by Lee Rowan
“What the devil does he think he’s doing?” Smith said suddenly, jerking Marshall from his reverie. “He’s turning the wrong way. Driver!”
Marshall glanced out and saw that they had, indeed, turned off down an alleyway. And then wooden shutters flapped down over the windows, throwing them into near-total darkness as the coach picked up speed. Marshall pushed at the shutter beside him, but it held fast.
“He’ll have us over if he keeps on like this,” Archer said, rattling the shutter on his window. “It feels like they’ve slid a bolt across.”
“The hinges,” Smith snapped. A ringing rasp said he’d drawn his sword. Marshall followed suit, and they slid the blades through the narrow crack at the top of the shutter, levering at the edge. The hinges squeaked in protest as the screws came loose, but the shutter held firm.
“It’s fitted into the frame,” Archer reported. “These aren’t just for bad weather.”
The coach pitched into another abrupt turn, and they were all thrown to the right. Marshall’s sword caught on something. He felt carefully and found it had ripped a jagged hole in the leather seat cover.
“Put your swords on the floor, easy to hand,” the Captain said. “We’ll just see if we can kick the door out.”
That would have worked, if they’d had time. The door began to loosen under their blows, but before they could kick it free of its frame, the coach turned again, slowed, and passed into a building. As it rolled to a halt, the door sagged open and swung crookedly on one hinge. All that was visible beyond was a row of empty stalls.
“Come on out,” a voice called. “You’re surrounded. Quick, now, an’ no tricks.”
“If they’re on both sides of us, they can’t risk crossfire,” Smith said, low. “I’ll break right. Follow as you see fit.”
He leaped out, diving out of sight, with Marshall and Archer right behind him. A scruffy figure with a stick, his face swathed in a dirty mask, dove after him. Smith struck his arm and the stick dropped, the wounded man clutching a bloody wrist. But these bandits had played this game before, and as the Captain spun to meet a swinging club, another villain, also masked, leaned over the edge of the hayloft and clipped his skull with the back of a shovel.
Marshall, back-to-back with Archer in a circle of masked, club-wielding ruffians, saw Smith fall. He lunged, trying to break through the circle, but his sword was knocked aside. Archer was having no better luck.
“Give it up, boyos,” one of their enemies said. “We have orders to take you alive, but accidents happen all the time.” He drew a dirk, long and deadly in the lantern light, and laid it across Smith’s throat. “You wouldn’t want to lose your Captain by accident, would you?”
Marshall stopped, breathing hard. He traded a glance with Archer, who looked as frustrated as he felt. But there really was nothing else to do. If these men didn’t intend to kill them outright, they might have a chance to escape later.
“And where are we to be taken alive? France?”
He hardly expected the general hilarity that erupted at his question, but he didn’t have time to ask another. Davy dropped at his feet an instant before something struck him hard from behind.
Chapter 2
MARSHALL FELT a rocking motion before his senses returned fully. It was not the rocking of a ship, and he realized he could not smell the sea. Slitting his eyes against a throbbing headache, he found himself lying on his back with boards above him, too close—less than a foot away. Dust motes floated in the dim afternoon light filtering through cracks between the boards, behind and to one side of his head. Not a boat; a wagon of some sort?
He looked to his right and saw Captain Smith, apparently unconscious. Archer, eyes shut, lay to his left. He turned on one side, reaching to shake the Captain, and was brought fully awake when a chain yanked his hand back down.
A whisper of movement behind him. “Will?”
“Davy.” He twisted back to peer at Archer. “Are you all right?”
“I’m awake,” Archer replied tightly. “But I’m not going to open my eyes just now. If I don’t look, it’s not too bad.”
Archer had once been trapped between decks after a battle that stove in the Calypso’s hull. It had taken hours to free him from a hole just about the size of a coffin, and another half-hour to revive him. He had nearly suffocated, and he’d been uneasy about enclosed spaces ever since.
“It is reminiscent of that wretched mess you were in ‘tweendecks, isn’t it? I’d never really appreciated what that must have been like.”
“Too damned reminiscent.” Archer’s voice was brittle. “Will, I don’t know how much of this I can stand—”
Marshall stretched, managing to reach Archer’s hand. It was icy, but his grip was like steel. “Hang on, Davy. They can’t mean to go very far like this. Take deep breaths.”
“Why?”
He smiled ruefully. “I have no idea. It’s just something my father used to tell his parishioners when they were worried. Said the Lord breathed life into Adam, and since then we’ve ignored the gift. He said it’s calming. It does help, when I remember to do it.”
“It’s always hardest remembering what to do, isn’t it?” Marshall heard him take a couple of breaths, experimentally. “I think your father was right. At least it occupies the mind.”
The edge was out of his voice now, and his hand relaxed a bit. “See if you can’t get some sleep, Davy. I’ll stand watch until the Captain wakes.”
“Is he hurt?”
“Don’t know, I can’t reach him. Captain? Captain Smith?”
Smith moved his head and made a noise between a groan and a growl. “Mr. Marshall. Mr. Archer, are you over there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How long have we been in this damned box, Mr. Marshall?”
“I’m not sure, sir. We were all knocked unconscious during the fight. The light has changed since I woke, about fifteen minutes ago. I think it’s nearly sunset.”
“Mm.”
“I asked them if they were French, sir. They seemed to find that most amusing.”
“That’s good to know.” Marshall could see his Captain making the same visual survey he had done. “At least an hour, perhaps longer. It lacked two hours until sunset when we were taken.”
“Yes, sir. And it’s much darker.” As he spoke, the last glimmers of light faded. Marshall had the wretched notion that this was what it would feel like to be buried alive. He knew air was coming in; he had seen the light through cracks in the wagon. But the dark felt smothering, and Archer’s hand tightened on his once more.
“Doesn’t sound as though there’s much traffic,” Smith mused aloud. “We can try shouting if we hear anything approach, but I suspect if shouting would help, we would have been gagged.” His chains clanked. “It seems I am secured. Mr. Archer, any luck with your bonds?”
“None, sir.”
“Damn. Well, gentlemen, I intended this as a training excursion. It seems we all have a lesson to learn about vigilance. Although we may be overheard, even now, I am going to give you your orders for the time being. If you see an opportunity for escape, take it. Use your own judgment. Do not endanger yourselves unnecessarily. I believe I know what is happening here.”
Marshall blinked. “Sir?”
“In a recent dispatch, ranking military officers were warned of a rash of abductions by a gang of masked men. The object has been ransom. I saw to it that my family was discreetly guarded, but it never occurred to me that these brigands would be mad enough to kidnap a party of naval officers. They’ll find they have made a serious mistake.”
“Yes, sir.” It did seem a stupid thing to do. On the other hand, they were now prisoners, and the arrangements for keeping them so seemed quite thorough.
Smith cleared his throat. “Mr. Archer, your father, the earl, will not be pleased to hear you have come to this strait.”
“No, sir, but I expect he’ll buy me back.” David’s tone was ironic. “They can’t ask much for
a fourth son, at any rate.”
“Do not assess your value solely by the order of your birth, Mr. Archer. Mr. Marshall—” He lowered his voice. “Until further notice, you are my dead cousin’s son, raised by her husband, the Reverend Mr. Marshall.”
“Sir?”
“Apparently, if this gang receives their ransom, their well-heeled prisoners are returned alive, sometimes weeks later, rowed ashore miles from where they were picked up. They have no idea where they’ve been, except that they were on a ship of some sort. Unfortunately, when others—those unable to pay—are taken prisoner with the target, they have been found dead or not found at all. You will be less expendable if you have a social connection, and in the event we cannot arrange our own escape, I will of course see to it that you are both ransomed.”
Marshall swallowed, enormously touched. “Sir, I-I could never repay—”
“I would take it as a very great insult if you try, Lieutenant,” Smith growled. “If it was my position which has put you in this danger, it is my responsibility to get you out.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. For the moment, since there seems to be little we can do, we shall rest and stand watches. I shall wake you, Mr. Marshall, and you wake Mr. Archer, in turn. Two hours to a watch, as nearly as you can estimate.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Marshall made himself as comfortable as possible on the unyielding wooden floor. He listened to Archer’s careful breathing, waiting until the grasp on his hand loosened before seeking refuge in sleep. He hardly hoped he’d be able to relax, but between the long day, the persistent headache, and the monotony of the cart’s motion, his body overrode his mental activity and let him drift off.
Marshall started awake with Smith shouting in his ear. He had no time to catch the exact words. A trapdoor flew up just above their faces, and a sharp blade pressed against his throat. He swallowed and held very still.
“We’ll have ye quiet,” a voice muttered, “or you’ll get your throats cut, starting with this pup. D’ye understand?”
“Very well,” Smith said. The door slammed shut, dust spattering them. “I heard a horseman approach,” he said. “A confederate, I’m afraid.”
“Shall I take watch now, sir?” Marshall offered.
“No need, Mr. Marshall. I feel no inclination to slumber. We have been traveling regularly for quite some time, now. We could be as far as fifteen or twenty miles away, though whether up or down the coast, I cannot say. If they mean to put us aboard a ship, there is no shortage of beaches suitable for clandestine landing.”
“Do you think they are in league with smugglers, sir?” Marshall asked.
“It seems likely. This wagon is obviously designed for contraband cargo, human or otherwise.”
“Aye, sir, it is.”
“Mr. Archer?”
“Sir?”
“It seems we are to be allowed moderate conversation until we arrive at our destination. I therefore intend to drill you in the sort of questions that may be asked on your examination for the rank of Lieutenant. Mr. Marshall, you are welcome to exercise your wits, but please do not contribute your answers. Mr. Archer, a sail is sighted. What is the first thing you would look for to determine whether this ship is friend or foe?”
“If by ‘foe,’ you mean French, sir?”
“I do.”
“The first sign would be whether all three masts were the same height—that would be a French ship. I would also see if the sail were very clean, as their ships spend most of their time in port. Either way, I would be prepared for an enemy, since the French use captured English ships as we use theirs.”
“Very good. What are the best and worst points of sailing of your current ship? How would you utilize the good points and compensate for the bad?”
As the practice drill went on, Marshall began to wonder if Smith had feigned unconsciousness earlier. He seemed to realize that Archer needed some kind of distraction, and focusing his attention on his upcoming examination was an effective strategy. Not only did it give Archer a chance to prepare for the ordeal—and however difficult the conditions of examination might be, they could hardly be worse than these—it held out the prospect of hope, the tacit assurance that the Captain would not waste Archer’s time or his own if he never expected him to live to take the examination.
But then, Marshall wondered morosely, might he not do that very thing to bolster the morale of his junior Lieutenants? Any kind of activity was better than lying helpless and worrying.
Be that as it might, the distraction proved effective for Marshall, letting him move about mentally even though his body was confined, and he was delighted to discover that Archer was, as far as he could tell, eminently ready to be tested. Smith’s questions ranged from the ridiculously simple—definition of a halyard, for instance—to very complex.
And then there was one question that sounded familiar: “You are close-hauled on the port tack, beating up-channel with a nor’easterly wind blowing hard, with Dover bearing north two miles. The wind veers four points and takes you flat aback.”
It was the very question that had caused Marshall to fail his first examination, though he’d passed on his second try. Apparently the problem was giving Davy some trouble, too, since he had no ready answer.
“You are now dismasted, Mr. Archer,” Smith droned, “with Dover cliffs under your lee. What are you going to do?”
Drown, thought Marshall. There had to be an answer—and although he had some ideas, he had always been too self-conscious to bring up the subject with anyone, much less the Captain or Mr. Drinkwater, who might have known what the examination board was looking for. Thank God the board at his second examination had asked him questions he knew how to answer, or he’d still be in the Middies’ berth.
“Mr. Archer?”
“May I ask something, sir?” Davy asked cautiously.
“In an examination, that would be ill-advised. Do you not understand the question?”
“No, sir, the question is clear enough. But—Sir, why would anyone bring a ship that close in to Dover? The wind there is so unreliable, and the way the shore angles out….”
Exactly. That was one of the things that had tied Marshall’s tongue at his own examination. What sort of imbecile would risk his vessel to the fluky wind near that rocky, sloping trap of a coastline?
“Very true, Mr. Archer. Since you know better, let us assume your commander made this perhaps unwise decision and was knocked unconscious when the masts came down. You did not put your ship in this position, but you are the senior officer responsible for saving your ship and crew. What are your orders, sir?”
“I—I would bear to starboard and maintain the port tack, jury-rig a sail, if there was time, and run downwind, as far as possible, to clear the lee shore.”
Good, Davy! Marshall cheered silently. That might do it—
“And if the wind changes another two points, driving you in to shore?”
Davy paused for a long breath. “I would get an anchor down, sir, two if possible—”
“One of your anchors was lost when a Frenchman attempted a cutting-out during the middle watch. You had no replacement. The other anchor fouls halfway down and reduces your maneuverability, but does slow your progress toward the cliffs. What will you do now?”
Was there no answer to the damned question? Marshall shared Archer’s frustration.
After a moment, Davy said, “I’m sorry, sir, but—I should send a boat to shore with a hawser and give the order to prepare to abandon ship. I realize that cannot be the correct answer—”
“But it is, Mr. Archer,” Smith said.
“Sir?”
“Much as we all hate to admit it,” the Captain said, “there are sometimes circumstances that put us entirely at their mercy. And sometimes there is no mercy to be had.” His words hung in the darkness. “But how we bear ourselves under such conditions may mean the difference between ignominious defeat and final victory. This situation actually occ
urred, and the question has been in use in examinations for some years, now. Its purpose is to remind our confident young officers of human limitation. You see, Mr. Marshall, your difficulty with this problem was not such a black mark after all.”
“It never occurred to me that there might be no answer, sir,” Marshall admitted. “Congratulations, Mr. Archer.”
Smith cleared his throat. “Now, then, this question does have an answer. You have run aground on a mud shoal at the mouth of a harbor occupied by hostile forces. What is the standard method for freeing your ship, and how will you defend yourself while doing so?”
The questions went on for another hour or so, but finally the Captain’s deep voice grew weary. “One last question, gentlemen, and bear this one in your minds until we are free: You have been abducted by persons unknown, with the presumed goal of extracting ransom. How can you free yourself and your shipmates, with the best possible outcome, including capture of your abductors?”
Supplemental Log, HMS Calypso, in for repair, Portsmouth.
Lt. Anthony Drinkwater, in temporary command. 17-7-1799
AT 4 pm, Captain Smith, Lt. Marshall, and M’man Archer left the ship with the intention of establishing a schedule with the shipwright for repair of the Calypso. Although they were scheduled to return by 8 pm, I had by that time received no word from the Captain. This being entirely uncharacteristic, indeed, the first time in my memory that Captain Smith has not been where he said he would be at the appointed time, I sent Ship’s Master Korthals to ascertain his whereabouts. He reported back at 9:15, to wit, the Captain’s party had never reached the shipwright. I have sent Mr. Korthals out again with three ratings (Barrow, O’Reilly, and Klingler) to see if they can determine what has become of our officers.
MARSHALL TOOK the first watch. He let the others sleep past watch change, taking the time to review their capture. There must have been something he could have done. If only he could figure out what it was, he might have some idea of what to do next. Finally, he decided the only thing that might have helped would have been a pistol, even though it was not a normal part of his uniform. Too late now.
