Ransom (2 page)

“Am I fit for polite company?” David inquired, doffing his hat and making a leg. As usual, he was by far the more elegant of the pair, the sun-lightened gold of his hair an elegant contrast to the dark blue of his uniform.

“Yes, and the dockmaster’s company as well. And I?”

“You’ll do. Though much of the credit must go to your tailor.”

“Tailor! Davy, I must see—”

Archer laughed, and propelled him out into the gangway. “You must see the Captain immediately. The tailor will wait, we’re not leaving port for at least a week.”

They hurried back abovedeck with all the decorum they could manage, and bade farewell to First Lieutenant Drinkwater, who was left in command of the
Calypso
while her captain went ashore. The captain’s launch conveyed them to the sally port, and from there they returned to the cobbled streets of Portsmouth.

Captain Smith surveyed the busy thoroughfare and consulted his watch. “Gentlemen, it has been hours since breakfast and I expect that, like myself, in the flurry of arrival you neglected to eat.” No one would ever accuse Sir Paul of being a lenient captain. But he was not a harsh one, either.

“You are correct, sir,” Marshall admitted.

“We shall dine first, then. Your first meal ashore as an officer, is it not?”

Again, Marshall had to agree.

“Then it’s high time you had the practice. The society of officers and gentlemen is a step up from the midshipmen’s mess.”

The inn to which Smith escorted them was also a step up from what a midshipman could afford. Marshall suspected the Captain was not too far from his own youth to remember what a treat it was for young men who’d been eating beef, biscuit, and salt pork for the last four months to address themselves to fresh-cooked food in an establishment much finer than any they would have chosen for themselves.

Savoury soup, meat pie, fresh-baked bread so hot the butter melted on it, game hens with sage and onion stuffing, soft cheese and ripe pippin apples... Marshall was in a minor level of heaven by the time they sat contemplating glasses of ruby-colored port, though he was sufficiently earthbound to pay attention to the Captain’s detailed exposition of what work had to be done on their poor battered ship. He was intimately acquainted with the damage—the last French salvo had killed two men in his gun crew when it took out part of
Calypso’s
starboard rail.

“Now, then, gentlemen,” Smith said as they left the inn, “I believe we are sufficiently fortified to face the master of the repair dock. He holds the life of your ship in his hands. It is his duty to make repairs, but that can be a long, slow process if he takes a dislike to a captain. Far better to encourage him, let him know how important he is to His Majesty’s Navy, perhaps using some of your prize to commission non-regulation improvements; that can be a very sound investment. And the truth is, we are bringing in a very complicated piece of work. The poor girl’s internal structure has been—”

“Captain! Captain Smith, sir!”

The man who came running up behind them wore the uniform of a shore-service lieutenant. He stopped, saluted smartly, and said, “Admiral Roberts’ compliments, sir; he would like to see you as soon as possible.”

“I had planned to attend directly after I’d seen to my ship,” Smith said, frowning. “Can this not wait?”

The lieutenant’s ruddy face pinched in distress. “I was told immediately, sir, if you please. He’s sent a coach.”

“Oh, very well.” Smith glanced at Marshall and Archer. “Well, come along, gentlemen.” He frowned at the stranger. “I trust this won’t take long?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir.”

They followed him along to the waiting coach. It must be an important matter, indeed; the offices of the port authority were only 20 minutes’ walk away.

Marshall climbed in and settled himself beside Archer, enjoying the novelty. He had only been in a coach a handful of times; the first had been the long, weary journey that brought him from his little village in Worcester to Spithead, six long years ago. He was fifteen then, not even old enough to shave, and had just been accepted as a midshipman in His Britannic Majesty’s Navy.

And now he was Lieutenant William Marshall, officer and gentleman. Tomorrow, 17 July, he would turn 21. He had seen battle at sea, survived minor wounds, and had even seen a little of Italy. Even though he had been at sea since his middle teens, Marshall still felt as though his life was something from a book of adventure tales. The years at his father’s parsonage, peaceful and monotonous, seemed like a dim, half-forgotten dream.

Now, of course, he wondered what the Port Admiral had in mind. He couldn’t mean to send the crippled
Calypso
on a mission; she would go to the bottom in even a mild storm. More likely Admiral Roberts simply wanted to hear Captain Smith’s report and was not inclined to wait until ship’s business had been concluded.

“What the devil does he think he’s doing?” Smith said suddenly, jerking Marshall from his reverie. “He’s turning the wrong way. Driver!”

Marshall glanced out and saw that they had, indeed, turned off down an alleyway. And then wooden shutters flapped down over the windows, throwing them into near-total darkness as the coach picked up speed. Marshall pushed at the shutter beside him, but it held fast.

“He’ll have us over if he keeps on like this,” Archer said, rattling the shutter on his window. “It feels as though they’ve slid a bolt across.”

“The hinges,” Smith snapped. A ringing rasp said he’d drawn his sword. Marshall followed suit, and they slid the blades through the narrow crack at the top of the shutter, levering at the edge. The hinges squeaked protestingly as the screws came loose, but the shutter held firm.

“It’s fitted into the frame,” Archer reported. “These aren’t just for bad weather.”

The coach pitched into another abrupt turn, and they were all thrown to the right. Marshall’s sword caught on something; he felt carefully, and found it had ripped a jagged hole in the leather seat-cover.

“Put your swords on the floor, easy to hand,” the Captain said. “We’ll just see if we can kick the door out.”

That would have worked, if they’d had time. The door began to loosen under their blows, but before they could kick it free of its frame the coach turned again, slowed, and passed into a building. As it rolled to a halt, the door sagged open and swung crookedly on one hinge. All that was visible beyond was a row of empty stalls.

“Come on out,” a voice called. “You’re surrounded. Quick, now, an’ no tricks.”

“If they’re on both sides of us they can’t risk crossfire,” Smith said, low. “I’ll break right. Follow as you see fit.”

He leaped out, diving out of sight, with Marshall and Archer right behind him. A scruffy figure with a stick, his face swathed in a dirty mask, dove after him. Smith struck his arm and the stick dropped, the wounded man clutching a bloody wrist. But these bandits had played this game before, and as the Captain spun to meet a swinging club, another villain, also masked, leaned over the edge of the hayloft and clipped his skull with the back of a shovel. Marshall, back to back with Archer in a circle of masked, club-wielding ruffians, saw Smith fall. He lunged, trying to break through the circle, but his sword was knocked aside. Archer was having no better luck.

“Give it up, boyos,” one of their enemies said. “We have orders to take you alive, but accidents happen all the time.” He drew a dirk, long and deadly in the lantern light, and laid it across Smith’s throat. “You wouldn’t want to lose your captain by accident, would you?”

Marshall stopped, breathing hard. He traded a glance with Archer, who looked as frustrated as he felt. But there really was nothing else to do; if these men didn’t intend to kill them outright, they might have a chance to escape later. “And where are we to be taken, alive? France?”

He hardly expected the general hilarity that erupted at his question, but he didn’t have time to consider another. David dropped at his feet an instant before something struck him hard from behind.

Return to TOC

Marshall felt a rocking motion before his senses returned fully. It was not the rocking of a ship, and he realized he could not smell the sea. Slitting his eyes against a throbbing headache, he found himself lying on his back with boards above him, too close—less than a foot away. Dust motes floated in the dim afternoon light filtering through cracks between the boards, behind and to one side of his head. Not a boat... a waggon of some sort?

He looked to his right and saw Captain Smith, lying apparently unconscious. Archer, eyes shut, lay to his left. He turned on one side, reaching to shake the Captain, and was brought fully awake when a chain yanked his hand back down.

A whisper of movement from behind caught his attention. “Will?”

“Davy.” He twisted back to peer at Archer. “Are you all right?”

“I’m awake,” Archer replied tightly. “But I’m not going to open my eyes just now. If I don’t look, it’s not too bad.”

Archer had once been trapped between decks after a battle that stove in
Calypso
’s hull. It had taken hours to free him from a hole just about the size of a coffin, and another half-hour to revive him; he had nearly suffocated. Archer’d been uneasy about enclosed spaces ever since.

“It is reminiscent of that wretched mess you were in ‘tweendecks, isn’t it? I’d never really appreciated what that must have been like.”

“Too damned reminiscent.” Archer’s voice was brittle. “Will, I don’t know how much of this I can stand—”

Marshall stretched, managing to reach Archer’s hand. It was icy, but his grip was like steel. “Hold fast, Davy. They can’t mean to go very far like this. Take deep breaths.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, it’s something my father used to tell his parishioners when they were worried. Said the Lord breathed life into Adam and since then we’ve ignored the gift. He said it’s calming. It does help, when I remember to do it.”

“It’s always hardest remembering what to do, isn’t it?” Marshall heard him take a couple of breaths, experimentally. “I think your father was right. At least it occupies the mind.”

The edge was out of his voice, now, and his hand relaxed a bit. “See if you can’t get some sleep, Davy. I’ll stand watch until the Captain wakes.”

“Is he hurt?”

“Don’t know, I can’t reach him. Captain? Captain Smith?”

Smith moved his head and made a noise between a groan and a growl. “Mr. Marshall. Mr. Archer, are you over there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long have we been in this damned box, Mr. Marshall?”

“I’m not sure, sir. We were all knocked unconscious during the fight. The light has changed since I woke, about fifteen minutes ago; I think it’s nearly sunset.”

“Mm.”

“I asked them if they were French, sir. They seemed to find that most amusing.”

“That’s good to know.” Marshall could see his captain making the same visual survey he had done. “At least an hour, perhaps longer. It lacked two hours until sunset when we were taken.”

“Yes, sir. And it’s much darker—” As he spoke, the last glimmers of light faded. Marshall had the wretched notion that this was what it would feel like to be buried alive. He knew air was coming in; he had seen the light through cracks in the waggon. But the dark felt smothering, and Archer’s hand tightened on his once more.

“Doesn’t sound as though there’s much traffic,” Smith mused aloud. “We can try shouting if we hear anything approach, but I suspect if shouting would help we would have been gagged.” His chains clanked. “It seems I am secured. Mr. Archer, any luck with your bonds?”

“None, sir.”

“Damn. Well, gentlemen, I intended this as a training excursion; it seems we all have a lesson to learn about vigilance. Although we may be overheard, even now, I am going to give you your orders for the time being. If you see an opportunity for escape, take it. Use your own judgment. Do not endanger yourselves unnecessarily. I believe I know what is happening here.”

Marshall blinked. “Sir?”

“In a recent dispatch, ranking military officers were warned of a rash of abductions by a gang of masked men. The object has been ransom. I saw to it that my family was discreetly guarded, but it never occurred to me that these brigands would be mad enough to kidnap a party of naval officers. They’ll find they have made a serious mistake.”

“Yes, sir.” It did seem a stupid thing to do. On the other hand, they were now prisoners, and the arrangements for keeping them so seemed quite thorough.

“Mr. Archer,” Smith went on, “your father the Earl will not be pleased to hear you have come to this strait.”

“No, sir, but I expect he’ll buy me back.” David’s tone was ironic. “They can’t ask much for a fourth son, at any rate.”

“Do not assess your value solely by the order of your birth, Mr. Archer. Mr. Marshall...” He lowered his voice. “Until further notice, you are my dead cousin’s son, raised by her husband, the Reverend Mr. Marshall.”

“Sir?”

“Apparently, if this gang receives their ransom, their well-heeled prisoners are returned alive, sometimes weeks later, rowed ashore miles from where they were picked up. They have no idea where they’ve been, except that they were on a ship of some sort. Unfortunately, when others—those unable to pay—are taken prisoner with the target, they have been found dead or not found at all. You will be less expendable if you have a social connection, and, in the event we cannot arrange our own escape, I will of course see to it that you are both ransomed.”

Marshall swallowed, enormously touched. “Sir, I-I could never repay—”

“I would take it as a very great insult if you try, Lieutenant,” Smith growled. “If it was my position which has put you in this danger, it is my responsibility to get you out.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. For the moment, since there seems to be little we can do, we shall rest and stand watches. I shall wake you, Mr. Marshall, and you wake Mr. Archer, in turn. Two hours to a watch, as nearly as you can estimate.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Marshall made himself as comfortable as possible on the unyielding wooden floor. He listened to Archer’s careful breathing, waiting until the grasp on his hand loosened before seeking refuge in sleep. He hardly hoped he’d be able to relax, but between the long day, the persistent headache, and the monotony of the cart’s motion, his body overrode his mental activity and let him drift off.