Beloved Castaway (18 page)

Still, what power did she, a woman born into slavery, have against any man?

“What you ask is impossible, Captain,” she said. “I have no power to care for William or for anyone else, and I certainly cannot keep him from your father should the man require I give him over. It is only by the grace of the mademoiselle that I am released from my own bondage.”

Josiah reached her in a moment’s time and grasped her hand, anger flashing in eyes that reflected the lantern’s glow. “I see.”
 

Her fingers crushed by his grip, Isabelle bit her lip but said nothing. The captain seemed to study her a moment while the storm raged outside. Water flowed into her slippers and dripped from the boards above them to dampen the captain’s shirt, but Isabelle refused to look away.
 

 
Suddenly, the barrel beside Isabelle rocked, and Josiah steadied it with his free hand, bringing him inches away from her. Above them, the lantern remained steadily fixed to the ceiling joist, its flame dipping only slightly with the jolt.

“You have no power?” Her words, yet when Josiah Carter spoke them, they sounded cruel, mocking. “Look at me,” he commanded.

Isabelle complied, a habit born of her training at Mama Dell’s knee.
Do as the gentleman bids you, Isabelle.
 

But this was no gentleman. A vein throbbed in the captain’s temple, and Isabelle settled her gaze upon it.

Finally, he released his grip and took two steps away before whirling about. “You, Mademoiselle Gayarre, are a hypocrite.” He leaned close. “Yes. I said you are a hypocrite.” Closer still. “Perhaps this God you speak of cares not for His children as the Bible states? Perhaps He does not give the power to those who believe as you stated to those in the sickroom. Perhaps it was all a lie.”

Isabelle blinked hard and tried in vain to keep her focus off the captain. His shirt now clung to wet skin, and water dripped from the captain’s hair onto his shoulders. The storm raging outside suddenly seemed small and far away.

Cold seeped into her bones and lodged there. “I did not lie to those men nor to you,” she finally managed through chattering teeth. “It is the Lord who will save William. With prayer, He can save us all.”

A clattering of feet above them told Isabelle that soon they would no longer be alone. The shouts accompanying the approaching men gave her pause to wonder if they were celebrating or sounding the alarm. She gave up a silent prayer for the latter.

Josiah swept the back of his hand across his brow, then shook off the water. “Perhaps if we survive this storm, you and I can discuss at length how He manages such feats. Until then, I will leave the praying and the care of my brother in your hands.”

A trio of seamen poured into the room, stomping into water that splashed and splattered, nearly dousing the lantern the largest of the three held. Curses were followed in quick succession by mute silence.

“Mr. Harrigan sent us t’ see to the patchin’,” the lantern holder said.
 

The captain pointed to a breach in the hull, and without a word, the man hung the lantern on a hook and set to work. The others followed suit, their eyes averted. Isabelle felt the attention nonetheless.

“Leave us, mademoiselle. Lash yourselves together. William will show you how.” Anger fled the captain’s face, replaced by a tender expression. “Protect my brother until I can see to him myself, and take him to your home in England should I fail to return to claim him.”

Isabelle tried not to think of the implications of his statement. “I shall.”

He extended his hand to grasp hers. “Thank you. Now hurry along” was a whisper falling against her ear as he released his grip and brushed past to supervise the trio.

Isabelle complied quickly, struggling against the rocking of the sea to make her way up the stairway. Above her, men shouted, and the wind blew in hard gusts. She should see to the sick, but first she must find William and the ladies.
 

Into the depths of the vessel, she went, the lamps long ago extinguished to allay any hazard from fire. Her fingers traveled as fast as her feet, tripping across rough boards and slipping over knots and square pegs to reach the corridor leading to the room she shared with the ladies and, of late, the boy.

Dark as night was the path to the stateroom, and calling out proved futile. Finally, Isabelle located the latch and pushed just as the ship darted southward. Falling into the room, she skidded across damp floors to land at someone’s feet.

“Isabelle, do take care.” Emilie helped her to her feet. “There’s an odd layer of seawater in the room. I cannot account for it save perhaps seepage from the window there, but William says it’s not a good sign.”

Blinking to adjust to the gray light, Isabelle cast about for the boy. She found him huddled with Viola, two sets of eyes peering from above a cloak that Emilie must have laid over them.
 

Affecting a casual air, Isabelle peered at the boy and forced a smile. “I’ve just spoken to your brother, and all is well. He wishes us to lash ourselves to one another so as to have a better night’s sleep. Might you help me with this, William? Your brother tells me you’re mighty clever with knotting a rope.”

The boy sprang to action, first locating a coil of rope, then fetching a knife from a trunk lodged beneath the bunk nearest the door. “I keep it hidden just in case,” he said as he set to work cutting twine.

Emilie gave him a skeptical look. “Do stop teasing us.”

“Not teasing, Miss Emilie.” William paused. “A man at sea must always be mindful of pirates.”
 

She nodded. “I see. Well, I certainly feel safe with you aboard, William.”

He handed a length of rope to Isabelle. “I reckon we ought to take care of Miss Viola first.”

Isabelle stretched the rope to its full length and made her way across the pitching floor to the bunk where Mademoiselle Dumont lay quiet and still. Only her wide eyes moved, blinking furiously as tears streamed over her bruised face.

“All is well,” Isabelle said, then felt the fool for having done it. All was most certainly not well, yet even on a storm-tossed sea, she knew the Lord held her.

Still, as lightning crashed and men shouted on the deck above, Isabelle wondered if perhaps God had forgotten for a moment that she belonged to Him.

“Miss Isabelle?”

She shoved her thoughts away and turned to face the boy. “Yes?”

“Someone’s going to have to hold the ax since Josiah says I’m still too small to swing it. Will you do that, Miss Isabelle?”
 

“The ax?”

He dropped the rope and pointed to the chest. “I’ll fetch it. A moment later the boy extracted a fierce-looking pickax that nearly toppled him before he could hand it over to Isabelle.

“Of course, I will,” she said as she settled the tool onto the end of the bunk at Viola’s feet, “but whatever is it for?”

“It’s for if we sink.” His lip quivered, and Emilie rushed to comfort the boy. Eyes the color of the elder Carter stared up at Isabelle. “Even if we’re floating, we’d go down with the ship unless someone cuts a hole for us to escape through.”

“Oh, now we don’t have to worry about such a thing, do we Isabelle?” Emilie cast a sharp glance over the boy’s head. “Remind the boy of just how lovely the weather is in Florida this time of year.”

“Florida?” Isabelle shook her head. “I’m not sure I—”

“Yes, dear, remember? Just yesterday Mr. Harrigan mentioned we’d be in Florida waters soon. I’m sure William would be interested in what sort of weather will greet us once we’re able to trod the deck again.”

“Ah, yes.” Isabelle gulped down her fear. “I’ll tell you what I recall while you begin tying knots. How’s that?”

“Let’s all climb into Viola’s bunk, shall we?” Emilie said. “It’ll be much easier to accomplish the task, and our feet will stay dry.”

Emilie climbed in first, cajoling Viola into a sitting position. William scampered up between them and went to work. Isabelle found a spot on the corner of the wildly pitching bunk and held on for dear life, painfully aware she did not belong as equals among these three.

In short order, the boy trussed Viola to himself, then began to work on Emilie’s bonds. Isabelle stared at the rope, at the tiny hands working the slender coiled threads into a noose that slipped over the mademoiselle’s head and came to rest at her waist.

While Viola continued to stare into space, Emilie and William turned their attention to her.
 

“Your turn,” the boy said. Did his lower lip quiver a bit or was that her imagination?
 

“Do move closer, Isabelle.” Emilie reached behind William to grasp Isabelle’s elbow and gently tug. “It appears the ship is holding well, but we mustn’t be lax in our watchfulness. Come closer, dear, and allow William to bind you to us with the rope.”

Rope.

Shackles.

Inexplicable panic skittered up her backbone and sent Isabelle running for the door and freedom. Her slippers splashed through water that seemed to have inched higher. Still, she plowed forward.

“Where are you going?” This from Emilie, whose voice seemed to hold as much irritation as confusion.

“To see to the sick,” she called, wilding crashing into the rough wood of the narrow corridor’s walls.

When she reached the sick bay, Cookie was tending to a fellow whose injuries prevented him from being moved. In all, seven hammocks dangled from the ceiling joists and held men who awaited attention.

Isabelle made her way through water that thankfully no longer rushed past, stopping to see to each man. One wanted a prayer while another preferred to tell stories of days past. Isabelle listened until the fellow’s words trailed off and sleep overtook him.

At least she hoped it was sleep.
 

Cookie caught her attention and motioned for her to join him. “This fellow here says he must speak to you. Name’s Arnaud, Étienne Arnaud.”

Isabelle affected a wide stance in order to remain standing on the rocking boards, then gazed into the face of a young man near to her in age.
 

She offered him a genuine smile as he told her his name. “
Bonjour
, Monsieur Arnaud.”

“The time is short.” Heavily lashed eyelids fluttered closed, then opened wide. “You must tell the captain,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper barely heard over the din.
 

Isabelle leaned closer, ignoring the stench of the dying man. “Tell him what?”

“The boy,” he said. “I was sent to follow the boy.”

Isabelle leaned away from the hammock. Her gaze found Cookie, who stood nearby openly watching. “What is this he speaks of?”

Cookie moved closer. “I know not, Mademoiselle Gayarre. Perhaps this one was after more than just work on the
Jude
. Other than a few men, none know of the lad’s presence. Arnaud was not among those few.”

She turned back to the sick man. “Tell me more,” she said in his native French.
 

“I am no sailor, mademoiselle.” He looked past her and licked dry lips. “My employer is Jean Gayarre. ’Tis no small coincidence that you bear his name, eh?”

“Indeed. Have we any water for the gentleman, Cookie?” she called as she gave her attention back to Arnaud.

“Plenty, miss,” he said. “Unfortunately it’s all underfoot and filled with salt.” He moved away to answer the call of a man on the other side of the hold.

She sighed. “Pray tell me, sir, what your association with Monsieur Gayarre has to do with passage aboard the
Jude
.”

Eyes closed once more, he appeared lifeless, yet his lips began to move. “The monsieur has friends, powerful friends.” He paused to take a ragged breath. “A transaction was detected. A large sum of gold coin. I was hired to find it and report its whereabouts to my employer.”

Isabelle’s heart slammed against her chest, and her throat threat
ened to close. “Did you find it aboard the
Jude
?” she finally croaked.

Again the eyes opened. They were blue, she noted. His nod was so slight that Isabelle might have missed it had she not been studying him intently.

“Is it still here?”

“The boy,” he said with his dying breath.

Chapter 16

Hezekiah Carter awoke with a start. He sat bolt upright and tugged at the top button of his nightshirt. The constriction gone, he continued to feel as if each breath was precious.
 

A cold breeze, no doubt the cause of his interrupted sleep, drifted across the bedcovers and caused him to shiver. It took a moment for him to remember where he was.

New Orleans.

The panic returned, a gnawing, grasping fear that belied any faith in his Creator’s sovereignty. Carefully measuring his breaths, Hezekiah eased back onto the pillows and closed his eyes lest his wife find him awake.

His wife. She had no idea her only surviving children were
careening away from her in a tub that looked barely seaworthy. He’d hoped to wait until the pair—or at least their youngest—had been returned before burdening Mary with the tale.

“Are you unable to rest, husband?”

Rolling to his side, Hezekiah stared into the near darkness until the shadowed form of his wife became visible. “Aye. Forgive me for awakening you.”

Her pale hand reached out to grasp his, and for a moment, silence fell between them. “Something is troubling you,” she finally said.

How many times had he admonished his parishioners that confession was good for the soul? Perhaps it was time for both of them to heed that advice.

As husband, he must lead by example.

“Josiah has spirited away our William.” He paused when he felt his wife’s grip tighten. “I had him nearly caught, but now he’s gone again. My men tracked the pair to New Orleans, hence our hasty departure for the city.”

“I see.”
 

“I regret I am not innocent in the matter.”

Silence.

“I shall explain myself,” he said.