The Bastard (38 page)

Water lapped farther and farther up the deck. She was so tired, so discouraged, she could hardly feel fear. Where was Treynor? Dead, probably, swallowed by the cold, hungry sea, just as she would soon be....

A moan reached her ears, but amid the cries of so many, she scarcely noticed the sound until she realized it wasn’t just a moan. It was her name.

Turning, she caught sight of Lieutenant Cunnington lying a few feet away, as pale as death. Blood trickled from his temple and from the corner of his mouth, but his eyes were fixed on her with the single-minded determination of a survivor.

“Help me,” he groaned.

Jeannette stood but drew no closer. She had no time to help him. He was badly injured, would probably not live—and Treynor might need her.

Choking back a sob, she shook her head. “I will not let Treynor die while I save you!”

She spun around, renewing her search with less concern for who or what she touched. If she was going to die, she was going to die searching. She would not give up, would not give in to despair.

“Treynor!” she called, digging through the corpses. A jagged piece of wood cut her hand, but she scarcely felt it. “Treynor!”

“Come on!” A seaman, obviously assuming her to be out of her mind with fright, waved her toward the edge. “The sea is your only chance. The French are fishing those they can out of the water.”

When she didn’t budge, he grabbed her arm and tried to drag her to the side with him, but Jeannette jerked away. “I cannot. I have to find him.”

“Who?”

“Lieutenant Treynor.” Then she remembered Cunnington. “Wait! The first lieutenant needs your help. Over there—he is wounded.”

The sailor shook his head. “I’ll not bother with that cruel bastard. Or ye, neither, if ye’ll not listen ter reason,” he said, and hurried off without her.

Cunnington had done little to endear himself to anyone, but Jeannette couldn’t leave him as she’d thought she could. She’d just started back for the first lieutenant when she heard Treynor call her name.

Nearly collapsing in relief, she turned to see him emerge from the hatch, soaked to the skin. His sun-darkened face had a grayish cast, and blood dripped from several pieces of wood piercing his left arm. But he was alive, and he was still standing.

“Thank God!” She covered her mouth to stifle a sob.

He crossed to her. “Are you all right?” His gaze ranged over her bloody gown as worry creased his brow.

Unable to staunch the tears that slid down her cheeks, she nodded. “The blood’s not mine.”

His good arm circled her waist and pulled her against him. “Shhh,” he coaxed above her head. “We will survive. Somehow we will survive this.”

Jeannette pressed her face into his chest. “I was afraid you were dead already.”

“Alive enough, my sweet. But we must go.” He pointed to a beam and tangled rigging bobbing in the sea not far away, supporting two men already. “See that?”

She nodded.

“After we get your clothes off, I will give you a big push. Keep your eye on that beam and swim like hell. You can swim?”

“Yes, but the sea is full of men. And the French, when they come for me—”

“Will find the most beautiful woman they have ever seen—in all her glory.” He tore her bodice away when the buttons proved too stubborn. For a brief moment his eyes feasted on her breasts straining against the sheer fabric of her shift as though he might never see such a sight again. Then his voice dropped to a whisper in her ear. “And she will be alive, which is the only thing I care about.”

“Treynor? Is that you?” Cunnington cried out. “For God’s sake, man, help me!” He tried to shove himself into a sitting position, but failed.

“Do not go back for him,” Jeannette whispered fiercely. “He will drown you. You are hurt. Come on. We will jump together. Now!”

The ship groaned as it sank lower in the water, the stern angling up by at least two feet.

A fresh surge of water gushed up the companionway and spewed over the deck, and Jeannette felt her feet begin to slip.

“Jump!” The lines of Treynor’s face were hard and intent as he launched her out over the side.

Jeannette felt the chill wind grab hold of the hem of her chemise, making it billow out just before the cold water engulfed her.

To keep from sliding across the deck and falling into the water, Lieutenant Treynor grasped what remained of the bulwarks as he watched Jeannette splash into the sea. He hoped her quick mind and strong body would serve her now, as the French had few boats with which to collect the survivors. Only a fraction of those in the sea would ever come out.

He prayed Jeannette would be one of them.

As soon as he saw her resurface and begin to swim, he went back for Lieutenant Cunnington, who’d managed to crawl away from the damaged wheel.

“Treynor.” Cunnington clung to the tarry cable that secured the mizzenmast. “Thank God.” He tried to laugh. “They left me. The bloody fools...left me lying in my...” Treynor took Cunnington’s arm and pulled him into a sitting position, which elicited a groan. “...my own blood.”

Treynor didn’t reply. Nearly swooning from the pain, he used his injured arm to hold on to the mast while he hefted Cunnington across his shoulders. He fought to keep his footing, clinging to anything he could while he crept slowly to where he’d pushed Jeannette into the sea. “I hope you know how to swim, Lieutenant,” he said.

“You could not have done it any better.” Cunnington’s throat worked as he swallowed. “You could not have won the battle—”

Treynor groaned as he slid Cunnington off. “Save your breath,” he muttered. “You will soon need it.”

“What are you doing?” The first lieutenant blinked in confusion, squinting into the sun. For a moment, Treynor wondered if Cunnington would die then and there, and spare him the trouble of trying to save him. But the first lieutenant still breathed, and Treynor could delay no longer.

“Hang on,” he told him. With agonizing effort, he gripped Cunnington with his wounded arm and jumped.

The sudden cold stole Treynor's breath. Instinctively he let go of Cunnington and stretched both arms out, parting the water until he burst through the surface and filled his lungs with air.

Somehow Cunnington managed to surface as well a few feet away. “Treynor! Help me!” His head disappeared in the frothy waves, but his hands flailed against the water. Eventually, he came up and gurgled Treynor’s name again.

Blast the man. He deserved to drown....

Treynor scanned the sea, looking for Jeannette. He didn’t want to waste his time with Cunnington if she needed him. Holding his head above the swells, he searched, but to no avail. “Jeannette!”

The voices of desperate men answered him: the cries of those who were drowning, the last of those jumping ship, the cheers of the French sailors.

Had she drowned? Treynor’s heart pounded hard and fast, fear for her life somehow lending him strength.

“Treynor!” Cunnington grabbed hold of him, nearly pulling him under.

Treynor gasped for breath and foundered before he could turn Cunnington on his back and begin towing him toward flotsam that might save them.

When Cunnington quit struggling and shut up, his pale lids lowering to cover his eyes, Treynor considered it a blessing. He was easier to maneuver this way. But as the
Tempest
sank behind them, it threatened to pull down everything close to it. Treynor had to use all his strength to swim away from the lethal force of the vast whirlpool that sucked at their legs.

He managed to break free from the ship’s invisible hold just as Cunnington regained consciousness and began mumbling, but the floating debris that had appeared so plentiful from the ship now seemed miles away. Treynor wasn’t sure how long they could survive with only his one good arm to propel them forward. The darkening sky and frothy waves promised a storm.

Squinting against the saltwater that stung his eyes, Treynor hoped to distinguish between the shades of gray surrounding them.

Behind him, the
Tempest
was gone.

Larger and larger waves curled over their heads, causing them to sputter time and again. They passed other sailors as Treynor struggled on, some drowned but still floating. Bits of debris swirled around them, too, but none large enough to support one man, let alone two.

Still, Treynor swam toward the enemy frigate that appeared and disappeared on the horizon like an elusive phantom ship. He could hear the French call to each other in their native tongue as they lifted survivors out of the water. But they seemed in no particular hurry.

Using only enough effort to keep them afloat, which was taxing enough, he paused to stare at Cunnington’s thin, white face. The first lieutenant was responsible for a massacre of good men, a true loss to England, but a shipmate was a shipmate. Treynor could no sooner condemn Cunnington to die than he could willingly forfeit his own life. But that didn’t mean he wanted to save him.

More determined than ever to survive, he swam on.

So now...the battle’s over...we will drink a can of wine...and you will drink to your love...and I will drink to mine....
He sang inside his head to keep his mind off the numbness invading his limbs.

I’m coming, Jeannette. Don’t give up.

As if he’d spoken those words aloud, he heard her voice, shaky but otherwise true, “Treynor! Over here!”

Treynor had not the breath to answer loudly enough to be heard, but the knowledge that Jeannette lived and was only yards away kept him swimming. He pulled Cunnington in her direction as she maneuvered a portion of the ship’s broken mast toward them.

You will...drink to your love...and I will drink to mine.

“Are you all right?” she gasped when he came within reach.

“Aye,” he whispered and allowed her to pull him closer. With one last surge of effort, he threw his good arm over the mast and lowered his head to the wet wood.

Jeannette slid around it until she clung next to him. “You look t-t-terrible,” she said, her teeth chattering through her words. “D-amn if you...didn’t rescue...that d-devil.” Shivering violently, she reached out to help support Cunnington.

Treynor didn’t protest. Too exhausted to utter another syllable, he could only close his eyes in relief as she wiped seawater off his face.

“Don’t you dare...d-drown, Lieutenant,” she warned through blue lips. “You have p-promised me something...and I intend...t-to collect it.”

The French lieutenant stood in front of the ragtag line of prisoners huddled together, sopping wet and shaking, on the deck of the frigate
Superbe
. Short and stocky, with dark hair and a long mustache, he strutted before them, preening like a rooster.

“I am Lieutenant Favre,” he announced in passable English. “Your captain has not survived. His small boat capsized, and he died before we reached him. We lost our own captain when the mast fell, our first and second lieutenants as well. So you can officially surrender to me. Who is your most senior officer?”

“I...am.” Cunnington responded as best he could from where he sat next to Treynor and Jeannette. Propped against the forward mast, he looked no better than a talking corpse. “We...surrender, sir.”

He tried to stand but couldn’t manage it, and Favre didn’t move to help him.

Treynor watched, cradling his wounded arm. Jeannette wondered if he, like her, was taking stock of the ship’s damage and the dirt-streaked faces of the surviving French crew, who were far less numerous than she had supposed.