When Tom didn’t return by the third night, Rourke assumed that the young man either had failed to reach Anabelle or had been discovered. Both left him in an awkward position with the planned escape just two days away. Rourke gripped the rail. He was a man of action. All this sitting and waiting, each day risking detection, was driving him mad. He needed to do something, anything.
“I’m going ashore,” he told John.
“How you go ta shore seein’ as Master Tom has de boat?”
As usual, his mate’s logic couldn’t be questioned, but it didn’t improve Rourke’s temper. “I can’t just sit here swatting at mosquitoes.”
“Don’t see dat you got much choice.”
John was right, but Rourke couldn’t sit still when every crewman’s future was at stake. This had to succeed. John knew that as well as anyone.
“How can you be so calm? If I were you, I’d be swimming for shore.”
John grinned. “We do our part. De rest in God’s hands.”
Simple enough to say. Tough to believe. “Your faith is stronger than mine.”
“God bring my Anabelle home in His time. He bring Miz Lizbeth home in His time.”
That was what kept Rourke awake at night. Four years of uncertainty had been difficult. He couldn’t wait another four years. “I’m no Jacob, working seven years only to have her father hold her back and ask for seven more.”
John guffawed and slapped his thigh. “Dat be you, aw right. But remember, in de end, Jacob get his Rachel.”
Rourke shook his head. “I have my doubts.”
“She wait.”
Even if she did, Rourke might never be able to return. If Charles Benjamin discovered Rourke had helped Anabelle escape, he could never again set foot on Key West soil. To do so meant prison.
So he waited.
Aside from the rustle of mangrove leaves, nighttime brought relative quiet. Few animals inhabited the smaller islands. Most had no source of fresh water. Those living creatures that could exist in the harsh environment were small and relatively quiet. Crabs, lizards, and snakes might be on the move, but no human would hear them. Occasionally a school of small fish skittered across the surface, racing to escape sharks or barracuda.
A whistle rang through the air. Startled, Rourke glanced up to where the lookout had been perched since nightfall. He crossed to the mast and waited for Rander to climb down.
“Tom or trouble?” Rourke asked the moment the man’s feet hit the deck.
“Dunno. Skiff looks ’bout the right size, but if it’s him, he’s hurt. He stops ta rest every couple strokes.”
“Stand by to haul anchor at my command.” Rourke rushed to the bow where he could get a first look at the incoming boat. If this wasn’t Tom, if it was a traitor, he would give the signal. The tide was still strong enough to carry them through the narrow opening without the assistance of sail. He trained his gaze on that opening and motioned for the men to be silent.
Dark mangroves lined each side of the cut and limited his view to dead ahead, but he could hear the erratic splash of oars. Instead of a regular pull, each shallow dip came at a different pace. Either Tom was wounded, as the lookout had surmised, or they were about to face an uninvited guest.
Rourke motioned for each man to arm himself. John held out his hand for the key to the gun locker. Rourke reached for it but reconsidered. In the darkness, gunfire could do more harm than good. One jumpy crewman could fire early and set off a cascade of bullets.
He waved off the request. They would use blades.
Rourke listened for the egret croak but heard only the erratic splashing. This could not be Tom unless the lad was too badly injured to call out. Rourke wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his cutlass. If this was a foe, he intended to win the confrontation.
The bow of a skiff slid past the edge of the mangroves. Rourke motioned for his men to line both gunwales. Until he knew which side the boat would approach, he had to prepare for both. The lookout had seen just one man at the oars. Rourke’s crew of nine could take a single man handily.
The next pull of the oars brought the boat squarely into the channel. Even in the moonlight, he recognized his ship’s boat. Tom? No, the stature of the rower wasn’t right. Too small. The oars drooped.
“Ahoy, the Windsprite.” The weak, high-pitched call from the skiff did not belong to Tom. It sounded like a young boy.
Why would a boy seek them out? Unless . . . Would Tom have sent him? If so, wouldn’t he have given the boy the signal?
Confused, Rourke lowered his weapon and pulled out his spyglass.
The boy in the boat stood. He appeared to be wearing some sort of cloak, judging from the shape. Rourke could not make out a face, but he could see that the boy was alone.