by Louise Allen
‘Hebe, dear, can you spare your maid to look after your mama? Poor Sara seems to be feeling very sick, and I cannot stay with her.’ He looked over Hebe’s shoulder at the wailing Maltese girl and back to Hebe.
‘I will come,’ Hebe assured him, ‘Maria is all right really. I will give her something to calm her nerves.’
She hurried along the passageway to Sara’s room to find her stepmother retching miserably into a bowl, her face white and strained in the flickering lantern light. ‘Ohh!’ was all she could manage before being miserably sick again.
Hebe searched through the medicine bag and found the laudanum. With a promise to return directly she took it along to Maria, mixed her a very weak dose in a glass of water, and assured her that she would instantly fall asleep. To her amazement it worked, and within a few minutes Maria was calmly dozing.
Things were not so simple in the other cabin. Sara was desperately sick, unable to keep down any of the soothing medicines Hebe tried, or even small sips of water. Hebe battled her way to find the cook, only to discover that all galley fires had been extinguished on Captain’s orders and there was no warm water to be had.
Hebe struggled back, bouncing off the walls as she went and did her best to make Sara comfortable. She wrapped her up warmly, bathed her brow, found lavender water for her temples and tried to get a little water down her every time she was sick.
The hours crept by in a noisy, violent turmoil. The smell of the bilges filled the cabin, mingling horribly with the smell of sickness, and Hebe realised that Sara was so exhausted that she was beginning to be delirious. Hebe looked at the pocket watch which Sir Richard had left beside the bunk: six o’clock.
With a reassuring murmur to Sara, Hebe battled back to her cabin where, by a miracle, Maria was still dozing, and clambered into her clothes. Then, clutching the walls at every step, she found her way up on deck.
It might be dawn, but there was hardly any light in the sky which seemed to be a mass of swirling black clouds. The wind was fierce, battering the elegant warship from constantly changing directions, howling in the rigging like damned souls in torment. And it was pouring with rain.
Hebe was drenched as soon as she emerged, her hair plastered down and into her stinging eyes. Somehow she managed to struggle towards the ladders up to the quarterdeck and collided with an officer.
‘Look out, damn it! Oh, my God, what are you doing up here, Miss Carlton?’
‘My mother is very ill, I must find the ship’s doctor.’
‘I’ll send for him, ma’am—for goodness’ sake, let me get you below.’ He took her arm and began to guide her back.
‘What is wrong?’ Hebe gasped against the buffeting wind. Somehow, even this dreadful weather did not seem enough to explain the crazy wallowing of the ship.
‘Top mast gone, snapped in the first blast. We’ve got men up, trying to cut it away, but it’s wedged fast and we can’t get control of the sails.’ He seemed to remember who he was talking to and added hastily, ‘Not that it will be quite all right soon, ma’am, these things blow themselves out.’
At that moment there was a shriek, half-carried away by the wind and a spar crashed to the deck. Falling with it, tangled in rigging, Hebe saw the young midshipman Murray.
The lieutenant pushed her unceremoniously into the mouth of the companionway and ran for the mainmast. No one seemed to be doing anything about the boy and Hebe ran out on to the slippery, tilting deck, her first rush carrying her to the point where she could clutch the fallen rigging.
‘Murray! Murray, are you all right?’ The she saw his skull was crushed and turned away, gasping with shock. There was nothing she, or anyone, could do for him.
Shakily she pulled herself to her feet, almost blinded by spray and tears. The deck was dipping wildly, the entire ship was bucking like a horse. Something else must have been damaged as the spar fell.
‘Hebe!’ Alex’s voice cut through the storm and she turned to see him with a party of marines, frantically cutting at another mass of fallen rigging. ‘Hebe, hold on!’ He began to fight his way across the deck to her and she realised his feet were bare on the treacherous wet surface. He reached her side and seized her in a grip that hurt.
‘Damn it, woman! What are you doing here?’
‘I…came for…doctor,’ Hebe gasped. ‘Mama…’
‘Get down below.’ He began to drag her back across the deck. She saw he was still wearing his scarlet coat, but it was black with water. His hair was plastered to his skull and his teeth showed white against his unshaven chin in the fitful light of the wildly swinging lanterns.
There was a sudden lull, the ship seemed to hang in the water, then with a roar a great blast of air hit them, followed by a swamping wave of water. Hebe found herself swept off her feet. Something hit her hard in the ribs, then she was falling, still with a ruthlessly painful grip on her right arm. Her mouth was full of salt water, she was blinded by it, unable to breathe, then with a force that knocked the remaining air from her lungs she hit something solid, struggled, and found it was not the deck, but the surface of the sea.
I am going to die, she thought with surprising calmness. So this was what it was like. Oh, Alex…
The agonising vicelike grip on her arm let go, then she was grabbed ruthlessly under the chin and found herself being dragged up to the surface. ‘Kick, damn it!’ ordered a voice in her ear, and she did. ‘Breathe!’ the voice demanded, so she took a deep, agonising breath and found she was inhaling air, not water. ‘Good girl,’ said Alex Beresford. ‘Now hold on to me as though the devil were after you—and pray.’
Hebe had no idea whether she managed to pray or not. She had a confused impression of being held, of kicking, and of Alex’s voice praising her, then everything finally, mercifully, went black.
Chapter Ten
This was the most incredibly uncomfortable bed. And it was wet, the roof must be leaking. And cold. She was certainly going to complain to the landlord of this inn when she…
Hebe stirred, found her mouth was full of wet sand and spat it out. Everything hurt, her ribs creaked when she breathed, her throat was raw, her eyes would hardly open. Shakily she managed to raise her head and found she was sprawled face down on a beach of shelving sand, the waves just tugging at her frozen feet as the slight Mediterranean tide slowly ebbed away.
What? With an effort of will she levered herself up on her arms, then pushed herself over until she was sitting up. Gradually she found her memory coming back. The great wave, going overboard, Alex’s voice in her ear, shouting at her, willing her to survive.
‘Alex!’ It was a cry of pain that tore her raw throat, but there was no answer. Somehow she got to her feet and looked around. The beach seemed to stretch for miles in every direction, deserted. The rain had stopped, the wind had dropped, but the sky was lowering and overcast and the air was bitterly cold for May.
Frantically Hebe scrubbed at her sore and swollen eyes with numb fingers and searched the beach again. Nothing, only a pile of storm wrack tossed up on the water’s edge. Or was it? She stumbled towards it and realised it was a man, face down, totally unmoving. ‘Alex!’
With the strength of desperation Hebe heaved him over and pressed her ear to his chest. Nothing. Then she saw the slightest movement of his white lips. ‘Alex! Alex, wake up!’ Still nothing. Desperately she slapped his cold face, then again. ‘Wake up, damn it!’ she yelled in his ear. ‘Don’t you dare die on me!’
With an effort that was visible one blue, bloodshot eye opened. ‘Don’t swear, Circe,’ he croaked. ‘It isn’t ladylike…oh, hell!’ and rolled over and was violently sick. Hebe held on to him, until he stopped retching. ‘Sorry.’
‘Sorry?’ she stormed at him, utterly, ludicrously furious. ‘You save my life, I thought you were dead, and you say “sorry”?’ And promptly burst into tears.
‘Oh, Circe.’ She could tell he was laughing painfully. ‘Come on, we must get off this beach and get dry or you’ll catch your death
of cold.’ Holding each other up— Hebe was not sure which of them was in the worse case—they managed to get to their feet. Alex took her hand and they began to trudge slowly through the sand and up the shelving dunes that fringed the beach. At their feet a lagoon stretched parallel with the coast. To their left Hebe could see the land beginning to rise sharply into cliffs.
‘Damn.’ He looked down at her. ‘I am going to apologise comprehensively for my language when we get out of this, in the meantime I’m afraid you will just have to put up with it.’
Hebe had not even been aware he was swearing. ‘Do you know where we are?’ she croaked.
‘Yes. In France, although it could be worse. That lagoon is fresh water for a start, so I suggest we have a drink and wash our faces. And if we had come ashore any closer to Spain we would probably have been dashed on the base of the cliffs.’
Hebe felt undeniably better once the drink and the wash had been achieved, although she was shivering with cold and famished with hunger.
‘Now, can you walk?’ Alex pulled her to her feet. ‘I daren’t leave you here, you’d be dead of cold before I could get back.’
‘Where are we going?’ Hebe forced one foot in front of the other. Both her shoes had gone, and in her haste to dress she had not troubled with stockings. At least they were walking on hard mud, not through the shifting sand.
‘South, into Spain.’
‘But southern Spain is occupied!’
‘I have friends amongst the guerillas. If we can get across the border we will be safe. We are close now, thirty miles perhaps.’
‘Close!’
‘If we steal mules, it is not too bad. If we can just get into the foothills behind Argelès, I know a shepherd’s cabin we can rest in.’ They trudged on in silence for a while, Hebe biting her lip as she thought about her stepmother and Sir Richard and what they would be feeling now, believing her dead.
‘Alex? Will the frigate be all right?’
He looked down at her. ‘I think so, there was enough sea room for it to run before the wind if they got that wreckage down.’
Hebe was grateful for the qualified reassurance. She would not have believed a hearty declaration that all would be well, but she had faith in the crew: if there was a chance, they would save the ship.
‘Hebe…’ Alex hesitated, obviously choosing his words. ‘If we are seen, I want you to run, immediately. Get under cover and keep heading south. Steal what you have to, but don’t be seen. Once you are in Spain, find a village, go to the headman. Tell him who you are, what has happened. You will be very unlucky to find yourself in the hands of collaborators: if you do, emphasise how wealthy Sir Richard is. They would rather sell you to him than to the French.’
‘But what about you?’ Hebe realised with a sudden jolt that Alex’s uniform coat had gone and that he was in his shirtsleeves. He did not answer. ‘If they catch you, they’ll shoot you, won’t they? Won’t they?’ At last, reluctantly, he nodded. ‘But they won’t shoot me, surely? They won’t think I’m a spy?’
‘No, Hebe,’ he said harshly. ‘They’ll rape you first, then shoot you.’
‘Oh.’ Hebe’s voice was very small, then she rallied. ‘Well, we will just have to make sure they do not find us. You do this sort of thing all the time, don’t you, and you keep coming back.’
‘I don’t do it without a disguise, without backup, when I’m soaked to the skin, exhausted and with a young lady to look after,’ he said grimly, then added with a smile, ‘Otherwise, of course, it is just the same.’
‘I don’t need looking after,’ she declared, prompting yet another smile. ‘And as soon as we can steal some clothes and a mule and some food, we won’t be cold and wet and tired, either. Look, there’s a hut, where the lagoon ends. Perhaps we can steal something from that.’
‘Really, Hebe,’ Alex said mildly as they staggered on, ‘I find it hard to believe that your mother could have brought you up with such a cavalier attitude to other people’s property.’
She was almost too exhausted to laugh, but she managed a hoarse croak as they reached the hut. Alex yanked at the door, found it locked and without hesitation picked up a stone and battered the catch until it opened.
The hut was primitive, dirty and smelled strongly of fish. Hebe thought she had never seen a more beautiful sight. In one corner was a pile of nets; without a word they walked towards it and fell down on the rough tarred heap. Alex dragged some free, wrapped Hebe in it, dragged more over himself and before he had finished she was asleep.
Hebe woke to find she was alone. She felt the hollow next to her where Alex had slept, but it was cold, although the netting seemed to hold little warmth in any case, so it was no indication of how long he had been gone. A faint dawn light showed around the edge of the ill-fitting door. She lay still for a few minutes, trying not to cry and reflecting that she had just passed the night with the man she loved and had no recollection of a moment of it: no memory of the warmth of his body next to hers, no touch of his hand to treasure.
How long had he been gone? She rubbed the sleep out of her sore eyes and found a rough earthenware pot beside her, full of water. She took a grateful drink and walked cautiously across the heavily shadowed floor to the door. It creaked open easily to her touch and she stood for a moment, looking out across a turbulent sea. But the wind had dropped, the clouds had largely gone and the sun was coming up on what promised to be a lovely May day. Hebe sent up a silent prayer that all was well on the Audacious, then looked up and down the beach.
A mule was plodding towards her, led by a tall figure in a slouch hat and rough clothing. There was a blanket thrown across his shoulders and he was wearing culottes cut off just below the knee, flapping over bare calves and feet.
Hebe shot back inside, her heart banging wildly. A Frenchman! She looked around in the gloom for a weapon, remembered the water pot, and with it raised over her head ran to stand behind the door. There was a muttered curse outside as the man remonstrated with the mule in what sounded like some form of argot. Then the door creaked open.
She drew a deep breath, stepped forward and brought the pot down, only to find herself thrown on to her back on the nets, the pot shattering against the boards of the wall and the man’s weight full on her. Hebe brought up her knee with vicious intent and was stopped just in time by a shout of ‘Hebe!’
‘Oh, Alex, I thought you were a Frenchman,’ she gasped, struggling in his grip. After a moment he seemed to recall the position they were in and stood up.
‘I feel sorry for any Frenchman who decides to attack you,’ he said with a grin.
‘Did I hurt you?’ she asked, getting to her feet and attempting to smooth down her disastrous skirts.
Alex gave a smothered snort of amusement. ‘I think my manhood is safe on this occasion.’
Hebe decided that if she was going to be thrown into maidenly confusion by everything he said in these circumstances she would have a very uncomfortable journey. ‘You reacted incredibly fast.’
He glanced at her sideways. ‘I am normally reckoned to be reasonably alert, Circe, but even so, I seem to have a second sense for where you are. Come along, let us have some breakfast outside where I can keep an eye on things.’
Wrapped in the blanket, Hebe hunkered down in the shelter of the hut and devoured the odd breakfast Alex had managed to steal. Some incredibly high cheese, half a loaf, some form of preserved fish that had seen better days, a handful of olives and a piece of sausage that appeared to consist largely of garlic and fat.
‘Delicious,’ she said warmly, her mouth full, accepting the small pitcher in a woven straw casing that he handed her. She took an incautious swig and subsided, gasping. ‘What on earth is that?’ she managed to say after she got her breath back.
Alex sniffed cautiously and then took a healthy gulp. ‘Goodness knows, distilled goat by the taste of it.’ He munched on the bread for a while. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t find you any clothes, but you should be warmer wrapped in
the blanket.’
‘Where did you find these things?’ Hebe gestured at his clothes, the food and the mule. Then she saw there was a long-barrelled musket hanging from its saddle and a wicked-looking knife in Alex’s belt.
‘A poor sort of farm up along there a couple of miles. I don’t think there’s a woman in the household.’ Alex tossed down the heel of the loaf and got to his feet. Although his face was half-turned to her, Hebe caught the slight grimace of pain that twisted his mouth for a moment.
‘Alex, are you hurt?’ Now she looked closely, there was a trace of blood on his shirt. He had left in a perfectly decent, if salt-stained shirt, now he was wearing one of rough weave.
‘No.’ He tightened the girth, his back to her. Hebe got silently to her feet and reached out to touch his side under the stain. There was a hissing indrawn breath and he swung round to look at her, blue eyes dark. ‘A scratch.’
‘Let me look.’
‘No.’
‘Let me look!’
With a resigned shrug he unbuttoned the shirt and revealed a long, angry-looking cut across the bottom of his ribs on the left hand side. ‘That is not a scratch.’ Hebe regarded him, hands on hips. ‘Honestly, men are so… And I’m not wearing any petticoats.’
Alex’s frown vanished and his lips quirked into what Hebe could tell was about to be a suggestive smile. She gave him a repressive look and added, ‘Bandages.’
‘Doesn’t need anything.’
‘Yes, it does, it will chafe on that rough shirt. What did you do with your own shirt?’
With the sigh of a nagged man, Alex fished it out of the saddle bag. Not only was it slashed, but it was covered in blood.
‘Alex! That cannot all be from that cut—where else are you hurt?’
‘I’m not. It was the other man.’
Hebe opened her mouth, then shut it rapidly. The man had been a Frenchman, an enemy. If Alex had let him go, then he would have raised a hue and cry after them and they would both be dead.
