Nothing but waves and occasional debris, including some strewn with the corpses of dead animals, now bloated with gas, buzzing with flies. Probably livestock caught in their own ship’s wreckage from the last storm—a few chickens, half a sheep, already butchered. Ragged sea birds picked at the insects or the rotting flesh.
At first they thought some might be edible. But no, none could bring themselves to it. Then they tried to paddle past the stinking messes, but had given up even that after a few times. Sometimes Standish thought the buzzing might eventually drive him mad, and he began looking at the others to see if they had.
There were eight souls in his boat, none of them officers. Not that they had any equipment to help them navigate, or maps to show their course if they did.
They were lost at sea.
Standish knew it was foolish, but he took this as a sign of his continued good fortune, and wondered if the old woman could have told him that.
“All things considered,” he muttered. Freedom was better than prison, no matter what the circumstance. Such as being sold on arrival to those he had been running from for so long. He was convinced now, that had to have been their plan. That’s why they let him board, and he was glad the man who had taken his money was somewhere else now.
Probably dead . . . hopefully dead, he mused.
“Instead of just running out of food and fresh water.”
One night, things changed. It was the night his grandmother came to him again.
One man slipped over the side in the fitful sleep of the utterly exhausted. It was brought on by fever or fear, they all agreed. The man probably thought he was on a deck again, Standish suggested. And that he’d taken a turn on the deck only to find himself over the side instead. Since he was asleep, he drowned before he could make a sound.
His grandmother said, Good riddance.
The men all looked at one another, but no one offered any other suggestion. At least, not out loud.
Someone said, “Maybe some sort of mania. Them flies make me crazy sometimes.”
As the man pointed, they turned and then nodded. Mania brought on by the constant buzzing of flies in yet another stinking corpse that was now floating by. This time it was a cow, much bigger than corpses before, and it was going to collide with the boat. When it got near, one of the men took an oar and poked at it to push it over and away.
The oar sank into the flesh instead, releasing gas and a horrible smell. Standish felt himself retch, though there was not much inside to come out. The cow sank after that, taking the oar as well. The buzzing mass of insects turned to the men.
Furious swatting and swearing came, and to his horror, Standish felt himself starting to cry. He started yelling instead, and then covered his head with his coat until all the buzzing had stopped.
Under the coat, Standish heard his grandmother laughing. Her raspy voice turned into a hacking cough, and he pictured her pulling the pipe from her mouth as she gasped for breath. The pipe was always filled with tobacco or corn silk and sometimes dried hemp leaves.
She let him smoke it once. It made him feel strange, like he could do anything. It also made him hungry and his father quite angry.
He realized it had been some time since the buzzing of the flies had stopped. He pulled the coat from his head, and saw that they were all staring at him. Had he said something out loud? Had they heard his grandmother laughing?
Then they went on in silence. It gave him time to think of the bright side too: With a man overboard, that left seven in the boat. The food and water would last longer. He wasn’t the only one to think of that though.
The French took a vote to take inventory the next afternoon, when it was particularly hot. They cracked open the last couple of crates. After bitter argument, it was decided that if they all ate very little, the food might last for eleven days, and water maybe three days after that.
“Amazing,” Standish mumbled, given their ship had been sunk in a storm. For a short trip out and back, they had been very well provisioned. He was not a seaman, but he at least knew that.
If these “fishermen” were on a subversive mission, they had come well prepared. A fishing boat was always suspected, and it had probably been carrying arms for some side in the French conflict: whichever one paid the most. That’s why it was heavy and sank so fast. That’s why they had extra provisions.
But a lifeboat was also another way to run the British blockade. True, you couldn’t get away if sighted, but chances of being seen were much smaller than a tall ship with sails, he figured. And you also had an excuse for being out on the sea alone.
But such a plan only worked if you knew where you were, and where you were going, and if you were close enough to get there. Otherwise, you could end up . . . like we are, he thought, and snickered.
He mumbled, “Nothing useful to say now, old hag?”
The others in the boat looked at him. He ignored them, as always. And of course, he realized that the whole notion was foolish. No one would think to make the way through blockade in a rowboat. Not on purpose.
The mission ended when the storm sank their boat, and their cargo, which he was convinced now had been a cargo of supplies meant for war. These men had lost any profit due them, and now possibly their lives.
Suddenly, he realized now why he was saved when the ship went down. He was a prisoner; he would bring ransom, or a reward.
He felt under his jacket. He still had his knife, and something else he’d gotten from the old woman. What had she called it, something to make his own bit of luck . . .
The morning after, Standish woke to a fight. One of the sailors accused the other of stealing a last bit of apple core. One had a gun; the other had a knife. The powder was wet, but the butt of the gun was heavy. One died quickly, one hung on in agony for a day and a night.
Then there were five men left in the boat.
One was a lad—this was to be his first voyage. Now it might be his last. He still spoke of his mother and his sisters at home. He had a dog named Poullie and a friend name Eugene, whom he hoped he could tell tales of the sea when he got back.
“I do not think I will be having anything to tell him now,” he said sadly.
The older crewmen tried to cheer him by telling him stories of their own, and that passed the time until dark once again. Standish heard him cry himself to sleep. In the morning, the lad was gone.
True, his body was still there. But his eyes were open, his mouth was agape, and one hand dangled into the water. There was not a mark on him. No blood, nor bruises either. Just vacant eyes forever staring into the sky.
Standish covered the lad’s face with his handkerchief while they tried to decide what had happened and what to do. He noticed it then, as he had the night before, how much the boy’s eyes now looked just like his grandmother’s.
At least they were both now silent. To hide his smile, he spoke instead, suggesting the boy had died of despair, of heartbreak. Such were tales of sweethearts, they knew, but no one had any other clue. They buried him at sea with no words at all, just suspicious glances to one another. Standish slipped the handkerchief back in his pocket after the boy went over the side.
That left four, but one man was older than the others. His experience was welcomed as a navigator of some skill, though he hadn’t been much help up to now. In fact, here adrift, he was of no use anymore. As they drifted along not talking at all, something seemed to grip him. He grabbed at his chest, called out the name of his Maker, and was gone in less than a minute.
“That was an act of God,” Standish said. He was speaking in French.
“Meaning what?” another said.
He shrugged. “Nothing meant, mon ami. We should dump him over the side as well before he starts stinking worse than he is.”
With only three left, Standish waited until one was asleep, then offered a drink to the other.
“It wasn’t me who did this,” he assured the sailor. They both knew that he meant murder, for with so m
any gone so quickly, it had to be something besides a vengeful act of the sea. Standish added, “What do you think?”
The man hesitated, then he took the flask. He drank, but his eyes never left Standish.
“It was not me either,” he said, wiping his mouth.
Standish thought the man sounded more like a diplomat than a fisherman. Educated, probably trained for these things. This had been a vessel with a secret military mission. Whether for cause or profit, he didn’t really care anymore. What was left of the men would still try to carry on as best as they could, and so that meant he wasn’t really out of danger.
Perhaps they were taking him somewhere to question him after all. And then there had been his promise of further payment. It was an opportunity they couldn’t pass up.
Suits me, suit yourself, he thought.
“Looks like it’ll be you or me next,” Standish said, nodding toward the sleeping man.
The other man snorted, took another hearty swallow, and then handed back the flask. “You are too trusting a soul, Monsieur. What makes you think that it is not you who should fear the both of us?”
Standish studied the flask for a moment before he slipped it back in his pocket. “Because, my fine fellow, I lied.”
The man didn’t have time to defend or respond, he clutched at his own chest and grunted in pain as his legs jerked straight out in spasms. Standish was careful not to lick as he wiped the liquid from his lips with his handkerchief, the one he had rammed down the lad’s throat only days before.
It wasn’t personal, that death. The boy was looking at him with his grandmother’s eyes. Killing one meant silencing the other. It had worked, he hadn’t heard her voice ever since.
But he’d have to get another handkerchief; this one was really starting to stink. “Careful, mon ami, you’ll wake the dead,” Standish said.
The man stiffened once more, then slid into a heap: dead, poisoned.
The last one was simple. Standish picked up an oar, and smashed the waking man in the head. Then he rolled both bodies overboard. It was harder than he thought it would be, and he was sweating from the effort of moving them both and trying to keep the boat from capsizing.
He then pulled the few small crates and water casks into the boat, and took a long drink of water. He had wasted a week to get rid of them all. But that couldn’t be helped, he thought. Surely anyone else would have done the same thing?
He had oars, but where would he row? Could he use one oar and his shirt to make some sort of sail? He had food and water, but how long would they last? Longer now that he was alone, he figured, but would he become jealous of their quick death? Would he linger, only to end up the same way?
He tried not to think. Not of that anyway.
Sprawled out, he drifted along in the boat, but the thoughts came back anyway: his father and the trading post, his grandmother, that native slut who had ruined his life by her mere existence. If she had been English or even French like Catherine St. John . . .
“I’d be a rich man now, probably.”
A happy man, possibly, but never important—somehow, they always found out that he wasn’t one of them.
Men of stature, of great respect and dominance, they did not have half-bred blood. They did not look on the world with the eyes of a savage. What had Katie once called them?
Eyes just like a snake.
A fly brushed his ear, and he swatted the air again and again, fighting back the urge to scream in frustration.
“How can there be so many flies out at sea?”
Another stinking corpse?
Maybe it’s me.
He started snickering, which turned into a low and rhythmic whine along with his breathing.
“I know that noise, it’s my death song.”
He laughed out loud and grabbed for the oars to escape the stench. Who knew I’d be missing the old woman? He cackled then, and it sounded like her. He stopped, in horror. That’s when he realized there was no horrid smell now. And no sound of flies at all, just a bee. Then he saw a bird. Not a gull, but a sparrow, he was sure.
His whining stopped. He sat up, looked all about. There had to be some land close by. He just couldn’t see it. He tried to rise up a little farther, but his legs were shaky and weak.
He couldn’t see anything. It all looked the same.
Were the spirits of the dead men blocking his view?
How could they? Dead men had no power. But he knew that might not be true. Didn’t his father still make him do things? Didn’t his grandmother still ruin his life? And what of Catherine Senlis, she had power over him still.
He cried out, “Why torment me this way?”
But he already knew: Revenge.
When he saw the ship on the horizon, he thought it was only another part of the crazy dream. A joke played on him by the spirits of those he had murdered. They meant to drive him mad. He did nothing and slumped back down into the bottom of the boat.
He dared not put his hand in the water, for they were waiting there under the waves to drag him down. He dared not cry out, for they would twist his words into those of a madman.
But he dared not fall asleep either, for they would slip aboard and push the handkerchief into his mouth so far that it would blot out his breath with his screams.
That was easy enough to do, he knew.
He was getting too drowsy. He sat up in the boat again. The sun was in his eyes, but he was too tired to get up and turn around. He blinked and blinked, but it remained the same: The sight of the ship even closer now made him cry.
“Stop, it’s too cruel.”
But the ship was getting bigger every minute now. It seemed as if his boat was moving too. Phantom ship, sucking him in, only manned by the murdered.
That didn’t rhyme at all. He giggled.
The breeze in his face and the flap of their sails gave him the strength to raise his arm up in pathetic plea.
It was answered.
Some one called, “Man overboard!” and “We have a boat, sir!”
He wept as a ship of the Royal Navy picked him up. He was laughing when he came aboard. It was only the mug of ale that saved him from falling into joyful rants of thanks. It was stuck in his face, and he was ordered to drink it down in whole.
It was that moment with his mouth covered up and filled with sustenance that saved him from going over the edge. But had they seen? Did the crewmen notice the blood on his hands? They say a sailor can tell, can smell death on a man. They say the sea picks its victims and is jealous of those who would rob her of the toll.
Standish glanced around as he finished the ale. No one seemed to pay him more mind that was called for, given he was a lone survivor.
He asked, “What ship is this, sir?”
One of the midshipmen offered, “The Elizabeth Regina, sir. The captain’s not on board at present, but I’m guessing you’ll be speaking to the other officers.”
* * * * *
CHAPTER 48 - The Lone Survivor
On the rail of the quarterdeck, Kate watched as usual from her solitary perch out of the way. But this time, her blood ran so cold that it had frozen her there in place. The only movement was the gentle drifting of strands of her hair on the breeze.
A gull landed near by and studied her, perhaps trying to decide if she was food or a perch. She couldn’t even shoo it away. She was too shocked at seeing the lone survivor on deck down below.
She had no idea of their location right now. Originally, Kate had it all worked out, in time and distance until she could see her husband again. But the ship had been made to navigate around the scattered islands in these Mediterranean waters and near the coast as well. That had put them off-course from where they were meant to be.
It was more scenic, she was informed by a surly lieutenant, and a request of the Lady Catherine, even if a damned fool waste of time, and perhaps a danger as well.
In any case, the Lady and her maids and footman and butler would see their scenic ocean p
anoramas even if the Spanish or French took offense and the Liza was blown out the water.
“Or worse, we could also sink in a storm like that poor son-of-a-bitch,” he added, nodding toward their rescued man-overboard. Then profusely apologized for the bad language.
Kate said feebly, “Why don’t you just tell her no?”
The man shook his head. “A luxury, that. I don’t envy the First Mate. Don’t know how the captain would react, him being new and his wife new to him too. Might be in trouble for doing her bidding, or even worse for no.”
She understood that well enough. Navy business first with some men, but with others . . . Clearly, they did not know Sir Edward.
She said, “You think he’s hen-pecked?”
The man just turned and gave her a polite salute. Of course he was right, he had said too much already. Good officers didn’t talk about their captain, even when he wasn’t on board. She hoped.
“Then what will become of me?” she muttered.
I will still be here, she thought—up in my tree, under the sideboard in the kitchen, in some way hiding from Ambrose Standish.
After Standish went below, the crew went about their business, and repeatedly bumped Kate in the way. Truth was, she was having a hard time moving. It wasn’t just fear, it was dread.
“You there,” an officer called. “They tell me you are known to do some healing?”
She swallowed and tried to sound doubtful, “I do what I can.”
“We have no surgeon as you know. There is a man who has need of you down below,” he said and waved her to follow in the same direction that Ambrose had gone.
She nodded, and then disappeared elsewhere. Tend him indeed, she thought. Ambrose Standish wouldn’t notice if a ghost didn’t tend him. She’d wager he wouldn’t miss it at all. But the notion gave Kate an idea. She thought for a moment, and then let it go. It was a foolish notion; it wouldn’t work . . . would it?
“Edward, come save me now,” she said and sighed from her place in the shadows.
The Wilde Flower Saga: A Contrary Wind (Historical Adventure Series) Page 47
