Ransom

by Lee Rowan

  Archer unshipped two of the pistols and aimed carefully. “It’s about time we parted company, gentlemen. If you’d be so good as to put your weapons down….” He saw the third man gauging the distance. “You’re right,” he said, feeling in control of himself and the situation for the first time in ages. “I can only shoot two at a time, and there are three of you. That means I’d have to shoot to kill and take my chances with the survivor. Who would like to be first?”

  No one volunteered.

  “In all honesty,” Archer said, “I wouldn’t say the man’s worth dying for. All we want to do is leave. Put your guns on the deck, if you would, and push them over here.”

  “You can’t get away,” the senior man said.

  “Perhaps not, but it seems worth a try. Or you could consider the offer Captain Smith made when we first came on board. He might still be willing to negotiate.” Was he imagining it, or did they look thoughtful? “Your guns,” Archer reminded.

  The two guards turned to the other man, who shrugged, took a pistol out of his waistband, and placed it on the deck. The others followed suit.

  “Kick them over here. One at a time. You first.” He pointed to the third man. That done, he repeated the process with knives. When they’d all been disarmed, he took a page from the guards who’d stopped them signaling the ship. He had the three men lie down with their hands in sight.

  “Now what?” one of them asked.

  “Now….” Archer tried to hear what he could from the deck. Nothing but the sea and the quiet creak of the rigging. He closed the door. “Now, we wait.”

  Chapter 22

  MARSHALL RISKED a peek over the railing. Starlight was assisted by a candle-lantern hung on the quarterdeck near the binnacle and another beside the door of Adrian’s quarters. The guards were at their posts—but as three bells sounded, he heard a pounding and Archer’s voice, high and excited. The guards went into Adrian’s cabin; someone called out a moment later, and a third man came down from the quarterdeck and went inside, as well. The door closed. Bless you, Davy.

  The deck was quiet again. Marshall saw no one moving, though there would in all likelihood still be a man at the helm. He eased himself over the rail, still watching the cabin door, and heard a gasp behind him.

  Halfway across the deck, a sailor was just coming down off the forecastle. His head snapped around toward Marshall, then whirled and ran down the nearest stairway into the hold.

  Marshall started after him but paused when he heard footsteps on the quarterdeck approaching the stair. He ducked back into the shadow of that stairway, pulling the iron bar out of his waistband.

  “Mr. Brown,” the helmsman called. “Mr. Brown, do you need any—”

  Whatever Brown might have needed was lost forever as Marshall hit the helmsman over the head and scooped up his pistol before diving down the stairway after the first man. That should have cleared the deck; if only he could catch that sailor before he woke the ship—no, he must get to the Captain. He hadn’t been down this way before, but it had to be similar to the companionway by the cell he’d been in. A short stairway, a turn, and a faint light glimmered ahead.

  He stumbled and nearly fell over a warm body.

  “CAP’N! CAP’N, get up!”

  Smith was on his feet, almost without thinking, at the note of alarm in Bert’s voice. “What is it, man?”

  The sailor looked worried in the light of a dim lantern. “Your lads ’ave jumped the gun, Cap’n. One of ’em’s out on deck, I don’t know what ’e’s about. I sent Peters off, told ’im I was here to relieve ’im. I hit Alf over the head, but we’ve only—”

  Out of the dark, a pistol barrel pressed against his temple. “Unbar the door,” a familiar voice ordered coolly, “and stand clear. I’d rather lock you up than shoot you.”

  “Put the pistol away, Mr. Marshall,” Smith said, very pleased at the turn of events. “We have a new recruit. Bert—damn it, you’re committed, man, what is your full name?”

  “Hubert Parker, sir.”

  “Very well, Parker, get the door open and go fetch your comrades. Which hatch will you need?”

  “Same’s I come down, sir. Larboard, aft.”

  “Good. Meet us on deck as quickly as possible.”

  Parker saluted and disappeared as the door swung open.

  Marshall held up the lantern the sailor had given him. He looked a little too thin but seemed in high spirits. “Good morning, Captain. Are you well, sir?”

  “Quite well, Mr. Marshall. And you look fit. I presume there is a reason you’re out of uniform.” He was pulling on his own jacket and stepping into his shoes as he spoke. “But we can discuss that later. Where is Mr. Archer?”

  “Above, sir.” A small muscle twitched at the side of his jaw. “Dealing with Adrian. He will be expecting our assistance.”

  “Then let us not disappoint him. One moment.” He retrieved the weapon he had fashioned for himself over the past several days. He was amused by Marshall’s expression but ignored it, only telling him to put out the lantern as they hurried to the stairway.

  “Where did you get a sword, sir?”

  “It was originally a table leg, Mr. Marshall. Only good for one thrust, but I had nothing else to do, and it appears more impressive in dim light.”

  The deck was still quiet when they came up; they found the hatch covers and battened one down, leaving the other open for their allies. As footsteps thumped below, Marshall frowned at the wooden sword and handed the Captain the pistol.

  “I’ll hold this exit,” Smith snapped. “Go find Archer.”

  Marshall ran for Adrian’s cabin. He knocked as they’d arranged—two raps, a pause, then a third—and the door swung open.

  “Will—come in, quick!”

  Marshall looked back first. Three men were on deck, helping Smith secure the other hatch.

  Archer handed him a pistol as he slipped inside. “Did you find the Captain?”

  “He’s on deck now. And he’s recruited three crewmen.” It looked like Archer also had things well in hand, with three prisoners on the floor and Adrian tied unconscious in his berth. “I see you’ve used the time well. Is there any more rope?”

  “Use this.” Archer pulled loose the belt of the dressing gown he was wearing and stripped it off, revealing an excess of weaponry and a nasty wound. His arm appeared to have been clawed by a wild animal, and the rest of him looked like a battlefield.

  Marshall winced in sympathy. “Better put your shirt on, Davy—”

  “I know.” He pulled it on over his head and took his pistol back, covering Marshall while he bound two of the three men back-to-back. “Check them for knives, Will. I collected two belt-knives, but I couldn’t search them.” The third man—the one who’d been on the quarterdeck—started to move. “Hold still, damn you!” Archer ordered. “Will, there should be rope in the left-hand drawer under the bunk.”

  There was rope, as well as some other things Marshall didn’t want to speculate about. He trussed up the third man, tying one of his feet to the left and right of the other two. It would take them a while to figure that out, much less get free of it. A search of their pockets turned up two clasp-knives and, from the helmsman, a small telescope.

  Marshall went over to the bunk and pulled a blanket out of the rumpled bedclothes to throw over Adrian. This would look peculiar. They didn’t have time to stuff the swine back into his clothes, nor could they do it with his crewmen present.

  Then he recognized the little heap of clothes on the settle: blue midshipman’s coat, waistcoat, the shoes and stockings beneath. That—that was damning. And for some reason, despite having known what the bastard had been doing to Davy, it woke a deep anger that made him want to kill. He took a breath, suppressed the impulse. The man was bound. He was unconscious. He’s a prisoner, damn it. You can’t.

  Archer had been watching, of course, his face set in resignation, his eyes haunted. Marshall removed himself from the sleeping cabin before outrage got
the better of his scruples. When he was close enough, Davy asked in an undertone, “How do you propose we explain his state to the Captain?”

  “Sleeps in the nude, stinking drunk,” Marshall said shortly. “You were wise to just tie him where he lay.” He turned his back so the others could not hear and lowered his voice. “We may not have to explain, if the Captain stays on the quarterdeck.” Nodding toward the prisoners. “I’ll play the oblivious ass, can’t reach the obvious conclusion. Go get dressed, Davy.”

  Archer brightened for an instant, then shrugged. “What difference will it make? There’s no time—”

  “Put your clothes on,” Marshall ordered through clenched teeth. “You came down here for dinner, the whole ship knows that. You’ve been in a fight, it doesn’t matter if you’re neat, but for God’s sake—” Louder, he said, “It will only take a moment to make sure they can’t get their hands on any weapons. If there are any in here, we’ll need them.” He nodded at the sleeping cabin. “You take that side, I’ll get the other.” The partly drawn curtain would screen Archer as he dressed.

  Searching the room turned out to be a very good idea: Marshall found a musket, five swords—two Navy-issue, one excellent, serviceable blade, and an overly bejeweled but probably usable ornamental weapon—hanging in the clothes-press. There was one more. Marshall frowned at the last sword, which looked familiar, and realized it was Captain Smith’s own weapon, a presentation sword with an inscription. He also confiscated nine sharp knives from the sideboard, bundling them up in a towel. By the time he was finished, Archer was back in uniform and retrieving his pistols.

  Marshall checked the bonds on their prisoners once more and saw that Archer had done a commendable job on Adrian. “I wonder you didn’t smother the bastard when you had the chance,” he said as they left the cabin and bolted it from the outside.

  “I thought about it,” Archer said. “Then it occurred to me that was just the sort of thing Adrian might have done himself. I’d sooner let the Captain deal with him.”

  The deck was secure. Someone had tied the still-unconscious helmsman to the foremast, out of the way. Captain Smith was up on the quarterdeck, now armed with a real sword and a brace of pistols. He returned Archer’s salute. “A pleasure to see you well, Mr. Archer. Our ship’s company has been increased by gunner’s mate Parker and his friends from the galley, Nearns and Vincent. They have not formally signed on as yet, but they are now members of the Calypso’s crew. We’ll sort out the details when we return to Portsmouth.”

  It took Marshall a moment to realize what looked strange about the men’s faces. Then it struck him: they weren’t wearing masks. They had perfectly ordinary features, but it was startling to see even ordinary faces after all this time.

  “Parker informs me that we are currently on course for Tor Bay, if we keep to this heading,” Smith continued. “I trust your confinement has not affected your ability to handle sail?”

  “No, sir. Captain—”

  “Yes, Mr. Marshall?”

  “I suggest we secure the ropes holding open the hatch on our cell. We removed the bar, sir, and if we could climb out—”

  “See to it.”

  Marshall arrived at the side of the rail just in time to bang the hatch closed on a man attempting to follow his example. He tightened the line, pulling the hatch shut, and dogged the small capstan that controlled it. No one would get through the hatch silently. He reminded himself to keep an eye on the starboard mizzen shrouds, all the same.

  “We’ll stay on this heading until I get a look at the charts,” Smith was saying when he returned. “The crew was forty. Subtracting our new recruits, that fellow at the mast, and your prisoners—?”

  “Adrian and three others, sir,” Archer said.

  “Excellent. We should have thirty-two prisoners below. My former quarters will hold nine, and if the hatch in the other is nailed shut, that’s another nine. Parker, is there a room where we can conveniently confine the rest?”

  “The sailroom, sir, where Mr. Marshall was—”

  Smith glanced at Marshall.

  “Four-foot ceiling, sir,” he said. “They won’t be comfortable, but neither were we.”

  Smith nodded. “That should do. We’ll be in port soon enough. I intend to deal with Adrian immediately. He appeared to me to be in sole command. Did either of you see any others who might be considered officers?”

  Marshall looked to Archer, who shook his head. “Not that we could tell, sir,” he said. “He appeared to have a navigator at the helm, but I do not recall anyone else ever giving any orders.”

  “That simplifies matters.” Smith’s face was grim. “Well, gentlemen, we have a distasteful task at hand. Let us get it over as quickly as possible. Mr. Marshall, Mr. Archer—bring that pirate on deck.” To the three others, he said, “Men, find a line and get it over the mainmast yard. I regret the necessity that requires you prove your sincerity by participating in this matter, but you are at present all the crew we have.”

  “I dinna mind at all, sir,” Nearns said, and the other two nodded. The third recruit, Vincent, was probably still in his late teens, and from his expression, Marshall guessed he probably had good reason for not minding.

  He didn’t mind, himself, in principle. In principle—especially on Archer’s behalf—he heartily approved. But however much he and Davy had spoken of this very thing, the reality of executing anyone in cold blood, taking a living, breathing human being and turning him into cold meat, was revolting. He knew he might well have to order such a thing himself someday, if he were ever to win the command he yearned for. Still, he was glad it was not this day.

  “Thank God it’s on the Captain’s head,” Archer said under his breath as they made their way down the few steps from the quarterdeck. “I hate that bastard, I’d kill him in a fair fight, gladly, but—”

  “I know.” And they would have to get him awake and dressed, and, dear God, what if his last words were something that would fulfill all Archer’s worst fears? Nothing to be done for it. The Captain was back in command, and he had both the experience and the stomach for what had to be done.

  Marshall never knew what it was that made him hesitate that split-second after putting his hand on the door handle, but the moment probably saved his life. He turned to tell Archer, “I’ll get him into his clothes—” but he had not spoken two words before a bullet punched a hole through the door where his head had been an instant before, and a body crashed against it. He threw his own weight against the door, and Archer slid the bolt home. “The windows!” Marshall cried, hearing pistol shots and shattering glass behind them.

  They hurtled up the steps to the quarterdeck, where Captain Smith was leaning on the railing, hacking with his sword to prevent someone from climbing out the aft windows of the Captain’s cabin as Nearns bundled a sail over the railing. Parker and Vincent were wrestling part of a spare mast up from the maindeck. “Get the mast down to brace the sail!” Smith directed. “Mr. Marshall, we need spars for a barricade!”

  “They’re at the cabin door too, sir,” Marshall reported. “Davy, stand at the rail, I’ll pass the spars up.” The next few minutes were too hectic for conversation, but they managed to get enough spars piled over the canvas to effectively block the exit from the Captain’s cabin.

  “There must be a hidden hatch from the cabin to the hold.” Smith scowled. “We have no way of knowing where on the ship he is now.”

  A scrape, clunk, and splash floated back to them from the starboard bow. “What the devil—?”

  “The entry port?” Marshall guessed and tore off to the other end of the ship. A shot whined past him as he poked his head over the rail, and he ducked back, but not before he recognized Adrian in a small boat with eight crewmen at the oars, pulling rapidly away from the Elusive.

  “Parker! Man the bow-chaser!” Smith called. “Mr. Marshall, Mr. Archer, assist him, if you please! Fire as you bear!”

  The bow-chaser was a swivel gun, mounted not on th
e bow itself—the wood was probably not strong enough—but on a small cannon carriage, which would give it virtually unlimited aim. Parker must be a gunner of some skill; he had the little gun run out and primed almost before Marshall and Archer stationed themselves on either side.

  The gun spoke, the shot going a bit high and a few degrees larboard. They ran the gun back in, Archer swabbing the muzzle out while Parker handled the powder and Marshall dug another round out of the netting.

  “Rear starboard gun!” Smith shouted.

  Marshall saw that the boat had started to head out around the side of the ship. The ’chaser was reloaded. No point in wasting the shot. “You two go on. I’ll fire from here.”

  The others ran off. It looked as though Parker had loaded that other gun in advance, as well. He and Davy ran it out and set about aiming it without any other preparation. Marshall aimed by his best reckoning and touched a match to the hole.

  Both guns sounded within seconds of each other, and a sharp crack of impact carried across the water. When the smoke cleared, the ship’s boat was in pieces—bodies and debris floated in the dark. Marshall strained to see any movement but could detect none. He began almost automatically to clean and reload the swivel-gun.

  “See anything, Davy?”

  “No.” Archer stood at the rail, staring across the water. “I can’t tell—”

  A pounding started inside the Captain’s cabin. Abruptly, the door crashed open and the rest of the crew came charging out.

  A shot from Smith dropped the first man. The second tripped over him and sprawled headlong on the deck, but a few got out past them and took cover, firing with an assortment of weapons.

  “Davy, give me a hand up here!” Archer dropped his empty pistol and ran up to the forecastle. “Let’s get this thing turned around!” Marshall said, tugging at the pins that locked the swivel gun’s carriage in place.