Chapter 27
Chapter
Catherine makes her way back down the interior corridor of The Elphame, which now has at least twice the amount of water covering the deck, and then down another ladder and through the narrow walkway that leads into the boiler room.
The steam has mostly dissipated through the open doorway, and she can see Rogers on the ground where she left him. She kneels beside the first mate and feels for his pulse.
When she finds it beating strongly, she exhales in relief. Thank heavens.
“Rogers,” she whispers, shaking him lightly on the shoulder. “Rogers, wake up!”
He doesn’t move, so she tries again, shaking harder, until he grunts and cracks open one eye.
“There you are!” She leans in closer to him. “Are you alright? Can you rise?”
She knows she should wait and give the man a moment, but she can’t. Not with what she’s seen above deck. “I do apologize for this,” she says as she takes his hand and begins to pull him upright into a sitting position.
“Lady Catherine West,” Rogers groans, coming back to life. “Will you please stop?”
Catherine drops his hand and leans back on her heels, staring at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Could you please desist,” he waves his hand at her, “tugging on me.”
“Rogers,” she says slowly. “What did you just call me?”
The first mate sits up and holds his head in his hands for a moment, grimacing. “Well, that cat’s been let loose, then,” he says finally.
“What cat?! What is happening?” She shakes her head. “There’s no time for this, not right now. They’ve got Andrew. Although, we will have a discussion about how you know my name later. ”
He blinks at her again. “Who is they?”
“James. The helmsman. The man who hit you. And, well, also the men who have boarded the ship. His men, I think. So, if you can please stand, we’ve got to go get him back.”
“Oh,” he says. “Is that all?”
She ignores his sarcasm. “It isn’t, now that you ask.
We also seem to be taking on water. We ought to see to that as well.
” She stands and extends her hand down. “It really is rather important that you stand up before more of it reaches the boiler room. Unless you like drowning.” She pauses and stares at him for a moment.
“Whoever you are. I suppose Rogers isn’t your real name either, is it?
Does anyone on this dratted ship use their actual name? ”
He grasps her hand and lets her pull him to his feet. “Not if they’re employed by the Home Office,” he says when he makes it upright. “Which does beg your forgiveness for the deception, my lady.” He gives her a short, perfunctory bow.
“Stop that.” She turns for the door but they both still when they hear the heavy thump of boots rushing toward them.
“Remind me,” Rogers whispers, “who has control of the ship again?”
“Not us,” Catherine says, her eyes glued on the open door frame and whoever is about to run through it.
McGann presses his arms against the rope that binds him as his eyes sweep over The Elphame.
The fibers cut into his skin just as thoroughly as the sight of his beloved ship cuts into his heart.
She’s in a state of chaos with the port side caved in from the cannon fire.
Men and debris are strewn across the main deck and he’s certain she’ll be taking on water below.
Rogers is missing. McNeil has done the best he can, but he’s no match for the armed men James has brought on board to quell the crew.
And the pain in McGann’s leg is extraordinary.
He eyes the rough bandage that’s been applied to his thigh.
The bleeding, at least, has stopped. And he knows the arsehole didn’t hit the femoral artery or any other major vein or he’d have bled out already.
And Catherine is safe, for the time being.
He saw her dip back down the ladder to the decks below and no one followed her.
Small graces, but he’ll take every goddamned one of them he can.
James’s men separate the crew into small groups of two to three and stand watch over them, some armed with muskets and some with pistols. James himself moves back and forth between the two ships over the ladders.
McGann struggles futilely against the rope that binds him, but it does no good. The hemp fibers are sharp and they dig in when he moves, resulting in painful, scraping tears of his skin from his flesh. And each squirm of his body makes the wound in his thigh scream all the louder.
He’d keep at it if he thought he was making progress. But he isn’t; he’s only making things worse.
Calm yourself, eejit. Wait for the right moment to come. It always does if you’ve the patience.
He closes his eyes, trying to think, but his mind circles back to The Elphame. His ship—his and Crawford’s dream—is in shambles. All but destroyed. And worse, Esmee’s dream is gone with it.
They’d needed the new markets in New York and Boston to sell the whisky she distills up North.
The whisky that keeps Nowhere in business as the one place in London where a Scot can belong.
Without those markets, the distillery will fail.
Barclay, bastard that he is, will raise the rents, and that will be the end of it.
The distillery, the tavern, every dream gone.
He and Esmee had never had an easy relationship.
He’d resented her for leaving him, too blind to see that she’d been little more than a child herself.
Now he knew she’d done what she could—marrying young in the hope of giving him shelter—but he’d been too angry, too proud to see it then.
So instead of staying close, he’d joined the East India Company.
Now, fourteen years later, both their hopes are bound to this voyage. But the first sailing of The Elphame is a failure, and all of them will pay the price.
If he even survives whatever the bloody hell is going on. He opens his eyes and glances around again. James is giving some kind of signal.
McGann eyes the crew. All are present but for McNeil.
Where’s the lad?
He doesn’t have time to ponder the question, as James directs two of his men toward McGann, and they heave him up between them, the ropes harsh against his wrists and ankles as they traverse the length of The Elphame’s deck.
He half expects them to dump him straight over the railing and into the cold water of the Atlantic below.
But they don’t. They manhandle him over to the rope ladders instead. They’re taking him on the schooner.
Oh, bloody hell, he thinks as the two men grunt beneath his weight. Crossing a rope ladder between ships is precarious enough on one’s own, but these two are doing it in tandem with the weight of him strung out between them like he’s a trussed pig on a spit.
He tries to keep his breathing easy and his body loose as they take the first of the rope rungs and then the second and third, until they’re out over the open sea. Any sudden movements from him now and he’s certain to be facing a cold, watery grave. He closes his eyes but then opens them again.
Better to watch. Better to know.
The two ships roll on the waves and the men take each rung more slowly now, the rope ladders swinging beneath their feet as they carefully crawl their way forward.
McGann tilts his head. They’re halfway across when another set of waves crash into them, bigger than the last. He holds his breath as they rock and the men go still, clinging to the lines with him strung out between them.
McGann’s face is wet and salty from the ocean spray and his own sweat.
His limbs are trembling as much from tension as from physical fatigue.
He hates this, being at their mercy. Knowing without a doubt they’ll drop him into the water if they have to and there’s nothing he can do with his hands still bound.
They inch forward again and he wonders if they drop him, how long it will take him to drown. The schooner rolls on the waves beneath them and the men stop moving once more. They wait, and McGann, with no other choice, waits with them, until finally, finally, the water settles and they scramble on.
He braces himself against the pain in his thigh when they begin to move, faster this time, trying to get to the other side before the ocean comes crashing down on them again. He knows as well as they do that one monster wave is all it will take to pitch the three of them to their deaths.
Hurry, he urges them in his mind. Another tilt of his head shows him the next set of waves is coming in. Hurry.
“Heave!” one of the two men yells, the last of the rope rungs beneath their feet.
McGann feels them brace their weight and push.
His body flies through the air for a brief moment before it lands with a thwomp on the deck of the schooner.
He barely has time to breathe out a sigh of relief before they’re beside him again, picking him up and carrying him down a series of ladders until they reach the damp hold of the ship. And then they throw him in the brig.