He wished he had a rope. Then he corrected himself and decided if he was going to waste a wish, he’d wish to already be in Krondor – in the apartment he used as James Jamison rather than the hovel he used in his role as Jim Dasher, Mocker – bathed, rested, dressed, and entertaining Lady Michele de Frachette, daughter of the Earl of Montagren and he hoped, some day, the mother of his children.
The wind picked up and he saw the ships at anchor begin to rock slightly as the ocean chop increased. Ah, how to get there? He looked down again. He was slightly over six feet in height, so a dead hang drop from the ledge meant twenty-four feet or so to the sand. Still sufficient to break enough bones to prevent him getting to the ship. If he could just shave two yards off the distance…
He stripped off his boots and threw them to the sand below. Then off came his belt and trousers, then his shirt. He rapidly worked so as to get this over with before he reconsidered. He tied the belt around the tree closest to the edge of the ledge, a scant thing looking barely able to support its own weight, let alone his. Still, it only had to hold for a moment or two. He then tied one leg of his trousers to the belt, making the best knot he could, then his shirt arm to the other leg. He threw the rest of the shirt over the edge and looked down. The makeshift rope of clothing had given him the six feet he needed.
Never one to hesitate, he rolled over on his belly, ignoring the scrapes on the rock and the pain from the cuts he had already suffered from falling into the tree branches. He wiggled backwards, hoping no one from the ship was watching, given the state he was in. Then he pushed himself off and quickly went hand under hand down the fabric of his trousers and shirt. He felt a slight jerk and realized the tree was starting to fall. He went as quickly down as he could, holding at the bottom. As his momentum was halted, he heard the crack of wood above.
With a single shout he let go, flexing his knees to take the shock of hitting the ground. He hit the sand and struck the side of his head against a rock, which caused his eyes to lose focus for a moment. Then he rolled up and over and looking up, he saw the tree that was about to fall on him. Jim Dasher just continued to roll, striking more rocks as he tried to avoid being crushed by the small tree he had uprooted from the ledge above. He heard the tree fall with a crash.
Lying on the sand, aching and his head ringing from the blow, he realized suddenly – he was on the beach! He struggled to get up, and finally managed to stand despite his head throbbing and his vision being unclear. He stood motionless for a full minute trying not to fall over. His stomach knotted and he felt sick for a few moments, then he took a long, deep breath. He knew his head-blow was going to make him less than fit. He needed to start a fire to signal the captain of the Queen of the Soldanas to send a boat to pick him as soon as possible.
Jim Dasher found his clothes firmly buried under the bole of the tree that had almost crushed him. He cleared away sand and discovered his trousers were firmly pinned between the tree and rocks. His shirt tore as he pulled it out, and he could find nothing of his belt. He looked about and found his boots not too far away, so he went over and put them on. He stood feeling ridiculous in his torn shirt, underlinen, and boots but sighed in resignation. He needed his belt: it contained a small pouch in which was hidden a piece of flint. The buckle had a steel tongue, and together they could be used to start a fire. He could probably find a piece of flint nearby, but he knew he’d never find a piece of steel.
He looked at the three ships and suddenly they were twice as far as he had thought when he first saw them. That was because he knew he would now have to swim to them.
At least the wind would keep the surface roiling and hide him from the sight of enemies, he thought as he took off his boots. Regretfully he tossed them aside – he really liked them and it took a lot of work to make really fine new boots look old and worthless. Observing the wind and the spindrift coming off the choppy water, he wondered if that might keep the sharks away. Considering how many cuts he sported, he hoped so. Well, he thought as he waded into the surf, he’d soon find out.
Jim almost got his head removed by a belaying pin for his troubles as he clambered up the anchor rope. The sailor whom he had surprised had been warned, along with the rest of the crew, to be vigilant and wary of surprise attack.
‘You never should have got that close, fella-me-lad,’ he said as he helped the sailor off the deck, where he had knocked him down. ‘I’ve a bump on my head and it’s taken me off a bit.’
The sailor recognized Jim as one of the party sent ashore with General Kaspar, but he still looked ready to fight. ‘Where’s the Captain?’ asked Jim, heading off further disputes.
‘Coming,’ said another sailor as the entire deck crew came to gawk at the sopping wet man wearing only a shirt and drawers.
‘What’s this then?’ asked the first mate. ‘A deserter?’
‘Hardly,’ said Jim, slowly adding ‘sir,’ as he retreated to his role of common thief. ‘I have news for the captain.’