The King's Shilling

by David Starr

  Bill tries to struggle to his feet, leaning heavily on the crutch I have made him from a branch cut from a small tree. The effort is too great and Bill gives it up, settling back down against the trunk of the tree with a grunt. “There’s only one problem with the plan as I see it, though.”

  “Aye? And what would that be?” I ask.

  “We don’t have a boat, Trap. Hard to sail without one.”

  “Leave that to me,” I tell Bill. “I’ll return in a couple of hours.”

  I leave a puzzled Bill behind. From the deck of Cerberus we could see a collection of lights a mile or so to the north of our present location. That is where I need to be. As I walk up the narrow path towards the village, I run my fingers along the waist of my trousers.

  When I first received my uniform they were white and crisp and new. Now? My trousers are soiled and stained with tar, blood, smoke and gunpowder. The fabric has worn thin, has torn in a dozen places, but my coins, half my wages for my time in the wilds of Canada, are still sewn into the lining.

  I pause for a moment. I pull my knife from the leather scabbard. I can see Bill’s tooth marks, where he bit down into the leather when I cauterized his leg. I cannot imagine the pain he felt, and I am grateful beyond measure he survived, that I didn’t kill him.

  I make a small slice in the waist of my trousers and push six silver coins through it. I keep the rest, a dozen or so, safely hidden. Coins in hand, I carry on towards the village.

  There were no merchant ships at anchor off the village or tied up onshore. Our best bet on getting off the island is to either pay a fisherman to carry us to Malta or purchase a boat and sail there ourselves, although I don’t know the heading we must follow.

  I consider this problem and several others as I follow the path as it twists alongside the rocky coast. An hour’s walk from our campsite I see the first sign of civilization. An old boathouse, dilapidated and abandoned, sits sagging on the shore.

  No one is about so I carry on walking. More old buildings appear, as do several ancient boats. They are hauled up on the beach, flipped upside down with holes in their bleached wood bottoms. None of these will serve Bill and me.

  A few minutes later I see a thin tendril of smoke rising into the air. A fireplace or campfire burns up ahead, no doubt, and it will be there where I find people. I steady my nerves before I press on.

  Rounding a corner of the path I see a well-kept stone house, fifty yards or so up from the beach. The smoke I saw climbs from a small chimney on its roof. The beach here is narrow and stony. Sitting on a large rock a few feet from the shore and beside a fishing smack I see an old, gap-toothed fisherman with a grey beard and a flat cap on his head.

  The man is fixing a fishing net, his focus on his work. “Hello,” I say as I approach. He turns at the sound of my voice, dropping his net onto the pebbled beach.

  “Buongiorno,” he replies, eyeing me suspiciously. I can’t say I blame him. I must look a sight with my canvas moccasins and shirt. “Sei un marinaio?” the man asks. I stare blankly at him, not understanding. The man tries again.

  “Sei un marinaio?” he repeats again, pointing at me, then the sea. He salutes me and puts his hands in front of his eye as if he were holding something. Suddenly I understand. He is pretending to use a spyglass.

  “Ah! Sailor! Yes. I am a sailor.”

  “Inglese o francese?” That much I understand.

  English or French? I debate for a second, attempting to tell the Sicilian fisherman I am neither. That I am in fact a Highland Scot from Loch Tay, but I don’t think this fisherman would care about that very much.

  “English.” I hope the reply is the one he is looking for, and that he isn’t allied with Napoleon.

  The man grins. “Inglese. Bene.” He steps forward to shake my hand.

  “Do ye speak English?”

  “No. Non parlo inglese.” He points out to sea. “Grande lotta? Boom boom?” He mimics the sound of cannon fire. It is easy to see he is asking me if I was part of the battle off the coast.

  “Yes. Boom boom.”

  “Cosa vuoi, Inglese?” He points at me and shrugs his shoulders. I think I understand this as well. He is asking me what I am doing here, or something to that effect.

  “I have a friend. He’s hurt and we need a boat and somebody to sail us to away from here.”

  The fisherman holds up his hands, confusion on his face. “Non capisco.”

  He doesn’t understand. I spoke too fast and said too much. I must be clear and simple. There are several tidy boats pulled up onshore. I walk over to one of them. She is lateen-rigged, maybe twenty feet long and solid looking. It is smaller than I would have hoped for, but with a bit of luck, sturdy enough to sail us off Sicily. “Boat. To Malta.”

  “Ah! Barca! Barca a Malta!”

  “Yes. Barca to Malta.” I point at him. “Would ye take us there?”

  He understands that as well. “Me? No.”

  “All right then.” And producing one silver coin from my pocket, I ask, “Would ye be willing to sell me one of yer boats?” It is time to show him some money. If the fisherman isn’t willing to take us, then we must find a way to sail to Malta ourselves.

  The man holds out his hand. The meaning is clear; he wants to inspect the coin to see if its value matches that of his boat. I have no idea how much the silver coin is worth here; all I know is that it took a month of hard travel to earn it back in New Caledonia.

  “Una moneta? No.” He gives me back the coin then holds up all five fingers on his right hand. “Cinque.”

  “So ye want to barter, do ye?” I feel hope. The man is interested in selling, and thanks to my work with the North West Company I know a thing or two about negotiating. If truth be told, I would happily give him the five coins if I had no choice, but if there is an opportunity to save some money I will take it.

  I pretend I’m not interested. “Nae, thank ye, Sir.” I start to walk away when he counters.

  “Quattro.” Four fingers now stand up on his hand. Bargaining has begun.

  I counter him back. “Two,” I say. Holding up two fingers.

  “Due?” the man laughs as if I have said a funny joke, or that I have insulted his very family. “No due. Quattro.”

  I respond with three fingers. “Three.”

  “Tre?”

  “Aye. Three. Not a penny more.”

  The sailor looks as if he’s contemplating the offer seriously. “Quattro?” he asks again, hopefully.

  I shake my head, lifting my fingers again. “Three.”

  He smiles. “Bene. Tre.” We shake hands, then I hand over the coins.

  “Which way is Malta?” I have the boat, now all I need is a heading. Bill said it was to the south, but that is a vague direction in a sea as large as the Mediterranean.

  The fisherman doesn’t seem to understand so I try again.

  I turn to the sea, pointing my finger to the horizon. “Malta?” I ask again, moving my hand from left to right.

  “Si! Malta. Bene.” On the ground beside the fisherman is a large leather bag. He reaches into it and removes a small wooden box. He flips open the lid and I see a small mariner’s compass.

  He points to a direction on the compass rose, one I understand easily enough. “Centocinquantacinque gradi. Sud sud-est.”

  “155 degrees. South by southeast. Thank ye,” I say. “How far?” More hand gestures and the man understands.

  “Ah. Si. Centinaio miglia.” After several attempts I get what he is saying.

  “One hundred miles. Thank ye, Sir.” One hundred miles. That is a great distance to sail. Twenty hours or more in the small one-sail fishing boat I have bought. Over that distance it is far too easy to get lost. I need his compass.

  “Would ye consider selling me yer compass?” I ask the man, my hand gestures explaining what I want, another silver coin appearing in my hand as well.

  “No! Impossibile!” he replies, but there is a shrewd smile on his face as he speaks. Negotiat
ions have begun again.

  Chapter 33

  “Ahoy, Bill! Are ye ready to set sail or do ye like this place so much ye want to stay?”

  Bill is asleep, resting against the trunk of a tree when I return, dozing in the warm Mediterranean sun. Six of my coins are gone. Three for the boat, the other three for the old sailor’s compass, a basket of dried fish, olives and bread.

  I talked the sailor into giving me some kegs of water and one of wine as well. With the wind at my back, two hours of gentle sailing was all it took to return to our small bay.

  “Sail? What are you talking about, Trap?” Bill asks sleepily, rubbing his eyes as he wakes up.

  “Let me help ye up and ye’ll see what I mean. A dinnae ken about ye, but I’ve spent enough time on Sicily fer my liking.”

  Bill hops on his good foot, his arm wrapped around my shoulders, as we make our way slowly to the beach. “Well I’ll be,” he says in astonishment, looking at our little boat pulled up onto the shore, full of food and drink. “How on earth did you manage this?”

  “Trapping, canoeing, shooting, bartering: we learn all sorts of handy skills in the North West Company. It’s a twenty-hour sail to Malta, maybe more depending on the wind. The tide is ebbing, so do ye want to get underway or would ye rather wait fer the next one?”

  “Then help me in, Trap,” says Bill. “I’m as tired of this island as you.”

  * * *

  Two hours later the coast of Sicily has disappeared behind us. There are other sails on the water, small fishing vessels and merchant ships that come and go to unknown destinations. They pay us no heed as we bob along on the waves. A lateen-rigged fishing boat is a common enough sight in these waters after all.

  “South by southeast, Trap. Right on course.” I man the tiller and handle the sail from the stern while Bill rests in the bow, handling the compass. We sail through the evening, and into the night when the sky falls purple and the moon and twinkling stars replace the sun.

  “Time for you to catch some winks, Trap,” Bill yawns. “I’ll take over the tiller till morning.”

  “Aye,” I say gratefully as my friend moves himself aft towards the tiller to take my place. “I could do with a wee sleep, I reckon.” I stretch out in the bow of the boat, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep to the rocking of the boat.

  * * *

  “Good morning,” says Bill when I awake. “The weather turned a bit while you were sleeping, as you can tell.”

  “It did at that,” I say, looking into the sky. It is early morning, perhaps an hour past sunrise as near as I can reckon, but there is no sun to be seen at all.

  A thick fog has rolled in around us. The wind has lessened, the sails hang slack. We hardly move at all. We are still on course but at our current rate of travel it will take days, not hours to reach Malta.

  “Fog’s called the Solano,” Bill says. “She rolls across the Mediterranean this time of year. Normally you’ll find it further west, off the Spanish coast, but it’s not unheard of in these waters either.”

  “I can hardly see ye in the mist,” I say. “How long has it been like this?”

  “We sailed into it an hour or so ago,” Bill tells me. “It’s getting thicker by the minute.”

  We can’t see more than ten feet in front of us. The compass still reads 155 degrees, south by southeast. We are utterly dependent on it as we sail blindly through the fog.

  Suddenly my ears prick up. “Did ye hear that?” I ask Bill. In the mist every sound seems exaggerated. I hear the creaking of the boat, the flapping of the canvas in the sail and the sloshing of water in the small bilge. But I hear something else as well, something off into the distance, I’m certain of it.

  “Hear what?” Bill had drifted back to sleep until I roused him.

  “There’s something out there, I’m sure there is.”

  We listen for what seems like ages. I hear nothing save the sounds of our own boat. “I swear I heard something,” I say after a moment or so. “Maybe I imagined it. Perhaps the fog is playing tricks on me.”

  Then I hear it again. Bill does too. “A voice,” he whispers. “Look sharp, Trap. We ain’t alone out here.”

  Chapter 34

  The faint tinkle of a bell echoes through the thickening fog. “A ship,” Bill whispers. We hear the distant murmur of voices as well, the words, the very language indistinct and unrecognizable. “Fishing vessel? Cargo ship, maybe. What do you think, Trap?”

  “A dinnae ken what to think. I just hope it sails past without seeing us.” I’m not sure why, instinct perhaps, but I doubt the approaching ship is a merchant vessel.

  “There it is again,” hisses Bill. The bell, louder this time, as are the sounds of people speaking.

  Our eyes are everywhere, scanning the water for any movement, any sight of a ship. The fog is thicker now than ever, and we see nothing.

  “Trap,” says Bill. “There, off the starboard bow, is it my imagination or…damnation!” Bill exclaims suddenly. “Ship for sure! Whatever she may be that ain’t no merchant vessel, that’s for certain! She’s heading right towards us!”

  A large dark shape looms towards us. We hear voices, much clearer now though we still can’t make out a word they are saying.

  “She’s a frigate at least, maybe even a first-rate ship of the line,” I whisper back, my eyes pinned on the huge form emerging through the fog.

  “What do we do?” Bill asks, panic creeping into his voice.

  I understand his fear. If the ship is Royal Navy, we will be picked up and pressed back into service. If she is French? Napoleon’s Navy will not look kindly on two British sailors.

  “Hold onto the painter and go over the port side!” I command Bill. “Keep the boat between it and us. Maybe they haven’t seen us yet. If they do, they may think we’re an abandoned boat and leave us alone.”

  “Or they may sail right over us, crush us into a million pieces, or see us, haul us up onto their deck and shoot us for target practice,” Bill says taking hold of the long rope tied up on our bow.

  “Aye,” I reply climbing quietly over the side, lowering myself into the cool water. “They may at that, so if ye have a better plan ye’d best share it now.”

  It seems that Bill does not have any other ideas. He slips quietly overboard and swims towards me. Together the two of us press ourselves against the port side of the boat, in the space below the curve of her thwarts.

  A few seconds later the ship emerges from the fog. She is huge with a very familiar name written on her bow.

  “Revanche!” It is the other French frigate, and no doubt she will have heard of the loss of the Incorruptible.

  Revanche means “revenge” in French, I know. Her captain will be sailing the Mediterranean in search of Cerberus and Unicorn, looking to live up to her name.

  Our faces are tucked against the side of the boat, with barely our lips and ears out of the water as the Revanche pulls up alongside.

  Though I am not fluent I picked up a fair bit of French when I travelled with the voyageurs. I listen intently as the sailors on board talk. The water laps at my ears and their accents are strange, but I manage to pick up the occasional word.

  “…un bateau de pêche…”

  “Voyez-vous son équipage?”

  “Capitaine? Que ferons-nous? ”

  I realize they are asking what they should do with our small fishing boat. The Revanche looms high above us, the top of her masts disappearing into the fog. Our little fishing boat seems a minnow beside a shark.

  Shark.

  I curse myself for thinking that word. The Mediterranean crawls with them. Who’s to say there isn’t one of the razortoothed fish swimming up underneath us right now, ready to make a breakfast of me? I shut my eyes and pray.

  “C’est seulement un bateau de pêche.” I hear a voice say from the deck. It’s only a fishing boat.

  With that the Revanche turns slowly away, off to find bigger prey than our little rowboat. Breathless we watch fro
m the water as she sails off into the fog and out of sight. I wait another minute then pull myself out of the water. “Give me yer hand, Bill,” I say to my friend.

  “Thanks, Trap,” he says gratefully, taking my outstretched arm. Bill is still very weak from his injury and lacks the strength to climb into the boat himself.

  “Well that was lucky,” Bill gasps, lying down on the deck of our little fishing boat. “I thought we were gonners for sure.”

  I check our course with the compass, adjust our sails and take my place at the tiller. “So did I. Now let’s hope the fog lifts and the wind picks up. Guidness knows what else is sailing in this damned fog!”

  Chapter 35

  An hour later I get my wish. The fog burns off, the winds pick up and soon we are sailing briskly over the blue surface of the Mediterranean.

  “There! On the horizon! Do you see it?” I strain my eyes to the horizon where ahead a light brown island comes into view.

  “Malta?” I ask.

  “Yes, if the heading your Sicilian friend gave you is right. If not? We’re looking at Africa and are sailing towards the Barbary Coast and a life in the slave markets.”

  “Then let’s hope that old fisherman was right.” We have no choice but to press on, after all. The fish and bread I purchased in Sicily are all but gone, as is half of our water and wine. Whatever land it is ahead of us is where we now must sail.

  * * *

  By early evening we approach the twinkling lights of a large port. “Valetta,” Bill tells me. “Malta’s biggest town. It seems your fisherman was right after all.”

  Valetta. I’ve heard that name before, but I can’t quite remember where, not that I have time to stew on it as we enter the harbour and tie up at the dock. “It’s a little late in the day to go walking about strange streets, don’t you think, Trap? Do you have coin enough left for a room and some supper?”

  “Aye. A soft bed and a hot meal would do me fine as well.” There are several small inns along the waterfront. We find one, get a room, and then eat. I’m exhausted after a long day on the water, and despite my excitement I drift off to sleep almost immediately.