“How is he?” Smith asked, behind him.
“I don’t know, I can’t see anything—I can’t find a wound. Sir,” he added, remembering who it was asking. A light appeared over his shoulder; the Captain had brought one of the lanterns. That helped, but all it revealed was a scorch mark on David’s waistcoat. He unbuttoned it, worried that the burn might cover an entry wound, but the shirt beneath it was unmarked. He rolled David over. Nothing.
“It appears he trapped the gun between his arm and his body,” Smith said. “Sensible move. Is he breathing?”
Under his hand, there was movement, the rise and fall of breath. And a heartbeat? “Yes, sir, he is.” And he remembered to breathe, himself, and checked for a pulse at the throat. That was all right, too. Relief flooded through him. “Do you think he might have hit his head?”
“I can think of no other explanation. Give him a few minutes, Mr. Marshall. I believe he will come around.”
“Yes, sir.” The rest of the world came back into focus, and he saw the blood dripping on the deck. “Captain, your hand!”
“The edge of his blade sliced the thumb. Messy and inconvenient, but superficial. If you would—?” Smith handed him his handkerchief; Marshall had nearly finished binding his hand up as their two recruits returned from the forecastle.
“We ‘eard your order to stay put, Cap’n—”
“Yes. He shot your young shipmate before we could stop him. I am very sorry. Mr. Archer was also injured. Please fetch a blanket from the boat and put it over Mr. Archer, then remove my sword from that—” He jerked his head at the gruesome object near the poop deck, “and get it off the quarterdeck.”
Parker’s eyes widened, but he only said “Aye, sir.”
By the time he brought the blanket, David was stirring. His eyes went first to Marshall, then to Smith, who was frowning at something off the starboard rail. “I’m alive.” He sounded surprised.
“Yes,” Marshall said. “Through no fault of your own.”
“Where’s—”
“Lie quiet for a moment, Davy,” Marshall had put himself between Archer and the corpse, blocking his view. “How do you feel?”
“Like someone shot my head out of a 20-pounder.” David grimaced. “I—I was so intent on getting hold of that gun, I didn’t think to—to consider my own trajectory. You’re all right—and the Captain—it worked?”
“Splendidly. The Captain delivered the coup de grace.”
“He’s dead?” Archer pushed himself up on an elbow.
“Quite dead.” Marshall moved aside so he could see. Parker hadn’t yet removed the sword, which had transfixed Adrian just below the heart. There was very little blood; the sword was holding it in. “No doubt this time.”
Archer stared for a long moment, then nodded. “Thank God that’s over.”
“Nearly. We are still afloat with no rudder and a hold full of armed prisoners.”
“Well, you wouldn’t want life to be too easy, would you?”
“Heaven forbid we should be bored. Rest now, Davy.”
“I’m all right.” He tapped his temple cautiously. “Head of oak. There’s too much to do, I can’t just lie here.”
He made it to a sitting position, then started to list to larboard. Marshall caught him. “Damn it, Davy—”
“As you were, Mr. Archer,” Smith called. “Mr. Marshall, a moment, please.”
“Sir?”
Smith had moved the lantern away from the starboard stair. He pointed. “There. Unless I’m mistaken, we are about to have company.”
Marshall squinted off into the darkness. After a moment he saw something—not an object so much as an absence of light on the sea, a place where the starlight did not reflect. He remembered, suddenly, the telescope he’d taken from the helmsman, an age ago, and handed it to Smith.
“I don’t like the look of this, Mr. Marshall. Go aloft and see what you think.”
“Aye, sir.” He took the glass and climbed halfway up the mizzen, far enough to get clear of the lights on deck. It was miserably cold for July—he’d not noticed that before, but now he found himself wishing he’d confiscated one of Adrian’s shirts when he’d had the chance.
Even up here, he still could not see much. There was definitely a vessel of some sort out there, though, under full sail, beating toward them. The glass brought it closer. Too dark to see any colors, of course, but as she tacked into the wind he could make out a faint silhouette of sails and masts. Three masts. Three masts, of equal height.
Oh, for God’s sake.
He let out a pent-up breath and dropped his head against the mast, not sure if he was going to laugh or cry.
With all the English ships in the damned channel... and all we have are four six-pounders and two popguns and two crewmen and Davy’s hurt and we’ve no helm at all...
He stowed the glass, clambered back down to the deck, and returned to Smith. “She’s French, sir.” The idea of being taken prisoner again, now, after all this... “She’s French.”
Smith swore. Marshall could seldom read the man’s expression, but for an instant the Captain looked just as disgusted and discouraged as he felt himself. Shivering a little in the cold, he pulled himself to attention. “Captain? Sir—when do we attack?”
“Mr. Marshall—” Smith stopped himself, and almost smiled. He frowned off at the approaching ship, then at the deck. After a moment, he narrowed his eyes. “No. We’re not going to attack. We are going to give them a boatload of pirates. Mr. Marshall, assemble the crew.”
~
Two lights burned on the brig’s deck, at either side of the empty quarterdeck. No one moved anywhere, she showed no colors, she appeared to have been left adrift... but for those lights. It was a conundrum that no captain with a grain of curiosity could possibly resist.
The little French trading ship hove to a short way off, and her commander made use of signal lanterns. The brig made no response. After a short interval, the ship lowered a boat—a large boat, for such a small ship, 20 men or more—and it pulled rapidly for the brig.
Marshall watched from his wet vantage point just behind the keel, where the ship’s bow met the water. Too caught up in the moment to feel the cold, he gave one tug on the line around his waist that connected him to the
Elusive’s
second boat, lying in the brig’s lee and invisible to the Frenchman. That would tell the others that the strangers were approaching; with luck, he would overhear enough to tell him whether they were indeed French, or if the French ship was a captured, converted vessel. If the former, they would leave as quickly as possible, and would be out of sight by sunrise. They knew that if they rowed west, they would be on English soil before the sun went down, and whoever remained on the ship would be on their way to France as prisoners.
But there was a fair chance that a ship this close to the English shore might be a captured vessel crewed by Englishmen. Captain Smith had decided it was worth the risk; after going to the trouble to capture and hold the brig, he was loathe to leave it and risk the crew escaping.
The soft splash of the French boat’s oars drew closer. They were being extremely quiet for sailors paying a social visit, but of course, any ship that appeared deserted and made no response would be one to approach with caution.
“... not a bloody soul.” The whisper carried across the water with astonishing clarity. “God ‘elp us, what if she’s a plague ship?”
Englishmen! Marshall was so startled that his hand slipped off the keel and he submerged; as soon as he surfaced and caught his breath, he gave three sharp tugs on his lifeline.
He shook the water out of his ears and heard someone’s response. “—’ad time to go anywhere she’d pick up plague, O’Reilly, don’t go scarin’ the men.”
O’Reilly? It wasn’t possible—Yes, it was. O’Reilly was afraid of no man, but he was frightened as a girl of contagious disease. And that was Barrow admonishing him, as usual. Marshall didn’t know how it was possible, but he could find that out later.
“Ahoy!” he shouted. He realized he couldn’t hail the boat properly; he didn’t know the name of the ship. Then he realized he did know; of course he knew. “Ahoy
, Calypso!”
The oars stopped. The silence was so thick you could cut it. Then Barrow said, cautiously, “Mr. Marshall?”
They were home.
Captain’s Log, HMS Calypso, in for repair, Portsmouth. 11-8-1799 (Temporary Command: HMS Artemis, Spithead.)
I have resumed command after concluding matters with the Admiralty regarding our abduction; Act. Lt. Archer has recovered from the concussion sustained during our escape. Repairs are proceeding on the
Calypso
, and we should be back on active duty in approximately one month.
~
Captain Sir Paul Andrew Smith returned from the Admiralty on the pleasant warm morning of August 1 with a little information, a bellyful of apologies, a decision to make—a decision he did not have adequate information to make properly—and the onerous task of obtaining that information.
He was piped aboard the
Artemis
; he had been given the ship, temporarily, until
Calypso
was seaworthy again, and the
Calypso’s
artificers were keeping themselves busy converting her from a French trader to an English warship. She was serving to berth the
Calypso’s
officers and many of the men who had been in on the rescue—she was not large enough to hold them all—and the rest were still berthed on a hulk under Second Lt. Watson’s command.
Some of the crew were off on shore leave, but Drinkwater was there to greet him. Marshall and Archer were not, and Smith inquired after them.
“They went to the shipwright, sir,” Drinkwater said. “Mr. Marshall wanted to observe the reconstruction of the quarterdeck gun-mounts, and Mr. Archer also felt it would be instructive.”
“Very good. When they return, I would like to see you and Mr. Marshall in my cabin. I received some information of which you both should be aware.”
“Not Mr. Archer, sir?”
“I... think not. Some of the information is highly sensitive, and I was instructed to share it only with those commissioned officers directly involved in the matter.” With his acting status, Archer could be considered a commissioned officer if the situation warranted it, but in this case... “Mr. Marshall can relay whatever information is appropriate.”
“Yes, sir.” Drinkwater looked troubled, but said no more. He had assisted Smith in searching Adrian’s cabin after the prisoners had been confined, had seen what Adrian kept in the drawer under his bunk. He had been present when Smith found Adrian’s private journal. And he had not asked awkward questions when Smith sent him away.
Smith had read the journal. And burned it. And wished, quite vindictively, that he and Marshall had not given that unspeakable creature such a quick, clean death.
But that still left the problem of what to do about Archer. Smith was certain that the individual referred to by that name in the journal was a construct of Adrian’s imagination, distorted almost beyond recognition—but the fear that had hovered over Archer since their return was not imagination.
Still, if any of what was in there was true, small wonder. If Archer were inclined to love his fellow man in a physical way, Smith had seen no sign of it—and in his years of service he had known a few men who were, and kept themselves to themselves, and done their duty, and caused no trouble. But he’d seen nothing to suggest Archer was like that.
But if there were the slightest chance... Archer was up for promotion. Once he was made lieutenant, he would be on a track that led to commander, captain, and even, eventually, admiral. Smith had seen damage done before this, by men who misused the power of their rank—not always, or even often, through sex, though that was the worst. Granted they would all have a special place in Hell, but it was what they did on Earth that concerned him. And if he were to promote someone who might misuse his power, he would share the responsibility.
Of course, Archer could be left as a midshipman indefinitely. When the war ended, he would most likely be released from the Service. The easy way out, from a commander’s point of view. But Archer was a good officer. He might well be—probably was, in fact—an innocent victim. Who had overpowered and captured his tormentor. And had not killed him.
He could not have known about the journal or he would have destroyed it, but he had let Adrian live, despite the fact that he knew the man’s testimony would impugn him, perhaps irreparably. That could be seen as high moral courage—or sentimentality.
On the encouraging side, Archer had shown no regret at Adrian’s death. Groggy and concussed, he had hardly been capable of dissimulation. And Archer had come out of a protected position to assist in recapturing the pirate. Judging by his first words after he awoke, Archer had, in fact, saved his captain’s life expecting to lose his own. Smith’s inclination was to view Archer’s misfortunes as he did Marshall’s unwarranted beating—something beyond his control—but the nature of the problem was just different enough to raise some ugly questions.
A knock at the door interrupted his inner debate. “Come.”
Drinkwater put his head in. “Mr. Marshall has returned, sir. If it’s convenient?”
It was not convenient. It was a damned unpleasant prospect; he wished the entire situation would just go away. But a captain never had that option. “Yes, Mr. Drinkwater. Thank you.”
They were already at the door. “Come in, Mr. Drinkwater. Mr. Marshall. Please be seated, both of you.” The captain’s cabin on the
Artemis
was small but comfortable, and the charts were stowed away, leaving the table clear. He began with the facts, which were simple enough.
“Gentlemen, as you know, I spent some time at the Admiralty sorting out the details of our little adventure, and it is my pleasure to convey the First Admiral’s appreciation for ending Adrian’s criminal activities. Commendations will be noted in the records of every man involved.
“As to the origins of the situation... Our surmise was accurate. The man we knew as ‘Adrian’ was at one time an officer in His Majesty’s Navy.”
The question was so clear on Marshall’s face he might as well have asked it. And Smith could not give him the answer. When they had finally unmasked the pirate, after the
Calypso’s
men had the situation under control, Adrian’s face had looked vaguely familiar; it was only at the Admiralty that Smith had realized why. He had met Adrian, in his father’s company, at a Royal Levee some years ago. “He was the son of an admiral whose name I cannot reveal, so I will continue to use the name he affected. He was the Admiral’s heir, brought up in naval tradition; he was entered on the books from the age of eight, even though he did not actually set foot on a ship until his late teens, after his education.