Sandra Heath (28 page)

Henrietta lay drowsily on the bed. A delicious warmth enveloped her, and Marcus’ kisses still caressed her body. Oh, such sweet, sweet pleasure, such wonderful emotion, such aching desire. To feel as she did now was to eradicate all fear and unhappiness. For these few minutes she was oblivious to everything except her love for him. And his for her. If only she had never listened to George Sutherton’s lies. If only she had followed her heart, all this and more would have been hers by now....

A reproachful whine sounded from the cupboard in the main cabin, and Henrietta’s eyes flew open. “Rowley? Oh, Rowley, I forgot all about you!” She slipped swiftly from the bed and hurried through to let the spaniel out. As he jumped up into her arms again, she glanced down at the bonbon dish. It was empty.

* * * *

After rounding the North Foreland, where a warning lighthouse had stood for centuries, hunted and hunter at last drew near the dreaded Goodwins. The winter afternoon was beginning to draw in, and the tide had been ebbing for some time as the telltale ripple of shallows a little to port ahead revealed that the sea was retreating over miles of submerged sand. Ahead on the starboard side, in the sheltered stretch of waters between the Goodwins and the land, nestled a forest of masts, for provided the fearsome “ship swallower” sands could be avoided, the Downs was the safest of havens. But from the carefully selected angle at which the
Avalon
was approaching, leading the unsuspecting
Légère
in her wake, this sanctuary could only be reached through the narrow channel upon which Marcus pinned his hopes.

He stood on the deck of
Avalon,
taking meticulous readings from the old wooden hulk that was permanently moored at the northern head of the sands, and from various landmarks on the Kent shore, some six miles away to the west. These landmarks included his magnificent Palladian residence, Bramnells, from where he had so often observed ships foundering in these dangerous waters. He knew his measurements had to be accurate to the very last yard, for the margin between safety and shipwreck was very fine indeed.

His calculations complete, he glanced back at the pursuing privateer, which was barely three hundred yards astern, well within range. He was puzzled that Lyons hadn’t commenced firing, but as he looked there was activity as men at last rushed forward to the howitzers. He also saw an ominous red flag being raised. No quarter. He turned to his own crew. “Brace yourselves, lads, for the fun’s about to begin.”

The reason for the
Légère’s 
delay was very simple; half an hour earlier, the bogle had awoken and commenced its attack. It first victim had been Amabel, who was in her cabin. After another fracas with the superstitious crew, her brother had ordered her to remain out of sight.

No respecter of sex, the manikin dug its teeth into her calf, and she screamed not only with pain, but with shock from seeing what had bitten her! Still screaming, she caught up her skirts and ran up to the deck, where the dismayed sailors forgot their tasks and drew back in alarm from a woman who appeared to have gone completely mad. Their eyes nearly popped from their heads when the wicked bogle emerged from a hatchway and glanced around for its next victim. It chose the ship’s boy, who was so terrified that he scrambled over a store of cannonballs, and accidentally released them across the deck. Amabel’s brother dashed from the quarterdeck to see what was happening, and he too received a bite or two for his pains.

Within moments, just as had happened on the
Avalon,
there was utter chaos. The panic-stricken crew clambered up the rigging to get out of the way, and no one would come down as Lyons furiously attempted to restore order. He was as unnerved as anyone by the sight of the ugly hobgoblin, but his first and only consideration remained his ship. However, his bellowed orders were lost in the renewed clamor of Amabel’s screams as the bogle returned its attentions to her. All this happened as the
Avalon
came in sight of the Goodwins and Marcus commenced taking measurements to plot the exact position of the channel.

Amabel’s brother was at his wits’ end. Nothing he said or did would budge his men from their places of safety. He glanced ahead past the fleeing
Avalon,
and saw the clustered masts of anchorage. There was very little time left before the sloop reached safety. Capturing her was now out of the question, but sinking her certainly was not. But to do that, he needed his men!

At that moment the bogle tiptoed unwisely close, being of a mind to bite the French captain again. Amabel’s brother was superstitious, but not to the extent of losing face! Sinking the
Avalon
had become such a matter of honor that a mere hobgoblin wasn’t going to get in the way. With a curse that would never have been tolerated at the Versailles of his and Amabel’s youth, he dealt the bogle a kick that sent it spinning along the deck like one of the cannons that already rolled in all directions. Then he drew his cutlass and advanced after it.

The bogle sat up and stared at him in horror. Glancing desperately around, it saw salvation—another wooden bucket! With a squeal it scrambled up, pushed the bucket through an open port, and launched itself out too. Bucket and bogle hit the water together, and after some frantic splashing the manikin managed to haul itself to safety. Again it bobbed away astern of a vessel upon which it had caused mayhem, and again it shook its fist and screeched abuse of a most shocking nature. But this time many weeks were going to pass before it scrambled aboard another unsuspecting ship, and many months would ensue after that before it reached dry land again. By then troublemaking would be the least of its considerations. All it would want to do would be to find a smelly corner or rubbish heap in which to sleep—and mind its own business, which was all it had been doing in Mulborough churchyard until Rowley disturbed it!

Even though the bogle had gone, Amabel continued to scream hysterically. Her brother strode irritably over to her and delivered an ungentlemanly slap that resulted in instant silence. Wide-eyed, she stared at him, but he was unrepentant as he ordered her back to her cabin. The last thing he needed was for her to keep the crew up the rigging! With a choked sob she obeyed, and then he turned to confront his cowering men. Slicing his cutlass warningly through the air, he promised to disembowel them one by one unless they returned to their tasks without further delay. Slowly they climbed down from the rigging and went sullenly to their posts.

Lyons glanced grimly ahead again. If there was one thing he was going to do, it was destroy the cursed sloop that had caused him such exasperation! He could make an attempt to sink her before she entered the channel, or he could pursue her into it. He smiled. How good it would be to slip into the fine haven by which the British set such store, sink the
Avalon
right in front of the batteries on the shore, and then come about to sail out once more! That would show how little the
Légère
feared anyone or anything! He snapped his fingers scornfully at the coastline and then nodded at a man who was waiting with the flag to be run up the mainmast. Plain red and implacable, it was immediately hauled aloft. Lyons cupped his hands to the men now manning the howitzers in the bows. “Fire!” he shouted in French.

The howitzers boomed and the shot fell short, plunging into the water well astern of the sloop. Lyons shouted again, and after the trajectory had been adjusted, the howitzers fired once more. The shot fell much closer this time, sending spray up over the windows of the
Avalon’s
stern cabin. With a low curse, Amabel’s brother strode forward to take aim himself. For a third time the howitzers fired, and this time the shot crashed through the sloop’s rigging and fell into the water in front of her. Still cursing, Lyons worked feverishly to get the aim just right. There was no other thought in his head, for he knew that in order to negotiate the channel, his helmsman only had to follow the
Avalon ...

That was all Old Nick thought too. Leaning back interestedly on his hellish throne, he set his
pièce de résistance
in motion. With a languid wave of his hand he summoned the
Basilic
and the
Wessex
to escort the two modern vessels to their doom. Oh, how delightful this moment of revenge was going to be. St. Peter had just solved the problem with his quarrelsome angels, and was belatedly beginning to realize what was going on. But it was too late now. The time for nose-thumbing had arrived!

On the sloop, Henrietta stood in Marcus’ arms as they both looked back at the pursuing privateer. Rowley was hiding beneath her cloak and peeped from under the hem now and then. He knew something was about to happen, and he was afraid. He whined and withdrew as the howitzers fired. Henrietta flinched, flinched again at the second shot, and then hid her face against Marcus’ shoulder as the third shot whined through the rigging, driving a hole through a sail and splintering a spar. For her sake, and the sake of his men, Marcus gave no sign of his anxiety. He watched the
Légère
as if totally unconcerned, but his heart was thundering and he was prepared to promise the Almighty anything at all if only He would spare them all now. Just let the sand spit be where he’d calculated.

* * * *

Rowley gave a sudden anxious whine, and Henrietta raised her head swiftly. Everything around her had changed, shining once more with the silver light, and there was an unearthly silence. She saw the
Wessex
again, the faces of her crew filled with dread as they stared ahead at the Goodwins, which had suddenly emerged from the sea to stretch for miles. They knew they were doomed, and could only wait for the moment the merchantman drove on to the rock-hard sand. Astern, the
Légère
had become the
Basilic,
and was bearing down at an unstoppable speed. In his eagerness to take the
Wessex,
the privateer’s captain had made a fatal error, and now he and his crew knew they could not escape the fate they themselves had caused. A single sound broke the silence. It was Jane sobbing. Henrietta drew from Marcus’ arms as she cast around for the source of the sound, but she saw no sign of her ghostly friends. Rowley whined and crept from beneath the cloak. Henrietta bent to gather him into her arms, then again looked desperately around for Jane and Kit.

Marcus watched her, and knew she was seeing things that were invisible to everyone else on the
Avalon.
He heard Rowley whine and saw how she bent to pick up the spaniel. He caught her elbow then, and drew her close once more. “It’s all right, my beloved, it’s all right. What you’re seeing isn’t really there at all, but
I’m
here, and we’re going to be safe.”

“I can see the
Wessex,
Marcus, and the
Légère
isn’t the
Légère
anymore, but the
Basilic.
The sands are above water, and in a few seconds ...” Her whisper died away and her eyes widened as she braced herself for the impact that would break first the merchantman’s back, and then the privateer’s.

Marcus rested his cheek against her hair. The sands were not above water, and wouldn’t be for another hour, and all he could see was the
Légère.
There had been silence since the third firing of the howitzers, and men were working frantically on the guns. Something had jammed on both, and they were trying to free it. Marcus smiled, but then became alert as he detected a change in the sound of the water beneath the
Avalon.
It was barely perceptible, but was the difference between deep water and that which allowed only a foot or so beneath the sloop’s hull. It seemed that an age passed, but at last the sound changed again. The submerged sandbar had been crossed, and the channel was deep once more.

For Henrietta and Rowley everything suddenly fell into turmoil. In a blur she saw Jane and Kit at last. Jane was sobbing in Kit’s embrace, and all around them there was panic as the merchantman’s crew realized their fate.

Henrietta was frightened. With Rowley nestling deep in her arms, she whispered to Marcus. “Hold me tighter. Don’t let me go.”

“I will never let you go again.”

Mr. Barrington called out suddenly. “My lord, two patrol frigates are coming to our aid!”

Still holding Henrietta, Marcus turned sharply and saw that the first officer was right. Pennants streaming, the frigates were peeling away from the small convoy of merchantmen they were escorting north through the Downs. They were at least two miles away, with the wind against them, but their approach would unsettle Lyons. He looked back at the
Légère
and saw Amabel’s brother step up on to the rail. Lyons gripped a rope to steady himself as he gazed past the
Avalon
toward the frigates. Marcus knew he was wondering if he would have time to deliver a fatal broadside once his vessel and the sloop reached wider water. Or would he be better advised to turn the moment he could, and beat a hasty retreat?

Marcus smiled. It didn’t matter which course the Frenchman decided upon, for the
Légère
was committed to the channel and the sandbar would claim her anyway! “You’ve been gulled, my fine strutting fellow, you’ve been gulled,” he murmured.

Henrietta still saw the past. She experienced the wreck of the
Wessex
on the same spit of sand that had appeared one hundred years before. The merchantman’s deck became a devastation of rending wood, falling spars, and torn rigging, but Henrietta heard not a single sound. It all happened in a deadly silence. Within seconds, the
Basilic
perished as well, driving full on to the unforgiving sands within yards of her prey.

In the present, the
Légère
too
came to a shuddering halt as she buried her bows in the submerged bar. With a grinding and crushing of timbers, she held fast on the steep-sided spit of sand that would crack her hull as the tide retreated.

Then past and present were rent asunder. Alone of the four vessels, the
Avalon
could sail on. She parted from her ghostly alter ego, and continued serenely toward the welcoming safety of the Downs.