Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [95]
Inside the stern cabin, while Billy held the musket, Tom tied and gagged the midshipman. When he was secure he asked for the next man. Within ten minutes the three Americans were bound up tight. Tom studied them as they sat on the floor, eyes blazing hatred above the gags. As an afterthought, he threaded their legs around those of the bolted down table and strung them together before tugging the last knots firm. He stood up to inspect his work.
“That’ll keep ’em from getting to the door to bang for help.” He jerked his head at the open port. “Come on.” They clambered back down into the boat. “Seen anything?”
Jackie shook his head. “I can hear the other boats but none have rounded the stern.”
Tom faced the two lines of oarsmen, all prisoners-of-war. “Are you with us?” he asked, his expression leaving no doubt as to his opinion of potential dissenters.
“Aye, I’m with you,” the nearest man agreed. The second nodded, and the third. Soon they had all joined the conspiracy.
Tom turned. “These are your waters, lad. You’re the pilot. Which way?”
Jackie pursed his lips, the onus of command thrust on his tired shoulders. “Take her straight off the stern. Once in the fog we’ll turn.”
Tom grinned suddenly, waving a hand. “Billy and me’ll get back to the oars. You take the tiller. The quicker we’re away from this damned ship the better.”
“Right,” Jackie said softly, taking the tiller bar. “Starboard oars, trail. Port oars, pull.” The boat swiveled on its own axis until the bows faced the open sea. A world of solid fog awaited them. Jackie took a deep breath, then suddenly inspired called: “All oars, pull! Pull for your freedom!”
***
“Look!” Jackie croaked.
The oarsmen rested, leaning on their knees, heads hanging with fatigue. Two hours before, when they had broken out of the fogbank into a deserted sea, they discovered an unseen current had coaxed them out of sight of land. Guided by the sun and intuition, Jackie had corrected their course immediately. Weary almost beyond endurance, their progress had slowed until the oars barely made an impression on the leaden swell.
Hunger and thirst had taken toll.
When no pursuit materialized there had been an initial burst of elation. It quickly died. Continuous rowing exhausted them into silence. Now when they spoke it was hoarsely. Only when they threatened to surrender to sleep did Jackie or Tom berate them, Tom even scooping hatfuls of freezing seawater to toss over drowsy men.
“Look!” Jackie brought them back to reality, pointing. In the distance was a flotilla of boats. Lugsails brimming with wind, they tacked back and forth, their appearance distorted by the sun sparkling off the sea. The oarsmen glanced up at the mirage before disbelief allowed their heads to droop once more without even cursing Jackie for a madman. Tom Berry turned toward the sea, saw the sailing smacks, then closed his red-rimmed eyes tight before reopening them. The boats were still there. He opened his mouth to speak but could only wring a croak from his arid throat. He swallowed before trying again.
“You’ve lost us now, lad.”
Jackie laughed, a cackle that left him coughing. “Lost? No, don’t you know what they are? That’s Scarborough herring fleet. They’re casting nets.” Then he was on his feet, peeling off his shirt to use as a flag. Waving it madly, he began to shout. Billy stood up to join his cousin, using the last of his strength to hoist an oar from its thole, the painted white blade swaying unsteadily over his head.
Tom Berry watched the two young men, incredulous. Slowly, their joy infected him until at last a smile cracked his grizzled jaw.
***
“That’s some kind of tale, our Jackie,” Harry the fisherman mused, pushing forward his cap so he could scratch the back of his head. “Well, I don’t know. You lot escaping from that pirate.”
“I’m telling you the truth,” Jackie stated, reaching again for the can of cold tea. The