Wild Willful Love

by Valerie Sherwood

  She had loved him so.

  And he too had proved false.

  Her romantic past with all its glory and bitterness rose up before her like those towering black rocks that reached their fangs up from the sea to devour the ship. Imogene waited stoically for the sudden grinding shock that would presage the ship’s wooden timbers bursting apart.

  Life was exacting a price from her, she felt. She would pay for her recklessness, pay for it dearly—even if by some miracle the ship survived these treacherous rocks uprising from the sea’s vast churning cauldron. Even if she survived the wreckers whose lights danced up ahead.

  For she knew fatalistically that Giles’s family would never cease to hate her. They would see her hanged.

  For such as she there was no way out. She would pay for those other days when she had thrust reason and sanity aside and taken—with Stephen Linnington—the lovers’ path to doom. Pay for them dearly—with her life.

  Like a great tolling bell, fate’s hammer had sent forth yet another peal. The familiar sawtooth rocks of the Scillies lay dead ahead welcoming her to death.

  Imogene stood braced, waiting for the ship to strike. But when it struck at last, she felt unprepared. There was a sudden grinding lurch, and a great shudder that shook the hull from stern to stern. Great spumes of foam shot over them, competing with the sheets of blinding rain.

  For a few moments she could not see. And then—as if it had achieved its purpose by piling them upon the rocks—the rain slackened suddenly and in the lightning’s flash she could see exactly where they were. They were almost on St. Agnes Isle and below the gnarled rock masses and massive towerlike boulders and curtain wall of cliffs were dancing lights—the lights the captain had pointed out. Lanterns.

  Wreckers, she thought and was surprised to find, even in this extremity, a chill of fear course through her. But it is one thing to pit one’s self against the sea, implacable as it seemed tonight, and quite another to drag one’s self exhausted from the surf and be clubbed to death.

  Wreckers... she had heard enough stories about how they operated.

  There was a nasty but quite rational reason why the wreckers killed so mercilessly. Under the law, if anyone survived a shipwreck, those salvagers from the shore who had risked their lives to save the cargo could not claim their loot. If no one was left alive, the law tended to shrug. To a wrecker the logic of that was simple—and deadly.

  Under the circumstances, it was a rare soul who survived a shipwreck upon these forbidding shores.

  But even this new horror bursting upon her was fleeting, for she expected in that instant to be dragged down by some great green sea oversweeping the deck, some final catastrophic wave that would force them to the bottom—and turned in surprise to find that it had not happened yet.

  They had, she realized after a moment, crashed onto the jagged rocks in such a way that the ship remained suspended on those stone fangs, like some helpless little sea creature waiting to be devoured. On either side of them the seas beat, slowing grinding the hull to pieces, but for the moment they were perched there drenched in plumes of sea spray.

  People were running about the slanted deck, slipping, shouting. Some of them staggered under possessions they had clawed from the rapidly filling hold. Soon the deck was filled with a jumble of trunks and boxes and valuables, all slithering this way and that, knocking down the hysterical running passengers.

  At the height of the storm the ship’s boats had come free from their lashings and been washed away by the same wave that had snapped the Goodspeed's mainmast like a toothpick and sent it overboard to be lost in the massive seas—all save one.

  Now amid the wild panorama of the ship’s tilted deck, Imogene saw that the crew was trying to launch it—and having trouble doing it.

  As she watched, the set-faced Puritan woman, dragging her crying children, scrambled into it. Little Sorry for Sin gave a howl as her shins were bashed against the wood of the boat. Beside her Lament Thy Thoughts was crying lustily. Gert Tyler, the little wrenlike woman with whom Imogene had shared tea and porridge, tried to clamber in but was knocked back sharply by Bare Bones himself. His face was contorted with fear as he leaped in and gave a mighty push against the hull, designed to send them away from the ship’s side and down into the sea.

  It was the wrong move. At this added insult, the ropes broke and the boat overturned, spilling the shrieking family into the sea. The boat, dangling now by a single rope, crashed down on top of them. Gert Tyler, leaning far over the side and screaming in horror, toppled over after them, made a wild grab at the boat, which bobbed tantalizingly away from her, and disappeared shrieking into the wild sea not to be seen again.

  Wild pantomimes were taking place around her as desperate men and women struggled in vain to save themselves.

  Imogene felt mesmerized by horror.

  Now from the rail someone, a member of the crew, was beckoning.

  Numbly following his gesture, Imogene saw what he intended. A moment later he had dived overboard.

  She struggled to the spot from whence he had plunged. And now she saw what he could see. The hull of the disabled ship, helpless as it was, still made a kind of bulwark against the advancing waves and behind it the route to shore was relatively clear.

  It was a difficult—but possible—swim.

  But at the end lay the lights of the wreckers.

  As she peered at those dancing lights, the blue lightning lit up the shore again. Was that a boat being launched?

  Fear raced through her.

  A wreckers' boat, she thought, and had a sudden wild vision of men clambering over the side of the wrecked ship, of being seized by her long fair hair and clubbed senseless and tossed into the sea.

  Instinctively she removed the topaz and diamond necklace from around her neck. It was not valuable like the van Rappard diamonds, of course, but it was a trophy one could be clubbed to death for. She coiled her long hair tightly against the swim so that it would not sweep over her face in the waves, blinding her and causing her extra effort to dislodge it. The earrings might well be lost in the sea, but she worked the necklace into her tightly coiled hair. If it stayed there, it might be something to bargain with, to buy her life perhaps.

  More people were going overboard now. A man dragging a woman in a sodden purple dress shoved by her and she recognized them as a dour couple from Glasgow who had muttered and turned their heads every time she passed. The woman clawed at the railing and hung back but the man heaved her over. The woman screamed as her purple dress described an arc toward the water. Her husband jumped in after her and Imogene saw him fighting valiantly to keep her head above the water, but she was terrified and clutched him around the neck, dragging him down. The little Miller lad took a running jump and dived in; Imogene saw him come up and swim strongly toward shore. A woman went over holding hands with her two children. They struck a floating board and went under, hands gripped. They did not come up again.

  Imogene took a deep breath. There was nothing for it but to give the sea a try. At any moment the hull might go and this spot where she stood would become a foaming cauldron full of flying debris. It was now or never.

  Quickly, bidding herself not to think, she shucked off her shoes and stockings and tore off her wet dress and petticoat. Driven by desperation, she ruthlessly ripped off all the lower ruffles of her chemise and the big sheer sleeves so that only a scrap of cloth remained, enough to cover her breasts and reach to her hips. Modesty no longer mattered—it was survival that counted.

  She took a last look at those lights on shore and braced herself for the plunge into the dark water. She was about to go over the side when she remembered Nicodemas, trapped in the cabin, for she had thoughtlessly shut the door. She could not leave him there to die!

  The captain, who was beckoning to her now as the last to leave, saw her turn back and watched agape as she headed back toward her cabin. He gnawed at his beard for a moment, scowling, and then went over the side himself. B
e damned if he’d drown for a madwoman who’d no doubt be screeching and clawing at him if he tried to bring her back to the deck! And who knew if the ship could last another second, impaled as she was on these blasted rocks?

  But Imogene, on her way to the cabin, had found what she was looking for: a keg well wound with rope with two handholds for lifting it. The keg might once have contained something heavy but it was empty now. She kicked it among some ropes, where it lolled back and forth, and went to fetch a terrified Nicodemas.

  It was no easy matter getting the cat to the keg. He was in a frenzy of terror and she had to drag him, spitting and howling, from the bunk. When she fell at last with him onto the keg, his slashing claws ripped her chemise up the side and gave her a long gash. But once his claws fixed into the thick ropes, they stayed there with fiendish determination. Nicodemas was not to be wrested from his rocking perch by anything human. His green eyes were wide and staring, his furry black coat entirely soaked, his ears lay down flat and his mouth was wide open and wailing imprecations against all oceans and all ships.

  He looked thus as she staggered to the rail with him and threw cat and keg out as far as she could.

  The keg made a clean landing. Nicodemas went under with it, but so fierce was his hold that he came up out of the water still clinging to the keg, his hold intact. He remained anchored there, bobbing in the water. Imogene feared he would be dashed back against the hull, the keg would shatter and Nicodemas would drown.

  Now nearly naked and with her fair hair as tight as a cap, she took a last brooding look at those lights on shore and plunged over the side, trying to reach Nicodemas. As she floundered toward him a wave caught her, tossed her. And then another. She had almost despaired of reaching the cat when a playful wave suddenly smashed the keg right at her and she seized one of the pair of rope handholds and let the keg take her with it as it went by. A moment later she had the other rope handhold in a good grip and by a mighty effort kicked her feet.

  She had chosen the right moment. A wave just crashing off the Goodspeed's hull hurtled back toward shore carrying her with it—and before her Nicodemas, crouched down flat, wet as a seal, mouth grimly closed against the salt water, staring into the darkness with wide terrified eyes.

  Like the figurehead of a ship, Nicodemas rode the keg to shore. Fighting exhaustion, breaking her hold now and again to use one arm in a short powerful stroke, Imogene—fine swimmer that she was—brought him there. She shoved the keg up into the surf and in a single bound Nicodemas sprang to the wet sand and disappeared from view. Imogene saw him go and sagged against the keg.

  Excellent swimmer that she had always been and accustomed to these waters, she still had almost drowned as she fought her way through the battering waves toward shore and those dancing lights. Her one hope on reaching it was to lie apparently lifeless in the surf until those lights danced away, then struggle out and scamper to safety over the rocks.

  It was not to be.

  As she reached the shore she could see what was happening to those stronger male passengers who had arrived before her. They were being dragged out and clubbed to death and their howls of rage and pain and despair poured through her consciousness like a scalding bath.

  There to her right in a lantern’s swinging light she saw a wet staring face disappear in a splash of blood. Over the pounding surf she could hear agonized grunts and bones snapping and one wild agonized wail as someone—she thought it was Captain Bagtry—staggered back into the sea to die.

  The wreckers at their fearsome work. ...

  Later on, boats would be put out to save the cargo. There would be real acts of heroism as the tough wreckers fought the seas to save the Goodspeed's goods.

  But now was the time of killing.

  Stunned by the ugly brutality of the scene, Imogene too would have staggered back into deeper water but that a lantern bobbed suddenly beside her.

  “Here’s another one!” came a hoarse shout and as she turned in panic a man’s fist delivered a glancing blow to the side of her head that dropped her on her hands and knees into the surf.

  She only half heard the woman’s scream nearby. Blinded momentarily by pain, she never saw the bludgeon the man who had struck her now lifted to finish the job.

  But a woman in worn homespun who had been shivering among the wreckers with a shawl wrapped around her now plunged forward over the wet sand of the beach.

  “No!” she cried piercingly. “Don’t hurt her, Lomax—she is one of us!”

  Her words gave pause to the giant whose bludgeon was already raised to dash out the brains of the stunned woman in the surf at his feet. As the woman in the shawl clutched his arm he dropped his bludgeon and even assisted her to drag Imogene, reeling, from the water.

  “There’ll be the devil to pay if this wench talks,” he grunted.

  “Oh, she won’t! She’ll say nothing, Lomax—not ever. You have my word on it.”

  Unbelieving, Imogene looked dizzily into a face she knew so well. It was Clara, sister of her old nurse, Elise Meggs. She had somehow assumed that widowed Clara had long since left her little cottage on St. Agnes Isle. Seeing her now was doubly shocking, for it had never occurred to her that Clara would herself be standing amongst the wreckers, conversing with them!

  “Clara,” she faltered. “Is it really you?”

  At her words, the uncertain giant who stood studying the two women in the lantern light, relaxed. The wreckers needed Clara. On this almost uninhabited island she fronted for them—and was not Bowes Granby her lover? Bowes would not appreciate it if Clara were to become angry and attempt to turn him out. Lomax decided he could wait a bit and talk to Bowes before he slaughtered the golden-haired wench. After all, this half-drowned creature he had struck down had no way to leave the island. The wreckers were in control here. And, anyway—-he gave her now a more comprehensive inspection in the lantern light—could be they’d have some fun with her later—before they disposed of her.

  Imogene’s blood would indeed have run cold had she known what was in big Lomax’s mind.

  Clara was pulling her away, but lmogene was still only half-conscious as she stumbled along, leaning on Clara and being urged on vehemently at every step.

  “I—can’t believe it’s you, Clara.”

  “Yes, ’tis.” Tears coursed down Clara’s weathered face, tears more for the life she was leading than over this meeting. “I’ve often thought about you, lmogene, but I never thought you’d return this way in a broken-up ship.” Her voice was entreating. “Elise isn’t with you, is she? I mean, not out there on that ship?”

  “No.” As she stumbled along, Imogene’s head was clearing. “Elise is dead, Clara.”

  A little cry broke from Clara and her hand went over her mouth. “I knew it, I knew it,” she wailed. “For many’s the night I dreamed about her and always she looked pale as death and wearing a winding sheet! Tell me, how did it happen?”

  “She and—and my baby, little Georgiana”—lmogene choked over the words—“went down on the Wilhelmina when the Spanish sank her.”

  Another moan from Clara, lmogene could feel the older woman’s shoulders rock as they stumbled through the dark. She felt herself caught up by some terrible nightmare—the darkness, the surf beating, her scanty wet clothing sticking to her, and penetrating her shocked consciousness, retreating now as they went farther from the beach, the screams of dying men.

  There was a sudden yowl as something wet ran over their feet.

  “Oh, Lord!” cried Clara. “What’s that?” lmogene looked down. She could see Nicodemas’s eyes, two spots of shining green gold in the dark. “It’s Nicodemas,” she said. “He was shipwrecked too.” She bent down and picked up the bedraggled cat, huddled him against her. It seemed to her a miracle that he had survived.

  “Oh, it’s a cat,” sighed Clara in relief. “I thought there for a minute something had me!”

  lmogene said nothing. She buried her face in Nicodemas’s wet fur and found it strange
ly comforting in a terrible world.

  She was fully restored by the time they reached the stone cottage. Her head still ached where Lomax had struck her but she knew where she was and what was happening. She was on St. Agnes Isle and this was Clara, sister of her old nurse Elise, and down below them somewhere on the beach the wreckers were killing her shipmates.

  As full comprehension of their situation came to her, she came to an irresolute stop. “We must go back and help them,” she muttered. “We must get help.”

  “There’s no help for them now.” Clara was urging her on. “ ’Twas all I could do to save you."

  “Then I must go back alone,” protested Imogene. “I can’t let them—”

  “No!” Clara’s hold on her tightened in desperation. “ ’Tis death to go back—death for you. Anyway, ’tis all over. Do you hear anything? Listen!"

  Imogene paused in her effort to break away from Clara’s frantic grip and lifted her head. There was only the roar of the sea and the occasional shouts of the wreckers and the sound of the waves breaking on the rocks.

  The time of the killing was past.

  “They’re all dead,” Clara assured her. “And if you go back down there, that’s what you’ll be. Dead.”

  Imogene’s slender form shuddered in that sturdy clutch. Dead... all those people she had sailed with such a short time ago. Still half-stunned by this night’s terrible events, she let Clara propel her through the cottage door.

  “Here, dry off,” said Clara gruffly, thrusting a towel at her.

  Automatically Imogene began to rub Nicodemas’s wet fur. “Clara,” she whispered, “how do you stand it? Why don’t you go away from here?”

  A single candle was burning on the room’s single wooden table, and Clara flushed and turned away from its light as if she could not bear for Imogene to see her tormented face. “ ’Tis lonely here on St. Agnes,” she muttered. “And so silent—after my man died.”

  Imogene’s gaze fled in the flickering light to the long musket above the mantel that Clara had kept polished in memory of her dead husband.