Love's Rescue (2 page)

“Fool,” Rourke O’Malley muttered, spyglass to his eye. “They’re heading straight for the reef.”

Either the schooner’s master hadn’t hired a pilot, or he’d secured an incompetent one. Any seaman familiar with these waters knew better than to set that course in heavy weather. The schooner was large enough to carry both passengers and cargo. Against the backdrop of the last gasps of light along the western horizon, he could make out that her sails were tattered. The foremast had snapped off, and the vessel was sitting low. Either her holds were filled with heavy cargo, or she was taking on water.

He tensed with the familiar rush of fear and exhilaration. A wrecked vessel could bring riches to the wreck master—the first to reach the foundered ship—but it also brought danger. Many a wrecker had perished salvaging a ship. Some slipped overboard and were crushed between the two vessels. Divers drowned when the wreck shifted and pinned them in the submerged holds.

An active wrecker’s career was short, and Rourke had already spent over a decade in the trade. He needed just one good award to set up as a merchant and ship owner, where the most profit
could be earned. One valuable wreck would give him enough to build his own warehouse. Then he would collect the fees, rather than hand them over to the men who currently controlled the wharves and commerce in Key West.

“She be sittin’ low,” called out John Malley, his longtime chief mate from back home in the Bahamas. Upon emancipation, John had taken a shortened form of Rourke’s family name rather than that of the master who’d cruelly abused him. “Prob’ly holed.”

Rourke wasn’t willing to concede. “The hatch covers might be loose, making her take on water.”

John grinned, his teeth white in the gleam of the lantern. No words needed to be exchanged for Rourke to know that his friend also dreamed of treasure. Few Negroes could ever hope to gain wealth. Even after emancipation, only the most menial jobs were open to them. Across the Caribbean, slavery and the lack of opportunity had driven many to piracy, including the infamous Black Caesar. Though Negroes were prized as divers, most wreckers paid them a pittance. Rourke paid each man according to his skill and effort, not the color of his skin.

Some in Key West, like Charles Benjamin, suggested a Negro hadn’t the wits to serve as mate, but Rourke wouldn’t have any other man. John knew these waters. He could read the skies, and he wasn’t afraid to dive wrecks. Once Rourke stepped down from captaining his ship, John would make a fine master.

Rourke squinted into the wind. Though he’d anchored the
Windsprite
in a sheltered cove, the swirling tempest whipped even the shallows into peaks. This was shaping up to be the storm of the season.

“She be goin’ down,” John said. As if in answer, the schooner
lurched oddly. “She hit da reef.” If she wasn’t taking on water before, she would be now.

Rourke held his breath and watched. “I think she’s still moving.”

John shook his head.

Rourke couldn’t give up hope. He peered through the glass. The schooner’s deck and cabin lights still bobbed forward. Darkness would soon swallow all but those lights. If the reef got her, even the lights would vanish. “We’d best lend assistance. On that heading, she’ll only get in worse trouble.”

“All hands on deck!” John rubbed his hands together. “We be gettin’ fed tonight.”

Fed. The distasteful term had circulated aboard Rourke’s ship for years. When a vessel foundered and broke up, Rourke and his men stripped the cargo and rigging from its bones and ferried off any survivors.

Please,
Lord, let them all live.

Rourke swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. With every passing year it got harder to witness the drownings, especially the children. No child should die before his time, and drowning was the worst death of all. To gasp for air and draw in only water. He shuddered as the pale form of a motionless boy flashed through his mind. Little Charlie Benjamin.

Rourke, you’re getting soft.
Maybe it was time to retire. Just one big salvage award and he would. Maybe this would be the one.

He scanned the charcoal-gray horizon for other wreckers.

“We be alone,” John confirmed.

He was right. Rourke couldn’t spot a single twinkle of light or splotch of black that marked a wrecker in pursuit. He lowered the spyglass. If the schooner wrecked, he’d be wreck master. He
would garner the largest share of the prize in wreckers’ court. He gripped the gunwale as his pulse pounded.

His crew prepared to haul anchor and set sail. The sloop rocked wildly despite its sheltered anchorage. After all these years afloat, Rourke barely noticed it, but the new man, Tom Worthington, clung to the gunwale as he inched his way aft.

“Lights out, Captain?” Tom called out with eager anticipation.

“No!” Rourke barked. “We don’t do things that way on this ship.”

Some masters and ship owners claimed wreckers used lights, or lack of them, to lure vessels into danger. That might have been true in the lawless era two decades ago. But times had changed, and every wrecker was now licensed and had to abide by the rules. Break them, and the judge would yank that license and leave a man to fishing and sponging to eke out an existence. Poor exchange for the chance at wealth.

“Flash the danger warning,” he commanded. “We’ll caution the schooner to change course and steer clear of the reef.” It might be too late, but he had to try.

Tom shouted out, “Aye, aye, Captain,” and proceeded to obey orders.

Rourke smiled at the young man’s eagerness. Soon enough Tom would learn that a wrecked ship brought tragedy and heartache, not just adventure and riches.

“Repeat until they acknowledge the signal,” he said before heading below deck.

If the schooner didn’t heed his warning, he’d have a long night ahead of him. Best prepare for survivors.

Elizabeth took deep breaths to still her pounding heart. The cabin was situated topside aft. A wet cabin floor did not mean the ship was sinking, merely that the seams weren’t well fitted or caulked. Yet the creaking and grinding of the hull did not sound normal. She knew too well the hazards of the Florida Straits. Wreckers patrolled these waters for a reason. Ships frequently ran aground on the reef. Sometimes people died. She leaned against the cabin door and braced herself as the vessel pitched again.

On the other side of the door, several crew members shouted frantically.

Prickles danced up and down Elizabeth’s back. Ordinary seamen should not be outside her door. In addition to the mates’ cabin that she and Aunt Virginia now occupied, the great cabin contained the captain’s quarters and officers’ dining saloon. Those shouts had not come from any of the officers. The presence of crewmen meant that the structure was badly compromised.

Her throat tightened. For the first time in six hundred miles of catastrophic predictions, Aunt Virginia might be right.

She ran her hand down the varnished mahogany door to the brass latch. If she could look out that door for just a moment, she could tell what was going on.

Anabelle slipped close enough to whisper, “Don’t let Miss Virginia see what you’re doing.”

That only made Elizabeth’s pulse pound faster. Anabelle had heard the shouts too. She also suspected disaster. If Aunt knew, she would go into hysterics. But Elizabeth had to risk it. She needed to know what they faced. She took a deep breath and drew the latch.

Anabelle put her hand on the door as Aunt Virginia bent over the bucket again. “Send me to fetch the first mate.”

“Mr. Buetsch would be busy.” Elizabeth pushed aside Anabelle’s hand. She would never again risk anyone’s life but her own.

Before Anabelle could react, she flung open the door. Water sprayed through the opening, beading onto her crape gown and dampening the curls Anabelle had so carefully pressed this morning. The cook had protested that the galley stove was not to be used for hair tongs, but Anabelle had insisted until the cook gave in. No one would scold them now, for at the end of the passageway the outer door was ripped off its hinges. Water rushed over the deck. Sailors lugged a canvas knotted with cord to starboard. It could have only one use: to plug a breach in the hull that could not be reached from inside the ship.

“Where are you going?” Aunt Virginia cried from behind. “Don’t leave me.”

Elizabeth closed the door and pressed her forehead to the smooth wood. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Though Anabelle ran a comforting hand down her back, Elizabeth could not forget what she’d seen. Barring a miracle, the ship would not last the night. The crew was too busy to consider the plight of three women. Their lives depended on her.

What could she do? Until the captain gave orders to abandon ship, they were expected to stay in the cabin, but Elizabeth could not sit and wait. She knew how to sail and swim. She understood the workings of a vessel and what happened when a ship sank. She must act, but how?

She paced the length of the narrow room, pausing only to glance out the darkened window, through which the lamplight illuminated the spray of the waves.

Anabelle moved to close the shutters.

Elizabeth waved her off. “The air is too thick to close them.”

“Why don’t we play whist?” her great-aunt suggested. “It will take our minds off this dreadful tossing, and we can take turns playing the extra hand.”

Games at such a time? If the worst happened, they needed to be ready. There would be no time then to gather their belongings.

She faced her aunt. “We must prepare ourselves.”

“I’ve already gotten out the cards.” Aunt held up a deck. “Your trunk can serve as a table. Have your girl move it closer.”

“I wasn’t speaking of cards.” Elizabeth didn’t want to terrify her aunt, but ignorance could prove deadly. She could not lose one of the last female blood relations in her family. “We need to prepare in the event the ship founders.”

“Founders?” Aunt Virginia paled, but no hysterics yet.

Elizabeth didn’t give her time to gather steam. “We need to put our valuables into something small enough to carry.”

“What are you talking about, dear? The stevedores will take care of our trunks.”

Elizabeth choked back frustration. Her great-aunt thought she was talking about their arrival in Key West. She looked around for something small and light that would hold their most important possessions. “There are no stevedores aboard ship.”

“Of course not. The crew will bring our trunks onto deck.” Aunt Virginia rearranged the pillows behind her back.

Pillows. Of course. “A pillowcase would work beautifully. Hand me one of your pillows.”

Aunt eyed her suspiciously. “What did you see out there?”

“I’m simply saying that we should prepare ourselves to walk calmly to the ship’s boat if we are instructed to do so.”

Aunt Virginia sucked in her breath. “The ship’s going down?”

“Hopefully not, but in the event of trouble, we should be
ready.” She threw out the one reason her aunt would accept. “You would not want to lose your pearls.”

Aunt’s eyes rounded, and her jowls shook. “Call for Captain Cross.”

“We can’t call for the captain. He is busy with . . . more pressing matters.”

“I won’t hear of anyone thieving about Jonathan’s ship.”

“I didn’t say there were thieves aboard. I simply want us to prepare in case we must abandon ship.” There, she’d said it.

Her aunt leaned back in disbelief. “You’re exaggerating. Jonathan would never send us on any ship but the best.”

Elizabeth growled with frustration. “All I want is a pillowcase.” If only Aunt hadn’t taken every pillow in the room to prop herself up on the bunk, Elizabeth could have gotten one herself.

At that moment the oil lamp sputtered and died, plunging them into darkness.

All three women gasped.

“Don’t move.” It took a moment for Elizabeth’s eyes to adjust to the darkness. Nothing had changed. The sea still crashed against the hull, and the ship still plowed forward. Perhaps the crew had managed to plug the hole in the hull. Perhaps they would reach Key West as planned.

“What do we do now?” Aunt Virginia whispered.

“We wait.”

Aunt apparently thought she meant wait for death, for her whimper was followed by a series of poorly suppressed sobs. “I don’t want to die here, away from family. At least poor Helen had her husband and son at her side.”

Her words tugged at Elizabeth. Aunt Virginia was terrified—not of what might happen to them but of being alone. That was how Elizabeth had felt from the moment she learned of
her mother’s death. Never again could she ask her dear mama for advice. Never again would her mama comfort her past a nightmare or disappointment.

“It’s all right.” Elizabeth navigated to her aunt’s side. Sitting on the bunk, she embraced the elderly woman. “I won’t leave you.” She choked back a strangled sob of her own.

“Poor dear, I wasn’t thinking. I should never have mentioned your mother’s passing. Try to remember her beauty and grace.”

Tears stung Elizabeth’s eyes. “I’ve nearly forgotten her appearance.” She fingered the tiny miniature she kept in her watch pocket. That image had been painted when the bloom of youth colored Mother’s cheeks. She had aged over the years, losing that bright flush and adding lines of care around her eyes and mouth until she bore little resemblance to the girl on the miniature. “She was beautiful, wasn’t she?”