A violent shaking possessed Shanna, and even her defeat of the rat could not buoy her spirit. If only there were a spot, dry and safe, to which she could escape. The board sagged in her hands. The rats grew still and watched her with a malevolent alertness. She wanted to sob but knew what greater disaster awaited her if she weakened. She was so tired! So hungry! So thirsty! So faint!
Evil eyes stared at her from the darkness, creeping closer.
“Someone help me!” her mind screamed. “Anyone! Ruark!”
Chapter 16
OVER THE MATE’S SHOULDER Ruark had watched Pellier lead Shanna across the gangplank and down into the milling throng until she disappeared from his sight. Then he returned his attention to the four who crowded before him.
“I have more important things to occupy me than sweeping any deck,” he stated bluntly.
“Gor, love the likes of him,” the mate guffawed. “ ‘E wants to start at the top, ’e does. Well, man,” the beady eyes narrowed, “to be a captain ya ‘as to ’ave a ship and then ya ‘as to be the best man o’ the crew. Oi’ve little enough to recommend of ya. Ya’ve done naught but eat our food and drink our ale.”
Slowly Ruark backed away until he felt the rail behind him. His foot struck a bucket of sand kept handy for small fires. His hand found a pinrail where the long, oaken belaying pins were stored. The pirates wore no pistols but, with obvious relish, fingered the hilts of the cutlasses thrust into their belts. Ruark could only surmise that Pellier had left orders that would negate the share of the loot which was promised him. A quick end, the half-breed no doubt expected, but this colonial had other plans.
His eyes fell on the half-open door to the captain’s cabin, and Ruark remembered a stack of arms he had seen there when they had questioned him. Casually he leaned against the rail and stared back at the men. He had played much the part of a yearling calf with these men, hoping they might relax their vigil of him. He should have considered they were jackals and would readily devour the helpless.
Ruark almost smiled. “Let’s see what the jackals will do when they face a man instead.”
Seeing naught to be gained by waiting any longer, Ruark bent and with a swift movement hurled the bucket of sand into their faces, sharing it liberally with the four of them. As the men stumbled back, cursing and rubbing sand from their eyes, he quickly snatched a pin from the rack and laid it alongside the head of the nearest. He bent another over with a hard jab beneath the ribs and parried the wild swing of the mate who had freed his cutlass. Coming to blows with the sword, the belaying pin was nearly sheared in two. Its continuing service as a weapon was badly in doubt, and Ruark hurled it into the face of the fourth man, who ducked to avoid it and collided with the mate. His respite won, Ruark ran for the cabin and slammed the door behind him as several bodies thudded against it on the opposite side. He threw the bolt and spent the few moments he had gained in search of a weapon. He cast aside an ornate dress sword and laid his hand upon the worn hilt of a long, curved sabre. He drew the piece from its sheath, and the naked blade winked blue in the dim light as if sharing a pun with him. Though sturdy, its balance was such that it scarcely weighed anything in his grip.
Stepping back to the door, Ruark timed the heavy blows that bowed its panels. Then, in the pause between, loosed the latch and waited. The door crashed open, and the weight of the men carried them forward headlong into the cabin. Ruark kicked the rear of the last one through, and the hapless man sailed heels over head into the sprawling cluster. The mate gained his feet and with a bellow of rage charged, lashing out with his cutlass. The heavy blade turned on the sabre’s edge and smashed into an iron-bound trunk. The long, curved sabre returned with the speed of a cobra to lay open the mate’s shoulder and the front of his jacket as he stumbled back.
His arm hung useless, and the mate gaped down at his chest where a thin, red line began to ooze droplets of blood. The other men gathered behind their helpless leader as if his body would shield them from the weaving, threatening blade. One of them hesitantly raised his cutlass, and Ruark smashed it aside, running the sharp edge of his blade along the man’s forearm where it left a trail of red, welling from its path. The poor chap screamed as if his heart had been torn from him. This was no unarmed clod who would plead for mercy, as they had been told, but a live, fighting man determined not to yield his person without a struggle.
The smallest of the four men decided bravery had had its day; running across the cabin, he hurled himself against the stern windows. Alas, the thick glass and heavy frames had been made to withstand the force of towering seas, and he recoiled onto the floor where he rolled moaning, bleeding from the head and holding his shoulder. Another had the foresight to free the latch and swing the panes outward before he took his leave. His success led his companions in his wake. The mate cleared the transom with an agility amazing for one of his years, and as Ruark neared him, the man on the floor saw the wisdom of a hasty retreat. He, too, cleared the transom and took to the water, striking out for shore with one arm thrashing the surface.