Sandra Heath (26 page)

It didn’t please him at all that in the meantime he felt it necessary to defend his reputation. If Jane and Kit were to get away with their effrontery, his lieutenants in hell might question his authority, and that could not be tolerated. To prevent this, he had commenced the ghosts’ punishment. The year 1814 had ceased to be for them. Instead they were reliving every anxious moment of the 1714 events. They felt as if they were alive again, except that they knew exactly what would unfold in the coming hours.

His claw-nailed fingers drummed grimly. The specters might think they already knew what terror was, but when they were carried down into Hades, they would discover an eternity of something much, much worse…

Chapter Twenty-seven

All day the
Avalon
fled, keeping so dangerously close to the land that at times it seemed she must founder among the shoals and sandbanks, but somehow she slipped safely through. The much larger
Légère
did not dare follow her example, so sailed a parallel course in deeper water, and slowly but surely began to overhaul the sloop.

Henrietta had nothing to do except watch and wait. Rowley did not leave her arms, but by his cowering manner, and the way he whined wretchedly from time to time, she knew he was seeing things that for some reason were now denied to her. Rowley himself was her only link with the supernatural; she neither heard nor saw anything else. Of Jane and Kit there was absolutely no sign, nor was there a reoccurrence of the silvery echoes from the past, and although Henrietta prayed that one or other of her ghostly friends would appear, she waited in vain.

In fact they were enduring Old Nick’s callous punishment. As Henrietta gazed back from the
Avalon
toward the
Légère,
the phantoms gazed instead from the
Wessex
to the pursuing
Basilic.
Their feelings weren’t those of the past, however, for instead of the anxiety they’d experienced then, they were now weighed down by an overwhelming sense of impending doom. Every second that ticked away was an agony of fear and suspense.

Marcus had too much on his mind to be concerned about Jane and Kit. He longed to make a run for a port, but the strong offshore wind denied him the opportunity. Nor did help come in the form of other vessels. The horizon remained empty, and not so much as a fishing boat sallied forth from the snow-covered land. It was as if the sloop and its hunter were the only ships afloat, and all the time the Black Deeps loomed ever closer. When dusk fell, the
Légère
was barely a quarter of a mile astern and the perils off Orford Ness were only five miles ahead.

With darkness came a quirk of the wind that carried a snatch of sound from the
Légère.
Marcus distinctly heard a burst of idle laughter from the privateer’s crew, and knew they weren’t as vigilant as they should be. Overconfident, he thought, and with a shrewd smile ordered all lights on the
Avalon
extinguished. Then he changed the sloop’s course to avoid the Black Deeps, veering due east so that the offshore wind was now directly behind her. With barely two hundred yards to spare, she cut directly across the
Légère’s
path. It was a risky business, relying heavily upon the Frenchmen’s unpreparedness, and everyone on the
Avalon
held their breath as they waited for the shouts that would signify the privateer’s realization, but none came. The
Avalon
sailed on eastward, and the lights of the
Légère
continued south. Marcus hoped Amabel’s brother would run his vessel into the Black Deeps, but knew that was very unlikely. Lyons was probably dining at this moment, but his eye would be upon the time. He could not help but know about the Black Deeps, for their whereabouts were very well charted, and in a while he would toss his napkin aside and come up on deck. His crew might be less than alert, but it wouldn’t take him long to realize his quarry had gone or which direction she must have taken.

Therefore, after two hours Marcus changed course again, this time to beat southwest across the wind toward the Thames estuary. There was a risk they might encounter the privateer again, but he guessed Lyons would crack on as much sail as possible to surge east, and wouldn’t expect what amounted to a doubling back. Even supposing the Frenchman realized the trick, and veered about as well, he would have to beat across the wind as much as his quarry. The
Avalon
only had to stay ahead of him for the night hours. By dawn she would be in the estuary, where there was bound to be sufficient naval presence to drive the
Légère
away.

The night hours passed without event, and at dawn on St. Valentine’s Day, the wind fell away to a light northerly breeze. The reassuring shores of the estuary were faintly visible to north or south, without any sign of the
Légère.
There was a strange absence of other vessels for an area that was usually thick with traffic, but no one gave it too much thought. All that mattered was that the British mouse had eluded the French cat. There were cheers as Marcus ordered the breaking out of a cask of rum.

Old Nick watched and smiled. He knew their joy was premature. They weren’t safe yet, not by a long chalk.

Henrietta shared the heady atmosphere of deliverance, but—like good St. Peter before her—was guilty of forgetting something very important. The bogle was locked in the very storeroom where the rum was kept. When the sailor entered to collect the promised cask of rum, the manikin tiptoed out as slyly as it had tiptoed in weeks before. Then it set out to cause trouble, beginning with the simple delight of jumping out and biting members of the crew. It decided to be visible to them, so the men would be frightened as much as possible. Sailors were renowned for their superstition, and had even been a little uneasy when Henrietta embarked at Mulborough, because women were supposed to be unlucky on board ship. Thus the sight of a hideous little goblin was sure to cause chaos.

The celebrations came to a shocked halt as the bogle went about its wicked business. It leaped from an open hatchway and bit Mr. Padstow’s calf. As the boatswain howled with pain and dropped his cup of rum, the other crew members whirled in time to see the manikin dashing back into the hatchway. For a moment they doubted the evidence of their eyes, but then the ship’s cook erupted from a doorway. With a quivering finger he pointed back, and gibbered something about a gnome. As a stir of alarm spread, the bogle reappeared farther along the deck, this time treating the unfortunate Mr. Barrington to a sharp bite. After that there was mayhem. The bogle darted here, there, and everywhere, sinking its teeth into ankle after ankle, and there was nothing Marcus could do to restore calm.

At this point, Rowley entered the fray. When Mr. Padstow was attacked, Henrietta had been standing by the taffrail with the ghostly spaniel in her arms. As incident followed hot upon incident, Rowley’s hackles rose and his hatred for the odious goblin increased. Then, with a growl of pure vengeance, he jumped down to charge after his tormentor. With a volley of barks he chased it into the hold.

For a moment Henrietta was frozen with dismay; after all, it was through chasing the bogle that the spaniel had been lost before. Remembering how she’d dealt with the bogle in the past, she was galvanized into action. Ignoring the bemused gaze of the frightened seamen, she seized one of the brooms that had recently been used to keep the sloop free of snow, and hastened down to the main deck. Sooner or later the bogle would come on deck again, and when it did, she would be ready! Holding the broom firmly in both hands, she glanced swiftly at the likely doors, hatches, and ports.

Rowley’s muffled barks suddenly became yelps of fear that emanated from one hatch in particular. The yelps grew louder and Henrietta advanced with the broom, oblivious to the watching crew. Rowley’s yelps were very close now, and then a second sound carried too—evil, high-pitched laughter. The spaniel burst onto the deck with the bogle on his back, and Henrietta had only a split second in which to act. She swung the broom with all her might. The bogle’s laughter ended on a winded squawk as it was knocked heavily from the spaniel’s back. Over and over it rolled, squealing and cursing as foully as the lowest tar.

Henrietta swept the helpless manikin along the deck. As brisk and purposeful as a farmer’s wife cleansing a dairy, she rolled it toward the rail. But as she attempted to force the loathsome creature overboard, it grabbed a wooden fire bucket that stood nearby. For a moment the bucket wedged against the rail, with the wriggling bogle holding on tightly as it dangled above the water.

Marcus stepped forward then, and with a deft kick sent bucket and bogle into the sea. Henrietta dropped the broom to gather Rowley gladly into her arms again, and the spaniel covered her face with licks she could not feel. The relieved crew dashed to the rail and watched the bogle clamber into the bucket. As it bobbed away astern, it brandished a clenched fist and hurled abuses that would have made a coal heaver blush. The bemused sailors could only stare at it, but then, much to the bogle’s gibbering fury, a man slightly bolder than the rest shouted something appropriately insulting in return. There was a ripple of laughter, and the atmosphere lightened perceptibly as the bogle began to jump impotently up and down in the bucket.

But as the manikin and its makeshift craft slipped farther and farther away, carried out to sea by the tide and unseen current of the mighty Thames, something else in the water caught Marcus’ attention. He leaned over to look more closely, then stiffened. “Ice floes,” he breathed, then looked a little farther away, and saw more.

Henrietta watched him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Before he could reply, there was a shout from the lookout. The
Légère
had reappeared on the horizon and was coming up at a speed that suggested she had the advantage of the breeze.

Beneath his breath, Marcus uttered an expletive of which the bogle would have been proud. Henrietta looked at him in puzzlement. “What does it matter if the
Légère
comes now? We’re sailing farther into the estuary all the time, and must surely be safe?”

“I wish it were that simple. There are ice floes. The thaw and high tide must have broken up the Thames ice. No wonder there aren’t any other vessels around. The estuary is dangerous to shipping.”

“What are you saying? That we may not be able to continue to London?”

“Yes, I’m afraid that’s exactly what I’m saying.” He cupped his hands and shouted urgently up to the lookout to forget the
Légère
for the moment, and have regard instead to what lay ahead.

The man did as he was told and everyone on deck saw how his face changed. “Ice floes, my lord! Large ones, and plenty of them!”

There was an uneasy stir among the crew, and Marcus bellowed at the helmsman, “Come about, and be swift about it!”

Mr. Barrington shouted as well. “To your stations, lads, unless you want us to become a French prize! Jump to it!” The bogle was forgotten as heavy sea boots thudded on the deck. The
Avalon
began to swing around, heeling over alarmingly as the wheel was turned to its limit. The sails cracked and billowed, and orders were roared.

Clinging to the rail, Henrietta glanced back at the
Légère,
which was already perceptibly closer. She looked uneasily at Marcus. “Where will we go now?” she asked, although deep inside she knew the answer.

He met her eyes. “No one is going to come to our aid, Henrietta, so we have to look after ourselves. I’m going to try for the Downs.”

“Is there no other choice?”

He hesitated. “Yes, but I want to put an end to the
Légère.”

“But if there are other choices, surely—

He silenced her by putting a finger to her lips. “I will not let ice or a Frenchman harm you. Trust me in this, for I know something I am certain Lyons cannot yet know,” he said quietly, his voice almost lost in the noise of the ship and crew. Then he took her face in his hands and put his lips tenderly to hers. It was a lingering kiss. His lips were warm and pliable, and yet strong as well. For a moment she felt the tip of his tongue slide against hers, before he released her and strode away toward the helm.

Rowley glowered after him and growled, his canine jealousy aroused as much by this relationship as it was by that between Jane and Kit. Henrietta tapped the spaniel’s nose, just as Jane was wont to do. “Stop that, sir,” she murmured.

Rowley gave another disgruntled growl, but then fell silent.

Henrietta remained on deck as the
Avalon
came about, and struck east-southeast toward the jutting North Foreland of Kent, some fifty miles away. The sloop leaned to starboard as the northerly breeze filled her sails, and Henrietta saw the distant
Légère
come about as well. The privateer still had the weather gauge, and her astonishing spread of canvas made her seem to fly toward them like a hawk swooping on a sparrow. Whatever Marcus’ plan was, it would have to be very good indeed if the sparrow was to escape those savage talons.

Chapter Twenty-eight

The
Avalon’s
nimble maneuvering was her salvation, and as she forged toward the North Foreland, not even the
Légère
carried enough sail to cut her off. It wasn’t for lack of trying on the privateer’s part, and the activity on her decks was furious as the crew strove to slice across the estuary and close the way to the sloop. The
Avalon
slipped through the gap with barely a hundred yards to spare, and when the
Légère
fired her forward howitzers at the sloop’s rigging, intending to disable her rather than sink her, the shots flew wide. The privateer was forced to check and come around again, and while she was doing this, the sloop picked up her skirts and fled.

As the
Légère
took up the chase once more, Charles Lyons was aggravated considerably. He was as prideful as he was handsome and had expected to make sure of this particular prize long before now. Instead she’d led him a merry dance. On top of that his crew had let him down. They should have been more careful the night before, but by their negligence had let the British sloop slip away in the darkness. It was a state of affairs to which the French captain was unaccustomed, and his temper was foul.