“We have to stop him!” she cried. “If he goes onto the ship—”
“He’ll be fine, miss.”
“But it exploded. He could be in danger right now as we argue!”
Poston turned to look at the ship, the flames roaring into the sky, his expression increasingly dark.
A sail caught fire, making a distinctive whoosh as the flames raced across it. “No mere fire caused that,” she pointed out. “What if there’s another explosion while the captain’s aboard ship?”
His jaw firmed. “Ye’re right, miss. I need to see to him.”
“I’ll come with you—”
“Ye’ll stay here, miss.” The coachman pulled down the shutter and latched it, blocking sight of the burning ship and the mayhem about it.
“Poston, no!” In reply she heard the sound of something being drawn through the shutter handles. “What are you doing?”
She grabbed the door handle and tugged, but it was firmly tied in place. Heart sinking, she lunged across the coach for the other door but he got there first.
Desperate, she placed her hands on the window ledge. “You can’t—” The shutters came whizzing down and she yanked her fingers out of the way just as they banged into place, leaving her in total darkness. “Poston, please don’t—”
“I’m off to see to the cap’n. Ye’ll be fine if ye stay quiet as a mouse.”
“I won’t keep quiet!”
“Then don’t be surprised if’n ye attract some attention ye don’t like. I don’t know the people hereabouts, and I’ll wager ye don’t know ’em, either.”
Blast it! She doubled her hands into fists and banged upon the door. “You can’t leave me here! I demand that you—”
“Good-bye, miss.” And with that, he was gone.
A letter from Michael Hurst to his brother William, from the deck of a cange as it set sail down the Nile.
After two false starts and endless paperwork, we’re finally under way. You would be amazed by the bribery system here; it makes the thieves in Parliament look like amateurs. I must reluctantly admit that my intrepid assistant, Miss Smythe-Haughton, proved to be worth her weight in gold today. When the port authorities began to question our harmless cargo—digging tools, sifters, pickaxes, and such—her basilisk stare cowed them into speechlessness.
Never underestimate the power of a bossy woman.
CHAPTER 7
The gangplank from the Agile Witch was organized mayhem. Men were lined on one side passing up full buckets of water, and empty buckets back down the other. Another line of seamen hurried off the ship carrying casks and crates. The rest of the crew stacked them away from the dock and the smoldering ship.
William made his way up the gangplank and stepped onto the deck.
MacDougal, who’d been barking orders left and right, his gaze moving ceaselessly over the ship, caught sight of him and hurried forward.
“There ye be, Cap’n!” The first mate’s face was black and grimy, and he had holes burned into his once white shirt.
“What happened?” William snapped.
“I dinna know yet. I was on the foredeck settin’ the watch fer the night, and the next thing I knew, smoke was boilin’ from the hold.”
William frowned. “The fire started below deck?”
“Aye, in the storage hold, which was odd, fer there was no lantern aboot—nothin’ t’ spark a flame.” The first mate rubbed his forehead, leaving a new streak of black. “But tha’ is no’ all of it, Cap’n. Whilst we were fightin’ the fire in the hold, the deck went ablaze.”
William shot his first mate a sharp look. “You’re certain the fire on deck wasn’t caused by the one in the hold?”
“They was on opposite ends o’ the ship.”
William balled his hands into fists. “Damn it.”
“I said the same thing meself. One fire was enou’, but two?” The first mate’s gaze watched the scurrying crew. “In me forty years at sailin’, I’ve never seen such.”
“Neither have I. What caused the explosion?”
MacDougal’s sooty white eyebrows snapped together. “Gunpowder, Cap’n. Two barrels hidden behind the main rail head. ’Twas a wonder no one was injured by the blast.”
“Bloody hell, we’ve been sabotaged.”
“Aye, Cap’n. Fer ye know I’d never allow gunpowder stored on deck, especially whilst we was at dock.”
“I know you did all you could, MacDougal.” William glanced around at the crew. “Is everyone accounted for?”
“Aye. Every last one.”
“Injuries?”
“A few burns here and there, but no’ so bad that a good pint won’t set things to rights. And Jamie MacTosh broke his ankle jumpin’ out o’ the way o’ a flamin’ barrel when the kegs exploded. ’Tis a miracle, but no one else was seriously injured.”
William scowled. “One is too many. Damn it, I wish I knew why someone set this fire.”
MacDougal nodded to where some men surrounded the main mast. “I asked the bos’n t’ drop the mizzenmast t’ keep it from fallin’ whilst we’re working on deck. ’Twas torched well an’ good, and could go down at any minute.”
All around them, madness boiled. The smoldering sails had been tossed into the ocean, where they sizzled upon the waves. Water soaked the entire ship, making the wood wet and slick. Part of the mizzen deck was missing, broken timbers smoldering in place, while above, the blackened main mast stood like a grim warning.
Despite the severity of the situation, the fire was slowly being brought under control. There was a general cry of warning as, with a loud crack and a great shower of flames and sparks, the damaged mizzenmast was felled into the ocean, the flames instantly replaced with hissing smoke and steam.
So much damage and all from a small fire and a few barrels of gunpowder. Why would someone do such a thing?
He frowned. Whatever reason his invisible enemy had, he or she was deadly serious in their intent. He glanced around the deck, his gaze resting on the various places yet more gun powder might be hidden. There were several places, too many to safely search in a short period of time.
William made an instant decision. “MacDougal, get the men off the ship.”
“But, Cap’n, the fire could flame back to life and—”
“It’s too dangerous. If there was one cache of gunpowder, there might be another. Someone wanted to sink the Witch. Perhaps they’ve done their damnedest already and perhaps they haven’t. I won’t risk the men.”
“Shall I form a crew to search and—”
“No. I’ll do it. Just get the men a safe distance away.”
“But, Cap’n—”
“Damn it, do it now!”
Looking none too happy, MacDougal reluctantly turned away and began bellowing orders. With startled glances at one another, the men put down their axes and buckets and filed down the gangplank.
“There’s the last one, Cap’n,” MacDougal announced. He joined William, who was already searching the ship. “Where do we start lookin’?”
“We don’t start anywhere. You’re going onshore to handle the crew.”
“But, Cap’n—”
“Go.”
MacDougal grimaced but did as he was told, glancing over his shoulder the entire way.
Soon William was alone on the smoldering deck, the acrid smell of smoke and burning tar making him cough. He pulled a kerchief from his pocket, dipped it in an abandoned water bucket, and held it over his mouth and nose as he continued his search.
He didn’t know how he knew, but he was certain of what he would find.
And find it, he did …
Marcail ran down the slick wooden dock, her stockinged feet hidden by both the darkness and her long skirts. She paused at the end and looked up at the smoldering ship, hot winds lifting from the ashes to stir her hair and the clothing of every person crammed on the quay.
Smoke boiled from the ship as if she were a chimney, her sails gone, her burning ropes swinging lik
e long fuses in the hot breeze. The still burning mast fell into the ocean with a loud crack, landing on the ragged and burned sails.
Along with the crackling roar of the fire, bellowed orders rang out over the commotion caused by the onlookers. Marcail covered her ears. No wonder no one had heard her beating on the side of the coach.
She’d finally taken matters into her own hands and escaped on her own. Her fists bruised, she’d managed to light one of the lamps and examine her prison, looking at the box seats (solidly constructed), the back panel (flanked by thick boards), the floor (iron framing with heavy oak planks, none of which was the slightest bit loose).
She had to find a way out; she couldn’t bear thinking of what William might be facing.
Then her gaze had fallen on the door hinges.
Within seconds, she’d dropped to her knees to examine them. They were very sturdy. The metal plates were joined by an iron pin hammered through metal hoops.
She’d tried to loosen the pin with her hands, but it wouldn’t budge. She needed a tool of some sort to pound the pin free. Almost able to taste her freedom, she tossed aside the seat cushions and opened the seat boxes. Coach blankets, small pillows, a foot warmer … No tools. Not a single one.
She’d rocked back on her heels, disappointed, but then the foot warmer caught her eye again. Noting the thick handle, she picked it up.
Ten minutes later, the heavy iron pin had finally dropped to the floor. Marcail had braced herself against the seat box, placed her stockinged feet against the door, and given it a hard kick.
It had immediately opened, hanging at a broken, tilted angle, and she’d jumped out.
Now, she was free … and frightened by what she saw. It was madness here on the dock; people hurried here and there carrying buckets or just dashing about as if uncertain where to stand, while others stood staring up at the burning ship as if unable to believe the spectacle.
Marcail followed the horrified gaze of a young girl who clutched her mother’s hand, seeing the smoldering mast and destroyed deck. William loved that ship. He must be heartsick. She turned her anxious gaze on the dock, but couldn’t see him. He must be here somewhere. She hurried forward, her attention flickering here and there, trying to take in the unfolding situation.
She couldn’t shake the feeling that all of this was somehow connected to her. It was beginning to appear that the onyx box carried far more importance than she’d thought, and not just to William.
From beginning to end, the entire situation had been a departure for her blackmailer. Why does my blackmailer want that particular artifact? she wondered as she stepped around two burly seamen carrying a large trunk to shore.
Something mysterious was going on. The box had to be wildly valuable. Perhaps she shouldn’t hand it over to her blackmailer unless he promised to leave her and her sisters alone forever more. Or perhaps she should keep it until all of her sisters were settled, and then hand it over.
She paused, thinking of William’s kipnapped brother. From what she’d read of Michael’s adventures, chronicled every month in The Morning Post, he was quite capable of gaining his own release. He was an adventurer, after all. Dangerous situations were a daily occurrence for him … weren’t they?
Perhaps and perhaps not. William must think his brother is in some danger, for he chased me all of the way here to regain the box. The artifact must belong to Michael. William was too certain of that for her to believe otherwise.
Which placed her in an intolerable situation. If the box belonged to Michael and he really needed it to win his freedom from his captors, then she couldn’t keep it, no matter how much her blackmailer demanded that she should.
The thought made her sigh, which was a mistake as she gulped in a smoky plume of air that burned her throat and made her cough. She covered her mouth with her arm and pushed her way through the crowds, feeling as low as she’d ever felt. She’d lied to herself when she’d tamely accepted Miss Challoner’s statement that the artifact didn’t belong to William. Marcail should have known better.
After all, Miss Challoner was an instrument of a very evil man, one who was willing to harm Marcail’s family without a flicker of remorse.
Why did I believe her? Yet Marcail knew. Because it made it easier to do what I was asked. She’d already sacrificed so much for her family that she hadn’t hesitated when she was asked to sacrifice her honor. Grandmamma would be ashamed—as Marcail was herself.
She neared the gangplank, scanning anxiously for William, though she could barely see the figures on the ship through the smoke. Nearby, a line of men and women had formed a bucket brigade and were passing buckets of water to the ship. While there were plenty of people in line, the buckets weren’t getting to them fast enough. Perhaps this was a small way she could redeem herself. Marcail dropped her cloak out of the way on the edge of the quay, grabbed an empty bucket, and carried it to the pump where two fresh-faced youths were pumping the water as fast as they could. One immediately set her bucket under the cold stream.
When it was full, she grasped the handle with both hands and hefted it. The large wooden bucket was amazingly heavy, and the rope handle hung upon her hands and squeezed them painfully together. Worse, water began seeping out of the bucket the instant it was filled.
Walking as quickly as she dared in her wet stockinged feet, she carried the water to the line, the bucket banging painfully against her shins. She gave the bucket to the end man, who quickly handed it off, then turned and handed her an empty bucket.
Marcail caught it and hurried back to the pumps, where two full buckets were waiting. She gave the boys the empty bucket and hefted a full one, this one larger and made of skin stretched over a frame. She staggered under the weight, gasping for air, which was heavy with smoke and the acrid scent of burning wood and tar.
Back and forth she went, carrying bucket after bucket, while the flames disappeared beneath billows of white smoke. The roiling smoke made her cough and stung her eyes; her shins ached from the painful bruises. Worse, her hands had been rubbed raw from the rope handles and she had to grit her teeth against the pain.
Still, she never stopped. Each time she approached the line, she would glance up at the ship, wondering where William might be and noting that the smoke was lessening bit by bit. It was working! She wanted to jump for joy, but the call for more water was ceaseless.
Once again, she grasped the rough rope handle, blinking as her eyes watered from the pain. We’re winning. If we can just keep this up a little longer, the ship might be saved.
Suddenly the man at the end of the water line held up his hand. “Wait, miss.”
She set down her bucket and followed his gaze.
Men were pouring off the ship. Blackened by soot, they hurried down the gangplank, the row of water handlers following them. Smoke bellowed and obscured the gangplank as the last few men left the ship; soon it was empty and the dock packed even fuller.
She blinked in the thick smoke, seeing one last figure appearing through the gloom. Her heart quickened. Was it William? But no. The man was short and stocky. He came down the gangplank, ordering the men from the dock, his thick Scottish bellow clear over the loud hum of voices.
The man beside Marcail shook his head. “I wonder why he’s orderin’ th’ men to th’ shore? Shouldn’t they be fightin’ th’ fire?”
“I should think so,” Marcail said, noting that the burly Scotsman had succeeded in clearing the end of the dock nearest the ship. “I wish we knew what was goin’ on. Why did they send away all of—”
BOOM! A terrific blast shook the dock and fire blew into the air in a huge ball, roaring over the quay. The air was rent with screams and the sound of pounding feet as everyone on the dock surged toward land.
Marcail had to fight her way to one side to keep from being carried away, her heart slamming against her chest as she stared at the ship in horror. Fire bellowed from the deck and crackled furiously, the flames now devouring the ship as if they’d been st
arved for this one, delicious second.
Where is William? Was he onboard? The question echoed numbly through her stilled brain. Please God, no. She tried to think clearly, but her heart was beating too furiously to allow her such a luxury. She found herself walking toward the ship, against the flow of people, her gaze locked on the shooting flames. She had to know. She had to go, to see—What?
Her mind refused to answer. She walked closer and closer to the burning hulk, men frantically chopping at the ropes that moored the ship to the dock. The heat was so great that her face felt burned, and she instinctively held up her hands to shield herself.
With a heaving cry, a bare-chested man near her slammed his hatchet through a thick rope and, with an almost human groan, the ship listed away from the dock. Then she slowly began to drift toward the sea, crackling loudly.
The voices on the dock grew quieter as the crowd of crew and townsmen watched the ship.
Marcail couldn’t look away. Somewhere on that ship, dead or near it, was William. She knew it. Knew it for all she was worth. How had this happened? How could a ship just explode, and not once, but multiple times?
She turned to a sailor who stood nearby, his soot-blackened face a mask of sadness. “Sir?”
He looked at her, obviously surprised to be addressed. “Aye, miss?”
“What made it blow up like that?”
His face tightened in anger. “We was sabotaged, miss. Someone set gunpowder upon the deck and lit it. Thank God the cap’n figured it out or we’d all be dead.”
“Captain Hurst? He knew?”
“Aye. That’s why we all came runnin’ off the deck just afore she went.”
Had William made it? She had to clear her throat to continue. “Do you … do you know if the captain made it off the ship, too?”
The seaman blinked. “Why, o’ course he did. He came running off like the devil hisself was chasin’ him.”
Relief shattered through her, as brilliant as any light, and in the space of one second, she went from the lowest of lows to the highest of highs.
Hurst 02 - Scandal in Scotland Page 7