towering
masts rose from the deck of the Chimera, strung with a maze of rigging and spars and reefed
canvas. Judging by the activity she saw around her, the ship was being prepared
to get under way. There were men scrambling up the rigging, men already
positioned on the yards, men shouting to other men higher up, across, below—all
three masts were a buzz of organized confusion.
Summer heard the rumble of Wade's voice issuing
commands. She craned her neck to see around the main-mast and located him
easily where he stood on the bridge. The breeze was a smart one, and his black
hair was blowing recklessly to and fro as he turned his head to mark the
movements of the crew. His shirt was unlaced and billowed open to his waist.
The sleeves were full and gathered at the wrist, and as he stood with his hands
braced on his hips, the wind puffed out the loose folds, giving an even greater
breadth to his arms and shoulders. He paced slowly from one side of the bridge
to the other, the dark blue eyes seeming to dart everywhere at once.
Summer saw him nod and saw his lips form a command.
The huge negro she recalled vaguely from the first night grinned, cupped his
ham-like hands around his mouth and bellowed an order to cut loose the main and
steering sails.
Almost immediately there was a sound of lashings being
released, of yards creaking to take the strain of canvas unfurling. Nimble
sailors shouted exuberantly as they skittered down the guide ropes and moved
hand over foot through the maze of rigging. Summer held her breath as she
watched the splashes of white canvas blossom open against the blue skies. The
sails seemed to tremble hesitantly as they were startled out of their wrinkles;
then with an exploding crack of energy, they took up the challenge of the wind
and curled against the spars.
The Chimera's response was instantaneous. She rose eagerly in her
bows and began gliding through the blue water, carving aside a wash of bubbling
white foam as she nosed her way toward the open sea.
Summer walked to the deck rail and braced herself
against the gentle roll and sway. Her first glimpse of Saint Martin was one of
rapidly shrinking land, and she was surprised to see how far out from shore
they had been anchored. She could barely see the town where it nestled in the
curve of a shallow bay. The fringe of palm trees was solid green; the beaches
were only a trim border of white. A walled garrison which capped a promontory
of land was starkly outlined against the sky, and two small vessels were moored
sleepily at the single dock.
"I thought you were told to remain
belowdecks," came a gruff, all-too-familiar voice over her shoulder.
Summer turned to face him. "And what will you do
about it, Captain? Toss me overboard for disobeying? If so, kindly do it now
before the distance becomes too tiring to swim."
His eyes glowered for a moment, but in the end he
simply laughed.
"And what would you do once you reached shore,
Governess? Present yourself to the French commandant and demand an expedient
return to the bosom of your employer?"
"I should give myself over to the French, secure
in the knowledge of being treated with the utmost courtesy and decorum."
"Oh, you would be treated courteously, all right.
From one bed to the next, you would be treated, and when the officers had their
fill of you—as unimaginable as that may sound—you would be a treat for the rest
of the garrison. It isn't often they find something sweet and fresh like
yourself thrown on their doorstep."
She fumed. "The French are not a race of
barbarians, Captain."
"Anywhere other than Saint Martin, I might be
inclined to agree with you. But here they are a unique breed."
"I don't believe you."
"No? Perhaps you would believe your own eyes
then. Have you any knowledge of sea codes?"
"Sea codes? Why on earth would I have any—"
"See up there, on the crest of the hill? The
large yellow square painted on the garrison walls?" He waited until she
whirled angrily and
masts rose from the deck of the Chimera, strung with a maze of rigging and spars and reefed
canvas. Judging by the activity she saw around her, the ship was being prepared
to get under way. There were men scrambling up the rigging, men already
positioned on the yards, men shouting to other men higher up, across, below—all
three masts were a buzz of organized confusion.
Summer heard the rumble of Wade's voice issuing
commands. She craned her neck to see around the main-mast and located him
easily where he stood on the bridge. The breeze was a smart one, and his black
hair was blowing recklessly to and fro as he turned his head to mark the
movements of the crew. His shirt was unlaced and billowed open to his waist.
The sleeves were full and gathered at the wrist, and as he stood with his hands
braced on his hips, the wind puffed out the loose folds, giving an even greater
breadth to his arms and shoulders. He paced slowly from one side of the bridge
to the other, the dark blue eyes seeming to dart everywhere at once.
Summer saw him nod and saw his lips form a command.
The huge negro she recalled vaguely from the first night grinned, cupped his
ham-like hands around his mouth and bellowed an order to cut loose the main and
steering sails.
Almost immediately there was a sound of lashings being
released, of yards creaking to take the strain of canvas unfurling. Nimble
sailors shouted exuberantly as they skittered down the guide ropes and moved
hand over foot through the maze of rigging. Summer held her breath as she
watched the splashes of white canvas blossom open against the blue skies. The
sails seemed to tremble hesitantly as they were startled out of their wrinkles;
then with an exploding crack of energy, they took up the challenge of the wind
and curled against the spars.
The Chimera's response was instantaneous. She rose eagerly in her
bows and began gliding through the blue water, carving aside a wash of bubbling
white foam as she nosed her way toward the open sea.
Summer walked to the deck rail and braced herself
against the gentle roll and sway. Her first glimpse of Saint Martin was one of
rapidly shrinking land, and she was surprised to see how far out from shore
they had been anchored. She could barely see the town where it nestled in the
curve of a shallow bay. The fringe of palm trees was solid green; the beaches
were only a trim border of white. A walled garrison which capped a promontory
of land was starkly outlined against the sky, and two small vessels were moored
sleepily at the single dock.
"I thought you were told to remain
belowdecks," came a gruff, all-too-familiar voice over her shoulder.
Summer turned to face him. "And what will you do
about it, Captain? Toss me overboard for disobeying? If so, kindly do it now
before the distance becomes too tiring to swim."
His eyes glowered for a moment, but in the end he
simply laughed.
"And what would you do once you reached shore,
Governess? Present yourself to the French commandant and demand an expedient
return to the bosom of your employer?"
"I should give myself over to the French, secure
in the knowledge of being treated with the utmost courtesy and decorum."
"Oh, you would be treated courteously, all right.
From one bed to the next, you would be treated, and when the officers had their
fill of you—as unimaginable as that may sound—you would be a treat for the rest
of the garrison. It isn't often they find something sweet and fresh like
yourself thrown on their doorstep."
She fumed. "The French are not a race of
barbarians, Captain."
"Anywhere other than Saint Martin, I might be
inclined to agree with you. But here they are a unique breed."
"I don't believe you."
"No? Perhaps you would believe your own eyes
then. Have you any knowledge of sea codes?"
"Sea codes? Why on earth would I have any—"
"See up there, on the crest of the hill? The
large yellow square painted on the garrison walls?" He waited until she
whirled angrily and
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