Bound By The Heart

by Canham, Marsha

  The curve of the hull prevented them from seeing what was happening close to the ship. There was no sign of either Wade or his chief mate, and so much time seemed to lapse that Summer's heart began pounding, drowning out the sounds of the anxious voices around her. She gripped the rail tightly, even climbing onto a wooden bar in an effort to see more.

  She felt Michael clutch her arm and point excitedly. Following his gasp, she saw two strong arms reaching for the surface, followed by Wade's dark head and brawny shoulders. He hung in the water for several moments swallowing deep lungfuls of air, then jackknifed under again, passing Mr. Monday on his way down.

  The pair went up and down several more times before Summer lost interest and turned instead to study the two islands flanking either side of the Chimera. At first glance they appeared to be nothing more than jagged cones of rock encircled by dense brush and narrow strips of beach. Trailing out behind each one, as far as the eye could see, were rocky little atolls, poking clear of the surface like the curving spine of some prehistoric serpent.

  "Thorny says this channel is the only way through the reef for miles and miles and miles," Michael whispered. "He says the channel is very narrow and one has to enter it at precisely the right place or—" he shrugged and nodded toward the water. "No wonder, then, that no ships have been able to follow him to Bounty Key."

  "Bounty Key?"

  "The name of his home port. His stronghold. His pirate base." This last was whispered so low and fraught with such barely contained exuberance that Summer wanted to box his ears.

  A burst of water and a roared command drew Summer's attention back over the side. Wade was treading water and shouting orders at some of the crewmen, who responded at once and threw him a length of thick cable and an iron bar. This time, as he disappeared below, Summer was able to estimate how deep he went by the amount of rope snaking over the side after him.

  She heard more spluttering, but this time it came from behind them on the deck. Mr. Thorntree was being led, coughing and swearing, to a seat on one of the wooden gun carriages. Michael forgot the drama in the water and ran to Thorny's side, stunned not only by the variety and quality of oaths erupting from the corner of the thin lips, but by the quantity of blood spreading down his shirt sleeve and dripping onto the deck.

  "Thorny, what is it? What has happened?"

  "Bah. Bluddy patch gave way," he said, gulping eagerly from the pannikin of rum thrust into his hands. "Currents 'ere 'r strong, an' them damned Frenchies only 'ad raw timber ter give us...so they said. Like as n'owt the patch tore off comin' 'round the reef. Whatever it is, she's takin' on water like a bluddy sieve."

  "Your arm!" Michael watched the mingling blood and water fall in a steady pat pat pat onto the deck.

  "Bah, s'nothin' lad." Thorny scowled and peeled back the sleeve. "Cut meself on a splinter is all."

  The wound was jagged and uneven. The hunk of brown oak that had done the damage was still buried in the leathery flesh, raising the skin into a shiny welt from the pressure. Thorny cussed voraciously and grasped the end of the thick sliver between thumb and forefinger, prying it free. It was three inches long and shaped like a wedge. The hole it left behind filled instantly with bright red blood, which overflowed and poured down his wrist and hand in a sluggish stream.

  Summer fought the instinct to gag as she pulled Michael out of the way. One of the crew had already stepped in to take charge, tearing off the neckerchief he wore and using it as a tourniquet to tie off the supply of blood to Thorny's arm. A second and third bandanna went around the wound itself, soaking red before they could seal the horrible wound from sight.

  Thorny looked paler for the experience. His tongue was thrust into his cheek, and his jaw twitched as more bandages and rum were called for. Summer stared at the blood on the deck, at the blood on the clawed hand, at the splatters staining the clothes of the man bending over to help.

  "Come away, Michael," she insisted. "He is being looked after, there's nothing you can do."

  Michael swallowed hard and nodded, but followed her reluctantly to the rail. Morgan Wade was just climbing back on board, shedding water like a sheepdog. His hair was smeared over his face; his shirt was transparent where it clung to skin like a thin, wrinkled layer of skin.

  He ran his hands through his hair, raking it back with an angry impatience. "Thorny? What the bloody hell have you done to yourself?"

  "Bah. N'owt but a nick, Cap'n."

  "A nick, eh?" Wade glanced at the hatch. "Have we men on the pumps?"

  "Aye. Bailin' lines as well. She's fillin' fast though."

  "I don't wonder. She has a piece of the reef in her timbers. Monday and I are trying to get it out, but it may take a while. Are you sure you're alright?"

  "Aye, Cap'n, fine. Fine. No call ter stand 'ere gawkin' on me—get on wi' yer business."

  Wade's scowl eased. The blue eyes scanned the crew, settling on a couple of men with the strongest, broadest backs. "Hawkins, Willard...I'll need you under the keel with us. Mr. Phillips—"

  One of the younger-looking men stepped forward smartly. He was of medium height and slightly built, but his expression was as earnest as his quickly snapped: "Aye sir?"

  "You have the helm. Put everyone into bailing if you see us taking in more than the pumps can handle, but see that she's kept from dropping too low."

  "Aye, sir."

  "Get some men started on a patch that we can shore up from the inside. Tear up a section of decking if you have to, but I want a strong enough patch to get us to the Key."

  "Aye, sir!"

  "And Mr. Phillips...I'll want two gigs in the water, one at each end of this blasted channel. Tell them to keep a sharp eye out for company. I've no taste to be caught sitting here like a drunken whore."

  The young man blinked. "Aye, sir."

  "When you've got the pumping under control, I want every able hand down in the cargo hold. We're going to have to off-load the lot of it to keep her nose above the waterline."

  Thorny's eyes popped out of their creases. "Eh? Ye're not aimin' ter chuck it all in the drink are ye? We be only six hour from the Key, give 'r take. Why n'owt unload 'er on shore an' come back fer it later? Won't take any longer ter do, an' the lads might feel better fer it."

  Wade started to object, but Thorny cut him short.

  "If'n it's still 'ere, we win. If'n it's gone, we lose, but leastwise we h'ain't just t'rown it away. We went t'rough a ripe deal o' trouble to fetch them guns, an' the lads at home need 'em."

  Wade consulted the expressions on the faces of his men. "Aye. You're right. No sense drowning good profits. I'll leave you in charge of the transport, if you're up to it, but you have a couple of hours, no more. When the patch is in place, we sail."

  Thorny beamed. "Ye'll 'ave 'er weight gone in a twink."

  "Just make sure you get that arm tended first."

  "Bah, n'owt but a—"

  "Thorny!"

  "Aye, Cap'n, aye. Stitch it meself if'n I 'ave ter."

  Wade grabbed some iron bars and rope and headed back to the side of the ship. He saw Summer and Michael and grunted in passing. "If you two are going to stay up top, make sure you are in no one's way."

  "Are we going to sink?" Michael asked.

  "Not if I can help it, lad."

  "But are we in danger?"

  Wade halted. "Can you swim?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Then you're not in danger," Wade said, indicating the islands on either side of the channel.

  He continued to the open gangway, peeling his wet shirt up and over his shoulders as he walked. Summer caught a glimpse of solid, tanned muscles before he was diving over the side and into the water.

  Michael ran to the rail again to watch, but Summer was gazing thoughtfully at the conical island off the port side. It was the closest, and it could be done. They were both strong swimmers. The distance from the ship to the first pale stretch of sandbar was no more than half a mile.

  "Michael?"

&
nbsp; "Hmmm?"

  "What do you suppose—" she lowered her voice, conscious of the sailors milling all around them— "we would find on those islands?"

  "Nothing, most probably. They don't look big enough to have people...or much of anything."

  "What about food and water? Do you think two people could manage to survive until another ship came past?"

  Michael frowned up at her. "I think you're potty. It could take weeks or months for another ship to come along. And even if it did, how could you signal it? How would you know it wasn't full of Frenchies, or pirates, or cannibals? How do you know we wouldn't starve to death long before anyone found us?"

  "Are you saying you would rather stay on board this ship? You want to be held for ransom? You want to be the cause of holding Father up to ridicule and disgrace? You want to make him wait longer than humanly kind to find out his son and daughter are still alive?"

  "No, of course not," Michael said, flushing beneath his tan. "But at the same time I rather like knowing I'm going to eat and drink and be warm at night. We know Captain Wade has no intention of killing us or making us into soup. How do you know another captain will feel the same?"

  "I don't, but at least we would be free."

  "Free to do what? Count sea gulls?"

  "Michael—"

  "Summer." He puckered his brow. "We aren't being treated badly. We haven't been caged or beaten or flogged or locked in chains. I know you don't like the captain, but he is being rather decent about the whole thing."

  "You're acting as if you admire him. What happened to the spy who was out to learn everything he could to help Father catch the man and bring him to justice?"

  "He is still learning things," Michael said stubbornly. "But he can't tell anyone anything if he pines away of thirst on a deserted island."

  Summer sighed with exasperation. Possibly—just possibly—he was right. They might be trading in one horror for another. Starvation, thirst, madness: They were all quite possible.

  "Right!"

  Summer jumped as a gnarly hand clamped down on her shoulder. "The two o' ye can come an' lend an 'and," Thorny said. "Ye're both fit ter fetch an' carry. We've an 'old full o' cargo what needs shiftin'. Lad, ye can get on the ropes 'ere an' steady the crates as they come up over the side o' the bay. Lass—ye can start with a couple o' lanterns an' move 'em where the boys need light ter see. Blacker'n satan's arse down there. Let's move sharp now. Quicker we lighten 'er belly, quicker we 'elp out the Cap'n."

  Summer had two lanterns thrust into her hands. She was hustled forward through the cargo hatch, down two steep flights of wooden ladders until she was on the gloomy lower deck. She was told by a series of grunts what to do, where to stand, and where to throw more light. All around her were the sweating, straining bodies of the crewmen, most stripped to the waist in the humid, airless confines of the hold. Boxes and crates were carried forward into an adjoining bay where men worked with nets and winches to hoist them up on deck. From there, they were swung over the side and settled into longboats, where more crewmen were waiting to row them ashore.

  Everyone had to shout to be heard. Water sloshed around underfoot and there was another crew straining over pumps to keep the water level down. Carpenters were hammering and sawing, making a patch to fit over the hull; pitch and oakum were being mixed and heated to seal the wood, filling the lower deck with the sickening stench of tar.

  Some of the remarks directed at Summer had nothing to do with her duties. Several times she was brushed against or jostled and she had to grind her teeth to keep from swinging out with the lanterns and smashing the grins off the culprits' faces. She knew they were full of speculation about what went on in the captain's cabin each night, and for once she was of no mind to discourage them from their lewd thoughts. As bold as some were to press against her, she doubted they would risk their captain's wrath by taking something that was clearly marked his. More to the point, she was certainly not about to wither under a handful of bullying louts. They were ignorant sailors and ship's lackeys, and if she showed them fear, she was lost forever.

  By late afternoon, she had tired of standing in a corner holding lanterns and was helping to move ropes and clear debris, to guide the men through the companionway. Her willingness to work just as hard and just as long won grudging nods of approval. The jeers stopped, the accidental brushings stopped as the men put all their energies into emptying the bay of the heavy crates.

  At last there were only the huge casks of rum left to roll onto the nets and hoist above. Summer was only half-heartedly watching the two men whose job it was to maneuver the casks into position; her arms ached and her feet were disgustingly filthy despite being in ankle deep water a good deal of the time. She heard a scraping sound behind her and hoped it was Thorny come to relieve her, but then she felt an arm go around her waist, a hand clamp across her mouth, and she was lifted off her feet and dragged backward to a pitch dark section of the hold.

  She twisted and fought against the grip, striking out with her arms and legs to try to kick or claw her way free. The filthy hand covering her mouth and nose was smothering her. She heard several grunted curses as she was hoisted onto something hard and flat, and a snarled cry of pain as her nails found the soft flesh of a cheek and raked deep.

  The hand relented enough for her to grab a breath and scream, but the sound was cut off before the echo had a chance to bounce off the walls. She was rolled roughly onto her belly and her face was pushed into a stinking pile of canvas sacks; her wrists were caught and pinned at the small of her back while her captor positioned himself above her.

  "Captain's supposed to share all the profits," a voice rasped against her ear. "Supposed to share the prizes equal. I hear tell you been givin' it to the old man every night. The nigra too. Don't matter none to me, long as I get my share."

  Summer lunged to one side, twisting violently to dislodge her captor. A hand was thrust brutally between her thighs and began kneading her through the coarse fabric. Panic gave her the strength to kick out and twist enough to roll onto her back, to wrench her hands free and gouge at the blackness where she guessed his eyes to be. She could not see his face. He was nothing but a series of hot, sour breaths and clumsy fumblings.

  He slapped her hands away before she could do any damage, then slapped at her legs when she tried to bend them and kick. He grabbed for her breast and squeezed, digging his nails into the tender flesh as he tried to tear away the shirt.

  "Ain't this sweet," he panted. "Ain't this just the sweetest..."

  Summer landed a punch to his jaw but he slapped back and started groping for the knot in her belt to loosen it.

  "Open up ya bitch. Open up, I'm tellin' you, or it's going come worse for you... Ahhhhh!"

  Summer felt the crushing satisfaction as her knee jerked up between his legs and rammed his genitals up into hard bone. The pain caused him to loosen his hold and he clutched at himself, rolling to one side and giving Summer the opening she sought. She scrambled to her feet and ran sobbing from the storeroom, all but bowling Michael over as he was sauntering down the companionway.

  "There you are," he said. "Thorny sent me to fetch...Summer? Summer, what's wrong? Why are you crying?"

  "I am getting off this ship! I am getting off it here and now, and if you don't want to come with me, that's fine, but I will not stay on board another second."

  "What happened? There is blood all over your cheek!"

  "Just one of your captain's friendly crewmen," she spat, "trying to become a little friendlier."

  "Did he hurt you? Who was it? I shall tell the captain and he—"

  "No," Summer cried, fresh tears stinging her eyes. "No, Michael. The captain won't do a blessed thing. Do you honestly think he would take the side of one of us against one of his own men?"

  "But he...he would have to believe you."

  "Michael!" She grasped his shoulders and shook. "Are you coming with me or not?"

  His face twisted but he nodded. "Yes," he
whispered. "Yes of course I am coming with you. But we have to hurry. The cargo is all ashore, and they are getting ready to sail out of this beastly channel."

  "Quickly then," she urged, and took his hand. "Is there a way off one of the lower decks? A way we won't be seen?"

  "Off the gun deck," he murmured, frightened almost as much by the unnatural brightness in her eyes as by the prospect of jumping into the ocean again.

  "Do you think you can make the swim? The water is calm, and it's only a couple of hundred yards. I will be right beside you to help."

  Michael nodded determinedly. "I can make it. I know I can."

  He led the way along the narrow passage and up the ladder to the gun deck. They paused at the hatchway, staring down the low-ceilinged deck at the double row of heavy guns that made up the Chimera's second tier arsenal. Each bronze monster was eight feet long and capable of hurling twenty-four pounds of solid iron shot more than a thousand yards with deadly precision. The decking here was four feet thick to support the weight of the gun carriages, and regardless how often it was scrubbed, still bore the dark stains of past battles.

  "There," Michael whispered, pointing to a wooden hatch. It was raised like a gun port, on pulleys, and opened onto a narrow platform that jutted out from the Chimera's hull. Beneath it, running all the way to the waterline, were wooden slats for footholds.

  The water in the channel was inky black beneath them and slapped gently against the hull of the ship. Further out it became silvery blue as the glare from the sun burnished the surface. With any luck at all, anyone glancing over the side would not be able to distinguish two bobbing heads from the darker caps of the waves rippling across the water.

  "Let's go," she hissed and stepped out onto the platform. It would have been an easy dive of fifteen feet, but the noise of the splash might have drawn attention. Summer used the slats, pausing to guide Michael's feet after her, and in a few moments felt the cold water of the channel swallow her feet, her calves, her knees. She gasped as she let go of the rungs and treaded water as she waited for Michael. When he was beside her, owl-eyed, with his chin trembling, she pushed off from the side with a strong kick and started swimming.