the match … it caught the wick. We didn’t fire to destroy her!”
“Destroyed or not, I need the men aboard that ship,” Finn said.
Another filthy man ran up to the captain. “Sir, we’re taking on water—heavily. We’re working the pumps, bailing…. She’s on a reef, sir. Cut by the coral as well as their return fire!”
“Lower the longboats!” Tremblay ordered in a booming voice.
As the men hurried to do as told, Finn stared out at the Rebel runner.
“We’re sinking, Agent Dunne!” Tremblay told him.
“I am aware, sir.”
He stood his ground, staring at the enemy ship. The masts were shattered; she was listing badly to the landward side. Fire had broken out in her aft; he’d seen the explosion that had hit her there. The way that flames were leaping and burning, he assumed they’d hit her powder supply.
Whatever cargo she carried would soon be lost.
Anyone caught in the aft was dead; they had, at the least, died swiftly. The portside of the ship and her fore still stood in the night, though the fire would soon consume them, as well.
He quickly reckoned the distance from the dying ship to the shore; a strong swimmer could make it. Theoretically, others—if not killed by the blast—might well still be aboard, dead or dying, or unconscious.
Finn didn’t want to wait for the tenders; he stripped off his jacket and headed for the rail.
“Agent Dunne!” Tremblay called. “Sir! The boats will be speedy—”
“Not speedy enough.”
Finn dove from the ship’s deck, hitting the water hard and pitching downward. The water was cold, a hard slap of ice against his flesh as he landed and thrust through its density. In the night, not even his eyesight was much against the depths, but he had little interest in what was around him. When his legs scraped coral, it only confirmed that their ship would have floundered had it come out this far. The Rebel captain they chased knew his landscape, and knew it well.
Finn swam hard, picking up greater speed with every length he cleared from the Union boat. He could see the Rebel ship burning and listing, and he swam harder; it was war, of course. A Union ship destroying a blockade runner and all aboard was a regrettable fact of war.
To Finn, it meant a dead end. If all aboard had perished, he might never know if he had found Gator, if this threat to Lincoln still remained; if failed, he might not be able to return to the president’s side.
There were shouts audible in the air. The Union men had lowered the longboats, and crews were coming in his wake.
He reached the burning ship. It listed so badly to the side, he could climb straight aboard. The remnants of her shell would remain where it was in the days to come, her skeleton caught on the reef.
Despite the heavy smoke on the air, he could smell the sickly sweet scent of burning flesh, and he prayed that those caught in the inferno had been baked before the fire even reached them. Crawling aboard, dripping with seawater, he lifted his arm against the rise of the flame to protect his face. He quickly ascertained that there was no getting belowdeck; anyone caught there was gone.
But a hurried search topside against the rip of the flames in the night revealed no bodies consumed by fire or otherwise. And if anyone had survived, they had not gone for their longboats—they had done as he had, diving into the night.
Someone was out there. Even if the ship’s crew had been small, there had been someone topside. Someone running the operation.
Gator?
In just another second, Finn realized that the heat of the fire had already nearly dried his sea-soaked clothing.
He could feel his flesh beginning to sear.
He dove back into the water, and began to swim again, aware that the water felt even more frigid against the heat of his body. The difference between the fire heat aboard the ship and the winter water was extreme; he knew that he had to keep moving, and move fast. The fire illuminated the night, and he looked toward the shore. He could just see a tangle of mangroves, and beyond that, the small spit of a beach.
The island was some distance. And though it might be far warmer than any sea farther north, the icy hand of winter had stretched even down here. Could an injured man have possibly survived?
Yes.
Possibly.
Whatever it took, he had to know.
Finn couldn’t help his thoughts from spinning, even as he kept his arms and legs moving in swift, even strokes through the water. He was sick at the thought of the men caught by the cannons as the ship exploded. He was angry that he had come so far, and that he might never know if they had or hadn’t killed Gator.
No.
Someone had to have been topside. And that person had survived.
Someone was out there, alive and well, or dying, in the midst of the mangrove isle, and he was going to find them.
CHAPTER THREE
TARA’S DESPERATE DIVES beneath the surface had paid off—she’d found Richard and quickly brought him to the surface.
But he wasn’t conscious, and with the frigid water washing around her, salt waves rocking hard against them minute after minute, it was difficult to even ascertain at first if he was alive. Mindless of the water, she squeezed his torso to force water from him … and he coughed, and he breathed.
And he lived.
“Tara …” he gasped.
“I’ve got you, Richard, I’ve got you,” she assured him.
“Too far from shore. I can’t make it. Go … for the love of God, go.”
“Ease back. I’ve got you.”
“Tara, you can get—” Richard’s words were cut off as a wave washed over them. He coughed violently again. “Get away!”
“Shut up! Quit talking. Keep your mouth closed and lie back. Damn you, Richard, I can swim with you. Stop fighting me or I’ll knock you out and drag you, so don’t make it harder for me,” she warned him with a note of steel in her voice.
Water washed over him again. He sputtered it out, and she took advantage of his weakness to force him flat and slip her left arm around his chest in a hold that would allow him to keep his head above the surface while she fought the waves with her right arm and legs. She had a reserve of strength that was deep, fortunately, as the sea itself seemed to be against them that night.
As she kicked harder, she was dimly aware of some form of shadow that seemed to linger over Richard’s boat.
Death?
She gave herself a mental shake; she couldn’t think that
