Lord of the Privateers

by Stephanie Laurens

  Caleb straightened. Listened. Around him, one by one, the other men did the same. Then through their soles, they felt the reverberations of marching feet.

  Caleb frowned at Phillipe Lascelle, who had been toiling with similar enthusiasm alongside him. “Who now?”

  Phillipe slipped his tools into his pocket. “Muldoon’s already here, and so is Winton.”

  As Dixon had foreseen, it was the younger Winton—the assistant commissar from the fort—who had been Muldoon’s coconspirator, supplying mining tools and the like. Winton had arrived ten days ago, along with more supplies. “Arsene and Cripps haven’t left to fetch stores. Perhaps it’s the third man.” Caleb pocketed his tools and joined the exodus of curious men. “Our elusive gentleman from the governor’s office.”

  Phillipe’s expression hardened. “If it is, we’ll have to decide what that means for us. We may need to re-evaluate our plans.”

  “God—I hope not,” Caleb returned. “The rescue force must be close by now. A few days more—that’s likely all we’ll need.”

  “Don’t speak too loudly,” Phillipe darkly warned. “Fate might hear you.”

  They’d been working toward the end of the tunnel so were at the back of the pack of men who gathered under the rocky overhang protecting the mine entrance. But the men ahead noticed and stepped aside to allow Caleb and Phillipe to make their way to the front and join the other male leaders—Hillsythe, Fanshawe, Hopkins, and Dixon.

  With the men at their backs, the six stood and stared across the compound at the entirely unanticipated procession that had just arrived.

  A stir to their left drew Caleb’s attention; he looked and saw his wife-to-be, Kate Fortescue, together with Harriet Frazier, Dixon’s sweetheart—the de facto leaders of the women captives—slipping into the shade of the overhang. Her gaze fixed across the compound, Kate halted in front of Caleb—he could easily see over her head—while Harriet stopped by Dixon’s side.

  Caleb returned his gaze to the three gentlemen—definitely gentlemen if their clothing and mannerisms were any guide—who had walked through the compound’s gates and halted halfway to the barracks. They were looking around, not with any uncertainty but with the attitude of princes surveying a minor holding.

  Behind the three, a group of native bearers milled, carrying what was plainly luggage. Expensive-looking luggage.

  Narrowing his eyes, Caleb studied the three gentlemen. Two were older, likely in their fifties, and wore clothes that, although not ostentatious, would have done credit to a duchess’s drawing room. The cut was pure Savile Row. The men were openly arrogant—the taller man with a shock of silver hair more overtly so than his fellow. The second gentleman was of stockier build, and his narrow-eyed survey, while no less possessive, seemed somehow colder. More calculating.

  The third man was younger, possibly in his mid-thirties. He was conservatively dressed, neat and precise, but his attire lacked the style of the two older men. The younger man had had his back to the mine while he directed the bearers to set down the luggage, then paid them off. As the bearers departed, the man turned toward the barracks, and those at the mine got a clear look at his face.

  Standing beside Caleb, Hillsythe swore. Through clenched teeth, he said, “That’s Satterly. Mr. Arnold Satterly. He’s the governor’s principal aide.”

  Caleb glanced at Hillsythe’s chillingly furious face. “Ah.” He looked back at the gentleman in question—the one who had betrayed Hillsythe and had him kidnapped and brought to the mine. “It appears we’ve identified the third of our local villains.”

  “Indeed.” Hillsythe’s tone had grown icy. “But as for the other two, I haven’t seen them before.”

  “Nor have I,” Dixon said.

  In front of Caleb, Kate shook her head. “The Sherbrooks, my employers, entertained fairly extensively. I’ve seen most of those in the upper levels of local society. Satterly, I’ve seen, but not the other two. I’ve never seen those gentlemen before.”

  The door to the barracks opened, and Muldoon, followed by Winton, appeared. They checked for a second at the sight of what awaited them; from the looks on their faces, they were taken aback, even a touch rattled.

  In the next instant, the pair recovered and strode quickly to and down the porch steps. With smiles wreathing their faces, they crossed to bow effusively before the older men.

  “Good God,” Caleb murmured, as understanding dawned. “Those are two of the backers.”

  “They’ve come to assess their investment,” Hillsythe said.

  Tension, born of worry, anxiety, and underlying fear, spiked—in Caleb and all those around him. This could not possibly be a good development.

  Phillipe had been right. Caleb should have known Fate wasn’t finished with them yet.

  Most often when standing before the mine, they couldn’t hear conversations conducted by the barracks’ steps, but today the breeze was coming from the west, briskly whisking across the compound; if they strained, they could make out parts of the exchange.

  “Cousin.” The white-haired man addressed Satterly. “Please introduce us to your colleagues.”

  Caleb exchanged a quick look with Hillsythe. Cousin, was it? That, presumably, was the connection between these backers and the local villains.

  Satterly obliged, his voice lower, less strident—consequently less audible to the group near the mine. They missed his naming of the white-haired man, but that gentleman obliged in introducing the stockier gentleman to Muldoon and Winton as Mr. Frederick Neill.

  What followed came in snatches as Neill and the white-haired man—they finally heard him referred to as Lord Ross-Courtney—quizzed the trio of younger men as to the current output and state of the mine.

  Muldoon could barely contain his eagerness to explain about the blue diamonds. From their expressions of avid interest, it seemed the older two, at least, had not previously heard of Muldoon’s discovery.

  “They must have left London before Muldoon’s information reached there,” Fanshawe muttered.

  Caleb felt increasingly uneasy over the unheralded arrival of the two backers. Especially as, from the snippets of conversation they overheard, it seemed that Ross-Courtney was the central figure who had organized the investors.

  Most worrying was the fact that Ross-Courtney and Neill were making absolutely no attempt to conceal their identities.

  Beneath his breath, Caleb muttered, “Royd better get here soon.” He couldn’t recall ever being so keen to see his eldest brother. With Neill and Ross-Courtney’s arrival, this mission had definitely strayed—nay, galloped—into Royd-required territory.

  The older men had glanced once at the group gathered before the mine, but thereafter ignored them—very much as if the captives were beneath their haughty notice.

  That haughtiness was on full display when Dubois, who had followed Muldoon and Winton onto the barracks’ porch, but had remained there, observing, finally stirred, descended the steps, and crossed to where Muldoon was waiting to introduce the mercenary captain to his ultimate employers.

  Knowing Dubois as they now did, it was easy to see his hackles rising in response to the high-handed superiority with which Ross-Courtney especially, but Neill as well, treated him—as if he was a lackey barely worthy of their notice, and a French lackey to boot.

  When Muldoon, transparently nervous, clapped his hands together and loudly proclaimed, “I’m sure you’ll agree, Dubois, that the medical hut will be the most appropriate quarters for Lord Ross-Courtney and Mr. Neill,” Dubois said nothing. His expression rigidly blank, he merely looked at Muldoon, until that gentleman swung to the backers and, with waves and near bows, escorted them on.

  Dubois stood and watched the group—Muldoon in the lead, with Satterly and Winton solicitously flanking the two older men—as they rounded the barracks.

 
A flash of pale cloth by the gate had Caleb glancing that way. Diccon came rushing in past the guards, heading straight for the mine, but the sight of Dubois, his back to Diccon as Dubois watched the newcomers, pulled Diccon up short. He stared at Dubois, then looked past him at the newcomers.

  Diccon visibly hauled in a breath, his skinny chest rising, then he glanced somewhat longingly at the group at the mine, before looking again at Dubois. Then the boy turned and walked quietly toward the kitchen, lugging his bulging basket.

  What was that about? Caleb made a mental note to ask Diccon later.

  The newcomers had passed out of Dubois’s sight. He turned, saw the group before the mine, and, with a curt wave, ordered them to disperse.

  They did. Caleb squeezed Kate’s shoulders. She glanced at his face, returned his faint smile, then he released her, and she walked briskly with Harriet back to the cleaning shed.

  Caleb followed the other men into the mine. Most returned to the second tunnel, but the six leaders gathered a little way inside the entrance.

  “I don’t like this,” Dixon stated.

  Caleb looked at the others’ faces. “No one’s arguing.”

  “So what now?” Hopkins asked. “While we’re waiting for the rescue force, is there anything we can do to deflect any threat from our new arrivals?”

  Fanshawe put the matter bluntly. “What can we do to ensure they don’t give Dubois the order to shut down the mine?”

  “The existence of the blues,” Caleb stated, “which it appears the newcomers knew nothing about, remains our best defense against any immediate decision to close the mine.”

  “True.” Hillsythe nodded. “And we almost certainly only need to hold on for a few more days—not even a week. The rescue force has to be close.”

  “And”—Phillipe pushed away from the wall against which he’d been leaning—“panic of any sort is to be guarded against. We have our plans made and all the necessary preparations in place. Just because these men have arrived today is no reason to rescript those plans.”

  They stood and considered. “One thing we can do,” Caleb said, “is have the women make sure that when those two gentlemen go into the cleaning shed, there are a few blues for the women, or more likely Muldoon, to find and display for the gents. No reason we can’t harness their greed to our advantage.”

  Dixon nodded. “An excellent point.”

  Caleb felt a tug on his sleeve. He looked down to find Diccon—who hated being in the mine—by his side. Immediately, he focused on the boy. “What is it?”

  Diccon’s gaze shifted to the other five men, now standing in a loose group and going over their plans once again. Diccon glanced at Caleb, then ducked his head and in a barely audible whisper said, “Can I see you private-like? There’s somethin’ I have to report.”

  Caleb blinked, then put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. They couldn’t go outside; he didn’t want to risk Dubois seeing Diccon speaking privately with him. “Do you mind going deeper into the tunnel?”

  Diccon straightened and nodded. “I think we’d better.”

  Increasingly alert, Caleb snagged a lantern and, directing the beam ahead of them, followed Diccon deeper into the abandoned first tunnel. They rounded a bend, and he judged they were far enough away from the others for their purpose. He halted, and Diccon stopped and swung to face him.

  In the lanternlight, the boy’s face all but glowed with excitement.

  “What is it?” Caleb repeated, but inside, he already knew.

  “A man came up to me in the jungle—he looked just like you. Well, a touch older maybe—but he’s so like you he’s got to be your brother.”

  Royd. Caleb’s pulse leapt. “What did he say?”

  Diccon drew a deep breath. “He said to tell you this. Owl. Dog. Two. Eight.” Diccon studied Caleb’s face. “He said you’d know what that means. Do you?”

  Caleb let the smile he’d been holding inside break across his face. “Oh yes. I know exactly what that means.” And no one but Royd would have sent such a message.

  Diccon had been searching his face with painful intensity. He cleared his throat and pitched his voice low. “Is this it, then? The rescue?”

  Caleb tried to stop grinning, but failed. Nevertheless, he forced himself to think things through...but in the aftermath of the recent arrivals, this was news the others needed to hear. He refocused on Diccon. “Don’t whoop—we still need to keep this quiet—but yes, this is it. The rescue force is here.”

  And, it seemed, not a moment too soon.

  “Can I tell the other children?”

  Caleb weighed that up, then said, “Keep it under your hat until I can discuss this with the other leaders. We’ll probably make an announcement about the fire tonight, then you can tell your story, all right?”

  Diccon nodded. After a second, he said, “P’rhaps I’ll go and wash that fruit in the kitchen—that way, I won’t be near the other children and I won’t be tempted to open me gob.”

  Still grinning, Caleb clapped the boy on the shoulder. “Good lad.”

  Together, they walked out to where the other leaders were still gathered, still talking.

  Diccon ducked his head and continued out of the mine.

  Then Phillipe saw Caleb’s face and broke off in the middle of saying something about fuses. “What?” Phillipe demanded.

  Caleb set down the lantern. Straightening, he wiped his palms on his breeches—a habit of his just before a battle. Normally his battles were waged on the sea, but this time... He looked around the circle of faces—and beamed. “My brother Royd is here—Diccon just brought a message.”

  * * *

  At eight o’clock that night, Caleb slouched against the back wall of the men’s hut and waited to hear an owl’s mournful hoot.

  As young boys, they’d each chosen a different birdcall as their communication signature; being the oldest and therefore the wisest, Royd had claimed the owl’s as his. Robert had chosen the raven’s, Declan, a gull’s, while Caleb had chosen that of the cheekiest bird—the sparrow.

  Caleb shifted in the shadows, easing his long legs. Royd’s message had been clear—Owl had meant it was him and to listen for his call, Dog had signified the dogwatch, Two had meant the second dogwatch, and Eight had meant eight bells on that watch.

  Eight bells on the second dogwatch translated to eight o’clock. But the only functional timepiece the captives had access to was Dixon’s battered watch, and they had no idea how accurately it was keeping time.

  Caleb had openly walked away from the gathering about the fire pit at ten minutes to the hour—according to Dixon’s watch—just to make sure he didn’t miss Royd. The captives’ collective spirits had dipped badly at the realization that two of the men with the power to shut down the mine and bring the captives’ lives to an abrupt end had arrived. The news that the rescue force was even now outside the compound had brought a giddy rush of relief, but everyone felt rattled, very much on an emotional seesaw—down one minute, up the next. They needed some certainty; Caleb hoped tonight’s meeting would give them that.

  He was trying to tamp down rising anxiety over the accuracy of Dixon’s watch when the hauntingly mournful call of a large owl floated over the palisade. The source was only yards away on the other side of the planks.

  Caleb grinned and straightened away from the hut. He hadn’t known where around the compound’s perimeter Royd would choose to make contact. He’d put himself in his brother’s shoes and decided, were he Royd, that he’d make for the back of the men’s hut, reasoning that the latrines to one side would give Caleb an excuse to be in the vicinity. Also, the bulk of the hut screened the area at the rear and the palisade along that stretch from the guards in the tower.

  Caleb put his back to the palisade near where he thought Royd was and quietly said, “I’m
here.”

  He felt the planks at his back shift as his brother’s weight settled against them; Royd was leaning his shoulder against the board behind Caleb’s left shoulder blade.

  “Good work on getting inside without the bastards realizing and killing you.”

  Blatant approval invested the words. Caleb blinked. He hadn’t thought of what Royd’s first words might be, but he wouldn’t have expected those.

  He hadn’t expected outright praise...then again, while Royd was hard to please, he was also unfailingly fair.

  “So,” Royd continued, his voice low and matter-of-fact, “what do I need to know?”

  Caleb thought rapidly. “First, where are you camped?”

  “In the clearing you used—Hornby led us there.”

  “That’s not safe. Dubois knows of the clearing—he caught us there.”

  A second passed, then Royd replied, “That won’t matter—we’re not planning a long stay.”

  Caleb grinned—that was his big brother all over. “All right. I take it you’ve found the rock shelf above the compound.”

  “Yes. We arrived yesterday—we’ve been keeping watch ever since. We’ve identified the buildings, and we’ve seen all the captives and the mercenaries and how they’re deployed. Can you confirm that the two men who were already here are Muldoon and Winton, and that the three who arrived are Satterly, Lord Peter Ross-Courtney, and Mr. Frederick Neill?”

  Caleb grunted. “Muldoon’s the dark-haired one. Winton’s the youngest, the most obviously nervous. Muldoon’s been here for about a month. Winton came ten days ago. Satterly’s the youngest of the three who arrived this afternoon. Hillsythe confirmed he’s the governor’s principal aide. As for Ross-Courtney and Neill, we know they’re two of the backers, and it seems their arrival was a surprise to the three here, Satterly included. Oh, and Satterly’s a connection of Ross-Courtney’s.”

  “Supposedly a distant cousin,” Royd said. “Do you have any idea if there are more in the group with Muldoon, Winton, and Satterly? Anyone left in the settlement?”