by Jean Plaidy
Even now at this moment, Dick was playing Captain, and he had the other children about him, to each of whom he had assigned some role as member of his crew.
Dick, rosy-cheeked, his eyes flashing, was shouting orders, and that manner of standing, legs apart, was Bartle’s; that throaty voice was Bartle’s.
‘A sail, a sail! How stands she, to windward or leeward?’
Annis watched them with her. Annis muttered to herself and cast anxious glances at her mistress.
‘And what ails you?’ demanded Tamar. ‘You look sick and sorry, Annis. One would think you had not hoped and planned for this . . . for years . . .’
‘I’ll be glad enough when we touch land,’ said Annis, ‘the new land . . . Aye! I’ll be glad enough then. ’Tis this long sea journey, mistress. So full of perils . . . I do shake and shiver in my bunk at night when the ship do roll and I hear the shouts of the men.’
‘Give chase and fetch her up!’ cried Dick. ‘Come, man! Why do you stand gaping there. By God, I’ll clap you in irons. Every man to his charge. Dowse your topsail and salute him for the sea. Whence is your ship?’
Rowan, who had been given the role of Spanish Captain cried: ‘Of Spain. Whence is yours?’
‘Of England!’ cried Dick. ‘Give him a broadside and run ahead. St George for England!’
‘Will you be quiet!’ cried Annis. ‘You and your talk of Spaniards. No wonder we’re all wrought up.’
Dick said scornfully: ‘It might happen. You’ve got to be ready. Sir Bartle says . . .’
But Annis turned away impatiently; her fearful eyes met those of Tamar.
‘The boy worships the Captain,’ she said; and she shivered.
‘Annis,’ said Tamar, ‘what ails you?’
‘You asked me that before, mistress. ’Tis just that there be something about the ship . . .’
‘And its Captain?’ asked Tamar.
‘Aye. Its Captain and its crew. My dear life! I wouldn’t care to be the one to cross Sir Bartle.’
‘Why not, Annis?’
‘Because I believe I’ve seen the Devil look out of those blue eyes of his. He were always wild . . . even before he was took by the Turks, but he has grown wilder.’
‘It is mostly shouting,’ said Tamar, with an edge of scorn to her voice. ‘You can hear his shouting all over the ship.’
‘’Tis the way of him. Is he kind to those men of his? No, he is not. He’s a hard master; yet they’re his men and they’d be for him, no matter what happened or what he did to them. There’s a magic in him. That’s what I do feel . . . and it’s the magic of a devil, for look how he do taunt a good man like Mr Brown. He’s put a spell on young Dick . . . and on all the children. You see how their eyes sparkle when he throws a word to them. If they can stand close to him, they’re happy, even though he curses them. ’Tis a rare pity he can’t be saved. He’d be a conquest for the righteous, he would, and a loss to the Devil.’
‘The Devil will never loosen his grip on that man!’ said Tamar.
‘I don’t feel safe with all these rough men about,’ said Annis. ‘I’ve a feeling that one day . . . something will break loose. Do you see the way – their eyes follow every female of us? Why, I reckon some of them men, in their time, have been to sea and ain’t clapped eyes on a woman for months. ’Tis different like . . . with women aboard. And, mistress, the Captain . . . he do have his eyes on someone.’
‘The Captain has his eyes on us all,’ said Tamar.
‘But some more than others. There’s Polly Eagel, for one.’
‘Polly Eagel!’
‘That first baby of hers wasn’t Tom Eagel’s.’
‘Annis, please stop your tittle-tattle.’
‘Very well, mistress. I did hear that some of the poultry we’ve got penned up there on deck is pretty poorly. And there’s a winnock in the litter of piglets. My dear life! Ain’t there always a winnock in a litter – the little one who hasn’t the strength of the others and gets crowded out like and sort of peaky?’
‘Are you suggesting that the Captain and Polly Eagel? . . .’
‘Not now, mistress. That was before we sailed. Well, you do know what Polly is with that flaxen hair and baby-blue eyes of hers. Oh . . . not now. There’s only one that the Captain has his eyes on now, mistress.’
‘Well,’ said Tamar. ‘Go on.’
‘’Tis that that frightens me, mistress. His eyes gleam so in his brown face, and the way he treats Mr Brown frightens me. ‘Tain’t right . . . and yet I do know what it means.’
‘You see too much, Annis.’
‘That may be so, mistress, but I do beg of ’ee to have a care. You can’t play with men like Mr Brown, because they be too good; and you can’t play with men like Sir Bartle, because they be too bad. When you start playing with men like that . . . something bad comes of it. That’s what I be feared of, mistress. Something . . . bad!’
‘But can you doubt, Annis, that I would be able to deal with whatever might blow up between those two?’
‘Nay, mistress. You have your magic, but Sir Bartle too, he have a sort of magic. He has travelled the world and seen sights we have not seen. I did hear that the way those men escaped from prison were a miracle . . . no less. I did think when I watched him shouting to the men: ’Tis the Devil himself who sails this ship! And I asks myself if he bought his freedom from the Turk by setting himself in bondage to the Devil.’
‘Nay!’ cried Tamar, laughing with sudden wildness. ‘He was the Devil’s own before the Turk took him!’
The children came dashing past them.
‘Try the pump! We are shot through and through. The ship’s on fire!’
Tamar watched them without seeing them, thinking of the Devil who looked out of Bartle’s eyes.
‘God be thanked!’ cried Dick. ‘The fire is out. Look to the wounded. Swabbers, clean up the deck. Keep your berth to windward. Repair the sails and shrouds. Mend your leaks, St George for England!’
Something will happen soon thought Tamar. It comes closer and closer.
When many of the passengers fell sick, Tamar took it upon herself to help the chirurgeon in curing them. She had her ointments and lotions, and there were many who had greater faith in her skill than in that of the doctor. Most of the sick were suffering from the effects of too much salted food, the fetid atmosphere of some of the quarters, the general insanitary conditions. Humility suffered with the others, but he would not rest. He would go the rounds of the sick and pray with them and talk to them of what work they would be expected to do in the new land.
Bartle sought every opportunity to talk to Tamar, and everything he said convinced her that he intended to ignore her marriage and to have her for himself. There were times when she wondered if he was planning to kill Humility. He had killed many men in his life – so what would one more matter to such as he was?
Her own feelings were difficult to define. She told herself that she was sorry for Humility, that she was filled with admiration for him as he went, pale and wan, about the ship, thinking not of his own suffering, but of that of others. Yet when she was with him she seemed to take a delight in taunting him, in trying to arouse his desire for her, and then remind him of her condition, as he supposed it to be; he irritated her beyond endurance; he maddened her. Bartle, she told herself, she hated; he was a bad man; he was cruel and wicked; yet when she saw him coming towards her, her heart would beat fast with pleasure; and she knew secretly – though she would not admit this – that Bartle’s presence on board the Liberty made the voyage exhilarating and exciting for her.
‘Ah!’ said Bartle to her one day, stopping her as she would have walked past him, her box of ointments in her arms. ‘You should not have come on such a voyage. A woman . . . who is to have a child . . .’
‘Who told you I was to have a child?’
He smiled insolently. ‘People talk, you know. John Tyler’s wife knows; John Tyler knows also.’
‘I shall thank John Tyler and his wif
e to be silent about my affairs. As for you . . . you need not concern yourself with pitying me.’
‘I do concern myself with you. I shall always concern myself with you as long as we live.’
‘My child will not be born on this ship!’ she said.
‘Sometimes journeys such as this take a little longer than we bargain for.’
‘Nevertheless, my child will not be born on this ship!’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘I am sure!’
‘Mr Humility Brown praises the Lord for the continued fertility of his wife! So Annis tells us. She also tells us something else. Annis wonders if her mistress may not have made a mistake. She wonders if it may be that there will not be a child after all.’
Tamar flushed crimson.
‘Ah,’ he continued, ‘you must not be angry with these Tylers – such honest, simple folk! Tyler is a talkative devil, and his wife gives him little chance of talk. So when the Captain does him the honour of plying him with questions, it is not easy for him to keep to himself what the Captain wishes to know.’
‘How dare you discuss me with these people!’
‘Have no fear. This is our little secret. Humility Brown is your husband; he is a godly man; he shares your bed for piety, not for passion. Such a good man! No love-making for Humility Brown when the purpose of love-making is achieved.’
‘I have always loathed your coarseness. If you wish to please me, why not mend your manners?’
‘If I wish to please you! Oh, how I please you! So much that you cannot bear to have this man near you when I come home. So you tell him that you are with child, knowing such a tale would keep the pious man away!’
She pushed past him and walked away, holding her head high; but she heard his mocking laughter following her, and she was more uneasy than ever.
It was on the night of the great storm that Tamar knew how Humility suffered.
The sea had been rough all that day, and towards nightfall all passengers had been ordered below.
Tamar brought the three children into her cabin and kept them close to her. Little Lorea was trembling; even Dick was afraid. It was a different matter to experience a real storm instead of pretending. Besides, he must stay below; Bartle had ordered him there. In the storms of Dick’s imagination he had been on deck, shouting orders to his crew.
‘How big is this storm?’ asked Rowan.
‘Not so big as the one Sir Bartle told me about,’ shouted Dick. ‘That was in the Bay of Biscay.’
‘I’m not frightened,’ said Rowan.
‘Who said you were?’
‘Well . . . most people are. Annis and John have been praying all the afternoon. What happens when the ship founders?’
‘I doubt if Sir Bartle will let it do that.’
‘He said it was a pox-ridden old bucket – a god-forsaken old bucket. That’s what he said it was. I don’t think he likes this ship.’
Dick laughed. ‘Captains always talk like that. They love their ships all the same. If it’s wrecked, we shall all go in the shallop. Perhaps we’ll be picked up by pirates.’
Lorea began to cry.
‘Be quiet!’ said Tamar to the two elder children. ‘It is all right, my darling. We are not going to be shipwrecked.’
‘How do you know, Mamma?’ asked Dick.
‘Because the Captain would not let us be.’
She noticed that all the children were ready to accept this.
The rolling of the ship was increasing. The wind howled menacingly, and all about the frail ship Liberty the waters seethed and pounded her timbers.
Humility stumbled in.
‘This is a terrible night, wife. A terrible night. I have just heard bad news. A man has been washed overboard.’
‘Man overboard! Man overboard!’ shrieked Dick.
‘Can’t they haul him in?’ asked Tamar.
Humility looked at her and did not answer; he did not wish to say before the children that it was impossible to save the man in such a sea.
‘One of the sailors,’ said Humility. ‘I heard some terrible curses on his lips but yesterday. How do any of us know what is in store for us?’
Tamar thought grimly that if the storm grew worse they would have a shrewd notion of what was in store for them. The Liberty was a frail ship; and the strongest ships could not battle indefinitely against storms such as this.
She thought of Bartle and wondered what he was doing now. She was angry suddenly. He would know whether they were in danger or not; he would not be in suspense.
She drew her children closer to her. Lorea began to whimper; the noise and fury and the mad rolling of the ship terrified the little girl.
Humility looked from his wife to his children; he said: ‘We cannot kneel . . . the ship rolls too much. But God will understand if we say our prayers as we are. He will forgive us this once. Come, children. Pray with me. We will ask God, if it be His wish, to bring us safely through this night.’
Tamar said: ‘If it be His wish, then there is no need to ask Him. And if it is not His wish . . . then it is no use asking Him either. You waste your prayers.’
‘I like not, wife, to hear such unseemly words on your lips . . . at such a time.’
‘At such a time! Would you have me snivel, then, when I am in danger? Should I ask God’s help then . . . when I have not done so at other times?’
‘You wilfully misunderstand.’
‘No!’ she cried. ‘I understand too well.’
Yes, she was thinking, I understand that I hate you, husband. That I am ashamed to have married you and borne your children. It is Bartle I want . . . and I want him as passionately as he wants me. I may not love him. What a fool I was to wait for love! And what a time is this for thinking such thoughts! Who knows . . . in a moment . . . in an hour . . . before morning this ship may be rent in two and my body and Bartle’s at the bottom of the sea.
And yet, looking at her husband, gripping the bunk against the heaving of the ship, while his eyes were shut and his lips moving in prayer, great waves of hatred seemed to flow over her – as great and inescapable as the wind that tore at the rigging of the ship and the waves that pounded her sides with malevolent determination to destroy her.
He had opened his eyes and she noticed that he glanced at her and quickly turned away.
He was thinking that she seemed younger than she had for some time – more like the girl she had been before the children were born, the girl who had watched him work in the gardens and had taunted him. Now her cheeks were flushed, her hair in disorder. She refused to cover it or braid it. He knew that she was goading him, luring him to sin. She was tempting him because she knew that the Devil was at his elbow whispering to him as he had once whispered to Jesus. The Devil was showing him his wife as he had shown Jesus the kingdoms of the world. ‘She is your wife,’ said the Devil. ‘Is it then carnal lust for a man to go with his wife?’ ‘For such as I!’ was his answer. ‘For such as I.’ ‘She is your wife, your wife . . .’ persisted the voice in the darkness. ‘It was solely because I wished to procreate children for the New World that I took this woman, and I took her not for her beauty, but because she had a wayward soul which must be under constant surveillance, because she has a good, strong body that was obviously meant for the bearing of children. There was no lust . . . no lust . . .’
But when she looked at him with those smouldering lights in her eyes, she was telling him, ‘Humility, you deceive yourself. Lust there was, and one day you will stand before the throne of Almighty God and you will have to admit it.’
He shut his eyes, shut out the sight of her beauty and her wildness and the wanton knowledge in her eyes. He prayed that the ship might weather the storm, that all might be saved to lead good lives in the promised land; and he prayed that he might overcome the temptation which this sensuous, wanton woman was holding out to him; he asked for the salvation of the ship, but his secret prayer was for the salvation of his soul.
After
the storm there were a few days of calm. Now there was hardly a ripple on the water; and the sky was the same colour as the Captain’s eyes. The boatswain and his mate sat on deck mending and patching the sails, repairing all the damage which the storm had wrought; the cooper and his mate were busy on their tasks. The cook and the steward were preparing delicacies, on the Captain’s orders, for some of the sick among passengers and crew: a little buttered rice flavoured with sugar and cinnamon, a few stewed prunes, or minced mutton and roast beef.
Humility was holding a meeting on the top deck. Tamar could hear them, singing the psalms with feeling. They had come through the storm safely; they were still limp from fear and exhaustion. But this, said Humility, was a sign. The Lord had intended that they should make their homes in the promised land.
Bartle came and stood beside Tamar.
She turned and looked at him. ‘Rice with sugar and cinnamon!’ she said. ‘And for your most humble sailors. It is a surprise to me to see that you could show such consideration.’
‘It is no pampering. Merely good sense. Those fellows – wet to the skin, shaking with cold – would fall into a raging fever but for the few comforts I can give them. Such delicacies as buttered rice and mincemeat, green ginger, a little fresh water brewed with sugar, ginger and cinnamon – to say nothing of a little good sack – can save a man’s life. Whereas, give him salt fish with oil and mustard or salt and peas . . . and he’ll not rally. Such fare is good indeed for ordinary occasions, but after such a storm, if I wish to keep my men with me, I must treat them to their delicacies. This crew of. mine is too precious – every man of it – to risk such loss. What if we run into further storms? What if we meet with our enemies? Nay, mere common sense. God! How the preacher rants I Tamar, Tamar, why did you marry him?’
She turned away, but he laid a hand on her arm and, although she tried to shake it off, she could not do so.
‘Life at sea,’ he continued, ‘is full of dangers. We should have stayed at home . . . both of us . . . Oh, not now. Seventeen years ago.’