Jamie forced a crooked grin. "Where did you... think I'd be going?" A muscle twitched along his jawline as he tried to ignore the pain. "See if you can find some water," he pleaded. "I think I could drink a bucketful."
"I'll get some," she promised. If she found water, what would she carry it in? She hurried down to the waterline—nothing suitable. She shrugged. First she'd find the fresh water, then she'd worry about carrying it.
She left the beach and climbed the sand dunes. From the top of a dune she could see low stunted trees and shrubs, trailing off into salt marsh. If there was water fit to drink, it would have to be away from the ocean. Half running, half sliding, she made her way down the far side and into the sprawling beach plums and bayberry.
The high dunes behind her gave her comfort. As long as she could see the sand hills, she could find the beach and Jamie again. The sun was hot and bright, reflecting from the sand, making her even thirstier. She could imagine Jamie's terrible thirst. Had he been saved from the sea only to die horribly on the beach?
Charity stumbled upon the freshwater pond almost by accident. She had seen the cluster of trees above the low bushes and walked toward it, pushing past wind-twisted pines, drawn by the thoughts of shade. The pines were thicker near the oaks; they scratched at her face and hair as she pushed through. To her surprise, a large pond stretched from the base of the oaks.
She waded into the mud and grass, dropping to her knees to catch a handful of water and taste it.
She threw herself forward, gulping the bitter water and washing the encrusted salt from her hair and skin.
The only water she could carry back to Jamie was that trapped in her tattered gown. She knew she must get him to the pond. If his wound was to be treated, she had to get him off the hot, wind-blown sand.
Even with the gray horse to help her, bringing Jamie inland was a nightmare. Before they were off the beach, his side began to bleed again. Charity tied it shut with strips from his shirt, but they were soon soaked in blood. She had not known there was so much blood in a man.
Step by step, they struggled up the dunes, the big horse hampered by his injured foreleg, Jamie clinging to his mane. Charity kept one hand on the bridle, urging the horse forward, and the other around Jamie, holding him up.
The oak trees danced before her eyes in a haze, seemingly just out of reach. She began to wonder if she had dreamed the pond, if she were leading them to a parched death in the salt marsh.
Jamie had lost all contact with reality. He cursed her for driving him on... begged her to let him be.
"Keep walking," she ordered, her voice distorted by the water and her ordeal. "If you don't get to the water, you'll die!" Strange that the thick bands of muscle across his bronzed shoulders held no strength. Unbelievable that she must bear his weight.
They reached the trees at last. Charity lowered him to the soft grass while the gray plunged into the pond. She knew she should try to prevent the horse from drinking too much. Angry that she must leave Jamie's side even for a minute, she splashed in after the gray and pulled him out, tying the reins to a tree.
Turning her attention to Jamie, she dipped her gown in the water and dribbled it into his mouth, then bathed his face. Choking, he swallowed some; most ran down his chin. She repeated the performance, holding his head in her lap and forcing the precious liquid down him a sip at a time. When she thought he had had enough, she began to drip water on the wound.
Jamie cried out and struck at her with his fist, but he was too weak to do any damage. She must do something soon. If night came without warmth and food he would surely die.
"I have to leave you for a little while." He gave no sign that he heard or understood. "I'm coming back," she promised. She looked at the horse tentatively, then decided to leave him. He might be more trouble than help. "I'll be back, Jamie," she repeated. "I'm going to look for food."
Charity retraced her now-familiar path across the dunes to the sand. It was further down the beach than she remembered to the place she had left the saddle. It lay untouched. She began to rummage through the Virginian's saddlebags. She knew what was in Jamie's; they were useless to her here.
A deck of playing cards and dice were quickly discarded. A white linen cravat might do for a bandage; she tied it around her neck loosely. She unscrewed the cap of the silver flask and tasted the contents—brandy. That would do nicely to clean the wound. A pipe and a book of poetry were tossed aside. Beneath that was an oilcloth packet. Charity unrolled it carefully and swore under her breath. Tucked under the tobacco was a kit for lighting the pipe—flint and steel! She let out a yelp of pure joy! Now she could make a fire.
A spare shirt, some money, and a pair of silver shoe buckles were all that remained in the bags. She searched through them a second time, knowing all the while that the flint and steel were more than she could have hoped for.
"You could have stashed a little cheese," she grumbled, packing the things back in the saddlebags. She heaved them over one shoulder and looked at the saddle. Would she need it? If she had to ride the horse out of this godforsaken place she would. And suppose she had to tie Jamie on the horse to get him to a settlement? She needed the saddle. What she didn't need was the gold! She kicked at the other saddlebags, then turned stubbornly and walked away, dragging the saddle behind her.
She had gone more than a hundred yards when she stopped and looked back. Jamie's saddlebags lay accusingly on the sand. Why should she risk their lives by bothering with the heavy gold? What good would it do them? They couldn't eat it or burn it! Suppose she buried it and came back for it later?
She dropped the saddle and the Virginian's belongings and ran back to the gold. "I'll bury it." But where? And how would she ever find the spot again? Hesitantly she lifted the bags. They were heavy, very heavy. "Damn you, Jamie Drummond!" she shouted. Slowly she began the long walk back.
Jamie was no better when she got back. The sun was already low in the sky. She'd found nothing to eat, and she had no fire yet.
Exhausted and hungry, all she wanted to do was to lie down beside Jamie and weep. The horse had stretched his reins as far as they would go and had eaten a circle of grass and shrubs. He looked at Charity and whinnied. "Don't push your luck," she warned. "I'm hungry enough to eat a..." Leaving the rest of the threat unspoken, she decided to untie the animal. If he hadn't run away on the beach, he probably wouldn't now.
She busied herself with a hasty collection of firewood, deciding to build the fire next to a fallen log. If the log caught, it would burn all night. All she could think of was the beans and hardtack she had refused on the sloop. Jamie tossed and turned, not really alert to his surroundings. She stopped in her gathering only long enough to bathe his face in water and give him sips of the brandy.
When she had enough sticks and tinder for the fire, Charity turned her attention to finding something to eat. The horse was making out fine on grass, and she doubted Jamie could swallow anything, but she was starving. She wondered if there were any wild-duck eggs along the edge of the pond, but her search proved futile. She did see movement in the water—fish! Fish it would have to be.
The water was cold. After a few minutes, it became painfully obvious that fish were not to be caught by hand, at least not by her! She felt rather foolish splashing about naked in this muddy pond, even if there was no one to see but the horse. She would have to improve on her plan if she expected any dinner. She waded out of the pond and reached for her much-abused gown.
By ripping strips from the hem, Charity knotted the dress at the neck and sleeves to a long narrow pine bough stripped of its branches. She twisted the branch into a circle, forming a crude net. Armed with this new fishing equipment, she plunged back into the water.
An hour later she had her fish. It was as long as her arm from elbow to hand, and she hadn't the faintest idea what kind of fish it was or if it was good to eat. When she had finally been able to trap the splashing creature in her dress, she had pounced on it with a death grip. T
riumphantly, she carried it up on the bank and hit it over the head with a stick until it stopped flopping. She was shivering with cold, and it was beginning to get dark. It seemed a small trade-off for the large soon-to-be-broiled fish.
The fire took longer to make than she had expected. She used some of the pages from the Virginian's book to light the first sparks.
Wearing only the dead planter's shirt, belted at the waist with the cravat, Charity set about dragging Jamie close to the fire. He groaned and cursed, and the wound began to bleed again, but she succeeded. She stuck the fish on a green stick, as near the flames as she dared.
"Jamie," she urged. "Try to drink this." She dribbled a little of the brandy between his lips. He mumbled something, and his eyelids fluttered. Her hand slipped down his side and came away covered in fresh blood. It was plain that he would bleed to death if she didn't sew up the hole. "Jamie, what am I going to do?"
The horse came close to the fire as night fell. Charity ate part of the fish and tried to force some in Jamie's mouth. He shook his head. "You've got to eat," she pleaded.
His head felt hot; the bullet hole was still oozing blood. Shaken by the knowledge of what she had to do, Charity took a healthy swig of the brandy. Offering a silent prayer, she went to the saddlebags for the silver shoe buckles. Her hands trembled as she turned one in her fingers. The firelight caught it, and it glittered in the darkness.
Jamie tossed his head and moaned. His eyes were shut, and his skin had taken on a pasty gray hue. Charity swallowed hard and laid her cheek against his forehead. "You'll be all right," she whispered. "I'll make it stop." Deliberately she took another drink of the brandy, then tightened the cap. The rest would have to go on the wound.
Carefully she laid the silver buckle in the coals of her fire, waiting until it glowed red-hot. Using a split branch, she fished it out of the fire, gripping the buckle by the catch on the back. Her eyes filled with tears as she knelt over Jamie, knowing there could be no mistake. She wouldn't have the nerve to attempt it twice. "God help me," she prayed, and brought the hot metal buckle down on the open hole in Jamie's side.
Jamie's scream almost covered the awful sizzle of burning flesh. His blow knocked her aside! He half rose, then fell back, clutching his side in agony. Mercilessly Charity pushed him back and poured brandy into the front of the bullet hole. He struck out again, but she was ready for it, dodging his hand and salvaging the rest of the brandy.
"I'm sorry, darling," she wept. "But I had to do it. I didn't know any other way."
Charity walked away from the fire and called for the horse. He'd panicked at Jamie's scream and the smell of burning flesh. "Horse!" she called. "Come here." There was no answer but the cry of a night bird and the faint rustling of small creatures in the underbrush. She hoped the gray hadn't run off for good.
Charity wrapped her arms around a tree trunk and let the bitter tears run down her cheeks. She'd hurt him terribly. If he lived, he'd probably never forgive her. "I didn't know anything better to do," she sobbed to the empty blackness.
The self-pity and remorse lasted only a few minutes before her better sense took hold. "Better do something than nothing," Mam always said. She couldn't have lived with herself if she'd sat like a ninny and watched Jamie's lifeblood drain away into the sand. At least now he had a fighting chance.
The night passed slowly. Sometime in the dark hours, Charity heard the horse snorting in the trees. She called him, and the familiar shape appeared in the shadows. "Good boy," she soothed, creeping toward him. When she was close enough, she caught him by the mane and tied him to a tree. "Just until morning," she promised. It was comforting to hear his heavy breathing as she returned to Jamie. "Horse is back," she told him. She'd been talking to him all night. He wasn't talking back, but she was certain that he could hear her.
The fire kept them reasonably warm. Jamie was no longer shivering, but she didn't know if he was better or worse. She continued giving him water at regular periods. The bleeding had stopped, but the burn left by the cauterization was ugly.
Sometime before dawn, he awoke and called for water. She gave him brandy instead. He swallowed it, choked, and fastened his hand onto her arm, his fingers biting into her flesh with more strength than she thought possible.
"I'm cold," he murmured.
Charity lay next to him and put her arms around him. "I don't have a blanket," she said. "The sun will be up soon." His skin was still hot to the touch, but he had been able to tell her he was thirsty. She'd have to find him something he could eat in the morning. A sick man couldn't get better without nourishment.
By daylight she could see the extent of the burn. The skin was burned away, the whole area black and charred. She was afraid to touch it or to put water on it. Jamie seemed to be sleeping normally. She crouched beside him until her muscles ached with the strain.
"Jamie," she said. "Jamie, can you hear me?"
His eyes opened; his voice was little more than a harsh whisper. "What did you do to me?"
"I stopped the bleeding. Are you hungry?" She rubbed at her legs and feet. They were cold and stiff; one foot felt like it was asleep. "I've got some fish I cooked last night." The remains of the fish hung at a crazy angle from the pole. "It's not bad."
"No... no... Water... I want water."
Tenderly she moistened his lips with a wet rag. He sucked at it eagerly and begged for more. "Not too much at one time," she cautioned.
"Where are we?"
Charity had to put her ear close to his mouth to understand the words. "Don't talk now, just rest," she said. He looked no better than he had the day before; in fact he looked worse. "You've lost a lot of blood. It's best if you sleep."
Jamie's curse was more croak than profanity. "The gold? Is it safe?"
"Yes, it's right here. Now lie back, for God's sake. You'll kill yourself."
He forced his bloodshot eyes open and tried to clear his head. His whole body was wracked with pain. "Where are we, woman?"
"A little ways off the beach. There's fresh water here and wood for the fire. We're safe enough, I think. I've seen no sign of people in two days." She went to the pond for more water and laid the damp cloth on his head. "You're feverish, Jamie. You need sleep."
"The ship... how long ago?" It could have been hours or weeks; his mind was a jumbled knot of pain. "Put out the fire. Don't want... don't want them to see the smoke."
"Who, Jamie?" She knelt beside him. "You don't want who to see the smoke? There's no one here but us and the horse." Was he still delirious? "The sloop's long gone. It's been two days."
"Do as I say," he insisted. "No fire. Put it out!"
"But we need it for warmth. I need it to cook!"
"It will send us both to hell! Put it out," he gasped, struggling to sit up.
"But it might bring help," Charity reasoned. "You need a physician. The Kathleen is gone. They can't hurt us. There's been no sign of a boat."
"Not a boat," he whispered hoarsely. "From... land. Danger from..." Jamie's eyes closed.
"Danger from what?" She shook him. "Jamie? From what?"
It took almost superhuman effort to concentrate on her face, to keep from sliding back into the awful blackness. "Wreckers," he breathed. "Wreckers."
Chapter 14
It had taken most of the morning to get anything sensible from Jamie. And what she heard turned Charity's blood to ice water. It was only by the blessing of Our Lady that she hadn't found another soul on the beach during the last two days. If Jamie was right, they were in far more danger from the inhabitants of the marshy coast than they were from starving to death.
Human scavengers roamed the sands searching for wrecked ships or seeking ways to lure boats near enough to sink or be trapped on sandbars. Boats were stripped of their valuables and set afire. Any crew or passengers were murdered, stripped of their clothing, and left to lie naked on the beach until sun and sea washed it clean. A woman, especially a young and beautiful woman, would not have the mercy of death.
She would be used and abused by her fiendish captors as long as a spark of life remained in her body.
"They light fires on the beach," Jamie explained, "to trick captains into thinking there's a safe harbor. Sometimes children and women wade into the surf crying for help. When a ship comes to their aid, a band of cutthroats swarm over it."
"What kind of men could do such a thing?"
"Not men," he uttered softly. "Not men... beasts. I'll cut your throat myself before I let such scum lay a hand on you."
"What would you cut it with, I'd like to know," she'd retorted, trying not to let him know how badly he'd frightened her. She'd been running up and down the beach shouting for help. Offering herself like a fatted calf for the slaughter! The thought was sobering. She chewed at her lower lip as she bathed Jamie's face in cool water.
If the wreckers came now, she might be able to run away, to save herself, but Jamie... Charity's green eyes narrowed, their color deepening and intensifying. Let them try and hurt Jamie! She'd not pulled him from the sea to be murdered by scavengers, human or otherwise.
The fire was out as he'd ordered. She'd have to make a new one every night. If she kept the flames low and sheltered by the trees it might not be seen. They'd have to take the chance; the nights were getting cooler. It must be close to November. She didn't think they could survive without a fire.
The horse was tied in the pines. Men who would cut the finger off a dying child to get a ring would do anything for a horse as fine as the gray. She'd have to gather grass for him to eat. They couldn't lose him; they had to ride him back to the Tidewater.
Still troubled by the thoughts of the wreckers, Charity spent a restless night, jumping at every sound. She checked Jamie throughout the night, and he seemed to be sleeping normally.
He was still sleeping and his color was better in the morning when she reluctantly slipped out of the Virginian's shirt and waded into the pond. The cold water set: her teeth to chattering, but they had to eat. What she wouldn't give for a roast duck, or even a slab of beef cooked on a proper spit. Thoughts of food tantalized her as she splashed and slipped in the icy water.
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