A Place Called Freedom - Ken Follett [46]
But when he was halfway across he suffered a stroke of bad luck. Lizzie saw a dark shape rushing toward him on the surface of the water, and made it out to be a fallen tree. He seemed not to see it until it was upon him. A heavy branch struck his head, and his arms became entangled in the foliage. Lizzie gasped as he went under. She stared at the branches, looking for the man: she still did not know if it was McAsh. The tree came closer to her but he did not reappear. “Please don’t drown,” she whispered. The tree passed her and still there was no sign of him. She thought of running for help, but she was a quarter of a mile or more from the castle: by the time she got back he would be far downstream, dead or alive. But perhaps she should try anyway, she thought. As she stood there in an agony of indecision he surfaced, a yard behind the floating tree.
Miraculously, his bundle was still tied to his head. He was no longer able to swim with that steady stroke, though: he splashed about, waving and kicking, gasping air in great ragged gulps, spluttering and coughing. Lizzie went down to the river’s edge. Icy water seeped through her silk shoes and froze her feet. “Over here!” she called. “I’ll pull you out!” He seemed not to hear but continued to thrash about as if, having almost drowned, he could think of nothing but his breath. Then he appeared to calm himself with an effort, and look about him to get his bearings. Lizzie called to him again. “Over here! Let me help you!” He coughed and gasped more and his head went under, but it came up again almost immediately and he struck out toward her, thrashing and spluttering but moving in the right direction.
She knelt in the icy mud, careless of her silk dress and her furs. Her heart was in her mouth. As he came closer she reached out to him. His hands flailed the air randomly. She grabbed a wrist and pulled it to her. Grasping his arm with both hands, she heaved. He hit the side and collapsed, half on the bank and half in the water. She changed her grip, holding him under the arms, then dug her dainty slippers into the mud and heaved again. He pushed with his hands and feet and, at last, flopped out of the water onto the bank.
Lizzie stared at him, lying there naked and sodden and half dead like a sea monster caught by a giant fisherman. As she had guessed, the man whose life she had saved was Malachi McAsh.
She shook her head wonderingly. What kind of man was he? In the last two days he had been blasted by a gas explosion and subjected to a shattering torture, yet he had the stamina and guts to swim the freezing river to escape. He just never gave up.
He lay on his back, gasping raggedly and shivering uncontrollably. The iron collar had gone: she wondered how he had got it off. His wet skin gleamed silver in the moonlight. It was the first time she had looked at a naked man and, despite her concern for his life, she was fascinated to see his penis, a wrinkled tube nestling in a mass of dark curly hair at the fork of his muscular thighs.
If he lay there for long he might yet die of cold. She knelt beside him and untied the sodden bundle on his head. Then she put her hand on his shoulder. He felt as cold as the grave. “Stand up!” she said urgently. He did not move. She shook him, feeling the massive muscles under the skin. “Get up, or you’ll die!” She grabbed him with both hands but without his volition she could not shift him at all; he felt made of rock. “Mack, please don’t die,” she said, and there was a sob in her voice.
Finally he moved. Slowly he got on all fours, then he reached up and took her hand. With a heave from her he struggled to his feet. “Thank God,” she murmured. He leaned heavily on her but she just managed to support him without collapsing.
She had to warm him somehow.