Ransom (16 page)

Supplemental Log, HMS Calypso, in for repair, Portsmouth.

Lt. Anthony Drinkwater, in temporary command. 25-7-1799

We have received a second letter from Captain Smith. I do not reproduce it, as it states simply that they were all alive as of 19-7-99; the fact that he does not add “and well,” and a comment in his secret communication, give me some cause for concern. Ransom is set at £20,000 for the Captain and an additional £5,000 each for Mr. Marshall and Mr. Archer. When the ransom is ready we are to fly “enemy sighted,” which I must assume is this pirate’s idea of a joke, from Calypso’s sole remaining mast, and will expect to hear shortly thereafter regarding delivery. This letter contained a second secret note, including a sketch of the ship’s deck with mast and gun placement. We will know it when we see it! I here reproduce the letter and the sketch:

Mr. Dr: Ship is merchant brig. See sketch/masts. Light arms, at least 4 sm. cannon, prob. bow/stern chasers. Commendations to Marshall & Archer for courage under extreme difficulty. One crewman claims to have seen damage to Calypso: short, wiry, balding, thin pigtail, moves like sailor. Possible ally or spy for captain. Ask Admiralty to investigate deserters/cashiered officers fitting Adrian’s description who left service shortly before abductions began, correlate with ships in port 17/7/99.

A Drinkwater—Private entry, personal journal:

I have not included in my report to Ad. Roberts a private postscript, writ small, that Captain Smith appended to the bottom of his last letter. We are sailing in deep waters, and it appears that our adversary may have powerful allies. If, God forbid, we lose our officers, I shall be forced to make this document public, but for now I am keeping it secret in the hopes of avoiding a scandal.

Mr. Drinkwater, cut this postscript from the letter.
This is a direct order and I take full responsibility.
I regret burdening you with this knowledge, but I fear you may receive less than wholehearted cooperation from high places. “Adrian” may be difficult to trace, as there will likely be rank and political influence involved. We are dealing with a rogue, a man of rank who has turned. Although not as clever as he believes himself to be, he is unstable &, I believe, much more dangerous than a simple pirate. If you succeed in boarding, make him your primary target; the body of the crew may be reasoned with if the head is removed. Shoot him on sight. If he is captured, and I am dead, hang him immediately for piracy; he must not leave this ship alive.

~

The morning of their tenth day as prisoners looked bright and clear; a sliver of sunlight came through the barred port. Marshall scratched another line beside the tally he and Archer had been keeping on the wall, and returned to his mat. He was weary, and knew that this was the sensible time to rest, but sleep would not come.

He was disappointed at how little they’d been able to accomplish the night before. He was now certain that they could get out this way, and he had pulled on the ropes supporting the shutter hard enough to be sure they would take his weight. But it was slow work. The frame of the port, an eight-inch oak beam, had been set into timbers that filled in what must have originally been a gunport; Marshall’s guess was that this was a former warship that was still seaworthy but no longer structurally sound enough to support cannon recoil. Holes had been bored into the frame, and the bar set into them. Which meant that if he could dig an angled groove into the top beam and cut out a notch above the bar, the bar could be slipped out and replaced, held perfectly upright in its track in the lower beam.

So far, though, he had dug out barely an inch. They had worked for a couple of hours, but dawn came early this time of year, the adze blade was none too sharp, and they had to do the work as noiselessly as possible. Marshall’s back was not ready for an all-night stint of work in such a contorted position, either; his shoulders had seized up long before he had wanted to quit.

David had taken a turn at woodcarving, but his arms weren’t quite long enough to reach out, around, and above the bar at the necessary angle, and he was very tired when he returned, almost dead on his feet; Marshall finally had to tell him to stop trying. They would be at it for at least another two nights. Longer, if Davy was going to be kept out past midnight and come back groggy and out-of-sorts the way he had last night.

Marshall had tried to find out what went on at dinner, but Archer’s answer was vague: “Very little. He talks, endlessly, about all the people he’s held prisoner and how amazingly clever he is. Or he drags out that list of prize ships, and tries to find inconsistencies in what I’ve told him. Or he does something completely irrational. Last night, for some reason, he kept me tied to—to a chair—for a couple of hours, while he sat and read a book. Not aloud, mind you. Just reading to himself.”

The contrast in David’s mood had been so marked from earlier in the day that Marshall was worried. Perhaps the irritability had mainly been lack of sleep. Or was Adrian doing something else—waging a war of nerves? The notion of him puttering around his cabin with Davy sitting there tied up certainly did not sound rational. Granted, the man was amoral, and Marshall knew firsthand that he enjoyed demonstrating his power, but what was the point? Was he actually mad—or slipping into madness? There was something dangerous going on, and Archer seemed to be the focus of it; his nightmares said as much.

As if he’d heard the thought, David started to mutter and shift restlessly, as he’d been doing off and on since they’d settled down, just before dawn. Marshall reached over and rested a hand on his arm, trying to keep the worry out of his voice. “It’s all right, Davy, everything’s all right, go back to sleep.”

That calmed him for the moment, even if it were not completely true. Damn that bastard. Why Archer?

Well, he answered himself, however irrational Adrian might be, he had enough sense not to play such games with Captain Smith. If he had even tried, he would not have gotten far. And he might have decided that the Captain’s supposed “cousin” might be an equally tough nut to crack. But Davy... Davy had been unconscious when they arrived; Adrian had probably thought he’d fainted from fright, and like any bully, he went for the first sign of vulnerability like flies to a wound.

The bastard would not have been so sure of himself if he’d ever seen David Archer in battle; he’d been given command of the prize ship
Fifine
because he’d led the boarding party and captured her captain. But this was nothing like a fair fight. Archer was bound by the knowledge that anything he did or said might trigger a reprisal against the others. A nasty little trap from a nasty little mind. Would it be worth another beating to see Davy sink a fist into that supercilious smirk? Oh, yes.

But, however satisfying, that would take a day or more off their escape time while he recovered. If they used a cat-o’nine-tails, as Adrian had threatened, maybe longer. Or they might just put him back in the sail locker, with its four-foot ceiling and a port too small to climb through. They might do both... or even separate him and Archer permanently. Not only would that wreck their best chance for escape, it might endanger Davy, too, if the nightmares grew too noisy and out of control.

No. Marshall rubbed his eyes, which were now refusing to stay open. They would have to play out this hand as it was dealt. If the sessions with Adrian got too much for David, surely he would say something?

No, probably not. He was too worried—needlessly—about proving his courage
. I’ll just have to keep an eye on him, see if there’s anything I can do.
Which, realistically, would probably not be much.

Archer made a small unhappy sound; Marshall patted his arm again and shushed him.
I’m sorry, Davy, you’re going to have to bear with it a little longer. We’ll get out of this as soon as we can, I promise.

~

Supplemental Log, HMS Calypso, in for repair, Portsmouth. Lt. Anthony Drinkwater, in temporary command. 26-7-1799

No further news.

~

Captain Smith noted the arrival of dinner with little interest. He had seen no sign of his potential ally since that first encounter three days earlier. He realized that an irregular rotation of guards would mean long intervals where no contact was possible; that made the delay no more tolerable. The information he needed could be obtained in a minute or less: where was the ship, how far from shore, what was her course; where were his men; where were the weapons kept? With those questions answered, he would have the basis for strategy.

In the meantime, however, all he could do was eat what would probably be a reasonably palatable meal. Tea, biscuit, some sort of stew, an apple: quite normal shipboard food. He hoped Marshall and Archer were faring as well, and wondered whether they had been considering that last examination question. There had to be a way out of this, and he fully expected that the two of them would eventually come up with something. They had, after all, been under his command for more than a year and had been reading from his own library of naval and military history. They were bright young men with keen minds, and Marshall was particularly creative.

But he ought to be doing more himself; it was hardly fitting for the captain of a frigate to sit about waiting for a junior lieutenant, even a remarkably inventive one, to initiate a rescue, and it went against the grain to let someone else take the initiative.

His spoon clinked against something in the stew. It felt like quite a large object—a chunk of bone, perhaps, or even a rock; peculiar objects occasionally found their way into ships’ supplies, since they were usually opened far from the place of purchase. It had been years since he’d had to watch out for such oddities, though; the
Calypso’s
cook was conscientious about what went to her captain’s table. Ah, well, a sharp, good-sized piece of bone might be useful as a tool.

He tilted the bowl and scooped, and stared at the object for a moment before recognizing it: a large, well-worn clasp knife, garnished with a couple of split peas, and a slice of carrot stuck in the hinge.

~

Dinner for the
Calypso
’s most junior officers—both of them—arrived an hour or so before sunset. Archer looked at the second plate as though he expected it to explode. Marshall could see nothing alarming in the hash of beef and potatoes, nor the biscuit beside it. The mug of strong tea was even better. “What’s wrong, Davy?”

“Nothing,” Archer said, with a cautious smile. “Nothing at all. Something may be right for once.” At Marshall’s look he explained, “Adrian said he had business tonight, that he wouldn’t be expecting me. Of course I didn’t believe him.”

“Honesty would be the last thing to expect from him. Do you have any idea what the business is?”

“Not a hint. He said only that he would be occupied with business this evening.”

Marshall nodded and addressed himself to the meal. “If it’s legitimate, he’s either making a delivery ashore, or to another ship. Otherwise, it might be news of the ransom.”

David’s eyes widened hopefully. “You think it could be that? This soon?”

“Not likely, but possible. I’m sure he had the Captain’s letter by the time we sailed, and he must have left someone back in Portsmouth to deliver it and wait for a response. A fast cutter might catch up to us by now, or he might have a rendezvous arranged with a courier ashore. We’d have a better idea of whether that’s likely if we had any idea where we are.”

“If we can get outside, the stars should tell us something.”

“As long as it’s clear. And if you’re here for the whole night, we can get to work at lights-out. Are you feeling rested?”

“I’m ready to start right now.” The prospect of getting something done, or perhaps of a night away from Adrian’s poisonous company, seemed to make a great difference in Archer’s mood. “Will, I was thinking. We don’t have a whetstone, but do you think we could sharpen that thing on a shoe buckle?”

“Like a carving steel?” Marshall grinned. For once, there might be an advantage to having economized by getting his shoes made with pinchbeck—cut steel—instead of the more expensive but softer silver. “We can try. I don’t think it’s possible to make the edge any duller.”

He finished eating quickly and shifted to sit against the wall beside the door, so he’d have a moment to hide what he was doing if a guard approached; Archer moved to keep an eye on the door. The adze blade made hardly any noise. After a couple of minutes, he could see a small but definite improvement in the edge. “Good thinking, Davy. This will save us hours, in the long run.” He worked for another few minutes, then hid the tool again; the guards never waited long to collect the dishes. “And they brought us tea to help stay awake,” he said, emptying his cup. “Very thoughtful.”

“Do you think we can finish tonight?” Archer asked, pushing the dishes back under the door flap.

“We can try. It’s three inches of oak, though, and we don’t know how deeply the bar is set.” They both heard the footsteps outside, and stopped talking until the guard glanced in, took the dishes, and went away. “If we do get through tonight, it will probably be near dawn by the time we finish.”

Archer nodded. “I suppose it would be too risky to go out tonight anyway, if Adrian’s expecting company. You wouldn’t want to be hanging on the rigging when another ship appears, or have one of the boats spot you on the way back from shore.”

“If they are dealing with Navy vessels, being seen might not be a bad thing... No. With another ship nearby, the crew would be on the alert; I’d be hauled back in before I could signal. But it just occurred to me: once we have the bar out, do you think you could use this adze as a weapon? You might have a chance at Adrian—”

“No.” Archer bit his lip. “I couldn’t hide it, I—he—he has them search me when I go in. And coming out; anything I took in would be confiscated and he’d want to know where I got it. Besides, Will, I think I’d need something a little more... emphatic... than a carpenter’s discard. If you should happen to find a pistol lying around...”