He laid his head back on Shanna’s lap, and with her cool hand she gently stroked his eyes and forehead until he began to relax and the pain ebbed. As she sat holding his head, Shanna hummed a few lines from a tune that flitted through her mind and softly Ruark’s rich baritone began to fill in the words. Shanna’s humming stopped, and she listened quietly. Suddenly she knew the voice that had drifted up to her from below decks on the Marguerite one starry, moonlit night as she sailed homeward from England.
“Oh, Ruark,” she whispered softly and kissed the brow that was hot beneath her hand.
A shout came across the deck and both of them rose. Ruark lurched and leaned against the rail to steady himself, staring forward to see Gaitlier prancing along the deck waving his arms, Dora following close behind.
“Ships! Ships up ahead!” the man shouted as he ran toward them. “Two of them! Big ones!‘
Unable to calm himself, Gaitlier jumped up and down, gesturing with his arm. Ruark laughed almost wildly as he scrambled for the wheel and the long spyglass. He braced the instrument on a spoke, centering it on the sails that gleamed white in the sun and drew closer with each breath. He moved the glass to the fluff of color that floated on the masthead. It was blurred for a moment. They all waited. Finally it cleared.
“English!” he shouted. “They’re English! But there’s another flag.” He put his eye to the glass again. After a moment he turned and grinned at Shanna. “ ‘Tis your father! The Hampstead and Mary Christian.”
A cry of joy escaped her, and Ruark fought for balance as she flung her arms about his neck. Holding her close, he called past her to Gaitlier.
“Drop the sails! Get them down! We’ll come about and wait for them!”
The man needed no urging. He leapt to the rail, snatched the ax, and with a single blow severed the riser to the mainsail. The yard came crashing down to bounce and lie still, spilling canvas onto the deck. Gaitlier scrambled over the billowing sail to the foredeck where with like energy he brought the spritsails rattling down.
Ruark threw the lashings off the wheel and spun it hard aport. The schooner groaned and creaked and dug her nose into the waves as she slowed and came about until she was stern on to the approaching vessels. The Hampstead drew near, and soon there was no doubt. Beside the thin stick in black that could only be Ralston was the white bulk which could only be Trahern. Shanna gave a glad cry and ran down to the main deck where she joined Gaitlier and Dora by the rail. Ruark would have joined them, but his leg would not bear his weight. As the huge bulk of the Hampstead drew alongside, he held fast to the wheel. The ports were opened and the guns run out. Behind the gaping black muzzles he could see the eager, white faces of the gun crew, alert for any sign of hostility.
Grappling hooks were thrown fore and aft as the two ships bumped together. Then at a shout from the mate a detachment of men swarmed up from behind the Hampstead‘s rail and leapt onto the deck of the Good Hound, pistols and cutlasses at the ready as if they expected to do battle. The Mary Christian stood off the port side, and all the while her four small guns were run out, ready for a fight.
When any possible resistance had been quelled, Ralston cautiously joined the men on the schooner then more boldly began to order them about before stalking aft with his angry, jerky, storklike stride.
One of the seamen, seeing no threat from the small crew, put aside his cutlass and gave a hand to Shanna as she stepped over to the Hampstead.
She had barely set her feet down onto the deck before she ran across it and up the gangway to the lofty quarter-deck. When her eyes fell on her father, she dashed to him and threw her arms about his neck, sobbing her joy and relief. Trahern fought to keep his balance. His arm came around her tightly for a moment, and his breathing was curiously hoarse and somewhat ragged. Then with a quick pat on her shoulders he thrust her away to arm’s length to survey her.
“You are indeed my daughter,” the squire chuckled, half questioning. “And not some ragamuffin thrusting himself on my good nature.”
Shanna laughed brightly and opened her mouth to reply, but her gaze went astray, and she jerked away, her intended words ending in a choked gasp of dismay as she stared at the deck of the schooner below them.
Ruark had been willing to greet even Ralston as his deliverer and reached out a hand to grasp the other’s as the thin man neared him, but Ralston ignored the gesture, instead striking out viciously with the heavy butt of his riding crop. It caught Ruark full across the face, and the force of the blow was such that he spun away from the wheel, careened off the binnacle, and crashed heavily to the deck. As Ruark struggled groggily to rise, Ralston placed a foot roughly in the middle of his back, forcing him down against the splintered planks. The thin man gestured imperiously to two burly seamen he had commandeered. Without ceremony the pair heaved Ruark to his feet, bound his wrists tightly behind him, and, as he regained his senses, stuffed a rag into his mouth to still his curses. Ralston walked stiltedly to the head of the stairs and stood glaring back as he waited for his prisoner to be brought forward. The men thrust Ruark before them. He could not walk on his own, and he crashed down, twisting to protect the injured leg. When he was dragged to his feet again, an ugly bruise had swelled on his forehead and a small trickle of blood coursed down from it. They dragged him along between them, with Ralston leading the procession in the full glory of his victory.