“Yes.” The young man’s face was pale, and he was holding a sword and a sheathed knife in his hands, looking at them strangely.
“I’ve been thinking about a way to carry our weapons, Peter,” Gilbert said. He took the sword and measured it carefully with his eyes. “Can’t carry the swords as we normally would—too much in the way for swimming. I think we can make some sort of harness out of thin strips of leather. Tie them around the neck so that the blade is out of the way on our backs.”
“Yes, I think that might work,” Brown said.
“I’ve got some leather in the hut. I’ll run up and get it. We’ll need to start in ten minutes.”
He turned and ran up the hill, and after a short search he found several strips of leather. Picking up his sword and a dagger and a couple of sheaths, he left the hut and turned toward the sea.
“Gilbert!”
Humility had appeared from higher up the hill, and she came to stand stiffly before him. Her hands were long and slender and supple as she held a piece of cloth. A feeble slanting beam of sunlight reached through the clouds to accent the yellow luster in her hair; and that rich color deepened the ivory tints of her skin.
“I—I wanted to speak to you,” she said, and color touched her cheeks as she stood before him. “There’s been a wrong feeling in my spirit about you, Gilbert.” The words came hard, but she kept her back straight, and her eyes fixed on his. “I’ve hated you for what you did—but I ask you to forgive me for that. Will you?”
“Of course!”
“Thank you.” She put out her hand and he took it in his own. “I can’t lie to you. I never could, could I? You know I loved you.”
He nodded and started to speak, but she took her hand back and said quickly, “No, don’t say anything. I don’t know why you’re doing this thing—risking your life, but I do know that you’re not what I thought. You’re honest. But we can never be more than friends.”
“Humility—!”
“Peter is a reliable man. You’re like the wind, Gilbert—wild and exciting, but I’d never know what to expect. That’s important to me, you know.”
He looked at her, then said soberly, “I know you think that.” He searched her face carefully, then shook his head, saying, “You’re wrong, Humility! You’re more of a woman than you know—but I guess you’ll never find that out.”
“Why do you say things like that!” she cried, clenching her fists.
“Sorry.” He glanced up toward the sky, then back to her. “I must go. Goodbye, then.”
He turned and ran down toward the beach. If he had turned he would have seen her drop the cloth and throw her arms up in a strange manner—then put her hands over her face and retreat back up the street with her shoulders shaking as she went blindly along.
“You’d best be on the way,” Standish said as he returned. “By the time you get out there, it’ll be almost dark.”
“All right. Here’s the leather, Peter.” He fashioned a simple harness for Brown’s sword that allowed freedom of action and kept the blade resting on his back. “That ought to do.” He made another for himself and Brown helped him settle the sword into position. “This will do for the knives.” They belted the knives about their waists and then were ready.
“God be with you!” Standish cried as the two men left, running quickly up the beach.
“This will do,” Gilbert said. He kicked off his shoes and Brown did the same, then they stripped out of their breeches. Wearing only undergarments and their weapons, they ran together and plunged into the sea.
The cold water hit Gilbert like a knife, taking his breath for a moment, but he forged ahead with long, slow strokes. The sea was calm inside the reef, but he could see that the water was choppy farther out. Make it harder for them to see us, he thought.
They passed the reef and the water became rougher, slapping at their faces and lifting them high, then dropping them down in the troughs.
After fifteen minutes he turned to float on his back, calling out, “Are you all right?”
Brown gave him a wide-eyed look and yelled back, “Yes—how about you?”
“Cold—but not too tired. Can you see the ship?”
Brown looked over his shoulder, peered into the falling gloom. “No, I can’t.”
Gilbert had excellent eyesight; he looked south and said, “She’s right over there. We can bear south now.”
They made the swim without another pause, Gilbert fearing that they’d cut it too fine. Got to be in position when Miles attacks—if I know him, he won’t stop until he rams the ship and tries to board her. Got to be on deck by then—they’d cut our men to pieces as they try to board!
Brown got confused and finally dropped behind, but he was swimming strongly. Gilbert stayed less than two hundred yards north of the ship, then swung south and finally pulled up. Lying on his back and gasping for breath, he said, “I’m about done! How about you?”
“I—I’m pretty tired.”
They lay there getting their breath back, and watching the dim shadow of the Mayflower outlined in the falling darkness.
“When we go up, we’ll use the ladder. I’ll go first, but I’ll wait until you’re on the ladder.”
“What then?”
“The problem will be with Coffin, O’Neal, Davis, and a couple more. Some of the men aren’t really in this. Don’t hurt French or Pike.” He suddenly threw his head back. “There’s a shot—let’s go!”
He threw himself forward, making for the ship as fast as he could propel himself through the sea, and by the time he pulled himself up the wooden ladder and helped Brown up beside him, the firing from the deck had started.
Gilbert pulled his knife, sliced the harness and, holding his sword in readiness, moved up the ladder, Brown right behind him. The cannon went off just as they reached the rail, and Gilbert raised his head carefully.
Four men, including French, Pike and another seaman named Morton served the gun, with Coffin standing behind it to aim the weapon.
Stationed along the rail seven seamen were ranged firing their muskets at the approaching shallop.
“Give it to ’em!” Coffin screamed, and he touched a match to the venthole. The cannon boomed, and recoiled to the end of the rope that made it fast to the rail.
“Hi! Good shot!” O’Neal yelled. “Not more’n a foot wide. You’ll get a hit next time, Coffin!”
Gilbert risked standing up and saw the shallop coming full at the ship, Standish ignoring the barricade and standing up to get a better shot with his musket. He fired and splinters flew from the rail between two of the seamen.
“They’re coming in,” Gilbert said leaning over to speak to Brown. “I’ll take Coffin and you try to put O’Neal down.”
“You mean—kill him?” Brown said. There was a wild look in his eyes, and every time a gun went off he flinched.
“Put him down any way you can—or those men in that boat will be butchered! Come on!”
He had not much hope Brown would be of help, but there was no time to think. As he leaped over the rail he saw that two of the men were busy loading their muskets, and two others fired off a shot. Three with charged muskets, he thought, but he concentrated on Coffin who was cursing the gun crew for their slowness.
Gilbert knew that the action would last only a few seconds, and that he and Brown would not live if they failed. Coffin’s narrow back was toward him, and every instinct in him urged him to drive his blade home, but he did not. Switching his sword to his left hand he lifted his right arm high and brought his forearm down on Coffin’s neck with a tremendous blow that snapped his head backward and drove him to the deck, his arms and legs flapping loosely.
“What . . . !” A muscular seaman named Prine had just dropped the ball down the mouth of the cannon. He looked up to see Coffin sprawl on the deck, and his eyes caught sight of Gilbert who had put his sword in his right hand. Prine howled, “O’Neal! Over here!” He pulled a sword from his belt and glanced over his shoul
der. “French—get ’em!”
French and Pike looked up at the same time, with startled eyes, and taking one look at Gilbert, they both stepped back. The other man, a seaman that Gilbert didn’t know, drew his sword and joined Prine in a sudden attack on Gilbert.
Neither of them were expert, and in a single duel, Gilbert would have played with them—but they came at him in tandem, and he took a step back, parrying the blade of Prine, then with a slashing backstroke struck the other’s sword with a force that drove it out of the man’s hands to the deck.
Prine backed off, looked where the others were attacking by the rail, and over his head Gilbert saw that everything had gone wrong.
Brown must have been slow or had been too scrupulous, for O’Neal had avoided him. Even as Gilbert watched, the thick sailor took a step back, snatched a loaded musket from one of the men along the rail, and cried out, “Shoot them!”
Gilbert saw Prine and the other man, who had recovered his sword, closing in on him, but there across the deck he saw that Peter Brown would soon be a dead man!
Both O’Neal and one of the other men were swinging their muskets around toward the helpless Brown, and there was no doubt about their intention. They could not miss at that range. Brown turned his head suddenly, his fear-stricken eyes meeting those of Gilbert.
In that split second, with the sound of firing around him and with the blades of the two men reaching for him, Gilbert made a decision. With a catlike leap he sprang past his own adversaries. There was a low railing around the mainmast, and without breaking stride, he used it for a springboard. The muzzles of the weapons were lowering as he crouched, then drove himself in a headlong drive at O’Neal and the other man. As he flew through the air, he twisted his body, so that he went crashing with his torso on O’Neal’s squat body, driving him into the rail and touching off his musket with a roar of explosion right in his face. His legs hit the other man waist high, but though he was staggered, he didn’t go down.
“Peter! Cut them down!” Gilbert yelled, and a red mist seemed to fall over his eyes, the rage of battle driving him beyond logic or reason.
Gilbert saw Brown being backed to the mast by two men beating his sword down with their blades, and others were rushing to help them and Prine.
He did his best, twisting as Prine’s naked blade shot forward, and by twisting his body to one side, he managed to take only a minor wound, a raking shallow cut across his back, high up.
Then he was through, for he was practically on his face after his last lunge. Now it’s over, he thought; he was sad at what he would never have, but not afraid.
Then he heard a chorus of yelling and, rolling over quickly, saw Pike, French, and two other men come up to attack Prine.
He heaved himself to his feet, grabbed his sword and with a yell threw himself at the two men about to finish off Brown.
One of them turned with a startled look of rage and made a pass at Gilbert. He parried it with ease and drove his own blade through the man’s heart, withdrew it and turned to meet an attack from the rear.
It was well he did, for he found himself face-to-face with Coffin!
The tall, thin form of the man was twisted sideways, one foot out with knee bent, left foot back and at right angles—the classic position, and the moment their blades touched, Gilbert knew he had never crossed blades with a better swordsman.
He saw in a flash that men, led by Standish, were swarming over the rail, and that the loyal portion of the crew had united with them to herd the renegades into a huddle next to the rail.
“It’s over, Coffin!” he cried. “Throw down your sword.”
“No, it’s not over, not till you’re dead meat!” Coffin snarled and moved ahead with a rapid attack such as Gilbert had never seen!
Coffin’s blade darted faster than a snake’s tongue, and only by falling back in a half-stumble did Gilbert survive. He was exhausted after the swim, and the wound in his back was draining his strength. Back, back he went, staving off death by the last fraction of a second as he pushed aside Coffin’s darting blade time and time again.
His back struck the wall of the quarterdeck, and he twisted to one side, missing death by inches as Coffin’s blade struck the wood where he had been an instant earlier.
Gilbert turned, driven back by the brilliance of the man’s swordsmanship; never once was he able to mount an attack of his own. Dimly he was aware that the fight below was almost over; soon, Standish and others would come to his aid—but it would be too late.
For he could back up no more. His legs struck the rail, and for a few seconds the blades made a ringing clash so rapid it was impossible to separate them. He was fighting on instinct now, his mind not able to keep up with Coffin’s tactics. Parry, parry, parry—twist and turn. But now he was getting slower and he saw the fiery light of victory in Coffin’s eyes as he crouched for the final lunge.
Do what he nevair expect! The words came to his mind like a flash of light from his past—the words of his old master, Dupree. And in a desperation born of despair, he did exactly that. He threw the book away in one instant. With a wild yell he leaped at Coffin, lifting his sword high over his head like a club! If Coffin had kept his head he could have run Gilbert through the body at that moment, but he did not.
The wild yell and the totally unexpected abandonment of the classic style for the rough, vicious swing of the sword rattled him. He took one step back and when the downward stroke of his raging opponent struck, it nearly tore his own blade from his hand!
He had only time to lift his blade to catch the next wild sweep which Gilbert threw at him crossways like a scythe.
Screaming like a banshee, Gilbert drove Coffin across the deck by brute force. None of the smooth exact science he had spent years learning! He swung his blade like a wild Irishman swings a shillelah in a brawl, and it shattered Coffin’s cool confidence.
He caught himself for one last try, but as he went into the classic stance, Gilbert kicked him in the knee and Coffin went down with a cry of agony.
Instantly Gilbert was over him, his eyes mad with battle fury, his sword poised over the fallen man’s body.
Coffin looked up, and there was no fear in his eyes. He spat out, “Do it, then! I ain’t afraid to die!”
Still Gilbert stood there, the sword drawn back, quivering and ready to drop.
“Well, you going to kill him or not?”
Gilbert twisted his head to see that Standish had come up the ladder and was watching the scene with clinical interest.
The roar of blood in Gilbert’s ears quieted, and he looked down at Coffin, glaring at him with pale-eyed hatred.
Then he slowly pulled his sword back and there was a look of wonder in his cornflower blue eyes.
“No, I’m not—and there’s your miracle right there!”
Even as he spoke, a violent tremor shook his body, and Standish at once whipped off his cloak and draped it over his shoulders. “We’d best get you to Fuller at once. That’s a bad cut you took—and that freezing swim didn’t do you any good!”
By the time they’d returned and Fuller had finished taking a few stitches in his back, Gilbert’s head was swimming, and he seemed to be burning up.
“W-what’s wrong with m-me?” he asked feebly.
Fuller threw the needle down and cried, “Curse it all, you’ve got a case of the sickness coming on, or I’m no doctor! Just when the thing has left, it comes back and tries to take another one of us!” Then he caught himself and said quickly, “But we’ll pull you through, my boy—don’t doubt it!”
But Gilbert heard only the first part of his statement. His head was swimming and he slipped into a black hole that seemed to be waiting to swallow him up like a huge beast.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE MAYFLOWER SAILS
Sometimes he was falling down into a dark hole, and he would tense his muscles for the terrible moment when he would strike the bottom. A roaring would fill his ears, like a mighty rushing wind,
but when he opened his mouth to cry out, the wind rushed in, stifling him like a massive blanket.
At other times he seemed to be floating lightly in air, in a strange quietness so hollow that tiny sounds seemed to echo deep down in his brain. At those times there would be a bright light, not harsh but soft and gentle, bathing him in warmth, shielding him from the bone-cracking chill that racked him.
“It’s all right, Gilbert! You’re not falling!”
His eyes opened and closed abruptly as the light hit them, but he blinked and his vision cleared.
He was sitting up in bed, in a room that was dark except for a low-burning lamp on the table. The shadows flickered over the woman who was kneeling to hold him by the shoulders as he swayed and tried to throw the covers off.
“Humility!” He recognized her, and his lips were so dry her name came out in a croaking sound.
Keeping a hand on his shoulder, she picked up a mug from a table, held it to his lips, saying, “Drink this.”
He found he had a raging thirst, and swallowed frantically at the water until she pulled it back, saying, “You can have more later.” Putting the mug down, she asked, “How do you feel?”
He licked his lips and answered slowly, “All right. How long have I been here?”
“About ten days.” She took her hand off his shoulder and said, “Can you eat something?”
“Anything!” He had a hunger to match his thirst. He ate the bowl of soup she brought him and asked for more.
“You’d better wait until Mr. Fuller gets here. Too much at first might be bad for you.” She turned to leave, but came back and put her hand on his chest. Shoving him back flat on the bed, she said, “You’d better rest—you haven’t had much normal sleep.”
Her face was thinner, he thought, and lined with fatigue. “Have you been here all this time?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Some of the time. Edward stayed with you as well.”
He was so sleepy he couldn’t keep his eyes open, but he said as he dropped off, “I don’t think Peter will like it.”
The Honorable Imposter (House of Winslow Book #1) Page 29