Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)
How fast she nears and nears!
Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,
Like restless gossameres?
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
Theresa's imprisonment aboard the Essex lasted four days.
It might as well have been forty.
The time seemed endless. Scarfield did not trust her with a candle, doubtless thinking she might deliberately set herself and the ship alight. It was flattering as an estimate of her capacity for resentment; but it gave her very little to do in a windowless cabin. The only signs she had that time was passing at all was the tin plates of food the little lieutenant nervously proffered her – or the relentless clang of the Essex's ships bell.
Frustratingly, there also seemed to be no sign of Scarfield's "Maldito de Dios". The Essex was in open sea now, flying British colours like a taunting incitement. They had long ago left the safety of Saint- Martin's green shoreline. But there was still no ship on the horizon – pirate or merchantman, Spanish or otherwise. Whoever was out there, they weren't watching for the Essex.
Without occupation, Theresa slept. Mostly from boredom. Being awake would mean she would have to think, and the circumstances were too dismal to think about. It made things bearable, being able to just pull the blankets over her head and pretend she was still aboard the Duyfken, waiting for land, dreaming of her husband, just like any other woman…
Except Sebastien seemed somewhat elusive of late. She could reach for him when awake - she tried to keep him by her in thought. But at night, or during her fitful sleep during the day, the little dark-eyed child from the old-fashioned miniature kept company with her constantly.
It was perplexing. Bewildering.
The child was always there. He never saw her; Theresa always seemed to hover, invisible, like some observant spirit. But there he was. Now in his mothers' arms, now toddling, leading strings held in the grasp of a bored nurse.
She grew to watch the little dream-child with growing interest. The same way you care about a – a beloved character in a book, or a stage-play. Distant a relationship enough, but.. there emerges a strange need to know that all is well with them, regardless.
She didn't know why her dream-self always hovered in the gallery, as though it were some ante-room of the subconscious. After a while, she longed to be able to cross into a different room – maybe follow the child somewhere else – but that never seemed to work. She always woke up whenever she tried, seemingly tethered to the dream-room like a pig's bladder on a string.
After a while, she came to know the stiffly tapestried rooms in that old-fashioned gallery almost as well as her own childhood home. It was almost reassuring, to see the scowling conquistador in the steel cuirass glaring down at her from the wall. She could almost have counted the woven flowers in the upholstery.
Perhaps, she reasoned… perhaps she returned there in spirit because it was so clearly Spain, and so achingly familiar to her. For all it was a strange house – it was somewhere she might have visited, perhaps; a house her father or grandfather might have known.
But if that was so – why weren't her dreams happier?
One scene in Theresa's dreams showed bailiffs carrying away a carved cherrywood pianoforte that had stood in the corner, with a dealer brusquely tapping silverware to see whether it rang true.
And, as always, it was the wife who bore the brunt of their growing poverty. Sometimes the husband was there, raging as another token of wealth was carried away – but that wasn't often. He appeared seldom in the dream, thank God. Theresa had disliked him on sight, the more so for the effect he had on his family. The dream-child was a frightened, withdrawn little thing when his father appeared to offer some rough form of affection – cuffing him about the ears like a fierce bear attempting to play with its cub, or idly pinching his cheek until the little boy began to cry. And then he would peevishly complain about ungrateful children and wives until Theresa wanted to box his ears the way he did his little sons'–
She wondered how often the cowed mother repeated that ritual of holding up her little son before the conquistador painting like an infant sacrifice, imploring – what? God? Fate? The grandfather? -to make her son better than his father.
She wondered when the boy began to understand what his mother was asking for, and why.
It was a dismal picture of infancy. Theresa thought of her own gentle, safe upbringing, and often had the sudden desperate urge to scoop the child up in her arms and lead him and his mother out. No matter where -anywhere but that dreary mausoleum of a house and that selfish brute of a husband. But the dream never let her, no matter how hard she tried. She was suspended in the cloying unhappiness of that place like a fly in amber.
But time did pass for them. In one half-doze, a surprised Theresa caught a glimpse of an older child (still recognisably the boy, but old enough to no longer wear infants' petticoats) intently playing with a hunk of carved wood that vaguely resembled a toy boat. He was murmuring to himself with the intense gravity of a child lost in an adventure of his own making.
Then the scene would dissolve, and Theresa would see him perched on tiptoe on the altar-like sideboard set in front of the old admiral, passing a childish finger over the painted ships in the background as though sketching them into reality…
Who was he, the boy? she pondered, on waking from her latest uneasy half-doze. Was he just a figment of her imagination – some wistful dream of home that had been born from Jacinta's parting gift? And in that case, why couldn't she have made the poor child happier…
A sudden familiar tell-tale stickiness on her forearm cut into her thoughts. She sighed, and pulled at her sleeve.
The little crescent-moon marks of the beggar-woman's nails had healed well, at first. They had barely been anything on the Duyfken. But no matter how often she bathed it (or salved it, or wrapped it in clean linen) the cuts would occasionally break open and bleed. Theresa had just.. accepted it, by now.
A tap at the door interrupted her thoughts.
'Er… Missis de Barrós? Ma'am?' Third Lieutenant Scrimshaw's voice came faintly through the panelling. 'Lieutenant Scarfield wants you up on deck.' The key rattled as he fumbled with the lock.
Theresa's eyes opened wide in surprise .
This was new. She hadn't so much as seen the deck of the Essex since her removal from the Duyfken. 'Have you sighted anything?' she asked quickly, as he opened the door. 'Is there –'
'Haven't sighted a thing, ma'am,' Scrimshaw said cheerfully. It was evident Scrimshaw seemed to feel his prisoner-watching duties a welcome relief from… whatever his actual duties were. Theresa more than half-suspected Scarfield had given him the job of jailer in order to keep him out of the way. 'Calm waters and fair skies as far as the eye can see.'
'I thought your Lieutenant Scarfield's pirates scorched British ships from the sea as soon as they put out?'
'Not a single sail,' Scrimshaw said – a little nervously. He reached out to touch the wooden beam overhead for luck. 'And we… we don't know they're pirates, ma'am.'
'No? But no sign of… whatever they are?'
'Not so much as a fisherman's sail, ma'am. Think the Lieutenant's a little… annoyed. Normally there's no hesitation with the damn Span-' he caught Theresa's eye, and stopped. 'With… whoever it is. But… they've been sighted all along the Spanish Main, so they may have sailed away from these waters –'
'They may have fled the Lieutenant?' Theresa blinked in the light like an owl as she emerged from her cabin. 'Hah. I should imagine that puts his fleet in some difficulty, having no quarry to chase-'
Scrimshaw flushed. 'W-what fleet?' he mumbled. 'There's – there's no fleet…'
Scrimshaw would never have made a card player. You could almost read the number and suit of every card he had, reflected in his face. He sagged at Theresa's expression. 'Please … forget what I said that day, ma'am!' he said wretchedly, 'I wasn't supposed to say anything about the Thetis or the other ships! They're rounding the French side of Saint-Martin to rejoin us if we can draw the Spanish in. If Scarfield thinks I've told you-'
'You haven't.' Theresa said soothingly. She liked Scrimshaw, but she had to agree with Scarfield in one particular – he shouldn't have passed the Lieutenant's exam. Good lord, the poor boy was spilling half the secrets of Scarfield's plan in a desperate attempt to not let her know anything. 'You haven't told me anything, Lieutenant Scrimshaw, and I won't repeat it to that bestia of an officer.'
She slipped her arm through the crook of his elbow as they ascended upwards into the sunlight. 'There, escort me like a gentleman to your Lieutenant Scarfield.'
Scrimshaw still looked confused. 'You have been talking to me of your home, yes?' Theresa prompted, tactfully. 'How much you miss it?'
Scrimshaw looked nervously upwards as they promenaded towards the quarterdeck. 'What, Gravesend, ma'am? Not much to miss. My pa runs The Prince of Orange inn there…'
'I thought I said no dawdling, Scrimshaw!' Scarfield's electric blue eye had fallen on them with evident displeasure. 'And here I find you lounging along with a prisoner like you're promenading in Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens?'
Scrimshaw quailed, and dropped Theresa's arm as if it were a hot coal. 'Beg pardon, sir!'
Theresa couldn't bear to see how crushed he looked. I'm sorry, little lieutenant. But you're better scolded and sneered at, she thought. Better than being hanged because you told me too much. Scarfield would string you up without a second thought.
'You wanted me, Señor Scarfield?' she said shortly.
Scarfield's expression went cold. 'That's Lieutenant.' He corrected. 'Endeavour to remember my title, and I shall endeavour to remember yours.' He crooked a finger. 'Come here.'
Oho, a spiteful voice in the back of Theresa's voice murmured, as she and Scrimshaw ascended the stairs to the quarterdeck. That had annoyed him. Scrimshaw had said the Lieutenant was already "put out" by the lack of enemy ships. He had evidently called her up merely to vent his spite a little.
'I thought that we would have found our naval aggressors by now.' He said flatly. 'Your compatriots are cowards, madam-'
If he was hoping she would respond with anger or indignation, he was disappointed. Theresa assumed her best 'piously attentive' face that she had used to use at convent school. Demure. Unruffled.
'Perhaps then they aren't… soldiers?'' she suggested, innocently. 'They are - perhaps - just robbers? As I said-'
'They aren't pirates.' Scarfield grated out. 'Jackals quarrel, but they don't eat their own kind.' He eyed Theresa dispassionately. 'Tell me… do you know any stories of Spanish ships in these waters?'
Theresa blinked, bemused by the sudden turn of the conversation.
'Your pardon, Señor?' she said cautiously.
At her blank expression, Scarfield shrugged. 'So, the name "Silent Mary" means nothing to you? then. Pity.' He smiled, unpleasantly. 'If you so much as whisper the name to the Spaniards on Saint-Martin, they fall to their knees quaking and muttering...'
Theresa searched her memory, but nothing came to mind.
'It means nothing to me, Lieutenant.' She said coldly. 'I am a stranger to the islands. I don't know what stories they tell. I haven't even set foot on land yet,' she added, bitterly.
'All the better for you, then.' Scarfield shut up his spyglass with a nasty little snap. 'Still, if they do appear– I think a blindfold is in order. We don't want you beating out your own brains on sight of them now, do we? I've been told a captain did that on one of the French ships they attacked…'
He strolled off down the quarterdeck, apparently satisfied at the apprehension that had played across Theresa's dark eyes.
She blanched.
'What?' she muttered aside to Third Lieutenant Scrimshaw, who looked uncomfortable. 'Why must I be blindfolded? What is your Lieutenant Scarfield playing at?'
Scrimshaw looked away, avoiding her gaze. His recent chastisement had made him shut up all confidence, like a shy oyster. 'I – I really cannot…cannot say, ma'am. He took off his cocked hat and fiddled worriedly with the brim. 'I mean- I'm not permitted to tell you, as you're a –'his voice faded into an apologetic mumble.
'A what?'
'Well…' Scrimshaw swallowed. 'Please don't take offence, ma'am, but… you are a, erm… civilian. And a foreign civilian, so technically you are still a – '
He trailed off on seeing Theresa's expression.
'Oh, a prisoner of war? Is that it?' Theresa's eyes narrowed. 'I thought we were intent on stopping a war. Or is your lieutenant so ambitious he intends to make war on Spain outright because of some band of lawless -?'
'Ssh! It's – it's not that, ma'am. There've been stories about these Spaniards. Foolish stories.' He added quickly. 'The surviving sailors were half-crazed with heatstroke and thirst, babbling about all sorts of things…But people believed them. That's why the Spanish islanders won't help. Didn't matter what the Lieutenant offered them. That's why he shut them up in prison…'
'How… persuasive.' Theresa said with distaste. She pondered. 'But no-one was willing to help? No-one at all?'
'As I said,' Lieutenant Scrimshaw said stiffly. 'There were… stories.'
Oh, I'm sure there were, Theresa thought privately. But…every old salt has a grisly tale like that. She'd grown up in a port town. If people believed every tale a thirst-maddened sailor told them of their hallucinations, no-one would ever set foot off land in the first place.
Besides, sailors like telling tall tales. Who wants to listen to dull stories about how there's nothing to see but blue water for two months?
But...she thought about the hopeless, fearful faces of the families held captive. Elena's children. And then she thought about her brother-in-law Pedro; by no means a brave or valiant man. He wasn't even particularly superstitious, unless you counted his fanatical belief that the gaming dice would one day bring him untold riches.
What could be so terrible about the mysterious Spanish ship that no-one would even try to free themselves and their families by offering themselves to Scarfield's enterprise?
No, there was something more to this, Theresa realised. And if the officers of the Inglés were taking such an interest that they were forced to take a Spanish woman's assistance...
'Is this… is this how they got their name, the "Maldito de Dios?' she asked, thoughtfully.
'Ma'am?' Scrimshaw was staring at the horizon, clearly trying to pretend he hadn't heard her.
'You know… the "Accursed of God?"'
Lieutenant's Scrimshaw's face was a picture. He had flushed up to his ears, suddenly looking acutely uncomfortable under his horsehair wig.
'Well?' To Theresa's annoyance, Lieutenant Scarfield had now strolled within earshot. He raised his colourless eyebrows at Scrimshaw, who stepped back, apologetically.
'Sir! I-'
'We will discuss this later, Scrimshaw.' Lieutenant Scarfield said smoothly, with poisonous niceness. 'Dismissed.'
Scrimshaw cast a stricken look at Theresa as he descended to the main deck. She tried not to feel a pang of inward reproach. He was only a boy – and he had been as kind to her as his position allowed, under the circumstances.
'He didn't tell me anything,' she said, shortly, to cover her confusion. 'You needn't –'
'I don't waste breath, much less punishment, on young fools like Scrimshaw,' Scarfield said lazily. 'He'll die soon enough. The service has a way of weeding out the liabilities.' He glanced at Theresa. 'Besides, he can't tell you anything.' He gave another of his insufferable English smirks. 'And I won't.'
'Then why I am to be blindfolded?' Theresa said bluntly. She was growing tired of Scarfield's self-complacent little speeches. 'Do you blindfold all your interpreters? Or only the ones you think will scare easily with your children's stories?'
Scarfield's cold blue eyes looked over her, dismissive. 'Why should I explain myself to you? I thought your people believed in blind faith, Señora…'
Oh, how she hated him for the acrid distaste with which he said 'your people.'
'Mock me if you like,' Theresa said icily. 'But I would prefer it if I wasn't going in blind, Mr Scarfield. In any sense of the word.'
It was worth it to see the brief resentment that flashed in the lieutenant's eyes at her deliberate foregoing of his title. 'That's Lieutenant Scarfield, if you please,' he snapped, stepping forwards in order to loom threateningly over her. 'And I might remind you, madam, that there are far less comfortable ways for you to assist in this enterprise. A few nights in irons in the brig might make you less curious-' His fingers bit into her arm.
Theresa bit back the urge to shake him off, looking up at him. There. Beneath that brittle English porcelain politeness… she could see the manner of man he was. Chip away at that cheap glaze of polished manners, and he was just a brute.
But it was perhaps… politic to let him think she was cowed. She backed away. 'I have no more questions.'
'Good.' Scarfield looked triumphant; happy she was cowed into obedience. 'I have written out what you are to say. You will find a fair copy in your quarters so you may, aha'- he coughed and smirked, as though making a witty remark. 'So you may learn your part, as it were.' His tone hardened. 'There will be no deviation - you understand, Señora? If I even for one moment suspect you say anything in your native tongue that strays from what I have instructed you to say…' He glanced significantly upwards at the yardarm. 'A 'long drop and a sudden stop' will be the very least I can offer you.' He let go, his point made; nodding to a pair of Marines stationed below.
He obviously enjoyed his inflated power as the informal naval general of Saint-Martin, Theresa thought bitterly, staring with loathing at Scarfield's uniformed back. Under normal circumstances, a mere lieutenant would surely not have risen so high in the service. The splintered British shipwrecks littering the sea lanes had clearly proved an unlooked-for opportunity for promotion - for an ambitious, unscrupulous man.
She sighed as she heard the key turn in the door with a sharp snap. Well. Her freedom might be limited, but she had discovered some things at least. In a way, Scarfield had answered her question.
This was a power play. She wasn't just a simple translator – she was a hostage; a puppet Scarfield could wave at his opponents. See what happens to your innocent civilians if you cross me…
But that meant they were frightened. Badly frightened too, if Lieutenant Scrimshaw's discomfort was anything to go by.
Theresa had privately thought all along that it was more likely to be a couple of privateers ships - full of jeering, leering rogues that preyed on anything. But the more she thought about it, the more the list of casualties seemed unusual. Taking on heavily-armed foreign ships of the line? What privateer or pirate would be mad enough to try that?
And the facts were puzzling. This ship, or ships, left nothing but death, gibbering survivors and splintered matchwood in their wake – but, strangely, abstained from attacking ships flying the Spanish flag.
That didn't square with the behaviour of a pirate, unless it was some strangely patriotic one. And then of course, there were the superstitious rumours swirling around about the "Accursed of God" …
It wasn't cold in the airless little wooden box they called a cabin, but Theresa shivered nonetheless, thinking about it.
Still - what was the alternative? Rot in a Saint-Martin gaol until Scarfield decided to execute his "prisoners-of-war"?
She thought back to the frightened wails of the children as they'd been bundled into the rowboat with their mother. Her jaw hardened as she stared down at Scarfield's handwriting.
Busy. She had best keep busy.
Picking up the ink pot, she dipped her quill and began to translate. Her pen nib made hard, sharp downward strokes, perceptibly digging into the paper as she wrote, but she finished her task – and sat there in the half-light, reading it over and over until the words no longer registered as having meaning for her.
I am commanded by Lieutenant John Scarfield, acting as Lieutenant General Scarfield –
Acting as Lieutenant-General! Theresa thought scornfully. No wonder Scarfield was enjoying this so much. He got to play commander.
- of-His Majesty's Ship Essex, to act as translator so an accommodation may be-reached-pending-the cessation of hostilities against the Isle of Saint Martin and British territories, and to negotiate a settlement in the face of your unprovoked attacks on legitimate sea traffic from said Isle of Saint Martin -
It all sounded so much drivel to Theresa.
Surely, none of this was going to matter. Scarfield was wrong. It would probably turn out to be some rogue Portuguese privateers trying to strike lucky who would be scared off at first sight of the Essex. She might as well have been translating children's nursery rhymes, or an old recipe for bread…
Until, for the second time that day, there came a tap at the door that proved Theresa wrong.
'S-señora?' Scrimshaw's voice sounded very faint – and very frightened. 'You're – you're wanted, on the quarterdeck.'
Theresa's stomach lurched. 'Is it-?'
'Yes miss. They – they found us.'
There were two blank-faced Marines accompanying Scrimshaw this time when Theresa was let out. One of them was holding fetters.
'I'm … I'm sorry about this, ma'am,' Scrimshaw mumbled miserably, as the Marine advanced towards her. 'Lieutenant's orders. He said to make sure you were held fast- '
Theresa tried to shrug nonchalantly as the irons closed around her wrists.
'I'm a prisoner, aren't I?' she said briefly. 'Prisoners aren't supposed to be able to escape.'
'And the blindfold, Scrimshaw.' Scarfield was watching from the upper deck.
'Sir?' Scrimshaw coughed. 'Er, is that really –'
'Are you arguing with me, Scrimshaw?'
'No, sir. ' Scrimshaw wretchedly moved forward, with what looked like a spare black stock in his hands – probably hastily pulled from his own uniform. 'Um - if you'll just go up above, ma'am – I'll blindfold you up there. Easier. And you can still climb the stairs…'
Theresa decided not to miss the opportunity. She let her guards escort her up to the deck of the Essex, eyes fixed ahead so she could seize on anything she could fix her eyes on.
At first, hasty glance, there was nothing but a grey cloud on the horizon, marked by a squat… black something on the horizon. It had been robbed of its mainmast, a tangle of crazed-looking ratlines and ragged sail hanging precariously between the deck and sky.
'Is that-'Theresa breathed.
'They're bearing down fast,' Scrimshaw said urgently. 'Blindfold!' The world went black.
'Sorry, ma'am…' she heard Scrimshaw swallow, nervously. 'But believe me, it's for the best. I'm not sure you'll want to see this next part…'
'What next part?'
'We hail 'em, that's what.' A Marine behind her growled. 'And then it's your cue, missy…'
Oh hell, really?
Theresa had a growing feeling that Scarfield's plan was going to end badly. Pirate, privateer (or even, as Scarfield believed, Spanish navy) she didn't believe her halting translation was likely to stop anything. Privateers did as they pleased with their letters of marque to protect them. They could always claim they had no knowledge of the events on land.
And pirates - pirates wouldn't care either way.
But, Theresa tried to reason, if this all was a declaration of war by Spain – surely they would at least be honour-bound to defend their citizens ? She knew Saint-Martin was a sore point, belonging as it did to the French and Dutch. But it had once been Spanish territory, in Columbus' day. It wasn't beyond speculation that there'd be some petty local tussle for it.
In which case, they should know what the consequences had been for the unlucky few on Saint-Martin, Theresa thought grimly.
She gripped the carved wooden balcony of the quarterdeck, trying to drum up some tattered remnants of courage. Unfortunately, what remained seemed to have decided to beat a hasty retreat. Her hands were shaking. The blindfold, unfortunately, was closely-woven, so she could glimpse nothing through the fabric.
She was prodded forward, like a reluctant child being pushed centre-stage in a school play.
There was dead silence.
Apart from the eerie creaking and groaning of the strange ship's timbers and the alarmed mutterings of the English soldiers behind her, Theresa couldn't hear a sound.
'Go on, woman,' hissed Scarfield, from behind her. 'Say your piece.'
Like a child, Theresa found herself trying to distance herself from the words, repeating the speech in a flat monotone. 'I-am-commanded-by Lieutenant-John-Scarfield,-acting-as-Lieutenant-General-Scarfield-of-His-Majesty-George-the-Second's-Navy-commander-of-the-ship-Essex-to-act-as-translator-so-an-accomodation-may-be-reached-pending-the-cessation-of-hostilities-against-the-Isle-of-Saint-Martin-and-your-unprovoked-attacks-on-legitimate-sea-traffic-from-said-Isle-of-Saint-Martin-'
Theresa broke off, dismayed, as a rough voice scornfully interrupted, echoing over the water to her.
'What, the English need a woman to speak for them?' There was a ripple of hollow laughter from the unseen vessel in front of her. 'They are as ignorant as they are cowardly.'
It was then that Theresa, too late, realised why she was foolhardy – and why no right-minded islander had volunteered for this thankless task.
If they were pirates, well – the outcome wouldn't change no matter what she did. But to the unseen ship and the crew - if they were Navy men - she must look like an ally of the Inglés. A turncoat. Even, perhaps, a traitor.
Appalled, she did the only thing she could think of, recklessly disregarding Scarfield's warning. 'Please.' She said rapidly, hastily tacking a question to the end of her prepared speech. 'Are you Spanish officers?'
'Is it…working?' Scarfield murmured. His usual barking voice came out as a subdued croak. 'They've gone quiet…'
The jeers had died away. There was a sudden abrupt silence, filled with a dim confused muttering that Theresa couldn't quite catch across the distance between vessels.
Had she been able to listen, she would have heard a curious conversation.
'What did she say?'
'Bah, some nonsense about cessation of hostilities – as if el Capitán is likely to –'
'No, idiota, the other part! She asked if we were Spanish officers.'
'Ignore it. It's just some trick of the English. She's probably English.'
'But that is a Cádiz accent…' A voice said wonderingly. 'I would know it anywhere…'
Theresa, afraid that Scarfield would work out she had added an unauthorised gloss to his text, began again, raising her voice to carry better. 'I-am-commanded-by-by-Lieutenant-John-Scarfield, -acting-as-Lieutenant-General…I have to keep talking,' she said into the silence. 'They will kill me if I don't. Please… Is anyone there a Spanish officer?'
Scarfield heard the intonation of a question, despite Theresa's attempts to keep her voice disinterested. He seized her by the arm, roughly. 'Questions, madam? That wasn't what we agreed-'
'No one answered. I spoke your message and asked if there was a Spanish officer!' Theresa said angrily. 'That is all!'
'A Spanish officer-?!' Scarfield hissed through his teeth, as though she was being unbearably stupid. 'Oh, I had forgotten the blindfold. Your niceties are wasted, woman. They will not answer you. They are- '
And then, to both his and Theresa's surprise, an answering hail came across.
'I was-' the voice paused and then corrected itself. 'I am on officer of Spain, Señora. Tell that beast of an Englishman he may treat with me until the Capitán comes to "make terms" with him.'
There was another ripple of sinister laughter from the crew. Theresa didn't like that. Or the ironic note at the phrase "make terms". It sounded more like "slit throats". But – the voice, whilst dubious, had an undertone of courtesy Theresa hadn't expected when addressing her.
And the response had thrown Scarfield off-balance. He was afraid – irritated and alarmed at half the conversation being out of his power, and uncertain of what course to take next. He had fallen back, to murmur urgently in the helmsman's ear.
Good. Theresa thought. For now, Scarfield didn't know what to do. She needed to take advantage of that while she had the chance.
'He says he is an officer and will listen to you,' she said quickly. 'Do you wish me to repeat the message?'
Scarfield released his iron grip on her arm, pushing her forward again. 'Give it ten minutes to the hour,' he murmured, under his breath to himself, before raising his voice. 'You may.'
The voice, although hoarse (and strangely… hollow), spoke up again – clearer, as though they had now pressed to the front to get a better view. It now sounded faintly concerned. 'You are a captive, Señora?'
'I-am-commanded-by Lieutenant-General-Scarfield- Yes! Because of the raids on foreign ships! This mad Englishman is arresting Spanish citizens and threatens us with the rope.' Theresa said hurriedly. 'He says he will execute-'
'He will execute no-one, after today.' The voice said sharply. 'My word on that, Señora. El Capitán will see to it.'
Theresa almost went weak at the knees with relief. She hadn't dared to hope the vessel could be friendly until now. 'Thank God,' she said, fervently. 'I place myself under your protection, Señor. But I should warn you –he split up his fleet after we left Fort Amsterdam. I think he means to ambush-'
There was a sudden bloom of pain from the back of her scalp, and the sound of ripping lace. Scarfield wasn't stupid. He had finally realised there was more taking place in the conversation than met the eye – especially when he heard "Amsterdam". He seized her mourning veil in his clenched fist, practically hauling her back by her widow's cap. She gasped, trying to pull away from him, stop the pain -
'You will continue with the piece I prepared!' Scarfield practically hissed into her ear, through the tattered remnants of her veil. 'No additions! Should you happen to forget our bargain again, Señora, I will-'
There was a sudden cry of audible anger from the Spanish crew – and the unpleasant, rasping noise of unsheathed steel.
'Er. Sir. With respect, I think… maybe you should let the lady alone? I don't think they like you doing that-' Scrimshaw's voice came pleadingly, from somewhere behind Theresa's shoulder.
'Oh! They don't like that?' Scarfield snarled. There was precious little left of his officer's veneer now – he held Theresa fast by the neck by one hand, shaking her like a puppet. A terrier, worrying a rat in his jaws, Theresa thought, and squeezed her eyes shut. 'What, you think those - those things are… what, gentlemen?'
'More than you.' The same voice who had addressed Theresa spoke – although this time, to everyone's shock, in fluent, disdainful English. 'We are not brutes, Señor, who have not the wit to learn another language. We see you, Inglés. We see you clear.'
Scarfield froze.
It was at that moment that the screams began, below their feet.
'Ah!' The voice said, with a grim satisfaction. "Aqui esta el Capitán…'
