by Raven, Sandy
Sarah fished two half sovereigns from her pocket and showed him. The boy looked at the money in her hand, then around the darkened pier.
“Fine. But I gotta be quick, don’t know when me cap’n’s comin’ back.” Sarah tossed the bag into the dinghy and stepped down into it. Once the boy shoved away from the pier with the oar, he asked, “Which un’s yer boat?”
“Avenger.”
“Aye. I knows where it is.”
They rowed out about a hundred yards into the darkness with only the light of a cloud-covered sliver of moon. Gentle waves lapped the side of the tiny craft.
This was it. There was no turning back now. She was on her way to see the ocean and America. Well, at least one city in America. She told herself that she would return later to see more of the country later. Perhaps once she found a traveling companion.
She practically trembled with anticipation when the lad brought the dinghy along-side Lucky’s boat, near the rope ladder. Sarah asked, “Are ye sure ye got the right boat? Don’t want me cap’n lashin’ me back.”
“Aye, she’s the right un. I’m right alongside ye on Evangeline.”
She handed the lad the two coins, tossed her satchel over her shoulder, and grabbed hold of Jacob’s ladder.
“Good luck to ye.”
“Aye. And to you too,” she replied as she began to climb up the port side.
She peered over the rail and saw no one about. Silently climbing onto the deck, Sarah wound her way toward the bow and prayed the hatch to the forward hold would be open. If so, she’d climb down and hide there. If it wasn’t, she knew she couldn’t lift it easily or quietly. In that case, she’d have to find the lazarette, or dry goods storeroom if there was one, and hide there.
Seeing the open hatch, she thanked God and knelt to look inside. It was dark out and even darker below in the hold. She’d just have to take her chances. She lowered her bag in and dropped it. It didn’t make a sound so she assumed her landing, too, would be soft and silent. She sat in front of the hold, grabbing the lip of the hatch opposite and scooted her bottom forward, then dropped herself feet first into the abyss.
As she’d suspected, she landed on folded canvas duck cloth. Yards and yards of the stuff. Spare sails, she thought. Wonderful. Moving to the far corner of the cavernous dark hold, she lay on the folded material and using her satchel as a pillow, forced her racing heart to calm and tried to sleep.
Grayish-pink light filtered into the forward hold from overhead. Day was breaking. Footsteps alerted her to at least one crewman awake above deck. The man drew closer to the bow, and her hideout. Sarah quickly lifted a fold of sailcloth and ducked under it, then remembered her bag and covered herself and it thoroughly. The hatch overhead slammed shut, echoing in the hold and reverberating through her body. Trapped. Truly shut-in. The time to cry off, if she were going to do such a thing was now past.
She threw the stifling sail off her and thought about the adventure ahead. Soon, the race would be underway and Lucky wouldn’t be able to send her ashore. That’s when she would come out of hiding. There was no way she’d spend the entire voyage down here. She wanted to see the ocean teaming with fishes, feel the salty wind and sea spray as it whipped over her face and through her hair. She wanted to see no land, because she’d never sailed anywhere before where you couldn’t see or swim to land nearby. She wanted to experience that sense of vulnerability that comes with being at the complete mercy of a force greater than any she’d ever known—that supreme force of nature described by her relatives and the other captains of whom she’d read. They were the same men who established trade with countries around the globe, men whose bravery and skills brought almost every boat and man home.
The darkened hold became stifling, the smell of pitch stronger now that no air entered from the hatchway. Removing her coat, she tossed it to the side along with her hat and satchel. Sounds coming from above told her the crew was weighing anchor. The boat began to move, now free from its mooring. Sails were raised and the vessel surged forward. The boat pitched hard to port as it turned and Sarah was thrown into the bulkhead, striking her shoulder on a beam. Thinking of a way to keep from getting tossed about while she was down here, she resigned herself to lying close to the center of the hold, under several folds of sail, even though it was more than a bit warm. The additional weight kept her relatively padded and safe.
She tried to get situated once again and settled in with the comforting rocking and rolling motion of a ship at full sail. Smiling in the inky blackness, she wondered if her maid had noticed her gone yet and if her brother had found her letter.
He was sure to be angry, but hopefully not so angry that he’d delay the start of the race to search Lucky’s boat and haul her back home.
No, he wouldn’t do that. That would cause a scandal. And if there was one thing the Duke of Caversham detested more than lying, it was the mere thought of the family name tangled up in a scandal.
Sarah knew the precise moment they’d hit the open sea. The boat began to pitch unlike anything she’d ever known before. Of course it didn’t help being in the farthest front compartment as the bow sliced through the waves. Perhaps that was why people didn’t sleep in the bow, and only sails were stored up here. Sails couldn’t get beat up, like stupid, impulsive ladies who don’t think before they get themselves locked in the forward hold.
Thankfully the sailcloth provided her some protection, but she still got tossed about the small compartment. Once she’d even hit the solid oak rafter of the deck above her. Sarah heard a voice issue orders above, and the scurry of footsteps as the command was carried out.
This went on for quite a while, as Sarah contemplated banging on the hatch to have someone let her out. She was thirsty and hungry, and needed to relieve herself. She had no idea how long she’d been down here, nor how far out of Liverpool they were. Another pitch and she felt weightless again, and braced herself for another hit against the rafter.
This was insane. She wanted adventure, not broken bones. When the boat turned hard over, Sarah flew into the right bulkhead. She vowed that the minute she heard footsteps above deck she would scream for the man to let her out. Having no idea how long the seas were going to be rough, or when anyone might open the hatch so she could get some fresh air, she decided she just could not wait any longer. Oh, what was she thinking? No one even knew she was down here. It was then she realized spare sails don’t need fresh air, just protection from water.
It seemed an eternity before she heard voices and footsteps headed toward the bow. But as soon as she did, she let out with the loudest, longest scream she could muster.
Ian stood at the wheel, with his eye on the fore-and-aft sail and foresail. Scanning the horizon once again, he caught sight of Avenger and knew she followed his lead. He had approximately a six minute lead out of the box, which meant nearly a mile separated the two vessels. Ahead were three square-rigged vessels at full sail and the Ann McKim. By luck of the draw, nineteen of the thirty-two boats entered left the box before him. Ian allowed himself a smile of satisfaction as he realized all that stood between him and the lead were the four vessels ahead. Especially since the Revenge was a three masted topsail schooner, which at first glance didn’t look nearly as fast as Ann McKim, with her long jibboom and four headsails. But was, in fact, much quicker.
He knew a race such as this wasn’t won on the number of sails or masts. A skilled captain was essential, but what some sailors tended to overlook was the one thing Ian considered most important. The hull and keel. And these had been retrofitted specifically to his design. If he was right, and he won, then his entire fleet of schooners would be designed the same.
As he set a course to the next coordinate, Ian pondered the things he could do with that winning purse. During his musings, one of the crew shouted something to him from the bow. Looking out at the flying jib, and seeing nothing awry, he motioned for the man to speak up.
“There’s a lad stowed away in the sail locker!”
Ian handed the wheel over to his second, and strode the ninety odd feet to the hatch in the bow.
“Did I hear you correctly? You said there was a stow-away?”
“Right, Cap’n, sir. He’s a hollerin’ up a storm down there.”
“Are you sure you heard correctly?” Ian asked as he held onto the brass railing. Just then he heard it too, a voice, bellowing from below.
“Get him out of there and lock him up. We’ll turn him in when we return. He gets minimal ration, too. I’m not feeding some little whelp a full three squares if he’s broken the law and stowed away.”
“Aye-aye cap’n,” the man said as Ian turned back to his post at the wheel.
A few minutes later, the crewman shoved a scrawny kid in front of him. His oil cloth slicker, two sizes too big was buttoned to the chin, and the knitted cap covered his head. “Cap’n, sir, he says he’s your brother.”
“I don’t have a brother,” Ian said without needing to look down at the scamp. “Lock him up in the lazarette. I’ll deal with him later.”
“Where’s Lucky?” the definitely female voice squeaked with fear.
Just then Ian looked down into the deepest amber brown eyes he’d seen only once before. He didn’t need to see the color of her hair, or the slender feminine form that plagued his dreams the night before to know who it was. “Holy Mother of God,” he swore, unable to take his gaze from hers. “What have you done?”
“Obviously stowed away onto the wrong boat.”
≈≈≈
Loving Sarah coming Summer 2013.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sandy Raven has a husband who spoils her rotten, and kids that are just a hair’s breadth away from perfect. She’s addicted to House Hunter’s International and has never missed an episode, though she acknowledges that she could never live in most of those countries because the houses are just too small. She is also addicted to Starbucks’ Chai Latte, and never passes up an opportunity to have one.
Sandy grew up on the Texas Gulf Coast with sand between her toes and perpetually frizzy hair. Which is why she now lives in the middle-of-nowhere Virginia, in a place with minimal to moderate humidity (for perfect, non-frizzy curls,) rolling hills and farmed forests. The only downside to that is the temperamental satellite internet and the closest Starbucks being a thirty minute drive away.
Home is a renovated old farm house she shares with her hero husband, in the foothills of Blue Ridge Mountains, where she’s owned by more cats, dogs and horses than she cares to admit to. She’s a long-time member of RWA, and is a member of VRW and the Beau Monde. Second to writing is her love for her horses. She practices natural horsemanship, and loves to ride her barefoot Tennessee Walkers on the trails and in the woods around her home.
You can visit her at
Website:
www.SandyRaven.com
On Facebook:
www.facebook.com/SandyRavenAuthor
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
A Note to Readers
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Excerpt from Already His
Excerpt from Loving Sarah
About the Author