“I could relish a slab of shark,” said the Captain’s voice near my ear. I turned to see him peering thoughtfully over the rail at the scene of carnage. “Perhaps we might lower a boat, Mr. Picard.”
The bosun turned with an obliging roar, and the
By the time they reached the spot, there was nothing left of the cask but a few shattered bits of wood. There was still plenty of activity, though; the water roiled with the sharks’ thrashing beneath the surface, and the scene was nearly obscured by a raucous cloud of seabirds. As I watched, I saw a pointed snout rise suddenly from the water, mouth open, seize one of the birds and disappear beneath the waves, all in the flick of an eyelash.
“Did you see that?” I said, awed. I was aware, in a general way, that sharks were well-equipped with teeth, but this practical demonstration was more striking than any number of
“Why, Grandmother dear, what big teeth ye have!” said Jamie, sounding suitably impressed.
“Oh, they do indeed,” said a genial voice nearby. I glanced aside to find Murphy grinning at my elbow, broad face shining with a savage glee. “Little good it will do the buggers, with a ball blown clean through their fucking brains!” He pounded a hamlike fist on the rail, and shouted, “Get me one of them jagged buggers, Manzetti! There’s a bottle o’ cookin’ brandy waitin’ if ye do!”
“Is it a personal matter to ye, Mr. Murphy?” Jamie asked politely. “Or professional concern?”
“Both, Mr. Fraser, both,” the cook replied, watching the hunt with a fierce attention. He kicked his wooden leg against the side, with a hollow clunk. “They’ve had a taste o’ me,” he said with grim relish, “but I’ve tasted a good many more o’ them!”
The boat was barely visible through the flapping screen of birds, and their screams made it hard to hear anything other than Murphy’s war cries.
“Shark steak with mustard!” Murphy was bellowing, eyes mere slits in an ecstasy of revenge. “Stewed liver wi’ piccalilli! I’ll make soup o’ yer fins, and jelly yer eyeballs in sherry wine, ye wicked barsted!”
I saw Manzetti, kneeling in the bows, take aim with his musket, and the puff of black smoke as he fired. And then I saw Mr. Willoughby.
I hadn’t seen him jump from the rail; no one had, with all eyes fixed on the hunt. But there he was, some distance away from the melee surrounding the boat, his shaven head glistening like a fishing float as he wrestled in the water with an enormous bird, its wings churning the water like an eggbeater.
Alerted by my cry, Jamie tore his eyes from the hunt, goggled for an instant, and before I could move or speak, was perched on the rail himself.
My shout of horror coincided with a surprised roar from Murphy, but Jamie was gone, too, lancing into the water near the Chinaman with barely a splash.
There were shouts and cries from the deck—and a shrill screech from Marsali—as everyone realized what had happened. Jamie’s wet red head emerged next to Mr. Willoughby, and in seconds, he had an arm tight about the Chinaman’s throat. Mr. Willoughby clung tightly to the bird, and I wasn’t sure, just for the moment, whether Jamie intended rescue or throttling, but then he kicked strongly, and began to tow the struggling mass of bird and man back toward the ship.
Triumphant shouts from the boat, and a spreading circle of deep red in the water. There was a tremendous thrashing as one shark was gaffed and hauled behind the small boat by a rope about its tail. Then everything was confusion, as the men in the boat noticed what else was going on in the water nearby.
Lines were thrown over one side and then the other, and crewmen rushed back and forth in high excitement, undecided whether to help with rescue or shark, but at last Jamie and his burdens were hauled in to starboard, and dumped dripping on the deck, while the captured shark—several large bites taken out of its body by its hungry companions—was drawn in, still feebly snapping, to port.
“Je…sus…Christ,” Jamie said, chest heaving. He lay flat on the deck, gasping like a landed fish.
“Are you all right?” I knelt beside him, and wiped the water off his face with the hem of my skirt. He gave me a lopsided smile and nodded, still gasping.
“Jesus,” he said at last, sitting up. He shook his head and sneezed. “I thought I was eaten, sure. Those fools in the boat started toward us, and there were sharks all round them, under the water, bitin’ at the gaffed one.” He tenderly massaged his calves. “It’s nay doubt oversensitive of me, Sassenach, but I’ve always dreaded the thought of losing a leg. It seems almost worse than bein’ killed outright.”
