Sea-ward, white gleaming thro' the busy scud

With arching Wings, the sea-mew o'er my head

Posts on, as bent on speed, now passaging

Edges the stiffer Breeze, now, yielding, drifts,

Now floats upon the air, and sends from far

A wildly-wailing Note.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Fragment 1

If life had been like her nurses' stories at this point, then there should have been some warning. Maybe… maybe a fairy godmother, or a warning from heaven.

But Theresa's last few days in Cádiz were almost ridiculously calm and quiet. She packed her trunk, wrote letters of farewell to the few married schoolfriends she knew in Madrid – and sold what few sticks of furniture hadn't already gone. What keepsakes she had of Sebastien were shut carefully in an old rosewood casket of her mothers; stowed safely in the depths. Jacinta mended and pressed and folded and tidied and starched – a sort of anxious preparation for a change neither of them were quite sure about. When Jacinta was worried, she talked – and she talked so often about how sensible Theresa was being, and how beautiful the islands were, that Theresa suspected she was trying to reassure herself as well as her mistress.

But she didn't let slip so much of a word of doubt until the day came, and the porter's cart trundled Theresa and her luggage down to the harbour.

'You will send word once you're safe with your sister? Promise me.'

"Jacinta! That's the third time you've asked me that! You know I will.'

'Right. Good. Good.' Jacinta rallied. 'None of that writing business, mind. I never know what to do when I give a letter to Father Vincente to read to me. He always looks so disapproving...'

'How else am I to get word to you?'

'There's my nephew Joachim, on the Anunciación,' Jacinta said firmly. 'He sails to the islands every few months. You just find him, and have him tell his old aunt that Doña Theresa is hale and hearty. That'll do nicely for me...'

Jacinta's brow was still oddly clouded. Her hands were nervously plucking at a loose thread in her apron, fingers twitching though she were counting how many she had.

'I wish you'd wait, Señora.' She said, at last. 'Just another month. You could lodge with me until then, and take passage with Joachim and his master. Very fair, is Capitán de la Vega –'

'Jacinta-' Theresa turned, exasperated – and stopped when she saw her housekeeper's face. This wasn't the usual litany of grumbling, good-natured complaints. Jacinta looked genuinely worried.

'What's wrong?'

'I – it's probably nothing.' Jacinta said reluctantly. 'I don't put much store by sailor's stories, even when it is my sister's son, scapegrace that he is. But…' she fiddled miserably with her apron again. 'Well… I don't think you should take ship today. Not on that ship. And I told you about that before, Señora: didn't I? Travelling alone on a Dutch ship, of all things*…'

'You said the Duyfken was a decent ship when I told you last week!' Theresa frowned. 'That's not it, Jacinta. Come on. Out with it, whatever it is.'

'Just… something Joachim said, that's all.' Jacinta tried to shrug nonchalantly. 'The islands have been having… some difficulties, from the way he told it.'

'Pirates, you mean? Were they attacked?' Theresa's brow wrinkled, concerned. 'Was your nephew all right?'

'He said that was the funny thing. Said it was the easiest trip they'd ever made. Sold all their cargo in half an hour. But the harbours were empty. The only ships there were other traders –All Spanish. And they had the same story to tell – easy sailing, good winds, no English ships or rival French traders…'

'What's to complain about there?'

'He didn't like it. Said it wasn't right. The islanders looked at them like the Devil himself had appeared when they heard them talking, too.' Jacinta looked downwards. 'They'd never had any trouble before. All they could get out of the island shipping agent was some mumbo-jumbo about "Maldito de Dios" ruling the waters now. I didn't want to tell you, Señora, but… he made me uneasy.'

'"The Accursed of God?" 'Theresa raised an eyebrow. She had never met Jacinta's "Joachim", but she had heard enough tales, recited dutifully back from his aunt, to give her the idea he had a good imagination and a streak of mischief a mile wide. The one about the green marble Saint Christopher in Panama, that had miraculously cured the pain in his leg. The mermaids he'd sworn he'd seen off the coast of Florida, combing out their yellow hair. Joachim could have told his family he was the sole heir to the throne of Castile and they would have believed him. 'I…see. So… the waters of the West Indies are haunted by the "Accursed of God", but… Joachim's going back there, in a few months?'

'Well, of course. He made more money on that trip than half the voyages he's made combined-' Jacinta stopped. 'You're laughing at me, Señora.' She said, accusingly. 'You think I'm some senile old woman with no more sense than a crab-'

'Did I say that?' Theresa said innocently. 'I didn't say that!'

'You didn't have to,' Jacinta grumbled.

Theresa looked at her, then lifted her veil to give Jacinta a peck on her worn cheek. 'I'll take care. I promise. And I will send word. But I think I'm more likely to be in danger from Joachim's mermaids than-'

'Dios, that boy!' Jacinta, clutched her mistress close in a fierce maternal hug. 'All right. Forget Joachim. You send me word the minute you're safe on Saint-Martin, you hear? I'll risk the padré for your sake; just to hear from you.'

The earnestness in Jacinta's voice made Theresa's eyes blur with tears, despite herself. She had steeled herself for goodbyes, but parting with Jacinta was harder than she had expected.

'There! Enough of that. I have something for you.' Jacinta said at last, fiercely brushing away her own tears. 'I found it behind that old bureau when I was cleaning. Looks old. The frame's silver. You can always sell it if you need money in Saint-Martin.'

She pressed something small wrapped in crackling paper into Theresa's hand.

'Good luck, Señora. I'll pray for you.'

Theresa suddenly felt very lonely as she stood on the quay by her trunk, watching the only soul in Spain who cared for her vanish into the busy portside crowd.

She wished she'd had more money to give Jacinta as a farewell gift.

She wished Sebastien was alive, so she didn't have to go at all.

She wished –

'Forwards, Theresa,' she scolded herself, under her breath. 'Forwards. We advance. Don't look back.'


The Duyfken was a decent ship. One thing she certainly wasn't, however, was luxurious. And there were certainly no separate cabins for passengers. Theresa's fellow travellers made shift how they could with spare cloaks and sheets spread between the narrow wooden cots lining the below deck as a vague concession to privacy. But then Theresa hadn't expected luxury: she certainly hadn't paid for it.

It was only once her own trunk was safely stowed away and her own makeshift linen walls pegged up that she thought to look at Jacinta's gift.

The paper crackled as she opened it.

It was a miniature portrait. Not like the dainty thing Theresa wore at her bodice with Sebastien's picture; it was a heavy, old-fashioned kind that opened out like the covers of a book. It must have lingered behind the back of the bureau in her lodgings for years. The silver was tarnished and blackened.

Ah, Jacinta, Theresa thought sadly. Generations of previous lodgers hadn't had such a conscientious maid – or such an honest one. Any other maid would have pocketed the heavy silver and sold it for what they could get.

It looked very old-fashioned, from the heavy silver moulding. What sort of portrait would be in there? Theresa wondered, amused. Some stiff old conquistador of Philip IV's time, leaning on his sword?

She was quite surprised when she opened it to the mournful dark eyes of a lady in a stiff farthingale A little child sat wide-eyed at her feet, amongst her brocaded skirts. It was, although done in the hard, flat style that had been so in vogue in Spain before the Bourbons, a good painting. Both the eyes of the mother and child seemed to gaze back at you. It quite fascinated Theresa.

'Now who are you?' she murmured under her breath, brushing away a film of dust. 'And how was I sharing houseroom with you for so long? Who are you, Señora?'

The lady stared quietly back. She looked a little mournful, Theresa fancied, for all her old-fashioned finery. There was something in the way her hand tightly clasped the child's: as though she was afraid they would be taken away from her if she didn't hold fast.

The child, on the other hand –

Well, it was undoubtably a boy, despite still being in a gown and leading-strings. Girls (in formal paintings, at least) do not look nearly as stubborn, and the set of the small round face already suggested a strong will. He had the same colour eyes as his mother, but there was a world of difference in expression. Whereas she was sad and passive, he looked restless – and almost breathtakingly defiant, with the boundless confidence and self-possession of a toddler.

'He looks a handful,' she murmured. 'My sympathies, Señora.'

She turned to see the second painting –

And found herself staring at an empty frame..

There had been a painting there once. There were still tatters of painted canvas around the edges showing fragments of the original portrait. The edge of a gold-laced coat.

Doubtless the husband, Theresa thought, painted to match the wife and child.

But… there was nothing left of him. Whoever had been in the second portrait had been hacked away– so roughly that there were gouges and scratches in the silver from the blade that had been used to tear the canvas out.

There was some old tragedy there, Theresa guessed, a little unnerved. It must have been put away to be forgotten – after… after what? Curious, she turned over the silver to see if there was a monogram, or a date – but there was nothing. Just the melancholy mother and child and the empty frame.

Sobered, she closed the miniature with a sharp little snap, tucking it into her dress pocket. "Maybe it's a new start for both of us, then, Señora?' she murmured.

Lulled by the lapping of the waves and the muffled stamping of the crew overhead, she arranged herself tidily down on her narrow bunk, laid her head on the lumpy pillow, and began to drift into a comfortable doze – comforting herself with the thought of Sebastien watching over her, perhaps, on the blue water.

She dreamed.


She dreamed of the little child in Jacinta's picture.

Theresa hadn't really looked at the child – she had been more interested in the sad-eyed woman in the silver frame. But, there he was, toddling uncertainly along a vast stretch of wooden floor, leading strings trailing behind him like a lamb's tail. He was chasing beams of sunshine, she realised with the clarity of understanding you have in dreams; those thin ribbons of light that streaked in between the shutters on hot summer days. Once caught, he stamped on them with all the riotous delight of a two-year old given unlooked-for freedom.

Where's his mother, or his nurse? Theresa wondered. There were toys scattered on the floor – along with an embroidery hoop and a workbox left abandoned in a chair, but there was no-one else to be seen on the long, dimly lit corridor.

Although there were voices, somewhere – one angry, another defensive, almost beseeching.

Theresa floated closer, hoping to make something out, but the sound was …distorted, as though she had plunged her head underwater. She could just hear the tones, growing harsher, more abrasive…

Theresa looked back at the child. She saw the childish smile begin to fade as his face began to crumple into an open-mouthed wail.

And then she understood.

She was hearing what the child was hearing – a child too young to understand words. It was all… noise. But he understood enough of the tone to be frightened –

The voices broke off at his first plaintive cry, and a woman hurried out from a side door, stiff skirts in hand. Theresa recognised the woman from the painting as she bent over to hush her son.

'Sssh, sshh – now, now, my lamb! What a noise you can make, hmm? Come on – let's…let's leave Papa. He's… busy.' She patted him distractedly, shushing him into a hiccupping calm as they walked up and down the picture gallery. 'Oh, who's my brave boy? Who's my fine brave little boy!' She jogged him lightly up and down in her arms. 'Come on, my lambkin. We shall go and see Grandpapa. You like seeing Grandpapa, don't you? Yes! You're going to be a fine big strong man, just like him-'

"Grandpapa" turned out to be a painting in the gallery: a full length portrait of a handsome, severe looking old cavalier in a steel cuirass, looking out to sea. In the background, a fine galleon floated across a view of open sea, pennants waving.

'There, you see? There's grandpapa!' She held up the child so he could see. Theresa saw how she pressed her cheek lovingly into his little frock, furtively wiping away a tear. 'That'll be you one day, my lamb, and you'll sail the ships out to sea, just like Grandpapa and your – and your papa-'

'Oh? And will he come home to a squawking wife who complains, like I do?'

A dishevelled, dissolute looking fellow with loose hair and naval uniform in disarray had slouched sullenly to the doorframe, where he watched his wife, hands in his pockets. He shrugged. 'Poor lookout for him, then. He'd be better staying at sea.'

The woman bit her lip.

'That isn't fair, Antonio -'

'Isn't it? When I come home and all I get is mealy-mouthed complaints about the money running out? You think refitting a ship is cheap, I suppose? And it all comes out of my pocket! Not yours! God knows your dowry was small enough-'

'I don't –please, Antonio; I didn't think-'

'No, you don't think. That's the problem, isn't it?' He stared with bleary-eyed triumph at her face, satisfied she was now silently weeping in earnest, and turned back into his room. 'God, I need a drink…takes the bad taste out of coming home-'

The woman clutched her little son closer as the door slammed shut.

'You're going to be a good man,' she murmured distractedly. 'You're going to be better. Better than your fa-'

Theresa awoke with an unpleasant start that nearly jolted her off her narrow shelf of a bed, and a decidedly bad taste in her mouth.

She didn't remember the dream. It faded away as imperceptibly as it came, leaving nothing but a confused feeling of indignation and dislike.

Uneasily, she pulled Jacinta's gift from her pocket. It had doubtless been a mix of her natural anxiety about the journey, mingled with the last thing she had laid eyes on before going to sleep, but…all the same…

'That's quite enough of that!' she told it, sharply, before closing it with a sharp snap. She pulled out her trunk and pushed the offending thing as far to the bottom as her hand would go, burying it beneath her clothes. She would replace the pictures with a different painting in Saint-Martin, she decided. Maybe a charming island view; something cheerful. Nothing that suggested lost things, or sadness. Or sell it, once she was at Saint-Martin, the way Jacinta had suggested.

New horizons, Theresa told herself firmly. That was the thing. The portrait would remain forgotten for the rest of the journey.

Unfortunately, there were no new horizons outside the confines of the cramped passenger deck; at least for the first few weeks of their passage. Between the bouts of sea-sickness as they encountered rougher waters and contrary winds, no-one had much stomach for gazing beyond anything more than the gunwales. Or, more often, a bucket. And being able to breathe fresh air rather than the stale rankness of the passenger deck was a rare luxury; the captain of the Duyfken had his crew chivvy his queasy passengers back below deck if he thought they lingered too long, or got in the way.

Passengers, to his way of thinking, were clearly no better than rats who were able to pay their way. Theresa almost regretted not taking up the offer of the Anunciación by the fourth week. Almost.

But horizons are where you find them, and the painfully close quarters of the Duyfken provided excellent opportunities to get to know her fellow passengers, in between the sickness and the complaints about the food.

There were the middle-aged brothers from the Cádiz Mountains, for a start .They didn't talk much, but Theresa gathered they hoped to change ships on Saint-Martin and find work on Hispaniola. There was also the harassed shoemaker's wife from Córdoba, who was rejoining her husband with her seven children in tow. They were as lively as kittens and scampered everywhere; generally everywhere they shouldn't to boot.

They were all somewhat bemused at the reserved Spanish gentlewoman travelling by herself. Gentlewomen didn't do that, did they? They kept a perplexed distance, at first. But the fatigues of travel wore away at that. She ate and slept and washed her clothes in the same cramped space as they did; scolded the bolder children, comforted the little ones. She was one of them now, a peculiar tribe of sea-wanderers.

None of them however, were port people. Else they too, would have been as quietly puzzled as Theresa was about the crew.

The Duyfken was a Dutch packet ship. It would therefore have been reasonable to assume that at least a few of the crew were Dutch. But the crew was mostly Portuguese, with a small mixture of Cádiz men. All new hands. None had never sailed with Captain de Voorst before. In fact, there were no old hands at all, aside from the captain himself. An odd thing, for a seasoned Dutch ship. Granted, relations between Spain and the Netherlands weren't always of the best, but... none of his old crew, at all? She couldn't make it out.

She could make it out still less once she saw him. Captain de Voorst was a nervous, gangling, lean-boned man with greying hair, who barely spoke enough Spanish to make his orders understood.

Conveniently (or otherwise, for the hands) he also failed to understand anything at all about paying his men when they took on water at the Canary Islands. Which made for a sullen set of hands on an Atlantic crossing.

Theresa kept an ear open. The bosun complained loudly to anyone who would listen; sometimes within earshot of the passengers he was supposed to keep off the quarterdeck. And whilst the complaints were colourful – they were certainly interesting.

'Pox-ridden bastard was supposed to pay us half at Gran Canaria! But what does he do? Say's he won't pay us until we've "got the job done". Pah! As though what he's giving us is half what it should he valued his hide properly, he'd be paying us double.'

The helmsman sniggered. 'Getting nervous though, isn't he?'

'Can't blame him, though? Doing a Caribbean run? He must be pissing himself!' The bosun jerked his head towards the ensign flag. 'He ain't flying his own flag, that's for sure...'

Theresa pretended to keep her eyes on the horizon, but shifted her gaze to the flag, curious. And gaped, shocked.

The Duyfken was flying the flag of Spain.

De Voorst was sailing under false colours.

For one moment, Theresa was seized by a horrible panic. De Voorst was a crook. God knows what he was doing-smuggling, robbing, tricking his passengers into slavery-

But then the helmsman muttered something in an undertone that had Theresa listening again.

'Think it's real? That "Maldito de Dios" stuff?'

'Ah, that's just a story-' The bosun scoffed. 'I've been sailing the sea for nigh on fourteen years. Never had any trouble making port– and I've been on plenty ships.'

'Spanish ships.'

'Not just Spanish. I was captured in 'forty-two, remember? English.' He spat. 'Bastards.'

'Still. Captain thinks it's real. Have you seen him? He's jumpy as a cat on hot coals.'

'Maybe that's how we should play it. Go to him in a body, like? Say we want more money, else we won't get him past his precious sea-ghosts…'

'Yeah. That might do it. Old skinflint…'

Theresa quietly took herself off after that, to think.

So. Captain De Voorst was frightened of something. Something that meant he was prepared to run the risk of sailing under the flag of Spain rather than his own – risking the French, the English and his own countrymen – not to mention the usual sea-robbers.

Not paying his men was doubly foolish, in that case. He risked mutiny, especially on a long voyage. But...she had heard of it. The only time that captains generally did something like that, within Theresa's experience, was when the venture was risky. When arriving alive was by no means certain.

But the more she thought about it, the more that didn't make sense, either.

There was nothing raiders would want, or customs officers would sniff at. Not even the usual casual "off-the-books" thing every merchant included for one paying customer or another in the islands - Malaga wine, say, or French lace. And whilst she didn't doubt de Voorst was a little weasel (all small ship owners were) he didn't seem the sort to sell his passengers into slavery. Besides, slavers took care to keep their crews on side.

So… what was de Voorst afraid of?

Of course, there was the mysterious Maldito de Dios, who now seemed to be more than one of Joachim's tall stories. Probably not much more, she re-assured herself. Maybe just... sea-rovers who avoided Spanish ships of the line. De Voorst was just trying to avoid some port tax or something. Or dodge some charge on the Dutch side of Saint-Martin. Yes. That would be it.

Still.

There were things that made her uneasy. Things began to change on board for them all as they approached warmer waters. De Voorst looked more on edge every time she saw him. He kept watch continuously – and any delay – a slight change in speed, a contrary wind, and he became almost frantic.

Given his temperament, Theresa thought he would have penned them below in their bunks – but instead of being herded below decks like cattle, the passengers were now abruptly given the freedom of the deck. More than that; De Voorst practically urged them up from the passenger deck to sit in the bows, or stand posed, like statues, on the quarterdeck near the helm. He was especially keen on the children being above, something he had previously forbidden. They were allowed to make noise, run about, play – unheard of freedom, for all of them.

Theresa didn't like it at all. None of the passengers did. But they didn't dare protest.

'It makes me nervous, Señora,' The shoemaker's wife confided to her one evening, after their own little group had been ushered up to stand ostentatiously on the quarterdeck. 'What does he want with us up here? Why the children?'

'I wish I knew.' Theresa murmured back. 'I think... he's afraid. And he's trying to...'

She faltered. Trying to... what? She couldn't even put words to it. But – she had watched him. From where Theresa stood... it was as though de Voorst was setting his passengers out on display, somehow. See, we're a harmless passenger ship, no trouble. No threat...

But that only increased the difficulty. There had been nothing but sea, sky, and a few sea-birds now and then, lazily soaring on the warm air-currents high above. No unfriendly sea traffic... nothing.

So who was the display for?

'He's afraid of something.' She finished.

'Of what? There's nothing to...' the shoemaker's wife looked alarmed. 'Sweet Virgin, do you think he's crazy?' She darted a worried glance at their captain.

De Voorst paced anxiously about in between the little family groups, casting uneasy glances at the western skyline. They were approaching land fast now – Saint-Martin was within reach. But the sun was beginning to set. The sky was darkening.

He gestured towards them, flapping his hands. 'Talk, please!' He said, urgently. 'If you please, talk!'

'Talk, Señor?'

The shoemaker's glance exchanged a terrified glance with Theresa that said, clearly: My god, he is mad.

'Please!' De Voorst . 'Anything you like – talk! But... Spanish, ja?'

A harsh squawk of a sea bird that had come to roost on one of the stern lanterns made him break off. He let out a muffled cry, backing away from the ladies.

'Spanish! Please, I am Spanish!' he gibbered, before haring away from the quarterdeck as though the hounds of hell were after him. 'We are all Spanish!'

They stared after him. That was not encouraging.

'Oh sweet Virgin...' the shoemaker's wife moaned. 'I knew we shouldn't have come! I told my husband; why don't you make shoes in Spain? You think people don't have feet in Murcia? But no, he knew better – said "there's more work on the islands..."

Theresa slowly looked up at the stern lantern.

The mad, beady eye of a dishevelled seagull stared back at her.