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What was happening? Did no one even know they had been hit, cut in half? Or had somebody meant to kill him? And the poor helpless ferryman. Where was he? The man didn’t deserve this!
Lungs bursting, he fought his way to the surface again. He sucked in the air, starving for it, and swiveled around in the darkness to look for the ferryman. He shouted, “Hey! Where are you? Hey!”
He heard a cry. He strained to hear it again, but there was only the water.
Then it came, growing fainter.
He struck out toward it. It was years since he had swum, but fury and the impulse for survival took him across the current toward the cry.
He had almost struck the ferryman before he knew he had reached him. There was a brief flailing of arms in the air, a lot of splashing. A few times Monk went under again. The ferryman was dead weight, seemingly unconscious. Please God he was not dead!
Monk held the man’s face above the waves, and shouted as loudly as he could, simply, “Help! Help!”
It seemed like ages. He was growing weaker. His legs were so cold he could hardly feel them. The water came over him, suffocating, as if hungry to devour him. Each time it was longer before he came to the surface again.
Then he lost the ferryman. The current swept the man out of his grasp; his hands were too numb to keep hold. He was sinking. Despair overwhelmed him. They would both die, like all those from the Princess Mary that he had failed to save—and for whom there would be no justice.
Then something heaved him up by his arms, something very strong. Was he caught in a net? A rope? He was losing consciousness.
WHEN HE OPENED HIS eyes he could feel a touch on his face, something wet. He gasped, then vomited up river water. But he was breathing?
He tried to sit up, and collapsed as he was pushed down again.
“You stay there, sir,” a man’s voice said out of the darkness. “We’ll be ashore soon. You was just about a goner. You take it easy. I’ll get you a stiff brandy. Take the taste o’ the river out o’ yer mouth.”
“Ferryman?” Monk struggled to make his voice audible. It mattered. It would be all wrong if he were alive and that poor man were dead. He couldn’t remember why, but he was certain of it. “What happened?”
“Looks like someone rammed yer,” the voice replied. “Ferryman’ll be all right. Take a little time, mind. Broke ’is arm bad, poor devil. Ought to be drownded ’isself, whoever was in that boat, but we gotter catch the bastard first. Yer got a few bones good an’ broke too, I reckon. You’ll ’ave the mother an’ father o’ bruises on yer by termorrer.”
“Thank you,” Monk said weakly. His head ached, his chest ached, and he felt sick. He felt he must have swallowed half the filthy river. Still, he was alive, and so was the ferryman. He closed his eyes and gave in to the pain and the cold, gratefully.
WHEN THEY REACHED THE shore on the south side Hester and Scuff were waiting. She was white-faced, hollow-eyed, trying to hold her panic in. Scuff was standing beside her, suddenly looking very grown up. Then as soon as Monk clambered out of the boat—with help, but alive and comparatively unhurt—Scuff had to struggle not to show his tears of relief.
Hester went to Monk immediately, not caring who watched her take him in her arms, touching him gently, as if he might break. Scuff hung back, self-conscious, uncertain if at this particular moment he really belonged.
Monk looked at him over Hester’s shoulder and smiled, holding out his hand.
Scuff hesitated, and then came forward, still not sure. Only as Monk’s hand closed over his did he grasp it back, then abandoned all pretense and threw his arms around him, barely aware of Monk’s gasp and the gritted teeth as he returned the embrace, pain ignored.
A few of the local men insisted on helping him home in their wagon, which was waiting just nearby. With Hester and Scuff on either side of Monk, he limped over to it, thanking the men with startling gratitude. The climb from the dockside to Paradise Place would have been nightmarish.
It was a rattling, bumping ride home. Little was said. Monk was shaking with cold, pain filling him. When they stopped outside his house, Scuff helped him out of the wagon again onto the ground, and then inside and into the kitchen. He was stronger than Monk had expected.
Hester questioned him as to where he was injured and checked everything he said, then helped him slip off his sodden clothes. She washed off the river mud and as much as she could out of his hair. She regarded his bruises with a practiced eye, hiding her own distress.
“Your ribs need some binding up.” She said it as calmly as she could, but her voice trembled. She was acutely aware that Scuff was beside her, fetching hot water and bandages, and holding things for her, tense with deep, awful fear that his world was coming apart in front of him and he could do nothing to save it.
“It’ll be all right,” Monk insisted. His teeth were chattering with shock and cold, so his words emerged mumbled.
“Of course it will,” Hester agreed. “As long as you do as you’re told.”
“Hester …”
“Be quiet,” she said softly, blinking as the tears slid down her cheeks. “Unless there’s something medical I need to know, just sit still. Scuff, will you make us all some hot, very strong tea, please? And put sugar in it. I know you don’t like it, neither do I, but it’s medicine. I’ll add the brandy.”
MONK SANK INTO A deep sleep almost as soon as he got into his own bed. He ached all over, but Hester had given him various powders, which he had accepted gratefully, to help ease the pain. He hurt too much to stand on his pride.
But his sleep was not untroubled. He woke up gasping for air, still feeling the icy water holding him prisoner, hungry, sucking him down. No matter how he struggled, he could not break free. His whole body was filled with pain, throbbing in his chest, his belly, his limbs, even his head. He was imprisoned by the binding Hester had put on his chest. The blankets suffocated him, tying his arms to prevent him escaping.
