Shanna

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  The two finally parted, and Gaitlier handed a towel to Ruark and began to dry himself. It was as if their entry signaled the storm to return in all its furiousness, but Shanna no longer cared about the tempest. She curled herself in a chair as the men huddled over the charts and talked in hushed tones. Her cheek rested against the leather jerkin, and its smell filled her head. The barest hint of a smile played across her lips, and her eyes glowed with a warmth no one could explain, least of all Shanna.

  When their discussion ended, Gaitlier clothed himself, mumbled a last good night, then let himself out. Ruark barred the door after him as Shanna rose and went to stand beside the bed. Her fingers tugged at the lacing of her waistband; suddenly there were willing hands to help. When the skirt and blouse had been joined on the floor by her shift, Shanna turned in Ruark’s embrace and slid her arms about his neck, seeking his lips with feverish abandon.

  Morning came, and Shanna felt Ruark leave the bed. She listened to him move about as he dressed. There was something wrong, but she could not quite put a finger on it. Opening her eyes, she stared at the peeling walls where his shadow played with odd distortion in the bright sunlight streaming in the windows.

  That was it! Bright sunlight! The room was silent as it had not been for several days. No wind whistled. No storm thundered. She rolled onto her back and saw only the blue sky beyond the open shutters. An occasional fluff of cloud spoiled an otherwise unblemished sky and lent a counterpoint of dirty white to the crystal blue.

  Ruark came to the bedside, fully arrayed in his pirate attire. He placed two weapons on the table, a small flintlock and a huge horse pistol.

  “Gaitlier scavenged these from the pirates while they slept. They’re loaded, primed, and ready,” he admonished carefully. “I must go and lay the fuses so all will be in readiness for tonight.” His brow furrowed with worry. He did not like the idea of leaving her, but Gaitlier was unfamiliar with the workings of gunpowder. During the storm he and Gaitlier had prepared a contraption which would hopefully divert the pirates’ attention and allow them to escape. All that remained to do was to place the oiled fuse and gunpowder beneath the brush in the gully on the hillside above the blockhouse, which was used as a magazine. The brush was held in place by slim poles. Hopefully the lot of it, put on fire by the gunpowder and aided by heavy logs above, would roll down against the wall of the magazine when the charge was set off and cause a general alarm to be raised. He could make no test, but only trust in his design. It was as ready as it could be, and fate would see the whole thing out.

  “Gaitlier is watching the door, and the pirates are still asleep below. I’ll only be gone for a short time, and I must leave while the moment is ripe.”

  He bent over her, and his mouth took hers in a fervent kiss. His hand passed along her arm and squeezed it reassuringly before he straightened. With a last glance over his shoulder, he slipped from the window, dropped to the ground. His eyes searched the quay. The schooner was still out in the bay though she had dragged her anchor a bit, but if anything the Good Hound was better aligned for their purposes than before. Ruark made his way quickly around the structure to the back. In his haste, he did not see the lone figure leaning in the shadows of the rear doorway. A long moment passed, and Ruark was gone, and the silhouette staggered into bright sunlight to become a man. The red, watery eyes squinted down the path and blinked painfully.

  “Be damned!” the swarthy pirate slurred. “The hawk has fled his nest and left the little bird ripe for the plucking.”

  Shanna huddled in the corner of the bed as she listened to the muffled voices in the hall. Only a few moments before, Gaitlier had whispered through the door that he had overheard the pirates plotting to invade the room to seize her. One of them had seen Ruark slip away. She had bade the servant hurry to seek out Ruark since Gaitlier’s slight frame would delay the miscreants only a small while. Testing the heavy bar on the door and the weight of the large chest Ruark had placed to further block the entrance, she had found them both sturdy bulwarks for her protection. Still, she had prepared for attack. The smaller of the two pistols, along with her dagger, went beneath the pillow; the oversize flintlock she held in both hands, its long muzzle resting on the bed before her. She braced herself for the worst the pillagers could deliver.

  A stealthy testing of the portal, followed by a creak of the wood as someone leaned a shoulder against it, soon brought a meaty fist pounding on the planks as the man outside found the door both bolted and barred.

  Making her voice sound as though she had just roused from slumber, Shanna called out. “Who is it?”

  A gruff clearing of the throat came before the answer. “Captain ‘Arripen, milady. I bid ye open the door. I have a bit o’ news to discuss with ye.”

  Shanna gave no credence to the crude ruse. “On a cold day in hell,” she replied. “But you’re welcome to test this bit of lead I hold.”

  Her voice had barely stilled before a loud crash resounded from the door, trembling the planks. The bolts, bar, and hinges groaned in protest. Then another jarring of the thick planks followed and still another, which was heavier than those before. Another deafening crunch, and the wood began to splinter away from the hasps and bolts.

  The bar jumped and began to crack as it took the full weight of the assault. With trembling hands Shanna raised the horse pistol until it centered on the door. Closing her eyes tightly, she squeezed. The flintlock went off with a roar that numbed her ears. The shot seemed to shatter the door asunder, and it caved inward with a mighty crash. Though one of the picaroons was flung backward against the far wall, the others charged through with a rush, the mulatto, Harripen, and the Dutchman squeezing through before the last two followed.

  Shanna threw the useless weapon at them and fumbled with her numbed fingers, but before she could find the other pistol they were upon her. She snarled, shrieked in rage and fought like a demon in a frenzy, kicking, scratching, biting, but desperate as it was, her strength was not such to prevail against the five who had fallen upon her.

  The Dutchman seized his fingers in her long hair, and she was cruelly jerked back upon the bed. Hands clawed at her thrashing limbs, stretching them on the bed. Harripen twisted a towel across her mouth to stifle her cries and bent low until his ale-soured breath smothered her.

  “We’ve come for our share, wench. We cast lots for ye to see what one of us will go first on ye. And there’s no Mister Ruark saving ye this time. We’ve seen to that.”

  Shanna’s eyes were wide with outrage and horror. Her mind raged on in fear. Had they killed Ruark? Is that what he meant? She lunged beneath their pawing hands and writhed frantically to escape their rough caresses.

  “Hold her!” a younger man snarled when Shanna’s knee struck his groin. He retreated from the side of the bed where he had tried to mount her and glared at his companions. “She ain’t but a little thing, and you can’t even hold her still.”

  “ ‘Ell’s bells, boy! Move aside and let a real man show you what to do,” chortled Harripen.

  “Like hell I will!” the youth railed. “Now hold her!”

  The meaty hands bruised Shanna’s wrists and ankles, spreading her out on the bed. The pirates leered down at her, and the fetid stench that clung to them nearly made Shanna retch in revulsion. The dark-skinned mulatto withdrew from the fray and lounged beside the door, while the young one, having boasted much of his prowess with women throughout the night, began to unfasten his garments while he laughingly bragged.

  “No need to trouble yerself with any more show of struggles, milady. I’ll make you forget that bastard bondsman.”

  “Get on with it!” Harripen sneered. “Or I’ll see ye made last. I’ve ‘ad it hot for the wench long enough.”

  The Dutchman chortled. “Just yer luck, Harripen, to draw the last lot.”

  Shanna squealed beneath the towel as the youth reached out his hand toward her blouse. Though she tried to twist away, the other three held her, and she could not move. Th
e sound of rending cloth went through her very soul, and she was filled with a sickening horror. Again she tried to scream as the young man’s grasping fingers began tearing at her shift and pulling up her skirts. Suddenly he was lifted as if by a giant hand and thrown from the bed. Before he touched the floor, the room reverberated with the deafening crash of a shot, and all eyes flew to Ruark as he charged through the door, raising the other pistol as he flung the empty one aside to reach for his sword. It was obvious that Gaitlier had found him just in time. But now the mulatto stepped from behind the door and swung a heavy belaying pin across Ruark’s shoulders, sending him sprawling forward; the pistol flew from his grasp. The sword was pinned beneath him, and half dazed, Ruark tried to roll and free his blade, but all four of the captains fell upon him. It was a wild melee as Ruark fought to regain his feet, but he was lifted up and pinned against the wall. Harripen stood free, snatching out his cutlass. He raised it for the blow.

  A weird moan escaped Harripen’s lips, and the blade fell from his fingers. In horror he looked over his shoulder where the hilt of a small silver dagger stood out boldly. His gaze lifted, and he stared into the wicked bore of the small flintlock Shanna held. She faced them all in magnificent rage.

  “Back off!”

  Her snarl held a ragged warning, and Harripen stumbled back to seat himself unexpectedly on a large chest. The pistol was now trained on the huge mulatto. Seeing the sureness of her vengeance, he backed away carefully. Ruark sank a fist into the soft belly of the Dutchman and scooped up the loaded pistol before he drew the long, thirsty sabre. He went to stand beside Shanna, and his cold gaze swept the pirates slowly.

  “It seems your own laws fail you, but if you have a taste for it, I’ll be glad to oblige.”

  He raised his brow in a question and the blade in a threat toward Harripen. The Englishman shrugged and, having worked the small blade from his shoulder, now tossed it to Ruark’s feet.

  “I am wounded,” he grunted and remained seated.

  The blade moved on to the Dutchman who still held both arms across his gut. He shook his head with such vigor that his heavy sagging jowls seemed to flap. The mulatto frowned and might have accepted the bait, but he stared at the small pistol Shanna still held on him and backed slowly through the door. The others made haste to follow, but once out the door there was a dead silence in the inn.

  Ruark stepped to one side of the door and unloaded the pistol through it, hearing the shot whine viciously as it ricocheted down the corridor. He laughed in satisfaction as the sound of running boots now filled the hall.

  “You have lost more over this maid,” he shouted after them, “than over any other treasure you ever sought. Run, my good friends. Flee from her.”

  Muffled curses drifted back as at least one of the brigands stumbled in his haste on the stairs. Ruark turned back toward Shanna. When she saw the concern in his eyes, she shook her head and stuffed the tattered corners of her blouse into the top of her shift.

  “I have endured much better than they,” she assured him. “But what now, my Captain Pirate Ruark?”

  Ruark sheathed his sword and surveyed the damage while he reloaded his pistols. The young pirate lay sprawled on his back, his eyes rolled upward; the door was a shambles and would offer no further protection. Another pirate was a shapeless heap in the hall.

  “We must go,” he stated bluntly, “before they gather their wits and drink up their courage.”

  Preparations had already been made. Ruark snatched the rope ladder from the chest and threw it over the narrow balcony outside the windows, tying the upper end in place with a knot that could be pulled loose from below; Shanna snatched the bundles of clothing Gaitlier had brought from the bottom of the armoire.

  Ruark checked the courtyard below before he tossed the bundles to the ground. He gestured Shanna to the window and lifted her over the railing. As she climbed down, he slipped over the sill and closed the shutters behind him. It was a small misdirection, but it would compel the pirates to search the rest of the inn before setting out in pursuit. Shanna grabbed up the bundles and as Ruark directed, headed for the back of the inn and the edge of the swamp. Ruark tugged on the cord, and the ladder fell down to him. He let it trail in the sand behind him, erasing their footprints as he backed along, following Shanna’s path. Once well into the dense undergrowth with its stunted, wind twisted trees, he hid the cumbersome ladder in a crevice beneath a bush and joined Shanna, taking the bundles from her. Taking her hand in his, he led her at a breakneck pace across the brow of the hill and downward until they waded up to their knees in slime-covered water. The swamp was dark at this level, for, though the sun was high, little light filtered through the dense foliage above them. A fetid stench rose from the water, recently roiled by the storm, and Shanna, pulled along by Ruark, gagged on the suffocating odor of it.

  There were strange splashings and slitherings, an occasional rapid fluttering punctuated by startled squawks or grunts as the creatures of this dark morass fled from these intruders who entered their domain. Shanna was gasping for breath, and her chest ached when Ruark finally stopped and lifted her out of the water onto the twisted bole of a huge cypress. He pulled himself up beside her, and they both rested, lying back against the trunk that rose behind them like a towering bulwark. It was a long time before they could breathe easily again. Shouts sounded on the hill high above them, and they waited in silence, brushing leeches and biting insects from each other. The noise of pursuit gradually faded as the pirates realized that an attempt to search for them in the swamp was hopeless.

  Ruark opened one of the bundles, lifted a gourd filled with water, and broke the wax seal, handing it to Shanna. She took a large draught then choked as she discovered it was heavily laced with rum. She sipped more slowly and savored the bite of it. The grog soothed her parched throat and helped to relax her. He handed her a small strip of dried meat, tough and chewy but, in this moment, as savory as any they had tasted. Shanna gnawed another piece of it, and Ruark filled his own mouth, sated his own thirst, and, as he chewed, looked upward to mark the passage of the sun.

  “Gaitlier and the girl will be waiting for us.” He spoke past his food and chewed for another few minutes before swallowing heavily. He washed his throat clear with another long pull on the gourd.

  “Our fine friends are not of long patience and they know we must eventually come out of the swamp, but they will expect it on the morrow or later. They will go now to lick their wounds and drink away their soreness. We’ll change clothes on dry ground.” He hefted the other bundle. “They’ll not be alert to two common seamen. Are you rested enough to travel now?”

  Shanna nodded and struggled to swallow a mouthful of the meat, finally washing it down as Ruark had done. Ruark lowered himself into the water and, slinging the bundles over his shoulder, reached up to lift Shanna down. She had to steel herself as her feet again broke the scummy surface and sank into the ooze beneath. Now they proceeded more slowly, for any sound might give them away. On higher ground they found a small glade in a tangle of brush where they shucked their garments. The clothes Gaitlier had found were striped seamen’s shirts, knee breeches, floppy hats, and sandals. Shanna’s problem immediately became apparent, for even in the loose duck shirt and the knee breeches of her costume, she was obviously a woman to anyone’s eye.

  Ruark grinned and bade her doff the shirt again. He tore the cloth that had wrapped the bundle into wide strips and wound the fabric over her bosom until she was pressed as flat as she could be. With more cloth stuffed into her breeches to disrupt the curve of her hips, she now appeared more like a seaman, albeit a slightly lumpy one. Tucking her long hair into the hat, Shanna pulled the brim low over her face. Ruark added a bright scarf about her neck to cover the slim, soft lines of it then stood back to survey their efforts.

  “Hunch your shoulders a bit,” he directed. “Now walk around.” He grunted. “Huh, no seaman ever walked like that.”

  Shanna faced him, dropped a s
houlder askew, hung her jaw slackly aside, and swung her foot as if it were clubbed.

  Ruark grinned. “Aye, Pirate Beauchamp. No one would now guess your true virtue.”

  Shanna giggled and stumbled as she neared, grasping at his arm to steady herself. Her eyes danced as she turned her face upward and sought his approval. Ruark could not resist the impish visage incongruously framed by floppy hat and vivid kerchief. Pulling her into his arms, he lowered his mouth to hers. Her response was warm and eager, and it was a long, long moment before Ruark raised his head.

  “Gaitlier will be waiting,” Shanna reminded him and handed him the jerkin from the bush where he had thrown it.

  Ruark spread the jerkin, placing within it the food that was left, her silver dirk, and the small pistol. He shoved the rest of the garments beneath a bush before tucking the bundle he had made into Shanna’s breeches. He pushed the pistols into his own waistband, not an unusual sight on this island. Making a small puddle of mud with some of the water, Ruark rubbed smears of it on Shanna’s arms and legs to further mask the feminine grace of them. He considered the sword for a long moment, loathe to discard the fine piece. Finally he chose a stick of wood the same length, wrapped the two of them together with strips of cloth, then rubbed the whole with mud. It made an odd-looking staff, but with the pistols once fired it would prove to be worth more than the risk.

  Thus it was that a small, begrimed and oddly shaped seaman with a clubbed foot strolled with another who was tall and handsome to a fault, but who limped and leaned on a crooked staff. Slowly the odd pair passed along the hillside, nodded to a bespectacled older man, and finally passed to lounge in a spot strangely near the schooner. Lying in the shade of the fronds of a leaning palm tree, they seemed to doze.