The Dust of 100 Dogs - A. S. King [89]
“Curses!”
Seanie heard this. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s that goddamned French bastard!”
“I thought he was dead.”
“So did I,” Emer said.
Having substituted cannons with food and marines with rum, Emer knew her ship was inferior. Her perfect getaway, she feared, was about to be foiled. She slipped back below deck and peeled an orange.
At bedtime, Emer ordered the man in the crow’s nest to alert her if any ship approached from any direction at any time of the night. She hoped to fool the Frenchman by going the long way round Jamaica, when most ships would head for the Windward Passage. It was her only option, once she’d left dock, to lose him.
A knock came at the door in the middle of the night.
“A ship behind us, sir,” a voice said. Emer rose and dressed. She limped up the steps and stood at the stern with a telescope. It was as if she were gazing into a mirror—the Frenchman stood at the bow of his ship, looking right back at her with his telescope.
At the rate he was gaining, there was only one possibility of escape. She and Seanie would have to make a run for it in a rowboat and hope that the Frenchman would continue to follow the frigate. She turned to her new first mate. “Prepare the rowboat. I’ve got to get ashore without that bastard seeing me.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Steer as close as you can. I’m going to collect my things,” she said. Before she went below deck, she fetched the first crutch she could find—a short-handled shovel—and used it to relieve the pressure on her aching right foot.
“Seanie,” she whispered, shaking his arm. “Seanie, wake up.”
“What is it?”
“We have to go. He’s found us.”
“We can kill him, then,” Seanie answered, still half asleep.
“Seanie, come on. Get up. Help me move these crates to the rowboat. We’ve only got a few minutes.”
Seanie got up and dressed, picked up the crates, and followed Emer and her shovel-cane up the steps again. She pointed to the rowboat and Seanie secured the boxes.
“Just continue west,” she said to the first mate. “Don’t slow down.”
“And when he catches us, sir?”
“Surrender. Pretend you’re the captain—just shipping rum and food. Innocent.”
“Aye. And will I return to pick you up?”
“We’ll meet you back in Port Royal. Dock and wait.”
Seanie helped Emer into the rowboat and gave the order to lower them. They tried to hit the water as softly as possible, but the frigate was moving at a hardy pace and their landing was rough. Once they cleared the frigate’s wake, they paddled slowly toward the Jamaican shore, toward the darkest spot. Emer prayed aloud.
“Please, God, just one more favor. Just one more escape.”
They dragged the boat ashore, hid it under the canopy of grape trees, and began to walk through the dark forest along the shore, dragging their luggage. Emer stopped to see if the Frenchman’s ship had slowed to notice them and saw it sail by, still in hot pursuit of her frigate.
After an hour of walking, the two were exhausted. “Where the hell are we going, anyway?” Emer sighed. They sat on a sand dune to rest.
“I don’t know,” Seanie answered.
“These crates are too heavy to carry back to Port Royal, and this foot won’t make it much longer.”
“Let’s have a rest,” Seanie suggested, and held his arms open for her to lie in. She propped her foot up on a crate and cuddled up to him.
“Why don’t we leave them?”
Emer shook her head. “No, no. It’s all I’ve got to show for all that blood.”
“Then why don’t we bury them here and come back for them later?”
Emer nodded in agreement, but stayed buried in his chest for ten minutes. She nearly fell asleep there, until he shifted.
“Okay,” Seanie said. “Let’s get these in the ground, then.” Leaving the crates with Emer, he walked over to a small clearing in the trees, counting his steps, and began to dig with her well-selected crutch. She listened to the rhythm of his digging and accidentally nodded off. When she woke, he was shoulder-deep and sweating.
“You