Yet again, usual disclaimers apply throughout this tale. If you recognise it, it probably belongs to the Mouse – else it is mine!
This chapter is especially for Josephina… for nagging me to write what happened to Kitty once she had escaped from DeWitt.
Chapter 41 – Sink or Swim!
Catherine gasped as she hit the water, the chill shocking her. "Swim," she told herself. "Swim or bloody drown!" Fighting the waves, she started swimming in the direction that she had last seen land.
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It was well into the next morning that the two native men found her washed up on a nearby beach, the storm having passed straight over the small island. Seaweed trailed in her hair and at first glance she looked drowned. Carefully the fishermen turned over her naked body. She coughed. "Mademoiselle – are you all right?"
Catherine groaned and slowly sat up, realising to her surprise that they were speaking French. "Where…" She flinched seeing the faces looking at her, but relaxed when she realised that they were fishermen before desperately trying to cover herself. One of the men handed her his shirt and she was grateful that it covered her to mid-thigh. Accepting his hand, she staggered to her feet,
"Bequia Mademoiselle, Bequia!" He peered at her face closely. "You fall off a ship?"
"Bequia? Where's that?" she puzzled, wishing she had paid more attention to Jack's charts.
"Grenadines! You sure you're all right?" the second man, now shirtless, asked worriedly.
She nodded, slowly looking around her. "Yes, oui, I am fine. I, um, yeah, I fell of a ship, but I need to get to Port Royal in Jamaica."
"That's a long way Mademoiselle… we can take you to the next island though?" The first man smiled. "Perhaps get you some clothes too!"
"Merci, thank you so much!" she said gratefully, following them as they returned to their boat. She had been saved.
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Catherine proved a most surprising find to the two fishermen, Paul and Anthony, who were amazed at her willingness to help with their catch, helping them free the fishes from the nets and being not at all squeamish about handling the wriggling fish. She noticed their expressions and smiled. "My grandfather was a fisherman," she explained, laughing as one fish made a frantic wriggle for freedom. It failed. "I spent a lot of my childhood on his boat." She glanced up, seeing the island getting closer. "Which island is that?" she asked.
"That'd be Saint Vincent, Madame," Paul said, having spotted her wedding band and realising she was married. "You might be able to get a ship from Kingstown, but we are heading for Calliaqua, some miles to the south. It isn't far to walk to the big town… but we'll take you to Aunt May first. She'll see you right before you start out." Catherine's stomach rumbled loudly. "And feed you too, I'm sure," he teased.
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"You found her where?" Aunt May gasped in shock, her hands flying to her face in horror. "Oh, my poor child, come in, come in!" Catherine found herself ushered the shack and sat upon a rickety stool by the fire. "You rest here while I find you something to eat, my dear."
Catherine smiled up at the large black Carib lady who never seemed to stop talking.
"I'm afraid I don't have anything that will fit you," Aunt May apologised. "Not proper clothes at any rate. I have some old breeches of Anthony's from when he was younger somewhere…" She rummaged through numerous drawers until she came across what she was searching for. "Ah! Here they are!" She turned back to Catherine. "Slip these on, my dear. I'm sure you will feel more comfortable…" She noticed Paul still lounging against the door frame, smiling to himself. "Out! Out!" she shouted at him, raising her fist as she chased him. "A decent woman doesn't need you watching her as she dresses!"
Paul refrained from reminding her that they had found Catherine stark naked on the beach and quickly retreated. Nobody in Calliaqua argued with Aunt May and lived to tell the tale, and he was not about to be the first brave soul to do so.
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When he next saw Catherine she was indeed looking better. She had clearly bathed and Aunt May had found her a piece of ribbon to tie back her beautiful hair from her face. He had never seen hair that colour and was fascinated by it. He caught her staring north-westwards across the sea, smiling to himself as he realised it was the direction of Jamaica. She was clearly eager to get home, to her husband, and he knew she would probably not be here when he returned the following day with their fresh catch. Already Anthony was stocking the boat for another trip, for they would fish the reefs at night. He walked across the sands to stand next to her, unbuckling the knife that was strapped to his leg. "Here…" He held it out to her, smiling as she took it. "You might need this on your travels, especially with no man to protect you…"
"But… surely you…" Catherine gasped, realising the value of the gift, but he closed her hands around it. "I will try to get it back to you…" she promised.
"Don't worry," he assured her. "Knowing that it will keep you safe is enough. Safe travels, Madame."
"Merci, Paul," she smiled gratefully, but barely noticed as he turned away for her gaze had already returned to the sea… and home.
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Kingstown was small, despite Paul's insistence on calling it 'the big town'. She eyed the ships in the harbour warily, ensuring that the slaver was nowhere to be seen before walking along the docks. She would have to find a ship willing to take her to the next island, and she knew she would have to work her passage – either as deck hand or cook. Determinedly she started towards the first ship; a merchant trader that was currently loading a cargo of what she thought was coffee beans.
"Excuse me Monsieur…" she began, looking hopefully at the man overseeing the loading. "May I ask where your ship is heading?"
The large man took one glance at her and started laughing. "Madame," he smiled. "My ship is heading to Martinique, but I take no passengers! Can you not see that every inch is for cargo?"
"I ask not for passage," Catherine assured him. "I am willing to work…"
"And what kind of work could a little thing like you do?" he asked, leaning closer.
"I am competent on board, Captain," she countered, determined to gain passage northwards along the chain of islands.
"I was not talking about sails…" he added suggestively.
Catherine did not stop to think, else she would have stayed her hand, but she did not, slapping him hard across the face, her tone frosty and furious. "Captain, I am a respectable married woman who has been shipwrecked and am trying to return to my family! How dare you imply I warm your bunk!" She turned and stormed off down the docks, ignoring the raucous laughter from the crew at their captain's discomfort.
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Several hours later, Catherine wished she had not been so impulsive. Despite her best efforts, and asking every ship, the first ship was the only one heading in the direction she required. Already it was getting dark. She found a sheltered doorway and sat on the step, thirstily drinking from the small flask of water that Aunt May had given her and hungrily devouring the unleavened bread. A shadow passed across her and she looked up, automatically reaching for her knife. It was the captain that she had slapped. He stood there, regarding her, a flicker of surprise in his eyes at her movement.
"Can you cook, Madame?" he asked.
"I can," she replied cautiously, her hand still on her knife.
"Come with me then," he said, offering her his hand. "I will give you food and passage to Martinique if you will cook for myself and my crew…" He smiled ruefully as she continued to stare at him. "You can sleep on deck with the rest of the crew. They will not touch you," he assured her.
"And you, Captain?" she pressed.
He smiled. "I will not touch you either, Madame. You have my word."
Slowly Catherine moved her hand from her knife, accepting his offered hand to assist her to her feet. "Merci, Captain," she said quietly, disengaging her hand from his as soon as she was standing. "May I ask what supplies your galley has?" she asked, following him along the dockside back towards his ship. At last she was really heading home.
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After three days at sea, Captain Le Rende realised he would be reluctant to see his small female passenger leave his ship. She had been true to her word, she could cook and was competent on board and with the sails too. He realised he would miss her cooking and was genuinely sorry to see her leave. She paused, studying the ships in the harbor cautiously before walking eagerly down the gangplank. "Madame!" he shouted after her. "If you need it, my name should get you passage further!"
"Merci, Captain!" she called back, but was quickly lost amongst the crowds on the dockside of Fort-Royal, looking for her next ship. Her eyes turned north-westwards, towards Jamaica and home… she had to get home.
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Fort-Royal was a bustling port, its fine, natural harbour defended by three forts. She grimaced on seeing a number of slave ships sitting at anchor, although some distance out so that their foul stench would not sully the air of the townspeople. Her time aboard the Dutchman's ship had given her a deep hatred of slavery that would stay with her as long as she drew breath.
Carefully she began to approach the various ships, asking for work and mentioning Captain Le Rende when she thought it would help. For most of the afternoon she had no luck, but finally she found another ship, one taking a variety of cargo to Saint Martin in the north. The captain, Captain Bleville, was willing, indeed eager, to hire her as cook and deck hand for the trip would take his slow ship eight days, but it would be a good distance towards her goal. "You may sleep on board tonight if you wish," he offered, seeing her pause and study him. Something about him set her on edge, but she did not have any money for lodgings and could not afford to stay in the town. Warily she nodded, resolving to sleep lightly that night, but nothing untoward happened, nor once they had set sail and she gradually convinced herself she had been imagining things.
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It was not until a further six days later that Catherine's earlier unease came back to her. She was working in the small, cramped galley when she glanced up to see Captain Bleville watching her. "Captain?" she asked warily.
"I was wondering what was for dinner this evening," he said, moving closer to her. "You are a good cook… I was hoping you might stay on board Madame…"
"Captain, you know I am married and trying to make my way back to my home…" She took a step back, but he closed the distance.
"And if my words were not a request…" He left his threat hanging.
Catherine slammed the small knife she had been working with into the chopping board. It stayed, quivering, between them. "My husband is not a man that likes to be crossed, Captain," she warned, reaching cautiously for a nearby pan that was simmering on the galley stove. "You will keep our agreement!"
"Will I?" he smiled, reaching for her arm.
Catherine panicked, fearing being confined again as she had been on the slaver. She lunged for the pan, swinging it before her, its contents spraying the galley, scalding the captain. He cried out in pain as the hot liquid caught the left side of his face. "Bitch!" he cried, trying to grab for her as she pushed her way past him, scrambling for the dubious safety of the deck. The crew clearly had been aware of the plans of their captain and laughed as she scrambled for the rigging, trusting that nobody would be foolish enough to try to wrestle her down from such a height. She was wrong.
Spotting the man on watch in the crow's nest climbing down towards her, she edged out along the yard arm, precariously balancing on the foot ropes and wishing the lumbering ship was as smooth through the seas as the Black Pearl. Captain Bleville staggered onto deck, squinting with his good eye up at her. "Get her!" he cursed, sending two men aloft after her. Catherine edged nearer to the edge of the yard arm. "You've nowhere to go, Madame," he shouted upwards. "Come down like a good woman before you get hurt."
The man from the crow's nest reached the yard arm and started towards her. She had nowhere to go. Wildly she looked around, spotting a large island nearby. "Back off," she threatened, "or I'll jump!"
"Jump?" Captain Bleville snorted. "You do not have the courage, Madame… now come back down before I lose my patience!"
Catherine took a deep breath, casting one last glance towards the island. "Try me!" she shouted, slipping her feet from the foot ropes.
"Madame!" Captain Bleville shouted up angrily at her. "Get down now!"
As he shouted, the man edging towards her made a grab for her arm. She smiled, letting go of the yard arm and plummeted like a stone into the sea below. When she surfaced, the ship was trying to turn, its movement slow and cumbersome. Determinedly she started to swim to shore – if she could reach shallower water then they would not be able to follow.
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Captain Bleville looked in disbelief as the woman deliberately let go of the yard arm. "Bring us about!" he shouted, desperate to reach her before she drowned in the rough seas, wondering what sort of mad woman would do as she had done.
"Captain! She's heading for Montserrat!" one of his men cried, leaning over the ship's rail and staring back to where Catherine had hit the water.
Cursing, he realised it would be a race, a race that he was unlikely to win. The wind was against them and his ship was slow. "Bring us back on course," he ordered.
"But the woman, Captain?" the man queried.
"Let her go," he sighed. His band of smugglers would have to find somebody else to cook for them another day.
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Catherine staggered ashore, falling flat on the sand with exhaustion. For a while she just lay there, panting, relieved to be free of Captain Bleville and back on dry land… wherever this dry land was. Gradually she eased herself up, sitting in the sand, relieved to see the ship had continued on its way. Sighing she flopped back down.
"Lady, you are crazy!" A broad, Irish voice sounded behind her. Frantically she rolled over, scrambling to her feet as she reached for her knife. She looked about her, quickly spotting a man sitting calmly on a fallen tree-trunk on the edge of the beach.
"Who are you?" she demanded. "And where am I?"
"Perhaps I should be the one asking the questions," he frowned, "considering I've just seen you jump from a passing ship and swim to this delightful isle. Perhaps you spotted me from afar and could not wait to join me here?"
"Unlikely," Catherine snorted.
"Ah, I am distraught!" he retorted, unable to keep a smile from his lips. "If not for my company, which I assure you is most delightful, why then did you jump from a perfectly good ship?"
"They were French!" she replied.
"Ah… yes, that would explain it!" he laughed, pushing himself to his feet and walking towards her. "Allow me to introduce myself. Cormac Brannan, at your service." He bowed with such extravagance that Catherine could not help but laugh at him. "And you are…"
Catherine looked at him carefully. "Catherine," she replied.
"Just Catherine?" he pressed, his curiosity getting the better of him.
"Just…" she began to say, but whirled around on hearing oars splash nearby, her hand reaching for her dagger. "No!" she gasped in fear, even though she realised there was no way that a ship's boat could have reached shore so quickly.
Cormac grabbed her wrist. "Put that down, lady," he ordered. Catherine struggled for a moment. "It's not your French," he assured her.
The oars went silent and a low whistle sounded, which he answered, grinning. He had nearly given up on them, having waited each day at the allotted hour for the past week, worrying about the delay. The oars splashed again, and a small ship's boat rounded the headland. Three men were visible, two rowing and one sitting in the boat, glancing down at something within the boat. She turned to Cormac, noticing him frown worryingly. As soon as the boat reached the shallows, he ran forwards, helping the three men within to beach it. "Lanty!" he gasped, finally spotting the fourth man he had been expecting lying in the boat. He turned to the man that had not been rowing, his older brother. "Niall, what happened?"
Niall glanced warily at Catherine, clearly suspicious.
"It's all right… I'll explain about her later," Cormac assured him, reaching into the boat to assist Niall with Lanty. "She's not one of them…"
Niall shrugged, accepting his scant explanation. "We got what we went for," he said cautiously, "but Lanty took sick. Bloody malaria again!"
"Let's get him up to the house. I think I still have some Jesuit's bark…" He started walking backwards up the beach, nodding for Catherine to follow him. The two men who rowed the boat waited beside it, anxiously watching the sea. He knew his brother could not stop long for the English patrolled the area too closely for his liking. Indeed, if it had not been for Lanty taking sick, he knew Niall would not have risked it.
"Jesuit's bark?" she asked, surprised to see a small house appear amidst the trees that had been invisible from the beach.
"Bloody hell, Cormac!" Niall cursed, nearly dropping the unconscious Lanty. "She's English!"
"I said I'd explain later!" Cormac argued, barging into the house and placing his unconscious friend on the bed. He turned back to Catherine. "Lady, for your own safety, please trust me with your full name now," he warned.
Catherine glanced at the two men worriedly, unsure if telling them her true name would place her in greater danger than she feared she was already in. Eventually, slowly, she nodded. "My name is Catherine," she said quietly. "Catherine Sparrow…"
"Sparrow?" Niall looked in askance at Cormac who started chuckling.
"Sparrow!" he laughed loudly. "Oh, if father could see me now!"
"Cormac!" Niall pressed, puzzled by his younger brother's reaction.
Cormac finally stopped laughing. "I have heard of the name Sparrow – and so have you Niall if you stopped to think. He's a pirate!"
"Privateer!" Catherine defended
Cormac looked to Niall who still had not made the connection. "The Black Pearl!" he explained, delighting to see his brother finally understand. "Exactly!" He turned to Catherine. "Your husband?" He smiled when she nodded. "I hardly think that she will be reporting a couple of runners to the authorities now, will she?"
"And what, pray, are you running?" Catherine was beginning to be apprehensive about just what she had gotten herself into.
"Rifles, shot and powder, and... other things. The English suppress our religion and refuse us free assembly – even with the slaves… so we steal their money and use it to buy weapons." Cormac grinned, over his shoulder at her as he rummaged in a cupboard. "Ah, there we are me Boyo!" he turned around beaming, holding up what looked to Catherine like dried cinnamon sticks.
"Jesuit's bark?" she frowned.
"Aye," Cormac puttered about the table, grinding several pieces of the bark to fine powder in a stone bowl while he explained further, "T'is called 'ayac cara,' means 'bitter bark'. Carried all the way from Peru; Indians there call it 'kinakina, yara chuchu', the 'fever tree.' Chinchona bark. You can only get it from the Jesuits, and at an awful price or smugglers for fee higher yet, but," he scooped the fine powder into a fold of paper, dumped half of it into a small panniken, stirring it with a none too clean finger, motioning Niall over to the bed where Lanty lay shivering and sweating, "but it does for the ague like nothing else will."
Catherine looked puzzled, "Ague? You mean malaria? It helps malaria?" Her eyes grew large at the revelation. This was interesting. Malaria was a serious illness in the tropics, and common amongst the crew of the Black Pearl.
"That it does, or it will, once we get this dose into him. It won't do him no good at all on the outside, and will you help us now lady, for the lad here is not going to like this for sure. It's that bitter it is. "
Cormac handed the fold of paper to Catherine and indicated that while they held the boy's mouth open, she was to sprinkle the kinakina powder on his tongue. Curious, she touched a bit of the powder to her own tongue; and was instantly sorry at the awful taste. She gratefully accepted the dipper of water handed to her, the men laughing at the face she made; she drank and drank the dipper dry, but no amount of water would wash away that terrible bitterness. "That is foul!" she spluttered.
She hated the thought of giving the powder to a sick man, but there was no choice really; malaria was a serious malady and could and often did kill. With her help, Lanty was duly dosed with the powder and then treated to the concoction in the panniken that she had seen Cormac prepare with the rest of the bark powder and a noxious potion of pungent spirits. Catherine watched as he dosed a sputtering Lanty with the foul smelling drink. It reminded her of Robert DeWitt. She turned away, grimacing.
He noticed her shudder. "Lady?" Cormac came and stood beside her. "Are you all right?"
She nodded slowly. "It is just that smell… it brings back memories." She sighed, realising that as he knew her name then there was little harm in trusting him further. "For the last six months I have been an unwilling guest aboard a slaver captained by an enemy of my husband. He drank that… that drink!"
"Ah, genever! We call it gin. It's a Dutch brew on the whole, made with juniper berries, but it's a tonic against the malaria – especially when mixed with Jesuit's bark…" He looked back towards Lanty, who was still unconscious and shaking on the bed. "Hopefully it is not too late," he worried.
"I will have to leave him with you…" Niall said quietly. "We need to sail this night… Malachy will not wait much longer for us."
"May I ask your heading?" Catherine asked hopefully.
"Lady, I carry yams and money for weapons, not passengers!" he replied harshly.
"Considering I married a pirate, I care not for your morals or your cargo!" Catherine sniped back. "I am merely trying to get back to my husband!" She glared at him.
Cormac looked at his brother and shrugged. "It could do no harm," he offered. "He's heading to Tortola. We have a contact there…"
Catherine had heard of the island of Tortola, in the Virgin Islands to the north. She bit her lip, glancing hopefully towards Niall. "I can cook and am considered competent on board," she offered. "Take me… I'll work my passage!"
Niall stared at her, his gaze calculating as he considered her. "Betray us and I'll kill you," he threatened.
She looked him in the eyes, holding his gaze. "I'd expect no less…" she conceded.
"Come with me then," he said, nodding to Cormac as he rose. "I'll be back when I can."
Cormac smiled, turning to Catherine as she stood beside Niall. "Ah, Catherine… my day is already darker," he sighed, reaching to kiss her hand. "Take care of her, brother…"
Catherine rolled her eyes at his behaviour, unable to help smiling at him. "Thank you, Cormac," she said quietly, liking the young Irishman although she admitted to herself she knew nothing of him. She turned, following Niall as he strode back down to the waiting ship's boat, hoping this ship would be more honourable than the last.
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Niall knew his ship well, and with every sail aloft, the sleek sloop cut smoothly through the sea, speeding northwards. It only took three days for Niall's ship to reach Tortola. Despite their initial caution on hearing her accent, the crew eventually accepted her, welcoming her warmly when they saw her start to help in the galley. Catherine delighted in its difference to the French traders she had travelled on previously, their honest, earthy humour causing her to blush on more than one occasion. On reaching the Virgin Islands, they anchored brazenly in Road Harbour, maintaining their façade of traders and Niall hurried his crew to unload their cargo, despite the lateness of the hour. He saw Catherine still on deck, looking cautiously along the dockside. He beckoned her over to him. "This is where we part, lady," he said quietly. "I must quickly find my contact if he is still here, so I will bid you safe journey and I hope you reach your husband soon!"
"Thank you, Captain," she smiled, turning to head down the gangplank.
"Here," he called after her, reaching into a small purse at his waist. "Buy yourself a meal and find somewhere safe to sleep tonight," he said, handing her several shillings. "You've worked hard on board… consider this your wages."
"Thank you!" she gasped, surprised at his actions.
"After you, lady." He swept a bow, indicating her to precede him down the gangplank.
"Captain," she laughed, bobbing him curtsey, realising how alike the two brothers were, even if they did not look alike. She looked about her as she walked down the gangplank, trying to spot a likely inn to spend the night. Turning, she made to thank Niall, but he had already disappeared in the darkening gloom of dusk. She shrugged, reasoning it was probably for the best, and headed along the dockside, dreaming of a hot meal and a comfortable bed.
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In the morning, Catherine was unsurprised to find that the Irish ship had already left. She wondered if Niall had found his contact, if they had gotten their weapons. She realised that there were some parts of her journey that she would be unable to tell Theodore, for he would be duty bound to try to find Cormac and Niall. Her silence was the best way that she could repay their kindness. She sighed, starting the now familiar trek along the dockside in search of passage. If she was lucky, she would find a ship going to Port Royal, if not then any ship in the right direction would do.
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"Aye, Mistress," the man replied. "I am heading to Port Royal, but I won't be sailing until dusk. I've fleeces to load…"
"Perhaps I could help?" Catherine asked hopefully. "I need to get to Port Royal… could I work my passage?"
The captain looked at her, frowning. "Well, you're too little to manage the fleeces," he reasoned, scratching his head at her unusual request and even stranger garb.
"I can cook…" she tempted. "I know my way around a galley as well as the rigging…"
He looked at her in surprise. "The rigging?" He snorted as she nodded. "All right, if you can climb to the crow's nest and back I'll take you on! I don't need a cook, but I could always do with an extra deck hand…"
Catherine nodded, quickly crossing the gangplank and climbing up to the crow's nest and back. She could see the man judging her, but she had no fear in the rigging. Jack had been a good teacher and her size and nimbleness had proved to be an advantage. She came to stand before him. "Well?" she pressed.
Captain Chard looked at the woman before him. He had thought she would balk at the test he had set her, but she had performed it quickly and with an ease that showed it was not her first time in the rigging. Slowly he nodded. "All right," he said. "You can work your passage. As you cannot manage the fleeces, you can start loading the supplies." He pointed to a stack of crates on the dockside. "And you're not released until we finish unloading at Port Royal!"
"Captain." She inclined her head, accepting his terms, before picking up the nearest crate and heading back across the gangplank. One of the crew already on board pointed to where she had to go and she carried it down to the hold before returning for another crate.
The captain shook his head in amazement, wondering what other strange things would happen that day.
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The small trader cut through Flanagan Passage, heading slowly westwards towards Port Royal. Catherine worked hard on board, with a never-ending set of tasks… from swabbing the decks to helping in the galley, her days were never idle. When she was given permission to retire, she sought a hammock eagerly. Captain Chard was a fair man, but he gave her no concessions for being a woman… indeed, she suspected he worked her harder because of it to urge the men to work harder, but she did not complain. Every moment meant she was getting closer to home – and to Jack.
Year 3 - Late August – Mid-September
It took all of ten days for the small trader to reach Port Royal. There was a tropical storm brewing, not quite a hurricane, but she feared it would be bad. Already the trees were swaying wildly and only those who had to be were out in the storm. Captain Chard kept his word, and insisted that she help where she could with the unloading of the cargo before he would release her, wanting to get the fleeces safely under cover before the worst of the storm hit.
By the time that she had finished it was late and the town was deserted, all the doors and windows had been tightly battened down in readiness for the coming storm. The townspeople, save for the watch, were safely snuggled away in storm cellars, if they had them, or making themselves as safe as they could. She had been relieved to see the Black Pearl sitting in the harbour – at least Jack was here. She had hoped that she would see one of the crew, or even Will, but it seemed that they too were keeping out of the rain. It was too choppy for her to row out to the ship on her own, and she was far too exhausted to row anyway. Clutching her thin cloak about her, she made her way up through the town to her brother's house.
It was locked. Nobody was home. She slumped dejectedly on the step, unable to think, having been so focused on reaching home that she had thought no further. The wind was rising further and it was starting to rain, chilling her through her cloak. Numbed to exhaustion, she curled up in a ball on the doorstep, taking advantage of the scant shelter of the building.
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