Chapter Forty
The Sea Hag lay at anchor in the bay. The damage to its hull had been repaired, and the trading vessel refloated on the high tide. At eighty feet and around seventy tons, she wasn’t the largest ship awaiting crew and cargo in the waters around Sangreston, and with its ageing timbers and fading paintwork she was certainly not the most impressive. But even with all three sails stowed and only a gentle swell rocking the deck under her feet, this was the one place where Captain Megan Jarrett felt she belonged. There was already a rising excitement in her: in only a few days their cargo of gunpowder would fill the hold, and they would escape onto the open sea.
Meg’s permanent crew of a dozen or so good men were preparing for their journey, and Meg knew that most of them were as eager as her to set sail. Her crew were trusted like family, and she had no worries about their knowing that Anton Leyander was her guest on board until they sailed: she could trust each of them with her life and her confidences, and knew there was no danger of the secret being revealed. That danger would only arise when the first of the hired hands came aboard.
Word had already been passed around the dockside taverns that Megan Jarrett, captain of the Sea Hag, was seeking experienced seamen to join her crew for a journey southwards with a cargo of black powder. Meg knew that few men were keen to travel with such a dangerous cargo, and that she would – again – have difficulty in raising a full complement of thirty men. The day after tomorrow, she would be hoping to hand-pick her crew from all those assembled in the Siren’s Head, but it was more likely she would find herself forced to take on anyone who presented themselves – including boys and landsmen – in order to have enough available hands.
Meg breathed in the salty air and sighed. Every year she hoped to be able to carry a more profitable cargo, to raise enough revenue to have the Sea Hag overhauled completely; but every year she barely broke even. She would pore over her ledger and curse her fortune, threatening to sell the vessel and return to port to help her father run the Siren’s Head. And every year she’d stand on the poop deck and watch the sun set over the waves, and sigh and realise her fortunes might be much worse.
She watched the cabin boy, Tam, a skinny, tow-headed youth fast approaching manhood, emerge from below and cross the deck towards her.
“He is awoke, cap’n,” Tam said as soon as his head appeared over the top of the poop deck steps.
“Thank you, Tam,” she said. “I will tend to him. Go below and find yourself some supper.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Meg smiled as the boy hurried away: he’d gained height suddenly and become bony and ungainly, but even now he was beginning to fill out, and it wouldn’t be long before he’d be catching the eye of the girls. There was trouble ahead on that score, she knew, but she accepted its inevitability as any parent might.
Meg descended the steps, heading for the cabin where her most recent adoptive son lay recovering from his ordeal.
Edric Edison had brought Anton’s battered, barely conscious body to her and asked for help: Meg could not have refused. The two of them had put Anton in the bottom of a boat and rowed him out to the Sea Hag.
They laid him on the bunk in Meg’s own cabin, and poured rum between his lips to ease his pain and help him sleep. She and Edison had worked together in silence to strip him of his clothes: both felt guilty for their own part in the sequence of events that had led to this. When the silence was finally broken, it was by Edric, who admitted that he had betrayed Anton to the Guard out of jealousy. She then felt compelled to admit that she had deliberately used Anton to make Edison jealous.
Meg had sent the cabin boy ashore to obtain an unguent from the apothecary which could be spread upon Anton’s wrists and ankles, where the ropes had cut into the flesh, to reduce the risk of infection. Cloths soaked in cold salt water were wrapped lightly around his hands and feet to help ease the swelling.
“Should we dress the burns with butter?” Edison asked.
Meg shook her head. “‘Tis better to leave them untouched: if they are left clean and dry, they should heal themselves given time.”
Edison nodded. It seemed easier to maintain the distance of strangers. He feared he had lost any chance of reconciliation with Meg: he himself felt his betrayal of Anton had been cowardly – how could Meg feel otherwise? After a time, he could no longer endure the confinement of the shadowy cabin, and he asked one of the crewmen to row him ashore.
Anton began to shiver with fever that first night. His skin was slick with sweat, but cold to the touch. Meg built up the fire in the cast iron stove, until she was perspiring herself. She soaked a cloth in cold water and used it to soothe Anton’s grey-white skin. She sat with him all night, speaking softly to him. Occasionally Anton would cry out, perhaps the creaking of the ship’s timbers sounding too like the ratchet of the rack.
The fever broke late the next day. When Anton woke, Meg fed him milk laced with rum, and he drifted into an easier sleep.
Edric Edison was dozing in a chair by his bunk when Anton awoke. Meg had gone ashore to the powder mill to negotiate a price for carrying the barrels of gunpowder south. Edison had felt obliged to take her place at Anton’s bedside. Edison opened his eyes and was startled to find Anton staring at him. “How do you feel?” was all he could think to say.
“Parched,” Anton croaked.
Edison got to his feet and went to pour water from an earthenware pitcher. Crossing back to the bunk, he held out the glass towards Anton.
Anton raised an eyebrow.
“Why do you raise your eyebrow so?” Edison asked.
“It is all I can raise at this moment,” Anton said. “My shoulders and elbows ache so that I have not the strength to raise an arm. And even were I so able, my hands will not yet hold a glass.”
“Then allow me to aid you,” Edison said. He looked from Anton to the glass and back, unsure of his first move. He put a hand behind Anton’s neck and lifted his head a little, then tilted the glass towards his lips. “Ah, my apologies,” Edison said, reaching for a cloth to dry Anton’s face and chest.
“Not at all,” Anton said. “Some found its way to my throat. Perhaps we could try another glassful?”
Edison duly obliged and soaked more of Anton and his bedding. “Is there anything more I might fetch for you?” Edison asked. “Something to eat, perhaps?”
“Some fresh bread,” Anton said. “Smothered in sweet, sticky preserve. And some rum, purely for its medicinal benefits.”
“But of course.”
Edison brought the food on a battered wooden platter, and helped Anton eat it.
“Varian is not on board?” Anton asked.
“No,” Edison said. “We thought it better if he wasn’t. Given what has happened.”
“But he is safe?” Anton asked.
“He is safe.”
“What is it you are not saying?” Anton asked. “Why will you not meet my eye?” Then he sagged back against the pillows. “It was he who betrayed me to the guard. It was the right thing for him to do.”
“No!” Edison said, getting to his feet: he ducked in time to avoid hitting his head on the roof beam. “He did not betray you – I can tell you that for certain.”
“It is goof of you to say so,” Anton said. “It is better that he is done with me.”
“Varian has not abandoned you. He is hiding out in an old fisherman’s hut a few miles north of town,” Edison said. “As far as we can tell, the Guard are not searching for him. He is not in danger.”
“I have ruined things for him,” Anton said.
“You could not have foreseen what would happen,” Edison said.
“I should never have persuaded him into my bed.”
“He made his own choice: you did not force him at the point of a sword,” Edison said. “You didn’t, did you?”
Anton shook his head,
“He is a grown man,” Edison said, “he knows he must accept the consequences of his own actions.”
“He knew enough, I think,” Edison said. “He knew you were a good man. Sometimes that is all we need. I saw that in you too, though I wanted to believe otherwise.”
“You are not about to profess your love for me?” Anton asked, gently mocking.
“I am unworthy of anyone’s love,” Edison said.
“Not fallen out with Meg again so soon, surely?”
Edison would not meet Anton’s eye.
“She will come around when she learns how you risked yourself to rescue me from Sheldrake’s clutches,” Anton said.
“Meg knows already,” Edison said, looking away. “And she knows you were only in that place because of me.”
“How so?”
“It was I that sent word to the Guard,” Edison said, still not looking at Anton. “And I that entered your rooms and hid the costume there, and the wine bottle.”
“I thought that was Sheldrake’s work,” Anton said.
“I was jealous,” Edison admitted. “You had proved yourself at least my equal as actor and thief, and I believed you had also stolen the heart of my Megan.”
“I asked for no explanation or apology,” Anton said.
“I feel the need to confess,” Edison said. “For myself.”
“This not the time for self-recrimination,” Anton said. “I am grateful for your help, no matter what circumstances led to my capture.”
“Why are you so bloody calm?” Edison asked. “Can you not be angry? What is wrong with you?”
“I am in great pain and too tired,” Anton said. “Perhaps I will oblige you later.”
Anton continued to eat and regain his strength, and after three days it was decided that fresh air and sunlight would benefit him greatly. A chair was placed on the poop deck, and Edison and Varian carefully carried Anton out to it. The ache in Anton’s hips was beginning to dull, but his feet and ankles were still unable to bear his weight. He sat back, wrapped in a blanket and Edison’s cloak, and tilted his face towards the sun. Edison brought mugs of mulled wine up onto the deck. Anton was able to hold the mug with both hands cupped around it, and Edison pretended not to see how badly it shook. The two of them sat in silence, sipping their warm, spicy drinks, looking out over the sea.
“Do you think she might forgive me in time?” Edison asked finally, still watching the waves.
“Meg?”
“She is angry with me for what I did,” Edison said.
“I believe she is angry with herself,” Anton said. “She set out to make you angry, and her plan succeeded beyond her wildest imaginings.”
“You must hate us both for involving you in our pathetic feud,” Edison said.
“I allowed myself to become involved, so I must accept as much responsibility as anyone for my fate. Well,” he looked across at Edison. “Almost as much.”
Edison’s face grew red.
They finished their wine in silence, then Edison crossed the poop and took Anton’s mug.
“Is there any way that I might win her back, do you think?” Edison asked.
“If you are asking me how to capture a woman’s heart, your question is directed at the wrong person,” Anton said. “But I think that, in time, she may well forgive you and herself. When this matter lies in the past, she will not wish to dwell upon it, and it may be as well to pretend that none of this occurred. At such time, you may well regain her affection with a simple romantic gesture.”
Edison thought about this. “How much time must pass, do you think, before this romantic gesture might be made?”
Anton shrugged and winced. “Who knows?” he said. “Time heals some things more quickly than others.”
Edison stared at him, his eyes narrowed, and then it seemed as if he had made a decision of some kind. He left Tam in charge of Anton’s care, and hurried off the ship.
Chapter Forty-One
Sheldrake woke suddenly and lay in the darkness listening to the rapid pounding of his own heart. He tried to control his breathing, willing himself to inhale slowly, calmly. Eventually the panic subsided. The nightmare reduced to a series of fading images in his mind. He tried to piece together the fragments, but the correct sequence eluded him.
“Hello, Sheldrake.” The voice was soft, a greeting from an old friend.
The panic rose again. In the flickering glow from the fire, Sheldrake could just make out the silhouette of a man at the foot of his bed. Staring into the gloom, he tried to make out the details of the figure. Even concealed in shadow, there was something too familiar about the man’s bearing. His presence awakened in Sheldrake a sense of foreboding.
The man stepped forward and there was something in his bearing which suggested authority. As the shadows slipped away revealing the red and black uniform and the planes of light and shade of the face, Sheldrake drew a sharp breath. The man smiled. His grey hair was cropped short, his beard a neatly trimmed goatee.
“But you are dead!” Sheldrake’s lips felt wooden. He scrambled out of bed, shivering when his feet touched the cold stone floor. He reached behind him, wrapping his fingers around the brass candlestick on the bedside table – the only weapon within reach. He brought it to his side, hidden by the folds of his nightshirt.
“I look well for a corpse, do I not? Or perhaps I am a phantom?” The shadow with Captain Torrance’s voice looked down at its hands as if trying to judge their substance.
“You have returned to haunt me?” Sheldrake asked.
The ghost looked up and smiled.
“What do you want from me?” Sheldrake demanded.
“Truth.”
“What truth would you have? A confession from my own lips?” Sheldrake asked. “I murdered you. There! Will you leave me now?”
“I cannot rest until that truth is universally known,” the ghost said.
“You would have me tell all of Sangreston that I killed you?” Sheldrake laughed hollowly, shook his head. “How will you threaten me, spirit? Would you torture me with nightmares? I have them already. Or would you threaten me with pain and death? I fear neither.”
“Before the month is out, you will be proclaiming your guilt over the rooftops, that I promise you,” the ghost said. “The whole town will know of your treachery by your own admission.”
“Never! I would never willingly give up what I achieve here,” Sheldrake said. “Your body will soon be eaten by worms: you are only a vision conjured forth by a less than spotless conscience. Leave me in peace, foul apparition!”
Sheldrake rushed to the foot of the bed, raising the candlestick above his head. But the shadow was gone.
Torrance’s ghost laughed. It was over by the door now, looking over its shoulder. “You will not be rid of me so easily,” it said. “Nor am I alone among your victims in seeking revenge upon you. Beware, Sheldrake. Beware!” Then it turned and drifted through the thick oak, its laughter still echoing in the chamber.
Sheldrake threw open the door, candlestick held ready, but the corridor outside was empty. A torch in a brace at the far end threw flickering shadows on the wall, but they were nor man-shaped.
Torrance’s laughter echoed again, first at one end of the corridor, and then at the other. Sheldrake glanced wildly left and right, trying to identify the source of the sound.
“Torrance!” he yelled.
More laughter. Sheldrake ran towards the sound, his bare feet slapping on the cold stones.
“Torrance!”
“Beware, Sheldrake. Beware!”
Sheldrake turned. The laughter seemed to echo within an old suit of armour that stood in an alcove off the corridor. He launched himself at it, raising the candlestick and bringing down on the metal helmet with as much force as he could muster. A second blow, and the armour clattered to the floor with a sound like overturned buckets. Still the laughter seemed to echo wi
thin the tumbled pieces. Sheldrake threw himself to his knees and began pounding on the separate pieces of armour, denting them and creating a dull metallic beating rhythm like a frenzied blacksmith.
Finally, the laughter faded. The ghost was gone. If it had been there at all. But its warning echoed along the cold corridor.
Sheldrake shivered and wrapped his arms tightly around his body. His plans would ensure him greater influence in the mortal world, of that he had no doubt, but over the spirit world he could wield little power. This troubled him greatly. Suppose the shades of all of his victims rose, what then?
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Behind him, someone cleared their throat loudly, and the sound almost cost Sheldrake control of his bladder.
“Can I be of any assistance, sir?” Walcott’s voice.
Sheldrake rose slowly to his feet, not turning. He dropped the candlestick and reached up to smooth his hair. “I’ve dealt with this, thank you lieutenant.”
Walcott looked from the man in the wrinkled nightshirt to the battered and dismembered suit of armour. “Very good, sir.”
“What news of the search?” Sheldrake asked.
“No sign of the prisoner yet, sir,” Walcott said, speaking to Sheldrake’s back. “We questioned the gatekeeper: Lord Algernon did not enter the town via the gate. We think he may have been someone from the town. We will resume the search at daybreak.”
“Keep me appraised, lieutenant. And send for me as soon as they are found,” Sheldrake said, still facing the wall.
“Sir!” Walcott said, saluting. Then, realising Sheldrake couldn’t see him, he shrugged and turned to leave.
“Walcott?”
“Captain?” Walcott turned back.
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