Chapter 12
Iberian Coast
The sloop lurched over the last grinding wave and slammed onto the shingles which lined the beach.
Once again, Elizabeth was thrown onto the floor of the dank sail locker.
The smell was putrid; over the past hours, Georgiana had begun to retch, a dry rasping sound, so forlorn from one who had reached the limit of her endurance.
Elizabeth cradled her in her arms, stroking her fevered brow.
The galley door burst open and the sullen, scar-faced man spat as he entered the room.
“Venez vite!”
Trembling, Elizabeth climbed to her feet. “Lydia, we must go, the ship has run aground.”
Lydia began screeching. “I shan’t go! You cannot make me! I want to go home!” She struggled as the man looped his arms beneath her and heaved her bodily from the room. Her feet flailed, kicking at his thighs, but she was no match for his brute strength.
Another sailor entered, an even more brutish man—salt-stained, reeking of sweat and cheap wine. He scooped up Georgiana, cradling her like a child, her head lolling against his shoulder.
Elizabeth drew herself up to steady her voice. “Let her down,” she said, her words trembling but clear. “She is ill. You are hurting her.”
The man looked at her contemptuously, turned without acknowledgement, and strode down the gangway, uncaring as Georgiana’s head swung loosely at his side. Reluctantly, Elizabeth followed. Her legs felt useless, her muscles cramping after three days of confinement.
Unceremoniously, they were dumped over the side of the vessel. Wickham was standing on the shingle, his eyes alight—a mixture of fear and exultation that they had escaped the brig.
“Lydia, Georgiana. They can’t walk, surely you don’t expect them to climb those cliffs?”
Wickham turned, his mouth set in a sneer. “You would do well to save your breath, Miss Bennet. If you wish to keep it.” He nodded to a sailor, who seized Elizabeth’s arm and jerked her forward, up the shifting stones.
The climb began.
The defile was little more than a gash in the cliff, steep and narrow, lined with brambles and gorse.
Stones slipped loose beneath their boots—Elizabeth’s half-Hessians were waterlogged, the sodden leather providing scarce support for her ankles, her feet twisting with each agonising step.
The brambles snagged at their clothes. The wind screamed down the gully, tearing at hair and skirts, flinging grit into their eyes.
Elizabeth stumbled, the sailor’s grip biting into her arm. Behind her, Lydia wailed, her cries muffled now, breathless with fear. Ahead, Georgiana was a limp bundle, her fair hair trailing over the sailor’s shoulder, her white hands dangling.
The men hurried, urgency in every step, casting nervous glances back at the scuttled boat and the frothing surf.
They reached a point where the path narrowed between two great boulders.
The lead sailor, breathing hard, paused to let the others catch up.
The Frenchman carrying Georgiana shifted her weight—but she didn’t respond.
Elizabeth stepped forward to take her hand, which was hanging limply beside her.
Elizabeth’s feet slipped, and she fell to one knee, the sharp stones biting into her flesh.
The sailor yanked her up. She bit her lip, refusing to cry out.
“Continue d’avancer,” he muttered, his breath hot and sour in her ear.
Lydia had stopped struggling; she hung limp and sulky over the shoulder of her captor, cheeks streaked with tears and hair tangled beyond repair. “I hate you,” she hissed, voice hoarse, but the men ignored her.
At last, the defile opened out onto the summit.
They stood atop the escarpment, yet there was little to see.
Dusk was closing in; the wind fierce, whipping their clothes and driving the spray and rain in stinging gusts.
Elizabeth shivered, her muslin day dress completely inadequate for the chill that penetrated every part of her body.
Wickham turned, eyes wild with triumph and something else—fear. “Onward,” he barked. “We must find shelter before they come ashore.” He gestured inland, where a faint track wound its way through the gorse and heather.
The sailors pressed on, Georgiana and Lydia still slung over their shoulders. Elizabeth stumbled after them, every muscle shaking, her mind a whirl of terror and misery.
* * *
They pressed on for another hour, her legs aching, every step heavier than the last. The men ahead finally veered off the main path, forcing their way onto a narrow animal trail.
The air grew thicker as the bush closed in, and before long they reached a rocky outcrop, the ground dropping away into deep shadows.
Wickham called a halt in a patch of tufted grass, likely kept short by goats or rabbits.
Behind them, a jagged crevice split the cliffs, the stone walls rising ten feet on either side—dark and narrow, impossible to climb.
“It is too dark to continue,” Wickham announced, his voice flat. “Put the women in there. They’ll not escape during the night.”
The ship’s captain grunted his approval and motioned for his men to settle in, barking orders to post two sentries on the path.
The rest dropped where they stood, rolling themselves in blankets or cloaks, leaving Elizabeth to the cold comfort of stone and despair.
Georgiana was stretched out on the rough ground; they hadn’t even provided a blanket.
Lydia was also shivering, her eyes sunken and red from crying, but she had run out of tears.
“Lydia, lie down beside Georgiana. There’s just enough room, and you will keep each other warm.”
Listlessly, Lydia cradled Georgiana in her arms. Gone was the lively, ebullient girl who had accompanied them along the Parade.
That Lydia had disappeared days ago—now she was a broken child, hugging another for warmth and succour.
Oh, how Elizabeth wished to lie beside them, to take them both in her arms. Not only for their comfort, but for hers.
Never before had she felt so helpless, so alone.
She could not even lie down where she sat, for the crevice was short, less than eight feet deep; and she refused to lie outside where the sailors, leering and smirking, could see her—exposed, vulnerable, defenceless.
“Miss Bennet, no games please. We must find the nearest French garrison before the accursed Spanish partisans find us.” Wickham had come to sit at the entrance to the defile.
He was no longer the smooth, confident man who had accosted them on the Marine Parade.
Clearly, his plan had gone desperately wrong: flung onto the north coast of Spain, likely Galicia or Asturias, rather than on the French coast, and on his way to Paris with his prize.
Elizabeth looked at him in despair. “Surely you still don’t believe that I know where we are! Spain? You spoke of Spanish partisans, whoever they are. I know no more than you, Mr. Wickham!”
“Oh, there is no need to dissemble. You found me easily enough along the Great North Road. Come, the sailors are restless. They know they might not get paid, and their boat’s a wreck.
I’ve nothing left to offer them, and they may take it anyway.
” Wickham leered at Lydia and Georgiana, huddled together behind Elizabeth.
She was too tired, too exhausted to lie to him.
“Let me explain,” she said wearily, “Sometimes, I have memories—other people’s memories—memories of the future.
They fade, often change; perhaps they are just dreams. Recall Joseph?
He was sold into slavery because of his dreams. I have learnt to be circumspect—people become envious, jealous, avaricious, believing I am a magician, that whatever visions I see, I can make them come true. ”
“So, what dreams do you have now?” Angrily, Wickham grasped Elizabeth’s arm. “I must know, for the sailors grow angry; all they have are two sickening children and a woman who despises them. I cannot restrain them beyond tonight.”
It then struck Elizabeth that she had not felt the thoughts of the sailors press against her. Not even the man whose finger she had bitten. Wickham’s thoughts—future memories—waxed and waned so very weakly. She had been acquainted with him before—her gift, as it were, faded with familiarity.
Suddenly, she gasped, looking directly at Wickham, her eyes wide with horror.
“What is it?” Wickham saw fear and dread cross her face. “What do you see?”
“Nothing,” said Elizabeth, slumping to the ground. “I see nothing.”
“Nothing? What does that mean?”
“Often, people would ask—fearfully—when they would die. I cannot tell. In Meryton, there were always deaths—the elderly, some very young, an accident. Near such time, their memories dimmed, fading to nothing. I would never tell them, for I cannot change the future. Perhaps, if it was an accident, I would suggest a man should stay at home, that a child be restrained from running across a busy road, that a sick traveller be quarantined.”
She sat up, looking directly at Wickham. “If I were you, I would flee from here as quickly as possible. Your future memories are sometimes weak, dimmed by our previous contact. But there is also a void, where I feel nothing.”
Wickham looked wildly about him, his voice low and urgent. “And the men?”
Tears moistened Elizabeth’s eyes. “Nothing,” she said. “There is nothing at all.”
For a moment, the only sound was the restless shifting of the sailors outside the crevice, and the wind threading through the gorse and heather.
Wickham’s face twisted, his bravado draining away beneath the weight of her words.
He stood abruptly, pacing the grass at the entrance to the crevice.
The fear in his eyes was unmistakable, though he tried to mask it with a sneer.
“You’re trying to frighten me,” he spat. “Some trick, some woman’s fancy. I’ve seen you before, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and I know your sort—clever, too clever by half.”
Elizabeth did not flinch. She leaned back against the rough stone, letting her exhaustion show. “Believe what you will. But if I could change what I see, I would. Tonight, I see nothing for any of us. Not you, not the men. Not even myself.”
Wickham shook his head, muttering curses under his breath, but he looked far less sure. He drew his pistol from his belt, checked the priming, then slipped it back again. “I’ll not be caught unawares,” he said, his voice shaking.
Beyond them, a sailor snorted, then fell silent. A hush settled on the camp. Elizabeth closed her eyes and pressed her hand to her lips, stifling a sob. She felt Lydia stir beside her, the girl’s breathing shallow and quick.
“Lizzy?” Lydia whispered. “What’s happening? What did he want?”
Elizabeth brushed her sister’s hair back from her forehead, her hands trembling. “Nothing, dearest. He’s only frightened, that’s all. Try to sleep.”
But sleep was as distant as hope. The darkness pressed in, thick and absolute, and Elizabeth listened to the dread in every whisper of the wind, every scrape of a branch against the cliffs.
She did not dare to hope for rescue—she had quite succumbed to despair.
She held Lydia and Georgiana close, her back squeezed against rough stone, and waited for dawn.
* * *