by Beverly Adam
Captain Jackson’s pale hollow cheeks were now flush again with the ruddy vigor of good health. His body had filled out. His skin no longer sagged on his bones. Although still thin from the poisoning, he could tell that the senior officer would soon be hearty and whole again. There was no doubt the good captain had shaken off the specter of death.
“Here, Gladys, let me get this for you,” said the senior officer, carrying the heavy basket to the waiting handcart partly filled with driftwood. “Now why are ye standing there gaping at me for, Smythe?”
“I—I just can’t quite believe my eyes, sir,” he stuttered.
He turned to Gladys and said honestly, “It is a veritable miracle you’ve performed on Captain Jackson, ma’am.”
“What me?” The wise woman laughed. “I had no hand in it, Lieutenant. ’Tis the commander here himself who refused t’ roll over into his grave.”
She shook a finger at the captain’s turned back.
“Nay, sir, he’s about as pigheaded as one of my island goats sitting in a patch of turnips. Stubborn is that man . . . aye, he’s too obstinate to let death take him. I’ve no doubt he’ll wrestle Saint Peter himself on the momentous day he opens the pearly gates for him. But as ye can see, that’ll not be anytime soon.”
Sarah blinked at her mother’s girlish laughter. It was a sound she’d not heard in a long time. She secretly was taken aback by the compliments her mother paid Captain Jackson.
What had happened? What common ground had those two found to base their existing friendship upon?
And what had been the most unexpected surprise was the change of attitude in her mother. Usually, Gladys moaned aloud over how foolish her patients were. This positive report was indeed most unexpected.
Had Captain Jackson somehow managed to break down her mother’s aloof wall? How had he won over Gladys’s cautious distrust of men? She gave her mother a sly glance. She wanted to ask what had occurred while she was gone.
In turn, noticing the odd inquiring look, Gladys responded, “Darling gel, I’m not going to tell you, so, don’t ask. For sure now, ’tis none of your concern, now is it? ’Tis between him and I what happened here while you were gone.”
“Hmm . . . for sure,” was Sarah’s prim reply. She was not overly concerned. Her usually reticent mother had never been one to rush into anything.
She wisely decided that if her mother and the good Captain Jackson had developed some sort of friendship, then splendid. Her mother had been alone on this remote island for a long time. She deserved some companionship. And if the good Captain Jackson was the one to finally provide it, well then, God bless him.
She had always said she wanted her mother to have a friend her own age. And now she had one, an English officer who was going to return to his people. That fact stung a little. It had not been her own often spoken concern that had brought about this change, but the presence of an outsider.
Perhaps now I can convince Mother to come and live with me? To finally convince her to leave this tiny island. She thought optimistically of this unexpected turn of events.
Her mother was inching towards fifty. She wasn’t young anymore. And the island could be a dangerous place to live on alone. One good typhoon and both her mother and the cottage could be swept clean off the island hill.
But as she watched her mother bend to pick up strands of seaweed off the beach to mulch her garden with, she secretly doubted she could convince Gladys to leave. She looked at Captain Jackson and wondered if perhaps he could. She had never given any thought to the possibility that a man, especially an officer such as Captain Jackson, might befriend her mother.
Perhaps he was the one to persuade her mother to leave? If she wouldn’t do it for her, maybe she would for him.
Robert helped pull the handcart up the island’s hill. Captain Jackson manned the other side. The two men panted as they maneuvered it upward.
“Hard to port, Lieutenant,” the older man muttered, steering clear of a large puddle.
Goats bleated in greeting as they passed. Gladys stopped and patted one of the baby kids on the head, calling it by name. The little goat, trustingly, let her pet it.
Aye, thought again Sarah, watching, it’s going to be difficult to persuade her to come away with us. This is her home. She’s always been happy here.
* * *
Supper that night comprised of steamed mussels, clams, and fish caught that day by boat. Added to this were potatoes pulled from the vegetable garden behind the cottage. They sat companionably about a large wooden trestle table eating, sharing tales about what had passed since they last saw one another.
When Robert came to the part about Jemima’s deception and how she and her men had attacked him at The Hair of The Dog, Captain Jackson commented, “’Tis good that you forced her to show her true colors. You’ve done well, Robert.”
Jackson puffed thoughtfully on a clay dhudeen pipe. A cloud of smoke ringed about him. He pointed the end of the pipe in his direction.
“I’ll stand by you when the Admiralty interviews me about what happened. Never fear, there’s naught to worry. I hold myself accountable for letting that poisonous Lucrezia Borgia aboard The Brunswick. And you say, like that Italian she-devil, she and her men attacked you? Why the sharp fanged barracuda. Sharpen her teeth on you, did she?”
Robert looked shamefacedly down at the turf fire. He said nothing, his expression as dark as his thoughts. He blamed himself for everything. He should have been more alert, ready for any and all dangers.
Jackson took note of this and laid a comforting hand on the younger officer’s shoulder. “Don’t take it so hard, Smythe. There is naught that you could have done. ’Tis best you rest and clear your thoughts of all blame. On the morrow we’ll leave for England and I’ll clear up any troubles that might remain from my resurrection. I imagine there were one or two who were astounded to learn of my true fate.”
“Aye, it was if they heard of Lazarus’s rising from the dead, sir,” agreed Robert.
That, thought Sarah, was an understatement.
She had witnessed firsthand the winsome Fiona Foxworthy faint into Second Lieutenant Litton’s arms when it was announced. She had been the one to hand a small silver vial of smelling salts to him to administer beneath the vixen’s upturned dainty nose.
Speculative glances had been cast in her direction by several members of the crew upon hearing the news. Some of the officers had smiled warmly at Sarah, hoping the betrothal between her and the master commander was now officially called off. Robert had taken her hand, ending any doubts concerning the validity of their relationship. They had become a couple. He was not about to relinquish her to another.
She looked up from the stack of dishes she had been gathering in preparation of cleaning them by the well. The time to talk to him about their future together was fast approaching. As much as she was eager to go forward with her life, she was equally afraid of what he might decide. Perhaps his career in the Royal Navy would exclude him from having an Irish wise woman for a wife? And if so, then this would be the end of their relationship and a final goodbye between them.
Thoughtfully, she left the cottage carrying the dishes in front of her. She never made it to the well. A pair of rough hands grabbed her from behind.
She felt the sharp prick of a knife at her back.
‘“Don’t breathe a word,” said a nervous, twitchy male voice behind her. “I swear I’ll-I’ll hurt you if you don’t do what I say. I-I swear it.”
Sarah slowly turned and eyed the man who had been standing behind her.
He was almost the same height as she. His features reminded her of a thin, nervous weasel she’d once spied catching fish at a local pond. He was ready to take flight at the slightest sign of trouble.
She came to a swift decision. Lifting the dishes up, she swiftly brought the entire pile soundly down upon the brigand’s head.
Crack!
He immediately collapsed in front of her.
Aft
er kicking him gently with her wood clog, she took a deep breath and screamed. But no help came from the cottage. Instead, out of the shadow of a nearby tree stepped the person she least in the world desired to see—Jemima Kaye.
The cross dressing she-devil stood before her in a gentleman’s, long silk coat. Her shapely legs were clothed in the same dark leather breeches she’d worn as Jeremy, aboard The Brunswick. A long gypsy scarf held her wiry hair back. Two gold hoop earrings dangled from each ear. Dark eyes flashed menacingly like daggers in her direction.
“What do you want?” Sarah asked. Her fear almost caused her to choke on the words. She could tell by the dangerous look in Jemima’s eyes why she had come. But she could not help but ask the question. “Why did you come here?” She wanted a response, even if it was her executioner announcing her death sentence. She wanted the extra time it might provide for her to think of a way to escape. She had to think of a way to get away from her.
“I’ve come to finish the job I started. I’ve come to finish you off,” said the pirate evenly, advancing on her with a cocked blunderbuss in one hand and a long sword in the other. “This way I make certain that none of you survive.”
“Well, ye can’t have me,” said Sarah frantically picking up some of the broken plates she had dropped.
She madly threw them at Jemima, ignoring the small cuts she made into the palm of her hands as she threw them. Her thoughts were only of protecting herself. One sharp piece of broken pottery grazed Jemima’s cheek. The pirate raised her gun hand to protect herself against Sarah’s assault. It appeared she wanted to be at close range when she killed her.
“You can’t stop me,” Jemima said, taking one step closer. “No one can.”
“Aye, is that so? Well then, I’ll be damned if I don’t try, won’t I?” she retorted, taking a few short steps backwards.
Sarah’s gaze traveled up the hill to the cottage. Where was Robert? Why hadn’t he come to her rescue? Hadn’t anyone heard her scream?
A few cracking shots of gunpowder were heard from the cottage’s direction. Dear heavens, the others were being attacked, just as Jemima said! They could not come and help her. They were trapped in the cottage. She would have to find a way to survive, using her wits. No one was coming to rescue her.
Her hand reached out and felt something cold and solid behind her.
She was standing in the narrowest part of the trail leading down to the beach. A large boulder now stood between her and what existed on its other side, air and sea. She reached out to it, hoping to anchor herself.
Terrified, she hugged the boulder.
Slowly, she edged around its cold surface, putting it between herself and Jemima. She was mindful she was one step away from the cliff and a sheer drop into the sea below.
If only I could run past Jemima, she thought frantically, looking for an escape route. Then I could hurry down the other side of the hill to the cove and summon help from a passing fishing vessel.
Jemima, however, would not let her break away. The instant she tried to run, the hellion leapt forward, grabbing the sleeve of Sarah’s gown.
The lace ripped.
Sarah tried to yank away the thin material from the outreaching hands of the harlot.
Holding up her blunderbuss, Jemima aimed it at Sarah’s face.
“You think your precious lieutenant will come and save you?” She sneered, dragging her forcefully to the edge. “Give him no more thought or tears, my dear. He’s dead . . . I ordered my men to kill him on sight. He can no more save you than I could save my own dear husband.”
Dead? Sarah couldn’t believe it. She wouldn’t believe it. No! Not Robert.
“What does your husband’s death have to do with this?” Sarah asked instead, her teeth chattering. She was frightened and she needed time to think. She could see the edge of the cliff. “Why do you hate the members of The Brunswick so much? Why do you want all of us dead?”
“That’s right . . . ye still don’t know, do you? Captain Edward Kaye, my husband, was the captain of La Belle Chance. The black-market runner The Brunswick captured. And when Captain Jackson and your precious Lieutenant Smythe took his ship, they caused his death.”
“But how was he murdered?”
“As good as . . . La Belle Chance was smuggling French silk and other goods into England. That is until The Brunswick captured her. My husband was trapped. His men told me that he fought like a wounded bear until the end. Then, when he realized all was lost, rather than be made a prisoner to sit in some stinking English jail, he chose to blow his brains out.”
“Robert and Captain Jackson did not kill him. He put an end to his cursed life with his own hands,” exclaimed Sarah, knowing she was trying to reason with a mad woman. “And yet you continue to blame them. Revenge won’t bring back your husband. It will only bring you more pain once the militia catches up with you.”
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take!” Jemima glared angrily at her. She spat at the ground, cursing all English.
“If The Brunswick had not captured his ship, my husband would be alive today . . . and now I want a widow’s revenge, and you, ye Irish witch, shall provide it!”
She advanced on her. The ivory handle holding the sharp blade gleamed in the pale moonlight. She grabbed her, placing its sharp tip up against her pale throat.
Sarah winced. She felt a sharp prick on her skin. A trickle of blood dripped down her neck. She gritted her teeth.
She was alone. No one was coming. She had to think of a way out.
“I understand what it’s like to be alone,” she said, desperately trying to appeal to Jemima’s sense of humanity, whatever there was left to appeal to. “I was abandoned as a baby and brought up by a woman many considered to be a witch. We were chased away by foolish villagers to this remote place. However, I found happiness and peace despite all of that and then eventually I left here to forge a new life for myself on the mainland.”
“You can do the same. You can leave here and start over. You don’t have to do this. You can go to Barbados or Spain and start fresh somewhere else. You can be happy.” For a moment, silence reigned between them as Jemima mulled over her words. She could see some of the murderous gleam in her eyes die. She needed to get her talking.
“Why did you kill the steward, Stafford?” she asked, knowing he had joined the crew after the capture. “What did he have to do with your husband’s death? He was innocent of any wrongdoing.”
“I had to kill him. He saw me set fire to the mizzenmast with the torch I’d made. He tried to stop me. Don’t you see, ye daft girl . . . I had to get rid of him.”
Jemima eyed her crazily.
“We fought, and he managed to knock me down. He was getting up to call for help . . . I stood up and stabbed him, throwing his lifeless body overboard. His cursed ghost came back and haunted me, pointing his accusing finger. You saw him. I had to take flight or be damned. No one knew I’d killed him.”
“But you’re wrong. Stafford’s body was found, and pulled from the sea with your knife still in him. He was laid to rest in peace by a priest, his spirit set free.”
“If I could have, I would’ve destroyed them all. They all deserved to die for what they did to my poor husband!”
She laughed madly, her voice full of hatred, tears falling unchecked down her cheeks, as she gulped them back. “The entire crew played a part in my beloved Edward’s death. They all deserved to die. And now it’s your turn.”
Sarah felt the edge of the cliff through her slippers. In another minute she would be over. Looking down at the sea made her dizzy. She felt her body pitch forward slightly.
Panic overtook calm reasoning. Without any thought as to the consequences, she grabbed frantically at Jemima’s wrist.
Her only sane thought was to get as far away as possible from the edge. Using all her weight, Sarah tried to pull herself away from the cliff. But at that moment, unknowingly, she catapulted both herself and the mad woman over the edge, both screa
ming in terror as they fell into nothing.
Sarah landed on the sloping side of the rocky cliff. Her body rolled a little towards the sea. Jemima’s body dropped clear into free air. When her body hit the earth again, it smashed upon an outcropping of jagged island rocks.
Within minutes a white-foamed wave swelled up from the sea’s depths and swept the dead woman away. Not a sign of her remained, but a floating red gypsy scarf.
Dirt and shrub bit into Sarah’s skin as she slipped downwards.
Frantically, she tried to stop herself. She reached out, grabbing at shrubs and rock, until at last she caught a branch. Her left foot lodged into a protruding rock. She hung precariously onto the thin evergreen with both hands, closing her eyes against the vertigo. The world around her tilted uncontrollably. She squeezed her eyes shut.
Below she could hear the pounding of the sea’s surf as it rushed up against the island’s rocks. The sea’s spray almost touched her feet. If she let go now, she too would be swept away into the sea and drowned.
She hung there, praying that somehow she would be found. Hoping against hope, she prayed she would survive and outlive this nightmare.
It seemed like an eternity and then she heard something.
Voices from above cried out, “Sarah! Sarah! Where are you?”
“I’m here. I’m here . . . below you!” she yelled up.
She willed herself to remain calm, clinging to the small branch. She wasn’t going to grant that black-hearted she-devil her last wish.
“There’s no reason to be afraid . . . I’m alive . . . I’m alive,” she repeated to herself, calming her heart. “And they’ve found me!”
She heard the sound of something being thrown down from the cliff’s edge above her. Small rocks pebbled her face. Suddenly, it was calm.
She peeked to her right. A ladder rope was now dangling down next to her.
It was the same kind she had seen Robert use to climb up the side of The Brunswick’s sides. Her heart surged with hope. Maybe Jemima had lied. Perhaps the murderess had said Robert was dead in order to try and diminish her will to live.