by Lee Rowan
If he’d known he would be in here this long without food or water, he would have wasted less energy on tidying the place and might not have been so dizzy and lightheaded. But maybe the effort was not wasted. He now had the whole room cleared, and the rats had not bothered him, even in the dark. Unfortunately, he’d had to stay awake to be sure of that, and he felt as though his brain was stuffed with oakum.
He might try to overpower the guard. No. Not from ten feet away. By the time he’d levered himself off his stack of scraps and covered half the distance, the door had opened, a bucket was pushed inside, and the door was pulled shut. A cup floated in what smelled like water. He checked first, then poured it down his parched throat.
“Thank you,” he called.
“Stand away from the door,” someone ordered. Marshall moved back a couple of feet, but the door opened only a few inches. He could see nothing but a hand on the latch. “You in there, Marshall?”
“Yes?”
“Cap’n asks you, don’t mention the water. Our orders was to put you in here, that’s all. We’ve got no orders about takin’ you out or feedin’ you. But you’re supposed to stay alive an’ healthy, so, somebody comes to get you, just pour out that water, understand? Hide the bucket.”
“Yes. I understand. Thank you.” The door started to swing shut. “Wait!”
“No tricks!”
“No, no.” He wished desperately that he weren’t so stupid with weariness. “You heard our Captain, Captain Smith, the other night?”
“I heard ’im. Talked pretty big for somebody’s locked up.”
“It’s not just talk. He wouldn’t say anything unless he meant it. Talk to him yourself. If you help us escape, you can come too, he can see you get protection—”
The door shut abruptly, and the sound of footsteps died away. Stooping, Marshall took his prize back to the vent and built a stack of cloth to keep it up off the floor. Then he rewarded himself with another drink, savoring it this time. It was amazing how wonderful a cup of stale, lukewarm water could taste after a day without.
So what did this mean? If his thoughts weren’t whirling so, they might make more sense. Did they have an ally among the crew now, or was it simply some sailor who was slightly more compassionate than his fellows and willing to take a small risk? Or was this some convoluted game of Adrian’s? If so, there seemed little purpose to it, unless he thought it would be worthwhile to tie up his prisoners’ time and attention in attempting to bribe guards who were trying to elicit such attempts?
Marshall shook his head and tried vainly to retrace the logic of his thought. It made far more sense to act on the simplest explanation: somebody realized that a dehydrated prisoner was more likely to fall ill, which would mean more work for everyone, and “anticipated” that the reasonable order would be to provide water. That did, of course, require an assumption that Adrian was giving reasonable orders, which in Marshall’s mind was no small leap of faith.
But, assuming the simpler cause, he now had two pieces of information that suggested Adrian’s hold over his crew was not absolute. First the water, but also the disarray of this storage area. A Captain who was paying proper attention to the condition of his ship would not have tolerated this mess. It would, at least nominally, be an officer or bosun’s responsibility. And that was another odd thing: Adrian seemed to have no second-in-command, no one who would oversee the details a Captain shouldn’t need to be bothered with. Granted, it was a smaller crew than would normally be found on a ship of war and fewer officers were necessary. But none at all? And was this how he always ran things or a recent development?
And the item Marshall had found last night—part of a carpenter’s tool, possibly an adze—had been tangled with wood splinters and a couple of feet of foot ropes in a piece of torn topgallant. Somebody had obviously broken the tool while ripping the rigging from a spar, then bundled the whole mess up and stuffed it in here. Even if the tool had broken in an emergency—a storm, perhaps—on an orderly ship, it would have been removed from the cloth scraps and taken back to the ship’s carpenter.
Suspicious as he was of Adrian and his games, Marshall refused to believe the tool had been deliberately left for him to find. The man was devious, not stupid. The metal fragment was four or five inches long and tapered to a sharp edge. He could use it as a weapon—a poor one, but enough to do considerable damage.
What he was beginning to suspect, though, was that Adrian might have decided to put him down here for the duration of their stay. God, I hope not. He looked outside again; the sparkle of light on the water was beginning to fade. It would be dark soon, and he wasn’t going to be able to stay awake indefinitely. And the rats were still there.
Supplemental Log, HMS Calypso, in for repair, Portsmouth.
Lt. Anthony Drinkwater, in temporary command. 23-7-1799
NO FURTHER news.
ARCHER PUSHED a fragment of beef across his plate and trapped it with his rounded butter knife. He was now allowed silver utensils, though not a sharp knife. I wonder how long it will be before he stops waiting for me to ask about William.
But he would not ask. He would not do anything that might bring William under Adrian’s scrutiny. He probably would not see either his friend or his Captain until this ordeal was over, one way or another. He was trying to resign himself to that and was determined not to let on how much the isolation wore away at him. There were worse things than being alone. If it came to a choice between solitude and present company….
Adrian had been insistent that he sit down to a meal before whatever else was planned for the evening, and Archer had seen nothing to be gained by resisting. He hadn’t felt like bothering with the food that had been brought to the cell for breakfast or dinner, though he had left the biscuits tucked into the port vent in case they brought William back while he was gone. They wouldn’t, of course. Better not to hope. Still, his stomach was letting him know it had noticed the omission, so he ate. It was fuel. If the food had flavor, he was not aware of it.
“How was your day?” Adrian inquired, as if this were a perfectly normal social occasion rather than a slow circling of prey by predator.
“Tedious.” The sense of detachment was very strong. What exactly would happen, if he refused to follow the script? There seemed so little to lose that he gave in to the temptation. “Now I’m supposed to say, ‘and yours?’ and exchange meaningless pleasantries.” He glanced up. “Is this charade serving any useful purpose?”
“Other than amusing me, not really.” Adrian took a sip of wine. “But your question is equally amusing. I had not anticipated it. I find that refreshing.”
“Even a mouse will occasionally bite.”
The cold eyes narrowed. “Not literally, I hope. Or your friend will find himself singing soprano.”
“I meant it metaphorically, of course,” Archer said quickly. He decided it would be prudent to omit the remarks about food poisoning that leapt to mind.
“Would you like me to review the rules?”
“That’s not necessary.” Adrian had taken far too much pleasure in his first recitation of his “rules,” and there was no hope of forgetting them. “I am to do exactly as you tell me, without resistance, or my shipmates will suffer, isn’t that correct?”
Adrian relaxed a trifle. “Essentially, yes.”
Archer bent his head over his plate and made his face a studied blank. Was this peculiar feeling the sort of thing that had compelled Marshall to defy Adrian at the gratings? It was not courage—he was sure of that, now. Perhaps it was some bastard offspring of fear. He felt as though he had been so frightened for so long that the emotion had burned out of him like a carbonized lampwick.
It left him feeling curiously free, and the sensation was most unsettling, since the situation really was dangerous. Even if he no longer cared what happened to himself, the others were depending on him. He had to tread carefully; Adrian seemed to sense that something in the balance of power between them had undergone a su
btle shift.
“The question is,” Adrian said abruptly, “can I trust you?”
Trust? Detachment deserted him as sudden rage fought to answer. How dare you ask me that! Archer was grateful for the past years’ practice in disciplining his emotions. If he showed anger, or even laughed, there would be hell to pay. But to play the craven?
He took a breath, instead, and met the colorless eyes. “Not even for an instant,” he said levelly. “But my shipmates can.”
Supplemental Log, HMS Calypso, in for repair, Portsmouth.
Lt. Anthony Drinkwater, in temporary command. 24-7-1799
NO FURTHER news.
NIGHT AND day, and now night again. The North Star vanished into the same clouds that had swallowed the moon. Before long, there was nothing to be seen through the little port but darkness as deep as that inside the room. Marshall let his head droop against the louvers and wondered how much risk he would really be running if he let himself sleep for a few minutes.
Except it wouldn’t be a few minutes. If he fell asleep now, he would not wake before morning. Unless his four-legged messmates woke him. They were livelier at night, it seemed. From the sound of it, they were holding a party in the far corner.
They can’t keep me in here forever.
Oh, no? Why not?
I wonder if it’s true that talking to oneself is a sign of madness. Or is that only true when one starts to answer?
“I’m just tired, that’s all,” he said aloud. The party in the corner fell suddenly silent at the sound. “If you don’t take your festivities elsewhere,” he warned, “I’ll sing to you.” There, that ought to frighten them. He enjoyed singing, but his more musical shipmates had complained that he could never hit the same note twice, so he generally restrained himself.
I wonder if making idle threats to rodents is a sign of mental disturbance. He wondered, too, whether he would have any chance of getting to Davy or the Captain if he used the metal scrap he’d found to pry loose the door of this locker. If he could do it. Far more likely he’d just attract the attention of whoever was guarding the door—he had no doubt someone was out there. And they’d just take the tool away. Better to wait until he was back in the cell—unless, God forbid, it began to look like he’d be here indefinitely.
At least he had water now. He celebrated the fact by raising a half cup. He was trying to ration it out, not knowing how long it would have to last, and had only drunk about a third of the bucket’s contents. For the time being, his stomach had stopped expecting anything else. He didn’t feel hungry anymore, just listless. Not a serious problem. Yet. There had been days in the Horse Latitudes, when the ship was becalmed, when the whole crew had lasted five days with nothing but rainwater, and it had been hotter during the day there, colder at night. And I have no duties to keep me busy. I can rest.
He’d had his fill of resting.
He tried stretching, just to remind himself how it felt, and discovered his back really couldn’t move comfortably as yet. When it was light, he might lie down on the floor full-length for a little while, rats be damned.
But the pain was worth it. For all he knew, Smith might already have an insurrection organized. Well, no, probably not—not this soon. At best, a crewman or two might be considering whether their luck was coming to an end and weighing Captain Smith’s reputation against what they knew of their current commander. Most would probably stick with what they knew rather than take a chance. That was true of people in general.
He had exaggerated, though not by much, when he told Archer that Smith would take control of the ship. All they really needed was to get a boat over the side. They wouldn’t need many confederates. Someone to unlock the cell doors in the wee hours might be all that would be required, perhaps a handful of men on watch, who could escape with them and help row the boat.
Escape.
For some reason, he kept thinking of Archer, remembering the stricken look on Davy’s face as the guards had taken him away. What was worrying him so? Yes, being separated was unpleasant, but hardly the end of the world. Of course, Davy didn’t know that all they’d done was lock him up here, so he might be imagining the worst. For all Marshall knew, Adrian might have said he was going to put him on the rack or some other outlandish threat.
Or was it that outlandish? Yes, of course; he was tired, he was not thinking clearly. If anything really hideous had been done to the other folk who’d been abducted, Captain Smith would surely have said something, or at least would have seemed more concerned. He had sounded more angry than worried.
But that was before they were brought aboard, before Adrian started his power games. The whole situation had changed very suddenly, from nearly unbelievable to painfully grim. This business of the “escape attempt” that apparently never happened—was it because they were Royal Navy? Had Adrian realized the stakes had been raised and responded with a preemptive attack? Too many questions and no answers, and Marshall knew his mind was too foggy to make sense of any of them. There were only two questions that mattered, really: what was happening to Davy and Captain Smith? And when in God’s name are they going to let me out of here?
Chapter 9
SMITH OPENED his eyes in the darkness. Had there been a sound? The lantern outside the door was so dim it barely gave any light, but he saw a faint silhouette at the bars.
“Cap’n?”
“Yes.” Not one of his own men. Pity. But not that snake of a pirate, either. Smith climbed out of the cot and approached the door warily. “What is it? And where’s your watchdog?”
“Gone to the ’ead with a bellyache. ’E’ll be a while. I wanted to ask you about what you said the other night.”
Smith recognized the man as the one who had reported his initial offer to Adrian. Bert, the other guard had called him. Bert, who apparently was Adrian’s right-hand man. Or was he? “What of it? I do not propose to see my men mistreated again because your Captain is bored.”
“’At’s what I wanted to talk to you about, sir. The Cap’n’s got us all in deeper’n I ever signed on for.”
“What did you sign on for?” Adrian could hardly punish Marshall or Archer if one of his own men was loquacious. No, belay that; he could and would do anything he thought he could get away with, regardless of what any of them said or did. “Abduction seems a risky line of work.”
“I signed on because nobody else’d take on a man on the run from a charge o’ thievery. We had a hangin’ Captain, an’ I’ve got a wife an’ two kids.”
“What did you steal?”
“Not a damn thing, Cap’n. But the goddamn crooked purser said different, an’ him bein’ a warrant officer an’ me a gunner’s mate, who’d you think they listened to? Cap’n Adrian, ’e’s got a whole crew o’ men with black marks on ’em, and most earned ’em fair.”
“Why?”
“This damn ransom business. ’E wanted men as wouldn’t care about stickin’ it to the nobs. It was funny, at first—’e kidnapped ’imself to make sure it’d work.”
“He what?” Smith could hardly believe his ears. “Are you telling me that the first abduction was a test?”
“Yessir. An’ it worked. But the cargo’s honest, mostly.”
“What is it?”
“Gunpowder. The pay’s good.”
“Because it’s a risky cargo.” And vital to the war, so his crew would have protection from impressment. Shrewd. And it spoke of influence, that he could get a contract for shipping powder. Everything he’d just heard confirmed Smith’s original estimate of Adrian. “And you want out. Why now?”
The man chewed his lip. “Cap’n, I’ve wanted out since the first time somebody got killed. A coachman, ’e was, tryin’ to protect ’is lady. Takin’ money from them’s got more’n they need, that’s one thing. Like Robin Hood, and the crew gets shares, same as with a prize ship. But this….” He shook his head. “Even Cap’n Adrian’s partner left a couple months back. Least, Cap’n said ’e left. Disappeared one night when we wer
e in port. ’E might’ve left on ’is own.” But, his expression said, he might have gone over the side in the dead of night, with a weight at his feet.
“So the situation is deteriorating—I mean, it’s getting worse,” Smith explained, when the man frowned.
“A lot worse. And I think you’ve got ’im worried, too.”
“Good.” It was no more than a fair exchange. Smith was inclined to believe this man. His years of command had developed in him a certain intuition regarding crewmen, and this one felt more honest than his helpful, pigtailed shipmate. Besides, there was no need for such an elaborate story, and it made sense, which was a first on this mad ship. “What about my men?”
“Well, the tall one with the mouth on ’im—” Smith had to suppress a smile at the description. “—Cap’n’s put ’im in the sail locker night before last, no food or water, that’s for you talkin’ on deck. I dunno when ’e’s gettin’ out. I think the Cap’n’s forgotten ’e’s in there. But I took ’im some water yesterday, an’ you wouldn’t believe it, ’e’d cleaned the place up.”
That definitely had the ring of truth to it. Good to know Marshall was fit enough to engage in such activity. “And Archer?”
“Cap’n’s ’ad ’im up for dinner, two, three times now. Supposed to make the other lad jealous….” He frowned, seeming about to say something more.
It was no news that Adrian was the sort to engage in stupid games. “I doubt it will matter to either of them.”
“No, sir. But it’s a bad business….” He looked down the companionway nervously. “I’ll hear ’im comin’, but it won’t be long now. You meant what you said about amnesty?”
“I’ll sign you on my own ship, if you do your part, and no questions asked. But I need to know more. Where the devil are we? How far—”
Footsteps interrupted him. “Not now!” hissed Bert. He took two long steps away from the door and slouched against the bulkhead. By the time the door creaked open, he was deep in the process of stoking a stinking clay pipe—not a smart habit on a powder barge, but he didn’t seem to be having any luck in lighting it.
