of evacuated liquid faeces. Terrified, he hurled the useless gun at Jesamiah who neatly sidestepped, not deigning to notice where it fell.

  There was no mistaking the focussed hatred in Jesamiah’s formidable eyes. Phillipe’s voice quivered, rising to a shriek of panic as he began to beg in earnest. “Jesamiah, you cannot do this. I am your brother! We are of the same blood – for pity’s sake I beg you! I do not want to die!”

  Jesamiah continued walking. Said nothing. Heard none of it.

  Terror overwhelming him Phillipe darted to the side, tried to get away but Jesamiah, despite his hurts, perhaps because of them, moved the quicker; stood behind him.

  The second method of killing. One he had used enough times to know how to do it well, as Malachias had taught him. Effective and efficient. He lifted the ribbon high, brought it down around Phillipe’s neck hooking his hands behind, fast and firm, crossing his arms and locking his wrists together for purchase. The ribbon jerked tight hauling Phillipe, gurgling and sputtering to a halt. In the same fluid movement Jesamiah took one large step backwards.

  Mereno’s hands were at the narrow strip of silk, clawing at the knot pressing into his windpipe, his fingers and nails scrabbling, trying to tear the thing free. Through his choking breath he was still trying to beg, to plead for Jesamiah to see reason. He tried to kick out, tried to stamp down, but Jesamiah knew that trick and was not within reach. His spine bending backwards, Mereno’s breath was rattling in his throat, the blood pumping from his heart with nowhere to flow for the carotid artery was being crushed by the squeezing pressure of a knotted ribbon. A blue ribbon that usually fluttered, innocuous, from Jesamiah’s chaos of black hair. A thing worn and valued not for vanity, but for its easy use of killing.

  “Save your begging for the Devil, Brother,” Jesamiah rasped. “Instead of wasting my time emptying my seed into your wife, I should have finished you when we last met, you bastard.”

  A cannon ball whistled with the familiar whoomph of sound across the Ruby’s bows. Someone shouted a warning. Rue. Jesamiah did not hear.

  “Take this as what I owe you, Phillipe,” Jesamiah snarled as with the strength of his crossed arms he pulled the ribbon one, last, bit tighter, administering the coup de grace. “And tomorrow I’ll meet you in Hell.”

  Rue
was shouting his name, shrieking at Jesamiah to leave it! Leave him!

  “Get aboard Jes! It’s the Carolina Revenge! Get aboard!”

  Isiah and several of the men were chopping through the warping ropes securing them to the Ruby. Canvas was spilling from Sea Witch’s masts and she was beginning to move away from the red-hulled schooner, tugging at the last line binding them together. Under immense strain the stretching cordage groaned as she began to gather way.

  “Jesamiah! Come on!”

  It was only because he had to bury Tiola that Jesamiah released his hold and let the ribbon and Phillipe’s twitching corpse fall. He looked up, the breath tight in his chest and throat, the pain of all his hurts returning with a vengeance. He saw the Carolina Revenge bearing down on them under full sail and the distinctive white streak of another cannon ball shrieking across the closing gap between them. With a plume of spray it landed short by a few inches. The next one would not.

  His brother was dead but Jesamiah wanted to make sure he would receive no Christian burial. No one was to stand beside his grave and mourn. He did not deserve respect, deserved to suffer the fate of the unburied for all eternity. Phillipe was no sailor, he had no gold tooth, no gold earring, had nothing with which to pay the Ferryman to cross, in peace, into the next world. Without remorse or pity Jesamiah dragged the twitching body the few yards to where the bulwark had been shot away. Shoved it over the side. Did not bother to wait to hear the splash.

  Willing hands stretched out to catch him as, grasping a length of torn shroud, he swung across the increasing distance between the two ships, the scream of agony gasping in his throat as the rush of blood-heat cooled, and physical and mental awareness slammed a return to reality.