He slid out of bed and hitched on his breeches. He made to stow away the wash-jug and basin just as the ship began to keel more violently from side to side. With difficulty he crossed back and forth to the locker, carrying a shaving mug, the chamberpot, a water flagon. When it was done, he climbed back into bed. Out of the porthole he could see the oily surface of the sea coming up towards them, followed all too soon after by the gaping black hole of the sky.
As the night drew on, and the ship’s timbers began to moan and the sails whipped louder, he lay beside her and prayed silently, asking God for a safe passage, and for deliverance–not his own but hers. He assumed that God would be disapproving of his lust, but to his surprise his conscience remained untroubled. He was following some inner law of natural behaviour, and as he prayed he discovered that his God had changed, become more forgiving, more accepting of him. It was a great wonder to him. He realized he had prayed to many different ideas of God through his lifetime. How strange it was, that each man’s God seemed to be his own unique creation.
The ship heaved and rolled through the night in heavy seas. Richard had to go above decks to vomit but Alice seemed unperturbed by the motion. When he returned she was asleep still, her face pale, almost luminous, against the dark blankets.
The hammer of the rain stopped. Curious, he pressed his face to their cabin window again to see the skin of the sea stretched out into the distance, like the back of a great black dragon arching its spine. He paced the floor, restless and unable to sleep, making plans in his mind. Stephen had loaned them a large amount but he worried it might not be enough for their needs. He took up writing materials and calculated the likely cost of the passage, and worked out what essentials they might be able to afford to give them a start in the New World. He wanted to prepare, for he worried that Alice was bound for a rough life, not of her own choosing.
His eyes kept returning to her sleeping figure–he relived the breathless passion of the night before. He could still feel her touch as if newly branded on his skin, the way his body tingled beneath her fingers, the softness of her lips. She had pressed her mouth tenderly to his scar, the raised weal that ran down his chest like the mark of a whip. She had not asked him about it, and her tenderness and quiet acceptance of it touched him.
Through the night they had heard the bells for the changes of watch, right enough, but their time was slow and meandering as each uncovered traces of the other’s past, the memories interspersed with languorous touches. Richard found with awe that his hunger for Alice, and the fact that he had so nearly lost her, became a desire to look into her eyes and drown there, and this seemed to him to be a great paradox–that his love became the shadow of death, haunting, just beneath the surface of his thoughts.
He climbed back in beside her, cold and damp and still half dressed. He stroked her smooth back. She rolled over.
‘Thou art all gooseflesh,’ she murmured, rubbing at his arms. ‘Here, let me hold thee.’ She chafed his hands between hers, bringing them to her lips to blow on them.
‘I never thought to hear it, but the Quaker speech sits well with thee,’ he said.
She smiled up at him and squeezed his hand. ‘Hast thou been up on deck?’
‘Seems I left my sea legs in Lancaster,’ he said ruefully.
‘And we are set to sail to the other side of the world,’ she murmured. ‘Thou must purchase a new pair straight away.’
‘If there’s any coin left over when I have paid our passage, then I’ll get myself a good strong set, and maybe a spare pair for thee too.’
The next morning Geoffrey peered through the crack of the shutter that faced the deck. From here he could keep an eye on the Master and the crew. He winced and drew back a moment as daylight reached his eyes. Behind the shutter, drops of condensation rolled across the window in diagonal streaks. The morning was chill and misty, the rigging a hazy grey against a whiter sky. The men were hauling in sail.
He blinked. Over by the mizzen he saw the faint outline of a woman’s figure climb the steps. She was clinging to the handrail with one hand and carrying a basin in the other. Geoffrey stared. The mist distorted his view through the window. He must be imagining it, there were no women on board. He opened the shutter a little more. The crew ignored her presence and carried on shortening sail. He thought he saw the woman struggle over to the side and tip the contents of the basin overboard, before turning and walking carefully back towards the steps. It was Alice Ibbetson. Geoffrey’s stomach turned over. But that was impossible–she had been hanged this morning at Lancaster.
He took an involuntary step away from the window. When he looked again, she was gone and the men were working as before. He flung open the door and rushed outside towards the steps, the cold morning air wet on his face. He stared wildly about him but there was no trace of her. The ranks of men raised their eyes from their tasks to watch him, and under their curious gaze he withdrew sheepishly into his cabin.
He slumped back into his chair. ‘Get a hold of yourself, man,’ he said to himself, ‘she’s dead.’ He had not realized he would be so affected by the Ibbetson woman’s death. It must be the stress of it; his overtaxed mind had conjured up her image, that was all. What time had she died? He could not remember. He shivered, the sudden cold seemed to gnaw at his bones. Perhaps her ghost had come to find him. He told himself firmly there were no such things as ghosts.
He must set to a practical task, stop these strange fancies. He poured himself a double measure of rum and felt its sweet warmth hit the back of his throat. He took his morning remedy as usual. He would finish writing to Stephen. But his hands had a tremor like an old man as he opened the drawer and picked up the quill. He could not uncork the bottle of ink, and when he tried to read what he had already written, it was blurred and, try as he might, he could not bring the words into focus. A shout on the deck above and he thought he heard the crack of Alice Ibbetson’s neck as she swung, saw her eyes looking at him in reproach. Was she looking down on him now?
Seized with the feeling of being watched, he let the letter drop quietly back into the drawer. He swivelled his head to look over his shoulder and thought he caught a glimpse of the old woman just inside the door. His heart leapt in his chest. He jumped up but she had melted away, like a mirage. His heart was beating too fast, he thought. If it kept on like this it might burst and he would die, he had heard of such things happening–a man’s heart might stop altogether if he had a shock. Two women were in their graves because of him, and they were exacting vengeance.
A panic assailed him. He wanted to pray but no words would come; his ears buzzed, his legs were soft as cotton. When he drew his hand across his brow he found that sweat dewed his forehead; he clutched the raised edges of the desk and breathed in shallow noisy gulps with his tongue protruding from his mouth like a dog. It felt as if his chest was squeezed in a metal band, like a barrel, and he knew if he couldn’t get enough air he was going to die.
He grappled along the shelf for his Bible and, clasping it to his chest, threw himself face down onto his bunk. Grunting, he stretched out an arm and dragged his leather satchel towards him across the floor by its strap. Still holding the Bible, he felt inside the satchel for his flask of brandy, and rolled onto his back before emptying the dregs into his mouth.
The act of doing this calmed him, and he willed himself to slow his breath. He crossed his arms across the stiff leather of the book and felt the comforting weight of it pressing down on him. ‘One, two, three, four…’ He counted a beam on the ceiling with each inhalation. The idea he might be losing his wits terrified him. Once, his hand slid inside his waistcoat and felt the rough skin of his chest through his shirt. His skin was hot, his heart still beating too fast, but the thump beneath his palm was reassuring. The cabin was barely moving now, the slap of the waves turned to a gentle lapping. He stayed on his bunk, rigid, staring up at the ceiling. It was eerily quiet. The uncanny feeling remained, that if he turned to look he would see the old woman sit
ting there in his chair. He dared himself to look. There was nobody there.
A sharp knock on his door made him startle. The Bible thudded to the deck as he sat up. He reached to the hook for his sword belt and buckled it on. Agitated, he dragged out his sea trunk, flipped it open and found his flintlock. He shoved it into his belt.
It was the Master.
‘There’s another ship close by, sir. We think she’s passed us, but we heard her six bell. Just letting you know we’ll have to keep the bell tolling, sir. We cannot risk a collision in this fog.’
As if to punctuate his words the doleful clangour of the bell began. Geoffrey groaned and put his hands over his ears.
‘Get out,’ he shouted.
The noise vibrated through to his core. Unable to bear it in his cabin, he went out on deck, holding his head. The ship was almost at a standstill, apart from the vague shapes of two men above tugging on the bell rope. He could scarcely see a yard before him. Figures loomed out of the mist and then disappeared into it again. There was no horizon, no sea, no sky, everything seemed to have been swallowed in a white shroud.
He felt his way across the deck, from handhold to handhold, grasping at the rigging as he went. The men were leaning over the rails peering into the fog. He looked up. The bare masts swayed above him like burnt-out trees, the tops fading into nothingness.
Then he saw her again, Alice Ibbetson, leaning over the rail. He would recognize that russet hair anywhere. He rubbed his eyes. She seemed to drift away, down the stairs. He watched her disappear below decks before following her. He stumbled in his haste to see where she went, tripping over one of the big guns, ready in case the French should attack again. He brought himself back to upright, his head throbbing, and set off towards the steps. It was impossible to hurry, for the decks were still awash after the rain, and he cursed as his feet slipped in the wet despite the fact that the ship was barely tilting.
He ducked into the tween-deck corridor and flung open the first door; it banged back against the wall. He caught a glimpse of her standing with her back to him, folding a piece of linen, but at the sound of the door she swung round. Her eyes widened, her hands flew up to her mouth. ‘By all the saints…?’ She took a step back. ‘My God,’ she whispered. ‘Geoffrey, ’tis thee.’
Richard waited outside the owner’s cabin swinging his purse by its strings.
Perhaps he was not in.
After the squally night he was glad the roll of the decks had dwindled to a gentle rock and he was feeling less queasy. He took in a few good lungfuls of air, tasting the salt in his mouth, though the morning mist made it seem as if they were gliding through steam.
Richard knocked again, the rap of his knuckles staccato in the silence. He waited a few more minutes before deciding to stroll down to the prow to stretch his legs. When he set off, the decks were quiet. The ship had taken on water last night and he could hear the sound of men baling below. He walked the length of the deck, lost in thoughts of New England, summoning the maps from his atlas to his mind, musing on the crops of cotton and tobacco.
When he returned, he was about to knock on the owner’s door for a third time when faintly in the distance he heard a bell toll.
‘Saints preserve us, it’s another ship,’ said one of the men appearing close by, but then all sound was drowned by their own bell giving its answering call.
Richard went to join the men leaning over the side. They were still, like statues, trying to pierce through the whiteness with their eyes, searching for the other vessel.
‘Curse this fog,’ shouted the man next to him above the pealing din. ‘You never know what’s out there. Can’t get no bearings without sun nor stars. ’Tis easy to be off course, run aground, see. Or worse, hit another ship. And you can’t tell which way she’s drifting.’
‘Sounds like the bell’s coming from over there, behind us.’ Richard pointed.
‘Could be.’ He leaned in to talk into Richard’s ear. ‘But then it might just as easy be ahead of us. There’s no telling in this.’
They looked out again over the rails.
‘Were you after Sir Fisk?’ the sailor shouted in his ear.
‘What?’ Richard thought he had misheard him, the bell was still clanging above them.
‘I saw you knock on his door.’
‘What didst thou say his name was?’
‘He’s gone that way. Old Scratcher. Sir Geoffrey. Not ten minutes ago, down yon stairs. The Master’s cabin—’
But Richard did not catch any more of his words, he was already running across the deck.
Alice clutched the piece of linen to her chest, unable to grasp what she was seeing. The jarring sound from above made it hard to think.
‘So it is you,’ said Geoffrey, ‘but I saw you last night, clear as clear, your feet were swinging…you were…’ His voice tailed away.
She could barely recognize him. He wore no wig and his face was gaunt and hollow-eyed. He took a tentative step nearer, looking at her as if she were an apparition.
‘How did you—’ she began.
He recoiled as if she had slapped him. ‘Leave me alone,’ he shouted, flattening himself to the wall of the cabin, ‘get away from me.’
‘Geoffrey—’
‘Get back.’ He looked at her through bleary eyes as if he did not know who she was. He shook his head as if to clear it. Suddenly he lurched towards her and took hold of her arm. She let out a cry of surprise.
‘You’re no ghost.’ He thrust her away. ‘How did you get on my ship?’
Geoffrey’s ship. She blanched. It couldn’t be true.
‘You were to swing for me, in my place. For the old woman’s death.’
Alice tried to take it in but could not order her thoughts. An instinct made her shrink away from him.
‘She’s following me,’ he said, ‘she won’t rest in peace. She’s on board somewhere. She thinks I don’t know but I’ve seen her, hiding in the shadows.’
‘You do not look well,’ Alice stammered, ‘let me fetch the physician.’ She started to move towards the door. She must find Richard, fetch help.
‘No,’ said Geoffrey, slamming the door behind him. He slid the bolt across. ‘I need time to think. I need to think what to do with you.’
A chill went over her. She prayed for Richard to come back. He had gone to the owner’s cabin. But the owner was here, so surely he would be back soon.
‘You can never go back to Westmorland,’ Geoffrey said.
‘I am not thinking to return.’ Her voice sounded normal, but her lips were dry. She sat down. Her heart was pounding. She must get him away from the door.
‘Come and sit a moment, Geoffrey.’ She indicated the place beside her.
He did not respond but continued to pace up and down in front of the door. He plucked at the fabric of his breeches with a shaking hand.
‘Tell me about your plans,’ she said. ‘I hear there are many interesting plants in the New World, like the orchid you showed me.’ She tried again. ‘You recall, Geoffrey, do you not, the orchid we were cultivating together, the lady’s slipper?’
‘Of course I remember.’ His eyes refocused on her as if she were a simpleton. ‘It has turned out to be a very valuable medicinal plant, just as I said it would.’
‘I am afraid the seedlings will not survive, now I am gone.’
‘Oh, but they will.’ He gave a hoarse laugh. ‘All your goods were forfeit by the court. No, I am growing them on myself. Johnson has care of them whilst I am away.’
‘That’s good.’
‘That idiot constable. He would have disposed of them. Can you believe it? Had no idea of their importance, of course.’
‘Come sit down then, and tell me how the plants are faring,’ she said.
Geoffrey stepped towards her. His colour had come back and now his eyes were less wild. ‘I am taking the extract of nerveroot myself. Look.’ He fumbled in his pocket and held out a small phial between his finger and thumb.
&
nbsp; ‘May I see?’ If she could only get him a little further from the door. She patted the bunk next to her.
‘I have made enough to last until I return,’ he said, ‘and the new plants are already showing.’
‘No, that cannot be right. You must be mistaken, the lady’s slippers would not be showing yet, only the—’ She bit her lip.
‘What?’ A fraction’s pause before he lunged to grab hold of her shoulders.
She took her chance and ducked out of his grasp. She leapt at the door, tugging to release the bolt, but it was damp and slippery and her fingers could get no purchase on it.
He launched himself at her back and thrust her aside with a force that made her stagger. He put his hands on her shoulders and shook her the way a dog shakes a rat.
‘You bitch. Which shelf were they on?’
Alice could not catch her breath to speak.
‘The lady’s slippers. Which bloody shelf?’
‘I don’t know–’ his thumbs pressed into her neck–‘the middle shelf.’
He gave a howl of rage. Alice choked, ‘It was the middle shelf.’
There was a moment’s pause before he slapped her hard across the face. ‘No. The top shelf. Tell me it was the top one.’
She did not dare move.
His voice dropped. ‘My God. I’ve thrown them away.’ With sudden violence he pushed her back against the wall, pinioning her there with a hand at her throat.
‘Stupid bloody bitch. You did not label them properly.’
‘Richard!’ she cried.
‘Quiet.’ He clamped a hand over her mouth and manhandled her across the room towards the door. She swiped at the bench for anything to use as a weapon and her hand scattered some papers before it closed around a quill knife. She felt its thin cold edge with her fingers. She jabbed it upwards, but a moment too late. He took hold of her wrist and, bending the fingers back, seized it from her hand.
She felt the needle of the blade penetrate her shoulder as he brought his full weight down behind it. The blow instantly weakened her. She said his name again to bring him to his senses, but felt the suck, and a rush of hot blood, as he pulled the knife out of her shoulder. A mewing sound came out of her mouth. She collapsed backwards.
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