Rourke could have echoed those words. He ordered the helmsman to keep the Windsprite well off the schooner. Usually he came alongside in the lee, but the schooner’s position made that impossible. The reef jutted nearly to the surface alee of the wreck. He’d keep his distance and take his boat across to the wrecked vessel.
A large swell crashed over the Windsprite’s bow, and the helmsman lost her to starboard. The next wave drove her parallel to the wreck—and the reef. One more and they’d find themselves on top of the wrecked schooner.
“Bring her into the wind,” Rourke yelled.
The wild-eyed helmsman struggled to bring the Windsprite about, but the force of the seas was too much for one man. Rourke joined the effort, and together they brought her into the wind and out of danger.
“Drop anchor,” he ordered.
Only after his men had set anchor fore and aft could Rourke turn his attention to the schooner.
“Lower the boat!” Rourke fingered the license in his pocket, which he would produce as proof he could complete the job. Masters usually insisted they did not require assistance. This one could not, or he was a fool. He could, however, ask Rourke to tow the wreck off the reef in the hope it would float. The Windsprite’s boat was already equipped to bring the necessary lines for such an operation.
Rourke flung one leg over the bulwark and reached for the rope ladder to descend to his boat, but he paused when he noticed the schooner’s boat heading for the Windsprite. Two oarsmen flanked the master and another officer, likely a mate or pilot. If the master was coming to him, the man must have accepted his need for assistance. That made Rourke’s task easier.
After Rourke’s crew secured the schooner’s boat alongside, the white-haired master climbed aboard, followed by a fussy gentleman that Rourke instantly recognized as the most worthless pilot in Key West. The man—Poppinclerk by name—had the gall to brush at his wool coat as if the Windsprite had dirtied it. No wonder the ship had foundered. Rourke fisted his hands. If any lives were lost due to that dandy’s incompetence, Rourke would pound the man so far out of Key West that he’d never set foot on the island again.
The master approached. “Captain Cross of the schooner Victory out of Charleston. Are you a wrecker?”
“I am.” Rourke introduced himself and presented his license. His pulse accelerated. A ship out of Charleston could be hauling valuable tobacco.
John held up a lantern, and the master gave the wrecking license a cursory glance. Procedure dictated Rourke ask what services the master required. He scanned the horizon for any sign of other wrecking vessels. It wouldn’t take long before the first arrived.
“Do you want us to haul your vessel off the reef?”
“Name your terms,” Captain Cross said briskly.
“Flat fee if we can float her. Salvage rights if not.” Standard procedure.
“She’s fast aground and taking on water.” Cross rubbed his whiskered jaw. “Try floating her first.”
That was no surprise. Masters hated turning over their vessels to salvagers. “The cargo?”
“Mostly rice and raw muslin bound for Havana.”
Rourke fought disappointment. If the vessel was bilged like he suspected, he didn’t stand to make much of an award. This cargo and its destination pointed to goods intended for slave consumption. That meant poor quality. Even though the cloth could be salvaged, salt water would ruin the rice. He would make almost nothing off salvage.
“If you can’t float her,” the captain added, “we’ll need passage for our crew and passengers.”
“Passengers?” That snapped Rourke from his calculations. “How many?”
“Two. Both women.”
Women! That would make the rescue more difficult, for women usually did not handle adversity well. Some swooned. Some succumbed to hysterics. Others appeared calm but slipped climbing into or out of the ship’s boat. Women often had offspring with them. “Any children?”
Poppinclerk, who’d stood near during the negotiations, absently polished a gilt button with his handkerchief. “Not unless you count the darkie wench.”
Rourke held his tongue at the derogatory term. A tongue-lashing would be lost on Poppinclerk. Instead, he focused on the master. “Then there are three passengers.”
“Two ladies and a Negro,” Cross confirmed.
“From Charleston?”
Cross nodded.
John’s eyes widened.
Rourke shook his head. A city the size of Charleston boasted thousands of women, any of whom might book passage on a schooner. Moreover, Miss Benjamin would not be bound for Havana, and Cross had not indicated a planned stop in Key West.
John would not let it go. “Dis Negro, what her name?”
The master shrugged. “How would I know? She belongs to Miss Benjamin.”
Rourke choked.
They both knew what that meant.
John looked ready to leap over the side of the Windsprite regardless of the heaving seas. Rourke grabbed his arm, even though the same desire thundered in his ears.
Elizabeth was on that ship. He’d expected her to return after her mother’s death, but when the months passed without so much as a rumor of her return, he’d given up hope. “Miss Elizabeth Benjamin?” He held his breath.