Island Fire

by Bobbi Smith

  Alone and growing more concerned by the minute about the Seastorm's seaworthiness, Mitch fought against the shackles that restrained him. He knew from previous efforts that his struggles were useless, but he also knew that he wouldn't give up his life without a fight. He did not want to die trapped in the hold like a rat. With all of his might, he pulled at the single length of chain that attached the manacles on his wrists to an iron ring in the wall, trying to dislodge the ring; but the bolts holding it were secure and his efforts were for naught.

  Panting and nearly exhausted by his exertions, he leaned back against the wall, trying to brace himself against the ship's constant rolling, but a sudden lurch threw him forward and he was left hanging by his arms as chilling water sloshed over him. When he regained his feet, he noticed that the water level had risen to midthigh.

  Mitch knew that the Seastorm couldn't survive much longer with this much water in her, and a strange sense of calm overtook him as he faced the very real possibility of his own death. Prayers, taught to him in his childhood by his mother, came to his mind, and he said them silently, hoping for a miraculous deliverance, yet realizing that he had little cause for hope.

  The Seastorm shuddered under the sweep of a giant wave, and Mitch suddenly wondered how young Tommy was holding up in the face of the storm. Shanghaied during a trip from his family's farm to San Francisco, Tommy had been ill equipped to deal with life at sea so Mitch had protected the lad and had tried to keep him out of the way of the vicious Captain Warson. But Warson was a brutal man, given to flogging the men for no particular offense, and when Mitch had protested a punishment he'd ordered for Tommy, the captain had turned his wrath on him, allowing Mitch to take the stripes in the young man's place.

  Tommy had been mortified that Mitch had suffered in his stead, but there had been little either of them could do about it. Then, just last week, when Warson had ordered that another cabin boy be given fifty lashes for dropping his dinner tray, Mitch had no longer been able to stomach the captain's fiendish cruelty. Not that losing his temper had done any good. He'd only managed to land a few strategic blows on the captain before he'd been overpowered and soundly beaten by the men loyal to the ship's master. At the time, Mitch had thought it lucky that they hadn't killed him. Now, imprisoned as he was on the sinking ship, he almost wished that he'd met his fate in a more expedient fashion.

  His head drooped in despairing surrender to what he thought was the inevitable. Then, letting his mind wander, Mitch thought of Jon. He wondered how his brother had dealt with his disappearance. Although they had exchanged words about Jon's plan to marry Catherine, Mitch felt certain that his brother would not rest until he'd been located, and he smiled to himself at the irony that he would never be found if he were at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. An agonized sigh escaped him as he tugged once more at his bonds. He was near the limits of his endurance when he heard a scraping noise at the hatch and looked up to see someone raising it.

  Tommy lifted the heavy trapdoor. To make it to the hatch he had had to use all his strength against the elements. As another angry wave washed across the deck, he hung on for dear life while the wall of water pounded him, then tried to tear him loose. Tommy heard screams and he glanced around in time to see the boat in which the others were making their escape tilt crazily and capsize in the onrushing waters. Unable to help them, he took advantage of a momentary righting of the ship to climb down the ladder into the darkened cargo vault.

  "Mitch?" His loud call could barely be heard over the tumult of the storm.

  "Here." Mitch felt immense relief upon hearing Tommy's voice.

  The lad could barely make out Mitch's reply over the deafening roar of the wind, but he pushed his way through the tumbling cargo, heading in what he thought was the right direction. He was greatly heartened when he spotted his friend chained to the far wall.

  "The ship's not going to make it! We've got to get you out of here!"

  "I feared as much, but you'll have to get the keys." He held up his arms so the youth could see where his irons were attached to a ring in the wall.

  "Where are they?"

  "On a nail, by the door." Mitch cast a leery eye toward the open hatch through which water was pouring in with each successive, battering wave.

  Searching frantically, Tommy finally located the keys and then hurried back to remove the irons.

  "Thanks," Mitch said fervently as the last cuff was unlocked. Then they raced to the ladder.

  "What do we do now, Mitch?" Tommy was glad to be following the older man's lead.

  "Stay with me no matter what!" Mitch instructed as he led the way out of the cryptlike storage area.

  Tommy followed him closely up the ladder, but as they neared the top another wash of seawater rushed through the open trap. Tommy slipped as the force of the water hit him and he almost lost his grip, but Mitch reached down and pulled him back up.

  "Hang on!" Mitch called out to him over the rising roar of the tempest. "It's going to be even worse once we're on deck."

  As the ship rode the trough of a wave and straightened up for a moment, Mitch pulled himself out of the hold, then turned to help Tommy. Once they were on deck, they grabbed the guide ropes strung before the storm and ventured across the vessel in the hope of finding another lifeboat.

  Driven by the ferocious winds, the rain was blinding as it pounded against the two men. Time and again, they lost their footing due to the precarious tilting of the wet deck, and they were more than thankful for the rope that was their lifeline. They had almost made it to the side when the end came suddenly. A mammoth mountain of water towered above the ship, and after what seemed a brief hesitation, it descended in full fury, smashing the ship to pieces and tossing Mitch and Tommy into the vast churning sea.

  Chapter 2

  Two days later on the island of Malika

  in the South Pacific

  It was first light. The violent storm that had wracked Malika with high winds and slanting downpours had finally blown itself out to sea. The surf was calming now that the bad weather had dissipated, and once again it was serene and crystal clear. The low-rolling whitecaps seemed to murmur an apology for their previous fierceness as they caressed the island's now-welcoming beach with a gentle, soothing ardor. Peace and tranquility reigned in this tropical paradise as the birds, sensing that the tempest had finally ended, took to the dawn skies in a flurry of vibrant colors, piping their joyous thanksgiving in a cacophony of melodious calls.

  Espri Duchant emerged from the protection of the lush forest, seeming more a pagan goddess than a living being. Tall and lithe, and clad only in a sarong of the finest white cloth, she moved with almost regal grace across the wide expanse of the deserted beach. Pausing at the water's edge only long enough to undress, she carefully laid her garment aside and stepped uninhibitedly into the warm, inviting water.

  Bathed in the morning sun's golden glow, Espri was female perfection personified. Her features were pure, her eyes dark and intelligent, her mouth soft and given to easy laughter. The long, black cloud of her hair tumbled in disarray about her shoulders and brushed suggestively over her full, rounded breasts and curving hips; her legs were long and shapely. She stood still for a moment, innocently enjoying the sea's swirling embrace, before diving expertly into the next oncoming wave. With the strong steady strokes of one accustomed to swimming in the ocean, she swam smoothly through the clear waters of the lagoon, savoring her closeness to the elements. Finally, as her strength began to ebb, she started to turn back, and it was then that she noticed a dark shape lying in the surf some distance down the shore.

  At first glance, Espri dismissed the irregular form, thinking it driftwood driven ashore by the storm. But an inner voice told her to look again, and when she did, she realized it was the body of a man. Worried that he might be one of her friends from the village, she stroked at top speed in his direction. When she could touch bottom, she rose from the depths like a sleek sea nymph and raced quickly ashore thro
ugh the foaming crests.

  As she drew near him, Espri realized that the man was a stranger. Unconcerned with her own nudity, she knelt beside him and gasped as she saw the bloody, jagged wound on his forehead. Reaching out with nervous fingers, she touched his throat, seeking and finding the area that would indicate the pulse of life. Though faint, his pulse seemed steady enough, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

  Sitting back on her heels, she studied him, fascinated. Where had he come from, and how had he been injured? she wondered as her gaze lingered upon him. Had the terrible storm that had struck the island sunk his ship and left him the lone survivor? Or, had he been washed overboard by one of the huge waves that were commonplace in such tempests? He certainly was a magnificent specimen of a man—tall and broad shouldered, with hair as black as the night. His face was a study of manly harshness, arresting yet disturbingly handsome. He wore only a pair of loose-fitting trousers, and they were in shreds from the violent battering he'd evidently suffered while in the ocean. Without knowing why she did it, Espri reached out and rested a hand on the wide expanse of his bare, hair-roughened chest. A tingle went through her at the contact, so innocently made, and she derived an odd comfort from the heavy thudding of his heart beneath her palm.

  Feeling her light touch, Mitch stirred and opened his eyes. Blinking in disbelief, he stared up at the mystical vision of unclad loveliness that seemed, in his befuddled mind, to be hovering over him. He thought for a moment that he'd died and gone to heaven, but the pain in his body was far too real for that. He wanted to reach out to the woman, to try to touch her, to see if she was a vision or actually there; but his arms felt leaden and he couldn't seem to force himself to move.

  "Please . . ." he finally managed to croak in a voice that was hoarse and rasping.

  Mitch thought he heard her reply, but he couldn't be sure for he drifted into oblivion as his senses surrendered to the overwhelming pain pounding through him.

  Espri was gazing down at the man, wondering at the extent of his injuries, when a splashing surge of the breakers, edging ever higher, reminded her that the tide was coming in. Knowing that it was urgent to get the man to safety farther up the beach, she moved so that she stood above and behind him. Bracing herself as best she could in the warm, loose sand, she grasped him under the arms and pulled with all her might. Though the man was big, her efforts were rewarded and she managed to drag him a short distance so he was out of reach of the tenacious sea.

  Panting from the exertion, Espri rested by his side for a moment before rising to go for help. She knew that she would have to go home and enlist her father's aid, for the village was too distant and she did not want to leave the unconscious stranger unattended for a long time. The regular rise and fall of his chest assured Espri that he was still breathing. So, casting one last glance at his compelling countenance, she hurried down the beach. She found her sarong, and after wrapping its soft folds securely about her, she headed for home.

  "Papa!" Her voice was breathless, her tone a bit sharp, when she finally reached the clearing where the hut was located. "Papa! I need you! Wake up!" Rushing inside, she threw aside the hanging mat that separated their sleeping areas and roughly shook his shoulder. "Papa! Please, it's important!"

  Startled into wakefulness, Jacques Duchant rolled over and opened bleary, bloodshot eyes to stare at his offspring. "What is it, Espri? What's wrong?"

  "A man's been washed up on the beach," she said urgently. "He's alive, but unconscious. I need your help to carry him up here."

  "A man? On the beach? Who is he?" Jacques asked as he struggled to sit up, the copious amounts of liquor he'd consumed the previous night making the task none too easy.

  "I don't know who he is. I found him lying in the surf. Will you help me?"

  "Of course, ma petite, just give me a moment to get my sea legs." He glanced at Espri and tried to smile reassuringly, but even that effort hurt. He buried his head in his hands, groaning. "One of these days, I've got to stop drinking."

  Espri's expression was tinged with exasperation as she straightened up and stepped outside. Many times she'd heard her father promise to give up drink, but invariably he had gone back to the bottle when the memory of his last hangover had faded. As she waited for him to join her, she reflected on his self-destructive ways. He hadn't always been like this—intent on dulling life's reality through drink. Why, she could still remember the happy years of her childhood when her mother, the beautiful Princess Tila, had been alive. Jacques had been a different man then. He had been a wealthy ship's master sailing out of France, and he had given that up to marry Tila and stay on in Malika. But when Espri had been ten, Tila had died, and Jacques had never recovered from the loss. Instead he had sought numbing relief for his grief in liquor.

  Now, eight years later, Jacques was still indulging in rum and the even more powerful narcotic drink, kava. He had little real interest in anything and seldom remained sober for more than a day. Espri had pleaded with him to stop, telling him of her love for him; but her entreaties had gone unheeded. Jacques had lost his Tila, and he believed that living without her was unbearable.

  Espri had loved her mother dearly and she, too, missed Tila's warmth and wise counsel. But she had dealt with the aching emptiness inside her as best she could; she was now able to go on. However, having watched her father's never-ending battle against the agony of his loneliness, Espri had become wary of the love that often existed between a man and a woman. Was that special emotion so strong and abiding that life held no joy for one lover without the other? Her father's suffering convinced her that there was only one way to protect herself against such a tragedy in her own life—she must never fall in love. Surely living alone, as she did, was preferable to the hell that Jacques had been going through since her mother's death. Espri was determined that she would never allow anyone to become that important to her.

  Jacques finally emerged from the shelter, rousing her from her thoughts, and she looked up as he approached, his gait unsteady.

  "Ready?" he asked, drawing a deep breath in an attempt to clear his head of liquor's clinging cobwebs.

  "If you are," she responded, and they started off down the beach.

  "He's still unconscious," Espri told her father when she reached the man and sank to her knees beside him.

  "He's better off that way for now," Jacques told her gruffly as he took a quick look at the cut on Mitch's forehead. "Help me get him over my shoulder."

  Though Jacques staggered slightly under the injured man's weight, he managed to make the trek back to their home without incident. Espri nervously dogged his footsteps until they reached the clearing; then she ran ahead to prepare a place for the stranger in the hut.

  "Bring him here, Papa," Espri called as her father appeared in the doorway.

  With relief, Jacques started to lower the man onto the bed his daughter had prepared, but her sudden, startled exclamation halted him.

  "What is it?"

  "His back!" Espri gasped. She had just seen the sand-encrusted, red welts on this stranger's back.

  As carefully as possible, Jacques maneuvered the man so he lay facedown on the mat.

  "It looks like he's been flogged," he murmured, frowning as he remembered his days at sea and some of the reasons why seamen were whipped aboard ship. An unease settled over him.

  "Why would anyone want to whip him?" Espri asked with the innocence of one protected from the cruelties of the white man's world.

  "It's a captain's prerogative to punish his crew as he sees fit," he answered as simply as he could. "This man must have been a troublemaker."

  Espri gazed down at the stranger, not wanting to believe her father's conclusion. "You can't know that for sure."

  "Espri . . ." Jacques was well aware of the general caliber of the seamen who merited such punishments, and he did not want such a man in his home, near his daughter.

  She cut him off quickly. "Bring me some water, Papa. I must wash him."

 
; Jacques recognized the stubbornness of her tone and dropped his objections for the time being. But, as he left to fetch the water, he vowed to himself that, should the stranger live, he was going to keep a very close eye on him.

  With gentle hands, Espri set about caring for the unconscious man, wiping the loose sand from his injured back and cutting away the tattered remnants of his pants. Having lived among uninhibited natives all her life, Espri was not in the least discomfited by the sight of his naked buttocks, but upon her father's return, his exclamation made her jump nervously.

  "Espri! For God's sake! Cover the man!" Jacques placed the container of cool, clean water by her side and hastily handed her a length of cloth to use as a blanket.

  She stared at the material for a moment before looking up at her father in confusion. "But why?"

  "He's not one of the native boys," Jacques explained gruffly. "He's a man—full grown."

  "But I've seen—"

  "I don't care what you've seen here on the island. This man is not one of us; he's a white man." At her puzzled look, he continued. "Trust me in this and do as I say."

  Espri obediently draped the covering over the man's lean hips.

  "This cut on his forehead is from the coral," she told her father as she brushed back a dark lock of hair that had fallen across his brow, in order to take a closer look at the deep gash that was dangerously close to his right eye.

  "It doesn't look good," Jacques muttered. "Will you need limes and purau leaves?"

  "Yes." Espri was instantly efficient. "And salve for his back."

  "Is his back infected?"

  "There's some swelling, but the welts don't appear to be fresh. I'm more worried about the possibility that he will get the fever from a coral infection," Espri told him worriedly. "I've got to get this cleaned out as quickly as I can. There's no telling how long ago it happened."