Finch shook his head. “Nothing yet, sir. She may have foundered.”
Lanyon’s jaw tightened. “Or she’s out there, waiting for us to give up.”
The morning wore on. The wind eased, the rain slackened, and the clouds thinned to tatters. The sea was still wild, but the worst had passed. TheWasplimped south, her course set by luck and stubbornness as much as by compass.
Around noon, a shout went up from the foremast. “Sail ho! To starboard, two miles off!”
Lanyon rushed forward, glass in hand. There she was—theHirondelle, battered, but like theWasp, still afloat. The French sloop was nearer now, close enough that he could see, through his glass, figures scrambling across her deck, reefing sails, fighting the same storm.
They were both fugitives, the hunter and the hunted, driven by a force greater than either.
Another day dawned with no letup, the sea a wild, foaming expanse. The Bay of Biscay opened before them, vast and pitiless. TheWasp’stimbers creaked, her masts groaned, but she held together. The crew moved like ghosts, faces pinched and pale, eyes red-rimmed from salt and sleeplessness. A man was lost overboard before noon, swept away in a white surge, his cry lost in the howling wind. Lanyon stood by the rail, teeth bared in a silent snarl, and swore he would not lose theHirondelletoo.
They pressed on, battered, half-blind, sails reefed down to ragged patches. The French sloop was still there, stubborn, her Tricolor—which had replaced the false ensign—a splash of defiance against the storm. Lanyon admired her captain’s nerve, even as he longed to see him brought low.
The storm once again worsened. Thunder rolled across the sea, lightning splitting the sky. The wind shrieked, tearing at the rigging, flinging spray like daggers.Waspclawed her way south,following the sloop’s desperate flight. Discipline was fraying. Men muttered about the wrath of God, about French devils and cursed luck. Lanyon silenced them with hard work and harder words.
“Stand to it, lads! She’s close now—she cannot last much longer. Hold fast, and the prize is ours!”
They rounded a headland late in the day, the coast of Spain looming through the rain, jagged cliffs like broken teeth. The French sloop was plainly in distress, her main topmast gone, hull low in the water. Lanyon felt a savage satisfaction. The ship was nearly in his grasp.
“Bring her in, Mr. Pym! We’ll run her down yet!”
The sloop struggled toward the shore, seeking shelter or surrender—Lanyon could not tell. The wind drove both ships mercilessly, closer and closer to the rocky coast. He saw a flash of white water as the Frenchman grounded, her hull shuddering to a halt on a shingle beach. Men leapt over the side, scrambling for the rocks, abandoning ship.
Wasp, too, was in peril, her keel scraping bottom as they edged into the shallows. Lanyon ordered the boats out, marines ready, pistols primed. The crew, exhausted but exultant, surged forward.
Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped forward. “Captain Lanyon, my apologies, sir, but I must take over now. You have done us proud. Take this, a report to the First Lord of the Admiralty—my name, and that of my father, Lord Matlock, is known to him. All England will know of your courage and that of your crew. You may not know it, sir, but today you have done England a great favour.”
“My pleasure, Colonel. I can stay, perhaps for two days while we repair the rigging, but this coast is patrolled by French frigates, which certainly outgun me. Best of luck, sir.” CaptainLanyon ordered his marines to stand down, reluctantly ceding the responsibility of continuing the chase to Colonel Fitzwilliam.
“Mr. Goulding, get your men to the boats, quickly now! With luck we may take the Frenchies on the beach!”
They waded ashore, boots sinking in wet sand, slipping on loose shingles, rain lashing their faces. But the French crew had gone, taking the women with them.
* * *
Chapter 12
Iberian Coast
The sloop lurched over the last grinding wave and slammed onto the shingles which lined the beach. Once again, Elizabeth was thrown onto the floor of the dank sail locker. The smell was putrid; over the past hours, Georgiana had begun to retch, a dry rasping sound, so forlorn from one who had reached the limit of her endurance. Elizabeth cradled her in her arms, stroking her fevered brow.
The galley door burst open and the sullen, scar-faced man spat as he entered the room.
“Venez vite!”
Trembling, Elizabeth climbed to her feet. “Lydia, we must go, the ship has run aground.”
Lydia began screeching. “I shan’t go! You cannot make me! I want to go home!” She struggled as the man looped his arms beneath her and heaved her bodily from the room. Her feet flailed, kicking at his thighs, but she was no match for his brute strength.
Another sailor entered, an even more brutish man—salt-stained, reeking of sweat and cheap wine. He scooped up Georgiana, cradling her like a child, her head lolling against his shoulder.
Elizabeth drew herself up to steady her voice. “Let her down,” she said, her words trembling but clear. “She is ill. You are hurting her.”
The man looked at her contemptuously, turned without acknowledgement, and strode down the gangway, uncaring as Georgiana’s head swung loosely at his side. Reluctantly, Elizabeth followed. Her legs felt useless, her muscles cramping after three days of confinement.
Unceremoniously, they were dumped over the side of the vessel. Wickham was standing on the shingle, his eyes alight—a mixture of fear and exultation that they had escaped the brig.
