He looked at Tiola, appealing for her to understand. “Why is God so cruel? Why does He put a woman through so much and give only death at the end of it?”
What could Tiola answer when there was no answer to such a question?
“We do not know the why of these things, Master Page. Why do the rains not come or why does it flood? Why can the wind blow a ship safe to harbour or wreck it upon the rocks? Why does one child live, another die? It is the way of things and all we can do is keep love in our hearts and trust that we, in return, are loved.”
He nodded, “Yes, yes of course you are right. Of course you are.”
Tiola placed her hand over his. “Until I see your wife I will not know how fares mother and child, but you have my word I will do my best for both of them.”
His smile broadened, spread again into the shine of his blue eyes. “And that is all I ask of you, Mistress van Overstratten.”
“Please, use my midwifery name. As a baby-catcher I prefer to be called Mistress Oldstagh.”
He nodded, trotted off to ensure her luggage was safely brought ashore.
Tiola stared out of the carriage window as a golden moon rose beyond the river, large and dominant against the rapidly darkening sky. An October moon. The Hunter’s Moon.
But who, she wondered, suddenly fearful, were the hunters? And who the prey?
Fifteen
Wednesday 9th October
It took the Sea Witch a couple of days to reach Pamlico Sound, another half a day to wait for the tide to flood and take them safely across the sand bars and then longer than Jesamiah would have wished to sail the fifty miles up river. A wise man would have summoned a pilot to aid them; Jesamiah was wise, but not stupid. Edward Teach had influence, and for all Jesamiah knew the river pilots could be living in his gold-lined pocket. Or even if not, pilots had tongues that clacked as much as any idle housewife’s. Weighing the risk of gossip against navigating the river, Jesamiah chose the river. He had been here before anyway, with Malachias Taylor and with his father. He could remember the shallows, the turgid currents. He never forgot a place he had sailed, and he had a sixth sense for those he had not.
The mouth of the Pamlico River was five miles wide, but even with the benefit of the incoming tide, the wind was, as ever, not in their favour so they had to tack and tack again, each change of direction and hauling of sails adding time to the voyage and strain to the seeping leak. And the shortening of Jesamiah’s temper.
Sea Witch was not a small ship, but she was not designed to help a busy captain avoid an irritating passenger. In the end Jesamiah took his meals with the men, slept in a hammock alongside them and developed a fancy for the solitude of the maintop. At least there he could sit cross-legged, his back against the mast and read the fine poem Alexander Pope had written. The Rape of the Lock. He was enjoying it. Enjoying as much the excuse to be alone.
The height of the maintop also had the advantage of a good view.
Somewhere along here was a partially hidden creek where, when Jesamiah had been a boy, his father had anchored his sloop, Acorn.
Acorn. A noble and spirited little vessel that had turned in her own length and slid over shallows and sand bars as if she had no depth to her keel. Acorn. Promised to Jesamiah. Phillipe had set her ablaze the day they had buried their father. For that, for her destruction, Jesamiah had finally lost the suppressed temper and latent fear and had turned on Phillipe, beating him almost to a pulp. Fearing that he had killed him, Jesamiah had fled, found Taylor and become a pirate. He had taken his name from that sloop. Acorn; adding an ‘e’ for unique distinction.
But now secure the painted Vessel glides.
The sunbeams trembling on the floating Tydes,
While melting Musick steals upon the Sky
And soften’d Sounds along the Waters die.
Smooth flow the Waves the Zephyrs gently play
Belinda smil’d, and all the World was gay.
Jesamiah glanced down at the deck. Old Toby Turner’s fiddle had lost a string and, out of tune, the sounds he was coaxing from it were more like a cat being strangled than music melting upon the sky.
Alicia – Belinda – taking a turn along the deck was probably not smiling, the wind was not gently playing, at least not from the right direction, and the world was not gay.
“Heigh-ho for the drama of poetry,” he said, and stared again at the gloriously coloured mass of autumn trees edging the north bank of the river. He recognised the bend ahead. Was fairly certain the secluded tributary he wanted was not far beyond.
Father. His father.
It had been summer when they had come here. A long, hot summer of blissful days with endless blue skies. They had come, or so his father, Charles Mereno, had insisted, to make a courtesy visit to someone he knew in Bath Town. For the life of him, Jesamiah could not remember who that someone had been: a merchant was all he could recall, and one of wealth, for the house inside had been quite grand, the cook in the kitchen fat, jolly and happy to supply him with fresh-baked pie. The memories of a thirteen-year-old boy: the feeding of his stomach! Even had he been left to starve while Papa completed his secretive business, the trip would have been utter heaven. Phillipe had not accompanied them because he hated the sea and brought his guts up within the first mile. After trying it twice Papa had refused to take him again, for the boy had whined and moaned and bellyached. Jesamiah always paid a heavy price afterwards for the bliss and freedom, Phillipe taking his revenge on a brother several years his junior. But it had always been a price worth paying.
Surely Father had known? Surely he had been aware of the beatings, the tortures and degradations Jesamiah had endured at the hands of that bastard? Had he known and turned a blind eye? Why? Why? Jesamiah shut the book, leant his head back and closed his eyes.
Phillipe had always been sly and careful, the hurts had never been made in places that showed. Never to the face, always to belly, back and legs. Or inwardly, to the mind and the soul. And Jesamiah had never complained to his father or mother, for Father despised those who spilt tears, who whimpered and bleated. ‘Be a man!’ he had shouted at Phillipe as he had spewed over the side of the boat. ‘Be a man; hide your discomfort! I cannot abide snivelling brats – perhaps I should toss you over the side now and be done with you!’
If only he had! Jesamiah had done it instead, all these years later. Resting his elbows on his knees, Jesamiah steepled his fingers and propped them against his bearded chin. The only comfort had been that Father had also despised Phillipe. That had puzzled Jesamiah as a boy. Hah, it puzzled him as much now! If he had so disliked Phillipe why had Papa tolerated him – why bring him into the house, treat him as a son – allow everyone to assume he was his son? In preference to his own real son.
~ I had to, boy. I had no choice. It was a matter of honour. ~
The words drifted into his brain. Where did they come from? Another thought. One that made Jesamiah bite his lip and frown deeper. What if he wasn’t Charles Mereno’s son either? There were so many lies here, so many tales to hide the truth. And no way of learning which was lie and which was not. Charles was his father, surely? He had disliked Phillipe; had rarely paid him much attention, always spoke gruffly, with impatience. Not that it had been of much help to Jesamiah. Mother, when once he had asked why Papa so hated Phillipe, had laughed and said he was talking nonsense. ‘Your Papa loved Phillipe’s Mama. Loved her dearly.’
His mother, aye. But not Phillipe. And not himself, not Jesamiah. One did not abandon a loved child to torture.
“Why did you not help me?” Jesamiah said aloud. “Why did you leave me to suffer?”
He cocked his head to one side, listening to the wind, the sound of the rigging, the creak of the ship. Heard nothing else.
Yet, now that he thought about it, Papa had paid attention to his younger son. He had employed governesses and tutors, for one thing. Had ensured Jesamiah had received a copious education – history, geography, literature; Latin, mathemati
cs and even the sciences. And Jesamiah remembered that his father had personally taught him to sail, to tie knots, read a compass, navigate a course. To hold a sword, how to load and fire a pistol. To speak French. Oh aye, Malachias Taylor had taught him much more when he had gone aboard the Mermaid, but it had been Papa who had shown him the basic lessons. He must have shown Phillipe too, but if he had, Jesamiah had no recollection of it. For certain his half-brother had rarely attended the lessons in the sunlit schoolroom in the converted attic at the top of the house. Maybe that was why he had enjoyed them so; those Phillipe-free hours of pleasure.
Rue calling an order broke into his thoughts. The men ran to trim the sails. Jesamiah watched them, approving.
The men on that trip here to Bath Town all those years ago had been good too; quietly removing the Acorn’s illicit cargo under the light of a full moon and storing it, Jesamiah knew not where. All he had known was that by the next morning the Acorn lay somewhat lighter than when they had slipped silently into that narrow, hidden creek.
What had they smuggled? Jesamiah wondered as he studied the treeline.
~ Brandy. We smuggled best French brandy. ~
Jesamiah peered downward, expecting someone to be climbing up the rigging or creeping through the lubber’s hole. No one. His frown increased. He was hearing voices now! Or were they just echoes of his own thoughts?
Was this other voice in his head something to do with Tiola? How could it be? This was a man’s voice, a voice very much like his father’s. Jesamiah shied away from thinking any deeper and concentrated on where he was sailing his ship.
There was the creek! An excellent place to hide Sea Witch and make stealthy repairs while her Captain paid a visiting call to Bath Town, five or so miles up river.
Slipping the book into his pocket Jesamiah took the quick way to the deck, down the backstay. Gave his orders, pleased with how his crew abandoned their apparent ease of lethargy and hopped to it.
Instead of dwelling on memories of the dead, of a father who had never much cared about him, he ought to be applying his mind to a very much alive black-bearded pirate. And a woman who had hair as black, but who was a damned sight prettier.
Sixteen
Tired, Tiola took early to her bed. She had been given a quiet, comfortable room at the side of the house overlooking the extensive gardens at Archbell Point. This was Governor Eden’s grand house, the focal axis of his four-hundred acre plantation on the west side of Bath Creek. The gardens, like the house, were beautiful, clad in their russet, red and gold autumn finery. The owner, a proud peacock who placed little value on human life beyond how useful a man or woman could be. The place was maintained by black slaves and white household staff. From gardener to cook, to footman, to scullery maid all had their uses – and Governor Eden ensured all of them adequately earned their keep.
With no capital town yet established and no official buildings, Archbell Point served as the necessary administrative centre. The ground floor was devoted to offices, and a cramped council meeting chamber doubled as a court when necessary. North Carolina’s neighbour, Virginia, was doing nicely for itself as a colony, but then, Williamsburg had not been attacked by rampaging natives three years ago, nor was its surrounding countryside a ruin of uncleared land that was wholly unsuitable for farming or settling. Governor Eden was determined to pull Bath Town and North Carolina from the mire, however, and he did not particularly care how he did it.
As with the previous two days, dinner in the dining room, which had a water stain on the ceiling and several serving dishes that were cracked, had been a gruelling affair. The Governor, Tiola had discovered, invited guests every evening. It amazed her that he managed to find so many obnoxious people, but then, as the only town in North Carolina, Bath Town attracted the sort of visitors who eventually made their way to Archbell Point.
This evening the women had been scornful and patronising towards her, while the men were overtly interested in the cut of her bodice and what lay beneath – which had contributed nothing to ease the mistrust of the women. Eden had been his usual pompous and dictatorial self. Tiola felt sorry for him. A man in his early forties trying to maintain an appearance of being in control while the walls of reality were crumbling into ruins around him.
He was a widower with no children of his own, and so he forged the resemblance of a united family by keeping his nephews, nieces and stepchildren under a rule of uncompromising authority. Only one among them would be inheriting the estate and one day soon, not soon enough for some of his family, he would have no further use of it beyond a burial plot in the churchyard.
With the exception of three of the family, Tiola cared not a rotten apple for any of them. Nicholas Page and his wife Elizabeth-Anne were pleasant people, though Nicholas fretted about the future and Elizabeth-Anne worried about everything. The stepdaughter, seventeen-year-old Perdita Galland, was a sweet girl.
“We need a son,” Elizabeth-Anne had said with a sob in her throat as Tiola’s gentle hands had explored the great swell of her heavily pregnant belly. “My uncle has stated over and again that he has no patience with girls, that if I am not fit enough to produce a son then I am not fit to live in this house.” And the held-in tears had fallen down her flushed, hollowed cheeks. A sorrowful first meeting that had appalled Tiola and destroyed any chance of her developing respect for Governor Eden.
Tiola had not expressed her thoughts, but held her anger at the callousness of a bitter man firmly in check. She had merely smiled and assured her patient that the babe was kicking and healthy, and would be born when it was ready to be born.
“I so need to know I have a son! My dear husband frets over where we will go, what we will do if this is not a boy.”
Drawing the curtains back and opening the windows to allow in the waft of the damp night air, Tiola reflected on the answer she had made. She never gave a woman cause to wonder that she might be somewhat different to other healers and midwives. Her technique – her insistence on cleanliness, her ability to take away some of the pain, she passed off as skills she had learnt in India and the Far East – in itself not an untruth, she just failed to mention that her knowledge had been gained over several incarnations through many centuries of time.
For Elizabeth-Anne Page she had made an exception. “You have a boy. A fine, healthy boy, and between us, when he is ready, we will bring him into the world.”
Elizabeth-Anne Page had not asked how she knew it was so, all she had wanted to know was when that would be.
Tiola had smiled reassurance and answered; “Not yet, my dear. Not yet.”
Breathing deep, Tiola filled all her senses with the heady night fragrances. Closed her eyes to savour the richness of the different smells. Wet grass and damp earth, a hint of frost in the air from the direction of the mountains. The trees, the river; the distant sea. A faint aroma of horses from the stables and the odour of humans, the slaves in their huts. Tomorrow she would go down there, see what she could do for the pregnant black women and for the men who needed the discreet intervention of her healing Craft. She did not like slavery, but it had always existed. Always would – another uncompassionate trait of the Dark Power that had infected the greed of human nature.
She wrapped her arms around herself, looked at the wide smile of the moon riding high in the black sky; could hear the giddy chatter of the stars as they swept by in their gay dance. Heard the whisper of the Universe, and the gentle rhythm of life itself, drumming its steady pulse-beat through the entirety of Existence. It was good to be alive. To be in love.
She moved away from the window, turned the lamp low so that it cast a dim, shadowed light and stood in the centre of the room, waiting.
He did not take long to climb the ivy, to wriggle over the balcony railings and step inside her bedroom.
“Brought you these,” Jesamiah said, handing her a bedraggled bunch of wilting flowers. “I picked ‘em some while ago. ‘Ad t’wait fer the ‘ouse ’old to settle didn’t I?”
/> “I doubt water will revive the poor things,” she said taking the peace offering and placing them in the jug on the washing stand, “but I suppose I should accept them graciously.”
Pulling his boots off, not wanting to get mud on the floor, Jesamiah stood in stockinged feet on the square of expensive carpet. He spread his arms, inviting her towards him. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”
Making him wait a little longer, Tiola remained by the washstand, prodding the drooping blooms into some sort of tasteful arrangement.
“Did you make love to her again? Aboard the Sea Witch? In our bed?” She kept her back to him, not wanting to see his face, read his expression. She would know if he lied. Always knew when he lied.
“No,” he answered, “and the thought of doing so never crossed my mind.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“Though she spent all her hours scheming on how she could accomplish it.”
Tiola turned, gazed at him standing there, his arms still spread, head cocked to one side.
“I spent most of the voyage up the main mast, reading Pope.” He lowered his arms, unsure what to do next, anxious that she might not forgive him.
Spotting some bottles on a table he walked over to investigate; Spanish sherry, a cordial. Ah, brandy!
“When you were not firing your guns at the Fortune of Virginia, you mean.”
He swivelled on his heel, bottle in hand, “Eh? We did not attack her. We were seeing Teach off!”
“That is not the way Captain Lofts saw it. He was a dinner guest, he informed Governor Eden, in front of us all, that the Sea Witch is a pirate in breach of amnesty. He wanted the Governor to send the Carolina guardship after you, but Eden was reluctant to do so.”
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