Page 66 of Go, Rogue

Chapter

27

Catherine makes her way back down the interior corridor of The Elphame, which now has at least twice the amount of water covering the deck, and then down another ladder and through the narrow walkway that leads into the boiler room.

The steam has mostly dissipated through the open doorway, and she can see Rogers on the ground where she left him. She kneels beside the first mate and feels for his pulse.

When she finds it beating strongly, she exhales in relief. Thank heavens.

“Rogers,” she whispers, shaking him lightly on the shoulder. “Rogers, wake up!”

He doesn’t move, so she tries again, shaking harder, until he grunts and cracks open one eye.

“There you are!” She leans in closer to him. “Are you alright? Can you rise?”

She knows she should wait and give the man a moment, but she can’t. Not with what she’s seen above deck. “I do apologize for this,” she says as she takes his hand and begins to pull him upright into a sitting position.

“Lady Catherine West,” Rogers groans, coming back to life. “Will you please stop?”

Catherine drops his hand and leans back on her heels, staring at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Could you please desist,” he waves his hand at her, “tugging on me.”

“Rogers,” she says slowly. “What did you just call me?”

The first mate sits up and holds his head in his hands for a moment, grimacing. “Well, that cat’s been let loose, then,” he says finally.

“What cat?! What is happening?” She shakes her head. “There’s no time for this, not right now. They’ve got Andrew. Although, we will have a discussion about how you know my name later. ”

He blinks at her again. “Who is they?”

“James. The helmsman. The man who hit you. And, well, also the men who have boarded the ship. His men, I think. So, if you can please stand, we’ve got to go get him back.”

“Oh,” he says. “Is that all?”

She ignores his sarcasm. “It isn’t, now that you ask. We also seem to be taking on water. We ought to see to that as well.” She stands and extends her hand down. “It really is rather important that you stand up before more of it reaches the boiler room. Unless you like drowning.” She pauses and stares at him for a moment. “Whoever you are. I suppose Rogers isn’t your real name either, is it? Does anyone on this dratted ship use their actual name?”

He grasps her hand and lets her pull him to his feet. “Not if they’re employed by the Home Office,” he says when he makes it upright. “Which does beg your forgiveness for the deception, my lady.” He gives her a short, perfunctory bow.

“Stop that.” She turns for the door but they both still when they hear the heavy thump of boots rushing toward them.

“Remind me,” Rogers whispers, “who has control of the ship again?”

“Not us,” Catherine says, her eyes glued on the open door frame and whoever is about to run through it.

McGann presses his arms against the rope that binds him as his eyes sweep over The Elphame. The fibers cut into his skin just as thoroughly as the sight of his beloved ship cuts into his heart. She’s in a state of chaos with the port side caved in from the cannon fire. Men and debris are strewn across the main deck and he’s certain she’ll be taking on water below. Rogers is missing. McNeil has done the best he can, but he’s no match for the armed men James has brought on board to quell the crew. And the pain in McGann’s leg is extraordinary.

He eyes the rough bandage that’s been applied to his thigh. The bleeding, at least, has stopped. And he knows the arsehole didn’t hit the femoral artery or any other major vein or he’d have bled out already. And Catherine is safe, for the time being. He saw her dip back down the ladder to the decks below and no one followed her.

Small graces, but he’ll take every goddamned one of them he can.

James’s men separate the crew into small groups of two to three and stand watch over them, some armed with muskets and some with pistols. James himself moves back and forth between the two ships over the ladders.

McGann struggles futilely against the rope that binds him, but it does no good. The hemp fibers are sharp and they dig in when he moves, resulting in painful, scraping tears of his skin from his flesh. And each squirm of his body makes the wound in his thigh scream all the louder.

He’d keep at it if he thought he was making progress. But he isn’t; he’s only making things worse.

Calm yourself, eejit. Wait for the right moment to come. It always does if you’ve the patience.