Heroine Addiction
Part One
3. Awakenings
The Atlantia
A great while ago the world begun,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
But that's all one, our play is done,
And we'll strive to please you every day.
- William Shakespeare
Captain John Ryan of the Atlantia liked a good cold front. The storms would sweep through the straights with such vigorous strife and the heavens would open up to the mortals. For forty days and forty nights ships would quit their moorings to find safe heaven; and in the frenzy of nature he could swoop in, and lure and plunder whomever, whatever he sought, and disappear before none were the wiser.
It had been seven years since he swore allegiance against the Crown that bore him, and he had yet to look back. Seven years since he made the Atlantia his home.
If he had calculated correctly, and he was rarely off, they were just St. Vincent. While the storm pitched the ship, he steadied himself on the deck, searching for the slightest hint of their mark. His eyes would be more use than the glass what with all the rain and sea spray.
His men had done their work well, they had furled the sails, cleared the deck, and secured the canon. The recent weather had been like the Trojan Horse and Ryan let a grin grace his lips. Did not the saying go: Beware of a Greek bearing gifts...? At the moment Ryan felt much like Odysseus at Troy.
Though Ryan was a slender man, he had long been aboard ships, had mastered the ability to look lithesome without being pressured by wind or water. Easily he moved, akin with his beloved ship. Breathing in the scent of the storm, he started his trek towards the Atlantia’s helm and her coxswain.
Mr. Locke was a burly, Cornwall man; A man Ryan had borrowed him from His Majesty’s Ship of the Line Euterpe right before he sank it in ‘96. Locke cocked his head to the left as Ryan joined him at the helm.
“Locke, I want you to keep us clear of the rocks, would not want to be caught against any more convoys.”
“Aye, sah.”
“Good man.”
“I wouldna know about no goodness on my part, sah -- she loves the water and flies right.”
Ryan grinned, in his eyes just a touch of madness, a hint of pride.
And, so, they did ride out the storm, with naught but a touch of waterlog. But the sky was still that shade of dull grey, one that portended more of a storm to come.
Ryan turned to Lock, “Let’s go find us our mark.”
“Captain!” One of the lads was hollering at him, and as nimbly as he could, Ryan crossed towards him.
The sailor was pointing to something out in the churning sea, as one wave crested Ryan caught a glimpse of a body. Well, mama never said life was not interesting.
On a whim, he turned to the sailor at his side, “Fetch a jack line.”
The sailor hesitated, “Do you think so, sir, in this weather?”
Ryan was already shrugging off his great coat, and removing his pistol and cutlass. “Get a damn jack line, ye hear, I don’t fancy jumping in that water with no way out 'cept making bets 'gainst Davy Jones.”
“Aye, sir.”
The lad went to do his bidding and when he had returned to Ryan was husking off his boots.
He gestured to the pile at his feet: the great coat, pistol, cutlass, and boots. “See that those don’t disappear, Harper.”
With that, Ryan pressed a gold piece into the sailor’s palm. Harper gathered the things, and stepped back, watching Ryan secure the line around himself.
Ryan jerked on the jack line, and the tension held firm. The thrill of the moment spindled through his limbs and clenched at his heart. He steadied himself, took in a large breath, and launched off the deck and into the waves.
Ryan slipped into the water with ease, and as the frigid depths caved in around him, he clawed upwards. He kicked at and grappled with the water until his head crested. With his head above the raging sea, Ryan gulped for air. The tumbling undercurrent impeded him, and for a few frantic moments he lost sight of his prize. The body appeared again just out of reach.
Finally, the body was in his reach. He grabbed at the body and wrapped his arm around the person’s chest. Grasping the person towards him, he got their bodies as level as possible.
Taking a good hold of the jack line with his free arm, he jerked with as much might as possible. He could feel the slow pull back towards the ship. He tried his best to keep his upper body, at least his head, above the spray, and the body from going under. Waves surged against him and he fought the current as it snagged at his clothes. His heart almost stopped when for a second he lost his hold on the body. His muscles strained as he clasped the soft flesh.
Ryan felt some relief as he and his prize were being wrenched back to the Atlantia, albeit slowly.
When, he was abreast of the Atlantia, he hoisted the body in his arms up to his men leaning over the side. The body was lifted from him, and then a large, dark hand extended towards him, and he clasped it.
On the deck of the Atlantia Ryan took his first look at his unconscious prize.
It was a young woman; blonde: her hair the shade of pale gold, and she was attired in the most bizarre clothing. Her golden lashes were damp against a pale face. The bizarre clothing, so resembling a man’s fashion was waterlogged and sticking to her long limbs and girlish curves.
Ryan fought to stay upright, breathing heavily, the muscles in his arms aching.
His throat felt sore and scratchy as he barked, “Get her to my cabin, now.” He tilted his head towards Locke, “Set a course toward Isla Margarita.”
There was a look of apprehension in the coxswain’s deep set eyes, but he said nothing. Ryan brushed off any help, as he followed his men, focused on adjusting his balance with the pitch of the ship.
In the haven of his cabin, Ryan took the blanket offered by his steward, and ushered everyone out. He didn’t quite like the way they were staring at her. Ryan was not one to take advantage of a woman, no matter how easy it was, or how much he wanted to. But he had understood the coveting, and the lust he had seen in his men’s eyes. They had been months at sea now, and this was as if Eve herself had descended upon them -- apple and all.
At best she was going to catch cold, maybe the chills; at worst -- and Lucky Jack Ryan of the Atlantia did not fixate on worsts, after all -- at worst she would be dead before the fever set in.
They had layed her out in his hammock. She had the very look of a vulnerable angel, prostrate there, her pale arms and booted feet dangling over the sides.
After shirking his wet things and scrubbing himself dry, Ryan began to remove the strange clothes of hers. At one point he thought she would wake as he peeled the wet vestments away from her, but she just curled slightly in on herself, and murmured in her sleep. When he got her out of her soggy things, he dried her as best he could, and dressed her in a shift which he snatched earlier from his own catch of plunder. Gathering her up in his arms, he moved her to his cot and bundled her up with blankets there; he fluffed a pillow and put it under her head.
As he left, he snuffed out the lantern near the door.
