Regan slammed into the deck, rolled across it, and hit the fife railing with a bone-jarring jolt. Yet, in spite of her pain, all she was aware of was that above her she heard another horrible sound of wood cracking.
In spite of the angle of the deck and the rushing water, she grabbed the railing and tried to pull herself upward. A man’s scream and a fleeting glimpse of a body sailing over her head and going past the deck rail did not deter her from her course. It was difficult to breathe, much less see, as she struggled to look up at the rigging where Travis hung.
Had she not been looking so hard, she would not have seen the blurry image of Travis as his hands lost their grip and he began to fall. His foot was caught in the rigging, and this saved him as he appeared to struggle for his senses and find the rope he needed to hold him fast.
The aftershocks of the big wave tossed the big ship like a child’s top as Regan clung and prayed and watched Travis struggling to hang on. She could see that something was wrong with him, that he was fighting more than the sea.
With one arm hooked about the rail, she wrenched a piece of rope as big around as her arm from the pins and then inched toward the bottom of the rigging.
All around her, men were shouting, and the wind and water played tricks with sounds, but Regan only saw Travis as he painfully lowered himself. Still holding on as best she could, she climbed up the rigging until she was able to touch Travis’s foot.
Scared but knowing there was no other way, she wrapped the rope around his ankle and the rigging. The rope was too long and too big for her to knot properly, so all she did was wrap it, hoping she’d have time before the next wave came.
She was unprepared for the slash of a wave while hanging above the deck on just a bit of rope. She tangled her body in the rope and hung on for dear life.
After this wave, she was too frightened to move, and with her hand clasping the end of the big rope attached to Travis’s ankle, she was afraid to open her eyes. She’d done all she could to save him, and now she couldn’t bear to look to see if he was there or not.
It seemed to her a long time that she hung there, half-sitting, half-suspended, before she heard shouts below. Still afraid to open her eyes, she kept them wrenched shut.
“Travis!” came the clear call from below her, actually seeming quite near.
“Mrs. Stanford,” called a voice that could only be the captain’s.
With trepidation, she opened her eyes, still afraid to look to her left where Travis m
ight or might not be.
Later, no one could remember who was the first to start laughing. Perhaps it wasn’t a laughing matter, but the sailors were so relieved to have finally left the storm behind them, the last two waves having knocked the ship out of its path, that the sight above them was hugely entertaining.
Regan, ten feet above deck, was practically sitting in the rigging, clad only in a very wet muslin dress, her bare legs through the knotted rope squares wrapped tightly, hugging her own body, as were her arms. In one hand was an enormous rope attached to the leg of Travis, a man twice her size, who now lounged in the rigging as if he were sleeping. For all the world she looked like a little girl leading some sort of strange animal.
“Stop your yammering and get them down!” the captain bellowed.
Encouraged by their laughter, Regan dared to look toward Travis, and at this close range she could see the blood seeping at the side of his head.
When three of the sailors had climbed to her and saw Travis’s condition, they no longer laughed.
“You saved his life,” one of them said, awe in his voice. “He’s not even aware we’re here. He couldn’t have hung on without you tyin’ him.”
“Is he all right?”
“He’s breathin’,” the sailor said, but would say no more.
“No,” she said when he touched her. “Get Travis down first.”
Now that the seriousness of what Regan had done reached them, the sailors glanced up at her in amazement for a moment before turning away and respectfully not looking openly at her fine, bare legs.
With some dignity, Regan was able to descend the rigging with the help of a sailor. She was startled at how high up she’d gone and at the difficulty she had in getting down.
Finally on a solid surface again, she followed the men carrying Travis to their cabin. As they passed David’s cabin, one of the men murmured that the young gentleman was sleeping. Regan only nodded as her thoughts were completely with Travis.
The ship’s doctor came to Travis quickly and examined his head wound. “The maintop must have hit him when it broke away.” The doctor turned appraising eyes toward Regan. “I hear you kept him from being washed overboard.”
“Will he be all right?” she asked, not caring about his praise.
“No one can tell with these head wounds. Sometimes they live, but their minds never work again. All you can do is try to get him to drink water and stay quiet. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help than that.”
Regan only nodded as she smoothed Travis’s wet hair from his forehead. The ship was still rolling frantically but seemed calm after the last several hours. Turning, she asked one of the sailors still in the room to get her some fresh water.