Page 4 of New Storm Rising
Dang!
“Mr Linton?”
“Whatnow?” Whirling around, I sent Mr Ambrose a look that made it only too clear who would be sleeping on the couch tonight. If, that is, we had a couch on this bloody ship. Heck!
“That,” he said, pointing past me towards the stack of crates, “was not the right kind of knot.”
“Wha—”
A wave crashed against the ship, and the whole thing jerked violently. Slipping on the wet deck, I lost my footing and sailed towards the floor. Shock. Pain. A huge shadow from above, rushing towards me! Oh heck! The crate!
Instinctively, I tried to raise my arms. But before I could get them up to shield me…
Thud!
Mr Rikkard Ambrose moved faster than my eye could see. One moment, the crate that had slid free from its bindings was heading straight for my stomach. The next, he was hovering above me, jaw clenched, muscles tense, as he held back the massive thing that had slammed into his back.
“How chivalrous of you,” I told him. Frowning, I put a hand to his forehead. “Are you sick?”
“You’re very much welcome, Mr Linton,” ground out my husband from between clenched teeth. Back straining, he pushed against the crate until it slid back on the pile with a thud. His expression didn’t reveal a hint of the pain of having half a stone of weight digging into his flesh, except for a muscle in his cheek twitching, once.
“You know…you needn’t have done that. It would have hurt, but I would have been all right.” I raised my chin, proudly. “I’m tough!”
His sea-coloured eyes gazed into mine for a long moment, somehow longer than seemed normal, before he reached out, gently touching my cheek. His gaze swept over me, as if I were a priceless, and completely uninsured treasure. “Not right now you aren’t.”
Turning around, he stalked towards the door of the captain’s cabin. In the doorway, he halted.
“In the near future, be more careful, Mrs Ambrose. That’s an order!”
And with that, he was gone.
I stared at the place where, just a moment ago, I had seen a broad, retreating back. What the heck was up with him? This wasn’t just strange. This was beyond that. He almost acted as if—
“Ship ahoy!” Came a shout from far, far above me, out of the crow’s nest.[2]“Ship ahoy to the west!”
I turned instinctively, even though knowing from down here on the deck I wouldn’t be able to see anything—and froze when, in fact, I did. There in the distance, at the border between sea and sky, a column of smoke was rising heavenwards. Moments later, a distant explosion rang out over the ocean.
Well, well…looks like my honeymoon just got interesting.
The Ship on a Leisure Cruise to Hell
Around twenty-five miles to the west, on the roiling ocean, a ship was having navigation problems. Most of them stemmed from the fact that the passengers were trying to kill the crew.
“Who the hell let those slaves out of their cages? Knock ‘em out before—aagh!”
A plank slammed into the fat man’s face, throwing him back against the wall and knocking him clean out. The young black man wielding it, who, judging by the way his ribs protruded, had to have gone through the world’s most gruesome diet, seemed to consider another hit to the man’s bollocks, then decided to conserve his energy and just bent down, pulling the keys of the unconscious slaver’s belt. Rushing over to a nearby door, he pulled back the latch and threw it open, whereupon dozens of equally miserable dark-skinned figures in rags looked up at him, stunned.
“What are you waiting for?” the young man hollered. “Out! Move!”
A moment passed in silence—then the people sprang to their feet, only to be dragged down immediately by the chains wrapped around their ankles. Rushing forward, the young man jammed a key into the corresponding lock, setting the first man free. Then the second. Then the third. Slowly, disbelievingly rising to their feet, they stumbled out into the corridor.
Moments later, a door above banged, and footsteps thundered down a narrow set of wooden stairs. A gaggle of men burst into the corridor, looking even more ragged and miserable than the others, with wounds scattered all over their bodies, and sweat drenching the rags they wore for clothes. There were two crucial differences, however. Number one, the weapons in their hands. Number two, the look in their eyes, which were burning with fierce fire.
“We’ve done it!” a huge man at the front roared, swinging a massive cudgel in the air that looked suspiciously like a broken-off bedpost. “We’ve beaten those Spanish bastards! Did you hear that, Itoro, you little weasel?”
“Great, Kojo!” Beaming from one ear to another, the young man strode forward. “Everyone, it’s all right! It’s just Kojo! Everything is fine!”
The recently-released slaves, who had stiffened with apprehension, sagged in relief against the wall.
