Fire at Midnight (28 page)

“He has a key now, and Winstanley does not expect him,” Rachael argued. The look she leveled at Sebastién was patently one of accusation.

“We will take Tarry to my cottage and you will fetch the doctor while I go after Brightmore.” He expected her to object, but her eyes were on Tarry and she made no reply.

Sebastién’s cottage remained standing, although every window had been shattered, and a fine layer of dirt had settled over every exposed surface.

Tarry was delirious and mumbling incoherently by the time they put him to bed, and Rachael had hurried to fetch the doctor from the village. Her ears still rang with the doctor’s mildly surprised response to her emergency: “Only a broken leg, is it? Then why do you need me? Mr. Falconer can splint a leg as well as I can. I taught him. Broken limbs are common in his trade.”

Just one more thing he has lied to me about.
The doctor had expressed concern over Tarry’s fever but imparted little else that she could understand. He had implied that the extent of Tarry’s injuries would cease to matter if the fever did not soon break.

Tarry dozed fitfully while Rachael sat staring out at the sea. Sebastién kept invading her thoughts as she kept vigil over Tarry. He had disappeared when Rachael had gone to fetch the doctor. She would never forgive him if he failed to return, or if he allowed Victor to escape.

Time passed slowly, and the empty howl of the wind lulled her with its incessant moan. Exhausted, she was on the verge of falling asleep in the chair when a random creak of floorboards on the lower level roused her.

She unsheathed Tarry’s sword by slow degrees to avoid making noise and glanced at Tarry. He was asleep at the center of the huge bed. She crept from the room, pulled the door closed, and locked it behind her.

Rachael stole into the hall and moved with caution toward the landing at the top of the stairs where she heard someone moving about downstairs. Heart pounding, she backed into the shadows of the landing, but the tip of the sword scraped the floor when she moved, and she froze, aware that the sounds below had ceased.

“Yes, I am certain I heard a noise below!” she exclaimed then paused. “No, it could not possibly be The Dane. It is too early for him to be up and about.”

She cocked her head and listened. The intruder was quiet now, waiting. Listening. She was committed to the bluff. Rachael turned and moved along the hallway, speaking in a loud voice as she went.

“Really, do you think a pistol is necessary? Your sword should be sufficient!” She paused again. “Shall I awaken the others?”

She came to the landing and stepped out onto the first stair, but the banister blocked her view of the lower level. When she moved down one step, she inadvertently revealed herself to the man who stood at the foot of the stairs, waiting.

Jacques Falconer noted the abrupt halt of Rachael’s descent and the look of dismay that flickered across her face. He smiled and bowed mockingly, the frosty glint in his eyes telling her that her bluff had been called.

Victor knew the Frenchman was following him. Falconer had made a point of lounging in doorways where he knew he would be seen and blatantly stood by observing as Victor had purchased a boat and a pistol in the village.

Victor bobbed along with the sharp rise and fall of the waves as the boat slid out to sea. Though the modest craft had cost him plenty, it was sturdy enough. The Frenchman stood on the beach watching him as if he were an entertainment. Victor indicated the abandoned, unseaworthy vessels that littered the beach with a sweep of his hand.

“Take your pick!” he taunted above the roar of the wind. He lifted the pistol and fired a shot toward the shore, wasting the ammunition but making the point that he was now equipped with a functional weapon.

The vessel careened against the swell of the agitated sea, and it occurred to Victor that he was at the mercy of a vast, angry ocean. He gripped the gunwale and retched over the side. When he glanced back at the shore, there was no sign of Falconer. The realization rattled him, and he clutched his midsection and stared longingly at dry land.

Sebastién had also secured a vessel and had kept it hidden in an inlet along the beach. The craft was of moderate size, constructed specifically for smuggling. It was rigged fore and aft rather than square-rigged, so that its speed was not dependent upon the wind. His lighter, more streamlined craft shot toward the open sea, aided by both wind and current.

Victor had strayed from his course. Rachael’s uncle battled a circular sweep of wind and sea that threatened to capsize him. Within a matter of minutes, the wind veered from southwest, to west, to northwest, and then shifted by degrees until it regained a westerly draft. The fickle blast freed Victor from the whirlpoollike pull of the sea, and he made steadily for the lighthouse, swept along by the gusting wind.

Sebastién’s craft shifted crazily, opening a yawning gulf between the two vessels. He stumbled along the leeward side as his boat slammed into a barrier reef where the ship faltered, listing dangerously, her hull pierced by the sharp rocks. She had lost her main mast and mizzenmast due to the hard gales, and seawater slowly flooded the bottom of the boat. He swore in frustration as the sea continued to flow into the vessel. His ship was bilged, and Brightmore would reach the Eddystone Lighthouse within minutes.

Sebastién’s light craft plowed against the ledge of rock as the wind toyed ruthlessly with it, and he was forced to dive overboard to avoid being carried down with it. The churning sea swept him up and he struggled toward the shore, swimming against the fierce pull of the current. He was a strong swimmer, but in these seas there were no advantages.

Stumbling onto shore, Sebastién shivered from cold and gasped for air. Kelp and sea grit clung to him and saltwater stung the gash in his head.

The awesome strength of the wind had increased. Sand swirled all around him, stinging every exposed inch of flesh. Sebastién looked toward the lighthouse, distressed by his failure. Winstanley and his men were on their own. Brightmore would eventually return to landside, and he would be waiting for him.

Sebastién trekked to the top of the bluff, where he had a better view of the comings and goings at the lighthouse. He half-crawled up the steep cliff path, fighting against the wind for balance. The village below had been reduced to scattered piles of rubble, and few buildings remained standing. Anxious faces peered out of shattered windows as villagers waited for the storm to end.

Easing down to the ground, Sebastién looked out to sea. Victor was having difficulty nearing the landing platform; the sea playfully swept him back each time he came close to it. The rippling depths threatened to channel the small craft into the foaming waters around the dangerous reef, and the current was at its strongest near the rocks.

Sebastién had a sailor’s quirky reverence for the sea, and he could not recall a time when the aspect of it had been as extraordinary as it was at the moment. The sea wore a white crest of spume that extended to the waves rolling in along the current. The sight was like the foaming muzzle of a rabid animal. The roiling black waters formed enormous swells that pounded the rocks as breakers lashed the exterior of the lighthouse.

The sand burned his eyes and the tang of saltwater filled his nose and mouth. The banshee howl of the wind rose again in a horrific shriek and Sebastién felt his heart accelerate as instinct urged him to his feet.

The Eddystone Lighthouse was under attack, but not by any human foe. An immense curl of water had gathered into a monstrous swell and was flowing toward the mighty tower like some ancient sea serpent in a mammoth curtain of rushing sea. It was buoyed along by wind and water, gathering momentum as it approached the tower.

Sebastién knew the exact moment Victor became aware of the danger because Victor glanced over his shoulder, save the advancing menace of a wave, and foolishly stood up in the boat. He turned toward the approaching onslaught, briefly immobilized by the sight before he exploded into a frenzy of action as he tried to escape the inescapable.

A gigantic groundswell of water rolled over the little boat. It tumbled, spinning end over end at the core of the rushing water as the huge wave coursed toward the lighthouse. The wall of water pounded the edifice, flinging the boat against the stone.

The magnificent tower seemed to quake as it resisted the shock. Sebastién was so stunned by the suggestion of movement that he shouted in disbelief and waited for some sign that the sea would calm now that it had tasted sacrifice. But the swirling black void seemed to gather strength for a fresh assault. Sebastién stood on the bluff, numbed by a peculiar flash of precognition as a phenomenal wave glided toward the tower.

When the wave hit, there was no gradual stone by stone surrender. One moment the lighthouse stood, proud and defiant, and in the next the sea loomed empty and triumphant, washing over the lengths of iron rod that still protruded from the great stone base. The iron rods were all that remained of the magnificent structure. Henry Winstanley’s wish to occupy his tower during the worst storm imaginable had been granted. The sea lay tranquil.

S
ebastién’s pace quickened as he approached the cottage. Although his limbs were heavy with exhaustion and the wound on his head throbbed, the worst of the storm was over, in every sense of the word. Rachael and her brother were safe from their uncle, and her reunion with James would be the first step toward healing his tenuous relationship with her.

He looked forward to being vindicated. The English authorities would soon have proof that he had not been involved in the wreckings that had plagued the southern English coast. His status as a French privateer made the punishment for his transgressions against England somewhat negotiable, but the crime of shipwrecking was one that would have earned him a swift execution.

Jacques might be able to confine him to the gaol until their grandfather could arrange a pardon for his “patriot exploits,” but Jacques could no longer accuse him of being a wrecker.

Sebastién trudged wearily up the path. The sight of the horizon without the magnificent Eddystone Lighthouse to mark it was a somber one. How would Rachael react to the news of Victor’s ironic fate? Would she look upon the time they had spent at the lighthouse fondly, or with regret?

His cottage had sustained a minor amount of damage, but he had never seen a more welcome sight. It had sheltered the woman he loved during one of the worst storms the English coast had ever seen. Every lichened stone and fractured pane of glass bore his gratitude.

He entered through the front door with a lighthearted shout of greeting, but the door slammed behind him before he could think to react. He tried to draw his sword, but his strength and speed could not compete with that of the two uniformed men who confronted him.

He heard the metallic clink of chain as one man bent a relentless grip around his neck and shoulders while the other slipped a rusted pair of irons around his wrists. Enraged, he bucked headlong into the man who had chained him. The soldier staggered backward, crashed into the wall, and collapsed on the floor. The other man outweighed Sebastién by at least two stone, and was well rested, uninjured, and unfettered.