Sail Away

by Lee Rowan

  Captain Smith stepped up before them, and the flute fell silent. He cleared his throat and began. “Dearly beloved….”

  Kit had been to many weddings and knew the words of the ritual. But today it was somehow as though he heard the words for the first time. “…Mutual society, help, and comfort, both in prosperity and adversity….” Yes. That was exactly what they had. She had stayed by him through horrible adversity, and now he could share the advantages with which he’d been blessed. Deep in thought, he actually jumped when Captain Smith addressed him:

  “Wilt thou, Christopher, have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

  “I will!” he said, so loudly that David chuckled.

  Zoe said her “I will” in turn, promising to obey, serve, love, honor, and all the rest. They’d had sickness enough, God knew, and he hoped she would never have to go through that again for him.

  “Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?” the Captain demanded, obviously enjoying the role.

  “I do,” said Dr. Colbert.

  “Repeat after me,” Smith instructed, and Kit and Zoe each duly took one another to have and to hold for better and for worse.

  Then Kit took the ring from David. Zoe recognized it as he slid it on her finger; her eyes filled with tears. “With this ring I thee wed,” he promised. “With my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods, I thee endow.”

  The Captain pronounced them man and wife, and gave the benediction: “God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Ghost, bless, preserve, and keep you; the Lord mercifully with his favor look upon you; and so fill you with all spiritual benediction and grace, that ye may so live together in this life, that in the world to come ye may have life everlasting. Amen.”

  Kit stood looking into Zoe’s eyes as she smiled up at him, and the moment stretched on until finally Captain Smith cleared his throat and said in a commanding voice, “Well, get on with it, man! Kiss your bride!”

  A cheer went up from the crew as he happily obeyed the order.

  “WHAT A wonderful wedding gift!” Zoe said.

  Kit had to agree. He had been racking his brain to figure out how they could possibly consummate their marriage in a hammock, but the crew of Calypso had rescued him from what seemed an insoluble dilemma. Here in the Captain’s cabin, they had given the newly wedded couple a simple but serviceable bed, constructed by the ship’s carpenter and—from all reports—at least half the crew. It was no more elegant than the first they’d shared together, and it was lashed to an upright in case of unexpected movement, but it was the most delightful divan he had ever seen. Standing beside it in a dressing gown borrowed from his cousin, he reached out to Zoe. “Come to bed, if you please, Baroness!”

  “Baroness?” she said. “That is too strange, Christophe.” Taking off her mother’s lace veil, she draped it over the foot of the bed and took his hand. “I think for a little while I shall be only your wife.”

  “When we’re together, that’s enough,” he said, pulling her close. She lifted her face for a kiss and leaned against him. Just as it had that first night, the touch of her body against his sent a spark through him, kindling desire. “Let me help you with your dress.”

  “Will I have to have a maid, when we are in England?” she asked, surprisingly passive as he fumbled with the tiny buttons that held the bodice closed.

  “I think you will need one. I know nothing about fitting ball gowns or arranging a lady’s hair.”

  That earned a giggle, and with the buttons undone, she raised her arms above her head. “You know everything about the undressing.”

  “Ah, but that is the easy part.” He lifted off the pink gown and laid it carefully over a nearby chair. Only one garment left—why was he suddenly shy? Their eyes met, and he saw the same hesitation in her look. “Come, my dear. Or—” He did not know how to ask; his ignorance was appalling, though in the next several months, he expected he would learn quite a lot. “Would it disturb the baby?”

  “The doctor told me only to be careful,” she said. “And you are very careful.” She undid the belt of his dressing gown. “You are careful, and wonderful, and—ah, this cabin is warm and happy!”

  Kit laughed as she tugged him down onto the straw mattress, and marveled at her combination of sweet playfulness and unabashed sexuality. The curve of her hip—was there anything to compare? He stroked her like a cat, and she responded like one, arching into his hand as her own hands drifted across his chest and sides. They kissed, and kissed again, a dozen times, lips and face and throat. He decided to kiss every inch of her, but was distracted by the time he reached her breasts. Each of them was perfect, just the right size for his hand, warm and full.

  She squeaked as he licked one nipple, fascinated with the way it stood at attention. What amazing things! And when he sucked at it, what an amazing effect it had. Zoe cried out, caught his hand, and drew it down to the triangle of soft dark hair between her legs, her other hand pressing the back of his head.

  Kit knew that her passion matched his own, but he also knew it had been some weeks since Portugal, and it would not take him long to reach fulfillment. He let one finger slip into her cleft and was rewarded by her indrawn breath.

  “So soon, my love?”

  “Christophe—it has been so long!”

  His body agreed completely, but he could not resist teasing her just a little longer. He released her nipple, blowing a stream of cool air across it. She gasped, lovely as a goddess, her mouth ripe as a plum and her cheeks all flushed. “Greedy girl. I must still pay my respects to this other beautiful flower.” Still moving his finger within her, he leaned over and took the other nipple, sucking harder this time.

  Zoe’s body curved around his hand, but she took hold of his head with both of her own hands and pulled his face away with an audible pop. “Beast! Why do you torment me?” But her actions gave lie to the words; she caught his mouth in a fierce kiss and got hold of his cock, and his good intentions went astray.

  And the two shall be as one flesh…. A poetic way of putting it, but so true. Why did they say a man took a woman? Surely it was the other way around: she opened herself and took him within. It was not taking—it was giving, receiving, both things together. As his body responded to her sweet, smooth heat, thought became difficult until her body shuddered, sending him to his climax.

  Kit took a deep breath and eased onto his back, cradling Zoe against him. Already this sharing had the feeling of familiarity, a new part of his life. Thank God he had found the right woman—how dreary this would have been with some polite wife of good breeding and limited passion! How did other couples endure it, those well-bred, courteous folk who married others like themselves for all the proper reasons but forgot about love? It was no wonder so many of the people in his mother’s social circle seemed to be dying slowly of boredom.

  Zoe snuggled against him and mumbled something as he pulled the covers over them both.

  “What was that, sweetheart?” he asked.

  “I said, I like it best in a bed.”

  He laughed aloud. With this brave, wild girl at his side, he knew that however complicated their life might become, it would never be sullied by boredom.

  CASTAWAY

  THE WIND screamed like a mad witch as it tugged at the sheets the men were struggling to furl. Sprung from nowhere, the storm had been upon them without warning, and His Majesty’s Frigate Calypso was fighting for her life. The foremast had been split earlier that day in an engagement with Spanish privateers, split and mended, but the weak point was giving way; the only thing to do was take the damaged topgallant mast off altogether, furl the topsail, and leave the forecourse up to give them some means of keeping her in line with the killing wind.

  Will Marshall’s men were up there, and Da
vid Archer’s too, as the two midshipmen stood to one side below, relaying their Captain’s shouted orders, which barely carried above the wind’s howl. If anyone could bring them through this gale, it was Captain Smith; he had been up in the mizzen himself, encouraging by example, before the crisis at the foremast brought him back to the quarterdeck.

  Disaster, when it struck, was swift. The wind veered, splitting the crippled foretopmast, tearing it off aft and larboard, striking the topmast yard like a battering ram, and carrying half of that away as well. Lines parted as the missile plunged for the deck. Marshall dove out of its path, reaching for Davy’s arm, but the loose line had whipped back on itself and snagged Davy already, dragging him along as the splintered mast bounced off the deck and flipped over the rail. Will’s men needed no direction; they scrambled to cut the lines free before the rest of the mast came down along with it. He had to get Davy out of there before it all went over.

  The mast teetered on the rail for an instant, the wind now holding it up almost playfully. Marshall was able to get hold of his friend. Then the mast pitched over, and he thought his arms would be dragged from their sockets. Marshall cast about desperately with his feet, trying to get a purchase, but everything was wet, too wet.

  “Let go, Will!”

  “No!” Where were the men, damn them, where were they? They had the broken mast cut away—could they not see they were about to lose a couple of shipmates over the side?

  No, they likely could not. The way the rain was coming down, it was doubtful they could see anything at all. Help would come, eventually, but right now it was up to him.

  He redoubled his grip on the oiled canvas of Davy’s rain cloak and the jacket beneath. He only had to hold on for a moment. Just a moment.

  They slipped another few inches.

  “Damn you, Will, let go!” Davy struggled to slip away, and Marshall was tempted to hit him. But to do that, he would have to let go. He could not let go.

  They weren’t going to make it.

  “Will, no—”

  The Captain’s voice bellowed over the din. “Mr. Marshall—”

  Too late. They were over the side, and Will had only an instant to suck in a breath before they smashed into the icy, heaving sea. With one hand he fought clear of the treacherous tangle of line and sail, realizing with enormous relief that Davy was keeping his head and helping him, and they broke the surface just as something splashed down beside them. A coiled hammock—but before he could do anything about it, it was yanked away by its line as the Calypso was driven before the wind.

  Another projectile landed, something bigger, and he was quick enough to catch it. A box? A crate?

  “What is it, a chicken coop?” Davy yelled as Marshall wrestled the thing close in.

  It didn’t matter what it was; it was floating. If they ever got back to the Calypso, he’d have to commend someone’s quick thinking. “Just hang on,” he shouted back, shoving Davy against it. When Davy did, he explored the object with his free hand and found eight or ten feet of line, probably used to lash the crate down; its end was cut clean. Their buoy probably was a coop. Some of the landsmen had been cleaning the beasts’ cages on deck before the storm hit and had not had time to take them below or put the chickens back in.

  Getting the line around them both and tying the loose end to the crate was an exhausting task. It took him far longer than it should have in the storm-tossed water, but at last they were secured by the line as well as by half-numb fingers. He let his head sag and suddenly found Davy’s shoulder beneath it, his arm around him.

  “Will.” Davy’s voice was loud, right in his ear. “Why did you do it?”

  “So we won’t slip away,” he said, wondering dazedly how Davy could be so ignorant.

  “Not that, you ass.” Davy sounded exasperated. “Why did you not let go of me? What’s the use both of us drowning?”

  He blinked stupidly. He could not see Davy’s face, but he could feel the warm circle of his arm, the only warmth in a wet, freezing world. “Need you, Davy. Who would I be without you?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Davy said, shaking him. “Will? Will, wake up!”

  “WILL, WAKE up.”

  He didn’t want to wake up. His body weighed a thousand pounds, his eyelids at least a hundredweight.

  “You’ve got to move a little way. Just up the beach a bit.”

  Davy. Overboard.

  Beach?

  There was sand under his fingers. Land!

  “Come on, Will. Just a little way.”

  It was Davy talking. He was alive. They were both alive! Marshall dragged himself forward a little way, as far as he could, then collapsed. The rain was still beating on him, and he rolled onto his side so it would trickle into his mouth. He tried to see where Davy was, but it was too dark. He groped around and found an arm, a shoulder. “Where—?” he croaked.

  “Don’t know. Land. Have to wait till daylight.” Davy’s voice was scratchy too, and weak. “I think we’re far enough from the waterline.”

  Marshall nodded, though he had no idea where the waterline was. “Might as well rest.” Teeth chattering, he scooted toward Davy, hoping to achieve a little warmth from the closeness. They might be in the tropics, but the sea and wet sand had leached away his body heat.

  Davy rolled closer, threw an arm over him, and he slipped out of consciousness with a vague sense of reassurance.

  “DAVY?”

  Somebody would not stop shaking his shoulder, so Archer reluctantly opened his eyes. Awareness brought with it a host of minor physical irritations: he was wet and cold, his eyes stung, and his face felt as though someone had scrubbed it with a holystone. “Will?” Even his voice was squawky.

  He squinted into unreasonable brightness and saw his friend lying sprawled beside him. They were both still tethered to what he now clearly recognized as an empty chicken coop—no wonder it had been so difficult to move last night! And they were on a beach, and the sun was shining. A wide swathe of green rose from the sand a few dozen yards away. It was a beautiful morning, and they were alive.

  “I cannot believe this,” he said.

  “Nor can I, but I am not complaining.”

  Archer laughed and pushed himself up on one arm. “My drawers are full of sand,” he observed.

  Will grimaced and sat up, fussing with the line that secured them to the coop. “Yes. Well, we may as well unload the extra ballast. I wonder where we are? How long were we in the water? Have you any idea?”

  “None at all. A long time, but I don’t believe we could have drifted so very far.” He did not remember much of the night before. Everything after they’d gone into the water was a nightmarish blur. They had both been weary when the storm struck; they’d just gone off watch but were recalled to duty. Archer had napped earlier in the day, but that only meant he’d been able to stay conscious for a little while longer. As he’d succumbed to exhaustion and cold, he had never expected to awaken. He vaguely remembered feeling ground beneath his feet and urging Will to shore, but he’d thought that a dream.

  Yet here they were. He followed Will’s example, stripping off his soaked and sand-crusted uniform and rinsing the clothing out in the sea, wading in waist-deep to avoid scooping up another load of sand stirred up from beneath. The sea, so deadly the night before, was as beautiful as a jewel this morning, with small waves rolling in to tug at the remains of the mast and rigging that had so nearly killed them.

  “That went in with us,” Will said with a nod at the wreckage. “But I see nothing bigger. I believe the Calypso survived the storm.”

  “Do you think they’ll come back to search for us?”

  “Perhaps.” Will shook his head. “But by rights we should have drowned. The Captain may tarry a day or two, but he can’t be certain where to look.”

  “Do you think this is an island?”

  “Most likely. If it is, we could be here for years. There must be dozens of little islands out here, and two midshipmen, more or
less, won’t count for much. We must fend for ourselves for now, Davy.”

  His smile turned their predicament into an adventure, and Archer felt his spirits rise. A little while away from war, away from the Calypso, in Will’s company? He could not ask for more. “If we can find food and water, we should do very well.”

  Water was the most important, of course, more so even than finding out whether this was indeed an island, and whether it was inhabited, and by what sort of people. But the luck that had washed them ashore seemed to be holding. Some of the low-growing plants at the edge of the tree line had broad leaves that had caught rain from the night before. They were able to find enough to slake their immediate thirst.

  “We cannot count on a nightly rainstorm,” Will said finally.

  “I should hope not. Better than dying of thirst, but if it rains that often, we shall have to build some sort of shelter.”

  “And we had better explore—to begin with, we need to find out whether this is an island.”

  Archer tried to remember the charts of the area. “Unless we were blown a very long way, I think it must be.”

  “Yes.” Will squinted into the trees. “I wonder if anyone is watching us. If we find any inhabitants, I hope they are friendly, or at least neutral. I should hate to be taken prisoner after all this!”

  Archer only nodded. He had a feeling they were alone here, but no way to explain it.

  They hauled the wreckage of the foretopmast up out of reach of the tide and started off to circumnavigate the island, if that was what it was. A sandy beach stretched out to either side, curving away fairly quickly. Beyond the beach were trees—palm trees, nearby, and other sorts deeper in. A few crabs wandered the sand; those would make a tasty dinner, if he and Will could build a fire. Archer wondered if Will had a flint with him; he did not have one himself.