Dedicated Villain

by Patricia Veryan

  MacTavish was also worrying about the time. They had left the concealing slopes now and were heading straight for the estuary. The hills and mountains lay behind them; to the southwest rose the soaring peaks of Snowdonia, but the land ahead sloped gradually downward through diminishing and ever more stunted trees and shrubs. The track they followed petered out. MacTavish pulled up and waved the signal that alerted Cuthbert to wait here. The red coach halted. The caravans went on, bumping over rough sandy turf, toward a wide band of sullen, black water and tall reeds interspersed by soggy patches of land that looked uniformly untrustworthy. Already, MacTavish was full of dread that at any minute a wheel would get stuck, but although he strained his eyes he could find no sign to guide him, and began to fear their fisherman had failed them.

  At last, more by luck than good judgment, he detected a sodden strip of white cloth hanging limply from a bush. Lord! Did the fisherman think they had the eyes of hawks? Still, knowing what to look for he was now able to pick out other strips, and began to guide the horses carefully down into the reeds and bushes between the markers, the land holding firm but their path descending ever lower, until there was nothing to be seen but the encompassing reeds.

  Without warning, the foliage fell away and the estuary lay before them.

  Following, Mathieson halted his team and stared, his heart sinking.

  Thaddeus muttered a dismayed, “Oh, Jupiter!”

  The tide was out, and the sands stretched away broad and flat and bleak under the pattering rain until they were parted by the curvingly erratic sweep of the river. The opposite bank, a good three miles away, looked desolate and deserted, deeply fringed by mud and marshes. The barge was already waiting, but instead of lying only a half mile dead ahead, she was at least a mile farther up estuary. Her sails were close reefed, and she rocked gently to the pull of the current, secured by lines that stretched to stakes driven into the sands.

  Beyond her, dimly visible through the rain, far up towards the Irish Sea, was a wider gleam that stretched from bank to bank.

  ‘Mon cher Thomas,’ thought Mathieson grimly. ‘You are off fishing again! The tide is coming in!’

  Standing at the top of the bank beside the coach, her eyes glued to the line of swaying caravans that wound towards the distant barge, Fiona felt weak and trembly; her hands were icy cold and her heart seemed to thunder against her ribs.

  They would have time surely? The incoming tide was so far away yet. They must have ample time. If anything should happen—God forbid!—the lives of those brave men, her dear papa and the one to whom she had so completely surrendered her heart, would be at terrible risk.

  She dashed rain from her eyes. The caravans were moving more rapidly now. At least they did not seem to have encountered mud, and her fears that the heavy vehicles would sink into the wet sands eased a little. Again, her apprehensive eyes darted to the west. That terrible gleam of water seemed not to move, yet was it her imagination, or was it closer? She felt sick. If Roland was drowned, her heart would drown with him! She could not go on living now, without him. She closed her eyes, praying fervently.

  A cold hand slid into her own. Elizabeth, very pale, murmured, “Fiona, I’m waeful scared. If the tide cuts them off from us here, will they be able to get oot by another path?”

  This terrible possibility had not occurred to Fiona, and her desperate search along the bank did not help her state of mind. Chilled, she said falteringly, “I expect, if it goes badly, they—they will sail with the ship.”

  “Oh yes, of course,” sighed Elizabeth. “What a silly goose I am not to have thought of that.”

  But, clinging to one another, they were both trembling.

  15

  The wind was rising, sending rain flailing like a grey sheet against the caravans, and closing them into a diminishing landscape. Ducking his head against another cold blast, Mathieson shouted, “Can you see it still? I cannot.”

  Heywood narrowed his tawny eyes and peered ahead. “Nor I. But it ith coming in, Roly. Beyond doubting! ‘Time and tide’ you know, my tulip …”

  “Which being the case—can you swim, old boy?”

  Heywood gave him a scared look. “I’ll be a gimlet and cling to you!” He brightened. “If it ith too clothe, we will have to make the voyage.”

  Mathieson shuddered. The caravan lurched, and the fear that they were stuck in the sand chilled him. There came another jolt, and they were again moving toward the river channel, and the boat which loomed from it. The lines were holding her steady and the sturdy ramp MacTavish had described was already in position, sloping down from the deck of the vessel to the sands. “D’you see our staircase?” he said cheerfully. “That should speed things up, eh?”

  Heywood grinned, but his reply was drowned in a growl of thunder.

  The sailing barge was long and low, and much larger than she had appeared from the bank. When they came near her, MacTavish halted his team. A seaman who had run down the ramp to call up to him now sprinted to the second caravan. Pausing beside Mathieson, his oilskins wet and glistening, he shouted, “The tide’s at the flood and coming very fast! Robbie MacTavish will try the ramp, but we’re higher i’ the water than we’d hoped. If aught goes amiss, he says the rest o’ ye are to turn around and run like hell for the shore!”

  It sounded ominous. Mathieson nodded, and the seaman ran on, to relay the message to the following caravans.

  Heywood said, “I’m glad we’re not to lead the way! That ramp lookth heavy enough, but …” He gave a wry grimace.

  Mathieson eyed the ramp uneasily. It certainly appeared to have been sturdily constructed, and timber supports had been wedged between it and the sands, but the pitch was fairly steep and it would be no mean task to drive the horses up such a structure.

  MacTavish was wasting no time, however. His whip cracked. The team started up, then backed again, snorting nervously, afraid of the unfamiliar ramp. Two men ran down from the deck to take the bits but there was insufficient room for them to walk beside the horses, and they were obliged to go back. A heavy gust swooped at the caravan causing it to sway. The horses sidled skittishly and squealed with fright.

  Saying nothing, Heywood gripped Mathieson’s arm. Mathieson glanced at him. He was pale, his eyes fixed on the west. Turning his head in the same direction, Mathieson’s blood ran cold. The rain had eased a little and he could see farther now across long flat stretches of sand ending in a white line that reached from bank to bank. Foam. He thought, ‘By God, but it’s coming fast!’

  The seaman, running past again, shouted, “We’ll be lucky to have ten minutes! Say y’r prayers, lads!”

  ‘Thomas,’ thought Mathieson. ‘Attend to business, if you please!’

  With a thunder of hooves and rumble of heavy wheels, MacTavish’s caravan moved onto the ramp. The straining horses, their eyes rolling with fear, fought the slope. The caravan inched and bumped forward. It was obvious that the intrepid Scot had taken the lead position because if the ramp could support his caravan, it would take the rest. It seemed to Mathieson that the ramp bowed very slightly to the weight, but although the timber supports beneath it dug into the sand there was no sign of catastrophe.

  The skies had darkened once more; the rain came pelting down with renewed vigour, and another gust of wind rocked the caravan. The horses swerved to the pull of it, and Heywood’s breath hissed through his teeth as those big wheels strayed to the very edge of the ramp. Someone howled, “Pull ’em in, Mac! This way!” The right wheels were halfway over the edge. Mathieson whispered, “Sacré colimaçons!” and held his breath. MacTavish’s whip cracked, and at the last instant the caravan pulled in and straightened out. Seconds later, it jolted onto the connecting down-sloping ramp and bounced onto the deck.

  A wild cheer went up on the barge, echoed from the waiting caravans. Those on board raced to unharness the team, and MacTavish took the reins and led the pair to the ramp again. The downward slope evidently frightened the big roan mare, and she shie
d and reared up. MacTavish talked to her, his hand firm on the ribbons. Another man ran to slap the mare’s rump. Ears flattened and eyes rolling, she kicked out, sending him jumping back. Then she tore free from MacTavish’s grip, bolted down the ramp and splashed past Mathieson’s caravan. The Scot followed, leading the bay gelding.

  His pulse quickening, Mathieson saw that water was all about them now, shallow as yet, but creeping with silent menace over the sands.

  MacTavish ran straight to him and called urgently, “Japhet’s caravan must go next! Let him pass.”

  Japhet drove the second property caravan in which was the pirate’s treasure chest. ‘Logical,’ thought Mathieson, and reined his team aside and watched the youth drive toward the ramp.

  Heywood said. “Jupiter!”

  He was staring westward again. That terrifying white line of foam was much closer. Mathieson thought, ‘It looks as if we’ll sail with them, after all,’ and frowned, worried for Fiona.

  An ear-splitting screech returned his attention to the barge. The ramp shifted slightly. With a noise like a gigantic violin string snapping, one of the stakes shot from the sand, the line snaking through the air, the men on deck flinging themselves flat as it whistled over their heads. Japhet’s horses screamed with fright, reared, and plunged, the youth looking terrified but striving bravely. Shouting to Mathieson to get aboard, MacTavish raced to climb up beside Japhet, but even as he gained the seat the horses bolted madly back down the estuary.

  The barge dipped uneasily. Watching it, Mathieson would have sworn it was tilting slightly to one side. He set his jaw, and glanced at Heywood. Apart from his bruises, the man was deathly pale, but winked at him irrepressibly. Mathieson whipped up the team. “Thomas … ?” he muttered prayerfully, and then the horses’ hooves were reverberating on the ramp. This time, the heave of the barge was unmistakable. Mathieson gave a gasp as that keening screech resounded above the growl of thunder. The ramp tilted and shuddered convulsively beneath them. The horses screamed and staggered. Mathieson thought, ‘Like hell!’ and hauled on the reins, backing the team.

  Heywood howled, “No! Go back, Roly!”

  “What d’you think I’m trying to do?” said Mathieson between his teeth, and roared, “Back! Back, you fools!” Dimly, he heard shouting. The men on the ship were waving them off frantically. The big horses danced and fought in terror. Mathieson heaved on the reins and Heywood yelled encouragement to the team.

  The ramp scraped deafeningly, slid, then tore free from the side. The timbers beneath collapsed, and the heavy ramp plunged downward, landed with a thunderous crash, then bounced up again. Mathieson’s caravan was battered by flying sand and spray, but the team’s hooves had cleared the ramp a scant instant before it collapsed, and the surging timbers missed them by a hair.

  Pale and sweating, Heywood clung to the seat, his shoulders slumping. Mathieson met his eyes and gasped, “Whew!”

  MacTavish had evidently mastered Japhet’s team and was swinging them around again, but there was not a moment to lose. Mathieson clambered from the seat and with Heywood ran to wrench open the back door, trying to ignore his shaky knees and the water that swirled over his boots to the ankles. A standard-sized gangplank had now been swung over the side of the barge, and three men sprinted down it to assist them. Bradford came running, moving with surprising speed for such a big man, and with Heywood’s help removed a section of the caravan’s floorboards. A long, flat crate was hauled from the aperture. Heywood and Mathieson took it, and carried it to the sailors, the wind battering them. Torrey and Gregor ran to help. With desperate haste, boxes and bales were hauled out. Mathieson staggered to the barge with a barrel that seemed to weigh a ton. Relieved of it, he turned back and began to splash through ever-deepening water towards the caravan.

  “The tide!” Driving up at frantic speed, MacTavish’s shout was high-pitched with urgency. “The flood! ’Ware the flood!”

  Mathieson whirled around. A wave was rushing at them. The wind tore foam from the crest, and seemed to drive it ever faster. All across the estuary it stretched, and behind it came a dark enormity capped with white. The air was suddenly shaking to a low, petrifying growl of sound.

  “Mon Dieu!” he breathed.

  Above the uproar, MacTavish howled, “Everyone back to shore! Spring ’em!”

  Racing for his caravan, Mathieson was vaguely aware that the horses were hock-deep in water; that the lines holding the ship had been cut and she was moving inland; that Heywood was already leaping onto the seat. He made a dive for the side as the frightened team fought Heywood’s restraining hands on the reins and started off. Mathieson’s fingers closed around the edge of the seat; with his right hand he gripped the roof. His boot thudded against the flying wheel, and he fell onto the seat, clinging for dear life as the team raced madly for the distant path and safety.

  Torrey’s caravan, which had fallen to the last position, was in the lead now. Mathieson’s heart jumped into his throat as the right rear wheel of that racing vehicle hit some hidden obstruction. The caravan bounced up and keeled over. Perhaps the very speed of their going saved them, for they righted, and kept on.

  The horses were straining against their collars, but they were running into the teeth of the east wind and were further impeded by the pull of the undertow. The violent moments dragged past, and the bank still seemed far away. Mathieson threw a quick look back. The sea was rushing in like a maelstrom, boiling up turbulently where it encountered the deeper river water. Appalled, he heard Heywood roar, “Cut off, by Jupiter!” He jerked his head around. A fast-moving flood was between them and the bank. The horses were plunging, sending up gouts of water. Shivering and soaked to the skin, he strained his eyes through the spray and the rain, vainly seeking the red coach that would be their guide to the safe path.

  A minute later, Heywood shouted, “Torrey’th out!”

  A caravan ploughed like some demented great fish from the greedy sea and tore, rocking wildly, into the tall reeds. Mathieson thought, ‘I hope he found the markers!’

  The water was deepening, tugging at the wheels, slowing the horses, as if the tide was determined they should not escape. Caught by the current, the caravan slewed and shook. Mathieson knew a moment of paralyzing terror. How many had experienced such despair before they were claimed by the coldly relentless sea? A grey curtain of lashing rain and spray reduced visibility to about thirty yards. They seemed to be scarcely moving. He wondered numbly if Thad could see to guide the horses, and then realized with a stunning shock that Heywood had lost the reins and was clinging to the seat, as helpless as himself. In that horrifying instant, in that turmoil of sound and cold, pounding wind and icy water, and the awful imminence of death, the eyes of the two young men met. Mathieson thought with strange clarity, ‘If I have to go, I could not have a better man beside me!’ He tore one hand from the edge of the seat, and reached out. Heywood’s icy fingers closed hard around his own.

  A staggering shock; a violent impact as his head slammed against something. Hurled from the seat, he thought, ‘Fiona!’ and waited to be engulfed.

  He landed hard and rolling. A dark shape shot past with a thundering roar. Bewildered, he realized suddenly that he was sprawled on the bank, mud and reeds beneath his cheek. The rush of relief brought tears to his eyes. With a choked laugh, he kissed a soggy clump of grass. Then, frantic little hands were pulling at him, a dear voice was sobbing his name. He looked into Fiona’s white, tear-stained face and gasped, “Mon cherie! Mon cherie!” And sitting up, screened by the reeds, held her tight for a blissful moment.

  She clung to him, whispering, “Thank God! Oh, Roly! Thank God!”

  They had to run clear then, as another caravan thundered past. Shaken but exultant, Mathieson led the girl up through the reeds, and at the top peered around, counting. “Two … three … four.” Japhet’s caravan, minus a wheel, was leaning against a stunted and tilting tree. “Five! By the Lord Harry—five! We all got back!”

  “
More or leth,” said Heywood breathlessly, hobbling up leaning on Elizabeth’s arm and clutching his leg. “Are you all right, dear boy? Rob dethided to go tree climbing, and Torrey hath a broken head, but I rather think we’re all alive.”

  Holding Mathieson’s hand very tightly, Fiona said, “Well, I wonder we are! We were terrified lest you all be drowned!” She turned and looked down at the raging waters that surged below them. “Another minute, only …,” she muttered.

  Mathieson patted her hand. “Well, it didn’t come to that, child.” He strained his eyes into the rain and could dimly make out the barge, apparently attempting to come about, the sail going up jerkily, and billowing out in the wind.

  Anxious, Fiona asked, “Will the sail split, do you think?”

  Mathieson glanced at Heywood and said whimsically, “They’ve an easterly breeze, at the least. I fancy they know their business. Likely, she’ll be safe away before we are.”

  And he thought, ‘But what the deuce shall we do now?’

  They made camp that evening in a quiet and secluded little vale south of Chester. A copse of ash trees provided some shelter from the rain which had dwindled to a steady drizzle, and from nearby came the endless chatter of a swift-flowing brook.

  They were a rather subdued group; drier now, but downcast because of the failure at the estuary, and apprehensive as to their chances of bringing the remaining treasure safely to its destination. They all knew they had brushed very close to tragedy, but they had not escaped unscathed: Heywood had twisted his knee when he’d been flung from the bouncing caravan and limped painfully; Torrey’s head had made violent contact with the side of his caravan, resulting in a large lump and a severe headache; Japhet had suffered a badly cut hand; and MacTavish, who had been thrown into the tree, had some badly bruised ribs, was white-faced, and looked to be at the brink of exhaustion. Perhaps, of them all Mathieson came closest to guessing the depth of the Scot’s inner distress, knowing that he would blame himself because only one caravan had been successfully loaded, and that the bulk of the treasure, including the chest of jewels, still faced a long overland journey to the south coast.