Shanna (56 page)

No one noticed the man who helped the girl into a dory by the pier. Casting off they began to row out toward the schooner. As the guards aboard the
Good Hound
went to the other side of the ship where the pair approached, the two slumbering beneath the tree leapt to their feet, sailed hats in the brush, kicked sandals after them, and began to run down the beach.

Ruark had freed the sabre and had made a sling of the unsound cloth so that it now rode between his shoulder blades with the hilt close behind his neck. Realizing he was alone, he halted and turned back in exasperation to find Shanna frantically pulling a long piece of cloth from beneath her skirt. He would have taken her arm to pull her along but she jerked away.

“I can't breathe,” she gasped, “let alone swim like this.”

With a last hearty tug, the cloth came loose, and Shanna took two deep breaths while Ruark stamped the rag into the wet sand at their feet. Clasping hands, they ran into the water, dove, and cleaved the surface as one. They swam rapidly until they neared the ship. Then they slowed and took care to make as little noise as possible. Beside the hull. Ruark reached up, dragging himself slowly and carefully, with sheer strength, into the chains. Then he crouched down until Shanna's hands caught his wrist. The muscles in his shoulders and arm bulged as he raised her gradually, easing her from the water so no
splash would alert the guards. Her toes found a chine, and she leaned safely against the tumblehome.

Ruark climbed upward until he could look over the edge of the railing. Two guards were leaning over the edge on the opposite side, refusing the argument of Gaitlier and his repeated pleas that they were needed ashore to fight the blaze. Ever so cautiously Ruark lifted himself over the rail and set his feet quietly on the deck. With the silent tread of a woodsman, he closed the space between them. Without warning one man suddenly felt a shoulder at his back. He shrieked as he spilled headlong over the side. The other spun around in surprise, met a crashing fist, and in a moment joined his companion. He came up sputtering and gasping, and the two of them struck out with hearty strokes toward shore.

Catching the rope attached to the bow of the dory, Ruark pulled the small boat to the side of the ship. He secured the line and kicked the rope ladder over the side. Shanna shrieked his name and he whirled about He followed her gaze to the quarterdeck. The huge mulatto, naked but for a pistol and a cutlass in his hands, was running from the captain's cabin. He raised the pistol, and Ruark drew his sabre, realizing his own guns were wet and useless. The pirate aimed to fire just as a form tried to jostle past him in the doorway.

Carmelita's voice rang out “Eh, what the bloody hell is going—”

The shot exploded, but the ball whistled harmlessly through the rigging. The dark man roared his rage and swung his arm, knocking the unclad Carmelita back into the cabin. The mulatto shouted again and charged with his cutlass.

Ruark knew the shot would draw the attention of all ashore, so there was no time to engage in a duel. He drew a sodden pistol with his left hand and hurled it into the mulatto's face, stunning him. Ruark raised the sabre high and swung with all his might The pirate barely met his blow and stumbled back, dropping the cutlass from a numbed hand. With hardly a pause, the man turned, hurled himself over the rail and splashed into the water below.

Ruark leaned against the railing as the mulatto also
struck out for shore. He gazed beyond—the shouts of the two seamen had drawn many others to the edge of the water. Some ran toward a shed on the pier where Ruark knew four old cannons sat, well protected and always loaded.

A sound behind him made Rurak whirl, ready to do battle again, but this time it was only Carmelita, a linen sheet half wrapped over her body and trailing behind. She saw the cutlass on the deck and the threatening sabre and imagined only the worst. She began to back toward the other rail with her hand raised before her pleadingly.

“I've done ye no harm. Spare me!” she begged. Then, with a flash of broad, pink posterior she whirled. The sheet flapped from the rail as she departed like the rest.

Gaitlier had helped Dora on deck and hastened to obey Ruark's shouted order:

“Cut the forward cable! Set her free!”

Ruark himself raced to the quarter deck. Seizing an ax, he took a mighty swing at the aft anchor cable. Raising the ax, Ruark swung twice again before the heavy hawse parted. The ship began to swing and then rode free as, with a final blow, Gaitlier also accomplished his task.

Ruark threw a quick look toward the village. The ports were open in the heavily timbered shed, and with menacing slowness the muzzle of a cannon appeared. A flash flared, and a cloud of smoke billowed to obscure the shed. A few seconds later a geyser of water spewed as a ball skipped past, well off the stern. A ranging shot. The others would be closer. The ebb tide was taking the
Good Hound
out, but far too slowly. Ruark bellowed forward.

“Get a sail up! Any sail! One of the foresheets!”

Gaitlier found the appropriate line and loosed it; Shanna and Dora joined him to lend their weight to the task. They strained heartily, and slowly the foresail began to rise. The breeze took a tenuous grip on the canvas, and the head of the ship began to swing. A ripple formed as the schooner moved forward, ever so slowly.

Ruark spun the wheel, waiting for the bite of water against the rudder so he could set her heel into the sea and
head her out away from the harbor. Another gun flashed, and this time a single geyser spewed up close under the stern, wetting Ruark with its spray. The guns were set to cover the channel through the reef where an attack might be expected. There they could blast any ship out of the water, but inside the barrier of shoals one could reach the edge of the swamp then, pressing through a thin cover of brush, could enter the channel—if one knew the spot. And Gaitlier did.

The first sail was up and Gaitlier belayed the line while Shanna undid the next With this one they could reach the deck capstan and were soon marching up its shroud.

Another boom bellowed from the cannon, and this time Ruark ducked as the rail on the quarterdeck splintered and the huge shot careened off the mizzenmast into the sea. Ruark felt a blow against his thigh but stumbled back to the spinning wheel, caught it, and leaning against the binnacle head, brought the schooner back on course.

The second sail was set, and a third was slowly spread as the small crew worked their hearts out on the main deck. A curl of foam formed beneath the prow. A cannon fired again from the shore; immediately another came, but both shots whizzed by astern. Now they were crossing the line of fire, and the heavy guns could not be handspiked around fast enough to track the schooner. A final flash and the ball spewed water far astern.

Ruark checked the course and brought the vessel around a point to the starboard. He glanced back toward the pier and saw that the pirates had left the guns. Several boats were rowing out toward the other schooners and ketches. With three sails firmly set on the
Good Hound,
Ruark waved to his crew, and they ceased their labors. With Dora beside him. Gaitlier stumbled forward so that he could guide their path through the channel, and Shanna worked her way aft to join Ruark.

The schooner left the bay, and Ruark warily watched the shoals speeding by on his right as he brought the ship about parallel to the shore. A too-narrow width of dark blue water stretched out ahead, and Ruark knew he must keep the ship in the middle of it until Gaitlier signaled him to turn.

As she climbed to the quarterdeck, Shanna suddenly halted, and Ruark cast a quick glance to her. Jaw agape and horror in her eyes, she stared at his leg.

Following her gaze, Ruark looked down and could not suppress a shudder, for thrust through his thigh, standing out from both sides, was a splinter of oak from the railing. It was a foot long and, though thin, over an inch across.

Shanna gasped and flew to his side, reaching to pull the splinter out. He brushed her hand away.

“Not now,” he barked. “There's little blood and no pain. I'm all right I must get us free before you tend it” Even now, Gaitlier had raised his left arm and was beckoning for a slow turn in that direction. Ruark eased the wheel over, and the schooner responded lightly. They neared the shore, and Ruark could not help bracing himself as it seemed they would drive the vessel hard aground on the swamp.

Gaitlier dropped his arm and pointed hard left. Ruark spun the wheel, and the ship came about. With a loud clap the sails flapped and then billowed as the schooner caught the following breeze across her other shoulder.

No sickening lurch hindered their progress, only a gentle rasping scrape against the hull as tangled masses of dead wood and trees, covered with vines until they appeared living, parted before the prow of the
Good Hound
and swung slowly aside. The ship passed through and eased into a narrow canal that barely cleared her sides.

A shot from astern whizzed through the mastheads, and Ruark peered aft to see the sails of the mulatto's sloop coming rapidly upon them, a full stand of sail filling their masts to the last inch. The
Good Hound
was not free yet. With a full crew to man her, the sloop could quickly overtake them. Though the two stern chasers in the captain's cabin would hold them abaft for a while, Ruark doubted Gaitlier's skill with the guns. It seemed only a matter of time before they would be taken.

They were now several hundred yards in from the entrance of the channel, and when he glanced around, Ruark stared in amazement. The sloop's captain had tried to make the entrance under full sail. In making the turn, the small ship had careened heavily with the press of the
wind. Her bowsprit had swung past the course and was locked fast in the tangle of wood. Now she heeled slowly broadside in the channel entrance, firmly jammed in the floating gate while her stunsail and mizzen rigging became entangled in the tall mangrove that marked the far side. Nothing larger than a dory could make passage into the channel, and it would be hours before they could chop the ship loose and pull her free.

The small cannonade sounded again, but it was hastily aimed, and the ball shattered the trees well off the port beam. The schooner rounded a shallow bend, and the other ship was hidden from sight.

Ruark concentrated on threading the ship through the narrow channel. The swamp was several miles deep, and it would be well over an hour before they were into open water. And until they were clear of the swamp, one mistake could leave them aground like the other ship. It would be impossible for them to drag it free. If the pirates didn't catch them, they would die the lingering death of the swamp.

Shanna scrounged food from the captain's cabin, gave a share to Gaitlier and Dora, and brought a plate of dark bread, meat, and a large slab of cheese to Ruark at the wheel. She balanced it on the binnacle and, as he concentrated on guiding the ship, fed him mouthfuls.

“They were having a feast below.” She tried to laugh lightly, but her brow knitted with worry. “We shan't starve at least.” Her eyes wandered to his leg, where the splinter still protruded boldly.

“What's that you have in the bottle?” Ruark asked.

“Rum, I think.” she murmured. “ Twas with the rest.”

Taking the flask, Ruark poured a healthy draught down his throat Instant fire was his reward, burning its way downward as he choked. It was issue rum, uncut, black as sin, and just as potent.

“Water,” he gasped when his breath came back to him, and Shanna hastily handed him a gourd from the bundles Gaitlier had brought. Ruark drew on it to his pleasure, and the fire waned to a warm glow in his belly. The rum served to numb the ache that had begun to seep upward from his pierced thigh.

Shanna set the tray aside and took a packet from her
waistband. She unfolded it to reveal a small tin of salve and strips of cloth bandages. Laying them out on the deck, she spoke over her shoulder.

“This was all I could find in the cabin.” She rose and stared up at him, concern etching a frown upon her brow. “Will you let me tend your leg now?”

Ruark glanced down at his wound. A small ring of dried blood showed on his pants with a thin streak going downward. He shook his head in reply. As long as he was standing and alert he would press on.

“Nay, love, not now. Not until we're clear of this swamp.” He smiled at her to gentle his words. “You may have your turn at barbering when we've a good sail set on open sea.”

Shanna hid her frown and tried to mask her anxiety; the thought of him in pain distressed her sorely.

The sun grew lower in the sky, but the heat did not abate. A myriad host of insects descended to bite, sting, gnaw, and otherwise torture them. The breezes eased until the ship barely crawled along. Sweat trickled down their bodies, soaking their clothes and making the garments stick clammily to the skin.

The air pressed in around them, and the rank smell of the swamp clogged the very nostrils. Indeed, the sky held a greenish cast as if it reflected the slime that covered the waters through which they sailed.

Then suddenly the sky seemed bluer. Ruark glanced around. The trees were fewer, the channel wider, the slime was gone, and wavelets lapped along the hull. There was a whiteness in the water as they passed over a shallow sandbar. Ruark held his breath. A slight scrape on the hull, a jerk on the rudder, and they were free, sailing into the deep blue of the Caribbean. The course was maintained until the swamp was only a vague blur on the horizon.

Then he turned the ship easterly to sail along the southern side of the string of islands. On leaving them, a northeasterly course would bring them to Los Camellos in a day or two.

Gaitlier came aft, and for once there were wide grins on all faces.

“Do you think you can raise the mainsail?” Ruark
questioned. “We'll make better time, but 'tis the most this crew can handle.”

Gaitlier was eager and took Shanna below on the main deck. In a moment they were marching the capstan round as the huge sail on the mainmast creaked slowly upward.