Free Ripples in the Sand (The Sea Witch Voyages) by Helen Hollick

“Captain Acorne at your service. From the Colony of Virginia. I’m here with a cargo of tobacco and to renew acquaintance with some old friends of my father’s, Sir Ailie Doone and John Benson.” He took a chance with the names, assuming Jennings would not have mentioned these men if they were not of some sort of significance. The gamble was that for all Jesamiah knew, this Doone fellow could be a notorious highwayman robber wanted for murder and Benson a rag of a charlatan. The hunch proved right, however, for the lieutenant growled a non-committal response and released the boy, though he cuffed his ear as he made to dart away.
    Jesamiah caught hold of the lad, preventing him from scampering off. “If you would excuse me, gentlemen, I have a need to visit the seat of ease.” Jesamiah also gave the lad a shaking. “You, you scruffy urchin, can show me where it is.”
    Not waiting for a reply, and apparently oblivious to the fact that the boy wore only a thin shirt, Jesamiah put his own long coat and hat on, marched the lad to the door and pushed him out into the wet night. His fingers digging painfully into the boy’s shoulder, Jesamiah demanded, “Who was that man? Mistress Trevithick’s husband? Answer me. No lies now!”
    Frightened, determined to say nothing, the lad clamped his lips together.
    “Your silence is commendable, but misplaced. I want to help. I don’t take kindly to the militia.”
    Gripping the boy’s collar, Jesamiah trundled him the few yards along Main Street to where Cock Lane began. The light from the window spilled out, glittering on the falling rain. Inside the inn, in the fug of warmth, blurred by the misting of the glass, Rue was tucking into his meal.
    Jesamiah glanced upward. Tiola stood at the small, narrow window, looking down at him.
    Go back to bed, woman.
    ~ He is hiding behind those barrels. You must… ~
    And do I tell you how to mend wounds and birth babes? Leave my doing to me and you do as you are told. Get to bed.
    The lantern on the wall provided a feeble glow, the stack of barrels visible as a darker patch a few yards into the lane. Jesamiah had good night sight, did not miss the movement of shadow drawing itself further into hiding.
    Beside the barrels was a wooden gate of about Jesamiah’s height. “That the back entrance to the Full Moon ?” he asked.
    “Aye. ‘Tis where the privy be.”
    “You’d best show me exactly where.”
    The lad shook his head emphatically. “Cain’t, sir. I got things t’do. There bist light enough ver ‘ee t’see, the kitchen winders bist bright an’ Mistress keeps a lant’n burnin’ nex’ the privy hut.” To emphasise his point he pressed the latch down and as the gate swung inward, scuttled back round the corner as if he were returning to the inn. He did not go in. Jesamiah could see the boy’s shadow slanting across the cobbles. Waiting for him to disappear from sight?
    Obliging, Jesamiah stepped through the gateway, stopped a few paces inside at the unmistakable click of a musket’s hammer.
    A militia guard, the white of his breeches and crossbelt clearly visible, emerged from a sheltered position near the kitchen door. “Halt! Who passes there?”
    The musket was pointed straight at Jesamiah’s stomach. He raised his hands and grinned. “Hey heave-to there, feller! I’m from the inn and in need of an urgent piss. Nothing more sinister than that. Though if you don’t let me pass there’s going to be an embarrassing wet patch on m’breeches, which I’d rather not explain to the ladies inside.”
    The soldier lowered the weapon. “Be quick then.”
    Jesamiah strolled to the wooden shack that looked in danger of falling down at the first breath of a lively wind, stepped inside and relieved himself into the dark stink of a cesspit hole. “Foul bloody night, ain’t it?” he called. “They’re saying we can expect snow.” Coming out, buttoning his breeches, continued, “Don’t get snow in the Spanish Main.