Rise Of Empire (74 page)

Royce climbed to the yard, walked to the end, and, just as he had done during the race with Derning, slid down the rope so he could hear them.

“I can make life on this ship very difficult for you,” Beryl said, threatening Wesley. “Or have you forgotten your two days without sleep? There is talk that I’ll be made acting lieutenant, and if you think your life is hard with my current rank, after my promotion it’ll be a nightmare. And I’ll see to it that any transfer is refused.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to. In fact, it’s better if you don’t. That way you can sound sincere if the captain questions you. Just find him guilty of something. Misconduct, disrespect, I don’t care. You put his buddy the cook on report for not saluting. Do something like that. Only this time it needs to be a flogging offense.”

“But why me? Why can’t
you
invent this charge?”

“Because if the accusation comes from you, the captain and Mr. Bishop will not question it.” He grinned. “And if they do, it’s your ass, not mine.”

“And that’s supposed to entice me?”

“No, but I’ll get off your back. If you don’t, you won’t eat, you won’t sleep, and you’ll become very accident-prone. The sea can be dangerous. Midshipman Jenkins lost both thumbs on our last voyage when he slipped with a rope, which is strange, ’cause he didn’t handle ropes that day. Invent a charge, make it stick, and get him flogged.”

“And why do you want him whipped?”

“I told you. My friends want blood. Now do we have a deal?”

Wesley stared at Beryl and took a deep breath. “I can’t misrepresent a man, and certainly not one under my command, simply to avoid personal discomfort.”

“It will be a great deal more than discomfort, you little git!”

“The best I can do is to forget we had this conversation. Of course, should some unusual or circumstantial accusation be leveled against Seaman Melborn, I might find it necessary to report this incident to the captain. I suspect he will take a dim view of your efforts to advance insubordination on his vessel. It could be viewed as the seeds of mutiny, and we both know the penalty for that.”

“You don’t know who you’re playing with, boy. As much as you’d like to think it, you’re no Breckton. If I can’t use you, I’ll lose you.”

“Is that all, Mr. Beryl? I must tack the ship now.”

Beryl spat at the younger man’s feet and stalked away. Wesley remained standing rigidly, watching him go. Once Beryl had disappeared below, Wesley gripped the rail and took off his hat to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He took a deep breath, replaced his hat, straightened his jacket, and then shouted in a clear voice, “Hands to the braces!”

Royce had dealt with many people in his life, from serfs to kings, and few surprised him. He knew he could always depend on their greed and weakness, and he was rarely disappointed. Wesley was the first person in years to astonish him. While the young midshipman could not see it, Royce offered him the only sincere salute he had bestowed since he had stepped aboard.

Royce ascended to the topsail to loose the yard brace in
anticipation of Wesley’s next order when his eye caught an irregularity on the horizon. At night, with only the suggestion of a moon, it was hard for anyone to tell where the sky ended and the sea began. Royce, however, could discern the difference. At that moment, he noticed a break in the line. Out to sea, ahead of the
Storm
, a black silhouette broke the dusty star field.

“Sail ho!” he shouted.

“What was that?” Wesley asked.

“Sail off the starboard bow,” he shouted, pointing to the southeast.

“Is there a light?”

“No, sir, a triangle-shaped sail.”

Wesley moved to the starboard rail. “I don’t see anything. How far out?”

“On the horizon, sir.”

“The horizon?” Wesley picked up the eyeglass and panned the sea. The rest of the ship was silent except for the creaking of the oak timbers as they waited. Wesley muttered something as he slapped the glass closed and ran to the quarterdeck to pound on the captain’s cabin. He paused and then pounded again.

The door opened to reveal the captain, barefoot in his nightshirt. “Mr. Wesley, have we run aground? Is there a mutiny?” The captain’s steward rushed to him with his robe.

“No, sir. There’s a sail on the horizon, sir.”

“A what?”

“A triangular sail, sir. Over there.” Wesley pointed while handing him the glass.

“On the horizon, you say? But how—” Seward crossed to the rail and looked out. “By Mar! But you’ve got keen eyes, lad!”

“Actually, the maintop crew spotted it first, sir. Sounded like Seaman Melborn, sir.”

“I’ll be buggered. Looks like
three
ships, Mr. Wesley. Call all hands.”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

Wesley roused Bristol, who woke the rest of the crew. In a matter of minutes men ran to their stations. Lieutenant Bishop was still buttoning his coat when he reached the quarterdeck, followed by Mr. Temple.

“What is it, sir?”

“The Dacca have returned.”

Wyatt, who was taking the helm, glanced over. “Orders, sir?” he asked coldly.

“Watch your tone, helmsman!” Temple snapped.

“Just asking, sir.”

“Asking for a caning!” Mr. Temple roared. “And you’ll get one if you don’t keep a civil tongue.”

“Shut up, the both of you. I need to think.” Seward began to pace the quarterdeck, his head down. One hand played with the tie to his robe; the other stroked his lips.

“Sir, we only have one chance and it’s a thin one at that,” Wyatt said.

Mr. Temple took hold of his cane and moved toward him.

“Belay, Mr. Temple!” the captain ordered before turning his attention back to Wyatt. “Explain yourself, helmsman.”

“At that range, with the land behind us, the Dacca can’t possibly see the
Storm.
All they can see are the lanterns.”

“Good god! You’re right, put out those—”

“No, wait, sir!” Wyatt stopped him. “We
want
them to see the lanterns. Lower the longboat, rig it with a pole fore and aft, and hang two lanterns on the ends. Put ours out as you light those, then cast off. The Dacca will focus on it all night. We’ll be able to bring the
Storm
about, catch the wind, and reach the safety of Wesbaden Bay.”

“But that’s not our destination.”

“Damn our orders, sir! If we don’t catch the wind, the Dacca will be on us by tomorrow night.”

“I’m
the captain of this ship!” Seward roared. “Another outburst and I’ll not hold Mr. Temple’s hand.”

The captain looked at the waiting crew. Every eye was on him. He returned to pacing with his head down.

“Sir?” Bishop inquired. “Orders?”

“Can’t you see I’m thinking, man?”

“Yes, sir.”

The wind fluttered the sails overhead as the ship began to lose the angle on the wind.

“Lower the longboat,” Seward ordered at last. “Rig it with poles and lanterns.”

“And our heading?”

Seward tapped his lips.

“I shouldn’t need to remind you, Captain Seward,” Thranic said as he joined them on the quarterdeck, “that it’s imperative we reach the port of Dagastan without delay.”

Seward tapped his lips once more. “Send the longboat aft with a crew of four, and have them stroke for their lives toward Wesbaden. The Dacca will think we’ve seen them and will expect us to head that way, but the
Storm
will maintain its present course. There is to be no light on this ship without my order, and I want absolute silence. Do you hear me? Not a sound.”

“Aye, sir.”

Seward glanced at Wyatt, who shook his head with a look of disgust. The captain ignored him and turned to his lieutenant. “See to it, Mr. Bishop.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“You should have tried for the longboat’s crew,” Wyatt whispered to Hadrian. “We all should have.”

It was still dark, and the crescent moon had long since
fallen into the sea. As per the captain’s orders, the ship was quiet. Even the wind had died, and the ship rocked, motionless and silent, in the darkness.

“You don’t have a lot of faith in Seward’s decision?” Hadrian whispered back.

“The Dacca are smarter than he is.”

“You’ve got to at least give him the benefit of the doubt. They might think we turned and ran.”

Wyatt muffled a laugh. “If you were captain and decided to make a run for it against faster ships in the dead of night, would you have left the lanterns burning? The lantern ruse only works if they think we
haven’t
seen them.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Hadrian admitted. “We’ll know soon enough if they took the bait. It’s getting lighter.”

“Where’s Royce and his eagle eyes?” Wyatt asked.

“He went to sleep after his shift. We’ve learned over the years to sleep and eat when you can, so you don’t regret not doing so later.”

They peered out across the water as the light increased. “Maybe the captain was right,” Hadrian said.

“How do you mean?”

“I don’t see them.”

Wyatt laughed. “You don’t see them because you can’t see anything, not even a horizon. There’s fog on the water. It happens this time of year.”

It grew lighter, and Hadrian could see Wyatt was right. A thick gray blanket of clouds surrounded them.

Lieutenant Bishop climbed to the quarterdeck and rapped softly on the captain’s door. “You asked to be awakened at first light, sir,” he whispered.

The captain came out, fully dressed this time, and proudly strode to the bridge.

“Fog, sir.”

The captain scowled at him. “I can see that, Mr. Bishop. I’m not blind.”

“No, sir.”

“Send a lad with a glass up the mainmast.”

“Mr. Wesley,” Bishop called softly. The midshipman came running. “Take this glass to the masthead and report.”

“Aye, sir.”

Captain Seward, rocking on his heels and staring out at the fog, stood with his hand fidgeting behind his back. “It looks promising so far, doesn’t it, Mr. Bishop?”

“It does indeed, sir. The fog will help hide us all the more.”

“What do you think now, helmsman?” the captain asked Wyatt.

“I think I’ll wait for Mr. Wesley’s report. If you don’t mind, sir.”

Seward folded his arms in irritation and began to pace, his short legs and plump belly doing little to impart the vision of a commanding figure.

Wesley reached the masthead and extended the glass.

“Well?” Seward called aloud, his impatience getting the better of him.

“I can’t tell, sir. The fog is too thick.”

“They say the Dacca can use magic to raise a fog when they want,” Poe whispered to Hadrian as they watched. “They’re likely using it to sneak up on us.”

“Or maybe it’s just because the air is cooler this morning,” Hadrian replied.

Poe shrugged.

The crew stood around, silent and idle, for an hour before Mr. Temple ordered Hadrian to serve the morning meal. The men ate, then wandered the deck in silence, like ghosts in a misty world of white. The midday meal came and went as well, with no break in the mist that continued to envelop them.

Hadrian had just finished cleaning up when he heard Wesley’s voice from the masthead shout, “Sail!”

Emerging from the hold, Hadrian felt a cool breeze as a wind moved the fog, parting the hazy white curtains veil after veil.

The single word left everyone on edge.

“Good Maribor, man!” Seward shouted up. “What kind of sail?”

“Red lateen sails, sir!”

“Damn!” Seward cursed. “How many?”

“Five!”

“Five? Five! How could there be five?”

“No, wait!” Wesley shouted. “Six to windward! And three more coming off the port bow.”

The captain’s face drained of color. “Good Maribor!”

Even as he spoke, Hadrian spotted the sails clustered on the water.

“Orders, Captain?” Wyatt asked.