Free Bring It Close by Helen Hollick Page B

main and fore course sails tumbled from their yards, no longer needed to be kept out of the way to give a clear view along the deck, or be safe from the threat of spreading fire. Required, now, to take full advantage of the following wind and give speed and agility.
    As the canvas tumbled, cracking and thundering, billowing outward like live beasts, Sea Witch leapt forward as if she was a hound unleashed from the slip, eager to be on the scent and racing after her quarry.

Twelve
    Half aware there had been cannons fired, Tiola stirred in her sleep. She had taken laudanum – a single drop, for too much was almost as a poison to her. She wished only to sleep, to quell the churning that flared in her belly, not sink into a senseless stupor.
    Who had been firing at them? Who had caused the panic among the men of the Fortune of Virginia ? For there had been panic, even through the disorientating, muddled haze of her semi-consciousness she had registered that the crew were frightened. Pirates? She wondered as she battled to open her blurred eyes and willed her heavy body to lift itself, at least as far as a sitting position.
    Jesamiah? The thought crawled into her sluggish mind. Was he close? She reached out with her hand as if feeling for the near proximity of the Sea Witch , but the nausea rose into her throat and she groped for the bucket beside her bed.
    She lay back, her eyes closed, her head reeling around and around like a rushing whirlpool. Why, in the name of all sanity, would Jesamiah be attacking the Fortune of Virginia ? The thought was ridiculous.
    Seasickness? Being seasick was just as ridiculous. She did not get seasick. She could not get seasick. So why was she feeling nauseous? Why this distinct lack of equilibrium?
    Tiola lay on her bed attempting to relax, and then tried to centre herself, to focus on her sense of balance, not only within herself but as a part of the Universe, as an Immortal of Light. After a while she gave up. She just did not have the energy to bother. Could that be it – the tidal pull of the sea was opposing her energy of Craft; as the moon pulls on the tides, so her Balance was being shifted? She needed to be on land to recharge her inner energy. In which case there was nothing she could do about it at this precise moment.
    She willed the comfort of sleep to shroud her. With deliberation, set aside the more absurd notions that she could not explain.
    Only her sleep was not comforting. She dreamt of Jesamiah. Jesamiah sprawled on a deck, blood-soaked. Jesamiah, dead.

Thirteen
    Jesamiah kept his attention sharp on the sails as he listened to Sea Witch singing, aware of the rush and quivering undulations of water rolling beneath her keel, and pressing against the rudder.
    “Cowards, making a run for it,” Rue observed, tipping his chin in a pointing motion towards the sloop. “They are scum, fit only for the ‘angman.”
    Even among pirates, there was no love for those who followed no code of honour. Who preferred to flee rather than fight.
    “We’ll catch ‘em,” Jesamiah answered. “Can’t fail in our duty can we? I carry a Letter of Marque. It states I must clear the sea lanes of ne’er-do-wells, Frenchies and Spanish Dons.” Carefully watching the inconsistencies of a wilful wind, of the fluttering along the edge of the main course, he adjusted the helm, brought it up a couple of spokes; the fluttering eased, disappeared.
    Blackbeard’s fleeing consort did not stand a chance against the Sea Witch , but the fools still led her a merry dance. She bowled along behind them for ten miles, Jesamiah deliberately holding back, herding them like a sheepdog drives the flock. Lulling them into hoping they could escape. Then suddenly he’d had enough of the game and swooping forward, overhauled them. They had to heave to and surrender. Sullen, awaiting their fate.
    Going aboard, stepping down from the greater height of the Sea Witch ’s varnished rails, Jesamiah made a cursory