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

air don’t do much to sober a man,” he said to Rue, followed by a hiccup. He winked. Sometimes it paid to appear the worse for wear. “Gather a few of the men and get back to the ship,” he said quietly, leaning forward. “We’ll make way up river as soon as the tide floods tomorrow. I want to get there and back as quick as may be.”
    Rue reached for his hat and coat beside him on the bench. Said as quietly, “You’ve got blood on your sleeve.”
    Glancing down, Jesamiah realised his friend was right. He removed his coat and folded it over his arm, bloodstain duly hidden. He checked his breeches and hands were clean, and rocking on his heels, said loudly, “I’m t’m wife and m’bed then. I’ll leave you in charge of m’ship.” Raising his hat and replacing it slightly crooked, he made three or four wavering strides towards the stairs, halted and turned back again. Tottering towards the soldiers, he set his arm sociably around the lieutenant’s shoulders, breathing rum fumes into his face.
    Wrinkling his nose in disgust, the man scowled and attempted to push Jesamiah away.
    “Lieuten… lieu… lieutentant.” At the third attempt the apparently drunken Jesamiah got the word out. “You may or may not want to know this, but,” he paused, swallowed down a belch, then slurred, “but I have just sheen one of your men failing in his,” the burp came anyway, “failin’ in his dooty. Should ‘e be face down olblivious to the world? He looks as full as a goat. I think he’s been swillin’ like a tinker. Mighty funny though, ‘e were ‘eadin’ for the privy, a bit unsteady like, but ‘e misses the door and slaps straight into the wall. Funniest thing I’ve seen in a long whiles.”
    Half getting to his feet the lieutenant tried to extricate himself from Jesamiah’s clutching arm, but was pushed firmly down into his seat again.
    “Now I as don’t like talkin’ ill of the m’litia, you sodjers are cap’tol fellers, cap’tol, but I don’t know as ‘ow it be right fer a red coat t’walk slap into a wall like that. Don’t ye agree?”
    Removing his arm Jesamiah walked unsteadily away, bumped into a table and tripped up the first two stairs. Before the bend he removed his hat again and saluted an elaborate good night to the crowd below. No one was watching. The lieutenant and two of his men were hurrying out the door.
    Perfectly sober, Jesamiah grinned and made his way to his bedchamber and the prospect of a peaceful night with his wife.
     

Eleven

    The rain had stopped, leaving a damp chill in the early morning air. Jesamiah was making ready to begin the arduous task of taking Sea Witch upriver. The pilot, a small man with bow legs, red face and ears as large as a donkey’s, was advising him to pay the local boatmen to tow her up.
    Standing on the quarterdeck, a mug of steaming coffee – that really was coffee – in his hand, Jesamiah took a last assessment before answering. The flood tide was running past Sea Witch’s keel, chattering and gurgling as it swept into the estuary and the two channels of the Taw and Torridge. Taking a ship up a river on the tide was a skilled task, not easy, but Jesamiah knew his vessel, and his men.
    Many of them had sore heads from a surfeit of drinking last night, but Jesamiah was not so stupid as to permit them to drink themselves into a stupor with a job half done. They had only received a handful of their due pay, the rest would be tallied once the tobacco was sold and the hold cleared of cargo. Then they could go their own sweet way and do as they pleased. Most would return when he decided to set sail again. If he decided to sail again.
    Shoving the uncomfortable thought aside, Jesamiah concentrated on the matter in hand: getting Sea Witch to Bideford and finding a buyer who was desperate for several hogsheads of mediocre tobacco. He snorted. How likely would that be?
    “Why would I be paying unknown boatmen,” he asked, “when I’ve good men of my