Chapter Eighteen

 

Grant rose before dawn. Initially when he saw Rosalyn sleeping beside him, with the faint light falling across her beautiful face and imparting a soft rosy hue, he was tempted to test whether her willingness to share her bed included a broader invitation. But her hesitation the night before, and his own promise not to overstep the proprieties, made him stick to his original plan.

Besides, he had repairs to make before the small koche would be ready for the long journey down the Volkhov. His task was further complicated by the lack of proper tools and building materials. He was just grateful that the cabin’s former occupant had left behind an adze, a scraper, a plane, and a tin of rusty nails, which he found on a shelf in the cow shed.

Knowing they must travel light, but still take enough milk for Katerina, he hastily scribbled a note to Rosalyn, telling her to find and wash all available bottles, boil them along with their lids, and fill them with milk.

They were situated a quarter mile from the river, and while milk didn’t keep long, he planned to keep it cool by towing sealed bottles underwater in a net attached to the boat. Even in summer, the river waters remained cold. With any luck at all, they should reach the headwaters of the river in two days. There they would have to abandon the koche and go over land a short distance before picking up the Dvina, where he hoped to hire a boatsman. That failing, he might have to build a raft or purchase a small craft.

Wolfing down a bowl of cold stew, he went out and milked the cow. Helping himself to a glass, he left the rest of the milk on the table for Rosalyn to give the baby when they awoke. Then he strode off through the woods to the small inlet where he had stashed the koche.

Early in the day he installed a birch mast, and fashioned rigging from rope and cord he found in an old boathouse farther along the shore. He was also able to patch the sail, using strips of canvas found on board ship.

His biggest challenge was repairing the rudder and a small hole at the waterline. Both of these chores required that he strip and work under water. Fortunately the weather was warm and the water, though cold, wasn’t turbulent in the inlet. Thus he was able to work with minimal risk, his main challenge being to adapt what tools he had to making the ship’s repairs.

Off in the distance he occasionally heard the firing of cannon and muskets. For this reason, and because he was anxious to get back to his business halfway around the world, Grant was determined to get underway that same day. Hopefully he wouldn’t run into any Swedish or Russian scouts reconnoitering along the river.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Katerina awoke with colic, and no matter how she tried, Rosalyn couldn’t ease the baby’s stomach pangs. Still, she comforted the baby the best she could and still made ready for the journey. Thus, the morning and early afternoon wore on, and while Katerina finally slept in the afternoon, Rosalyn was finally able to prepare bottles for the journey.

She felt guilty taking the blankets, but they would be needed. She wondered what the owner would think when he returned to find his cabin ransacked. Although the place had long been neglected, that didn’t mean the trapper wouldn't return to ply his trade next winter. To assuage her conscience, she decided to leave money to compensate for the modest items they took.

By the time Grant returned, she was busy feeding Katerina again.

“Ready to go?” he demanded, standing over her, hands on hips.

“Surely it’s a little late in the day to be leaving,” she protested.

“What? With several hours of daylight remaining? We can put several miles behind us before pulling in to shore for the night.” He hefted the bundle she had prepared, checking its weight. “What’s in here? Rocks?” He cocked his eyebrow inquiringly.

“You did say to fill all the bottles I could find with milk,” she reminded him.

“There are three of us, not an army. But at least you follow orders.” He proceeded to reduce the number of containers to an even dozen. “Too bad we can’t take the cow,” he said. “She’s a damn good milker.”

He fitted Rosalyn with a rucksack containing a small cooking pot, utensils, a pillow and a blanket. The other blankets he made into a bedroll with the straw mattress, tying it with rope. Then he selected an old matchlock musket. “I hope this fires straight.” He sighted down the barrel and grimaced. “In case we have need of it,” he added.

Not wanting to waste all the milk they had elected to leave behind, he and Rosalyn made a quick meal of bread pudding. Then they set the cow loose to forage and started their short trek through the woods to the river.

Rosalyn was surprised to discover how large the koche was: forty feet long by fifteen feet wide, with a raised plank floor and a shallow draft.

“I’m impressed, Captain.” She smiled, walking along its side and inspecting it carefully, while she burped Katerina on her shoulder. “I really expected something the size of a rowboat.”

“We’re lucky she has a single canvas sail, since there’s only two of us to man her.”

“She's seen better days,” said Rosalyn, noticing the need for more caulking and tar along some of the seams.

“True, but she’ll take us where we want to go.”

He heaved his bundle of bedding and supplies on deck and relieved her of her rucksack. He took the infant from her and with one hand on Rosalyn's backside, pushed her up over the side. Pleased with his resourcefulness, he showed her the sturdy net he’d fashioned out of tied and knotted cord. “To keep the milk from spoiling,” he demonstrated, placing the bottles inside the netting and lowering it carefully over the side. “How’s that?” he grinned.

“It seems you’ve thought of everything, or nearly so. What if we need to relieve ourselves?” She blushed, for there was no chance for privacy on the open deck.

“Sorry, Rosalyn, I slipped up. Men usually just aim over the side of the boat, but I see that will hardly do for a proper lady like yourself.”

“We shall just have to put into shore when the need arises,” she sighed.

Hands on hips, he shook his head. “My dear Miss Prim! We are running away from a war about to happen, and I will be damned if I’m going to proceed in such a leisurely fashion. Use a chamber pot, or sit your bum over the side.”

Seeing Rosalyn’s look of revulsion, he hastily sought to make amends. He raised a hatch in the raised deck and pointed below. “Will this do?” he asked worriedly.

She looked down, and although the tiny hold looked inhospitably dark and dank, she bit her lower lip and nodded silently.

“Sorry, Rosalyn,” he shrugged. “At least it affords some privacy.”

“It’s a far cry from the luxurious marble bathrooms at Terem Palace,” she admitted, “but this is not exactly a picnic.” She shuddered at the thought of climbing down into that slimy black hole.

“Look!” he said, pointing. “Little Kate is asleep! What better time to cast off?”

Rosalyn settled the tiny infant on the bedding. Hiking her skirts above her knees and kicking off her shoes, she followed Grant over the side. He caught her deftly around the waist, and before she could complain, steadied her while she slid down into the oozing mud beside his. When he was certain she was secure, he released her and stepped to the rear of the boat.

“All she needs is a little push,” he shouted. “Ready?” He put his shoulder to the hull and dug his heels into the soft river bottom, shoving and gently rocking the flat-bottomed koche into deeper water. Rosalyn made a valiant effort on her side, but her weight was no match for his. When the koche came free, she floundered and lost her balance. Landing on her bottom, she came up fast, flailing her arms and sputtering, her dress plastered against her body.

Grant grabbed the back of the boat to keep it from getting away from them. “You’re doing fine, Rosalyn. Climb into the boat and try to keep her steady in the stream.”

With some difficulty she pulled herself over the side, dripping water everywhere. Her long skirts clung to her like a second skin and made her clumsy. Grant boarded right behind her and quickly hoisted the anchor. Hauling up the sail, he grinned at Rosalyn, who was shivering like a drowned rat and trying to man the tiller.

“Consider getting dunked your baptism of fire,” he told her with a laugh.

“I was baptized as a child. Once is quite enough, thank you,” she said primly.

“Life is full of baptisms and new beginnings. Welcome aboard, matey!”

“So now I’m a sailor?”

Their eyes met, and his carefree laugh was something she hadn’t heard in over a year. His black hair ruffling in the wind, Grant strode about the deck, showing her how each piece of equipment should be used. When a breeze came up, and her teeth began to chatter, he came at once to guide the rudder.

“I’ll take the tiller while you get out of those wet clothes,” he offered. “Mustn’t have my first mate catch cold.”

“I don’t have a th-thing to ch-change into,” she said, her teeth chattering. “And I’m not your f-first mate, Grant.”

“You’ll do in a pinch. Go on. Wrap up in a blanket while your clothes dry.”

Abandoning her post at the stern, she retrieved a blanket and went to the bow of the boat. Huddled beneath its folds, she removed her sodden dress and undergarments. Clutching the blanket tightly around her, she cast a furtive look in Grant’s direction. At least he had the decency not to look! Drawing a deep breath, she walked carefully back to the middle of the boat, holding onto her dignity by a mere thread. “Grant, I wonder if you could help me,” she called.

“Hm? Certainly. What is it?” Somehow he managed to keep a straight face. Nothing showed but her shapely white feet, her beautiful face, startling blue eyes, and long hair. Draped in that woolen blanket, she reminded him of an Indian princess.

“I can’t hang my clothes up to dry. It takes two hands to hold the blanket around me.” She nibbled her lower lip, clearly at a disadvantage. “Would you mind?”

He grinned, amused to see her holding onto her precious dignity in a ratty old blanket. “It wouldn’t bother me in the least if you chose to walk around the deck stark-naked!”

His mind dwelt on all sorts of devilish, tantalizing ideas, while she stared at him in stony silence, then glanced away, her cheeks blooming like roses.

Watching him out of the corner of her eye, Rosalyn told herself she must have been stark raving mad even to consider, much less allow, this wicked rogue to share her bed last night. See if she ever let him get that close to her again!

“Come over here, Rosalyn. I won’t bite,” Grant beckoned. “I apologize, even though I sometimes think you like pretending to be shocked.”

“You are not to be trusted,” she sniffed, her skin started to itch beneath the wool blanket.

“Even though I didn’t lay a finger on you last night?”

Her face turned bright as a peony, and Grant would have sworn her blue eyes never looked more provocative. Struggling to keep focused getting under way, Grant secured the paddle to keep the boat steady on course, then stood up. “I’ll get my coat for you to wear. Then you can hang up your own damn clothing.”

“Thank you,” she said, keeping her distance.

As he moved away from the tiller, she went over and sat down.

He grinned. Getting dunked in the river hadn’t upset her nearly as much as wondering if he was about to jump her bones. He tossed his coat at her feet, and as he did, something clattered to the deck.

Seeing the ornate gold frame, he sprang forward to retrieve it. Holy God! he panicked. Best not to give her another excuse to pitch a fit!

Unfortunately they both touched the object and each other’s outstretched fingers at the same time. In striking the deck, the trigger mechanism on Rosalyn’s miniature portrait had activated, and there, cheek to cheek, they simultaneously viewed the product of the Tsar’s ribald sense of humor.

Shocked, Rosalyn’s head jerked up, giving Grant’s forehead a good whack in the process. She jumped to her feet, hands clenched to her sides. She was so appalled that it didn’t dawn on her that her blanket had slipped, and she was standing stark naked for the whole world to see in the middle of the Volkhov River! In fact, it wasn’t until she saw Grant’s shocked look that she fully realized her mistake.

“Holy Jesus!” he blurted out. “You're the most beautiful woman God ever put on this earth, Rosalyn.”

Rosalyn didn’t know whether anger or panic made her do it. She rushed him, striking him forcefully on the nose. And then, without thinking about the consequences, or how she was going to manage without him, she pushed him overboard.

“You! You are the devil incarnate, Grant Watermann!” she shouted, shaking her fist, as she watched him come up for air alongside the koche. “I hope and pray I've seen the last of you!”

Rosalyn hurled the offending miniature, hoping to bean him. Then she stalked imperiously over to her blanket and covered herself, but not before giving Grant an amazing view of her from below, standing in proud defiance, arms akimbo, legs slightly spread, her beautiful hair blowing in the breeze.

Grant treaded water, absolutely stunned by her beauty and especially by her outrageous conduct. “Hold on, Rosalyn,” he called, as he saw the koche floating down river.

At that same moment, it dawned on Rosalyn that she didn’t know anything about sailing. Her sense of righteous indignation deflated, she called out to him imploringly. “What should I do, Grant?”

“Steer her in to shore. Let her go aground,” he shouted and swam after her with long sure strokes.

Just then Katerina decided it was feeding time again. Still fuming, Rosalyn put in to shore, feeling more than a little foolish. She quickly donned Grant’s jacket, and keeping the blanket firmly tucked around her, retrieved a container of milk from the net.

She was busy feeding Katerina and pretending nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, when Grant swam up a few minutes later and took over the ship.

“I guess that makes us both Anabaptists,” he laughed, dripping all over the deck.

She smiled contrarily, refusing to look him in the eye. “Heretics, you mean.”

He shook himself like a wet dog, enjoying the joke on himself. But his eyes was dead serious when he leaned down to her and said, “Never do that again, Rosalyn. Not ever.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Summer days at that latitude were long. They sailed sixteen hours each day. They fished and caught trout, which they cooked over a campfire after they stopped for the night. Of course, both of them studiously avoided mention of their “boating accident.” Instead they sat watching the shadows created by flickering firelight and passed the time swapping stories. Grant’s adventures as a buccaneer with his father sent shivers up her spine, but Grant didn’t seem to regard his past as all that exciting. “Piracy is hard work, and often dangerous,” he insisted, poking the fire.

“But lucrative,” she said, admiring his father’s ring on her finger in the moonlight.

“You must have some of your Uncle Henry’s lust for adventure in your veins,” he joked. “You have guts, I’ll give you that.” He rubbed his nose, which was still sore from when she had punched him.

She gave him that secret smile of hers. “How long will it take to find the Dvina River?” she asked, to change the subject.

“Depends on how you and the baby hold up. Maybe two or three days on foot.”

“I hope we don’t run into any more soldiers.”

He knew she was remembering the burned-out villages and settlements along the banks of the Volkhov. The Russians were burning everything for miles around to discourage a Swedish invasion. He shared her uneasiness. Once they left the river’s ready supply of fish, finding food—especially milk for little Kate—could become a serious challenge.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

They planned to sleep on board that last night on the Volkhov before going over land. Grant lowered the sail, positioning it to provide protection in the event it rained during the night.

Little Katerina was gaining weight and thriving, in spite of less than ideal circumstances. Both Grant and Rosalyn wished they could fall asleep as easily as the little cherub playing chaperone between them. Tossing restlessly, Grant finally gave up and moved to the bow of the ship, where he stretched out with a blanket. Hands clasped behind his head, he scanned the sky, and thought about the past twenty months since his father’s capricious will had thrown Rosalyn and him together. From the first, he had felt drawn to her—even before she came uninvited aboard the Fair Winds. At his father’s funeral, he had damn near throttled her. Even then he couldn’t keep his hands off her!

Later his natural male drive had battled with his grief and resentment that a mere chit of a girl could get under his skin and alter the entire course of his life. She still contended that she wouldn’t return to Boston, but he felt confident he could bring her around. Never had he waited for one woman so long, or wanted her so desperately. It was the waiting that was killing him. Still, he preferred to have Rosalyn come to him joyously and with her whole heart, her dark hair swirling about her like a fine shawl, a saucy smile on her rosy lips, and her laughter wild and free! Aye, he wanted the spontaneous give-and-take which only a true partnership could bring.

Wondering what it would take to convince her, he rolled on his side. Trying to ignore the rough decking, he finally slept.

Late in the night, when Katerina woke for her feeding, Rosalyn rolled over sleepily. Hoping to persuade Grant to take care of the baby, she raised up to prod him awake, only to discover he had disappeared. Sighing, she retrieved a container of milk from over the side and nearly tripped over him, sprawled on the hard planking. She bent over him in the dark and gave him a poke.

She couldn’t hear him breathing. A frightening thought crossed her mind: What if he was dead? Hesitantly she reached out to touch him.

As her fingertips touched his face, she felt his hand clamp tightly around her wrist and jerk her down on top of him. As it dawned on him who was molesting him, his reflexes relaxed and he let go of her. “Don’t ever sneak up on me like that, Rosalyn,” he growled. “And what the hell were you doing? Walking in your sleep?”

“I-I was just checking to make sure you were all right.” She was still trembling at the thought of waking up and not finding him beside her. “What are you doing way over here?” she whispered. “I nearly stepped on you.”

“Trying to get some rest. Here, let me pull up the net for you.” He got up, retrieved a bottle of milk, and handed it to her.

“Thank you. Sorry I woke you. Good night,” she whispered.

Responding to Katerina’s plaintive cries, she tiptoed across the deck, wishing there were fewer clouds to obscure the moon and the stars, so she could see where she was going. She changed Katerina’s diaper in the dark and fed her.

She was barely settled again beside the baby when Grant’s hand went over her mouth to muffle any startled scream. She arched against the pressure of his iron fingers bruising her lips.

“Keep perfectly still,” he whispered in her ear. “Someone is prowling around near our campfire on shore. I’m going now. Whatever happens, don’t let out a peep or come looking for me.”

He was gone, stealthy as a ghost. She lay there, almost afraid to breathe—hoping Katerina wouldn’t cry out and betray their whereabouts, and praying for Grants’ safe return.

In that instant, Rosalyn knew how much she relied on Grant for her very life and security. Deep down she knew he would look out for her as long as he lived. As the silent tension grew, she realized that despite the constant tug-of-war that went on between them, she loved him desperately, and would do whatever was necessary to remain forever by his side.

Her past behavior rose up like a wraith to accuse her. Certainly any other man would have washed his hands of her, but Grant was rarely put off by her attempts to test the limits of their friendship. If anything—she smiled in the dark, remembering—their fights only seemed to increase his ardor! He made it clear that he could play rough, too—knock her down a peg when she needed it, and call her bluff. But underneath all the conflict, she knew the bond of love and respect ran deep.

As Rosalyn lay there, straining to hear the slightest sound in the dark, she prayed for his safe return. Hopefully it was a false alarm, and no real danger lurked at the edge of the woods, where they'd eaten their evening meal.

She waited, but he never came back.

Not that night, and not the next morning.

When he still hadn't returned by daybreak, she was a bundle of nerves. Praying for strength, she took care of Katerina and her own immediate needs, all the while turning over in her mind what would happen to the two of them, if he never came back. She waited, pacing the open deck and scanning the woods. Her hair streamed out behind her in the wind, blowing in her face while she paced restlessly. Impatiently she secured her long mane in a loose braid down her back.

All her instincts screamed out: Go to him. Find him. Tell him you can’t live without him. But had he not told her—no, ordered her—to remain on board, regardless of what happened? And was it not expected that a woman should submit to her man’s will?

No! She could not, she would not sit idly by, when more than anything in the world she wanted to be with him and share his fate. Rosalyn stood to her full height, facing into an unseasonably cold wind, and studied the cloudy sky. It was the first week of July, yet a storm was on its way. The sooner she got underway the better, she decided.

She buttoned Grant’s warm jacket over her dress. In his pocket, she felt the outline of that scandalous miniature the Tsar’s court painter had done of her. So he had retrieved it from the riverbed! Well, she would gladly forgive him, if only he would forgive her temper and the way she'd treated him all these many months.

Wrapping the baby in her warmest blanket, she slung the net with two remaining containers of milk over her shoulder. Then she carefully lowered herself and Katerina over the side of the koche and waded to shore. While she put her shoes on, she kept a sharp eye out, in case he was right about soldiers. She saw none.

She set out along the edge of the woods, hoping to find a trail, and soon found traces of a struggle. The bushes near their campfire were broken and flattened. Following the trail of disturbed foliage, she came upon a corpse, wearing a yellow and blue uniform. She drew back in horror, gazing into empty, staring eyes and a gaping mouth. The look on the soldier's face told her that death had taken him by surprise. Walking gingerly around the corpse, she wondered why Grant hadn't come back, and if he had killed this Swedish scout.

Suddenly a wave of panic hit her: Were there more soldiers, then? What had happened to Grant? Was he in imminent danger? Possibly dead? Somehow the fear and excitement coursing through her veins helped her summon up the strength she needed to press on. Where her quest might take her, she had no clue. But she knew she must find Grant.

She hugged Katerina close. Snowflakes fell lightly around her so she walked faster, searching for signs of Grant’s footprints. She licked a snowflake off her upper lip, thinking how odd it was, even in this northern region of Russia, that a freak snow storm could occur at such an untimely season . . . in July!

Suddenly she remembered sounding off to Grant two Christmases ago on board the Fair Winds, and having the temerity to repeat it last winter! What made it stand out in her mind was how improbable it had seemed at the time: “There will be a snow storm in July before I ever—!”

Yet here she was, in the middle of a Russian snow storm, chasing after the very man she had held at bay all these months! Spinning around in a little dance with Katerina clasped warmly to her breast, Rosalyn uttered a delicious little laugh. What an outlandish thing to say! Aye, and what a laugh Grant would have at her expense, if her prophecy actually came true.

Provided she found him, of course.

Keeping her back to the wind, she sat down on a log to feed the baby again, cuddling and shielding Katerina inside her coat. When she finished, she kissed little Kate and glanced up.

At the edge of the clearing a riderless horse grazed. It probably belonged to the dead soldier, she thought. Approaching cautiously, so as not to spook the horse, she caught it by the reins and led it to the log where she had been sitting. After a couple of attempts, she managed to mount while holding Katerina securely in Grant's coat. At least my search will be easier on horseback, she told herself, and set out at once, following the distant rumble of what sounded like a military exercise.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

After wading ashore to investigate, Grant took care to stay out of sight. He had done little but stalk the soldier through the woods—until he saw the Swede make a detour straight for the dim outline of the koche. At that point he stepped out of the shadows and challenged the man.

Startled, the soldier attacked. They had struggled and fought. The Swede made a serious tactical error—and paid dearly for his mistake.

In retrospect, Grant knew that by all rights, he should have been the one killed. Some might say it was a bloody miracle he was still alive. He credited it to his opponent’s poor judgment.

Though armed with a musket, the Swede must have felt his superior height gave him sufficient advantage, for he had cast aside his flintlock and drawn his knife. Perhaps he feared gunfire would bring reinforcements from the koche—who knows? At any rate, the Swede chose to fight at close range in the dark. A grave mistake, indeed.

The soldier circled, taking broad swipes with his long arm, trying to rake Grant’s chest and arms with his knife. But Grant, long experienced in hand-to-hand combat during skirmishes at sea, proved too quick for his bulkier opponent. Dodging away and coming in unexpectedly from the side, he threw the tall Swede off balance and dispatched him with his own weapon. The game was no less deadly because of the brevity of the encounter. Grant wiped off the blade on the soldier’s uniform and stuck it in his boot.

Then he made a huge mistake: He assumed incorrectly that the man was alone.

Dragging the lanky Swede into the thicket, he got jumped from behind and cold-cocked with a rifle butt before he had time to release his grip on the dead man’s uniform and put up a defense. When he woke up much later, he found himself nursing a sore head. Trussed up to a tree, and surrounded by several hundred Swedish troops!

His immediate reaction was to curse his own stupidity for getting captured. He spoke no Swedish. As a result, efforts to communicate the fact of his English citizenship and his neutrality failed to make any impression whatsoever. In fact, his presence in the area only seemed to confirm his captors’ suspicions that he must be in league with the Russians and acting as a spy.

Their interrogators, thinking he was Russian, had done their best to question him. But between his limited knowledge of Russian and their own clumsy attempts, all they could determine was that he was an “unauthorized person”—a foreigner they had found skulking on the perimeter of their encampment.

All morning long, he tried unsuccessfully to get an interview with one of the high ranking officers going in and out of the commander’s tent. The Swedish royal standard suggested that young Charles XII was leading his own troops, but so far he hadn’t shown his face.

All Grant knew was that this many men probably meant that he’d had the misfortune to land in the middle of a major military offensive. Thousands of men were assembled, mostly fresh troops, about evenly split between infantry and cavalry. In addition, he saw several mounted cannon, and the newest weaponry for foot soldiers: flintlock muskets, several of which the Swedes kept waving menacingly under his nose!

Grant knew Peter’s troops still used single-shot matchlock muskets and relied heavily on pikes. It was easy to see that neither of these weapons was a match for the flintlocks, with their superior fire power and bayonets.

From where he sat, he couldn’t see any trenches being dug, which led him to conclude that the Swedes didn’t intend to engage the enemy—at least not yet. Most likely they intended to move on as soon as the weather let up. For now, he was their prisoner, and undoubtedly that meant more interrogation. Now, if only someone understood English!

As his thoughts shifted to Rosalyn and the baby, he heard a horse nicker loudly from the top of a nearby bluff, and his eyes followed the sound.