by Téa Cooper
An overwhelming desire to slap Marcus’ wretched pocket watch from his hands swamped Charlotte. ‘I don’t know. I don’t care.’
‘It matters not — if the Good Lord sees fit to save him, He will,’ Marcus intoned.
Christian stood on the rail of the ship riding the swell with ease, muscles corded, perfectly balanced despite the weight bound to his ankles. Catz untied his hands and Christian spread his arms, looking for all the world like a bird preparing for flight. The breeze blew his long hair back off his face and he turned to her, his cheekbones sharp, his teeth clamped on the sponge in his mouth.
Another place and another time — the spire of St Martin’s — a lifetime ago.
‘He’ll sink like the sewer rat he is — fuckin’ murderer.’ Henk raised his pistol above his head and fired. As the shot echoed across the water Christian took flight then plummeted head first into the water, his hands, raised above his head, breaking the surface first.
‘Jamie!’ Charlotte’s long drawn-out cry shattered the silence, and whipped away on the rising breeze.
Chapter 7
Henk’s pistol shot echoed in Christian’s ears as he dragged in one last breath through his nose, gunpowder burning his nostrils. He threw himself off the ship. For a long moment he hurtled through the air then the sea parted and swallowed him. Against every shred of self-preservation he pulled deeper and deeper until the dark green water wrapped around him like a shroud.
How many times had he dived beneath the keel? Hundreds in the past years checking for tears, timber worms, barnacles, but never tethered to the end of a misbegotten rope. He had to swim as deep as he could before the crew began pulling him up towards the keel.
Had he managed to suck in enough air? With the sponge clamped firmly between his teeth it had been difficult. Perhaps it would give him the one last breath he needed. The lead weight tied to his feet helped pull him down into the freezing water but prevented him covering any distance. As the huge bulk of the Zephyrus loomed above him the rope jerked and claimed him.
The upward drag towed him towards the curving silhouette of the hull. Its ominous shadow hovered above, looming larger with every upward tug. Through the murky black water the familiar timbers took shape. He’d traced every nail and every timber. Closer and closer. His muscles tightened and he thrashed against the rope, all sense of reason leaving him.
The crunch of bone against timber. Pain exploded, filling his underwater hell. His muscles slackened and he surrendered to the blessed relief of darkness. Spiralling against the rough timber, lulled by the current and the sense of weightlessness, he floated through the water. In his mind’s eye he pictured his body twisting and turning, bumping against the hull like blubber.
Mindless, drifting, almost at peace. The agonising slash of pain radiated through his back to his chest. Impaled by a huge keel splinter the torturous spasm grabbed at his mind and snapped him out of his stupor. Panic gripped him. Reaching out he clung claw-like to the keel, fighting the tug of the rope. Unless he pulled free his back would be torn to shreds. Bracing his hands against the hull he sought some way to release the shard of timber. Pain sliced through him, spearing his consciousness. He clamped his teeth into the sponge, fighting the desire to inhale as the agony surged. The rope jerked, then slackened. He rolled face down under the hull until the rope tightened again dragging him upwards.
His lungs burnt like a whaler’s try pot The strength the pain brought leeched from his body and a strange heat cloaked his back. Even through the clouds of chilled indecision he recognised the warmth for what it was — blood, his blood. Before long it would herald the arrival of the predators of the ocean. The great white sharks would scent a meal and in his pathetic state he would have no hope of fighting off an attack.
As he bumped against the hull the throbbing began, working its way up his legs through his stomach to his chest as his body screamed for air. Then the numbness. Weaving its way towards his lungs, his heart. Soon the end would come. Jonas knew the ocean claimed its own. Now it called to Christian, claiming him once more.
She floated before him, taunting him, beckoning him and leading him on. His angel — her hair fanned out like weed around her perfect face, glowing with radiance and promise, the promise of tomorrow. Hands reached out, egging him on into the patch of light shearing the greenish-blue haze of the future.
Following her lead he drifted upwards until the light brightened, blotting out her face. Summoning the last of his energy he kicked out to grasp her outstretched hand. He sucked in the last of the fetid air and spat the sponge from his mouth.
The rope snatched him once more. Her face disappeared into the swirling shadows. Reaching out he pushed away from the timbers to follow. The rope tightened reclaiming him. Hot shards of pain slashed his mind. He would not surrender. Not yet. Rolling against the hull, the hours of scraping had paid off; he should have been cut to ribbons.
Ribbons! Ribbons streaming ahead of him just out of his grasp.
His hands clutched at the water and closed into fists grasping nothing, nothing but his imagination. Stretching his arms he rode the swirling water, gasping for air, straining blindly into the light, scrabbling against the cold wet fury. And then it hit! The white-hot heat as he succumbed to the need to draw a breath. His lungs filled and his head broke the surface. The shiny black hull of the Zephyrus reflected the blinding shafts of sunlight searing his eyes. The agony ricocheted through him. Merciful darkness descended.
Reefing Marcus’ restraining hand from her arm Charlotte ran to the starboard rail. The water edged the side of the ship as smooth as marble, its surface broken only by the thick hemp rope snaking down into the greenish-blackness below.
The crew heaved and strained on the rope, pulling the weight through the water. Charlotte peered into the depths, waiting. Her heart ceased its frantic beating. Acceptance settled. Jamie would soon appear above the surface of the water and he would be alive. Once before she had believed him lost to the monsters lurking in the darkest depths of the ocean and he’d returned to her. To imagine this time would be any different was beyond comprehension. Her heart swelled with promise. The corner so long shrivelled blossomed into life when Jamie plummeted over the rail into the water. Every memory of him, of their life in London, reborn and crystal clear. Seven years telescoped into a heartbeat. Jamie was not lost.
In that moment the shattered girl who’d stepped off the Atwich in Hobart Town vanished; the girl who’d searched for oblivion was no more. The ocean of time had not closed over her beloved Jamie.
Time passed on leaden wings as Charlotte traced the second hand of Marcus’ pocket watch. It lumbered past each numeral with an unbelievable tedium.
‘Four minutes.’ Marcus raised a fourth finger. ‘He’ll be feeling it now. His chest will be constricting. With the pain of being dragged over the hull I suspect he’ll gasp. It may well be his last.’
As the seconds plodded by Charlotte’s burning desire to cover her ears and blot out the analytical self-satisfied words grew. Marcus had no soul. Not one iota of compassion.
‘He’s comin’ up!’ Windy dropped the rope in his excitement and peered over the edge of the deck into the water.
‘Get back there, you half-wit!’ Cookie cuffed him around the ears. ‘Leave the rope and he’ll be down there even longer.’
With her heart in her mouth Charlotte leant over the rail, waiting for her first glimpse of him. Perhaps her eyes had deceived her, the stress of the moment causing her mind to play tricks. Jamie had been scrawny, thin as a rake. They’d never had enough to eat despite the bread and cheese the fence had brought in the morning when he collected the takings. Sometimes they’d nick a tasty sample from the barrows in Covent Garden and then, if they were lucky, snitch a penny or two from their takings, treat themselves to a pie or even jellied eels. If Elizabeth’s customers paid her over the odds there might be more. Charlotte smiled, treasuring the warmth the memories evoked and leant closer to the water.
Some flight of fancy, a memory triggered by Christian’s air of determination and the devil-may-care look in his eyes. His sculpted body resembled a carving from the Parthenon in the museum. Jamie’s hair had been clipped short to keep the nits at bay, not the blond mane Christian sported, curling down around his shoulders. Jamie’s skin was pale, like alabaster, not tanned to the hue of amber. The veins on his wrists stood out like rivers of ink against his pale skin. She shook the thoughts away and squinted down at the water.
‘Here he comes.’
‘Remarkable. He appears to be struggling. The current moving his flaccid arms and legs, I suspect.’ Marcus studied his pocket watch again. ‘Four minutes and twenty-five seconds. Impossible. The sponge has gone from his mouth. He’s inhaled water.’
Charlotte’s stifled sob broke the tense silence as the reality of Christian’s ordeal swamped her.
With a final grunt of effort the crew hauled the body to the side of the ship. She flinched as his lolling head crashed against the hull, the pain searing her brain. Cookie bent over the side and slipped his arms under Christian’s armpits, hauling him aboard. Like a speared whale he flopped onto the deck.
Incapable of waiting a second longer Charlotte rushed forward.
‘Stand back,’ Henk commanded as he ambled over to the inert body and gave it an almighty kick in the ribs.
Charlotte sank to her knees, ignoring Henk’s command and studied Christian’s grey face. His lips etched a tight line across his face. His eyes appeared fastened shut.
‘He has met his maker,’ Marcus intoned.
‘Done for,’ Bristol confirmed, peering down and prodding the body with his bare toe.
‘Bloody good job, too. Well done, lads.’ Henk gave the inert body another kick, rolling it towards Charlotte.
Christian’s eyes flickered. Gaping in amazement Charlotte leant closer, her hand cupping his pale cheek. ‘Christian, wake up, open your eyes.’ Her frantic plea gained no response. His shuttered face remained remote, his eyes were closed and his big hands lay limp and frail at his sides. She stared at his chest, willing him to draw a breath. If there was life enough in him for his eyelids to flicker, surely he could manage to gasp a breath of air.
‘Come away, Charlotte. There’s nothing you can do. Leave it to the crew,’ Marcus insisted, stuffing his pocket watch back into his waistcoat. ‘Over four minutes, closer to five, remarkable,’ he mumbled as he turned away.
As Charlotte pushed back on her heels Christian emitted a strangled cough. A jet of water spurted from his mouth staining the deck.
‘He’s alive!’ Charlotte sank back down and tried to roll him over.
‘Nah! Not like that.’ Cookie pushed her to one side and turned Christian on his back, pulling his arms above his head. ‘Like this.’ He lowered Christian’s arms then raised them back above his head in a frantic pumping action.
‘Remarkable! Remarkable.’ Marcus bent close to Charlotte. ‘I do believe he has some life in him. The only knowledge I have is of the South Seas divers. Now I believe they can train themselves to hold their breath for…’
‘Marcus. Shut up.’ Charlotte’s heart raced, she crossed her fingers on both hands and prayed, actually prayed. Meanwhile Christian’s body heaved and spluttered for breath.
Charlotte ran her eyes over his wet skin. It glistened in the sunlight and livid bruises blossomed all over his legs and arms. His clothes hung in tatters, ripped to shreds by the keel. When his chest began to rise and fall in an almost rhythmic pattern she leant over him, her hand flat on the deck to support her weight.
Cookie grunted in satisfaction and lowered Christian’s arms, placing them gently alongside his body. ‘He’s breathing. He’s still with us.’
‘Bloody miracle. Twice.’ Henk’s globule of spit sailed over the rail in a perfect arc. ‘Looked like that when we dragged him aboard last time. Though why the old man bothered I’m not sure. Bloody murderer — even God won’t take him.’
‘Our Lord welcomes sinners no matter what their crime. With Him there is plentiful redemption.’ Marcus gazed heavenward.
Henk shot him a look of disdain and then emitted a guttural bark of laughter. ‘Come on, boys. The show’s over. Time to get this ship into the wind.’ He strode off to the wheel. ‘Jinks — lookout, Bristol, watch, Windy and Catz…’ He threw his final words over his shoulder. ‘Let me know when he’s carked it and sewn into the canvas.’
‘There’s life in the man yet,’ Cookie said.
‘Let me know if there’s enough life in the bugger for me to flog him. Snap to it. Show’s over!’
Charlotte glared up at Marcus, unable to believe his callous attitude. Easing herself to her feet her hand slipped on the wet deck. She lurched across Christian’s chest. His body gave a shudder. His eyelids quivered then closed again and he mumbled something unintelligible.
‘Charlotte, come away.’ Marcus’ irritation laced his words. ‘Now! Stand up.’
Charlotte pushed up, relief flooding through her. Alive! Bristol pushed her aside, covering Christian’s body with a length of canvas, tucking it mummy-like around his prostrate form until only his pale face remained visible.
She pushed her hair back from her face. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? He survived. I know he will recover.’ Her words dried on her lips as she took in Marcus’ gaping mouth. ‘Is there something wrong, Marcus?’
He turned his face away, glancing furtively at the crew.
‘Marcus?’
‘Your face,’ he whispered.
‘My face?’
‘Yes,’ he hissed. ‘Your face is covered in blood.’
Charlotte ran her hand over her cheek then looked at the palm of her hand and gave a start. Marcus was right! Blood covered her palm yet she had no injury. ‘Have I cut my face?’
With a deal of distaste Marcus produced a white handkerchief from his pocket and made a random dab at her cheek. ‘I don’t believe you are bleeding. It appears to have come from your hand.’ Almost as an afterthought he added, ‘There’s blood in your hair.’
Charlotte turned her palms upwards and gazed down at them. Her left hand was clean but her right was coated in a pale watery red. She let out a cry of anguish. ‘It’s Christian. He must be bleeding.’
‘Rubbish. Look at the man, he’s lying on his back covered in canvas and looks for all the world as though he’s sleeping.’
Ignoring Marcus’ platitude Charlotte sank once more onto her knees next to Christian. Cookie sat at his head watching the barely discernible rise and fall of his chest.
‘Cookie, he’s bleeding.’
‘What makes you say that?’
She turned her hand over and showed him the remnants of blood on her palm and then ran her fingers under the canvas. They came away stained a deeper red. She held them up for Cookie to inspect.
‘You’re right. Must have been caught on the keel and we didn’t notice because the seawater washed ‘im clean.’ He peeled back the canvas. Christian’s bare chest showed evidence of bruising and scratching but little else.
‘Support his ‘ead. I’m going to roll him over to you.’
Charlotte tucked her skirt around her legs and sank back. Cookie rolled Christian’s body until his chest rested against her knees.
‘He’s bleeding all right. His bloody back’s cut to ribbons.’ He ran his index finger across Christian’s back, his eyes wide as he studied the gruesome mess of flesh and blood dripping down to his wrist. ‘Must’ve been the molluscs and barnacles on the hull. Boys can’t have done a very good job careening her.’
Charlotte peered over Christian’s inert body. She could see nothing but a pool of sticky blood on the deck and Cookie’s fingers looking as though he’d dabbled at Smithfield Meat Market.
‘Holy hell! He’s got a splinter the size of the mainmast stuck in his back.’ Cookie’s fingers disappeared from sight.
Christian’s body gave an almighty jerk
and his eyes flashed open. ‘Fuck off, Cookie!’
Tears of relief poured down Charlotte’s cheeks as Christian’s icy fingers tightened around hers. She bent closer.
‘This is extremely unseemly, Charlotte. Pray stand and let the man do what has to be done. We are paying passengers not members of the crew.’ Marcus took two paces back, disdain written on his face. ‘The chances of him surviving those wounds are minimal. They’ll become infected.’
Charlotte ignored his words, instead she cupped Christian’s cheek in the palm of her hand and crooned quietly. His face resembled a skull, bleached skin stretched tight across his cheekbones.
‘Charlotte. Come away, now.’
‘Nah. She’s busy,’ Cookie said. ‘I’m going to need some help. Are you goin’ to lift him?’ Cookie’s bloody hands splayed in question as he looked at Marcus.
‘I think not.’ Marcus pulled himself up to his full height. ‘As I said, we are paying passengers, nothing more.’ He smoothed his waistcoat and patted his watch. ‘Come away. Now, Charlotte!’
Used to acquiescing to Marcus’ every demand Charlotte made to rise then paused. If Marcus was correct, even if Christian survived the drowning he could well die from infection. This was no time for niceties.
She sank back down to the deck and turned her head. ‘No, Marcus. You might not see it as your role but I see it as mine. He needs help.’ Charlotte cringed as her sentence ended in a high-pitched squeak. How could a man who professed to be a man of God have so little compassion? ‘We have to get him somewhere more comfortable, where we can treat his wounds.’
Marcus clicked his tongue in annoyance. ‘Charlotte, I insist you come away now.’
With a toss of her head she said, ‘Cookie, can you get one of the crew to help you? Carry him down and put him in the Captain’s cabin.’
‘Charlotte! Are you forgetting yourself? It is my cabin. Your suggestion is entirely inappropriate.’
‘There’s nowhere else, Marcus.’ Courage blossomed as she defied him. A driving need to ensure Christian had the best possible care spurred her on. ‘You will simply have to take my cabin while I help Cookie administer to Christian’s needs.’