Sea Witch

by Hollick, Helen

  “Get on Rue! You’re turnin’ into a mother ‘en, don’t bloody fuss!” Jesamiah swore at him. “It’s nothin’.” Investigating beneath his waistcoat he found his fingers came away from his shoulder sticky with blood. He cursed, heaved himself to his feet and shifted his cutlass to his left hand, shoved the right, useless, through his baldric. Angry, he marched to the quarterdeck where the officers, finally seeing sense, had lowered their weapons.

  “Can you not even sodding shoot straight, mister? This will bloody soddin’ ‘urt by tonight!” Jesamiah was swearing, furious, direct into the frightened captain’s face. “You’ll be damned sorry for this, I promise you!”

  Already the ship was being ransacked of what she carried. A trader, her hold was full of sugar, molasses and – oh glory! Rum!

  Her crew, the few left alive, were secured below in the fore-hold once it was emptied, the officers stripped and tied naked to the mainmast. They would provide an evening of entertainment once the necessary work was completed. If they had wanted decent treatment then they ought not have made a fight of it.

  Jesamiah left his crew to their gleeful pleasure to make a search of the captain’s cabin for anything of use. Awkwardly reloading a pistol with powder and shot, his shoulder already starting to ache abominably, he fired through the lock of the crude safe and pocketed the specie he found. Everything of value above a piece of eight would go into a common pile to be sold ashore somewhere, the profit equally divided. Only the maps, charts and the Ship’s Log were Jesamiah’s prerogative to retain. And the several bottles of French brandy.

  He called for men to come and roll up the carpet from the deck. “It’ll look fine in my cabin, better than in here. I’ll pay its value into the fund.” He took himself back aboard the Sea Witch to search out Jackson, their surgeon. A good doctor when he was sober, he grunted and peered at Jesamiah’s shoulder, satisfied the shot had gone straight through, concerned it had taken shreds of coat and shirt with it.

  “It will probably fester; you’re damned lucky it missed the bone. Could have shattered your shoulder.”

  Occupied with consuming a bottle of brandy, Jesamiah did not reply. He lay back on to the narrow bed in the surgeon’s cramped cabin. A little lower and to the left and he would have been dead. Was he charmed or cursed or something? What kept saving him – it was not for want of trying to make an end of it all! He closed his eyes, clenched his teeth against Jackson’s none too gentle probing. This nightmare existence? It was a curse, it had to be. And the spell to break it? Ah, only a witch could do that.

  He always allowed the crew their fun with a captured ship that had put up resistance – those who surrendered were relieved of their cargo and otherwise left in peace. With this ship he let his lads do as they please, as long as he was not expected to take part.

  Tossing in his captain’s box-bed he slept fitfully, his shoulder on fire, his dreams disturbing him as the two ships lay alongside each other and the crew caroused on deck. He dreamt of a woman tending a pistol shot in his shoulder. Her dear face swimming before his eyes, that well before dawn were swollen and red-rimmed from self-pitying tears.

  He missed her. God’s truth, he missed Tiola so much!

  For the audacity of wounding Jesamiah, the crew had stripped the Dutch captain naked and made him run up and down his own deck between two howling and mocking lines of pirates each with a sailing needle in his hand, pricking at the poor man’s buttocks, back and shoulders as he hobbled past. Again and again they made him run, and when there were enough pockmarked spots of blood they put him bleeding and miserable into an emptied sugar-cane cask swarming with cockroaches. They thought it hilarious. If he was lucky someone might eventually remember to release him.

  Come morning not a single man of the Sea Witch was sober enough to witness the sunrise. The two ships, warped together, rocked gently and drifted with the tide and the wind, while the men slept where they had fallen.

  The only thing different about this captured Chase, her name. Berenice.

  Jesamiah would not realise the significance until many days later, after the crew had lost interest, turned the few survivors free and cast off in search of new prey; after the fever that had raked his body faded, and the wound in his shoulder finally began to heal. When a rain squall sent the sun behind dismal clouds, for want of something to do, Jesamiah thought to read the captured ship’s log.

  He sat in his cabin, his new carpet spread over the wooden floor hiding the gouges the heavy cannons made whenever they were manoeuvred into position. His arm in a sling, he sipped fine brandy his feet propped on his desk. Idly, he flipped through the pages of the meticulously accurate record of the log. Glanced at the vessel’s registration and jerked to full attention, spilling brandy over his breeches. The crew would bait him for that. Can’t get to the ‘eads quick enough, Cap’n?

  “Bloody hell,” he murmured as he stared at the written words. “She’s one of van Overstratten’s fleet!”

  The wry smile that lifted the corner of his mouth was one of deep satisfaction.

  Ten

  March – 1718

  Endless days blended into weeks, the weeks into months and months into eternity. Tiola had nothing to do and no reason to be doing it. Jesamiah had abandoned her, and the ache was consuming her heart, body and soul.

  Fever had raged to the point where Stefan had called in the priest, sending him away again when she had become agitated at seeing him standing, muttering his prayers at the foot of her bed. After that, Tiola slowly recovered but the tiredness and weakness lingered. Beyond the windows of Stefan’s grand home, the hot African summer matured and faded into a mellow autumn. February and March, the threshold of April.

  Cosseted, her every need pampered by servants, Tiola’s only escape was to walk, and fortunately Stefan’s physician believed exercise would do her well. Walking took energy, tired her enough so she slept at night. She walked along the shore, listening to the murmur of the sea. Walked into the heights of the Table Mountain where only the wind whispered a distraction. Never alone, for always there was someone with her, watching, guarding. A servant trailing behind or occasionally van Overstratten himself determined to be cheerful as they strolled through the market or the Company Gardens.

  Did he think she would run? A young woman, fragile and afraid without money, with nowhere to go? Did he expect her to steal aboard a ship and follow Jesamiah – after he had made it quite plain he did not want her? She had no idea where Jesamiah was, nor even if he was alive. Again and again, she tried to convince herself she did not want to know.

  She wore fancy silk garments, fine brocades and French lace. Shoes with silver buckles. She ate a little, talked a little, slept a little. Walked. And still the demons taunted her.

  She stood at the edge of existence looking into the depth of her misery. Came very close to stepping over the edge into oblivion, except, one small part of her Craft must have remained. A fragile thread left behind, holding on to the sanity that hid itself, unseen and almost forgotten inside her grieving heart.

  And then she found the letter, a letter to Stefan from a man regarding an arranged business venture. Saw it, read it.

  As always, she had been walking, returned to Stefan’s house – she could never think of it as home – tired and dishevelled. He came striding from his study, brows furrowed hiding his irritation, an expansive – false – smile tipping the corners of his mouth.

  “Ah, there you are Tiola!” As always he pronounced her name incorrectly, the emphasis on the middle vowel. “I was beginning to worry, it is almost dusk.” Hurrying across the entrance hall he took Tiola’s arm, tutting, ushered her into his private domain to where the last of the day’s sunshine slanted into the room.

  Her hair was damp from the spindrift of the sea, and her gown edged by a rime of wet sand and salt. The sound of the ocean roaring up onto the land was still buffeting her ears. Removing her cloak and bonnet Stefan handed them to a maid, instructed tea, hot and sweet to be fet
ched. He sat Tiola in the chair he had pushed back from his desk, removed her sea-sodden shoes, quite ruined, rubbed at her feet and hands.

  “Mijn beste, you are cold. I do so wish you would not walk along the shore, the wind can be bitter.” He knelt before her, folded her hands within his own, paternal.

  “Dearest, this cannot continue. Please reconsider my repeated request and consent to be my wife?” He forced a jest, “It is inconvenient to always be requiring a chaperone to watch over us whenever I wish to talk with you.” He patted her hand again. “Perhaps if you are settled in marriage this debilitating melancholy will ease? And when sons come along…” He spread his arms as if he had no need to say more. “Look how fulfilled my sister is with her babies. You could find contentment in children, I am sure.”

  Perhaps she could. But not with children sired by him. She wanted Jesamiah. Oh, she so wanted Jesamiah!

  Stefan had not pressed for marriage when first she had begun to recover, for he did not desire a sickly woman as wife, but she was stronger now, and beside, despite frequent enquiries, the marriage agencies had found no suitable alternative. Add to that, it was safe to take her now; no child had been planted in her belly by a pirate’s tainted seed.

  Receiving no response beyond a polite murmur that she was well and he need not concern himself, Stefan hissed his disapproval and swept from the room. Tiola heard him running up the stairs, taking them two at a time, talking briskly to the servants, issuing orders for bath water to be heated, dry clothes to be produced. Soon he would come and usher her upstairs to be fussed over. She so hated it all!

  He had been sitting at his desk, reading correspondence delivered from the Caribbean. In his haste to play the concerned gentleman, the ardent lover, a letter had fallen to the floor. Absently Tiola retrieved it – knew instantly without seeing any of the writing or the flourished signature, who had sent it. And her ability of Craft roared into her with the full force of a broadside of cannon.

  The room lurched as if the earth had shrugged. The hole, the pit of despair entrapping her these long months collapsed in upon itself, the emptiness imploding like a giant star in the heavens. A star that when the debris settled and the dust cleared, might not appear so large, but contained, instead, a limitless and immortal power. Gasping, breathless, she fell to her knees her head spinning, elation shouting inside her as the gift of Craft returned, its power renewed threefold.

  The demons fled, replaced by an inrush of joyful greeting.

  ~ Welcome home, my dear! ~

  ~ Good greet you, Tiola Oldstagh! ~

  Beyond the window she heard the birds singing their evening cadence of glory, the chirrup of insects and the friendly murmur of the wind. Heard also, the hush of the sea as it washed the shore and heard the Earth itself, gently breathing. Could feel the pulse of the Universe, all time and existence encircling and embracing her. The final transition from child to woman all completed and made whole as her gift of Craft matured into its full potency. And with it came the complete knowledge and wisdom of all life and existence. If it could be spoken, Tiola now knew the words to say it; if it could be seen, she had the sight to recognise it. If it could be done, she had the ability to do it.

  ~ You were strong before ~ her grandmother said with pride ~ and now you are stronger still. You have endured desolation and have conquered fear. You have stood at the edge of despair and found the strength to turn away from the depth of darkness. Nothing, now, can harm you Tiola, for there is none more powerful than those who know they can survive. ~

  Tiola looked at the letter in her hand, read it, taking in certain words above others. Nassau. New Governor. Amnesty. She could see the writer’s face, the dark eyes, black hair tied at the nape of his neck by a silk bow. Similar height, similar build. So similar to Jesamiah – but not quite the same. They had different mothers but shared the same father.

  Phillipe Mereno. Stefan was corresponding with Jesamiah’s half-brother. And there could be only one reason why.

  Because of Jesamiah himself.

  Eleven

  The noise on deck was so loud it could have roused the dead, what with the cheering and shouting and the squawking of flustered chickens. Hen racing was a favoured pastime, although Finch, the galley-cook and Jesamiah’s self-appointed personal steward, grumbled that making them run up and down the deck tainted the eggs and addled the yolks.

  Jesamiah had his bet – five black pebbles – on the hen with one white feather in her tail. He did not permit gambling for money on board, it led too easily into vicious fights. Her opponent, the fat one with short legs, reminded him of Jenna. Perhaps it was the way she stood, head cocked to one side her beady eyes staring at him disapprovingly, or the width of her broad backside? Aside, young Jasper had been diligently training White Flash these last few days. She had a good chance of winning.

  Two lines of sand marked the start and finish on the deck, the track between covering five yards. This was the final race, the two best contenders left from a series of exciting heats. The loser faced the threat of becoming the prime ingredient in tomorrow’s stew. Jesamiah stroked the soft feathers along White Flash’s back, crooning to her as he held her beneath his arm.

  “Now then, m’beauty, you know what you have to do. Look, there’s our Jasper with your reward.” He held her up showing her the lad at the far end of the track, Jasper’s tin mug held provocatively in his hand.

  “You ready?” Rue asked. He lifted his hand, paused, chopped downward, and the two hens were set on the deck with a hefty shove forwards. The crew, spread each side, roared encouragement.

  Jasper rattled his mug, shouting. “Chuck, chuck, chuck!”

  “Go girl!” Jesamiah yelled clapping his hands, itching to give her a prodding kick up her feathered arse.

  As a race it was not exactly exhilarating. Both chickens strutted for about two feet then stopped to put their heads on one side and then peck at insects crawling on the wooden planking. White Flash’s opposition even turning around to amble back towards the start – against the rules to touch the runners once they were released!

  Then White Flash heard the rattle of Jasper’s mug; she hitched her wings like a little fat lady lifting her skirts and scurried at a waddling comical run towards him, her bright black eyes fixed on the glint of the tin and the sound it made. She was across the line and Jasper tipped out the contents for her to gobble as a mixture of dismal groans from the losers and the exultant cheers of winners leapt towards the Caribbean sky. Some of the winners hurled their hats into the air and then cried out in dismay as an unexpected gust of wind took the lot of them overboard. The two sails on the fore and main mast, the one a-back with the wind full on its face, and the other counter-balancing to hold Sea Witch hove to, flapped, cracking, as the gust rippled through the canvas.

  Jesamiah patted Jasper’s shoulder well pleased. Grinned as the lad confessed his secret.

  “I’ve been collectin’ the weevils from the food barrels – trainin’ her to recognise the sound they make rattlin’ around in the mug ‘ere!”

  Several of the men were leaning over the rail waving boat hooks, trying to fish the lost hats out of the sea. One glanced up stared a moment, blinked, yelled, “Sail ho!”

  “Where away?” Jesamiah queried rushing to the binnacle where the telescope had been left. He extended its length brought it up to his eye, a smile of satisfaction spreading across his face.

  “Leave those hats lads, we’ll get us a new haul from that fine-looking British East Indiaman over there!” In the heat of the day every man needed something to cover his head to stop his brains roasting. Hats and bandannas were not an accessory, they were essential.

  When she eventually limped in to Kingston harbour, the captain of a merchant vessel carrying hatless passengers and crew angrily assailed the Governor, demanded he do something about these pirates prowling like basking sharks in the sea lanes off the Jamaican coast.

  The Governor shrugged, was uncertain as to exactly whe
re the man’s indignation was directed. Because he had been chased and boarded by the crew of a blue-hulled pirate named Sea Witch? Or was it because of the embarrassment that his loss, aside from the specie, was nothing more than a haul of hats?

  Jesamiah was pleased with the better quality three-cornered hat he had taken from a wealthy lawyer, or perhaps he was one of these new bankers? It was good to know there were opportunities for light-hearted camaraderie aboard his ship, the sound of laughter to balance the killing and the lurking claw of death. Good too, to ease the residue of discomfort left after the decision taken yesterday.

  Jesamiah wanted no part of it, but the others had voted and he had been outnumbered.

  Piracy they had said, was all well and good but the English Government was waking up to the fact that something had to be done about it. Until now, the one or two Ships of the Line had been next to useless in the Caribbean, their captains untried and untested. The Navy sent men who knew nothing of these waters or the shoals. Consequently, the pirates sailed rings around them. But it was all changing. Someone with sense was now the Lord High Admiral in London, and England was starting to send better men and faster ships. While anyone on the Account had a fair chance of staying free and untroubled, the easy life suited – it was the other side of the coin when a hangman’s noose dangled too near for comfort.

  “We have a hold full of wealth,” the crew had said. “Let us divide it and see what this new Governor has to say when he comes to Nassau. See what he intends to do with this amnesty of pardon on offer.”

  Rue too, apologising to Jesamiah with spread hands, had voted for Nassau.