Burning Bright (32 page)

She quickly fell into a rhythm where she kicked until her legs burned as much as her back, then rested, her mind blank, until she felt she could go on again. The waves slopped over her where she lay against the makeshift raft, and now they felt warmer, which probably meant she had grown accustomed to the temperature, and that was a small comfort. Her fingers were white and numb where she clutched the raft, so during her rest times she let go, one hand at a time, and flexed her fingers to restore circulation.

Time ceased to have meaning; there was nothing but intervals of kicking and lying limp across the soggy wood, wondering at what point she would simply slip beneath the waves, exhausted and unconscious. Did it hurt, drowning when you were asleep? After too many of these intervals to count, she left the fog behind and came out under an overcast sky; it looked as if it might rain soon. She heard no cries from the pirate ship, nothing but the slop of waves striking her raft and the stiff wind blowing across her weary body like the whistling of an invisible giant.

After some time, the wind died away and the rain began, comforting warm drops that soon became a torrent, drenching her hair and body and rinsing away the salty crust covering every inch of her. Fresh water gathered in the curve of the raft, and she lapped at it like a dog, undeterred by the slightly tarry, wooden taste imparted by the planks. Even that small draught revived her, and she kicked with greater vigor, shaking her head to clear the rain from her eyes and the hair from her face. She might yet die today, but she would not go quietly.

Through the rain, she saw a cloud that seemed to be sitting directly on the waves, greenish, thick and billowing. Curious, she angled her body to turn the raft in that direction and saw it grow larger and greener, until her fuddled brain finally recognized it as an island. It was too small to be Cuba or Jamaica, both of which were near where
Glorious
had been sailing, but it was still quite large, large enough that it might have fresh water and possibly some kind of food.

Thinking of food made Elinor realize how famished her exertions had left her. Her legs ached so much they were almost numb, her back was still a long streak of agony, her fingers were sore from clinging to the raft. But she was alive. And might continue to be so long enough for someone to rescue her.

She began kicking again, mechanically, while she thought about rescue. Crawford certainly would tell everyone she was dead. She
should
have been dead, the way he’d left her. So the Royal Navy would not be looking for her. Ramsay would—she stopped kicking and pressed her forehead into the soggy wood. This would never have happened to
Athena
. He wouldn’t have allowed it. If she were—but that was a line of thinking that would take her nowhere.

She had only two hopes. One was that she might signal a passing ship. That was not unlikely;
Glorious
had been on a well-used shipping route between Saint-Domingue and Port Royal. The other was that there might be a settlement on the island, with seafaring people who might help her reach a town where she could contact the Navy. That also was not unlikely, given the size of the island. Despite her aching, battered body, she felt the beginnings of hope. She might actually survive this. And if she did, she would see Crawford hanged for what she was certain was a court-martial offense.

Her bare toes dashed against something that shifted when she touched it, and she squealed and pulled her feet up before realizing it was sand. She dug her feet in and pushed the raft the rest of the way up the soft, beautifully solid beach until she was past the high-tide mark, littered with seaweed, then she fell down on her stomach atop the raft and prayed the most fervent prayer of thanks she had ever uttered. Then, between one word and the next, she slipped into unconsciousness.

In which Elinor makes many discoveries

linor woke at dusk to hear the clamor of birds in the nearby trees, calling out sounds she had never heard before. The wind had risen again and the susurrus of leaves blowing against one another nearly drowned out the birds’ cries. She pushed herself to her knees, all her muscles shaking from her exertions. There was sand in her nose and crusting her eyelids; she brushed it away, gingerly, and blinked hard to let her tears carry away the rest. When her nose was clear she inhaled with relief at being alive.

The air was full of the scents of a hundred growing things, sweet and green and wet, and the humid post-storm air lay over her skin like a damp, warm blanket. Without the sun’s rays, the humidity was easier to endure, less enervating, and she felt her strength returning and was able to stand. Unfortunately, her clothes were still damp, particularly under her armpits and the crotch of her trousers, and when she moved they chafed at her unpleasantly. Still, she was alive, and her back no longer hurt, and her legs were wobbly but strong enough to support her. She really had nothing to complain of.

She looked up the beach to where the sandy shore gave way to black rocks and eventually terminated in the beginnings of a cliff. In the other direction the sand curved away out of sight past a promontory beyond the trees, which grew in a dizzying variety—palm trees with their strange ringed bark, trees she had no name for with straight trunks and broad green leaves, and a dozen others, all growing together in a wild profusion of every shade of green.

She walked toward the tree line and shied away when her approach scared a flock of small brown and red birds out of the canopy. Their flight made a sighing sound like a gust of wind, shaking the trees as they flew away. More cautiously, she went to examine the palm trees. Some of them were coconut palms, their fruit not completely ripe, but by now her stomach was so empty she didn’t care.

She walked around one of the trees, thinking. She could not climb the palm’s rough trunk, shinnying up like she had seen boys do in Bermuda, and shaking the tree was like trying to shake
Athena’
s mainmast. It was getting too dark to see. She set her hand burning and held it up like a torch, peering up at the distant, shadowed squashed-round shapes, then had an idea. Carefully, she sparked a fire where the stem of one coconut was attached to the tree, then had to dart backward when, with a snapping sound, the fruit burned away from the stem and fell heavily to the ground near her feet.

Elinor snatched up her prize. Its smooth husk was only barely green and she couldn’t smell the distinctive coconut aroma. She rapped on it with her knuckles and heard it echo. Now, how to open it? She walked down the beach until she reached the stony shore, then picked her way across more carefully; the stones all looked smooth, but cutting her foot on a sharp rock could be deadly, with no way of cleaning the cut. It made her wonder if the wound in her arm might not fester as well, and she pushed the thought away.

At the far end, where the rocky ridge began, was a shelf about knee-high that was below the high-tide mark, smoothed by centuries of rolling waves. She raised the coconut over her head and threw it onto the rock as hard as she could.

The coconut bounced and rolled toward the incoming tide. Elinor shrieked and dove to retrieve it, clutching it, dripping wet, to her chest. Upon examining it, she discovered a thin crack that flexed a little when she tugged at it with her fingernails. It was now dark enough that if she tried flinging it again she would almost certainly lose the coconut. Sighing, she tucked the hard round fruit under her arm and trudged back toward the palm tree, where she burned off a large frond, which she dragged back down the beach before lighting it on fire.

The crackling warmth soothed her frustration and fear, and for a moment she forgot her hunger long enough to think about lying down naked in the middle of it and letting all her worries burn away. Then she shook her head to dispel the notion. The much larger rock beside the shelf was about waist-high to her when she stood on the rounded stone, and since it was above the tide mark its top was jagged and in some places had a sharp, narrow edge like an axe head. Elinor brought the coconut high above her head and then smashed it down onto one of these edges.

This time, the crack that formed was wide enough for her to insert her fingers and pull it apart. She tore the husk away triumphantly only to discover a second, harder shell inside.

She stared at it, then, screaming, smashed it against the rock, over and over, until with a loud crack it came apart and poured a thin watery liquid all down the face of the rock. She snatched it up and sucked and licked the insides, swallowing what was left of the sweet water with relief. Then she tore at the soft, almost gelatinous innards and devoured as much of them as she could. It didn’t fill her, but it eased the deepest aches in her stomach and made her think she could sleep.

No. I can’t sleep. I have to send a signal.

She went back to the tree line and, in the light of the burning frond, surveyed the foliage. There were so many of them. She chose a tall one with spreading limbs and fat green leaves the size of her hand, stepped back, and set it on fire. The flames spread slowly through the living wood until the tree blazed high and bright, filling the air with clouds of smoke. It took her some effort to keep the flames from spreading to its neighbors, but eventually she found a shape for the fire that kept it isolated to that single tree. She let it burn while she poked around looking for shelter and found nothing truly suitable. Well, she would simply have to sleep in the open for one night, and in the morning she could explore further.

She swatted the fire away from a nearby palm and sat on the beach near the burning tree, marveling at its beauty. The air was filled with the smell of wood smoke and a sweet odor that had to come from the tree’s unique wood. She hoped it was not something valuable—no, it would not be allowed to grow wild if someone could make a profit from it.

She caught herself nodding off and started walking to keep herself awake, rubbing her arms and hissing with pain when she rediscovered the wound in her arm. It had stopped bleeding, in part because her sleeve had stuck to it, and she tore at her sleeve until she worked it free of the shirt, wincing as it pulled away from her injury, then awkwardly bound her arm, using her teeth to help secure the knot.

She rotated her arm, testing the makeshift bandage. It reminded her of Ramsay coming into her bedchamber after the battle, his sleeve bloody, talking about killing and talent and what it all meant, and she wished he were there with her, that she were not so terribly alone. The weight of her abandonment and the terror and pain of making her way to this isolated place struck her like the rising tide, trying to crush her, and she curled in on herself and sobbed out her misery until she was empty, numb with exhaustion and ready to sleep.

She extinguished both fires, found a tree with a broad trunk and welcoming roots to curl up under, and tried to make herself comfortable. Her clothes were dry now from standing near the burning palm frond, but the night air was cool and the wind was strong enough that its constant motion over her skin irritated her. Finally, she gave up, went back down the beach and dragged her raft to her sleeping tree, crawled under it, and was finally able to sleep.