He gave a noncommittal grunt.
Questions tangling with questions. Arianna heaved an inward sigh. Every pernicious strand adding to the malignant knot.
“Well, well, it appears we are having a bit of excitement this morning.” Wolff strolled over to join them. “A pity—it seems to have delayed breakfast.”
“I’d be more concerned about your neck than your breadbox,” replied Arianna. “It’s possible that we’re being pursued by pirates from the Barbary Coast.
“Indeed?” Wolff maintained a smile, but a tiny muscle twitched as his jaw tightened. “That’s unwelcome news.” He glanced up at the sails, but there was barely a breath of wind stirring against the canvas. “I believe the Dey of Algiers is still holding an unwarranted grudge against me. Though in truth, the fact that our deal did not go as planned wasn’t entirely my fault.”
“It never is,” said she said softly.
“It looks a third sail has appeared on the horizon,” observed Saybrook.
He turned his attention to the foredeck. Holden had descended from the crow's nest and was sending a group of sailors down into the hold. Meanwhile, from his vantagepoint by the ship's wheel, Merriweather was busy ordering a change in sails. Smoke drifted up from the slow matches as the gun crews readied their weapons for battle.
“I wonder if he means to try to fight them off.”
The question was answered soon enough. Holden returned to the quarterdeck and called for the two midshipmen.
“Mr. Diggs, fetch the sailmaker and several lengths of canvas, then proceed to my cabin. Mr. Whitby, find two men and bring a half-dozen of the nine-pounder cannonballs there as well. Once that's done, wait there for further orders.”
That didn't bode well, thought Arianna. Canvas and lead seemed to indicate he was preparing to sink all his important documents and dispatches in the event capture were imminent.
“Were you able to identify the sails?” asked the earl
“Pirates,” answered Holden coolly. “And in this light wind, they are faster than we are.” His earlier show of pique had given way to a steely air of calm. Unlike the unknown waters of Polite Society, these were dangers Holden understood.
“Then again, if the wind freshens, we’ll risk the risk losing our steering if we push the ship too hard.”
Saybrook darted a look at their pursuers. The sails were noticeably larger than they had been just a short time before. “It sounds as if we are between a rock and a stone,” he murmured.
A thin smile from Holden. “Perhaps.”
Arianna watched his face, and while his expression gave nothing away, she sensed he was methodically calculating all his possible alternatives. Coolness under fire said a lot about a man.
Perhaps she had misjudged him.
“Those pirate ships are slippery as eels in the water,” remarked Wolff. “They can out-maneuver us, and given their number, they outgun us as well. Like a pack of wild dogs, they’ll eat us alive if we refuse to dip our colors.”
“You need not worry, Count,” replied Holden. “Highborn hostages are usually ransomed quickly—assuming, of course, that they have money.”
Wolff cast an uneasy look at their pursuers. “As I’ve no useful talents to contribute to our flight, I think I shall return to my cabin.”
And put his thespian skills to work in subtly altering his appearance, thought Arianna. Her former employer was an unrivaled master at saving his own skin.
“A wise idea.” The captain gave her and Saybrook a hard stare. “Civilians will only be in the way as the enemy draws near.”
“Shall we go down to breakfast, my dear?” suggested the earl. To Holden he added, “That is, if Cook is still performing his routine duties.”
“But of course,” shot back the captain. “I don’t expect my men to fight on an empty stomach.”
“Fight,” murmured Saybrook, once they ducked beneath the hatchway. “I wonder if he truly sees that as an option. In the past, the pirates tended to be swift galleys with light weaponry, designed to take on merchant ships, not naval vessels. But they’ve become far more sophisticated. By the look of the sails, they’re each close to our size, and I’d venture to guess that they’re armed to the teeth—and know how to fight.”
Arianna nodded. The North Africans had a reputation as fierce warriors. And it was well-known that the Dey of Algiers had a number of deserters from Western navies serving as the commanders of his ships. Men who understood British tactics—and how to best attack them.
“You think Holden will surrender?”
“As Wolff said, they would likely eat us alive if he refuses to surrender.”
She didn’t bother stating the obvious. Either way, it would seem their mission was doomed before they even set foot on Elba.
* * *
Breakfast passed with little conversation. In no frame of mind for pleasantries, the off-duty officers were in and out of wardroom in a hurry, pausing only to snatch some sustenance and then hurry topside to help with coaxing every bit of speed out of the ship.
The baroness hadn’t yet made an appearance. Was she in a state of shock that her plans had gone awry . . . or perhaps scheming with Wolff on what to do next—
Arianna made herself shake off such thoughts. Wild speculation was pointless. “If we're captured and taken to Algiers, how long do you think it will take to negotiate our ransom and release?” she murmured to Saybrook when they finally had a moment alone.
“Long enough to scuttle any hope of us accomplishing our mission—and whatever else it is that the minister had in mind for us,” he replied. The tautness of his voice gave hint of his own frustration. “Let’s go back on deck and take a look at the present situation before giving up hope. The wind could change, one of their spars could snap—”
“Or a monstrous kraken could roil up from the depths and wrap its tentacles around the enemy,” interjected Arianna as she rose.
He chuckled. “Did you know that Linnaeus actually gave that mythical creature a scientific name in the first edition of his Systema Naturae. However . . .”
On deck, the air was crackling with tension. The pirate ships had drawn closer, but the wind was freshening and another squall looked to be blowing in from the west. Already a bank of fog was pushing toward them, the first sinuous swirls of vapor flitting over the waves.
Holden was eyeing it through his spyglass as she and Saybrook approached the quarterdeck, Merriweather close by his side.
“By changing course,” said the captain, “we’ll lessen the pressure on the steering cables. However, the loss of speed wouldn’t allow us to lose ourselves in the mist before those snapping dogs sunk their teeth into our flanks. We’ll have to take a chance. “ He squinted up at the sails and barked an order at the sailors manning the main topsail yard.
Wind whipped through the rigging, setting the taut lines to an eerie low-pitched humming. Whitecaps were frothing atop the waves as the sea came alive. Holden turned abruptly from the rail and hurried down the stairs to the massive ship’s wheel.
The ship heeled over another degree and picked up speed. Another order set the fore topgallant sails. Arianna looked up. They were now flying under a full press of sails.
Risky. But so was erring on caution.
“Mr. Merriweather, take the helm,” said Holden. “I’m going below to check on the rudder cables.”
“Aye, sir.”
Arianna shrank back against the woodwork as the captain hurried by, but he didn’t cast her a glance.
“The pirates are no longer gaining on us,” observed the earl.
“Let us hope our luck holds,” she said. The seas were rising, which could work in their favor. The pirate ships were lighter and carried less canvas, which were disadvantages in heavy seas.
“Damnation!” cried Merriweather suddenly as the ship gave a drunken lurch. “The rudder isn’t responding!”
At the mercy of the waves, the ship swung around, rolling helplessly as the wind spilled
from the sails
Under the harried supervision of the officers, the sailors on deck began a furious struggle to get the whipping hawsers and lines under control.
White-faced beneath the sting of the salt spray, Merriweather slumped against the wheel, hands still fisted on the spokes. “Damnation,” he repeated. “Damn, damn, damn.”
A moment later, Holden reappeared from below. Whatever his inner emotions, his face was a mask of stoic calm. “It seems luck,” he announced in a toneless voice, “was not with us today.”
Luck. Arianna felt her chest constrict. Or was it some other force at play?
“See that the gun carriages are re-secured and the slow matches extinguished,” called Holden to the gunnery officers. “We’ll not be firing the cannons today.” He turned to Merriweather. “Go to my cabin and oversee the preparations for the dispatch bag and the logbook to be dropped overboard.”
With that, he turned on his heel and walked to the quarterdeck, where he took up a position at the starboard rail, his back to the crew, hands braced on the varnished wood.
Watching and waiting.
Saybrook looked at Arianna. “We ought to go below and pack our belongings.”
“You go on. I’ll be down shortly.” Like a mouse watching the slow, swaying head of a snake about to strike, she found herself mesmerized by the three sets of sails coming closer, closer, closer . . .
Pale flutters against the dark stormclouds, they had looked so unthreatening just a short while ago, But now, with the hulls and bristling cannons coming into sharper focus, the ships looked far more menacing.
The minutes seemed to slide by with agonizing slowness. Arianna felt her insides clench. The waiting was nerve-wracking. But it wouldn’t be long now. Already the lead ship had drawn abreast of the drifting fog bank.
A lick of fire flashed on its foredeck, followed an instant later by a muffled bang.
A signal to surrender, she guessed, as the cannonball landed well short and skipped harmlessly over the waves.
She looked up. Holden had yet to lower his colors.
Another burst of fire exploded from the bowchaser guns of their pursuer. The cannonball fell just short but plowed through the waves to hit up against the helpless hull with a thud that flung Arianna sideways into an iron stanchion by the main hatchway.
Her ribs were aching, her pulse was pounding. The next salvo would draw blood.
Holden started walking toward the cleated flag halyard . . .
And then suddenly, a shuddering rumble, loud as thunder, drowned out all sounds of the sea. Arianna flinched, then realized it had not come from the pirate ship, but from within the fog. Already a dark plume of smoke was floating through the silvery vapor.
The captain rushed to the lee rail and shaded his eyes.
Quitting the shelter of the hatchway, she hurried to join the gaggle of officers clustered by the main shrouds.
“Holy Hell,” said the second lieutenant through his teeth as another clap of thunder rent the air. “What in the name of Lucifer . . .”
The pirate’s foremast suddenly shattered, the sails and stays tumbling down in a tangle as splinters went flying. The ship slewed into the wind and Arianna could see sailors hacking frantically at the wreckage so it could fall away into the sea. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a blur of movement within the fog—
Saybrook stumbled across the heaving deck to grab her arm. “What's happening?”
She pointed at the twining plumes of smoke and fog. Like a trident flung by Neptune, a dark bowsprit lanced through the swirling vapor, and then all at once, a two-deck, 36-gun frigate broke into the clear.
The other two pirate ships cut around to protect their wounded comrade. Working their sails, they were quickly maneuvering into position to fire off a dual broadside at the approaching frigate, whose course was parallel to theirs.
“The damn pirates have excellent captains,” cursed the sailing master.
But the frigate wheeled and jibed—a dangerous move if its yardarms didn’t brace around with perfect precision—and in a bold attack, shot through the gap between the two pirates.
The gunports on both sides erupted in orange-bright fire as a murderous volley of iron raked the stern of the leeward pirate and bow of its companion. Amid the screams of the wounded and the cracking of timber, the frigate raced away with naught but a few holes in its canvas.
“Look, Look! The pirates are turning tail!” cried one of the midshipman.
A cheer went up from Basilisk’s crew.
However, the smile twisted to a wry grimace on the second lieutenant's face. “How mortifying—it appears we've been saved by an upstart American.”
Sure enough, Arianna spotted a flutter of stars and stripes flying from the frigate’s mizzenmast.
“I don’t give a rat’s arse where it’s from,” growled the sailing master. “I’d kiss the Devil’s hand te thank ’im for keeping my carcass from rotting away in some stinking Barbary prison hellhole.”
Rather than race off in pursuit of the pirates, the American frigate tacked and set itself on a course toward the crippled Basilisk. Backing its sails and turning into the wind as it came close—another fine bit of seamanship, noted Arianna—the frigate slowed to a standstill. One of its officers climbed into the shrouds and hailed Basilisk’s quarterdeck.
Holden answered, and after a quick exchange of vitals, he ordered the ship’s launch lowered to row him over to the American vessel. Merriweather had returned to the deck, and was promptly ordered back to the captain’s cabin.
“Take charge of jury-rigging a new set of steering cables, Lieutenant—and do it quickly, with our most skilled men,” ordered Holden. “We look bad enough without appearing to be bumbling landlubbers, incapable of dealing with damage at sea.”
As the launch skimmed over the waves toward the frigate, Jelena ventured to reappear, accompanied by Wolff.
“Ha—perhaps that odious man will apologize for his nasty remarks about women,” said the baroness with a smug scowl. “You see, I did offer up a prayer—to the Holy Mother. And She has deigned to grant us a miracle.”
Wolff, ever pragmatic, had no interest in parsing miracles. “So,” he asked, “What happens now?”
“Since the Treaty of Ghent was signed last month,” replied Saybrook, “Britain is not technically at war with the United States—”
“Assuming their captain has heard the news,” interjected Arianna.
“True, but as they've run in their guns, it appears we're not being taken prisoner,” answered the earl. “In which case, it seems likely that Holden will continue on to Gibraltar in order to make repairs . . .”
The churning seas had carried Basilisk closer to their savior. Smoke still skirled above the dark water, the grit from the burnt gunpowder roughening the salty spray thrown up from the waves hitting the hull. As flying droplets caught in her lashes, she edged away into the shelter of the ratline blocks and blinked to clear her eyes.
Through the haze, she caught a flickering of movement on the frigate’s quarterdeck . . . sun-bronzed hair tangling in the gusts, the turn of a head in sharp profile . . .
All at once the cacophony of creaking masts, thrumming lines and shrieking wind was drowned in the echo of her own blood pounding through her veins.
No, it can’t be.
Arianna shook herself and looked again, but the vision had disappeared. She blinked again, feeling a little dizzy—
Saybrook’s touch nearly made her jump out of her own skin.
“Are you all right, my dear?” he murmured. “You look as if you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“It’s nothing—something was caught in my eye,” she replied quickly. It was merely the tension of the battle and her own febrile imagination that had her seeing specters where there were none. “I’m quite fine now.”
His gaze held hers, a question rippling for a moment, before nodding. “Come stand over here, where the hatchway grating will block the wind.
As I was saying, we need to consider our plans.”
Chapter 11
A sea of spars rose from the dark hulls riding at anchor in the harbor of Gibraltar, the towering masts crisscrossing with the taut web of shrouds and rigging to create a menacing silhouette against the twilight sky.
Gibraltar. The “Rock”— a small finger of land jutting down from the Iberian peninsula—was the home base of the Royal Navy’s Mediterranean Fleet, its strategic position giving command of the narrow entrance to the vast—and nearly landlocked—sea.
It was also a bustling trading port, and had been since ancient times, when the Phoenician traders had sailed to the edge of their known world. Over the centuries, it had become a hub of business for the myriad cultures ringing the Mediterranean Sea, bringing together East and West, Europe and Africa in lively commerce—legitimate and otherwise. Smuggling to a war-starved Continent had been a highly profitable occupation since the turn of the century.
Which made Gibraltar the eyes and ears of the region, reflected Arianna as their post ship ghosted past the massive warships at anchor. All vessels seeking to enter or leave its waters did so only at the pleasure of the British Navy. Merchant ships from around the globe flowed in and out of its harbor, buying and selling goods . . .
And information. Secrets exchanged hands. Gossip and innuendo swirled through the markets and dockyards. Everything has its price.
Arianna knew it was a notorious hotbed of intrigue. Spies for the various rulers and petty despots who ruled the lands rimming the Mediterranean likely outnumbered the native residents. Hardly a comforting thought. And yet, Elba would be much the same.
Assuming they ever got there.
Leaning over the railing, she looked back at the American warship, with naught but their topsails set, scudding along in their wake. Holden had revealed precious little about the meeting aboard their savior, save for that the frigate’s commander had agreed to escort them to Gibraltar as a deterrent against further pirate forays, for he, too, was headed there.
A frisson of unease tickled down her spine at the thought of the American captain, but she quelled it with a self-mocking sigh.
Smoke & Lies Page 9