Attila fretted in the stable, unaccustomed to being left behind, and nervously took the sugar lumps from Ruark’s hand. Ruark had not ridden since his capture, but he was restless and made the decision to further test his leg.
“Come on, you gourd-head goat.” He petted the finely shaped velvet nose. “Let us be about some pleasures of our own.”
He held the stallion in close check for a space, proving the strength of his leg. Then finding it sufficent, he shook out the reins and set the steed upon the high road to the cane mill.
The late morning was gusty and warm, but as Ruark crossed the ridge of the island’s spine, the breezes whipped fine mist into his face, and before he descended into the small valley which held the mill, his shirt was soaked where the leather jerkin did not cover it. The ride was invigorating. The only thing missing was Shanna to share the elation.
The rollers of the crushing mill were silent, awaiting the new harvest, and only a few supervisors remained. The rest of the men were working on the sawmill, rushing to complete it before Trahern left for the colonies. Ruark entered the cane mill through the cooking room and tossed a cheery greeting to the man who tested and fired the kettles of molasses.
“Why, Mister Ruark, what be ya about here?”
“Just looking things over,” Ruark replied. “Any problems?”
The man chortled. “No, sir. Ya built it pretty goot, Mister Ruark. But then, the master can tell ya better about that. He’s in testing his rum.”
When he entered the distillery wing, Ruark became impressed with the feeling of unhurried activity that pervaded the place. The crackle of the fires beneath the huge boilers mixed with the chuckle of trickling spigots and the hiss of steam through the pipes, filling the place with subtle sounds. The shadow of a man was elongated on the cobbled floor where the sun spilled through the windows at the rear of the room. Calling a question to the master brewer, Ruark began to make his way between the squat kettles which gleamed golden beneath their serpentine coppery coils. The heat was almost unbearable, and steam came from his sodden shirt and breeches. Sweat oozed from every pore, and he wondered vaguely if the man had been cooked alive in the hot, humid air or gone deaf. Then as he was rounding a timber, Ruark’s foot slipped on the damp stone floor, and he struggled briefly for balance. The sudden effort on the weakened leg brought a twinge of pain that made him curse sharply. Clutching the timber for support, he leaned against it until the cramp died away.
Suddenly a loud clank of metal rang in the room, and an arm-sized section of piping swung heavily against the timber where he stood, spewing scalding steam and mash everywhere. Ruark stumbled backward, flinging an arm over his face to shield his eyes. His leg was still too stiff to allow such alacrity, and he sprawled on his back upon the cobblestones but managed to roll away from the spouting geyser of half-brewed rum.
Distant rafters were obscured by the rolling cloud of brownish steam, and Ruark realized that had he taken but another step forward he would have been caught in the midst of the inferno gushing out of the pipe and would have had no chance to escape. Only the brief pause had saved him from agony, even death.
A shout came from behind him, and he glanced around to see a worker crouching low in the doorway, trying to peer through the thick haze. At Ruark’s answering call, the man crept forward until he was at his side.
“Are you all right, sir?” The question was shouted over the roaring wheeze of escaping pressure.,
Ruark nodded, and the fellow leaned closer.
“There’s a valve. I’ll try to shut it off.” He disappeared into the murky cloud before Ruark could tell him the master brewer was there to do it. After a long moment the hissing bellow began to subside and finally lisped into silence.
“Me lord! What happened here?” The bellow came from the doorway, and Ruark’s brows lifted in surprise as he recognized the master brewer’s voice. He got to his feet.
“A pipe let go. An accident—”
“No accident, sir.” The cooker came forth from amid the haze. “Look at this, will ya.” He held up a heavy hammer. “Some bloody idiot hit the joint off wid dis.”
“Me kettles! Me rum! Ruined!” The master brewer wrung his hands as he wailed. “ ‘Twill take me days to clean up the mess.” His tone became a shout of rage. “If I catch the bloomin’ blighter, I’ll hit the joint off his neck!”
“Save a crack or two for me, Timmy,” Ruark said tersely, curious as to whose shadow he had seen. “I’d have been cooked proper, but for the timber there.”
The master stared at Ruark as if seeing him for the first time and was mutely flabbergasted.