Second Chance Bird, Episode Ten
Written by Garrett W. Vance
Chapter Fifty-Seven: On The Hunt
Interior of Northern Mauritius
Gerbald silently beckoned his posse to pause at the edge of the wide valley stretching before them. It was well past midnight, following the trail through the gravelly pass with only the flashlight's slowly fading beam to see by had been a frustrating process. Gerbald stalked along the edge of the meadows they had reached, looking for his next sign while his men took a much needed breather. At last he found the spot where they had carried Pam into the tall grass. He allowed himself a small sigh of relief. It would be an easy trail to follow even in this moonless night, and they might regain some of the ground they had lost in the pass. Moving as fast as he dared, Gerbald led the way, followed by the posse, every man tired, but intent upon recovering Pam.
One of the Marines borrowed from their Swedish military escort, Muskijl, a wiry built, well seasoned soldier in his late thirties named Järv, worked his way up to Gerbald.
"Sergeant!" he whispered to the grim faced German, "Do you smell it?"
Gerbald stopped, opening his nostrils wide to the cool night air. There was a certain tang there.
"Water! Well done, Järv, you noticed it before I did." More than a little surprise could be heard in his voice.
Järv grinned, pleased to have impressed his commander. "That's why they call me Järv. It is the name of an animal in the far north where I am from, a creature known for its sharp senses and cleverness. My father was a trapper who feared nothing, but he taught us all to respect the järv, which is far more dangerous than its size would indicate."
Gerbald was approaching exhaustion and needed to take a breather himself. He covered this by asking the eager Marine to describe the animal. Upon hearing that he was fairly sure that the man was talking about the wolverine, which was not native to the Germanies, but he had read about them in Pam's books.
"An imposing creature indeed! Keep that wolverine nose of yours open wide, my friend. We will need whatever aid nature provides us with." Gerbald favored the man with a smile, but then his face turned grim again. "This might not be a good thing. Let us see how smart these bandits are."
They continued across the grassy expanse. Gerbald began to hear the gurgle of a slow moving current off to the right, along the bottom of a dark mass the flashlight revealed to be a densely wooded hillside. Gerbald's frown deepened as the trail brought them inexorably closer to the waterway.
Soon Gerbald's fear was realized; the trail ended at the river's edge, muddy footprints could be seen leading into the water. He scanned the far side with the light searching for signs of passage, but there were none.
"They are smarter than I like," he announced to the men in dark tones, "They have either moved upstream or downstream. The river is slow enough for either option. A hard trail to follow."
Torbjörn came to Gerbald's side, staring into the darkness beyond the river's far side.
"Is it impossible?" he asked, his voice low and filled with a heart-breaking sadness.
"No, my friend, never impossible. Difficult, yes. However, it is not something we can do in the darkness, even with the up-time light, which is already beginning to lose its power. We must stop here and wait for first light. It is only a few hours away. Besides, we need a rest, No doubt they have taken one by now. If we don't regain some of our strength we won't be able to do Pam any good anyway." He pointed the light to a copse of trees some twenty yards back from the bank. "We will camp in there, the trees will provide us some cover in case there are spies about. Come, let us eat and sleep while we can."
After finding a path in through thick underbrush they found a pleasant open space beneath the trees. Soon a small campfire sprang up, the copse being dense enough to hide its presence, and the men gathered around its sparking cheer. They ate their meal in silence. Dore had packed well, giving them far more than one day's worth of food to carry, the woman's intuition was uncanny. The men savored the simple, but delicious fare, eating enough to regain their strength, but reluctantly putting away the lion's share to save for the next day.
Gerbald leaned against a tree trunk, fairly sure that without its support he would keel over into the thick mat of leaves and twigs at his feet.
"I will take first watch," he said, forcing his drooping eyes to open wide in a futile bid to look hawkishly alert.
Doctor Durand stood up from his place by the fire and strode over to Gerbald in the officious and no nonsense gait that an experienced physician learns to use when approaching a reluctant patient.
"You most certainly will not! Just looking at you I can see that you have reached the point of exhaustion. You have traveled farther, and been awake longer than we have, you must rest, now!" There was a definite note of finality in the doctor's tone. Still, Gerbald attempted to raise a protest, which the doctor quashed.
"Sergeant Gerbald, with all due respect, we need you awake and in good health so that you may lead us once more in the morning! Pam has appointed me chief medic of your expedition, entrusting me with the health of her people. Now, I'm sure you know what she would say about this, so go lie down!" By now the doctor's prominent nose was well under the brim of Gerbald's floppy mustard hat, his brown eyes commanding all of Gerbald's attention.
Gerbald put up his hands in a gesture of surrender, and gave the intense Frenchman a weak grin. "Aye aye, Doctor, it shall be as you say. I know you are right, I'm just a stubborn old soldier."
Doctor Durand's tone softened having achieved his aim. "I shall take first watch, accompanied by one of these Swedish gentlemen in case your trust in me is still in doubt."
"I'll stay up with you, Doctor. I couldn't sleep right now if I wanted to," a tired but still alert looking Torbjörn said, stretching himself up to his considerable height with a groan.
Gerbald smiled, nodded his assent, and went to pass out in the leaf littered earth under the closest tree, not bothering to make his usual nest. It felt like the best feather bed in the world to him, and three breaths later he was out.
****
Gerbald felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. He mumbled in German to his wife to leave him alone and let him sleep another hour, but the hand didn't go away. Slowly he realized someone was talking to him, a male voice speaking Swedish. He opened one eye to peer out from beneath the brim of his hat to see cheerful Åke, his long-time companion from Redbird'screw, bent over him.
"I'm sorry, but you must get up now, Gerbald. It will be dawn shortly!" The sailor grinned merrily beneath his shaggy, strawberry blond beard, obviously enjoying having the rare jump on always-first-to-rise Gerbald.
Gerbald muttered his thanks in Swedish and pulled himself the rest of the way out of the Land of Nod. It was time to go back to work. Åke, a sailor, and his Marine shipmate, somber, dark-haired Sten, were well versed in Pam Miller's survival methods, and had brewed a pot of coffee in a copper kettle over the coals. Everyone had a small Chinese porcelain cup packed carefully in their "lunch sacks," and they all enjoyed the happy bitterness of a hot cup of coffee as they waited for the sun in the hushed pre-dawn darkness.
"I'll recommend you two to Captain Pam for promotions," Gerbald told the Second Chance Bird crewmen, having become just as addicted to the drink as Pam over the years.
Järv and wide-shouldered Reling from the Muskijl sipped at theirs with a bit of trepidation, but soon decided they liked the stuff. Doctor Durand nodded his approval, sipping carefully so as not to allow the steam to cause his mustache's immaculate curlicues to droop. Maintaining their precise shape throughout their journey was something of a small miracle.
"I now see what all the fuss was about!" the doctor exclaimed. "No wonder the Americans were so desperate for this 'coffee' when they arrived in a century that has not yet fully realized its delicious potential. It's a truly marvelous taste, bitter, but with complex subtleties. It also contains a mild stimulant, I feel most refreshed!"
"Caffeine," Gerbald told him. "You'll soon find you can't live without it."
That caused the doctor to raise his eyebrows. They all took a last, longing drink, and then began breaking camp. Doctor Durand gave the sailors a disgusted scowl as they put out the fire in the ancient male way. "Efficient, yes. Sanitary? No!" he hissed to Gerbald in English, but this only made the German hunter chuckle.
"I thought you were a woodsman, Doctor!" he teased Durand.
"One can be a woodsman and still embrace a certain level of civilization, even in the antipodean wilderness!" Durand's disgusted tone softened then. "Still, one must confess that in my youth I relied on that brutish, yet expedient solution myself on occasion." Both men shared a quiet laugh as they made their way out of the trees into the dim purple light of the dawn meadows. The hunt was on again.
Soon they were gathered at the spot where Pam's trail ended at the muddy shore. Gerbald frowned as he looked at the muddy boot prints. "Careless, that. They must have been getting tired, having to bear Pam's weight between them. They are big fellows, and she weighs not much more than a feather these days, but over long miles it would take its toll." he leaned down closer, marking the size and shape of the tracks. "Simple but sturdy leather boots, just what one would expect from woodland scouts."
"Or common brigands," Torbjörn added in a low snarl.
"Indeed. We must all be very careful now, we may be nearing their hideout and there is a possibility they have laid traps for us. Keep your eyes and ears open." He looked at Järv, who was restless, ready to move again. "And noses!" Gerbald added, making the man grin in the way his namesake might upon capturing some toothsome prey.
Everyone wanted to ask "Which way next?" but they respectfully refrained, giving their leader, who was also their most experienced tracker by a fair distance, plenty of time to ponder before making that decision.
At last Gerbald broke the silence. "Upriver. It would be easy to go downriver with the flow, so they went upriver, thinking we might not expect that. At least that's what my hunch says, and that's all we have to go on at this point." Everyone nodded their agreement, and they fell into line, each scanning the close and far shore for any sign of their captured friend's passing.
Chapter Fifty-Eight: The Middle Of The River
Time passed strangely as Pam floated down the slow moving river, minutes seemed to grow and stretch into spans much longer than they should. Had it been an hour since she had made her escape? Two hours, three? She couldn't be sure. She did feel certain that she had left her pursuers far enough behind, and had stopped swimming, the exercise made her injured head throb. She floated on her back now, feet downstream so as not to bump into anything with her already tender noggin. The cool water helped soothe the pain, not as well as an ice pack, but much better than nothing. She had used the old 'man overboard' trick of taking off her shirt, tying its openings closed, and filling it with air to create a make-shift flotation device. This worked fairly well, but needed the occasional refill.
Sometimes, the water sped up slightly as the course narrowed, or went around a tight bend. During these times she used her arms and legs to steer, always keeping to the deepest spots. It was a dark, moonless night but the water reflected the dazzling starlight of a sky that knew no pollution and Pam, who had excellent night vision anyway, was able to navigate with ease. She guessed that she had traveled at least three miles, maybe more, but with the river's meandering path it was impossible to know for sure. She was well pleased with her escape, and she thought the pleasure of it buoyed her nearly as much as her air-filled shirt.
The night stretched on, the trip down the river would have been rather enjoyable under different circumstances. Unfortunately, Pam now had to face an inconvenient reality that was growing more urgent with each passing minute; she was getting cold. She had ignored it for longer than she probably should have, and was beginning to shake slightly—time to get out of the pool! She looked around for the best nearby place to go ashore. Whatever luck had helped her escape was still with her; the river had deepened and widened considerably over the last mile. Straight ahead of her was a very small island, about fifteen feet long and nine feet wide. Above its sandy banks tall grass grew in and around a tangle of driftwood. It was ideal, a healthy swim through deep water from either bank and providing natural cover.
Pam reached its closest tip and crawled up into the long, soft grass. She wanted to pass out as soon as her entire body was out of the water, but forced herself to move further into the small sanctuary's center, where large, bleached logs would hide her from searching eyes. Her head still hurt, and she was shivering. How badly had hypothermia set in? The very thought was worrisome. At least her teeth weren't chattering yet, which was a good sign. She decided to take off all her soaking wet clothes except her underwear, a light silk shift from the junk. She sat up and made a point of wringing them out a few feet from where she planned to sleep, then laid them out on the grass to dry, making sure they were hidden from the river shore. The ground was deliciously dry where she curled up in her driftwood blind. She pulled the long grass down over her body to help provide some warmth and cover. Exhausted, chilled, and in pain, but feeling safe for the time being, Pam drifted off into a deep, tranquil sleep as the first faint glow of dawn came to the starry southern skies.
****
The sun was hot. Pam awoke to feel it slowly burning her face and arms. What time is it? Her head still hurt, but the pain had diminished to a dull beat in the back of her head, unpleasant but manageable. She just wanted to roll over in the soft grass and go back to sleep, but from somewhere a voice, (Grandma?) was shouting at her to wake up.
"Okay, I'm up, I'm up!" she said aloud. Pam sat up, rubbing her eyes in the glare of light reflected off water. Looking around she realized that there was no one there. "Great. The voices in my head have gotten loose." She had been certain someone was calling her, but she was all alone on her tiny sanctuary, and the river banks were empty of people. Pam frowned. That won't last! Damnit, it's got to be nearly eleven in the morning! I've overslept! She felt a panic rising in her but quelled it, she had to focus. What are my options?
She saw that her clothes had dried where she had laid them out on the grass. She picked up the dark blue Chinese silk shirt and turned it over to make sure the back was completely dry. She had slept in her socks and hiking boots, which were still a bit damp, but decided to leave them on, there was no time to do anything about them now. Yes, having dry clothes would be really nice, but then there was the problem of getting them to the shore that way. She would have to figure something out. She really couldn't face the misery of slogging along in wet clothes. On the other hand, going ashore might not be a good idea just yet. That's where they would be following her. Careful to keep low, she looked down river. The water continued on much as it had, slowly meandering between hill and meadow. She was currently in a wide, deep area but it looked like the river might become more shallow farther down, and perhaps a bit faster. This was not a good sign, if she came to water too shallow to swim or float in then she would have no choice but to go forward on land. If she should suddenly end up in rapids, would she be able to get out in time? How far was it to the sea? It was all a big unknown ahead of her, no matter which route she chose. She was in a damn difficult and dangerous situation, and any decision she made might mean life or death.
That was when, too late, she saw three men moving silently downstream along the low bank. She knew their ogre-ish forms, their monstrous strides all too well. She ducked down between the logs as quickly as she could, silently praying they hadn't seen her. She realized then that she had left her shirt out in a spot where it could be seen from the shore. Damn you, Pam! she silently chided herself. Stupid, stupid, stupid again! She bit her lip, squinting her eyes tightly to stop the flow of frustrated tears. There was nothing for it now, either they saw the shirt or they didn't. Pam breathed slowly and deeply, trying to maintain calm while her heart raced. She prayed Please let them pass, please let them pass. When she heard them start shouting, she clenched her fists in rage and terror.
Chapter Fifty-Nine: Marco Polo
Pam still held onto a faint hope that they might think she abandoned the dirty, torn shirt, and was already gone. She moved carefully into a position where she could see her pursuers through a tangle of bone white branches and slender stalks of bright grass. Her heart sank as she saw them pointing at her little island, arguing about what to do next. She knew they were not good swimmers which was the only thing left in her favor. They stopped talking and split up, looking for something. To her horror they pulled out a dry log, cast up on the bank by the rainy season surge. They put it in the water and it floated, quite nicely in fact. After more finger pointing and argument, one of them, she thought it might be "broken rib guy," begin to take off his boots and shirt. He handed his pistol to the fellow she thought of as "the leader," who was also the bastard who had hit her in the head. Wearing only his breeches and a nasty looking blade at his belt, the man waded into the water until he was up to his chest, then began kicking, hanging onto the log for dear life. To her surprise, Pam found herself smiling.
Enough was enough. She didn't know why they had kidnapped her in the first place, whether as a political prisoner, or simply to be camp plaything, but now she was pretty sure they had a new motive for coming after her; she had really pissed them off. She had managed to physically hurt each of them, and much worse for a male of this ilk, she had badly damaged their pride. They were coming for revenge now, the game had become life or death. The old Pam Miller might have cowered and waited meekly for the end, or maybe have enough sense to run away, but not "Captain Pam." She waited for the man on the log to come closer. When he was near enough for her to see the sadistic smirk on his face, she turned around, pulled down her pants and mooned him. Back on the shore the rest of the thugs began laughing despite themselves. With her pants back in place she turned back to see that log man's smirk had turned to red rage. Perfect. Pam gave him a coy wave, then put her finger in the water, shivering theatrically as if it were icy cold. Her pursuer kicked even harder. He was only about five yards away when Pam dove into the river, surfacing with a smile into an easy backstroke a good ten yards away.
Pam headed slowly toward the opposite shore, drawing him further away from his friends and out into deeper water. Log man was persistent. He changed course to follow. She couldn't be sure, but she thought they must be well out of range of those primitive guns. She was pretty sure that even if they had this kind of range, their accuracy wouldn't be very good. Anyway, she would have to take that chance, just one of many on her day's to do list. She gave log man a glamorous smile and beckoned him closer, taunting him. She could now see that one of his hands was gripping a very large knife and it looked sharp. She noted it, but felt no fear, not with what she had in mind. She began taking deep breaths, readying her lungs for a dive. She thanked her rowdy boy cousins for teaching her to dive, it might just save her life today.
"Say 'Marco!'" she told the slowly, but steadily approaching enemy in a teasing voice before taking one last deep breath and making a surface dive. It had been a long time since she had done this and suddenly a sharp pain appeared in her ears. She had forgotten to equalize. Better late than never, she pinched her nose and blew, bringing some relief to the tortuous pressure squeeze. The ever present throb from her head injury chimed in to let her know it was still there, but she had gotten pretty good at ignoring that and dove deeper. At a depth of nine feet she swam under the man and surfaced a couple of yards behind him. The ear pain had caught her off guard, so she would have to consider this a practice run. Surfacing and barely winded, she loudly shouted, "Polo!" at him, making him almost lose his grip on the log in surprise. Pam noted that with pleasure, the wood was beginning to get slippery. As the man struggled to turn his ersatz watercraft around, Pam took another deep breath and again disappeared below the surface.
This time she was better prepared, ears pressurized and lungs filled for a longer, deeper dive. When she was a kid she could go down pretty far, turning over rocks at thirty feet for almost two minutes before surfacing, sometimes with a furious, wriggling prize snapping its claws, helpless in her grip. She was no kid any more, but she still had the skills. She hoped it would be enough to nab this prize. Pam shot downward, feeling the water grow colder as she left the surface behind. Looking up she could see her pursuer kicking hard as he turned in a circle. That must be tiring, she thought with sadistic glee. She kicked upward, rising to the level of his flailing feet. Careful to time it just right, she grabbed an ankle in each hand and yanked downward with all her might, adding her own mass to the pull. She could hear him shrieking, gripping the log for dear life. She realized she wouldn't be able to dislodge him on this try, but his hold on the log came at a price. A flashing length of silver came sinking past her, whirling through the water like a maple seed. Grinning savagely, she let go of the man's legs and grabbed for the knife he had dropped before it went any deeper. It was a close thing but she managed to get it by the handle, gurgling with triumph at the gift. You're supposed to carry it in your teeth, stupid! she thought at the man, as she clenched it with the sharp side out between her own pearly whites. Using a powerful breaststroke and frog kick combination, Pam headed for the surface, coming up once more well out of reach of her floundering prey.
The man turned to see Pam smiling with his own knife in her teeth, her stormy gray eyes filled with a primeval malice. Panic hit him then and he began to kick as hard as he could for the far shore, which, while closer than where he had left his comrades and any hope of aid, was still many long yards away. Pam fell into a lazy side stroke behind him, coming beside him. He glanced over at her, eyes wide with fear. How could a woman become a shark? Grimacing painfully, he kicked even harder, his breath coming in loud, exhausted gasps. Pam gave him a polite nod before diving under again. It was time to kill. The man paused to lash out at her with his legs, hoping to kick her, but she hovered just out of reach. Taking the knife from her teeth she aimed carefully, timing the movement of his legs, then lashed out with the knife. The wickedly sharp blade sliced into his right Achilles tendon, a cloud of dark red spurting into the dimly lit water. Pam could hear shrieking. She still had enough air, so she took another swipe at him, this time catching him behind the right knee, a deep and debilitating cut. Her enemy struggled crazily to kick away from her, but with his injuries he wasn't making much headway. Twin contrails of red drifted downstream from his pathetically flailing legs. Pam surfaced again.
She took a moment to look back at the far shore. The rest of her pursuers were running beside the river, shouting curses and shaking their fists. One of them had his gun out and took aim. She quickly ducked below the surface, just in time to watch the hot projectile slam into the water some ten yards away, arcing into the depths with a dissipating wake of steam. Bobbing up again, she laughed.
"You're going to have to do better than that, Jesse James!" She knew they wouldn't understand her words, but it was pleasure enough to know they would hear her taunting tone. "Better luck next time, ass-holes!" That was when she felt a cold, iron-like grip take her by her left bicep. The man on the log had found courage, and had somehow managed to maneuver his log up behind her while she had been distracted. His other arm was wrapped firmly around the log, a hard hold to break. He drew her closer to him, smiling viciously, like a water rat that has at last snagged the slippery fish. Pam smiled back, not even trying to break free of his grip. Under the water, she still had the knife in her free hand.
"Gee, you're dumb," she said as she drove it into his gut. His smile turned to a gasping "O," his flinty eyes tearing up with the excruciating pain of a sure death. She drove it in deeper, all the way to the hilt, and twisted. Blood shot out in jets, she could feel its hot fluid enveloping her in a scarlet cloud, smell its iron as it bubbled to the surface. He lost his grip on her then, and began to lose his purchase on the log, sliding into the water to his shoulders. Pam pulled the knife out of him, making him moan and cough blood. She lifted the knife, its deadly length breaking the surface like a shark's dorsal fin, making sure his terror filled eyes focused on the deadly steel gleaming wetly in the noonday sun. She thrust its length into his neck just above the Adam's apple, dodging the arc of blood which came spurting out from the killing stroke. Her enemy stopped moving all together then, his open hands twitching senselessly in the air as he began to float onto his back. Pam gripped him by his wet, snarled hair and pushed him under, using her weight to send him deep. He didn't surface. Pam carefully shoved the knife into the tight spot where her pant's waist hugged her flesh between her left hip and buttock where it couldn't cut her or come loose. She definitely intended to keep this unexpected gift from above that had very likely saved her skin. Now close to exhaustion herself, but flooded with adrenaline and with every fiber of her being singing the blood lust song, she laughed long and loud as she pulled herself onto the log. On the shore, the rest of her enemies were insensate with rage, firing at her over and over despite not having a chance of hitting her at this range. That's good fellas, keep wasting those shots. Filled with the giddy high of utter fearlessness Pam waved at them.
"So long, Screwy!" See you in St. Louis!" her taunts and laughter echoed eerily from the steep bank she was floating near, hearing the sounds come back to her just made her laugh even louder. "I told you, don't mess with Captain Pam, you stupid fucks!" From nowhere came the thought What would the Methodist Ladies think if they saw all this? Wouldn't that be a kicker? Beginning to calm down, Pam turned her back on her frustrated pursuers, and began to kick, using the captured log to support her as she continued down the river. They would follow of course, but she had a good head start on them now, she could make better time with less effort as the current carried her, while they had to run through thickets and brambles to keep up. In any case, she had a respite for now, her legs making occasional frog kicks to guide her along. She patted the slippery but buoyant wood with a still bloody palm, leaving behind a crimson print. She had killed another man today, what was that, nine now? She was surprised to find that, at least for the moment, she had lost count.
Chapter Sixty: Some Last Words
Gerbald and his men continued up the river. They moved as fast as they dared, but not nearly as fast as they would have liked, fearing they would miss a clue. They eventually came to a wide spot at a bow, where a deep place had formed in the river's center. Gerbald stopped, staring at a long, broken branch dangling over the pool, part of a sturdy looking tree growing on the high, steep bank opposite, its roots reaching down into the shallows in a tangle. He motioned for everyone to stop, and gestured with a subtle nod of his head. He spoke quietly, in case enemy eyes and ears were on them.
"Look at that branch hanging above the deep spot. The break is very recent, just a few hours. Something heavy must have climbed out onto it! Also, you can see where some of the moss is scraped off!"
Torbjörn's eyes lit up with rekindled hope. "Could it have been Pam? Could she have climbed out there, trying to escape?"
"It's possible. She's a good climber."
Torbjörn's face fell into worry again. "But, Gerbald, can she swim?"
Gerbald laughed cheerfully, pleased that they had finally gotten a break, a clear sign of passage on the river. "Don't worry, my friend. Pam is an accomplished outdoors-woman. She had already learned much in her youth. She comes from sturdy country stock, as most Grantvillers do, and grew up with a collection of doting 'hillbilly' uncles and cousins who were determined to make a 'tomboy' out of her." Noting the confused look on Torbjörn's face, Gerbald paused to explain the unfamiliar American terms. "Furthermore, what she didn't learn from them, I have since taught her. And yes, she can swim like a fish, I've seen her do it many times. Now, let's get over to the other side and see what story it tells."
Järv coughed to get Gerbald's attention, he was grinning like a mad fool. "Sergeant, maybe we should see what tale that fellow over there can tell."
Gerbald followed his gaze a couple hundred yards upriver to see a man slumped against the steep slope of the far bank. Gerbald smiled at Järv, then broke into a cautious trot, watching carefully for traps or ambush, the men following him with their eyes peeled. Arriving opposite, they saw that the river was still fairly deep here. Searching around a bit further upstream, they found a shallow area, an easy ford. They waded across with their guns drawn, approaching the seemingly unconscious man as carefully as they could. They could see he was breathing, but very lightly, seemingly unaware of his visitors. Gerbald made them pause in the shallow water a few feet from the shore, while he examined the muddy bank for sign.
"There were four men who left the water here. I can see by the disturbed submerged stones and bent reeds that they swam to this beach. They must have been wading along near the shore behind us all along. These prints are Pam's. It looks like they tried to climb up the hill here, but then fell. You fellows stay here and keep watch. Doctor Durand, please come ashore and tend to this man."
The doctor nodded and followed Gerbald up onto the narrow strip of land beneath a curtain of tree roots. Gerbald first checked to see if the fellow was armed. There was a sharp-looking long knife at his belt, which he relieved him of. Durand took the man's filthy wool hat off, and felt for a pulse at his neck, then checked his temperature with a palm to the forehead. The rather ugly looking fellow had a dirty face and a snarled black beard. He moaned at the doctor's gentle touch.
"He is feverish, and barely conscious."
"This may explain why." Gerbald held up a large stone with a sharp edge. It was covered with dried blood.
Durand pulled the man's head forward to reveal a deep wound just above the base of the skull. Part of the skull was visible beneath the torn flesh and blood-matted hair.
"Another head injury. They are in style these days," the doctor said with a tired try at humor.
"It looks like Pam gave as good as she got. Maybe better." Gerbald dropped the bloody stone with a grimace. "Can you wake him up? Can he talk?"
"The injury is very severe, and quite likely fatal. It's faintly possible he may live, or he may die at any moment. Just waking him up may kill him."
"Then what are you waiting for?" Gerbald's eyes were as cold as river stones.
"Right." Durand acknowledged the command, and began to gently pat the unconscious man on the cheek, speaking to him in French. After a while, the brigand opened a bloodshot eye, and seemed to focus on the persistent doctor. They conversed for a few minutes while Gerbald and the men stood watching, shifting their weight from foot to foot impatiently, wondering what was being said.
At last the doctor turned to them. "His name is Hugues and he is indeed one of those scoundrels from the Pyrenees, as I suspected. He is mostly incoherent, and I believe he thinks that I am his grandmother. Apparently he didn't like her very much." Durand paused for a distasteful scowl. "All he will say about Pam is that 'last night the bitch hit me with a rock and then got away.' He has been here ever since, abandoned by his comrades."
Gerbald shook his head in disgust. "Doctor, please ask him why they took Pam and where they were going to take her."
Long minutes passed as the doctor spoke, then listened, his head unpleasantly close to the man's cracked lips, as the mumbles faded to whispers. Finally, the doctor stood up; the brigand had fallen silent, and seemed to be in a coma.
"They had watched the freeing of the colony from the forest, and were able to identify that Pam was important. Their leader, 'Bernard,' decided they should kidnap her, either for ransom, or perhaps to send on to the pirate nest at Isle St. Marie, it wasn't yet decided. For the time being, they were taking her to their hunting camp on the hill above us."
"Then we go up that hill. Doctor, while I don't have much pity for this piece of trash, is there something you can do to ease his passing?"
The doctor bent over the man again. "No, there is not. He is already dead." The doctor placed the man's filthy hat over his face. Gerbald nodded solemnly, then gazed up at the high, treacherous bank.
"I'll go up first, you fellows spot for me. Once I've checked to see if it's safe, I'll throw down a rope and everyone can come up one by one."
Gerbald made short work of the climb, clambering up the slippery, vine-like roots as if he had been born to them. The others watched, deeply impressed with his skill. He secured a rope to a tree trunk and threw its end down to make it easier for them. Soon, they all stood amongst the moss-covered tree trunks perching at the banks' crumbling top, looking down at the dead man and the slowly flowing river.
"I could see where Pam climbed up first," Gerbald told them, "and found the rocks she dropped on them. They must have been surprised to see how fast she could climb. Her gambit worked. Her path leads off this way, followed by the other three. They weren't trying to hide their passage at all, it was a race." With that, Gerbald headed into the woods, moving quickly with an easy trail to follow.
A few minutes later, they stood at the point where four sets of tracks, including Pam's, led to where a massive tree had sent a branch far out over the deep, dark pool in the river's center. Only three sets led away from the place, and none of them were Pam's.
"Look!" Gerbald called to his comrades, exaltation in his voice, "I'm certain Pam made her escape into the water here! I doubt they could match her swimming skills, and were afraid to try! Instead, they were forced to follow along as best they could, along this high bank in the dark. That would have given Pam even more time to put some distance between them, aided by the current. I have a very good feeling about this, let's move out! "
Gerbald felt exhilarated. This was a real victory against very bad odds. They could make better time now. He hoped to end this chase, and rescue Pam soon.
****
To be continued . . .