Men shouted above deck, their words torn away by the wind, an occasional body visible as he hurried past the opening, leaning into the wind, attending to something urgent. Rain pelted down the opening along with blessed fresh air. Ignoring years of training from Madame Zavrina about the proper way for a lady to stand, Harriet spread her feet apart, braced for each change in pitch, and gripped the handrail of the steep staircase with both hands so the rain would not loosen her grip. Ah, much better.
More shouts, an ominous rumble, and something rolled past the open hatch above.
A cannon.
One of the cannons was loose on deck.
Rolling back and forth, it could tear a hole through the side. Would that let enough water onboard to sink them? Harriet had learned to swim in the calm bay at home but doubted she, or any of them on board, could survive long in the roiling sea.
The ship climbed another swell as it rolled to port, and the cannon rolled back— and stuck, one wheel splintering the top step. Something metallic broke off the carriage and bounced off her shoulder as it fell. It clattered to the deck at her feet and rolled into the shadows.
Harriet looked up again. If the cannon fell, it could punch a hole right through the bottom of the ship.
Without another thought, she raced up the steep staircase, half-expecting to be crushed any second.
The face of one of the sailors was visible in the opening—Jack, she thought his name was—as he frantically grabbed for the cannon. At such an awkward angle, his hands, slick from the rain, could get no purchase.
Harriet reached up, pressing up on the cold iron. Chilly rain beat down on her head, streamed in her eyes, ran up the sleeves of her woolen gown, soaking her chemise. She pushed and stepped one step higher on the ladder. The wheel dug into her shoulder, threatening to crack her bones.
“Push harder, Miss!” Jack shouted. “Give it a shove!”
“What do you bloody well think I’m doing,” Harriet muttered, and pushed with all her might. Just as she despaired of budging the cannon, the ship crested another swell. The canon shifted a fraction, and she and Jack were able to nudge it back from the brink. She scampered up the remaining steps and helped Jack roll the cannon and shove it up against the starboard gunwale where it belonged. On rings nearby were the broken rope, frayed ends flapping in the storm. Jack threaded one broken rope through a ring on the carriage, but it was too short to tie off.
“Hold it here, Miss,” he shouted above the gale. After she nodded, Jack went to retrieve a longer rope to secure the cannon in place, bent almost double against the wind.
The ship rolled to starboard, the deck nearly standing on its side. The mouth of the cannon was engulfed in water, the top of the gunwale terrifyingly close to the tops of the waves. Jack grabbed the quarterdeck railing as a wave threatened to wash him overboard. Harriet’s wool dress was soaked, she was chilled to the bone, and salty ocean spray stung her eyes. Despite her hands going numb, she kept her grip on the cannon’s rope, keeping it taut.
The ship rolled back, the deck leveling out. She turned her head out of the wind to take a deep breath without the rain slapping her face. Sheffield and another crewman each had both hands on the tiller, rain streaming down their faces, struggling to steer the ship. Jonesy used hand signals to the crew rather than trying to shout over the gale, a line tied about his waist securing him to the quarterdeck railing.
The deck continued to roll to port. Harriet’s stomach plummeted. Jack shouted something, his words indecipherable over the rumbling roar of the storm. No, the rumbling was the wheels of the cannon carriage. The rope ripped out of her hand as the carriage rolled across the deck and kept going, directly toward the port gunwale, picking up speed.
Just as she was certain it was going to bust through and push the port cannon overboard, the ship began to roll back to starboard. So did the cannon.
Jack had managed to tie one end of a rope to the mainmast and now lunged toward the cannon, frantically trying to thread the new rope through a bolt on the moving carriage. As Harriet stepped back to get out of his way, her feet slid out from under her on the slick deck. She landed on her rump hard enough to rattle her teeth.
Jack couldn’t thread the rope through the bolt, and the cannon was picking up speed as it rolled toward the side of the ship. Harriet felt herself moving with it.
Her skirt was caught on the rear wheel. Her sturdy wool gown, the best she owned, was tangled on the rear axle of the cannon carriage that was about to crash through the side of the ship and sink to the bottom of the English Channel.
Perhaps the ship would roll the other way first. Like it had just moments ago.
Frantically she yanked on her gown, trying to untangle the dense wet fabric from the axle. It wouldn’t rip and it wouldn’t come loose. Damn those double-stitched seams. Why had she insisted on making the dress so sturdy? Any London lady’s gown would have torn at the slightest tug. She scrabbled for anything to dig her fingers into to stop her slide or divert the cannon’s direction. The rain-slicked wood offered no purchase, and the cannon aimed unerringly for the gunwale.
For a heart-stopping moment she paused in her slide, her arm nearly ripped from its socket as Jack grabbed on to her wrist, the muscles in his neck bulging with the strain.
But the weight of the cannon and the sturdiness of the wool skirt won out. He lost his grip on her and fell back on the deck, his face a mask of horror that must match her own as the cannon smashed into the gunwale and rolled overboard.
As Harriet slid through the gaping hole, she grabbed the rope that had once lashed the cannon in place. The cannon fell off its carriage as it tipped over the edge and plunged into the sea, but the carriage itself was still caught on her skirt.
She plunged into the cold sea, her hands burning as she refused to let go of the rope, and the carriage dragged her down, down, down.
Chapter 5
They’d passed the worst of the storm. The rain still whipped at Nick’s face, the wind tried to snap Wind Dancer’s masts like kindling, and waves threatened to swamp the decks … but the weather was turning.
They still might sink if they couldn’t get the starboard gun held fast. Nick saw when the line lashing it in place broke. Jack jumped to it before Jonesy had a chance to give an order. Other hands would have helped Jack but as the ship dove bows under again, the jib boom snapped.
Nick was about to have Bos’n leave the tiller to give a hand when Miss Chase’s head popped up from the hatchway, and she helped Jack heave the gun back from tumbling down the ladder.
