by Lee Rowan
“Yes,” Archer whispered. His head was already spinning. Christ. What kind of madman had they fallen in with?
“Yes, what?”
“Yes—” His voice squeaked a bit; he cleared his throat and met the icy stare. No. I will not call you “sir” unless you order it. “Yes, I understand.”
Adrian smiled, apparently choosing not to acknowledge his minor rebellion. “I’m so glad. If you should happen to kill me, the crew has permission to do what they like with all of you. I have naturally left instructions for your friend to be killed as well, but they may choose to have him ransomed or sold into slavery in North Africa. That, by the way, is what will happen if for any reason we are unable to ransom you. A good merchant knows many ways to turn a profit.” He caught one of Archer’s wrists and held it up, observing a slight tremor in his fingertips. “Fairly quivering with anticipation. Perhaps I should send my barber down to help you shave.”
Archer closed his fingers into a fist and twisted it away. “I’ll manage.”
“In the finest naval tradition, I’m sure. The shaving gear will be here shortly.” He left and swung the door shut, then looked in through the window. “Please don’t think about cutting your throat, Mr. Archer. I’d have to send your friend back to clean up the mess.”
“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.” Archer was amazed at how steady his voice was and pleased to see Adrian at a momentary loss.
But he had to have the last word. “That would hardly be my first choice. Don’t dawdle.”
Archer kept his composure until the man had gone. Then he sank down against the wall, wrapping his arms around himself. How will I ever—never mind how. Just take one moment at a time. Don’t think. Just breathe.
The shaving things appeared. Archer looked at the razor for a long moment. No. Somehow, even when things were at their worst with Correy, suicide had never seemed a possibility. And in this situation, it really would be the coward’s way out.
He shaved by touch, not carefully. There was no way to prop up the mirror where he could see it, and he really did not give a damn. Halfway through, it struck him that he had been genuinely relieved to find that Adrian had not arbitrarily decided to “entertain” Marshall instead. William’s safety truly meant more to him than his own. The thought was somehow heartening.
I wonder how William would deal with this.
To his very great surprise, he realized that the answer was, probably, not very well. That notion was startling. But when Correy first started pushing, testing the newcomer, William had fought. Never mind that he had been alone, that he had no way of knowing that Correy was a bully who only attacked when he was sure of winning. Will simply stood up for himself, even though his life had been on the line.
In this situation, though, he’d dare not fight. Will would risk his own life but not theirs. He would ultimately be forced to submit, and Archer had no doubt Will’s determination would hold—but it would damage him, take some last bit of innocence Will probably didn’t even know he had.
And that’s not a problem for me, is it? Not anymore.
At any rate, this was not Marshall’s demon. It was his own, and no one else could face it for him.
A fatalistic calm settled over Archer as he wiped his face, put on his jacket, was muffled by the cloak, and escorted above. His hands felt like cold stone, his mouth so dry he might have been chewing cotton. What was it Captain Smith had said, a thousand years ago, in the wagon? “There are some circumstances that put us entirely at their mercy. And sometimes there is no mercy to be had.”
“Let him think he’s won. Play for time.”
I hope to God the Captain’s plan is working. I hope he really has one.
Fourteen steps from the hatch to the quarterdeck. Down three steps. And the cloak came off and one guard knocked at the door and Adrian waited within with that smug, self-satisfied smile.
No mercy to be had.
I’ll just have to manage without it.
Chapter 7
WHEN WE get back to the Calypso, I am never going belowdecks again. Marshall didn’t really mean it, but he was almost ready to volunteer for another beating if it meant he would be able to stand up straight for a little while.
Adrian apparently had a strange sense of humor. He’d simply had Marshall moved from one small space to another space that was the same overall capacity, but instead of a room six by six by eight, this was a storage locker four feet high, six feet deep, and nearly a dozen long. Mathematically, in fact, it was exactly the same size as the room he’d been in for the last five days, but this was one case where mathematics did not tell the whole story. The thing was half-full of scraps of old sails, and Marshall was fairly certain he was not entirely alone in here. To be sure, all ships had rats, but from the squeaks and rustling, he knew he was tremendously outnumbered. He had never had any great fondness for rats, and being in such close quarters was giving him a sincere aversion to their company.
He slipped and scrambled to the far end of the locker, where a louvered vent let in a little light and sea air. Propped open to one side was a shutter that could be slid into place to close it against bad weather. He was glad they’d left it open; he never would have found it otherwise.
Marshall pressed his face against it and saw the late afternoon sun dancing on the water. It was not until then that he realized how much he had missed the sight. Being shut up in that cell had been wearing at him without his even knowing it. A deep breath of daylight helped.
Very well, he was in a long narrow box with rats. He wasn’t going to get much sleep between now and whenever they let him out. What could he do in the meantime?
Get the place in order, for a start. If he’d been in charge of the men responsible for this mess, their ears would be singed. He took off his jacket and waistcoat and laboriously began folding and shifting the bundles of canvas until he had cleared the four feet of decking below the vent, then made a stack of larger scraps that would serve as a seat of sorts.
It took hours, and he found himself having to rest more often than he expected. His back was taking its time healing. Perhaps the exercise would help speed things along. Having something active to do gave an unexpected boost to his spirits, at any rate.
As he worked, he discovered that many of the sails had been torn or cut raggedly, and the threads could be unraveled. What was it Davy had said—that with a line, they might get their door unbarred? If he was here long enough, he might be able to braid one out of this stuff, or at least unravel a supply they could work on in the cell. He didn’t think he’d be searched when they took him back, and rope was always useful.
He sat on his little divan, leaned back—and arched forward with a curse. Better not try that, yet. He got up and shifted the canvas so he could lean sideways. That would do, and he had a couple of feet clear in front of him. Nothing would be able to creep up without his seeing it.
Until it got dark. Dear God. They could come at him in the dark.
Well, all this canvas had to be good for something. A smaller piece, rolled up, would serve as a kind of bat to fend off anything he might see or hear. That took only a moment, and he felt slightly better with the flimsy weapon in hand. Rats weren’t completely stupid, and he had nothing for them to eat. Even if—oh, Lord, he mustn’t think about it—even if the half-healed stripes on his back smelled attractive, he was too large to be easy prey, and if he made enough of a fuss, the vermin would learn to leave him alone. They got in here, there must be a way for them to get out.
While he had light, he decided to clear a little more room. He toyed briefly with the notion of heaping the old sails in front of the door, blocking it, so they’d have to dig him out. But that would be a waste of time. Antagonizing the guards would not make them more amenable to Captain Smith’s offer. And, after all, he wanted out as soon as possible. He wanted out of here right now.
Not likely.
He returned to folding and stacking the sails. The rat noises seemed to h
ave diminished. Maybe they’d decided to go somewhere quieter. Yes, go away! Go bother your damned Captain.
I wonder if he’s taken Davy off to dinner again. That would make sense. If Adrian did not realize that any information Archer gave him was already cleared by Marshall, he might think it would be clever to hold the interrogation while Marshall was out of the way. Or he might threaten to separate them until Archer gave him the list. In which case, with luck, he might not be here too long.
He hoped Archer had been able to settle down a bit. Davy had no reason to feel responsible for that beating. Neither of them had any control over Adrian’s whims, and Marshall strongly suspected the whole business was just a game, anyway. Somehow, as painful as the experience had been—and still was—it had not been as bad as he’d expected. The helplessness had been the worst. And it wouldn’t matter much, in the long run, if Adrian decided to knock him around a bit more. Davy shouldn’t let it bother him, it wasn’t worth agonizing over… though he would have felt terrible, himself, if their positions had been reversed.
He had another couple of feet clear. That should do nicely. The rats can have the first six feet, I’ll take the second. Marshall picked up one last scrap, shook it out, and something dropped from the canvas, hit the deck, and rolled.
Something metallic.
Supplemental Log, HMS Calypso, in for repair, Portsmouth.
Lt. Anthony Drinkwater, in temporary command. 21-7-1799
MORE NEWS! Upon rereading Captain Smith’s letter, preparatory to sending it to Ad. Roberts, I was struck by his reference to a previous expedition to France which was required to be carried out in considerable secrecy. After that adventure, Capt. Smith discussed with me the desirability of documenting the conduct of activities that must be done in secret but may later be subject to official scrutiny. To that end, he has been investigating various substances that may write invisibly and yet be revealed when the paper is subjected to proper treatment, usually heat. Hoping that my surmise would prove correct, I conducted an experiment upon his letters with our Cook’s flatiron. The letter to the Earl is only that, but the other is a treasure trove! Again, I reproduce the Captain’s words so that we may retain a record:
Well done, Mr. D! Abducted in carriage by sham Lt. who has left the area. Waste no time on him. Driven through countryside in freight wagon, then, I believe, returned to P’mouth & brought on board between 3-4 am, in biscuit barrels; find ship that took on provisions at that hour. Ship’s Captain calls himself “Adrian.” My height, age appx. 30, red hair, beard, athletic build. Well-spoken, well-organized, arrogant. All crew aboard masked in our presence & seem to be a mix of ratings & landsmen. I am held separate from the others; if you find this ship, a surprise attack in force holds the best chance of extricating us alive. Any approach must be clandestine; these blackguards have spies in Portsmouth, quite possibly even on HM’s ships. I will, of course, try constantly to effect our escape independent of your efforts, & I am certain Mr. Marshall & Mr. Archer will be doing the same. Good hunting!
Smith
THE WIND had shifted. The cell was cooler tonight. And empty. They had not brought William back, after all. Was that really such a surprise?
He hasn’t gotten everything he wants, yet. Christ, how long is this going to take? Archer gave up trying to catch sight of the moon and dropped back down to the straw. He didn’t want to sleep. There was no escape in dreams, anymore; Adrian followed him even there.
Whatever he had expected after Adrian’s string of vicious threats, it had not been a bizarre parody of seduction. After seeing Will beaten, he’d expected something like Correy’s treatment. Being thrown over a barrel and raped was painful and humiliating, but soon over. Instead, he had been treated as though he were actually there of his own volition. Apparently Adrian had decided that he would eventually induce cooperation if he drew the process out long enough.
Does the son of a bitch think he could ever do anything that would make me want him? Does he think I’m going to forget what William’s back looks like?
Or maybe it was just clever strategy. Archer recognized the effect this treatment was having on him, even as he observed it. His own reaction last night, before they took Marshall away, had been relief at an end to the waiting. And now? Rationally, he was relieved that he had experienced nothing worse than being stripped, fondled, and forced to bring that bastard to release with his hands. The memory made his skin crawl.
Thus far, Adrian had not actually caused him any real pain. So far… so far it had not been too bad. Reason said he should be thankful.
But stronger than reason was an overriding desire to just get it over with. At one point he had caught himself about to say as much. That would have been a mistake. In the first place, there was no reason to expect that anything would be over. This would probably go on until they were released or found a chance to escape. And anything that might be interpreted as carnal desire—which was surely how Adrian would interpret it—should be avoided.
Besides, his real task was buying time. Adrian seemed to have his own timetable for this procedure—likely something he had worked out on previous “guests,” if his bragging was to be believed—and accelerating the pace would be worse than useless.
Could that son of a bitch’s claims be true? Out of nine abductions, could four women and two boys in their teens have simply gone back to their lives and said nothing about having been mistreated in such a fashion?
And what are you planning to say about it, Archer? Whom would you want to tell? Your Captain? Your family? Perhaps your dearest friend?
Of course the others kept quiet. The boys, certainly. And the women? Unless he got some poor unmarried girl with child, his victims would have no reason to make the shameful truth known. They would bury it deep and try to forget. No doubt Adrian would claim their silence was because they had enjoyed his attentions. He was so damned full of himself he probably even believed it.
Archer drew his knees up and rested his arms and head upon them. What he wouldn’t give for a pistol. If he could only kill Adrian somehow, surely the Captain could convince at least some of the crew to help with their escape.
Unless one of the crew, acting on orders, killed Smith before he could open negotiations. An attack was too dangerous to try at this point. Will could make that decision. Archer wouldn’t dare. He could not be objective.
Besides, he had no weapon, and he’d need one—he knew that, now. A gun, for preference; a sword, perhaps. A knife would put the odds too far in Adrian’s favor. For all his affectations, he was quick and surprisingly powerful, strong enough to pin both Archer’s hands with one of his own, holding him helpless, bending him backward and off-balance while the other hand moved down—
No! Archer jerked upright, shaking off sleep. He leaned over to the wash bucket and splashed water on his face. This was not going to work. Sooner or later, sleep would overcome him. He had hoped William would be back when he returned, with some plan or idea that would at least be a distraction. And, however false the sense of security might be, the cell felt safe when Will was here.
Perhaps it was better that he was not, at least not until Archer could collect himself and decide what to tell him. But where was he? What if Adrian had William up in his cabin now? No. He was yawning when he let me go. The bastard has to sleep sometime. I don’t think he’d be fool enough to tackle William when he was tired.
Not yet, anyway. Thus far, his attitude toward Marshall carried none of the smug assurance he displayed toward Archer. And he would not have asked, slyly, “Do you plan to tell Mr. Marshall how you spent the evening?”
When hell freezes over.
Another thing Archer needed to do was determine whether he was going to start having screaming nightmares again. So far he had not. For all its similarities, this situation was different from the one with Correy, though he was not sure exactly what the difference was. Back then, he had just tried to ignore what was happening, block it out. He had spent whole days
on the Titan when he could not have said, from one minute to the next, exactly what he’d been doing. It had felt like being mildly drunk, just enough to numb his feelings. And then he’d climb into his hammock and wake up with someone telling him to be quiet, and he’d be all right for a while, until Correy started in on him again.
For now he could endure. At some point this past evening, the numbness had evaporated. He was still afraid, still revolted, but at the same time, he had a sense of standing just a step back from it all in some safe vantage point, and knowing whatever Adrian might do to his body, there was a part of him the bastard couldn’t touch.
It felt oddly like what had happened when he’d run into that powder room after Will. Part of him was terrified, but that other self had a broader view and knew that either way, live or die, he would be satisfied with the outcome. He knew the pain of seeing Will hurt or killed would be worse than death. Perhaps that was it—the consolation of knowing that he was shielding the one he loved.
He wondered if this might be some odd kind of courage, but that hardly seemed likely. If it were courage, he would not keep wondering where William was and fearing that Adrian had decided to separate them permanently. Courage should feel stronger; it should banish uncertainty. And courage ought at least to be of some use against this damnable loneliness.
Supplemental Log, HMS Calypso, in for repair, Portsmouth.
Lt. Anthony Drinkwater, in temporary command. 22-7-1799
NO FURTHER news.
Chapter 8
AT THE sound of footsteps outside the door to his odd little prison, Marshall shook himself out of an exhausted doze. As he straightened, every muscle in his body protested. He turned just enough to see outside and realized that the sun was in almost the same position as when he’d been put in here the evening before.
