by Lee Rowan
Even up here, he still could not see much. There was definitely a vessel of some sort out there, though, under full sail, bearing toward them. The glass brought it closer. Too dark to see any colors, of course, but as she tacked into the wind, he could make out a faint silhouette of sails and masts. Three masts. Three masts, of equal height.
Oh, for God’s sake. He let out a pent-up breath and dropped his head against the mast, not sure if he were going to laugh or cry. With all the English ships in the damned channel… and all we have are four six-pounders and two popguns and two crewmen and Davy’s hurt and we’ve no helm at all….
He stowed the glass, clambered back down to the deck, and returned to Smith. “She’s French, sir.” The idea of being taken prisoner again, now, after all this— “She’s French.”
Smith swore. Marshall could seldom read the man’s expression, but for an instant, the Captain looked just as disgusted and discouraged as he felt himself.
Shivering a little in the cold, he pulled himself to attention. “Captain? Sir… when do we attack?”
“Mr. Marshall—” Smith stopped himself and almost smiled. He frowned at the approaching ship, then at the deck. After a moment, he narrowed his eyes. “No. We’re not going to attack. We are going to give them a boatload of pirates. Mr. Marshall, assemble the crew.”
TWO LIGHTS burned on the brig’s deck, at either side of the empty quarterdeck. No one moved anywhere, she showed no colors, she appeared to have been left adrift, but for those lights. It was a conundrum that no captain with a grain of curiosity could possibly resist.
The little French trading ship hove to a short way off, and her commander made use of signal lanterns. The brig made no response. After a short interval, the ship lowered a boat—a large boat, for such a small ship, twenty men or more—and it pulled rapidly for the brig.
Marshall watched from his wet vantage point just behind the keel, where the ship’s bow met the water. Too caught up in the moment to feel the cold, he gave one tug on the line around his waist connecting him to the Elusive’s second boat, lying in the brig’s lee and invisible to the Frenchman. That would tell the others that the strangers were approaching. With luck, he would overhear enough to tell him whether they were indeed French, or if the French ship was a captured, converted vessel. If the former, they would leave as quickly as possible, traveling on the blind side of the brig, and would be out of sight by sunrise. They knew that if they rowed west, they would be on English soil before the sun went down, and whoever remained on the ship would be on their way to France as prisoners.
But if their luck ran good, a ship this close to the English shore might be a captured vessel crewed by Englishmen. Captain Smith had decided it was worth the risk. After going to the trouble to capture and hold the brig, he was loath to leave it and risk the crew escaping.
The soft splash of the French boat’s oars drew closer. They were being extremely quiet for sailors paying a social visit, but of course, any ship that appeared deserted and made no response would be one to approach with caution.
“Not a bloody soul.” The whisper carried across the water with astonishing clarity. “God ’elp us, what if she’s a plague ship?”
Englishmen! Marshall was so startled that his hand slipped off the keel and he submerged. As soon as he surfaced and caught his breath, he gave three sharp tugs on his lifeline. He shook the water out of his ears and heard someone’s response. “—’ad time to go anywhere she’d pick up plague, O’Reilly, don’t go scarin’ the men.”
O’Reilly? It wasn’t possible. Yes, it was. O’Reilly was afraid of no man, but he was frightened as a girl of contagious disease. And that was Barrow admonishing him, as usual. Marshall didn’t know how it was possible, but he could find that out later.
“Ahoy!” he shouted. He realized he couldn’t hail the boat properly, since he didn’t know the name of the ship. Then he realized he did know. Of course he knew. “Ahoy, Calypso!”
The oars stopped. The silence was so thick you could cut it. Then Barrow said, cautiously, “Mr. Marshall?”
They were home.
Chapter 24
Captain’s Log, HMS Calypso, in for repair, Portsmouth. 1-8-1799 (Temporary Command: HMS Artemis, Spithead.)
I HAVE resumed command after concluding matters with the Admiralty regarding our abduction; Act. Lt. Archer has recovered from the concussion sustained during our escape. Repairs are proceeding on the Calypso, and we should be back on active duty in approximately one month.
CAPTAIN SIR Paul Andrew Smith returned from the Admiralty on the pleasant warm morning of August 1 with a little information, a bellyful of apologies, a decision to make—a decision he did not have adequate information to make properly—and the onerous task of obtaining that information.
He was piped aboard the Artemis, his temporary command until Calypso was seaworthy again. In the meantime, Calypso’s artificers were keeping themselves busy converting Artemis from a French trader to an English warship. She was serving to berth the Calypso’s officers and many of the men who had been in on the rescue—she was not large enough to hold them all—and the rest were still berthed on a hulk under Second Lt. Watson’s command.
Some of the crew were off on shore leave, but Drinkwater was there to greet him. Marshall and Archer were not, and Smith inquired after them.
“They went to the shipwright, sir,” Drinkwater said. “Mr. Marshall wanted to observe the reconstruction of the quarterdeck gun-mounts, and Mr. Archer also felt it would be instructive.”
“Very good. When they return, I would like to see you and Mr. Marshall in my cabin. I received some information of which you both should be aware.”
“Not Mr. Archer, sir?”
“I… think not. Some of the information is highly sensitive, and I was instructed to share it only with those commissioned officers directly involved in the matter.” With his acting status, Archer could be considered a commissioned officer if the situation warranted it, but in this case…. “Mr. Marshall can relay whatever information is appropriate.”
“Yes, sir.” Drinkwater looked troubled but said no more. He had assisted Smith in searching Adrian’s cabin after the prisoners had been confined. He had seen what Adrian kept in the drawer under his bunk. He had been present when Smith found Adrian’s private journal. And he had not asked awkward questions when Smith sent him away.
Smith had read the journal. And burned it. And wished, quite vindictively, that he and Marshall had not given that unspeakable creature such a quick, clean death.
But that still left the problem of what to do about Archer. Smith was certain that the individual referred to by that name in the journal was a construct of Adrian’s imagination, distorted almost beyond recognition—but the fear that had hovered over Archer since their return was not imagination.
Still, if any of what was in there was true, small wonder. If Archer was inclined to love his fellow man in a physical way, Smith had seen no sign of it—and in his years of service, he had known a few men who were, and kept themselves to themselves, and done their duty, and caused no trouble. But he’d seen nothing to suggest Archer was like that.
But if there were the slightest chance…. Archer was up for promotion. Once he was made Lieutenant, he would be on a ladder that led to Commander, Captain, and even, eventually, Admiral. Smith had seen damage done before this, by men who misused the power of their rank—not always, or even often, through sex, though that was the worst. Granted, they would all have a special place in Hell, but it was what they did on Earth that concerned him. And if he were to promote someone who might misuse his power, he would share the responsibility.
Of course, Archer could be left as a midshipman indefinitely. When the war ended, he would most likely be released from the Service. The easy way out, from a commander’s point of view. But Archer was a good officer. He might well be—probably was, in fact—an innocent victim. Who had overpowered and captured his tormentor. And had not killed him.
He could not have known about the journal or he would have destroyed it, but he had let Adrian live, despite the fact that he knew the man’s testimony would impugn him, perhaps irreparably. That could be seen as high moral courage—or sentimentality.
On the encouraging side, Archer had shown no regret at Adrian’s death. Groggy and concussed, he had hardly been capable of dissimulation. And Archer had come out of a protected position to assist in recapturing the pirate. Judging by his first words after he awoke, Archer had, in fact, saved his Captain’s life while expecting to lose his own. Smith’s inclination was to view Archer’s misfortunes as he did Marshall’s unwarranted beating—something beyond his control—but the nature of the problem was just different enough to raise some ugly questions.
A knock at the door interrupted his inner debate. “Come.”
Drinkwater put his head in. “Mr. Marshall has returned, sir. If it’s convenient?”
It was not convenient. It was a damned unpleasant prospect, and he wished the entire situation would just go away. But a Captain never had that option. “Yes, Mr. Drinkwater. Thank you.” They were already at the door. “Come in, Mr. Drinkwater. Mr. Marshall. Please be seated, both of you.” The Captain’s cabin on the Artemis was small but comfortable, and the charts were stowed away, leaving the table clear. He began with the facts, which were simple enough.
“Gentlemen, as you know, I spent some time at the Admiralty sorting out the details of our little adventure, and it is my pleasure to convey the Fleet Admiral’s appreciation for ending Adrian’s criminal activities. Commendations will be noted in the records of every man involved.
“As to the origins of the situation, our surmise was accurate. The man we knew as “Adrian” was at one time an officer in His Majesty’s Navy.”
The question was so clear on Marshall’s face he might as well have asked it. And Smith could not give him the answer. When they had finally unmasked the pirate, after the Calypso’s men had the situation under control, Adrian’s face had looked vaguely familiar, but it was only at the Admiralty that Smith had realized why. He had met Adrian, in his father’s company, at a Royal Levee some years ago. “He was the son of an admiral whose name I cannot reveal, so I will continue to use the name he affected. He was the Admiral’s heir, brought up in naval tradition and entered on the books from the age of eight, even though he did not actually set foot on a ship until his late teens, after his education.
“No one can say with any certainty when he first began to abuse his authority, but he had a reasonably normal career as a midshipman and then Lieutenant. After a few years’ service, he was given command of a sloop-of-war. That appears to be when the trouble started. Over the course of three years, his record began to show an abnormally high loss of young midshipmen.”
Marshall’s expression tightened, then returned to its neutral facade.
“The record shows one desertion. The boy was never found. He may have escaped. Having met Adrian, I doubt that. Another four or five accidents could have been carelessness; three were fatal.”
“And no one noticed?” Drinkwater asked incredulously. “I beg your pardon, sir.”
“If anyone noticed, they did not comment. It was a small vessel. He had only two Lieutenants and neither was in a position to enter an unprovable charge against an admiral’s son. The matter was brought to a crisis by two suicides within a year’s time. One boy left a vague letter, but the other had mailed a farewell to his father, explaining exactly why he felt he had to do away with himself. The man took the note to Adrian’s father, who, naturally enough, did not want to believe it, but he examined the record and, to his credit, was honest enough to be worried. He arranged to have a young officer whom he trusted sent on board to investigate, and within a few months, his agent reported back that it was indeed as he had feared. Adrian had thoroughly demoralized his crew and was victimizing young men put in his charge.
“The Admiral had his son removed from the Service, but for obvious reasons preferred to conceal the cause. Apparently he was officially released ‘for reasons of health.’ His father bought him a merchant ship, arranged for a government supply contract, and paid a monthly remittance into his account so long as he never set foot in England.”
His officers said nothing, but their expressions were eloquent.
“I agree,” Smith said. “Such treatment seems more a reward than a penalty. At that point, however, despite this leniency, Adrian became a rogue. He seems to have decided that he would punish society for rejecting him—to literally make them pay. At first he had a confederate—God knows what the circumstances were—but after Adrian began behaving inappropriately toward those he abducted, his partner objected vehemently and then vanished.”
“Murdered?” Drinkwater asked.
“I doubt anyone but Adrian knew. If the man is alive, we have no idea who he is or where he might be. Due to the Admiral’s continuing influence, Adrian will be officially listed as ‘killed in action.’ I believe a dose of spirits might make this easier to swallow. Gentlemen?”
Drinkwater nodded. Marshall said, “Thank you, sir,” but he merely accepted the glass and frowned at it.
“I feel obliged to point out that the important word is ‘killed,’” Smith said. “We may be grateful he was not captured, since he might well have been turned loose again.” He suspected that, at some deep level, he had recognized the renegade and known he would most likely escape justice if captured. “I can understand the Admiral’s desire to protect family honor, but if he had been my son, I would have shot him myself.”
“So his mask never will come off,” Marshall said. “No matter what he did.”
Smith shook his head. “I’m afraid not. There is a small consolation, of a financial nature. Since Adrian’s ship, the Morven, was registered under an alias and the Admiral wants no traceable connection of any sort, the ship has been condemned as a prize of war. Because of the peculiarity of the circumstances and as we were already on detached duty, we will all be considerably enriched for our inconvenience. The division is among myself, commissioned officers, midshipmen and warrant officers, and the crew of the rescue ship. As members of the original kidnapping gang, our two new recruits will have to be content with their earlier ill-gotten gains, but they will be pardoned.”
He saw the objection on Marshall’s face. “If one were to wax philosophical about that decision, it might appear to be something in the nature of buying our silence,” Smith agreed. “However, the matter will be handled as I have just described, regardless of what might be said. Since nothing would be gained by causing pain to Adrian’s surviving relatives, themselves innocent of wrongdoing, I prefer to look on it as the Admiral’s reparation for damage done. As you were the only officer on the scene, and Mr. Archer the only midshipman, you will each be receiving a quarter share of the proceeds. A ship that size should run twenty thousand or so, at the very least. If you invest wisely, you should never again need worry about replacing your uniforms.”
Marshall had the dazed expression of someone who’d stood too close to a cannon during firing practice. “Thank you, sir.”
“Mr. Drinkwater, my thanks again for your handling of this matter. Much as I regret the eventual loss, I have recommended to the Admiralty that you be given command at the earliest opportunity. You have clearly demonstrated your readiness.”
Drinkwater flushed with pleasure. “Thank you, sir!” He recognized the hint and rose to leave. Marshall began to follow.
The Captain cleared his throat. “Mr. Marshall, a moment, please.”
Marshall sat back down, serious. “Yes, sir?”
“Mr. Marshall, I am deeply sorry this matter has come up, but the problem is like stale bilgewater—everyone knows it exists, but it’s not a subject for discussion. In a way, it may be just as well. You are almost certain to encounter it sooner or later—when you have your own command, if not before.” Smith realized he was doing it himself, edging around the subject. “Part of the problem
is that you will never be trained in how to handle it. You will likely never hear anything about it—officially—but you will have to deal with it.”
Marshall’s puzzled frown deepened. “Sir?”
“I refer to men like Adrian, although I admit he is the worst and most extreme case I have encountered. The conditions in His Majesty’s Service make it difficult to eliminate the problem. Considering how many men are kept at close quarters without women for such long periods of time, that may not be possible. Of course, having women on board would create a different set of problems, and they would be worse, I’m sure….” Damn. He was rambling, and rambling badly, a reflection of his own turmoil.
He started over. “In any event, the important principle is that youngsters coming aboard a ship have enough to contend with. They should not have to fear being preyed on by those responsible for their safety, don’t you agree?”
“Of course, sir.”
Marshall was not making this easy. “I’m afraid I must be blunt, Mr. Marshall. Did Adrian force himself upon you or Mr. Archer?”
He did not seem as startled as Smith would have expected him to be. “I… was never alone with him, Captain. The only damage he did me was what you saw, that night on deck.”
“And Mr. Archer?”
Marshall brought his fingertips together on the tabletop and studied them. “I would rather not speculate, sir.”
“Mr. Marshall, I already know that Mr. Archer was alone with Adrian in his cabin for extended periods of time. As you well know, I do not rely upon hearsay, but under these circumstances, I have only my assessment of Adrian and my knowledge of Mr. Archer. You were in a much better position to observe what occurred. Please report.”
