The Sunken (30 page)

Even accounting for the money he’d given James, if he could survive another year on a lieutenant’s wage Nicholas would have saved enough to enter university as an architect, but with hostilities brewing he was likely chained to the Navy ’till death or dismemberment rendered him useless. He thought of the Engine Ward — those high walls of iron and that soot-soaked hovel that had been more of a home than his father’s estates. More than anything, he wanted to return there.

The King was sending troops to reinforce the garrisons stationed in the English colonies around the Mediterranean, and the
Cleopatra
was assigned to play escort to a number of vessels landing in Malta and the Ionian Islands with soldiers, supplies and Industrian missionaries off to spread the word of science throughout Europe. This meant ample stops in port, and a chance, one day, if he ever worked up the courage to do it, of jumping ship. He’d have to change his name, of course, and go into hiding. But perhaps he could find an architecture school …

It was a foolish idea, of course, but he was lonely and desperate, and he couldn’t help but entertain it. Perhaps his desperation could be read on his face, or Jacob suspected his intentions and had alerted the Captain; for whenever they put in at port, Nicholas was ordered to remain on board as a guard.

So he waited, and he drilled every day on deck with sword and dagger and fist, until his muscles tightened and his senses sharpened. He did not know if he would ever attempt to escape, but he knew if he did, he would need all his strength and wits about him.

The following summer,
Cleopatra
engaged three French frigates off the coast of Italy and suffered a serious defeat. Nicholas was on the quarterdeck when the French guns blew a hole in the hull on the waterline and took out the mast. A wood splinter lodged itself into his shoulder, knocking him off his feet. His men weren’t so lucky – eight of them died when another shot went through the deck, and two more died from infected wounds from the splinters flying through the air.

Cleopatra
was adrift, and started taking on water at an alarming rate. Clutching his shoulder and gritting his teeth against the pain, Nicholas organised a chain of men to plug the hole. On-deck, Jacob and Harold attempted to raise a Jury mast – if they didn’t get back under sail, the French would board and take the ship as a prize.

Luckily, at that moment an English ship of the line, HMS
Friday
, was sighted. The French moved on, and the
Friday
towed
Cleopatra
back to Gibraltar.

As
Cleopatra
limped into port, the Captain called the officers to his cabin and delivered a grim sermon. With forty-six men lost and the vessel in need of significant repairs, the
Cleopatra
was being decommissioned. Hope swelled in Nicholas’ chest.
I could go home to England and start my education
—

But the Captain had other ideas. Their orders were to stay with the garrison in Gibraltar until a new commission could be found for them. The English fleet was under heavy fire by the French and there was a constant need for more men. Nicholas thanked the captain and asked to be excused to pack his things; he didn’t want to give Jacob the pleasure of reading the disappointment on his face.

The ship needed to be careened for repairs, so everyone, including the Captain and officers, would need to find lodgings for a number of days. The barracks were completely full, but Nicholas easily found a cheap room in town. Thousands of soldiers were stationed at the fortress, and more men came off the ships every day — the town was well stocked with amenities to tickle a sailor’s fancy.

After hiding his money and belongings in his room, Nicholas followed the crowds of men as they practically skipped off the docks toward the doss-houses. He pushed his way into a crowded tavern, bought a draught at the bar and slipped toward the back of the room. He didn’t want to play dice or cards with the other men, or flirt with one of the doxies making the rounds of the room. He wanted to drink ’till the memories of London faded into a dream.

Leaning against the wall, he tipped his head back and poured his drink down his throat. He closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth washing over his body.

Isambard. James. I wonder what you’re doing right now. I wish I could be with you, instead of in the middle of this ridiculous war being shot at by the French every day
—

Across the room, something shattered. Nicholas looked up from his drink. Jacob and Harold had entered the bar, and were exchanging some heated words with a group of officers from another ship. One of the officers had smashed a bottle against the table and was pointing it at Jacob. Nicholas could see by the way Harold was leaning against Jacob and Jacob’s bloodshot eyes were darting about that they were already very drunk, and ready for a fight.

I have to leave, before they notice me.
He couldn’t go out the front, as Jacob and Harold stood near the entrance and would certainly see him. Nicholas surveyed the tavern. Stairs behind the bar led up to sleeping quarters above, and men swung in and out of a door into a storage area beyond. Nicholas craned his neck to get a look inside the storeroom, and saw a large space stacked high with barrels and another door beyond, leading into the alley behind the tavern. He set down his drink, inched his way nonchalantly toward the door, and slipped through into the storage room.

“You can’t go back there!” someone yelled behind him.

His heart pounding, Nicholas ducked behind the barrels, racing for the second door. Footsteps followed him, and he heard the proprietor yell for some help.
He must think I stole something,
he realised, grabbing the bolt on the door. It was stuck. Panic rose in his belly. He jiggled the bolt, but it wouldn’t budge.

“I said, get out of here!” He heard more men shouting behind him. In a moment they’d be on him.

The bolt slid through Nicholas’ fingers, and he pushed open the door and slipped out into the alley. He bolted around the corner and down the alley just as he heard the proprietor and his men crash through the door and race after him.

Nicholas ducked around another corner, stumbling into the street and narrowly avoiding being churned under the wheels of a wagon. Heavy footfalls thundered toward him. He dodged through the pedestrians and tore into another alley. He was about to cut through a courtyard when a hand clamped down on his shoulder.

“Oh no you don’t,
Stoker,
” said Jacob, stepping out of the shadows. “You’re coming with us.”

“What’s the punishment for desertion, Jacob?” Harold, who held his shoulders in a vice-like grip, asked.

“Why, that would be seventy lashes,” said Jacob, a cruel smile plastered across his face. “Followed by death.”

“The Captain will hang you right on the dock,” Harold cried. “I cannot wait to wield the cat on your treacherous back myself.”

“I’m not deserting, you idiots.” Nicholas snapped, fumbling for the sword at his belt. Jacob loomed over him, his face twisted into a sadistic smile. Jacob pulled back his fist and punched Nicholas in the jaw, followed by another hit in the temple. The pain blinded him, and he stumbled back across the courtyard, his boots slipping on the cobbles. Rough hands grabbed him, pinning his arms at his side, squeezing the wound in Nicholas’ shoulder ’till he let go of his sword. He could smell Harold’s rotting breath on his neck.
This is bad. Very, very bad.

Through his swimming vision, he could just make out the figure of Jacob, his body blocking the entrance to the courtyard and the alley beyond. Nicholas knew he was trapped.
I am going to die right here in an alley, like a criminal. I’ll never see London again.

Desperate, Nicholas did the only thing he could think of — he slammed his elbow back, knocking the wind from Harold and loosening his grip. With a swift kick to the shin, Harold crumpled to the ground and Nicholas dislodged himself. He swung his body around and grabbed his sword from the ground. He whirled around to face the two men.

“I don’t want any trouble. Let me go and I won’t report this. “Nicholas’ voice came out calmer than he felt. Blood ran down his face, obscuring his view. If they rushed him together, he would be done for.

“You struck a superior officer,” Harold wheezed. “We don’t have to kill you here, you know. When we deliver you to headquarters, they’ll hang you on the spot.”

Smiling, Jacob drew his own sabre, and took a step forward. Nicholas had seen him duelling on deck and knew he was a skilled swordsman. He regretted his boldness.

Harold was picking himself up, and Nicholas needed to move quickly before the pair overwhelmed him. Jacob advanced a step, and Nicholas backed up, trying to buy himself time to think. He tried to wipe the blood from his eye, but it kept flowing down his face.

Jacob let out a chuckle. He stepped forward again, his blade glinting in the moonlight. Nicholas braced himself for a painful death—

Isambard, I’m sorry. I miss you.

A man barrelled down the alley and, in his haste to enter the courtyard, he slammed into Jacob’s shoulder, spinning him off-balance. Yelling something in French, the black-clad man shifted a small package from arm to arm and tore off across the courtyard.

At that exact moment, a soldier passed by on the street. He shouted at the men to lower their swords and rushed toward the confrontation, but not before another man pushed past Harold, knocking him aside.

Seeing his chance, Nicholas leapt forward, easily parrying Jacob’s off-balance cut and ducking behind him, sweeping his foot out as he did so and sending Jacob sprawling across the cobbles. Nicholas didn’t think twice; he rushed forward and drove the point of his sword into Jacob’s belly.

Nicholas yanked his blade free. Jacob made a strangled sound as his blood bubbled from the wound. He stared at the blood on his hands, his face dark with pain and surprise. Then his head flopped back, and he didn’t move. Four more officers and a fearsome man wearing the garb of a strange priesthood rushed around the corner and stampeded down the alley toward them. Nicholas tore across the courtyard and dived into the alley, which split off into three directions. He took the left and started running.

He had killed a superior officer. If they caught him, he would be hanged.

“De cette façon!”
a voice cried in French. He looked down, and there was the man in the black cloak, only his head visible from the black hole of a sewer.
“Ici-bas!”
Down here!

Nicholas swung himself inside and scrambled down the ladder as the black-robed man pulled the cover closed, plunging them into utter darkness. He heard a match striking, and within seconds the man had lit a candle.
“De cette façon
,
s’il vous plaît!”
he said, grabbing Nicholas’ hand.

The stench rolled over Nicholas, and he gagged. The black-robed man held a putrid hand up to his mouth, ordering him to be silent. Gulping, Nicholas managed to get hold of himself, and he followed the man along the slippery ledge that ran alongside the brown, soupy river. Chittering insects crawled through the slime that coated the walls and crunched under his feet. He tried not to look at the water.

The only sounds were their feet slapping on the wet brick, the drone of the insects, and the splash of discharge as it joined the main flow. His eyes watered, and bile rose in his throat; he swallowed, forcing himself to be silent. After what seemed like an eternity, the man led him off into a smaller tunnel. The river didn’t run here, and after a short uphill climb they came to a trapdoor. The man pushed it aside and dragged Nicholas into a small room, stacked high with sacks and barrels – a storeroom of some kind, similar to the one in the bar through which he’d escaped.

Nicholas rolled on the bare floor, couching and retching, his lungs gasping at the fresh air. After a time, he wiped his sweaty face and looked up at his rescuer.

The man was older than Nicholas, perhaps in his late thirties. His face was crisscrossed with fine lines and fading scars, and his eyes blazed with fiery intensity. His black robes were edged with a gold design; Nicholas gasped as he recognised symbols from the Morpheus Church.
What is a French Morpheus priest doing in Gibraltar?

The man pulled a package from beneath his robes — a parcel of brown paper, about the size of a book, tied up with string — and inspected it. Satisfied it was still in one piece, he replaced the package in the folds of his robe, and turned to Nicholas.

“Qui êtes-vous cachez?”
said the stranger.
Who are you hiding from?

“D’après les soldats. De l’anglais,”
replied Nicholas.
From the soldiers. From the English.

The stranger was taken aback. For the first time he seemed to notice Nicholas’ uniform. “
Anglais
?” he murmured, staring at Nicholas’ feet. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers and grabbed Nicholas’ wrist, dragging him toward the door of the storeroom.

“Où m’emmenez-vous?” Where are you taking me?

“You won’t last two minutes in this town with those clothes,” said the stranger, in English. “You killed an officer. They will have the whole garrison looking for you. I will find you some proper attire.”

“You mean like yours? No wonder they were chasing us, you dressing as a Catholic in an English port—”

“This is a disguise. I had an errand to run at the local church, when an old priest cruelly interrupted me. You are lucky you found me,” he said. “I am Jacques du Blanc. What God do you serve?”

“Great Conductor, but—”

“Then you will come with me. I will get you out of the city; take you to a safe place.”

“Thank y—”

Jacques was no longer listening. He rapped three times on the door of the storeroom, and pressed his ear against the wood to listen. Nicholas heard the sound of a bolt being drawn, and a woman’s face appeared. Jacques spoke to her in low tones and she left, reappearing a few minutes later with a bowl of brackish water and two bundles of clothes. Jacques handed one to Nicholas. “Put this on.”

They were peasant’s clothes — breeches and a tunic, and a cloak made of coarse wool. He pulled them on, bundling his uniform under his arm. She stared at him, her pretty brown eyes lingering as she swept her knotted black hair from her cheek. Jacques shooed her away into the room, slamming the door shut behind her. He hid away his robes and dressed himself, too, washing his face in the water and bundling Nicholas’ clothes and his parcel into a hollowed-out bale of hay. He opened the door again and led Nicholas through the building — it was a large, derelict warehouse, reeking of old fish and stacked with supplies. The warehouse seemed to be home to several people who crouched in the shadows and hid their faces as they passed.
Where am I?