Sail Away (15 page)

No, they likely could not. The way the rain was coming down, it was doubtful they could see anything at all. Help would come, eventually, but right now it was up to him.

He redoubled his grip on the oiled canvas of Davy's raincloak and the jacket beneath. He only had to hold on for a moment. Just a moment.

They slipped another few inches.

"Damn you, Will, let go!” Davy struggled to slip away, and Marshall was tempted to hit him. But to do that, he would have to let go. He could not let go.

They weren't going to make it.

"Will,
no—
"

The Captain's voice bellowed over the din,
"Mr. Marshall—"

Too late. They were over the side, and Will had only an instant to suck in a breath before they hit the heaving sea. With one hand he fought clear of the treacherous tangle of line and sail, realizing with enormous relief that David was keeping his head and helping him, and they broke the surface just as something splashed down beside them. A coiled hammock—but before he could do anything about it, it was yanked away by its line as the
Calypso
was driven before the wind.

Another projectile landed, something bigger, and he was quick enough to catch it. A box? A crate?

"What is it, a chicken coop?” David yelled as Marshall wrestled the thing close in.

It didn't matter what it was; it was floating. If they ever got back to the
Calypso
, he'd have to commend someone's quick thinking. “Just hang on,” he shouted back, shoving his friend against it. When Davy did, he explored the object with his free hand, and found eight or ten feet of line, probably used to lash the crate down; its end was cut clean. Their buoy probably
was
a coop. Some of the landsmen had been cleaning the beasts’ cages on deck before the storm hit and had not had time to take them below or put the chickens back in.

Getting the line around them both and tying the loose end to the crate was an exhausting task. It took him far longer than it should have in the storm-tossed water, but at last they were secured by the line as well as by half-numb fingers. He let his head sag and suddenly found David's shoulder beneath it, his friend's arm around him.

"Will.” David's voice was loud, right in his ear. “Why did you do it?"

"So we won't slip away,” he said, wondering dazedly how Davy could be so ignorant.

"Not that, you ass.” David sounded exasperated. “Why did you not let go of me? What's the use both of us drowning?"

He blinked stupidly. He could not see David's face, but he could feel the warm circle of his arm, the only warmth in a wet, freezing world. “Need you, Davy. Who would I be without you?"

"Oh, for God's sake,” David said, shaking him. “Will? Will, wake up!"

"Will, wake up."

He didn't want to wake up. His body weighed a thousand pounds, his eyelids at least a hundredweight.

"You've got to move a little way. Just up the beach a bit."

Davy. Overboard.

Beach?

There was sand under his fingers. Land!

"Come on, Will. Just a little way."

It was Davy talking. He was alive. They were both alive! Marshall dragged himself forward a little way, as far as he could, then collapsed. The rain was still beating on him, and he rolled on his side so it would trickle into his mouth. He tried to see where Davy was, but it was too dark. He groped around and found an arm, a shoulder. “Where—?” he croaked.

"Don't know. Land. Have to wait till daylight.” Davy's voice was scratchy, too, and weak. “I think we're far enough from the waterline."

Marshall nodded, though he had no idea where the waterline was. “Might as well rest.” Teeth chattering, he scooted toward Davy, hoping to achieve a little warmth from the closeness. They might be in the tropics, but the sea and wet sand had leached away his body heat. David rolled closer, threw an arm over him, and he slipped out of consciousness with a vague sense of reassurance.

"Davy?"

Somebody would not stop shaking his shoulder, so Archer reluctantly opened his eyes. Awareness brought with it a host of minor physical irritations: he was wet, and cold; his eyes stung, and his face felt as though someone had scrubbed it with a holystone. “Will?” Even his voice was squawky.

He squinted into unreasonable brightness, and saw his friend lying sprawled beside him. They were both still tethered to what he now clearly recognized as an empty chicken coop—no wonder it had been so difficult to move last night!—and they were on a beach, and the sun was shining. A wide swathe of green rose from the sand a few dozen yards away. It was a beautiful morning, and they were alive.

"I cannot believe this,” he said.

"Nor can I, but I am not complaining."

Archer laughed, and pushed himself up on one arm. “My drawers are full of sand,” he observed.

Will frowned and sat up, fussing with the line that secured them to the coop. “Yes. Well, we may as well unload the extra ballast. I wonder where we are? How long were we in the water? Have you any idea?"

"None at all. A long time, but I don't believe we could have drifted so very far.” He did not remember much of the night before. Everything after they'd gone into the water was a nightmarish blur. They had both been weary when the storm struck; they'd just gone off watch but were recalled to duty. Archer had napped earlier in the day, but that meant only that he had been able to stay conscious for a little while longer. As he'd succumbed to exhaustion and cold, he had never expected to awaken. He vaguely remembered feeling ground beneath his feet and urging Will to shore, but he'd thought that a dream.

Yet here they were. He followed Will's example, stripping off his soaked and sand-crusted uniform and rinsing the clothing out in the sea, wading in waist-deep to avoid scooping up another load of sand stirred up from beneath. The sea, so deadly the night before, was as beautiful as a jewel this morning, with small waves rolling in to tug at the remains of the mast and rigging that had so nearly killed them.

"That went in with us,” Will said with a nod at the wreckage. “But nothing bigger. I believe the
Calypso
survived the storm."

"Do you think they'll come back to search for us?"

"Perhaps.” Will shook his head. “But by rights we should have drowned. The Captain may tarry a day or two, but he can't be certain where to look."

"Do you think this is an island?"

"Most likely. If it is, we could be here for years. There must be dozens of little islands out here, and two midshipmen, more or less, won't count for much. We must fend for ourselves for now, Davy."

His smile turned their predicament into an adventure, and Archer felt his spirits rise. A little while away from war, away from the
Calypso
, in Will's company ... He could not ask for more. “If we can find food and water, we should do very well."

Water was the most important, of course, more so even than finding out whether this was indeed an island, and whether it was inhabited, and by what sort of people. But the luck that had washed them ashore seemed to be holding. Some of the low-growing plants at the edge of the tree line had broad leaves that had caught rain from the night before. They were able to find enough to slake their immediate thirst.

"We cannot count on a nightly rainstorm,” Will said finally.

"I should hope not. Better than dying of thirst, but if it rains that often we shall have to build some sort of shelter."

"And we had better explore—to begin with, we need to find out whether this is an island."

Archer tried to remember the charts of the area. “Unless we were blown a very long way, I think it must be."

"Yes.” Will squinted into the trees. “I wonder if anyone is watching us. If we find any inhabitants, I hope they are friendly, or at least neutral. I should hate to be taken prisoner after all this!"

Archer only nodded. He had a feeling they were alone here, but no way to explain it.

They hauled the wreckage of the foretopmast up out of reach of the tide and started off to circumnavigate the island, if that was what it was. A sandy beach stretched out to either side, curving away fairly quickly. Beyond the beach were trees—palm trees, nearby, and other sorts deeper in. A few crabs wandered the sand; those would make a tasty dinner, if he and Will could build a fire. Archer wondered if Will had a flint with him; he did not have one himself.

"We shall survey the terrain,” Will decided. “Once we know the circumference, we can calculate the size of the island. And when the stars are up tonight we can venture a guess as to our location."

Archer was far more interested in finding water, and discovering whether those palm trees were the sort that would produce coconuts, but that could wait until Will had a chance to take the island's measure and apply mathematics to it until it surrendered. But they both agreed that they should conduct their reconnaissance together; they had only their dirks and clasp-knives for protection, and there might be wild beasts or concealed enemies.

There were not.

After about three hours of exploration, they were reasonably sure that apart from a few snakes, crabs, and an assortment of birds, they were the only living souls on the island. It was somewhere between seven and eight miles in circumference, and seemed to be an irregular oval lying more or less northwest to southeast. The windward side where they'd beached was cooled by a brisk breeze off the water; the lee side was warmer and held a shallow inlet where they could see fish swimming in the clear, calm water.

They had found fresh water, too. Whether it came from a small spring or just rainwater, there was drinkable water in a crack between two boulders, forming a pool about the size of the
Calypso
's smallest boat. Some of it ran down into a shallower basin, and if that water rose overnight, or at least did not drop, Will proposed rinsing out their clothing to clear it of salt. Until then, they hung their slow-drying wool jackets and moleskin trousers from tree branches and ran about clad only in their shirts, bare feet thrust into boots.

The palms, some of them, did indeed produce coconuts, not nearly as easy to break into as they had sounded when the old hands were spinning their South Seas yarns to some of the younger ratings. Perhaps it was easier with a sword. But once they'd shared out the milky juice and hit the shell a few blows with a rock, it cracked open neatly.

"Can we live on these, do you think?” Archer asked as they wrestled a second nut out of its husk.

"For a time, I believe so. I told you about the conversations I had with Dr. Colbert, did I not? Your cousin's father-in-law, I should say."

"I don't believe you did. I owe him such a debt for helping my cousin."

"We may both owe him another after this. The doctor's hobby is botany, and his great interest is the discovery of new medicinal plants. He told me quite a lot more than I really cared to hear, but I paid attention when he spoke of those that would help keep a ship's crew healthy on long voyages. He said that most kinds of seaweed are edible, and can stave off scurvy. And many parts of palm trees can be eaten, as well."

"Seaweed?” Archer frowned dubiously. “It doesn't seem ... Can we cook the stuff, somehow? Make a fire?"

"It must be rinsed in fresh water, but we seem to have that. We can cook it with fish—if we can catch fish. As to a fire, I think we should do our best to make one, as a signal. A smoky fire by day, and a bright fire by night."

"Provided we do not attract the Spanish or French."

Will nodded, squinting as he surveyed the horizon. There were no ships of any kind visible at the moment. “Yes. We must select a few tall trees and make observations. And we had best find a place to sleep that is not immediately visible from the sea, in the event there are unfriendly natives on an island nearby—or on this island, hiding somewhere."

They polished off another coconut, then collected enough palm leaves to weave makeshift hats; the sun's rays were surprisingly intense for two young men who were accustomed to having some sort of headgear while on deck. The hats, when completed, presented quite a picturesque effect with their loose shirts and bare legs. Will was as graceful and unselfconscious as a deer; David did his best to avoid admiring his friend's nether limbs.

The long tropical day passed timelessly. Neither of them knew enough about the plants in this part of the world to be certain of most of them, but when they happened upon a sort of low tree with enormous oval leaves and stems of thick, curving green and yellow fruit that stuck out like fingers, Will declared that they fit the description the doctor had given him of a very nutritious specimen. They sampled one of the ripe yellow specimens and found that the soft inner pulp had a taste and consistency of sweet custard.

"We should take some of these back with us,” David said. “I wonder how well they would keep aboard ship?"

"To answer that, we need the ship,” Will reminded. “And we'd better find a place to sleep soon. Dark comes quickly here. Near the spring, I think. We've seen no sign of any animal large enough to be dangerous..."

"So anything that comes to water might be small enough to snare,” David said, following his reasoning. “If anyone has ever landed here, we can at least expect to find rats."

Will nodded. “That would not be my first choice, but we cannot afford to be choosy."

They found a spot near the fresh-water pool, sheltered from view from the sea, and rigged a sort of wide hammock out of the remnants of salvaged sail. A canopy above it, to keep small tree-dwelling creatures from dropping on them in the night, completed the arrangement. It was as snug a bed as they could want, and much superior to the midshipmen's berth on the
Calypso.

While Will constructed a fire-drill with bits of dry wood and the lanyard that had secured his clasp-knife, Archer took a couple of largish rocks and went hunting, returning to the fire with a crab, several mussels, and a clump of the least offensive seaweed he could find.

"Shall we take turns at messing,” he asked, “or do you plan to assign cooking duties to the junior officer?"