‘I asked Tom the next day. He called you a “good egg”, as I recall.’
Of course, a ‘good egg’ to Tom meant anyone willing to drink, gamble or otherwise risk life and limb. Tom had been more than two years older than her, but it had never felt that way. She remembered trailing after him, trying to stop him from climbing too high, galloping too fast or swimming too far.
The noise had somewhat abated and the movement of the ship had lessened so that Millie was no longer bracing her back and legs against the floor and hull.
For this reason, the sudden, lurching movement of the ship was unexpected. Indeed, the vessel shuddered with such violence that they tumbled, sprawling across the bare boards. The sound was louder than a clap of thunder and longer. The grinding continued, rattling through their bodies, the noise mixed with crashing, shouting and running feet.
‘What was that?’ she gasped.
‘We have hit something!’ Mr Garrett shouted.
Disoriented, Millie twisted, her body striking a wall. She stretched her fingers across the planking, feeling for the door.
‘Here! This way!’ he shouted.
She followed his voice, scrambling over the floor.
‘Damn—it’s locked. Stand back,’ he yelled.
She froze in position, crouched low. She heard the impact of his boot and then, at last, the splintering crack of the door. Light and noise assaulted her. Pushing forward, they stumbled into a torrent of water swirling around their feet and ankles. The lamp had broken, igniting the wood and illuminating the corridor’s darkness. Flames already twisted and snaked along the beams, the amber light eerily reflected in the flooding corridor.
Millie could feel the fire’s heat even as her feet froze. Noise was everywhere, magnified tenfold as water rushed about them, mixed with screams, shouts and the rending of beams and timbers. Men were running in the corridor behind them, pushing and shoving, so that they were moved forward more by sheer momentum than by any rational thought.
The outer deck was equally chaotic. For a moment, Millie stood quite still, as though stricken with a strange paralysis, unable to process the sights and sounds. Men ran by her, scrambling over the deck and into the water. Flames licked up the mast. Sparks showered like angry fire flies.
‘Jump!’ Sam shouted.
Jolted into action, Millie moved, instinctively searching for escape. Indeed, she never fully remembered how she crossed the deck. She recalled only a mismatch of images; sharp moments set against a blur. She remembered the crazy slide down the steeply angled deck and the shock of the cold, salty water. She remembered the blind panic as she fought for the surface, coughing and choking. She remembered her desperate flailing kicks and the weight of her boots and trousers.
Gulping for air...swallowing water...the blind eyes of a dead sailor...sudden quiet...
And darkness.
Chapter Three
Millie broke the surface.
Gasping, she gulped at the air, feet and arms desperately paddling.
‘Swim! No point living on an island if you cannot swim.’
If she’d believed in the supernatural, she’d have said that her father spoke from his grave. Those words pulled her from the briny depths. They cut through her panic, investing her with purpose. Kicking off her boots, she struggled upwards, fighting to stay afloat, even as the waves tossed her about like so much flotsam.
‘Mr Garrett!’ she shouted.
She stared wildly at the debris, fragments of rigging, casks, men and rope strewn across the ocean, all eerily lit in the fire’s ugly amber glow. The Rising Dawn had been split down its centre. The bow stuck up, propped on a jutting rock. Masts poked upwards, still burning and starkly outlined against the night sky.
It was a scene more reminiscent of the portals of hell than anything earthly.
The need to survive pulsed through her. She had to live for her sister and mother. She could not leave them. They needed her. She could not let them down.
Like her father.
Like her brother.
Except she was exactly like them.
Like her father.
Like her brother.
The thoughts flashed through her mind, indelibly etched on her brain. It almost seemed as though she could hear the words in steady, rhythmic incantation.
‘Miss Lansdowne!’
The shout grabbed her attention. She jerked around, but could see little. The salt water stung her eyes, the waves obliterating her view. For a moment, she saw him and then, just as quickly, he disappeared. A second later, he resurfaced, gulping at air, arms thrashing.
‘Kick off your boots!’ she shouted, but her words were taken by the wind.
She swam towards him, conscious of the strong current pushing her back. Mr Garrett clung desperately to a piece of wreckage. She looked towards the shore. The beach was some distance away. Only one or two men seemed to be nearing it. She could see the movement of their arms.
Could she try to push Mr Garrett to the shore? The tide was going out. She could feel its current.
‘Won’t...make...it... The...tide...’ she shouted to Mr Garrett, as she neared him, although she doubted if he could hear or comprehend her words.
Desperately she scanned the scene. The stern had sunk, but the bow was still propped up.
‘This way!’ she shouted.
Gripping the wood beside him, she started to kick, pushing them towards the remnants of the breached ship. If they waited there until the tide changed, they’d stand a chance of swimming to shore. Or, conversely, all life would be beaten out of them, smashed against barnacles and jagged rocks.
Somehow, she got them to the wreck. With relief, she felt the rough barnacled rocks under her feet and the slight lessening of the wind as though the wreck was offering them some small protection.
‘We’ll try to get in to shore when the wind dies,’ she said as they hunkered low, hidden behind the wreckage and pressed against the rocks.
The sudden crack was like thunder but sharper, like the snap of a whip. By itself, muffled by wind and sea, it seemed a muted thing. The scream was worse. The
