Shock Wave (Dirk Pitt 13)

"I was until my horse broke her leg and the Queen's men ran me down."

"And your name is Jess Dorsett." He was pleased that she knew who he was and wondered if she had inquired of him. "And you are . . .?"

"Betsy Fletcher," she answered without hesitation.

"Betsy," Dorsett said with a flourish, "consider me your protector."

"I need no fancy highwayman," she said smartly. "I can fend for myself."

He motioned around the horde jammed on the raft. "You may well need a pair of strong hands before we see hard ground again."

"Why should I put my faith in a man who never got his hands dirty?"

He stared into her eyes. "I may have robbed a few coaches in my time, but next to the good Captain Scaggs, I'm most likely the only man you can trust not to take advantage of a woman."

Betsy Fletcher turned and pointed at some evil-looking clouds scudding in their direction before a freshening breeze. "Tell me, Mr. Dorsett, how are you going to protect me from that?"

"We're in for it now, Captain," said Ramsey. "We'd better take down the sails."

Scaggs nodded grimly. "Cut short lengths of rope from the keg of spare cordage and pass them around. Tell the poor devils to fasten themselves to the raft to resist the turbulence."

The sea began to heap up uncomfortably, and the raft lurched and rolled as the waves began to sweep over the huddled mass of bodies, each passenger clutching their individual length of rope for dear life, the smart ones having tied themselves to the planks. The storm was not half as strong as the typhoon that did in the Gladiator, but it soon became impossible to tell where the raft began and the sea left off. The waves rose ever higher as the whitecaps blew off their crests. Some tried to stand to get their heads above water, but the raft was pitching and rolling savagely. They fell back on the planking almost immediately.

Dorsett used both his and Betsy's ropes to fasten her to the mast. Then he wrapped himself in the shroud lines and used his body to shield her from the force of the waves. As if to add insult to injury, rainsqualls pelted them with the force of stones cast by devils. The disorderly seas struck from every direction.

The only sound that came above the fury of the storm was Scaggs' vehement cursing as he shouted orders to his crew to add more lines to secure the mound of provisions. The seamen struggled to lash down the crates and kegs, but a mountainous wave reared up at that moment and crashed down onto the raft and pushed it deep under the water. For the better part of a minute there was no one on that pathetic craft who didn't believe they were about to die.

Scaggs held his breath and closed his eyes and swore without opening his mouth. The weight of the water felt as though it was crushing the life out of him. For what seemed an eternity the raft sluggishly rose through a swirling mass of foam into the wind again. Those who hadn't been swept into the sea inhaled deeply and coughed out the saltwater.

The captain looked around the raft and was appalled. The entire mass of provisions had been carried away and had disappeared as if they had never been loaded aboard. What was even more horrendous was that the bulk of the crates and kegs had carved an avenue through the pack of convicts, maiming and thrusting them from the raft with the force of an avalanche. Their pathetic cries for help went unanswered.

The savage sea made any attempt at rescue impossible, and the lucky ones could only mourn the bitter death of their recent companions.

The raft and its suffering passengers endured the storm through the night, pounded by the wash that constantly rolled over them. By the following morning the sea had begun to ease off, and the wind dwindled to a light southerly breeze. But they still kept an eye out for the occasional renegade wave that lurked out of sight before sweeping in and catching the half-drowned survivors off guard.

When Scaggs was finally able to stand and appraise the total extent of the damage, he was shocked to find that not one keg of food or water had been spared from the violence of the sea. Another disaster.

The masts were reduced to a few shreds of canvas. He ordered Ramsey and Sheppard to take a count of the missing. The number came to twenty-seven.

Sheppard shook his head sadly as he stared at the survivors. "Poor beggars. They look like drowned rats."

"Have the crew spread what's left of the sails and catch as much rainwater as possible before the squall stops," Scaggs ordered Ramsey.

"We no longer have containers to store it," Ramsey said solemnly. "And what will we use for sails?"

"After everybody drinks their fill, we'll repair what we can of the canvas and continue on our east-southeast heading."

> As life reemerged on the raft, Dorsett untied himself from the mast shrouds and gripped Betsy by the shoulders. "Are you harmed?" he asked attentively.

She peered at him through long strands of hair that were plastered against her face. "I won't be attending no royal ball looking like a drenched cat. Soaked as I am, I'm glad to be alive."

"It was a bad night," he said grimly, "and I fear it won't be the last."

Even as Dorsett comforted her, the sun returned with a vengeance. Without the awning, torn away by the onslaught of the wind and waves, there was no protection from the day's heat. The torment of hunger and thirst soon followed. Every morsel of food that could be found among the planks was quickly eaten.

The little rainfall caught by the torn canvas sails was soon gone.

When their tattered remains were raised again, the sails had little effect and proved almost worthless for moving the raft. If the wind came from astern, the vessel was manageable. But attempting to tack only served to twist the raft into an uncontrollable position crosswise with its beam to the wind. The inability to command the direction of the raft only added to Scaggs' mounting frustrations. Having saved his precious navigational instruments by clutching them to his breast during the worst of the deluge, he now took a fix on the raft's position.