Revenge in a Cold River (37 page)

Scuff's face became very sober.

The broadening light was gray on the wave caps now, and dark, shining shadows ran across their unbroken backs and the white spume here and there was less fierce.

The
Spindrift
was fifty yards away.

Gillander beckoned to Scuff to go back to him where he was standing at the ship's wheel. Monk watched as Gillander placed Scuff's hands on the wheel and saw as his body stiffened to hold the violent pull against him. He threw his weight into it. The ship came into the wind again and righted itself.

Gillander gave a tiny gesture of salute, looking at Monk over Scuff's shoulder.

Monk went forward. He touched Scuff lightly in tacit approval, and felt him tense with pleasure.

“Go below to my cabin and get three cutlasses from the cupboard under the bunk,” Gillander ordered Monk. “And be quick. You'd better take that pea coat off. You can't fight with your arms tied up in that thing.”

The distance between the ships was closing fast. There was no time to argue. If he failed, Hester would never forgive him for this. And for taking Scuff! But if he failed he would be dead, so he would never know.

He gave one of the cutlasses to Scuff, sliding it through the side of his belt while his two hands were on the wheel.

“Only if someone boards the
Summer Wind
!” he said grimly.

Scuff grinned. “And if you an' Gillander get killed, I'm going to sail this back home by myself?”

“Don't be impertinent,” Monk snapped back as him, suddenly appalled at the idea of his being terrified…hurt…alone.

He forced the thought out of his mind. Loving anyone made him such a hostage to terror…and pain.

He gave the second cutlass to Gillander and kept the third. It felt strange in his hand, unfamiliar.

They were only twenty yards from the
Spindrift
now. He could quite clearly see Clive on the deck, and one other man. There could be more, with at least one at the wheel. They would have weapons, too, maybe cutlasses, or—far worse—guns. Although one would need extraordinarily good luck to hit anybody on the pitching decks of either ship.

Gillander had the cutlass in his belt and a grappling iron on a long rope in his hands. He clearly meant to come close enough to the
Spindrift
to hurl it, so it caught on the rail and the two ships could be lashed together. The maneuvering would have to be precise. If they were going in opposite directions at more than a few yards a minute, the rope would snap and recoil back on whoever threw it, possibly dragging them into the sea.

Monk strode forward to Gillander. “You steer,” he ordered. “It needs more than luck to do this. I'll throw the grapple.”

Gillander stood still for a moment. They were fifteen yards away and closing. The wind had dropped and the sun was rising fast.

Ten yards.

Gillander took the wheel and Monk held the grapple, watching carefully where the length of its rope lay.

“Keep back!” he ordered Scuff. “Right over there!”

Scuff blinked, then realized that Monk was talking about standing on the rope coiled lying on the deck, which would take him over with it. He obeyed instantly.

Ten yards. Five. Monk threw the grapple and it hooked on to the rail. He lashed it to the deck stanchion and threw his weight against it, tying it fast.

Gillander ordered Scuff to take the wheel, then he leaned sideways and grasped the lines to lower the sail yet farther. Immediately the ship lost way. The two were no more than a couple of yards apart, then crashing sides, and locked together.

Gillander leaped aboard the
Spindrift,
cutlass in hand. Monk tightened and lashed the ropes again, and jumped to the deck of the
Spindrift
himself. He landed heavily as the roll of the deck dropped it down, then up again.

There was a man not a yard in front of him, saber high. He lunged forward. As if it were second nature, Monk sidestepped and parried. All the aches of exhaustion fell away from him like a discarded garment. The blood surged in his veins and he was almost dizzy with energy. All the fights he'd ever had were unrolling inside him now, memory in the muscle and the bone. He swung round and slashed at the man, altering his weight, moving easily, striking and defending, seeing blood where he had scored a mark. Next moment his own arm stung and he saw a thin red streak on his sleeve. There was little pain, only irritation that he had allowed it to happen. He knew better than this!

He swung, jabbed, and then swung the other way. The man yelled in fury, lunging forward, blood all over his shoulder. Monk sliced the opposite way and the man fell.

Gillander was on the other side of the deck, facing the other crewman, fighting hard. Even as Monk watched, the two of them moved dangerously, almost elegantly, around the closed deck hatch, every step closer to the rail and the sea.

Monk could not intervene; the blades were sweeping and striking, clashing and then disengaging. They were both good, clever, desperate. Life and death were the prizes.

Monk glanced at the
Summer Wind
. Scuff was still clinging to the wheel, his face white in the cold dawn light. Gillander leaped over the hatch cover, swung around like a dancer, and sliced open the other man's chest. He staggered back, jackknifed over the rail, and plunged into the sea.

Gillander turned back to face the deck, and saw Monk. There was no one else there. Clive and Miriam must be below—if Miriam was still alive. This was the moment of knowing.

Clive was clever. He would make them go below, where he was waiting for them. He knew the layout of the ship; he might well have a musket, or any other kind of firearm. And he had Miriam.

Would he harm her?

Did any part of him love her? Or was she just beauty to him, an appetite, albeit a consuming one?

He looked across at Gillander.

Gillander was grim-faced. For the first time Monk saw fear in his eyes. He knew it was not for himself; it was for Miriam.

Monk looked across at Scuff. “Wait here!” he shouted. “That's an order. When we come back up, we'll need your help. Understand?”

“Yes…” Scuff, too, was afraid now.

Gillander went first, reaching the hatch before Monk and going straight down the steps, cutlass at the ready. He must have appreciated the chances of being shot before he reached the bottom. Any man would. But he did not hesitate.

Monk followed on his heels.

It took him a moment to adjust to the dimmer light, but he could make out the cabin. Gillander was standing in front of him, with the cutlass at the ready. There was no one else there.

Gillander remained motionless for less than a minute. Then he put his hand on the door between the cabin they were in, and the next space, which would probably be the galley. He opened it softly. That, too, was empty. Clive and Miriam had to be in the cabin beyond.

Monk froze. If Clive heard them, above the creaking of timbers and the sound of the water, which was getting louder as the wind rose again, then he would shoot. If it were one of his own crew, still alive, they would call out to reassure him. And he would take the chance anyway.

Gillander held up his hand to warn Monk to stay back, then he kicked the door in with his leg high, heel hard, and stepped back immediately. He was only just in time. A shot went past him and crashed into the galley wall behind him, then another.

Monk stepped forward with his own cutlass held high. Aaron Clive stood in the center of the large cabin, holding Miriam in front of him so any careless shot would have caught her first. Her hair was wild, long, a dark cloud around her white face. Her eyes were wide, but it was not only from terror, but from a kind of exultation as well. Aaron was revealed for exactly what he was: clever, marvelously brave, and yet corrupted by pride and appetite. He had imagined himself invincible; fate would grant him whatever he wanted, if he wanted it enough. Astley had only stood in his way.

No one spoke. Words were unnecessary now. Clive stared at Monk, and Monk knew he would sacrifice Miriam if necessary. And they all knew that Gillander would never risk that. No justice would ever be brought at the price of Miriam's life. It was not a weighing of ideals. He had loved her since he had first seen her when he was barely twenty.

Clive smiled. If one did not look at his eyes, his face still had all the old charm.

He could not shoot Miriam. If she were dead he had no shield. They all knew that, too.

Then Monk saw the small, sharp sailmaker's knife in Clive's other hand, his arm tightly around Miriam, holding her to him. It fit neatly in his palm, the light on its short, curved blade.

“Go back,” Clive said quietly. “I won't kill her. She's no use to any of us dead. But I will cut her, and it will hurt.” As if to demonstrate he put the blade a little higher and deliberately sliced the fabric of her sleeve from elbow to wrist. Then just as carefully, as no one moved, he cut the flesh, and the blood oozed through in a long, scarlet line, which grew thicker all the time.

Miriam gave a moan and fell slack in his arms, all her weight against him.

He was taken by surprise. He had not meant to cut so deeply.

Gillander let out a cry and lunged forward, stopping short only as he collided with Monk.

Clive was bent forward, dragged down by Miriam's weight. In that instant of surprise, she turned, violently alive again, grasped his hand holding the blade, and pushed forward with all her strength. The knife went up into his arm, high, near the shoulder, and the blood spurted out of him.

His arm fell limp and she scrambled away from him, out of his reach, gasping for breath. Gillander went to her immediately, calling her name, fumbling to reach her petticoat and tear off a length of it to bind her arm.

Monk went to Clive, who was now covered in blood, his face ashen white. The blood was gushing from his upper arm. His other hand was covered with it and it drenched his jacket. It was bright red arterial blood, and there was nothing that could stop it. Monk had seen such wounds before, on the battlefield in America, at the beginning of their civil war. He would do what he could to bind it up, but it was pointless. It was merciful, but no use.

He heard Gillander go to the cabin door and shout for Scuff. Monk would have stopped him if he had been quick enough. He didn't want Scuff to try to save Clive, and fail.

That was stupid. Scuff had seen death already in his training to be a doctor. Yet the instinct to protect him from it was powerful, aching inside him as if he, too, had been injured.

Monk looked at Clive's face. For a moment their eyes met. Clive did not look frightened, just puzzled, then his life slipped away, leaving him completely blank.

Monk stood up slowly. He was stiff, and sad. He turned to look at Miriam just as Gillander came back in with Scuff on his heels. Scuff was frightened, and cold, but now he was faced with something he understood. He gave Monk a quick nod, then bent to look at Miriam's wound. He spoke to her gently as he took out the small cloth bag he had brought with him, and found a tiny bottle of spirit, a needle, linen thread, and some clean lint. He seemed as if he knew what he was doing, and for a moment he looked so like Hester: his hands, thin and strong, the way he bent his head, the air of assurance, whether it was real or not.

Miriam smiled at him as he started to work.

Gillander looked up at Monk. “Weather's rising again. We can't get two ships back in this.”

Monk was praying over and over in his mind: Please God, we can get one back! He spoke to Scuff. “Make that as good as you need to so we can get back on the other ship. Do the finishing bits afterward.”

“I know,” Scuff said quietly. “It's fine. We'll be ready.” He turned for an instant and gave Monk a beautiful smile.

Monk was choked with gratitude. He felt the tears prick in his eyes as he went through the galley and the outer cabin and up the steps to the deck.

The wind was high, whipping spray up onto the deck, the whitecaps racing past. Gillander was right. They could not save both ships. With no one at the helm, two dead men on board, and one lost in the sea, the
Spindrift
would founder in the storm and go down, all hands lost.

But Aaron Clive had been lost for a long time, perhaps since Zachary had died.

Five minutes later, Gillander helped Miriam up onto the deck of the
Spindrift,
then over the side to the
Summer Wind
. She was pale, but quite composed. Scuff had stitched her wound and there was barely any new blood on the bandage.

They unlashed the ropes and pulled the grapples back. With sail half-raised, they let the sea pull them apart.

Miriam went below, and Scuff came back up on deck to take the wheel as Monk and Gillander raised a short, tight mainsail. They turned the ship back into the storm, heading westward and home, unaware of anything except a deep abiding victory within.

To Priyanka Krishnan

The Face of a Stranger

A Dangerous Mourning

Defend and Betray

A Sudden, Fearful Death

The Sins of the Wolf

Cain His Brother

Weighed in the Balance

The Silent Cry

A Breach of Promise

The Twisted Root

Slaves of Obsession

Funeral in Blue

Death of a Stranger

The Shifting Tide

Dark Assassin

Execution Dock

Acceptable Loss

A Sunless Sea

Blind Justice

Blood on the Water

Corridors of the Night

Revenge in a Cold River

The Cater Street Hangman

Callander Square

Paragon Walk

Resurrection Row

Rutland Place

Bluegate Fields

Death in the Devil's Acre

Cardington Crescent

Silence in Hanover Close

Bethlehem Road

Highgate Rise

Belgrave Square

Farriers' Lane

The Hyde Park Headsman

Traitors Gate

Pentecost Alley

Ashworth Hall

Brunswick Gardens

Bedford Square

Half Moon Street

The Whitechapel Conspiracy

Southampton Row

Seven Dials

Long Spoon Lane

Buckingham Palace Gardens

Treason at Lisson Grove

Dorchester Terrace

Midnight at Marble Arch

Death on Blackheath

The Angel Court Affair

Treachery at Lancaster Gate