The Jewel of the Sea (Thomas Nickerson)

Slander

Whipped around by the waves, she could only pray to not be smashed against the sharp rocks surrounding the island.

Elizabeth felt sand beneath her hands and feet before another wave took her in once more, turned the glimmer of a blue sky hell-ward, the surface disappearing in an opaque cloud of bright white bubbles and foam for a long moment. Then there was a beach. The gentle surf barely soaking her once fine ivory gauze.

The tattered fabric had moulded to her figure like hands to clay. She wasn't wearing a corset, much to her lungs' relief. She hadn't done so since the visit to Atacames. Without it, her frosty silhouette could have almost been mistaken for a marble Aphrodite statue, her pale garment as transparent as a ghost nearing the end of its tether.

Elizabeth stood in the gently lapping waves, on a forlorn beach on an island unknown to her. Her legs shook under the pressure but nevertheless, she dragged herself along the coastline in search of a familiar face almost immediately.

Mr. Chappel coughed and spluttered salty water nearby, slightly further up the beach.

Not far from him, her father sat motionless in the sand, head bowed, a steady drip drip drip of water falling from his thin nose.

Owen. She nodded at the first mate. So, at least one man of her own boat had survived the direct attack of the beast.

She started shouting Thomas' name somewhere close to the rocks reaching skyward like spindly, sharp arms of drowning men. Her eyes felt dry and ached from too much sun and salt, but she couldn't make out a crushed body between the rocks. A speck of hope.

She turned, walked back towards George still sitting there, gazing listlessly at the sand between his naked feet. Her cousin sat closeby now, long, blonde hair plastered to his nice face. His dark eyes hollow with weariness.

Witnessed too much.

A great scraping sound like nails on a chalkboard momentarily rented the tropical air, and Elizabeth winced as it rattled her brain.

Her head snapped toward the source of the cacophony where three men, one visibly shorter than the others, came into view.

"Thomas?"

She fell into a slow jog. The ground was unsteady, she thought this was what being drunk must feel like. Mr. Lawrence was stood in the shallow waters, trying to tug the sad skeleton of one of their whale boats onto the isle.

Mr. Ramsdell was at the other end, white froth consuming him at his waist as he tried with all his might to help push the boat up the beach.

Both men seemed possessed by their singular task for they were missing what truly needed saving. That's when a mop of curly brown hair waltzed passed them, chasing after the remains of the supplies that were being tugged back out to sea.

Elizabeth's green eyes seemed more awake and clear than they had been in a while, and she dared to hold onto the feeling of hope blossoming in her chest.

"Thomas!"

She picked up speed, a smile accompanying her which stretched her sunburnt skin almost painfully, but Thomas rewarded her with a lopsided grin of his own when he saw her.

"Elizabeth!" His voice broke.

He dropped the supplies instantly and they fell into the ocean with a resounding splash. He forced himself against the billowing waves, breath haggard, sweat accumulating on his forehead, careening through the depthless shore like a fish out of water.

Thomas had just about made it onto the barren, brittle bank when a rough hand grabbed ahold of his arm, pulling him back. "Wait a minute," Mr. Lawrence ordered him, his voice stern but with a hint of disquietude.