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| Ten Minute Tales |
For your entertainment
As a little self-indulgence - and because I've been promoting other authors more than myself...
I'm going to post some (chosen at random) excerpts from my own books
I'm going to post some (chosen at random) excerpts from my own books
today an excerpt from
When The Mermaid Sings
A Sea Witch Voyages additional story novella
by Helen Hollick
Jesamiah Acorne is still a raw-behind-the-ears young seaman - not yet the capable pirate captain that he is to become in the Sea Witch Voyages. He loves the life at sea - but is troubled by visions of the past and a woman who is not, perhaps, a woman...
When The Mermaid Sings
A Sea Witch Voyages additional story novella
by Helen Hollick
Jesamiah Acorne is still a raw-behind-the-ears young seaman - not yet the capable pirate captain that he is to become in the Sea Witch Voyages. He loves the life at sea - but is troubled by visions of the past and a woman who is not, perhaps, a woman...
They chose to take their time and aim for the islands halfway across the Atlantic, the Azores, where trade and treasure ships of all nations – British, Dutch, French, Portuguese and Spanish, depending on who was at war with whom – headed to replenish food, water and cargo. Privateers and pirates alike lurked in the islands’ waters, eager for an easy Prize or two.
With astute interest the young Jesamiah Acorne passed his days by listening to all Captain Taylor could teach him about sailing, navigation, wind, weather and the ocean currents. Listened, as well, to Taylor’s knowledge of their intended destination.
“The Azores,” Taylor explained, “is a Portuguese-owned volcanic archipelago. Most Atlantic shipping, sailing east or west, head for the island of São Miguel – St Michael – to replenish stores, make repairs and sample the local women and wine. In between us, though, is a little over one thousand miles of unpredictable ocean. An easy journey if wind, weather and tide are clement, not so easy if storms blow up or a wind does not blow at all. I’ve been becalmed for weeks with food, water and tempers fast running out.”
Before setting off across the Atlantic, Mermaid had dropped anchor for three weeks at Barbados on the edge of the Windward Isles, checking for necessary repairs and provisioning with all that would be needed for the voyage. Despite being uneasy in enclosed spaces – a legacy from his half-brother, along with a dislike of anyone coming up quietly behind him – Jesamiah enjoyed the labour of hauling barrels, kegs, casks and crates. It was good to work below deck as one among the crew, to inhale the heady smells of pitch and coils of new rope and sailcloth, the stronger aromas of spices and pickled and salted food. Good, too, to spend nights ashore sharing laughter and drink with the men, with the intimate personal attention of the ladies.
With Barbados well behind them, the light winds became lighter, the calm seas calmer. Mermaid had been sailing sweetly, life aboard was pleasant and enjoyable, but with each hour as the day grew nearer noon their progress slowed. From her scudding through the great crests of white-capped rollers Mermaid now ambled along, apparently unenthusiastic about reaching the Azores. Even with every sail set, forming a pyramid of canvas from the largest to the smallest, even with the occasional drenching with buckets of seawater to stir a breeze among the spread of sail, Mermaid made snail’s-pace progress north-eastward. Yet the windless days were no great alarm. They had water, even if it was green and brackish, and food aplenty: eggs from the hens – or meat if one shirked her daily duty too often – milk, cheese and butter from the three nanny goats, Betty, Dolores and Fanny-Anne. Fish in the sea to catch.
Nor were they idle days for Jesamiah. He had Malachias Taylor’s maps and charts sorted and stored – and studied, the piles of paperwork and documentation orderly, with the Great Cabin itself following a semblance of tidiness, although pristine condition was a forlorn hope where Taylor’s housekeeping carelessness was concerned. And Taylor also taught Jesamiah how to fight. Not the fancy footwork of the rapier schoolroom, but how to fight to win, to save your skin and life. How to fight dirty if needed. Jesamiah had lessons with cutlass, sword and rapier; with long-bladed knife and short-bladed dagger, fist and feet. Swordplay, dagger play, wrestling. Day after day, practice and practice, with Taylor himself and the other men, until Jesamiah was as good as any one of them. Their sessions were at dawn and dusk, when the heat was not so invasive, when the sails dripped with dew and the calm blue sea was as smooth as a looking glass. There was nothing better, Jesamiah had discovered, when a vigorous sparring session was over, their semi-naked bodies slick, sticky and stinking with sweat, for he and Taylor to strip off their breeches and dive from the rail into that blue, blue sea, shattering the Mermaid’s almost-perfect reflection and the quiet stillness with their splashing and laughter. Among the men aboard they were the only two who could swim. The others thought them a pistol short of powder, barking mad for enjoying the feel of the cold sea on their hot skin. Most seamen preferred to keep their bare feet firmly on deck. Who knew what was lurking beneath that deceptive calm?
When the wind did pick up enough to usher them forward with a slight curve to the sails and a faint cream of froth along the hull, they encountered floating mats of gold-coloured seaweed that enthralled Jesamiah. He had never seen anything like it.
“The Sargasso Sea stretches for several thousand nautical miles long, by several hundred wide,” Taylor said as they leaned over the rail, staring at nature’s spectacle.
“Will we get trapped in it?” Jesamiah asked, anxious. “Like a ship in ice?”
Taylor laughed, patted his shoulder reassuringly. “Nay, lad, the weed floats and parts before the bow as easily as does the sea. We will be fine, as long as we have a wind.” He added the last with a frown, pleased to feel a slight caress of breeze on his cheek.
Here, in the Sargasso, the sea was even bluer, even clearer. Looking over the side one afternoon, Mermaid braced aback and hove to for the men to haul in a turtle caught for fresh meat, Jesamiah could see his own face staring back at him: black hair plaited into an unruly queue, the fuzz of a beard along his jaw, an embryonic moustache trailing each side of his mouth. Frivolous, he waved at himself, and laughed as the reflection returned the gesture. He could see down and down into the depth well below Mermaid’s keel, one, two hundred feet? Fishes swam there, shoals flashed by full of swirling colour and movement. Then he drew back, his trance-like interest shattered by the shouts of his shipmates as they brought the hapless turtle aboard and called for Jesamiah to lend a hand to get it down into the stagnant water of the bilge. He was grateful for the distraction. He would not be looking, fascinated, down into the clear Sargasso Sea again. Would not be swimming in it.
His had not been the only face staring up at him from that depth of water, or the only hand waving. Pale skin, blue eyes – as blue as the sea – fair hair as gold as the Sargasso weed, a fish’s tail that shimmered as if covered in a million jewels.
The mermaid.
On the far side of the Sargasso, the wind gusting with more strength, they sighted yet another ship. Excitement flew around Mermaid’s decks, accompanied by laughter and chatter, with men leaning over the rail to point and look. Was she friend or foe? Was she a Spaniard coming into their clutches laden with treasure? Despite Taylor repeating, several times, that she might be Spanish but she was outbound so would not be carrying gold and silver, no one paid him heed. The disappointment was deep when she was identified as Dutch. Taylor would not touch English, Portuguese or Dutch shipping. Anything else was fair game. Except nothing else appeared to be sailing the ocean blue this June month of 1709.
An hour after dawn, two days out from the first of the Azore islands, another vessel was spotted – behind them, not ahead, and coming up fast. This time the activity was anxious, not excited. She could be a treasure ship, a trader, another privateer, or she could be someone come to find them and wreak revenge for past misdeeds. Taylor took precaution and had the guns made ready and they set more sail to take advantage of the wind. Mermaid was sleek and fast, but this vessel coming up behind was faster still. On edge, constantly looking over their shoulders or up to the crosstrees of the mainmast where Hench sat on watch, the men were restless. None of them cared a hoot for the risk of a fight, but it was the waiting that gnawed at the nerves and frayed them raw.
Then a laugh, a hearty cry plunged from the masthead, followed swiftly by Hench descending hand-over-hand down the backstay to the deck, his face split from ear to ear by a wide grin.
“She’s the Barsheba!” he announced. “It’s Jennings!”
Whooping and cheering, they stood the guns down, took in sail and waited for Captain Henry Jennings to catch up; one of the best privateers in the Northern Oceans, now that Acorne's father, Charles Mereno, had passed away.
There was celebration that night, with both vessels hove to alongside each other, and the Barshebas invited aboard Mermaid to partake of kegs of brandy and rum, for singing and merrymaking. Courtesy of fresh supplies donated by Jennings, the smell of roasting meat mingled with tobacco smoke and the stink of unwashed bodies. The carousing reached as high as the stars, and even the moon did not dare show her face from behind a curtain of cloud for fear of watching too closely the antics of drunken pleasure-taking.
In Taylor’s Great Cabin, the papers and charts had been hurriedly put away, the table pulled out and set for a meal, the linen tablecloth, silver cutlery and dinner service displayed to fine grandeur, despite the plates and serving dishes bearing all too many cracks, chips and scratches. Pork, chicken, fish. Vegetables, sweetmeats, dried fruits. Wine, port, brandy. The conversation and laughter grew louder with each dish served, each glass poured.
As quartermaster’s clerk, Jesamiah had been invited to join the dinner party, but was awed by the auspicious company and the fact that he was seated almost against the brooding figurehead ornament dominating the far corner. He did not like the thing.
Jennings was next to Taylor, but with only a handful of diners, was close enough to engage in conversation with Jesamiah, when finally he had opportunity. “So, you’re Charles’ boy? Jesamiah Mereno?”
Jesamiah’s skin tinged a salmon pink. “I go by the name Acorne now, sir. Jesamiah Acorne.”
“Fair enough,” Jennings responded, lifting his half-empty glass in salute. “There’s many of us, for various reasons, using a different name to the one we were christened with.”
“Especially where avoiding a wife, the law, or service to the Navy are concerned, eh?” Taylor laughed.
“Indeed,” Jennings answered, “and many another will be following suit when this war with Spain ends, I reckon.” He raised his glass, proposing a toast. “To alternative identities – may they never be revealed!”
“May they never be revealed!” The cheer echoed through the ship, although none beyond the Great Cabin could hear, for the noise the crew were making was too rowdy.
A short while later Jennings resumed his conversation with Jesamiah, a friendly smile playing over his features. He was about mid-forty years of age, Jesamiah reckoned, no longer carrying the slender figure of a young man, but not yet running to fat. His eyes held laughter, but there was a sterner side to him behind the smile. A formidable man when the need arose, but perhaps a good friend also?
“I knew and respected your pa, son. It is a pity you no longer wish to carry his name, but I can see that Mereno could also be a burden to you. Sometimes it is best not to sail too close in another’s wake.”
Jesamiah made no answer; he was not prepared to whine about his childhood to this man, even if he was a friend of Taylor and his father.
Jennings carried on as if there were no secrets to be hidden away. “We did everything together, didn’t we, Malachias? You, me, Charles and Morgan – before the drink and the infatuation with that girl blew up into a row.”
Looking up sharply from the glass of rum he had been studying, Jesamiah blurted out, “Girl?”
Taking the wrong meaning, Jennings grinned. “Don’t get all heated, lad. I was referring to Morgan, not your father. Oh, Charles was one for the ladies, mark my word,” he laughed, and winked at Taylor. “Weren’t we all back then, when a night in bed meant more than getting some sound sleep?!”
“Speak for yourself!” Taylor’s guffaw boomed out. “I’m still partial to the company of a woman in m’ bed.”
“Aye, to keep your feet warm, not your other shrivelled piece!” Jennings tossed back.
Everyone laughed, but by the time glasses had been refilled and talk resumed, the subject had changed. Jesamiah was left wondering, his question unanswered. Did Captain Jennings mean the mermaid creature he had seen - thought he ad seen?
Surely not…and yet, he was beginning to believe in her existence.
© Helen Holick
With astute interest the young Jesamiah Acorne passed his days by listening to all Captain Taylor could teach him about sailing, navigation, wind, weather and the ocean currents. Listened, as well, to Taylor’s knowledge of their intended destination.
“The Azores,” Taylor explained, “is a Portuguese-owned volcanic archipelago. Most Atlantic shipping, sailing east or west, head for the island of São Miguel – St Michael – to replenish stores, make repairs and sample the local women and wine. In between us, though, is a little over one thousand miles of unpredictable ocean. An easy journey if wind, weather and tide are clement, not so easy if storms blow up or a wind does not blow at all. I’ve been becalmed for weeks with food, water and tempers fast running out.”
Before setting off across the Atlantic, Mermaid had dropped anchor for three weeks at Barbados on the edge of the Windward Isles, checking for necessary repairs and provisioning with all that would be needed for the voyage. Despite being uneasy in enclosed spaces – a legacy from his half-brother, along with a dislike of anyone coming up quietly behind him – Jesamiah enjoyed the labour of hauling barrels, kegs, casks and crates. It was good to work below deck as one among the crew, to inhale the heady smells of pitch and coils of new rope and sailcloth, the stronger aromas of spices and pickled and salted food. Good, too, to spend nights ashore sharing laughter and drink with the men, with the intimate personal attention of the ladies.
With Barbados well behind them, the light winds became lighter, the calm seas calmer. Mermaid had been sailing sweetly, life aboard was pleasant and enjoyable, but with each hour as the day grew nearer noon their progress slowed. From her scudding through the great crests of white-capped rollers Mermaid now ambled along, apparently unenthusiastic about reaching the Azores. Even with every sail set, forming a pyramid of canvas from the largest to the smallest, even with the occasional drenching with buckets of seawater to stir a breeze among the spread of sail, Mermaid made snail’s-pace progress north-eastward. Yet the windless days were no great alarm. They had water, even if it was green and brackish, and food aplenty: eggs from the hens – or meat if one shirked her daily duty too often – milk, cheese and butter from the three nanny goats, Betty, Dolores and Fanny-Anne. Fish in the sea to catch.
Nor were they idle days for Jesamiah. He had Malachias Taylor’s maps and charts sorted and stored – and studied, the piles of paperwork and documentation orderly, with the Great Cabin itself following a semblance of tidiness, although pristine condition was a forlorn hope where Taylor’s housekeeping carelessness was concerned. And Taylor also taught Jesamiah how to fight. Not the fancy footwork of the rapier schoolroom, but how to fight to win, to save your skin and life. How to fight dirty if needed. Jesamiah had lessons with cutlass, sword and rapier; with long-bladed knife and short-bladed dagger, fist and feet. Swordplay, dagger play, wrestling. Day after day, practice and practice, with Taylor himself and the other men, until Jesamiah was as good as any one of them. Their sessions were at dawn and dusk, when the heat was not so invasive, when the sails dripped with dew and the calm blue sea was as smooth as a looking glass. There was nothing better, Jesamiah had discovered, when a vigorous sparring session was over, their semi-naked bodies slick, sticky and stinking with sweat, for he and Taylor to strip off their breeches and dive from the rail into that blue, blue sea, shattering the Mermaid’s almost-perfect reflection and the quiet stillness with their splashing and laughter. Among the men aboard they were the only two who could swim. The others thought them a pistol short of powder, barking mad for enjoying the feel of the cold sea on their hot skin. Most seamen preferred to keep their bare feet firmly on deck. Who knew what was lurking beneath that deceptive calm?
When the wind did pick up enough to usher them forward with a slight curve to the sails and a faint cream of froth along the hull, they encountered floating mats of gold-coloured seaweed that enthralled Jesamiah. He had never seen anything like it.
“The Sargasso Sea stretches for several thousand nautical miles long, by several hundred wide,” Taylor said as they leaned over the rail, staring at nature’s spectacle.
“Will we get trapped in it?” Jesamiah asked, anxious. “Like a ship in ice?”
Taylor laughed, patted his shoulder reassuringly. “Nay, lad, the weed floats and parts before the bow as easily as does the sea. We will be fine, as long as we have a wind.” He added the last with a frown, pleased to feel a slight caress of breeze on his cheek.
Here, in the Sargasso, the sea was even bluer, even clearer. Looking over the side one afternoon, Mermaid braced aback and hove to for the men to haul in a turtle caught for fresh meat, Jesamiah could see his own face staring back at him: black hair plaited into an unruly queue, the fuzz of a beard along his jaw, an embryonic moustache trailing each side of his mouth. Frivolous, he waved at himself, and laughed as the reflection returned the gesture. He could see down and down into the depth well below Mermaid’s keel, one, two hundred feet? Fishes swam there, shoals flashed by full of swirling colour and movement. Then he drew back, his trance-like interest shattered by the shouts of his shipmates as they brought the hapless turtle aboard and called for Jesamiah to lend a hand to get it down into the stagnant water of the bilge. He was grateful for the distraction. He would not be looking, fascinated, down into the clear Sargasso Sea again. Would not be swimming in it.
His had not been the only face staring up at him from that depth of water, or the only hand waving. Pale skin, blue eyes – as blue as the sea – fair hair as gold as the Sargasso weed, a fish’s tail that shimmered as if covered in a million jewels.
The mermaid.
On the far side of the Sargasso, the wind gusting with more strength, they sighted yet another ship. Excitement flew around Mermaid’s decks, accompanied by laughter and chatter, with men leaning over the rail to point and look. Was she friend or foe? Was she a Spaniard coming into their clutches laden with treasure? Despite Taylor repeating, several times, that she might be Spanish but she was outbound so would not be carrying gold and silver, no one paid him heed. The disappointment was deep when she was identified as Dutch. Taylor would not touch English, Portuguese or Dutch shipping. Anything else was fair game. Except nothing else appeared to be sailing the ocean blue this June month of 1709.
An hour after dawn, two days out from the first of the Azore islands, another vessel was spotted – behind them, not ahead, and coming up fast. This time the activity was anxious, not excited. She could be a treasure ship, a trader, another privateer, or she could be someone come to find them and wreak revenge for past misdeeds. Taylor took precaution and had the guns made ready and they set more sail to take advantage of the wind. Mermaid was sleek and fast, but this vessel coming up behind was faster still. On edge, constantly looking over their shoulders or up to the crosstrees of the mainmast where Hench sat on watch, the men were restless. None of them cared a hoot for the risk of a fight, but it was the waiting that gnawed at the nerves and frayed them raw.
Then a laugh, a hearty cry plunged from the masthead, followed swiftly by Hench descending hand-over-hand down the backstay to the deck, his face split from ear to ear by a wide grin.
“She’s the Barsheba!” he announced. “It’s Jennings!”
Whooping and cheering, they stood the guns down, took in sail and waited for Captain Henry Jennings to catch up; one of the best privateers in the Northern Oceans, now that Acorne's father, Charles Mereno, had passed away.
There was celebration that night, with both vessels hove to alongside each other, and the Barshebas invited aboard Mermaid to partake of kegs of brandy and rum, for singing and merrymaking. Courtesy of fresh supplies donated by Jennings, the smell of roasting meat mingled with tobacco smoke and the stink of unwashed bodies. The carousing reached as high as the stars, and even the moon did not dare show her face from behind a curtain of cloud for fear of watching too closely the antics of drunken pleasure-taking.
In Taylor’s Great Cabin, the papers and charts had been hurriedly put away, the table pulled out and set for a meal, the linen tablecloth, silver cutlery and dinner service displayed to fine grandeur, despite the plates and serving dishes bearing all too many cracks, chips and scratches. Pork, chicken, fish. Vegetables, sweetmeats, dried fruits. Wine, port, brandy. The conversation and laughter grew louder with each dish served, each glass poured.
As quartermaster’s clerk, Jesamiah had been invited to join the dinner party, but was awed by the auspicious company and the fact that he was seated almost against the brooding figurehead ornament dominating the far corner. He did not like the thing.
Jennings was next to Taylor, but with only a handful of diners, was close enough to engage in conversation with Jesamiah, when finally he had opportunity. “So, you’re Charles’ boy? Jesamiah Mereno?”
Jesamiah’s skin tinged a salmon pink. “I go by the name Acorne now, sir. Jesamiah Acorne.”
“Fair enough,” Jennings responded, lifting his half-empty glass in salute. “There’s many of us, for various reasons, using a different name to the one we were christened with.”
“Especially where avoiding a wife, the law, or service to the Navy are concerned, eh?” Taylor laughed.
“Indeed,” Jennings answered, “and many another will be following suit when this war with Spain ends, I reckon.” He raised his glass, proposing a toast. “To alternative identities – may they never be revealed!”
“May they never be revealed!” The cheer echoed through the ship, although none beyond the Great Cabin could hear, for the noise the crew were making was too rowdy.
A short while later Jennings resumed his conversation with Jesamiah, a friendly smile playing over his features. He was about mid-forty years of age, Jesamiah reckoned, no longer carrying the slender figure of a young man, but not yet running to fat. His eyes held laughter, but there was a sterner side to him behind the smile. A formidable man when the need arose, but perhaps a good friend also?
“I knew and respected your pa, son. It is a pity you no longer wish to carry his name, but I can see that Mereno could also be a burden to you. Sometimes it is best not to sail too close in another’s wake.”
Jesamiah made no answer; he was not prepared to whine about his childhood to this man, even if he was a friend of Taylor and his father.
Jennings carried on as if there were no secrets to be hidden away. “We did everything together, didn’t we, Malachias? You, me, Charles and Morgan – before the drink and the infatuation with that girl blew up into a row.”
Looking up sharply from the glass of rum he had been studying, Jesamiah blurted out, “Girl?”
Taking the wrong meaning, Jennings grinned. “Don’t get all heated, lad. I was referring to Morgan, not your father. Oh, Charles was one for the ladies, mark my word,” he laughed, and winked at Taylor. “Weren’t we all back then, when a night in bed meant more than getting some sound sleep?!”
“Speak for yourself!” Taylor’s guffaw boomed out. “I’m still partial to the company of a woman in m’ bed.”
“Aye, to keep your feet warm, not your other shrivelled piece!” Jennings tossed back.
Everyone laughed, but by the time glasses had been refilled and talk resumed, the subject had changed. Jesamiah was left wondering, his question unanswered. Did Captain Jennings mean the mermaid creature he had seen - thought he ad seen?
Surely not…and yet, he was beginning to believe in her existence.
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I loved When the Mermaid Sings - nice to re-read this today :-)
ReplyDeleteSame as Annie - the series called out for a prequel and When The Mermaid sings set the scenes perfectly
ReplyDeleteThank you both - I do have plans to write another novella of Jesamiah's early life ... I think some more detail regarding his 'dalliance' with Alicia is called for. She's such a madam - a right hoity-toity but I thoroughly enjoy writing about her (and its not her fault that she's totally in love with Jesamiah ... who is 'fond' of her but... well, maybe she should stop trying to getting him hanged! *laugh*
DeleteMissed yesterday's story. "Mermaid" was a wonderfully fanciful story I greatly enjoyed. And, indeed, we do want more of Jesamiah's dalliances.
ReplyDelete