Courtney’s arm ached from the recoil, and her eyes smarted from the sting of the powder flash. Beside her, Dickie Little was shaking, his eyes and nose running as he gaped at the dead corsair. She dropped the heavy pistol and, not knowing what else to do, gathered the boy close, knowing how frightened he must be, locked in his world of silence. She remembered Matthew Rutger telling her Dickie had lost everything—his family, his hearing—when the ship he had been a passenger on had exploded. No doubt he was reliving those awful moments with each fresh eruption that buckled and ripped across the Eagle’s deck.
Courtney stared across the cove and shivered. The frigate's masts and yards were collapsing under fountains of flame and sparks. Cables were snapping from their tackle and writhing through the air like burning snakes. On board the Falconer, there was still evidence of fighting and sounds of muskets popping, steel clashing on steel. Men were leaping overboard, their shouts drowned out by the thunderous roar of the explosions that continued to buckle the hull of the Eagle. Bodies floated on the surface of the churning water, some American, some corsairs, illuminated in grizzly detail by the fires.
Courtney blinked and realized the Falconer was moving! Someone had cut through the anchor cables and the ship was drifting toward the mouth of the cove!
Courtney knew the fire would be visible for miles. Any patrolling ships, Yankee or otherwise, would be attracted to the glow in the sky like moths. Shaw had no choice but to cut his losses, regain control of his ship and run her into open water. Even in the confusion on deck someone had taken command, ordering anyone who was not fighting the fires into the yards to loosen sail and steer her clear of the curved finger of land.
Courtney had only seconds to make a decision: to stay ashore or to leave with the Falconer. She was a strong swimmer; she could make up the distance well before the ship passed through the mouth of the cove.
“Dickie—" she grasped his shoulders and held him at arm’s length. “Dickie, I have to go now. You have to stay. You have to run as far and as fast as you can. Garrett will be furious and he will come after all of you as soon as he can."
“B-but the doctor? Wh-where is the doctor?”
Was it a trick of the wind, or had the pale lips moved in a whisper?
“Dickie? Dickie, can you hear what I am saying?”
The boy blinked and a grimy hand smeared the tears across his cheeks. “Y-yes, miss.”
Courtney was momentarily at a loss for words. “Dickie, I...I am happy for you, but you have to leave this place. You have to get away, quickly.”
The boy shook his head determinedly, then flinched as another explosion tore through the night. Courtney opened her arms and he leaned into them willingly, burying his face against her shoulder until the noise and flare had died down. There were more voices on the slope—the last of the sopping wet stragglers were coming up from the beach, laughing and shouting in triumph.
Courtney searched for the ghostly shadow of the Falconer, but the ship was almost hidden behind a swirling wall of smoke.
“Dickie, I have to go now. I have to leave you. I cannot be taken prisoner again. Can you understand me?”
The small, oval face lifted to hers. “Yes, miss. I understand.”
“Then you must run up the hill now. Go with the others. You will be safe with them.”
“The doctor—?”
“Doctor Rutger is probably looking for you right now and worried sick. He will find you, I know he will.”
“Please, miss,” he pleaded softly, his scraped hands plucking at her sleeve. “Stay with me. Stay with us.”
She bit into her lip until she tasted blood. What good would it do to explain to the boy that she could not stay with him? That she did not belong in his world, that she was not even sure if she belonged in her father's world anymore? The survivors from the Eagle would be picked up and transported to Gibraltar, welcomed back like heroes. She was still Courtney Farrow, daughter of Duncan Farrow. If she was not tried and hung outright in Gibraltar, she would surely face indefinite imprisonment in whatever hellhole they chose to put her in.
“I cannot stay,” she said quietly and on impulse, leaned forward and brushed his cheek with a kiss. Then she tore herself from his embrace and ran back down the slope to the thickest patch of weed and rushes.
She waded knee deep into the water and ducked into the protective cover of the shoulder-high reeds. She was aware of the bitter warmth of tears streaming down her cheeks, but she did not know when they had begun or why they persisted. She knew she had no choice. She had to get to the Falconer and get away before it was too late.
She flinched as a red-hot splinter of wood arced over her head and plunged hissing into the water. She stumbled in her haste, nearly slipping off the ledge of rock where the water turned suddenly several fathoms deep. She coughed out a mouthful of salt water and staggered upright again, and was preparing to dive into the open stretch beyond the reeds when she saw something floating face-down several yards away.
There was no mistaking the broad, muscled shoulders, the torn white breeches, or the shock of sun-bleached hair. It was Adrian Ballantine. His arm seemed to move, seemed to be grasping forward in a last feeble attempt to push the water behind him, but the hand sank beneath him and he rolled slowly into the inky depths.
Without thinking, Courtney dove into the deeper water, past the waving tangle of weeds that were sucking Ballantine down. She felt them reach slippery tentacles around her wrists and ankles, but she fought them off and stroked determinedly for the faint white blur beneath her. She grabbed for a fistful of blond hair and kicked as hard as she could for the surface, but he was too heavy and her fingers slithered free. Her face broke clear of the water, and she swallowed another mouthful of air, then jackknifed straight down. This time she hooked an arm beneath his and dragged him, weeds and all, to the oily bright surface. She kicked and stroked one-armed into shallower water, until her feet scraped bottom. Only then did she stop to angle his face, to pound him sharply, viciously between the shoulders, to wrench his arms and slap his face...anything to start him breathing again.
“Ballantine! Damn you, breathe! Breathe!”
There was no response. Frantic now, Courtney placed her mouth over his cold lips and forced the air from her lungs into his. She was rewarded by a rush of seawater and by what felt like a faint spasm in his chest. She tightened her arms around him and breathed into his mouth again and again until she felt another spasm, stronger this time, shudder throughout his body. Another breath brought forth a gurgled cough, and he retched, ejecting the water he had swallowed. Courtney kept a hand beneath his chin and an arm around his waist to keep him from slipping back into the water.
A loud volley of fiery explosions made her glance quickly over her shoulder, in time to see the Eagle's bow rear up one last time. The water was too shallow to completely cover the burning hulk, but as the stern began to sink slowly below the surface, it forced great boiling clouds of steam skyward. What little remained of her superstructure continued to burn through the rising, hissing steam, making the clouds of smoke and mist throb with an eerie inner light.
The Falconer was almost through the mouth of the cove. Courtney looked down at Ballantine; he was barely conscious. The retching had passed, and he was gasping fitfully at clean air, but he was weak and trembling.
“Stand up, Yankee,” she commanded harshly. “You have got to stand on your own now. Stand up, dammit! You can do it!”
There were shouts coming from the dense brush along the shoreline. The Yankees were searching for any wounded survivors and she heard a familiar voice shout in her direction.
“There! Someone is in the water. Sergeant Rowntree, can you see who it is?”
“No, Doc. No...wait! Yes, there are two of them. Hey there! You!”
Courtney felt the panic rise in her chest, and she attempted to push Ballantine toward the shore. His eyes fluttered open and he peered closely at her face. His mouth opened and his lips moved, but th
ere was no sound other than a painful rasp of air.
Courtney turned, looking desperately for somewhere to run, somewhere to hide. But Adrian’s hand clawed at the loose folds of her shirt and held fast, even though she kicked and flailed and lashed out to be free. More shouts brought someone splashing into the reeds nearby, and she reached frantically for the knife strapped to her wrist.
~~
Andrew Rowntree pushed aside a handful of weeds and saw the boy that the lieutenant had paroled from the Eagle’s brig. He had a knife raised and was about to bring it down where the lieutenant’s hand was twisted into his clothing. Rowntree lunged the final few steps and knocked the blade off target, then dove for the boy’s midsection even as he shouted for assistance. He plunged with Courtney into the tangled bed of weeds and grappled furiously for control of the knife.
Ballantine managed to roll over, his body being pushed and pulled by the action of the water. Blinding pain prevented him from speaking and from even comprehending what was happening.
Matthew Rutger slogged through the water and took in the scene in a single glance. The wound on Adrian’s head had reopened and blood poured down the side of his face. His left arm was a bloody mess and there was a deep gouge on his thigh. He was attempting to get to his knees, and the effort was costing him more than he could expend at the moment, but his eyes were burning fiercely as he stared at the two bodies churning the water white beside him.
Rowntree was fighting hand to hand with one of the corsairs and, from their positions, Rutger judged him to be winning. Arms and legs were flailing; the bodies rolled over and over, sending water spouting on either side. A fist caught Rowntree squarely on the temple, and he redoubled his efforts, managing to catch the corsair’s wrist and yank it around and up into the small of his back.
Ballantine managed to gain his knees just as Courtney's face was pushed down under the water and held there. Her legs continued to thrash for a few moments, but Rowntree was determined and only pushed down harder, his body straddling hers now as the flailing grew weaker and weaker.
Matt had an arm beneath Adrian’s shoulder to support his weight as he helped him stand, but instead of walking toward shore, the lieutenant fought his way toward Rowntree.
“No,” he croaked dryly. “No...”
Matt shifted his weight more securely and started to drag him. “Adrian, for God's sake—”
"Courtney!" Adrian's voice was a harsh scrape in his throat. "She pulled me out."
“Courtney?” Matt frowned, then whirled to stare at Rowntree. “Oh good God. Sergeant! Wait! The lieutenant wants the girl alive! Sergeant, do you hear me? Let her go!”
Rowntree responded to the doctor’s command and stood up at once, his hands dragging the weakly struggling body to the surface. As soon as Courtney felt air on her face, she coughed the water and silt from her lungs, then she swung around hard, flaying blindly at the shadow beside her. Instinct sent her hand groping for the second dirk she had strapped to her calf, and it was in her fist before the sergeant could blink, slashing out at him before Matt could intervene.
Rowntree released her with a yelp as the blade scratched across his ribs.
“Get away from me,” she warned. “Stay back, the lot of you, or so help me—”
Rowntree cursed and took an angry step toward her, but a shout from Matt stopped him.
“Sergeant! Stand down or she will have you carved into fillets before you can raise a hand.”
"She?" Rowntree was about to question his hearing when he saw where Courtney's shirt had been torn open to the waist in their struggles. “Good God, it is a...it is a girl!”
Matthew exchanged an urgent glance with Adrian. “Yes, she is a girl. As the lieutenant once cautioned me, she also has a fondness for sharp objects. In the future you would be wise to search her if she is out of your sight for more than ten seconds.”
Ballantine’s eyes had not left Courtney’s face. “Give the knife to Matt,” he ordered in a dry rasp.
“No,” she said, twisting the blade so that it glinted in the moonlight.
“How far do you think you would get, even if you used it on one of us?”
Courtney’s dark eyes slid past his shoulder, to the hazy, smoke-filled mouth of the cove. The Falconer was gone. Only swirling mists of smoke remained.
With a cry she ran for the deeper water. She got no more than four swimming strokes away when she felt a hand grasp her ankle and haul her back. She fought without the strength or energy to do so, and Rowntree had no trouble slipping a hand around her waist and carrying her back to the shallows.
“He will come after you!” she screamed. “Garrett will come after you if you do not let me go!”
"I sincerely hope he does,” Ballantine said evenly.
Courtney stopped struggling and sagged against Rowntree’s arm.
“Please.” Her dark eyes held Ballantine’s in a desperate plea. “Let me go.”
“I cannot do that,” Ballantine murmured. To Rowntree he added, “Bring her up on shore, Andrew. And if you value your hide you will not turn your back on her.”
“Aye, sir,” Rowntree said grimly.
“Bastard,” Courtney hissed with quiet vehemence. “I hate you. I wish I had let you drown!”
Adrian stared at her intently. “Perhaps both of us made a bad mistake tonight.”
Matt tightened his hold on Ballantine’s arm. “Come on. Let us get you on solid ground and see what is left to salvage.”
Two men from shore waded into the knee-deep water to assist Rutger in leading Ballantine onto dry land and lowering him gently at the base of a thick palm. The bleeding at his temple had slowed to a trickle and needed only a cursory inspection. His left arm bore three deep gashes which Matt frowned over at length before directing his concerns to the leaking bloodstain on his upper thigh.
“Good God,” he muttered, stripping off what was left of his shirt. Between you and Angus MacDonald...” He let the sentence hang as he tore the wet cotton into strips.
“Where is the corporal?” Adrian asked with a grimace.
“I do not know. I have not seen him.”
“Andrew?”
“No, sir.” Rowntree shook his head. “The last I saw, he was on the Eagle, wielding an axe like a bloody great windmill.”
“Dickie?” Matt looked up anxiously. “Has anyone seen young Dickie?”
Courtney looked steadily at the doctor but kept resolutely silent. Her gaze shifted back to Ballantine and she found herself staring into a pair of cool gray eyes. She held them a moment, then disdainfully turned her head away.
The rebuff was not lost on Adrian, nor was the realization that she had been trying her damnedest to get back on board the Falconer. Miranda’s scornful words rang in his head: Courtney and Garrett Shaw choosing to share the after cabin...the bed...
He gazed out at the crisply burning masts of the Eagle, at the bodies floating on the surface of the water, at the tall column of black, twisting smoke. He hoped with all his heart that the Falconer was burning itself into a fiery hell as well. He had no way of knowing if Shaw had survived, if he had made it off the Eagle before it sank. The fires on board would take hours to bring under control, and hours of manning buckets and pumps meant a shortage of crew to guide the ship to safety. One small, feisty gunboat across her bows, and the Falconer would be finished, regardless who was at her helm.
“This cove will be attracting scavengers by the droves,” he murmured aloud, noting the dawn was no more than an hour or so away. He winced as Matt tied off a thick pad of cotton around his thigh, the pain reminding him there were other wounded men to be considered. “How many did we lose? Any idea?”
“We will not know until morning,” Rowntree said grimly. “But the price was a steep one.”
“The price of freedom always is,” Adrian took a deep breath to try to steady the pounding in his chest and the remaining vestiges of nausea. “Andrew, you had best get the others organized and moving. I want to pu
t a couple of miles between us and this place by morning.”
“Aye, sir.”
“And take a rough tally of what weapons we have. Surely the men came away with more than a handful of socks.”
Matt look puzzled, and Rowntree held up one of the saps by way of explanation.
“The men took everything they could lay a hand to,” the sergeant said to Adrian. “Muskets, pistols, pikes. Enough for Shaw to think twice before tacking about and coming after us.”
“At this point it is not Shaw who worries me the most.” Adrian struggled to his feet with the help of Rowntree and the doctor. “There could be a hundred Berbers camped over the next rise, just as eager to see us in chains.”
Rowntree glanced at the dark line of trees. The dangers of being run aground on Barbary soil were impressed vividly in the minds of all seamen. The prospect of slavery ranked only slightly behind the horror stories of being staked out under the broiling sun and painstakingly skinned inch by inch by hostile nomads. As soon as the wreckage of the Eagle was discovered and identified, her crew would be considered prize game and hunted accordingly.
“I will post rear and front guards,” Rowntree said. “And if I can find Mac—”
“Ye’re lookin’ in the wrong places, ye young snap,” came a hoarse croak from the bushes. Angus MacDonald, torn and bloodied in a score of new places, swaggered into the little clearing, his face split in a grin. “An’ I brung ye another wayward soul...”
Dickie Little detached himself from the Scot’s massive shadow and hurled himself into Matt’s outstretched arms.
“Doctor, doctor! You are alive!”
“Dickie, thank God, I was—” Matt stopped. He stared down at the boy, a look of astonishment on his face. “What did you say?”
Wind and the Sea Page 37
