by Lee Rowan
Sheer physical fear did focus the attention wonderfully well. He could not stay here, and if he didn’t go back inside, he had to move. He tried to reach the chains with his right foot, but he’d had to angle his body too sharply to touch them without releasing his grip on the line.
Nothing for it, then. With a small wordless prayer, he gathered himself and leapt, his left hand locking onto the cable just above his right. His toes scrabbled at the side of the hull for a moment, then caught in the pegs anchoring the very bottom of the chains.
Heart pounding, he hung there long enough to collect himself, then began to climb hand-over-hand until he reached the lowest ratlines, still below the deck along the side of the hull. Even though he had done his best to take exercise, the week’s confinement and short rations had worn the edge off his strength, and he rested there until his breathing steadied.
As carefully as if he were boarding an enemy ship—which he was, really—Marshall crept up the shrouds until he could see over the rail. He was a little aft of amidships, nearly even with the quarterdeck. He couldn’t see much of it but could hear two voices up there, without making out the words. Neither sounded like Adrian, who was probably asleep.
For a mad instant, he wondered what would happen if he were to vault the railing, charge into Adrian’s cabin, and attack him with whatever came to hand. Before he could decide whether that would be brave or stupid, he made out the forms of two guards standing before the cabin door. As it was on the opposite side of the deck, his chances of getting there without them seeing him were slight. In fact, his chances of getting on deck at all, unseen, in this light, were terrible. Not with those guards there. Were they permanent fixtures, or was Adrian up to something at this hour?
As he crouched there wondering, the guards shifted and the door to Adrian’s cabin swung open. Marshall ducked back down, straining to hear. He caught what might have been “…back to his cell….” and risked a quick look above. Sure enough, someone was muffled in that cloak—but he couldn’t tell who it was. Davy? If so, thank God, but that meant they’d be putting him in the cell. And Marshall knew there was no way in the world he could get back in there quickly enough to avoid discovery.
ARCHER FELT like a sleepwalker as the guards bundled him back to the cell. It had been only about a day and a half since he’d been taken out, but it felt like forever. He had a quick glimpse of Marshall lying in the corner before the lantern was taken away.
“Will?” he whispered.
No response. Archer shrugged away his disappointment and moved quietly to the porthole. The bar turned easily, and on experimenting, he found it was ready to be removed. No wonder William was sleeping so soundly; he must have spent every moment after lights-out working on it. The moon would be closer to dark tomorrow night, and dark the night after. One night to scout, one to make their move. The timing could not be better.
He found his folded sleeping mat by touch and the faint reflection of moonlight that came in the hatch, and arranged it on the straw. Odd that William would be lying under his—it wasn’t all that chilly tonight, at least not in here.
He lay back and tried to sleep. He knew he should. But every time he closed his eyes, he was back in Adrian’s cabin the night before, trying to regain control of himself after his body had emphatically rejected Adrian’s attentions, along with the dinner he’d just eaten. He had never been troubled in the least by seasickness, but sometimes nerves had that same effect on his interior. Nerves, and Adrian’s increasingly imaginative demands.
He rubbed the back of his hand against his mouth reflexively. Well, there was no question that his reaction had put the bastard off, at least temporarily. It must be difficult to maintain the role of irresistibility when one’s imagined paramour couldn’t keep his dinner down. He couldn’t say I didn’t warn him.
That had not sweetened Adrian’s temper, of course. He’d made Archer clean up the mess and then sent him off to what must have been the storage locker where Marshall had found the adze blade. One of the guards had been thoughtful enough to leave water, and Archer’d found the raised seat William had built. A few more folded sails, and he was able to lie on it and escape into sleep, his jacket over his face to discourage the rats.
Except for the isolation, it had not been bad. If he sat up, he could see moonlight on the water outside, and once a mist of spray from an unusually high wave had blown against his face. His only worry had been that Adrian would turn his attention to William, but he hadn’t really expected that, not yet, and his surmise was borne out when a different set of guards appeared the next evening to take him back up.
Some of his earlier detachment had returned by then. He was only a little dismayed when Adrian announced a repetition of the previous evening’s activities before dinner. But the bastard had not pushed things quite as far as he had the night before, and Archer felt he could count that as a minor victory.
Besides that, Adrian had lost the worst of his weapons without even knowing it. Whatever he might do, he could no longer threaten to tell William—or rather, he could threaten, or even tell him, but that no longer mattered. Archer still found it incredible that Marshall had embraced and absolved him, but it was enormously comforting, even if it were to turn out that Captain Smith and the rest of the world saw the situation differently.
He wished, selfishly, that William would wake for even a little while. His relentless optimism somehow neutralized much of Adrian’s poison. But it would be unfair to waken him. It was not as if they had any more to do on the porthole, and—
Something thumped against the port, and Archer nearly jumped out of his skin. “Will!” He grabbed for his sleeping friend’s arm—and his hand clutched an empty shirtsleeve. It was only his throat freezing with fright that kept him silent. Then the pieces slipped into place and he leapt up to move the bar out of the way as a bare foot landed on the hatch. Archer peered out. “Will?”
“Thank God—Davy, stand clear!” Marshall ordered in a whisper. A second foot joined the first, and then he shot through the porthole like a dolphin cleaving the water. As he landed off-balance, Archer caught and steadied him. Damp and shivering, Marshall seized his shoulders. “Are you all right?” he asked through chattering teeth.
“More or less.” Archer handed him the bar. “I see you’ve had a busy night.”
“Mainly the last half-hour,” Marshall said in an undertone, setting the porthole to rights. “Your timing was perfect, Davy. I could hear someone on deck coming over to the rail, and I’d never have got this out in time. The chains are just barely within reach, and it’s much easier going than getting back.” He sat on the sailcloth and pulled on his shirt. “Chilly out there. I take it my dumb twin passed muster with the guards?”
Archer sat too, his spirits lifting. “Never mind the guards—I’ve been lying here for the past fifteen minutes wondering when it was going to wake up. Was your excursion a success?”
“Less than I’d hoped. I don’t know if Adrian posts a guard on his door all night or only when you’re up there, but if he does, it will make things more difficult. He certainly keeps strange hours.”
“I know. I remember reading somewhere that the Red Indians in the colonies always attack in the small hours because men are at their lowest ebb. Perhaps that’s why he moves us around at that hour.”
“It makes as much sense as anything, but we’re used to having the watch change every four hours. Why would he expect it to matter? Oh, to hell with his peccadilloes. You’re back. Are you really all right? Where have you been all this time?”
“Where you were, that sail locker. It was a bit close, but you’d already cleaned it up. Anything would be better than being in his quarters. I annoyed him again—don’t ask,” Archer added hastily. “All he did this time was banish me, and the view was pleasant.”
“I enjoyed the sunsets,” Marshall agreed.
“Sunrise, William. The heading is now east-northeast.”
“Out along the Channel, the
n back?” Marshall speculated. “The moon’s position would fit that course.”
“Do you think he might be returning to rendezvous with whoever picked up the ransom?”
“That seems likely. I don’t think he would risk traveling far offshore unless he had to. The closer to home he stays, the safer he is from the French.”
Archer nodded. “Well, what next? Do you think you can get on deck and down to the Captain?” Even though the moon was directly above the window, giving them a bit of light, he could not see Will’s face.
“It will be more difficult than I first thought,” Marshall admitted. “That was why I wondered about the guards above. It may be possible, if it’s very dark, or I might be able to go all the way up the shrouds and down the other side. But I could not get the Captain out through the port.”
“You could give him that tool, though, and he could work on it himself.”
“No time. It took us days. In any case, I’m not sure… he would fit—” Marshall made a strange sputtering noise, then lost his composure.
It was just as well that Smith’s cell was not too nearby, Archer reflected. The sight or sound of two junior officers smothering laughter, with himself as its object, would hardly win his approval. “So what is the plan?” Archer asked, once they got over the idea of Captain Smith stuck halfway through the porthole. “Go back to waiting?”
“No.” No humor in that terse syllable. “No, Davy, but it must be your decision. I’ve an idea, but it would mean you taking most of the risk.”
“Fine. What is it?”
“Remember I asked if you thought you could kill Adrian, or knock him unconscious?”
“Yes, and—unarmed—I don’t believe I could. I’m sorry.”
“While you were gone, I remembered a trick Barrow showed me. He picked it up from Bannerjee, that little Lascar. Did you know Bannerjee once put O’Reilly to sleep in fifteen seconds?”
“No, did he?” Bannerjee probably weighed eighty-five pounds, soaking wet. O’Reilly was about twice that. “How?”
“O’Reilly was trying to bring him back from shore leave and he was not ready to go. He got an arm round O’Reilly’s neck and squeezed, and O’Reilly went down in less than a minute. It’s some kind of foreign wrestling, and if one’s careful, it does no lasting harm. Barrow isn’t all that big—he thought it would be a useful thing to know, so he did a bit of trading.”
A useful thing to know. Yes. Most of the fighting they saw was done with weapons, but a pistol had only one shot, and a sword or axe could be dropped. “And he taught it to you?”
“Yes. I traded him my spirit ration for a couple of days, and he showed me how it’s done. I’ve never had to use it, so I can’t be certain it will work. But if it does, size and brute strength won’t matter. If you could catch him unaware, if you were close enough—” He stopped awkwardly.
Archer felt himself flush. “Yes. Well. The proximity shouldn’t be difficult. And there’s not much doubt he would be completely surprised, I—I haven’t exactly been battling for my virtue….” Shame closed his throat.
“You have been battling for my life,” Marshall said quietly. “And the Captain’s. It must be far more difficult, Davy, don’t you think I understand that? Please don’t let him diminish you.”
I had better not. I might vanish altogether. No, he had no time for self-pity. Archer almost wished Marshall had not discovered his secret. He could block out Adrian, for the most part, but there was no way to defend against William’s sympathy. He was afraid if he let his guard down too far, there’d be a repeat of that embarrassing display of the night before last, and he didn’t dare let himself think about that, or he would drown in his own longing. He needed distraction. “Tell me, then, Professor, how does this trick work?”
“I think it must cut off the blood and vital humors to the brain. I’ll show you, without using any pressure. You’d have to get behind him for a moment.” Marshall shifted, getting to his knees. “Are you ready?”
Archer nodded, shoving the past day’s memories into a dark cupboard and closing the door tight. This was William behind him, not Adrian. The one man in the world he was certain he could trust. It was all right. He couldn’t be safer. His body didn’t quite believe him; he could only just keep from shivering. And then Archer felt something dreadful happen as Marshall leaned closer: he was suffused with a wave of desire.
“You must move very fast. The right arm goes round like this—”
Warmth and safety enveloped him. Oh, God— He touched Marshall’s sleeve, fighting the impulse to turn and bury his face against his friend’s chest. “Just a moment, Will. This is… difficult.” This is impossible. I cannot be this close to him.
Marshall sat back. “Davy, are you all right?”
“Yes. Yes, sorry.” He tightened his body as though bracing against a blow. “Go on.”
“This is harder than I thought it would be,” Marshall said, then laughed harshly. His hand brushed the back of Archer’s collar. “Poor choice of words. Perhaps… perhaps I should be the one to go visit that bastard. I seem to have acquired some of his—characteristics—oh, God. I’m sorry, Davy.”
Archer turned. William had lost weight, these past weeks. His face, always lean, was now all angles and planes. And Archer saw a hunger on that face that resonated in his own heart. “You, too?”
“We can’t.” Marshall said, his eyes shadowed. “Davy, we can’t. It could be fatal. I won’t risk getting us both disgraced and hanged for a few moments’ pleasure.”
Put that way, there was no arguing. “I wish I hadn’t been half-asleep before,” Archer said wistfully. “If that was all we can have. It went too fast.”
“There’d be no point.” William didn’t sound convinced. “We couldn’t continue once we’re back on the Calypso.”
“So this would be our last chance. Perhaps our only chance.”
“We’d regret it.”
Archer wanted to take the too-thin face between his hands and kiss Will until he stopped arguing. “And if we don’t? We’ll never have this chance again, Will. If we were to do everything we want to, everything we can think of, then we’d at least have memories. I’d like some good ones to balance out the bad, but not if you don’t want to—”
“It’s not that, Davy. I do.” The faint light in the cell faded as he spoke, clouds closing over the sliver of moon. “I—I want you so much it frightens me. What if we couldn’t stop?”
Archer put his fingers over the warm lips. “Can you see either of us swooning about on the Calypso, like a spurned maiden? I can’t.”
Marshall closed his eyes, the struggle clear on his face. But he didn’t seem to want this quite as much as he feared it. And fear would poison any other feeling.
Archer hastily pulled his hand away. “Oh, God, Will. I’m sorry. It wouldn’t be any good if you weren’t sure.”
He swallowed hard and sat down again, facing away, feeling as if his whole being were dissolving into tears. Discipline. Don’t let it show. It really is too dangerous, haven’t you caused him trouble enough? What in God’s name was he thinking, anyway? Trying to turn his dearest friend into—“I’m sorry. You’re right, of course. I’m sorry. Where were we? Come, William, show me this maneuver. Arm around the throat, then…?” If he strangles me by accident, this will all be over. The thought had a certain appeal.
He sat for a long time, waiting, unable to say anything more or even to think above the turmoil within. At last he felt Marshall’s arm encircle him, but around the shoulders, not the throat. Then the other arm. Then William’s head bent over his, surrounding him in that warm arc of protection. It was wonderful. He sighed and relaxed into the embrace. If this was all he could have, he would take it and be grateful.
“I’ll go, Davy,” Marshall mumbled into his hair. “The next time that bastard sends someone down for you, we’ll tell him you’re sick, and I’ll go instead, pretend I’m curious. I’m sure he would be interested.”
&nbs
p; No. Oh, no. “Of course he would, but he would also be suspicious. You would have no chance, William. He’s afraid of you. He would take you, certainly, but he would have the guards tie you first.”
The arms around him tightened. “The thought of him… using… you….”
Archer rested his hands on Marshall’s. “Will, I have come to a point where I put him out of my mind the moment I leave that cabin.” That was not quite true, but what they had shared the other night had given him a perspective that made Adrian’s imposition less significant. He would always have that memory; it couldn’t be undone. “He doesn’t matter. Letting him hurt you in my stead would be much worse than putting up with him one more time.”
“I should be able to do something—”
“I don’t think you can, Will. Not this time. The best way to take him by surprise will be to keep everything just as he expects it.” Regretfully, he eased away. “Come. Show me how to fight that bastard.”
This was how it had to be. Control. Discipline. It wasn’t just the Navy. There was no place in England, no place in the world, where they could even hold one another like this, unless one of them were dying. The feelings had to be mastered, subdued, silenced. Like not flinching when the cannon fired, or sleeping in a hammock instead of a real bed; eventually it would be easy.
No. It would never be easy. But it could be done. Had to be done.
Marshall groaned, then took a long, deep breath. “All right, Davy. You bring your arm around and jerk the elbow up under the chin, bringing the head back.” This with a movement so careful it felt like a caress. “Catch your right arm with the left, then lean close so he can’t move his neck back, close your arm so it presses the big vessels in the throat—” He did all that very slowly, very gently, and Archer suddenly wanted to scream. “Then squeeze as hard as you can and hang on, no matter what.” The lightest hint of pressure touched the sides of Archer’s throat. His mind went blank.
The next thing he knew, he had William pinned against the bulkhead, hands at his throat, and Marshall was gripping his wrists tightly, just barely holding him off. They were both shaking with strain. “Davy—” Marshall whispered hoarsely.
