Ripples in the Sand (The Sea Witch Voyages) (3 page)

“You going to eat that?”

Tiola shook her head. “You have it, luvver. Do not let Finch know though, he will be hurt.”

“What the eye don’t see, the stomach don’t grieve over.”

The egg custard was gone in three mouthfuls, and Jesamiah was mopping the plate with the last piece of toast when the familiar whoomph of displaced air and the crump of a distant bang sent him hurtling to his feet.

Cannon fire!

“Damn,” he said, hurrying to the stern windows and peering out. “Why didn’t Finch tell me that bastard was almost in range? Bloody idiot.” Another plume of smoke from a bow chaser, followed by the same ominous sounds. The ball fell far short, had no hope of hitting its target yet, but that reassurance would soon change.

“Perhaps he held his tongue to ensure you had a meal? Had he told you, you would have gone straight on deck.”

Jesamiah snorted. He was cross because he should have thought to have looked for himself. Hastily kissing the top of Tiola’s head as he brushed past her and reached for his hat, he ordered, “Unless I send Finch to take you below to safety, stay here.” He pointed at his boots.

She was already ignoring him, getting to her feet, shedding the blanket and looking for her boots and cloak. “If there is fighting, there will be wounded.”

Jesamiah had been an optimistic fool to think he could outrun a frigate. He clamped his callused hands to Tiola’s arms, trundled her back to the chair and firmly seated her.

“You will stay put, madam. There will be no wounded because there will be no fighting. I intend to surrender.”

Three

“Came up on us pretty quick, Cap’n.” Isiah Roberts, the black African, pointed unnecessarily over the rail at the frigate. “We might have been sitting still for all the way we’ve made.”

“She’s signalling,” Jansy observed and spat over the rail. “Anyone ‘ere know what them fancy flags mean?”

“Heave-to,” Jesamiah answered, making Mr Janson raise his eyebrows with impressed surprise.

Grinning, Jesamiah patted Jansy’s shoulder. “Don’t take much figuring do it?” He fell serious again, took a quick look round at the crew gathering in the waist, their faces anxious. Several of them were deserters from His Majesty’s ships and would hang without trial if anyone on that frigate recognised their faces. Most pirates were in trouble with the law before they turned to piracy – escaped slaves, criminals dodging a life of misery or the noose. That was how Jesamiah had become a pirate, running from being bullied by the man he had thought to be his brother, and the fact that a few months before his fifteenth birthday he had found the courage to beat the bastard almost to a pulp. That was a while ago now though; there were several more warrants for his arrest and hanging added to that original misdemeanour. Except he had signed his name in a book of amnesty and was now a respected merchantman and safe from the Courts of Justice, as long as no one official discovered the brandy and indigo in his hold, or accused him of some other misdemeanour.

“Them who would prefer to be below, scarper,” Jesamiah said. “If I can I’ll keep these nosey buggers out of the hold, but if I can’t it’s every man for himself. Savvy?”

A few men shrugged, uncertain. A couple decided to take their chances and brazen it out on deck; thirty of the crew fled below. One man paused long enough to scowl over his shoulder at Jesamiah. Crawford, his accusing look plain.
We should fight, not hide like women.

Jesamiah stared at him then looked away. He had more important things to attend than a surly bastard like Crawford. Important things like who the hell was commanding that ship? She had clung to them like a bairn to its mother’s breast despite the several tricks Jesamiah had initiated, and now here she was hurtling towards them as if she were a man hot for a whore.

Someone must have tipped her captain off about the illicit cargo. Why else be so persistent? Navy captains were as keen as any pirate to gain a prize; the financial reward as welcome.

The frigate was gaining seaway and weathering on the
Sea Witch
– not yielding to the same extent to the thrust of the wind down to leeward. It was only a matter of time, and not much time, before those guns that had been ineffectually firing as a warning would be in range.

“She’s luffing,” Isiah remarked.

Jesamiah could see for himself how the topsails momentarily shivered as the frigate sacrificed headway to gain a few more yards and the better advantage of the wind. Thoughts were chasing as sharp as that ship through his mind. He had told Tiola he was going to surrender, not put up a fight, but giving the order to heave-to stuck in his throat as if it were a lodged fish bone. If he were the one giving chase he would try to close in to windward and keep the ship ahead at a disadvantage, and that was exactly where
Sea Witch
was. At a disadvantage. Close-hauled, the frigate was forty or so yards nearer and in the direction of the wind. If she could remain the more weatherly, such a gain repeated several times would soon close the remaining gap.

Sea Witch
was giving all she could; cordage, rigging, her very timbers groaning and straining. If they pushed her any harder she’d break her heart, or snap a stay or something equally as disastrous. But to capitulate? To heave-to?

“Jasper?”

“Aye, sir?”

“Nip down to Finch. Ask him to send up my best hat and coat. Maybe I’d better look respectable for this blustering gold-braider.”

“We’re giving in to ‘em then, sir?”

A third puff of smoke and another ball arced across the closing distance. It smashed through the crest of a white-topped roller then sank. For maybe an entire minute Jesamiah watched where it had disappeared into the creaming froth of the
Sea Witch’s
wake.

“Aye, Jasper. We’re giving in to ‘em.” He turned to the remainder of the crew who stood grim-faced, watching him. Gave the order. “Heave-to.”

Not as eager as before, the men went to their stations.

“Let go main braces, main tack and sheet!”

As reluctant as the men,
Sea Witch’s
head fell away from the wind.

“Main clewgarnets and buntlines – up mains’l!”

The great expanse of the mainsail spilled its wind, and men strung out along the yards began to gather and fist it in.

A lump caught in Jesamiah’s throat, he coughed, cleared it, called, as confident as he could muster, “Brace aback, heave-to!”

Once backed the sails on the mainmast had the effect of balancing those set normally on the fore;
Sea Witch
came to an abrupt halt and slowly drifted downwind, the waves tossing her about as if she were nothing more than a piece of flotsam.

Raising the telescope Jesamiah studied the frigate. There was a flurry of activity aboard, eager preparations to luff up alongside, board, dutifully inspect the cargo – find the brandy and hang every man. Tiola would be safe. She was a woman, a lady. They would not dare touch her.

Would they?

Feeling sick to his stomach, Jesamiah wondered if he had done the right thing.

Four

As if he were a moon-mad dolt, as taken aback as the sails straining above his head, Jesamiah stared across the twenty yards that rolled and swayed between the
Sea Witch
and the frigate.

Losing patience, the uniformed officer on the
Josephine’s
quarterdeck repeated his request, “Send your boat over, sir, we have a passenger for you. Shift yourself, man! We have wasted enough time as it is!”

The lieutenant lowered his speaking trumpet, but his following words carried as clearly as if he were still using it. “That captain over there seems an imbecile to me. Is he deaf or something?” He raised the trumpet again, said slowly and loudly, “Send, over, your, boat.”

“I ‘eard what you bloody said,” Jesamiah called, irritated. “What passenger? I’m a merchant. I ain’t got room for bloody passengers.”

“You are heading for Bideford are you not?”

Under his breath, Jesamiah swore. How the fok did this uniformed pimp know that?

“I repeat. Are you not?”

“Aye. Anchoring at Appledore first.” If Jesamiah could offload the tobacco instead of having to haul upriver to the market town of Bideford, he would be well pleased.

“We are heading for Bristol and must press on. We ask you to take a passenger ashore to save us unnecessary delay.”

Jesamiah swore quietly, but vehemently. “What passenger? And is that ask or order?”

The lieutenant, accustomed to being instantly obeyed, was becoming annoyed. “Send your damned boat, or do we lower ours and I advise my captain to come across to make an official inspection of your hold?”

At Jesamiah’s side, Rue scowled. “Tell ‘im to tell ‘is
capitaine
to shove ‘is ‘ead up ‘is
derriere
. Pompous arse ’ole.”

As much as Jesamiah felt like complying, he had better sense. As it was not the captain of that frigate shouting across at them, only the first lieutenant, this request to heave-to could not be a priority business. Nor, perhaps, was the passenger that important, merely a nuisance to be got rid of as soon as possible.

Wonderful.

Jesamiah sighed. “Let’s just lower the ruddy boat, row over and fetch whoever it is. Isiah, take men who have no fear of being recognised. Set sail as soon as this unwanted bugger’s aboard. I’ll be below.”

Curiosity was not one of Jesamiah’s failings, especially when it involved taking on people he did not know and did not want to know. If whoever it was desired a free passage to Bideford he could bide his time on deck. There was no code that decreed a ship’s captain had to be polite to irritating and unwelcome passengers.

To add to his annoyance, as he stepped into his cabin Tiola was about to throw a cloak around her shoulders.

“You can take that off and sit yourself down, young miss. I told you, it’s cold out there.”

Ignoring him, she wound a shawl over her head and opened the door. “I need fresh air, Jesamiah. I will keep out of the way; not go on to the quarterdeck.”

Sighing, Jesamiah retrieved his hat and coat which he had tossed on to the table, already cleared of the breakfast debris. “I’d better come with you then.”

Tiola reached up to place a delicate kiss on his cheek. “Don’t be silly, I will be perfectly alright. Look here’s Finch with coffee for you.”

She slipped out as Finch came in, pre-empting any more protests. Jesamiah meant well but she wanted to be alone, wanted the fresh, crisp, air that might clear her aching head and give her a chance to think.

“You fuss more’n a mother ‘en, you do.” Finch stated. “Leave the lass be, she needs a bit o’ space round her.”

“When I want your advice, Finch, I will ask for it. Does that liquid you’re pouring actually have any coffee in it? Or does it taste as revolting as it looks?”

For all his grumbling, Jesamiah took the proffered cup and sat at the desk, which was shaped into the curve of the bulkhead. Of light oak wood to match the rest of the panelling, it was carved here and there with oak leaves and acorns. This cabin was one of the things that had attracted him to the ship in the first place, that and she was the most beautiful vessel he had ever seen. He had won her in a card game, although he had ended up stealing her, for the owner had gone back on his word. Water under the keel now, the man was dead and
Sea Witch
was unequivocally Jesamiah’s. As much a part of him as his soul.

Overhead, Rue was shouting orders; the sails crackled, the timber rudder protested and
Sea Witch
was under way again, the sound of the water rushing past her keel as she gathered way clearly audible.

The passenger, whoever he was, was safely aboard then. Well, Jesamiah might be sociable when they neared harbour, but not yet. Let the bloody man get cold on deck, it would teach him a lesson about begging passage on an unknown ship.

Fetching the charts relating to the Bristol Channel and Barnstaple and Bideford Bay, Jesamiah spread them on the table. That sand bar as you came into the Torridge and Taw estuary was worrying. Would he have to wait for a pilot to come aboard and guide him in? Probably, damn it! More time idled away, especially if they missed the flood tide. The flood was essential in navigating those waters.

He reached for the coffee cup, took a sip and grimaced. The wretched stuff tasted twice as bad cold; heard the cabin door open and close. Assuming it to be Finch he did not look up. “This tastes vile; dare I ask what else you are putting in it? Tar? Cat’s piss?”

The answering voice made Jesamiah splutter and turn abruptly.

“I have no idea, lad, but I can offer you a drop of brandy to improve things.”

Jesamiah took a moment to register the passenger’s presence in his cabin. A man in his mid fifties with a weathered face, a sailor’s crinkled eyes, callused hands and a slight stoop to the shoulders from years of bending under low ceilinged decks. Henry Jennings. Captain Henry Jennings. He and Jesamiah went back a long way.

“Bugger me! What in all the names of the seven seas are you doing here, Henry?”

Jennings removed his hat and boat cloak, indicated if he might sit, and gratefully sank into Jesamiah’s only comfortable chair, easing the ache in one leg as he did so. He produced a hip flask from his coat pocket, held it out.

Taking the silver container Jesamiah unscrewed the lid and sampled the contents before adding a generous amount to the insipid coffee. “Gout still bothering you? My Tiola will tell you drink’ll make it worse.”

He passed the flask back to Jennings who finished the remaining brandy in one swallow and chuckled. “And she’d be right, but a drop now an’ then keeps m’temper sweet. Pardon me for saying lad; what be ye doin’ to her? She looks damned ill.”

The genial banter fading, Jesamiah’s face fell serious, his worry clearly showing in the ragged lines to the side of his eyes. “She is ill, Henry. That’s why I’m hurrying to get ashore. I should never have left the Azores, but there was no buyer for the tobacco I’m shipping, and she wasn’t as bad as this then.”

“Get her a good physician. You should find one a mile or so outside Bideford, lives in the big pink place.”

Pausing while sliding his charts carefully into their drawer beneath the desk, Jesamiah cocked an eyebrow. “And how would you, a man who has spent the last – God alone knows how many – years on the account in the Caribbean, and then fancying himself as vice-governor of Nassau, be knowing this physician who lives outside Bideford?”

Jennings scratched under his grey, curled wig. “I know quite a few people in the West Country. I was born there. Lived in Appledore, more or less, until my Pa died in 1701. I helped in his shipyard, but had more interest for sailing ships than building them, so when he passed away I took a nice little sloop he’d designed, sold up to the local squire, John Benson, and went off to fight as a privateer in the Spanish War of Succession.”

Sea Witch
tacked and healed over. Without thinking about it, Jesamiah lifted his empty coffee cup and its saucer before they slid off the edge of the table. As she righted herself, he set them down again. The light creeping in through the salt-grimed stern windows brightened as her course altered. The sun was high now, but the sky was louring into an ominous bank of grey. If they could make landfall before the weather closed in Jesamiah would be pleased – and relieved.

“But I thought you knew my father well?” he queried. “He died in 1708?”

Also noting the gathering clouds and threatening sky, Jennings winced and eased his gouty leg. Cold, damp air did make it ache so.

“I knew him well, Jesamiah. He offloaded contraband at Pa’s shipyard and I often sailed with him to France, Spain and such. We both fought in that war and, afterwards, I stayed in touch through various intermediaries. I first saw you when you were but one day old.”

Jesamiah scowled. All this was news to him and, aye, he had, unfortunately, met some of those intermediaries. “1701?” he said, calculating in his mind. “I would have been seven. I remember him being gone a long time. He was not at home for that birthday, nor my sixth before it. When he did come home I had no idea who he was.”

“That’s the trouble with being a sailor and having a family. The one does not always mix well with the other.”

“I did not know he had been fighting the Spanish, either.”

Jennings shrugged. “He hated the Spanish.”

Looking up sharply at that, Jesamiah protested, “My mother was Spanish. Another woman he had loved before her was Spanish.”

“Aye, del Gardo’s sister and then the lovely Dona. You look very much like her, you know. Same eyes.” Jennings chuckled. “It is because of the both of them that he hated the Spanish. Neither lady was treated well by their kindred.”

Del Gardo’s sister Jesamiah knew of. His mother, very little. About to ask more, he held his council as a quick knock on the door heralded Rue’s appearance.

“We are coming up on ‘Artland Point,
Capitaine
. Do you wish to be on deck or do you trust me to steer ‘er?”

“Since when have I not trusted you, Rue? You’re as good a helmsman as I am.”

Rue disagreed with that, but held his peace and left. For all his years aboard ship he would never possess the talent Jesamiah had for instinctively knowing the moods of the sea. It was almost as if the running tides were part of Jesamiah’s blood, as if he were some sort of sea creature. Nor did
Sea Witch
sail as well under Rue’s hands. She responded to his grip on the helm, she obeyed, but with Jesamiah? Ah, with him, she sang!

The door shut, and privacy returned. Jesamiah fetched a bottle of rum and two glasses from the small cupboard, fitted like the desk into the bulkhead. It was not yet noon but once round the point and heading for the estuary there would not be time for a dram. He poured two generous measures, handed one to Jennings, put the bottle back in its secure rack and sat down.

“You never answered my question, Henry. I cannot believe you managed to hail a Navy frigate, and persuade her captain to chase me half way across the Atlantic. All so you could visit old friends who may well be dead by now. Why are you here?”

The rum was good stuff. Before answering Jennings savoured its aroma and taste as it slipped smoothly down his throat. “I had no idea you had been in the Azores. Purely by chance I met with one of your men who’d elected to stay ashore. He told me you were heading for Devon; Bideford. I blagged a passage aboard the
Josephine
, and we happened to catch sight of you yesterday.
Sea Witch
is pretty distinctive, you know.” Jennings grinned. “Of course you completely ignored the signals we made, although I grant we were maybe too far off for you to see them clearly. We gave chase, but you led us a merry dance! The captain nearly abandoned me into the longboat with orders to chase you m’self. “

“Well,” Jesamiah conceded, “that explains one thing niggling me. You tracking me at night I can accept. The idea of some naval bugger being able to do so scares the shite out of me.”

They grinned at each other and raised their glasses in a toast of mutual respect and, sipping the rum, listened to the sound of the sea thrumming beneath
Sea Witch’s
keel. She tacked again, turning as easily and efficiently as a dolphin, the rudder creaking and squealing; the shadows of daylight changing on the ceiling yet again.

His attention never leaving Henry’s face, Jesamiah set his empty glass down. “But you still have not explained why you are here.”

Jennings stretched his leg. “Did I not?”

“No.”

“Ah, well, I have come to England on King’s business. The Navy was obliged to give me passage.”

“Go on.”

“I have word to pass on concerning treachery and rebellion. The Jacobites have the support of the Spanish and have raised an armada.”

Jesamiah laughed outright, head back, hands slapping his thighs. “Henry. Henry! Do you sincerely expect me to believe that you are making all haste to England to inform a Whig government of something they must have got wind of months ago? Lord love you, man. It will be old news by now!”

Shaking his head Jennings leant forward in his chair, conspiratorially lowered his voice. “They intend to assemble at Cádiz, and no, they have not yet sailed. The invasion is set for March. Officially I am here to inform the government in London of another matter entirely. Unofficially, I hope to inform my acquaintances in Devon of a traitor in their midst. I have acquired a list of possible suspects.”