Burning Bright (33 page)

She woke to dim daylight, filtered through the overcast, and the sound of a hundred birds’ wings stirring the already unpleasantly humid air. The faint odor of the previous night’s fires still hung nearby, waking her hunger. She would have to find something more filling soon.

She relieved herself, feeling vaguely guilty about doing so out in the open, then set out into the forest on a hunt for food and water. She had a notion that water would be more likely found near rock than loam, so she followed the rocky ridge up and around, deeper into the forest. Almost immediately she realized she would never be able to find her way back to the beach unless she began marking her trail, and had a moment’s anxiety before laughing at herself and burning a few thin lines in the shape of an arrow into the trunk of a nearby tree. Why she might want to return to the beach, she wasn’t sure, but it faced north, and since she had not circled the island to come to its north shore, it was almost certainly facing into the passage between Jamaica and Cuba, where the trade ships went. So it was still her best chance of hailing a ship to rescue her.

She went further inland, marking her trail and marveling at the island’s beauty. So many brash, boldly colored flowers, pink and red trumpets calling the insects home. So many birds like tiny, flying jewels that fled at her approach. So many trees smelling of greenness and water that she became thirstier with every breath.

She had to step carefully to protect her bare feet against rocks and fallen branches, but sometimes she was so caught up in the wonder of it all she forgot to be worried about her present situation. There was never silence; when the birds stopped calling out to one another, which happened only rarely, there was the rush of wind through the trees that presaged another rainstorm. She wished she’d thought to turn her raft right side up so it could catch the rain, in case she didn’t find another source of water.

As she thought this, she realized what she had believed to be the soughing of the wind was actually much closer to hand, and much more liquid. Water was running somewhere ahead and to her left. She pressed on eagerly and soon found a narrow stream flowing over the rocks that had, over centuries, carved a channel out of the stone that descended down the far side of the cliff in a series of waterfalls. She dropped to her knees and began scooping the cool, delicious water into her mouth, gulping until she was so full her stomach hurt.

She wiped her chin and sat back on her haunches, her head clearer now. Water first, then food. The sailors on
Athena
always claimed no one had to starve in the Caribbean because there was food on every tree. Elinor couldn’t see any at the moment, but perhaps she was simply in the wrong place. She decided to move west, away from the ridge, and circle back around to the beach.

She was beginning to see patterns to the tree growth. Palms grew near the shore. The trees with the hand-sized round leaves grew further up, and now she was seeing tall trees with low-growing limbs that in some places brushed the top of her head. Their leaves were glossy and enormous, with deep lobes, and on a whim Elinor reached up and broke one off. It was wide enough that she could use it as a makeshift hat, though from what she could see of the sky it seemed this would be another cloudy, possibly rainy day. She would need more than a single leaf to protect herself from the storm.

She peered up, trying to read the clouds, but instead saw a few pebbly green fruits hanging high above her. Breadfruit. This was a breadfruit tree! She repeated her trick with the coconut palm and soon had two green fruits the size of her head lying at her feet. One had cracked, and she picked that one up and turned it over in her hands. “Don’t eat it raw,” Stratford had said, “it’ll only make you sick.” Well, that was certainly not going to be a problem. She held it at arm’s length and let fire spread across her hands to surround the rough green surface, which started blackening almost immediately.

A tremor went through her fingers as the crack spread. Now, how long was enough? She turned it over and, her hands still burning, pried open the crack to look at the meat inside. It looked charred and not at all appetizing, but she extinguished the fire and picked at the smoking meat, pulled out a piece and ate it. It tasted like burned potato, but not inedibly so, and she went at it with fingers and nails until she had cleaned out the husk. She was more careful with the second, which came out of the fire nearly perfect, and when she was finished she felt full and revitalized and able to take on any challenges this island would offer. Breadfruit leaf in hand, she continued on her way.

Once she knew what to look for, she found dozens more breadfruit trees, then a straggly clump of papayas, and she took off her waistcoat and used it to carry her stores. She now saw signs of animal life, squeaking when she realized a vine draped over a branch was an enormous snake, but it ignored her, and she gave it a wide berth. She soon became used to the scuttling of small creatures in the undergrowth when it turned out they were no more interested in her than the snake had been. Even so, she stayed alert. The next animal she encountered might be more hostile.

Rain began falling in the late afternoon, and she huddled under one of the evergreens whose branches grew close to the ground and shed a thick, soft carpet of needles that did not prick her feet as long as she was careful. She ate a papaya and planned her next step. She would have to light a bigger fire and hope someone noticed. Then she would start moving around the coast of the island and discover whether it was inhabited. That was still her most likely possibility for rescue. She dozed off under the trees to the comforting sound of rain hissing through the leaves and falling in huge drops off the branches above her.

When she returned to what she had begun to think of as her camp that evening, she was exhausted, but she found a place to put her stores and marked off an area to burn. She felt slightly guilty at destroying so many of the island’s beautiful trees, but there was nothing for it if she wanted to survive. She was certain she would not be able to support herself on a diet of tropical fruit for more than a few weeks. She tried not to dwell on the word “weeks.”

With her signal burning high and sending great clouds of smoke into the air, she sat on the dry, grainy sand that stuck to absolutely every part of her and marveled at the fire’s beauty. There was a part of her that longed to walk into it and let it flow over her and through her. It filled her with joy, and it made her feel invincible, for what human agency could extinguish a fire that strong and hot and fierce? Well, other than herself and that enemy Extraordinary Scorcher. Fighting him had been terrifying, but she had also rejoiced in matching her talent against someone so like her in that one respect.

She resented the fact that he was a pirate. They
should
have been comrades, friends even, and she remembered what Ramsay had said about the difference between an Extraordinary and an ordinary talent. He had become her closest friend somehow, and she had no way of telling him she was alive. How wonderful it would be when she was rescued and returned to
Athena
; even Durrant could not justify giving Crawford another ship when he was responsible for destroying
Glorious
, and there was no reason she should not serve with Ramsay again.

A burning palm frond dropped to the sand, followed by a sharp crack and several thuds as a handful of coconuts followed it. It would be interesting to see what coconut tasted like when it was roasted. She extinguished the frond and lay back on the sand. The sun had set after the trees had been burning for only half an hour. Which was a better signal, smoke or flame? Well, now she’d done both.

The fire made it difficult to see the stars, but she knew them well now from the times she had spent on
Athena’
s deck, with Ramsay or Stratford or Hays pointing out constellations she had never thought to look for back home. When she left the Navy, she would not settle in London, where the newly installed gas lamps drew the eye away from the skies the way her bonfire did at the moment. She reached out and traced their outlines: Ursa Minor, Draco, Cassiopeia. Someone must have had quite the imagination to see such shapes in such simple outlines.

She blinked, and the stars shifted dramatically. She leaped up, terrified she would find the forest on fire, but it had barely begun to spread past her chosen area. It was time for sleep. Someone would see her beacon and come for her. Perhaps now that she had enough food, she might try a larger beacon of smoke tomorrow.

She extinguished the fire and found herself a more comfortable place to sleep, up the hill near the rocks, where an evergreen’s fallen branch made a tent, and a depression on the uphill side made a perfect place for her to stow her food. She drew in her legs, pulled the raft over herself, and fell into sleep.

She woke late the following morning and lay for a few minutes, not moving, because she was comfortable for once and she knew that upon moving all of her abused muscles would complain. Her bladder eventually forced her to rise and tend to its needs, and by the time she was finished there was no point in lying down again.

She still had no way to carry water, so she set off up the hill toward the stream, where she had made a small dam with loose rocks, carried uphill in her waistcoat. Now she was able to scoop water from the pool made by the dam and drink it down without spilling more than a few drops on herself. Not that a few drops would make her look more disreputable than she did. Her clothes looked as if they’d been soaked in the waters of the Caribbean, been dragged across sand and over hills and through thickets of trees, and there was a hole in the knee of her trousers where she’d caught it on a stump of a branch. Her waistcoat was barely recognizable as such.
I am
so
grateful not to be wearing a gown
.

She took one last drink, wiped her mouth and stood. Toasted coconut this morning, and then a walk along the shore around the promontory to see what lay in that direction.

Rather than fight her way through the thickly-growing trees, she followed the spine of the cliff toward the beach. When she found a flat, broad place where the stone widened, she scrambled atop it to look out across the water for a sign that someone had seen her beacon. The horizon was empty of sails, and she tried to tell herself this was normal. It was to be expected that it would take some time for her signal to be noticed, and crying a few tears of disappointment was irrational, because she would be rescued soon.

She surveyed the rest of the vista, her gaze sweeping across the beach, and was staggered to see a dilapidated rowboat, green with paint or scum, pulled up on the shore some distance away. She was about to race down the hill, heedless of the possibility of falling and breaking her skull, when a tiny voice of doubt captured her attention: if there were no ship at anchor nearby, where had the boat come from?

It was enough to make her pause, then slowly, quietly sidle along until she reached her shelter. She had no reason to assume whoever had come in the boat was hostile, but she was alone and, as far as anyone could tell, defenseless, and it made sense to sit quietly and observe the newcomers before showing herself.

She heard them coming before she could see them—did not want to see them, because that would mean they could see her. Two men, she guessed by the sound of their footsteps crunching along the beach, two voices, one tenor, one baritone, carrying on a conversation she was still too distant to understand. She held tight to the evergreen’s trunk to keep herself from sliding or shifting or doing anything that might draw attention.

“—take her to bed w’ me tonight.” That was the tenor.

“That’s nothin’ special. She’ll spread ‘er legs for anyone’s got the right price.” Baritone.

“I ain’t payin’ ‘er, ‘cause she’s m’ special lady.”

“‘Ope y’ don’t get more outa her than y’ want. Wouldn’t want your fav’rit part to fall off.”

“You don’t know what the ‘ell—wait, there’s tracks ‘ere.”

Silence, except for the scrape-crunch of footsteps on soft sand. “That’s just the way the wind blew it,” said Baritone. “No footprints.”

“Well, there wouldn’t be, would there, if the Scorcher ‘uz down below the tide. Be all washed away,” said Tenor. He sounded defensive.

“Never prove it if ‘e did. Maybe it were sum’thin nat’ral what set the fire.”

“Gave off that much smoke, and din’t burn more than a handful o’ trees? Evans’d never believe it.”

“Well, I don’t see no Scorcher and I’m thinkin’ there ain’t one to be seen,” Baritone said, anger putting an edge on his voice. “They’re all madder’n a barrel o’ ferrets, maybe he sailed in, set a fire, sailed away.”

“You’re a bleedin’ idiot, you are,” said Tenor, sounding smug. “ ‘S an Extraordinary Scorcher what did that. The forest’d be a pile o’ ash else.”

Elinor found she was holding her breath and let it out, slowly. They were less than fifteen feet from her. It was a miracle they couldn’t hear her heart pounding.

There was silence for about half a minute. “You think it was Dewdney?” said Baritone.

“You know any other Extraordinary Scorchers runnin’ around?”

“Nobody’s seen ‘im since
Olympia
came in, lookin’ like it was pounded on by God Himself, and Dewdney near crippled from fightin’ another Extraordinary.”

“Could be th’ other one what done it. The Navy bastard.”

“That ship went down wi’ all ‘ands,” Baritone said. “ ‘Ad to be Dewdney.”

Another pause. “Evans ain’t gonna like that,” said Tenor.

“Just so ‘e don’t blame it on us, I don’t give a damn what he likes.”

“You talk big when ‘e’s not around, don’t you?”

“Let’s get back. I ain’t goin’ after Dewdney on me lonesome.”

“Me neither. Evans can send out the Movers or some such. Ain’t rowin’ no more today.”

“If ol’ Evans ‘ad any Bounders, wouldn’t ‘ave to send us out like this.”

“Not Crichton’s fault ‘e got ‘imself shot dead, is it?”

Their footsteps receded. Elinor clung, stiff, to her tree, counting off the seconds until she reached one thousand. Then she slid out from beneath the branch and went back to the ridge in time to see the rowboat pass around the promontory. Her hands were shaking. She sat down where she was until the fear drained away and she could think clearly.