Dawn on a Distant Shore (43 page)

Stoker was running
toward them with something slung over his shoulder--a boy, struggling a little.
From this angle they could see his face, rough boned and blond. A dirty bandage
wrapped around his head and trailed down Stoker's back.

Hakim Ibrahim's face
went slack with surprise and he drew in a sharp breath.

"Now what's
this?" Curiosity asked sharply. "Do you know that boy?"

"He is called
Mungo," said the Hakim. "Charlie's brother."

Hannah started.
"Our Charlie? What would Charlie's brother be doing on that ship?"

The Hakim wiped the
rain from his eyes. "He is cabin boy to the captain of the
Osiris
,"
he said. "I fear something has gone far wrong."

Elizabeth crouched in
the shadows below the open hatch and wondered to herself if a person could feel
themselves go mad. If there would be any warning, some soft sound from the
heart, a sigh as reason folded in on itself and went away, never to come back.

Perhaps she made this
sound she imagined out loud, because Nathaniel squeezed her hand hard enough to
grind the bones of her fingers; she could feel how every nerve in his body
hummed. She forced herself to open her eyes.

"Soon," he
whispered. He was hunched forward, balanced on the balls of his feet. His breath
touched her face and his gun was not five inches from her face; it seemed to be
staring at her with its single eye.

Just behind her,
Elizabeth could sense Robbie just as calm and still, crouched down with muskets
crossed casually on his chest. He had spent all morning cleaning and checking
them, again and again. When she turned to him she saw that his face was raised
to the misting rain that came through the hatch. In that gentle light Robbie
suddenly seemed his age, and more. There were deep circles under his eyes and a
slackness to the flesh of his jaw, and it hurt her to see this evidence of
Robbie's fallibility and weariness.

Overhead men moved in
the dance that would bring the ship to a standstill. Mac Stoker's voice roared like
a cannon and she shuddered with the sound.

"News of the
Osiris
and a wounded lad that belongs to you!"

From far above their
heads came men's voices in reply. Nathaniel blinked at her. Yes. This was
right, this was good. If only Stoker could strike the right tone with the
captain and put him at ease. Pickering might be weak and under Moncrieff's control,
but neither was he a fool, and he would remember Stoker from the dock at Sorel.

Voices back and forth;
she strained to make them out but could not; the sea and the wind whipped them
away too quickly. Only Stoker had a voice big enough to be heard distinctly.

Sails snapped and
fluttered and came to rest. They thumped up against the
Isis
once, and
again, and Elizabeth steadied herself by stemming her hand against the wall.
The shouting above them was too confused to make out.

"The lad is in
poor shape! Where is your surgeon?"

The boy. His name was
Mungo; he had had a blow to the head and he was confused, still. Elizabeth had
spent the morning with him and he didn't seem to understand what had happened
to him or his ship. No matter how many times he was told he could not remember
that the
Osiris
had gone down. It was hard to credit, although Elizabeth
had seen it happen herself. Mac Stoker had called that last and miscalculated
volley of cannonfire a lucky shot and meant just the opposite: the French were
better marksmen than they meant to be, and had destroyed what they meant to
steal. The whole event had put Granny in a foul mood; she did not like it when
her predictions went wrong and she had retired to her cabin like a spider to a
dusty web. She was there now, chewing on her pipe stem and scowling into the
shadows over the waste of the
Osiris
.

But the
Isis
was untouched. Nathaniel had roused Elizabeth at first light and handed her the
long glass, and there she was: unharmed and whole and idling in fishing waters
as if it were the safest place in the world and not a busy shipping lane, home
to mercenaries and pirates and the displaced French Navy. The sight of her had filled
Elizabeth with a terrible joy and a new flush of anger. That Moncrieff should
take such chances with the lives of her children--it was another sin to lay at
his doorstep.

From the corner of her
eye Elizabeth saw Nathaniel's hand curled tight around the musket, the line of
tension running up his arm to his shoulder so that his whole frame hummed with
it. She thought that if she touched him he might shatter. She knew that she was
about to.

A long, unhappy cry
from above them and Elizabeth clutched her arms to her throbbing breasts.
Nathaniel grabbed her with his free arm. "A gull," he whispered
against her ear. "Just a gull."

As if she would not
know that sound anywhere on earth, or in hell itself. Her children were on that
deck, and crying for her.

Mac Stoker's dark head
appeared over the rail as sleekly wet as a newborn's. Hannah watched this
strange, upward birthing and held her breath. They all did: the sailors, Moncrieff,
the captain, even Miss Somerville, who stood completely still, one hand held to
her throat as if to keep herself from speaking. Giselle's expression might have
been carved from stone, but the man who came up the rope net had the kind of
face that told stories. His black eyes chased the length of the ship, skimmed
over Hannah and Curiosity, and skidded back again to come to rest on Mr.
Smythe, who stood next to the captain with a musket aimed and cocked.

"Not much of a
welcome, Pickering."

He was a big man, more
than a head taller than any of the men on the
Isis
. Over one broad
shoulder he carried the boy like a sack. Stoker set him on his feet and he
stood wobbling, looking about himself uncertainly.

"Your reputation
precedes you, Mr. Stoker. What are you doing in these waters, and how come you
to this lad?"

Stoker clucked his
tongue. "And what should I be doin' in these waters, but pursuin' me line
of work? Here I am out of the goodness of me heart with news you'll be needing.
And the lad, of course, unless you're not wanting him. He calls himself Mungo."

Hannah could barely
withstand the urge to rush forward to shake news out of the boy, who stood squinting
in the rain, pulling on the shock of blond hair that fell over his brow. There
was dried blood on his ear.

"Mungo,"
said Captain Pickering. "What happened?" The boy tugged harder on his
hair. His mouth worked, but nothing came out.

Moncrieff thrust
himself in front of the captain. "Give us your news, lad! What o' your
ship?"

Mungo flinched away,
holding an arm up to his face.

"Addled,"
said Stoker. "He won't be talking much this day."

Hakim Ibrahim said,
"He has had a blow to the head. I need to examine him." And without waiting
for the captain's approval he took Mungo by the arm and led him away.

"That's too bad,
but never mind," said Stoker. "I can tell you what happened to the
Osiris
."

Moncrieff whirled
around to him. "Speak up!"

Stoker sucked in a
cheek as he considered the smaller man. "And who might you be?"

"Angus Moncrieff.
Factor and secretary to Earl o' Carryck, the owner of the
Osiris
."

"Ah," said
Stoker. He scratched the corner of his mouth thoughtfully. "Well, then,
it's bad news, I'm afraid. The
Osiris
is at the bottom of the sea."

Hannah's stomach rose
into her gullet, pushing all her breath before it. Vaguely she felt Curiosity's
hand on her arm, holding her up and steering her to rest against the rail.
There was a rushing in her ears so that she could hardly hear. She pressed her
cheek to the cold, wet oak of the rail and closed her eyes, waiting for the
world to right itself.

"... the
Avignon
.
The captain meant to board her and take the cargo, but the gun crews were too
enthusiastic in their work. She went down quick."

"How quick?"
Captain Pickering's voice was hoarse.

"Before they
could get much of the cargo or crew, that's for certain."

Hannah opened her
eyes. Below her was the
Jackdaw
, rising and falling on the waves, grinding
and nudging up against them like a stray dog that wants petting. Peeling paint,
and gobs of tar leaking like clotting blood from the joints. A dirty porthole.
She blinked the rain out of her eyes and looked hard: a face at the glass. A
woman's face, very old, grinned up at her. Her great-grandmother Made-of-Bones had
had a grin like this one.

"Sir."
Giselle's voice. It was enough of a surprise to make Hannah turn. "It is
the American passengers who are of interest. What of them?"

He smirked. "Are
you talking to me, sweetings?"

"Watch yourself,
Stoker," said the captain, frowning.

"Watch meself?
The lady spoke to me first, did she not? Oh, but look, she's in a snit now."

One eyebrow lifted in
a scornful arch. Giselle said, "This person wants to be paid for his
information."

"And keen eyed,
too. Sure, and I've gone to some trouble and I've earned a coin or two. But tell
me, darlin', are the rumors about you true, then? You're off to be married,
they say. The Montréal garrison will be in mournin' for a year to lose your
custom of a Saturday night."

Hannah could barely
follow what happened next, for it all seemed to happen at once. The captain had
grabbed the musket from Mr. Smythe even while the others rushed forward. Stoker
tossed Moncrieff aside with a casual flick of his arm and did the same for the
two sailors who came to Moncrieff's aid. There was a wild scrambling and then a
musket shot sounded. On the quarterdeck a sailor screamed and grabbed his leg.

In the sudden silence,
both babies began to cry. Curiosity grabbed Hannah's shoulder in a pinching
grip meant to keep her just where she was.

When the black powder
cloud had cleared, Mac Stoker stood with his back to the rail with Giselle Somerville
held tight against his chest, a long knife held to her throat. The huge fist looked
very dark against the white skin of her jaw and neck. Hannah thought that
Giselle had swooned, but then she saw the blue eyes blink.

Moncrieff and Captain
Pickering stood empty-handed before them. The captain had lost his hat and his
wig; his short gray stubble stood up in peaks on his head. His chest heaved convulsively.

"Don't be a fool,
man." His voice cracked and broke in an effort to keep it in control.
"We will pound you to dust."

"And let your
lovely bride go to hell with only me for company?" Stoker ran his open
hand up the front of Giselle's bodice to pull her in tighter. She said nothing,
but her eyes were very wide.

All the blood drained
from Pickering's face. "Unhand her immediately, do you hear me? Unhand her!"

Stoker pursed his
lips. "'Tis a sad thing for a man to be in the power of a woman, is it
not? Now, if you'll pardon us, we'll be takin' our leave."

"Wait!"
Moncrieff shouted. "What of the passengers on the
Osiris
? Did you
see them board the
Avignon
?"

Pickering wheeled
around to him. "What does that matter now?" he roared.

"It's all that
matters!" Moncrieff tried to push past him. In that moment Stoker simply twisted
his upper body over the rail and dragged Giselle with him, where she hung, feet
swinging freely.

"Lord
Jesus," whispered Curiosity.

"Do I have your
attention again, boys?" Stoker asked in a conversational tone.

"Damn your liver
and your eyes, Stoker! Let her go!"

"That's just what
I've got in mind, Horace me lad." He laughed, and pulled Giselle up
closer. "When I let you go, sweetings, I suggest you push hard for the
deck below you. The water is damned cold."

"No!"
Pickering lurched forward, but it was too late. Giselle was already flying
through the air, a strange butterfly with wings of emerald-green silk. Stoker
vaulted the rail in a single movement and followed her, the knife in his hand catching
the light as he went. The drop was no more than fifteen feet, but it seemed to
take forever. The entire crew of the
Isis
rushed to the rail just as two
solid thumps sounded, one after the other.

The babies were still
wailing, and behind them the injured sailor groaned, but Hannah barely heard any
of it. She stood looking at Mac Stoker, who had gathered Giselle Somerville to
him again. He grinned up at them, his face streaming with rain. Giselle's eyes
were closed and her body hung limp against him. No man on board the
Isis
would dare aim a musket at Stoker for fear of hitting her.

"Stoker!"
Captain Pickering roared. "Stoker, I'll hound you to the ends of the
world!"

"Och, never worry
about that," Stoker called back. "I won't be goin' anywhere until we've
got what we came for. And if you're eyeing me masts, then I'll remind you that
I like me knives sharp." To prove his point he flicked his wrist and a
bead of blood appeared on Giselle's jaw.