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.