The Peacock Throne (21 page)

Danbury set a couple of men to re-securing the throne to the cart and finally turned to Lydia, his manner gentling considerably. “How is your arm?”

“Fine. The cut isn't deep.” Lydia held the arm up for his inspection.

“She might have killed you. What were you thinking, going after her without help?”

“I did have assistance. The guards helped me search for her. I simply happened to find her first.”

“You ought to have wakened me.”

“There wasn't time.”

He narrowed his eyes and sighed heavily. “I could have helped with the search as well. You were injured fighting with her.”

“We had to be as quiet as possible so as not to alert her, and anyone who came upon her might have been hurt—she had a knife. Not that I knew that when I started out.”

“Precisely. It was dangerous, and you should—”

“How is Sophie?”

“Sophie?” He ran a hand through his hair and looked towards the campfire. “I don't know.”

Harting reappeared at Lydia's elbow. “The bullet passed through her side. No vital organs seem to have been hit. She lost a lot of blood, but as long as no infection sets in…”

A bit of the tension eased from her shoulders. “I am glad. I don't know how she made it such a long way with that wound.”

The sky lightened by smudgy degrees as they set off. Carrying his sister, Emmanuel led the way. Subdued, Danielle trailed along behind them, with her bound hands attached to the back of the cart.

Tension permeated the air with the stench of sweat and drudgery and dread—a foul odour that stung Lydia's nose and made her stomach roil. Every eye sought signs of a French presence. But the more level terrain allowed them to make better time than they had before. No one spoke of stopping for breakfast.

They reached the sandy beach late in the morning, and caught sight of
Legacy
floating serenely in the little cove. Lord Danbury led the men in a hearty huzzah at the sight.

Lydia offered a whispered prayer of thanks. She had never seen anything more beautiful. The gigs were lowered with a splash. She watched as the oarsmen pulled with a will until they were near enough to hail, and then nearer still.

In a short time, the gigs were close enough that the oarsmen hopped out and pushed them the last couple of feet to ground them. Captain Campbell had chosen to come ashore. He sat majestically in the front of one of the boats until it ceased its forward motion.

“You can see we were able to make all the additional repairs.” He gestured to
Legacy
, bobbing calmly in the sea behind him. The captain caught sight of the enormous crate containing the throne. “You've found it then?”

“You sound surprised.”

“Of course not; just pleased.”

“I'm afraid your reaction will be short-lived, Captain. I have some bad news for you.” Quickly, Danbury revealed the situation.

Captain Campbell showed no visible reaction to the news. “We'd best get the throne loaded. Won't do to dally.” With a few barked commands, he sent one of the boats back to the ship for reinforcements. They had not dared to drive the cart onto the sand. The wheels would immediately become bogged down, stranding the vehicle in a matter of moments.

“What do you think we should do?” Danbury asked the captain as he approached.

“Well now.” Campbell removed his hat, and swiped at the sweat on his broad brow with his forearm. “Looks a challenge, doesn't it?”

Harting called from where he stood near the ox cart. “Pull up one of the skiffs. We'd have to load it in one of the boats later, and this way we won't have to transfer the thing.”

“Brilliant,” Danbury grinned wolfishly. At his order, three sailors ran to the shore and returned, dragging the boat across the beach.

Behind her, Danielle snorted. Lydia gritted her teeth, but did not turn around.

Louis and Emmanuel drove the oxen beneath a nearby tree. The gig's slat seats were hacked out to allow the throne to rest more snugly against the bottom. More men arrived from the ship to help.

Superfluous to the process, Lydia tried merely to stay out of the way, finding shelter beneath a coconut palm.

Catching a flash of movement from the corner of her eye, Lydia spun around to see Danielle Long attempting to scuttle away. The Frenchwoman's hands remained bound but she had been freed from the cart. Dashing after her, Lydia snatched at Danielle, catching her by the hair.

“No you don't.”

“Let me go, trollop!”

Lydia regarded her dispassionately. The desire to make her pay for her betrayal had abated. In its place lay only a small lump of pity. Danielle swore at her, kicking and bucking. Hauling on the ropes that bound her, Lydia dragged the girl to a nearby palm tree. Her breath came in short, hard gasps as she lashed the end of the rope to the nearest palm, making certain that Danielle wouldn't be going anywhere. At last the job was done. Then she pulled out her notebook and scrawled a message in pencil relaying the details of Mr Long's murder. She addressed it to Poiret and tacked the note high on the palm tree, where Danielle could not reach it. If there was any justice in the world, the woman would pay for her crimes.

Lydia dodged a final, furious kick and turned away. She glanced back at Danielle. Dishevelled and red-faced, the woman stood tugging against the ropes with all her might, her lips pulled back in a snarl. A shudder rippled through Lydia.

Danielle caught her gaze. “Do not pity me, you… you…” She spat on the ground, but a bit of spittle remained hanging from her chin as thin and delicate as a spider's web.

Lydia turned away. The woman hurled abuse after her. Silent under the insults, Lydia returned to the edge of activity.

The men had reversed the process used to get the throne on the cart. The throne swung pendulously, suspended across a sturdy tree branch for a long, breathless moment. A sailor hurried the cart away, and the skiff took its place. The teams of men holding the ropes began to lower the throne into the boat. Ominous creaking issued from the tree.

“Careful, lads; careful,” said Lord Danbury as he lowered the rope hand over hand.

The others followed his example, keeping up the steady pace he dictated. The throne nestled safely in the boat. The tree seemed to moan and then with a loud popping sound the branch collapsed atop the throne with a rush. For one heart-stopping moment it seemed the throne would tip and fall beneath this onslaught, but the men rushed forward and braced the crate with their shoulders. Lydia took an involuntary step forward herself, hand outstretched, though she was too far away to add her force to the effort. The throne steadied, and she exhaled heavily.

The oxen's lead ropes were hooked through the iron ring at the nose of the boat and then woven through the oarlocks. With the oxen securely hitched to the skiff, men took positions on each side of the boat to keep it from tipping in either direction. A couple of others lent their backs to the process, pushing while the oxen pulled.

In a few minutes they had crossed the sandy beach and the sea lapped the nose of the rowboat. The other two boats were dragged
up beside the one carrying the throne and lashed securely on either side. They acted as pontoons, balancing the central boat and providing much needed buoyancy.

Lydia approached Lord Danbury. “My Lord, I would beg a favour of you.”

He swabbed at his brow, huffing and panting, but a satisfied grin lit his features. “Name it.”

Lydia swallowed hard. “I fear for Sophie's recovery if we leave her in this isolated spot with Danielle Long. I know you sent for Poiret and he should be coming for her soon, but in the meantime she could greatly harm the poor girl. Also, her tales of escaped slaves could bode ill for Sophie.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Would you consider allowing her to join us?”

Danbury's jaw worked in and out for a moment. “I suspected as much.” He sighed. “Complications.”

Lydia glanced back at the trees to where Sophie lay, a tiny crumpled figure.

Danbury followed her gaze. “Oh, very well. Have you any paper?” He jotted a note to Poiret and enclosed a handful of coins to cover Sophie's price.

Holding the small, folded package he gestured with it towards Danielle. “Would you be so kind…”

Lydia accepted the parcel and approached the Frenchwoman. Despite her thrashing, Lydia managed to get this packet secured to the tree also.

Behind her, one of the ship's great guns boomed a harsh warning.

Whirling to look, Lydia peered at the horizon, but could not see the source of the alarm. Coming abreast of the others, she saw the same confusion on the faces of the gentlemen as they scanned the horizon. Captain Campbell, however, was squinting at his ship.

With pulse sounding unnaturally loud in her ears, Lydia clasped her hands together to still their trembling.

“They've spotted a sail.” Campbell set his hat more squarely on his head.

“Go. Go!” Harting waved the men towards the boats.

Men piled into the makeshift flotilla. Emmanuel carried his sister's small form, placing her carefully in the bow. The oxen were driven into the sea, dragging the ungainly contraption until the final bit of solid ground was left behind. The oxen were released from the boats and waded back to shore. The oars were deployed and the sailors pulled swiftly towards
Legacy
.

Lydia glanced back to see the oxen emerging from the sea. Behind them she saw Pierre-Louis Poiret and Monsieur Laurent with a couple of armed men emerge from the jungle and approach Danielle. The tableau grew smaller as they pulled further away but she caught a glimpse of Pierre-Louis' hand raised in farewell and returned the gesture.

The lurch of the boat as it pulled aside
Legacy
brought Lydia's attention back to the events at hand. She had been so engrossed that she had not even given thought to her usual fear.

A complicated system of ropes and rigging had been readied. In a mad flurry of activity, the crew secured the throne and hauled it up from above. Thirty minutes after spotting sails on the horizon, Captain Campbell, bellowing commands, set foot once more on his deck.

The sails snapped to attention, bringing
Legacy
about smartly. To Lydia the scrambling crew looked as chaotic as a mound of ants.

Lydia had Sophie transported below decks and comfortably ensconced in a hammock before joining the gentlemen and Captain Campbell on the quarterdeck. From this vantage point the French ship loomed nearer.

“We have to make it out of the cove before we will be able to pick up any real speed. We have the weather gauge, but the breeze won't pick up proper until we get out to sea,” Campbell said.

“The French will be able to open up with a full broadside. They have plenty of time to take up position. Look, they are already bringing her about.” Danbury pointed at the other ship, lumbering into a turn that would put her at the best angle to open up with her guns when
Legacy
tried to pass.

“Yes, but we hold the trump card,” said Harting. “They can't sink us or they risk losing the throne. They can't even do major harm below decks, as they risk damaging it beyond repair.”

“You're right,” said Captain Campbell. “But they can shoot our rigging to bits, until we can do naught but wallow like an upended tortoise.”

Harting gestured with his spyglass towards the other ship. “While they are aiming at our rigging, we can aim at what really matters.”

A new light came into Campbell's eye. He rubbed his jaw. “We'll have to stay out of range of their grapnels.” In an instant, Captain Campbell reversed his previous orders to his crew.

The men scrambled like roaches in a sudden light, striking the sails and leaving only enough canvas aloft to provide rudimentary manoeuvrability. Sharpshooters climbed aloft and the gunnery crews took up positions.
Legacy
had only twenty-eight guns, while
the French ship had at least fifty, but they would make the best use of them they could.

They drew close enough to see the name emblazoned on their adversary:
Angélique
. With a threatening clatter the French raised their gun hatches. Lydia caught her breath.

All noise aboard
Legacy
had been snuffed out as if sound were as easily extinguishable as a candle. Lydia could not tear her eyes from the warship. They had only one opportunity to get past the
Angélique
. If they could make open water, they could outrun the heavier vessel. Should the Frenchmen catch
Legacy
with their lines in the narrow mouth of the cove, they would swarm the ship. They would be overwhelmed in moments.

Enthralled as a mouse before a snake, Lydia could not move, could not breathe. A heavily accented voice boomed from the French ship. “
Legacy!
”

Lydia jumped and let loose a little squeak.

“Strike your colours and 'eave to, in ze name of France.”

“Pompous Frogs,” muttered Captain Campbell. He shouted back to the disembodied voice. “Never!”

“'Eave to or face bombardment.”

“Bombard away.” Campbell's flippancy brought grins to his men's faces and they nudged one another.

In a quieter voice Campbell ordered the passengers below. Lydia moved slowly. Fascination with the life-and-death dance being played out between the two vessels made her sluggish. Neither gentleman made any movement.

There was a moment of utter stillness, then the French response was heralded by a puff of white smoke and a roar from one of
Angélique
's gun hatches. The shot landed on the far side of the ship, throwing up a great geyser of foamy spray.

“Buck up, lads. We'll get past these Frogs and laugh at them when we do,” Campbell called to the men.

“Miss,” one of the sailors called to Lydia. “Miss, get below! And pray for us.”

“Of course.”

Lord Danbury whirled round at the sound of her voice. “Get below. It is too dangerous on deck.”

Lydia had no time to respond. The world was consumed in thundering. Above their heads, the foremast yardarm splintered. With a groan of rending wood, it toppled to the deck.

One of the cables, flying free in a wild arc, struck Lydia. It knocked her to the deck, snatching the air from her lungs. Gasping, she shook her head to clear it. On hands and knees, she scrambled for cover. Blocks and tackle pummelled the deck like hail. Prayer pulsed through her, more a cry of the heart than any formal words.

Men feverishly pounded powder and shot into the muzzles of their muskets. All around, the thundering of the great guns reverberated, followed by the fearsome whine of the balls as they tore by. The deck was soon awash in water flung up by wild shots.

Bitter gun smoke hung in the air, scouring the back of her throat with the scent of battle and death.

The
Angélique
had an advantage of height. As they came within range, a volley of gunfire burst from her deck. A smattering of strangled cries punctuated the deeper roar of cannon and muskets as men were hit. The sharpshooters in
Legacy
's rigging fired back, holding their positions valiantly. Still the two ships drew nearer.

Mr Cabot waved his pistol in the air. “It'll be canister and chain shot next round, lads!”

Lydia abandoned her prayerful position. God could probably hear her even when she was moving. Half crouched, she scuttled to the nearest wounded man. The hands were desperately defending
Legacy
. There were few who could tend to the wounded. Stooping, she looped her arms under his and locked her fingers across his chest. She dragged the injured man down the ladderway. It was a good thing he was unconscious as she heaved him along—the pain of their passage would have been terrible, but certainly he would be in less danger of being shot again, or crushed by falling timbers.

Lydia flattened herself on the deck as a shrill screech split the
thunder of the guns. Grapeshot sped overhead, cutting a merciless swathe through the men.

Lydia repeated the process time after time, helping the wounded away from the worst of the battle. Every breath was a prayer.

She slipped in a spatter of blood, falling for what must surely have been the hundredth time. Lydia clenched her eyes shut and her hands into tight fists and then released them. She couldn't bear to stand by and do nothing.

The smoke cleared for an instant as Lydia came on deck. They were abreast of
Angélique
. She craned her neck up at the vessel.

“Oh, God, please help us,” Lydia whispered.

Below her feet, the gunnery crews could finally bring their guns to bear and they let loose with a long rippling broadside. The horrific noise redoubled, and the whole ship shook with the volume. Her ears rang, and the world went silent as a grave. Clasping her hands over her ears, Lydia hurried to the side of another wounded man. On the foredeck, she could see Mr Harting, tall and elegant as always, taking careful aim as he let off a round from his pistol.

Of its own accord, her gaze sought Lord Danbury.
God grant that he's unharmed
.

The injured sailor at her feet had a streak of blood running down his forehead. The wound must be under the hairline somewhere. He lay insensible, a dead weight.
Get on with it
. Reaching under his arms she linked her fingers atop his chest, hefting him up awkwardly. Gasping and staggering with the effort, she dragged him backwards across the deck.

She nearly had him to safety when from the corner of her eye she saw a French grapnel skitter across the deck and then clamp tight to a nearby rail, its teeth biting deeply into the wood. Her breath hissed through her teeth.

Snatching a knife from the belt of the wounded man, she dashed for the railing and hacked at the thick grappling line. A movement caught her gaze and she glanced up to see French sailors gesturing at her wildly.

Lydia dropped to her knees behind the suddenly flimsy protection of the rail. She could not stop her frenzied sawing. More canister shot whistled over her head. More lines thunked onto the deck.
Legacy
had to break free quickly or they would be overrun.

Some ten feet further down the deck, another grappling hook clattered and then bit into the rail.

Beside her the railing fractured, peppering Lydia with shards of shattered wood. Intent on her task, it took a moment for her to realize she had nearly been shot. The prayer revolving in her mind had been reduced to a single desperate shriek.

She ducked lower still. She almost had it. If only… The cable parted at last. Lydia took no time to celebrate. The acrid stench of the slow match, and foul smoke had seared itself permanently to her lungs. She was panting now, wheezing. The sea and sky had ceased to exist. Only the moment remained. The smoke and flame—and blood.

Using the rail as a screen she crawled on all fours to the next line and attacked the rope. A strong hand gripped her shoulder.

“Allow me,” shouted Danbury, his mouth close to her ear. He raised a boarding axe in one hand.

Lydia scrambled aside and he took her place at the rail. Two competent strokes of the axe, and the rope gave way.
Legacy
was free.

A couple of feet away, another grapnel landed on the deck.
Not again
. Before it could find purchase, Lydia snatched it up and hurled it into the sea.