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“Swim? In that water?” Rosalind stared out at the seas, still choppy from the storm that had battered a hardy ship to pieces. “I can’t swim that far.”
“You’ll have to. We must get to the boats. They’re coming this way. They see us.”
“The waves will take us under! Marlow, I can’t. It’s too far.”
It did seem a far way. In truth, it was the distance between life and death. More sailors started abandoning ship as the waterline approached the deck. Waves crashed against the cracking hull, spitting cold, foamy water over both of them.
“See them swimming,” he said, pointing to the men in the water. “We can make it if we try. The current’s driving toward the shore. You must do this, Rosalind. Stop panicking and look at me.”
He was gripping her too hard, breathing too fast. He felt desperate. She stared into his eyes as if he could fix this situation that was more awful than any he’d faced in his life. He couldn’t fix it. They had to jump.
“Come with me.” The water was splashing over the deck now. If they didn’t get off the ship it would drag them down as it sank to the bottom. “I’ll hold you. We’ll jump in together.”
“I can’t. Please.”
When she resisted, he picked her up, gripping her flailing limbs. “Darling, I’m not leaving you behind.”
He jumped with her into the ocean, into the vast rocking waves. They went under together, the cold temperature a shock. He pulled her back to the surface and she came up spluttering, her hair plastered over her eyes.
“We’re going to swim toward those boats, straight as we can,” he shouted, pulling her along with him.
“I’m trying. I’ll try. W-w-what if I can’t?”
“If you can ride a horse neck or nothing through the fields of Oxfordshire, you can swim to that boat over there. Come, Rosalind. Kick your legs. Ride with the current.”
She was trying, but the water pulled her down each time a wave washed over them. Her damned skirts.
“Here. Come here.” He reached beneath the water and gripped her multi-layered petticoat. The garment gave easily when he tore it. “Kick it away.”
“Don’t rip off my dress,” she begged, trying to extricate herself from the petticoat’s fabric.
He ripped the bottom half of her skirt only, the decorative lace that had probably cost her father a fortune. It was sacrificed to the sea gods, to free her legs for swimming. She still had her chemise for decency, not that decency mattered now.
“Swim,” he yelled over the shouts of the men around them. The ship was going under. The mast sliced into the water a few dozen yards from them, disappearing beneath the surface with a ghastly hiss. Rosalind screamed, flailing, trying to get her bearings. He grabbed the back of her dress and aimed her toward the far-distant shore.
“No screaming,” he yelled. “Save your breath. Swim.”
“Don’t leave me.”
“Swim, damn you!”
His shouting finally animated her. She began to kick her legs and move her arms through the water as well as she was able. He knew she could swim. He’d seen her as a child, diving into the lake at her parents’ vast estate at Oxfordshire and slicing through the sun-kissed waters. Those hazy summer days seemed a thousand miles from this bleak, post-storm dawn.
As they swam through choppy waves, the currents worked with them, helping push them toward the rescue boats. He gained courage when he saw the first of the sailors reach one of the fishing vessels and be pulled up over the side. Their progress was slower as he towed Rosalind beside him, not allowing her to stop and sink, or give up.
“We’re almost there,” he said. “Keep going.”
She gave no answer, just looked at him with desperation. The waves soaked them constantly. Now and again he let her rest, not for a long time, but long enough to catch her breath as she bobbed in the water. Then he’d force her to go on, lest she use up the last of her energy before they reached rescue. He was preserving his for the time she finally gave out, so he could drag her to the boats under his own power. In the end, he did not have to drag her far. She fought and tried until her limbs refused to go any farther, but they were then just a hundred yards or so from the nearest boat.
The fishermen shouted, beckoning, but Marlow needed no encouragement as he foundered through the waves with his one free arm. His muscles burned and his lungs strained, but he’d never wanted anything so much as to get her to safety, to get her to that boat. Their rescuers rowed with all their might—the current that helped him was against them—and finally pulled alongside.
He pushed Rosalind up toward the reaching fishermen with the last of his energy. It was the final effort he could make, the hardest thing he’d ever done, but she was safe. He was so exhausted it was tempting to sink beneath the waves, but the fishermen grabbed him too, yanking him upward. He would remember their faces forever, their swarthy features and gritted teeth as they pulled him over the side.
“Rosalind,” he said, reaching for her as they lay in the bottom of the boat. “Rosalind!”
She was alive but insensate, her hair tangled across her pretty features, her torn, sodden mourning dress plastered to pale skin. He squeezed her hand and tried to rouse her. She turned from him and coughed out a mouthful of sea water. She was breathing, just weakly. They were both so weak.
The men covered them in oilcloth blankets that stank of fish. He was grateful for the warmth and gathered Rosalind beside him to help warm her too. The small boat rolled over the waves more evenly than the faltering ship had. The rough decking beneath him was the most welcome, wonderful, solid thing to ever exist.
