Free The Lazarus Curse by Tessa Harris Page A

Carfax’s estate had great powers. They could ward off the duppies with their dances and drumming. They possessed healing magic. Their potions did good. Ebele’s ancestors would watch over him as he slept and he would soon be restored.
    “Now you must leave him and get back to your work, too,” Venus told them, clapping her hands quickly to hurry them along. “Do not trouble yourselves about Sambo.”
     

Chapiter 12
     
    I t was after midday when Thomas finally arrived at the quay where the Elizabeth was berthed. She had docked with the afternoon tide. The ferry had dropped him at the King’s Stairs a few hundred yards away and he had cut his path through the throng to the berth where he had been directed. The wharf was still busy, but not too busy. There was room to turn about and peer, even though one still had to weave around the handcarts and trolleys that plied up and down.
    The tang of smoke from the braziers mingled with the smell of salt fish and rotting vegetables. There were no French perfumes or other luxury goods here. Or if there were, they were packed under cod or sacks of coal to escape the customs officers’ eagle eyes. Ships that berthed at this wharf were there “under sufferance.” They did not have to pay a high duty, if any at all, on their cargoes. The Elizabeth was exempt and the papers to prove it were already lodged with His Majesty’s Customs.
    Thomas could see she was indeed a fine ship, dainty and well preserved. He spotted a gentleman he assumed to be an officer standing on the quarterdeck. He appeared to be supervising the ticket porters who were unloading barrels and crates from the vessel. He seemed to be checking boxes against a long manifest in his hand.
    Up above the great jib was in full swing. Seamen were fixing a devilish-looking hook to the roped crates. At a signal they rose from the deck and swung through the air to be deposited on the quayside. Below, men were stacking the crates onto waiting wagons. Thomas scanned the crowd looking for someone in authority : someone who was supervising the whole operation. Of the artist Matthew Bartlett there seemed no sign.
    He paused for a moment as the large box swung over the deck and onto a waiting wagon with a loud thud. The horses that were hitched to the cart shifted a little, nodding their heads violently as if in protest. Watching to see if anyone might chastise the dockers, or inspect any damage that might have been done, Thomas found himself unable to discover who might be in charge. Disappointed, he decided to intervene himself.
    “Gently, men,” he cried, striding forward to the cart to check on the crate.
    His protests met with surly grunts from the men, who carried on regardless, seemingly unsupervised.
    Cupping his hands around his mouth, Thomas hollered to a sailor on deck.
    “I wish to speak with your captain,” he shouted.
    The mariner looked at him suspiciously, then climbed up to alert the officer on the quarterdeck. A moment later Thomas found himself on board the Elizabeth, being shown below deck into the captain’s cabin.
    Bobbing low through the doorway, he could see the captain’s table, covered with maps and charts. Most of the remaining floor space was, however, set aside for a large number of pots that contained plants.
    “Dr. Silkstone, welcome aboard,” greeted the florid-faced man, who rose behind the table. He wore the sea-weary expression of a sailor newly returned from a punishing voyage. His leathery skin was pulled taut across his cheekbones, his brows were unruly, and his lips were flaking.
    “At your service, sir,” replied Thomas. “I am sent by Sir Joseph Banks.”
    The captain’s face broke into a smile. “Then you are even more welcome aboard the Elizabeth, sir,” he said in an affable Scottish brogue. He gestured to a seat.
    “I see you have returned with a large cargo,” said Thomas. He surveyed the smaller crates and barrels piled up in every available space.
    The captain