Ripples in the Sand (The Sea Witch Voyages) (24 page)

Fifty Five

Barnstaple was sleeping quietly beneath the stealthy skies. The moon had sailed on her way, was setting now, low towards the horizon. There would not be light for the return voyage, but dawn would be stirring soon in the east, and the river itself was a pale ribbon in the night darkness.

The boat swung to leeward, two of the men too busy looking over their shoulders at the nearing town. “Watch your stroke!” Jesamiah warned. “Go steady. Nothing to arouse suspicion or bring attention to us. No noise, no calls. Gently with them oars now.”

The only activity along the river frontage as the men rowed steadily was from the several limekilns belching fire and smoke as the poor indentured wretches kept the stinking things working. Not one of the miserable souls would be bothered with a single boat and a few men lazily rowing upriver towards the bridge.

A shadow moved beneath the first spanned arch of the bridge. A low two-tone whistle, and then a lantern light suddenly swayed in the darkness. Jesamiah pointed and as gently as a mother puts her baby to bed, the men brought the boat in to the quayside steps. The oars rose dripping from the water and stayed motionless, pointing upwards like a rack of sun-bleached ribs. A soft bump, and Isiah grasped the mooring ring and threaded the painter through.

“Ship your oars and stay as quiet as church mice,” Jesamiah ordered. “Be ready to shove off the moment we get back. And assume we will be in a hurry.”

With Rue, a small keg balanced on his shoulder, Jasper, and Skylark, who carried a coil of rope, Jesamiah stepped ashore and walked towards a man emerging from beneath the bridge.

“So you did not bring Carter Trevithick?” Winnard Doone stated. “You have ascertained that he can be a liability.”

“Like you said, we want no obvious suspects do we?” Jesamiah answered. “Shall we get on with this?”

Not missing the hostility, Winnard handed a sealed, folded letter to Jesamiah. “My father sends you this. It is clearly addressed.”

Jesamiah took it, put it straight into his coat pocket without glancing at it.

The quay was filled with bales of Irish wool, barrels and crates, kegs and clutter. In the darkness, though, no one was about. Only a scruffy cat slunk silently away.

“Bridewell Prison is just off The Square over there,” Doone said as they started walking away from the river. “The night watchman has already been dealt with; he made friends with a bottle of brandy about half of an hour ago. Have you got what we need?”

“Rue has it,” Jesamiah answered, nodding towards the keg, and looking around the open square for signs of movement. “I don’t like this, it’s a bit open here. We’ll have the militia on us the moment we get started.”

Winnard also looked around, the place appeared secure, but he agreed, it was too open. “I know the alleyways well enough to dodge most redcoats. I will get you back to your boat.”

“Especially with the aid of a useful distraction.” Jesamiah grinned at Winnard who grinned back.

They walked on in silence, heading away from The Square, Queen Anne’s Walk, and the prison, their shadows bobbing eerily in the dim light from Winnard Doone’s high-held lantern. The alleyways between the houses were narrow, dark and stank of detritus – human and animal. Outside several houses were piles of furze brushwood. Barnstaple had a thriving pottery industry, each house with its own wheel and small kiln. The furze piles were strictly illegal because of the potential spread of fire, but who cared for petty laws? While tempted to make use of residential misdemeanours, the furze piles were not large enough for what Jesamiah wanted. Ah! A bank! That would do. Jesamiah had no conscience about possibly ruining a few rich men.

“Set it here, Rue, and wait my signal. Do your business then run as fast as your stumps can carry you to the boat.” Jesamiah looked grim as he added, “It will be each man for himself. If you don’t make it, you’ll have to do the best you can. Is that understood?”

The men muttered agreement. Understood.

“Jasper, you stay with Rue. Make sure he is not disturbed.”

Jasper nodded. Jesamiah ruffled his hair. He was a good lad, trustworthy and reliable. “Good. Take us to this ‘ere prison, Master Doone. We’re right behind you.”

Leaving Rue and Jasper busy about their task, Jesamiah and Skylark followed Winnard Doone back to The Square and Diamond Lane. Bridewell Prison was in darkness, its two barred windows staring bleak and depressive out onto the empty street. The smell emanating from the rooms beyond, obnoxious. By day passers-by stared in to gawp at the miserable wretches within, taunting and throwing rotten food, which the starving prisoners devoured regardless of its mouldering state.

Checking no one was around, Winnard stepped up to the bars, peered in, resisting the urge to put his hand over his nose against the stench.

“Ascham? Son?” he whispered.

“Father!” The shout was loud, accompanied by a sob of relief. A scared face appeared on the other side of the bars.

“You’re a bloody fool. I told you not to go. When are you going to learn to listen to me, not your grandfather?”

“Father, I…”

Jesamiah interrupted. “Sort your domestic issues later. All of you in there, get as far away from these bars as you can and protect yourselves. Be ready to run but stay with us, we’ve a boat waiting. If you don’t run, you hang. Hold that bloody lantern still, Doone, I can’t see what I’m doing.” He was attaching two small leather pouches and the length of rope to the vertical bars. Skylark was keeping watch, pistol cocked and ready but the town was asleep, most of the inhabitants in a drunken slumber. What else was there to do except work, sleep, fornicate and drink?

“Stand back,” Jesamiah advised as he finished. “Alright, Skylark. Do it.”

Winnard Doone moved a few paces along the street then covered his face with his sleeve. Skylark raised the pistol above his head and fired, the shot loud in the still night air as it echoed in the narrow street.
One, two, three, four…
Five seconds later a louder, fiercer, more dreadful sound boomed through Barnstaple, setting roosting gulls and pigeons screaming in panic into the air, a blast of red and yellow light and black smoke belching after them. Jesamiah paid no attention, set his own pistol to the end of the fuse protruding from one of the pouches, blew in the priming pan fanning the sparks. The fuse lit, sputtered, hissed, and Jesamiah turned away, covering his head and ears with his hands as the gunpowder inside the pouches ignited and blew with a bang not quite as loud as Rue’s keg of gunpowder, but loud enough. Simultaneously, Jesamiah yanked on the attached rope. The window bars together with part of the supporting wall tumbled to the ground.

“Out! Out!” he bellowed, gesturing simultaneously with his arm.

The lad, Ascham, scrambled through the hole first, followed by two who were clearly brothers. Then Ben – even in the poor lantern light Jesamiah recognised the likeness to Carter and Tiola.

Winnard Doone slapped his son, hard, across his cheek.

Ascham, in his late teens, at the awkward, lanky stage of a boy’s life cowed away, raising his arm to ward off a second blow.

“By God, boy, I feel tempted to leave you in there to be hanged for the trouble you’ve caused me!”

Skylark thumped Doones’ shoulder as he ran past. “Leave that for later, mate. Now ain’t the time.”

“Get going!” Jesamiah shouted, “we’re done here!”

Dragging his son by the arm, Doone started off in the opposite direction. “I have horses waiting, we’ll make for the moors.”

“Suit yourself, Doone.” Jesamiah had no inclination to argue. He felt relieved to be rid of the bastard.

As he hared off in the wake of the others, Jesamiah called over his shoulder to the last man left inside the gaol. “Run, you idiot!”

The man growled, an animal sound in his throat as he stepped through the gap in the partially destroyed wall and stood there, undecided. Tall, lean, thin; his skin pale, his eyes a deep sapphire blue. His black hair was soiled by grime and filth, but he had the air of one who possessed wealth and pride, and of someone who was, perhaps, not quite human. He growled again, showing bared, white teeth and then as silent as a wraith, disappeared in the opposite direction into the consuming cloak of darkness.

More intent on helping Ben Trevithick, who had barely strength to walk, let alone run, Jesamiah quickly forgot all about the stranger. Ben was injured, his leg black with dried blood. Giving up trying to drag him, Jesamiah bent and hoisted the lad over his shoulder; ran on.

There were people coming into the streets now, men mostly, a few women running out of their houses dressed in night robes, some men naked with only a cloak or coat thrown around their shoulders. Everyone was looking towards Greenings Bank and the flames and smoke, milling around wondering what to do, shouting advice, barking suggestions, the fire rapidly gaining in intensity, no one doing a thing to attempt to put it out. No one noticing the ragged men racing towards the quay.

Jesamiah almost threw Ben into the longboat, eager hands reaching up to lift him down. The two brothers hesitated, then said, hurriedly, “Us’ll take us chances an’ head ver the moors. Thank’ee though, sir, you has us’n gratitude.” They were gone, bent low, running beneath the bridge and along the riverside towards the open fields beyond the town.

Rue was running across The Square, Jasper not far behind. A figure rose up from behind some bales of Irish wool, pistol in hand. Jasper saw him first, shouted a warning. Rue dodged as the gun shot flame, bullet and smoke, but the watchman was too drunk to shoot straight and Jasper barged into him sending him sprawling into a pile of horse dung. Rue recovered his balance and hurtled after Jasper and at Jesamiah’s urging, jumped into the boat as three militiamen ran into the square, muskets in hand.

Jesamiah paused, debating whether to aim his pistol or not – one shot, three soldiers? He recognised one of them; the one who had a swollen, misshapen nose. They had last met in the courtyard behind the
Full Moon
. Ducking his head, and turning away, hoping he had not been as easily recognised, Jesamiah scrabbled into the boat, leaving it to Isiah and two others to fire their pistols. One shot found its mark, although not fatally, and not in Master Broken Nose.

“Shove off!” Jesamiah shouted as two musket balls whizzed over his head. “Out oars, give way – put your bloody backs into it!”

The tide was slack on the turn. Another five minutes and making way would be easier; the whole enterprise had been planned to come up and down again with the tide.

“Did Mahadun make it out?” Ben Trevithick asked as Barnstaple dropped away behind them and the mast was raised, the sail set. “He did all he could to help us, even though he too was injured.”

“The tall man with black hair?” Jesamiah asked.

Ben nodded, trying hard not to wince.

“His own fault if he didn’t.”

The wind caught the sail, pushing the boat faster through the water. If anyone was bothering to pursue them, they would have a hard job to catch up.

Fifty Six

There was something not right. Tiola felt it calling to her as she slept; awoke with a start, her heart beating fast. She lay a moment, listening. Had the voice been physical, in the room or downstairs? Or had it shouted to her in her mind?

“Jesamiah?”

The room was in darkness; cold and empty. She needed no light to see, pulled the top blanket from the bed and, wrapping it around her body, padded to the window, afraid of what might be out there.

She stood there a long while, one hand gripping the windowsill, the other clutching the edges of the blanket around her. She stood numb, ice cold from disbelief.

Sea Witch
had gone. She was under topgallant sails, making her way out across the Bar, a wake already creaming behind her as she cleared the shallows and plunged, like a bird let loose from its cage, out into the Bristol Channel. The mains’ls fell from the yards, then the t’gallants, and she heeled over, spray fountaining across her rails. Jesamiah stood at the helm, letting his ship run, encouraging her as if he were a jockey spurring a racehorse to sprint for the winning post.
Sea Witch
was gone!

When I get back I’ll never go away again
. His words, the words she had barely heard echoed in her mind.
When I get back… When I get back…

But Tethys may never allow him to come back! Tethys wanted him, could take him!

Jesamiah!
Tiola shouted the name in her mind as she opened the window, leant out, as if that one small act would make her nearer to him.

Jesamiah!

Sweetheart. I did not mean for you to wake yet.

Where are you going? Why are you going? Jesamiah, oh Jesamiah, it is not safe!

~ It’s as safe as it ever is, Tiola love. I’m going to Spain for Doone with this cargo of mine. He has a contact I am to meet – and your brother is safe, he is with me. Ben is asleep on my bed in the great cabin. Winnard Doone’s son is also free; both safe. ~

Tiola shut her eyes against the panic of tears. She wanted to shout her relief about Ben, but Jesamiah did not understand the danger from the sea. Tethys wanted to claim him, and she would stop at nothing to win him.

~ Rue’s stayed ashore. He will tell you everything tomorrow, sweetheart. Carter will not be pleased that we did this without him, but Sir Ailie – and Pegget – figured he was in enough trouble with the excise as it is. Do not be cross with me, Tiola. I did not tell you because I did not want to worry you. We got them all out, so the worry is over. By the time I get back everything will have blown over. You’ll see. ~

Her silence lengthened, but he was aware of her quiet tears.
~ I love you and I will be back. I’ll be gone a few weeks at the most. I’m only taking my tobacco to Cádiz. I will be back soon
. ~

He did not hear her reply, for she whispered the words aloud, not in her mind.

“What if I never see you again?”