Ransom

by Lee Rowan

  Smith heard the other guard enter with some comment about things being quiet, and made certain his return to his cot was noiseless.

  “HEY! WAKE up, in there! Time to go.”

  Marshall shook his head, trying to loosen the fog. What time of day or night—? The moon was up outside, so high he could only see its reflection in the water. Late, then. Seven bells, maybe eight. Well, it didn’t matter what time it was, if they were ready to let him out.

  “Just a moment,” he called.

  “Hurry it up.”

  He checked to be sure the shard of broken adze was still rolled in an edge of his shirt, tucked tightly beneath waistcoat and breeches, and took a last drink from the nearly empty water bucket before tipping it over behind a stack of sailcloth. Then, a bit wobbly, he made his way to the hatch.

  Not knowing whether either of the masked guards was his unseen benefactor, he greeted them pleasantly, whereupon they went through the routine of tying and muffling him. They didn’t say where they were going; they didn’t say anything. But when the cloak came off, he was outside the familiar cell, and he was able to confirm Archer’s observation of the door latches. If he had not been at least half-awake for the past sixty hours or so, he might have felt more satisfaction in the fact. Right now he was so exhausted he could barely feel his fingers.

  Archer was curled up in the corner, his back to the door. He looked to be sound asleep, and Marshall managed to arrange his own sleeping mat without waking him. The straw smelled fresh. Sometime in the last day or so it must have been swept out and replaced. Top marks to the innkeeper. Marshall rolled his jacket into a pillow and had a long, luxurious stretch before sliding into blessed oblivion.

  “NO, LADDIE, that wasn’t what you were expecting, was it?” The weight rolled off his back, the hardness that had been pressing against him was gone. “We’ll get to that, no need to hurry. The Frenchie who showed me this called it frottage. Pleasant, don’t you think?” One hand gripped his shoulder as he buried his head between his arms, trying to disappear into the cushions piled on the floor; another rubbed oil between his thighs. “But I’m not finished yet. Roll over now, I want to watch your face….”

  “No!” Archer rolled and pushed away in a panic, banging into a wall in the dark. His own shout woke him. He sat up, the wall at his back, and tried to slow his breath enough to stop his heart hammering. Not Adrian’s cabin, back in the cell, it was all right, just a dream, he was alone, safe for now.

  Something stirred nearby. He was not alone.

  “Davy? Are you—”

  “Will?” When did he come back? This isn’t real, is it? Oh, God, am I awake or dreaming? He really couldn’t tell.

  “Keep quiet in there, damn you.” Footsteps clumped up and somebody held a lantern up to the door’s window. “I got a starter out here, if we have to come in, you’ll both feel it.”

  “Bad dream,” Marshall said shortly, scowling in the dim light. “We’re awake now, thank you.”

  The ill-tempered guard apparently decided it was not worth the trouble to open the door. “Keep it quiet, then.”

  Darkness again. But that glimpse was enough. William was back, alive and whole and apparently quite cross. Archer swallowed, half-afraid to test his perceptions. “Will. Are you all right?”

  “Yes. You?”

  “Well enough. Where were you? When—”

  “Davy.” A warm hand settled on his arm. “It’s good to be back, I’ve things to tell you, but right now I’m so tired I can’t even think. Can it wait a few hours?”

  “I’m sorry. Of course it can.”

  “Good.” Marshall gave his arm a little shake. “We’ll talk later.”

  Will lay back, took one deep breath, and seemed to be asleep almost immediately. Archer settled down himself, his mind whirling. When had they brought him back? Was this real? In the dark it was hard to tell what was real and what was wishful thinking, but the slow, steady breathing beside him sounded exactly as it should.

  He reached out carefully, not touching William but letting his hand get near enough to feel the heat of his body. Then he drew back, feeling foolish. He would know in the morning. Not long, now. It had to be very late, or very early—he hadn’t been brought back himself until two bells, and it had been a very long time before he’d slept.

  Sleep was dragging at him now. It was almost as if relief was making him tired or letting him feel how weary he really was. Archer rubbed at his eyes and was startled to find they were wet. The sense of detachment he’d felt earlier was gone. In its place was a mix of joy and fear. His dear William was back. He wasn’t alone anymore.

  And once again, he had something to lose.

  Chapter 10

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

  Lt. Anthony Drinkwater, in temporary command. 25-7-1799

  NO FURTHER news. Acting upon Captain Smith’s instruction to identify the ship that took on supplies the night of the abduction, we have been checking records. Unfortunately, many of the ships that sailed with the tide the morning of 17-7-99 had taken on provisions the night before. Even eliminating naval vessels, at least for the time being (a ship in active service sails under orders, and the presence of three captive officers on board could hardly be overlooked!), we are obliged to consider some twenty ships of varying size, as there is no way to be certain exactly when they took supplies on board. I am awaiting the ransom demand with the hope that the Captain will be able to provide some small details that will narrow our search.

  ARCHER OPENED his eyes and took a deep breath. He felt good. Rested. Almost his usual self. How very strange.

  “Good morning, Davy.”

  “Will!” He sat up to find Marshall sitting tailor-fashion beside the door, smiling, his hands busy with a ragged piece of string. “You’re back. It wasn’t a dream.”

  “Things do seem a bit unreal in the small hours, but I appear to have served my sentence. Wait.” He stood and checked at the door, then lifted the flap at the bottom and peered out at floor level. All clear, apparently. He turned back. “Davy, look what I found.” He held out a piece of metal.

  Archer examined it. Something like a chisel, but curved and rough at one end. “Part of some kind of tool, isn’t it?”

  “It’s part of a way out.” Marshall nodded at the port vent. “We’ll have to work at night and very quietly, but I think we can get that bar loose. Have you been here all the time? Were you here when they changed the straw?”

  “No. Adrian’s been having me up for dinner the nights you’ve been gone.” And for dessert afterward. He bit his lip and put the thought out of mind. “I’ve been gone an hour or more each time. I think they cleaned it last night.”

  “Then they don’t examine the port hatch carefully. I found this.” He pulled a bundle from behind him: the wrapped biscuits Archer had wedged in the hatch. “I ate one of them. Sorry.”

  “That’s why I left them there, Will.”

  “Oh. Thank you. Now, from what I remember of that other night”—Will arranged straws on the floor—“the hatch was here, the masts about here and here.” When Archer nodded, he went on, “I don’t think our port can be too far from the base of the mizzen rigging. If we can get out, we might be able to go right up the side.”

  “Where did you get this?” Archer gave the tool back, and Marshall wrapped it in his shirttail and tucked it into his waistband.

  “They put me in a sail locker that looked as though it hadn’t been cleaned in months. It was a shambles. Adrian may flail about, threatening to shoot his crew, but there’s a lack of practical discipline on this ship. And I got this from unraveling sail.” He pulled wads of thread out of his pockets. “We should be able to twist it into twine. I remembered what you said about getting the door open. We don’t have a hook, yet, but—” He frowned. “What’s so funny?”

  Archer could not keep himself from laughing. “They lock you up to punish you, and you come back ready to scale the battlements.
I’m not laughing at you, William. I’m thinking of that bastard’s face when they come down here and find us gone.”

  “What I’m hoping to do first is go out very late and scout around the deck. If he had the whole crew on deck to watch him put us in our place, they don’t number more than fifty. With half of them asleep, and at least four outside the cells guarding us and the Captain, there should not be many on deck in the late watches. I want to see if we’re in sight of land and find out where the Captain is. Davy, the other night, did you see which direction they brought him from?”

  “Larboard, I think.” He closed his eyes and tried to picture the scene. “Yes. They brought him across the deck, even though they took him below starboard.”

  “Then he’s most likely opposite where we are. I doubt they’d have more than one or two cells. You can’t kidnap large numbers of people quietly and they’d be too much bother.”

  “Two cells,” Archer said. “That’s one thing Adrian let slip—bragging seems to be a hobby of his. He’s mainly confirmed what the Captain said: he’s done this nine times before, usually taking one person, sometimes with a servant. I think this is the first time he’s caught three at once. You guessed right, too. It’s mainly been wives and older children, the youngest a boy of fourteen.” Another mental path he was not going to follow just now. “Splitting parties up and using them as hostages against one another is part of the drill. I gather we’ve drawn the servants’ quarters.”

  “It’s better than the midshipman’s berth on the Titan,” Marshall said. “Except for that bar on the door.”

  “And the guards outside.”

  “Yes, but we may be seeing results of the Captain’s efforts there, soon. One of the guards brought me water one night, Davy, and asked me not to tell that he’d done it. I didn’t see who it was, but I repeated the Captain’s offer and told the guard to talk to him if he could. We’ll see what may come of that.”

  He seemed pleased. Archer grimly realized that Adrian had meant William to go two and a half days without water, in high summer. And longer without food, counting from dinner three days ago.

  “Why don’t you eat that other biscuit, Will?”

  “If we’re getting breakfast, it should be here soon. Otherwise, we’ll share. Apart from supper, have you been fed?”

  “Better than you.”

  “Davy, stop that,” Marshall said patiently, returning to the threads he’d been twisting into string. “It’s what he wants. I’m supposed to be jealous of you, and you’re supposed to feel guilty. Don’t let him do that.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you at all?”

  “It bothers me that we’re here. The rest of it….” Will shrugged. “This is war. He’s the enemy. He may not think in those terms, but that’s what it amounts to. We can’t afford to waste our energy on his little diversions. Remember, a prisoner’s duties are survival, escape, and sabotage. Remember that examination question the Captain gave us: how do we escape and turn the tables on Adrian?”

  Archer nodded.

  “Anyway, I think you should dine like a king, considering what you’re having to put up with.”

  Oh, my God—how—? Confused panic froze him for a moment; he felt stripped naked. “What—what do you mean?”

  “Having to spend all that time with his Royal Arrogance. That sneaking pirate carries on like he’s heir to the throne.” Marshall looked up and frowned. “You know, Davy, the other night you said you thought he was a gentleman. I think you’re right. Maybe even more than that—he acts as though he’s very well-born. Raised with privilege, but no respect for others.”

  “Yes,” Archer said, smothering his relief. “There’s something about his attitude that reminds me of my brother Ronald.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it. Is he your father’s heir?”

  “No. Mark is all right. He’s twelve years older than I. We’ve never been especially close, but he’ll be a good steward of the land. Very steady, down-to-earth, cares about the estate and people. Ronald was born second—well, third, really, my eldest sister was second—but he acts like the Lord of Creation. And he has that same nasty streak as Adrian. I don’t think he’s ever forgiven my mother for producing Mark first.”

  “It must be nice, though, having a big family.” Apart from a couple of cousins somewhere, Archer remembered, Marshall was alone now; his father had died about a year ago. “How many of you are there?”

  “Seven living. Mark, Mary, Ronald, Anne, Amelia, me, and Eugenie. The four eldest are married, now, and it gets a bit chaotic at holidays, with the nieces and nephews. At least, it used to, but I don’t expect that’s changed much. I’ve not been home for a holiday since the war began, and Anne had twins last year. You know, Will, if we ever have shore leave in London, you should come home and meet my family. Some of them are always in town, even in summer.”

  “I’m sure your father would be delighted,” Marshall said skeptically.

  “Why not? You’re a perfectly respectable officer in His Majesty’s Navy, you’re my friend, you don’t have family of your own in England to visit….” Marshall looked so serious he could not resist teasing. “And my father still has two daughters to marry off.” Marshall’s eyebrows flew up, and Archer laughed again. “Honestly, William, after some of the characters I dragged in from Drury Lane, I’m sure he would be delighted.” And the girls would be delighted too, he realized with a melancholy twinge. What an ironic twist it would be if Will were to marry one of them. But it would be a blood tie, a kind of closeness to bind their friendship. That was the most he could ever hope for.

  William had the strangest expression, as though the idea of anyone being pleased to meet him was beyond the realm of possibility.

  “You should start thinking ahead, you know,” Archer told him in all seriousness. “Nelson wasn’t born an admiral—and he was a minister’s son just as you are. Before too long you’ll be Sir William, I’m sure of it. You need to start meeting people.”

  “The Captain joined at twelve and it was twenty-three years before he had his own ship.” Marshall shook his head. “If it took him that long, I’ll be happy if I make Captain by forty.”

  “It won’t take that long,” Archer said. “Not if the war lasts, and peace doesn’t look to be breaking out anytime soon.”

  “We should think about your promotion, first,” Marshall said. “When is the examination scheduled?”

  “Yesterday, I think,” Archer said with mild regret. “It was supposed to be on the twenty-fourth, wasn’t it?”

  “Damn! Well, whenever you take it, as long as you pass, all this time as acting Lieutenant will count.”

  Right now, rank seemed quite insignificant. “I just want to get out of here, Will. There will be other examinations. I can wait.” If a sorcerer were to offer a trade—all future promotions in exchange for Adrian falling overboard immediately—he’d happily spend the rest of his life as a midshipman.

  “You will have to, I suppose. But you’re right. We need to concentrate on escape. We should start getting some exercise, to be sure we can manage that port—”

  Archer held up a hand. “Someone’s coming.”

  Marshall stowed his string and shifted over to where he was visible when the guard looked in. They must have looked innocuous; he ducked out of sight and their breakfast was pushed under the door. Oatmeal, biscuit, a couple of apples, and tea. A feast.

  “I thought so,” Marshall said. “When we’re together, the food games stop. He’s becoming predictable.”

  The day went by too quickly. They sorted out Marshall’s hoard of thread and twisted it into ten feet of twine that could be doubled or tripled into a cord heavy enough to pull the door bolt, if they got the chance and something to hook onto it. They worked out a tentative escape plan: if they could get out the porthole and see land, they would immediately try for the Captain. If they were out of sight of land or if the odds seemed overwhelming, they would wait and see whether Smith could manage anything with th
e crew. If there was no sign of insurrection soon, they would try to reach his porthole from the outside and let Sir Paul make the decisions.

  After they ate, William calculated that he had spent sixty-five of the previous seventy-two hours trying to stay awake. Even so, he was determined to spend as much of the night as possible working on the wood that supported the top of the porthole bar, hoping to loosen it in a way that would allow the bar to stay in place unless pushed out. The practical thing to do would be to sleep away the daylight hours, so he settled down and was dead to the world almost immediately.

  Archer tried to follow his example but found himself unwilling to spend the time unconscious. They had come for him at eight bells the night before, so, assuming tonight would be the same, he had another four or five hours of peace, and he wanted to enjoy them. Without Marshall’s energetic optimism, though, he soon found himself going round and round the same thoughts, like an ox propelling a millstone. Sooner or later, they’d be back. Sooner or later, he would have to face Adrian once more.

  But now there was hope. There would be an end to it. Captain Smith might recruit help, and Will was going to get that port clear by sheer determination, if necessary. Well, they’d both be doing that: one to work, one to keep watch, the only safe way. And even if none of that got them out, the ostensible point of this exercise was to exchange them for ransom, so one way or another there would be an end to it.

  That could not come soon enough.

  He could not reach the porthole without disturbing William, so he closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself as far away as possible. Back home at Christmas, or on the streets of London, or sitting in the theater, waiting for that little stage to be magically transformed into another time and place….