Her groping hands found the oars underneath the thwart but, although she had learned to row as a child, she knew that her efforts would be useless in the absence of anything to steer by. She could only wait for daylight to dispel the darkness and the mist. Pulling her thin garments round her as best she could, she huddled in the bottom of the boat and let it drift, choking back her tears and forcing herself not to think of the others she had left on that fatal ship: Jolival and Gracchus in irons, and Agathe at the mercy of the drunken seamen… and Jason. God alone knew what had become of Jason by now. O'Flaherty had said that he was in the power of a demon, but for Leighton to be so obviously master of the brig, backed up by that handful of brigands, Beaufort must surely be a prisoner, or worse. As for the jovial Irishman, he had probably shared his captain's fate.
To stop herself thinking too much about them, and in a desperate effort to help them, if there were still time, Marianne started to pray as she had never prayed before, with a frantic, terrified earnestness. She prayed for her friends and for herself, abandoned to the mercy of the sea with no other protection than a flimsy boat, a few yards of cambric and her own courage and fierce instinct for survival. In the end, she fell asleep.
She woke, chilled to the bone, with an aching back and her inadequate clothing wet and clammy from the mist. It was light, although the sun had not yet risen, and the mist had thinned. The sky was faintly blue except in the east, where it was dyed a pinkish orange. The sea lay calm as a millpond, extending in an unbroken expanse as far as the eye could see, without a sail or sight of land. There was hardly a breath of wind. The breeze would get up later in the morning, reaching its peak at about ten o'clock.
Marianne stretched her cramped limbs and set herself to consider her position as calmly as she could. She concluded that, though bleak, it was by no means desperate. The study of geography had formed part of the broad education planned for her as a child by her aunt Ellis, and geography, in England, had included the use of the globes. She had laboured for hours, too, over boring maps of mountains, rivers, seas and islands, loathing it all because outside the sun was shining and she was longing to be free to enjoy a good gallop across country on her pony, Harry. She had never been fond of drawing, either. Now, in her trouble, she sent up a prayer of thanks to her aunt's ghost, thanks to whose efforts she had been able to follow approximately the course taken by the Witch, so that she now had some vague idea of where she was.
This was in the region of the Cyclades, the constellation of islands which makes the Aegean Sea a kind of terrestrial milky-way. If she went on in an easterly direction, she was almost bound to come across one or other of the islands before very long and there was always the possibility of encountering a fishing boat. After all, as the unspeakable Leighton had said, this was not the dreaded Atlantic Ocean, where she would have faced certain death.
As much to warm herself and provide a distraction from the terror induced by the vast loneliness around her, as with any very real hope of hastening her salvation, Marianne got out the pair of oars from the bottom of the boat, fitted them to the thole-pins and began to row energetically. The boat was heavy and so were the oars, designed for the calloused hands of seamen, not for the soft palms of a lady, but the physical exercise did provide a kind of comfort.
As she rowed, she did her best to sort out in her mind what must have happened on board the Sea Witch. When they had carried her on deck, she had certainly been blind with rage, but not so blind that she had not registered the fact that Leighton had only a handful of the men with him: not more than thirty or so out of the hundred or more who made up the crew. Where were the others? What had the doctor done with them? A strange kind of doctor, who seemed as well able to make men sick as to cure them! Were they prisoners under hatches? Drugged… or worse? The villain must have had a whole arsenal of diabolical potions at his disposal to enable him to get the better of normally strong, intelligent men. Her own experiences in Venice had taught her how a potion, a philtre, or whatever such devilish brews should be called, could break the will and unleash buried instincts, bringing a human being to the verge of madness. There had been a strange look in Jason's eyes during those last hours on the ship.
That there had been mutiny aboard, Marianne was now quite certain. Leighton and his supporters had made themselves master of the ship. She refused to believe that Jason, however hurt or angry he might be, could have changed in an instant, so radically, into a rapacious freebooter, scheming to take both her jewels and her life. No, he must be a prisoner, and powerless. Everything in Marianne's mind rejected the idea that Leighton could have struck at the life of a man who was his friend and who had welcomed him aboard his ship. In any case, Jason's skill as a seaman must make him indispensable to the navigation of such a vessel. He could not possibly be dead. But… what of his lieutenant? And the prisoners?
As she thought of Jolival, Agathe and Gracchus, Marianne's heart contracted. The evil doctor could have no pressing reason to spare their lives, the Vicomte's and the young coachman's at least, unless he suffered from any qualms about adding further needless crimes to an already overburdened conscience.
As for poor Agathe, the use they had for her was all too clear. Kaleb, who since his attempt on Leighton had been numbered by Marianne among her own people, had, because of his commercial value, nothing immediate to fear beyond the prospect of being sold back into slavery at the first opportunity. Yet that was bad enough, and Marianne felt an overwhelming pity for the dark and splendid being. His nobility and generosity had made a deep impression on her, and now, once again, he was to know the chains of slavery, the cruel whips and fetters of men who differed from him only in the colour of their skin.
Marianne rested breathlessly on her oars. The sun was up now and beat down on the sea with a glare that hurt her eyes. It was going to be a hot day, and she had nothing to protect her from the burning rays.
To guard against sunstroke, she tore off a strip from her wrapper and wound it round her head like a turban, but this did nothing to shade her face which was already starting to burn. In spite of it, she rowed on doggedly, eastwards.
There was worse to come. By midday, thirst was beginning, slowly and inexorably, to make itself felt. At first it was no more than a dryness of the lips and mouth. Then, little by little, the dryness spread to her whole body. Her skin grew hot and parched. She made a feverish search of every corner of the boat in the hope that food and water might have been stowed aboard in case of shipwreck, but there was nothing, only the oars: nothing to quench the thirst which was becoming a torment, nothing… only the blue immensity of water which mocked her.
She sought some relief by taking off her scanty clothing and hanging over the side to scoop sea-water over her body. It revived her a little and she moistened her lips and even tried to drink a few drops of cool water, but this only made things worse. The salt smarted on her lips and merely accentuated her thirst.
Hunger came later, and was not so bad. Marianne would gladly have gone without food for two days for the sake of one glass of fresh water, yet a time came when she could no longer ignore the gnawing in her stomach. Her condition, the fact that there was a new life dependent on her own, only made her body more demanding. It was not long before she was suffering badly from fatigue. The sun was merciless. With a last effort she managed to ship the oars and lay them in the bottom of the boat, then she lay down, shielding herself from the killing rays as best she could. Still there was no land in sight, not even another boat, and if help were not forthcoming soon, she knew that she would face death – the slow, appalling death that she no longer doubted had been meant for her by Leighton. Yet, the man was a doctor and must, at some stage in his life, have sworn a solemn oath to succour anyone threatened by sickness and death.
The fact that she had not so far encountered any other human being, nor even caught a glimpse of a sail, suggested that the Sea Witch had already deviated from her course before setting her adrift. They must have put her
overboard somewhere in the midst of the broad stretch of open water that lay between the Cyclades and the island of Crete. Leighton's purpose had not simply been to get her off the ship: he had condemned her, quite coldbloodedly, to death.
She very nearly cried as the cruel reality of her situation came home to her, but she forced back the tears with all the feeble strength left to her, knowing that she could not afford to waste a drop of the precious water that remained in her exhausted body.
Evening brought some relief from the heat but the dehydration that seemed to be draining her body, like a vampire, only grew worse. Soon even her bones seemed to be crying out their torturing need for water.
As she had done earlier, she scooped sea water over herself and knew a momentary relief. With it came the temptation to let herself slide into the blue water and seek a final end to all her sufferings. But the instinct of self-preservation was stronger, that and the odd little flicker, like the night-light burning in a sick-room which keeps the shadow of death at bay, which still flared up in her and bade her live, if only for the sake of revenge.
The temperature dropped unexpectedly after dark and, after suffering from the heat all day, Marianne shivered all night long in her thin lawn, without a wink of sleep. Not until the sun had risen once more over the empty sea, did she manage to drop off and forget her parched and aching body. But the awakening was all the more painful. She was stiff and sore and desperately weak.
Even so, at the cost of an almost superhuman effort, she succeeded in sitting up, only to fall back motionless into the bottom of the boat, at the mercy of the sun which now increased her torment.
After that, the mirages began to occur. She seemed to see land on the burning horizon, and fantastic shapes of ships, and great sails racing towards her, bending over her, but when she stretched out her arms to seize them in her delirium, she touched only the empty air and the wooden sides of the boat, and was left weaker than before. The day passed with infinite slowness. In spite of the little she had managed to contrive in the way of shelter, the sun beat down on her with hammer strokes, and her tongue, which seemed to have swollen to three times its normal size, had grown too big for her mouth and was threatening to choke her.
The boat drifted gently: in what direction Marianne had no means of telling. For all she knew, or cared, it might have been moving in circles. She was lost, and she knew it. She could hope for no help, now, but death. Opening her burned eyes painfully, she dragged herself to the side, determined now to drop into the water, if she could find the strength, and make an end of this inhuman torture. But her body had become like a baulk of dead wood and she could not raise it.
Something red passed through her misted field of vision. Her hands touched water. She thrust harder. The rough wood scraped her chest but she did not feel it, insensible now to any pain but the vast fire that was consuming her whole being. Another little effort and her hair was trailing in the sea. The boat tipped gently and Marianne slipped over into the blue water which closed, mercifully cool, over her head.
Too weak and too indifferent to swim, asking nothing but to get it over as quickly as possible, she let herself sink. Her mind shook free of the real world and consciousness receded.
Yet the terrible need for water which had tormented her seemed to pursue her into death. She was haunted by water, it invaded her, she was dissolving in it. Sweet, life-giving water was flowing over her, as spring water wells up and covers dry stones. It was no longer the bitter, salt sea-water but a fresh draught, light as rainfall on the grass in a parched garden. Solaced, Marianne began to dream that the Almighty, in His mercy, had decreed that she should spend eternity drinking sweet water, and that she had gone to the paradise of those who have died of thirst.
If so, it was a singularly hard and uncomfortable paradise. Her disembodied spirit was actually hurting quite savagely. Her swollen eyelids parted painfully and she saw a heavily bearded face bending over her, out of which looked a pair of questioning black eyes. Something red flapped in the background which she was soon able to identify as a sail rippling in the wind.
Seeing that she had regained consciousness, the man slipped an arm beneath her head and supported her while he held something rough and cool to her cracked lips. It was the rim of an earthen jar. He let a little more of the blessed water trickle down her throat. As he did so, he said something incomprehensible, evidently speaking to someone Marianne could not see. Weak as she was, she struggled round and saw a black figure standing outlined against the red sail. He made a sinister impression standing there in the fiery glow of the setting sun: there was a Greek priest on board. Although himself heavily bearded and by no means clean, he was looking at her with evident disapproval. He said something clearly unflattering in reply and pointed an accusing finger. Instantly the man holding Marianne drew a piece of sailcloth over her, while the priest tucked his hands in his sleeves and turned away to stare at the horizon. Marianne remembered suddenly that her flimsy nightclothes must be in ribbons.
She tried to smile her thanks to her rescuer but her parched lips would only form an agonized grimace and she winced at the pain of it.
The man, apparently a fisherman, then reached behind him and produced a small phial of olive oil, which he smeared generously over her face. After this, he drew a basket towards him and took out a bunch of grapes, some of which he fed cautiously to his patient. Marianne took them eagerly: they were white and sweet and it seemed to her that she had never tasted anything so delicious.
Then he finished wrapping Marianne in her cocoon of sailcloth, slipped a rolled-up fishing net under her head, and signed to her to go to sleep.
At the other end of the boat, against the red sail whose colour faded with the fading light, the priest stood in an impassive and hieratic pose, eating black bread and onions, washed down by frequent draughts from a pot-bellied jar that he had beside him. When he had finished, he embarked on a lengthy prayer involving various ritual prostrations which, on the moving boat, called for considerable acrobatic skill. By the time this was over, it was quite dark and, curling himself into a ball with his strange-looking mitre tipped over his eyes, he settled himself into his corner and began to snore, without another glance at the creature whom his companion had fished out of the water.
Tired as she was, Marianne felt no desire to sleep. She was exhausted but the thirst, the terrible thirst, had gone; the oil on her face had soothed away some of the pain and she felt almost better. The heavy canvas protected her from the chill of night-time, and above her the stars were coming out, one by one. They were the same stars she had seen the night before, as she lay in the bottom of her boat, but then they had seemed cold and hostile. Tonight there was something friendly about them and from the bottom of her heart Marianne offered up a prayer of thanks to the God who had sent a saving hand to her just at the very moment when she had abandoned hope and decided to put an end to her existence. She could hear the man humming now, through closed lips, as he steered his little craft. She could not understand the language, she did not know to what land he was taking her, nor even where she was, but she was alive, and the sea that bore them up was the same sea that carried the American brig and the pirate who had taken possession of it. Wherever she was taken now, Marianne knew that it was only the first step towards her revenge. She knew, too, that she would know no rest until she had tracked down John Leighton and made him pay the price of his crimes in blood. Every sailor, friend or foe, who sailed the Mediterranean, must be pressed into service to pursue the slaver, so that Leighton might be hanged from the yard-arm of the ship he had stolen!
Towards midnight, the moon rose, a thin crescent giving scarcely more light than the stars. A light breeze sang in the sail, and the sea slid past the vessel's hull with a noise like silk. The fisherman's voice sank to a low, faintly melancholy chant, so slow and soothing that Marianne dropped off to sleep at last. She was sleeping too deeply to see the island, with its tall black cliffs, or hear the whispered colloquy be
tween the priest and the fisherman, nor did she feel the hands that carried her ashore, wrapped in the sail.
When she woke, there was nothing but the absence of tormenting thirst to prove that she had not dreamed her rescue. She was lying in the shadow of a rock and a few stunted bushes on a shore of black sand strewn with silver weed. In front of her a sea the colour of indigo lapped at a fringe of black and white pebbles. The piece of sailcloth that had been wrapped round her had gone, like the boat, priest and fisherman, but her thin cotton rags were dry, and when she looked round she saw two bunches of golden grapes laid out neatly on a big flat stone. Automatically her hand crept out towards them. She felt incredibly weak and tired.
Raising herself on her elbow, she nibbled a few of the sweet, juicy grapes. They tasted real enough to assure her that this was not all part of some fantastic dream. She was dizzy and ill, but there was no time to ponder why her fisherman rescuer had apparently changed his mind and abandoned her again on a deserted shore, for at that moment the shore ceased to be deserted.
At the far end of the beach, where a path led down through the rocks, a white procession was emerging, so unexpectedly anachronistic in appearance that Marianne could only rub her eyes to ensure they were not deceiving her.
Led by a tall dark woman, as beautiful and queenly as Athena herself, and a pair of flute-players, came a file of young girls dressed in the many-folded antique chiton, their black hair bound with criss-crossing white fillets. Some carried branches, others bore an amphora on one shoulder, and they walked two by two, slowly and gracefully, like the priestesses of some ancient rite, singing a kind of chant to the piping notes of the flutes.
This curious procession was coming towards her. Marianne dragged herself over the sand until she felt that she was safely hidden by the rock, and with its help managed to stand upright. Her head was swimming and she was still very weak, far too weak to run away from this apparition from the past, which made her feel that she had taken a leap back over about two thousand four hundred years.
[Marianne 4] - Marianne and the Rebels Page 27