Oceanswept
OCEANSWEPT
By Lara Hays
Copyright
2012 by Lara Hays
Cover design by Ryan Brijs
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author and/or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First e-book edition: September 2012
Table of Contents
T
he air hung treacherously still, as if calculating its next violent outburst.
With a trembling hand, I pushed my sopping hair from my face and looked up at the boiling green clouds. I had never seen a sky that color. It was the shade of illness.
We were in a hurricane.
And from the quickly dying wind and the glimpses of blue sky fighting to break through overhead,
I knew we were skirting the eye of the storm.
Braced in a corner of the main deck with a death grip on a line of rigging, I sat frozen with terror. Storms like this sank ships.
A man wearing the uniform of a naval admiral ran frantically about the deck of the ship shouting at every person he saw.
My father was looking for me.
“Here!” I called, waving an arm over my head.
A nearby sailor heard my cry. “Admiral Monroe,” he hollered as he pointed in my direction, “Your daughter’s over there!”
My father ran across the waterlogged deck as I staggered to my feet. His thick hands pulled me into his chest. We were both dripping wet.
“Are you hurt, Tessa?”
I shook my head. “Is everyone all right?” I asked.
“I believe so.”
In the eerie stillness, we surveyed the ship. The main deck was flooded, debris floating around us. From bow to stern, sailors scurried about, preparing the ship for the storm’s next onslaught.
“There’s so much water. Can the ship hold?”
“God willing. The men are at the pumps now.”
My father’s trained eyes scanned the sails. His mouth tightened into a concerned line.
“Go to my quarters,” he dismissed me. “You can wait out the storm there.”
He hurried to the captain, pointing at the fore-topsail. The sail had blown free and become entangled in the shrouds. The wind was picking up, its chaotic patterns blowing into the jammed sail. The captain relayed the message to the first mate, who hollered orders to cut the sail loose. Two sailors climbed the ratlines, their deft figures shrinking in the distance overhead. My head grew dizzy watching them climb to such heights.
A deafening groan pierced the air.
Whirling in confusion, I pressed my palms against my ears and looked to my father.
“The mast!” he cried.
Wooden shards as big as swords rained down on me as the massive spar in the middle of the ship tipped in my direction, as if bowing before a dance partner.
My father rushed to my side. “Run!” He pushed me starboard, one step behind me.
I covered my head with my arms in a weak attempt to shield myself from the plummeting splinters.
The groan ended with an explosive crack and the mast plummeted towards us.
“Jump over!” my father yelled, steering me to the rail.
“Over?”
Before I could protest, he hoisted me by my waist and tossed me over the rail. I barely had time to close my mouth before the black water swallowed me whole. Kicking my legs, I shot to the surface in time to see my father splash beside me.
I fought against the giant swells and swam towards my father, our fingers finally linking.
“Just keep swimming,” my father panted. “They’ll send a boat.”
The sailors on board scrambled in the aftermath. They released jollyboats to fetch us and the handful of sailors who had fallen overboard with the mast.
I looked at my father. His face was gaunt and his eyes dark as he looked at the surrounding storm. When he caught my gaze he tried to smile in reassurance, but the smile did not reach his eyes.
Large swells attacked me, and I barely bobbed above water long enough to take a quick breath before another wave tackled me.
“Papa, I can’t—” A wave smacked me in the face, stopping my words with a mouthful of brine.
“They’re coming,” my father managed between onslaughts of water.
My legs stiffened with every kick. My energy was draining fast and I was spending more time below the water than above it.
I panicked. I thrashed. I swallowed ocean water.
Forcing me to look into his eyes, my father steadied me with his steely gaze. “Tessa. Keep swimming. The boat is nearly here.”
I tried to do as he ordered, but my body refused. My head went under again. My father pulled me above the waves and cinched me close to his chest.
“Don’t you give up, Tessa,” he grunted fiercely. “Don’t you give up.”
The broken ship bobbed precariously on the horizon, the fallen mast looking like a dismembered limb. A sudden sheet of rain pelted the surface of the water and the green-black clouds roiled in the heavens. Going through a hurricane was dangerous for anyone, but for two people in the clutches of the ocean, exhausted from treading water, it was a death sentence.
I willed my legs to kick. They refused. I slipped under the water. Everything went dark.
I
awoke to the sound of waves breaking against the hull, their rhythm keeping time with the ship’s fluid dance. Soothing and serene, it was a sound I had grown to know well over the past few weeks of my voyage across the Atlantic.
The blackness of the ocean at night pervaded my cabin like a heavy vapor.
It was so thick that I felt as if I could touch it, send ripples through it with a flick of my finger.
I felt like I had been asleep too long. My head pounded. My body felt wooden. I struggled to remember the previous night. My memories were a blur. I must have taken ill.
I sat up slowly. My stomach lurched. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, suppressing my urge to vomit. It was a familiar practice. I had been battling the nag of nausea since we’d been at sea. My father reassured me I would find my sea legs, but that obviously had not happened yet. He had also promised me the voyage would last only six or seven weeks. We had been sailing for nine.
My father, Archibald Monroe, was recently promoted to admiral in the British Navy. Along with his promotion came an assignment to relocate to the West Indies and secure the trade port at St. Christopher—commonly called St. Kitts. With the influx of Spaniard privateers and independent raiders, it was a task as dangerous as it was critical to the Empire.
Despite the dangers, I was thrilled by the idea of life in the West Indies. Good riddance to the filth of London, the dreadful moors, the bone-chilling fog. I was ready to embrace the constant heat, the graceful palms, and the fledgling society of St. Kitts. The colony was certainly buzzing about the imminent arrival of a revered admiral and his genteel daughter. A dozen invitations to balls would be waiting when I disembarked. I had every intention of playing the coquette. After vetting suitable matches, I would settle for no less than the most eminent suitor, perhaps even a governor’s son. I would secure a position in society that would have been out of reach in the motherland.
But after nine weeks of sailing, it seemed we’d never drop anchor. I was frustrated by the long, dull days with no companions, the cramped quarters, and the bland food. A brief stop in the Canaries a month ago rekindled my excitement, but my eagerness quickly turned to impatience. Would my new life in St. Kitts never begin?
I ran my fingers through my long, chestnut-colored hair—or rather, I
tried
to run my fingers through my hair. It was so full of mats and tangles that I hardly recognized it. It felt more like frayed rope. I tugged and straightened my stiff clothing, suddenly realizing I was not wearing my usual nightshift, but only my undergarments. Startled, I tried to think why I was in such dress, especially in so public of circumstances.
Something was wrong. I tried to focus in on the feeling nagging at the back of my mind, but I was too confused to make much sense of anything.
I staggered around my room, with my arms stretched before me, palms splayed wide, feeling for my dressing gown that I had hung on a hook by my bed.
I did not find it.
I dropped to the floor and explored my small cabin in search of my trunk.
I did not find it.
“Lucia!” I called. How dare my maid move my belongings? “Lucia!”
When she hadn’t responded within two full minutes—a generous courtesy—I made my way to the door. My father would hear about this. My fingers fumbled against a wooden latch instead of the brass handle I expected. I gasped.
And then I remembered.
The mud-colored sky. The guttural groan of the breaking mast.
I closed my eyes against the memories, only to find them more vivid.
My things weren’t here because this was not my cabin. This was not my ship.
We had obviously been rescued. This thought should have put me at ease, but I still felt agitated. I needed my father.
Because I had no dressing robe, I resorted to pulling the linens off the small bed and wrapping the undersized sheet around my shoulders. It barely offered any decency, but it was the best I could manage.
Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I swung the cabin door open and peered into the darkness.
To my left, the corridor disappeared into blackness. To my right, the moonlight illuminated the end of the corridor leading to the deck. There was another door across from mine. I quietly pressed my ear against it. A thunderous snoring came from within. I stepped back quickly. That was definitely not my father.
My eyes strayed down the corridor. I could either seek the aid of a sailor on deck or wait in my cabin for someone to come to me. I sneered at the thought of venturing out on my own. I returned to my cabin.
I tried to fall asleep to no avail. After at least forty minutes, I garnered the nerve to seek the aid of a night watchman.
I clutched my sheet with both fists and stealthily walked to the end of the corridor. I stopped at the edge of the deck to take in my surroundings.
An overcast sky glowed silver with the backlighting of a full moon, illuminating the ship before me. My eyes wandered to the two masts towering into the night. The yards crossed each mast like the spindly arms of a scarecrow. I easily identified them all—from the main yard closest to the deck to the distant royal yard that marked the top of the mast. The heavy canvas sails were taut with a strong wind, stretching against the silvery sky. For a moment, the tranquility of the night stilled all my anxieties.
Approaching footsteps broke the moonlight’s spell. I whirled around, trying to see who was closing in. I saw nothing.
I was suddenly afraid of what I might find on this deck, though I couldn’t say why. These seamen were my rescuers, I reminded myself, and I was deliberately seeking the aid of one. I had no reason to fear them. Still, I began to consider vanishing into my cabin and waiting for my father to come to me.
I was slowly backing into the shadows of the corridor, intent on doing just that, when a voice cut through the breezy night.
“Don’t be frightened, miss.”
My heart pounded as I waited for the man to show himself. I clutched even more tightly at my insufficient sheet, though it billowed and blew about, exposing my pantalooned legs.
Though I had been brought up at sea, I had never been comfortable with sailors. They were base creatures lacking morals and decency, ready to seize any hedonistic opportunity. No doubt a lady like me would be considered such a prospect.
A man emerged from the darkness, though shadows still cloaked his features. He stood tall and lean, the posture of a strong young man.
“Don’t say a word. Just follow me,” the man said in a low voice.
“Excuse me?”
“You best do as I say.”
“How dare you—”
“Sh
h!” he hissed.
The man closed the distance between us. I felt his face inches away from mine.
“I will not be threatened into submission.” I sounded bolder than I felt. “I demand you take me to your superior this instant or—”
The sailor glued a hand across my mouth, pressing me against the wall of the corridor. He turned his head nervously towards the sound of a shuffle in the distance.
Taking advantage of his split attention, I let out the loudest, shrillest scream I could muster. His hand pressed tighter against my mouth, all but muffling the sound.
“Do you have no value for your own head?” Fury rumbled through his dark whisper.
Grabbing my arm with his free hand, he steered me into the cabin from which I had come.
“You need to know two things,” said the sailor. “One: you are not safe on this ship. Two: I will do my best to keep you safe, but if you don’t trust me, you’ll wish you were dead by sunrise.”
Stunned, I stopped fighting him.
“I am going to let go of you now. Do not scream. Understand?”
I nodded my head, knowing I would make a fuss the second I could. The man released his grip. I sucked in a breath, ready to scream again.
“Please,” the man whispered desperately.
His pleading surprised me. I let my breath out in a huff.
I wanted to get as far from him as I could, and I took a step back only to be met by the bulkhead. The cabin was so small and the sailor filled half of it.
We stood awkwardly in the cramped cabin, each staring at the other. The sailor broke the silence.
“What’s your name?”
I withheld my answer. This man wanted my silence and he would get it.
“Are you injured?”
I remained silent.
“Does it hurt to move?” he pressed as if talking to an idiot. “Are you in physical pain of any kind?”
I looked away.
“You don’t have to cooperate. But if you won’t answer my questions, I’ll have the medic examine you personally.”
My eyebrows shot up. “You would not dare.”
“So, are you hurt then?”
I glared a bit but decided I had better answer or he truly would call a medic. I shook my head brusquely.
“Tell me your name.”
All these demands! “Miss Monroe to you,” I sneered.
“I’m Nicholas. Now, stay here in your cabin. I’ll be back for you later.”
I was inclined to do the opposite of what this man said. But part of me wondered whether he was right. Was this ship as dangerous as he said?
“Can you at least send my father to me?”
“Your father?”
“It would be a considerable kindness,” I pressed.
The young man shifted his weight. “Your ship was lost at sea.”
“The hurricane. I remember.”
“We pulled you from the wreckage.” There was a hesitation in the sailor’s voice. I didn’t like it.
“Yes, how very noble of you. I’m sure my father will reward you handsomely. Now if you’d just send him to me.”
“Miss Monroe, there was no one else.”
Pieces of a puzzle fit together now. The memories of the compromised ship. The pull of the stormy ocean. Waking up alone without my overprotective father nearby.
“My father?” I faintly asked.
“Lost at sea, I imagine. I offer my condolences”
The trill of a bell echoed through the night, signaling the end of the first watch. Nicholas poked his head of the cabin, peering both ways down the corridor. Pausing in the doorway, he issued another cryptic warning. “I know you have no reason to trust me. But believe me when I say that leaving this cabin is certain death.”
Nicholas tipped his head and backed out of the room, closing the door behind him, leaving me alone in the cabin that would either be a haven or a prison—I knew not which.
I threw myself on the bed and cried against the pillow.