Distant Thunders

by Taylor Anderson

  For some reason, Silva didn’t seem particularly concerned with the mechanics of escape. He apparently thought Rajendra could be trusted, for selfish reasons at least, and believed his assistance might be handy, if not necessarily essential. Evidently, he didn’t even think he needed the key he’d asked for. He’d probably just thrown in the request as a further test of Rajendra. Ever since he started feeling more like himself, he’d given the impression that escape was just a matter of Sandra deciding when. According to the map, their approximate speed and position, and Lawrence’s best estimate regarding which island was his home, “when” would have to be the following night. That was when Ajax would pass most closely to the island where he thought his people dwelt.

  Their discussion was interrupted by more footsteps in the passageway, followed by a quiet voice at the door. “Your Highness, it is I, Captain Rajendra. Midshipman Brassey is here as well. He says you might speak with me. I tell you it is of the utmost importance that you do. All our lives are at risk.”

  “What of the lives of Captain Lelaa’s crew?” Rebecca hissed.

  “I could not stop that!” Rajendra insisted. “I had hoped you would understand!”

  So it was as Brassey said and Silva had speculated. There was no doubting the torment and sincerity in Rajendra’s tone. Either he was telling the truth or he’d missed his calling as a stage performer. Silva still thought there was one way Rajendra might have prevailed, but there was little point in bringing that up now. “Did you bring the stuff we asked for?” he asked instead.

  “Yes. I will open the door and pass them through. . . . Please make no attempt at the moment; I would prefer to help coordinate an escape by being elsewhere when it begins!”

  There was a tiny clack as the tumbler in the lock disengaged and the door opened a fraction. A hooded lantern, already lit, preceded a piece of paper with some numbers written on it. Finally, Silva felt the large brass key pressed into his hand.

  “Well, you done what we asked,” Dennis said, announcing the key transfer. “Whaddaya say, li’l sister?”

  “I will trust him,” Rebecca replied. “Captain Lelaa?”

  “I suppose we have no choice,” she said ominously. “For now. But if there is further treachery of any kind—”

  “Hush now,” said Silva, and his tone hardened. “That goes without even sayin’!” He paused. “Loo-tenant Tucker?”

  Sandra cleared her throat. “Tomorrow night, Captain Rajendra, providing the position you gave us corresponds with our calculations, we’ll be leaving your ship one way or another. If you can facilitate our escape, it would be appreciated.”

  “Tomorrow night should work well,” Rajendra agreed. “Much later than that might be too late.” So. Rebecca was right. “This is what I have done, and can do. You may incorporate as much of it into your plans as you see fit. The carpenter has repaired the launch Mr. Silva shot such a gaping hole through. Tomorrow, I shall have it swung out to tow, to swell the wood. I would prefer the pinnace because it is larger and will carry more, but I have no excuse to put it in the water.”

  “Sounds fine, but why would we need room for more?” Sandra asked.

  “Midshipman Brassey has overheard a certain conversation,” Rajendra said stiffly. “Most of you are to be hanged for abducting the princess and holding her against her will. My loyal officers and myself will then be hanged for committing a crime against humanity when we fired on Captain Lelaa’s ship without warning.” Rajendra’s voice was full of irony. “Clearly both are legal fictions concocted by Billingsly to eliminate any story but his own should things at home be different than he suspects, but there it is. Some of us will be coming with you.”

  “Why not just rise up, take back your ship from these Company bastards?” Sandra asked. “We would help!”

  “Impossible. I count perhaps seventy loyalists among my crew, opposed by two hundred. It would be a bloodbath and would ultimately fail.”

  “There’ve been longer odds,” Silva prodded.

  “True, but how could we coordinate any effort? I need be wrong about only one of the seventy and our plans will be undone.” He shook his head in the darkness. “I cannot let those who are loyal die to no purpose.”

  “Okay,” Sandra said, “we’ve got a boat and a few extra passengers. We’ll need provisions, a compass, sextant, weapons . . . and a means of getting to the boat in the first place.”

  “The carpenter is one of us. Provisions and navigational aids have already been stowed in the boat,” said Brassey. “If a ‘sextant’ is like a ‘quadrant,’ that has been included as well. As soon as night falls, I shall bring sufficient ship’s clothing to disguise you all.” He cleared his throat. “More care than usual must be taken with Captain Lelaa and, uh, Mr. . . . Lawrence, I presume.” Lelaa bristled, but knew it was true. What would they do? Tie her tail around her body?

  “Otherwise,” Rajendra said, “I will adjust the watch so we will have the greatest number of known loyalists on deck as possible. They will sway out an anchor beneath the bowsprit and allow it to fall back against the hull as though we have struck a leviathan. Action stations will be sounded and we should find our chance in the general confusion.”

  “Silva?” Sandra asked.

  “Not bad,” he answered, somewhat distracted. He was mentally adjusting certain elements of his own plan to fit. “Sometimes it’s better to do sneaky stuff right out in the open. Slinkin’ around in the dark always looks sneaky.” He spoke in Sister Audry’s direction: “Guess you’ll have to ditch the nun suit!”

  “I will not!”

  “Well, you’ll have to cover it up somehow, or stash it in something.” He turned back toward their visitors. “As for weapons”—he found Brassey’s form in the gloom—“I figger the boy an’ me an’ maybe a few other hands can take care o’ that. I want my guns back!”

  “Very well,” Rajendra said, sounding a little unnerved by something in Silva’s tone. “Shall we regard the blow against the bow as our signal to begin, then?”

  “I suppose that would be best,” Sandra said. “But we must move quickly after that. Where will we gather?”

  “On the starboard quarter. The first thing that will happen is that the engine will stop and steam will vent. It will be noisy and add to the confusion. The boat will already have been drawn alongside and each will go over as they arrive. I and some other officers will provide security there by sending anyone whose loyalty is unknown to perform some task or other.”

  “Sounds swell then,” Silva said. “You do your part and we’ll do ours. Okay with you, li’l sister?”

  “Swell,” Rebecca replied.

  “Um, there is one other thing,” Rajendra said. “Our destination. After we escape, assuming we do, where are we going? Our lives are as much at risk in this venture as yours and it is a terrible sea. You have determined a safe landfall, have you not?”

  “Yes,” Sandra said, but offered nothing more.

  After an expectant but disappointed pause, Rajendra straightened. “Well. Then I suppose we must all trust one another.”

  “Guess so,” Lawrence answered in his distinctive voice.

  Late the following night, during first watch, according to Silva, they felt a distinct and surprisingly violent blow strike the ship. Already dressed as Imperial crewmen, with both Lelaa’s and Lawrence’s tails secured as well as possible (far more difficult in Lawrence’s case, and he could hardly walk), they began their escape by evacuating the compartment that had been their prison for weeks. Quickly, they scrambled or shuffled down the corridor, Rebecca and Sister Audry helping Lawrence. Lawrence had a nightcap pulled down over his face, but it was so misshapen the disguise wouldn’t stand close scrutiny at all. Lelaa might pass as a ship’s boy in the dark, but, of course, neither she nor any other female must speak. Other forms began appearing in the corridor, but Silva burst through them shouting, “Gangway!” in a terrible accent. About then, the alarm bells began to ring, and if anyone noticed the stran
ge, hurrying group in the dark, their attention was quickly diverted.

  Up a companionway they lurched, now heading aft across the gun deck as Ajax’s crew began assembling at their action stations. Most were confused, barely awake. A few had felt or heard the bump and there was a cacophony of wild, almost panicky speculation. Silva grunted with frustration and suddenly swept poor Lawrence up in his arms. The Tagranesi was slowing them down and Dennis thought he’d draw less attention if he appeared to be injured. There were a few lanterns on the gun deck, but only enough for fighting light—enough that the gun’s crews could serve their pieces, but not enough to damage their night vision a great deal, or provide much fuel for a fire. Again, if anyone had begun to grow suspicious of them as they made their way through the building, only slightly controlled chaos, the sudden roar of venting steam distracted them. Reaching the quarterdeck companionway, they ascended and rushed to the starboard rail, where several men were heaving on a line. “Get that boat in, afore somethin’ eats it!” one shouted. “I didn’ spend two days fixin’ it ta pre-vide a toothpick fer one o’ them divils!” Clearly the carpenter.

  “No, damn your vitals!” Rajendra’s voice rose toward another group. “Get you and your party down in the forepeak! Check for sprung timbers! We’ll be taking water after a thump like that, I shouldn’t wonder!” He raised his speaking trumpet. “Run out the guns! Handsomely now! We must fire before the monster returns!” Another man, burly and dark, approached the captain. “The safety valve has suffered a mischief, I fear,” he said in a satisfied tone. “There’s no fixin’ it either, more’s the pity. She’ll vent steam till the boiler’s cold enough to replace the valve!”

  Rajendra glanced about. “Very well. Into the boat with our guests! It will add to the confusion if our engineer cannot be found!”

  “Aye, Captain!” The man rushed to the rail. “Over the side with ye, Yer Highness!” he said. “There’s a man waitin’ below ta catch ye!”

  “But what of Lawrence?”

  “I can ’anage!” Lawrence said. “As soon as this huge creature puts La’rence down!”

  “Dee-lighted, you ungrateful little turd,” Dennis said. “Snatch onto that line. You can turn your tail loose in the boat! Maybe you’ll be good fer somethin’ then.” He looked at Rebecca. “After you, li’l sister!”

  With only the slightest hesitation, perhaps reliving old memories, the far different person who’d become Princess Rebecca grasped the rope and disappeared into the darkness below. Lawrence went next.

  “Now you, Sister Audry!” Dennis ordered, after the engineer disappeared.

  “I . . . I’m not sure I can!”

  “Sure, you can. It’s a cinch. Besides, if you don’t go, I’ll just drop you over the side and hope you land in the boat.”

  Audry looked at him, utterly uncertain whether he was serious or not. He’d spoken with the flat firmness of fact. “Very well, Mr. Silva,” she said sharply.

  “Prepare to fire!” Rajendra roared.

  “You’re next, Loo-tenant Tucker!”

  “No. You must get weapons. Where’s Midshipman Brassey?”

  “Here, ma’am!”

  “Good. Lead Mr. Silva to the magazine. Take two of these other men. We need weapons and ammunition! We’ll pass well enough up here for now, Mr. Cook and I.”

  Silva knew she meant to guard against treachery. He wasn’t sure how she’d do that, but he also knew it would be pointless and time-consuming to argue with her. “All right, Miss Tucker, we’ll be back in a flash!” He turned to Brassey and two of the men who’d been hauling the rope. “C’mon!”

  “Fire!” bellowed Rajendra. With a stuttering, rolling, earsplitting bark of thunder, Ajax vomited an uneven broadside port and starboard. Silva and his pickup team of commandos vanished in the swirling smoke.

  “Follow me,” Brassey cried. As he’d explained, Ajax had two magazines. The one they sought was aft, beneath the orlop and essentially below the waterline, which afforded it some protection from enemy shot. They met a steady stream of grim-faced, sweaty boys hurrying back to the guns, charges in their pass boxes. Reaching the magazine, they found it virtually deserted, the powder boys having already come and gone. The first compartment had a lantern illuminating racks of muskets. Silva was surprised and joyful to see the Doom Whomper secured at the far end of one rack along with his shooting pouch and belt. From the belt still hung his holster, magazine pouches, cutlass, and ’03 bayonet in its scabbard. The bayonet was a respectable “sword” in its own right.

  “Hot damn!” he hissed, wrapping the belt around his waist and clipping it in place. He then grabbed his massive rifle. He could see movement in an adjoining compartment through a thick pane of wavy glass. The gunner and his mates, most likely, preparing charge bags.

  “Whose side’s the gunner on?” Silva asked.

  “I don’t know,” Brassey confessed.

  “Okay. You fellas get a double armload o’ them muskets and some cartridge boxes. Anything in ’em?”

  “There should be a battle load of forty rounds apiece,” one of the men supplied. “The door is usually locked and guarded.”

  “Huh. Well, gather all you can carry and take ’em up.” He grinned. “If anybody asks, say it’s Billingsly’s orders!” While the men did as he said, Silva turned to Brassey. “Loose shot and powder? How ’bout musket flints?”

  Brassey pointed. “Those small kegs hold balls and flints, but powder will be in there,” he said, referring to the space where the gunner was.

  Silva nodded. Taking off the Imperial ordinary seaman’s striped shirt, he quickly knotted the sleeves and dropped two thirty-pound kegs of shot and a single keg of flints into it. Tying it all together, he handed it to Brassey, who staggered under the weight. “You handle that?”

  “I’ll manage,” said the youngster.

  Seeing the other men festooned with muskets, cartridge boxes, and a few baldrics with cutlasses and bayonets, Silva sent the group on its way. “I’ll get powder,” he said, shooing them off.

  Another shattering broadside shook the ship. Any minute now, the compartment would fill with powder boys again. Hmm. Backing out of the magazine, he slipped into a compartment across the passageway, leaving the door open a crack so he could see. He smelled something pungent and glanced behind. “Well, well,” he muttered. “Rum, by God!” One of the short, thick black glass bottles must have cracked and soaked the padding around it. There was a sack hanging on a hook and he filled it with the bottles, leaving two aside. Pulling the cork on one, he took a long swig. “Ghaaa!” he hissed appreciatively. Not great, but not bad. He wondered what they used for sugar? Lowering the bottle, he took a length of light line that had probably once bound the padding together and stuck one end into the bottle. Then he wrapped it around the open mouth and tied it. Nothing to do now but wait.

  Soon, the boys had all apparently come and gone and he slipped back across the passageway. He held both bottles by their necks between the fingers of his left hand, and drew the cutlass with his right. Anyone who saw the cutlass would know it didn’t belong. It was longer, straighter—and much better—than anything like it on the ship. He shrugged. Time to do his thing. He’d behaved himself long enough.

  “Open up!” Silva growled at the inner door. A short man with spectacles and the almost universal Imperial mustache opened the heavy door and peered out. Silva drove the cutlass into his chest and pushed his way inside. Without a sound, the man slid off the blade and onto the deck when Silva lowered the cutlass and regarded the other man. He was bigger and might require more exercise.

  He screamed shrilly.

  So much for first impressions, Silva thought, and pinned the man to the bulkhead. The gunner, or mate—whichever he was—screamed even louder. “Well, shit!” Dennis hissed indignantly, skewering the man again. “I’ve seen bunnies make manlier noises when a dog gets ’em by the ass!” Still sobbing, but mortally wounded, the big man fell to the deck when Silva freed the blade.
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  Quickly, he laid the cutlass on the gunner’s table and hung the rope and rum bottle from a hook on the beam overhead. Snatching up a fifty-pound keg of powder, he hurried to place it in the passageway. He knew he was running out of time. Imperial drill for deterring mountain fish seemed to be three broadsides, and the next would fire any minute. He didn’t know what would happen after that. He doubted the powder boys would return the pass boxes to the magazine—there was limited space inside, after all—but somebody was liable to come down. He ran back inside, picked up another barrel of powder, and smashed it against the deck.

  “I thought I might find you here,” came a voice from the armory compartment.

  Silva looked up. “Well, how do, Mr. Truelove,” he said. “For some reason, I thought you might too.” He nodded at the pistol held casually in Truelove’s hand. “You gonna shoot that in here?”

  Truelove grimaced at the pistol and slid it on his belt, where it hung by a hook. “I don’t suppose I really need it. I’m actually quite good with a sword. I’ve seen you use one, you know, at Baalkpan, before I gave you that little tap on the head. You fight quite . . . dynamically and enthusiastically . . . but your sword work is just that: work. To me, it is play.”

  “Why’d you conk me then?”

  Truelove shrugged. “Unsportsmanlike, I know, but necessary at the time. Perhaps now we might meet each other properly?”

  “Sure. Just a couple o’ questions first. ’Twixt gentlemen.”

  Truelove nodded. “Of course. Adversaries should know each other at times like this, and I already know a good deal about you.”

  “How did you know I’d be here?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Call it intuition. You are a resourceful man. I thought it likely you might take advantage of the situation facing the ship. I don’t know what you hope to accomplish, but I’ve no doubt you have a plan. I almost regret thwarting you. I view you as a fellow professional in a way, and suspect I would have enjoyed seeing your plan unfold.”