Pirates of the Caribbean: Barbossa and the King's Messenger (Book 1)

Escape

Chapter One -- Escape

"There's no turning back now," whispered the gypsy, as he disappeared into the gloom of the moonless Cornish night, leaving me standing at water's edge. 

His words sent an icy tremor through me, but who turns back when the devil himself is giving chase? 

The feeble lights of Pencarren did nothing to dispel the darkness at the shoreline, but that suited my purpose. Under my hat, the ends of my newly-cropped hair, darkened with indigo and henna, whipped about my neck. The night air was cold, but I had no cloak - only the haphazardly assembled gypsy garb which the Romanys had provided to aid in my escape. My last, bleak hope was pinned on one old friend of my late father, but the harbour was silent and half empty. 

For the thousandth time, I touched the locket at my neck.

Just then, someone gave a soft, low whistle. I turned towards the nearby fishing quay and moved cautiously forward, peering at the black shadows beneath it. Wading into the shallow water under the dock, I held my breath. I was almost certain I could hear the slap of the water against the hull of a boat, invisible in the darkness. 

I edged closer.

A pair of powerful arms seized me before I could make a sound, pulling me over the gunwale and into the boat. A gruff voice at my ear said, "Hush - lie down!"

I lay down in the bottom of the boat, clutching the bag that contained my few belongings, as unseen hands threw a quantity of burlap over me. Someone moved about, standing in the boat, and the small craft rocked and scraped against the piers as it was maneuvered out from under the wharf. My companion took a seat and I heard him begin to pull the oars, rowing us away from shore.

After some time, he ceased rowing."We're past the harbour entrance," he said. "Ye can come out from under that sackin'."

I struggled out from under the burlap and took a seat. The person who had effected my escape was sitting opposite me, oars in hand, and proceeded to study me for several moments. His silhouette revealed him to be a tall man with a broad back and strong arms, but I could not make out his face or any other details.

"Name's Rufus," he said at last, in a West Country accent. "Ship's layin' by, round the point over there. Sorry, but ye'll have t' climb the laddar. Cap'n says any closer t' port would be very unwise indeed." 

He resumed rowing as he talked. "We have our own ways o' doin' things, I expect ye know. Ye'll find out more aboard ship - but hark, now: when I take ye up the laddar, yer m' dattur, Jenny, an' yer goin' straight to yer quarters, right? Try not t' look about, nor say nothin'. No questions, no stoppin', right?"

"Yes." My throat and chest were tight. So I was not yet safe, even on the ship belonging to my father's closest friend.

As we rounded the point, I saw the well-loved ship laying by. The longboat drew next to the hull, and Rufus motioned me to remain, while he climbed the ladder first, taking my bag with him. Next, he leaned down and indicated that I could now ascend the rungs that led up from the chilly dark water. His strong hands reached down to hoist me on to the deck, and I was on board the Misty Lady at last.

As I tried to keep my gaze focused downward, Rufus seized me by my arm and steered me to the main hatchway, down the steps, and into a very small cabin. The room was furnished with a narrow berth, small looking glass, and wooden shelf which held a lantern, bottle of rum, and two tankards. He tossed my bag on the floor and adjusted the lantern. I sat on the berth, every muscle tensed, as he stood with arms crossed, his back against the closed door.

He stared down at me with a grim set to his mouth. "I'm the ship's doctor," he said.

Now that I could see him, I thought he cut a most extraordinary figure for a doctor. Rufus was a man of perhaps sixty years, taller than average, very roughly dressed, and his long, heavy, raw-boned arms were bared to the elbows. His hands were outsized, with elongated, gnarled fingers; I thought he would have triumphed easily in a prize fight. Silver-grey hair was scraped back from his badly-shaven face and bound into a very long frizzled pigtail that almost reached his waist. His face was seamed, with a deep scar across his nose, and his gaze was hard and direct, under his straight grey eyebrows. He had a somewhat wide mouth that curved down at the corners, in a perfect arc of disapproval.