Intimate Strangers Affair Page 23

Chapter 9: Sea of Fire

  The moment a sailor took the wheel, my Miguel turned back into the Capitán once again. Now he stood on the deck, his spyglass scanning the sea. We had passed the Golden Gate and its protected bay. The Pacific rolled toward us, one dark wet mountain after another. The prow leapt and fell, and sometimes my feet left the deck completely. I held on to the rigging with one hand. I loved it: the wild ride, the white caps spilling over and raining on us. I could see the Farallon Islands ahead, and off the stern a red sail of a felucca, a little farther out than usual but maybe pulling in a good run of mackerel.

  Then Miguel’s telescope trained to the east where something had been sighted and called. The fog shrouded the coast so that the land was completely invisible. Gray mist blended right into the open sea, flattening everything into one light wall. And through it, then in front of it, a dark low-lying shape skimmed through the water at a good clip; four knots at least.

  I squinted, following its flume of spray when it appeared, then disappeared behind the waves. “What’s that? A whale?”

  “Ship,” Miguel replied grimly.

  Ship? What kind of seafaring vessel was this? It didn’t have any mast, sails, or even a body. It looked like a joke, just some breadbox on a shingle. Only this box held guns instead of loaves, bristled with big black cannons. And at the speed that ship was traveling, it was clearly not a pleasure cruise. No, its intentions seemed far from friendly. In fact, probably downright dangerous to our health.

  “What the hell is that thing?”

  “Ironclad. New ship.” Miguel blew on his whistle: one short, two long blasts.

  The gunners ran to the cannons. They cast them loose while their mates sprinkled sand around the base of the guns and brought buckets of water to prevent fire.

  Miguel turned to the first mate. “Full steam. Let’s outrun her.” Bells clanged loudly as he smiled briefly at me. “Precaution. Don’t worry.”

  I had full confidence in him, but I couldn’t share his optimism. We carried heavy cargo on the high seas, and there were enemies on board. All the circumstances seemed against us. The bell alarm was still ringing in my ears as the crew silently took their stations. The ironclad was closer now. I could see its colors: red with a blue X proudly flapping from its turret. A Confederate raider.

  Margaret walked on to the deck like it was her ballroom back home. “It’s ours,” she said triumphantly. “Turn the boat around and stop,” she spoke as if she were giving directions to her butler.

  “Get below,” Miguel ordered. “It’s too dangerous.” He snapped a finger at the little sailor. “Esteban. La señora.”

  “Con permiso, señora.” Bowing sketchily, Esteban took Margaret’s arm.

  A mistake. Manners had no place here, least of all right before an engagement at sea. Of course, she resisted. Two kicks to the leg, a chop to the elbow, and the little man finally let go. He hunched over, rubbing his arm and cursing.

  “I stay,” she said calmly, smoothing out her hair. “They’re not hostile. They’ve come to escort us.”

  A shot whistled over our prow, then exploded in the water. Its arc of bitter black smoke was quickly shredded by the wind.

  “Well,” I said, “that didn’t sound like a hello. That was the real cookie.”

  “Talk to them,” Margaret demanded, her voice rising higher with each word.

  Miguel’s look was scathing. “I have work to do. You talk.” He pointed to the little sailor. “Esteban, signal.”

  “Si, Capitán.”

  We maintained full speed ahead as the sailor lit a lamp, then translated Margaret’s greetings into Morse code. Lanterns flickered back and forth between the two ships like peripatetic fireflies.

  “Surrender,” I murmured, spelling out the last and final word from the ironclad’s message.

  “No, that cannot be right. You must be wrong. Do it again. Tell them we have the gold,” Margaret said irritated.

  I wanted to shake her. She seemed to be in her own little world that was made to her ordered perfection. “They know, Esteban told them. And you know what? They don’t seem to care. They’re not exactly offering an escort, and they don’t seem particularly friendly. That turret is turning straight at us.”

  “They can’t be,” Margaret gasped as if someone had committed an egregious breach of etiquette.

  “Well, okay. Whatever you say. But those guns look mighty convincing to me.”

  Miguel started, shouting orders. “Hard a-lee!”

  Warned, I grabbed the rail and braced myself. The main boom swung wide. Ropes creaked with the strain and the sails luffed, then whooped full as they caught the wind again. We turned hard, just as the ironclad fired right where we had been. The shell splashed harmlessly into the water. Miguel’s whistle blew.

  “Fire!” the boatswain yelled, and we fired. The ship shuddered, recoiling and sailing away as the shot screamed through the air. A square hit, but it bounced off the iron armor of the raider like a pea.

  “Madre de Dios,” Esteban muttered, crossing himself.

  The sea hissed faster and faster underneath us, the ironclad looking smaller as our steam engine chuffed loudly away. But there was a new sound, a strange clinking one that hadn’t been there before. Someone yelled.

  “Where’s Margaret?” I asked.

  Esteban swore. “That she-devil. She let loose the anchor.”

  I watched the sailors struggle with the crank-wheel. The anchor must have caught on a rock, and the drag was slowing us down. Anxiously, I looked over the stern. The ironclad was steaming up behind us. Close. Closer. Dear God, I could see the faces of the men, could even hear their orders. Their ship sped even faster toward us. Their rammer jutted clean and mean through the water, pointing straight at us.

  “Cut away!” Miguel shouted, but it was too late. We couldn’t maneuver away in time. They were going to hit us. There was nothing we could do, except hold on and pray.

  The nine-inch bores of their guns stared at us, close enough to kiss. But they held their fire, because their rammer hit us first. The Silver Aura shuddered from stem to stern, then wood split. It was loud, final, a creaking shriek like the death-cry of our ship. Then water whooshed in, filling the hold below. It was terrible. I crossed the tilting deck to the ladder, then climbed up to where Miguel stood. He said nothing, but his grim face expressed everything for him. I felt Miguel’s anguish as if it were my own while we watched the first mate run up the white flag. There was nothing else to do. The ship was lost. She couldn’t even limp back to harbor. Not in this shape. Now water roared into the ship’s belly. The prow was angling skyward, each successive wave slapping her side to side. A few minutes more, and we’d go under. We were being hailed.

  “Ahoy there, Silver Aura!” someone shouted from the ironclad.

  “Ahoy! You will take my men!” Miguel shouted through his cupped hands.

  “Agreed. The gold?”

  Miguel smiled suddenly, and it wasn’t pleasant. It was bleak, fierce, even colder than the ocean lapping over the rails. “Come and get it, gentlemen.”

  We were already lowering the lifeboats. The men’s silent progress was a testimony to their strict discipline. None of the crew panicked, only the Confederates on our ship did. Buckner almost tipped over his boat until the purser knocked him out cold. It was the only thing to do as the lifeboat dropped on to the waves and bounced. Hamilton looked genial as ever. Margaret, did not.

  “Go, niña,” Miguel pushed me forward.

  “Not without you.”

  His eyes softened as he examined me for a long time, his hair whipping around his face. He seemed to be memorizing the details as if he would never see me again. It frightened me thoroughly. I clutched his lapels, a sob choking me.

  “Stubborn to the very end,” he said, smiling faintly. “You’re a sailor’s daughter, you know. The Capitán is always last.”

  “And his wife stands by him. Maritime law.”

  “Wife? But you never answered me.�
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  When I could finally speak, my voice sounded thick and rusty. “I didn’t have to, you already knew.”

  Our foreheads touched as his fingers traced my lips, then cupped my chin. He lifted me to him, and his kiss was sweet and tender like spring itself. He murmured into my ear, “I have my own kayak. I will follow.”

  “Promise?” I asked, knowing that whatever he said wouldn’t be true. It couldn’t. No one-man vessel could survive these waters. Not for long. The waves were too steep, the ocean too cold. He’d be swamped, then hypothermia would set in. Grief clogged my throat. I buried my face into his chest.

  “Go now, querida. Please. For me. And…” His hand drifted lower, coming to rest on my belly. My eyes widened. Yes, it was possible. And so unfair. I railed at the unfairness as I made myself move. I walked away. One step, two. How could I leave him? He was my present and future. He was everything. And who cared about the future if he wasn’t there to share it with me? My feet slowed. I made only the third step before I turned back and leaped at him, grabbing hold of him until he rocked back on his heels. We staggered on the listing deck as we kissed, pouring everything we felt into this last touch, our souls fusing one last time. And then, finally, the sounds around us intruded: the sails slopping, the scrape of the lifeboat against the ship.

  “Capitán,” Domingo spoke behind us.

  “It’s time, mi amor.” Miguel caressed my face one last time.

  “No, I can’t.”

  “You must.”

  And when he tore me away from him, it was as if he was tearing myself into two. I staggered away, the first mate pulling me. I could feel my heart dying, all my spirit leaking out. But a long, slow deflating sound, made me turn. The fuse of an abandoned cannon was still lit and sputtering. Sparks showered over damp sand and a pile of magazines and powder. Miguel must have seen it too, because he was already running toward it, reaching for a bucket of water. If it blew, we would all go with it to a watery hell.

  There was a fizzle, a flame, then the stench of burning sulfur. And the whole world turned red. The explosion thundered so loudly that I couldn’t hear anymore. I could only feel its searing hot fist punch me backwards. I fell. The fireball mushroomed skyward, turning dawn into high noon. Planks and white hot iron shot everywhere. Something snapped, splashed. I saw Miguel’s body fly upward, then disappear.

  “No!” I had to find him. I climbed on the rail and dove overboard into the cold embrace of the sea. It was cold enough to squeeze every last bit of air out of me. Chest cramping, I kicked hard. My skirt and thick woolen sweater felt like lead armor, dragging me down. Every stroke was a struggle. “Miguel!” I treaded water, burning debris raining down on me. No answer. Dear God. I looked around: planks, spars, crates. This is where I’d seen him fall. Was he below? I searched on, achingly aware of the precious seconds of time, of air that was being wasted.

  The sea rushed and sucked around me, pulling me back. Then it rose, curling, shadowing over me. It crashed as I dove through. The force of the wave pummeled me down, tossing me underwater, entombed in its cold darkness. Somehow, I managed to fight my way out. I broke through to the surface and coughed. I called out again. And again.

  “Nathalie…”

  I swam toward his voice. He sounded weak and angry. There he was, hanging on to something long and curved that was overturned. Relief gave me the strength to swim faster. I couldn’t feel my hands and feet. At this rate, we wouldn’t last long. We had to get out of the ocean. Quick. He looked pale, but his eyes flared when he saw me. “Cristo! It is you. Are you crazy?” He coughed.

  “Certifiable. You can scold me later. What’s this? Your kayak? Let’s get in.” Now my arms felt like frozen stumps, but fortunately it was easy to roll the kayak over. Seawater poured out from the seat as we tipped it up and around.

  “You first.”

  “No. You.” Miguel coughed again, his head resting against the side of the boat.

  “Don’t be stubborn, you’re injured. I’m not. We’ll both get in.”

  “Room…for one. Only.” Suddenly, he wrapped an arm around my waist and hefted me in.

  I knew better than to fight. We could tip over the boat again. My skirt settled like a sodden nest around me. I grabbed a hold of his coat and dragged him over the front. He was right. There was no room for two people to sit inside, but there was an alternative. “You ride on your belly. I’ll paddle.” I unlashed the paddle from the side and dug in. “Where to, Capitán?”

  Miguel pointed to the other side of the burning hulk where it was gray blank fog. It looked like nothing was there. “East.”

  “Not the ironclad?”

  He shook his head, coughing. I started paddling. With both our weights, we rode low in the water. It was slow-going all around, but we managed to clear The Silver Aura. Her masts were going up like giant pillars of flame. The magazines popped, sending geysers of fireworks into the sky.

  “Turn with the waves,” Miguel instructed.

  Right. Maybe we can ride one in. It was gamble, but also our only chance. Praying, I stroked into one. The tip of the kayak popped up, then over the crest of the wave. We were being lifted. Over the roar of the wave, I heard a weak sound.

  “Help!”

  I looked back. Near the ruins of the ship, a fat black shape flailed in the water. It was Hamilton.

  “We can’t,” Miguel said weakly.

  “I know.” We’d be lucky if we made it to shore, the odds were bad enough for us alone. But it felt bad to leave someone in distress.

  And then I saw something that made me hope for the first time all day: a spot of crimson that grew larger, turning into a triangle cutting right through the mist. The curved sail of the felucca! It was coming toward us. The fishermen.

  “Ahoy, there!” I yelled, paddling harder. “Help!”

  “Nathalie,” Miguel said, looking over his shoulder. His voice sounded strained. “Go faster.”

  “I’m trying. Why?”

  “Just do it.” Now he was paddling too, hand over hand as if he were pulling himself up a ladder. There was a strangled cry back near the ship. Then nothing.

  Miguel groaned. “Diablo! No, don’t look.”

  But of course, I did. And where Hamilton had once been, there was a froth of dark red bubbles like a devil’s cauldron, stirred up and boiling over. Only one thing in the ocean looked like that. One thing that every seafarer feared. The thing that tormented Miguel in his dreams. The fiercest single-minded predator in the water. The great white shark.

  “Faster!” Miguel shouted.

  I needed no encouragement. I’d helped James tend to survivors of shark attacks, and I’d buried more than my share of victims too. Maybe I’d been only a kid then, but I hadn’t forgotten. You never forgot the results of something like that. And I didn’t intend for us to end up that way.

  I glanced over my shoulder. A furious trail of white bubbles pursued us. It looked like a wake, but without a boat preceding it. Whatever was making this anonymous trail must be underwater. And hungry. You’d think Hamilton had been big enough to feed a pack of sharks, but he had been just a snack. Now they wanted us.

  I stroked deeper, faster. Just ahead, the felucca was nearing, tipping low as it trimmed neat for more speed. I could see the hold filled with mackerel, the sun glinting off the silver bellies. The fishermen grinned as they leaned over the side with their hooked poles.

  “Quick, quick!” They caught the kayak, and drew it near.

  “Hurry, sis,” a familiar mocking baritone said overhead.

  “Claude?”

  He didn’t reply, just grabbed under my armpits and pulled, while Miguel pushed me up from below. A second later, they got me into the felucca.

  “No!” I protested. “Get Miguel first. He’s injured. He’s…” I broke off. Something rammed the kayak from below. I looked down.

  Miguel straddled the kayak, his legs dangling into the water. One moment he was sitting there, and in the next moment, he was bei
ng yanked down. The sea turned red. Someone grabbed Miguel’s arms. They tried to hoist him up, but something else pulled from the deep. And he was caught in a terrible tug-of-war: life above the surface, certain death below.

  I grabbed a pole and jabbed at the creature. Once, twice. Three solid hits. The fishermen heaved and Miguel screamed as something ripped. Then they all fell back into the boat. Just below the water, there was an ominous flash of white, then a great gaping mouth with rows of bloody dagger-like teeth. I punched the shark with my pole while Claude tipped over fish on the other side of the felucca. There was a huge splash, then the dark gray fin turned and disappeared back into the deep. I knelt on the deck, my breath coming in great big greedy gulps.

  Claude threw a blanket over my shoulders. He solemnly kissed my forehead. He was silent for a long time. No joking. Not a single crack. That only showed how worried he’d been. He guided me to a crate. My legs finally gave way, and I sat down heavily. For a while, I huddled there, shaking from cold and leftover adrenaline.

  “Where’s Miguel?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “What does that mean?” I snapped. “Take me to him.”

  “Okay, okay. Have it your way, darlin’. Have it your way. But maybe you should take care of yourself first. You don’t want to scare him to death.”

  “Nothing wrong with me,” I said crossly, following my brother to the aft of the boat. Ouch. I could feel my hands again. I glanced down at my palms. They were blistered and scraped from the paddle. Some calendula salve, good binding, willow bark for pain, and I’d be as good as new. It could wait.

  I ducked low under the trim sail as I passed on to the stern. Miguel was lying on a pallet, his head cushioned by a burlap sack. He looked whiter than a sheet, but his eyes were open and clear and collected. He lifted one hand. I took it and cautiously held it to my cheek. His hand shifted, curved around my cheek, one thumb tracing a slow circle. It slid to the outer corner of my eye. Caught a tear.

  He examined the drop that hung from his fingertip. Puzzled, he looked back at me. “Don’t cry, querida. Not now.”