Beloved Castaway (11 page)

Hezekiah Carter had found him at last.
 

Cursing life and death all in the same sentence, Josiah turned to square his shoulders. Weighing the flames above him against the man on the dock, he made his decision.

“On my signal then,” he called to the men below.

Positioning himself just beneath the rope holding the young fool, Josiah gave the rigging a hard yank and watched the boy go spiraling toward the deck. In a rush of movement, Harrigan and his men captured the lad in the sail.
 

The
Jude
gave a hearty lurch backward, sending Josiah’s chin smashing into the mast. He felt his fingers begin to loosen their grip on the mast. Blood inched a crimson path down his shirtfront, mingling with the soot and grime already there.

When he gained his senses, he looked down to see the boy scramble to his feet, obviously unharmed. The sail, however, did not fare so well. Two of the men held pieces of the fabric, and two were empty-handed save shreds of torn canvas. As Harrigan had predicted, the sail had not held.

One of the men spirited the youth away, while Harrigan turned to offer a sign of approval to Josiah. “Ready yourself, Captain,” Harrigan said. “Dunston’s gone to fetch another canvas.”

“Aye,” he answered, breaking into a cough when a burst of smoke trailed past.

Above, another piece of sail had come loose from the
Mathilde
and danced about, teasing his head and shoulders with showers of burning fabric. Josiah brushed a smoldering ember off his shirtsleeve and watched as Harrigan and several men engaged in a heated argument.

There seemed to be a problem locating a replacement canvas. Harrigan called up to him, but most of his words were lost in the
rumbling of the fire, now consuming ships on either side of the
Jude
.
Without a fresh sail, there looked to be two ways out of his predicament. Neither appealed.

Either he could climb down the way he climbed up, or he could chance a ride down on the riggings. The mainmast, while still steady, held nothing in the way of support for a man descending to the deck, especially now that the
Jude
’s anchor had been lifted.
 

How he’d managed the upward climb baffled him. The rigging, on the other hand, looked every bit as insecure as the first choice. It held the added danger of small spots of smoldering ash threatening to spark into true flames at the slightest hint of a breeze.

At least the
Jude
had cleared the dock and begun sliding backward toward the headwaters of the river. Another few minutes and the vessel would be clear to make her turn.

Though not in the manner of his choosing, Josiah Carter and the
Jude
would be sailing away from New Orleans forever. The fact that Hezekiah Carter stood somewhere watching his escape was an added bonus.

“Make haste, Harrigan, for I’ve work to do,” he called to his
second in command.

“It seems, sir,” Harrigan answered, “we’ve run into a bit of an obstacle.”

Josiah clung to the swaying mast and watched a streak of lightning dance way too close. “An obstacle of what sort?”

Harrigan shook his head. “All we’ve got is the sails we need for navigation. There’s nothing to spare save a scrap or two for patches.” He paused. “What would you have us do, Captain Carter?”

So that was how it would be. No escape from the fiery flames and nothing to catch him when he fell.
 

Josiah suppressed a wry smile. How very much like the end his father had predicted for him.

Glancing over his aching shoulder into the crowd, he looked for the familiar face. Hezekiah Carter, if he’d been there at all, had vanished from sight. Soon New Orleans would disappear, too.

Good riddance to them all.

A shuddering sound brought his attention back to the situation at hand; an action demanded to be taken posthaste. Should he die, he would have but few regrets; should he live, he would have to give serious consideration to the reason.
 

“So be it,” he shouted into the storm.

Josiah released his grip on the mainmast and grasped for a
purchase on the rigging. Missing altogether, he lurched forward and felt nothing but air beneath his feet.

Odd, but he heard no splash when he hit the water. The only sound was silence, and the only sight murky darkness streaked with orange.

Breath that came so easily before failed him now, and his lungs began to ache. Through the void, a gentle voice whispered something in Josiah’s ear. Something about compassion.

As the blackness overtook him, Josiah heard another voice. This one bid him to curse God and die.

With his last breath, Josiah refused. Then something caught him and thrust him back in the direction from which he’d come.

Chapter 10

Isabelle felt nothing but the boards beneath her feet as she careened blindly down the narrow passageway, the image of Josiah Carter’s plummet into the water fresh in her mind. With the golden glow behind her now, nothing led the way save instinct and prayer.

And others save with fear, pulling them out of the fire. . . .

The verse from the book of Jude rang in her ears as she pressed forward. She must find the mademoiselles.
 

Banging on door after door, she made her way toward the end of one passageway only to turn and go back. Time and time again, she repeated the process, searching in vain for the place where the captain had incarcerated her companions.

The captain.

Unless the Lord intervened, the man most likely would not survive his mission of rescue. From her hiding place behind the wheelhouse, she’d heard the shouts of approval when the young sailor dropped to safety. She’d also heard the man called Harrigan express the difficulty of bringing the captain down alive.
 

The sound of the crew pronouncing the man’s imminent passing sent her feet flying. Should Josiah Carter perish in the fall as the crew predicted, the fate of all women aboard would be. . .
 

She couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought.

Gradually feelings returned. Stabs of pain needled at her knuckles, and more than once, she doubled over to cough the black smoke from her lungs. Finally, she dropped to her knees at the end of yet another empty passageway and rested her face in her hands, tears scalding her raw, bleeding fingers as they rolled from her eyes onto the ruined lace fabric of her skirt.

And others save with fear, pulling them out of the fire. . . .

“But, Lord, I tried,” she whispered as she rose and wiped the tears away. “I can’t find them.”

“Are you looking for the ladies, miss?”

Isabelle gasped and lifted her head. A small figure stood a few yards hence, silhouetted in the gentle radiance of a single candle.
 

“I frightened you,” he said, his voice all too young for the age it held. “I’m sorry.”
 

Upon closer inspection, the individual looked to be a lad of no more than a decade, wearing a miniature version of the trousers and flowing shirt favored by the captain and crew. But what would a boy be doing wandering the passageways of a ship in danger of burning to the waterline at any moment?

He held the candle high, casting a shadow on his full cheekbones and curious stare. Raven curls framed an oval face, and a pair of wide eyes the color of an angry silver sky stared back through a thick fringe of dark lashes.
 

Strange, but his presence bore some familiarity.

For a moment, Isabelle thought he might be an angel. Then he sneezed and wiped his nose on the hem of his shirt.
 

“Are you looking for the ladies?” he repeated.

Words failed. She nodded, hoping he could see her.
 

“They’re fit and well.” He paused. “You’re worried. Don’t be. Miss Emilie sent me to ease your concerns.”

Isabelle shook her head and willed her voice into cooperation. Many questions materialized; she gave voice to only two. “Who are you,” she mumbled, “and how do you know of my friends?”

The boy grinned and thrust a small hand toward her. She quickly accepted his greeting.

“I am William.”

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, William,” she said, noting the warmth of his little hand and the confidence with which he carried himself. This was no average young boy. “And I am Isabelle,” she added.

“So
you
are Isabelle.” He seemed to appraise her for a moment. “Miss Emilie and Miss Viola have become my chums. Miss Viola is fearful quiet, but Miss Emilie knows many exciting stories of England. She speaks of you and your trip to England, as well.”

“How nice. Please, will you tell me—”

“Did you know I’m to go to England, too? I’ve an education to see to, and there are folks who will care for me because I’m clever smart.” Again he paused, seeming to study her for a moment. “I’m nine, you know. I’ll be ten two weeks thence, and the captain says—”

The captain.

Images of Josiah Carter plummeting from the rigging flitted across her mind. “Where might I find my companions?”

“Oh, I’ll see to them,” he said, “if you’ll see to the captain. I’m dreadful worried about him. He and Mr. Harrigan say I’m never to go above decks without one of them present, but what with all the commotion up there, I’m afraid they’ve all but forgot about me.” He punctuated the statement with another bout of sneezing.

Isabelle collected her handkerchief and offered it to the lad. “William,” she said slowly, “I shall require a visit with my friends first, please.”

“And then you’ll find the captain?”

Before she could nod in agreement, the boy had her hand in his and begun to lead her through the passageway. A few turns and they arrived at what looked like a dead end. “Hold this, please.” He thrust the candle toward her.
 

She watched him run his little palm over the smooth wood, then sink his finger into a crack between the boards. A moment later, the wood shifted and groaned, and a narrow door swung open.

“How did you do that?” she asked.

With a shrug, young William retrieved the candle. “There are many secrets in this vessel, Isabelle,” he said.
 

And you are but one of them.

“Isabelle,” Emilie called. “Look, Viola, Isabelle has found us.”

The room where the two women now sat bore little resemblance to the tiny cell in which they’d all been incarcerated at the onset of the voyage. In contrast, it held a table and two chairs, a pair of lamps attached to the windowless wall, and an austere but pristine set of bunks covered in blankets in a decent state of repair and cleanliness. At the moment, Viola huddled beneath one of them, unresponsive. Mama Dell was nowhere to be found.

Emilie rose from her bunk to kneel and envelop William in a hug. “I see you’ve met our friend William,” she said as she straightened an unruly shock of his dark hair. “He’s quite a young man, isn’t he?”

Isabelle nodded, a thousand questions circling, yet none lighting long enough to be asked. Where was Mama Dell? Had Josiah Carter actually taken pity on the ladies and ordered their move to a nicer cabin? That image certainly did not fit. A tug on her cloak distracted her.

“So now that you’ve seen your friends, will you please fetch the captain?”

She met Emilie’s gaze over the boy’s head. Her head told her to deny his request; her heart thumped a furious agreement. “Yes, of course,” she said.

William caught her sleeve, concern etched on his little features. “Promise me you won’t tell him I sent you. He’ll be fierce angry if he finds out I spoke to you.”

Fierce angry. Yes, she’d seen that side of the man.
 

“But why, William?” she asked. “I don’t understand.”

“We’re not to know he’s about,” Emilie said. “It seems as though his presence is quite unknown aboard this vessel.” She paused and leaned closer. “I’m not certain our presence is remembered, either,” she added in a whisper. “We’ve seen no one but young William since the fire.”

Isabelle opened her mouth, but Emilie’s look silenced her. “Go and see to the captain’s safety for our friend, please,” she said. “We’ll wait here for your word.”

“Of course,” she whispered.

What made her turn and put one foot in front of the other, Isabelle couldn’t quite define, although she knew it must be of the Lord, for she longed to stay behind in the safety of her friends’ company. Yet despite her better judgment, Isabelle bade the trio good-bye and moved with certainty through the passageway to emerge onto the rain-slicked deck of the
Jude
.
 

All around her, chaos reigned even as the downpour abated. The
Mathilde
no longer stood at their right but rather looked to be drifting off the forward bow. The fire-consumed frigate to the left, however, seemed to be following them into the channel.
 

A half dozen men labored at cutting the
Jude
free, using all sorts of tools on the thick line stretched taut between the vessels. Alongside them, clusters of men tugged on ropes, working what remained of the sails into submission, while others raced along the rails, putting out fires with whatever water-carrying vessel they could find.

Harrigan stood at the wheel, pointing and shouting much as the captain had done a short while earlier. But where was the captain?

She cast about for a sight of the captain, only to feel the pinch of a hand on her arm. “Here’s another one, Mr. Harrigan,” a deep voice with the touch of an Irish lilt called. Isabelle stared up into the dark brown eyes of a man nearly twice her height.
 

Harrigan took a long look at her before shaking his head. “I thought we’d rid ourselves of the curse of females aboard.”
 

A roar went up on the foredeck. “It looks as if they’ve cut her free,” her captor said.

“Aye, indeed it does. You’d best join them at your post, Banks. I warrant the bosun will have need of your expertise.”