Paxton and the Gypsy Blade (30 page)

Slurry put his back to the oars and rowed frantically to put distance between the catboat and the doomed
Cassandra
. “Jump!” he screamed. “Before she blows!”

Jason
…
Joseph … two minutes …

Beam to the seas, the
Cassandra
rose dizzily on each wave, plunged to wallow helplessly in the succeeding trough. Smoke poured from cracks in her deck. Timbers creaked and groaned. All hope of saving her long gone, Tom took one last look—the proud lines, the hiss of water as her hull cut the waves, the beauty of her sails—and jumped.

The water was warm. He sank, then kicked furiously until his head broke water. Lightning crackled overhead in a sky as black as night. The rain was so heavy that the air seemed as wet as the sea. He heard his name, pushed the hair out of his eye, and spotted Slurry and the cat-boat a few yards away. Topaz was already aboard, Maurice just pulling himself over the gunwale.

Tom swam hard, bumped against the catboat. The hilt of the rapier caught on the gunwale. Maurice freed it, grabbed his arm and yanked him aboard. Flames had burst through the deck of the
Cassandra
, and the four men rowed to get away from her before the magazine blew.

“The rain's stopped over there,” Slurry yelled, pointing. “They're gonna make it.”

Muscles quivering, Tom peered through the slackening torrent and saw, in the flickering glare of the lightning, the dory approach the
Druid
.

The price is too great
.

Behind her, a wall of water obscured the burning
Cassandra
. Ahead of her, the rain thinned and then abruptly stopped as the trailing edge of the storm passed over the dory. The
Druid
lay scant yards away. Sails trimmed, bow to the wind, it rose and fell gracefully on the twenty-foot waves that tossed the dory about like a cockleshell.

Larkin approached from the
Druid
's starboard side, watched the crew fling over a rope ladder and paused to read the waves and the motion of the
Druid
.

“There they are,” said Engle, pointing in the direction of the
Cassandra
. “They made it!”

Adriana followed his finger, saw nothing, then a brief glimpse of a wave-tossed boat before it disappeared.
The price is too great, Thomas. I did not wish for this
. “Three or four?” she asked.

“Four. Don't worry. He's aboard too.”

“Now!” Larkin said, jamming the tiller to his right. “Pull … pull … and ship oars!”

Engle grabbed the rope ladder and steadied them. The man in the bow used his oar as a fender to keep them from smashing against the
Druid
's hull. A line snaked down from the deck. Larkin fixed a loop on the end with a bowline. “Under your arms,” he said, slipping the loop over Adriana's head. “If you fall, grab the line and they'll pull you up.”

“Tom—”

“Don't worry about him. Go!”

The ladder swayed dangerously but she held on, and when she reached the top, hands waited to help her over the rail.

“Well, damn my eyes,” a voice rasped.

Bliss's face was pale, drained by shock and loss of blood. He was coatless and shirtless, his breeches were stained with blood, and a blood-soaked bandage bound his chest. Adriana, exhausted by fear, soaked, and soot-stained, stood slack-jawed and stared at him. She had known he would be there, but hadn't been prepared for the reality of standing face to face with him.

“You …!” He stopped short, and fear showed in his eyes.
How? It's uncanny. She's a sorceress!
“Boatswain! Cut that ladder free!”

In sixteen years at sea, the boatswain had seen floggings, hangings, one keelhauling, and innumerable other acts of official brutality, but never had he heard a commanding officer of a naval vessel consign survivors of a defeated ship to the sea. Neither, in sixteen years, had the boatswain ever questioned or disobeyed an order. Unhesitatingly, he drew his knife, slashed the lines as ordered, and carefully avoided looking down at the hapless, uncomprehending men below.

“Mr. Meecham, I'll have a squad of marines with rifles, loaded and primed, on the double.”

“No!” Adriana gasped as the first officer gave the order and she realized what was about to happen. “You can't!”

“I am the captain of this vessel, and will do as I wish,” Bliss said coldly, his fear now in check. “As, my dear, you shall have occasion to learn.”

“Murderer!” Adriana hissed.

“Boatswain, bind her and take her—”

Adriana sprang. The boatswain caught one arm, but couldn't prevent her other hand from striking Bliss in the chest.

Bliss's mouth opened in a silent scream and he turned white as a sheet as he reeled backward into Meecham. Red-hot pokers seemed to sear his chest. His knees felt like water. The sky darkened and closed in on him, but he stood. “Boatswain,” he said in a voice that Bliss himself could barely hear, “bind her, and when I am finished here, confine her to the brig. Mr. Meecham.”

“Aye, sir.”

Bliss tapped hidden reservoirs of strength, and his voice rang loud and clear. “I'll have those men shot, if you please.”

Meecham blinked in astonishment. “Sir?” he said.

“Are you questioning my order, Mr. Meecham?”

“Ah …” Meecham sought aid, met only blank stares, and capitulated. “No, sir. Of course not, sir.” He drew back his shoulders, and when he spoke, his voice was thin and reedy. “Sergeant!”

“Aye, sir!”

“Form your men in a line at the gunwale, and on my command, shoot the men in the boat below.”

“No,” Adriana sobbed helplessly as the sergeant moved his men into position. “Please—”

“I'm waiting, Mr. Meecham,” Bliss said, ignoring Adriana. “Please proceed.”

“Ready.”

Eight marines moved as one.

“Aim!”

“What the hell are you doing?” Larkin yelled as he spotted the muzzles pointing down at him. “Wait a—”

“Fire!”

The roar of the muskets sounded strangely attenuated in the brisk wind. Unable to help herself, Adriana looked down, then quickly away from the four bodies in the dory. “Murderer,” she whispered faintly. “Murderer!”

“Very good, Mr. Meecham,” Bliss said with no more emotion than had he just snuffed out a candle. Trembling with the effort, his right arm rose and indicated the catboat poised on a wave some hundred yards away. “And now, them.”

Speechless, Adriana sagged against the rail.
Oh, my God, no! Thomas! Beware, my love!

Again the horrid litany. In the distance, the catboat rose into view, disappeared, rose again, bobbed like a cork …

“Fire!” Eight muskets roared as one.

… disappeared again, and rose … empty.

CHAPTER XV

Tom woke and stared into a hazy white sky that resolved into a linen shirt shielding him from the blazing sun. His mouth was dry, thick with the residue of fear and sleep. A patch of blue shone through a ragged hole in the fabric. He was moving up and down, up and down and sideways. Queasy, he eased himself into the open and blinked as his eye adjusted to the blinding glare of sun reflecting off numberless planes of water. Overhead, the catboat's single sail was bellied out by a gentle breeze that propelled the little craft through the heaving waves.

“Well, I see your highness is up.” Maurice grinned through bruised features and handed Tom a brown bottle. “Slurry's emergency supply. Helps to settle the stomach. There's rainwater in another jug, but that'll have to last us till the next squall.”

Tom swallowed, then shook his head to clear the cobwebs. “What happened?”

“You hit your head when we boarded the catboat. I caught you. About then, the magazine of the
Cassandra
blew, and the
Druid
sailed off a few minutes later.” Maurice nodded toward Tom's rapier, lying next to him in the bilge. “I sure as hell hope you appreciate that sword. The damned thing almost got you drowned.”

“That damned thing is over a hundred years old,” Tom flared, his anger peaking like the waves, then falling sharply. “Ah, hell. I'm sorry. But Jase would kill me if I went home without it.” He picked up the rapier, wiped it on his shirttail. “Larkin, Crane, Blaine, Engle, Benet, Fairleigh, the others. Maybe Adriana, for all we know …” The thought sobered him. He wrapped his fingers around the hilt, turned the blade so the sun caught it. “We'll have need of this. It has some killing to do before it hangs on a wall again—or sinks to a grave of its own.”

The day was young. Slurry was handling the boat, steering them northeast, in the general direction of Tortola. Topaz sat hunched over a length of wood he was carving into a crude two-pronged spear. His precious frock coat lay folded in the bottom of the boat, and his blue silk vest had been torn into bandages that circled his right shoulder where one of the rifle balls had torn through the flesh. A pink stain oozed through to the outer layer of cloth, but his shoulder had suffered no lasting damage. From time to time, the Carib scooped up a handful of seawater and soaked his bandage.

“Just us four, then,” Tom finally said. “The rest …”

“Food for sharks,” Topaz remarked in an offhanded way. “Like me, soon.”

“You don't need to sound so happy about it, you bloody savage,” Slurry growled.

“Not happy, not sad,” Topaz said with a shrug. “I die, you die. All die one day.”

“I hope you'll forgive us if we don't try to rush things,” Tom said.

“It is not in your power to go fast or slow. The gods claim us when they will,” Topaz said, his blade demonstrating the steady, unvarying pace he ascribed to the gods.

Slurry wouldn't let the matter drop. “If you're so sure we're done for, then why carve that spear? Why try to bring in food for a boat full of corpses?”

“Those words are yours, Slurry Walls,” Topaz said. “Not mine.”

“The hell! What you said was, we're a bunch of corpses. So why don't you give up and roll over? Answer me that if you can!”

“I could be wrong. I don't say what the gods will do or when, only that they will do what they will do when they please.”

Slurry snorted in disgust. “Ain't bad enough we gotta fry out here, without listenin' to the likes of a pagan cannibal as well.”

“Or,” Maurice grunted, tired of the chatter, “a whiskey-drinkin' Bible spouter. Why don't you both shut up and save your strength for when you need it.”

The advice was practical if not popular. Slurry hunched over the tiller and stared at the horizon. Topaz whittled. Maurice curled up in a ball with his head in the shade of a seat, and slept. Tom crawled back into his shade and tried to sort out his thoughts. Three days until land, Slurry had said, if they were lucky. But then what? Brandborough to New Orleans to Barataria to nowhere. He'd traveled thousands of miles and might as well have stayed home. Never in all his life had he felt so desolate, so incompetent, so useless, so crushed. Seventeen men had died, and three more—plus himself—were in grave jeopardy. Adriana, in his care, had been captured and, if not already dead, was undoubtedly suffering unspeakable indignities. He was a fool and a failure, and though the sun beat down on him with all the power of a sledgehammer, he had never known a darker night.

Jason, Joseph
…
forgive me. I tried. God knows I tried. I loved … I love you so much
.

Hidden, bitter, scalding tears coursed his face. A man alone, defeated, shamed. Like a wounded animal seeking the shelter of a cave, he twisted and curled into a tight ball.

He winced, lifted his arm, and gently fingered the new bandage around his head.
Don't even remember hitting it. Christ, it hurts …

And out of pain came hope, for if he could feel pain he was alive, and as long as he lived he had a chance to rescue his twins.

And Adriana?
His heart ached.
I never told her that I loved her. Never said the words, even to myself. But someday, one day sooner or later
…

There was a time to weep, and a time to stop weeping. There was a time to hide, and a time to stand and face the world. Careful not to rock the boat, Tom made his way forward, then stood spread-legged in the bow, and gazed upon the hopelessly vast seascape. First Jenny had been taken from him, then his children, and then Adriana. But all was not lost. Not yet. Slowly, one hand reached up to touch the golden amulet at his throat.

The day passed. “God, it's hot,” Maurice said. The sound of his voice hung listless on the air, faded unanswered. Night fell.

The second day dawned. Faces blistered. Tempers flared.

Another night passed, and at noon on the third day they doled out the last of the fresh water.

Tom was awakened in the middle of the fourth night by the sound of Topaz singing. Eyes blank and staring, the Carib was crooning a strange and unearthly song. “What the—?”

“Shhh,” Slurry whispered. “Don't ye have any respect for a man's religion?”

“It's his death song. Kind of like a prayer,” Maurice explained. “Just like Injuns everywhere, I reckon.”

“I make a prayer for all of us. Your God, my God, all same. It is all one prayer,” Topaz said, and, after a moment of silence, continued singing.

“Is that so?” Tom asked. He found his rapier and knelt before Topaz. “Listen to me, Topaz,” he said. “I spit on your prayer. Keep your death chant to yourself. I have no use for it.”

“Lordy,” Slurry whispered, grimacing and drawing back as far as the boat allowed.

Maurice braced himself and wondered where Topaz's knives were.

The chanting slowed, and stopped. Shadows in the starlight, the two men faced each other. “I will not die,” Tom said, raising the rapier hilt-first. “I swear by the blood of Raven and by the steel of this, her talon, that I will live to rescue my sons and my woman. I
will
live, and so will you.”