Sea Fire (34 page)

The cannon crashed, and he didn’t even bother to check on any damage he might have caused the frigate. Instead he got the cannon in
position and reloaded. Just as he was setting the charge alight he happened to glance around. He couldn’t believe what his eyes were telling him. There, moving about the open deck, apparently bent on succoring the wounded, was Cathy!

“Holy Christ!” he yelled, incensed and frightened out of his wits at the same time. Stupid, mule-headed, defiant bitch, didn’t she know she could be killed? She looked up at his bellow, her blue eyes meeting his. He saw tears streaking her face.

Behind him his cannon exploded. The force of it sent him flying across the deck to land with a crash against the opposite side of the prow. A horrible stinging sensation attacked the right side of his face and neck. He clawed at it, howling. He was on fire!

“Jon!” he heard Cathy screaming his name as if from a great distance. He was beating at his clothes by instinct, unable to see anything because of the black gunpowder that had been blown into his eyes.

Cold water dashed over him like a benediction from heaven, putting out the licking flames that had tried to eat his flesh. He rested for a moment in the aftermath of terror, his body limp against the hard boards of the deck. He felt his head lifted, and pillowed on something soft and sweet smelling. . . .

It might have been an instant or an eternity before he opened his eyes. His vision was still blurred from the after-effects of the gunpowder, but mercifully he seemed to be in one piece. What pain as there was he disregarded. He saw Cathy looking down at him, her lovely little face blackened with smoke and streaked with tears.

“I’m—all right,” he croaked, and immediately her expression lightened. Jon realized that his head was cradled on her lap. Then he bethought himself of the abandoned cannon, and struggled into a sitting position. He had to get back to the gun. . . .

“It’s
blown up,” Cathy said calmly, as if she could read his mind. Jon, following the direction of her eyes, finally understood what had happened. The ancient cannon, instead of firing as it was supposed to, had been unable to withstand the force of the charge. It had exploded, and now lay broken in half on the deck. He could consider himself lucky to be alive.

Cannon boomed, and the
Cristobel
shuddered from the impact. Jon rose shakily to his feet. As long as he still could, he would fight to the death. What other choice was there?

“Where are you going?” Cathy stood up with him, sounding on the verge of hysteria, her hands clutching at him as if she would never let him go. It was as if they were alone, stranded together on some quiet backwater while guns boomed and men screamed around them.

“Get back to the cabin, and for God’s sake, stay there,” he growled, disregarding her question and trying not to think that this might be the last time he would ever see her in this world.

“No!” Cathy’s voice rose on the word, and she clutched him tighter. Jon’s hands closed around the fingers that bit into his arm, gently prying them loose. For just a moment he stood with her hands in his, looking down into her woebegone little face.

“Cathy. . . .” he began, alarmed at the choking of his own voice. But there was no time left for pretty speeches, no time for sentiment. Firmly, jaw set, he put her from him. “Get back to the cabin.”

He started to turn away. Her hands reached for him, then there came a roar more deafening than the opening of the gates of wrath on Judgement Day. Bright sheets of flame shot out of the open hatchway, coming from the
Cristobel
’s bowels. The ship leaped into the air with the impact of the explosion, shuddering in her death throes.

The powder! A cannonball from the warship had struck the gunpowder! Even as Jon registered it, the whole ship was ablaze. Tongues of fire
shot up the two remaining masts, turning the fluttering sails into great crimson lakes. He stared, aghast, as the
Cristobel
was transformed in an instant into a blazing inferno. Screams of the terrified wounded, trapped by the racing conflagration, assaulted his ears; the smell of burning seared his nostrils.

“Come on!” he yelled, grabbing Cathy by the hand and dragging her after him. Acting more by instinct than reason, knowing only that he had to get them both out of this hell that threatened at any moment to surround and consume them, he took the only path open to him. A barrier of fire closed the prow off from the rest of the ship: impossible to reach beyond it. Crouching beside the scant protection of the port bulwark, he ran forward to where he knew a gig was secured. Reaching it, releasing Cathy’s hand to free it and swing it up and over the side with demoniacal strength, he saw that the intense heat was already beginning to blister its paint.

The smoke was thick and black, its oily fingers reaching up his nose and down his throat. Cathy was coughing, he saw as he turned back to her.

“Get down!” he ordered hoarsely, pushing her into a crouching position. There was more air close to the deck, and less chance of either of them being hit by flying bits and pieces. Hot ashes from the blazing sails were beginning to drift down in great smoldering flakes, burning the skin where they touched. They had to get off the ship. At once, while they still could. The gig waited for them below, bobbing patiently in the water. Alone, he would have leapt over the side, and swum to safety. But there was Cathy, far gone with child, to consider. She was certainly a capable swimmer, but the fall to the water, in her condition, might do her serious injury.

Another explosion, rocking the ship, settled the question. They were out of time. Unless they were to be roasted like peanuts in the shell, they had to get out of here now. Standing up, Jon caught Cathy’s
hand in his, pulling her with him to a point just above and to the right of the gig. They were on the
Cristobel
’s port side, protected from the rampaging frigates’ view by an enveloping pall of dense smoke.

“What are you doing?” Cathy cried as he ripped at her skirt. He had no time to explain that he was afraid the heavy folds would, when wet, drag her down.

“We’re going to jump!” he yelled back, his hands spanning her waist from behind and lifting her to stand on the rocking bulwark. “And swim to the gig! Go! I’ll be right behind you!”

Cathy turned to look at him, wide-eyed with fright, her small face pale under its covering of soot. Then she jumped. Jon watched her fall, the thin white skirt of her petticoat billowing over her head, careful to note her position so that he would not land on top of her. Then as he saw her hit the water and disappear beneath the waves, he threw himself from the ship.

He hit the water in a rough-and-ready dive, feeling its impact slap hard against his chest and belly. The breath was knocked from his lungs in a gasp, he clawed for the surface. He had to find Cathy . . . had to find Cathy . . . had to. . . .

She was there beside him when he surfaced, treading water, her hair trailing around her like long strands of sea-weed. Shaking the water from his eyes, he could have laughed with relief if the need for movement hadn’t been so urgent.

“Hurry!” he gasped, gesturing toward the gig which was floating amidst a sea of debris some thirty feet away. The
Cristobel
could sink like a stone at any moment, creating a terrifying whirlpool that would suck them down with her. Before that happened, they had to get clear!

Despite her pregnancy, Cathy swam strongly, keeping pace with him as he struck out for the gig. In a short time he was grasping the little boat’s side, then pulling himself up and over. Wordlessly he
reached down to grasp the hand that Cathy extended to him, hauling her over the side. She was soaking wet, shivering, and half-naked, but he had no time to worry about her now. Turning, he saw to his relief that the oars were still secured in their proper place along the gig’s side. Freeing them, he grabbed a pair and sat amidships, rowing with all his might.

He didn’t stop until they were safely away. Finally, when he judged them to be beyond the reach of both the
Cristobel
’s death tide and the frigates’ line of vision, he shipped the oars for a much-needed breather. Dragging in great gulping breaths of air, he turned to look at Cathy, who sat huddled in the stern. Her slender legs, wrapped in the soggy folds of her nearly transparent petticoat, were drawn up to her chest, and her arms were wrapped around them for warmth. Her drying hair curled wildly around her small face. Big tears trickled down her salt and grime streaked cheeks. Her huge eyes, pain-shadowed, were fixed beyond him on the burning hulk of the
Cristobel.

“Cathy,” he said hoarsely, aching for her pain. She turned those drowned eyes on him.

“Angie,” she croaked. “The others. . . .”

Her lips trembled as she contemplated their nearly-certain fate.

Jon’s jaw tightened. More than anything in the world his instincts urged him to close the space between them, taking her in his arms and letting her weep out her grief on his shoulder. But there was no time yet for such softness. They were not yet safe.

“The frigates will pick up any survivors,” he told her matter-of-factly. “If we got off the ship, so did others.”

“Yes,” Cathy said quietly, and he was relieved to see that his words seemed to have given her some comfort. Then he noticed that her lips were blue with cold, and her teeth chattered. Dusk was falling, which would greatly aid their escape, but the night
would be cold, and she was wet and shocked.

He crawled to the locker set into the prow, opened it, and found to his relief that it was stocked with the essentials of survival. Apparently the
Cristobel
’s former masters had been as doubtful of her seaworthiness as he had been himself, and had prepared just in case circumstances should set them adrift. Among other items, he found a blanket, several twists of dried beef jerky, a couple of canteens of water, and a bottle of whiskey. He grinned wryly as he pulled out this last. Whoever had provisioned the gig had meant to entertain himself while at sea. Then a hard, round object came under his hand. As he identified it his grin widened. A compass! So they would not be totally lost.

“Here, wrap this around you,” he said to Cathy, passing her the blanket. “But first take off the rest of those wet clothes. You’ll catch pneumonia if you sit around like that for long.”

He moved back to his seat amidships, passing her the blanket. She took it apathetically, her eyes still focused on the orange-and-red funeral pyre behind them.

“Don’t look at it,” he advised quietly, hating the horror that haunted her face. “There’s nothing we can do for them. We have to think of ourselves—and the baby. Understand?”

To his relief, she nodded, then started to undress. As she dried herself with the blanket, then wrapped it around her to ward off the cold, he began again to row.

The night, as he predicted, was cold. But the water was relatively smooth, and a full white moon rose to light their path. Cathy came to huddle at his feet, and went to sleep with her head in his lap. As he continued to row, he watched her sleeping face with a tenderness that made his throat ache. Today he had almost lost her forever. . . .

It was nearly dawn when she stirred, and sat up. The sky over the eastern horizon was just beginning to pinken. Jon, dead tired, stiff, and aching from his long night of rowing, was just about to
ask her to pass him the whiskey when he noticed that her face seemed unnaturally drawn.

“What’s wrong?” he asked sharply, a nameless dread beginning to creep along his veins. Against his legs he could feel her stiffen suddenly. She whimpered, a low, moaning sound dredged up from deep inside her; her hand rose to press tightly against her bulging belly.

thirteen

C
athy was having her baby. It hurt, oh, God, it hurt! She tried her best to hold back her screams of pain, conscious of Jon’s white face bending over her, but she could not. The agony had gone on too long. . . . One day, was it, or two? She had lost track of time, consumed by the torment of her own body. Instead of minutes, she counted knife-thrusts of anguish. She was barely aware of the rocking of the small boat, of the canopy Jon had rigged for her from his tattered shirt to protect her from the blinding sun. Her whole being was focused on the heaving mound of her belly, on this thing that threatened to rend her in two as it thrust forth into the world.

“Bear down one more time, sweetheart, please!”

Jon’s hoarse, urgent voice seemed to float to her from a distance. “Bear down,” he kept telling her. She wanted to shriek at him that bearing down hurt, that it made the dreadful throes of childbirth just that much more excruciating. But she didn’t have the strength.

“Cathy, bear down!”

It was a command this time. Resentfully, Cathy obeyed. The grinding, twisting torment
shot up through her vitals as all her muscles strained to eject her burden. Her nails dug deep into Jon’s leg, drawing blood. Neither of them noticed. Jon, ashen-faced, sweating profusely, watched for some sign that the child was indeed ready to be born. Cathy writhed, groaning piteously. Her throat was so raw and sore from crying out that it hurt to make even that sound.