Chapter 8 Port Quinby #3
She waited, barely breathing. Finally the deck cleared except for Paddy, who lounged against the mainmast, arms crossed as he relaxed in the warmth of the sun.
She took a deep breath and sprinted the width of the ship on her toes and, taking a firm grasp upon the ladder, vaulted over the side in one fluid movement.
She paused and took several deep breaths then, trying to still the erratic beating of her heart. Looking down, she saw that the water was well below her—even falling from the end of the ladder was going to be quite a distance. In her dress and petticoats, she would sink deeply into the sea.
But she had learned to swim well in the chilly lochs of Scotland, and she wouldn’t have far to go once she surfaced. She would emerge wet and cold, but that would be a problem to deal with once she reached the bustling docks.
She scrambled down to the end of the ladder and convinced her unwilling fingers that she must let go.
The fall was not as bad as she had expected.
The icy clutch of the water embraced her immediately and she plunged downward …
downward … until she feared that her lungs would burst. The saltwater stung her eyes, but she forced them open, knowing that if she saw light, she would make it.
The water seemed to release its hold, and she jackknifed her legs strongly, reaching upward for the light.
Seconds later she breached the surface, gasping for air.
Her skirts weighted her down terribly and so she did not hesitate, but began clean strokes eastward of the Sea Hawk where the small boats found dockage.
There she could climb an area of jutting rocks to reach the dock and then the street.
It was too late to wonder what passersby and fishermen would think of her rising from the water. She would have to pretend that she had veered too close to the land’s edge and fallen.
But she was never to have a chance to explain. Just as she found a foothold upon land and struggled to her feet, panting with her exertion, a horribly familiar shout riddled the air about her.
“Witch! Good people—see how her master the devil embraces her and carries her through water! Take her—this day she will hang, and sleep with the incubus in the fires of hell!”
It couldn’t be. It couldn’t. Shock held her immobile. She didn’t even shiver as she stood there dripping seawater—and staring at Matthews’s fanatical eyes as he waved his walking stick at her. She had lost her mind and impossible visions were filling her head.
“Take her!”
“No!” The protest at last ripped from her throat in terror and agony as she saw beyond Matthews a dozen men in uniform.
She tried to stagger back to the sea, but she tripped upon her soaking gown and crashed to the rocks instead.
A sickening pain speared the back of her head; darkness spread its wings across her eyes and she drifted into oblivion as rough arms wrenched her from the earth.
“Damn her!” Sloan raged as he read the note scrawled upon his blotter. “Damn that little Scottish witch to hell!”
Paddy, who had followed him, halted in the cabin doorway, knowing that the hammer of rage was about to fall his way. He didn’t care—he had never known such a sinking panic himself.
“She must be aboard, Cap’n—I swear by me life she never walked off the ship.”
Ledgers, papers and quills went flying from the desk in a furious sweep. “That wench is more trouble than she’s worth! I’ll have to search the town and hope I find her before Matthews does.”
“Captain!”
The shout sounded from topside. Sloan stalked past Paddy and up the steps to collide with Robin upon the deck.
“They’ve got her, Captain. They’ve got her!”
“Calm down, Robin. Who’s got her? Where?”
“Matthews!”
“How do you know?”
“A town cryer just passed by. They’re trying and hanging a witch in the town center sharp upon the noon hour.”
“Trying her—and hanging her?” The pain that pierced Sloan’s insides was so great he almost doubled over. No! His rage and pain were explosive. He could not lose her, by God, not to Matthew’s sick fanaticism! Not now, not when he had discovered how deeply he …
Loved her. Loved her more than the vast ocean, more than the Sea Hawk … more than his own existence.…
He forced himself to draw a ragged breath, stiffen his spine, and clear the darkness from his mind and think.
“Captain?”
He waved his hand for silence. “Here’s what we do.
Robin, get back to the tavern. I want all hands on deck except for ten men.
I’ll need horses for myself and those ten.
Give me Pickens, Beaufort, and Gest—they’re best with crossbows.
And Miller and George—they can hit a bird’s eye with a pistol at a hundred feet. And—”
“I’ll be with you, Captain,” Robin said staunchly.
“Me bones may be old,” Paddy offered, “but they still sit astride a horse just fine.”
“No, Paddy. I need you here. The Sea Hawk is going to have to be able to sail at a second’s notice. We’ll need the guns manned, and the men aboard will have to be ready for hand-to-hand combat. Robin, get going. I’ll join you at the tavern as soon as I’ve laid out my plan for Paddy.”
Robin nodded grimly. Still in his disguise, he walked to the dock and onto the street unaccosted.
Sloan exhaled a shaky breath and turned to Paddy.
“Call whoever of the crew is aboard. Tell them what we’re up against, and tell any man who chooses that he may go ashore and not be forced to this battle, for I am labeled a criminal now, as well as a traitor.
Association with me will guarantee a rope around a man’s neck if we lose.
The guns must be discreetly set at the ready to fire—and the sails prepared to unfurl. ”
Paddy shook his head dolefully. “Aye, aye, Sloan. That I kin manage fer ye—and I warrant not a man will step ashore, though I’ll give them all yer offer. But how will ye manage with just ten men to save the girl from the hangman’s noose?”
“Surprise will be my main weapon, Paddy. And my prayers that the devil will take the hangman.”
He gave Paddy a few more instructions, and then he, too, slipped away unobtrusively back to the tavern, where further meticulous plans had to be formed.