India Black (31 page)

Over the next several hours, Vincent and I took turns dozing. It was deuced uncomfortable, with the wet blankets and the wind probing the spaces between the planks, but after several nights with little or no sleep, I had no trouble dropping off. Waking posed no difficulties either, as approximately thirty seconds after I fell into a slumber, a wave would hit us broadside. The boat would screech as she keeled over and I’d awake with a start, grasping for a handhold and cursing all boats, Russians, Bowser, the Sublime Porte and the English Channel.

There wasn’t a sound from the lower berth. I peeked over the edge from time to time. Ivanov was lounging with his back against the hull, his feet propped on the bunk. Evidently the frigid water sloshing around his ankles had finally roused him to wakefulness. Oksana’s face was pinched and wan. She too had her feet in the bunk, bracing herself against the movement of the ship. Bob had evidently decided that if he went back to sleep, he’d wake up from this nightmare, for he was cocked to one side, snoring gently.

Time passed slowly. Eventually, Vincent could stand it no longer.

“I’m goin’ to see French,” he announced, “and find out wot’s goin’ on.”

“Is that wise? You could lose your footing or get blown overboard. Can you swim?”

He gave me a disgusted look. “Don’t you worry about me. I can look after meself. Wot about you? Can you ’andle these brigands alone?”

“I think I’m capable. I did manage while you were sleeping.”

He grunted, jumped down from the bunk and disappeared through the hatch.

“India?” It was Ivanov.

I craned my neck over the edge of the bunk and looked down at him.

“What is it?”

“I wonder if I could trouble you for a drink of water. I’ve developed quite a nasty headache.”

“Shouldn’t wonder. French gave you a good wallop.” I added callously, “And, sorry, no water for you until we get to port.”

“Well, then. Perhaps you’ll satisfy my curiosity instead. I’ve been pondering your involvement in this affair, and I can’t fathom why in the world you’re here in the middle of all this.”

I didn’t really have an answer for that. I know, I know. Earlier, I blathered on about my love of adventure and the stubborn streak that made me finish whatever I started, but after this cruise, I wasn’t sure I believed that anymore. To tell the truth, if I’d been offered a ride home on the nearest magic carpet, I’d have taken it then and there, and to hell with Bowser’s case, the state of the British Army and the road to India. Consequently, with nothing snappy to say, I remained silent.

“I suspect it may have something to do with Mister French,” mused Ivanov. “Most women would find him attractive, don’t you think?”

“Until they made his acquaintance,” I said.

Ivanov chuckled. “You mustn’t protest, India. It merely confirms my suspicion that you’re here because of him.”

I felt a reply rising in my throat but I bit it back. It was insufferable, listening to this arrogant bastard try to goad me into doing something stupid, which, clearly, was what he intended.

“Mister French certainly does influence me, Ivanov, but not in the way you assume. For example, if he weren’t here to prevent it, I’d have killed you and Oksana by now and thrown your bodies overboard. French is too much the gentleman to murder you in cold blood.”

“I wouldn’t bank on his being a gentleman once this is over. As soon as you are no longer of use to him, you’ll be nothing more than what you were when this started: a whore. I rather think Mister French values his social standing too much to associate with a trollop.”

“That nettle doesn’t sting, Ivanov. I know who and what I am, and if I wanted to be something different, I would. And I must say, you disappoint me. This attempt to dissuade me from any amorous notions I might have about French will only work if I
have
any romantic attachments to the man. I shall be happy to see the back of him when this affair is settled. Happier, even, than I will be to see the back of
you.
”

“I doubt that, my dear. I’ve grown rather fond of you over the past few days. You have shown considerable skills and resources. You would be of great interest to the tsar.”

“Are you trying to recruit me?” The thought was ludicrous, but I did have to restrain myself from inquiring whether I’d be issued a sable coat and hat.

“Why not? You would be perfectly situated at Lotus House. We know many young men who are rising through the ranks of the military and politics frequent your brothel. You would be well-placed to provide us with information, and we would be willing to pay you a great deal of money.”

I had to hand it to the man. Bound hand and foot, facing a lengthy sentence in an English gaol (if he didn’t drown first), and he was still trying to winkle his way out of this. Nobody does arrogance like the Russians; the English aristocracy isn’t even playing in the same league.

I was about to ask about the benefits of being the tsar’s agent (My own knout? A borscht allowance?) and speculating on the size of the pension when the hatch flew open and Vincent, along with an enormous quantity of seawater, hurtled into the cabin. His clothes clung to him and his hair was plastered to his head. I had to look twice, but after several minutes out in that squall, the driving rain appeared to have scrubbed most of the grime from his face. He looked almost ... clean.

“Land ’o!” he said, grinning maniacally. “We c’n see France. French says to untie that other smuggler bloke and come on deck. It’ll be all ’ands to the pump, ’e says.”

At the word “land,” I’d jumped from the upper bunk and landed with a splash next to Ivanov.

He grinned sourly. “The journey is almost over, but the game is not. Don’t forget that.”

I gave him a pitying look. “If I were headed to one of our English prisons, I’d be surly, too.”

Oksana had sunk into the depths of her sable coat, which, given its prolonged exposure to the damp air and seawater, was looking a little worse for the wear. She resembled a giant rat, peering out at me from the wet fur with hard, beady eyes.

Vincent used French’s dirk to cut through Bob’s bindings, while I verified that Ivanov and Oksana were in no danger of loosening theirs. Then Vincent shoved Bob ahead of him through the hatch, with the dirk pressed into the small of his back, and I followed them up onto the deck.

It was still dark, and the rain and sleet slanted sideways, propelled by a stiff wind. My vision was partially obscured, but the atmosphere had grown lighter, and far away to the east a thin mauve line had appeared on the horizon, heralding the arrival of dawn. But even more heartening were the tiny pinpricks of light that shone in the darkness just ahead of us. We had reached land. Well, I should hasten to amend that statement; we were in sight of land
.
There’s a vast difference between seeing the dark bulk of the earth, and actually arriving in a snug harbor, as any sailor can tell you. Especially in weather like this. It would be hard going to maneuver this decrepit tub into port.

But it was still
land,
and my heart lightened at the thought (even though it was France). I don’t care much for the Frogs. They’re still preening themselves over the revolution (where average people behaved like savages from the Dark Continent) and Napoleon’s victories (he was a Corsican, for God’s sake, and half his troops were foreign mercenaries), and they are insufferably supercilious to boot. I said that no one could do arrogance like the Russians, but I do believe the French are a close second. Not to mention that their drains are the worst in Europe; all that cheese and garlic, you know. But I digress.

We found French manning the wheel, straining to hold the ship steady in the crosswinds. I staggered over to him, struggling to stay on my feet on the wet, pitching deck. I had to grasp whatever handhold I could find, a rope here, a rail there, all the while praying I wouldn’t end up in the drink.

Hawkins was struggling to tie down a flapping line, and Moss Mouth was nowhere to be seen. I mouthed a question at French, and he lifted his head to the mast, where Moss Mouth was standing on a yardarm, desperately trying to gather in a piece of sailcloth that was whipping about in the wind, threatening to dislodge him from his perch. French grabbed Bob by the arm and shouted instructions in his ear, and in a flash Bob was clambering up the rigging to join Moss Mouth.

“I thought you said you couldn’t sail,” I shouted in French’s ear.

He gripped the wheel. “I can’t. But I’m more damned useful down here than up there in the shrouds. How are the captives?”

“Ivanov has asked me to join the Russian intelligence services.”

For some reason, French found this uproariously funny. He flung back his head and let out a roar of laughter. “What did you say?”

“We were just about to negotiate the compensation when Vincent came along and fetched me.”

“Well done, Vincent,” French said. He was still smiling.

The horizon was growing brighter, and I could clearly see the outline of the French coast: a low, dark grey bulk against the lighter grey of the sky. For the first time in days, I sensed our luck changing for the better. The wind had subsided just in the few minutes I’d been on deck, and the rain and sleet were slackening as well. That luminosity on the eastern horizon meant that we would see the sun today. Now we had only to make port.

“That’s Calais ahead of us,” said French, pointing to the northeast of our position. My heart caught in my throat. At last, a town. A town where I would find dry clothes, fine French cognac and a hot meal. Say what you will about the French, they do know how to put on a feed. My mouth watered at the thought of a warm baguette slathered in butter.

I won’t bore you with the details of how we got that little vessel off the storm wracked ocean and into port. As a matter of fact, I couldn’t tell you the details, for to me the mizzen staysail looks the same as the mizzen topmast staysail, which looks nearly identical to the mizzen topgallant staysail. And then of course there’s the mizzen sail, the mizzen topsail and the mizzen topgallant. Nomenclature designed by men, certainly, for even the silliest of women would have named them all differently so there’d be no confusion in the middle of a gale.

“No, no, no! I
said,
the mizzen topmast staysail, you ignorant ass!”

You see my point, I’m sure. But once again, I digress.

 

 

 

I was rather enjoying myself on deck, not having to do any work but keep a revolver aimed at the nearest of our three deckhands and breathing the fresh, invigorating air. I did notice eventually, however, that instead of heading directly into Calais, we seemed to be edging obliquely in toward the coast, at an angle calculated to land us just south of the town itself.

“Why aren’t we headed for Calais?” I asked French, watching as a very accessible quay slid away behind us.

“We can’t very well dock in the municipal port with two Russian spies tied up in the cabin. We have to keep their existence a secret from the French authorities. Hawkins says there’s a village not far from Calais. We’ll land there. You and I will keep watch over our guests. We can’t afford to let those three Englishmen off the ship. They might alert the authorities, though I doubt it. It’s more likely they would reconsider Ivanov’s offer to triple their pay, and try to release him. I don’t trust them any more than I trust Ivanov or Oksana.”

“And what then?”

“I’ll send Vincent into Calais to find our agent there. He’ll arrange transport back to England for us.”

“What about these English bastards? Are you really going to pay them?”

“Certainly. Provided they keep their end of the bargain and don’t try to cut my throat, I shall keep mine. We wouldn’t have survived that storm without them. I won’t lose any sleep tonight worrying about the morality of a few pounds to a few brigands.”

The sun had risen over the horizon as we rode a strong swell toward a tiny French fishing village. The occupants were stirring; I could see thin lines of smoke rising from the chimneys of the cottages, and a few men were moving about on an ancient stone wharf.

“We’ll attract attention to ourselves here,” I pointed out.

“Yes, but this village is much like the one we left from. Smuggling, not fishing, is how most of these families earn their livelihood. We’ll have no trouble from them. Or so Hawkins says,” he added.

Bob and Moss Mouth were scrambling among the rigging, loosening ropes and tucking up sails. Hawkins came to the wheel and touched his forelock.

“Beggin’ pardon, sir, but I best take over from ’ere. Tyin’ up can be a bit dicey.”

French surrendered the wheel and perched on the rail surrounding the deck.

Despite the fact that I’d been kidnapped and held hostage by these men, I had to admire the dexterity and skill of Bob, Hawkins and Moss Mouth. They adroitly negotiated the winds and currents, until our craft glided gently alongside the pier, where Moss Mouth jumped agilely ashore and secured us with a few nonchalant turns of the rope.

“Back aboard,” said French to him. “India, how are your linguistic skills?”

“I can provide a reference from my customers,” I said. “But if you want to know whether I speak French, I can acquire food and drink for us.”

He shot me an amused glance and fished a handful of coins from his pocket.

“After we have something to eat, I’ll send Vincent on to Calais.” He offered me his hand, and I crawled out of the boat and onto shore. My legs were wobbly and at first I waddled around like a pregnant goose, but after a few steps, I found my land legs and strode off in search of food.