Beloved Castaway (10 page)

Following the glow through the maze of passageways, she emerged onto a rain-drenched deck filled with shouting men. Above the din, one voice rang loud.
 

Captain Carter stood in the midst of the melee like a frantic
general directing a war. To his right, a group of men tugged and pulled at a chain and wheel, while behind him, another pair doused the deck with water from the rain barrel. Harrigan stood alone on the quarterdeck, bellowing the captain’s orders to a youngster perched high in the rigging.

Great tongues of fire licked at the wooden sides of the
Jude
, and from where she stood, Isabelle could see yet more of the crew working to keep them at bay with buckets hoisted up from the river. A giant bolt of lightning split the sky, casting an eerie moment of daylight over the scene.

The great Levee Steam Cotton Press provided a stark backdrop for the melee taking place at her doorstep. On the nearby dock, all sorts of persons raced about throwing water on the flames or carrying cargo ashore. Many others stood in clusters, obviously bent on viewing the spectacle rather than offering aid.

“Watch yourself, boy,” she heard Harrigan shout.

Isabelle looked up to see the youth dangling upside down like a circus performer, his hands flailing about and one leg tangled in the rain-soaked rigging. Just above him, flames teased the topmost points of the mainmast and engulfed the fellow in intermittent clouds of smoke and ash.
 

“I’m a goner, sir,” she heard him cry, his voice hardly deep enough to show him to be male rather than female.

A great explosion ripped through the burning vessel
Mathilde
and caused her to list toward the
Jude
. A fiery sail unfurled and draped itself around the
Jude
’s mainmast, taking a portion of the rigging and the young man with it.
 

Covering her mouth with her hand, Isabelle suppressed a scream as the boy scrambled to hold himself away from the flames while he fought to release his leg. Even from her spot on the deck, she could see the boy’s situation had no good resolution. His position in the ropes made rescue difficult, and the smoldering flames of the canvas sail blocked the way.

Rain streaked her cheeks, mingling with tears Isabelle did not bother to wipe away. She sucked in a deep breath and instantly paid for it by a fit of coughing. Recovering, she covered her mouth and nose with her cloak and watched the flames dance nearer to the youngster.
 

A few more moments and the mainmast would ignite. When that happened, the elaborately knotted rigging would collapse. Only the wet conditions from the torrential downpour seemed to have prevented it thus far.

“Please, help me!” the boy cried.

Isabelle’s gaze jumped from the boy to the flames, and finally to the distance between them. She stared down at the drenched mess her lace gown had become. If only she could throw off these female encumbrances and extricate the boy herself.
 

Sadly, she knew the truth. It would take a miracle. In desperation, Isabelle closed her eyes against the scene and began to pray.
 

Father, bring forth Your miracles and save this boy. Appoint someone to be Your hands and feet in this situation.
 

She took a deep breath and opened her eyes, casting another glance on the poor boy now dangling inches away from the fire. Her breath caught in her throat and choked off another cry.

If it’s me You choose, Father, bestow upon me Your strength and favor, for without You this cannot be achieved. If You choose another, I beg You grant him Your favor and protection.

From nowhere, the captain appeared at the base of the mainmast. “Hold tight,” he shouted to the boy.
 

His words to Harrigan and once more to the young man were lost in the whirlwind, but the old sailor’s objections were clear in the expression on his wrinkled face and the waving of his hands. Against those objections, Captain Carter took hold of the ropes and began to scale the rigging.
 

Inch by inch, the captain climbed, ducking to avoid torrents of debris mingling with the blowing rain. “Cut her loose if you must, Harrigan,” he shouted.

“Aye,” the weathered seaman answered, bellowing the captain’s command to the crew in clipped tones.
 

A jolt rocked the
Jude
, landing Isabelle on her derriere just as the wind gusted. Reaching without success for some purchase on the slippery wood, she slid against the deck housing and skidded to a halt in a most ungainly fashion some yards away.
 

Pieces of the tattered sail fell about her and landed in bursts of fire and smoke. A particularly large scrap of canvas, its edges black and curled, scalded her bare ankle while another attached itself to her cloak and began to smolder until she brushed it away.

“Away with ye, lass,” a deckhand called as he tripped over her feet and landed in a heap beside her. “Back in the hold with the women you go.”

The women.

Isabelle stifled a gasp. Where were her companions? Did they fear the same fate as she, or hidden away in their cell, had they no knowledge of the calamity taking place above them?

Barely giving her a backward look, the crewman rolled to his feet and resumed his race for the forward bow and the knot of sailors gathered there. Isabelle watched them heave to and haul something dark and glistening over the rails onto the deck.
 

Could it be the anchor? Isabelle’s breathing sharpened, as did her hopes. In the midst of this firestorm, had she taken her first permanent step toward freedom?
 

Overhead, the youth began to scream. Climbing to her feet,
Isabelle limped forward and looked up into the rigging in time to see the boy’s flaming shirt plummet to the deck and land in a steaming heap in a puddle of rainwater. Thankfully it appeared the boy had thrown the garment off in time to avoid burns, although he still hung precariously by one leg.

Flames roared near while the rain continued to beat against the wood and rope. At any moment the whole intricate fretwork of rigging could join the neighboring inferno and collapse. This could very well set the ship ablaze and cause a chain reaction among the ships docked so close together on the crowded wharf.

Wedged nearest to the source of the blaze, the
Jude
’s
fate seemed uncertain at best. Vague sounds behind Isabelle gave the impression that the other frigate’s crew was swarming the decks in defense of their vessel.
 

The deck rocked beneath Isabelle’s feet and jarred her aching ankle as she watched the captain progressing up the swaying mast. Against a wind that swirled in earnest, a giant wall of flames in the form of the
Mathilde
’s sail stood between Captain Carter and the young man. Isabelle could only duck the thick smoke and cough, waiting for the haze to clear so she could see the action taking place overhead.

With a burst of effort, Josiah Carter somehow managed to ascend the mast to stop within reach of the source of the conflagration. Unable to believe her eyes, Isabelle watched the captain reach into the fiery mess to tear away the sail and toss it into the river.
 

“Give me your hand, lad,” the captain called as he batted at the smoke thickening around them.

Another streak of lightning chased across the sky and shone ghostly white on the faces of the young man and his rescuer. While Captain Carter continued to shout, the boy, bereft of his shirt and frozen in the tangle of damaged ropes, merely stared into the sky, rain washing over his face and down his narrow, soot-covered back.
 

A thread of rope loosened and caused the boy to plummet out of reach of the captain. He hung suspended halfway to the deck, too far away to be rescued by the captain, who seemed to barely maintain a hold on the swaying mainmast.

“Drop, boy,” Harrigan shouted as he positioned himself beneath the dangling youth and batted frantically at the burning debris and raindrops blinding him. “I’ll snag ye.”

Captain Carter shouted something in encouragement, as well, but the lad continued to stare into the sky. “See ’em up there, Captain?” the fellow asked as he curled his body upward and grasped his knees with his hands. “Up there atop the mainmast.”

His voice, almost angelic, carried eerily across the distance between them. Isabelle’s gaze searched the topmost areas of the masts and rigging. Whatever the boy thought he saw, it remained hidden from view. Slowly, she focused a bit lower, centering her attention on the captain. An unlikely hero at best, he now stood perched to be just that.

If only the boy would allow it.

“There’s nothing atop the mainmast save the rain and the threat of a decent fire.” Captain Carter made another grab for the boy, holding his hand just beneath the flames. “Now reach for me so we both aren’t done to a crisp.”

“We ain’t going to be done to a crisp,” the boy answered. “They ain’t gonna let it happen.”

---

They.

Of course, the ethereal
they
of which the boy spoke had no existence in reality. Josiah had seen this sort of shipboard lunacy before, but never in one so young. Often the trail of lives lost or decisions ill made came full circle in times like this.
 

On many a deathbed had come claims of ghostlike
they
s, always invisible to those whom they had not come to claim. Josiah shook his head.
Rubbish.
 

He watched the boy dangle like a horsefly in a spider’s web for a second longer than he thought he could stand, then made one last grab for him. A decade prior, he might have gone onto the rigging after the fool, but age and good sense kept him firmly in place.
 

“Listen, Captain,” the kid declared, “they’re singing.”

Singing? More rubbish.

“Hear you any singing, Harrigan?” Josiah called when he could manage his voice.

“I do not, sir,” came the response from below.

“He does not,” he repeated.
 

The boy ignored his statement and pointed toward the heavens, a senseless grin etched upon his freckled face as the flames danced closer. “That one looks like me ma. A sight, she is. Hullo and g’day, fair one.”
 

His words began to slur but did not slow. Instead, he seemed
perfectly happy to carry on an animated conversation with the top of the mainmast while the inferno gathered about them.

Another alarm sounded nearby, and Josiah turned to see the flames jumping across the
Jude
to touch the quarterdeck of the frigate tied to the south. Instantly an orange glow spread across the aged timber, scattering the crew and engulfing the wheelhouse.

A glance toward the bowsprit gave him pause to believe the
Jude
would be soon set adrift. This much at least he could count in their favor.

The mainmast rode the weather and waves, lurching first to the north and then to the south. Josiah sighed and renewed his grasp on the blessedly sturdy timber, his mind too weary from the aggravation and his heart too jaded to be concerned for life or limb, be it his or his crew’s.
 

Flames on two sides and neither the Lord nor the devil to beg for help.
An all too familiar situation. “And one you can only blame on yourself, Carter.”

Sparks danced about and mirrored Josiah’s mood, while the young man’s incessant chorus strummed at his concentration. Another man might feel sorry for the boy and the insanity wrought from such a harrowing experience.
 

Josiah Carter was not that sort of man.

“Harrigan, fetch four of your best men and something to stretch between you. I’ve endured this madness long enough.”

The older sailor nodded and scampered away, leaving the captain to watch him go. “I swear by all creation, women and children will be the death of me,” he muttered.

When he caught sight of the woman standing below, he mentally added a blistering oath. This time, he chose French as his language of delivery and made sure
she
heard every word. To her credit, the Gayarre woman turned her back on him and walked away.

“Ahoy there, Cap’n,” Harrigan called. “Beggin’ yer pardon, but this piece of sail here was the best we could do on short notice.”

Josiah tore his gaze from the woman’s back to see the foursome gathered below. Harrigan held one corner of a large canvas remnant while three other fellows of dubious strength carried the others.

He surveyed the spectacle, felt the heat once more on his back, and calculated the odds. Neither he nor the boy stood much of a chance should the motley lot below need to save them. Likely, the dry-rotted canvas would not hold. Nor could they remain perched in the rigging to await the flame’s advance.
 

An odd thought dawned, and he turned to stare at the dock. Cast in an orange glow, the market, the warehouses, the giant cotton press, and the city itself lay half hidden in the face of the flames and smoke.
 

The people who’d come to witness the conflagration, however, stood out in distinct relief against the hazy backdrop. Here and there, groups of men and the occasional pair or threesome of women watched in silence, some carrying children on their hips. A few milled about in circles, looking almost as if they’d missed their cue to enter the fiery scene.

Even from this great height, Josiah could see their faces. Young, old, frightened, amused, dark, light: each one looked as distinct to him as if he stood before them on a sunny summer afternoon.

Centermost in the crowd of onlookers stood a familiar figure dressed in a gentleman’s finery, a man most likely just come from a performance of
Evadne
at the American Theater or perhaps a round of revelry at the Ball Paree et Masque in the Salle Washington Rue St. Philippe.

The gentleman leaned on his cane and tipped his hat, revealing a face Josiah visited only in a rare nightmare.