She reeled when her son went bounding past her, reeled as though she had seen a ghost.
“Eli! My God, Eli!” she cried. “What—how—where you been?”
“In the stable physicking your horse,” he said, climbing the stairs. “I sent Ortho after that boat.”
He did not hear the crash his mother made as she fell; he was in too much of a hurry.
Ortho climbed the forward ladder and came out on the upper deck. The ship was thrashing along under all plain sail, braced sharp up.
The sky was covered with torn fleeces of cloud, but blue patches gleamed through the rents, and the ship leapt forward lit by a beam of sunshine, white pinioned, a clean bone in her teeth. A rain storm had just passed over, drenching her, and every rope and spar was outlined with glittering beads; the wet deck shone like a plaque of silver. Cheerily sang the wind in the shrouds, the weather leeches quivered, the reef points pattered impatient fingers, and under Ortho’s feet the frigate trembled like an eager horse reaching for its bit.
“She’s snorting the water from her nostrils, all right,” he said approvingly. “Step on, lady.”
So he was aboardship again. How he had come there he didn’t know. He remembered nothing after reaching Zawn-a-Bal Cove and trying to push that boat off. His head gave an uncomfortable throb. Ah, that was it! He had been knocked on the head—press gang.
Well, he had lost that damned girl, he supposed. No matter, there were plenty more, and being married to one rather hampered you with the others. Life on the farm would have been unutterably dull really. He was not yet thirty; a year or two more roving would do no harm. His head gave another throb and he put his hand to his brow.