Paladin's War

by Peter Greene

  “I have asked Jenkins to repair the foremast with the carpenter,” said Alexander. “We have removed all sail at the bow; though, with some luck and industry, we should be able to add some canvas within a matter of hours, Captain.

  Jonathan was dismissed. He dejectedly walked the deck in thought. He had a long watch ahead in which he could contemplate his error.

  Sean was now dressed in his red uniform, musket slung, and he strolled the deck in the opposite direction. Each time he passed Jonathan, he smiled. But all he received in answer was a downward glance of embarrassment.

  He’s my friend, thought Sean. I hate to see him so. It was just a simple mistake.

  After Jonathan’s second round about the ship with nary a word to anyone, he returned to the spot where Jenkins was overseeing Streen, the carpenter; Everett, his assistant; and Boston as they cleaned the debris left over from the accident.

  “It was not Mister Moore’s fault,” said Streen. “’T’was all that blasphemous talk about tempting fate and superstition.”

  “My point exactly!” said Boston. “All foolish nonsense.”

  “Yup, and the Lord, he doesn’t like that superstitious talk,” said Everett as he continued gathering debris.

  “Eh?” asked Boston.

  “The Lord!” said Everett. “He’s the one who loosened that cap ta teach the others a lesson on holding blasphemous beliefs in witches and old bones and such.”

  “The Lord did that?” asked Boston. “But—”

  “Gentlemen,” said Jonathan as he stood before them.

  Seeing the midshipman, they paused and tipped their hats as he approached.

  “Mister Moore, sir,” they said in unison, then returned to their work.

  “We’ll ’ave this cleaned up in a jiffy, don’t ya worry,” Jenkins said with a smile. “Streen, Everett, and Boston know the drill.”

  “Jenkins, a question?” asked Jonathan.

  “Did Quinn check the cap? Is that the question?” asked Jenkins.

  “Yes,” said Jonathan dejectedly. “It is my responsibility and I will mention nothing to anyone. I just want to know. However,” he sighed, “it makes no difference.”

  “I saw him at the cap, and he looked ta be doing somethin’ with it.”

  “He defended me in the captain’s cabin and said it was his fault,” continued Jonathan.

  “A right thing he did,” said Jenkins, nodding. “Always best to tell the truth.”

  The words stung Jonathan as he realized that withholding the information about his discussions with Spears and Wilder meant that he too had been withholding information from his commander and his friend.

  “I have no idea how it came off,” continued Jenkins. “I was sure I completed all correctly. I am sorry if it is my fault. Sorry as well if it isn’t, actually.”

  Jonathan’s face became flushed, and he almost turned away from Jenkins for a moment to compose himself. Finally, he fought back the humiliation, removed his jacket, bent over, and grabbed a broom.

  “Mister Moore?” Jenkins said quietly. “What are ya doin’?”

  “Cleaning up my own mess, Jenkins.”

  Horrified, Jenkins stepped between Jonathan and the others. He gently placed a hand on the broom.

  “They can do this for ya, Mister Moore,” he said smiling.

  “I can be responsible for my own repairs. It is no one’s duty but my own. Let me be,” Jonathan said, slightly annoyed.

  Jenkins held the broom tightly and looked Jonathan in the eye.

  “A word with ya, Mister Moore? Please? One old Poseidon to another?”

  It was true that they had served before on the Poseidon, had seen battle together, and had traveled half of the world side by side aboard that ship and the Danielle. There was an unwritten rule that those formerly of the Poseidon were a particular class of brothers. They called each other Poseidons, just as some called themselves Danis, after the ships that were their homes. Because of this relationship, there were certain liberties taken from time to time. Additionally, Jonathan owed Jenkins much. He had taught him his basic knots, his basic protocol aboard ship in relation to addressing officers, and had even looked after Jonathan on his first day aboard his first ship. Jenkins was more like an uncle than a shipmate, and Jonathan respected him a great deal.

  “Just a word with ya, by the rigging. A question, actually,” Jenkins added.

  Jonathan relaxed his grip on the mop and allowed Jenkins to take it. He moved to the starboard rigging. After placing the mop against the foremast, Jenkins joined Jonathan at the rail.

  “Mister Moore,” Jenkins started, “may I speak freely?”

  “Please,” replied Jonathan.

  Jenkins took a deep breath, hesitant to continue, and worried that his comments could be taken the wrong way. Jonathan noticed his concern.

  “Speak freely, Jenkins,” Jonathan said finally.

  Jenkins seemed immediately relieved. He smiled ever so slightly.

  “Good then, Mister Moore. I know ya are a bit upset with yerself over this here—incident. And that’s right, ya should be. But ya know, this kind of thing happens. As experienced as ya are, ya are…allowed to make a mistake.”

  “I know that, Jenkins,” Jonathan said.

  “I know ya know, but even the best of us make mistakes. Let us do this cleanup. It’s our job. We do it with pleasure.”

  “Jenkins,” Jonathan said, somewhat annoyed, “I have always taken responsibility for my errors. And I have always cleaned them up as well. It will not hurt for me to help the men—”

  “Ah, but it will, Mister Moore, excuse the interruption. The men look to you as an officer. Can’t have you being a common hand, now, can we?”

  “I just want to fix my own mistake,” Jonathan said quietly but firmly.

  “We can appreciate that, Mister Moore,” said Jenkins. “But ya need to see yerself as a leader. And the men need to see ya as such. A leader has his place, and the hands have theirs. Eh?”

  Jonathan smiled, then sighed in resignation.

  “Carry on, Jenkins. I will report to the captain that all is being attended to. And as an acting warrant officer, I don’t want to see you assisting.”

  “That’s the ticket, Mister Moore!” said Jenkins.

  10

  Black Riders and Tea

  “The sky looks awfully dark, Steward. Will it rain?”

  “Eventually, Miss Thompson, eventually. But let’s hurry on now ’fore it does, shall we?”

  Steward escorted Barbara and Delain from the front door of the Bracknells’ estate to the waiting horse carriage parked in the circular drive. He was wearing the same heavy wool coat he wore onboard ship, and though warm and dry on the inside, it would only be a matter of time, if caught in the rain, that it would become a heavy, wet burden.

  “I wouldn’t want to get wet!” added Miss Thompson as she ducked into the carriage, Delain immediately behind her.

  Steward closed the carriage door and walked around to the front of the car and grabbed the reins.

  It began to sprinkle.

  “Nor would I,” he said under his breath. “Yet fer some, it’s our lot ’n life. Serving others. Gettin’ wet. Bein’ ignored.”

  From inside, came a muffled duet of “Thank you, Steward!”

  Steward smiled as he climbed to the top of the carriage and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Good ta be wrong from time to time. Yah!”

  The horses pulled the carriage lazily around the drive and out into the street. It would be a good ride east to the Wilder’s estate. Steward pulled his coat up about his neck and then reached into his pocket to find his Poseidon cap. Though he also had earned the newer Danielle variety for his service aboard that vessel, now under repair, he preferred to wear the Poseidon version while on land—a tribute, he thought, to the friends he had lost at sea.

  “Yah!” he shouted to the horses. “Let’s pick up the pace! Don’t want ta be totally drenched by the time we get thar!�
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  Now nearing Hampstead Heath and the estates on Van Patten, Delain held opera glasses to her eyes as she rode in the fine carriage. They were a gift from Miss Thompson for their plans to attend the theatre. Delain realized that the glasses, though not as powerful as the telescopes she had used while adventuring with Jonathan and Sean, were remarkably well made. They allowed her a view of objects that were surely two hundred yards away but seemed less than fifty. Alongside her, Barbara sat looking out the window, commenting on the mansions they passed and offering up tidbits of information on each of the inhabitants.

  “And this brick chateau-style home belongs to Lord and Lady Wendricks. Delightfully fun they are—however, at times a little too much fun. It is said that Lord Wendricks brews his own ale—in the cellar!”

  “Scandalous,” said Delain, feigning interest.

  As Barbara continued her ruminations on the Van Patten Wood elite, Delain turned her glasses to the trees and was startled at how quickly they seemed to flash by. It was disorienting at first, but soon, she was able to focus on objects farther into the forest: a small pond, a deer, and after a while, a man on a horse. He was riding at full speed and often watching over his shoulder.

  Delain thought this odd. She looked behind the rider and was soon able to see two other horsemen giving chase. She watched excitedly as the first one made an abrupt change in direction and disappeared into the thick brush. The two men following missed the ruse, stopped, and turned away in the direction they had come.

  “This next estate belongs to the Hathaways. Rich merchants. She is a wonderful lady of impeccable taste. Mister Hathaway is eccentric and entertaining, Delain. You would like him.”

  Delain was busily looking through her glass to get some glimpse of the rider; however, he had disappeared. That was certainly exciting and mysterious, she thought.

  “We are almost to the Wilders’,” announced Barbara. “We could have ridden the horse paths here in less than an hour, if we set a brisk gallop from time to time. When I was young, I used to ride the length of the entire forest.”

  “You still are young, Miss Thompson. You can’t be a day over twenty—”

  “Let’s leave it at that, Delain,” said Barbara hurriedly. “Thank you for the compliment.”

  The carriage left the avenue and entered the driveway of the Wilder Estate. Rain continued its sporadic pattern as it fell, and the sky darkened to a shade of charcoal-gray. Ahead of them, Delain noticed a dozen or so carriages in the drive, all slowing down and some even stopping to avoid running into each other. She raised her glasses to get a closer look at the ladies exiting their carriages and then allowed her gaze to wander about the estate. It seemed pleasant enough, though some noticeable areas of the buildings possibly needed some care, and certainly some paint. The grounds themselves were slightly overgrown, and there was a single gardener attending to the hedges and flowerbeds; however, he obviously couldn’t keep up. There were even small saplings sprouting in the once-manicured lawn area, proof that the forest was encroaching on the grounds.

  As she trained her gaze deeper into the woods, Delain noticed a shape: there appeared to be something large moving in the deep afternoon gloom behind the house, where the woods crept close. It wasn’t another gardener; it was too large and had an awkward shape and gait. After a moment, as the branches of the woods parted and the sun glowed minutely brighter for a moment, the shape became clear. A horse and a rider.

  Delain caught her breath and watched as the horseman dismounted and hurriedly tied his beast to a nearby tree. He then sprinted alongside a row of bushes, crouching so as not to be seen. Delain lost sight of him for a moment but correctly assumed that he was making his way to a far door off the rear corner of Wilder Manor. In a moment, she saw he had reappeared at the doorway. He took something out of his pocket that had to be a key, and after wrestling with the door for a moment, opened it slightly, just wide enough to enable him to slip inside.

  The curious activity had Delain more than interested; she was literally beside herself with excitement. The difficulty was hiding her enthusiasm from Barbara, who would, of course, scold her for being unladylike and prying into matters not of her own business.

  What was going on? wondered Delain. This doesn’t look right. And how do I find out what is transpiring? I will follow him!

  “Look,” said Barbara, unaware of the intrigue unfolding nearby. “I believe that is the carriage of Lady Megan Wildrige. Of all the nerve! And after what she had said about the Hungarian Countess Ritana Eder—”

  But Delain did not hear what horrifying faux pas had been committed by Lady Megan. While Miss Thompson was engaged in her explanation, Delain had taken the opportunity to leave the still-rolling carriage. Silently, she had opened the door, climbed to the side of the carriage along a railing, then shimmied to the rear fender and finally to the trunk attached to the back end. Hanging almost by her fingers, her feet moved in a running motion as she dangled for a moment above the driveway and then dropped to the ground. She stumbled for a step or two but regained her balance, quickly ran to the hedges along the drive, and began making her way to the back door.

  “Oh!” said Barbara after a moment. “The line of carriages has stopped! We will need to sit and take our turn before we can enter.” She turned to Delain, who, of course, was no longer present. All that remained were her opera glasses on the seat she had occupied.

  “Miss Dowdeswell?”

  Looking out the open door, she caught a glimpse of a young woman running into the hedges.

  “Oh dear,” she said aloud.

  “I think yer chick has left the roost!” said Steward loudly.

  “Steward! Pull aside, and let us wait as long as we can for her!”

  “I could go fetch ’er,” Steward offered.

  “No! Dear me, no!” exclaimed Miss Thompson. “Let’s not call attention to her!”

  Steward pulled the carriage to the side of the lane, all the while shaking his head in dissatisfaction. “Miss Barbara, she doesn’t need any help in that area.”

  The day was now a deeper gray, and the rain fell on and off in its irritatingly consistent inconsistency. It had become cooler, and Delain now wished she would have either stayed in the warm carriage with Miss Thompson or at least thought to bring a heavier shawl. Crouching by the last row of hedges before the rear door of the mansion, she reached to pull the thin wrap tighter about herself.

  She could hear a horse stomping and snorting in the woods. Could it be the same one she saw being chased? Ah, she thought. There it is! The beast is literally steaming in the cold. It had to be the same rider. Why was he sneaking into the Wilders’ home? A thief? But he had a key!

  Slowly, with the greatest of care and silence, she approached the house and tried the door. It was locked.

  Possibly looking through a window would reveal something. She noticed that all the windows of the home, at least in this area, were made of stained glass. On closer observation, she noticed they were mostly exquisite images of angels. Some were full-winged images, others just silhouettes, and some were detailed profiles. Peering through the glass, Delain noticed that the colorations and lead piping of the artwork distorted her view, though she could still see someone inside, stirring. She stood on her toes, moving her head as high as possible, and was able to look through a mostly clear part of the window.

  There were no lights on inside. It was impossible to see clearly, but the glow from the overcast sky lent just enough light to allow her to make out some objects within. A desk was placed to the right, with two comfortable chairs facing it. Behind was a massive bookshelf, completely filled. The rearmost wall was also covered in shelves and books—and there, she saw the horseman, moving slowly and deliberately. His hand rose upward as he stepped on something, possibly a chair or small ladder, and reaching, moved a book on the secondmost shelf to the top, directly center.

  Then, the unmistakable sound of a book dropping to the floor with a soft thud.

 
; Delain strained to keep her balance as she stood on her toes. They ached from holding the uncomfortable position for so long; however, she could not afford to lose this angle nor take her eyes off the rider.

  He placed something on the shelf in the space where the book had been, then crouched and retrieved the fallen volume. He placed it back where it had been, then turned for the door.

  A sound came from behind her.

  “Whar’s that darned rake?” came a voice.

  Delain froze. The gardener, she thought. Not turning her gaze, her eyes remained fixed on the man inside the room. He moved to the shadows, yet he turned his face to the window at the last moment. Was he looking directly at her?

  The gardener came closer, mildly cursing as he looked about. From the corner of her eye, Delain could see him checking under bushes and on the nearby lawn. Her legs now seemed to be on fire from holding herself as still as stone. The worker was now coming closer and closer. It was only the fact that his focus was on the ground, where he believed he had placed the rake, that kept the girl out of his sight.

  Delain was still staring inward through the window, now unable to move. The rider, if he noticed any movement at all, would see her.

  Unknown to Delain, the horseman was looking directly at her. Maybe it was the darkness, maybe the fact that he too had heard the voice and was shaken, but the stained glass also distorted his view, and though he examined Delain’s face, only a few feet away, he never saw her. She looked to be part of the images that made up the stained glass window, simply one of the replicated angels.

  She realized this and was almost beside herself in fear as he inched closer and closer. Would he soon realize he was unable to see through this face?

  “Argh! Here ’tis!” said the gardener as he reached under a hedge and retrieved his tool. In a moment, he was gone.

  Legs burning, Delain remained unmoved. Not even a breath escaped her lips; not even an eyelash fluttered. The rider had now come even closer, but his height placed his gaze at least a foot above Delain’s face. She was staring at the buttons on his coat.