Ransom Page 4

  Gesturing at the table, he scowled at the figure standing outside his cell. “For producing a ransom note, I presume?”

  “Not just yet. The presence of your traveling companions means that I must reconsider my requirements. For the moment, it will suffice if you pen a brief message that you and your officers are alive and well, and further communiqués will be forthcoming.”

  “Decided to raise the price, have you?” With the lantern hanging on the wall behind the man who called himself captain of this ship, Smith couldn’t read his face. Not that he needed to. He’d seen more than enough posturing popinjays who let a little power go to their heads.

  “Captain, you have no idea what a pleasure it is to converse with a ready wit. You do anticipate me. Since we had no idea that you would be in company….”

  “No doubt. However, I dislike the principle of paying extortion. It encourages bad habits. Since you appear to be a gentleman, I propose that we arm ourselves and settle this on the field of honor.”

  “I had heard that you have been a rather vocal opponent of dueling, sir. Why this sudden change?”

  “It will save His Majesty’s courts the trouble and expense of a trial,” Smith said shortly. “You might also consider that the penalty for high treason is far more unpleasant than a bullet at dawn.”

  “I suppose I should be flattered at your offer, but I regret to admit that I’m only a simple merchant, and I’ve no intention of risking damage to rare and valuable merchandise. I do not claim to be a gentleman, sir.”

  “But you could claim to be a coward. As might be deduced from the nature of your ‘merchandise.’”

  He ignored the blatant insult. “I do understand your reluctance to write such a letter and the embarrassment you may suffer over your capture, but I must insist. You have in your party a young man of no commercial value, and I would be perfectly happy to have him shot as a demonstration of my sincerity.”

  Smith had to be grateful for the man’s absolute predictability. If he had singled Marshall out himself, it would have looked suspicious. But he must guard against overconfidence on his own part; if this villain were the dimwitted fop he appeared to be, he would already have been apprehended.

  “Indeed, my men are not expendable, sir. I am as concerned for their safety as for my own. If you had captured the lowliest landsman who cleans the bilges, you would still be interfering with your country’s defense.”

  “Are you concerned enough to pay for his safety, Captain? I am quite willing to charge full freight for this otherwise worthless Lieutenant.”

  Perhaps he was as stupid as he seemed. He was no judge of character. But Smith was content to let Adrian go on underestimating the resourceful young man. “Mr. Marshall is in fact the son of one of my cousins,” he said. “His father is sensitive to accusations of nepotism, so we have agreed to let young William prove himself on his own merits.”

  “I see. Well, then, if you are so concerned for his health, and presumably for Mr. Archer’s, I suggest you apply quill to paper.”

  “And what will you do with this letter?”

  “Forward it to your man of business, of course. This is a business transaction, after all.”

  Smith held up a restraining hand. “I gather you have not tried this experiment with Navy men before?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You would do better to have it delivered to the Calypso, in care of my First Lieutenant, Mr. Anthony Drinkwater.”

  “This is not a Navy affair.”

  “As I have been endeavoring to make clear to you, as a Captain in His Majesty’s Navy, virtually every aspect of my life is, in fact, a Navy affair. Should you write to my man of business, he would be required to forward the correspondence to the Admiralty. Once that occurs, your enterprise will be mired in a morass of official procedure that could see us both graybeards before you see a penny of ransom. Is that your intention?”

  The silhouette at the barred door hesitated. “Is this some kind of trick?”

  “I prefer to make our acquaintance as brief as possible, sir,” Smith said with unfeigned annoyance. “Mr. Drinkwater will have the authority to contact both my man of business and the Admiralty. What is more, he can expedite the liquidation of the prizes we brought in yesterday afternoon—I presume by now it is yesterday—thereby obtaining funds to purchase our release. Is such alacrity not also in your interests?”

  “Of course,” Adrian admitted reluctantly. “I confess to reservations, Captain. You seem far too ready with your suggestions. I must be wary of such helpfulness.”

  “Your activities are notorious by now, and those who might be your targets have been warned. Once we had ruled out the possibility of capture by agents of the French, our extended tour of the countryside provided me with ample time to consider various courses of action. I have spent the last several years commanding a frigate in wartime service, sir. If I were not accustomed to quick decisions, my ship would no longer be afloat.”

  His captor laughed. “I see. Well, then, Captain, I suggest you produce a suitable letter. Quickly.”

  Smith held the quill close to the lantern. The point looked fresh and usable. “Do you wish to dictate its contents?”

  “I will leave that to your discretion, though of course I shall read it first. Simply give it to the guard, who will be outside this door.”

  Smith nodded. “And what of my men?”

  “As long as you all behave yourselves, they will not be harmed. They are in similar accommodations—slightly less comfortable, I’m afraid, as their cabin is where I usually put any servants traveling with my guests. They will have fresh water to drink and seawater for washing, as you have—”

  Smith glanced down. Three buckets stood near the door. Two held water and one of them had a lid.

  “—and they will eat the same food as my crew. I suspect it will be a trifle better than what they get from His Majesty. Does that meet with your approval?”

  “Nothing about this idiocy meets with my approval,” Smith snapped. “You may still wish to reconsider your course of action. Once this reaches the Admiralty, every Navy ship in every harbor will be alerted to what has occurred. Do you realize, sir, that there are over one hundred thousand men sailing in His Majesty’s service? Do you truly believe you can evade them all?”

  “I have thus far, Captain. Please attend to that letter. I will have some refreshment sent as soon as you are finished.”

  Smith waited until his footsteps had died away, then went to the door and peered out. The guard Adrian had mentioned was standing against the wall opposite the door, a few feet away, well out of arm’s reach. Excellent.

  He moved the chair so that his back would be to the door, sat, and extracted a small stoppered medicine vial from an inside pocket of his waistcoat. Whether they’d missed it or were simply not so depraved as to deny him a medication he might require did not matter. With luck, they would regret the oversight.

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

  Lt. Anthony Drinkwater, in temporary command. 17-7-1799

  THE COACH has been located. It was found in a warehouse at the far end of a row of such buildings, but it was empty and untended, therefore no one has been found who could provide an account of what might have taken place there. After much inquiry, the owner of the vehicle was also located and proved to be a reputable liveryman who had hired the coach out to a man claiming to need it for a month-long trip, who had left such a generous deposit as to allay suspicion. The liveryman’s description of the man who rented the coach tallies closely with that of our nonexistent shore-service Lieutenant, who, to the best of the liveryman’s knowledge, was no one he had ever seen before or since. My suspicion is that we will find him only when we find our missing officers. The liveryman was much annoyed at the alteration to his vehicle (shutters had been added that made of it a prison) and the damage to the door. It appears our officers put up a valiant struggle and must have been overcome by a vastly su
perior force. However, no blood was found, which at least gives us some cause for hope.

  “GUARD!” SMITH stood at the barred window, holding the letters just inside until the guard, a short, wiry man with a balding forehead and skinny pigtail, moved close enough to be spoken to in a normal tone. “Take these to that brigand who calls himself your Captain. The first is what he asked for. The second is to Mr. Archer’s father. As Archer’s commanding officer, it is my duty to inform him what has befallen his son. Both letters should be sent via my First Lieutenant.”

  The guard nodded, reaching for the papers.

  “A moment,” Smith said. “Do you know who I am?”

  He saw a moment’s hesitation. Then the fellow nodded, reluctantly. “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you know I can and will make good on my promises. Whatever Adrian is paying you, I can match it—double it. A year’s wages—and a new position, far out of his reach—if you’ll help me and my men escape.”

  “Well, bless you, sir, that’s a handsome offer,” the man replied. “Hear that?”

  “Best we’ve had all year, I reckon.” A second, bulkier guard stepped into sight. “Real prompt with it, ’e was, too. You want to tell Cap’n, or shall I?”

  “Go on along. I guess you’ll want to collect that bet from Cook. Bet five pound, he did, that you’d try it before you slept or ’et,” he elaborated to Smith as the other man clumped off down the companionway. “Ever’body tries it, some sooner’n others.”

  “You’re a sailor,” Smith said, recognizing the man as a type he might find on his own foredeck. “You know what the sea would be like for English ships without His Majesty’s Navy. How can you involve yourself in this?”

  The man shifted uneasily, scratching at the edge of his mask. “Well, sir, most of us ’as to make a living. And the pay an’ grub’s better, and not much getting shot at.” He darted a glance off toward the door. “Seein’s who you are, I’ll give you a warnin’, like. Bert’s the Cap’n’s man. He’d as soon stick a knife in you as not. Cap’n always has two guards, usually one of ’em’s his. And he sees makin’ an offer as an escape attempt. Don’t do it. You’ll pay for it—or your lads will—one way or another.”

  “Then help me,” Smith urged. He was surprised at finding so receptive an audience and more than a little suspicious, but willing to take a chance. “You don’t sound like you belong here.”

  The man shook his head. “It’s as much as my life’s worth to say what I’ve said already, an’ I hope you’ll be a gentleman an’ keep it to yourself. ’Sides, I can’t do much. You won’t have the same guards two nights runnin’. Just sit tight, let ’im collect the ransom, and you’ll be out of ’ere, slick as a weasel.”

  “Damn it, man, there’s a war on!”

  “An’ your ship’s in dock for a month, at least. I saw ’er meself. That’s no tenpenny job. You’ll be out before then, Cap’n. Unless your agent’s run off with your money.”

  Smith snorted and returned to his chair. They had taken his money and watch—with a promise to return the watch, a gift from his wife and engraved—but left a sheaf of notes on the damage to the Calypso and the repairs that would be needed. He spread them out on the table and turned his attention to the matters he should be dealing with.

  Mr. Drinkwater would have his hands full. Not only were the repairs to the ship extensive, he would need to find space in a hulk to quarter those crewmen who would not be staying aboard to help with repairs—mostly the artificers—or trusted to return from shore leave—which was to say, at least half of the rest of them. The Calypso’s reputation for capturing prizes gave her an advantage over less fortunate ships in attracting enlistments, but no few of her crew would have eaten, drunk, gambled, or whored away that money in a week’s time.

  But Drinkwater could handle that. He had a keen sense of how to deal with the men. He had not had experience in handling such an extensive repair, nor the problem of a missing Captain and two officers and the uproar that would cause further up the chain of command. However, this might prove a good means of evaluating whether Mr. Drinkwater was ready for promotion to the rank of commander. He very likely was. Whether or not he had the ambition for an independent command, Smith was not certain, but he had to assume it was so. One of the drawbacks of command: it meant training one’s officers up until they could be trusted with one’s life—and more importantly, one’s ship—and as soon as they reached that point, in all fairness, one had to nominate them for promotion to independent command.

  Well, the practice improved the Service, and in the long run that benefitted England and every Englishman, including himself. And it was tremendously gratifying to see some honor posted in the Naval Gazette and recognize the name of a protégé who had gone on to distinguish himself.

  Smith had already begun to see that happening with his two youngest officers. Marshall never lost an opportunity to exercise his leadership, but he had a cool head and the chances he took were sometimes hair-raising but never stupid. He was respectful to senior officers, as well—none of the overconfidence that could lead to disgrace. There was no doubt in his mind that Marshall was going to leave his mark on the world, if he could avoid getting himself killed in the process.

  Archer seemed to be shaping up, as well. Smith had been less sure of that young man. The scuttlebutt that reached him in its roundabout way suggested Archer had indulged in an unacceptable liaison with a fellow midshipman on his previous posting. But Smith had seen such things happen, too often, when a Captain was careless and junior officers inclined to bully. He’d seen nothing to Archer’s discredit since that young man joined his crew.

  To his credit, Archer had risked his own life to save Marshall, throwing himself into a powder room to get his shipmate out before a spreading fire blew the cabin to splinters. Archer’s promotion to acting Lieutenant had been based on that as much as his ability, and he had fulfilled his new responsibilities to a degree that erased any doubts. Archer might not have Marshall’s talent in a crisis—few did—but the Navy had constant need of good, steady officers who could do their duty. They were the backbone of the Service.

  Then the thought he had been steadfastly putting out of his mind came echoing back. “You’ll pay for it—or your lads will.” He needed to know what the fellow meant by that. It was not pleasant to realize that he would almost certainly find out.

  Chapter 4

  “OATMEAL,” ARCHER said, the morning of their first full day aboard ship. “I wonder how much of our careers will be spent eating oatmeal. It seems to be the universal solvent.” But he dutifully spooned up the last bit of the uninteresting mass.

  Marshall had finished his and was working on a biscuit. “If you only count oatmeal in prison, I think the percentage would be rather low. If you include ordinary shipboard meals, it may be the better part of our lives. It could be worse, Davy,” he said philosophically. “It could be garbanzos.”

  Archer had to smile at that. During a blockade of supply ships, the crew of Calypso had subsisted for nearly a month on a captured cargo of Spanish chickpeas. “I suppose you like oatmeal.”

  Marshall shrugged. “It’s fuel. I’ve no quarrel with oats. Although, I admit, I had hoped to squander a few shillings, while we were in port, on eggs and bacon.”

  “And real tea, with cream,” Archer said. “And scones.”

  “Well, at least the biscuit is fresh. It seems only yesterday we made the acquaintance of these biscuits. Reliable traveling companions, wouldn’t you say?”

  “And we know exactly where they’ve been.”

  Marshall grimaced. “I wish we knew exactly where we are.”

  They were at sea, rather than in port; that much was obvious from the motion of the ship, which had weighed anchor almost immediately after they had been brought on board. Marshall had been constructing elaborate patterns of straw, basing his calculations on where they might be if they had left Portsmouth, if the wind was what it had been when they were last in the open air,
if, if…. Finally, having too little data, he scattered the straws in disgust, and they worked on navigation problems for a while.

  Thus far, the routine in their little cell had been much like the routine on the Calypso, except for the matter of being confined. An early, simple breakfast: oatmeal and biscuit. Then dinner: biscuit, and a piece of cheese. Supper was biscuit, dried beef, and halfway decent tea. Three guards came to remove the slop bucket and pour water into the other two, requiring the prisoners to put the containers next to the door and stand well back. That seemed a fair enough trade for fresh water and hygiene.

  The ventilator had proved a great disappointment. If they’d had a crowbar or hammer and chisel, they could have removed the heavy bar and, very likely, squeezed out—which would have left them sticking out the side of the ship like a cannon. And it was possible that this little room had originally been a gunport—the wood around the port was newer than the rest of the hull, as though extra space had been filled in. But, again, it would take more than their fingernails to get through it, and there was nothing but the sea outside.

  The guards came again late in the afternoon of the second day. By that point they were playing chess on a board they’d drawn with a bit of chalk Archer had found in his pocket. The men were fashioned from straw. Pawns, single stalks, were no trouble, but the other chessmen tended to fall to pieces. This element of unpredictability made the game more interesting.

  One man knocked on the door and pressed his masked face to the grate. “Which of you’s Archer?”

  Archer met Marshall’s look, then rose warily to his feet. “I am.”

  The face vanished, and a pan of water slid under the flap at the door’s base. “You’re ’aving supper with the Captain. We’re giving you a razor, but you ’ave to put it back out before we opens the door.” The statement was followed by the item named, resting on a bit of silvered glass.