by Lee Rowan
The contrast in Davy’s mood had been so marked from earlier in the day that Marshall was worried. Perhaps the irritability had mainly been lack of sleep. Or was Adrian doing something else—waging a war of nerves? The notion of him puttering around his cabin with Davy sitting there tied up certainly did not sound rational. Granted, the man was amoral, and Marshall knew firsthand that he enjoyed demonstrating his power, but what was the point? Was he actually mad—or slipping into madness? There was something dangerous going on, and Archer seemed to be the focus of it; his nightmares said as much.
As if he’d heard the thought, Davy started to mutter and shift restlessly, as he’d been doing off and on since they’d settled down, just before dawn.
Marshall reached over and rested a hand on his arm, trying to keep the worry out of his voice. “It’s all right, Davy, everything’s all right, go back to sleep.” That calmed him for the moment, even if it was not completely true. Damn that bastard. Why Archer?
Well, he answered himself, however irrational Adrian might be, he had enough sense not to play such games with Captain Smith. If he had even tried, he would not have gotten far. And he might have decided that the Captain’s supposed “cousin” might be an equally tough nut to crack. But Davy—Davy had been unconscious when they arrived. Adrian had probably thought he’d fainted from fright, and like any bully, he went for the first sign of vulnerability like flies to a wound.
The bastard would not have been so sure of himself if he’d ever seen David Archer in battle. He’d been given command of the prize ship Fifine because he’d led the boarding party and captured her Captain. But this was nothing like a fair fight. Archer was bound by the knowledge that anything he did or said might trigger a reprisal against the others. A nasty little trap from a nasty little mind. Would it be worth another beating to see Davy sink a fist into that supercilious smirk? Oh, yes.
But, however satisfying, that would take a day or more off their escape time while he recovered. If they used a cat-o’-nine-tails, as Adrian had threatened, maybe longer. Or they might just put him back in the sail locker, with its four-foot ceiling and a port too small to climb through. They might do both, or even separate him and Archer permanently. Not only would that wreck their best chance for escape, it might endanger Davy too, if his nightmares grew too noisy and out of control.
No. Marshall rubbed his eyes, which were now refusing to stay open. They would have to play out this hand as it was dealt. If the sessions with Adrian got too much for Davy, surely he would say something?
No, probably not. He was too worried—needlessly—about proving his courage. I’ll just have to keep an eye on him, see if there’s anything I can do. Which, realistically, would probably not be much.
Archer made a small unhappy sound; Marshall patted his arm again and shushed him. I’m sorry, Davy, you’re going to have to bear with it a little longer. We’ll get out of this as soon as we can, I promise.
Supplemental Log, HMS Calypso, in for repair, Portsmouth.
Lt. Anthony Drinkwater, in temporary command. 27-7-1799
NO FURTHER news.
CAPTAIN SMITH noted the arrival of dinner with little interest. He had seen no sign of his potential ally since that first encounter three days earlier. He realized that an irregular rotation of guards would mean long intervals where no contact was possible, but the knowledge made the delay no more tolerable. The information he needed could be obtained in a minute or less: where was the ship, how far from shore, what was her course; where were his men; where were the weapons kept? With those questions answered, he would have the basis for strategy.
In the meantime, however, all he could do was eat what would probably be a reasonably palatable meal. Tea, biscuit, some sort of stew, an apple: quite normal shipboard food. He hoped Marshall and Archer were faring as well and wondered whether they had been considering that last examination question. There had to be a way out of this, and he fully expected that the two of them would eventually come up with something. They had, after all, been under his command for more than a year and had been reading from his own library of naval and military history. They were bright young men with keen minds, and Marshall was particularly creative.
But he ought to be doing more himself. It was hardly fitting for the Captain of a frigate to sit about waiting for a junior Lieutenant, even a remarkably inventive one, to initiate a rescue, and it went against the grain of him to let someone else take the initiative.
His spoon clinked against something in the stew. It felt like quite a large object—a chunk of bone, perhaps, or even a rock. Peculiar objects occasionally found their way into ships’ supplies, since they were usually opened far from the place of purchase. It had been years since he’d had to watch out for such oddities, though—Calypso’s cook was conscientious about what went to her Captain’s table. Ah, well, a sharp, good-sized piece of bone might be useful as a tool.
He tilted the bowl and scooped, and stared at the object for a moment before recognizing it: a large, well-worn clasp knife, garnished with a couple of split peas—and a slice of carrot stuck in the hinge.
DINNER FOR the Calypso’s most junior officers—both of them—arrived an hour or so before sunset. Archer looked at the second plate as though he expected it to explode. Marshall could see nothing alarming in the hash of beef and potatoes, nor the biscuit beside it. The mug of strong tea was even better.
“What’s wrong, Davy?”
“Nothing,” Archer said, with a cautious smile. “Nothing at all. Something may be right for once.” At Marshall’s look, he explained, “Adrian said he had business tonight, that he wouldn’t be expecting me. Of course I didn’t believe him.”
“Honesty would be the last thing to expect from him. Do you have any idea what the business is?”
“Not a hint. He said only that he would be occupied with business this evening.”
Marshall nodded and addressed himself to the meal. “If it’s legitimate, he’s either making a delivery ashore or to another ship. Otherwise, it might be news of the ransom.”
Davy’s eyes widened hopefully. “You think it could be that? This soon?”
“Not likely, but possible. I’m sure he had the Captain’s letter by the time we sailed, and he must have left someone back in Portsmouth to deliver it and wait for a response. A fast cutter might catch up to us by now, or he might have a rendezvous arranged with a courier ashore. We’d have a better idea of whether that’s likely if we had any idea where we are.”
“If we can get outside, the stars should tell us something.”
“As long as it’s clear. And if you’re here for the whole night, we can get to work at lights-out. Are you feeling rested?”
“I’m ready to start right now.” The prospect of getting something done, or perhaps merely of a night away from Adrian’s poisonous company, seemed to make a great difference in Archer’s mood. “Will, I was thinking. We don’t have a whetstone, but do you think we could sharpen that thing on a shoe buckle?”
“Like a carving steel?” Marshall grinned. For once in his life, he saw an advantage to having economized by getting his shoes made with pinchbeck—cut steel—instead of the more expensive but softer silver. “We can try. I don’t think it’s possible to make the edge any duller.”
He finished eating quickly and shifted to sit against the wall beside the door, so he’d have a moment to hide what he was doing if a guard approached; Archer moved to keep an eye on the door. The adze blade made hardly any noise. After a couple of minutes, he could see a small but definite improvement in the edge.
“Good thinking, Davy. This will save us hours, in the long run.” He worked for another few minutes, then hid the tool again—the guards never waited long to collect the dishes. “And they brought us tea to help stay awake,” he said, emptying his cup. “Very thoughtful.”
“Do you think we can finish tonight?” Archer asked, pushing the dishes back under the door flap.
“We can try. It’s three
inches of oak, though, and we don’t know how deeply the bar is set.” They both heard the footsteps outside and stopped talking until the guard glanced in, took the dishes, and went away. “If we do get through tonight, it will probably be near dawn by the time we finish.”
Archer nodded. “I suppose it would be too risky to go out tonight anyway, if Adrian’s expecting company. You wouldn’t want to be hanging on the rigging when another ship appears, or have one of the boats spot you on the way back from shore.”
“If they are dealing with Navy vessels, being seen might not be a bad thing—no. No, with another ship nearby, the crew would be on the alert. I’d be hauled back in before I could signal. But it just occurred to me: once we have the bar out, do you think you could use this adze as a weapon? You might have a chance at Adrian—”
“No.” Archer bit his lip. “I couldn’t hide it, I—he—he has them search me when I go in. And coming out. Anything I took in would be confiscated and he’d want to know where I got it. Besides, William, I think I’d need something a little more emphatic than a carpenter’s discard. If you should happen to find a pistol lying around….”
“You’ll be the first to know.” Archer’s reaction, that immediate tension and choppy speech, worried Marshall. Then again, to be fair, if he was contemplating an action that risked causing harm to David or the Captain, he would probably be tense too. Better to switch to something concrete. “What’s the physical layout in his cabin, Davy? Are there windows?” He pushed a handful of straw at Archer and swept a space clear on the floor.
“Yes, a full row of stern windows, same as in Calypso. Big enough to climb through too, but they’re shuttered. From the inside. Possibly the outside too. I couldn’t tell.” Archer laid straws out in a rough rectangle. “The cabin is all one room, not separate cabins like Calypso’s arrangement. It’s smaller, of course. No gunports. The table is to the right when you enter. It’s large enough that it might seat six, but there are only four chairs.” He placed smaller bits of straw as he spoke. “Sideboard here by the table, desk and chart table back at the aft windows, a wardrobe and two large chests along the larboard wall, and the sleeping area along the other.” More straws. Clearly, Davy had kept his mind on his duty, had paid attention to his surroundings. “It’s curtained off, but he… left it open, and there’s a chest of drawers and a settle just inside the curtains, here, forming a partial wall for the sleeping cabin. Storage drawers under the berth, as well.”
“That’s a fair amount of storage space. I’d wager he lives aboard. And with the business he’s in, there have to be weapons somewhere in that room.”
“I expect there are,” Archer agreed. “But I don’t anticipate having the chance to look. You were right about him not being armed, though. I haven’t seen a weapon on him. As far as I can tell, he does rely on the guards for that.”
“There must be a weak point. Some way….” Marshall rubbed his chin, frowning at the straws. “What I’m thinking of, Davy, is that if you had the chance to kill Adrian, or even knock him unconscious, you might arm yourself and get out through the window. If we could coordinate our movements so that I was on deck creating a diversion at the same time, I could hold the crew’s attention and you could get below and free the Captain.”
Archer’s brows drew together. “I hear too many ‘ifs,’ my friend. This sounds like a good plan for getting you killed.”
“I’m sure they’d try to recapture me first. Remember, to them we’re merchandise. I can’t believe he’ll get his money without having to prove somehow that we’re still alive. Besides, unless I can capture a weapon myself, I’ll be unarmed. They’d have no reason to kill me.”
“I suppose not….”
He could see that Archer was less than enthusiastic. “It’s just speculation at this point, Davy, and I’m supposing that land will be close enough to make an escape feasible. I don’t propose running us all out on a yardarm if we’re in the middle of the sea with no help at hand.”
“Oh.” Archer looked relieved. “You sounded as though you planned to begin any minute.”
“I would like to.” He smiled and patted the pocket where the adze bit was hidden. “But we do have that port to deal with first.”
“As soon as they take that damned lantern away.” Archer frowned suddenly. “Will?”
Marshall felt it too. The deck beneath them shivered slightly, as the ship lost momentum. She was slowing, heaving to, her sails slackened to let the wind pass them by. “So early,” Marshall said. “This must be ordinary, legitimate business. It’s not even dark yet.”
“Nearly sundown.” Archer glanced at the evening light that angled through the port. “Oh, no….”
Somewhere above them, someone was pulling on a pair of ropes. The shutter over their window creaked, then tilted up until the flow of light and air stopped altogether.
Marshall got up to check. The shutter fit inside the frame, concealing the notch he’d dug out. But there wasn’t room to work on it, not even space to manipulate the blade. He turned away and slumped to the floor. When he met Archer’s eyes he saw that words were unnecessary.
He said them anyway, in the vain hope that shared disappointment might be less bitter. “We can’t, Davy. They’ll be watching for any attempt. We don’t dare work on it at all, tonight.”
Chapter 13
Supplemental Log, HMS Calypso, in for repair, Portsmouth.
Lt. Anthony Drinkwater, in temporary command. 26-7-1799
I HAVE been informed that the ransom for Captain Smith and our two officers is being assembled and should be ready within two or three days’ time. Ad. Roberts will assign a special squad of marines to guard the chest that contains it and has given me temporary command of the captured merchant vessel Fifine to make the delivery.
We will be carrying seventy-five crewmen from Calypso, as well as our usual marine contingent; we will follow whatever instructions we may receive for delivery of the ransom, but I am being given considerable latitude in judgment with regard to possible rescue and capture of the abductors. The information from Capt. Smith has been forwarded to the Admiralty by post chaise; their reply, if any, should reach us at approximately the same time as the strongbox.
DARK. CLOSE, cramped air. Straw prickling through the sailcloth spread beneath him, and the endless rocking of the ocean. Marshall blinked, suddenly awake in the shipboard cell, and wondered what had wakened him. Then Archer blurted incoherently in his sleep and flung an arm out, hitting him across the face.
HE WAS up in the rigging, naked and cold, helpless as a fly in a spider’s web, with the whole crew watching. William was down there, and the Captain, staring as if they couldn’t believe he would be up here like this. “There, laddie,” Adrian whispered from behind him. “You liked that, didn’t you? You did. Say it.”
He wanted to push the bastard off, wanted to let go himself and fall to the deck, or into the sea. He couldn’t get his hands free, couldn’t move at all. “I’d sooner lie with a rotting corpse,” he spat.
The shrouds shook as someone else climbed up. He barely recognized the face, half-gone and eaten by fishes, but he knew who it was as it came closer, the gaping hole in the center of a ragged shirt, seaweed in the hair. “Hello, boy.” Correy. How—? “That’s a good little whore, come to Georgie….” A skeletal hand reached for him, bones poking out through disintegrating flesh. On the deck below, William turned away in disgust.
“Davy,” Marshall whispered. “Davy!” He caught his friend by the shoulders. “Wake up!” But Archer, trapped in his nightmare, only fought harder. Worse, he started shouting. Marshall had to clap a hand over his mouth and roll on top of him to stop his thrashing. Damn these nightmares! He didn’t want Archer whipped for creating a disturbance, and his own back would not welcome another beating. “Davy!” he hissed.
The struggling body stilled under his hand. “Wha—William?”
“Yes. Davy, please, you must be quiet—”
His words were cut
off as Davy’s arms snaked round his bare shoulders, pulling him down. Not an embrace; it was like a drowning man clutching at a straw. Marshall turned his face to get Archer’s hair out of his mouth, and his lips brushed against Davy’s. They parted, and he was lost. A surge of wild pleasure engulfed him; he found himself holding Davy just as tightly, just as close. It wasn’t exactly passion—more some strange mix of protectiveness and a need he’d never realized, a craving for something tangible in this fearful dark place where all the rules that shaped their world were suspended. For an instant he teetered between sensation and control, then the riptide of feeling yanked him under.
Some small part of his mind worried over the problem while his body hurled itself eagerly into the maelstrom. Wildfire blazed from his mouth all the way to his toes, kindling a flame in his groin as he felt himself harden. His lips tingled, the sweet, hot touch of Davy’s mouth drawing his tongue deep inside—like kissing a girl but nothing like it, no courtesy, no caution, just a blinding urgency, almost the bloodlust of battle.
But he didn’t want to kill Davy or hurt him—God, no, he just wanted to get closer, somehow. He could feel his own blood racing, could sense another pulse through the thin barrier of cloth between them. He had never in his whole lonely life felt so close to another human being, but there was a familiarity about this, as though he knew exactly what to do. This was incredible, glorious, and hovering just out of reach was the tantalizing promise of one tiny bit more, and he wanted it desperately.
