Pirate In My Arms

by Danelle Harmon

  The baby wailed again.

  She made her decision. Determined now, Maria checked the fire, donned a heavy woolen cloak trimmed in fur, and grabbed her muff before she could change her mind. Wrapping the baby in the warmest blankets she had, she took one last look about the hut’s single room and stepped resolutely out into the cold.

  She stood for a moment, long tresses working their way out from beneath her hood and whipping in the wind. Snow whispered out of a black sky, settling upon her cheeks and melting there like a lover’s kiss. Oh, should they go?

  Here and there, the wind had swept the moors bare, leaving clumps of dry beach grass poking up through the snow and making her trek easier; but for the most part the desolate, wintry dunes held drifts that engulfed her all the way to mid-thigh when she sank into them. Dauntless, Maria trudged on, a small, forlorn figure in a sea of emptiness, of barren land made even more so by winter’s hand. An hour went by before the storm let up and a watery sun peeped through a thin spot in the clouds. By the time she finally reached the King’s Highway, that same sun was sinking toward the horizon.

  She stopped and rested. Continued on. Her feet were numb with cold, her arms aching from holding the baby. The sunset lit up the sky, turning the snowy fields surrounding her to crimson, purple and gold. Maria sighed in relief as she crossed the town limits, for here the snow was hard packed and easier to walk in. She could still see scuff marks and pieces of bark here and there where the villagers had cleared the snow from the road by dragging a huge log behind a team of horses. Her weary legs ached as she continued on.

  It was near dark by the time she saw the Knowles’s barn ahead. In the gathering gloom it was only a shapeless block in a snowy, empty field, but it marked a shortcut through these endless pastures that would bring her to Auntie’s house that much sooner. It would be hard, slow progress through the field, and late by the time she reached her destination—but the chances of anyone seeing and recognizing her in a darkened field were far slimmer than they’d be if she remained on the well-traveled road. She shuddered to think what the villagers would do if they saw her, or worse, what they might do to little Charles, still snuggled in her arms and for the moment, thank the Lord, not crying.

  Darkness descended. The fence that marked the path was just ahead. Maria quickened her pace and had almost reached it when she heard voices. Her heart skipped a beat and instinctively she clutched the baby to her breast. Coming around the bend was a group of school-age boys, laughing and yelling and hurling snowballs at each other. Their voices, loud in the brittle, frosty night, abruptly ceased as they caught sight of her.

  Panic chased the color from her cheeks.

  “Look! It’s the Sea Witch!”

  Their breath made plumes in the cold air. “She’s not supposed to be in town! Justice Doane said so himself!”

  A murmur of fear, of open hostility. “Are you sure it’s her?”

  “Oh, it’s her, all right. My mother warned me about her, told me to stay away from her. She said she’d put the Evil Eye on me if I got too close!”

  “Do you really think she’s a witch? She doesn’t look like one.”

  “Well, what do you expect? A wart on her nose and the ugliness of an old hag? The devil works in strange ways to fool God’s chosen ones. That’s what the Reverend Treat used to say, God rest his soul. And that’s why she’s so pretty, just to trick people into thinking she’s innocent. She’s a witch all right, and if you know what’s good for you, you’d better stay away from her!”

  Desperately, Maria eyed the distance to the path. Oh, this had been a fool’s decision! Her arms tightened around little Charles. Let them do to her what they would, but she’d allow no harm to come to her baby! Be confident and they’ll leave you alone. She lifted her chin and tried to continue.

  “Let me pass,” she said. “I mean you no harm.”

  They stepped back, eyeing her distrustfully as she hurried past them. She felt their eyes upon her, heard their hushed whispers, and it was all she could do not to break into a run. Please God, she breathed, oh please, don’t let them see Charles. But before the words were even out of her mouth the loud, high-pitched wail of a baby pierced the silence.

  Oh please, not now….

  “Did you hear that? ’Tis the devil-child!”

  “And she’s bringing it into town! Quick, stop her!”

  Shouts. The crunch of snow behind her. A sifting of cold powder as a snowball whirred overhead, barely missing her.

  Maria grabbed her skirts in one hand, clutched the crying child in the other, and bolted for the path. Darkness swallowed her and snow engulfed her all the way to her knees as she left the road. She stumbled and nearly fell, then picked herself up to flounder through the cold drifts. The shouts behind her grew louder as the boys stopped to hurl poorly aimed snowballs through the gloom. But not all of them were in pursuit; she could hear their cries as most of them raced toward the village. That they were running to spread the alarm, to warn their neighbors that the Sea Witch of Eastham was coming, Maria had not doubt.

  And the first place they’d search for her would be at her aunt’s house. She couldn’t bring little Charles there now. Oh, the unfairness of it all! Why had she come to Eastham? She should have stayed home!

  But she couldn’t stop now. Her lungs burned as she gulped the brittle-cold air. Fatigue threatened to overcome her, but the baby’s incessant crying and the sounds of pursuit drove her on.

  She had to find a place to hide. The barn. Choking out a prayer of thanksgiving, Maria half-ran, half-stumbled to it, flung open the door, and slipped inside.

  Within, it was dark and still and cold. She leaned against the door, trying to control her frantic, pained breathing. Somewhere in the gloom a horse nickered softly then went back to its hay, the sound oddly comforting in the darkness. Slowly, Maria’s breathing returned to normal and her eyes began to adjust. And for once, Providence favored her, for at that moment, the moon peeped from behind the cloud cover and in its silvery light Maria saw stairs leading up to the loft.

  Holding the baby close to muffle his whimpers, she clambered up them as fast as her numb feet and ice-stiffened skirts would allow. Loose hay was scattered everywhere, and she shuffled through it until she reached the wall at the far side of the loft. Outside, the shouts grew louder; she squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath until they faded, became distant, and at last disappeared into the night.

  Moments passed. Hours. She fed Charles, who quieted and slept at last, growing heavy in her arms. From below came the peaceful sounds of the horses, from somewhere out in the darkness, the hoot of a snowy owl. At last they were alone. And safe.

  With a grateful sigh, Maria nestled within the hay’s sweet, fragrant warmth, never realizing that the sleeping bundle in her arms was not only silent but still. Cuddling the baby, fatigue and worry finally claimed her and she sank into the dreamless sleep of exhaustion.

  * * *

  She woke a half-hour later to the sound of voices. Shrill and excited, they penetrated the innocence of slumber and disturbed her dreams. Something stabbed through her cloak and prickled her back, and disappointment flooded her when she realized it was only hay, not marsh grass. The brilliance against her closed eyelids was not spring sun washing the Great Beach but a shaft of light streaming in through a barn window. And it wasn’t Sam’s warm body beside her, but the little one of the baby—

  Warm body?

  Maria’s eyes shot open. There was no warm body beside her—only an empty coldness. With a terrible sense of foreboding she looked down in the hay where the baby lay—and froze in horror.

  There he was, still swaddled in the blankets.

  His tiny face was contorted and still. Tinted an unnatural shade of blue.

  Her fist slammed against her mouth. A strangled scream burst against her fingers. She knew he was dead before she even reached out a trembling finger to touch him.

  Cold.

  Bile welled up in her throat. H
er vision blurred, a strange buzzing sound swept through her head and she came close to fainting as her very soul left her body then slammed back upon her heart so hard that she was violently, horribly sick.

  “Maria! Maria Hallett! Come out of that barn this instant! We know you’re in there!”

  She never heard them. In a daze, her movements wooden and numb, she reached down and picked up the lifeless form of her baby.

  “Oh…my God, no….”

  Realization sucked the very breath from her lungs.

  “No. Please God, no….” Her voice rose to a keening wail. Clutching the little body to her breast, her head fell forward and her cry of pure agony pierced the stillness of the barn.

  “Oh, S-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-m!”

  “Maria Hallett! In the name of God, come out of there now!”

  Her screaming wails sent shivers up their backs by the time Justice Doane, Mr. Knowles, and the people of Eastham stormed into the barn. And as they rushed up the creaking old stairs to the loft, the very hair at the napes of their necks bristled and stood tall.

  They were unprepared for what they found. For there was Maria rocking back and forth in the hay, cradling something in her arms and shrieking in anguish. Her sobs had stained her complexion a bright crimson, tears fell incessantly upon the bundle in her arms, and her long golden hair was tangled and matted with pieces of hay. And as she looked up at them, her eyes dazed and red-rimmed, Justice Doane saw just what she was holding.

  “Oh, my God,” he whispered.

  Behind him the ladder creaked and groaned as others joined him. Gathering his courage, Justice Doane shoved his pipe between his teeth and took a wary step toward her.

  “Let’s go, Maria. I’m taking you to the gaol. Until the evidence is sorted out and examined, I hold you personally responsible for the death of this child.”

  She heard his words through a fog. Crying harder, she buried her face within the blanketed bundle and swayed back and forth in her misery.

  “Oh, leave her be,” someone said. “After all, ’twas only the devil’s child. In His wisdom and grace, the Lord saw fit to deliver us of its evil. Goodness has prevailed.”

  Murmurs of assent and agreement. Justice Doane turned toward them and quieted them with a hard glance. “Devil’s child or not, it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that she defied us all and came to town to spread her wickedness!” He reached down to pull Maria up, loath even to touch her for after all she was a witch. “Come along, Maria. And hand over the babe. I’ll see to it that Mr. Freeman buries it.”

  Her head snapped up. Eyes flashing, she clutched the little body protectively to her breast. “Nay!” she shrieked. “I’ll never give up my son to you, never let you lay your filthy, murdering hands upon him! Do you think I forgot what you did to me last autumn? Do you think I shall ever forget it? ’Tis all your fault that he’s dead! If it weren’t for you I wouldn’t have had to hide here! If it weren’t for you I wouldn’t have had to—to”—her eyes filled—“leave town in the first place!” She burst into tears once more. “Go away and leave me alone! Do you hear me? I said go away and leave me alone!”

  Doane stepped forward. His hand closed over her arm and Maria lunged back, teeth bared, a cornered animal defending her young. But he didn’t let go. Wildly, she fought him with fingers curled into claws, then fists. He released her with a startled gasp, watching in horror as she stumbled away through the hay, sobbing, to retreat to a shadowy corner of the loft.

  “The woman’s gone mad,” someone whispered.

  And as he tried once more to restrain her, there was a sudden commotion behind him.

  “Leave that child alone!” Aunt Helen raged, bursting into the hayloft and impaling Justice Doane with eyes as cold as the icicles that hung from the rafters just outside. “Can’t you see she’s been through enough? May God condemn the lot of you for the heartless mob that you are!”

  Her voice seeped through the fog of Maria’s numbed mind. Auntie? She’d come at last. She’d make everything all right, would know what ailed little Charles…. But then the fog cleared, laying everything as bare as a windswept dune. Auntie couldn’t help little Charles now. Even Sam couldn’t help little Charles now. No one could.

  “Oh, Auntie….” Stumbling through the hay, Maria threw herself into her aunt’s outstretched arms and buried her face against the old woman’s shoulder. Gnarled old hands smoothed and caught in the tangled river of gold that flowed down her back, gentle fingers plucked bits of straw from that disheveled mane, and Aunt Helen’s throat worked as she fought to contain her own tears.

  Justice Doane, warily watching them, cleared his throat. The villagers exchanged nervous glances. The Sea Witch blamed them for the death of her child. What if she put the Evil Eye on them?

  But their trepidation was the last thing on Maria’s mind as she tenderly relinquished Sam Bellamy’s son to the arms of her aunt. She gazed for a long moment into the little face, then reached a trembling hand to tuck the folds of the blanket about him, as though he might be cold. Only then did she see the wetness glistening on her aunt’s lined cheeks, the shaking of her shoulders. She swallowed hard, making several unsuccessful attempts to speak before the words finally came out. “Y-you won’t let them touch him will you, Auntie? You’ll take him and…and b-bury him—”

  She couldn’t finish, abruptly turning away to sob fresh tears into her hands. Knowing the fight had finally gone out of her, Justice Doane pulled her wrists down from her face and bound them with an old piece of rope. And then he led her away from her aunt, away from the hayloft—and away from the last part of Sam Bellamy she had.

  The villagers parted to let them pass. Staring woodenly ahead, her eyes lifeless, Maria followed him down the stairs, past the row of curious horses and out to the sleigh that waited to take her to the gaol.

  Chapter 7

  Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea,

  Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free.

  —Wordsworth

  If Maria did not languish during her two-month stay in the gaol, perhaps it was because she didn’t actually spend much time there.

  She was as wild as the wind, the villagers said, for the Sea Witch was more apt to be found wandering the sand cliffs overlooking the ocean than in her little cell. It wasn’t as though she was treated badly or that life there was unbearable, for her aunt brought her good things to eat and plenty of blankets to keep her warm. What Maria did find unbearable was the thought that Sam might return while she was confined and that she would not be there to greet him. Desperate and determined to free herself, it didn’t take her long to discover that the key to that freedom had been hers all along.

  Feminine wiles, Thankful had once said. Use them to get what you want.

  And she did use them, shyly at first, then with bold confidence when it became apparent that all she had to do was plead and sob and turn helpless eyes on her gaolers and they’d swing the great, creaky door open wide to let her out. She wasted no time racing up to the Great Beach, where she would walk the wild dunes and strain her eyes for the sight of a sail. Her faith that Sam would return never wavered, even when ships bound from southern climes put in at Billingsgate and brought word that the West Countryman had abandoned treasure hunting and turned to piracy, instead. The news shocked her at first, but she didn’t despair. Surely, she could set him back on the path of righteousness; after all, he’d said he loved her, hadn’t he? She could change him; she was sure of it.

  In March, Justice Doane, who, like everyone else, didn’t know what drew Maria to those windswept sea cliffs and didn’t want to know, finally grew so tired of finding the gaol door open, listening to his men’s lame excuses, and trudging up to the Great Beach to drag her back that he finally opened the door himself and left it open for good. And at about that time, when winter still hung on by its fingertips, far, far away in the Caribbean—where snow didn’t pile upon the rooftops and cold winds didn’t set the teeth to chattering—Ca
ptain Samuel Bellamy turned the prow of his ship north.

  Toward Cape Cod.

  Springtime was knocking on winter’s back door, eager to be about its business as that ship nosed its way up the coast, past the capes of Virginia, past New York, and finally, toward the dangerous shoal waters protecting Cape Cod. But the vessel in whose cabin Sam reclined was not Lilith. The decks above his head were not those of a little sloop but of a great three-masted ship, dressed out in war clothes and groaning beneath the weight of twenty-eight loaded, hungry guns. And though the holds of that ship were nigh to bursting with silver, gold, and treasure, the riches hadn’t come from the sunken wrecks of Spanish galleons but from ships that had been very much afloat—English, French, Dutch, and Spanish.

  For Captain Samuel Bellamy—ex-privateer, Royal Navy deserter, adventurer, and now self-proclaimed enemy of mankind—had become a pirate.

  It hadn’t taken many days of fruitless, backbreaking work to convince him that the riches of the sunken treasure wrecks were naught but a dream. The Spanish had beaten him to them, and so had the governments of Bermuda and Jamaica, crowds of enterprising treasure hunters, and a horde of pirates thicker than flies around a dead carcass. But the idea of going back to Eastham empty-handed had been unthinkable. So, when the leader of that pack of sea-wolves, one Benjamin Hornigold, recognized a kindred spirit in Sam and offered to take him—and the all-too-eager Paul Williams—into his pirate crew, Sam had given up Lilith to the sea and, over a Bible and an axe, signed the articles of the Brethren of the Black Flag.

  Old Ben Hornigold had thought himself damned clever for recruiting Sam Bellamy into his pirate crew, for in his young protégé he’d recognized an abundance of those talents that make a good pirate a great one: sea savvy, recklessness that knew no bounds, and a growing disregard, nay hatred, for authority. But what he hadn’t recognized, or had perhaps misinterpreted, was Sam’s natural charisma and leadership abilities, a mistake for which he’d paid dearly when his own crew booted him out two months later and put the outspoken young West Countryman in his place.