Thirty-Seven
The long, snaking descent seemed to take forever, yet still no pursuit showed itself on the heights above. Perhaps the death of their leader had thrown the soldiers into confusion.....
As they drew nearer the shallow inlet, Michael could see something dark against the encircling stretch of sand; but it gave him little hope. At first the shape of it was wrong. Then, as the distance grew less and his eyes began to assimilate detail, he saw that it was in fact a skiff, but swamped and overturned as from a wreck: the oars scattered, and no sign whatever of the pilot. Real despair gripped him, as he could only assume the worst---
A shot was fired from the heights above, and then another, as soldiers with torches and long muskets appeared suddenly upon the promontory. Shielding her body with his own, Michael guided his beloved through a last knifing trough, and out onto the rough outer sands of the cove. Together they huddled down in the shelter of a jutting stone, as he tried desperately to form some alternative plan.
But none was needed. From beneath the overturned skiff, now scarcely forty yards distant, a shadow emerged and stood hard against the shoreline.
“Michael!” cried a familiar voice, and the Highlander’s heart leapt inside him.
Without answering, almost without breathing, he took the girl by the hand and ran with her that last naked distance toward the boat. The crack of muskets was again heard from the promontory, and the torches began to descend in a long, angling file. But it would have taken a perfect shot to hit them, even if they had been stationary.
And the three were anything but that. By the time the lovers reached him, the fisherman had righted the skiff and retrieved the oars. Then all together they set the prow to seaward, and half lifted, half lunged it down the wet sand incline, to where the ends of waves splashed around them.
“Into the boat with you lass,” said the fisherman, as the waters surged stronger beneath it. “Kneel in the prow, and hold steady as you can.” Then together the two men urged the craft forward, into depths that would sustain it. A short way further, and they clambered over the sides, taking up their rowing positions. Then lowering oars, they bent their backs in unison, and prepared to meet the oncoming waves.
The first nearly swamped them with a crash of angry foam. The second was little better. But each time, during the lull that followed they would steady the craft, and with determined oars drive the boat further, away from the writhing shores, and out into the calming vastness. Another wave, and then another. . .and they floated upon the bosom of the sea.
Several hundred yards offshore, and perhaps a mile further up the coast, they came upon the fisherman’s boat, securely anchored. Pulling alongside it, the two men helped Mary up and over the side, the old man instructing her to go below and change out of her wet clothes, then heat some broth over the small, cast-iron stove.
“I’m afraid there’s no such luxury for us,” he said to Michael, as the two boarded and tied the skiff behind. “The nearest English-held port is some miles from here, and I’m not sure they’d try to come after us at sea. But we can’t take that for granted; and in any case, we’ve got to be off before the fog gets too thick. I’ll not have us tacking blind, this close to an uneven shoreline.
“There’s a blanket forward,” he continued, catching his breath. “That’s where I’ll need you to stand. Help me set the sails, then to your post, and keep your eyes wide open. Things might get a bit close. We’ll have to find our way out by dead reckoning.”
Even as he spoke, the trailing mists that had seemed so harmless began to thicken, and the wind to grow less. Soon the fog became a patching curtain, then finally, a dense cloud.
Kneeling at the fore of the vessel, shivering with cold, Michael strained all his senses for any sign of hidden rock looming up out of the grey, or sound of crashing surf upon the shore. The cloud-wrack above had at last cleared away, but the unbridled moon only served to cast a ghostly aspect throughout the clinging shroud, so near, ever-present, and menacing.
He fully realized the danger. Even with all the mariner’s skill, to sail in these waters half-blind..... He looked back to see him standing by the wheel, with compass and lantern beside him, navigating by instinct and memory alone. Framed by the mists, weathered but hale, he formed a classic portrait of savvy and determination. But was that enough? Only time, and agony, would tell.
At length Mary came back on deck with a lantern, bringing each of the men a steaming cup. Standing by her troubled companion, she offered to watch in his stead. But for all her courage she shook from the cold as badly as he, and her darkened eyes and sunken cheeks spoke plainly of the harrows of the cell.
“Thank you, my Mary,” he said to her. “But I’ve got to fight this last battle myself. The best gift you can give me now is to know that you are safe and well. Go lay you down, wrap yourself warmly, and try to sleep. Go on with you now. John and I still have a bit of work ahead of us.”
She wept to see him struggling so, unable even to keep his jaw from trembling as he spoke. But she saw that his mind was set, and that forces warred inside him with which she must not interfere. She kissed him gently, whispered, “I love you,” and went below.
The hours seemed endless, the tension unbearable. A thousand times Michael thought he must crack---from the pressure, the cold, and the need to peer unerringly into the formless void. But he knew that he must stand his ground.
Then slowly, so slowly that at first he thought his eyes deceived him, the shroud began to thin, and a grey light to grow in what he knew must be the east. The fog began to patch, as the stubborn light grew stronger.
Then suddenly they broke into the open, and the red sun climbed once more above the rim of the world. He lowered his head in exhaustion, closing his eyes at the last.
And when he opened them again, there on his left hand he saw the ring, still clinging, forgotten, to the middle joint of his smallest finger.
A sob escaped him, undeniable. Because through all the numbing darkness, the anguish, futility and death, its single jewel shone hard and clear and perfect, untouched by the ravages of time, or the treacheries of men. The tears flowed freely, passionately, for he knew the Bastard had not beaten him.
His love survived.