Ransom (26 page)
His weary body seized its chance as soon as he got horizontal. With no more than a passing regret that they’d missed the chance with that Navy ship, he slipped into a deep, comfortable sleep.
~
Captain’s Log, HMS Artemis (Supplemental Log, Detached duty, HMS Calypso, in for repair, Portsmouth.) Lt. Anthony Drinkwater, commanding 29-7-1799
Encountered HM Sloop
Speedy,
six miles off Bolt Head, where we had good news from Cmdr. Thomas Cochrane. He received powder this very morning from the
Morven
, heading N-NE. We had passed her out of sight at some time during the night. After hearing our purpose, Captain Cochrane kindly offered to join us and assist with the capture, but I declined with thanks. We do not wish to alert our quarry, and I believe that the return of the
Speedy
might alert the pirates that something is amiss. From his description, I am convinced we have sufficient arms and crew to effect a capture. By this time tomorrow, if all goes well, we will have recovered our officers and captured a shipload of brigands!
~
“Try to look less ferocious, Davy,” Marshall advised. “You’re holding that razor as if you’re ready to swing over to a Frog ship and raise hell.”
Archer frowned at his reflection in the little shaving mirror. William was right; he looked far too keen. He took a deep breath and tried to relax. This was no time to tighten himself up for battle; it was only eight bells, and with four hours until midnight, he had a long way to go. All in Adrian’s company.
Marshall had suggested that he might put Adrian out as quickly as he could, then tie him—but the pirate had, on other occasions, left off his diversions to give orders or receive information. They couldn’t risk alerting the crew too soon. It would have to be a last-minute attack, timed to clear the guards so Marshall could get on deck.
It was going to be a long night.
“That’s better,” Will said. “Much more wretched.”
“Yes, the thought of passing time with that bastard does have a dampening effect on the spirits.”
Marshall hesitated, then offered, “There’s still time to try it the other way. If you’d like me to go—”
“No.” Archer shook his head. “Your reach is much longer than mine, Will. I probably couldn’t even get to the chains outside. We have a good plan; this is no time to tamper with it.”
“You’re right.” Marshall’s mouth tightened. “I wish to God there were another way, Davy. But at least it will be the last time.”
“Yes.” One way or another, this would be the end. Archer had made that decision—not quite the way William meant it—in the hour before lunch, when his friend had finally given in to his exhaustion and dozed off. It wasn’t a matter of not having hope; he would keep faith with Will in that respect, make himself believe that this might all work out. It might. But he didn’t expect it would. And things would be much simpler for William, really, if he did not survive.
He put the shaving things down by the door, on their side of the hatch, and peered outside. The guards were out of sight.
“Right, then,” Marshall said in a low voice. “You begin at two bells, I’ll be ready to come on deck at three, or as soon as you get the guards away. Are you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
“I’ll see you on deck.”
Marshall held out his hand; Archer took it. He had a sudden sharp conviction that this was goodbye, and took two quick steps, pulling his friend back beside the door, out of sight. “Will, if this... goes bad... please, visit my family someday? Tell them—” He couldn’t go on; he didn’t know what to say.
Marshall closed his eyes briefly. “I’ll tell them they raised a hero. But—but I won’t need to, Davy—”
“It will be fine, I’m sure.” Time to go. “Will, I promise you, I will never do this again.” He reached up, swiftly, before his nerve failed, and found William’s lips—and was astonished to find the kiss returned fiercely, Will’s arms tight around him for one brief moment that brought back the incredible unity of the previous night.
But that was over, now. Forever. Time to go. “I’m sorry,” he said, stepping back. “I shouldn’t have...” He went back to the door, bent to push the basin outside.
“Davy—” He glanced up; Marshall was regarding him with that odd little smile. “Don’t apologize. I wanted to do that, too. I was afraid of breaking your concentration.”
“Not at all.” He touched his mouth, smiled. “It feels like a shield. I expect I’ll need it.” One more time, back into the bear pit. “Wish me luck?”
Marshall’s eyes held no doubt at all. “Of course. But it’s not just luck, Mr. Archer. You can do it.”
Archer forced a nod. “Of course,” he echoed, then pushed the basin and razor out for the guards to collect. A moment later, the door swung open to reveal his escort.
“Boarding party away,” William said, too low for the guards to hear. The boarding party had no difficulty assuming a suitably glum and apprehensive demeanor before the cloak masked the need for artifice.
~
Captain’s Log, HMS Artemis (Supplemental Log, Detached duty, HMS Calypso, in for repair, Portsmouth.) Lt. Anthony Drinkwater, commanding 30-7-1799
Despite having sailed a course that should have enabled us to intercept the
Morven
, we have missed her. She must have changed course at some point since her encounter with the
Speedy
, which of course Capt. Cochrane could not have anticipated. We shall begin a sweep covering as wide an area as possible, and hope for the best.
~
Adrian was in rare form at dinner, extremely pleased with himself, and by the time the meal ended Archer knew how Damocles must have felt. Every question, every innuendo made him feel that he had “escape” written across his forehead. Until tonight he had drunk anything Adrian offered, grateful for the numbing, but tonight he sipped at the wine only so as not to do anything out of the ordinary. He could not risk the chance that Adrian might have decided to drug him again.
He had no awareness of what he ate, but, though oblivious to the food, he was very aware of cutlery. When observed as a source of improvised weapons for an all-or-nothing attack, the table had much to choose from, all fairly unpleasant when applied with ill intent: the edge of a broken plate, a blunt knife, a wine-bottle from the sideboard, even the table itself. He thought that with the element of surprise he could kill Adrian, as long as he did not mind being killed himself. But that was not the plan; that was his own secondary strategy, in case all else failed.
“You seem quiet this evening, Mr. Archer,” Adrian remarked toward the end of the meal. “Are you unwell?”
“No. Not at all.”
Sick to death of your company, thank you
. “I was only... wondering... if you have had any word, as yet, on our ransom.”
“It’s not two weeks since you joined us. Early days. Are you really in such a hurry to get back to a ship unfit to sail?”
“To rejoin my ship’s company, yes.”
“And you’d not miss... any of this?” Adrian’s gesture was aimed at the table, but obviously included the rest of the cabin, the carpets, the absurdly luxurious sleeping quarters.
And himself. Was the man entirely out of touch with reality?
“I hardly think so,” Archer said, but an inner voice told him that this was an opportunity, and he had better consider his words. Adrian’s weak point was his conceit; play up to it, and he might be lulled. “I am—accustomed—to Navy accommodations.”
“But let us suppose you were not ransomed with your shipmates. You could accustom yourself to something more agreeable than His Majesty’s meager comforts, I’m sure.”
Not ransomed? Stay here permanently—was that really what he was hinting at? Did he imagine this docility would continue, without Will and the Captain as hostages? Archer decided to pretend he had missed the suggestion. “Shipboard life has taught me to adapt to a variety of circumstances.” That was true enough; Adrian would supply his own interpretation. Strange, after 12 days of being denied physical integrity, that he was so reluctant to utter convenient lies. Perhaps it was that he had nothing left but his word.
“Only ‘adapt’? I would have thought there was a time... or two... when you appeared to be rather enjoying yourself.”
Archer’s face burned.
When I was down on the floor, heaving my guts out? Oh, yes, that was delightful.
He looked down, quickly, before Adrian could see that it was anger, and not some other emotion. His hands were tight fists in his lap, but he said nothing.
Predictably—William was right, the villain was so very predictable—Adrian laughed. “Ah, the truth will out. I thought so. It was when we used the ropes, wasn’t it? Not having to worry about keeping you in check allows me to be so much more creative.”
Oh, please, no...
The one thing they had not considered in their strategy, a detail Archer had put out of his mind. And trying to dissuade Adrian would only fix his intention more securely. How long had it been, last time? Hours. Even after he’d exhausted himself, Adrian had seemed to enjoy leaving him tied and helpless; although Archer had altered details in what he told William, that part of it was true.
But Will would not leave the cell for three long hours. And Adrian bored easily. In time it should be possible to divert him to some other activity
. It’s really not as though I have any choice.
And he could escape, now, in a way. He could close his eyes, and his mind, and he could remember.
“Well, laddie, what do you say? Are you ready for dessert?”
He reached back to the night before, to William, to that incredible invisible fire that had flowed between them... and found it was still there, swirling just within his skin like some magical shield. It did not matter what Adrian might do, or make him do. His body could endure the insult; his soul was wrapped in an embrace that Adrian could never penetrate or even understand.
Archer stood, half in a trance. In a strange way, he almost pitied his captor. Adrian would never get what he wanted. Let the bastard convince himself he was irresistible. Let him deceive himself. Let him think whatever he liked... and, just for one moment, let him lower his guard.
The ship’s bell rang once. Marshall put the last touches on his sleeping straw figure, barely visible in the near-total dark, and sat down beside the door to wait. He had to give David time; it would be a waste of energy to spend an extra half-hour hanging on the shrouds in the chill night air.
If what he’d seen on deck the night before was the usual arrangement, there would be three men on duty; he had seen two on the quarter-deck, one in the forecastle—plus a pair of guards outside Adrian’s door. Archer would get those two into the cabin; with luck, he might draw in the foc’sleman, as well. Someone would stay at the wheel no matter what, but with any luck their attention would be on the captain’s cabin. To get down to the Captain’s cell, he would have to cover the 10 or 15 feet to the nearest ladder below, and deal with whatever guards might be there. And then...
Then, God willing, Captain Smith would take command and they could get back above and seal the hatches and lower a boat. Adrian must have something in his cabin that would show their position; he was not likely to keep false charts just in case his unarmed prisoners overpowered his crew.
The attack would be completely unexpected; it might even be easy, unless the Captain intended to take the ship. In that case, things could get very exciting. But it would all depend on whether Archer could put Adrian out of commission, lure the guards into the cabin, and keep them all quiet for a crucial few minutes.
Could he do it? If asked, Marshall would have responded, “of course,” but he had to admit just a hint of doubt. If Adrian had not spent nearly two weeks overpowering Archer, beating him down mentally and physically, he would have felt more sure.
As to exactly how that had been done—and what was being done now—he dared not let himself think about it. If Davy felt shielded in any way, well and good, but Marshall felt more vulnerable than he ever had before, as though part of himself were up there. Whether it was true knowing, or just the memory of last night, of the enormous, terrifying trust Davy had given him—whatever it was, he had to find some way to block that connection. What they’d shared had been temporary, and for just that once. It could not continue. Eventually, probably fairly soon, he and Archer would go their separate ways, be posted to different ships. The nature of life in the Navy was essentially solitary. Careers were unpredictable. Friends moved on. Sometimes, friends died.
Marshall closed his eyes, and felt a phantom touch still lingering on his lips. He shouldn’t have allowed Davy to do that. He should have stopped him. He should have—but it had taken all his strength just to keep from locking his arms around Davy, so tightly they couldn’t take him away.
But that was just a dangerous illusion. Circumstances had already taken him away. They had no future together as anything but friends, shipmates. That wasn’t so bad, was it? It had been enough until last night; it would have to be enough in the future.
And it’s time to get Davy out of there and stop that bastard, once and for all. Get on with it. Get moving.
He rose in the dark and worked the iron bar out of its track. He would take it with him this time, secured with that useful twine. It was a poor weapon, but he needed every advantage he could get. If Archer appeared to be having trouble, perhaps he could—
No. He had to get the Captain free as quickly as possible so he would not be a hostage if the below-decks crew were alerted. No need to worry about David’s ability. If that incredible burst of murderous rage that exploded out of him last night was a sample of what he’d been bottling up, Marshall would not want to be standing anywhere near Adrian when David unleashed it. As long as it wasn’t blind fury, which could get him killed.
He stilled the inner debate. Davy knew what was at stake; he had chosen to go this course. He knew what he was doing, and he would be all right.
