Chapter 2 #2
Anders frowned at the sky, looking for what elicited Tomas’ prediction. “What do ye see that I dinna?”
Tomas shook his head. “Naught now, lad. But I feel it in me bones. Mayhap tomorrow? Nay. We’ll ken by this night. For now, ’tis time to row. Before long, we’ll put up the sails.” He slapped Anders on the back and stepped away to take the place of one of the other men at an oar.
Anders followed and did the same after another man came to relieve him at the tiller.
He enjoyed the pull and tug on his muscles of the oar in his hands, but Tomas’ words concerned him.
Tomas was the most experienced sailor Sutherland had.
He’d crossed the Moray Firth countless times, sailed the Scottish coast south nearly as often, and braved the Pentland Firth successfully three times.
If Tomas was wary of a change in the weather, Anders knew to pay attention to him.
How much time did they have before their fair weather changed to threaten them? Tomas said they’d know by this night.
Their men were strong, and their birlinn, though not the largest in Sutherland’s small fleet, was seaworthy.
They could face almost anything the sea threw at them.
But to be sure, they stayed just in sight of the coast. Any closer and they might run aground on a sandbar or drowned sea stack.
Further out to sea with a cloud-covered sky and no stars to guide them, they could lose their way.
They would put into shore if things got too wild.
Anders understood why Stellan preferred the hazards of dry land over being at the mercy of wind and waves.
He would not risk his men or Sutherland’s birlinn.
A sudden rise and drop followed by a spray of cold water in his face woke Anders from a deep sleep, sleep he’d earned taking his turns at the oars during the hours when the wind fell off.
They’d had a good following wind later in the afternoon, but it had died with the sunset, leaving them again to row in shifts.
He looked up, but the stars were hidden behind clouds.
Tomas had been right. The weather was going to turn against them.
How soon? He rolled to his feet and made his unsteady way aft to the tiller.
The sea swell had increased, so had the rise and fall and side-to-side sway of the birlinn.
If that kept up, some of the men would be hanging over the side soon, emptying their bellies.
Tomas stood at the tiller, eyeing the sky.
“’Tis like to blow,” he announced. “If we’re smart, we’ll put ashore and let it pass over us. ”
“And let Stellan reach MacKay first?” Anders kept his tone light. He’d known this was a possibility. “Where are we?”
“By my reckoning, before we lost the sky, I’d say we’re close to Sinclair Bay.”
“Bloody hell. In view of Girnigoe castle is no’ someplace I would choose to go aground. Can we make it past Sinclair territory to Oliphant or Keith?”
“Oliphant is behind us. A wee Keith seafront faces into the Pentland. We’re along Sinclair land until after we turn into that strait.”
“Damn.” Fate was favoring Stellan even in the race.
“If it comes to that or drowning, I’ll take me chances with Sinclair,” Tomas said. “Wouldna ye?”
Anders nodded. “Aye. But let’s no’ do that yet. We’ve been in rougher seas than these. Take us closer to shore for now.”
Before long, the seas got much rougher. First the wind picked up, then the rain hit in sheets, blowing sideways.
Squalls intensified the heavy seas. Tomas and he traded a look.
The birlinn was no match for these conditions.
Anders nodded and Tomas turned the tiller, aiming their pointed bow toward the shore now hidden in the dark behind sheeting rain and wave peaks.
Lightning flashes provided the only glimpses of the coastline.
Anders went forward to scan for a safe landing place.
At first, the brief lightning flashes only showed cliffs, but Anders knew the rough seas between them and those cliffs would hide what lay at their feet.
One with a small, sandy beach would let them wait out the storm protected from Sinclair patrols, but they would risk the birlinn being battered to pieces against cliff walls if the tide rose too high before they could escape.
He wouldn’t endanger his men that way if he could help it.
A gentler slope that led upward out of the range of the storm tide would be safer.
Anders hoped to find one of those. Any Sinclair with any sense would not venture out in this weather tonight.
Eventually Anders spotted a small beach without steep cliffs behind it, just a gentle rise to the upper meadows and rolling hills beyond them.
They rowed hard for it. He stayed forward, on the lookout for submerged rocks that could wreck the birlinn and leave them stranded—or worse.
He turned to wave a course correction to Tomas when a wave hit them broadside, not quite tipping over the birlinn.
The only one of the men not anchored by the oar they held or the tiller, he groped for a handhold and missed.
Anders had only a moment to see crates of their supplies spilling over the side as he pitched overboard and sank.
Stunned by the sudden fall and the shocking cold of the water, he kicked to the surface.
A flash of lightning showed him the beach they were headed for, but he’d lost sight of the ship in the dark and the wave peaks dancing higher than his head.
Damning his luck, he swam, knowing the exertion would help keep him warm in the freezing water.
He was tempted to kick off his boots, but he’d need them on the beach, so he worked against the drag of his clothes and boots.
Before long, the effort and the cold took their toll.
When a crate bobbed by, he grabbed it and hung on, praying the wind and tide would push it to shore.
And praying it didn’t contain the herbs the MacKay bairn needed.
With those, even if Anders didn’t make it, the birlinn could continue and complete their mission.
Still, he knew the crew would abandon that mission to search for him.
He should hear them calling for him, but over the roar of the waves and the bellow of thunder, he didn’t hear any voices.
They were probably bailing sea and rain water as fast as they could to keep their ship afloat, torn between that, trying to find him, and making it to the same beach he was fighting to reach.
He called out whenever he could, but got slapped with a mouthful of sea water with each attempt.
He kicked and kept an eye on his goal, that strip of lighter sand barely visible now and again as the choppy waves ebbed and rose.
His muscles began to cramp and he knew if he didn’t make shore very soon, he would drown.
He redoubled his efforts, but the crate seemed to have become more of an impediment than a help.
In the next lightning flash, his desperate attempt to pierce the rain and sea spray for the birlinn only showed him an oar floating nearby.
Despite dreading what a loose oar might mean for his ship, he reached for it.
It would be easier to grip, and it would move more cleanly through the water.
It was also too far away. He let go of the crate and swam for it.
A wave spun it out of his reach and he cursed his luck. Why had he let go of the crate?
Something cracked into the back of his head and drove his face into the water.
He came up sputtering and seeing stars for the moment it took the oar to swing closer.
He grabbed it and hung on, wincing at the sudden dizziness and pain inside his head.
How hard had he been hit? By the crate? With this cold numbing every part of him, his injury could be worse than it seemed.
But he was determined to survive. Stellan wouldn’t know what to do without him, he told himself.
And their father would be furious he’d pushed the crew to go on when they knew the weather would turn against them.
He had no choice but to make it to shore.
But the chill of the water was turning his skin to ice and his muscles stiff and unyielding.
He wasn’t sure he could hang on. He kicked, groaning at the cramped muscles that protested his insistence on movement.
Somehow, he made it to the beach, his feet finding unsteady footing in the relentless pull and tug of the pounding surf.
He staggered and fell onto jagged rocks, skinning his palms, shoved himself again to his feet using the oar’s handle as a crutch, fell again and barked his shins on submerged rocks.
Eventually, he pulled himself out of the water and a few feet up the beach.
There, the head wound and the cold water took their toll.
The black night crowded in and covered him until he knew nothing more.