Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (16 page)

toward the leeward rail where the Silver Dawn was riding anchor. Men moved silently out of their way,

their own eyes filled with concern for the semi-conscious man.

“Easy,” the Captain of the Silver Dawn yelled over to his ship as a wide, padded gurney swung across

from the hastily rigged boom. He craned his neck to look up at the arcing gurney as it was lowered over

the rail of the prison ship. “Let her down a little more!"

Two men from the boarding party grabbed the gurney as it slid down and steadied it as Stevens, Tarnes

and the others began to lower Syn-Jern, face down onto the padded gurney.

“Steady!” Weir breathed, watching with held breath as his men placed Syn-Jern as easily as they could

onto the planking.

Not a man on board left alive could have prevented himself from flinching when a loud, prolonged groan

of agony was torn from Syn-Jern Sorn as his arms were lifted above his head and placed carefully on the

gurney.

“Strap him down,” the captain of the Silver Dawn ordered and Tarnes took a wide leather strap from

one of the men to loop it under the gurney and buckle it just above Syn-Jern's hips. “All right! Lift her up

slowly!"

The men followed the gurney as it rose, as it swung back from the prison ship and over to the Silver

Dawn. Once it was hovering above the decks of the other ship, once it had lowered out of sight beyond

the railing, they looked at Patrick Kasella who was kneeling on the prison ship's deck, tears streaming

down his ashen cheeks.

“Paddy?” Weir called softly to his friend. “Do you want to go with him?"

Paddy could only nod. He was trembling so violently he could barely catch his breath. He felt gentle

hands on him, lifting him up as though he were an invalid, an old, old man, helping him to his feet, helping

to steady him.

“I love him,” Paddy said in a soft, breathless voice.

Weir nodded. “I know."

Paddy searched his friend's face, looking for true understanding. “Weir?” he asked in a small, tight voice.

“I know, Paddy."

Tarnes turned away from the sight of the two men as Weir guided Patrick to the plank now braced

between the Silver Dawn and the prison ship. He'd always had his suspicions about Patrick Kasella, but

now they were confirmed. He wondered why it didn't make any difference in how much affection he bore

Paddy.

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He knelt beside the bunk, Syn-Jern's limp hand clasped in his own, careful not to do any more damage to

the ravaged hand. Reaching up with trembling fingers, he smoothed the damp, oily hair from a brow

fever-hot and so dry to the touch, his fingertips made a faint scratching sound across Syn-Jern's

forehead.

“Hold on, my friend,” he whispered. “We'll be home soon."

From his place at the foot of the bunk, Weir watched Patrick Kasella.

Anyone could see the pain in Paddy's soul, feel the anger seeping from him like the escaping gas of a

volcano about to erupt. When Paddy turned his face to look at him, Weir flinched, for he understood, if

never before, how much his friend cared for Syn-Jern Sorn.

“He isn't to know,” Paddy said quietly, his gaze steady on Weir. “I don't want him to ever know."

Weir nodded, unable to speak. He would never have guessed that Patrick Kasella's true nature was so

vastly different from his own.

Not that it mattered, Weir thought. The fact that Paddy preferred his companionship from an alternate

source did not, and would not, affect their friendship. Nothing had changed except Weir's concern for a

man whose love would never be acknowledged.

Paddy's voice was soft, almost wary as he spoke to his old friend. “I will understand if you want to put

distance between us, Weir."

“Why would I do that?"

“Don't pretend you don't understand what I'm trying to say to you."

“Nothing's changed, Paddy,” Weir told him.

He looked at Weir. “You may not think so; you may not want to believe it's so, but things will never be

the same between you and me ever again."

Weir shook his head. He looked down at the planking, then looked up through the sweep of his long

lashes. “If life has taught me anything, Kasella, it's taught me tolerance. I think none the less of you this

morning than I did yesterday morning, or the morning before that. You are still my friend, and I still

respect you. You saw Genny and me through some real bad times. Do you think I'm the kind of man

who would abandon you when you're the one who needs the comforting now?"

A fleeting smile trembled on Paddy's lips and he slowly tore his gaze from Weir. He sighed. “No, I know

you're not,” he answered.

Weir pushed away from the cabin wall and walked to his friend, laying an encouraging hand on Patrick's

tired shoulder. “Go rest awhile. I'll watch him.” He looked down at Syn-Jern's still face. “If he wakes up,

I'll call you."

At the ship's rail a few moments later, Patrick leaned his elbows on the sea-slick teak and turned his

head to glance back at the three ships trailing along in the wake of the Silver Dawn. On her larboard side

was still another pirate ship cresting the waves. He watched as her running lights were extinguished in the

brightening of the early morning light. He didn't have to go to the windward rail to know there was

another ship flanking the Silver Dawn. Six ships had sailed from Montyne Cay the evening before.

“How's the lad?” Tarnes asked as he ambled out from the shadows on deck.

Paddy shrugged. “The fever's raging.” He threw his head back and stared up at the last stars twinkling

out of the sky. “They hurt him really bad."

Tarnes pulled the pipe from between his teeth and leaned out over the railing beside Patrick. “Could

have been worse,” he remarked as he tapped the bowl of the pipe against his left hand. “They could have

killed him."

Patrick watched the ashes from Tarnes’ pipe scatter, falling down into the flowing water beneath them.

Ashes into the sea, he thought with a twist of pain. He'd once cast the remains of someone he had loved

into the waves. Pushing away from the rail, he turned, put his arms behind him, and braced his hands on

the teak.

“You don't know how good it made me feel when that gods-be-damned transport went down. Seeing

that was like retribution of a sort. That was the ship I sailed on to Tyber's Isle."

Tarnes nodded, slipped his empty pipe into the pocket of his wool coat. “I'd thought as much.” He

looked out over the waves, jerked his chin toward the ship off their bow. “Done a lot of our men good,

I'd say, to see the bitch go down."

Patrick glanced over at the ship. “I'll never forget them helping us,” he said.

“They was only doing what they knew needed doing.” Tarnes cast a quick look to Paddy. “They went

after one of their own."

* * * *

Genny's heart lurched when the first cry of ‘sail ho’ came. She flew from her hut, her feet digging into the

sand as she ran with the others to the beach. Shielding her eyes to the glare of the early afternoon sun,

she strained to see the unmistakable bulk of the Wind Lass on the incoming tide. She dodged around

some of the others, stood on tiptoe, her heart in her throat as she sought to find her brother's ship among

the bobbing sails coming their way.

“There's the Dawn!” a woman standing a few feet from Genny yelled out. “That's Rolland's ship!"

Genny glanced at the woman, happy for Meggie Spaulding, hoping the smile and happy look would not

vanish once the barkantine dropped anchor. She craned her neck to see the other ships.

“Don't look like none's been damaged,” she heard a sailor remark.

“That's a good sign,” another answered.

“What's that they're running up?"

Genny took a few steps forward until her bare toes were in the sliding waves. She squinted, looking for

what the others were pointing to. At last she found a red triangle snap of fabric being hoisted on board

one of the ships.

“They're signaling for a stretcher!” someone shouted.

Genny felt bitter bile rising up in her throat. She heard a moan from behind her and turned to see Meggie

Spaulding in the arms of another woman. Turning her attention to the scurrying of some of the men

around her, she watched as four men rushed forward into the waves with a canvas sling attached to two

long, stout poles.

“There's his jolly boat being lowered,” Meggie said in a low, lost voice.

The boat crashed down into the water and two sailors shimmied down into it, stood looking up at the tall

ship riding beside them.

“They're lowering a gurney looks like."

How she knew it was Syn-Jern, Genny would never know. But as she watched the pyramid-shaped

cables swing out from the rail, their burden of tightly-wrapped canvas dropping gently down toward the

jolly boat, she felt her knees grow weak.

“It's him,” Meggie whispered. “It's my Rolland."

“Nay,” a woman hushed her. “It could be the lad."

Meggie's voice lowered even more. “Pray to God, it is.” She glanced at Genny with anger. “And pray to

God he lives.” Her spine stiffened when Genny looked her way. “If'n any man lost his life or limb for

having to go after the boy, there'll be hell to pay, there will."

Genny could feel the censure, the animosity aimed her way. No one had spoken to her since one of the

sailors had escorted her to her hut and remained outside the door until her brother's ship was well out to

sea. They all blamed her for Syn-Jern's capture.

“You've caused enough damage, you have!” the man mumbled as he shut the door to her pale face.

“That boy never did a thing to you or yours!"

She'd had all night and most of the following day to regret her actions. It was true. Syn-Jern Sorn had

done nothing to her or Weir. He could not be held accountable for what his vile father had done any

more than she or Weir could be held responsible for their father gambling away money that should have

gone to pay their estate taxes. She only hoped she would get the chance to tell him so.

“Get that stretcher out as far as you can!” one of the men on the jolly boat yelled out and Genny's eyes

closed.

“We don't want to bring the boat any closer to shore. He doesn't need to be bounced around,” one of

the women said.

“Weir,” she whispered.

“How bad's he hurt?” a young boy asked.

“Bad enough,” came the reply and she recognized Tarnes’ gruff bark. “Hurry that up!"

Holding her breath, Genny watched the men transferring their human cargo from the jolly boat, over the

side to the waiting stretcher.

“Be careful with him!” Weir shouted as he jumped over the side and waded toward the men holding the

stretcher.

Those on shore moved back, two lines opening as the stretcher-bearer's slogged through the breaking

waves and trod heavily to shore with their burden. Genny stood still, her heart slamming painfully in her

chest as Weir's eyes found hers. The look on his face told her she would not be welcome should she

venture toward him. When the cold orbs flicked away from her, she hung her head, her face red with

shame and guilt.

“We've got the medical hut ready for him."

“Take him on in,” Weir answered. “I'll be right there.” He sloshed through the waves to where his sister

stood. “Genny?"

She flinched at the tone of his voice, steeled herself to meet him as she raised her head, but she wasn't

prepared for the fury staring back at her.

“You keep away from him, do you hear me?” he snarled at her. Reaching out, he grabbed her arm to

shake to her, to make his point. “Do you?” When she nodded, unable to say anything, he jabbed his

finger into her shoulder with a painful thrust that made her whimper. “You've done enough harm. You

damned near got him killed."

It wasn't so much the pain in her throbbing shoulder that bothered her as it was the disappointment and

anger directed toward her from her only living relative. She lowered her head.

“Stupid bitch!” he snapped, turning on his heel and stalking away from her. “I can see why the man fears

women like you!"

Looking up through the camouflage of her lashes, she knew the inhabitants of Montyne Cay had already

judged her and found her guilty. Her shoulders sagged.

“Get back to your hut,” she heard a familiar voice say and she glanced around to see Paddy walking

from the waves. He kept his gaze steady on the medical hut at the far end of the compound.

“Is he going to be all right?” she asked, taking a step toward Paddy.

He didn't answer her. He walked past her, his shoulders hunched, hands thrust into the pockets of his

wet cords.

“Is he, Patrick?” she called after him. “Is he going to be all right?"

“What do you care?” one of the women snapped at her as she and the others began to drift away

toward the huts. “You hate him, don't you?"

“Aye, she hated him enough to put the Tribunal on him!"

“No!” Genny denied. “That wasn't what happened!"

“You followed him out yonder and got him caught!” one of the women charged. “If'n you hadn't been

there, he'd have been able to hide good enough they wouldn't have found him!"

“Ain't he had enough people betraying him in his life? You be just one in the line, I'm reckoning!"

Genny could see the hostility on every face turned her way. With a sob, she lifted her skirts and ran for

her hut.

“Her brother ought to take a stick to her,” she heard one of the women say.