Marshall started awake with Smith shouting in his ear. He had no time to catch the exact words; a trapdoor flew up just above their faces, and a sharp blade pressed against his throat. He swallowed and held very still.
“We’ll have ye quiet,” a voice muttered, “‘Or you’ll get your throats cut, starting with this pup. D’ye understand?”
“Very well,” Smith said. The door slammed shut, dust spattering them. “I heard a horseman approach,” he continued. “A confederate, I’m afraid.”
“Shall I take watch now, sir?” Marshall offered.
“No need, Mr. Marshall. I feel no inclination to slumber. We have been traveling regularly for quite some time, now. We could be as far as 15 or 20 miles away, though whether up or down the coast, I cannot say. If they mean to put us aboard a ship, there is no shortage of beaches suitable for clandestine landing.”
“Do you think they are in league with smugglers, sir?” Marshall asked.
“It seems likely. This waggon is obviously designed for contraband cargo, human or otherwise.”
“Aye, sir, it is.”
“Mr. Archer?”
“Sir?”
“It seems we are to be allowed moderate conversation until we arrive at our destination. I therefore intend to drill you in the sort of questions that may be asked on your examination for the rank of Lieutenant. Mr. Marshall, you are welcome to exercise your wits, but please do not contribute your answers. Mr. Archer, a sail is sighted. What is the first thing you would look for to determine whether this ship is friend or foe?”
“If by ‘foe’ you mean French, sir?”
“I do.”
“The first sign would be whether all three masts were the same height; that would be a French ship. I would also see if the sail were very clean, as their ships spend most of their time in port. Either way, I would be prepared for an enemy, since the French use captured English ships as we use theirs.”
“Very good. What are the best and worst points of sailing of your current ship? How would you utilize the good points and compensate for the bad?”
As the practice drill went on, Marshall began to wonder if Smith had feigned unconsciousness earlier. He seemed to realize that Archer needed some kind of distraction, and focusing his attention on his upcoming examination was an effective strategy. Not only did it give Archer chance to prepare for the ordeal—and however difficult the conditions of examination, they could hardly be worse than these—it held out the prospect of hope, the tacit assurance that the Captain would not waste Archer’s time or his own if he never expected him to live to take the examination.
But then, Marshall wondered morosely, might he not do that very thing to bolster the morale of his junior lieutenants? Any kind of activity was better than lying helpless and worrying.
Be that as it might, the distraction proved effective for Marshall, letting him move about mentally even though his body was confined, and he was delighted to discover that Archer was, as far as he could tell, eminently ready to be tested. Smith’s questions ranged from the ridiculously simple—definition of a halyard, for instance—to very complex.
And then there was one question that sounded familiar: “You are close-hauled on the port tack, beating up-channel with a nor’easterly wind blowing hard, with Dover bearing north two miles. The wind veers four points and takes you flat aback.”
It was the very question that had caused Marshall to fail his first examination, though he’d passed on his second try. Apparently the problem was giving David some trouble, too, since he had no ready answer.
“You are now dismasted, Mr. Archer,” Smith droned, “with Dover cliffs under your lee. What are you going to do?”
Drown
, thought Marshall. There had to be an answer—and although he had some ideas, he had always been too self-conscious to bring up the subject with anyone, much less the Captain or Mr. Drinkwater, who might have known what the examination board was looking for. Thank God the board at his second examination had asked him questions he knew how to answer, or he’d still be in the middies’ berth.
“Mr. Archer?”
“May I ask something, sir?” David asked cautiously.
“In an examination, that would be ill-advised. Do you not understand the question?”
“No, sir, the question is clear enough. But—sir, why would anyone bring a ship that close in to Dover? The wind there is so unreliable, and the way the shore angles out...”
Exactly. That was one of the things that had tied Marshall’s tongue at his own examination. What sort of imbecile would risk his vessel to the flukey wind, near that rocky, sloping trap of a coastline?
“Very true, Mr. Archer. Since you know better, let us assume your commander made this perhaps unwise decision, and was knocked unconscious when the masts came down. You did not put your ship in this position, but you are the senior officer responsible for saving your ship and crew. What are your orders, sir?”
“I—I would bear to starboard and maintain the port tack, jury rig a sail, if there were time... and run downwind, as far as possible, to clear the lee shore.”
Good, Davy!
Marshall cheered silently.
That might do it—
“And if the wind changes another two points, driving you in to shore?”
David paused for a long breath. “I would get an anchor down, sir, two if possible—”
“One of your anchors was lost when a Frenchman attempted a cutting-out during the middle watch. You had no replacement. The other anchor fouls halfway down and reduces your maneuverability, but does slow your progress toward the cliffs. What will you do now?”
Was there no answer to the damned question? Marshall shared Archer’s frustration. After a moment, David said, “I’m sorry, sir, but—I should send a boat to shore with a hawser, and give the order to prepare to abandon ship. I realize that cannot be the correct answer—”
“But it is, Mr. Archer,” Smith said.
“Sir?”
“Much as we all hate to admit it,” the Captain said, “there are sometimes circumstances that put us entirely at their mercy. And sometimes there is no mercy to be had.” His words hung in the darkness. “But how we bear ourselves under such conditions may mean the difference between ignominious defeat and final victory. This situation actually occurred, and the question has been in use in examinations for some years, now. Its purpose is to remind our confident young officers of human limitation. You see, Mr. Marshall, your difficulty with this problem was not such a black mark after all.”
“It never occurred to me that there might be no answer, sir,” Marshall admitted. “Congratulations, Mr. Archer.”
Smith cleared his throat. “Now, then, this question does have an answer. You have run aground on a mud shoal at the mouth of a harbor occupied by hostile forces. What is the standard method for freeing your ship, and how will you defend yourself while doing so?”
The questions went on for another hour or so, but finally the Captain’s deep voice grew weary. “One last question, gentlemen, and bear this one in your minds until we are free: You have been abducted by persons unknown, with the presumed goal of extracting ransom. How can you free yourself and your shipmates, with the best possible outcome including capture of your abductors?”
~
Supplemental Log, HMS Calypso, in for repair, Portsmouth.
Lt. Anthony Drinkwater, in temporary command. 16-7-1799
At 4 pm, Captain Smith, Lt. Marshall, and M’man Archer left the ship with the intention of establishing a schedule with the shipwright for repair of Calypso
.
Although they were scheduled to return by 8 pm, I had by that time received no word from the Captain. This being entirely uncharacteristic, indeed, the first time in my memory that Captain Smith has not been where he said he would be at the appointed time, I sent Ship’s Master Korthals to ascertain his whereabouts. He reported back at 9:15, to wit, the Captain’s party had never reached the shipwright. I have sent Mr. Korthals out again with three ratings (Barrow, O’Reilly, and Klingler) to see if they can determine what has become of our officers.
~
Marshall took the first watch. He let the others sleep past watch change, taking the time to review their capture. There must have been something he could have done; if only he could figure out what it was, he might have some idea of what to do next. Finally, he decided that the only thing that might have helped would have been a pistol, even though it was not a normal part of his uniform. Too late now.
He began to wonder if he’d been in this compartment too long. The smell of the sea was back. Why now, when he’d not noticed it before? Had the kidnappers perhaps gone inland at first to avoid suspicion?
He was still wondering whether he should wake Smith when the matter was decided for him. The rumble of the wheels changed; they were on a paved road again, and that shift in rhythm brought the Captain awake. “All quiet, Mr. Marshall?”
“So far, sir.”
Smith sniffed. “And we are back at the coast. It won’t be long now. Well, Mr. Marshall, any solutions to our dilemma?”
“Only hindsight, sir. Pistols would have been helpful.”
“In future, they will be. Damn! I cannot comprehend the short-sighted stupidity of a criminal who would abduct Naval officers! Does the fool not realize England is an island and the Navy is what keeps her safe?”
Marshall was surprised by his vehemence; the way he spoke almost made England sound like a flesh-and-blood woman. But, of course, it was Smith’s own personality, his force of will, that shaped his crew into a single-minded fighting force. “I suppose not, sir. Or he just doesn’t care.”
“No, I expect not. Get some rest, Mr. Marshall.”
But this time, sleep wouldn’t come. After a long journey along bumpy roads, the sounds outside changed. They stopped; harness jingled, horses stamped. They moved again, then stopped once more, and the trapdoor opened to reveal the roof of another barn, dimly lit by a couple of lanterns.
Someone held a light above them. “End of the ride, boyos,” said the spokesman of the masked men who’d captured them. “One at a time now. Just behave, and you’ll all get back to your ship safe and sound.” He put the knife back at Marshall’s throat. “You first, Captain.”
“Where are we?” Archer asked quietly as two other bandits unloaded Smith.
“I don’t know.” Marshall spoke carefully, hoping the knife-man wasn’t too excitable. “The next step on our little journey, apparently.”
“Exactly right,” his captor said. “Just a little more shaking around, and you’ll be back at sea. Ah, now you.” He turned the knife on Archer as Marshall was released from the irons.
When he straightened his aching back, his heart sank. He could see at least eight enemies, mostly armed with clubs. Captain Smith, his hands tied, was being lifted into one of the barrels used to store food aboard ship. “Now, don’t get the idea this is what happens every time,” the talkative bandit said. “I thought biscuit barrels were just the thing for sailors, but we do it different each time. Climb down, now.”
“Barrels?” Archer said.
“You heard me. There’s holes for air, you won’t smother. Just remember, if a barrel gets noisy, we drop it over the side.”
As he was pushed into the container, Smith shot Marshall a look that almost made him feel sorry for these pirates. But as the Captain’s glare vanished beneath the lid, Marshall was suddenly worried. How would Davy take this confinement? But he would have to. There was no chance these ruffians would have any pity for his fear, even if Marshall tried to explain, and he couldn’t humiliate his friend that way.
He climbed off the waggon under the bandits’ watchful eyes, let them tie his hands and load him into a barrel. The one with Smith in it was already being hoisted onto a cart that held several identical barrels, no doubt filled with perfectly ordinary biscuit.
“Keep ‘im uncorked ‘til we get this one trussed.” They pulled Archer out of storage. He glanced around, saw the last empty barrel, and met Marshall’s eyes.
Marshall saw the panic there, and forced himself to speak lightly. “Well, Davy, this will be a story for our grandchildren someday, won’t it?”
Archer swallowed, but managed a sickly grin as they tied him. “I-I suppose next they’ll stuff us through a keyhole.” The joke would have been more convincing if his voice hadn’t cracked.
A hand grabbed Marshall’s shoulder. “Inside, now.”
He resisted for a moment. “Dover cliffs, Davy. Keep breathing.” Then the hand pushed him down and the lid shut off the dim light. As it was hammered into place, he closed his eyes. David was right, it was a little easier this way. And he could still hear, as his tiny prison swayed and wobbled up until it settled on the cart. Then something banged against his barrel. Archer’s, probably. The cart shook as the rest of the cargo was loaded on, then jolted as they got underway.
Breathe, you fool.
He deliberately loosened his muscles, tried to take the advice he’d given Archer. He wanted to hammer at the lid until they let him back out. He didn’t dare. They’d probably kill him, and even if they did not, he’d wish they had. And if he felt like this, how was Davy faring?
He let his head drop back against the staves. If he were up in the maintop, on lookout, he’d be sitting on a perch not much bigger than this, enjoying the cool solitude. On a cloudy, moonless night it would be just as dark as this, but there would be a breeze, and even at anchor the
Calypso
would be moving. The four hours’ middle watch, dark to dawn, would fly past. And he was not alone here, not really. Archer was right beside him, Captain Smith only a few feet away.
He relaxed a little with the familiar images, and wished he could share the relief with Davy. That brought the worry back. No. Davy would be all right. He was stronger than he knew; he would get through this. They all would.
And they would find the answer to the Captain’s final question. He did not know how, but when they met this as yet unknown enemy—whom he was already beginning to hate—they would find a way to stop him.
~
Supplemental Log, HMS Calypso, in for repair, Portsmouth.