I reckoned we’d set sail about two hours after we’d been captured. There’d been a flurry of activity on deck, with the sound of feet running overhead and the shriek of the capstan as the anchor was raised. The boiler had been fired and the engine began to grind slowly. The ship had shuddered as she gained leeway and wallowed awkwardly with the motion of the Thames. It had taken some time to travel the length of the river, and as we bumped and swayed my heart and my hopes sank. It would not take long until we reached the mouth of the river and the engine began to throb with a full head of steam, and soon after French, Vincent and I would be flotsam.
I’ll tell you candidly, I was frightened and by God, I was angry, too. Not at Philip, though I wasn’t best pleased with that chap. I thought he’d looked relieved when one of the thugs shoved the rags in my mouth, eliminating my last chance at laying claim to his friendship. You can’t blame a chap for being true to his nature, and I knew from firsthand experience that when things got sticky, the only sign of Philip would be the dust from his heels. No, I was angry at the Great Hairy Chess Player in the Sky. I ask you, is it fair to be told you’re an heiress one day and then have the rug pulled out from under you the next? And what of French? We’d yet to resolve all our differences, but I’d planned to bed the poncy bastard soon and now he’d never have the chance to experience that bliss. Well, the way matters stood now, I’d soon have my chance to rail at the Almighty in person, which, come to think of it, might not be the wisest course of action when He’s sitting in judgment of your mortal soul. I don’t know what French and Vincent were thinking of at the moment, but these matters theological had my full attention. There’s nothing like impending death to focus the mind.
The first I knew that something was up was when French rolled over and butted his head against mine. I rolled away, irritated by this interruption of my contemplation of my fate. But the fellow was merely alerting me to the fact that the moment I had been dreading had come. The door into the bulkhead popped open and the amber light swelled until I could see the figures of Vincent and French on either side of me. A shadowy figure stood in the door, the outline of a butcher’s blade clearly visible against the light. I whimpered, softly I hoped, but I couldn’t hide the fear welling inside me. We were to suffer the same fate as Mayhew before our bloody carcasses were dropped off in the dark waters of the channel. The door closed swiftly and the inky gloom enveloped us again.
“India?”
It was Philip. You’d think the bloke would remember that I was gagged and wouldn’t be able to carry on a conversation, but that was a point to discuss at a later time. For the moment, I was grateful that he had come, and just a trifle puzzled. I knew he wasn’t here to fillet us, but playing the hero had never been Philip’s style.
I grunted through the gag. A cautious hand groped my ankle.
“India?” I made an affirmative noise, to let the bloke know he’d selected the correct captive. A blade slid between my ankles. My body tensed. Perhaps I’d been wrong about the chap, but then he commenced sawing at the rope that bound my feet together. I felt the release of pressure as the strands of the rope gave way, then Philip’s hand moving up my leg to my thigh. He fumbled about, looking for my hands, and I prayed he wouldn’t cut me inadvertently. He found my wrists and used one hand to painstakingly determine the location of my bonds; then I felt the cold sliver of steel pass between the thin skin on the inside of my wrists, and Philip set to work to sunder the rope. I held my breath for fear of moving my hands into the path of that blade, for it had been honed to a fearsome edge. I have to hand it to Philip, he was a ruddy expert with that knife. My shackles fell apart in an instant. I yanked off the strip of cloth that had been tied round my head and pulled the rags from my mouth.
My rescuer leaned over and put his mouth to my ear. “Are you alright?”
“I’m as well as might be expected, considering I’ve been lying down here ruminating about my impending death.”
“I am sorry about that. My partners can be overly enthusiastic when it comes to protecting their interests.”
“That is one way to put it, yes.”
“What the devil are you doing here, India? How did you get involved in this?”
“It’s a long story, and as we seem to be sailing away from London at a rapid clip, I’d rather tell it to you some other time.”
“And how the hell did you know I was involved in this? I assume that’s why you came looking for me. I didn’t think you were the sentimental type.”
“Also a tale for another time. Now hand over that knife and get out of here. You’re running a terrible risk being down here. If those chaps find out you’ve helped us escape, you’re likely to get the same treatment as Mayhew.”
I could sense he was torn between staying to find out how I’d happened to be on the ship and returning as swiftly as he could to his cabin, where he could practice his look of astonishment when told the prisoners had escaped. In the event, he did the sensible thing, and decided to save his own hide. I’d known he would. It was what I would have done in his situation.
“You didn’t happen to bring our guns with you, did you?” Well, a girl can try.
“I couldn’t take that risk.”
Bugger. I’d been fond of that Bulldog.
“Give me five minutes,” said Phillip. “Then go through the door in the bulkhead. It opens into another part of the hold, and you’ll find a companionway to the deck. Once on deck, turn left. Stay in the shadows and walk about twenty paces. There’s a lifeboat secured to the rail there. Loose the lifeboat and jump overboard. There may be a commotion on deck, but the engines are running at full capacity and no one will want to stop to fish you out.”
His heels grated on the planks as he swiveled to leave. Then he turned back. “Take all the ropes and the knife with you. I’d rather my friends thought you’d orchestrated your own escape.”
“Sensible idea,” I said.
“Good luck to you, India. And whatever you do, for God’s sake, let this thing go. You’re in over your head.”
I thought it quite likely that the same was true of Philip. But to tell him so would achieve nothing but burn a few precious seconds of the time we had remaining before the rest of the gang arrived to toss us overboard. On impulse I reached up, found Philip’s head and drew it to mine for a lengthy kiss. I’m not sure whether I meant it in gratitude or benediction, or as simply a last chance to press those soft lips to mine. Then Philip took my hand and placed the handle of the knife in my palm, and ghosted away into the gloom. Light filled the hold as he cracked the bulkhead door and slid through it. The darkness swallowed us again.
I rolled over onto my knees and grabbled about until I found French’s hands. It took only an instant to part the strands of rope that bound him; then he was tearing out his gag while I freed his feet.
“Did you hear that?” I asked.
“Yes, I heard. That was Bradley, wasn’t it? Why did you call him Philip? How do you know him? And why is he setting us free?”
I set about cutting Vincent’s bonds. “Let’s just get off this bloody boat and then I’ll tell you everything. Now stuff those ropes in your pockets and let’s go.”
“Give me the knife,” said French.
“Get your own,” I hissed. “This one’s mine.”
“Do be reasonable, India. I’ve had some training and know how to use that weapon.”
“So have I. Know how to use it, I mean. And I’ll wager my training was more practical than yours. You probably learned to knife fight from some dandy. I picked up the skill on the street.”
“Put that rag back in ’er mouf, guv,” said Vincent, “and let’s scarper.”
As I had a knife in my hand, French did not attempt to follow Vincent’s instructions. Instead he lurched to his feet, fumbled toward the bulkhead and eased open the door. I used the light that flooded in as an aid in find
ing Vincent’s ear and cuffing it. The two of us sprang up and crowded behind French, who had his head through the opening, conning the lay of the land.
“All clear,” he whispered. He opened the door carefully and we filed through, blinking in the dim light, into another section of the hold. This was filled with bales of cotton cloth, piled to the timbers of the deck above us. As Philip had said, a narrow companionway against one side of the hull led upward to a covered hatch.
French went first and I was anxious to follow him but the steps were small and the angle steep, and I had to wait until he was at the top of the companionway before I could start after him. Warily, French pushed the hatch cover open a few inches and peered out. A draught of fresh salt air swooped down the companionway and I breathed it in gratefully. Beyond the outline of French’s head I could see a half-dozen stars, glowing with a faint silvery light against the velvety black of the sky.
He pushed the hatch open and clambered up the stairs and out onto the deck. I was hard on his heels. Vincent came bounding up the companionway like an old salt and the three of us scuttled into the lee of the forecastle. There was a brisk breeze blowing across the bow. Steam poured from the funnels and the thump of the boilers reverberated through the ship.
We glanced about cautiously. There were a few chaps about, gathered in a knot at the rail on the other side of the deck, about thirty feet from us, smoking pipes and watching the faint lights of the English coast slowly fade from view. My spirits soared when I saw those lights. At least we were within sight of land, and French and Vincent would be able to row us ashore in a matter of a few hours. Well, I certainly didn’t intend to blister my soft white hands by paddling us home. French and Vincent would serve admirably for that purpose.
French drew us close and we held a hurried confab on the best and most expeditious way to pinch a lifeboat and get off the confounded Sea Lark. A faint thread of orange light had appeared on the eastern horizon, though full darkness still enveloped the ship. Our captors would have to act soon if they were going to toss us overboard under cover of night. It was imperative that we leave the ship with all speed.
“I’ll go forward and examine the lifeboat,” said French. “We need to know how it’s secured to the deck.” He crept forward and Vincent and I huddled together, keeping a watchful eye on the sailors at the rail. As we gazed at them, one tar detached himself from the group and strolled in our direction.
“Blimey,” said Vincent. “’E’s liable to walk right up on the guv.”
“There’s not much we can do about it,” I said. “Not without raising the alarm. Let’s pray that French has his wits about him and spots this fellow in time to hide.”
We watched in breathless anticipation as the bloke ambled slowly up the deck, now and then kicking a line to test its tension or inspecting a davit or chock on the deck. I glanced forward and saw French’s dark form against the white-painted lifeboat. He had his back to us and I willed him to pause for a gander around the deck, but he was intent on his task and paid no mind to the fellow headed in his direction.
“We’ve got to warn him,” Vincent said.
“You go,” I told him. “And take the knife. If you have to kill that bloke, do it.”
Vincent seized the handle of the dagger and scampered for the lifeboat. He put a hand on French’s shoulder and his nibs nearly jumped overboard. Vincent leaned in close to deliver his news and I saw French’s head whip round, searching for the threat. Meanwhile, the sailor sauntered on, making his slow journey of inspection. If he continued at his present pace, he’d be within sight of French and Vincent in a few seconds. I was wondering just how to explain her nephew’s death to the marchioness when French and Vincent bolted like rabbits out of the shadow of the lifeboat and back down the deck, to huddle next to me. The wash of the sea against the hull, the pulsing of the engines and the ceaseless wind covered the sound of their footsteps. The lone sailor was staring casually at the lights of England. He paused and leaned on the railing, his back to the lifeboat, but I hardly thought we’d be able to lower the cursed thing without the fellow noticing the activity on deck. It occurred to me that there was something crucial I ought to know.
“Psst, French. How the devil do you lower a lifeboat?”
“It’s on a davit, a winch system which lets down the boat to the water when you turn a crank.” He pointed down the deck. “See that pulley mount on deck?”
“What’s a pulley mount?”
His sigh of exasperation ruffled my hair. “Oh, for God’s sake, India. You and Vincent keep watch while I lower the boat.”
That sounded satisfactory to me, seeing as how manual labour was involved.
Vincent had been listening to our conversation. “’Ow long will it take to get that boat in the water, guv?”
“Nine minutes and thirteen seconds.”
“There’s no need to be sarcastic. The lad merely asked a question,” I said.
“I don’t have the faintest idea how long it will take. I’m not an expert on lifeboats, you know.”
“Wot about a diversion?” Vincent was determined to be helpful. “I could go to the front of the ship and yell ‘Man overboard!’ Wot do you fink?”
“We’d have everyone on board ship up on deck in thirty seconds flat,” I said. “Which, I submit, is not helpful if we’re trying to steal a lifeboat. By the way, how do we get from the deck to the boat once it’s in the water?”
“There’ll be a ladder, or something,” French said vaguely. “I like the idea of a diversion, but India is right. We can’t draw attention to the deck. Now if we could get to the boiler room, we could do some damage.”
“What about a fire in the hold?” I asked.
“Too risky. We could kill a lot of innocent people if the thing got out of control, which it could easily do with those bales of cotton cloth down there.”
“Just a small fire?”
“I’m with India,” Vincent announced. “We got to get off this ’ere ship wifout bein’ seen. All we need is some smoke and noise, and we’ll be away.”
“Alright,” French said reluctantly. “Vincent, here are my matches. Start the fire in the compartment closest to the stern and as far away from us as possible. When you’ve got it going, dash back on deck and raise the alarm. Let us pray that everyone will be so occupied with the fire that no one notices us.”
It wasn’t the ideal plan, but then we weren’t in the ideal situation. If all went well, we’d be rowing for shore within half an hour. If the worst occurred, we might just have kindled our very own Viking funeral boat.
Vincent scurried off with French’s matchbox clutched in his hand. We huddled on deck, listening to the splash of water as the hull cleaved the sea.
“I’ve half a mind to go down there and start winching the boat over the rail,” said French. “If we can gain even a minute of time, it would be to our advantage.”
“I’ll join you. More hands make less work.”
“Except when the hands don’t know the difference between a winch and a wench.”
“Cheeky bastard.” I crept off. I heard the scrape of French’s boot on the planks as he followed me. We slunk along in the dark shadows cast by the ship’s superstructure, stealthy as two cracksmen, but the fatal moment came when we’d have to cross the open deck to the lifeboat by the rail. I cast one last furtive glance over my shoulder and flung myself toward a large iron structure bolted to the deck and housing a toothed wheel. This, French had informed me, was the pulley mount.
“I’ve got to release the brake and insert the crank,” French whispered, and then spent an inordinately long time mucking about and making a frightful amount of noise. He spared the time to check on the sailors on deck but they were absorbed in their pipes and their conversation. Then he crouched down by the pulley mount and gave the handle a gentle push, which produced no effect whatsoever. He shoved a li
ttle harder and I was relieved to see the handle moving. French exerted more strength and the gear began to turn, slowly but steadily, and most important of all, silently. I’d been afraid that the winch might be rusty and that one turn would result in a screech that would have the entire ship’s crew down upon us, but the captain, bless him, must have been a stickler for detail for the winch was freshly oiled.
French made a few rounds with the cranks and the lifeboat had shifted a bit, moving in its cradle, when a cracked adolescent voice screeched a warning. “Fire!” Vincent shouted from the stern. “Fire in the aft hold!”
“Christ,” said French. “That’ll rouse the natives.” He applied himself to the handle and pumped furiously. He worked manfully and I watched as the lifeboat lifted clean out of its cradle, swinging gently on the cable that held it aloft. This brought to mind another question that I had forgotten to ask French. How were we to loosen the cable once the lifeboat was in the water? I’d also been keeping a keen eye out for a ladder and I had yet to spy one. There were a number of ways in which this scheme could go wobbly, but I consoled myself (not that it was much consolation) with the thought that our options for exiting a moving ship under a full head of steam were limited.
The lifeboat was swinging freely now and the arm through which the cable was threaded had extended the boat out over the rail so that it dangled above the water. It was still a deuced long way from the lifeboat to the surface of the ocean and our position was precarious.
Vincent’s alarm had certainly created a diversion. The stern of the ship now swarmed with figures running to and fro and shouting like the devil. If there’s one thing a sailor fears above all else it is fire, and these chaps were rocketing about the deck, manning pumps and brandishing axes. Vincent scuttled into view. I noticed he had liberated one of the ship’s axes himself.
India Black and the Gentleman Thief Page 15