by Betina Krahn
She looked up at Rafe. “Chests that smell good. Spices?”
“Very likely,” he answered.
“Some smelled like tea.” Jims was clearly awed. “Ma, she had some give to her. I didn’ take to it, but Ma an’ the girls liked it fine.”
She thought on that for a minute, then took a breath and lifted the boy’s chin. “You’ve been as brave as a knight in armor, Jims Gardiner. Now you should rest. I would read you to sleep if we still had a book.”
As it turned out, he didn’t need much coaxing to fall asleep. She had him climb under the blanket on the bunk and then sat beside him stroking his unruly hair. When he relaxed and began to breathe softly she moved to the floor beside Rafe, who sat with his back against the bunk.
“The crew is unhappy with their new captain,” she said softly, settling closer. “Maybe they need another leader.”
“That’s mutinous talk,” he said, drinking in her presence.
“I’m a prisoner. I’m allowed to mutiny.”
He chuckled silently and felt his shoulder move against hers.
“I bet if you gave them a speech like the one you gave on the dock, they’d listen,” she said.
He sighed. Did her mind never stop working? “You heard that?” He turned his head to look at her.
“Every word.” She looked up at him. “You very nearly had them.”
He searched her face in the dimness. “You’re just full of compliments today,” he said with a wry smile.
Soon her eyes closed and her head drooped against him. He put an arm around her to support her, and before long his cheek rested on the top of her head. With a smile he inhaled her scent and closed his eyes.
* * *
He roused a bit later with a crick in his neck and stretched it while trying not to disturb Lauren. She must have felt the change, for she stirred and sat up straight.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmured.
“It’s good that you did. It will be daylight soon.” She rubbed her face. “I’ve come up with a plan to get us out of here and solve the tariff problem. I’ll need your help.”
“Does it involve mayhem, bloodshed, or swimming?”
“No.”
“Then I’m in.”
“We lost Little Rob, but we’ve got Jims back,” she said quietly. “He’s obviously good at moving around unnoticed. He can sneak ashore on the provisions boat that runs just before dawn. We’ll need some men on the dock . . . with gaffs and plenty of brawn.”
She rose and headed for the door, searching through her hair.
“Longshoremen?” He was puzzled.
When he stood up and joined her, she was squeezing a hairpin together, and she soon inched it into the lock.
“Where on God’s green earth did you learn to do that?” he said, watching her finesse the wire into the door lock.
“There are times a household key may be misplaced or a cupboard or storeroom must be opened without a household official’s presence. Mrs. Beeton was quite adamant that this household tip must never be used for nefarious purposes.”
“Who is Mrs. Beeton?” He was incredulous. “And why would she think lock-picking would be used for anything but nefarious purposes?”
“She is an expert on household management and economy. I was trapped with her book of advice and admonitions for days. It turns out some of her advice is actually useful.”
With a click and the turn of a knob the door was open. She looked up at him with a grin and he was compelled to return it . . . before it occurred to him that he had no clue what they were about to do.
“Bring the lantern,” she said softly. “And we’ll have to find another lantern or two and some matches.”
All of her questions about the cargo . . . salvage requirements. . . kerosene lanterns . . . longshoremen with gaffs . . . He stopped dead in the quiet passageway and grabbed her arm.
“I think you’d better give me the details of this brilliant plan of yours,” he said with hushed urgency.
She stepped close to him in the darkness and whispered, “We’re going to set the ship on fire.”
* * *
She was insane, he told himself. Abduction and imprisonment had pushed her over the edge.
“We most certainly are not.”
“Oh, not the whole ship,” she assured him. “I’m thinking just the cabins. And perhaps something in the hold. We’ll start with the mattresses . . . they’ll smoke terribly and hide our activity at first. We had one catch fire once and it filled two whole floors with smoke. It took forever to air out the house.”
Once past the first shock he realized that she was too damned calm as she talked of torching—hold on—longshoremen and gaffs?
“Wait.” He pulled her to the junction of steps in the passage and dragged her into the darkest corner he could find. After a moment he realized his arms were around her and her hands were once again gripping his shirt. In the dark her quick breaths sounded sensual and the press of her body against his was threatening to seduce his skepticism.
“Explain,” he ordered through a tightening throat.
She did. And despite his misgivings, by the time they returned to the cabin they had two more lanterns and a box of matches pilfered from the galley.
* * *
“This is the craziest thing I’ve ever done,” she said as she dragged their mattress into the hallway at first light.
“Somehow I doubt that,” Rafe responded as he reluctantly added their blankets to the pile. They had managed to wrestle a mattress and pillows from the captain’s cabin into the passage. Old newspapers and some packing straw from open crates served as kindling.
They had only an hour to secret Jims ashore and convince Fosse and Gus of the need to start tossing the cargo overboard. The two had been appalled at first to find their prisoners had escaped, but Rafe’s emphatic assurance that if they helped with the plan they would be cleared of responsibility for the abduction brought them around. While the sleepless acting captain stalked the deck and snarled at the night watch, Fosse and Gus gathered a number of the crew below deck to hear Rafe’s invitation to be part of the plan. The men eyed him warily at first and glowered at Fosse and Gus.
“No ransom is coming,” Rafe declared forcefully. “I know my father; he’s stubborn as a mule. He won’t pay you a penny. More likely he’ll set Scotland Yard and the harbor police on the lot of you. They’ll storm the ship and you will be declared accomplices to criminal acts of abduction and imprisonment. Serious charges. Years at hard labor.”
The men muttered angrily, torn between distrust and despair.
“But there is an alternative.” His face glowed with determination. “A way to save your hides as well as the Clarion’s cargo.” He took a breath and announced, “If the ship were to catch fire, who could blame us for ditching the cargo overboard?”
* * *
“Where the hell is Lawrence?” Horace Townsend bellowed as he barreled past a shocked Weathersby into the entry hall of Alcott House. “The Clarion is on fire—the ship holding Rafe and your daughter!” he declared as Lawrence Alcott rushed out of the dining room with a napkin still tucked under his chin. “Get your hat, man!”
A minute later Lawrence had shed his napkin, grabbed his hat from Weathersby, and was climbing into Horace’s carriage. They raced through the fog-cloistered streets toward the harbor while Horace explained that a runner from the harbor police had brought the news a quarter of an hour earlier and he’d called immediately for his carriage. He had no word on how the fire had started or how much it had spread.
Lawrence tugged up his tie and noticed that Horace hadn’t shaved or bothered to change his clothes from last evening. He looked positively gray with concern. Was that for their children or their cargo?
“I never wanted to pay the bloody tariffs or give the bastards wages,” Horace reminded him. “It was you who refused to go to the authorities last night. What would they do to our children if we refused payment or br
ought the law into it? you said. Well, the time for that is over. I sent word to Scotland Yard as soon as I heard of the fire. Officers will be at the docks by the time we get there.”
“Of all the miserly, pigheaded—” Lawrence snapped, furious at Horace’s betrayal of their agreed-upon course. “Some things are more important than money. I want my daughter back. I’d have given whatever I have to get her back safe and sound. If that meant paying the scoundrels, I’d have sold my winter woolies to make it happen. Can you say the same?”
Horace looked struck by the accusation, then angry, and he turned to the window with a growl. A moment later his knee started to bounce with tension.
They rode the rest of the way in silence and found the Docklands near the Customs office in turmoil. People had turned out of nearby lodgings into the foggy dawn and bobbies were drawn to the docks to discover the source of the smoke that mingled with the fog. Horace sent the carriage away and they rushed on foot to the edge of the dock. They spotted dim flashes of light in the smoke and could hear the distant crackle of flames and the frantic shouts of sailors, punctuated by loud splashes.
“Where’re the damned fireboats?” Lawrence roared with frustration.
A second later they spotted shore boats carrying men with gaffs who seemed to be guiding barrels floating in the water to the dock. Horace stalked down the quayside, shoving bystanders aside, to get a look at what they were doing. Other men were on the stone steps leading down into the water, seizing drifting barrels and hauling them to wagons waiting above.
“Those are my barrels!” he shouted, rushing to the men at the top of the steps. One turned to him with a wry expression.
“Yeah.” The man’s face was familiar to Horace, but he couldn’t have put a name to it to save himself. “We was told you wanted ’em saved.”
“B-but . . . how . . . who told you that?”
“A boy come to th’ warehouse an’ said to get Townsend workers down to th’ docks.”
“What boy?” Horace scowled, thinking of his son.
Large crates were being hoisted up to the dock by men with a cargo net, and smaller crates and barrels were being carried up the steps by pairs of burly workers. Horace had to step back to let them pass, and a few recognized him and nodded. He was so astonished, he scarcely noticed when Lawrence fought through the crowd to join him.
“Dear God—” Lawrence gasped as he realized what was happening. “They’re tossing the cargo overboard.”
Together, they searched the outline of the ship. Through the fog and smoke they glimpsed occasional flames and made out human forms rushing back and forth.
“My Lauren,” Lawrence choked out. “What is happening to my daughter?”
* * *
“It’s good and thick,” Lauren said, trying not to cough as she stood out of the way of the main hatch with her arms around Little Rob. Her eyes were watering, and she found it hard to keep track of how many barrels and crates had been tossed or lowered overboard. She’d lost count somewhere around thirty barrels and over two dozen crates. Most of the men had tied kerchiefs over their noses and mouths and now looked like the outlaws her father would think they were. Little Rob began coughing again and she moved him as far as she could from the smoke that billowed out of the main hatch and passageway.
At center deck a second energetic plume rose from the cargo hatch, fed by straw used to pack crates and every bit of spare canvas they could find. Then she turned toward the sounds from the dock and was pleased to make out a handful of boats and men urging crates and barrels toward the landing. She could hear the rumble of voices from shore and shrill whistles, as well as the thud of wood and clop of horse hooves. Hopefully that meant they had brought wagons to collect the cargo. She prayed that all was going according to plan.
The most worrisome part was the fact that Acting Captain Morgan was now on deck and raging furiously that someone had “overturned a damned lantern” and caught packing material in the hold on fire.
“What the blazes are you doing? Sound the damned alarm!” he ordered his crewmen, and when they continued rolling barrels across the deck to the water, he charged into them, shoving and striking, trying to make them obey. “Stop, this minute—that’s an order!” With a curse, he grabbed a spar from the main mast and went for Fosse.
“They’re rescuing the cargo.” Rafe rushed to confront him and draw his ire away from Fosse and the men unloading cargo.
“What the bloody hell are you doing out of—” He grabbed the nearest seaman by the shirt and shoved him toward Rafe. “Seize him and get him below deck!”
“Into that?” Rafe gestured to the smoke and flames pouring from the main hatch. “You want to add murder to your crimes?”
Morgan’s eyes bulged and his face flooded crimson with fury. “What the hell have you done to my ship?” He rushed Rafe, fists clenched.
“Think, man,” Rafe said, trying to fend him off.
Lauren cried out as Morgan landed a blow that made it past Rafe’s outstretched arms. It sent Rafe staggering back. Unloading stopped as the men watched their acting captain attack one of the owners of the ship. After that first blow Rafe’s entire frame came alive with anger and he began to return blows with real force. Morgan staggered but righted himself and committed furiously to a battle for control of his vessel.
Praying Rafe could hold his own, Lauren told Little Rob to stay put and rushed across the deck to encourage the men to continue dumping the cargo into the harbor.
“Hurry—keep unloading,” she called. “We don’t have much time before the harbor police arrive. We must get as much of the cargo ashore as we can before they stop us.”
Her words seemed to break a spell and they turned to hoist crates and roll barrels with renewed determination. She turned away from the fight to see how their smoky cover was faring and didn’t see Morgan lurching backward . . . toward her. By the time a crewman shouted a warning Morgan had already knocked her over the edge of the deck.
Her scream was cut short as she entered the water.
She had no time to take a breath, and now in the cold, suffocating darkness, she had to fight her skirts, her hair, and the churned water to find which way was up. When she breached the surface she gasped for air and realized she had to rid herself of the waterlogged skirts that threatened to drag her down, but the ties of her petticoats were swollen with water and her cold fingers couldn’t seem to find the hooks at the back of her waist.
She kicked furiously against her restraints to stay afloat but quickly realized that she was in trouble. The dock was too far to reach with dangerous barrels and crates bobbing in the way. Behind her the ship was a long, smooth wall of iron.
* * *
Time seemed to slow as Rafe watched her go over the side. It was clearly an accident, but fear for her and fury at the acting captain combined in explosive blows that laid Morgan out on the deck unconscious. Panting and bleeding from a cut on his face, Rafe staggered to the opening in the railing where Lauren had disappeared and searched the churned surface of the water.
“Lauren! Lauren, where are you?”
His calls went unanswered. His heart seemed to stop until her head popped above the water. She was struggling to stay afloat and choking on water as she tried to steady herself. When she succeeded her call for help was alarmingly weak.
Fosse, Gus, and a couple of other men rushed to see what had happened. He told them, and himself, that she could swim like a fish. But dread still squeezed his gut and worked its way up to his throat. He had to do something—had to save her.
“A ladder—I need a boarding ladder.”
The men looked at one another in dismay.
“The captain tossed ’em overboard when some of the crew deserted,” Fosse declared, his eyes widening on Lauren’s struggle.
Frantic, Rafe looked around and spotted the heavy cargo net the men had been using to haul freight up to the deck and pointed. “That! Get that net over the side and secure it.”
The net was dropped over the side, and several men braced to hold it while Rafe climbed down it to the water level.
“Lauren, swim to me—I’ll pull you out!” When she just floundered for another minute he continued. “Come on, Lauren, swim. I know you can do it—I’ve seen you do it! Swim to me!”
Had she hit her head on something? She was thrashing, and he realized she was struggling to move. He climbed down to the rows of the heavy rope net that hung in the water and made himself continue downward. A surge of panic filled him as he sank and the water closed around his feet and rose to his knees. He steeled himself and called to her again and again while leaning out, extending his arm as far as he could while holding fast to the rope of the net. With every breath he found himself praying that the men above had a firm grip on that net.
He saw the change in her when she realized he was nearby and offering help. She focused and began to swim, but her strokes were short and frantic, as if she were fighting for every bit of distance she closed. It seemed a small eternity before she was near enough to reach. Relief energized him as he grabbed her hand and then her arm. Pulling her waterlogged form out of the water required every bit of strength he possessed, but he soon had an arm around her and was lifting her up onto the net and into his arms.
She gasped, trembling with relief as she clung to him and buried her face in his shirt.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she muttered, tightening her arms around him.
“You’re all right.” He freed a hand to cradle her head against his chest while she caught her breath. “You’re safe.”
Moments later he called for the men on the deck to begin to haul them up. With the help of Fosse and Gus, he lifted her back onto the deck and then climbed aboard himself. He’d never been so glad to have a deck beneath his feet—even if it belonged to a ship on fire. He had Little Rob find a blanket, wrapped her in it, and guided her to a seat on the nearby bridge steps, out of the worst smoke.
She looked up at him with a shivering smile that warmed something chilled in his core.