Pirate's Wraith, The (28 page)

“When I went to camp, we had little sailboats with one sail—they were called Sunfish.” Lesley recounted as she made a pillow out of a coil of rope for Jibby’s head. “We used to race the boats on the lake. I won a race once.”

“You won a sailing race?” Harlan gave the sail more slack and the gunwale inched ever closer to the waterline.

“I won because one of the other boats capsized and another one ran into a log,
but I got the trophy. I still have it at home, on the mantle.” She sighed as she thought of her childhood summers. “I learned so much at camp and I never appreciated it until now.”

“I would like to see you sail.” Harlan’s wry smile touched something inside her.

“I’d prefer to sail in a calm lagoon.”

He laughed outright.

The raucous laugh disturbed Jibby who groaned. She touched his forehead. “He has a fever.”

“We will shelter at another island,” Harlan promised.

“Do you think they’ll stop chasing us after a while?”

“If luck is on our side.”

“At least they aren’t shooting at us.”

“They will wait until they are in range.”

Jibby moaned. “They are upon us.”

“We are safe.” Lesley soothed and loosened her scarf to dip it in the sea. She dabbed Jibby’s brow as the boat rose and fell on the swells. “We are ahead of them.”

“Mr. Hooper stabbed him.” Jibby whispered. “I saw him do it.”

A chill prickled along Lesley’s shoulders. “
Who did he stab?”

“He
took his coat. ‘What a fine peacock I am now,’ he says.” Jibby shivered in his delirium and then slipped away into an unconscious state again.

Lesley pulled out an old canvas tarp stashed under the bow. Rough and scratchy, it smelled of fish, but she had nothing else to cover the poor boy. If he was in shock, which he probably was, she needed to keep his body warm and prevent the salty spray from drenching him. Despite the rough ride, she tenderly
placed the tarp over his frail form.

She cast a glance behind her. Their pursuers gained on them.

“Please hand me the toy horse,” she asked Harlan. “Perhaps it can keep Jibby warm.”

For once, Harlan did not argue with her or accuse her of witchcraft. He pulled the small object out of his pocket and gave it to her.

She stroked it until it grew warmer. She slipped it under the tarp and placed it on the center of Jibby’s chest, but if she took her hand away, the horse became cold. As long as her hand rested on it, it spread warmth upon the poor boy.

As noon neared with the sun at its zenith in the sky, a low bank of clouds threatened.

“Rough weather,” Harlan commented.

“Another hurricane?” Panic set her pulse racing.

“A squall. It may give us an advantage.”

“Will it swamp us?”

“Get the buckets.”

Lesley reached for the two wooden buckets in the boat and set them beside her. “Okay, I
’m ready.”

“Good.” He did not smile. He held on to the rudder with every ounce of his strength, taking advantage of the wind as much as he dared. However, the boat behind them veered off.

She swung around to study the forbidding sky in front of them. Lightning flashed in the heavy bank of clouds. Would the small boat survive? The far larger
Lyrical
sank.

“What is the difference in intensity between a squall and a hurricane?” she asked. However, a huge clap of thunder drowned out her words so that Harlan did not hear her.

The storm came at them as a deluge with the rain pouring down so heavily, she could see nothing except a gray wall of water. The rain rapidly accumulated in the boat. She bailed, Harlan furled one sail and joined her, bailing with the other bucket.

“If we had some plastic tubing, we could siphon it out,” she grumbled. “Sure would make this easier.” Again, Harlan did not hear her due to the great booms of thunder overhead.
 

The wind vanished with the downpour. The sea became dead calm, but only their constant rapid bailing kept them afloat.

Her arms ached, but she had to keep going. Poor Jibby’s body floated in the bottom of the boat but his head remained above water due to the pillow she had made for him out of the coil of rope. He remained unconscious despite the din in the sky above them.

A
t last, the rain slackened. The sea stayed tranquil.

Harlan took out the oars. “I see land.”

Lesley peered at the surrounding water and saw nothing. “Where?”

Harlan sat and pulled at the oars. “There.” He glanced over his right shoulder. “Look for the birds.” He swung the boat around.

She studied the gray horizon but she did not see any sign of birds or land until a shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds and a patch of green beckoned, sparkling like an emerald jewel in the sapphire sea.

“Do you think there are turtles there?” Her stomach growled.

“I will search for them.”

“Do you still have the flint and steel?”

He nodded.  

“How well do you speak Spanish?” she asked.

“Why?” he frowned.

“If there are more Spaniards on this island, maybe
we could pretend to be Spanish. Then we wouldn’t have to fight.”

He shook his head but one corner of his mouth tilted upward. “You do not look Spanish.”

“I have black hair.”

“You have green eyes. I have never seen a Spaniard with green eyes.”

“It could happen,” she grumbled. “It’s a recessive gene.”

“Is a gene like one of your
monstrous little germs?”

“No. Genes are part of an individual’s inherited traits.”

“Not harmful?”

“Not usually, though some genes do cause trouble. There are inherited illnesses—like sickle cell anemia...”

“So all small things, so minute that we cannot see them, are very bad—like vermin.”

“I never thought of it that way, but a lot of them are like vermin. However, some bacteria are good—like acidophilus.”

“Bibble-babble.” He rolled his eyes.

She decided to give up on the vocabulary for now.

As they drew closer, the clouds blew away and the warm sun shone down on them.

“Thirsty.” Jibby stirred.

“We will get water soon—I hope.” Lesley reassured him. She removed the small horse from his chest and held it close for a few moments so it would grow warm for him. Holding it soothed her, but she soon placed it on Jibby’s chest once more.

“The breeze stirs.” Harlan declared with a note of relief. He put up the sails, and though they did not speed through the water as they had previously, they soon were skirting the lovely island.

They discovered it to be two islands set close together. One island appeared rather flat, the other had three small mountains and a bay.

“The bay is exposed with nowhere to hide.” Harlan pointed out as they sailed past it. “We must search for a sheltered spot.”

“Please, let’s land soon ... for Jibby’s sake. He is getting jostled about here in the boat.”

“
We must be sure no one else is on the island.”

“
But it’s much larger than the last island. It would take half the day to sail around it.”

His mouth set into a grim line.
“Look for a river.”

Lesley narrowed her eyes and searched the terrain.
“There.” She pointed. “It’s not very wide, but that’s good. A large ship would never fit.”

He nodded. They switched places. He went to the bow to watch for rocks or other submerged objects. He had an oar with him, but she held onto the rudder.

“If you see anyone, get down.” He warned.

She shuddered.

“We must stay hidden. We need a place with many bushes, trees, or a cave.”

“No caves.” She objected.

“Overhanging rock...”

“I’d like a place with a restaurant nearby—and a bar.” Her eyes misted with tears. “And a hospital for Jibby with all the best medicines and surgeons.”

“He will be comfortable on land.”

She glanced at the boy. His skin—where it wasn’t bruised—was pale, almost ashen. Even if his spleen had not ruptured, he could be suffering from some other internal injuries. Why had they beaten him? How could people be so cruel? So vicious?

Harlan pointed to the right. She moved the rudder and the boat glided to the right.

Harlan pointed to the left. Again, she obeyed his direction. They floated along for several minutes more in that manner until he brought the boat up on a marshy bank shaded by several trees and surrounded by abundant bushes. When he helped her out of the boat he lifted her by the waist and set her down. The touch of his hands had her reeling. She had to hold onto the side of the boat to get her bearings once he let her go. What sort of magic connected them?

He handed her the pitiful piece of wood she had been using as a crutch.

“How much longer do you think I need to use this?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Until your ankle no longer pains you.” He handed her the tarp and carried Jibby from the boat. “There’s a sandy area under that tree.”

She went to the spot and set the tarp on the ground. Harlan placed Jibby gently on the rough canvas. Lesley knelt beside the boy and smoothed the hair off his forehead.

He moaned and opened his eyes. “Home?” he whispered.

“Not yet, but it’s a fine place to spend the night.” She tried to sound cheerful but looking at him broke her heart.

“Thirsty.” Jibby closed his eyes and fainted once more.

Lesley got up. She needed to find a spring of clean, fresh water. 

She went back to the boat to get one of the buckets. Harlan had already turned the boat on its side and disguised it with branches.

“You can sleep underneath,” he said. He handed her the toy horse.

“Please, keep that in your pocket,” she said. “I’ll have my hands full with the bucket.”

“I fear the magic in it.”

She stroked it tenderly and it grew warm. “Then I’ll give it to Jibby again. It will comfort him.” She went back to the boy and placed the toy on his chest.

“’Tis summer,” he muttered.

“Yes, ‘tis summer,” she repeated. “And the breeze is warm.”

“Strawberries?” he asked.

“I will look for them,” she promised. Her eyes filled with tears as she hobbled off to look for clean water with the bucket in one hand and the crutch in the other. The afternoon shadows had grown longer as the sun moved lower in the western sky.

The small rivulet that fed the marsh wound upward. Her heart heavy, she followed the stream. She had no idea how far she had traveled until
the thick vegetation fell away and she found herself standing on a wide and pleasant grassy plateau.

She glanced down the hill but Harlan had concealed the camp so well even she could not see it. However, she knew all she had to do to return was follow the little stream.

On the plateau, the rivulet tumbled merrily down a gurgling waterfall. Lesley bent and put her hand into the water. It appeared crystal clear without any worms wiggling around in it.

“If there are worms,
they’ll provide more protein,” she muttered to herself. She drank her fill.

Afterward, she put the bucket beneath the waterfall. She had to spill some of the water because she could not carry it back to their camp full to the brim.

She wished she could have picked some strawberries for Jibby, but only grass covered the long, wide plateau. She thought of Sea Biscuit, the pinto, who would have loved to nibble on all the grass. She hoped the mare escaped the Spaniards and could spend the rest of her days free.

How could
Spaniards have treated Jibby so cruelly? He was only a boy.

On her trek back to the camp, her mind focused on the boy. His spleen could heal if the injury had not been severe, but judging from his distended stomach and his ashen skin, he needed a blood transfusion. 

She wished she had not been deterred from her dream of becoming a doctor. She should have studied harder, taken more courses, and taken the MCATs a second time.

She wanted Jibby to live. She wanted someone in this rotten, miserable century to have a future—to marry, have children, and lead a perfectly dull, normal life. How the entire human race had managed to continue under such appalling conditions was truly a miracle.

Without any warning, a sudden and sharp pain exploded in the back of her head and her mind went black.

Chapter
Eighteen

Harlan lifted the toy pony from Jibby’s chest. The boy had drawn his last breath. He had known it would not be long and perhaps it was a blessing the boy would never become a pirate. A man could not count on loyalty among thieves. Gilly had been Harlan’s only true friend—and now he lay dead at the bottom of the ocean. Killed by a bullet to his head from someone he had probably healed.