Ransom

by Lee Rowan

  He began to wonder if he’d been in this compartment too long. The smell of the sea was back. Why now, when he’d not noticed it before? Had the kidnappers perhaps gone inland at first to avoid suspicion?

  He was still wondering whether he should wake Smith when the matter was decided for him.

  The rumble of the wheels changed—they were on a paved road again—and that shift in rhythm brought the Captain awake. “All quiet, Mr. Marshall?”

  “So far, sir.”

  Smith sniffed. “And we are back at the coast. It won’t be long now. Well, Mr. Marshall, any solutions to our dilemma?”

  “Only hindsight, sir. Pistols would have been helpful.”

  “In future, they will be. Damn! I cannot comprehend the short-sighted stupidity of a criminal who would abduct naval officers! Does the fool not realize England is an island and the Navy is what keeps her safe?”

  Marshall was surprised by his vehemence. The way he spoke almost made England sound like a flesh-and-blood woman. But, of course, it was Smith’s own personality, his force of will, that had always shaped his crew into a single-minded fighting force. “I suppose not, sir. Or he just doesn’t care.”

  “No, I expect not. Get some rest, Mr. Marshall.”

  But this time, sleep wouldn’t come. After a long journey along bumpy roads, the sounds outside changed. They stopped; harnesses jingled, horses stamped. They moved again, then stopped once more, and the trapdoor opened to reveal the roof of another barn, dimly lit by a couple of lanterns.

  Someone held a light above them. “End of the ride, boyos,” said the spokesman of the masked men who’d captured them. “One at a time now. Just behave, and you’ll all get back to your ship safe and sound.” He put the knife back at Marshall’s throat. “You first, Captain.”

  “Where are we?” Archer asked quietly as two other bandits unloaded Smith.

  “I don’t know.” Marshall spoke carefully, hoping the knife-man wasn’t too excitable. “The next step on our little journey, apparently.”

  “Exactly right,” his captor said. “Just a little more shaking around, and you’ll be back at sea. Ah, now you.” He turned the knife on Archer as Marshall was released from the irons.

  When he straightened his aching back, his heart sank. He could see at least eight enemies, mostly armed with clubs. Captain Smith, his hands tied, was being lifted into one of the barrels used to store food aboard ship. “Now, don’t get the idea this is what happens every time,” the talkative bandit said. “I thought biscuit barrels were just the thing for sailors, but we do it different each time. Climb down, now.”

  “Barrels?” Archer said.

  “You heard me. There’s holes for air, you won’t smother. Just remember, if a barrel gets noisy, we drop it over the side.”

  As he was pushed into the container, Smith shot Marshall a look that almost made him feel sorry for these pirates. But as the Captain’s glare vanished beneath the lid, Marshall was suddenly worried. How would Davy take this confinement? Could he stay quiet? But he would have to. There was no chance these ruffians would have any pity for his fear, even if Marshall tried to explain, and he couldn’t humiliate his friend that way.

  He climbed off the wagon under the bandits’ watchful eyes and let them tie his hands and load him into a barrel. The one with Smith in it was already being hoisted onto a cart that held several identical barrels, no doubt filled with perfectly ordinary biscuit.

  “Keep ’im uncorked ’til we get this one trussed.” They pulled Archer out of storage. He glanced around, saw the last empty barrel, and met Marshall’s eyes.

  Marshall saw the panic there and forced himself to speak lightly. “Well, Davy, this will be a story for our grandchildren someday, won’t it?”

  Archer swallowed but managed a sickly grin as they tied him. “I-I suppose next they’ll stuff us through a keyhole.” The joke would have been more convincing if his voice hadn’t cracked.

  A hand grabbed Marshall’s shoulder. “Inside, now.”

  He resisted for a moment. “Dover cliffs, Davy. Keep breathing.” Then the hand pushed him down and the lid shut off the dim light. As it was hammered into place, he closed his eyes. Davy was right: it was a little easier this way. And he could still hear, as his tiny prison swayed and wobbled up until it settled on the cart. Then something banged against his barrel. Archer’s, probably. The cart shook as the rest of the cargo was loaded on, then jolted as they got underway.

  Breathe, you fool. He deliberately loosened his muscles and tried to take the advice he’d given Archer. He wanted to hammer at the lid until they let him back out. He didn’t dare. They’d probably kill him, and even if they did not, he’d wish they had. And if he felt like this, how was Davy faring?

  He let his head drop back against the staves. If he were up in the maintop, on lookout, he’d be sitting on a perch not much bigger than this, enjoying the cool solitude. On a cloudy, moonless night, it would be just as dark as this, but there would be a breeze, and even at anchor the Calypso would be moving. The four hours’ middle watch, dark to dawn, would fly past. And he was not alone here, not really. Archer was right beside him. Captain Smith only a few feet away.

  The familiar images relaxed him a little, and he wished he could share the relief with Davy. That brought the worry back. No. Davy would be all right. He was stronger than he knew. He would get through this. They all would.

  And they would find the answer to the Captain’s final question. He did not know how, but when they met this as-yet-unknown enemy—whom he was already beginning to hate—they would find a way to stop him.

  Supplemental Log, HMS Calypso, in for repair, Portsmouth.

  Lt. Anthony Drinkwater, in temporary command. 16-7-1799

  OUR SEARCH party has returned. Captain Smith and his party dined at the Anchor and left at approximately 6:30 pm, and shortly thereafter were seen entering a coach in company with a shore-service Lieutenant, whom we have been unable to locate or identify. The search party has requested permission to return to their task, and I am granting it, as these seamen are part of the gunnery crews commanded by Mr. Marshall and Mr. Archer and have demonstrated great personal loyalty to these fine young officers. I believe they present no risk of desertion, and moreover, have access to a level of society that would be closed to most officers. We all hope for the uneventful return of our Captain and his party, but I have already informed the Port Authority of their disappearance, whereupon Admiral Roberts ordered a thorough search of all ships that have been in port since 3:30 this past afternoon. His office reports employing no officer answering the description of the man seen with our shipmates. The Admiral has expressed his concern that this unexplained disappearance may be connected with a recent series of abductions. It hardly seems likely that such knaves would be foolhardy enough to seize our Captain, but of course no abductor could know Captain Smith as we do. However, one extremely successful merchant captain was abducted from this very port eighteen months ago, so the villains are familiar with this territory. I have issued pistols for our search party, and so great is the loyalty of this crew that many other men have volunteered to join the search. I have authorized leave for those I believe trustworthy. (See list, attached).

  THE TRIP was much shorter than Marshall had expected. After only a few minutes ride on the cart, he was unloaded onto a dock, then into a boat—a fairly small one and, judging by the exaggerated rocking motion, not a well-balanced craft. The last bit, out to the ship, was worst, but it was also the shortest. That probably meant they had gone through an actual port, since a smugglers’ rendezvous would mean a long haul from a quiet beach to an anchored ship. Portsmouth was the only major Navy port in the area; villages would have launched from a beach or estuary. This had to be Portsmouth, again. A clever scheme, to return them to the port from which they’d been taken; every ship in the harbor would already have been searched.

  After an unpleasant couple of minutes while the barrels were swayed aboard, he felt the fam
iliar solidity of a deck again. The muffled voices he heard through the oak sounded much the same as any crew bringing aboard any cargo.

  Then another voice rose above the muttering. “Good evening, gentlemen.” Something thumped on his barrel. Two more thumps said the others were close by. “Welcome to the good ship Elusive, though that is, of course, not the name on her prow. I am her Captain; you may address me as Captain Adrian or ‘Sir.’ My men will be escorting you to your quarters. Captain Smith, if all goes well, you will not see your men again until our visit has ended. I have found my guests much less prone to attempt escape if they are separated. You note I say ‘attempt’ because that is as far as it ever gets. I will be down to see you when you are settled in.”

  It was no surprise that Smith would be jailed separately, but Marshall had hoped otherwise. He had little time to worry about it, as his barrel was hoisted and joggled down a flight of steps. They were clever, these brigands, leaving no chance of anyone ashore or aboard a nearby ship seeing prisoners being taken out of barrels. And no chance of their getting a look at this ship either.

  Finally the jostling stopped, and some metal implement scraped at the barrel lid. As that came away, the whole thing tilted again, and he was dragged out and dropped on a deck. Just beside him, a couple of masked sailors with crowbars were at work on the other barrel.

  “Good morning,” said the voice he’d heard above. “Is it Marshall or Archer?”

  “Marshall.” He scrambled up awkwardly, straightening to face his captor. All he could really see was a silhouette. There was only one lantern in the narrow passage and it was behind the man, but he gave the impression of relative youth—a year or two either side of thirty—and physical vigor. “Captain…. Adrian?”

  The man’s head inclined slightly, and Marshall could see that he, too, was wearing a mask over his eyes, as well as a reddish beard that hid the rest of his face. “At your service.”

  “Please forgive me if I doubt that.”

  “Doubt anything you like. Has he been searched?”

  “Twice, sir,” one of the men said. “Sword, clasp-knife, flint and tinder, one pound, two shillings, and fourpence.”

  “You are wise not to carry much on shore leave, Lieutenant. One never knows what sort of footpad may be lurking. What’s wrong there? He is breathing, isn’t he?”

  They had prised the lid off Davy’s barrel. He wasn’t moving. Marshall craned his neck to see within, trying to keep his fear out of his face.

  “Yes, sir, just out cold.”

  Adrian nodded, and they dumped Archer out on the floor, facedown. “Midshipman?” Adrian asked, prodding him with a toe.

  “Acting Lieutenant,” Marshall corrected. He couldn’t see any blood. What the devil had they done to him?

  “Well, see if you can’t persuade him to act conscious. He may need to write a letter.” He nodded toward a door that stood open. “Free their hands and lock them up.” As two of the men untied Archer and tossed him through the doorway, he turned to Marshall. “And do you have family or friends who might be willing to stand ransom for, say, five thousand pounds?”

  The sum was staggering. His pay had jumped from a midshipman’s annual twenty-two pounds to one hundred, but there was no hope of ever repaying five thousand, even if his career did last another fifty years. It would take every bit of prize money he might ever earn, and more. Captain Smith could not have expected anything of this sort when he made his generous offer.

  “You had better speak to my Captain on that subject.” Smith could reconsider or make the decision. With luck, they might be able to escape before it came to the test.

  “Be assured I shall. Have a pleasant rest, Lieutenant.”

  The cell was less than eight feet square, with a ceiling a little lower than Marshall’s six feet. He noticed that only because the rough boards scraped his head as he stepped inside. His attention was focused on David, lying facedown in the straw that covered the floor.

  “Davy?” Marshall found a couple of scraps of sailcloth in the corner, unfolded one, and rolled Archer over onto the makeshift cot. It was difficult to see much, since the only light came from a lantern hung just outside the barred window set in the door, but there was no sign of a wound on the white waistcoat of his dress uniform. A smear of blood on his mouth, though. It looked like he’d bitten through his lip. What on earth…. Archer had never shown any sign of apoplexy—could it be his heart? Had they knocked him unconscious first? “Davy, for God’s sake, say something!”

  “Mm?”

  Marshall let out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

  Archer stirred, blinked, and rolled up on one elbow. “William. Where are we?”

  He glanced around. Three buckets stood near the door, and one had a wooden cup beside it. He checked first, taking nothing for granted, but it did hold fresh water. He scooped some into the cup and offered it to Archer. “We’re on board a ship. The Elusive, he called her, though that’s apparently not actually her name. And the Captain and crew are all masked.”

  “Sounds too clever for words. Are you sure it isn’t just a fancy-dress ball?”

  “Davy, what happened? You were unconscious. Are you all right?”

  “Well enough.” Archer put the cup back. “It was what you said about breathing. I was trying to distract myself, seeing how long I could hold a breath, and all of a sudden I blacked out. So I just did that every time I woke up.” He shrugged. “Not very heroic.”

  “Ingenious was probably better than heroic. There was nothing to be done but wait it out.”

  “Where’s the Captain?”

  Marshall briefly outlined what had happened on their arrival. “It felt like we came down seven or eight steps. I think this ship’s a bit smaller than the Calypso, but it was hard to tell from inside a barrel.”

  “I suppose this is an improvement.” Archer stood, cautious until he was sure he’d clear the ceiling, then frowned. “Damn. You can’t stand up in here.”

  “No, but I can lie down without kicking the slop-bucket. It could be worse.”

  “The door is locked, of course?”

  “Bolt on the outside.” Marshall thumped at it, noting there was no handle on their side.

  He heard footsteps, then a masked face peered in. “Leave the door alone, or you’ll be sorry.”

  “And a guard,” Marshall went on, ignoring him. “Friendly bastard.” The face disappeared, followed by footsteps that stopped five steps away—not close enough for a prisoner to reach.

  Archer continued circling the little cell, running his hands along the walls. Marshall hoped he’d settle down soon. He was restless enough himself. “William, look!”

  “What?” He got up to see and found there was a window of sorts—a small square port about eighteen inches on a side, bisected by a single upright metal bar, with a board outside hinged at the bottom and tilting away at an angle. He could reach up far enough to feel the top edge of the board, and two metal rings bolted to its corners. It moved slightly when he pulled at it. “I think it’s some kind of shutter, Davy, like a gunport in reverse. We can’t see out, and they can pull it shut if another vessel comes close enough to hear us.”

  “At least it’s fresh air.”

  “Yes. And when it’s light, we can see if we might be able to throw something out.”

  “A message in a bottle?” Archer asked facetiously.

  “If we had one. Like as not they’d see it themselves, from above. I don’t see what we can do until morning, though that should be soon. Dawn’s around five thirty.” As if in confirmation, a ship’s bell rang once, echoing through the ventilator. “An hour’s sleep, then. If nothing else, we can use the time to practice navigation problems for your examination.” Mathematics, he knew, was Archer’s least favorite aspect of seamanship, though he was competent enough at it.

  “That certainly gives me something to look forward to.” Archer shoved the straw around. “Looks like they were expecting livestock,
not human beings. You’d think they could at least give us a couple of hammocks.”

  “We won’t be here long enough to be bothered.” Marshall tried to sound confident.

  Archer’s look said he knew they were both already bothered, but he nodded. “Do you think we should stand watches?”

  “Not at this point, no. Get some rest, Davy. It’s been a rotten day.”

  “It’s already tomorrow.” Archer gave him an apologetic smile. “Happy birthday, Will.”

  Chapter 3

  Supplemental Log, HMS Calypso, in for repair, Portsmouth.

  Lt. Anthony Drinkwater, in temporary command. 17-7-1799

  WE ARE now fairly convinced that Captain Smith, Lt. Marshall, and M’man Archer were taken by the gang mentioned in the previous entry. Our gunnery crew located a retired cooper who, despite considerable inebriation, related being nearly run down by a closed coach matching the description of the one our men were seen entering, being driven at unreasonable speed, from whence issued shouts and sounds of a struggle. As this is the same method used to abduct the previous victim, only one conclusion is possible. Our marines are now conducting a search of all waterfront buildings, hoping to locate the coach and, hence, the driver. We are also awaiting contact from the abductors, as ransom seems the most likely aim of this heinous act. I am, in the meantime, attending to the repair and refitting of the Calypso. When she will sail again, and whether it will be under the command of her rightful Captain, God only knows.

  “ARE YOU satisfied with your new quarters, Captain?”

  Smith had to duck to enter the cramped berth, and its ceiling was too damned low. But in the course of his career, he’d slept in worse places, and this did have basic furnishings: a cot stowed on a hook, a straight-backed chair, and a small table that held a candle-lantern, paper, and writing implements.