BOUND BY THE HEART
by Marsha Canham
Smashwords edition published 2011
Ebook copyright 2011 © Marsha Canham
Cover Copyright 2011 © Marsha Canham
ISBN 978-0-9866872-3-5
Originally published by Avon, October 1984. All right reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Marsha Canham.
This Ebook edition is dedicated to my three munchkins, Austin, Payton, and Carter
CHAPTER ONE
June 1811
Utter and absolute darkness smothered the tiny raft, throwing its two clinging, half-conscious passengers into total disorientation. There was no moon, and there were no stars; no visible ceiling to the gray shifting clouds that formed their last recollection before the fog and darkness had moved in to obliterate the world. Summer Cambridge hugged her twelve-year-old brother tightly, as much to reassure herself that they would not momentarily drop off the edge of the ocean, as to keep him from slipping wearily off the inadequate planking. Every now and then she pinched the numbed flesh of his arm and prayed to hear the sharp little sob ﾍthe only sign that he was still alive. Every now and then she hugged him more tightly trying to forget the events of the past twelve hours.
The storm had struck their vessel, the Sea Vixen, quickly and furiously, lashing it with a viciousness unnervingly common to the Caribbean. It was June. It was the beginning of the rainy season and they had all been warned of the possibility of severe and sudden heavy weather on the route between New Providence in the Bahamas and Bridgetown, Barbados.
The Sea Vixen had left Southampton, England, six weeks earlier, trailing ignobly in the wake of two British ships of the line. One had remained in New Providence to fortify the blockade of the American coastline. The immense, seventy-four gun warship, Caledonia, had left within the week for Bridgetown with the sprightly Sea Vixen following in her wake.
When the storm struck, the Vixen had taken the worst of it. She had been tossed about in the raging winds and foam-capped waves like a cork in a whirlpool. Snarls of white water and sleeting spray had driven the battered vessel in dizzying circles, snapping her mainmast into kindling and crushing her hull as if it was papier mache.
Three men had been dispatched to hold her wheel steady, for as much good as it did them. The Vixen leaped out of the waves, her keel almost clearing the surface, only to crash back down into the next trough with a sickening, skidding slide. Wave upon wave was hurled over the floundering vessel, sweeping away the torn rigging and surging down the open hatchways in cataracts until there was not a patch of dry wood to be found anywhere. Her belly filled with so much seawater the pumps were abandoned as useless.
Summer and Michael Cambridge had been huddled together in their cramped cabin, cowering in a high-sided berth, clinging to each other as the walls and floor of their tiny quarters alternately changed places.
"Oh God, Michael, we can't stay here," Summer cried, flinching in horror as the water on their cabin floor sloshed against the side of the berth. "We have to get out of here! We have to get up on deck!"
"But S-Summer...!" The boy was terrified, his lips blue, his eyes as round as coins.
"We can't stay here!" She shouted to be heard over the constant roar overhead. "Don't you see we'll be trapped! If anything happens, we won't be able to reach the upper deck. For all we know, the captain is already lowering the lifeboats and waiting for us."
"Summer—"
"Do you want to be left behind?"
Without waiting for an answer she hauled Michael out of the berth and dragged him sobbing and shivering to the cabin door. She was nearly knocked flat as a wave rolled the Vixen, but she held on to the brass latch of the door until the ship righted itself again.
The companionway was ankle-deep in rushing water. It washed down the stairwell, shooting past the row of small cabins in its eagerness to fill the decks below. Summer felt the tears streaking her cheeks as she fought hand over hand with the hempen guide ropes to reach the grayish light showing above the hatchway.
After ensuring that Michael's fists were firmly twisted into her skirts, she struggled up the wooden steps, where an even greater horror awaited.
There was only one small sail straining aloft for steerage. Of the acres of canvas and taut rigging the Vixen was capable of mounting, only one wind-shredded square remained. The rest were ripped to rags or torn away altogether. The spars were broken and fouled in tangles of twisted rigging. Lines snaked across the decks and hung over the sides, trailing in the water behind the ship, adding to the terrible drag. The sea rose and cascaded over the rails as it would over a waterfall, sheeting across the open decks unhampered, having already cleared everything from its path.
Summer paled at the extent of the devastation. A fresh torrent of salt water rushed past her down the stairwell, and she felt Michael's grip falter briefly before he gathered an even tighter fistful of her skirt. Her hands slid painfully along the coarse hempen rope for as long as it took her to regain her balance. She screamed for Michael to hold on, screamed for the pain in her hands as the rope burned through the skin, screamed for the sudden wild lurch that brought yet another wall of curling white water crashing over their heads.
The rope she was holding snapped under the pressure. She was flung like a ragdoll against the carved oak bulkhead and tried desperately to grab the rail leading up to the quarterdeck. The wave was too strong and her wrists too weak and she slid with the powerful surge, rolling over and over as it carried her all the way to the deck rail.
The roaring sea engulfed her, blinding her and choking off her scream with mouthfuls of bitter salt water. She rolled again and the deck beneath her vanished. A vast, gray emptiness rose up to meet her, sucking her into its depths with a violence that burst the remaining air from her lungs. She spiraled down, down. The weight of a thousand tons of ocean hammered at her, tearing at her clothes, ripping at her hair, deafening her under the liquid silence.
As if to toy with her, the wave tossed her upward briefly to break clear of the surface, her mouth and nose streaming water. A smaller, less-determined wave swamped her before she could fully catch a breath and she swallowed a mouthful of the salty water as it snatched her down again. Her skirts twisted around her ankles, producing another gurgled scream of terror when her feet could no longer obey her commands to kick. Her lungs held a burning breath as she began tugging and tearing at her clothes. When the weight of her overdress was gone, she tore at the petticoat and the long silk shimmy until her legs were bare and free.
Flailing madly, her head bobbed above the surface again and as she gasped and gulped for air, she forced herself to concentrate, to remember.
Once, when she had been very young, she had fallen into a lake while trying to feed swans. The water had not been deep, but to a shy and frightened four-year-old, it had seemed like a bottomless void. Her father had insisted afterward that each member of the family have lessons in swimming and self-preservation, especially since he was soon to be posted on an island in the Caribbean.
The lessons, given in a private pond guarded by servants and watched over by instructors, could in no way have prepared Summer Cambridge for this maelstrom hundreds of miles from any landfall. The ocean floor could
be a dozen feet below her, or a dozen fathoms, with countless lurking terrors between. There were sharks in these waters, and barracuda, and...
"Michael!"
Summer blinked repeatedly in a futile attempt to keep the stinging water out of her eyes. Her hair had lost its combs and fillets and was wrapped around her neck, around her arms, around her face like golden webbing.
"Michael!"
What chance was there that he had tumbled after her out the open hatchway? She had felt his grip on her skirt fail when she reached for the rail. The last she remembered he had been screaming, trying to pull her back to safety. If he had leaned out too far, if he had been swept from the deck after her, what hope was there he could have survived the fury of the open sea?
"Summer!"
The cry was weak, the sound distorted by the wind.
"Michael? Michael!"
She could not see over the crests of the waves. She had no idea from which direction the cry had come, or even if it were a cry at all. It could have been the keening of the spars and timbers on board the Vixen as they were ripped and twisted. It could have been the rain pelting on the water.
"Michael?"
Had she imagined it? As far as she could see, there was only green haze and lashing gray foam. The Vixen had careened into the mist to die, leaving a trail of broken timbers and trappings in her wake.
"Summer?"
There! A bobbing dot on the crest of the heaving water!
"Michael!"
He turned at the sound of her scream. A glimpse of the pale white face and waving arms was all Summer needed to spur her into kicking out frantically toward the drifting black dot. She clawed into the waves, fighting each handful of water as she pushed it behind her. Time and again she was swamped and sent thrashing in the opposite direction, but she refused to allow the panic to overwhelm her. It seemed to take a lifetime just to conquer each wave, but she did it, and each one she overcame brought her closer and closer to her brother.
Michael was clinging to a broken beam from the Vixen. His hazel eyes were rounded by fear, his normally tanned complexion was as gray and green as the threatening seas. He did not look at all like the composed, mature young man who had met her on the docks of New Providence. He had been so very formal, very proper in his tailored frock-coat. He had bowed stiffly and kissed her hand, reciting the greeting from Father that he had been charged to deliver before dissolving into hugs and happy tears. The fact he was also on his way home to Bridgetown from school abroad had been a coincidence and while she had spent the week in New Providence showing off her polished manners and regal, ladylike comportment, he had spent the same time convincing her he was no longer the gangling, pesky five-year-old she had left behind.
That facade had shattered for both over the past few hours.
As she finally struggled up alongside him, Michael flung an arm around her neck, causing them to flounder momentarily beneath an oncoming wave. Summer grasped the beam he was clinging to and tested its stability under their combined weight. How long could they hang together from a four-foot length of timber? She did not know, but it felt sturdy, and she wept with relief as she rested her cheek on the rough surface.
"Summer, wh-what are we going to do? What is going to h-happen to us? Where is the ship? Why h-haven't they turned around to pick us up?"
Turned around? Oh, Michael...
She was too weary to explain or even attempt to soothe him with lies.
She turned her head to hide the tears that burned her eyes, thinking briefly, selfishly, that should never have left England. She should have remained with her aunt and continued to enjoy the social whirlwind her life had become in London. She should never have bowed to her father's blackmail. His threat of cutting off her allowance and stranding her penniless had been a trifling one at best. She would not have remained stranded or penniless for long, not with as many wealthy young suitors as she had vying for her favor.
The harsh fact remained, however, that duty and loyalty weighed more heavily with her than masquerade balls and evenings at the opera. Sir Lionel Cambridge had arranged her marriage to a naval officer posted in Bridgetown and she was expected to sail home to fulfill her obligations. It did not seem to matter that she barely recalled meeting the fellow, nor could she have conjured his face had she access to all the magic in the world. He was rich, his family was enormously influential, and it was, as her father stated, her honor and privilege to be betrothed to Captain Bennett Winfield.
A mouthful of bitter sea water snapped her out of her self-pity. The effort it took to lift her head off the beam was tremendous. Her arms felt leaden, her legs could not muster a single half-hearted kick. Her eyes had trouble focussing on anything beyond the morass of green moving water.
"S-Summer...are you all right?"
"What?" The croak that came from her lips startled her.
"You f-fainted or something," Michael said tremulously. "I didn't know what to do or how to w-wake you."
"Wake me? How long—?" Summer looked around and gasped. The rain had stopped and the sky had gone from thunderous green to dull gray. The waves continued to churn and toss them about, but the peaks were not as high, the troughs not so swoopingly low; most of the anger of the storm had passed.
"Several hours, I th-think," Michael was saying. "I shouted and poked at you, but you didn't move. I h-hope I didn't hurt you."
"I cannot feel a thing anywhere on my body anyway," she said through a weak smile. As a child, Michael had tended to stutter when he was upset or frightened, and she could hear the hesitations in his words now, despite the brave front he was attempting to put on.
Summer raised a hand from the beam to reassure him and frowned when she saw the ugly raw redness of her palm. She frowned again when she noticed that the beam was much lower in the water than it had first been.
"Several hours, did you say?"
"D-Do you suppose anyone on the Vixen has missed us yet?"
She stared at her brother and wondered if her face was as blue as his from the fright and shock, if her eyes looked as bruised, if her chin trembled as visibly.
"Of course they have," she said soothingly. "And they are probably searching for us right now. I am certain, if we can just hold on a while longer..."
Her voice faltered. Michael's lower lip was clenched between his teeth, and he was obviously renewing his efforts not to cry. His dark brown hair stuck in sodden clumps to his brow and cheeks; his hands were shriveled and white from the length of time they had been in the water already.
"I h-have not seen anyone else," he whispered. "I have f-felt things, though. Th-things that slide past my legs."
Summer glanced involuntarily down into the water, stirred to opaqueness by the storm. Sharks, she thought. Sleek gray killing machines that wouldn't know a fish from a pair of human legs.
She risked the stability of the beam to raise herself up slightly in an attempt to see over the tops of the waves. The clouds hung so low in the sky they appeared to come right down to the surface of the water. Visibility was limited, as there was still a heavy mist hanging in the air, but there was no sign of the Vixen, near or far. No immediate sign of any other wreckage either, and no sound apart from the slap of the waves.
She blinked to clear her eyes, then squinted and looked again.
"Michael...look. Over there. Those planks."
He followed her shakily pointing finger. "It's a raft. Or at least it looks like it could be one."
"If we could paddle over to it, we could climb on top and at least get up where we would be a little drier. Help me, Michael. Kick as hard as you can."
The thought of clambering onto something solid gave them both strength, and within the hour, drained again beyond measure, Summer was steadying the raft while Michael was slithering and wriggling himself aboard. After much straining and groaning, she too rolled like a wet fish onto the strapped planking, too exhausted to do more than utter a brief prayer of thanks.
Michael pre
ssed himself as close to her as was possible. The raft was only five feet long and four feet wide, both ends splintered as if it had been torn away from the deck by some giant's careless hand. But if they curled tightly together, the raft was somewhat stable as it rolled and rocked over the swells.
"Don't cry Summer," Michael whispered, his own voice broken with hiccups. "Father says there are d-dozens of ships passing through these channels all the t-time. We just have to w-watch for the right one and hail it."
"The right one? Any ship I see will be the right one, believe me."
"Do...do you suppose the Caledonia might notice we are missing and turn about?"
"I'm sure it will," she said, trying to sound convincing. The Caledonia was easily three times the size of the Sea Vixen. Surely it could not have met the same fate?
A splash of water on her cheek roused Summer again. With a muffled whimper, she lifted her head and looked around, shocked to see that dusk was descending. There was nothing around them. Nothing. The ocean stretched out forever on all sides, meeting a sky that was as dull as lead and growing darker by the minute.
How could they have been the only two to survive? The Vixen had carried a crew of seventy-five and a passenger complement of twenty-four. The Caledonia was a British warship manned by three hundred and eighty...including Captain Bennett Winfield...who surely would not have abandoned the woman he was to marry in six weeks time. Betrothal aside, she was the daughter of the Governor of Bridgetown, Michael was his only son; that alone should have brought the frigate circling back to search for survivors.
A silly, foolish, stubborn streak of independence had prompted Summer to choose to remain on board the Sea Vixen for the last leg of the journey home. Michael had pleaded to accept Bennett Winfield's invitation to travel on the Caledonia, but she had firmly declined and now they were both suffering for her obstinacy.
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