Sea Witch (36 page)

Twenty Nine

Tethys crowed her delight, the unpleasant sound clawing through the depths of her undersea world. With the speed of a darting fish she thrust upward towards the surface, her glee trailing behind in a stream of air bubbles.

~ I have come for my payment. For the gift you promised! ~

~ As is your right. I am of the Craft, I honour a promise made. ~

The intense cold shocked Jesamiah into awareness, his fuddled mind snapping to attention as he plunged down through the water. He was bare-foot, wore only a loose shirt and breeches, apart from the shrilling pain had nothing to impede his arms and legs. The coldness of the Atlantic rapidly numbed all feeling, although his mind registered he was going to hurt like hell once he got out of this. Salt water seeping into open wounds would be unbearable. Kicking out, he swam upward thankful that unlike many a seaman he could swim. Saw Tiola face down, her gown spread around her as if they were the skirts of a jellyfish. Her arm, somehow, caught on the encrusted barnacles of Phillipe’s ship.

And he knew, knew before he reached her that she was dead.

Three minutes? Four? He was in the water no longer. Sailors knew the dangers, were quick to re-act. Seeing Jesamiah come up nearer to the
Sea Witch
’s bow than the schooner’s, the crew had boat hooks out. Rue and Isiah Roberts leapt from one ship to the other to haul Jesamiah aboard as he clung, one handed, to a tossed line, his other arm, aching from the damage Phillipe had inflicted, locked tight around Tiola’s limp waist, holding her close. Telling himself it would be better to leave her for she would only have to be put back, knowing he could not. The struggle to free her had taken the last of his strength.

He crumpled on the deck of
Sea Witch
, shivering, his teeth rattling, the unbelievable stinging from the salt hurting his entire body. Everything, internal and external, agony; his hand with the broken bone in the ring finger swollen; his joints, knee, shoulder, ankle, all bruised, sore to a point almost beyond endurance. He ignored all of it. The other pain shouted the rest of it into non-existence. She was gone. He had lost her. And this time, this time, there would be no finding her again. This time, it was final.

Rue put a coat around his shoulders, someone shouted for Finch to fetch rum. Jesamiah heard, felt, wanted, none of it.

Tiola had cried out as she fell, the surprise gushing the sound from her lungs. Her mouth open she took in water as she went down and her sleeve snagged against the
Ruby
’s keel, stopping her from sinking. She kicked with her feet but she was caught tight. She tried to tear at it, the material refusing to give, the sharp, serrated barnacle shells obstinately clinging.

It was cold, so cold here in the water, and the two ships loomed, frightening, above her. If they should swing inward, come together while she was trapped here…She tried again to tear herself free and realised it was hopeless, nothing mortal or natural was binding her.

~ I want my gift. I want him. I want Acorne. ~

~ Of what use is he to you, Tethys? He is mortal, his body will decay and rot and then you shall have nothing but his bones as your prize. Do you not have enough of those already? ~

Malicious. Insistent. Demanding.
~ Then give me something of his which shall not rot! ~

For Jesamiah’s life, it seemed fair exchange.

Thirty

Jesamiah sat, devoid of all thought staring, blank, at Tiola lying lifeless on the deck of the
Sea Witch
, her wet hair clinging to a face as white as alabaster. Her lips were tinged blue, there was no breath, no beat of her heart. She had gone. Gone forever from him and suddenly he did not care about anything any more, whether he hurt or not, whether he lived or died. Nothing mattered. Not now. Not ever again

They covered her with the pirate flag and Rue, squatting in front of him, asked what he wanted done with Mereno and the men of the
Ruby
. Jesamiah made no answer.

“Come on lad, let me get you below. Get you dried and warm,
non
?”

As if he were a father tending his invalid son Rue lifted his friend to his feet, threaded his strong arm around his waist and began to guide Jesamiah towards the sanctuary of the captain’s cabin.

For a few steps Jesamiah meekly complied, then he paused to check they were tending Tiola with reverent care and he glanced across at the
Ruby
warped alongside. Saw his brother standing there on the fore-deck, hands on hips, laughing. Openly, derisively laughing.

Phillipe could not resist the opportunity for an extra half mile of vindictive taunting. “Dead is she?” he smirked, safe in the knowledge that the piece of filth he had been forced to call brother was not able to retaliate. Jesamiah was weaponless, beaten and broken. He stank of his own filth and vomit; had been shamed and humiliated, had pleaded to be left alone. Oh, it had been good to see him grovel, to hear him beg!

Swaggering forwards a few paces, arrogantly presumptuous, Phillipe jeered again. “Well, well Jesamiah, my intention was to incarcerate you in the deepest pit and leave you there to starve or gnaw at your own limbs. I appear to have achieved my aim. I have sent you there!”

Blind rage consumed Jesamiah. All pain, all physical feeling disappeared with that blood-rush of hot fury. He shook Rue free and ran, yelling something, some wild animal noise of hatred that had no meaning beyond a ululation of bereaved sound. He was up on the rails, a loose line of cordage in his hands, swung across the narrow gap between the
Sea Witch
and the
Ruby
; landed awkwardly, rolled, was up running again, oblivious to everything except Phillipe’s malicious crowing. And as Jesamiah ran his hand went to a bedraggled ribbon tied into his hair, tugged it free. It was filthy, but it was a ribbon he needed, no matter its colour or condition.

From the age of almost fifteen, when something, someone – Tiola – had awakened his ability to fight, Jesamiah had been a pirate. Pirates were hard men, piracy a hard life dominated by the stench of blood and the constant threat of the gallows. For a few, for those like Jesamiah who were intelligent, capable men, the life was easier, but they still met their share of staring death in the face and the brutality of killing, of never knowing if the Grim Reaper was waiting, dark-hooded, on the next chase or at the next anchorage. In the indignity of the noose.

Malachias Taylor had taught Jesamiah all he knew. Had taught him well – how to sail a ship, how to feel her moods, to get that one last, essential knot of speed. To navigate, use a sextant, read charts. How to enjoy a woman, drink rum. And how to fight. How to kill.

“
Anyone can kill, boy. Anyone, even drunk, can fire a pistol or stab with a knife – and hope it finds its mark, that the one who’s dead don’t get up ag’in. I’ve seen many a good pirate end ‘is life by turnin’ ‘is back an’ makin’ a last mistake. To kill proper you need to kill quick, clean and thorough. No messin’ about, a’tauntin’ and pussy-footin’ with one o’ them fancy swords. I’ll show you two ways of ‘ow to kill a man Jes boy, so ‘e stays killed. As y’father once showed me.
”

As he ran, his fingers not feeling the broken bone, Jesamiah automatically tied a particular knot in the centre of the ribbon. A knot Taylor and Charles Mereno before him had used when it was especially needed. Quick and clean and thorough.

And Phillipe realised his mistake. Saw his doom coming straight at him. He screeched his panic and fled; on a ship, there was nowhere to run.

With his back pressed hard against the bulwark he stretched out one hand, a gesture pleading for mercy. As so many, many times Jesamiah had pleaded for mercy from him. He glanced down, below was the grey roll of the sea. Phillipe could swim but not well, and where would he swim to?

Again he looked at Jesamiah approaching at a walk now, menace and intent contorting his bruised face, the wet shirt and breeches clinging to his battered body, the bedraggled ribbon wound around his hands, the length between them stretched taut.

Forcing an ingratiating smile, his gaze darting about the deck desperate for something to use as a defensive weapon, Phillipe spread both hands wide and lied through his back teeth. “Brother! It was an accident, I did not mean for her to drown. Surely you realise that?”

A few feet away there was a pistol on the deck, could he reach it? He inched to the side not daring to glance at what he hoped would be his salvation.

“Jesamiah? You said yourself, we are grown men. Can we not put the mistakes of the past aside? Look to the future?” Another inch; the pistol was beside his foot. “You can have half the plantation. All my ships. Whatever you want is yours. Anything, just name it.” Almost added,
You can have Alicia
, but thought better of it – he plunged downward, scooped up the pistol and standing upright levelled it at his brother’s heart, his quivering fingers desperately trying to drag the hammer back.

Still Jesamiah came on, stepping silently in bare feet over a bloodied corpse its eyes open, staring. Walked on, every fibre of his body, every nerve of his senses focussed on the coward snivelling in front of him.

The sweat on Phillipe’s palms was making it difficult to grip the pistol butt, his thumb could not get enough purchase on the hammer to draw it back – he used the palm of his shaking hand to do it, as a woman would – aimed, shut his eyes, squeezed the trigger…

Nothing happened. No flash of a spark striking the flint, no puff of igniting smoke, no sharp bang or jerked recoil. Nothing. Nothing, except an empty hollow click.

Urine trickled down Phillipe’s legs, puddled in his shoes and stained his breeches. And then the smell of fear; of evacuated liquid faeces. Terrified, he hurled the useless gun at Jesamiah who neatly sidestepped, not deigning to notice where it fell.

There was no mistaking the focussed hatred in Jesamiah’s formidable eyes. Phillipe’s voice quivered, rising to a shriek of panic as he began to beg in earnest. “Jesamiah, you cannot do this. I am your brother! We are of the same blood – for pity’s sake I beg you! I do not want to die!”

Jesamiah continued walking. Said nothing. Heard none of it.

Terror overwhelming him Phillipe darted to the side, tried to get away but Jesamiah, despite his hurts, perhaps because of them, moved the quicker; stood behind him.

The second method of killing. One he had used enough times to know how to do it well, as Malachias had taught him. Effective and efficient. He lifted the ribbon high, brought it down around Phillipe’s neck hooking his hands behind, fast and firm, crossing his arms and locking his wrists together for purchase. The ribbon jerked tight hauling Phillipe, gurgling and sputtering to a halt. In the same fluid movement Jesamiah took one large step backwards.

Mereno’s hands were at the narrow strip of silk, clawing at the knot pressing into his windpipe, his fingers and nails scrabbling, trying to tear the thing free. Through his choking breath he was still trying to beg, to plead for Jesamiah to see reason. He tried to kick out, tried to stamp down, but Jesamiah knew that trick and was not within reach. His spine bending backwards, Mereno’s breath was rattling in his throat, the blood pumping from his heart with nowhere to flow for the carotid artery was being crushed by the squeezing pressure of a knotted ribbon. A blue ribbon that usually fluttered, innocuous, from Jesamiah’s chaos of black hair. A thing worn and valued not for vanity, but for its easy use of killing.

“Save your begging for the Devil, Brother,” Jesamiah rasped. “Instead of wasting my time emptying my seed into your wife, I should have finished you when we last met, you bastard.”

A cannon ball whistled with the familiar
whoomph
of sound across the
Ruby
’s bows. Someone shouted a warning. Rue. Jesamiah did not hear.

“Take this as what I owe you, Phillipe,” Jesamiah snarled as with the strength of his crossed arms he pulled the ribbon one, last, bit tighter, administering the coup de grace. “And tomorrow I’ll meet you in Hell.”

Rue was shouting his name, shrieking at Jesamiah to leave it! Leave him!

“Get aboard Jes! It’s the
Carolina Revenge
! Get aboard!”

Isiah and several of the men were chopping through the warping ropes securing them to the
Ruby
. Canvas was spilling from
Sea Witch
’s masts and she was beginning to move away from the red-hulled schooner, tugging at the last line binding them together. Under immense strain the stretching cordage groaned as she began to gather way.

“Jesamiah! Come on!”

It was only because he had to bury Tiola that Jesamiah released his hold and let the ribbon and Phillipe’s twitching corpse fall. He looked up, the breath tight in his chest and throat, the pain of all his hurts returning with a vengeance. He saw the
Carolina Revenge
bearing down on them under full sail and the distinctive white streak of another cannon ball shrieking across the closing gap between them. With a plume of spray it landed short by a few inches. The next one would not.

His brother was dead but Jesamiah wanted to make sure he would receive no Christian burial. No one was to stand beside his grave and mourn. He did not deserve respect, deserved to suffer the fate of the unburied for all eternity. Phillipe was no sailor, he had no gold tooth, no gold earring, had nothing with which to pay the Ferryman to cross, in peace, into the next world. Without remorse or pity Jesamiah dragged the twitching body the few yards to where the bulwark had been shot away. Shoved it over the side. Did not bother to wait to hear the splash.

Willing hands stretched out to catch him as, grasping a length of torn shroud, he swung across the increasing distance between the two ships, the scream of agony gasping in his throat as the rush of blood-heat cooled, and physical and mental awareness slammed a return to reality.

Sea Witch
, knowing he was safe, took her own decision to break free. The last line snapped with a bang, hurtling into the air like a cracked whiplash and she plunged forward, the wind taking her. She had her beloved master aboard, and happy, showed the speed of a fleeing gazelle. By comparison, the cumbersome guardship was a clip-winged duck.