The shooting pain in her side served to clear her mind of anything but a singular focus: escape. Each volley Sister Elizabeth fired and each broadside it received recoiled and rocked the ship. With her hands held over her head as she rubbed the rope over the broken iron peg, every jolt upset her balance. The bilge water now reached her knees—and she expected every moment that her attempt to free herself would be thwarted by the arrival of the master carpenter and his mates to man the pumps. After what felt like hours, the rope started to give way. She increased her intensity—and ignored the heat the friction caused. The loop of rope went lax. Julia lowered her hands and used her teeth to pull at it, and it uncoiled, falling away. In moments she extricated herself from the bindings. She stretched and flexed her hands, arms, and shoulders, delighting in the freedom of movement but was glad of the dark—she did not want to see the truth of the bloody mess her wrists must be, from the nicks and cuts made in the sensitive flesh by the peg.
