Dedicated Villain (42 page)

The next two hours were a nightmare. Mercifully, there was no sign of the scarlet coats of dragoons, but the weather had become as relentless an enemy. The rain which shielded them from prying eyes had also turned the lanes to mud and the wheels of the heavily laden caravans several times became so mired that Fiona marvelled they were able to continue. Somehow, the horses managed to pull them free, but then a wheel of Torrey's caravan slipped over the edge of the comparatively level surface and sunk deep. For long frustrating minutes the men stood in the rain pushing and straining, the horses pulling bravely, and at last, with the help of branches and boards thrust under the wheel, and a great deal of physical effort, the caravan lurched out of the mud. MacTavish, tight-lipped and worried, urged that they proceed as swiftly as possible, but the pace he had at first set could not be maintained, and it seemed to Fiona that they were crawling along.

They were in Flintshire now and the few houses they saw
were, true to their location, fashioned of grey stone which, combined with the leaden skies and the cold grey sheets of the rain, presented a rather depressing picture. They had been able to see the river from time to time, but for the most part they kept away from the estuary, their way winding around low hills and pools, with an occasional glimpse of mountains to the south, their massive shoulders vanishing into the sullen clouds. The river had not at first looked formidable, but as they followed it to the northwest it seemed that each time Fiona saw that broad surface, it had doubled in width. As the fateful moments slipped away, anxieties mounted and there was little talk in the coach. Lady Clorinda called often to Cuthbert, who sat on the box, for a report on the time, and then muttered nervously that they were very late.

MacTavish was also worrying about the time. They had left the concealing slopes now and were heading straight for the estuary. The hills and mountains lay behind them; to the southwest rose the soaring peaks of Snowdonia, but the land ahead sloped gradually downward through diminishing and ever more stunted trees and shrubs. The track they followed petered out. MacTavish pulled up and waved the signal that alerted Cuthbert to wait here. The red coach halted. The caravans went on, bumping over rough sandy turf, toward a wide band of sullen, black water and tall reeds interspersed by soggy patches of land that looked uniformly untrustworthy. Already, MacTavish was full of dread that at any minute a wheel would get stuck, but although he strained his eyes he could find no sign to guide him, and began to fear their fisherman had failed them.

At last, more by luck than good judgment, he detected a sodden strip of white cloth hanging limply from a bush. Lord! Did the fisherman think they had the eyes of hawks? Still, knowing what to look for he was now able to pick out other strips, and began to guide the horses carefully down into the reeds and bushes between the markers, the land holding firm but their path descending ever lower, until there was nothing to be seen but the encompassing reeds.

Without warning, the foliage fell away and the estuary lay before them.

Following, Mathieson halted his team and stared, his heart sinking.

Thaddeus muttered a dismayed, “Oh, Jupiter!”

The tide was out, and the sands stretched away broad and flat and bleak under the pattering rain until they were parted by the curvingly erratic sweep of the river. The opposite bank, a good three miles away, looked desolate and deserted, deeply fringed by mud and marshes. The barge was already waiting, but instead of lying only a half mile dead ahead, she was at least a mile farther up estuary. Her sails were close reefed, and she rocked gently to the pull of the current, secured by lines that stretched to stakes driven into the sands.

Beyond her, dimly visible through the rain, far up towards the Irish Sea, was a wider gleam that stretched from bank to bank.

‘Mon cher Thomas,'
thought Mathieson grimly. ‘You are off fishing again! The tide is coming in!'

Standing at the top of the bank beside the coach, her eyes glued to the line of swaying caravans that wound towards the distant barge, Fiona felt weak and trembly; her hands were icy cold and her heart seemed to thunder against her ribs.

They would have time surely? The incoming tide was so far away yet. They
must
have ample time. If anything should happen—God forbid!—the lives of those brave men, her dear papa and the one to whom she had so completely surrendered her heart, would be at terrible risk.

She dashed rain from her eyes. The caravans were moving more rapidly now. At least they did not seem to have encountered mud, and her fears that the heavy vehicles would sink into the wet sands eased a little. Again, her apprehensive eyes
darted to the west. That terrible gleam of water seemed not to move, yet was it her imagination, or was it closer? She felt sick. If Roland was drowned, her heart would drown with him! She could not go on living now, without him. She closed her eyes, praying fervently.

A cold hand slid into her own. Elizabeth, very pale, murmured, “Fiona, I'm waeful scared. If the tide cuts them off from us here, will they be able to get oot by another path?”

This terrible possibility had not occurred to Fiona, and her desperate search along the bank did not help her state of mind. Chilled, she said falteringly, “I expect, if it goes badly, they—they will sail with the ship.”

“Oh yes, of course,” sighed Elizabeth. “What a silly goose I am not to have thought of that.”

But, clinging to one another, they were both trembling.

The wind was rising, sending rain flailing like a grey sheet against the caravans, and closing them into a diminishing landscape. Ducking his head against another cold blast, Mathieson shouted, “Can you see it still? I cannot.”

Heywood narrowed his tawny eyes and peered ahead. “Nor I. But it ith coming in, Roly. Beyond doubting! ‘Time and tide' you know, my tulip …”

“Which being the case—can you swim, old boy?”

Heywood gave him a scared look. “I'll be a gimlet and cling to you!” He brightened. “If it ith too clothe, we will have to make the voyage.”

Mathieson shuddered. The caravan lurched, and the fear that they were stuck in the sand chilled him. There came another jolt, and they were again moving toward the river channel, and the boat which loomed from it. The lines were holding her steady and the sturdy ramp MacTavish had described was already in position, sloping down from the deck of the vessel to the sands. “D'you see our staircase?” he said cheerfully. “That should speed things up, eh?”

Heywood grinned, but his reply was drowned in a growl of thunder.

The sailing barge was long and low, and much larger than she had appeared from the bank. When they came near her, MacTavish halted his team. A seaman who had run down the ramp to call up to him now sprinted to the second caravan. Pausing beside Mathieson, his oilskins wet and glistening, he shouted, “The tide's at the flood and coming very fast! Robbie MacTavish will try the ramp, but we're higher i' the water than we'd hoped. If aught goes amiss, he says the rest o' ye are to turn around and run like hell for the shore!”

It sounded ominous. Mathieson nodded, and the seaman ran on, to relay the message to the following caravans.

Heywood said, “I'm glad we're not to lead the way! That ramp lookth heavy enough, but …” He gave a wry grimace.

Mathieson eyed the ramp uneasily. It certainly appeared to have been sturdily constructed, and timber supports had been wedged between it and the sands, but the pitch was fairly steep and it would be no mean task to drive the horses up such a structure.

MacTavish was wasting no time, however. His whip cracked. The team started up, then backed again, snorting nervously, afraid of the unfamiliar ramp. Two men ran down from the deck to take the bits but there was insufficient room for them to walk beside the horses, and they were obliged to go back. A heavy gust swooped at the caravan causing it to sway. The horses sidled skittishly and squealed with fright.

Saying nothing, Heywood gripped Mathieson's arm. Mathieson glanced at him. He was pale, his eyes fixed on the west. Turning his head in the same direction, Mathieson's blood ran cold. The rain had eased a little and he could see farther now across long flat stretches of sand ending in a white line that reached from bank to bank. Foam. He thought, ‘By God, but it's coming fast!'

The seaman, running past again, shouted, “We'll be lucky to have ten minutes! Say y'r prayers, lads!”

‘Thomas,' thought Mathieson. ‘Attend to business, if you please!'

With a thunder of hooves and rumble of heavy wheels, MacTavish's caravan moved onto the ramp. The straining horses, their eyes rolling with fear, fought the slope. The caravan inched and bumped forward. It was obvious that the intrepid Scot had taken the lead position because if the ramp could support his caravan, it would take the rest. It seemed to Mathieson that the ramp bowed very slightly to the weight, but although the timber supports beneath it dug into the sand there was no sign of catastrophe.

The skies had darkened once more; the rain came pelting down with renewed vigour, and another gust of wind rocked the caravan. The horses swerved to the pull of it, and Heywood's breath hissed through his teeth as those big wheels strayed to the very edge of the ramp. Someone howled, “
Pull
'
em in
, Mac! This way!” The right wheels were halfway over the edge. Mathieson whispered,
“Sacré colimaçons!”
and held his breath. MacTavish's whip cracked, and at the last instant the caravan pulled in and straightened out. Seconds later, it jolted onto the connecting down-sloping ramp and bounced onto the deck.

A wild cheer went up on the barge, echoed from the waiting caravans. Those on board raced to unharness the team, and MacTavish took the reins and led the pair to the ramp again. The downward slope evidently frightened the big roan mare, and she shied and reared up. MacTavish talked to her, his hand firm on the ribbons. Another man ran to slap the mare's rump. Ears flattened and eyes rolling, she kicked out, sending him jumping back. Then she tore free from MacTavish's grip, bolted down the ramp and splashed past Mathieson's caravan. The Scot followed, leading the bay gelding.

His pulse quickening, Mathieson saw that water was all about them now, shallow as yet, but creeping with silent menace over the sands.

MacTavish ran straight to him and called urgently, “Japhet's caravan must go next! Let him pass.”

Japhet drove the second property caravan in which was the
pirate's treasure chest. ‘Logical,' thought Mathieson, and reined his team aside and watched the youth drive toward the ramp.

Heywood said. “Jupiter!”

He was staring westward again. That terrifying white line of foam was much closer. Mathieson thought, ‘It looks as if we'll sail with them, after all,' and frowned, worried for Fiona.

An ear-splitting screech returned his attention to the barge. The ramp shifted slightly. With a noise like a gigantic violin string snapping, one of the stakes shot from the sand, the line snaking through the air, the men on deck flinging themselves flat as it whistled over their heads. Japhet's horses screamed with fright, reared, and plunged, the youth looking terrified but striving bravely. Shouting to Mathieson to get aboard, MacTavish raced to climb up beside Japhet, but even as he gained the seat the horses bolted madly back down the estuary.

The barge dipped uneasily. Watching it, Mathieson would have sworn it was tilting slightly to one side. He set his jaw, and glanced at Heywood. Apart from his bruises, the man was deathly pale, but winked at him irrepressibly. Mathieson whipped up the team. “Thomas … ?” he muttered prayerfully, and then the horses' hooves were reverberating on the ramp. This time, the heave of the barge was unmistakable. Mathieson gave a gasp as that keening screech resounded above the growl of thunder. The ramp tilted and shuddered convulsively beneath them. The horses screamed and staggered. Mathieson thought, ‘Like hell!' and hauled on the reins, backing the team.