Doctor Who_ The Roundheads - Mark Gatiss [91]
He heard them splashing back through the shallows.
Around him, the old ship creaked and groaned like a discontented grandmother. Ben got to his feet as quietly as he could and stood in the darkness, his mind racing. What could he do?
If he abandoned Sal and Hugh they would be at Stanislaus’s mercy, yet his imperative was to get back to London as soon as possible and warn them that some danger loomed.
He would wait until he was certain the crew had called off their search and then make his way across the marshes to safety. How he would make the journey to London was a bridge he would cross when he came to it.
Ben poked his head out of the cannon port and looked out on to the mud flats that stretched before him. It was so dark and stormy now that he could see virtually nothing, but there were lights blazing what appeared to be a short distance away and that could only be the shore.
He could still hear the steely rattles of the two captains’
swords and the roar of the crew as they cheered the fighters on.
Seizing his chance, Ben vaulted out of the safety of the Demeter and landed with a satisfyingly quiet splash in the murky water.
He rose to his feet at once and tried to get his bearings.
The two grounded ships were right behind him, the shore some five hundred yards away across the black mud.
The water seemed to sluice around his legs like treacle as he waded forward, keeping his head low, aware that he might be spotted as soon as he left the shadow of the wrecked ships.
Gritting his teeth, Ben sloshed out of the shallows and suddenly found himself on the mud. He looked back over his shoulder and got a vague impression of the action on the Teazer. Then, seizing the opportunity, he began to pelt across the mud, his feet sinking inches into the glutinous stuff.
He ran like a man possessed, his lungs and muscles bursting, slipping and stumbling over the treacherous mud, feeling it spume over his trousers and up his shirt.
He pitched forward suddenly and put out both hands. The mud was chilly to the touch and swamped his outstretched fingers like inky glue.
Righting himself, Ben lifted his foot and made a long stride forward. He could see the firm shoreline only a few feet away.
Suddenly, with a lurch that made his stomach flip, he felt his leg sink right up to the thigh.
Thrown off balance, he fell forward again, this time managing to stay upright and throw himself backward.
Desperately, he tried to pull his leg out of the powerful suction but it seemed only to sink deeper and he felt the clammy mud close around his backside as he stumbled forward once more.
His bent knee began to sink now and a sudden panic stole over him like a blast of cold air. Instinctively, his arms shot out and scrabbled at empty air. He was sinking.
The mud pooled around him like a living thing and he felt its gurgling grip as his body vanished up to the waist.
Coughing and whining with panic, Ben let his arms splash against the mud and tried to pull himself out.
With a jolt of horror, he felt those sinking too. There was nothing he could do. He was slipping inexorably into the black mud.
CHAPTER 10
Stanislaus whirled about on his heel and brought his cutlass crashing down on to the side of the ship. The blade sheared off a great slice of wood and, as he struggled to drag it back out, Sal Winter struck, kicking the Pole viciously in the gut.
Stanislaus doubled up in pain and fell down, his knees connecting with the deck with a report like pistol shots.
As the crew whooped and cheered, Winter spun around on her peg leg and thumped Stanislaus under the chin, sending him sprawling backward.
‘You see, my friend. I am more than a match for you, imperfect as I am!’
Stanislaus glowered at her from where he lay sprawled.
‘You? You’re a cripple! What have I to fear from a cripple?’
Winter’s face contorted with rage and she swung her cutlass round in a wide are, missing Stanislaus by only a fraction as he rolled out of the way.
In seconds, the Pole was on his feet. He dashed to the