Ransom

by Lee Rowan

  Marshall frowned but did not press him. “I’d have thought a drink would do you good. How did it go—did you learn anything?”

  Although William’s presence was a tonic, if he didn’t change the subject, he was going to start shaking again. “Good food, disgusting company. Did they ever feed you?”

  “No,” Marshall said lightly. “I seem to be forgotten this evening. They did refill the water. Some kind of cat-and-mouse game, I suppose, though I can’t see what purpose it serves. Does he expect to start us fighting over a missed meal?”

  Genuine happiness unfroze Archer’s face as he remembered his subterfuge. “If that’s his intention, he’d better watch the larder more closely.” He carefully extracted the fragrant, greasy napkin from one pocket and a reliably unsquashable biscuit from the other. “Adrian struck me as the sort to play divide-and-conquer. He tried to suggest I should be jealous that you outrank me. Here’s one for our side.”

  Will’s expression said more about how hungry he was than his diffident words had. Archer’s warm satisfaction at watching his friend eat helped, for a few minutes, to push away the fear that was beginning to gnaw at him. Adrian was not especially subtle, but he did not need to be. Treat him well and starve Marshall, then remind him how easily he could help his friend…. Adrian might well have known he’d taken the food.

  “Davy,” William said, polishing off the last of the biscuit, “if I were an admiral, you’d be promoted on the spot. But what are we going to do with the bones?” They both stared around the tiny, bare cell.

  “Not in the straw, unless you want rats for company.”

  “No, there are too many outside, as it is. Out the port, then. Ah.” William lifted the lid of the slop bucket and popped them in. “I doubt they’ll inspect this too closely.”

  Archer shrugged. “If they do, we’ll tell them I have terrible digestion.”

  For some reason that sent Marshall into a fit of stifled giggles. Then, just as he was settling down, the notion of pirates reading the entrails of a slop bucket struck Archer as hilarious, and that set Marshall off again. Every time their eyes met, control went out the window. It was nervous laughter, of course, and they both knew it, but it celebrated the one small triumph over their captors, and it shook the numbing fear loose from Archer’s throat.

  “I think we had better get some sleep,” Marshall said finally, looking carefully away.

  “Wait.” Archer lowered his voice, although they had both quickly gotten into the habit of speaking in undertones. “Before I forget, I do have a few things to report. The man at the helm right now is called Brown, though I suspect that name is as genuine as Adrian.”

  “It could be, that’s a common enough name.”

  “True, but why would any of them use their real names and wear masks? There are fourteen steps to the quarterdeck, from the hatch we came down. It’s a fair-sized ship, as you guessed. Seems to be larger than the prizes we brought in, but it doesn’t have the sound or feel of something as big as the Calypso. Also, Adrian mentioned that you and I were caught by mistake, just as the Captain thought. They were actually after the Captain or Mr. Drinkwater.”

  “He mentioned Lieutenant Drinkwater by name?”

  “Yes. And he knew the family is well off. I wonder how long they knew we were coming into port. It was not a scheduled return.”

  “The first two ships we captured arrived the day before we did,” Marshall said. “They couldn’t have learned anything more than that we were on the way, eighteen or twenty hours’ notice, at best. Of course, the officers’ list is easy to get. I wonder if he was waiting for Captain Smith, specifically, or any officer worth a good ransom?”

  “I don’t know. Adrian seems scornful when he mentions officers and gentlemen, but his manners suggest that he is one, or was. His stern cabin makes the Calypso’s look spartan.” Smith’s quarters had a fleet-wide reputation for their simple elegance. The Captain exercised his rank’s prerogative of a private stock of wine and other small comforts, but his indulgence was hardly on the same scale as Adrian’s. “Most of the food was perishable stuff, everything but the biscuit. He must have a flock of hens aboard somewhere, and a wine cellar. I would guess this ship probably never travels very far from land.”

  “Careful, Mr. Archer,” Marshall warned. “You’re showing a definite talent for intrigue. We don’t want to lose you to the spy service.”

  “No danger of that,” Archer assured him. “If they ever tried to send me into France in disguise, the Frogs would know me in an instant—from my knees knocking together.”

  Marshall smiled and cuffed him on the shoulder, and they arranged themselves for the night. It didn’t take long: shoes in one corner, jackets rolled as pillows, and shirts airing out at the port. The bits of sailcloth were just large enough to keep the sharp stalks from being a nuisance. It was too warm in the stuffy cell to need any cover.

  They had guessed the time within minutes. Before they were completely settled, a crewman came and took the lantern away. Without it, night was dark enough to escape into sleep. Archer prayed it would be too dark to dream.

  Chapter 5

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

  Lt. Anthony Drinkwater, in temporary command. 19-7-1799

  NO FURTHER news.

  EXHAUSTED BY the nerve-racking dinner engagement, Archer slept like the dead, but a mob of masked sailors thumping into the cell brought him abruptly awake. The lantern light showed Marshall struggling in the grip of two burly seamen. A third gave him a single hard punch in the stomach that doubled him over while another shoved his hands forward to be bound.

  Archer was too startled and groggy to put up a fight; by the time he could, someone had a knee in his back and an arm around his throat. Shirtless and barefoot, he and Marshall were tied, blindfolded, and dragged out of the room, up the stairs, and outside to the edge of the quarterdeck. Someone spun him around, pushed him a few steps farther. His wrists, still bound, were pulled up and secured above his head.

  As he stood trying to get his bearings, he heard Adrian’s voice just beside him. “You’ll hardly benefit from the lesson if you can’t see it, will you?” The blindfold was pulled away.

  He was at the gratings—well, that was no surprise. He had offended the bastard. Aboard any ship, flogging was the most likely punishment for a variety of offenses. He’d taken a couple of beatings aboard the Titan, when Correy had contrived to shift the blame for his own transgressions. But there was something peculiar about this arrangement.

  He frowned through the metal latticework and realized that he was wrong-way on, facing the maindeck. Suddenly Marshall was thrown against the other side, so their faces were only inches apart. In the light of a bright three-quarters moon, Archer saw them lashing Will to the grating spread-eagled, so he couldn’t move at all. Looking past his friend’s shoulder, he saw two more sailors bring Captain Smith on deck, also blindfolded, stopping some twenty feet away.

  Archer had been half-expecting reprisal, but he had never imagined this. Twisting to look over his own shoulder, he saw Adrian watching him greedily, waiting. His gut tightened. Well, with forty or fifty men to one, it had always been a foregone conclusion, hadn’t it?

  “All right,” he breathed, his mouth dry. “You’ve made your point. I’ll do it.”

  “Of course you will.” Adrian’s smile was ripe with self-confidence. “I never had any doubt. But this is a consequence, not a threat.” He raised his voice. “Let these gentlemen see what’s going on so they understand how very serious I am.”

  He strode onto the main deck, and Archer reflected that a stage career might have saved them all a lot of grief. “Men,” Adrian announced. “We have had an escape attempt this evening. It was not Lt. Marshall himself who essayed it, of course, but he will have to bear the burden for it, this time.”

  Marshall blinked at Archer in surprise as his blindfold came off. “So that’s why you were so winded when you came back. Why d
idn’t you say something?”

  “I’m sorry,” Archer whispered. “But I didn’t—” Someone hit him from behind. He’d have to explain later. No. He’d have to come up with some plausible lie, later. He couldn’t possibly explain.

  “I don’t want to disfigure such a splendid young specimen,” Adrian continued. Hearing the undertone, Archer went cold. “So we’ll use the cane this time. Next time, it will be the cat. Bosun—oh, before you begin, give Mr. Archer a small sample.”

  The flexible rattan cane whistled shrilly as it slashed across Archer’s back. The shock of it caught him unprepared, and it was all he could do not to yelp. He caught his breath and tensed, waiting for the next. He’d just about decided that was all when the bosun, craftily watching for his guard to go down, gave him two more in quick succession.

  “That’s enough,” Adrian said. “It is Mr. Marshall’s turn, after all. A dozen, if you please.”

  “Predictable,” Will muttered. His face twisted as the first blow landed, but his expressive mouth compressed and no sound escaped him but a faint gasp of impact. The grate rattled each time his body jerked in reaction.

  It was too close; Archer couldn’t bear to watch. Not that the punishment was especially severe—they’d each had this sort of thing a time or two as midshipmen on the Titan—but knowing that he was responsible made it almost unbearable. His own back stinging in sympathy, he stared out past William, past their captors, to where Captain Smith stood, hands tied behind him and surrounded by half a dozen guards. His face was granite, eyes hooded by the angle of moonlight, but something about his posture made Archer think of a loaded cannon awaiting the match.

  Adrian’s voice pulled his attention back. “That’s twelve.” William let out a breath and sagged against the iron. “And one for good measure.” After it had landed, too fast for him to brace against it, Adrian caught Marshall’s hair and yanked his head back. “And have you any words for the shipmate who brought this upon you, Lieutenant?”

  William bared his teeth in a wild, dangerous smile. “I certainly do.” His eyes challenged Archer to share the joke, and his voice was strong and clear. “Well done, Mr. Archer. Better luck next time.”

  The cane came down hard. No set number, and the bosun put his full strength into every blow. Archer only felt it secondhand, and that was bad enough. It went on and on—he lost count around thirty. He could see that the punishment was breaking through Marshall’s resolve, his gasps were very nearly sobs by the time it finally stopped.

  “Will,” Archer hissed, “for God’s sake, don’t antagonize him. How will we escape if you can’t move?”

  Thank God Captain Smith must have had the same notion. In the quiet after the last stroke fell, his voice cut like a sword across Marshall’s labored breathing. “Hold your tongue, Mr. Marshall.” Smith turned to Adrian. “I do not usually take pleasure in seeing a man hang, sir. But in your case, I shall make an exception.”

  “The sentiment is hardly original, sir,” Adrian said mockingly. He strolled over to inspect his handiwork. “No lasting harm, I’m sure. We don’t want to damage valuable merchandise, after all.” His eyes met Archer’s through the grating. “You will see to it this does not happen again?”

  Not trusting his voice, Archer gave a tight nod.

  “Very good.” Adrian gestured, and his men hurried to release them from the gratings. William moved unsteadily, his face and posture rigid. Archer tried to stay close enough to give him something to lean against. His skin was clammy where they touched, and he was already shivering. When they were standing on the main deck, near Smith, Adrian surveyed them all with satisfaction. “I trust you gentlemen now realize who is Captain aboard this ship?”

  In unconscious unison, they both looked to Smith. Archer took the chance to speak. “We made no escape attempt, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Archer,” Smith said, his answer nearly drowned by Adrian’s furious, “Get them below!”

  “Silence!” Smith roared. It was an order that would quell the deck of the Calypso in the height of battle, and he seized the moment of quiet that followed. “You have been playing at pirates far too long. You men—all of you—are no longer simple criminals, you are traitors so long as you follow this man, and no port in the land will be haven to you. England is at war, you fools—and you are interfering with officers in His Majesty’s Navy!” His glare raked the deck. “I am prepared to offer amnesty to any man who renounces this treasonous swine and accepts his duty to his country!”

  Even Archer found himself swayed by the force of the Captain’s personality—he was ready to renounce the treasonous swine on the spot even though he bore him no allegiance, and he guessed half the men present felt the same. If the three of them had not been bound, Smith might actually have carried the day.

  But the precarious moment passed as Adrian stormed over, caught Smith by one arm, and threw him bodily to the deck. Then he grabbed two of the sailors who had been standing openmouthed and pushed them toward Smith. “Take him below and lock him up and report to the bosun for a flogging!” As they took the Captain away, Adrian whirled on his men, half of whom were still staring at the little drama, and pointed to Marshall and Archer. “Get them below, now! If I see any more disobedience, I’ll have you all shot!”

  “By whom?” Will murmured, too quietly for anyone but Archer to hear.

  If he had not been so battered already, Archer would have elbowed him in the ribs. He scowled instead, and Marshall managed to restrain his irony until they were back in their cell. They weren’t blindfolded this time, possibly because there was nothing much to be seen: no other cell door along this companionway. The Captain must be imprisoned elsewhere.

  Once inside, Will’s brave mask dropped. He caught at the bulkhead with both hands, his body shaking, while Archer swiftly leveled the straw that had been kicked around, straightened the sailcloth, and found his purloined table linen. He couldn’t do much, but anything to keep down the welts would help.

  “Come on, Will,” he said, supporting him under the elbows, careful not to touch his back. “Lie down and keep still. We need to get some seawater on those stripes. You probably aren’t feeling it all yet, but they’re going to hurt like blazes.”

  “I am beginning to notice.” Moving very carefully, William stretched out facedown while Archer soaked the cloth in the wash-bucket. “It was worth it, though. Did you see that bastard’s face when Captain Smith shouted? He had no idea what to do. If the Captain had had one minute more, the crew would’ve been singing ‘God Save the King.’”

  “But he didn’t have that minute.” Archer hated to sound a sour note, but he couldn’t imagine what Adrian was going to do to salve his wounded pride, and he was quite sure that, whatever it might be, he wouldn’t like it. He lifted up the dripping cloth, reluctant to put saltwater on the stripes where the skin had split. Had to be done, though; it would slow the bleeding. “Brace yourself, Will. I’m sorry.”

  William’s whole body jerked at the touch. “Thank you. He didn’t have it this time, but, Davy, what he did has changed everything.”

  “It’s made Adrian madder than a hornet, I could see that.”

  “No, think about it. The Captain said he had his own family guarded. This crew has probably been kidnapping wives, children, maybe older folk—landsmen, if all they knew was that they were on a ship. We could tell much more, just from the way she moves. And we know we’ve been out of port most of this time. They’ve probably never dealt with sailors at all, and when they went for Captain Smith, they overreached themselves.” His grin was a faint echo of what it had been above. “Now they’ve got a tiger by the tail. I don’t know if the Captain can actually grant amnesty, but I’d wager he could wangle a pardon for any sailor who helps us.”

  “They’re criminals,” Archer objected. “What do they care?”

  “They may be rogues, Davy, but they’re English rogues. At least some will have families in England. And they’re sailors. Every man on that de
ck who heard our Captain now knows what a real Captain looks like, and they know that what they’ve got is no match for him. And Adrian will know that, too, so he’ll have to set his crew to watching one another, and he can’t be sure a few of them won’t conspire against him.”

  “I hope you’re right.” What William said was making sense, and it seemed to be distracting him from the pain, though how he could think at all, the way his back looked, was beyond Archer. The cloth was already warm from the heat rising off the welts. He’d have a rainbow of bruises by daybreak. “It’s best to keep this cool. Would you rather I take it off or pour water on?”

  “Whatever’s easier, Davy. Thank you.” He set his teeth as Archer rinsed and replaced the cloth, then rattled on. “We must be ready to take advantage of any disaffection in the crew. All we need is information on this ship’s position, and if we’re near land—”

  “We may be,” Archer interrupted. “When they brought me back, Adrian told the guard to tell Brown to let him know when they were out of sight. He could have meant out of sight of land, so there was no chance of anyone with a spyglass seeing us on deck.”

  “Or out of sight of other ships. If that’s so, and we could get a few minutes on a clear deck—” He broke off with a strangled cry.

  Archer caught his shoulders and steadied him. “The worst starts a little while after you think it’s over, Will. It passes.”

  “How—long?”

  “I don’t know, the most I ever got was a dozen. Moving makes it worse, though. Try to keep still.”

  William muttered something.

  “What?”

  “Still… worth it. To watch that arrogant bastard realize he’s caught a man who’s stronger than he is.”

  Archer noticed pale dawn light beginning to seep through the ventilator. “Try to rest, Will. See if you can sleep.”

  “You must be joking.”