falling.
He didn’t know what time it was, but the sky was dark. The rain fell cold and hard, but he was far too used to deprivation to let it deter him.
He forced himself to climb again. He made the mistake of looking down. Felix was staring up at him. Diego was looking directly ahead, his body braced against the wind and his arms straining to keep the ship running before the wind.
He grabbed for one of the sheets that fluttered in the wind.
Missed.
Try again. One hand held the rope ladder. He reached out for the sheet with the other. He caught it, but it ripped away.
Another gust of wind sent the ship heeling to starboard, and the sail began to tear. That would doom them all. They needed every sail to get to Scotland.
Scotland.
He reached out again. This time he grabbed the sheet and started to pull it in. Every inch took more strength than he thought he had. Finally he’d pulled it to the mast and tied it down. Then he leaned against the mast.
Don’t look down.
God’s blood but he was tired.
And frozen. The rain mixed with the frothy sea whipped at him. His feet felt wooden.
Step by step he descended. His feet finally hit the deck. Even rolling as the ship was, the deck felt like a gift from the gods.
The relief did not last long. He worked with the others to complete the trimming of the sails as the ship seemed more like a wooden toy batted back and forth.
When they finished with the sails, Patrick told the crew to tie lifelines to everyone on the top deck. They had been at sea during storms before, but previously they’d been anchored by their chains. None had ever walked a sopping deck with towering waves washing over them.
Fear was evident in their faces.
The wind howled. Lightning pierced the water not far ahead, and thunder roared like volleys of cannon. Then lightning hit the foremast and seemed to trail fire to the deck. One of the crew went down. Patrick ran over to him. He was dead. He lifted the body and took it inside. Unlike the bloody Spaniards, he deserved a proper burial at sea.
A Frenchie, he recalled. On the ship for mayhap two months. Not long. Despair settled in the pit of his stomach. What if he had done as the others wanted and headed toward Morocco? Sell the cargo and buy more cannons? Take up pirating?
He had talked them out of it by making promises he might not be able to keep. Now they all might die because of it.
JULIANA held Carmita as the contents of the maid’s stomach went into the pail that Manuel had left for them.
She could couldn’t even see the pail. All the lights had been quenched when the storm started. The danger of fire was too high. In between Carmita’s heaving, they held on to each other and the bed to keep from being thrown from one side of the cabin to the other.
Would it never end?
At least it kept the oarsmen’s attention away from them. Which horror was worse? Being taken by the oarsmen or drowning in a freezing sea?
Her own stomach seemed stalwart. But then she had eaten only a bite or so. Carmita had eaten even less.
“Senorita . . . you should . . . not . . .” Carmita tried before she started to heave again.
“Nonsense.”
The ship rolled again, so far to the left that she thought they must topple into the sea.
Carmita screamed and clutched at her.
Juliana wanted to comfort the young maid, but her terror was just as strong. Any words of comfort would be a lie.
The ship righted. The fury from outside came through the timbers. She heard the waves thunder against the hull. How could the Sofia continue to withstand such battering?
The ship rose again, then dropped suddenly.
Carmita started praying again. Loudly.
Juliana rolled against a wall. She prayed, too, then added a few Spanish curses she’d heard her father utter.
By the Holy Mother, she was not going to die like this. She simply would not.
T HE storm subsided as dawn came. Gray crept through the clouds. The winds lessened, though they still blew strong. Exhausted
He didn’t know what time it was, but the sky was dark. The rain fell cold and hard, but he was far too used to deprivation to let it deter him.
He forced himself to climb again. He made the mistake of looking down. Felix was staring up at him. Diego was looking directly ahead, his body braced against the wind and his arms straining to keep the ship running before the wind.
He grabbed for one of the sheets that fluttered in the wind.
Missed.
Try again. One hand held the rope ladder. He reached out for the sheet with the other. He caught it, but it ripped away.
Another gust of wind sent the ship heeling to starboard, and the sail began to tear. That would doom them all. They needed every sail to get to Scotland.
Scotland.
He reached out again. This time he grabbed the sheet and started to pull it in. Every inch took more strength than he thought he had. Finally he’d pulled it to the mast and tied it down. Then he leaned against the mast.
Don’t look down.
God’s blood but he was tired.
And frozen. The rain mixed with the frothy sea whipped at him. His feet felt wooden.
Step by step he descended. His feet finally hit the deck. Even rolling as the ship was, the deck felt like a gift from the gods.
The relief did not last long. He worked with the others to complete the trimming of the sails as the ship seemed more like a wooden toy batted back and forth.
When they finished with the sails, Patrick told the crew to tie lifelines to everyone on the top deck. They had been at sea during storms before, but previously they’d been anchored by their chains. None had ever walked a sopping deck with towering waves washing over them.
Fear was evident in their faces.
The wind howled. Lightning pierced the water not far ahead, and thunder roared like volleys of cannon. Then lightning hit the foremast and seemed to trail fire to the deck. One of the crew went down. Patrick ran over to him. He was dead. He lifted the body and took it inside. Unlike the bloody Spaniards, he deserved a proper burial at sea.
A Frenchie, he recalled. On the ship for mayhap two months. Not long. Despair settled in the pit of his stomach. What if he had done as the others wanted and headed toward Morocco? Sell the cargo and buy more cannons? Take up pirating?
He had talked them out of it by making promises he might not be able to keep. Now they all might die because of it.
JULIANA held Carmita as the contents of the maid’s stomach went into the pail that Manuel had left for them.
She could couldn’t even see the pail. All the lights had been quenched when the storm started. The danger of fire was too high. In between Carmita’s heaving, they held on to each other and the bed to keep from being thrown from one side of the cabin to the other.
Would it never end?
At least it kept the oarsmen’s attention away from them. Which horror was worse? Being taken by the oarsmen or drowning in a freezing sea?
Her own stomach seemed stalwart. But then she had eaten only a bite or so. Carmita had eaten even less.
“Senorita . . . you should . . . not . . .” Carmita tried before she started to heave again.
“Nonsense.”
The ship rolled again, so far to the left that she thought they must topple into the sea.
Carmita screamed and clutched at her.
Juliana wanted to comfort the young maid, but her terror was just as strong. Any words of comfort would be a lie.
The ship righted. The fury from outside came through the timbers. She heard the waves thunder against the hull. How could the Sofia continue to withstand such battering?
The ship rose again, then dropped suddenly.
Carmita started praying again. Loudly.
Juliana rolled against a wall. She prayed, too, then added a few Spanish curses she’d heard her father utter.
By the Holy Mother, she was not going to die like this. She simply would not.
T HE storm subsided as dawn came. Gray crept through the clouds. The winds lessened, though they still blew strong. Exhausted
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