The Perilous Journey of the Not-So-Innocuous Girl (24 page)

The moon was directly above and to the right of the small, battered band of survivors. The explosion had helped blast them forward at lightning speed, hurling them quickly away from what was left of the pirate battle and their fellow shipmates. Thanks to Outil’s quick reflexes and skill they did not capsize and eventually reached a normal pace. The little ship performed just as it was meant to, a gentle propulsion forward with a slow descent to water, where it then functioned as a life raft.

It bobbed along on a choppy sea while Outil rowed rhythmically with two oars. The small engine had run out of fuel before they even hit water and Outil was the only passenger not completely exhausted from the previous day’s events.

The night air was cold, but not as biting as the winds on the deck of the Triumph had been. The ocean was littered with bits and pieces of wood, souvenirs of what would eventually be called the greatest corsair disaster in France’s history. They hadn’t seen another living soul since the explosion. Marguerite sat reclined in the front seat with her good arm around Vivienne’s slouched body. A heavy wool blanket encircled them both, blocking out the night air.

Jacques had been the one to regain composure first, climbing to the back of the boat and locating the supply locker. He tripped the emergency signal and handed out blankets to the women before taking his seat alone in the middle row. He assured them that the signal would be picked up as they came closer to land and then said no more.

No one else spoke either. There was nothing to be said. The two girls in the back had wept and shrieked through the worst of it and then eventually huddled under a blanket and succumbed to sleep. Marguerite thought of them slumbering peacefully, no doubt dreaming they were still safe aboard the Triumph, heading for a new life. She thought it odd that she didn’t even know their names. Two strangers, her bot, Vivienne, and Jacques, all alone in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Not exactly what she had planned when she set off earlier that week.

She shifted in her seat and moved to inspect Vivienne. So far she hadn’t regained consciousness, but her shallow breathing continued dutifully: the only sign that she was still alive.

Marguerite had no idea that a person could feel so exhausted and helpless as she did at that very moment. The past day’s events weighed on her like a worm burrowing a deep hole in the base of her heart, stretching to her gut. She had been disappointed in the past and even sad at times, but nothing like this kind of emotion had ever filled her chest. As she looked through the steam clouds of her breath to her friend’s pallid face and to the endless sea beyond, she felt all the emotions she’d been holding in over the past week rise to the surface and spill out. Small trickles of tears at first, then a catch in her breath quickly turned into silent heaving sobs. She couldn’t help herself.

A warm hand touched her shoulder gently as Jacques lifted one leg then the other over the back of the seat and slid in beside her. Without a word, he wrapped his long arms around both girls. Marguerite, broke down and sobbed fitfully. Partly because it hurt to have him leaning on her injured arm, but mostly because she felt completely broken inside. He gently removed the goggles from the top of her head and kissed her hairline and said nothing as she wept.

Finally, Marguerite spoke. “Are they really all dead?”

“Oh no!” He was quick to soothe her fears. “No, they aren’t all dead. A very many of us got away thanks to you.”

“But the explosion, your men, the corsairs, and the women … ” She started sobbing again.

“As far as I was able to surmise, they didn’t capture any women. Nearly all living crew and passengers made it off the ship alive.”

“How do you know?” Marguerite sat back a little and looked at his face in amazement, wondering if this was just a ploy to make her feel better.

“You were not the only one with a talkie, my dear.” He smiled kindly at her in the moonlight.

“Of course,” Marguerite said, “how foolish of me.” Genuine relief filled her voice.

“That’s not to say we’re all in the clear.” Jacques was serious. “We are not far off the coast, but the air cannon blasts caused some of the escape pods to lose control, and not all of the crew and bots were experienced navigators. However, every crew member and bot was trained to use the emergency signals and supplies, so hopefully they will all be located before anything else happens.”

Marguerite was lost in her thoughts, allowing herself to walk through her choices over the last week. “We were so close … ”

“So close to what?” he asked.

“To dying … ” She hiccupped a bit and caught her breath. “I saw so many people die. Just like that … one minute here and the next, gone. How can you be so removed from it all?”

Jacques let go of her then, placing his hands on his lap so he could look her full in the face.

“I’m not removed from anything.” His eyes were wrinkled in pain and his face was drawn and serious. “I held the lives of every single person and bot on that ship in my hands. You don’t think it ripped my soul in two every time one of them slipped between my fingers? You don't think I felt the sting of defeat and death the moment I realized we couldn’t outrun those bastards? Don’t ever assume, for one moment, that I will not carry with me, all my days, the sight of my crew members—my friends—lying dead in the hallways and on the deck or falling to their deaths in the ocean below, fighting gallantly so that we might live.”

“Oh, Jacques!” Marguerite whispered, “I’m so very sorry. Of course, of course… ” She unpinned her good arm from behind Vivienne, laying the girl’s head gently on the back of the bench, and carefully put both arms around his neck, weeping openly once again.

He pulled her to his warm chest without hesitation. They stayed like that, in each other’s arms, for quite a while. Marguerite had never been so confused in her life. So much had changed, so many things she had been sure of were no longer certain. And Jacques was at the center of it all. She had known he was nothing but a pompous renegade, a disgrace to his family and no better than any other military man. But something about him whispered strength and security to her soul and she couldn’t ignore that, could she?

Eventually, exhaustion overtook her and Marguerite slept soundly, her head on Jacques’s shoulder, until the sound of engines woke her. She blinked against what she thought was the morning sun but quickly realized was the searchlight from a rescue ship soaring above them.

“We’re saved!” She sat up, stiff from the short nap.

“Yes, we are.” Jacques stood up and waved. The aership signaled back with a series of blinks from the searchlight. “We must wake the others.” He quickly climbed over the seat to the middle row and gathered a few things before reaching over and gently rousing the two girls.

Marguerite was so weary, yet the feeling of relief that flooded her chest was warm and welcome. She turned to Vivienne who had slipped to an odd angle in the night.

“Vivienne dear, I’m so sorry for all of this.” Marguerite reached over to pull her back to a seated position. “We’re going to get you to a doctor as soon as possible.” Her ungloved hand smoothed the hair back from the other girl’s cheek. Her skin was ice-cold and as her head lolled into the light, Marguerite could see she was a slight shade of gray. She passed her fingers in front of Vivienne’s nose. No warmth escaped.

“No!” she whispered frantically. “No, no, no!”

Outil was by her side in an instant. “What is it, m’lady?”

“Outil! She’s not breathing!”

Outil quickly climbed to Vivienne’s side and searched for vital signs, all in vain.

The first few islands of New France came into view. Large, dark green patches were visible in the midst of the deep blue ocean now. Marguerite had spotted a small iceberg or two since taking her place on the deck earlier that morning. It almost excited her to think they may be islands capped with snow, but she had no heart left for excitement, and she was tired of having her hopes dashed. Now that she could see land and hear the cry from the crow’s nest, she was certain: New France really did exist and she was flying over it.

The rescue ship was not nearly as posh as the Triumph had been. It was a smaller military vessel made explicitly for search-and-rescue missions and for aiding in the delivery of mail and occasionally supplies to larger, slower ships. However, what it lacked in fineries, it made up for in speed. They had only been on the open sea for a few hours before they had been located using the homing signal in the life boat. And now it was only one day later and they would be arriving in Montreal in a matter of minutes.

Marguerite was wrapped in a thick woolen coat that clung tightly around her neck and poured all the way to the deck, covering her small feet. It was meant for someone much larger. She drew the hood down low over her head and stood with the wind at her back to keep out the cold. They were traveling much more slowly now that they were approaching Montreal, making the winds bearable. Outil was at her side, but neither said a word as they watched the land and sea take turns slipping quickly away beneath them and turning into rivers and lakes and farms.

Outil hadn’t left her mistress’s side since the rescue boat had found them. She had placed Miss Vivienne’s body carefully into the lift and secured it with the harness buckles, then did the same with the next lift for the weeping and despondent Marguerite. Jacques had tried to help as well, but Marguerite batted his hand away without looking at him.

Doctors and nurses were on hand to tend to the wounded, but quickly confirmed that Vivienne had passed away in the night, most likely from internal bleeding.

No one asked how she sustained her injuries. Everyone assumed it had been in the attack. The only questions were of names and next of kin, all of which Marguerite ignored and Outil supplied. They both watched without speaking as a sheet was drawn over Vivienne’s head and her pallet was taken away.

Outil was the one to point out Marguerite’s own wound and insist she be attended to. Her arm was swollen and angry, obviously infected. She sat stock-still on the examining table, biting her lip and moaning only a bit. It almost felt good to have a physical pain to challenge the pain in her heart.

The doctor shook his head as he removed the ball and swabbed the wound with expert hands.

“Pardon my saying so, but I’ve never had the pleasure of operating on a lady of your caliber, miss. I must tell you, you’re made of harder stuff than half the lads I patch up around here. Am I right?” He turned to his nurse. She nodded with a grave face and wide eyes.

Marguerite didn’t reply.

After that she was shown to the mess hall with her arm in a clean bandage and sling. The officers had supplied hearty, warm food but Marguerite waved it away and asked to be shown to her quarters. She spent most of the day sleeping on the rough sheets in her dirty clothes while Outil recharged in the corner. When she awoke it was nearly time for supper and a package of new clothes had been delivered along with a note.

We are sorry for the loss of your companion. Arrangements have been made for burial services once we reach Montreal. We also apologize for the lack of female clothing on hand. Please accept these as temporary, albeit clean, alternative for the time being.

Marguerite picked up the folded clothing, an aerman’s jumpsuit, and set the note on the small bed. Another piece of paper was on the floor. She picked it up and read.

My deepest sympathies. Please meet me for dinner?

—Jacques

She flung the scrap on the bed with the other note.

“Miss?” Outil’s voice was quiet. “Who is the letter from?”

“Jacques. He thinks this is a fine time for a dinner date.” Her voice was bitter, a darker version of her old sarcastic self.

Outil picked up both notes and glanced at them. “I believe he merely wants to help with the current predicament over a meal.”

Marguerite turned on her bot. “Outil, I have half a mind to blame all of this on him! He’s the idiot of a new captain who couldn’t fly around a few corsairs and then tricked me into a compromising situation when I should have been tending to my friend. If I’d only kept her warm instead of letting him hold me … ” She pushed her back to the door and held the jumpsuit to her face with her good hand, sobbing bitterly into it for several moments.

Outil did not stop her from crying. She merely waited until the sobs died down, then gently led her to the bedside and helped her undress and wash from a basin on the night stand.

Somehow the bot’s slow methodical movements helped Marguerite calm herself and let go of her feelings for a moment.

Outil held up the aerman’s jumpsuit. Marguerite looked at it hesitantly, then gave in and resigned herself to wear it only as a necessary evil. Outil smoothed and gathered her curls into a large bunch at the back of her head. As Marguerite gazed into the mirror of their room, for the first time in her life, she felt and looked common. Worse than common, she looked haggard and wretched. The last thing she wanted to do was eat, or talk to anyone. She needed fresh air.