Suitors and Sabotage(72)
“Don’t think I would make a good sailor.” Emily glanced at Imogene as if expecting a reflection of her discomfort in her friend’s eyes.
“I imagine it is the same as anything—you would get used to it.”
Emily nodded without conviction and then turned to glance over her shoulder. “How long did you say it takes to row to the island?”
“Just fifteen or so minutes. Not long,” Ben answered.
“Not long,” Emily repeated, and then turned back to sit ramrod straight—eyes glued to some midway point on the beach. “Not long.”
Pushing the boat into the water a little farther, Ernest then lifted his leg, stepping over the gunwales, dripping water everywhere as he did. Ben pushed off as soon as Ernest had the oars locked in place and jumped into the skiff, trying, unsuccessfully, not to drag his feet in the water. Apparently, there would be two with sodden feet for most of the day.
Using the retreating wave to pull them deeper, Ernest hauled on the oars and turned them about in jig time. Ben was soon settled on his bench, gripping his oar handles. After watching Ernest’s rhythm for a moment, he matched his pace. Soon they were away from the beach and past the most treacherous of rocks—Ben had not mentioned them to Emily, though he saw Imogene looking into the water with wide eyes.
As the beach receded, Ben glanced over his shoulder to sight the island. When he turned back, his gaze fell on Emily, who was no longer gripping her seat with a white-knuckled grasp. “Better?” he asked, impressed. Bravery was not about being nonchalant in a dangerous situation; bravery was doing something despite being terrified. Emily was being extremely brave.
“Yes, thank you. It seemed as if we were about to tip, and I cannot swim.”
The swell of the waves provided a gentle roll as they pushed past the halfway point. Imogene swiveled her head from side to side, smiling at the view, while Emily stared straight ahead at—Ben assumed—the nearing island.
“Most. Ladies. Can’t,” Ernest said, talking in time to his exertion.
Ben couldn’t see his brother, because he was facing stern as well, but Imogene was watching him, and something on his face made her smile. “A necessity for those living by the sea, perhaps?” she asked.
“Indeed.”
Looking up, Imogene caught Ben staring. He flushed, swallowed, and glanced back over his shoulder to gauge their progress. The rocky shore was visible now, odd boulders peeking out of the water, offering a hazardous maze. The best landing spot was a cove around the point near the ruins. Ben directed his brother to pull to the right.
“Almost there, ladies—”
“Benjamin?” Emily sounded anxious again.
“No concern, Emily. This beach is on the lee side of the island. Far fewer waves. It will be easier to disembark. Let us do the work—”
“Ben!” This time it was Imogene who spoke, and she sounded as anxious as Emily.
“Not to worry,” he started to repeat, but glanced her way as he did so and saw that Imogene was pointing to the bottom of the boat. Water was seeping up through the floorboards—far more than could be accounted for by wet boots—and the line was rising. “Bail, Imogene!” Ben shouted. “Grab the bucket! Anything! Ernest, hard left, we have to go in double time.”
“But the rocks!” Ernest shouted, even as he set the boat on the new course and picked up the pace.
“Better hung up on a rock than swamped.” Looking past his brother, Ben could see the girls bailing. They had flung off their bonnets and were throwing water out of the boat as fast as their bucket … and fruitless bowl … could manage. But they were not getting ahead of it.
For several eons, Ben and Ernest raced time until they rammed into a rock and it bounced them sideways. Dropping his oars, Ben turned. He flung himself across the front and stared into the water, shouting instructions at Ernest. Terra firma was still a good hundred or so feet away, and the skiff was getting lower in the water. It was harder to maneuver. “Hold on to the boat, Imogene, if it swamps completely. Do you hear me, Emily? It’s a wooden boat; it will float. Right, Ernest! No, the other right! There. Straight on. Give ’er a strong pull and then left.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Ben could see that the water was still only halfway to the gunwales. There was a good chance they were going to make it.
Then a wave dipped into a trough, exposing a rock directly ahead of them. “Left! Left!” Ben shouted as the skiff jerked sideways, glancing off the rock—directly into the path of another boulder. “Right!”
This time a cresting wave took the skiff up and over with a screech and groan of splintering wood. They were thirty feet from shore, but it was a shore strewn with obstacles, and they had two ladies who could not swim.
“I’m going in,” Ben shouted, jumping to his feet. He grabbed the mooring rope. “I’ll guide. Don’t pull against me, Ernest.”
“But—”
Ben didn’t let his brother continue. He slung one leg over the side and then stretched across the gunwale. Shifting his weight, he pulled his other leg over and dropped into the cold, brackish water. It wasn’t as far down as it should have been. Kicking out, his boot slammed into an unseen rock; Ben used it as leverage—pushing away, taking the skiff with him. The rope ran through his hands, burning, as the boat fought, pushed in the wrong direction by the waves. Scraping across another rock, the skiff ground to a halt. It shifted slightly with the next wave but only to hang up further. Pull as he might, Ben could not get it off the rock. It would not budge.