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’ Margarethe didn’t answer, but pulled on the safety harness, exited the wheelhouse and blindly clipped on to the lifeline. By luck or whatever she caught the lifeline leading after to the Whaler. She fought her way against the water, which was no longer wave but air and sky and sea and air again, mixed together, ripping her lungs out, blinding her eyes, screaming filth in her ears. The comfortable deck of Dread Sovereign, her home and consolation, had become a bed of nails, a cross of torture, no longer her home but stolen from her, invaded. The lashing on the port side of the Whaler, nearest her (‘thank God,’ she choked, if it had been on the starboard side she would have had no chance of securing it), flew free. With each surge and fall, the Whaler lifted free and slammed into the deck. Long enough and hard enough, and the deck would fracture and the sea rush in. Then the long struggle, with death at the end for ship and crew. Margarethe seized the lashing one-handed, the rope. 308 for his Remington 700. Cap it all off with thousands of .22 rimfire, 12 gauge rounds in three varieties, #4 shot for small game, 00 buck for self defense, and slugs for anything that needed killing, along with various odds and ends to go along with his eclectic collection, and you had a significant amount of weight. Junior had decided to load the ammo down both side of the front of the cargo box to distribute the weight better. He had constructed shelves of 2x4's and plywood, and would use ratchet straps to keep everything in place. Stowing the last few cases he tied it all down, using scraps of plywood here and there to secure smaller boxes.Breakfast was French toast smothered in maple syrup, and Junior was loath to see the last of his eggs gone. When he mentioned it Sarah suggested getting some chickens when they got to Montana. This improved his mood somewhat, especially the picture of her in a gingham dress, hem gathered to hold the eggs she had collected. When he smirked at.
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