Hero Wanted

by Betina Krahn

  She didn’t know how, but she was going to make them pay.

  * * *

  Getting underway was something of a challenge, as shorthanded as they were on the Clarion. The minute their coal-fired boiler began belching smoke, a boat from the harbormaster’s office pulled alongside demanding the customary berth payment before they moved. Captain Stringer answered with a stream of salty rebukes, but Rafe intervened with word that they were moving the damaged ship to the shipyards for repairs. Their duty done, the harbormaster’s minions withdrew and the Clarion was free to continue preparations for leaving.

  Chief among the requirements before departure was introducing Stringer to the crew as the acting captain of the Clarion. The men muttered to one another and looked askance at the rum-nosed old sea dog. But when he began barking orders they quickly learned he knew how to prepare a ship for the deep blue and fell to following his right-and-proper orders.

  Stringer studied the burned hold and structural timbers and the smoky char of the aft cabins. He glowered at Rafe, tested the deck planking with his own feet, and ordered the boatswain to fasten planks across the gaps and weakest areas. The next problem they encountered was stoking the fire needed to turn the paddle wheel. Their two brawny stokers had been the first to desert the ship after Captain Pettigrew’s death.

  Stringer—believing that nothing bound men together like adversity—decreed that every man aboard would be assigned stoking duty for as long as they needed “that damnable wheel.”

  There was an undercurrent of grumbling, with the worst coming from Barclay, who was assigned to the first shift of stokers. When it was pointed out to him that he knew nothing about sailing or ships, he protested that he knew nothing about shoveling coal either. When Rafe revealed that he was scheduled for the next shift himself, Barclay muttered that he had signed on for fighting and rescuing, not manual labor. Under the crew’s testy glares, his face heated. Patrician attitudes clearly had no place on a ship short on crew. With a twinge of guilt he headed belowdeck to make a few blisters and earn the right to his nightly grog.

  Rafe watched his friend surrender to necessity and turned to Stringer, who stood on the aft deck, considering the ship and her crew.

  “What do you think?” he asked the old salt. “Will she do?”

  “She’s got a few cinders in her belly, but ’er hull and masts are sound. Hell yeah.” He grinned. “I could sail ’er to China an’ back.”

  He gave Rafe a whop on the shoulder and turned to bellow orders loud enough to wake all three King Georges.

  Between Stringer, Rafe, and Fosse they managed to get the crew moving and the ship underway. The paddle wheel hadn’t been damaged in the fire, and when the boiler heated they cleared the docks and channel and headed into the Thames in little more than an hour.

  A lookout was posted on top of the main with a spy glass and orders to look for a black-and-yellow, two-masted ship in the tidal waters. The acting captain ordered men into the rigging to release the sheets and increase their speed. They had to find out what direction Murdoch and the Cormorant took when they left the tidal waters of the Thames.

  Though it was useless to search from that vantage point, Rafe went forward and scoured the broad, tidal regions of the river for signs of the ship they sought. His stomach was in a knot and he gripped the railing with whitened hands.

  He tried not to think of what was happening to Lauren, but he kept recalling the man Murdoch and his vicious behavior with his crew. They were hardened men, he knew, and probably had to be kept in check. But the curses, blows, and threats Murdoch used revealed how much he relished using violence. Lauren was more than fine in appearance, but she was not a meek and compliant female. He could imagine what a man of such power lust would make of her, and it made him sick to think of her suffering under his hand. Or his body.

  Stringer appeared at his side, surprising him. He hadn’t heard the thumps of the old boy’s peg leg approaching. It occurred to him that Stringer hadn’t once mentioned rum since boarding the ship.

  “Yer worried, lad.” The old fellow leaned on the railing to give his back a rest.

  “I am.” There was no denying it.

  “She’s a purty thing, yer lass. Think they’ll be askin’ ransom?”

  “I have no way of knowing. What I do know is, the longer she’s on that ship, the worse it will be for her.” He made himself focus on the task ahead. “They have a two-or three-hour head start. You think we can run them down?”

  “The ol’ gal’s got some spunk left. The wind looks to give us ten to twelve knots. Runnin’ that wheel will give us a couple or three more. Those whirligigs don’t add much if th’ water’s choppy, and”—he scanned the sky—“it looks like we got some wind comin’ outta the west.”

  “Sailing against the wind if we go south,” Rafe said miserably.

  “Yeah. It’ll be a race. But we got an’ edge.”

  “Yes? What’s that?”

  “Me.”

  Stringer scratched his chest as he turned and managed to dislodge the polished cross-and-crown badge on his rank of medals. It caught the light briefly, casting a flash toward Rafe’s eye.

  Rafe wondered if he’d imagined it.

  He turned to watch the old sea dog thumping his way back along the deck to inspect the planking Fosse had tacked over the burned section. The old boy did seem to have Poseidon’s own luck when it came to wind and sea. He had to pray it would be the edge they needed to catch the Cormorant before she reached the open ocean and disappeared.

  * * *

  How long they had been imprisoned in the locker she had no way of knowing. But the ship was rocking more, and when Jims asked why she could only say it was because the water was rougher. What rougher water meant, she had no idea. He nodded and laid his head back on her lap. And she leaned her head back against the chilled planking behind her.

  She tried not to think about what happened in Murdoch’s cabin, but that ugly battle was likely a foretaste of things to come. She didn’t believe for a moment that he would ignore her for the rest of the voyage to . . . wherever they were bound. She’d wounded his pride and his face and lost her only weapon in that last strike. When he came at her again she’d have to be prepared to deal with him or pay a heavy price.

  The darkness deepened and she surrendered to fatigue and dozed. Something startled her awake later, and she sat up straight, staring in the direction of the door. It opened, admitting light from a lantern, and a man smaller than Murdoch or any of his knuckle-dragging bruisers. She drew up her legs under her, ready to spring, but the sound of her name spoken softly made her hesitate.

  “Miss Alcott.” The fellow brought up the lantern to look at her and revealed a round face topped with thinning hair and a pair of smudged spectacles. “I brought you and the boy some food. Don’t tell anyone—I’m in enough trouble as it is.”

  “Bless you, sir,” she said, assessing his voice and the way he glanced over his shoulder at the door. When he held out the bowls she took them gratefully and set one down beside Jims, who was struggling to wake fully and sit up. “Who are you?”

  “Merrell Hampstead. I—was—the head of Consolidated’s warehouse and shipping.”

  “You’re the man Mrs. Trimble told me about,” she said, watching Jims sit straighter and sniff the food.

  Hampstead was watching Jims, too. His shoulders rounded and his face filled with pain. “The sick bastards. To do that to a small boy . . .”

  Nothing he could have said would have marked him as an ally faster than that quiet judgment.

  “It’s all right, Jims. He’s a friend.” She wrapped her cold hands around the warm bowl. “Mr. Hampstead, you’re the head of the warehouse. What are you doing on this ship?”

  “Murdoch forced me to come. He collected my ledgers and bills of lading . . . said we were starting over. It was becoming too dangerous to keep doing business there. I refused at first, but he had his men . . . convince me.” He shuddered visibly. “Th
ey boasted that Mr. Trimble’s death was no accident and threatened me with the same.”

  “Do you know where we’re going?” she asked. “Where are they taking us?”

  “All I heard is”—his voice dropped to a whisper—“somewhere on the west coast. Could be Dorsett or Cornwall, maybe Devonshire. It has to be someplace the Coastguard isn’t too busy.” He looked pained to admit it, but “Consolidated is in the smuggling business, miss. It’s a vile and brutal trade.”

  They heard a voice outside, approaching, growing louder. Hampstead doused the light. They held their breath until the voices began to fade. After a few moments Mr. Hampstead struck a match and relighted the lantern.

  “I brought you a candle and a couple of matches. I’ll check on you when I can, and bring you more food and water.”

  “Maybe some water and cloths so I can tend Jims’s injuries?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” He slipped out the door and she heard the latch slide into place.

  She felt for Jims’s hands and found them wrapped around the bowl of soup. The last thing she wanted to do was eat just now; her stomach was too filled with tension. But she had to keep his spirits up. “Eat what you can, Jims. We have to keep up our strength.”

  * * *

  Barnaby Pinkum lounged on some cloth-wrapped rolls containing rugs and congratulated himself on slipping aboard Townsend’s ship with supplies that were being loaded. With several new faces aboard and hectic preparations for departure, no one stopped him to demand what he was doing there. He disappeared belowdeck and made himself a cozy nest in the forward cargo hold. Before long he had memorized the layout of the ship. He would snatch some food from the kitchen later . . . maybe even some ale. He stretched out on the rugs with his arms behind his head.

  “Pinkum, you are one sharp tack.”

  An hour later the ship reached the capricious channel waters and began to rock. And Barnaby Pinkum began to groan.

  Twenty-Three

  The next morning the lookout called ship ahoy and Stringer, Rafe, and the entire topside crew rushed to the starboard railing to see it.

  Stringer used his telescope for a better look and nodded with satisfaction before handing the glass to Rafe. They had run hard through the night, fighting fatigue and changeable winds, but the stoking that made their muscles ache and backs sore had paid off. They spread every inch of sail they had, and though they were tacking into a westerly, it was clear they were gaining on the Cormorant.

  Stringer ordered the two small-bore deck guns mounted starboard. The crew stepped lively and soon had powder and iron shot stacked by them. A couple of older sailors—both naval veterans—stationed themselves possessively by the guns, polishing them. When Rafe questioned their placement on the same side, Stringer chuckled and tapped his temple.

  “Strategy, boy. We’ll be runnin’ up on their port . . . keepin’ ’em boxed in. There be rocks an’ shoals in these parts. I know ’em like the back o’ my hand, and I’m bettin’ that Murdoch bastard don’t.” His face grew flinty and his eyes narrowed as he stared at the smaller ship. “We got her. Best you break out the guns an’ get those landlubbers o’ yours ready for a fight.”

  “Oh . . .” When the old boy held up a hand, it shook a bit. “And now’d be a good time t’ break out that rum wi’ my name on it.”

  Rafe and Barclay unlocked the armory and handed out rifles and ammunition to every crewman, few of whom would qualify as sharpshooters. But most of them had blade weapons tucked into their belts, some of which looked wicked indeed. Whatever reservations he had about a merchant crew fighting smugglers were soon allayed. Most of these men had been in ports where they had to stand armed watch to keep their cargoes and ship safe from predators.

  As soon as they reached the deck guns’ range, Stringer started them firing at the sails. Nothing dispirited seamen more than watching their sails being shredded by iron balls, he declared. The crew stationed themselves behind barrels along the forward railing, waiting for the order to fire.

  Barclay, who had handed out guns and ammunition, joined Rafe on the deck with a rifle over each arm. He handed one off to Rafe.

  “What’s she wearing?” Barclay asked as Rafe checked the gun.

  Rafe looked askance at him. “Why would you ask that?”

  “I want to know what not to shoot at.”

  Rafe froze for a moment, realizing the danger to her in the coming fight. He forced a deep breath that did little to dispel his tension.

  “It was a reddish dress. Though, there’s no guarantee she is still”—the words stuck in his throat—“wearing that.” He had to pause a moment to shake off the emotion that could impair his responses.

  “I’ve got it.” Barclay read his turmoil and put a hand on his shoulder. “No shooting at red. I’ll pass the word.”

  As Rafe watched Barclay leave, his gaze caught on a small figure near the bow, emptying his stomach over the portside rail. He scowled, trying to recall the man and what his job was on the Clarion. He carried the gun with him, checking its sights as he crossed the deck. He stopped dead when the little fellow turned around and he recognized that pug nose, prominent ears, and squinty eyes. Up came the gun.

  “What the hell are you doing on this ship?” Rafe demanded.

  The fellow took one look at the gun and slid down the rail post behind him like a limp noodle.

  “Just shoot me now,” he whined. “Get it over with.”

  “You’re that news hack, the one writing those stories about Lauren and me,” Rafe charged.

  “Not all of ’em. Just the best ones.” He swiped a hand in an arc, as if writing a headline on the sky. “Barnaby Pinkum, newswriter extraordinaire.” The man was actually green around the gills. “If you’ve got a drop o’ mercy in you, you’ll see that chiseled on my tombstone.”

  “Feel like you’re about to expire, do you?” Rafe said, with no regret for enjoying the wretch’s discomfort. Barclay came rushing across the deck to see what was happening and pushed the muzzle of the gun aside.

  “Oh, him,” Barclay said, staring at Barnaby Pinkum.

  “He’s in bad straits. Been up here at least three times, puking his guts out.”

  Rafe’s smile turned wicked. “It couldn’t happen to a more deserving fellow. He’s the son of a bitch responsible for those ‘Angel’ stories.”

  “Ahh.” Barclay gave a grim chuckle. “Then I’m surprised you’re not hanging him from the yardarm.”

  “There’s still time for that,” Rafe mused with intentional menace. “Until then we’ll make him pay for his passage by writing a story or two about our valiant pursuit of the Angel’s abductor.”

  “She’s been abducted?” To a reporter the scent of a juicy story was as restorative as a bottle of smelling salts. Pinkum sat up. “Who has her?”

  “The fellows on the ship we’re chasing.” Rafe tossed a thumb over his shoulder. Pinkum craned his neck to see the ship visible behind him.

  “I’ll need details,” Pinkum said, no longer penitent and rubbing his empty, aching belly. “And a dram of whiskey to settle my stomach.”

  * * *

  It had been a miserable night in the smelly former pigpen for Lauren and Jims. Hampstead had slipped below to bring them some cloths and a pitcher of water. It brought relief to poor Jims, but he hurt too much to fall asleep easily. When he began to chill she lifted her skirts and removed the warmest of her petticoats to wrap him in. He asked for a story to pass the time and tears pricked Lauren’s eyes. She blinked to keep them from falling and told him stories from the books she had read to the children at St Ambrose. Eventually he fell asleep, and she was able to let her brave front drop.

  Focusing on the memory of Rafe’s care and tenderness kept her from complete misery, but it was hard to see much hope in her present circumstances. She eventually dozed.

  When the latch scraped open the next morning, she wondered if she was so exhausted that she imagined it.

  She hadn’t. It was one
of the surly crewmen with bread and a tankard of ale for the prisoners. He mumbled that they had run out of fresh water, ducked back out the door, and slid the latch home.

  Jims roused, and they chewed some of the hard bread, washing it down with the bitter ale. After a few sips she left the rest to Jims, thinking it might dull his discomfort.

  Midmorning, the sounds around them changed. They could hear running on the deck above and the feel of the ship passing through water changed, sounding ominous and confused. While bracing to keep from being tossed about, Lauren heard the latch being drawn back and feared it would be someone to fetch her to Murdoch.

  But it was Hampstead with a few precious words.

  “Another ship is coming on fast. Murdoch is worried and preparing for a fight.”

  “What kind of ship?” Her heart lurched and beat faster.

  “Bigger than this one. Black hull. Driving us toward shore, they say. I’ll leave the latch open, but don’t come out unless you hear gunfire. He’ll be too busy, then, to deal with an escaped prisoner.”

  “Mr. Hampstead—” She stopped him as he withdrew.

  “Yes, miss?”

  “Take care of yourself.”

  He looked a bit embarrassed but nodded and ducked out.

  * * *

  She waited nervously, praying it was the ship she needed it to be. She went over an escape plan with Jims and made him promise to stay below, near the deck ladder, until he heard someone call him by his full name. Then and only then he would know it was safe to come out. It was a measure of how exhausted he was that he didn’t protest his ability to help and simply hugged her. “Ye be careful, too, miz.”

  When the gunfire started it was something of a jolt. She felt a shiver of fear, but her need to see what was going on overpowered it. Screwing up her courage, she climbed onto the deck above and hid near the stairs, listening. The Cormorant’s crew was mostly out on the deck. She could see men on the yardarm firing at the ship that was fast approaching. She had to see what that ship was. Coastguard or yet another smuggler? She remembered Captain Stringer’s story of smugglers meeting up and prayed that wouldn’t be this story, too.