by Lee Rowan
But those memories seemed too far away now, part of a world that was no longer his. The one image that he could call up clearly was of the time he had first climbed to the main topgallant yard to find out whether he could really see all the way across the Channel. The sun was so bright, the sea a blanket of diamonds, the wind singing, and the heady sensation of freedom stronger than any drink.
He had tried to explain that in a letter to his worried sister, when Amelia had expressed dismay at the size of the living quarters aboard Calypso. What difference did it make if you slept in a berth two feet by six? Cramped quarters didn’t matter if you were only in them when you slept. Up on deck you had the whole world, farther than the eye could see. And a hundred feet above that, up in the rigging, the only one with a better view was God Himself. There was nothing like it in the world.
“Davy.” He opened his eyes to find Marshall kneeling beside him, his expression sober. “They’ve brought dinner for me and the shaving things for you. Your presence is ‘requested and required….’”
Chapter 11
THERE WAS not enough room to pace in Smith’s quarters. He paced regardless, diagonally, having set the chair and table in a corner. By this point in time, Drinkwater should have at least received the first letter, and perhaps the second as well. How long the second took would depend in part on how it was sent. If Adrian put a courier aboard some ship that took it by sea, it should be there already; if overland, it could take much longer. Smith suspected some connection with smugglers, another effect of having a crew drawn entirely from the wrong side of the law—they would have contact with all manner of clandestine activities.
That guess depended, of course, on whether Bert had been telling the truth, but no honest crew would participate in a string of kidnappings and murders. Adding to the man’s credibility was the fact that the better part of a day had passed with no untoward effects of their conversation, so he had apparently not reported it. If Adrian was becoming unstable, it was quite likely that before too long Smith would hear from others who wanted a way out when their intrigue fell apart.
He hoped Drinkwater would find the hidden messages and use the information to good purpose. He had considerable faith in Drinkwater’s intelligence, but he could make no plans based on assistance from that quarter. If he got it, well and good. All he and the others would have to do would be to stay alive until this ship was secured. Otherwise, he would have to make do with two sound men, one agent, and whatever other assistance he could lure away from this crew.
But even one secret ally might be enough, if he could manage to be in the right place at the right time. Although the rotating watch schedule for guards would complicate that in one way, it helped in another. Any unauthorized contact with Marshall and Archer might be more dangerous than helpful, but since the guards did change, sooner or later he should be able to pass a message to his men so they could coordinate their efforts.
He needed more information, first. Without knowledge of the ship’s location and course, Smith could only guess at the various possibilities. Assuming the worst, they might be well out from shore, if this ship were making deliveries to ships of war on patrol in the Channel. In that case, the only time they would have a decent chance at escape would be when another ship was near, though that would actually give them a good opportunity: three naval officers in dress uniform fleeing a merchant ship would certainly seize the attention of anyone aboard one of His Majesty’s vessels. Unfortunately, he had heard nothing, so far, to suggest that was happening. The shutter over his port would undoubtedly be closed if another ship were near.
The way they’d been sailing, deliveries to shore batteries were more likely. Those could be accomplished by anchoring and sending the powder ashore in boats. That would also fit with the odd timetable Adrian had set for the ransom note. It made no sense that he would send that first letter, then follow up with his demands the next day, unless he had some means of transporting the note from wherever they were. Having the second letter arrive from an entirely unexpected direction would also make tracking them more difficult.
Escaping to shore, if the shore was close enough, seemed the easier plan so long as the weather held fair and Adrian did not have confederates ashore. That was unlikely. Having a conspirator in every port would mean too many men to pay off and guarantee that, sooner or later, the secret would out.
If the sea was calm, they would not even need a boat to escape. With small barrels to keep them afloat, they could slip over the side and reach the shore inconspicuously. Even those along England’s coast who turned a blind eye to smugglers knew His Majesty’s Navy kept them safe from invasion; most of them could be relied upon for assistance. It was not unreasonable pride to expect seafaring folk to recognize the name of Captain Paul Smith of the Calypso.
Smith hoped that Adrian was too overconfident to realize that once they left the ship—assuming they left it alive—this would be his final abduction. He might mask himself and his crew, but in his eagerness to demonstrate his power over his prisoners, he had let them see far too much of his ship, which in its own way was at least as individual as one of her crew. Any of them would recognize the configuration of sails, railings, and guns the next time he saw them.
Once they were back on board Calypso, all the Admiralty had to do was assign them to a few weeks of Channel patrol. There were not so many merchant brigs carrying powder that this one could disappear among them. Really, it should not even require a patrol. The harbormaster’s lists ought to give them Adrian’s real identity, as Captain and probably owner. But Smith would greatly prefer catching him with a fully armed frigate, not a clerk’s dusty papers.
Of course, Adrian could avoid the risk by tipping them all overboard once he had the ransom. As he might, if he intended this to be his last venture into such a high-risk enterprise. If that were the case, though, they should by rights be dead already. From what Smith remembered, the exchange in earlier cases had not been direct. The money had been delivered and the prisoners returned later, at another location.
He had been instructed to order a particular signal flown from the Calypso when the ransom was ready. Presumably Drinkwater would be contacted once more, with instructions for delivery. Smith wished he knew more about the procedure—another question to ask his informant, although in all likelihood an ordinary sailor wouldn’t know much. Somehow, Drinkwater would have to find a way to watch the ransom and follow it—Drinkwater, or whoever was assigned to make the delivery. Smith hoped that Admiral Roberts would make use of the Calypso’s dry-docked but highly motivated crew to retrieve her missing officers.
Still, he did not want it to come to that. Considering the opposition, if he could not find a way to extract them from this situation himself, he hardly deserved to be ransomed.
DINNER IN the Captain’s cabin was excellent. Again. Except, of course, for the presence of the Captain. Archer dealt with the food automatically, always aware of Adrian’s eyes on him. Oddly, there was very little conversation this evening, and this change in the routine worried him.
“Well, Mr. Archer,” Adrian said, at last, lounging back in his chair when the meal ended. “Tell me, have you been enjoying Mr. Marshall’s company?”
Archer didn’t look up. “Yes. Thank you.” Adrian certainly had the knack of attacking at the point of greatest weakness. But, of course, he had been studying his prey for some time now, and this was probably his chief source of amusement.
“I’m so glad. It seemed that you were a little dull, yesterday evening. Of course, I could spend more time with you myself, but I do have other duties.”
“Please don’t trouble yourself on my account.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble, I assure you. But it is more efficient to have you both in one place. Has Mr. Marshall recovered from his unpleasant experience of the other evening?”
Was this another threat? Safest to assume so. A reminder, at any rate. “I believe he is better,” Archer said cautiously, staring at a gl
int of deep red reflected in his wine. William was in fact doing very well, now that he’d finally had some sleep. Just about now he was probably considering exactly how to address the issue of escape with that metal thing he’d found. “I have no intention of doing anything that might result in another ‘unpleasant experience’ for him, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
“Of course not. I was merely wondering if you had decided you preferred separate quarters. And do try that wine. The Spanish call it sangria. I find it’s a painless way to absorb a ration of lemon juice. See what you think.”
The Borgias’ own recipe, no doubt. Archer raised the glass. The flavor was sharper and sweeter than he’d expected, an interesting contrast to the spicy stew that had been the main dish. Better still, he didn’t have to respond immediately if he was drinking, and a little alcohol would dull the edge. “It’s very good. As to the accommodations….” If he let Adrian see how much Marshall’s company meant to him, William would be thrown back into that filthy cubbyhole on the slightest pretext. But if he pretended he wanted to be alone, Adrian might call his bluff. There was no winning; it was Adrian’s game. Archer shrugged. “The fact that we are still your ‘guests’ makes it clear that what I prefer is completely irrelevant.”
Adrian laughed. “You are stubborn, aren’t you, laddie? I don’t quite own you yet, do I?”
You never will. “If you’d rather I kept silent?” Archer offered, sipping at the wine. That would be so much easier than this fencing.
“Oh, no, this is far more amusing. The contrast of physical compliance and verbal rebellion is quite piquant. I keep anticipating that moment of surrender. It reminds me of another recent guest—a charming lass, an Irish girl.”
Archer said nothing.
Adrian rattled on. “Stunning little thing. Porcelain skin, jet-black hair. She was just a maidservant. Her mistress was so pleased with my company that we had to keep them on an extra week before I could persuade her to go back to her stodgy husband. But that maid! Screamed like a banshee, but after a period of training and adjustment, she became very… fond of some of the crew.”
There was a certain fascination in listening to the man talk; it was amazing how he could make something so ugly sound so innocuous. “What became of her?” Archer asked, playing the game, wondering if the girl had actually existed at all. He hoped not.
“She was a troublesome wench. I passed her along to the crew. I think they finally threw her overboard.” Archer’s stomach twisted. “Or the cook spirited her away. She may still be down in the galley, for all I know. Of course her mistress didn’t ransom her, the girl knew far too much about what she’d been up to, not that anyone was likely to believe her.”
He seemed to be speaking from a great distance. Archer blinked, rubbed his eyes. Something was… not exactly wrong with him, but not quite right. His eyelids seemed heavy, though he had certainly had plenty of sleep. And, oddly, his breeches felt uncomfortably confining. Then he saw Adrian grinning like a red fox and his mind intuitively made the jump.
“What—” His mouth was not working properly. He had to concentrate. “What did you put in the wine?”
“Just a drop of laudanum, laddie. I’m going to be busy tomorrow night, so I wanted to make this evening memorable. I want you nice and relaxed.”
“Very well.” Quite deliberately, Archer picked up the cup and drained it.
Adrian only laughed. “Oh, excellent! There’s not enough to put you to sleep, if that’s what you were hoping.” He laughed again at Archer’s expression. “It was, wasn’t it? I am sorry to disappoint you. Come along, now.”
Archer had to concentrate again to remember where he’d put his feet, but he managed to stand unaided. Then he focused on Adrian, saw that he was holding a length of rope, and found that the thought of being tied down and completely helpless woke the fear he thought had been burned out of him.
He tried to make his voice matter-of-fact. “That—that really won’t be necessary.”
“I should hope not. But do you know, I find I sometimes enjoy it, after all. I think you might fight this time, even though you know better. Did you really think I couldn’t tell you’ve been resisting all along?” He doubled up the rope and tucked it into his pocket, reached for Archer’s neckcloth, and began working the knot apart. “But this evening I decided to expedite matters. The laudanum to relax you, and a bit of Spanish fly in the stew, as encouragement. You’ve been curbing your instincts long enough, I think. Tonight I am determined to see some response to all my efforts.” Pulling the neckcloth free, he slid his hand down inquisitively, and Archer was horrified to feel his body react to the touch. Adrian smiled broadly, steering him toward the bed. “Yes, indeed, it’s time to get you out of uniform. I can see I’m going to enjoy the evening’s amusements, laddie—and so will you.”
No, I will not. And Laddie is what my father’s sheepman calls his collie dog. Archer knew what was coming this time; why Adrian expected him to enjoy it, Spanish fly notwithstanding, he could not imagine. The laudanum was beginning to give him a sense of being wrapped in cotton wool; that ought to help. He could… perhaps he could ignore the other sensations. And in an odd way, he was pleased that Adrian felt uneasy enough to take precautions. He was not considered an entirely safe target, after all. You don’t own me, you bastard. And I will kill you if I can.
Chapter 12
Supplemental Log, HMS Calypso, in for repair, Portsmouth.
Lt. Anthony Drinkwater, in temporary command. 28-7-1799
WE HAVE received a second letter from Captain Smith. I do not reproduce it, as it states simply that they were all alive as of 19-7-99; the fact that he does not add “and well” and a comment in his secret communication give me some cause for concern. Ransom is set at £20,000 for the Captain and an additional £5,000 each for Mr. Marshall and Mr. Archer. When the ransom is ready, we are to fly “enemy sighted,” which I must assume is this pirate’s idea of a joke, from Calypso’s sole remaining mast, and will expect to hear shortly thereafter regarding delivery. This letter contained a second secret note, including a sketch of the ship’s deck with mast and gun placement. We will know it when we see it! I here reproduce the letter and the sketch:
Mr. D: Ship is merchant brig. See sketch/masts. Light arms, at least 4 sm. cannon, prob. bow/stern chasers. Commendations to Marshall & Archer for courage under extreme difficulty. One crewman claims to have seen damage to Calypso: short, wiry, balding, thin pigtail, moves like sailor. Possible ally or spy for Captain. Ask Admiralty to investigate deserters/cashiered officers fitting Adrian’s description who left service shortly before abductions began, correlate with ships in port 17/7/99.
Anthony Drinkwater—Private entry, personal journal:
I HAVE not included in my report to Ad. Roberts a private postscript, writ small, that Captain Smith appended to the bottom of his last letter. We are sailing in deep waters, and it appears that our adversary may have powerful allies. If, God forbid, we lose our officers, I shall be forced to make this document public, but for now, I am keeping it secret in the hopes of avoiding a scandal.
Mr. Drinkwater, cut this postscript from the letter. This is a direct order and I take full responsibility. I regret burdening you with this knowledge, but I fear you may receive less than wholehearted cooperation from high places. “Adrian” may be difficult to trace, as there will likely be rank and political influence involved. We are dealing with a rogue, a man of rank who has turned. Although not as clever as he believes himself to be, he is unstable &, I believe, much more dangerous than a simple pirate. If you succeed in boarding, make him your primary target; the body of the crew may be reasoned with if the head is removed. Shoot him on sight. If he is captured and I am dead, hang him immediately for piracy; he must not leave this ship alive.
THE MORNING of their tenth day as prisoners looked bright and clear, with a sliver of sunlight shining through the barred port. Marshall scratched another line beside the tally he and Archer had been
keeping on the wall and returned to his mat. He was weary and knew that this was the sensible time to rest, but sleep would not come.
He was disappointed at how little they’d been able to accomplish the night before. He was now certain they could get out this way, and he had pulled on the ropes supporting the shutter hard enough to be sure they would take his weight. But it was slow work. The frame of the port, an eight-inch oak beam, had been set into timbers that filled in what must have originally been a gunport. Marshall guessed this was a former warship that was still seaworthy but no longer structurally sound enough to support cannon recoil. Holes had been bored into the frame, and the bar set into them. Which meant that if he could dig an angled groove into the top beam and cut out a notch above the bar, the bar could be slipped out and, when replaced, held perfectly upright in its track in the lower beam.
So far, though, he had dug out barely an inch. They had worked for a couple of hours, but dawn came early this time of year, the adze blade was none too sharp, and they had to do the work as noiselessly as possible. Marshall’s back was not ready for an all-night stint of work in such a contorted position, either. His shoulders had seized up long before he had wanted to quit.
Davy had taken a turn at woodcarving, but his arms weren’t quite long enough to reach out, around, and above the bar at the necessary angle, and he was very tired when he returned, almost dead on his feet. Marshall finally had to tell him to stop trying. They would be at it for at least another two nights. Longer, if Davy was going to be kept out past midnight and come back groggy and out-of-sorts the way he had last night.
Marshall had tried to find out went on at dinner, but Archer’s answer was vague: “Very little. He talks, endlessly, about all the people he’s held prisoner and how amazingly clever he is. Or he drags out that list of prize ships and tries to find inconsistencies in what I’ve told him. Or he does something completely irrational. Last night, for some reason, he kept me tied to—to a chair—for a couple of hours, while he sat and read a book. Not aloud, mind you. Just reading to himself.”
