by Lee Rowan
“Loose cannon?” Archer said.
“We’ll only need one shot. Stand clear.” Even a little swivel gun weighed several hundred pounds. They wrestled it over to the edge of the forecastle and tilted it down to aim below the quarterdeck. Risky. He didn’t want to send a shot into the hull. “Put down your weapons!” he shouted and fired the pistol that had been stuck in his belt.
Someone on deck noticed them and yelped in alarm. The charge out of the Captain’s cabin changed abruptly into a retreat, and the door slammed again.
In the sudden quiet, Captain Smith leaned over the rail of the quarterdeck. “Good work, gentlemen. Parker, stand a grating against that door and anchor it in place with that gun. We’ve had enough traffic,” he finished irritably. As the crewmen carried out the order, Marshall and Archer returned to the quarterdeck. “Mr. Marshall, how many were in that boat?”
“Nine, sir, including Adrian. There should be….” He saw only two bodies on deck. “Twenty-three men below or in the cabin.”
“Only four to one, now. Quite an improvement.” Smith looked up. The stars were had gone hazy from a combination of smoke and a light fog that had come up in the cool of night. “Ordinarily I would send a boat for survivors, but we’ve no men to spare. If you hear anyone calling, throw them a rope. Come morning, we’ll get below and confine the prisoners.”
“Aye, sir.”
“And, Mr. Marshall,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “You had better avoid aiming any more artillery at the deck. I applaud your quick thinking, but we are carrying a cargo of gunpowder.”
Marshall found himself standing with his mouth open, unable to utter a word. No wonder those men had run so easily. He nodded and finally managed another, “Aye, sir.”
Smith squinted up at the sail. “It may take all of us, but we must at least reef courses and topsails, and get the anchor down. We were on a heading for Tor Bay and should be even with Bolt Head by now, but I won’t go blundering about in the dark.”
Marshall shared a glance with Archer. Bolt Head was nearly home. “Blundering, sir?”
“Some clever fellow cut the tiller rope, Mr. Marshall,” Smith said. “We cannot steer this ship, except with sail, and we cannot work the sail with so few men. But His Majesty has other ships in the vicinity. If our luck holds, we may meet one and borrow a few crewmen—or we may persuade some of our prisoners to act in their own best interests and join their more sensible shipmates.”
“I see. Thank you, sir. Davy, see if the anchor’s catted.”
Archer checked. “It is, sir!”
“Let go!” Smith called out. At the bow, Archer and Vincent sent the anchor plunging down. Once the others had finished organizing the deterrent at the cabin door, Marshall collected them all and went up into the rigging with Parker and Vincent. Nearns, the cook, professed a fear of heights, and with his barrel chest and short limbs, he would never manage in the top—but he was more than happy to handle the lines on deck, and he was needed there. Archer could not haul lines single-handed, and Captain Smith himself was apparently going to have to stand watch against any further breakout attempts.
With so few men, a job that should have taken minutes took nearly an hour. At least, since this was a brig, there were only two masts to worry about, but Marshall had not spent so much time in the rigging since his days of learning the ropes as a midshipman. He looked down at one point and saw Captain Smith had pitched in as well, coiling the lines as they came down. Even a small ship like this had miles of rope that had to be kept in place or risk a tangle that could pull the sails down. Everything had to be done just so, and every time; there was no room at sea for sloppiness.
They got the job done, at last. By the time Marshall climbed down, he was hungry and thirsty, his body so overused his knees felt like rubber. But they were a long way from finished. The few steps to the quarterdeck seemed a long climb. “Sails reefed, sir.”
“Very good, Mr. Marshall. Parker, if you are capable of heaving the lead, take a sounding.”
“Aye, sir, I am.” Parker touched his forehead and took Nearns along to the bow. They disappeared over the edge of the rail, to the ledge where he would stand to toss the lead-weighted rope marked off in fathoms.
“Get yourself something to eat, Mr. Marshall,” Smith said. “Having the ship’s cook as a conspirator has its advantages. He stocked the boat with provisions in the event we had to abandon ship.”
“Thank you, sir. Captain… I’m sorry I didn’t think to get the charts from the cabin when I had the chance—”
“You left four prisoners secured, Mr. Marshall. I had no more idea than you that there was a passage below. Did you not hear my order to get yourself some breakfast?”
“Aye, sir.”
The boat was on the other side of the mainmast, and Archer was there, sitting on a spare coil of rope with a cup in one hand and a biscuit on his knees. “Good morning, Davy. What’s for breakfast?” He leaned over the edge of the boat and spotted a couple of casks with lids ajar.
“Cold tea, boiled eggs, and biscuit,” Archer said cheerfully. “Sorry, there is no oatmeal.”
“Bad luck. I know you must have been hoping for some nice congealed porridge.” He located the water barrel, first—he was thirsty more than anything else—then fished out an egg and a piece of biscuit. It was a relief to get back to such ordinary matters, and even more reassuring to find his need for Davy’s presence had diminished now that the danger was gone. He was glad his friend was there, but no more; nothing dangerous. And Davy seemed equally relaxed.
But he’d only had a few bites, leaning against the ship’s boat, when Captain Smith called from the quarterdeck. “Mr. Marshall, we have a problem.”
He glanced over—and froze. Smith was at the rail of the quarterdeck, near the starboard stair. Standing behind him, a sword in one hand and a pistol in the other, was Adrian. Back from the sea, apparently—even in the dim lantern light, it was clear his clothing was hanging on him, soaking wet. He must have somehow reached the stern ladder and come up that way. “Oh, my God,” Marshall breathed. “Davy, stay down.”
“What is it?”
“Adrian,” he said without shifting his glance. “He’s got the Captain.”
Chapter 23
PARKER AND Nearns were still out of sight, so there would be no help there. Marshall moved out and away from the boat, hands in plain sight. There was a pistol tucked at his back. If he could get closer—
“That’s quite far enough,” Adrian said. “You may not see the point of this sword, but it is against your Captain’s spine. I once served with a man who took a sword wound there. He lived, but never walked again.” Such a wound would more likely be fatal. “So here we are,” Adrian continued. “But where is my dear friend Mr. Archer?”
Marshall deliberately looked as far away from Davy as he could—up into the mainmast rigging. The youngster, Vincent, was still up there, watching for a sail. He was wearing light-colored clothing, and it was impossible to tell his identity.
“Stay where you are!” Smith shouted. It was, Marshall realized, an order to everyone not in Adrian’s line of sight.
The pistol exploded behind Smith, and for one heart-stopping moment, Marshall expected to see his Captain fall. But the shot had been aimed at Vincent, and the body that dropped was from the rigging. As Marshall watched, horrified, it bounced off the maindeck rail and splashed down into the sea.
“Very bad advice, Captain,” Adrian said. “But thank you both for telling me where to find him. Now, Mr. Marshall, if you would kindly step over to my cabin and open the door.”
Marshall ignored the command. Even if he’d been willing to obey, what Adrian wanted was not possible—the deck gun and grating would require two men to move. He couldn’t see that, of course. But the hatches on either side would be easy enough to get into… if he wanted the deck overrun with the remainder of Adrian’s crew. He eased his weight onto his left foot, shifting slowly to starboard.
&nb
sp; “Belay that order, Mr. Marshall.” Smith sounded extremely angry but not particularly intimidated. He turned his head slightly. “Surely you realize that if you kill me, you will effectively lose all bargaining power. Likewise, if you fire at Lt. Marshall, you would give me the chance to disarm you. You may kill one of us, but the other will certainly stop you.”
“A standoff? Do you think so? Time is on my side, Captain. This is my ship. I’ve at least twenty men below decks, and sooner or later, they will break out—I said hold still, Mr. Marshall, I have a fresh pistol.”
Before going up to take in sail, they had put their dozen or so empty guns on the poop deck, and Nearns had recharged them, which must have been how Adrian armed himself. Marshall looked down, as if in defeat, and glanced over without turning his head, to see whether David had a pistol as well.
David Archer was gone.
There was only one place he could have got to: around the back of the boat, and the neat rack of spars and mast sections on the other side of it. He must be heading for the larboard stair to the quarterdeck. He would only be visible for a space of six or eight feet. It was dark; he might make it.
“I have a suggestion.” Marshall took another step to his left, toward the starboard stair, forcing Adrian to turn to follow him. “I’m sure by now your men ashore have collected the ransom for all of us.” He caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye and spread his hands a little wider, moving them as he spoke, to keep Adrian’s attention on him. “If you let me lower the boat and set Captain Smith adrift, you can release your men and keep me as a hostage until you have time to make your escape.”
“Mr. Marshall, your suggestion is unacceptable.” Smith’s face was in the light from the lantern hung just above the stair. The Captain’s eyes slid to his left, toward a spot Marshall couldn’t see. Then he shifted slightly too, turning just a little to starboard. Between them, they had maneuvered Adrian so he could no longer watch the entire deck. “What neither of you are aware of is the fact that I was able to send a message to the Admiralty along with the ransom letters.”
“Impossible! I examined your letters myself—”
“The front of them, no doubt. Did you pass them over a candle to heat the paper?”
“What nonsense is this?”
Marshall wondered the same thing. He was completely lost, but Smith obviously had Adrian’s full attention and he was not about to interfere with the Captain’s very effective diversion. Adrian was completely focused on him, turned away from the larboard stair.
And Davy was at the stair.
“The reports of modern scientific investigators are of great interest to me,” Smith said. “Are you aware that certain inks dry invisibly, then reappear when heated?”
“And I suppose you carry them around with you in the event of an abduction.”
“As a matter of fact, I was carrying one—lemon juice. What ship is without it? I was conducting an experiment to see how long the substance would remain usable when kept on one’s person,” Smith explained. “You allowed me ample time and privacy to use it. You were so confident—I might say overconfident—that the Admiralty now has a description of you, your ship, and several of your men. If you delivered those letters to Lt. Drinkwater as I suggested, your chance of escape is almost nonexistent. Your ‘business’ is at an end.”
“Then I’ve nothing to lose by killing you both.” Adrian was reciting his set pieces, but his audience was not reacting with the fear he intended to evoke. His manner was becoming a bit strained.
Smith, on the other hand, was as composed as he would be standing on the quarterdeck in the heat of battle. “On the contrary. You may still have a chance of escape. If you were to let Mr. Marshall lower the boat—he might require my assistance—you could take the loaded pistols with you and make for shore. We could not pursue you. There is only the one boat here, and your men below have cut the tiller rope.”
“You cannot expect me to believe such a wild tale.”
“Upon my word, it is truth. I still have the bottle in my pocket, if you would care to examine—” Smith moved as if to reach for an inner pocket and kept moving, turning in place as he brought his left arm up to knock the sword aside.
But Adrian was quick enough to recover and bring the sword back around, slashing down. Smith was in the line of fire. Marshall sprang for the stair, knowing he was not close enough to stop him from shooting.
Archer was.
As Smith leapt back out of reach, his left hand bleeding, David launched himself from the opposite stair and caught Adrian’s gun arm with both hands. His momentum spun them both tumbling across the quarterdeck, fetching up against the poop deck. Marshall stood staring for a blank second, unable to fire at the tangle for fear of hitting Davy. He dropped his pistol and got hold of Adrian’s sword-arm just as the gun went off.
For a very long instant, everything stopped. None of them moved. Then Marshall felt Adrian trying to pull away. And he realized Davy wasn’t moving at all.
Something white-hot and wordless forced a growl out of him. He redoubled his hold on the sword-arm, set his foot on the blade, and heaved Adrian up by main force, intending to throw him against the binnacle.
Instead he threw him onto the point of the Captain’s sword.
Captain Smith had drawn steel, and he might have seen it coming, but Marshall had not. It barely registered, anyway. He dropped to his knees beside Davy, lying just as he’d seen him in his vision, still and quiet, unmoving. Marshall pulled open Davy’s jacket, searching in the inadequate light for blood, for a wound, for any hope that the shot had not been fatal. This damned barge probably had no surgeon, and any medical supplies they might have would be below decks. “Davy? Davy!” He felt as if his own blood had turned to ice, and any moment it would shatter. No matter how he thought he’d prepared himself for this, it hadn’t been enough.
“How is he?” Smith asked, behind him.
“I don’t know, I can’t see anything—I can’t find a wound. Sir,” he added, remembering who was asking. A light appeared over his shoulder; the Captain had brought one of the lanterns. That helped, but all it revealed was a scorch mark on Davy’s waistcoat. He unbuttoned it, worried that the burn might cover an entry wound, but the shirt beneath it was unmarked. He rolled Davy over. Nothing.
“It appears he trapped the gun between his arm and his body,” Smith said. “Sensible move. Is he breathing?”
Under his hand, there was movement, the rise and fall of breath. And a heartbeat? “Yes, sir, he is.” And he remembered to breathe, himself, and checked for a pulse at the throat. That was all right too. Relief flooded through him. “Do you think he might have hit his head?”
“I can think of no other explanation. Give him a few minutes, Mr. Marshall. I believe he will come around.”
“Yes, sir.” The rest of the world came back into focus, and he saw the blood dripping on the deck. “Captain, your hand!”
“The edge of his blade sliced the thumb. Messy and inconvenient, but superficial. If you would—?” Smith passed him his handkerchief; Marshall had nearly finished binding the Captain’s injured hand as their two recruits returned from the forecastle.
“We ’eard your order to stay put, Cap’n—”
“Yes. He shot your young shipmate before we could stop him. I am very sorry. Mr. Archer was also injured. Please fetch a blanket from the boat and put it over Mr. Archer, then remove my sword from that—” He jerked his head at the gruesome object near the poop deck. “—and get it off the quarterdeck.”
Parker’s eyes widened, but he only said, “Aye, sir.”
By the time he brought the blanket, Davy was stirring. His eyes went first to Marshall, then to Smith, who was frowning at something off the starboard rail. “I’m alive.” He sounded surprised.
“Yes,” Marshall said. “Through no fault of your own.”
“Where’s—”
“Lie quiet for a moment, Davy.” Marshall had put himself betwe
en Archer and the corpse, blocking his view. “How do you feel?”
“Like someone shot my head out of a twenty-pounder.” Davy grimaced. “I… I was so intent on getting hold of that gun, I didn’t think to… to consider my own trajectory. You’re all right—and the Captain—it worked?”
“Splendidly. The Captain delivered the coup de grâce.”
“He’s dead?” Archer pushed himself up on an elbow.
“Quite dead.” Marshall moved aside so he could see. Parker hadn’t yet removed the sword, which had transfixed Adrian just below the heart. There was very little blood; the sword was holding it in. “No doubt this time.”
Archer stared for a long moment, then nodded. “Thank God that’s over.”
“Nearly. We are still afloat with no rudder and a hold full of armed prisoners.”
“Well, you wouldn’t want life to be too easy, would you?”
“Heaven forbid we should be bored. Rest now, Davy.”
“I’m all right.” He tapped his temple cautiously. “Head of oak. There’s too much to do, I can’t just lie here.” He made it to a sitting position, then started to list to larboard.
Marshall caught him. “Damn it, Davy—”
“As you were, Mr. Archer,” Smith called. “Mr. Marshall, a moment, please.”
“Sir?”
Smith had moved the lantern away from the starboard stair. He pointed. “There. Unless I’m mistaken, we are about to have company.”
Marshall squinted off into the darkness. After a moment he saw something—not an object so much as an absence of light on the sea, a place where the starlight did not reflect. He remembered, suddenly, the telescope he’d taken from the helmsman, an age ago, and handed it to Smith.
“I don’t like the look of this, Mr. Marshall. Go aloft and see what you think.”
“Aye, sir.” He took the glass and climbed halfway up the mizzen, far enough to get clear of the lights on deck. It was miserably cold for July—he’d not noticed that before, but now he found himself wishing he’d confiscated one of Adrian’s shirts when he’d had the chance.
