by Anne Perry
Lyndon was nodding slowly.
In the jury box all the men began to relax. A couple even smiled.
Around the gallery there was a sigh as tension was let slip. There were rustles of movement.
Wingfield rose to his feet.
“The Crown wishes to withdraw its case against William Monk, my lord. The other matters I would like to take under advisement, if the court pleases.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Justice Lyndon agreed. “The court does please.” He looked up toward the dock. “Commander Monk, you are free to go.”
Beata sat motionless, letting tears of relief fill her eyes and slip down her cheeks. She looked across at Rathbone and found that he was already looking at her.
IT WAS DARK WHEN Monk awoke. For an instant he did not know where he was. He heard the banging somewhere below him. It sounded like someone trying to force a door. Fool. No one broke out of this kind of prison.
Then he realized he was warm, and the stench of soiled bodies and human waste was not there. The air smelled sweet.
He was at home! Hester was beside him. It wasn’t a dream; he was definitely awake—wasn’t he? Or was this an illusion, and he was going to seem to waken again and again, until he really awoke to reality, and find he was still in prison?
The banging on the door was still going on.
Hester stirred. It must have been the first night for ages that she had slept properly, but it penetrated even the depth of her sleep.
Monk heard feet on the stairs, light and rapid. Then he remembered. Scuff had been home last night, to celebrate.
The banging stopped. Scuff must have let someone in. Monk lay without moving. If the whole of London was on fire, tonight he did not care. His head ached; in fact his whole body ached. He could sleep all night and all the next day. Perhaps he would.
There was a sharp rap on the door.
“What is it?” Monk asked quietly, turning up the gaslight.
Scuff came in, wearing a nightshirt with a blanket around his shoulders. He was almost as tall as Monk now.
“Mr. Gillander’s here,” he replied. “He says can we come and help him. Clive has taken Miriam and he’s gone out to sea. Mr. Gillander says he’ll take her to France, or maybe he’ll just dump her overboard.”
Monk was instantly awake. He slid out of bed as Hester sat up, awake now, too.
“Yes, of course I’ll come,” Monk answered. “I’ll get dressed and be down in three or four minutes. Tell him I’ll be there.”
“Yes, sir,” Scuff said, going out and closing the door.
“I’m sorry,” Monk told Hester. “She broke him. He won’t forgive her for that. He’ll probably kill her one day, but slowly. He’ll make her suffer first.”
She sat up. “Why didn’t they arrest him last night?” She started to get out of bed.
“For what?” he asked.
She closed her eyes and sighed. “I don’t know! I suppose she knew that, too!”
“Stay there.” He pushed her gently back, and kissed her. “There’s nothing you can do. You did it already, finding Tucker.”
“Are you going to take Hooper?” she asked.
“There’s no time. We can manage the Summer Wind with just two of us.” He pulled on his clothes, the heaviest he could find: thick trousers, socks, sea boots, and a Guernsey sweater. He would get his pea coat from downstairs. There was no time to shave, although no need. He kissed her quickly. He hesitated a second, then let go of her and went to the door.
In the hall, the gaslight was turned up high. He went down the stairs and found Gillander, ashen-faced and unshaven, in the hall.
“She went to Lady York’s house last night, but Clive broke in and took her. It was their footman that came to tell me. Are you ready?” He did not waste time in apologies for getting him out of bed.
Before Monk could answer Scuff came in, looking almost like a man in his thick, river-edge clothes and a pea coat not much different from Monk’s. He, too, was wearing sea boots.
Monk drew in breath to say he could not come, but Gillander spoke first.
“Good man,” he said briefly, then opened the door to the darkness outside. Scuff went straight after him, ahead of Monk.
There was a hansom at the curb and Gillander gave the driver instructions for the dockside as he swung in. Scuff and Monk followed him.
They rode in silence. There was nothing to ask because Gillander himself would know little until they reached the water. It did not matter now who had brought him the news, only how fast they could get the Summer Wind under sail and go after Clive.
The streets were dark and wet and the wind was rising. They moved as fast as they could. The cabbie must have a good horse to go at this speed.
They pulled up at the dockside and Gillander handed the driver a fistful of coins. It must have been a couple of pounds’ worth! The man looked at it, saw the silver in the light of his carriage lamps, and thanked him.
The Summer Wind was moored close in and its rowing boat tied up at the foot of the steps. They went down carefully, knowing the wet stones would be slippery. Without a word they got into the boat and loosed it. Monk and Gillander took the oars, pulling together, falling into rhythm without a word.
They rowed toward the lee side of Gillander’s ship. The river was already choppy and the sky overhead dense with cloud. The low moon in the west gave a little light so the other ships nearby rode on glimmering water, now and then catching a crest of white foam.
It was going to be a rough night. They would be able to recognize Clive’s ship only by its rigging—if Gillander knew it. It was named the Spindrift, and Monk reckoned it would be no more than a mile ahead of them. If the moon clouded over completely, they would see only its riding lights.
He had no more time to think. They shipped the oars and set about climbing up the ropes to board the schooner, then winched up the smaller rowboat and made it fast.
“We’ll put up the foresail,” Gillander said, looking at Monk. Then he turned to Scuff. “D’you know how to raise the anchor?”
“No, sir. I’m a doctor. I can sew but not sail,” Scuff replied, regret in his voice.
“Please God we won’t need those skills,” Gillander answered him. “Just keep out of the way, and do as you’re told.”
Actually, Scuff had underestimated his own natural common sense. As they raised the foresail Gillander raised the anchor and steered them out into the mainstream of the river and the choppy tide. It was hard work. The wind was strong, and increasing all the time. It pulled hard as the sail filled and billowed out.
Gillander yelled, “Keep it short!” but Monk was already lashing the ropes. The ship plowed forward, slamming down hard on the water and sending the spray high.
It took several minutes to get it exactly right, Gillander at the wheel and Monk on the foredeck, now and then shouting back. They worked as one, as if it were long seasoned in habit. They passed many ships moored ready to unload their cargoes, in their turn. It was too early for the strings of barges to be moving yet, but of course there were the few ferries that ran all night.
Monk stared forward all the time into the darkness, watching, signaling what he saw. Gillander had told him that Clive’s boat was also a two-master. It was swift and graceful, too: a sailor’s ship. This was going to be a test of skills, and of courage. Who could sail closest to the wind? Who could turn and tack the most smoothly, judge the wind and the current exactly right? The navigation would be largely by sight, judging the distance of the lights, until they were clear of the Estuary. After that, in the open sea, only speed would matter.
The wind was increasing all the time, from the northeast. If it swung around it would make a difference, especially if it bore due west. Then it would be directly against them, beating them back toward the coast of England, where they would risk either running aground on the shoals, or striking the rocks and being broken into pieces.
It was getting a little lighter, the sky paling in the eas
t.
Monk peered into the ever-moving shadows ahead. Was that the outline of a ship, or only wind patterns on the waves? Then he saw the green riding light. The red port light should be to the left of it. Only it was to the right! The ship was coming toward them.
He shouted back to Gillander, waving his arms.
Gillander pulled the wheel, throwing his weight against it. As they listed heavily to port, Monk had to scramble to gain his balance.
The other ship swept past them, twenty yards clear. It was a three-masted schooner heading south, toward the flat Kent shore, which they couldn’t see in the gloom.
“Scuff!” Gillander shouted above the roar of the wind and water.
Scuff turned immediately. He was longing to help.
Gillander waved. “Go help Monk shorten sail, then tell him to come back here and take the wheel. I’m going to see if I can get the jib up, too. We need to go faster if we’re to catch the Spindrift.”
Scuff obeyed instantly.
Monk watched him. He knew by the stiffness of his arms and back that he was afraid. They all knew that a man overboard in this sea was lost. No matter how hard anyone tried, they would never come about in time and go back to the same spot to find a lost body in this heavy and pitching sea.
He clambered forward, conscious of the line about his waist, and finally reached Monk.
“He says to shorten the sail!” Scuff shouted.
Monk signaled that he had heard, and with gestures rather than words he instructed Scuff how to balance his weight, brace his body, and hold the rope.
Watching him, Gillander brought the ship around tighter into the wind and for a moment the sails felt slack. They worked hard and fast. Gillander swung them round again gently and the sail billowed out, hurling them sideways and all but pitching Monk over the side. He lunged forward and caught Scuff as he lost his footing. Spray flew up and stung their skin like pellets of ice. They were under way again, moving forward fast.
Ten minutes later they saw the riding lights of a two-masted schooner ahead of them. The light was clearer now, as the dawn was paling in the east, right above the prow. The other ship was moving fast, east by southeast, across the wind, as they were.
“The Spindrift!” Gillander shouted above the whine in the rigging, and the surge and break of the water. “That’s her.”
Monk felt as if time had disappeared. He was on the Barbary Coast again with the surge of the Pacific under the keel and the endless horizon stretching all the way up to the Arctic Ocean and the great white mountains of Alaska. Every man was alert with his skill, pitched against the sea, and yet in a way deeper than any understanding of the mind, at one with it.
On the land any man might be your enemy, your rival for fame or gold or the love of a woman. Out here he was your brother in war against the sea.
They worked together, Monk, Gillander, and Scuff, speeding forward, then keeling over, swinging the boom, righting up again, and tacking the other way. Tightening sail, driving forward, always closing the distance between them and the Spindrift. The wind was blowing harder, whipping up white crests on the back of every wave, hurling the Summer Wind forward. They were flung up, and jarred down again crashing on the water as if it were stone. How the ship did not break under the impact Monk would think about only afterward.
Then, he thought with amazement, does it matter? His vanished years might have all kinds of treasures, or ugly stretches haunted by loneliness and error. So has everyone else who has ever seized life and ridden it into the storms, and the light beyond. If he had forgotten the good, then he had forgotten the bad as well. He had come so close to absolute desolation standing in the dock, unable to speak for himself, afraid of everything, even the truth.
And his friends had saved him—partly because they cared, and partly because the truth was good, difficult, but so much brighter than he had feared. It was time to accept help, love, error, and be grateful for all of it.
They were closing on the Spindrift. What the devil was Gillander going to do when they caught up?
One more tack and, if they judged it exactly right, they would be alongside. Then what?
Monk waved his arms, pointing toward the ship now only a hundred yards ahead of them and to their right. He turned his hands up in a gesture of question.
Gillander took his right hand off the wheel and waved it in the air as if he had a sword in it.
Scuff gave a whoop of joy.
“You’re going to stay here and hold the ship,” Monk told him. “Someone has to.” He saw Scuff’s face drop. “And defend the ship against boarders,” he added. “Don’t know how many crew they’ve got. You’ll be the only man here.”
Scuff’s face became very sober.
The broadening light was gray on the wave caps now, and dark, shining shadows ran across their unbroken backs and the white spume here and there was less fierce.
The Spindrift was fifty yards away.
Gillander beckoned to Scuff to go back to him where he was standing at the ship’s wheel. Monk watched as Gillander placed Scuff’s hands on the wheel and saw as his body stiffened to hold the violent pull against him. He threw his weight into it. The ship came into the wind again and righted itself.
Gillander gave a tiny gesture of salute, looking at Monk over Scuff’s shoulder.
Monk went forward. He touched Scuff lightly in tacit approval, and felt him tense with pleasure.
“Go below to my cabin and get three cutlasses from the cupboard under the bunk,” Gillander ordered Monk. “And be quick. You’d better take that pea coat off. You can’t fight with your arms tied up in that thing.”
The distance between the ships was closing fast. There was no time to argue. If he failed, Hester would never forgive him for this. And for taking Scuff! But if he failed he would be dead, so he would never know.
He gave one of the cutlasses to Scuff, sliding it through the side of his belt while his two hands were on the wheel.
“Only if someone boards the Summer Wind!” he said grimly.
Scuff grinned. “And if you an’ Gillander get killed, I’m going to sail this back home by myself?”
“Don’t be impertinent,” Monk snapped back as him, suddenly appalled at the idea of his being terrified…hurt…alone.
He forced the thought out of his mind. Loving anyone made him such a hostage to terror…and pain.
He gave the second cutlass to Gillander and kept the third. It felt strange in his hand, unfamiliar.
They were only twenty yards from the Spindrift now. He could quite clearly see Clive on the deck, and one other man. There could be more, with at least one at the wheel. They would have weapons, too, maybe cutlasses, or—far worse—guns. Although one would need extraordinarily good luck to hit anybody on the pitching decks of either ship.
Gillander had the cutlass in his belt and a grappling iron on a long rope in his hands. He clearly meant to come close enough to the Spindrift to hurl it, so it caught on the rail and the two ships could be lashed together. The maneuvering would have to be precise. If they were going in opposite directions at more than a few yards a minute, the rope would snap and recoil back on whoever threw it, possibly dragging them into the sea.
Monk strode forward to Gillander. “You steer,” he ordered. “It needs more than luck to do this. I’ll throw the grapple.”
Gillander stood still for a moment. They were fifteen yards away and closing. The wind had dropped and the sun was rising fast.
Ten yards.
Gillander took the wheel and Monk held the grapple, watching carefully where the length of its rope lay.
“Keep back!” he ordered Scuff. “Right over there!”
Scuff blinked, then realized that Monk was talking about standing on the rope coiled lying on the deck, which would take him over with it. He obeyed instantly.
Ten yards. Five. Monk threw the grapple and it hooked on to the rail. He lashed it to the deck stanchion and threw his weight against it, tying it fast.
Gillander ordered Scuff to take the wheel, then he leaned sideways and grasped the lines to lower the sail yet farther. Immediately the ship lost way. The two were no more than a couple of yards apart, then crashing sides, and locked together.
Gillander leaped aboard the Spindrift, cutlass in hand. Monk tightened and lashed the ropes again, and jumped to the deck of the Spindrift himself. He landed heavily as the roll of the deck dropped it down, then up again.
There was a man not a yard in front of him, saber high. He lunged forward. As if it were second nature, Monk sidestepped and parried. All the aches of exhaustion fell away from him like a discarded garment. The blood surged in his veins and he was almost dizzy with energy. All the fights he’d ever had were unrolling inside him now, memory in the muscle and the bone. He swung round and slashed at the man, altering his weight, moving easily, striking and defending, seeing blood where he had scored a mark. Next moment his own arm stung and he saw a thin red streak on his sleeve. There was little pain, only irritation that he had allowed it to happen. He knew better than this!
He swung, jabbed, and then swung the other way. The man yelled in fury, lunging forward, blood all over his shoulder. Monk sliced the opposite way and the man fell.
Gillander was on the other side of the deck, facing the other crewman, fighting hard. Even as Monk watched, the two of them moved dangerously, almost elegantly, around the closed deck hatch, every step closer to the rail and the sea.
Monk could not intervene; the blades were sweeping and striking, clashing and then disengaging. They were both good, clever, desperate. Life and death were the prizes.
Monk glanced at the Summer Wind. Scuff was still clinging to the wheel, his face white in the cold dawn light. Gillander leaped over the hatch cover, swung around like a dancer, and sliced open the other man’s chest. He staggered back, jackknifed over the rail, and plunged into the sea.
Gillander turned back to face the deck, and saw Monk. There was no one else there. Clive and Miriam must be below—if Miriam was still alive. This was the moment of knowing.
