Paladin's War

by Peter Greene

  Orvislat took a mental note. If Spears became a problem, he would have Lupien take care of him permanently. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d had to murder for a greater cause. Who would really miss him or even investigate his disappearance?

  “Let me know if Spears becomes an issue,” said Orvislat.

  Something about the tone in the spy’s voice chilled Wilder to the bone. He made a mental note to never mention Spears again.

  “I am sorry this is hard for you,” continued Orvislat in a much softer tone. He was no longer snapping or whispering hoarsely and was suddenly calm and kind once again. “Your country and king appreciate your efforts and your candor.”

  Wilder sat silently. He made no response.

  “One other particular,” added Orvislat. “The ship to be used for this mission may encounter some hostile forces. Activity in the Adriatic Sea has increased. The Turks and other factions of Napoleon have been active. A packet of eighteen guns will not be enough. We need a twenty-four or a thirty-six for this mission.”

  “Dear God,” said Wilder. “Packets have a more fluid schedule. They deliver mail, orders, and critical supplies. It is not uncommon to see them on their own, cruising back and forth between stations. But larger ships are another story! They have missions and are usually part of larger operations—”

  “There are those that cruise alone, for prizes—”

  “Yes,” said Wilder, “some. However, those captains have a certain way about them. Rebellious they are, and risk takers. Not the type you would like for this mission. Delivering a diplomatic pouch would be beneath them. I wouldn’t be surprised if they accepted it and then immediately tossed it overboard! They are used to having their own way!”

  “Then let us get a new captain, one who is grateful for his recent success and would relish such an honorable role in history. I do believe this will be the last delivery for a while.”

  “Impossible,” said Wilder. “We cannot send more than a packet. It is too risky.”

  “I said a thirty-six!” snapped Orvislat.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Wilder, now angry once again. “I am handling the ship assignments—not you, friend—and I believe I know what is best—”

  “Begging your pardon, Lord Wilder, I am in charge of this mission,” said Orvislat sternly. “And if I discover that you have violated my instructions or told anyone about our plans, your services will no longer be needed—and the payments, and many other things, will end.”

  Wilder took the meaning to be a threat. The look in Orvislat’s eyes conveyed his sinister meaning: if you do not do as I say, I will kill you.

  Orvislat could see that he had truly upset the nobleman, and now, after making his point, he needed to reassure Wilder that all was well. He wanted to ease his mind, not for any concern or affection he held for his lordship, but for the sake of the mission. He didn’t need Wilder running scared, blabbering to people in the Admiralty about the treaty that obviously didn’t exist. That would surely destroy any chances of providing Kharitonov his needed ships for his special purposes. After the pulling of a few strings, he would find himself before the commodore and be made to answer directly to him—and then to his supporters.

  Officially, due to the Treaty of Amiens, there was no war between Russia and the Turks of the Ottoman Empire; however, they had been fighting for control of the Black Sea for a thousand years. Peace could tip the balance of power in the struggle, so what was in the best interests of Russia? To continue to press their advantage against the crumbling Turkish forces.

  Orvislat and the boss knew that Kharitonov was acting outside of the official blessing of the tsar. He held an unofficial letter of marque, granted by certain members of the Russian Parliament and backed financially by several patriotic noblemen. The goal was to continue a secret war against the Ottoman Empire, harassing shipping, taking smaller naval vessels, and sinking them if needed. As Kharitonov’s activities were officially unofficial, he needed to gain his fleet quickly and quietly. His acquaintance, Orvislat, was posing as the son of the Russian ambassador to England, and England had the world’s largest fleet, with over one thousand ships to choose from. It was obvious and simple to set up a small network in London that would choose, position, and then obtain vessels that fit their purposes from their ally, the British Empire. Hence, Orvislat needed Wilder in his position in the British Admiralty, calm and superficially in control, yet unaware.

  “I am sorry, my friend,” said Orvislat. “That was unnecessary and boorish. Please forgive me. But understand, these orders come from those high in our governments, and to change even a simple thing like the number of guns requested on the delivery vessel could fall back on us—hurt us—if the mission fails. Do you see my predicament?”

  Wilder thought that it certainly would not help to question or go against the orders of his king and his advisors. God only knew what Russian officials were capable of doing to their own subjects.

  “I saw a ship in the harbor by chance,” said Orvislat hopefully. “The Draker, I believe?”

  “The Drake,” corrected Wilder. “Yes, she’s a small frigate, though she mounts thirty-six guns. A newly promoted captain, Blake, of only a dozen months with a decent crew.”

  “That would do?” asked Orvislat in a conciliatory tone.

  “Yes,” said Wilder. “I will see to it.”

  Delain watched as the carriage came to a halt just to the edge of a row of small warehouses. She dismounted her horse and tied it to a nearby tree once again. Creeping slowly toward the lane, she watched for any movement. It was cold now, and she suddenly realized that as exciting as this evening was, it would not get her any additional information besides the fact that Lord Wilder, the recipient of the secret note, had only gotten into a carriage. She needed to hear or see something more.

  A shadow of a nearby wall stretched all the way to the carriage. Possibly, she could sneak closer if she was careful, remain unseen by the driver, and maybe pick out a word or two—or see the face of the other occupant.

  “Then I will take my leave of you, Lord Wilder,” said Orvislat from inside the carriage. “I am indebted to you, as is all of England and Russia. My driver will see you back to your estate. I will convey your most excellent plan to my superiors.”

  With that, Orvislat exited the car and addressed the driver.

  “Take him back quickly. The hour is late.”

  The driver whipped the horses, and they ran off at an alarming pace.

  The spy hastily entered into the shadows of a nearby alley, behind the warehouses. In his haste, he was not as diligent in checking his surroundings as he was usually. Maybe it was because he had nothing of importance on his person, no official papers or incriminating evidence. He was rushing to an important rendezvous at the Log and Loaf Pub with Lupien. The establishment was surely closed, but all the better. It was a location with which both men were thoroughly familiar, and the lack of patrons at this hour would make them both comfortable in the fact that they were safe and their goings-on private. No matter what the reason, Orvislat missed the small, silent black figure in quick pursuit.

  Orvislat paused at the entrance to yet another back alley that led directly to the rear door of the Log and Loaf, and just before proceeding, out of habit, he turned to check behind.

  Delain dove across the entrance to the alley, landing on one knee behind a pile of refuse, banging her bone. Unable to cry out in pain, she lay still, hoping she had not been seen. She waited a moment, but then, to her horror, she heard the steps of someone coming back to the street from the alley.

  Her mind raced. It had all been a game up to this point, but what would happen now if this man—surely the Black Rider—captured her? Dear Jonathan Moore, she found herself thinking, how I do wish you and Sean were here now with me. Then I wouldn’t be such a scaredy-cat!

  A cat? That gave her an idea.

  Orvislat came closer, his hand in the pocket of his coat where he kept a small pistol. He removed
it, looking warily at the entrance to the alley.

  The sound had come from the left, less than ten feet away. He didn’t want to reappear in the street. That would look suspicious; however, if he was being followed, he would shoot his way out if he had to and then disappear for a while. Lupien would surely meet him in their contingency location, checking for him every three days.

  He raised the gun and aimed at the pile of garbage to the left of the entrance.

  “Mee-ow? Rarraaar! Sssss!”

  Orvislat lowered his weapon. A cat, he thought, and turned back to the pub.

  In the pile, Delain had all she could handle simply suppressing a laugh. The great relief she felt when she heard the door to the building open and then close once again gave her a renewed energy. I must probably call it a night, she thought. As uneventful as all this was, I at least know that Lord Wilder is indeed involved with this character, and they are planning something. The black horseman frequents this place, and I will have to find a way to ask a few questions of the patrons. I will need the help of someone used to appearing in these lowbrow establishments, someone who knows his way around the bowels of London. She thought for a moment, then began to rise from the ground. Yes, she realized, Steward is just such a man.

  As she wiped herself off, she couldn’t wait to get home and bathe. It was cold and wet, and now she was full of filth. As she thought of a better way to end her evening, like the spy she followed, she wasn’t as diligent as she should have been in considering her situational awareness.

  Adjusting her hood, she tightened her cloak and took a few steps back toward her horse. In a flash, a figure darted out from a nearby doorway, rushed behind her, and stuffed a handful of cloth in her mouth. She then felt a sack of some sort being pulled over her head. Then the strong hands of a brute lifted her off her feet and slung her over his shoulder.

  “Got the little sneak!” said a voice.

  “Back to the boss, then!” said another.

  17

  Cursed Captains

  It was much to Midshipman Jonathan Moore’s relief that within a half an hour’s time, the former captain of the Paladin, Commander Thomas Harrison, assumed control and responsibility of his ship. Harrison had heard the signal guns while in town, and with his shore party, he immediately rushed to the pier in the harbor at Telašćica. Somewhat shocked at the sight of Paladin moving out to sea, he was comforted once told by the jolly boat crew that Mister Moore was in command and had believed moving the ship from shore was a necessary precaution.

  Appearing on deck, Harrison took in the scene. There were wounded men lying about, and blood seemed to be everywhere. His first thought was of Jonathan, though he could not locate him. As his fear rose, he saw Jenkins attending to a young crewman who was bare-chested and covered in blood. It was Jonathan.

  “Jonathan! What happened? You are bleeding!” said Harrison with a mixture of worry and anger as he saw his friend’s blood-soaked appearance. Sean ran to his friend and began inspecting him closely.

  “Dear Lord!” exclaimed the young marine.

  “It is not all my blood,” Jonathan said as Jenkins applied a wet cloth to the boy’s face, wiping away blood and dirt.

  “Where are your clothes?” asked Sean.

  “We sent them overboard,” replied Jenkins. “The jacket was torn, all was blood-soaked.”

  “Where is Alexander?” the commander asked.

  “Dead, sir,” said Jenkins.

  Shocked, Harrison looked about, then rested eyes on Jonathan.

  “Garvey!” called the commander, “retrieve a spare white blouse from my locker, and see if Alexander has an extra coat!

  “Aye, sir!” said Garvey as he ran to the stern. He returned in a few moments with a spare shirt, a borrowed pair of breeches from his own supply, and a lieutenant’s jacket from Alexander’s locker. It was a bit large for Jonathan, though the fit was tolerable.

  “Jonathan, can you explain what happened?” asked Harrison, now calming.

  “We were boarded,” Jonathan said, still obviously shaken. “Men in masks, faces coaled black. A fight ensued.”

  “How many men have we lost?” asked Harrison.

  “Fourteen dead, and Alexander,” answered Jonathan.

  “Any survivors from the attacking force?” continued Harrison.

  “None, sir,” answered Jonathan. “One man was muttering something before he died. Fawcett heard him and thought it was a strange tongue, definitely not French or English—maybe Dutch.”

  “Are we at war with the Dutch?” asked Sean.

  “Not at this moment,” answered Harrison. “But who is to know? The Dutch seem to have their own agenda—and always have.”

  “But why not try to take us at sea? With their navy and large ships, we would have been outgunned surely,” suggested Hudson.

  “If they could catch us,” said Harrison. “Even with a damaged foremast, is there any Dutch ship that can match the Paladin?”

  All agreed there was no such ship, and that the Dutch certainly would have no need to steal a British sloop.

  “How many men were there?” asked Harrison.

  “Hard to tell,” said Jenkins. “We figured about forty to fifty. Pistols and swords mostly.”

  “I can tell you that one spoke almost perfect English,” said Jonathan. “He asked me to surrender the ship.”

  “What did ya say to him?” asked Sean.

  “I told him to get off my ship, and I kicked him in the chest.”

  “That would do it,” said Sean, laughing slightly.

  “A job well done, Jonathan. You saved the ship. I am most grateful,” said Harrison with a smile.

  “I lost Mister Alexander, however,” said Jonathan softly.

  “He’s gone, Jonny, that’s true,” said Sean. “But it wasn’t you who lost him.”

  “That’s right,” added Harrison. “Alexander was in command. He lost his life defending his brothers and this ship. Any of us would have done the same.”

  Quinn stirred uncomfortably.

  They stood quietly for a moment. Berkeley appeared with a hot pot of coffee, and Boston provided cups.

  “Then who would attempt a cutting out like this? From land?” asked Jonathan.

  “It could be the Austrians,” suggested Harrison as he continued the conversation. “The war may be on again, and we are a fair target.”

  “Maybe it was privateers or slavers,” offered Quinn. “A fast ship such as this would be most welcome. Maybe they were stranded here for some reason and thought we would be an easy mark.”

  “They were prepared and had a plan,” said Jonathan. “They were very organized, waiting until many of the crew and officers were off the ship. It was no opportunistic lark. It must be the treaty. Someone wants it badly.”

  “Or doesn’t want us to deliver it!” exclaimed Harrison. “By the powers of heaven, I am sick of this whole business!”

  “Pardon,” said Bowman as he approached the officers, tipping the hat he wasn’t wearing in salute. “Marshall spotted a man ashore waving a white hankie. He is certainly trying to get our attention.”

  Harrison took up his telescope and observed the pier for a moment. Yes, there was a man, dressed in finery—a neat coat and brushed hat, a pair of high boots, and a white wig. He was waving his handkerchief and calling out to them.

  “Prepare the boat, Jenkins,” Harrison said lowering his glass. “I will go to the pier and see what this man wants. He might be our contact. Hudson, I will need three tough marines, all with guns loaded and not afraid to shoot.”

  “Then I will accompany you,” answered Hudson. “Hicks! Flagon! Get your weapons.”

  “Me?” asked Sean.

  “No, your twin who’s about to get a lickin’!” shouted Hudson sarcastically. “On the double!”

  Sean immediately stood, gave Jonathan a quick, worried glance, and ran.

  “I’ll take a full complement of men to row as well,” added Hudson, “and arm them with
pistols.”

  “Good,” replied Harrison. “Jonathan, set the stern deck guns at that pier; at the slightest hint of trouble, blast it to smithereens. Quinn, keep an eye out to sea, and I mean it! Leave the men in the tops to look as well.”

  “Aye, sir,” came the replies as the orders were carried out.

  “A word, with you Jonathan,” whispered Harrison.

  Once they were away from the others, Harrison spoke softly and firmly to his midshipman, looking him directly in the eye.

  “Jonathan, I am ever so grateful. I am indebted to you. Losing the Paladin, well—” he paused, looking as if a tear were welling up in his eye.

  “Harrison, it was a poor—”

  “No. It was not poor anything,” interrupted Harrison. “It was leadership. It was putting to action what you have learned. And I need that Jonathan Moore aboard, at all times. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jonathan.

  “I know something seems to be, well, off in your self-confidence, and I am not sure what that may be. However, as off as you are, I trust you. And I do not trust Quinn. At best he is a fool, but he seems to know quite a bit about this Andrews character commanding the Echo. How is it that Quinn is so informed, yet none of us, with the connections we have in Whitehall, have ever heard of Andrews? I can’t help but think Quinn is tied up in this mess. At least he knows something and is not sharing it. And, did you see him when I mentioned that any of us would die to protect the ship and crew?” continued Harrison. “He seemed uncomfortable with the notion.”

  “What can we do?” asked Jonathan.

  “Be ready,” said Harrison. “There is a pistol in the locker that Streen built. Here is a key. The treaty is contained therein as well.”

  He handed Jonathan the long, dark key and again looked him in the eye.

  “Jonathan. Move any personal effects into the locker that you may need at a moment’s notice. It is in a handy position while commanding from the stern.”