“You’ll be the first to know.” Archer’s reaction, that immediate tension and choppy speech, worried Marshall. Then again, to be fair, if he were contemplating an action that risked causing harm to Davy or the Captain, he would probably be tense, too. Better to switch to something concrete. “What’s the physical layout in his cabin, Davy? Are there windows?” He pushed a handful of straw at Archer and swept a space clear on the floor.
“Yes, all across the rear, same as in
Calypso.
Big enough to climb through, too, but they’re shuttered. From the inside. Possibly the outside, too, I couldn’t tell.”
Archer laid straws out in a rough rectangle. “The cabin is all one room, not separate cabins like
Calypso’s
arrangement. It’s smaller, of course. No gunports. The table is to the right when you enter. It’s large enough that it might seat six, but there are only four chairs.” He placed smaller bits of straw as he spoke. “Sideboard here by the table, desk and chart table back at the aft windows, a wardrobe and two large chests along the larboard wall, and the sleeping area along the other.” More straws. Clearly, David had kept his mind on his duty and paid attention to his surroundings. “It’s curtained off, but he—left it open, and there’s a chest of drawers and a settle just inside the curtains, here, forming a partial wall for the sleeping cabin. Storage drawers under the berth, as well.”
“That’s a fair amount of storage space. I’d wager he lives aboard year-round. And with the business he’s in, there have to be weapons somewhere in that room.”
“There probably are,” Archer agreed. “But I don’t anticipate having the chance to look. You were right about him not being armed, though. I haven’t seen a weapon on him. As far as I can tell, he does rely on the guards for that.”
“There must be a weak point. Some way...” Marshall rubbed his chin, frowning at the straws. “What I’m thinking of, Davy, is that if you had the chance to kill Adrian, or even knock him unconscious, you might arm yourself and get out through the window. If we could coordinate our movements so that I was on deck creating a diversion at the same time, I could hold the crew’s attention and you could get below and free the Captain.”
Archer’s brows drew together. “I hear too many ‘ifs,’ my friend. This sounds like a good plan for getting you killed.”
“I’m sure they’d try to recapture me first. Remember, to them we’re merchandise. I can’t believe he’ll get his money without having to prove somehow that we’re still alive. Besides, unless I can capture a weapon myself, I’ll be unarmed. They’d have no reason to kill me.”
“I suppose not...”
He could see that Archer was less than enthusiastic. “It’s just speculation at this point, Davy, and I’m supposing that land will be close enough to make an escape feasible. I don’t propose running us all out on a yardarm if we’re in the middle of the sea with no help at hand.”
“Oh.” Archer looked relieved. “You sounded as though you planned to begin any minute.”
“I would like to.” He smiled, patted the pocket where the adze bit was hidden. “But we do have that port to deal with first.”
“As soon as they take that damned lantern away.” Archer frowned suddenly. “Will?”
Marshall felt it, too. The deck beneath them shivered slightly, as the ship lost momentum. She was slowing, heaving to, her sails slackened to let the wind pass them by. “So early,” Marshall said. “This must be ordinary, legitimate business. It’s not even dark yet.”
“Nearly sundown.” Archer glanced at the evening light that angled through the port. “Oh, no...”
Somewhere above them, someone was pulling on a pair of ropes. The shutter over their window creaked, then tilted up until the flow of light and air stopped altogether.
Marshall got up to check. The shutter fit inside the frame, concealing the notch that he’d dug out. But there wasn’t room to work on it, not even space to manipulate the blade.
He turned away and slumped to the floor. When he met Archer’s eyes he saw that words were unnecessary. He said them anyway, in the vain hope that shared disappointment might be less bitter. “We can’t, Davy. They’ll be watching for any attempt. We don’t dare work on it at all, tonight.”
Supplemental Log, HMS Calypso, in for repair, Portsmouth.
Lt. Anthony Drinkwater, in temporary command. 27-7-1799
I have been informed that the ransom for Captain Smith and our two officers is being assembled and should be ready within two or three days’ time. Ad. Roberts will assign a special squad of marines to guard the chest that contains it, and has given me temporary command of the captured merchant vessel
Fifine
to make the delivery. We will be carrying seventy-five crewmen from
Calypso
, as well as our usual marine contingent; we will follow whatever instructions we may receive for delivery of the ransom, but I am being given considerable latitude in judgement with regard to possible rescue and capture of the abductors. The information from Capt. Smith has been forwarded to the Admiralty by post chaise; their reply, if any, should reach us at approximately the same time as the strongbox.
~
Dark. Close, cramped air. Straw prickling through the sailcloth spread beneath him, and the endless rocking of the ocean. Marshall blinked, suddenly awake in the shipboard cell, and wondered what had wakened him. Then Archer blurted incoherently in his sleep and flung an arm out, hitting him across the face.
He was up in the rigging, naked and cold, helpless as a fly in a spider’s web, with the whole crew watching. Will was down there, and the Captain, staring as if they couldn’t believe he would be up here like this. “There, laddie,” Adrian whispered from behind him, “You liked that, didn’t you? You did. Say it.”
He wanted to push the bastard off, wanted to let go himself and fall to the deck, or into the sea. He couldn’t get his hands free, couldn’t move at all. “I’d sooner lie with a rotting corpse,” he spat.
The shrouds shook as someone else climbed up. He barely recognized the face, half-gone and eaten by fishes, but he knew who it was as it came closer, the gaping hole in the center of a ragged shirt, seaweed in the hair.
“Hello, boy.”
Correy. How—?
“That’s a good little whore, come to Georgie...” A skeletal hand reached for him, bones poking out through disintegrating flesh. On the deck below, William turned away in disgust.
“Davy,” Marshall whispered. “Davy!” He caught his friend by the shoulders. “Wake up!” But Archer, trapped in his nightmare, only fought harder. Worse, he started shouting. Marshall had to clap a hand over his mouth and roll on top of him to stop his thrashing. Damn these nightmares! He didn’t want Archer whipped for creating a disturbance, and his own back would not welcome another beating. “Davy!” he hissed.
The struggling body stilled under his hand. “Wha—Will?”
“Yes. Davy, please, you must be quiet—”
His words were cut off as David’s arms snaked round his bare shoulders, pulling him down. Not an embrace; it was like a drowning man clutching at a straw. Marshall turned his face to get Archer’s hair out of his mouth, and his lips brushed against David’s. They parted, and he was lost. A surge of wild pleasure engulfed him; he found himself holding Davy just as tightly, just as close. It wasn’t exactly passion—more some strange mix of protectiveness and a need he’d never realized, a craving for something tangible in this fearful dark place where all the rules that shaped their world were suspended. For an instant he teetered between sensation and control, then the riptide of feeling yanked him under.
Some small part of his mind worried over the problem while his body hurled itself eagerly into the maelstrom. Wildfire blazed from his mouth all the way to his toes, kindling a flame in his groin as he felt himself harden. His lips tingled, the sweet hot touch of Davy’s mouth drawing his tongue deep inside—like kissing a girl but nothing like it, no courtesy, no caution, just a blinding urgency, almost the bloodlust of battle.
But he didn’t want to kill Davy or hurt him—God, no, he just wanted to get closer, somehow. He could feel his own blood racing, could sense another pulse through the thin barrier of cloth between them. He had never in his whole lonely life felt so close to another human being, but there was a familiarity about this, as though he knew exactly what to do. It was incredible, glorious, and hovering just out of reach was the tantalizing promise of one tiny bit more, and he wanted it desperately.
Archer was writhing against him now, one hand tangled in his hair, the other arm locked around his waist. He abandoned himself to the rhythm, hands sliding down with a will of their own to catch Archer’s hips. Davy whimpered, and suddenly they were fumbling with fly buttons—their own, each other’s, it hardly mattered. Trousers slid away and they were twined together in the straw, rolling around like a couple of young animals, slippery with the sweat of their furious struggle, frantic but silent.
It was like being on deck in a hurricane: no control, no chance of mastery, just holding on for dear life and hoping to survive the cataclysm. Davy’s shirt was an obstacle, bunching up between them, and they wrestled that off, lips separating only long enough to get the thing over his head and out of their way.
The wave broke almost immediately as their naked bodies touched full length, small cries drowning in each others’ throats. The tidal surge seemed to go on forever, then slowly ebbed until they were two separate beings again, two gasping, spent bodies, two very shocked and bewildered young men. But Davy held his face for a moment longer, time enough for a gentle, piercingly tender kiss. “Thank you,” he breathed.
Released, Marshall rolled away, dazed, his body still humming like rigging in a gale. As the feelings calmed and his brain cleared, he realized that what had felt like an age could have lasted barely a minute or two. Had they been overheard? The only sounds he could detect were Archer’s ragged breathing, the rustle of the straw, the creaking of the ship. No alarm outside.
Hardly necessary. Alarm was shrieking within him, and he tried to still it with mundanity. “We—we had better wash up.” He groped for the water bucket, shivering as the cold wetness splashed against his belly, rinsing himself, passing the refilled cup to Archer.
His breeches had wrapped themselves around one ankle, and the small problem of untangling them and pulling them back on gave him a moment to try to think. It was like swimming in glue. The enormity of what he had just done nearly paralyzed him. What in the world had possessed him? And Davy had
thanked
him. For stopping, of course. If he could voluntarily drop dead, this very moment, he would. But of course it couldn’t be that easy.
He couldn’t see David in the darkness, didn’t have to look him in the face; that was a small comfort, since it meant Davy couldn’t see him, either. He couldn’t hear Davy’s breathing anymore, but sensed that he was waiting. Speechless with fury, most likely.
Oh, God, now what?
He sagged against the bulkhead, face in his hands, and struggled for words. Finally, he took refuge in formality, pushing the phrases out through a throat almost too tight to breathe. “Mr. Archer, I—I most humbly beg your pardon. That was inexcusable, I don’t know what came over me—”
Archer had curled into a tight ball, choking on pain, cursing his own stupidity. He could have just released William, apologized, pretended to be asleep, something. If only he hadn’t said anything! Well, he wouldn’t have to worry anymore about being a pawn in the hostage game; now Will could simply find the Captain and leave.
Or I can just attack Adrian, if I can’t kill him I’ll just go on fighting until he has to kill me.
He heard Will say something about washing, took the cup that was thrust into his hand, used it to rinse away the stickiness on his belly. For all the good it would do
. This won’t wash off.
Then he heard Will’s voice, and his mind finally made sense of the words. Except that the words didn’t make sense. Why in God’s name should William be apologizing to him? But he sounded terribly upset, as why shouldn’t he, and he seemed to be standing there waiting for an answer. What came over
him?
That was too absurd. Archer swallowed. “I seem to recall having something to do with it.” His voice sounded almost calm, strange in his own ears. Well, he had just destroyed the last bit of anything that made his life worth living. What was there left to fear? Poor Will was breathing heavily, as though he’d run a mile. “Will, for God’s sake, please sit down before you fall over.”
Marshall slid to the deck with a thud, knotting his hands together to keep them from shaking. “If you wish,” he said woodenly, “When we return to
Calypso
I shall place myself under arrest for—for indecently assaulting an officer under my command, I shall resign my commission—”
“Are you mad?” Panic flooded out any other feeling, though Archer had just enough control to keep his voice low. “Will, that’s a hanging offense. Have you ever seen a hanging? I have.” Terror made him babble. “I was eight. My father thought it would be an eye-opening experience. He was right. I didn’t sleep for three days.” He took a deep breath and continued, trying to sound more reasonable. “Even if you had... done anything to harm me, do you think I would say one word to send you to the gallows?”
Gallows. Maybe he could get hold of that cord they’d woven, hang himself while William slept. It would be a coward’s apology, though, and Will would only blame himself. “It would make as much sense for me to place myself under arrest for seducing my commanding officer.” But, no, that would ruin Will, too. “They probably would hang us both, for idiocy, if we were fools enough to confess to such a thing.”
He was at a loss for what to say, but the words kept pouring out, regardless. “Or I could report that our genial host has been indecently assaulting both of us and you chose to take responsibility for it all. That’s at least closer to the truth, isn’t it?” He stopped in horror, aware of what he’d just revealed.