horizontal rope rungs of the tarred hemp ratline would carry her aloft to the forward yardarm, the huge crossbeam that projected out past the sides of the ship. Other sailors worked below and elsewhere in the rigging, so as she started climbing, no one paid her any notice.
Thank God the breeze was light, she thought as she climbed farther and farther aloft. She hated high places almost as much as she hated rats. In a stiff wind the dip and sway, more pronounced with each nervous step upward, would be enough to terrify even the stoutest heart.
Though Silver took her time and moved cautiously, one bare foot slipped out of the rungs, and only her death grip on the stays kept her from falling. The stiff tarred hemp bit into her tender skin, and the roll of the ship made her dizzy.
Don’t look down
, she told herself firmly, forcing one slender foot in front of the other, ignoring the vessel below, which had begun to look more like a toy ship in a bottle than the 145-foot schooner it was. On board the
Rival
nothing seemed amiss. Sailors worked picking oakum, scrubbing the decks, or mending sail. Then she saw Morgan Trask emerging from belowdecks, a stout man’s arm across his shoulders.
Keep him talking
, she silently prayed, finally reaching the massive spruce foremast just below the topsail. Above her, the widely protruding yardarm swayed with the roll of the ship, and the rigging clanked in the freshening breeze. Silver wrapped both legs around the heavy beam, locked her arms as well, and began to shimmy carefully toward the end that yawned over the water. It seemed hours beforeshe reached the midway point, though in truth it took only minutes.
With no time to spare, she took a deep, steadying breath and continued, inch by inch, to move along. Near the end of the yardarm she waited. The
Rival’s
foremast reached into the sky almost parallel with the
Savannah’s
, though it rose just a wee bit higher. The yardarm angled a foot or so off to her right. When the sea rolled beneath them, the yardarm dipped and leaned and came within inches of Silver’s grasp.
She didn’t reach for it.
Her hands were slick with perspiration, and her body had begun to tremble. If she missed, certain death awaited sixty feet below. Silver wiped her hands on Jordy’s canvas breeches, closed her eyes, and took a last deep breath. She opened them to see Morgan Trask climbing back aboard the
Savannah
, the grappling lines being cast off It was now or never.
“Where’s Silver?” Morgan asked Riley the moment he reached the deck of the
Savannah
.
“She went below,” Riley said
“Cap’n Trask!” Jordy raced toward him, his hazel eyes wide with fear. “It’s Miss Jones!” When he reached Morgan’s side, he shaded his vision from the sun and pointed up into the rigging. “I think she’s up there, trying to cross over to the other ship.”
As he looked up at the tiny figure clinging tenaciously to the yardarm, Morgan’s stomach clenched so hard he felt as though someone had kicked him. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind it was Silver.
“I saw this fella up in the rigging,” Jordy was saying. “There was somethin’ funny about the way he moved.”
“Good God,” Hamilton Riley said, following their upward glance, “what should we do?”
“You gotta get her down, Cap’n,” Jordy pleaded.
“There isn’t time,” Morgan said. And there wasn’t. Calling out to her would only distract her, adding to her peril. There was nothing Morgan could do but stand by helplessly and watch. His chest felt leaden, and his stomach balled even tighter. The next few seconds would determine whether Silver Jones lived or died.
Now or never
, she repeated. When the yardarm swayed again, tilting just within her reach, Silver set her jaw and reached for it, praying her grip would hold. She felt the sturdy wooden bar beneath her fingers, tightened her grip, and pulled herself over, letting the roll of the ship carry her across the gap between
Thank God the breeze was light, she thought as she climbed farther and farther aloft. She hated high places almost as much as she hated rats. In a stiff wind the dip and sway, more pronounced with each nervous step upward, would be enough to terrify even the stoutest heart.
Though Silver took her time and moved cautiously, one bare foot slipped out of the rungs, and only her death grip on the stays kept her from falling. The stiff tarred hemp bit into her tender skin, and the roll of the ship made her dizzy.
Don’t look down
, she told herself firmly, forcing one slender foot in front of the other, ignoring the vessel below, which had begun to look more like a toy ship in a bottle than the 145-foot schooner it was. On board the
Rival
nothing seemed amiss. Sailors worked picking oakum, scrubbing the decks, or mending sail. Then she saw Morgan Trask emerging from belowdecks, a stout man’s arm across his shoulders.
Keep him talking
, she silently prayed, finally reaching the massive spruce foremast just below the topsail. Above her, the widely protruding yardarm swayed with the roll of the ship, and the rigging clanked in the freshening breeze. Silver wrapped both legs around the heavy beam, locked her arms as well, and began to shimmy carefully toward the end that yawned over the water. It seemed hours beforeshe reached the midway point, though in truth it took only minutes.
With no time to spare, she took a deep, steadying breath and continued, inch by inch, to move along. Near the end of the yardarm she waited. The
Rival’s
foremast reached into the sky almost parallel with the
Savannah’s
, though it rose just a wee bit higher. The yardarm angled a foot or so off to her right. When the sea rolled beneath them, the yardarm dipped and leaned and came within inches of Silver’s grasp.
She didn’t reach for it.
Her hands were slick with perspiration, and her body had begun to tremble. If she missed, certain death awaited sixty feet below. Silver wiped her hands on Jordy’s canvas breeches, closed her eyes, and took a last deep breath. She opened them to see Morgan Trask climbing back aboard the
Savannah
, the grappling lines being cast off It was now or never.
“Where’s Silver?” Morgan asked Riley the moment he reached the deck of the
Savannah
.
“She went below,” Riley said
“Cap’n Trask!” Jordy raced toward him, his hazel eyes wide with fear. “It’s Miss Jones!” When he reached Morgan’s side, he shaded his vision from the sun and pointed up into the rigging. “I think she’s up there, trying to cross over to the other ship.”
As he looked up at the tiny figure clinging tenaciously to the yardarm, Morgan’s stomach clenched so hard he felt as though someone had kicked him. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind it was Silver.
“I saw this fella up in the rigging,” Jordy was saying. “There was somethin’ funny about the way he moved.”
“Good God,” Hamilton Riley said, following their upward glance, “what should we do?”
“You gotta get her down, Cap’n,” Jordy pleaded.
“There isn’t time,” Morgan said. And there wasn’t. Calling out to her would only distract her, adding to her peril. There was nothing Morgan could do but stand by helplessly and watch. His chest felt leaden, and his stomach balled even tighter. The next few seconds would determine whether Silver Jones lived or died.
Now or never
, she repeated. When the yardarm swayed again, tilting just within her reach, Silver set her jaw and reached for it, praying her grip would hold. She felt the sturdy wooden bar beneath her fingers, tightened her grip, and pulled herself over, letting the roll of the ship carry her across the gap between
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