Deborah Hale - The Bonny Bride

“Have a care what ye’re doing!” cried a voice. Jenny recognized the gruff, bass rumble of Mr. Tweedie, the cobbler from Wigtown. With a splash, the man regained his feet and fought his way out into the passage once more.

Harris followed, towing Jenny along behind him.

The tight companionway boiled with frantic shouts and grunts and the press of bodies anxious to escape the seawater flooding the lower decks. Jenny clutched Harris for all she was worth as he plunged ahead. They stumbled up the steep stairs, bursting onto the deck at last.

After the suffocating squeeze of the companionway, Jenny gulped in deep drafts of the briny wind, grateful to be out in the open at last.

“We must get to a lifeboat!” Harris bellowed.

His words barely penetrated the howl of the wind and the frantic babble of voices around them.

After a few faltering steps, Jenny felt the solid bulk of the ship’s railing. Clinging to Harris with her right hand, she closed around the railing with her left and followed him.

“It’s just up ahead!” Harris called back to her as a great billow hit the barque and doused them both with seawater.

Coughing and sputtering to catch her breath, Jenny lost her hold on the railing.

Another breaker followed, driving the St. Bride against another treacherous sandbar. Jenny’s feet slid on the slick boards of the deck. She felt herself tumble against the rail and over into a black void.

At the last instant, she loosed her hold on Harris. She owed him better than a watery grave with her.

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