India Black and the Gentleman Thief

by Carol K. Carr

  “Hurry, French,” I said, casting an anxious glance at the activity. “We haven’t much time.”

  I paced about the deck, fretting, and watched the proceedings at the stern. For the moment, everyone was preoccupied with the fire Vincent had set, but if anyone cast a casual glance in the direction of the bow, we’d be spotted. I said as much to French and Vincent, but French was panting from his exertions and Vincent was gnawing a fingernail and neither spared breath to reply. French was pumping madly and I leaned over the rail to check his progress. I was relieved to see that the boat was just ten feet or so above the roiling waves.

  My relief was short-lived, however. Someone had seen us. The bugger sent up a view halloo and suddenly every man at the stern wheeled round and stared at us. I calculated the distance between us and them and reckoned that we had only a few seconds to make good our escape. I thought it best to inform French of this, but when I turned to do so, I found he’d clambered into the lifeboat with Vincent’s axe and was hacking away at the cable that held the boat suspended from the arm.

  “You bloody idiot. If you cut that cable the boat will fall and you’ll be in the water.” I should have thought that was perfectly obvious to him, but perhaps he was a bit stressed by the situation. Perhaps my own mind was affected by the fact that a pack of men was advancing toward us up the deck, led by our three friends. They did not look friendly, nor kind, nor would I wager that one of them knew when to use the fish fork.

  It’s damned odd what goes through your mind at a time like this. I wondered whether the whole ship’s company could be in league with Philip (of whom there was no sign, by the way) and his compatriots and decided that was a ridiculous notion. The captain could well be a coconspirator, but it was doubtful that a criminal gang would pay an entire ship’s crew to cover up its nefarious doings. I found that thought comforting.

  So what would the villains do now? If they confronted us, we need only tell the truth and invite the crew to view the evidence. I didn’t think they’d take lightly to the idea that British guns were being used to kill our own chaps in some dusty, God-forsaken spot in India. We might get the upper hand rather easily, and end up sailing back to London with our quarry in our pockets. I bent over the railing to inform French of this brilliant idea when a bullet ricocheted off the iron railing near my head.

  This required some revision to my plan of telling the truth to the crew. It would be bloody difficult to do that with a bullet in the head. Obviously the criminals were determined to finish us off before we had a chance to expose them.

  “Crikey!” said Vincent.

  French peered up at us. “Jump!” he commanded.

  I gauged the distance between the deck and the lifeboat and did not like what I saw. “Where’s the ladder?” I shouted.

  “Just jump!” French screamed.

  I seldom complain, unless there’s good cause to do so, but I felt disinclined to launch myself off a heaving deck toward the rather small target the lifeboat offered. A ladder would have been so much more helpful.

  A second shot cracked, echoing over the sound of the waves, and the wooden deck exploded a foot from Vincent. He uttered a strangled gasp.

  “Are you hit?”

  “Got it in the leg,” he said, and dragged himself over to stand by me. “It’s alright, I can make it.”

  “Jump!” French roared.

  Vincent put his grimy, bloodstained hand into mine and over we went. I’m grateful to the pup, for I might not have found the courage to jump into that bucking lifeboat alone. We dropped like two bloody great boulders into the boat. The momentum of our weight snapped the remaining strands of cable and the boat plummeted to the waves. The first jolt, when I landed in the lifeboat, jarred my teeth and drove the breath from me. I scarcely felt the second, when the boat hit the water. Still breathless, I pitched forward and found myself sprawled in the bottom of the lifeboat, my face buried in a coil of rope that smelled of mildew.

  French clambered over me, digging his heels into my ribs as he groped for the oars. He found one and thrust it into the oarlock, but that was all he had time to do before the bullets were whizzing past our ears. I looked frantically for cover and considered hiding behind French but I was too damned fond of the fellow to use him that way.

  “Over the side!” French shouted, lifting Vincent by the scruff of his neck and tossing him into the choppy water. Now French knows very well that I can’t swim. Indeed, on my last aqueous adventure, I’d had to be hauled from the river by Vincent. Unfortunately, the lad didn’t seem to be in any condition to act as my personal lifesaver at the moment. I intended to inform French of this, but he forestalled my protest by according me the same treatment Vincent got.

  The cold shock of the seawater quite took my breath away. It is not true that I panicked. I may have flailed about a bit, and sputtered, but I would never do anything as undignified as trying to climb atop French, nearly drowning him in the process, as he claims. And it is certainly untrue that he had to punch me in the jaw to get me off him. I came by that bruise naturally, from being forced to jump off the deck of a perfectly good ship into a tiny lifeboat.

  French tucked an arm under my chin and towed me to the lifeboat, where he left me clinging to the edge like a limpet and with strict instructions (entirely unnecessary, I assure you) to keep my head down. Then he swam away and snagged Vincent, who had drifted a short distance away on the current. The Sea Lark was steaming past us but the hooligans kept up a steady fusillade, with bullets hitting the lifeboat and splashing into the water around us. We huddled together, clinging to the side of the lifeboat and keeping our heads well below the line of fire. My teeth were chattering and my legs were working like pistons. I doubted I could continue this rather strenuous activity for much longer. I managed to enquire about Vincent.

  “I’m not so bad. My leg’s dead but t’other one’s workin’ fine. I’m as cold as a corpse, though. Do you fink they’ll keep movin’ or will they come back and ’ave another go at us?”

  Just what I was wondering. I expounded, in short bursts of speech interrupted by my teeth clacking together, my theory that the crew was likely not corrupt, and that the captain, who might be, and our knaves, who certainly were, would not want to haul us back on deck and give us a chance to point out their villainy.

  “If the confounded crew ain’t in league wif those rascals, ’ow come they let ’em shoot at us?”

  I’d thought of this as well. “They probably told the crew we were stowaways, maybe even that we had crept on board to steal something, and that we set the fire to cover our escape. Even the most reasonable of men would take umbrage at having his ship set afire.”

  The shooting had subsided now, and we could see the Sea Lark steaming away from us, the dim figures of dozens of men gathered on the aft rail.

  “I hope your theory is correct,” said French. He clutched the edge of the lifeboat with one hand and Vincent’s collar with the other. “If so, our friends may convince the crew to sail on and leave us here. The sailors might think casting us adrift this far from land is adequate punishment.”

  We watched with apprehension for any sign that the ship was turning back. The small circles of light from the portholes grew dimmer and the thumping of the screws faded into the distance. It was jolly dark out here, with only the sound of waves lapping the sides of the lifeboat. A cold wind ruffled my wet hair, and I shuddered.

  “I think they’re going on,” said French. “But even if they come back we’ve got to get in the boat before we freeze to death.” I wasn’t sure that hadn’t already happened. French placed both hands on the edge of the boat and gave a mighty kick, propelling himself up and into the craft. French hauled in Vincent and then pulled me aboard. I flopped in headfirst, with my feet waving in the air. I was damned grateful to be out of the water.

  “Are you badly shot, Vincent?” I asked.

  �
�It ain’t a bullet at all.” The lad sounded disgusted. “It’s a big ole splinter. Must’ve come from the deck.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “’Course I’m sure. It’s stickin’ out a good six inches. You want to feel it?”

  I declined.

  French did not. “It’ll be hours before we get to shore. I’m going to pull out that thing and bind up your leg.”

  “It can wait. It don’t ’urt. ’Ardly.”

  French bent over the lad and ran a hand up the boy’s leg. I heard Vincent gasp.

  “Good God,” said French.

  “Just leave it in there.” If I hadn’t known Vincent as well as I did, I could have sworn the scamp was terrified. One can hardly blame him. I shouldn’t like the idea of a scrap of wood protruding from one of my appendages and the thought of having it pulled out without even a sip of brandy to dull the pain was monstrous.

  “Come, come. It’ll only hurt for a moment.”

  That, I reflected, was one of history’s great lies and I would have to remonstrate with French later about trotting it out so cavalierly.

  He bowed over Vincent’s small, shivering figure and I saw his shoulders tense.

  Vincent yelped. “Oi, guv! Don’t touch it.” Then Vincent screamed and French was standing, swaying gently with the motion of the boat, and brandishing a wicked piece of wood, fully ten inches long and sharp as a dagger.

  Vincent had gone silent.

  “Poor lad. He’s fainted.” French ripped off his coat and wrapped it round the boy. “We could use one of your petticoats right now, India.”

  “I’ve a scarf.” I unwound it from my throat and passed it over. French deftly wrapped Vincent’s leg and sat for a moment with his hand pressing on the wound.

  “Bleeding?” I asked anxiously.

  “Hard to tell in this light, and with his clothes soaking wet. We’ll have to get him to a doctor as soon as we can. I’ve no way of knowing if there are any splinters or bits of his trousers left inside. If there are, they’ve got to come out, or there could be serious consequences.”

  “I suppose we should start rowing.”

  “Come sit by Vincent and keep pressure on his wound.”

  We swapped places awkwardly. French found the second oar, inserted it into the oarlock, and set to work. I could see we were destined to spend a fair amount of time out here on the water, for the wind and the tide were against us and it was a long pull to land. French tackled it heroically. I’d expected nothing less but I wondered how long he’d hold out. Vincent’s head was rocking violently with the movement of the boat. Reluctantly I slipped my arm behind his neck to steady him and scooted closer to hold him upright. I thought it unlikely that even protracted exposure to seawater had cleansed the boy of the layers of filth he’d accumulated, but I was pleasantly surprised to learn that he smelled no worse than a dog that had plunged into a viscous swamp.

  Dawn was approaching. The first rays of sunlight had appeared, casting a pallid glow over the grey water. I am no sailor, but it seemed that the waves were building and the breeze had freshened since we’d clambered aboard the lifeboat. I shivered uncontrollably and Vincent, even in his unconscious state, was shaking. I could see his face now and he looked as pale and lifeless as a dead flounder.

  “Will he be alright, French?”

  French stopped rowing for a moment and rested his arms on the oars. “He’s lost a lot of blood, I think. And these conditions can’t be doing him any good.”

  “Tell me when you’re tired and we’ll change places.”

  He snorted. “I hardly think you’re strong enough to maneuver these oars.”

  “I’m strong enough to thump you over the head with one, if provoked.”

  He laughed, then sobered and resumed his rowing. I could see him fully now in the grey light of dawn and his face was pinched with exhaustion.

  “Regardless of what you think, I shall try my hand at it,” I said firmly. “You’ll need a rest soon.”

  He ignored my comments as men do when they feel their masculinity has been impugned and settled into a fluid, rhythmic stroke that would have eaten up the distance, save for the waves that hammered our small craft. We struggled on, or I should say French struggled on, battling the buffeting waves and the cold wind that streamed out of the north. Hard to believe it was May. I’ve been warmer in a January blizzard. The faint lights on shore had been extinguished as the sun had risen, and the English shore looked farther away than it had in the darkness.

  “How far are we from land?”

  French shrugged. “Too bloody far. But this is a shipping lane, and there will be vessels about. I’m hoping we can hail one and get taken aboard.”

  I hadn’t thought of that prospect and found it cheering, especially since I had noticed that my feet were now covered with water. I pointed out this fact to French.

  “Damn and blast! There must be a leak somewhere.”

  “Indeed,” I said coldly. If we were going to continue our relationship, I must cure French of this annoying habit of his. I do not care to have the obvious continually pointed out to me.

  “Make yourself useful and look for it.” I believe French was growing tired for he sounded irritable.

  I propped up Vincent as well as I could and plunged my hands into the icy water, groping along the rough planks of the lifeboat’s hull. A splinter pierced my palm and I swore loudly. It was the first of many. By the time I’d covered the length of the boat, my hands felt as if I’d been fondling a hedgehog.

  “Did you find anything?”

  “No, but I suppose that’s good news. It’s obviously a slow leak or we’d be swamped by now.”

  “Is there anything on board you can use to bail the water? There should be a bucket or pail that could be used for that purpose, or to catch rainwater for drinking.”

  “That’s an appalling thought. I hope you didn’t mean to imply that we’ll be out here so long we’ll need such an implement.”

  It didn’t take long to search our small vessel. It did not contain a pail. I regretted this immensely, as did French when I informed him.

  “Perhaps it fell overboard when the lifeboat dropped into the water. In any case it should have been secured.”

  “You can inform the ship’s owner of this shocking oversight when we get back to London.”

  “If we get back to London.”

  “Of course we will. Don’t be such a gloomy puss.”

  Vincent stirred and looked round groggily. “Where are we?”

  “The same place we were when you fainted,” I said. “Correction, we’re twenty yards closer to shore.”

  French swore.

  We passed some considerable time in silence. Vincent was too ill and weary for conversation and French was disinclined to engage in civil discourse. I used the time to mull over the gang’s activities, and what our next move should be. It might have been sensible to drop the matter entirely. The presence of the villains on the Sea Lark surely indicated a strategic withdrawal from London. Mayhew’s murder would almost certainly lead to the discovery of the thefts as the police investigated the colonel’s background. And our enquiries around the docks must have further persuaded the thugs that it would be wise to leave England until the dust settled. I decided that the best thing for us to do was alert Dizzy to the theft of the rifles and let him handle the military blokes, and inform Superintendent Allen of what we’d learned. My interest in finding Mayhew’s killers had dissipated a bit. If the bloke was going to join forces with criminals, he’d assumed a bloody big risk and paid for it with his life. I was still chapped at having been roughed up by those three blackguards in my own home, and I wasn’t thrilled to be tootling about on the Atlantic thanks to those blokes, but in the interest of a quiet life I would be willing to forgo revenge.

  The only wild card in this hand wa
s the presence of Philip. The poor devil had the judgment of a guinea fowl. Driven by greed, he was, or he’d have never thrown in his lot with these killers. Philip liked clean linen and a daily bath and good cigars. He did not go in for bloodletting, torture or murder. I feared the chap had made a fatal error and would pay for it. I pictured him enduring the fate of Mayhew if the criminals ever twigged that Philip had let us go, and I shivered at the thought. I looked up to find French rowing mechanically, his eyes fixed on me.

  “Thinking of Bradley?” he asked, in a damned unpleasant tone, half mocking and half condescending. “Or should I call him Philip, as you do? You’re obviously intimate friends.”

  “We are, and you might take a moment and be grateful for that fact. Otherwise, we’d have joined Davy Jones in his locker by now.”

  “You recognized him the day he met Captain Tate at the Jolly Tar.” It wasn’t a question. “And that’s why you tripped me when I went after him.”

  “Yes, I recognized him. He’s a cracksman and a jewel thief but he’s not a killer. Before you collared him and accused him of Mayhew’s murder, I wanted to find out what he was up to, using my own methods.”

  “I suppose those methods involve a bottle of champagne and a soft mattress?”

  I bridled at that, partly because that very thing might have been necessary. “See here, French. I do not take kindly to those seamy allegations. My acquaintance with Philip goes back many years, long before a certain government agent entered my life and turned it topsy-turvy. In a way, Philip has done me a good turn.” I wasn’t about to reveal that I had stolen a stolen gem from the bloke. “And I thought it only fair to give him a chance to—”

  “To what? Inform the rest of the gang that we were on to them? You’ve obviously warned him, and he’s warned the rest of them and now they’re sailing off to India.” French was virtually incoherent with rage.