Sea Witch (Sea Witch Voyages)

by Helen Hollick

  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.”

  Dismissing the subject, Jennings began to stroll from the jetty. “Do as your ex-wife suggests,” he said over his shoulder. “Go back to Cape Town. And stay there.”

  Twenty Two

  “Women are not permitted aboard ship.” Rue stood, arms folded his face set grim, blocking the entry port. “Rules of Articles.”

  “Sod the bloody Articles.” Giving a fair mimicry of Jesamiah’s voice Tiola stepped over the rail from where she had climbed up the hull cleats and swept Rue aside with her arm. He was a large man in his mid-forties, tall and heavily built, she, half his size and less than a third his weight. Tiola ignored him, marched towards the quarterdeck and swung herself easily up the narrow companionway ladder.

  “I have seen Jesamiah set sail in a matter of minutes,” she announced, tartly. “Why are we still in harbour? Would it not be best to cut the anchor cable now?”

  “Now, belay a minute, mademoiselle!” Rue blustered, astounded, hurrying up behind her. “Just who in ‘ell do you think you are? Throwing your weight about – what there is of it – aboard my ship?” He scanned her slender figure, reckoned he could lift her with one finger and toss her overboard.

  Tiola cocked her head to one side, her eyes sparking. She was at least two hand-spans shorter than he but her confidence made her appear twice as tall. “I am Tiola Oldstagh and this is my ship.”

  Rue put his fists to his hips, legs straddled and laughed outright at her audacity, a great bull roar rumbling from deep within his belly. “And ‘ow, in all ‘ell, do you figure that one?”

  She copied his pose. “Because Captain Jesamiah Acorne named her after me and because I wear this.” She lifted her hand, showed her marriage finger and the acorn signet ring she had slid from a pocket while in the bum-boat, exchanging it for the one Stefan had put there as proof of ownership. That ring, she had disdainfully dropped into the sea without a second thought. “Because also, I am his woman and he is my mate. And because twice now you have referred to hell. We are not there, Rue – it is Rue, is it not? – Jesamiah is. He has been taken into its burning pit and I intend to fetch him out, preferably while he is still alive and sane. I cannot do so without this ship, however. I would therefore appreciate your help, although I do not need it.”

  Again Rue guffawed. So this was the wench Tiola? Looking at her he could see why Jesamiah had plunged full scale in love with her, aye and broken his heart over losing her. Several scathing answers rumbled into his mind to belay her arguments; about to launch them at her he paused, reconsidered. Henry Jennings had sent word that Jesamiah required urgent assistance, he had seen for himself his captain being dragged aboard that red-hulled ship. Had seen the blood on him, and the stains on the floor of the great cabin aboard this ship.

  To go to this length? Phillipe Mereno must want revenge very badly. Rue had always thought it unwise to have confronted him on his own turf. He frowned at Tiola standing there before him, her dark eyes fixed, unwavering on his. Not a sign of doubt in her. She reminded him of a pet dog he had been given as a boy. Damned thing had a mind of its own and once it got hold of something in its teeth brute force would not have made it let go. Damned loyal little thing. Best friend he had ever had.

  And then he had a sudden suspicion that trying to remove this young woman would not be such a good idea. “Short of physically tossing you over the side, you are not going to leave are you?” he asked shrewdly.

  She shook her head. “I am not.”

  Rubbing at his chin he flung a questioning look at Isiah Roberts who had come up behind him. Roberts shrugged. Across the harbour came the last of the men, pulling hard at the oars.

  “Cut the cable as soon as those laggards are aboard Isiah,” Rue ordered, making a sudden decision, which he hoped was the right one.

  “Aye, Sir!” Roberts grinned, proffered an imitation of a Navy salute, fingers to his fore-crown palm innermost. Soldiers of the army, marines – everyone except a sailor – saluted with the palm faced outward, but then their hands were not permanently grimed from the stain of tar.

  “And you, er, Madame,” Rue pointed his stubby finger, as tar and gunpowder-marked as Isiah’s, at Tiola. “Remove yourself from this quarterdeck. Jesamiah’s cabin is below, I will expect you to remain there.”

  Tiola acknowledged his acceptance of her presence with a polite, feminine curtsey. “Thank you.”

  “You are welcome,” Rue answered as he began loosening off halyards to raise the gaff of the mizzen sail. “Away aloft! Trice up and lay out!” he shouted to the crew. Instantly men ran, eager to obey orders.

  As she stepped down from the quarterdeck he remarked casually, “By the way, I am surprised yo
u ‘ave not learnt from Jesamiah; one person alone cannot sail a ship of this size. Especially not a woman – a slip of a girl such as yourself.” He laughed aloud at the ridiculous thought.

  Tiola smiled pleasantly up at him, thought perhaps this was not the appropriate moment to disillusion him. Indeed, one person alone could not. One witch, however, were she to put her mind to it, certainly could.

  The last of the men, blowing hard from their rowing, scrabbled aboard and hauled in the longboat; others were hurrying aloft, their bodies ascending the shrouds dark against the brilliant blue of the sky, and running out along the yards to cast off the gaskets and wait there, poised, holding the sails.

  Roberts was hurrying forward with two other men – Mr Janson and Toby Turner, Tiola was to learn later – axes over their shoulders. As requested she left the quarterdeck, but had no intention of going below. Instead, she followed behind Mr Roberts, made her way to where the bowsprit soared outward above the sea and the figurehead. As she progressed forward she felt the crew staring at her with mistrust and hostility; there were some men who thought it unlucky to have a woman aboard ship. Curt, and with authority, Rue stowed the muttering with one bark of explanation. “She is the Captain’s woman. She ‘as as much right to go after ‘im, as do we.”

  That was all that was needed.

  “Might not be sensible to stand there Miss,” one of the crew offered respectfully, a young man with the first fuzz of a blond beard grazing his chin. “If the sea blows up rough the spray can be uncomfortable up ‘ere,” the lad advised, knuckling his forehead in respectful salute.

  She guessed him to be ex-Navy, disillusioned, as with many a pirate, by the harsh discipline and sordid conditions. Piracy was as harsh and sordid, but there was an ocean of difference between being your own man or being at the mercy of a Navy captain’s rule of brutal flogging with the lash of a cat o’ nine tails.