by David Healey
“At least now I have a companion in captivity,” the man said, clapping his hands together. “What is your name, young sir?”
“Hope,” Alexander said, then added, “Ensign Hope.”
“Hope, you say?” the skeletal fellow scratched his chin. “I knew a Hope once, a long time ago. Since then I’ve lost Hope, ha, ha!”
"Who are you?"
"My name is of no consequence, young sir. I am just a hapless prisoner, much like you," the ragged figure said, and then fell silent. An air of defeat radiated off the man like heat from a skillet and there was a gleam in his eye that may have been madness.
Alexander wondered if he would also become a raving bundle of rags and bones if given enough time in this cell?
He was dwelling on that unpleasant thought when a great shudder ran through the ship. He knew that sensation well enough. They had fired a broadside! That could only mean that the battle had begun. Almost immediately the sound of the broadside was followed by a noise of cracking and splintering as a tremor ran through the ship. The Resolution was firing back, and had found its target.
Alexander didn't know what felt more helpless—to be imprisoned in an enemy ship, or to be imprisoned in an enemy ship that was attacking your own friends and shipmates. He banged against the door again.
"Is there no way out?"
The miserable figure in the corner did not bother to answer.
In the silence, Le Triomphant fired another broadside.
Despondent, Alexander slumped against the door and slowly sank to the floor.
Doing so probably saved his life, for an instant later a cannonball exploded through the back wall of the cell and then struck the door, leaving a hole where Alexander had been standing just a moment before.
"Get down, you fool!" the figure in the corner shouted, throwing himself to the floor. Alexander did the same. In quick succession, two more cannonballs punched through, showering them both with splinters.
When it seemed safe, Alexander jumped up, brushing shards of wood off him as he did so. His fellow prisoner looked at him with wide eyes, and Alexander noticed something hot and smoking on his shoulder. With a cry of dismay, he realized it was a fragment of cannonball. He flicked it off, but not before it burned a sizable hole in his uniform coat.
"That was lucky," Alexander said.
"No, you are lucky," the man said. "Although you might tell your companions not to try and kill us next time."
"Come now, let's not be ungrateful," Alexander said with a grin.
He pushed against the door again. This time, what was left of it swung open easily. In the passageway, there lay the crumpled body of a sailor, killed by one of the cannonballs that had freed Alexander. Had the man been a guard? No one else seemed to be around. Carefully, and with a sickening feeling in his belly, Alexander stepped around the dead sailor. Behind him, his fellow prisoner shuffled from the cell.
"Where are you going?" the man asked. "We are still on a Napoleonist ship, in case you had not noticed. We must find a way to escape."
"I have something I must do first," Alexander said.
"If you want a souvenir, there are shops for that sort of thing."
"No," Alexander said, annoyed. "I have something important to do."
The man shrugged, causing his shredded clothes to flap on his thin shoulders. "I don't wish to spend one more minute on this ship than necessary. I shall swim to shore if I must. But you are a lucky lad—without you I am sure I would still be in that cell. Let me help you."
"Then follow me." Alexander was doubtful that the man would be much help; he hoped the poor fellow could keep up.
Alexander had just one thought on his mind. He had to find the documents Mrs. Pomfrey had stolen from Colonel Beauchamp's cabin aboard the Resolution. He was sure that wherever Mrs. Pomfrey was, he would find the documents.
But where?
He recalled that the Napoleonist captain had said something about confining Alexander to his own cabin as a courtesy—until he had changed his mind and had Alexander tossed into the brig instead. What if the captain had then given over his cabin to Mrs. Pomfrey? Both she and the documents would have been safe there. If Alexander had been in le capitán's boots, it's what he would have done.
Considering that Mrs. Pomfrey might still have her pistols, it wouldn't hurt to have some sort of weapon. What was he going to use, a chunk of wood from the broken door? His eyes fell on the dead Napoleonist sailor. There was a pistol tucked into his belt. Reluctantly, Alexander reached down and pulled it free.
If the Napoleonist ship was designed anything like an English one, then the captain's cabin would be at the stern. Holding the pistol out in front of him, Alexander went that way. He knew that if he ran into trouble, he would get just one shot.
CHAPTER 18
With no time to spare, Alexander raced through the Napoleonist ship toward the captain's cabin in hopes of finding Mrs. Pomfrey there with the stolen documents. He expected at any moment for someone to try to stop him or at least shout a warning that the English prisoner had escaped. But in the confusion and turmoil of battle, no one seemed to notice him.
In the gun deck, he raced through thick clouds of smoke spewing from the cannons. The sulphur smell bit at his nostrils. He also smelled hot iron from the overheated guns.
Someone shouted, "Fusille!"
The Napoleonists fired another broadside and the noise banged upon his eardrums like a hammer beats a nail. The wave of sound shook him to his very bones.
Alexander caught a glimpse through a gun port of a magnificent ship directly across from them. Its newly painted sides projected a sense of competency and order—the crew took good care of this ship. The dark muzzles of her guns stared back like unblinking eyes.
It was quite odd to see the Resolution from this perspective. Looking into Resolution's guns, he felt a mixed sense of pride and fear. The Napoleonist captain had promised an easy victory over Resolution. How wrong he had been.
Fascinated, Alexander couldn't help but to stop and stare. Then the Resolution let go with a rolling broadside, firing its guns in rapid succession. The ship was obscured from view by a cloud of smoke that rolled across the water. Flames shot through the haze. A few cannonballs struck the gun deck. The cannonballs were solid shot, so they did not explode, but a 12-pound iron ball traveling at supersonic speed shattered any wood it struck, showering the Napoleonist crew with knife-like splinters of oak. Of course, it was an unlucky sailor who found himself in the path of a careening cannonball. Between the roar of guns and whistle of cannonballs, the air was punctuated with screams.
Remembering why he was there, Alexander tore himself away from the scene of carnage. His former cellmate followed in his wake. He had not gone far before he collided with a Napoleonist powder monkey. The boy gave Alexander's uniform a quizzical look, then ran on with his bags of gunpowder for the cannons.
That was close. If the powder monkey had sounded the alarm—
No point in thinking about that now. Alexander charged ahead, pistol at the ready. But something about his arm did not feel right. The pistol felt much heavier than it should have. With a shock, he realized that his arm was bleeding. One of the splinters from Resolution's broadside had ripped into him. He put two hands around the butt of the pistol and kept going.
The capitán's cabin was just where he thought it would be. Fortunately, there were no guards about—every able-bodied Napoleonist not manning a gun would be up on deck, ready to repel boarders.
"Wait here and keep an eye out," he whispered to his former cellmate.
Alexander shoved open the door.
Mrs. Pomfrey stood by the stern window, apparently trying to get a glimpse of the fighting. She spun to glare at Alexander. He was relieved to see that her hands were empty.
"You!" she cried, sounding exasperated. "You are very stubborn, Mr. Hope."
"Put your hands up and no sudden moves, if you please," Alexander said, using both hands to level the pis
tol at her. The gun felt as if it weighed as much as a cannonball. "I am not in the habit of shooting governesses, but I will if I must. Does that sound somewhat familiar?"
"Touché, Mr. Hope."
Her glance went to his arm. "I see you are wounded."
"I'm fine, but thank you for your concern."
"Fine? I doubt you could hit anything with that pistol right now. If you have not noticed, you are dripping blood on the capitán's floor."
"I don't wish to test my aim. Just tell me where the documents are that you stole from Colonel Beauchamp."
"They are not here," she said. "A gryphon has already carried them away to France."
"Just before a battle with Royal Flyers circling overhead? I doubt that very much."
It was Mrs. Pomfrey's eyes that deceived her. They flicked toward the wall behind Alexander, just beside the cabin door. Hanging on a peg was the leather satchel Alexander recognized from the rowboat. Keeping the pistol aimed in Mrs. Pomfrey's direction, he took a step backwards and grabbed the satchel.
He looked inside. Secure within a rubberized pouch was a thick packet of documents. Clearly, Mrs. Pomfrey had taken precautions against her proof of the English-American conspiracy from getting a dunking in the sea.
"You will not get far with those letters, young Mr. Hope," Mrs. Pomfrey said. "Aboard this ship, you are as good as a prisoner."
"We shall see," Alexander said, and shut the door.
He slipped the strap for the satchel over one shoulder and ran for the stairway. His best chance of getting off the ship with the letters would be up on on deck. With any luck, he might be able to steal a boat in the confusion of battle and escape.
He stormed up the stairs, the pistol at the ready, and emerged into a maelstrom of fire, smoke and blood.
Everywhere he looked, men labored to load and fire the cannons, their faces blackened into inhuman masks by the powder grime. Others hurried by carrying armloads of pistols and cutlasses, handing them around to the crew. A cannonball ripped the air just above Alexander's head. So close, the sound made his flesh tingle with fear. He could barely breathe through the thick sulphuric clouds. He could just see the white sails of Resolution through the smoke.
Nearby, a Napoleonist sailor gave a warning shout and pointed up. Alexander just had time to duck under the cover of a half-fallen cross tree before a rain of bomblets sliced down, dropped by the Royal Flyers overhead. Others had not been quick enough to take shelter. A sailor nearby cried out in agony as a spiked bomblet struck him in the shoulder with enough force to knock him down. Alexander mused that he would much rather be on the giving end than the receiving end of a gryphon attack. Come to think of it, he would rather not be on the enemy ship at all.
I must find a boat, he thought. It is my only chance of escape.
He made his way across the deck as best he could, dodging Napoleonist sailors and keeping one eye out for more bomblets. No one seemed to noticed that he still wore the uniform of a Royal Navy Ensign, but he was sure that it was only a matter of time before someone came to their senses.
Finally, he saw what he was seeking. The launch that Mrs. Pomfrey had stolen from Resolution was still tied alongside the ship. If he could just get into the boat, he would be free. In the noise and confusion of battle, no one would notice the launch being rowed away.
Alexander found the rope ladder and climbed down toward the launch. If he could just get into the launch, he could row over to the Resolution and escape the Napoleonists. His fellow captive followed him.
"You are a clever lad," the man said, panting with the effort of navigating the rope ladder. "I daresay you remind me of someone I once knew. Anyhow, I wouldn't have thought about the boat."
They were almost there, and so far no one had noticed them in the confusion of battle. Just a few more feet. Alexander lowered himself into the boat.
Then a stray shot from the Resolution struck the quarterdeck of Le Triomphant. The impact splintered the rail and sent a man tumbling into the sea. Above him, Alexander heard shouts of dismay and surprise.
"Mon Capitán!" a Napoleonist officer cried out, leaning over the side and pointing toward the sea.
Floundering in the water just a few yards from Alexander was the Napoleonist captain. He was just seconds from going under for good. Nothing about a naval uniform—French or English—was designed for swimming. The capitán bobbed up and down like a waterlogged cork, sinking a bit lower each time. The wool uniform coat and sea cloak kept a man warm, but when soaked through became heavy as an iron shroud. The fine boots filled with water, pulling the captain under. It didn't help that he seemed a bit dazed from having been hurled off the ship by the impact of a cannonball.
"Il se noyer!" someone shouted.
Alexander did not understand French, but the meaning of the words was clear. Save him! The launch was too far away and there was no time to untie it. Without thinking, he gripped the satchel tightly and dove into the sea.
In a few short strokes he had reached the capitán just as the man was going under—probably for the last time. He got his arms around the man and managed to get the capitán's head above water. Unfortunately, Alexander's own clothes were dragging him down, too.
But Alexander now knew he did not need to swim in order to stay afloat. Some part of his mind embraced the sea around him and lifted the two of them. Someone threw him a line and he managed to kick them both within reach. Alexander caught the line and many hands pulled them toward the ship like the catch of the day.
He realized that being pulled toward the enemy ship was the last place he wanted to go. Desperately, he looked around for the launch. It was no longer tied alongside the Napoleonist ship. With a shock, he realized his fellow captive had untied the launch and was rowing away with Alexander's only means of escape. The man's arms had seemed weak and stick-like after his captivity, but he appeared to have found new strength and worked the oars furiously.
Several sailors swarmed down the rope ladder and took hold of the capitán, helping him back up to the deck. They also grabbed Alexander. He was a prisoner yet again.
Once on deck, the dazed and waterlogged capitán recovered quickly.
"Relâchez-le!" he ordered his men, who let Alexander go. The capitán then turned to Alexander and stated in English: "I do not know how you managed it, but you have saved my life. You must be made of cork because the sea would not pull you down! I do not have time to thank you properly, but you are no longer a prisoner. I would only ask that you not interfere with my ship. As you can see, we still have a battle to win."
With that, the capitán struggled to his feet and began shouting orders to his crew.
The two ships now stood toe to toe and battered each other like prize fighters. The orderly broadsides had given way to random shots by whichever crew could reload and fire. It was almost impossible to aim because the air was so thick with gun smoke. On board Resolution, Liam and Rodger would be firing by dead reckoning into the thick, gray clouds. Staring in the direction of the Resolution, Alexander hoped they would not be too accurate.
At this point it was no longer about which crew was better trained or more disciplined, but which was luckier. A lucky shot below the waterline, or one that carried away a mast or a rudder, might decide the victor. More cannonballs screeched overhead, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.
Alexander reached down and touched the satchel, praying that the documents had remained dry. Tightly sealed in their rubber pouch, they seemed to be fine. He sighed with relief, glad that so far the documents had not fallen into Napoleonist hands.
It was not a feeling that lasted long. When he looked up, his eyes met those of Mrs. Pomfrey. They seemed to smolder at him through the wisps of smoke. Then he saw that the eyes were no longer on him but staring greedily at the satchel he still carried. His heart sank when he realized that she now had two pistols, one in her hand and the other tucked into a sash she had tied around her waist. Mrs. Pomfrey was a crack shot, and wit
h those pistols she meant business. If that wasn't bad enough, the big Napoleonist sailor who had escorted Alexander to his cell was standing just behind her. A bloody bandage around his head made him look even more like a pirate than ever. She said something to the sailor and pointed at Alexander. They both started toward him across the deck.
Desperately, Alexander looked for a place where he could escape. The capitán was already back on the quarterdeck, too busy to concern himself with Alexander's problems. The deck itself was too crowded to maneuver—it would only be a matter of time before those two cornered him. Already, Mrs. Pomfrey and the big sailor had crossed half the distance separating them. Both of them had troubling grins on their faces—very much like the ones the hounds might have when about to run the fox to ground.
Alexander looked around for a weapon and grabbed a cutlass that a wounded sailor must have dropped on deck. His left arm still bled where the splinter had struck him, but he tried to ignore the pain. Technically, he was on parole as a prisoner of war—a kind of gentleman's agreement—and was not supposed to take up arms. However, he was sure the ban did not extend to self defense. Of course, the cutlass wouldn't be much use against Mrs. Pomfrey's pistols, and the big Frenchman was not someone he was eager to go up against.
Mrs. Pomfrey and the big sailor were even closer. Looking behind him, he could see that the deck was cluttered with knots of wounded or gun crews, stripped to the waist and streaming sweat in the sea air.
He had to run. But where? Up.
Alexander dashed to the mainmast and started up the shrouds. Below him was the deck enveloped in turmoil and smoke. Above him was the clear blue sky punctuated with an occasional gryphon. It was not a promising escape route. In fact, he was beginning to feel like a bear that hunters had trapped in a tree. But he had no choice—up he climbed. His wounded arm was next to useless.
