Ransom (12 page)
Smith
~
The wind had shifted. The cell was cooler tonight. And empty. They had not brought William back, after all. Was that really such a surprise?
He hasn’t gotten everything he wants, yet. Christ, how long is this going to take?
Archer gave up trying to catch sight of the moon, and dropped back down to the straw. He didn’t want to sleep. There was no escape in dreams, anymore; Adrian followed him even there.
Whatever he had expected after that string of vicious threats, it had not been a bizarre parody of seduction. After seeing Will beaten, he’d expected something like Correy’s treatment; being thrown over a barrel and raped was painful and humiliating, but soon over. Instead, he had been treated as though he were actually there of his own volition. Apparently Adrian had decided that he would eventually induce cooperation if he drew the process out long enough.
Does the son of a bitch think he could ever do anything that would make me want him? Does he think I’m going to forget what Will’s back looks like?
Or maybe it was just clever strategy. Archer recognized the effect this treatment was having on him, even as he observed it. His own reaction last night, before they took Marshall away, had been relief at an end to the waiting. And now... Rationally, he was relieved that he had experienced nothing worse than being stripped, fondled, and forced to bring that bastard to release with his hands. The memory made his skin crawl.
Still, he was relieved that Adrian had, so far, not actually caused him any real pain. So far... so far it had not been too bad. Reason said he should be thankful.
But stronger than reason was an overriding desire to just get it over with; at one point he had caught himself about to say as much.
That would have been a mistake. In the first place, there was no reason to expect that anything would be over. This would probably go on until they were released, or found a chance to escape. And anything that might be interpreted as carnal desire—which was surely how Adrian would interpret it—should be avoided.
Besides, his real task was buying time. Adrian seemed to have his own timetable for this procedure, likely something he had worked out on previous “guests,” if his bragging was to be believed, and accelerating the pace would be worse than useless.
Could that son of a bitch’s claims be true? Out of nine abductions, could four women and two boys in their teens have simply gone back to their lives and said nothing about having been mistreated in such a fashion?
And what are you planning to say about it, Archer? Whom would you want to tell? Your captain? Your family? Perhaps your dearest friend?
Of course the others kept quiet. The boys, certainly. And the women... Unless Adrian got some poor unmarried girl with child, his victims would have no reason to make the shameful truth known. They would bury it deep, and try to forget. No doubt Adrian would claim their silence was because they had enjoyed his attentions; he was so damned full of himself he probably even believed it.
Archer drew his knees up, rested his arms and head upon them. What he wouldn’t give for a pistol. If he could only kill Adrian somehow, surely the Captain could convince at least some of the crew to help.
Unless one of the crew, acting on orders, killed Smith before he could open negotiations. An attack was too dangerous to try at this point. Will could make that decision; Archer wouldn’t dare. He could not be objective.
Besides, he had no weapon, and he knew, now, that he would need one. A gun, for preference; a sword, perhaps... a knife would put the odds well in Adrian’s favor. For all his affectations, he was quick, and surprisingly powerful, strong enough to pin both Archer’s hands with one of his own, holding him helpless, bending him backwards and off-balance while the other hand moved down—
No!
Archer jerked upright, shaking off sleep. He leaned over to the washbucket and splashed water on his face. This was not going to work. Sooner or later, sleep would overcome him. He had hoped Will would be back when he returned, with some plan or idea that would at least be a distraction. And, however false the sense of security might be, the cell felt safe when William was here.
Perhaps it was better that he was not, at least not until Archer could collect himself and decide what to tell him. But where was he? What if Adrian had William up in his cabin now?
No. He was yawning when he let me go. The bastard has to sleep sometime. I don’t think he’d be fool enough to tackle Will when he was tired.
Not yet, anyway. Thus far, his attitude toward Marshall carried none of the smug assurance he displayed toward Archer. And he would not have asked, slyly, “Do you plan to tell Mr. Marshall how you spent the evening?”
When hell freezes over.
Another thing Archer needed to do was determine whether he was going to start having screaming nightmares again. So far, he had not. For all its similarities, this situation was different from the one with Correy, though he was not sure exactly what the difference was. Back then, he had just tried to ignore what was happening, block it out. He had spent whole days on the
Titan
when he could not have said, from one minute to the next, exactly what he’d been doing. It had felt like being mildly drunk, just enough to numb his feelings. And then he’d climb into his hammock and wake up with someone telling him to be quiet, and he’d be all right for awhile, until Correy started in on him again.
Now... At some point this past evening, the numbness had evaporated. He was still afraid, still revolted... but at the same time he had a sense of standing just a step back from it all, in some safe vantage point, and knowing that whatever Adrian might do to his body, there was a part of him the bastard couldn’t touch.
It felt oddly like what had happened when he’d run into that powder room after William. Part of him was terrified, but that other self had a broader view and knew that either way, live or die, he would be satisfied with the outcome. He knew that the pain of seeing William hurt or killed would be worse than death. Perhaps that was it—the consolation of knowing that he was shielding the one he loved.
He wondered if this might be some odd kind of courage, but that hardly seemed likely. If it were courage, he would not keep wondering where Will was, and fearing that Adrian had decided to separate them permanently. Courage should feel stronger; it should banish uncertainty. And courage ought at least to be of some use against this damnable loneliness.
~
Supplemental Log, HMS Calypso, in for repair, Portsmouth. Lt. Anthony Drinkwater, in temporary command. 21-7-1799
No further news.
At the sound of footsteps outside the door to his odd little prison, Marshall shook himself out of an exhausted doze. As he straightened, every muscle in his body protested. He turned just enough to see outside, and realized that the sun was in almost the same position as when he’d been put in here the evening before.
If he’d realized he would be in here this long without food or water, he would have wasted less energy on tidying the place and might not have been so dizzy and lightheaded. But maybe the effort was not wasted; he now had the whole room cleared, and the rats had not bothered him, even in the dark. Unfortunately, he’d had to stay awake to be sure of that, and he felt as though his brain were stuffed with oakum.
He might try to overpower the guard... no. Not from ten feet away. By the time he’d levered himself off his stack of scraps and covered half the distance, the door had opened, a bucket was pushed inside, and the door was pulled shut. A cup floated in what smelled like water; he checked first, then poured it down his parched throat. “Thank you,” he called.
“Stand away from the door,” someone ordered. Marshall moved back a couple of feet, but the door opened only a few inches. He could see nothing but a hand on the latch. “You in there. Marshall.”
“Yes?”
“Cap’n asks you, don’t mention the water. Our orders was to put you in here, that’s all. We’ve got no orders about takin’ you out or feedin’ you. But you’re supposed to stay alive an’ healthy, so, somebody comes to get you, just pour out that water, understand? Hide the bucket.”
“Yes. I understand. Thank you.” The door started to swing shut. “Wait!”
“No tricks!”
“No, no.” He wished desperately that he weren’t so stupid with weariness. “You heard our Captain—Captain Smith—the other night?”
“I heard ‘im. Talked pretty big for somebody’s locked up.”
“It’s not just talk. He wouldn’t say anything unless he meant it. Talk to him yourself. If you help us escape, you can come, too, he can see you get protection—”
The door shut abruptly, and the sound of footsteps died away. Stooping, Marshall took his prize back to the vent and built a stack of cloth to keep it up off the floor, then rewarded himself with another drink, savoring it this time. It was amazing how wonderful a cup of stale, lukewarm water could taste after a day without.
So what did this mean? If his thoughts weren’t whirling so, they might make more sense. Did they have an ally among the crew now, or was it simply some sailor who was slightly more compassionate than his fellows and willing to take a small risk? Or was this some convoluted game of Adrian’s? If so, there seemed little purpose to it, unless he thought it would be worthwhile to tie up his prisoners’ time and attention in attempting to bribe guards who were trying to elicit such attempts?
Marshall shook his head and tried vainly to retrace the logic of that thought. It made far more sense to act on the simplest explanation: somebody realized that a dehydrated prisoner was more likely to fall ill, which would mean more work for everyone, and “anticipated” that the reasonable order would be to provide water. That did, of course, require an assumption that Adrian was giving reasonable orders, which in Marshall’s mind was no small leap of faith.
But, assuming the simpler cause, he now had two pieces of information that suggested Adrian’s hold over his crew was not absolute. First the water—but also the disarray of this storage area. A captain who was paying proper attention to the condition of his ship would not have tolerated this mess. It would, at least nominally, be an officer or bosun’s responsibility... and that was another odd thing: Adrian seemed to have no second-in-command, no one who would oversee the details that a captain shouldn’t be bothered with. Granted, it was a smaller crew than would normally be found on a ship of war, and fewer officers were necessary. But none at all? And was this how he always ran things, or a recent development?
And the item Marshall had found last night—part of a carpenter’s tool, possibly an adze—had been tangled with wood splinters and a couple of feet of footropes in a piece of torn topgallant. Somebody had obviously broken the tool while ripping the rigging from a spar, then bundled the whole mess up and stuffed it in here. Even if the tool had broken in an emergency—a storm, perhaps—on an orderly ship it would have been removed from the cloth scraps and taken back to the ship’s carpenter.
Suspicious as he was of Adrian and his games, Marshall refused to believe that the tool had been deliberately left for him to find. The man was devious, not stupid; the metal fragment was four or five inches long and tapered to a sharp edge. He could use it as a weapon—a poor one, but enough to do considerable damage.
What he was beginning to suspect, though, was that Adrian might have decided to put him down here for the duration of their stay.
God, I hope not.
He looked outside again, recognizing that the sparkle of light on the water was beginning to fade. It would be dark soon, and he wasn’t going to be able to stay awake indefinitely. And the rats were still there.
~
Supplemental Log, HMS Calypso, in for repair, Portsmouth. Lt. Anthony Drinkwater, in temporary command. 22-7-1799
No further news.
~
Archer pushed a fragment of beef across his plate and trapped it with his rounded butter knife. He was now allowed silver utensils, though not a sharp knife.
I wonder how long it will be before he stops waiting for me to ask about William.
But he would not ask. He would not do anything that might bring William under Adrian’s scrutiny. He probably would not see either his friend or his Captain until this ordeal was over, one way or another; he was trying to resign himself to that, and was determined not to let on how much the isolation wore away at him. There were worse things than being alone. If it came to a choice between solitude and present company...
Adrian had been insistent that he sit down to a meal before whatever else was planned for the evening, and Archer had seen nothing to be gained by resisting. He hadn’t felt like bothering with the food that had been brought to the cell for breakfast or dinner, though he had left the biscuits tucked into the port vent in case they brought William back while he was gone. They wouldn’t, of course. Better not to hope. Still, his stomach was letting him know it had noticed the omission, so he ate. It was fuel. If the food had flavor, he was not aware of it.
“How was your day?” Adrian inquired, as though this were a perfectly normal social occasion, rather than a slow circling of prey by predator.
“Tedious.” The sense of detachment was very strong. What exactly would happen, if he refused to follow the script? There seemed so little to lose that he gave in to the temptation. “Now I’m supposed to say, ‘and yours?’ and exchange meaningless pleasantries.” He glanced up. “Is this charade serving any useful purpose?”
“Other than amusing me, not really.” Adrian took a sip of wine. “But your question is equally amusing. I had not anticipated it. I find that refreshing.”
“Even a mouse will occasionally bite,” Archer said.
The cold eyes narrowed. “Not literally, I hope. Or your friend will find himself singing soprano.”
“I meant it metaphorically, of course,” Archer said quickly. He decided it would be prudent to omit the remarks about food poisoning that leapt to mind.