by Peter Greene
Sean was understandably numb to the entire affair.
Once aboard the Kérata, they had no trouble commanding the yacht across the bay. It was a fine little ship, a yacht by some measure, but as large as an English cutter at sixty-eight feet long, twenty or so in the beam, and possibly one hundred tons. The large single mast held three triangular jib sails running fore and aft—and square-rigged courses and topsails as well. A spanker was mounted aft. Though smaller than those of the Paladin, the Kérata mounted considerable canvass, and they passed swiftly into the open ocean as the sun rose to noon.
At first, they saw nothing. No hulk floating in the water, no mast protruding from the calm waves. As they moved farther north, they could see something large underwater, but it was too deep to discern.
“It could be a ship,” said Harrison. “But it is too deep to see. The water here is murky and deep. We must continue toward shore.”
Piloting the yacht himself, Harrison moved the Kérata closer to the shallows. There, they began to see flotsam in the water. And bodies.
“There is Miller!” exclaimed Hudson. “One of my marines!”
Certainly, there he was, still in uniform, floating face up in the turquoise water. They recognized others.
“There is Smith!” called Welty. “And Jones!”
All ran to the rail and observed the bodies of their dear friends who had been with them since the Poseidon.
“Dear Lord, I can’t believe this,” said Sean as he collapsed to the deck.
“I see an officer’s coat!” cried Bowman. “Off the starboard rail!”
All save Sean ran to starboard. The body they saw was floating facedown in the water.
“It looks like a…a midshipman’s coat,” said Harrison, choking back his tears. The hair, the size of the body—it could only be Jonathan.
Hicks had grabbed a long spar and reached out to the floating form. He struggled, and as he moved the body closer, it began to roll over. The face of the form now lay upward.
“Southcott?” said Hicks.
“What in the wide world is going on?” asked Harrison.
Sean now joined them at the rail. He stared at the body. Then through his tears, he sensed some odd form of relief. He took in a breath.
“Southcott? When did he get promoted to midshipman?”
“This is no midshipman’s coat,” said Harrison. “The piping is wrong. Look! The insignia on the lapel has been removed. This is a lieutenant’s coat.”
They did their best to lash a rope around the body and bring it aboard. They also did the same for the others found in the water, and soon, they had six bodies on deck. It was a macabre scene to say the least, but with each body found, they were more and more relieved. None of the bodies had been Jonathan. Or Jenkins. Or Garvey. Or the brothers Stredney. And though they grieved for their lost friends, they could not help but be encouraged.
Sean began wrapping the corpses in blankets he found below in the small hold as Harrison moved the yacht closer to shore. When he felt the keel scrape the sandy bottom, the commander ordered the anchor dropped. The Kérata Vátrachos swung stern first toward shore. Harrison surveyed the beach; it was strewn with barrels, planks of wood, charred lumber, and all nature of debris.
Harrison stared into the water, at first, absentmindedly, and then looking at floating bits of wood, some charred, some not. On one particular piece, large enough to have possibly been a deck plank, he could make out the striations of the holystone that had been used to clean the piece. The edges were slightly singed. It looked like oak, from what he could tell, and the plank itself was wide, as the decking was wide on the Danielle and the Poseidon. This struck him as being incorrect. He looked closer, then surveyed several other pieces.
“This is not right…” he said, his voice trailing off as a smile came to his face.
He immediately took off his jacket, his shoes, and his sword and then stood on the rail.
“Harrison?” asked Sean.
“What is ’e doing?” asked Hicks.
Sean thought for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders, took off his shoes and coat, and without hesitation, followed his captain, performing a beautiful swan dive into the sea.
“Going for a closer look?” postulated Hudson.
Harrison swam as hard as he could toward the shoreline, now and then stopping to inspect a piece of floating wood or a barrel. Sean did the same.
“They are onto something,” said Welty.
“Good swimmers too, they are!” commented Bowman.
Within two minutes, Harrison and Sean were on shore, running to and from the many items that were there on the beach and in the surf.
“The sextant!” cried Harrison.
Sean approached him and said, “On the beach? Could it have been blown here by the blast?”
“Yes,” said Harrison, “but look at it closely. It is barely scratched.”
They moved hurriedly down the shore. A few yards away, they located Alexander’s locker, being a set of drawers, actually. The drawers themselves were nearby, some of their contents spread about the beach, with papers blowing about.
“Alexander’s locker,” Harrison said excitedly. “Not a burn mark on it!”
“And the kegs I saw in the water as we swam,” added Sean. “They were almost completely empty and unscathed. How could this be?”
“The answer is in the flotsam and jetsam. Do you know the difference?”
“Aye!” said Sean. “Flotsam is from wreckage. It’s pieces of a ship, usually. We saw that in the water and on the beach. Spars, rigging, planks—”
“And jetsam?”
“Jetsam is what we toss over willingly. Sometimes to lighten the load. Kegs of water, powder, guns.”
“Right,” said Harrison. “Now, some of the flotsam we found was burned and strewn about. Interesting is what is not in the flotsam.”
“What?” asked Sean, truly lost.
“Teak,” answered Harrison.
Sean thought for a moment. He had not seen any teak planking.
“Yes,” said Sean, waiting for explanation. “There was no teak.”
“Odd, isn’t it?” said Harrison. “An all-teak decked ship, the Paladin, is blown to pieces, yet no pieces of teak?”
“But the sextant and the locker!” said Sean. “Those are undeniably our effects!”
“Yes! Jetsam! Tossed overboard! Anything that was not tied down was easily sent over the rail, our lockers, clothes, bodies of the dead, the sextant—which, by the way, would sink, not end up on a beach! And all magically drifted to this spot!”
“But where did all the flotsam—the burned wood and such—where did it come from? Something blew up! We saw the flash from the villa!”
Harrison smiled as he pointed to the place they saw the hulk under the waves. “From that hulk. It was most likely floating, packed with powder. They blew it up!”
“Yes, this is not right.” Sean said slowly, now understanding.
“Andrews, or whatever his name is, has stolen the Paladin,” said Harrison, “though he wishes us to believe it was destroyed!”
Harrison now looked to the south, to the last direction he saw the Turk ship. His heart began to swell with hope. “It all is now making sense.”
“So,” said Sean, adding all the facts. “Andrews stole the Echo and then tried to take the Paladin at Telašćica, but they failed! You didn’t take the bait!”
“And Jonathan and Jenkins foiled the cutting-out attempt, so Andrews tried a third time, in Zadar, and succeeded!” said Harrison. “The letter from Gogomán was a fake, meant to direct us here. Sean, from the beginning, the change of orders set this all in motion, delivered by Quinn, who is as dirty as they come! I have been a fool!” cried Harrison.
“But Harrison!” protested Sean. “Why fake the Paladin’s destruction and allow us to see it?”
“They can’t have us and the entire Royal Navy looking for them, can they?” said Harrison. “I can only assume that the
y wanted us to believe that the Echo was taken and that the Paladin also was lost. They want us to tell the Admiralty so they can get away with it.”
Sean scratched his head. There was one piece that still didn’t fit.
“Harrison, I see it all now, mostly. However, why would they dress Southcott in a lieutenant’s coat, make it look like a midshipman’s garb, and toss him overboard?”
Harrison smiled. “Andrews and his men did not dress Southcott in the lieutenant’s coat.”
“They didn’t?”
“I am sure that the coat that Southcott is now wearing has been altered to look like a midshipman’s. Who would want his captors to think he was dead? Someone who did not want to be recognized—”
“Oh!” exclaimed Sean. “Because he had wounded Aggar on the cheek at Telašćica! Jonathan! He is alive!”
“And probably right where he belongs!” laughed Harrison.
“In the thick of it! I can’t wait to hear his side! We must tell the viscount!” said Sean. “He can help us!”
“No, Sean! He is in on this,” said Harrison. “He was there to obtain the treaty, but I would not be surprised if it is all poppycock! The viscount’s true purpose was to hold us there, off the ship, so it would make taking the Paladin easier.”
“We are on our own then—stranded!” said Sean, suddenly concerned.
“Not quite,” said Harrison with a smile.
21
Southcott’s Twin
Harrison was correct. As he had watched from the home of Viscount Ragusa, Jonathan, aboard the Paladin, had seen the Echo turning easily away to the north after striking her colors. The Navarkhia, turning slightly toward shore, was readying to deliver a port broadside. Jonathan and the Paladin had been running, but the sight of the third ship appearing ahead had dashed all hopes.
This last ship, however, had a peculiar set of characteristics, and they all registered in his mind in a fraction of a second. First, the ship was a barge, not a warship. Second, there were no sails set. Third, it was at anchor; both the bow and stern were completely immobile, hawsers tight. Fourth, there was no crew. And most intriguing was the fact that there, stacked on the stern, sat keg after keg of gunpowder.
The Navarkhia fired her broadside from behind the Paladin. Jonathan saw the rounds come from the thirty-six, now ball instead of shot. It missed the Paladin completely, sailed past her starboard side, and then struck the kegs on the barge. The hulk exploded spectacularly, sending flame, smoke, and debris high into the air. The blast and heat could be felt by all remaining on deck.
In the middle of all this, Jonathan could only wonder what was happening. He knew one thing: that the Navarkhia could have blasted the Paladin hard—and damaged or sunk her with another broadside fired at close range. Why had she not? Because the captain of that ship wanted Paladin alive.
“They will board us, surely,” Jonathan said, now standing.
“But how do you know?” asked Jenkins.
“They could have easily sunk us right then and there, but they didn’t. And look at the Echo: colors struck without a fight? I tell you this: Andrews is no Englishman. He was on our deck in Telašćica!”
“Mister Moore, how can you know this?” asked Fawcett.
“Look at him!”
The men stared intently at the Echo. It had completed its turn to the north, and now turned again, back to the Paladin. Andrews could be seen giving orders, the crew following them to precise execution, now appearing almost capable.
“They have recently developed some technique!” exclaimed Garvey as he came down from the crow’s nest.
“Andrews had our English brothers belowdecks the whole time,” said Jenkins. “That is why they bumbled and gaffed. Look, now they are in the tops, guns pointed at them to make sure they follow orders.”
“He stole the Echo!” said Fawcett.
“And we are next!” said Jonathan. “Look at Andrews—closely. Do you see his face?”
It was unmistakable. As the Echo drew nearer, they saw a loose patch under Andrew’s eye, tied by a white rag across his face.
“A wound, still bleeding!” said Jenkins. “By all the saints, Mister Moore! You did that to him with your blade.”
“Yes, as I politely kicked him off the Paladin! And where is Quinn?” asked Jonathan. He ran to the nearest gun and checked the touchhole. “Something is jammed in here. Quinn was to check all the guns.”
“This one as well!” said Garvey has he inspected the next gun down the line.
“Quinn sabotaged the guns to make sure we could not fire! That explains it!” added Jenkins.
“Harrison was right,” offered Jonathan. “Quinn and most likely Crump and Crystal are all part of this. And I will make them pay.”
The Echo had come about and positioned herself directly along Paladin’s port side. The Navarkhia was now at her starboard. Both ships drifted with the breeze, closing in on their prey, gun doors open. Men on their decks prepared to board.
“Mister Moore, if I could be so bold as to suggest a course of action?” asked Jenkins.
“I am all ears,” the midshipman replied.
“Andrews, or whatever his name is, will be looking for you. And it will not be to dance. He will not recognize you by face, but certainly he will find you once he speaks to Quinn and his lackeys.”
Jonathan thought quickly. He realized the course of action he must take.
“Sir,” said Jenkins firmly, “we must kill Quinn and his men, Crump and Crystal.”
Jonathan looked horrified. He swayed visibly. Had it really come to this? Was this what being in command meant? Is it truly the only way? After some hesitation, he realized that there was only one answer.
“I will do it,” said Jonathan flatly. “It is my command.”
“And take off lieutenant’s coat,” suggested Garvey.
“I will report to our guests that Midshipman Jonathan Moore perished in battle,” added Jenkins.
“Then I am off to do some business below with my wardrobe and with Lieutenant Quinn, or whatever his real name might be! Keep them busy, Jenkins.”
With that, Jonathan ran to the stern ladder and disappeared below.
“My fine English sailors!” called Aggar from the deck of the Echo. “Strike your colors—or we will send you to the bottom!”
“We are leaderless!” called Jenkins. “We have no officers to command us!”
Aggar wondered at this. Surely not all the officers could have perished. Though with their captain delivering the useless treaty, and much of his marine guard with him, that would only leave, possibly, a lieutenant and certainly one midshipman.
“Where is your lieutenant?” called Aggar.
“Dead. He perished in Telašćica,” answered Jenkins.
“Then your midshipman? I know you have one,” countered Aggar.
“He is dead as well. Just killed. His body is below.”
Aggar realized his hopes for revenge were now dashed. Though he was angered, he was satisfied that at least the English brat was gone.
From the Navarkhia, a voice was heard, a deep bellow calling to the Paladin.
“Then who in hell are you?” bellowed Kharitonov.
Jenkins turned about to see the large cruiser. It had been her captain, a mean-looking brute, who addressed him.
“I am Jenkins, able seaman.”
“I command you, Jenkins, to strike your colors,” said Kharitonov as he hopped from the deck of the cruiser down to the Paladin.
“It will be done,” Jenkins replied.
“And who are you?” Kharitonov said to Fawcett.
“I am sailing master,” Fawcett replied.
Kharitonov produced a pistol and fired into Fawcett, who fell immediately, dead.
“I already have one,” said the commodore.
Down below, Jonathan made his way toward the stern and Harrison’s hidden locker by the ladder, the one Streen had built. Once there, he quickly took the key from his pants pocket and
opened the lock. The tall, thin door swung easily, and inside, Jonathan could see his old, short sword from Lisbon, as well as Sean’s. He had placed them there at Harrison’s suggestion. A wool, capelike jacket that Harrison wore in his cabin at night to stave off the chill hung in the far corner. Also there were a few boxes containing Harrison’s personal effects, his telescope, and a wooden box, which Jonathan opened. There he found the pistol Harrison had asked him to carry. He quickly removed the gun and loaded a charge and ball.
As he returned the box to its position, he noticed the lid did not fit well. Odd, he thought, and he removed the box to see what was underneath. There, in the bottom of the locker, was a burlap bag. Jonathan opened it. Inside: the diplomatic pouch holding the treaty. Harrison had not taken it with him. And now it would fall into the hands of these marauders. Best to destroy it, thought Jonathan. But how? It needed to be tossed overboard, which of course would be almost impossible with these pirates, or whoever they were, running all over the main deck. Hide it? It would be found eventually. Burn it?
A lantern above his head contained oil. A simple dousing and striking of a flint would do the trick, and though smoky and an open flame, if done correctly, with a small amount of oil, it would put itself out once the paper was consumed.
He opened the pouch, broke the seal of the large envelope, and took out the pages. He stared at them. The pages of the Treaty of Akbar were unreadable, for there was not a stroke of script on them. The pages were blank.
Stunned, Jonathan put them back in place, set them inside the locker, took the sword and the gun, and closed the locker door. He would think of this development later, but now, he was more than busy with the issues at hand.
Jonathan made his way amidships on the lower deck. Hammocks had been cleared for action, and barrels and crates were positioned securely, yet some were out of place, jostled recently by someone, or a group. A skirmish? wondered Jonathan. He heard voices ahead, angry ones, and he crept up closer, using a few sacks to hide himself.
