by Lee Rowan
“You’re one to talk. God in Heaven, Will, whatever possessed you to goad him like that?”
“I hate bullies.” His voice was rough with pain. “Reminds me of that bastard Correy.”
That hit Archer like a blow. Did William have second sight? Then he realized it took no clairvoyance to see the similarity. “Well, there’s no shortage of bullies in the world, and we’ve certainly met our share.”
He checked the cloth again, rinsed it mechanically. And I’m no better at facing them now than then. There was no need for Will to be lying here suffering. He’d taken the beating as though he’d won a prize, thinking it meant Archer had been following Smith’s orders, when all he’d been trying to do was protect his own cowardly self from something he had no hope of escaping. It’s not as though he means to kill me, not if he wants the ransom. And besides, he had already capitulated. Adrian could send for him at any time, have him delivered to his cabin, and he was powerless to prevent it.
Better not to think about that just now. “Will, would you like some water? To drink, I mean.”
“I would.” It took a few moments, getting William up on his side, letting him drink, getting him settled again. “Thank you. Davy—”
“Yes?”
“When all this started, you said something—to Adrian—it sounded like you were agreeing to something. What was all that?”
Archer had turned to rinse the cloth; William couldn’t see him cringe as he scrambled to avoid an outright lie. “You were right, when you thought he wanted… information. It slipped my mind last night, but he did ask about what the Calypso’s been up to. He wanted a list of the ships we captured. And he wanted to know how long the old girl would be in for repairs. I told him we’d been captured before we learned about the repairs, and I couldn’t discuss military information until I’d spoken to the Captain.”
“Oh. Good, Davy. Exactly right.”
“I thought I should talk to you first, in the morning, and we could decide upon some useless information to feed him.” He knelt to replace the cloth and bowed his head. “I—I had no idea he’d do this. William, can you forgive me?” The last, at least, was entirely the truth.
“There’s nothing to forgive, Davy,” Will said wearily. “You were doing your duty. Besides, he almost had to make a show of force at some point, just to discourage us trying to get away. We don’t even know that this wasn’t all for Captain Smith’s benefit. It may have been to threaten the Captain—my ‘uncle’—into cooperating. Since they haven’t just killed me out of hand, he must have given them that story.” He rested his chin on his fists. “We know the Captain is challenging Adrian’s authority. Aboard his own ship, there is no greater threat. If he loses control of his crew, Smith will step in and take it.”
“But it was clear he wanted something from me….” Archer despised himself for the half-truth, but the whole truth would have been worse.
“He may simply be trying to break you—I’m sorry, I don’t mean that as it sounded—to force you to give him information, to prove that he has the power to do it, not because the information is of any use.”
“You may be right.” Archer pulled out his handkerchief, moistened it, and wiped William’s face. That he did not protest the attention was an indication of his pain. He was precisely right, too, even if he had not guessed Adrian’s aim. And the bastard does have the power, William, because he can hurt you, and I cannot bear that. Damn him to hell, how did he know?
“I’m sure he’s getting fat with ransom, but watching that performance of his, above… he’s doing it for power, Davy. For control.” William’s speech was slower, now, and his dark eyes looked dull. The pain was wearing him out. “He must have had spies in Portsmouth when we came in. He knows what we brought home. Unless there were some secret dispatches on one of those ships—things you and I really don’t know about—it just doesn’t matter. All that information will be in the Naval Gazette. Don’t torture yourself, Davy. Let him think he’s won. Play for time.”
“I thought I might tell him about prize captures that have already been published. You’re right. No acting Lieutenant is going to be privy to secret documents, anyway.”
“I think the Captain will be the key to our getting out. We must be ready when he makes his move. God, if I can ever be half what he is…” His voice trailed off as his eyelids slid shut.
“You already are,” Archer said quietly. “Half, at least.”
When he was sure William was asleep, he covered his friend with the second bit of sailcloth so he wouldn’t take a chill, then spread out both their jackets to lie on himself. He rolled up their shirts as a pillow and settled on his side, shifting until he found a position that didn’t pull at the welts on his own back—nothing compared to William’s but damnably uncomfortable. His mind drifted as he watched the narrow bars of light from the ventilator creep slowly across the wall. Inevitably, the prospect of what lay ahead, probably by the time the sun went down, began to loom.
Archer suspected his friend had guessed what Correy had done to him, years back, but he was grateful they had never spoken of it. He couldn’t bring himself to tell William what was really at stake here either.
Am I that obvious? Can anyone tell, just looking at me? He hoped not. He had never intentionally done anything to try to attract another man—he certainly had not invited Correy’s attentions—but there had been a few invitations, from friends in the theater, invitations he had never accepted, and no hard feelings. He had been in the throes of a much more conventional romance back then, with the lovely understudy to the celebrated Mrs. Sarah Siddons.
But the invitations had been there, nonetheless. And now this. William might wonder, as he was beginning to himself, whether Archer wasn’t sending some sort of signal that suggested he would welcome such attentions.
And if William wondered that, he might also wonder if he wanted to keep a friend who was sending such signals. That sort of association would sound the death knell for a young officer’s ambitions, and William was highly ambitious. All to the good, because he was going to be a Captain who would take his place beside Jervis, Nelson, and Smith in the pages of history. Men like that were rare, and England needed them.
It was almost funny that William could look at such men and not recognize himself—as when he’d said that Adrian had caught a man stronger than he was. He’d caught two at once, and it probably frightened the hell out of him.
Maybe that’s why he went after me. A corvette won’t take on two frigates if there’s a lightly armed sloop handy. I’m an easy target. And he knows he can use us against each other. He enjoys that, it gives him power.
He should have taken advantage of Adrian’s expectation that he would be jealous of William. There would have been no point in having him beaten if he thought Archer would be pleased to see it happen. That probably wouldn’t have worked, though. He could wear the mask of manners society expected, but he couldn’t pretend to hate the best friend he’d ever had… a man he loved.
But he could provide a diversion. Those two frigates would find it easier to defeat the corvette if the corvette was preoccupied with trying to sink the sloop. If Adrian’s vigilance was lulled by a victory on one front, he might neglect the more important battle. It was not the sort of diversionary tactic that would ever be taught, pray God, but it might serve the purpose. Let him think he’d won, as William said. Play for time. Somehow I don’t think he would have said that if I’d told him the whole truth. Even so, he’s right.
But all the old terror, Correy’s legacy, was still dragging at Archer like an anchor, and he didn’t know if he could slip that cable. He had to do that. He had to. If he held on to it, bottled it up as he’d been forced to before, he’d probably start having noisy nightmares again. Will would know for certain that something was wrong.
He had survived worse. He truly had. Adrian was a lecherous swine, but he didn’t seem to be interested in beating his prey to a pulp, as Correy had done. It wasn’t
likely to be as bad as being wounded, which Archer had also survived. Or even that horrible infestation of bedbugs some of the men brought aboard from a whorehouse in Verona—it took a month to get rid of them, and every man in the crew had been covered in bites.
And with regard to vermin of various species… however threatening he was, Adrian was not Correy. Dangerous, yes, and smoothly vicious, but he had no chance to blackmail his victim, no power to ruin Archer’s career and wreck the rest of his life. He can’t put me in more of a prison than I’m in now, or throw me overboard, or do anything much worse than kill me. Which he won’t do if he can help it, because he wants the ransom.
His duty was to do what he could to get them out of this. He was grown now, no longer a frightened sixteen-year-old. It was not a task he would have chosen, but what he wanted was not the issue. This wasn’t about what he wanted. It was about doing his duty.
More important still, it would keep the son of a bitch away from William. The way Adrian had looked at him, stretched half-naked on the gratings, twisted Archer up inside. Leave him alone, you bastard. Keep your filthy hands off him!
It was not just protectiveness. Archer had realized almost immediately that what he felt for Will was far more than the love of a friend. His feelings went much further than the Articles of War permitted. The strength of the attraction shocked him. After Correy, desire for another man was the last thing he had ever thought to feel. But there it was, however futile. Still, if he wanted to keep William’s friendship, he knew he had to keep any other feelings entirely to himself.
He studied Will’s sleeping face, so close in this tiny cell. The curly black hair was matted down with sweat, his mouth softened in sleep, the lines of pain eased by unconsciousness. Will had been protecting him almost since they’d met, one way or another. He’d removed the towering threat of George Correy and set a standard of achievement that Archer found he had to live up to. His love for Will brought out a courage he didn’t know he had, back on that French ship. Will was always there—he had helped Archer master his panic in that damned wagon only a few days ago. It was not just life Archer owed him, but the self-respect without which life was insupportable.
High time he paid back a little of that debt. And if he had to whore himself to do it….
Well, it wasn’t as if that were anything that had not happened before. Last time, he’d sold himself for mere survival. Now, at least, he’d be doing his duty, helping his Captain, protecting his friend. That was worth the price. He would never be able to give himself to William, but he could give himself for him, shield him, and perhaps atone for the shameful, unnatural desire. If he were very lucky, this might even break him of it, as a horrible hangover might cure a first-time drunkard.
Not likely. When he considered William in that light, he felt only eagerness. He wanted to know how it would feel to hold him as a lover would, to kiss that soft, sensuous mouth, to learn what he might do to give pleasure. But the thought of Adrian—the arrogance, the hands claiming his body, the ugliness of soul that would take pleasure in causing such pain to force service to his appetites…. Archer shuddered. There was nothing in common between the two.
Except me.
And it was nothing new. He knew he could survive this. More to the point, William might not. And to see his bright soul tarnished, beaten down…. No. Never. Not if I can prevent it.
I don’t think Adrian can possibly be any worse than Correy.
Oh, God.
Breathe.
SMITH HAD just time enough for the ink to dry before he heard the footsteps outside his door. He looked over the missive once more. It appeared to be in order.
Adrian had come for it himself, this time. “Have you finished the letter, Captain?”
“Yes.” He wondered if Drinkwater had been able to make any sense of his veiled reference to espionage. It was a long chance; the man would be knee-deep in the thousand important details that were by rights a Captain’s responsibility, and the reference would probably slip past him.
Even so, there was one small consolation: if Adrian had detected anything wrong with that first letter, he would not be standing there waiting for this one. “Twenty thousand for me and five each for my men,” he said, passing the paper out through the bars. “That first seems a bit high, surely?”
“The three of you have already been more troublesome than any of my previous guests.”
“I’m delighted to hear it.”
Adrian took the page closer to the lantern outside—not, fortunately, close enough to warm the paper. “This appears satisfactory. I will send it on its way later this morning.” He turned, then stopped as if remembering something. “By the way, Captain, I’ve decided how I’m going to punish one of your men for your little outburst earlier.” When Smith merely frowned, he said, “Aren’t you curious?”
“I’m not about to beg for hints. No doubt I’ll find out eventually.”
“No doubt. Well, then, if you have no questions….”
“I do have one. You appeared to be implying to Mr. Marshall that Mr. Archer had been the one who tried to escape. Was there a reason, or were you merely being whimsical?”
“What an interesting way to put it, Captain. But yes, there is a reason. I find it useful to remind my guests they have only one another to blame for their misfortunes. For instance, this next time I will make it clear to your young officer that your noble and patriotic display is the cause of his discomfort. You will get full credit this time, Captain. Never fear.”
“Piracy,” Smith said, in the same conversational tone, “is something for which I may summarily hang a man, when I catch him, without the bother of a trial.”
“But I have caught you, Captain, not the reverse. You seem to have an unhealthy preoccupation with hanging.”
“I intend you will find it permanently unhealthy.” Smith turned on his heel and extinguished the lantern.
After a moment, Adrian realized he would get no more amusement here, and left.
Alone, Smith sat heavily in the chair. It had been a risk to let the blackguard know he valued Marshall. It made a target of him. But not doing so might have meant his death. Of course, the best men were always the first to be risked, the ones sent into danger to get the job done because they stood the best chance of accomplishing it. Calculated risk, the daily lot of a ship’s Captain. And it never got easier.
He sighed. Damn that young man’s impudence! A dozen would have been unpleasant. What he got for baiting the bastard would leave him barely able to move for at least a day or two. His defiance had been splendid to see but hardly worth the cost.
Well, he was young, strong, and resilient, and one could hope, intelligent enough not to make the same mistake twice. Archer had shown a fine spirit too, snatching the opportunity to communicate even though he knew the risk. They had both demonstrated, in a way no argument could, that even the prospect of severe punishment was not enough to command their allegiance to anyone but their own Captain. That one priceless moment had given him the chance to start undermining Adrian’s hold on his crew.
Smith wished he’d had time to explain to them that the escape attempt had been his own, but those two would not need explanations. They would manage. They would recognize Adrian’s games as clearly as Smith did.
He only hoped they would survive them.
Supplemental Log, HMS Calypso, in for repair, Portsmouth.
Lt. Anthony Drinkwater, in temporary command. 20-7-1799
NO FURTHER news. However, Ad. Roberts informs me that his recommendation to keep Captain Smith on the books of the Calypso has been approved, with the proviso that if he has not been returned to us by the time she is restored to seaworthiness, another Captain will be assigned. The shipwrights have given me an estimate of six to eight weeks, and examination of the records of other abductions reveals that all abductees were returned within six weeks. It looks to be a near thing. We hope daily for contact.
“WAKE UP, Will.”
Marshall was just conscious enough to find the tapping on his arm an intolerable nuisance. Then he realized he was lying on his face. Why in blazes had he tried to sleep this way? He pushed up on one arm, and a wave of pain knocked him down. And he remembered.
“Will?”
“Just—just a moment, Davy. I’m trying to decide if I want to wake up, or die now and get it over with.”
“You must move.”
He squinted at Archer. The sun must be just over their little port; it was almost bright in the cell. “Last night you said I had to hold still.” He didn’t mean to sound like a petulant child, but he was becoming acutely aware of how much the act of breathing shifted the muscles in one’s back. It felt as though someone had poured molten lead from his neck to his waist and it had cooled just enough to immobilize him.
“Yes, but now you have to move about, otherwise you’ll be too stiff to move at all. Wait.”
Cool wetness eased the sullen heat, and he relaxed under the dripping cloth. “Bless you, Davy. Give me a moment.”
He was just becoming halfway comfortable and dozing off again when Archer was back at it. “Get up, William. Breakfast.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake—” He gathered himself, started to push up, and decided it really wasn’t worth the effort. “Why don’t you eat it, I’m really not—”
“No.” Archer put the plate down an inch from his nose. Two white objects rolled around beside a biscuit. “Look. Those hens I hypothesized must have outdone themselves, we’ve got boiled eggs this morning. Weren’t you just wishing for eggs a while back? Get. Up.”
“This is insubordination,” Marshall grumbled.
“This is my chance at revenge for all that gruel you shoveled into me when we had that fever aboard ship. Come on, William.”
He gritted his teeth and tried to do it all at once, lurching to his hands and knees. “Damn it to hell, I’ll have that bastard’s guts for garters.”
“Swear all you like, but keep moving.” Archer shifted the plate away and helped Will get vertical close enough to the bulkhead to lean against it sideways, leaning back being clearly out of the question for the moment.
