by Peter Greene
“The guns! Jenkins, the guns!”
“Aye?” said Jenkins, nodding. “The guns.”
“Fire three shots in succession. Alert Captain Harrison!”
“Aye, sir!” said Jenkins, managing a smile as he ran below to prepare the signal.
“Garvey, Southcott! Jones! Hoist the anchors!” Jonathan called. “Mister Fawcett!”
“Aye, sir?”
“Are you well?” asked Jonathan.
“A slight scrape on the arm, but nothing that will stop the likes of me. Maybe a glass of ale would help—a porter possibly, or—”
“Later, Fawcett! Position the ship at the mouth of the bay, bow to the east. I don’t want any more action so close in.”
“Aye, sir,” said Fawcett.
“Bowman! Get the men in the tops! I need topgallants set immediately, and prepare to set all sail at my command.”
“But, sir!” said Bowman, “what of Captain Harrison? Shouldn’t we wait for him?”
“Confound it, man!” exploded Jonathan. “If I wanted your opinion I’d give it to you! Now carry out my orders, you—”
A light string of colorful metaphors and descriptive adjectives describing and comparing Bowman to various beasts of burden escaped Jonathan’s mouth as the men ran to their duties.
Though busy, all within earshot turned to see this new little dragon trying out his flames for the first time. Some smiled.
“Sorry, sir!” was all that Bowman could manage as he scurried away to perform his duty.
“Golly!” said Welty. “I guess Mister Moore is ready for command. Not exactly the fire ’n brimstone we get from the likes of Cap’n Harrison, but a sparky lit’le flame all the same!”
“And I am still singed!” replied Bowman, smiling slightly.
Jonathan ran to Hicks, who still lay on the deck. Hands were attending to him, but he was shaking his head, trying to push them away.
“I’m all right!” he slurred. “Just a bit taken aback.”
Three guns exploded in succession off the starboard stern. It was Jenkins, sending the signal to Captain Harrison.
“Hicks, can you get a boat into the water?” Jonathan asked. “Station it just to the side of the stern, and await the shore parties.”
“Aye, Mister Moore. But, beggin’ yer pardon, why not hold the Paladin close in and wait for Cap’n Harrison?”
“I want the ship out of danger and ready to move if another attempt is made! We can do nothing if we sit here all tied up! Now, move!”
“Yes, sir!” said Hicks, as he was helped to his feet. Quickly, he gathered available crew and soon had the jolly boat in the water.
Jonathan ran to the rail and, with his sword, cut the lines that moored the ship to the pier. Immediately, the Paladin began to move. He ran amidships and saw the plank fall into the water. Jenkins was waiting for him at the rail.
“To the helm, Mister Moore? A captain’s place is there, so he can see all about him, see all the men at their duty.”
“I am well aware of that fact, Jenkins.”
“Then why do your feet move as if in tar?” Jenkins asked.
Jonathan knew the answer. It was unthinkable that at the age of only fourteen, after only two years of service, he was acting commander of a Royal Navy vessel, and the Paladin at that. He felt unready, uncomfortable, and mostly, unworthy.
“I am making it there, Jenkins, at my own speed,” he managed.
“Aye, Captain,” Jenkins said.
“That is not helping,” retorted Jonathan. “I don’t feel like a captain.”
“Nonetheless, ya are,” said Jenkins, “at least for a few more moments. Sir.”
“I know,” said Jonathan, now taking a deep, well-earned breath.
“I am sure you also know that one is to retrieve the plank before cutting the lines?” the man said, pointing to the floating plank as the ship pulled away.
Jonathan laughed. “Touché, Jenkins. I guess that was not an ‘A’ grade for my first duty as commander.”
“Hmm. I see,” said Jenkins, contemplating the events that had just transpired. “If someone was asking me to evaluate the performance, I’d say it was a high ‘B,’ Mister Moore. A very high ‘B.’ Your fighting, well, that was certainly an ‘A.’ Well done.”
Jonathan managed a thin smile. “Then let us man the guns with whatever crew we have available,” he added. “Just to be sure.”
“Aye, sir,” said Jenkins, smiling. “Just to be sure.”
16
Abduction
“My dear, an exquisite dinner. Bravo,” commented Lord Wilder as he placed his fork neatly down on the edge of his plate. He and Alina had enjoyed a fine meal of roasted pork crusted with pepper and sea salt and glazed with honey. Accompanied by a tart lemon and white wine dressing for his mixed green salad, the Wilders also finished two small loaves of crusty baked bread with rosemary and creamy butter. Served on their fine china and within the formal dining room, they seemed to be, finally, dining like royalty.
“I am pleased you enjoyed it, dear,” said Lady Wilder, “though it is not as if I had much to do with it. I hired a new cook today.”
“A new cook?” asked Lord Wilder. “I thought we had discussed this, my dear. Our finances are improving, however, we must be careful—”
“I know dear; however, she was a present, actually. My uncle wanted to do something nice for my birthday, and he has paid for her through the end of the year. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Yes,” commented Lord Wilder. He was somewhat taken aback, as he did not feel like accepting charity at this time.
The cook, a Mrs. Morgan, entered the room and took their plates away. “Mum,” she said, addressing Lady Wilder. “The dessert is ready. You asked to bring it in yourself.”
“Ah! Yes! Thank you, Mrs. Morgan.”
“Dessert?” said Lord Wilder to the empty chair his wife recently occupied.
This was unexpected. He couldn’t remember when last they had such luxuries. His current state of affairs had improved yet was not quite back to full health. Previously, he had feared that Alina was dissatisfied with him as a provider. After all, she was a lady, and he, a lord.
The estate where they now resided was part of his inheritance, passed to him, the only child. And the fortune that came with it was not paltry, if a fortune could ever be considered so; however, it was also not vast.
Years ago, as a bachelor, all was well, and his investments made modest profits. His accountant and bankers did quite well, maybe a little better for themselves than for their employer.
Things changed for both the better and the worse on his fortieth birthday: he met the vibrant and charming woman who became his wife. Alina was almost twelve years younger than he, though that didn’t appear to matter; they fell in love. This was as unexpected and almost as unexplainable to Lord James Wilder, for he believed she was too beautiful, too proper, and slightly more refined than he deserved.
The downside came financially. Almost immediately after his marriage, every business venture had more of a downside than ever before, and each circumstance ended with a loss of his investment. Now, he had amassed considerable debt, and there seemed to be no way to solvency, save selling the estate.
Enter Seeja Orvislat, the son of the Russian Ambassador. He offered to assist Lord Wilder financially if the nobleman would support the most important British and Russian cause: stopping Napoleon. More than excited to assist his king, Wilder agreed, and though he asked for no compensation, Orvislat insisted, and Wilder, after some minor resistance, capitulated. The first payment had just come; he saw the receipt from Baxter’s, announcing the deposit of one thousand pounds in his account.
Lady Wilder soon returned with two small dishes, each containing a cherry tart. She placed one in front of her husband, and took one to her seat for herself.
“Cherry tart!” she said. “Delicious, I am sure. Mrs. Morgan got them from the baker, but she added a few ingredients—secrets, she swears. T
hen she baked them again, with a drop of sherry for moisture.”
“Secrets?” said Lord Wilder, laughing slightly.
“Yes!” answered Lady Wilder. She took a bite, slowly savoring it. “Ah…wonderful.”
Lord Wilder watched this, and seeing the happiness on his wife’s face, smiled in return and decided that scolding her for accepting a gift from her uncle would only spoil the mood.
“Please tell your uncle I am most grateful for his generosity,” he said as he put his spoon into the tart.
Immediately he knew something was wrong. His plate didn’t clink as his wife’s did. It had a softer sound—a dull knock, almost. There was something on the bottom of the dish!
“What in the name of—” but he caught himself. It could only be a note from Orvislat. How did it get in here? he wondered. Ah! Mrs. Morgan! The new cook! She is a plant; I am sure of it! Secret ingredient indeed!
He carefully moved the tart to the side, ate a little bit here and there, and then realized he couldn’t simply reach in and pull out the note, right in front of his wife. He needed a diversion. Yes, a spy, as he fancied himself, must have an entire inventory of diversions and plots to handily manipulate others.
“My dear,” he said, addressing his wife. “Would you be so kind as to ask Mrs. Morgan for a little more cream for my tea? It would go so well with this amazing tart.”
“Of course, dear,” she said, and quickly moved to comply.
The moment she had left the dining room, Lord Wilder reached into the tart, extracted the paper, and unfolded it. He immediately made out the words “April Twentieth, Three a.m.”
“Tonight!” he muttered. Why so soon? he wondered. It had only been three days since the last meeting. Something must be wrong. Worried, he took the paper and ate it.
At eight in the evening, the Bracknell home was silent. The girls had gone to bed, Lady Bracknell had retired to her bedroom, and the lights were extinguished by the servants before they too returned to their quarters for the evening. Darkness was complete; not even a moon was out. A few stars twinkled through the cloud-veiled sky, and a slight breeze rolled quietly across the lawns.
Through this silent scene, a black-clad figure slowly walked, crouched, past the edge of the Bracknell home and made its way to the stables behind the main house. The hood of the cloak covered the figure’s face almost completely, and black gloves covered its hands. Nothing was discernible, just the dark silhouette of a being moving noiselessly between darker shadows of trees and bushes.
Eventually, the figure reached the stable, opened the door with barely a creak, and then closed it behind. Only the soft sound of hay being stepped upon signaled that the figure was moving into the center of the barn. The door to Lilliput, the young, all-black filly, was opened, and the figure, with some effort, placed a saddle upon the beast, put the bit in the horse’s mouth, and led her to the back door.
Immediately, the Airedales began to bark and whine, not in alarm, but in excitement, as if to say, “We will be going with you, yes?” Unfortunately, if they continued their mule-like baying, the plot would be foiled. The stable master would soon be investigating.
“Hush!” said Delain. “Daisy, shhhh! Daffodil, be quiet!”
The dogs paused for a moment, looked at each other, then returned to their miserable whining.
A muffled voice came from the stable master’s quarters, just off the barn: “You two mutts! Keep it down in there!”
The Airedales continued.
“All right! All right, you can come!” whispered Delain as she slapped her thigh, finally exasperated. “Come on now!”
Happily, the dogs stopped their idiotic rambling and, with a few licks and nibbles at Delain’s hands, they squeezed through the door as it opened and headed into the woods.
“Hopefully they disappear into the mud and gloom, chase some disgusting, furry thing, and leave me alone!” she said under her breath. Mounting the filly, she took a last look at the stable master’s house to make sure she hadn’t been seen, and satisfied, headed into Van Patten Wood and to the Wilders’ estate.
After dinner, Lord Wilder sat by the fireside in his den, pretending to read a book that sat upon his lap. He watched the small pendulum clock sitting on the mantle. Next to him, Lady Wilder dozed restlessly.
At two in the morning, Lord Wilder patted his wife’s hand and suggested she retire to their bedroom.
“What time is it?” she asked groggily.
“Almost two,” he replied softly.
“You are coming to bed then?” she asked.
“I have just reached the interesting part. I will be in shortly,” he said. “Good night, my dearest.”
Placing a dainty peck on his cheek, Lady Wilder left her husband and went straight to bed.
After a few more minutes, Lord Wilder rose and walked silently to the bedroom to make sure his wife was fast asleep. Seeing that she was indeed, he went to his library, lit a small candle, opened the small bottom drawer in his desk, and retrieved a long black cloak. He considered it his spy attire and used it whenever he had a meeting with his contact, Orvislat. Donning the cloak, he extinguished the candle, slipped out of the library via the back door, made his way across the hedges, past the bushes about the rear of the house, and up to the small crowd of trees in front, near the lane. There, he hid in the shadows as he always did and waited.
He was not alone this evening, though he was unaware of that fact. In a clump of bushes less than twenty feet away was another cloaked figure, slightly smaller, much younger but certainly an expert at hiding her presence from many people, even a few hundred sailors that were within close quarters. Delain Dowdeswell was a master at lurking and remaining undiscovered. Here, she watched him, having tied her horse to a tree, oat bag in place, thirty or more yards away and deep in the woods. Even a snort from the beast would probably be of no concern. Not only the Wilders but also the neighbors all kept horses, and the way sound carried, a few animal utterances were not out of the ordinary.
Delain knew it was now April the twentieth, the date written on the small note she had found in Lord Wilder’s library. It would soon be three a.m., the time also mentioned in the note. She had arrived early, and after waiting an hour, saw candles being extinguished throughout in the house. Soon, there was a dim light from a candle flickering in the library. The appearance of the person she assumed to be Lord Wilder afforded her the satisfaction that she had planned this event perfectly—and that something sinister was afoot.
A sound was heard from the street, and within a minute or two, a black carriage could be seen approaching. It was only because Delain had been in the dark for some time that her pupils had opened impossibly large, enough to gather in the slimmest amount of light and recognize the shape of the carriage.
Wilder emerged from his hiding place and walked to the cart. The door opened, and he entered quickly. Immediately, the car moved ahead.
“That does it!” said Delain under her breath. “I knew he was up to no good.”
She turned back to the deep woods and retrieved her horse.
I can’t just trot down the street at this ungodly hour, she thought. I will use the horse paths as best I can!
Mounting the filly, she took to the soft lawns and dirt paths that ran alongside the road near Van Patten. The damp ground hid the sounds of the horse’s hooves almost completely. Up ahead, she could see the carriage moving between the bushes and trees that lined the way. In this manner, Delain followed Wilder for miles, heading toward the city.
Inside the carriage, the conversation became heated, and though both parties were whispering, the argument was in full swing. It sounded to the driver as if there were two snakes hissing and snapping at each other. Funny, he thought, why not just speak in a normal voice? The passengers were so loud, whispering had no effect on dampening the sound.
“Yet another request for another treaty? And so soon? I wonder if this is serious business or just some useless political wrangling that
will have no effect on the relationships between England and Russia!” said Wilder.
“I understand your concern,” said Orvislat. “However, these treaties are living documents, each side changing and rearranging wording and conditions. It is not uncommon to have several iterations!”
“That I understand, my friend; however, these last-minute changes in ship assignments and missions are going to attract attention, and eventually, someone will begin to question these actions. The Echo and the Paladin are packets, and changing their orders is quite common, but this last request will raise eyebrows, I assure you. There must be another way. Can’t we send the treaty by land?”
Orvislat shook his head. “No, a land route is too treacherous. Spies are everywhere, and if the treaty were to fall into the wrong hands—”
“There are spies at sea as well!” shouted Wilder in a hoarse whisper that was now, basically, a normal voice. “And there is also a chance of capture!”
“Yes,” said Orvislat. “However, my friend, I have studied the facts and figures. A land route is over five times more dangerous! We have tried it on several occasions with minor missions, and almost half ended in failure. A sea route with a new ship is the safest and surest method. You must trust me.”
Wilder looked out the window in disgust. The night rolled by, dark, foggy, and cold, much like the business at hand. What Orvislat said made sense, though it did not change the fact that they had gone to this well too many times before. Spears, the actual officer who wrote up the orders, already seemed suspicious. He even questioned the secretive manner in which the treaty was discussed and complained that not telling the officers aboard the Echo and Paladin was unusual and considered an insult. Spears was a malcontent, it was sure; however, he was a proper navy man and cared a great deal about his fellow officer. Asking him to transport this new treaty would be difficult.
“I am telling you,” continued Wilder, “Spears is already suspicious of all this. He informed me just today that the Echo is late to report. Soon, people will want to review the orders.”