Smith said, “Nothing good. That’s for sure. Come on. The water’s not far now. It would seem preposterous that we’re to be butchered so close to our safety.”
Jack took the telescope and quickly assessed the men in pursuit. “They’re moving with speed, aren’t they?”
“That they are, but they’re still five or six miles away — much too far for them to reach us in time. We’ll be safe, trust me my lad.”
Smith continued to set the pace. It was slightly faster than a walk, but a long way off from a run. He no longer stopped for rests. He wasn’t quite terrified yet. All he had to do was keep moving, and he’d reach the Emerald Star with time to spare.
It wasn’t long before he heard the strange battle-cry of his pursuers. It started out softly, barely audible, yet constant. At first he thought it might be the sound of the dangerous surf crashing on the sandy beach ahead. It was too relentless to be caused by humans. But twenty minutes later the sound resonated louder, and by forty minutes, Smith could feel the prickly fingers of Death, teasing at his back.
Jack asked, “What is that sound?”
Smith ignored him, unable to accept the only possible answer.
“They’re close aren’t they?” Jack persisted, without attempting to hide his fear.
Smith nodded. He couldn’t believe that humans could make such a persistent and horrifying sound, but there was no denying its origins now. It was the sound of the fiends who chased them approaching fast. It caused fear to rise in his throat like bile. “Run!”
Adrenaline commanded his muscles to move without hesitation. He ran all the way to the beach. Dusk turned to nightfall by the time he reached it. With nightfall, the sound of the battle cry had finally ceased. Somehow, the eerie silence felt far more terrifying.
They reached the final sand dune. It stood approximately sixty feet into the air, and descended all the way into the cold, unfeeling waters of the Atlantic Ocean. He was badly winded. The muscles of his calves and thighs were hot with pain. His heart thumped so hard he could barely hear the waves crashing on the shore, above it. Smith glanced behind him. His pursuers were still another hour away, even at their fantastic speed. He grinned, it was close, but they were going to make it.
Jack turned to face him. His eyes were wide and his breathing hard. “Where’s the Emerald Star?”
“Don’t worry,” Smith grinned. “She’ll be out there, somewhere.”
“Your brother’s left us!”
“No! My brother might be a greedy, selfish bastard, but he will be there.”
“How can you be sure?”
Smith removed the golden skull and leather shot bag from his satchel. “Because he wants this as much as we do.”
“But how are we going to contact him?”
“With this,” Smith said, as he poured a small amount of the contents of his shot bag onto the ground in three separate piles. The blackened powder mixed with the sand. He then struck the first one with his fire-striker. Ferrocerium struck steel’s heated shards and ignited the gunpowder. In an instant, the first pile ignited, followed by the second, and third, in a rapid staccato like gunshots.
He stared at the sea. The Emerald Star was now blanketed by the night sky. Where are you, brother? Nearly two hundred feet out, he saw the golden light begin to flash.
Smith watched the skiff approach. The sailors rowed hard against the rough seas. Not one of them was chatting. They were all focused on the cadence and fighting not to be overturned by the waves breaking along the shore. Smith looked up as the skiff caught its final wave and slid onto the beach. The men pulled her up a few feet until they were confident the swell wasn’t going to reclaim the boat before they were ready.
Smith looked at Oswald, his brother, and captain of the Emerald Star. Smith grinned as he offered his hand. “Christ, are we glad to see you, brother!”
“You’re welcome.” Oswald’s eyes darted to Jack and back to Smith. “You took your time. What happened to the rest of your men?”
Smith looked toward the peak of the second sand dune behind them. Small white dots appeared to be moving across its crest. The whites of the eyes of his pursuers were unseen, but they were there, and they were very close.
He turned to his brother. “It’s a long story and we’re not on our own, so I’ll tell you on the way.”
Oswald glanced toward the peak of the sand dune and nodded. “All right gentlemen, it looks like Smith and Jack didn’t make any friends with the locals, so let’s get back on board the Emerald Star.”
The sailors didn’t need to be told twice. They worked quickly. Smith and Jack climbed onboard the wooden skiff as the rest of the men pushed it back into the water. Smith gripped the leather satchel, which contained the ancient relic, holding it close to his chest. There was no way he was going to lose it in the dangerous surf, so close to the Emerald Star. Following Oswald’s command, the sailors waited until the wave broke onto the shore, and then rowed hard to meet the following wave.
Now afloat and into the violent waters, Smith realized he wasn’t safe yet. The next few minutes might be the most dangerous of his entire trip. His mouth was set hard and his heart raced so much he could hear blood pounding in his ears. Where he gripped the satchel his knuckles turned white. The waves came in endless sets. Each one capable of flipping the skiff and drowning them all.
No one, he realized with mixed feelings, could swim in such violent water. It meant if they reached the Emerald Star they were safe from the savages who pursued them. If they didn’t reach the ship, they would never survive in the water. No man, no matter how strong a swimmer, could stay alive in such a torrent.
“Hold on, men!” Oswald yelled, as they reached the second breaker.
The skiff’s bow lifted high into the air. For a moment Smith was certain they were going to flip. The two sailors who rowed closest to the bow saw it too. They jumped forward, moving the weight further toward the bow. Smith watched in horror as the seawater from the breaking wave — white and frothy — rushed through the back half of the skiff. Helpless to avoid the unfolding series of events, he hung on the edge of the boat. Water ripped past him, sending sea spray over his face. The saltwater stung at his eyes and filled his mouth with the bitter taste as two sailors, and Jack Baker were washed overboard.
The bow crashed down hard.
Ahead, a third breaker approached quickly. Smith glanced behind him. The two sailors were barely afloat — the whitewash so full of air that it provided barely any buoyancy at all — and he couldn’t even see young Jack. He wondered how his brother was possibly going to rescue the three men before the next wave drowned them all. The rest of the sailors paused on their oars for a split moment.
“Keep going men,” Oswald screamed. “Or every one of us will be lost!”
The men rowed in silence and none of them had to be told to leave their friends behind. It wasn’t an option of helping their friends. It was save themselves or drown. They struck the third wave at speed and the momentum carried the bow over the top of its crest. For a moment, the skiff appeared to remain stranded in the middle of the wave as the flow of water tried to drag them toward the beach.
“Heave you bastards!” Oswald shouted.
Smith held his breath. The skiff remained motionless for another split second and then began moving forward. He slowly exhaled as the efforts of the men rowing started to be rewarded with movement. They cleared the fourth and fifth waves without any trouble. After that, the deeper water settled and they picked up speed.
Two minutes later the skiff came alongside the Emerald Star’s portside and Smith climbed up the cargo nets. He kissed the deck. He had cheated death.