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.