Dangerous Dreams: A Novel (54 page)

“Well, Sir, how deep is it?”

“I hit bottom twice, so ’tis not
too
deep—mayhap four feet—but very fast and very strong . . . pulled me off balance, and I couldn’t get a hold with my feet.”

Myllet looked across the channel. “I think you’re right, Sir. ’Tis an inlet that opens and closes with the tide . . . ’tis indeed going out now, which isn’t good if anyone gets swept away like you did.” He wiped the rain from his face with his sleeve, squinted toward the far side. “Looks to be forty or fifty yards across—hard to say in the dark—but it may be deeper in the middle than here on the side. Actually, we could probably wait for the tide to go completely out and then walk across.” He looked at Baylye. “But we sure as hell can’t wait long. When that sun comes up, we’ll bake again, and . . . and, well . . . some of these folk might not last another day.”

Baylye nodded. “Could we make a hand-to-hand chain and work our way across?”

“Might work . . . but we better alternate tall and short people in case there be holes out there.” He glanced at the channel. “You know, Sir, I hesitate to say it, but there may be more of these inlets in front of us, and some may be deeper; and if so, we’ll want to cross them when the tide’s out. So all the more reason to be quickly on our way.”

“You’re right. So let us be about it.”

Moments later, Myllet, the last man in the human chain, stepped into the channel. Baylye was the lead link, and all between him and Myllet walked cross-current rather than facing the current and side-stepping across it. This resulted in better stability against the swift current, even though it shortened each person’s reach by the width of their torso and forced the chain to have a ragged, weakened, offset structure. Emily was in the middle, with John Starte, a tall, strong man, in front of her and Hugh Tayler behind. Thomas Colman’s periodic dizziness since the shipwreck had prompted him to reluctantly ask Starte to take his place holding Emily, lest he lose his balance or his grip on her.

As the chilly rain fell harder, the chain crept across the channel; but with each step, the force of the current pushed their feet a little farther downstream toward the sea. When Emily reached the middle of the channel,
the front of the chain was twenty feet farther seaward than the rear, which weakened it and increased the effects of the current. She thought how strange it felt to have the warm water of the sound flowing across her body from her feet to her chest while cold rain drenched her head and shoulders and laid tangled, itchy mats of hair over her face. She wanted to let go of Starte or Tayler for a second to brush the annoying hair from her eyes but dared not.

Suddenly, John Starte sank beneath the surface, lost his grip on the man in front of him, pulled Emily after him into a deep hole. As her left hand slipped from Tayler’s grasp, she tried to break Starte’s hold on her right but couldn’t, felt herself pulled under, swept by the current. She swallowed a gulp of brackish water, felt her lungs burning, exploding, begging for air; she kicked, twisted, jerked, tried to free herself from Starte. Suddenly, his grip released; she tumbled with the current, dark terror flooded her mind; she kicked, paddled, felt herself drifting faster, her mind numbing, darkening. God, forgive me my sins; she thought of her mother—never see her again—head burning, drowning. Father! When her feet hit bottom, she pushed upward with all her strength, paddled for the surface. In a remote corner of her mind, she sensed a grip on her wrist, then an arm across her chest; felt herself being dragged across the surface—air, a deep gasp, coughing water—more air, sweet, wonderful air; she kicked toward the pull of the arm. As her feet found ground, she heard yelling, screaming; found her balance, stood, opened her eyes, saw Hugh Tayler’s desperate face; felt him wrap his arms around her, pull her to his chest.

“Emily, Emily. My God, Girl. I thought you were gone.” He squeezed her, kissed her wet hair. “Couldn’t find you. Thank God I bumped your arm . . . you were down so long.” He walked her onto the bank then upstream, where the people from the back half of the chain had regrouped on the shore. “Are you recovered?”

Am I, she wondered? Gasping, trembling, legs buckling, dizzy, she whispered, “Yes, Hugh . . . I think so . . . barely . . . thought I was drowned.”

“So did I.” He looked at the others then back at Emily. “Are you able to try again? I’m afraid we must do so quickly.”

“I think so. I doubt there’s any choice to it . . . no matter how I feel. But hold me close for a moment . . . until I stop shaking. Don’t let me go.” She buried her face against his chest, found comfort in his arms, thought to herself, whatever else, he loves me with all his soul . . . would that I hadn’t heard what I heard. Would that it could be untrue.

“I love you, Emily. I shall never let you go.” He kissed her hair, her neck, her forehead, her lips.

Emily’s body warmed; her heart raced; she felt a hand on her shoulder.

Thomas Colman said, “Emily. My God, you scared me.” He looked at Tayler. “Thank you, Hugh. Thank you for saving my little girl.” He leaned forward, kissed her on the cheek.

Tayler said, “She needs to rest a moment, Thomas. Then I’ll lead the rest of us across. Could you find Starte?”

“Nay. Never surfaced. Must have been swept out to sea.”

Fifteen minutes later, Myllet, the final link in the chain, climbed ashore on the far side of the channel. The rain stopped, and the fourteen huddled together for a brief rest before proceeding north. In the next two hours, they crossed two more inlets, found and buried six more bodies, and caught up with four survivors from the second shallop.

As the comforting sun cleared the horizon, warming rapidly toward another blistering day, Baylye estimated the main to be five miles distant. He wondered how many would fall before they reached it, before they found the forest, shelter from the sun, water to quench their stifling thirst.

“Look there!” someone shouted. “Dead fish . . . a big, dead fish.” Half the people rushed to the ocean shore, gathered around the three-foot-long fish. Its smell said it had been dead a long while; nonetheless, William Clement and several others started tearing at the loose flesh, stuffing handfuls into their mouths. Suddenly, Clement stood, picked up a four-foot-long piece of waterlogged driftwood, held it over his right shoulder with both hands, growled, “Get your hands off my fish. I found it, and I’ll eat it. Get back . . . all of you.”

All but George Martyn backed away from the fish.

“I told you to get back, Martyn. Do it!” He stepped closer to the kneeling man.

“ ’Tis not
your
fish. It belongs to all. Drop the club.”

Baylye said, “Put it down, Clement.” He, Myllet, Gibbes, and several others eased toward Clement.

Myllet slipped behind Clement, reached for the club; he was an inch from touching it when Clement swung it at Martyn’s head, slammed it into his left temple, knocking him onto his side, where he lay still, blood trickling from his nose, mouth, and ears, his startled eyes wide in a lifeless stare.

Myllet, Gibbes, and two soldiers tackled Clement, yanked the club from his hands, held him face first to the ground, and pulled his arms behind his back. Gibbes produced a piece of rope rigging he had found on the shore, quickly wrapped it around his wrists, then tied it tight.

Baylye felt Martyn’s pulse, stood before Clement. “Stand him up, so he can face me.”

The men pulled Clement to his feet in front of Baylye.

“William Clement, I charge you with the murder of George Martyn. As governor, the urgency of our circumstances permits me to sentence you to death at this moment . . . but we have no proper means of carrying out the sentence.”

Clement sneered. “He got what he deserved.”

“Drown him,” someone yelled.

“Cut his throat,” another shouted.

Baylye said, “Nay. Executions will be by hanging or the axe, and we’ve the means for neither. So we shall wait until we reach Chesapeake and let Thomas Hewet try him. With so many witnesses, the outcome is not in doubt.”

Clement said, “Fuck the lot of you. You’d better kill me now, Baylye, for I shall find a way to get free, and I mean to kill you when I do.”

Myllet pointed at a soldier who had a six-foot coil of rope in his belt. “Tie that rope around his neck and keep the other end tied around your wrist at every moment . . . even if you sleep. If he tries to escape, all of you kill him any way you can. And if we encounter Savages who attack us, use him as a shield, or offer him in exchange for your lives and let the Savages have their way with him.”

Emily wished her throbbing headache, body aches, foot bruises from the sand, and cottony-dry mouth would go away . . . also, the incessant rubbing of sticky sand on the insides of her legs, which had created a painful rash, made her wish she wore pants like the men. She had tried to fold the front of her skirt and smock between her legs as she walked along, but they had slipped out after a few steps. Another female burden, she decided with a private smile. Bear it and move forward: one foot, then the next, keep moving. I’m no slower than anyone else; keep moving, Em. So hot . . . why am I not sweating? Mother, Ellie, I miss you. I want my locket, my letter. She glanced at the blazing sun hovering at its zenith, felt thirst and hunger ripping her insides to shreds like a hungry lion. She looked toward the north end of the sound and the main, noticed swampy marshlands along the banks to her left, tall clumps of grass covering the narrow banks themselves, and a half mile ahead, perhaps another half mile inland on the main, a thick forest. Her heart rippled with hope at its sight: salvation, shade, water, mayhap food. The thought of it made her empty stomach churn and rumble, but she thanked the Lord she hadn’t eaten any of the dead, rotting fish they’d found along the way. Those who’d gorged themselves had quickly vomited and been queasy ever since.

Her eyes on the sand five feet in front of her, she thought of her mother’s kitchen: its warmth, the sizzling kettle beside the fire, the ever-present smell of cooking food—delicious food—beer, water. She saw herself and her mother preparing a feast of pig pie, her favorite meal. They first skewered the small pig and cooked it on the spit—a hot, sweaty job for Emily, the spit turner—and when it was cooked, they removed the skin and rubbed hog’s lard over the meat. Before applying the seasoning, they looked at one another questioningly, then shrugged their shoulders, giggling as they sprinkled generous, unmeasured dashes of pepper, salt, nutmeg, and sage over the meat. She smiled as she recalled how, in spite of their guessing, it always seemed to turn out perfect. They laid slices of the seasoned meat on a bed of butter in the bottom of the pie, rubbed mace and more butter over the top of the meat, closed the top of the pie, and baked it. Emily closed her
eyes, imaginatively inhaled the satisfying aroma, licked her lips, saw herself enjoying the delicious feast.

Johnny Gibbes said, “Hello, Emily. How fare you? God was surely with you last night.”

“He was indeed.” She smiled, crossed herself. “God and Hugh Tayler. And I see glorious forest ahead . . . with shade and water.”

“Do not drink too fast when we find the water. Take little sips at first . . . else you’ll toss it all back up.”

She looked at him. “Truly?”

“Aye.” He smiled. “We learn such things in the army.”

“Well, thank you for telling me that. I’d surely have gulped it like a fish if you hadn’t.” She tried to swallow, gagged, shook her head, then imagined herself kneeling by a stream, her cupped hands raising sips of cool, clear, delicious water to her lips. She suddenly thought of Tayler holding her by the tidal inlet. “Johnny, I . . . I don’t want to sound like I doubt you. I don’t, but I must ask . . . are you completely sure of the circumstances we spoke of?”

He gave her a quizzical look. “That I am, Mistress. And to prove it, Hugh Tayler has watched me like a spy since he saw us together . . . and he’s watching me now, so I dare not talk much until we can do so beyond his sight. I’m probably a fool for speaking to you right now.”

Emily glanced behind, saw Tayler walking beside her father, his eyes on her and Gibbes. She nodded. “I believe you . . . the difficulty is mine, for I’ve been foolishly hoping there was some mistake, that what you told me wasn’t true, that it would go away . . . because . . . because now I must face the fact that in spite of whatever
was
between Hugh and me, he’s
not
who he appeared to be, and
such
invalidates our relationship, and as you say, may also endanger me. So there’s no choice to it. I must either cast him from my life now or confront him and give him a chance to defend himself.”

“I understand, Mistress Emily. And to worsen it, he seems to care deeply for you . . . and caring for another is a quality I’ve never before seen in Hugh Tayler. Forgive me for intruding, Mistress, but do you love him?”

She studied his eyes, again read only naked sincerity. “I do not know, Johnny. I truly do not know. I thought I might . . . until Elyoner, then you,
told me your secrets. But now I truly do not know. I’m confused between my heart and my mind, and the fact that he saved my life last night worsens the confusion. If he hadn’t acted so bravely, with complete disregard for himself, I’d be decomposing in some shark’s belly right now; and that means something, Johnny. It truly
means
something . . . about
him
. But whatever’s to betide Hugh and me can’t be determined until later, for we’re in no place or clime for the parley that must occur between us.” She looked away at the sea for a moment then back at Gibbes. “Do you think people can change?”