“I don't think so neither, and it's getting worse the longer we stand here,” Tarnes quipped. He stepped gingerly over the hatch and put his booted foot on the top rung of the ladder leading into the hold. “I'm either going to see what's causing it or faint from the smell of it."
The men didn't see the hurt look fall over Genny's face at Patrick's easy dismissal of her; not that the Ionarian had ever looked at her with anything other than easy dismissal. In his charming, North Boreal way, Patrick, or Paddy as his friends called him, treated Genny no differently than he did the rest of Weir's crew. That he didn't seem to see her as a budding young woman bothered no one but Genny; certainly not Weir who didn't want any man looking at his sister in any way other than brotherly.
Weir stepped down the ladder behind Tarnes and Patrick followed. The men didn't think of Genny until she bumped into Paddy's back as she stepped off the ladder.
“Damn it, Genevieve!” Weir cursed, eyeing her with displeasure. “We don't know what we're going to find down here!"
Her pert nose in the air, Genny glared at him, her lips pursed tightly together, still stung by Patrick's unknowing disregard. “So?” she challenged.
“You've got no business being down here until we find out what's causing that godawful smell!” Weir snarled. “There could be plague or the likes down here!"
“Hush!” Tarnes cautioned. He squinted. “There it is again.” He hefted his lantern and peered about the hold. The stench was worse where they stood, enveloping the four of them in an atmosphere that was almost palpable.
“I'll look to the aft,” Weir said as he took Genny's arm. “You come with me."
Paddy followed behind Tarnes as the Second Mate made his way amidships and then, finding nothing but splintered wood from broken open cargo, ventured further into the deeper darkness of the stinking hold.
Weir stumbled over a coil of hemp and bumped hard into the bulkhead, banging his shoulder painfully against the wood. He almost dropped the lantern in the process, but Genny reached out to steady him.
“Did you hear that?” she asked.
“I didn't hear anything,” Weir grumbled as he wiped his hand down his pant leg. There was thick, slimy moisture on the wall of the ship's hold. “What did it sound like?"
The young woman listened hard, shushing her brother as he repeated his question. She inched forward, searching the planking beneath her feet.
“Look at this, Weir,” she said as she pointed.
Weir came forward and lowered the lantern. “There's nothing but bulkhead back there."
Genny wasn't so sure. “Do you see anything odd about the wood?” she asked, stepping over another coil of rope as her vision followed the planking.
“No,” he told her. He held the lantern a bit higher. “I don't see anything odd. It's flat. What else should it be?"
“We didn't find anything but unsalvageable cargo,” Patrick told them as he and Mr. Tarnes joined them. “Nothing that could have made the sounds you heard."
“We may have found something, Paddy,” Genny said.
Weir rolled his eyes, looked at Patrick. “Little miss know-it-all thinks there's something odd about the bulkhead."
Genny stooped down, touched her hand to the horizontal planking covering of the bulkhead, tapped on the wood. There was a hollow sound. She looked over her shoulder at her brother. “There's something behind this wall."
Patrick eased around Tarnes and hunkered down beside Genny. He rapped on the planking and gagged. “Mother of Alel!” he gasped. “Whatever that smell is, it's coming from behind here.” He turned his head away and gathered a mouthful of saliva and then spat, hoping to exorcise the bile riding up his gullet.
“Is there a latch of some sort on this wall, Paddy?” Genny asked, running her hands over the wood.
Reluctant to even touch the wood concealing such a foul odor, Patrick nevertheless put his hands on the planking and felt, wincing at the feel of the slick wood beneath his flesh. His fingers touched something cold, stopped, went back, and fumbled until the smooth expanse of metal ran under his fingertips.
“Here! Weir, hold that lantern closer!"
Bending forward, Weir Saur thrust his lantern close to his friend's shoulder and caught sight of the iron bolt set into the wood. He watched keenly as Patrick threw the bolt back.
“Where's the handle?” Genny asked, seeing none.
“Inside spring lock,” Patrick told them as he pushed on the door to release it.
“Holy ghost!” Tarnes gasped, reeling from the stench, which shot out from behind the moving panel.
Genny thought she would vomit as the smell assailed her. She crabwalked back from the door as Patrick pulled it further open.
A hollow sound, a rusty sound that moved from behind the panel and the four froze.
“There's something there,” Tarnes warned.
A pitiful sound, a human sound, seeped from behind the panel. It was a groan, a cry for help.
“There's a man in there!” Weir whispered as the lantern light from Tarnes’ hand fell partially into the hidden area behind the planking.
Patrick looked up. “No, there are two."
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Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Charlee is the author of thirteen books, the first nine of which are the WindLegend Saga. She is a member of the Romance Writers of America, the HTML Writer's Guild, and Beta Sigma Phi Sorority.
Married thirty-two years to her high school sweetheart, Tom, she is the mother of two grown sons, Pete and Mike, and the proud grandmother of Preston Alexander and Victoria Ashlee.
A native of Sarasota, Florida, she grew up in Colquitt and Albany, Georgia and now lives in the Midwest. Currently, she is at work on a new book.
Visit Charlee's web site: http://www.windlegends.com/
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