Lord of the Privateers

by Stephanie Laurens

  Royd nodded. “That’s the next thing we need. I’m hoping Caleb will have some suggestions.”

  “The distraction will have to occur inside the compound, won’t it?” Kit widened her eyes. “This Dubois doesn’t sound like the sort to send his entire force outside to deal with anything.”

  “He won’t, and you’re right.” Royd tapped the stick to the center of his sketch. “The distraction has to be inside the palisade.”

  “So it’s going to have to be arranged by those inside,” Lachlan concluded.

  “Anything we do from outside will instantly alert Dubois to our presence, and he’ll immediately seize hostages. So yes, the distraction isn’t something we can provide.” Royd paused, then said, “Until I make contact with Caleb, let’s leave the distraction to one side and focus on what we can address—namely, what should happen after the distraction pulls the mercenaries’ attention away from the captives. Specifically, away from the likely hostages—the women and children. The instant the distraction hits, we need to get the women and children—all of them—out of the compound and far enough away that the mercenaries can’t reseize them.”

  “So we need a defendable location and a protective force to escort and guard them,” Kit said.

  “There’s plenty of jungle.” Royd waved. “We can select a suitable spot and supply escorts and guards. But first, we need to work out how to get the women and children out.”

  Lachlan studied Royd’s sketch. “Any chance of simply opening the gates and having them race out to us?”

  “No.” With the stick, Royd tapped the gates. “Although they’re open during the day, there are two mercenaries flanking them, and whatever the distraction, they’ll be the last to leave their post. Regardless, it’s most likely we’ll strike in the evening, once the women and children are gathered in this hut”—he pointed at the rectangle to one side of the gates—“and by then the gates will be shut with two heavy beams barring them.”

  Lachlan humphed. “In that case, we need to cut our way through the palisade.”

  “That’s the only viable option, but the palisade’s construction means that’s not a simple thing.” Royd glanced at Isobel. “You thought the tool you picked up in Southampton would do the trick. Where is it?”

  “In the bottom of your seabag.” When he blinked, she said, “I put it in before you packed.”

  He cast her a look, then reached back, snagged his seabag, and hefted it onto his thighs. He searched, working his way down. Eventually, he pulled out an oilskin-wrapped package. “This?”

  “Yes.” She took it and set it on her lap. She undid the bindings and folded back the oilskin, revealing a curious implement. The heavy, curved, serrated-edged, triple-blade tool had a thick wooden grip, and the teeth on the parallel blades, separated by perhaps half an inch, were set in a peculiar fashion, flaring out to both sides of the blades’ spines and interdigitating. Isobel picked up the tool, angling it so the others could examine it. “It’s used to saw through tarred ropes or caulked lagging. According to Caleb’s report, the palisade is held together with rope made of twisted jungle vines. Cutting through them with any ordinary blade will take far too long.” She brandished the tool. “This should be more effective.”

  Royd set aside his seabag. “I’ve already got an inkling of how to get our men inside the palisade once the distraction takes hold, but it’ll depend on what the distraction is and where it’s located in the compound.” He grimaced. “We can think up ideas, but there’s no point trying to finalize our plans until I’ve spoken with Caleb, and we know what the distraction will be. And”—he nodded at Isobel’s blade—“until we know whether that will work and we’ll be able to get the women and children out through the palisade.”

  For Kit’s and Lachlan’s benefit, he added, “According to Caleb, a boy called Diccon comes out of the compound every day to collect fruit and nuts. He’ll take a message to Caleb, but with Caleb in the mine until dusk, he and I won’t be able to meet until tomorrow evening.”

  “So, until you consult with Caleb,” Kit said, “all we can do is work on our options for the subsequent phases of the rescue.”

  “Exactly. How to get the women and children out and where to hold them.” Royd listed the points on his fingers. “How to get our men into the compound in light of whatever the distraction is. How to get weapons to the men in the compound.”

  “Rules of engagement for dealing with the mercenaries,” Kit put in.

  Royd met Lachlan’s gaze. “And how we deal with the others we think might be in there—Muldoon and the ex-assistant commissar, Winton.”

  Lachlan frowned. “You didn’t see them?”

  “No, but our vantage point is here.” On his sketch, Royd pointed to the rock shelf. “If they’re staying in the barracks, which apparently has a porch, then we won’t see them unless they go strolling about the compound.”

  He paused, then said, “In addition to learning which of the instigators are there and confirming the number of mercenaries, I need to learn from Caleb whether there’s any urgency about the rescue that we don’t know about.” He glanced at the others. “Given the quality of the mercenaries and the abundance of hostages, we should wait until Robert and Declan and their men reach us. Overwhelming numbers would be a good thing.”

  Lachlan and Kit nodded. Kit asked, “When are you expecting the others?”

  “I hope by the day after tomorrow—they should make it by then.” Royd grinned. “They have incentive.”

  Kit and Lachlan chuckled.

  Royd went on, “Given I can’t liaise with Caleb until tomorrow evening, then the following evening—after Robert and Declan arrive—is the earliest we could launch a properly planned rescue. I’m hoping that, tomorrow evening, Caleb’s not going to tell me the captives need immediate rescue.” He looked at their men, spread out in the clearing, and grimaced. “That would be significantly more difficult.”

  They fell silent, then Isobel reached across and filched the stick from his fingers. “Regarding where to gather the women and children”—she pointed to the round blob he’d drawn to indicate the lake at the base of the cliff that curved around the compound—“this is a small lake. The mercenaries only go to it in the morning to oversee the captives drawing water for the day. We haven’t yet explored, but from glimpses, it appears to be surrounded by jungle and not easy to approach except via this path—the extension of the beaten path that runs across the front of the compound.”

  With Kit and Lachlan, Royd studied the sketch.

  “In addition,” Isobel continued, “Caleb and Lascelle buried a cache of weapons by the jetty. If the women and children are in their hut when the distraction starts, then if we use my tool and cut a gate in the palisade behind that hut—and according to Caleb, the hut has a rear door—we can remove the women and children before the fighting actually starts. Before any mercenaries might think to come after them.”

  “We could place a cordon of guards along that path.” With his eyes, Royd traced the route around the palisade to the lake.

  “And once the women and children are at the lake,” Lachlan said, “if there’s a position that’s defendable, we’ll only need a handful of men to guard the group. The rest in the cordon can regroup and come in through the gates.” He glanced at Isobel. “Assuming that handy tool of yours will allow us to cut the gates open, too.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I won’t know until I see the gates.”

  Royd studied the sketch for a moment more, then glanced at the tool in Isobel’s hand. Then he raised his gaze to her face. “I think it’s time we tried out your tool.”

  Her face brightened. “Now?”

  He straightened and stood. “We can’t go much further until we know it works.”

  * * *

  Naturally, Lachlan and Kit invited themselves along. Royd s
aw no reason to rebuff them; it would be their first sight of the compound and would give them a better feel for the position and terrain.

  For himself, he was keen to get a closer look at the palisade.

  The four of them took the track out of the camp, then walked quietly and cautiously up the main trail that ultimately led to the compound’s gates. The instant Royd spied the top of the palisade—a different shade of black against the mottled expanse of the small mountain behind the compound—they diverted into the jungle.

  He led the others in single file on a course roughly parallel to the palisade and halted when he judged they were level with the women and children’s hut. He beckoned the others; once they’d gathered shoulder to shoulder, he murmured, “No guards patrol outside the compound. We don’t think the guards in the tower can see anyone on the path skirting the palisade—regardless, we’ll take no chances. No talking from here onward—use hand signals. And we keep under cover as far as possible.”

  They nodded. He turned and led them toward the palisade.

  Before leaving the camp, Isobel had rewrapped the wickedly sharp triple blade and tucked the tool carefully into her breeches pocket. After following Royd into the deep shadows at the foot of the palisade, she waited until Kit and Lachlan joined them—then they waited to make sure they hadn’t inadvertently raised any alarm. Nothing stirred. Finally, she drew breath and eased the blade from her pocket. She unwrapped it, handed both tool and oilskin to Royd, then, conscious of the excitement coursing through her, stepped back from the wall.

  The others watched as, her hands on her hips, she widened her eyes, the better to see in the dimness, and examined the construction. Caleb’s and Lascelle’s descriptions had been accurate; the bindings holding each plank in place were more than solid enough for the purpose. She stepped closer, splayed her hands against two planks, and pushed, testing for any give.

  As near to none as made no difference. She grimaced, then leaned close and examined the twisted vines. She tested their resilience with a fingernail, then reached for the tool, hefted it, and set the wicked teeth to the hardened vine.

  She pressed in and sawed. The technique for using the blade was neither sawing nor cutting but a blend of both.

  The blade shredded through the vine easily enough, quietly, too, but a minute was enough to demonstrate that it was going to take far too long to sever the bindings for the cutting to be a part of the storming of the compound. But they could get around that.

  She lifted the tool, inspected the teeth, used the wrapping to wipe the blades clean, then rewrapped it and returned it to her pocket.

  A preemptory tap on her shoulder had her turning her head to meet Royd’s questioning gaze.

  She raised a finger: Wait.

  She stepped back again and looked up, surveying the tops of the planks—confirming that the highest bindings were some ten feet from the ground, yet still a good four feet below the top of the palisade.

  She looked again at the vine she’d cut, then bent, scooped up a handful of dirt, and rubbed it over the mark. She examined her handiwork; unless someone specifically checked the bindings, no one was likely to notice the cut.

  The observation led to another thought. She stepped closer to the planks and started searching for gaps—nicks, knots—any spot through which she could look and confirm that they were, in fact, at the rear of the hut.

  The others realized what she was doing and started to search, too. Eventually, Lachlan reached across and tapped her shoulder. When she looked his way, he pointed at the planks and mouthed, “The hut.”

  She pushed to where he was standing. He pointed to the hole through which he’d looked—too high for her to look through, but that didn’t matter. She placed one hand, fingers pointed toward the palisade by the edge of that plank, then she extended her other hand, similarly pointing, to her left across the planks, miming that she was trying to define the position of her “gate.”

  The others’ expressions cleared, and they continued searching for gaps to the left of the hole Lachlan had found.

  Kit found a nick in the side of a plank low to the ground. After squatting and looking through, she beckoned Isobel.

  She knelt and peered through and saw the back of a wooden hut raised a few feet off the ground. She swiveled and looked to either side; as far as she could see, the hut stretched away on either side of her position.

  She rocked back, rose, grinned at Kit, and mouthed, “Perfect.”

  As it happened, her original cut could function as a marker for the left of her gate. She returned to the plank Lachlan had identified. Using hand signs, he indicated that the hut extended to either side of that position, too.

  She took out her tool again and cut into the bindings holding that plank, then disguised the cut with dirt.

  Satisfied, she looked at Royd, pointed to herself, then held up her hand and wiggled her fingers. Then she pointed along the curve of the palisade toward the gates.

  His expression was hard, as impassive as ever. He stared at her for several heartbeats, but then nodded.

  He flashed her a hand sign—palm parallel to the ground and moving downward—that she interpreted as an order to go slowly and quietly. She smothered a snort and fell in behind him as he led the way around the palisade.

  One glance at the gates’ hinges put paid to any thought of cutting through there. Instead, she examined planks to either side and selected two positions, one to the left and one to the right of the gates. She quickly marked the bindings as she had previously.

  Finally, she stepped back from the palisade, looked at Royd, and tipped her head toward the jungle.

  As always, he led the way. She tramped at his heels, and Kit followed her, with Lachlan bringing up the rear.

  They didn’t speak until they were on the main trail and nearing the animal track to the camp.

  Royd fell back to walk beside her, and Kit and Lachlan drew closer. “So it’s going to take too long to cut through the vines,” Royd said, “but obviously, you have a plan.”

  “Indeed.” As they covered the remaining distance to the camp, she explained her thinking, and how her suggestions would mesh with the actions Royd had already foreseen.

  Although she sensed he wasn’t thrilled by the way her involvement in the rescue was evolving, he didn’t argue, much less protest. Her idea would deliver the vital openings they needed to make the storming of the compound a success.

  They walked into the camp to find most of the men bedded down, and all in order.

  Despite feeling buoyed by the knowledge that she would be making a real and significant contribution to the rescue effort, she discovered that the long day had taken its toll. As they moved through the camp, she stifled a huge yawn.

  Royd noticed, but said nothing.

  Kit and Lachlan went off to find their bags.

  Isobel followed Royd as he led the way to where they’d left theirs. He crouched beside his seabag, rummaged, and drew out a folded oilskin.

  She unbuckled her sword belt and set it by her satchel, along with the wrapped tool.

  He shook out the sheet, then spread it on the ground. With a wave, he directed her to it. “Your couch awaits, my lady.”

  She stifled a giggle and sat. Smiling, she shrugged off her jacket, folded it into a pillow, then, with a heartfelt sigh, slumped full length on the sheet.

  She looked up at Royd as he stood over her, unbuckling his sword belt. Unable to resist, she whispered, “Where are you going to sleep?”

  He gave her a look.

  Seconds later, he stretched out beside her. Still smiling, she turned on her side and wriggled her back against him.

  He grunted softly and turned toward her. His arm slid over her waist. She closed her eyes, then felt him lift the heavy fall of her hair and press a gentle kiss to her nape.


  Still smiling, she tumbled headlong into dreams.

  CHAPTER 9

  The men had returned to the mine after the midday break. Along with the others, Caleb was painstakingly slowly chipping away at the rock face in the second tunnel; as decreed by Muldoon, he was using a hammer and chisel to tease a diamond free of the crumbling ore—just in case that particular diamond proved to be one of the rare blues.

  Muldoon’s discovery of blue diamonds among the whites the mine generally produced had enabled the captives to stretch the mining out, ensuring they would live long enough for rescue to reach them.

  From Caleb’s perspective—and that of several like-minded males—they were now more in danger of dying of boredom than at mortal hands.

  Half the time, they only pretended to chip at the rock, making up the day’s production from the stockpile hidden in the first, now-abandoned tunnel. Occasionally, they drew on the stockpile the children had secreted among the piles of discarded ore. They needed to leave enough diamonds in the rock face to ensure that, through his frequent inspections, Muldoon continued to believe that there were plenty more diamonds yet to be mined.

  In reality, the pipe that angled along the side of the second tunnel was now mere inches thick. Much more mining, and they would risk having no more diamonds embedded in the rock to wink and gleam and make Muldoon’s eyes light up with naked avarice.

  Dixon, the army engineer kidnapped to direct the opening and subsequent operation of the mine, carefully monitored their progress; today, he’d decreed they should take no more than two diamonds each from the pipe.

  Caleb had interpreted that as one diamond in the morning, one in the afternoon. That left him plenty of time to think while he pretended to mine.

  He was reviewing, again, the steps they’d taken to assist in their own rescue, the preparations they’d made, their assumptions, and whether those would hold up when put to the test, when the sounds of an arrival—calls from the guard tower and hails from the guards at the gates—echoed faintly through the mine.