Ruark opened one of the bundles, lifted a gourd filled with water, and broke the wax seal, handing it to Shanna. She took a large draught then choked as she discovered it was heavily laced with rum. She sipped more slowly and savored the bite of it. The grog soothed her parched throat and helped to relax her. He handed her a small strip of dried meat, tough and chewy but, in this moment, as savory as any they had tasted. Shanna gnawed another piece of it, and Ruark filled his own mouth, sated his own thirst, and, as he chewed, looked upward to mark the passage of the sun.
“Gaitlier and the girl will be waiting for us.” He spoke past his food and chewed for another few minutes before swallowing heavily. He washed his throat clear with another long pull on the gourd.
“Our fine friends are not of long patience and they know we must eventually come out of the swamp, but they will expect it on the morrow or later. They will go now to lick their wounds and drink away their soreness. We’ll change clothes on dry ground.” He hefted the other bundle. “They’ll not be alert to two common seamen. Are you rested enough to travel now?”
Shanna nodded and struggled to swallow a mouthful of the meat, finally washing it down as Ruark had done. Ruark lowered himself into the water and, slinging the bundles over his shoulder, reached up to lift Shanna down. She had to steel herself as her feet again broke the scummy surface and sank into the ooze beneath. Now they proceeded more slowly, for any sound might give them away. On higher ground they found a small glade in a tangle of brush where they shucked their garments. The clothes Gaitlier had found were striped seamen’s shirts, knee breeches, floppy hats, and sandals. Shanna’s problem immediately became apparent, for even in the loose duck shirt and the knee breeches of her costume, she was obviously a woman to anyone’s eye.
Ruark grinned and bade her doff the shirt again. He tore the cloth that had wrapped the bundle into wide strips and wound the fabric over her bosom until she was pressed as flat as she could be. With more cloth stuffed into her breeches to disrupt the curve of her hips, she now appeared more like a seaman, albeit a slightly lumpy one. Tucking her long hair into the hat, Shanna pulled the brim low over her face. Ruark added a bright scarf about her neck to cover the slim, soft lines of it then stood back to survey their efforts.
“Hunch your shoulders a bit,” he directed. “Now walk around.” He grunted. “Huh, no seaman ever walked like that.”
Shanna faced him, dropped a shoulder askew, hung her jaw slackly aside, and swung her foot as if it were clubbed.
Ruark grinned. “Aye, Pirate Beauchamp. No one would now guess your true virtue.”
Shanna giggled and stumbled as she neared, grasping at his arm to steady herself. Her eyes danced as she turned her face upward and sought his approval. Ruark could not resist the impish visage incongruously framed by floppy hat and vivid kerchief. Pulling her into his arms, he lowered his mouth to hers. Her response was warm and eager, and it was a long, long moment before Ruark raised his head.
“Gaitlier will be waiting,” Shanna reminded him and handed him the jerkin from the bush where he had thrown it.
Ruark spread the jerkin, placing within it the food that was left, her silver dirk, and the small pistol. He shoved the rest of the garments beneath a bush before tucking the bundle he had made into Shanna’s breeches. He pushed the pistols into his own waistband, not an unusual sight on this island. Making a small puddle of mud with some of the water, Ruark rubbed smears of it on Shanna’s arms and legs to further mask the feminine grace of them. He considered the sword for a long moment, loathe to discard the fine piece. Finally he chose a stick of wood the same length, wrapped the two of them together with strips of cloth, then rubbed the whole with mud. It made an odd-looking staff, but with the pistols once fired it would prove to be worth more than the risk.
Thus it was that a small, begrimed and oddly shaped seaman with a clubbed foot strolled with another who was tall and handsome to a fault, but who limped and leaned on a crooked staff. Slowly the odd pair passed along the hillside, nodded to a bespectacled older man, and finally passed to lounge in a spot strangely near the schooner. Lying in the shade of the fronds of a leaning palm tree, they seemed to doze.
The island lay quietly beneath the full heat of the late afternoon sun.
On the quay, a man with glasses stood near a young woman who was seated, and if one watched closely, it seemed that the man gazed frequently and nervously up the hill where an alert eye could pick up a thin trail of smoke rising. Then a dull thump was heard, and the smoke thickened. The whole hillside seemed to burst into flame. Sparks scattered, and the black smoke billowed.