by Peter Greene
As he moved forward, he could see bodies on the floor—Smith, Jones, and Southcott among them. Once amidships, he looked over a stack of barrels to see a small group of crewmen, anger on their faces. Finally, he saw Quinn just ahead with Crump and Crystal, all with their backs to him, each with pistols pointed at the crew, keeping the Paladins at bay.
“I said not a move or a sound!” snapped Quinn.
“Quinn! You dirty traitor!” said Colin Stredney.
“You will be next if I hear another word!” said Quinn, motioning to the pile of the dead. “And my name is not Quinn! I am Sublieutenant Tretiak, of the Russian Black Sea Fleet!”
Russian! thought Jonathan. What was this? The war must have started once again, and Russia has joined Napoleon against us!
“All of you, stay in line until I say to move, or we will cut you down, right here and right now!” ordered Quinn. He realized that he and his Russian compatriots were still in danger—the Paladin had not yet been taken, and until that happened, he would be on edge. It was his idea to try to turn the tide of the battle in favor of Kharitonov. Knowing that the letter from that fool, Gogomán, was sending them to Zadar, he reasoned that it had to be sent from Aggar and that another attempt would be made to take the English ship once they arrived. His plan to render the guns inept worked almost perfectly. He and Crump and Crystal had made sure of that by jamming shanks of metal and wood into the touchholes of every gun. Moore’s last-minute call to sound the three-gun warning almost foiled his plot; however, he thought quickly and volunteered to fire those weapons himself. A quick removal of the obstruction, a firing, and a replacement was all that was necessary.
Jonathan gripped his sword. It had served him well and would take care of one man, if he could sneak up from behind. He needed a special plan to take out the other two. He reached underneath his shirt for Harrison’s pistol, then stood ever so slowly, making sure that only the Paladins could see him.
Colin glanced for a moment, seeing Jonathan as he lifted a sword and a pistol. The midshipman then motioned with his head toward Crump, as if to say, “You take that one.” Colin nodded ever so slightly.
Jonathan had never killed a man like this, with no warning. A thought for later, but for now, his men, his ship, and he himself were in danger. He leveled the pistol at Quinn’s head, using his left hand. He was less than four feet away.
He fired.
Quinn’s body slumped forward and fell to the deck.
As Crystal turned to see where the blast had come from, Jonathan was already there. His blade was thrust into the man’s chest.
Colin and several others rushed Crump, who was immediately overtaken.
“Kill him,” ordered Jonathan. And it was done. To his horror, he witnessed death up close, and though not the first time he had seen such actions, this occasion was due to his direct order. These deaths were on his hands, and it shook him deeply. But there was no time to reflect now.
“Men! Quickly!” Jonathan said as he removed his coat and motioned for them to come.
“Listen fast, and no questions. I am in danger. Do not call me Jonathan, Moore, or Midshipman. Do you understand?”
They all nodded in reply.
“Good,” said Jonathan. “Their captain—Andrews, or whatever his name is—will recognize me.”
“Oh!” said Graham, “And you cut his face! He will be angry!”
“He will kill me because of it. We need to show them I am dead. We must dress up someone, someone who was killed, as a midshipman, and call him Jonathan Moore.”
“So they will think he is you? And that you are dead?” asked Nicolas. “Then they will leave you alone?”
“Exactly!” said Jonathan. “Here! Let us use this coat I have—”
“The dead man’s coat from Alexander?” asked Colin.
“Yes, yes,” said Jonathan, “and put it on—Southcott there.”
“On his dead body?” asked Colin.
“Yes, we are about the same size and age,” said Jonathan as he removed the coat.
“It’s bad luck!” said Colin.
“It’s true!” said Nicolas. “It’s bad luck to wear a dead man’s clothes!”
“What are you saying?” asked Jonathan, now frustrated with the idiocy and the delay in execution of his orders.
“They are dead! Both Southcott and Alexander!” said Graham.
“Then it’s probably double bad luck!” said Nicolas, almost crying. “Please, sir! Don’t make us—”
“By all the saints!” hissed Jonathan, unable to yell at full power to express his wrath. “They are dead! They can’t get any unluckier!”
The surrounding crew considered this.
“Oh,” said Colin, understanding.
“Then it’s proper…I guess,” said Nicolas.
At last, the boys went to work, completing the grisly business of dressing Southcott in the lieutenant’s jacket.
“And though Southcott is…dead, he is now Midshipman Moore. He did everything I have done in this life. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” they called softly.
“No! Just say ‘aye’!” Jonathan corrected. “Please! This you must understand!”
“It’s a lieutenant’s uniform!” said Colin. “You said he was a midshipman!”
Jonathan reached over and roughly ripped the bars off the shoulders of Alexander’s uniform.
“He is now demoted,” said Jonathan.
“What was that? A gunshot?” cried Aggar as he ran aboard the Paladin. He was followed by several of his crewmen, all carrying guns.
“They must still be fighting down below!” said Kharitonov. “Lieutenant Skryrabin! Get down there and bring them all to me! And find Tretiak! We must be moving!”
Skryrabin ran to the ladder. Then cautiously, with sword leading the way, began his decent. Behind him came a dozen armed men from Kharitonov’s crew.
Others from the Navarkhia assisted in rounding up the remaining English on deck and arranging them in a line along the portside rail. Aggar’s men began climbing the lines, ordering the Englishmen to add sail.
Below, as expected, Jonathan and the others watched as the Russians were now descending the ladders to the lower decks.
“Eh? What are ya doing there?” asked Skryrabin as he appeared with his men.
Jonathan and the other Paladins stood quickly and dropped their weapons at the sight of the superior force. No one said a word. Starikov approached and roughly pushed the Englishmen back toward the ladder.
“What’s this? Tretiak is dead?” asked Skryrabin. “How did this happen?”
Jonathan realized that this man was referring to Quinn.
“T-they f-fought,” said Jonathan, affecting a stutter to disguise his voice. “Our m-midshipman here,” he said, motioning to Southcott, “was also k-killed, as were our c-c-crewmates.”
Skryrabin looked about. This made sense to him. Obviously, a few pistol shots, a few scuffles with swords, and the scene played out.
“All of you,” he directed, “up to the main deck—hands on your heads!”
He led Jonathan and the others up the ladder, and in a single line, moved them to the starboard rail next to Jenkins and the others. Starikov then left them under the watchful eye of his men, all with pistols and muskets ready to fire.
Jonathan saw Jenkins, and nodded slightly, as if to say, “All has been done.” Jenkins, relieved, gave a quick smile.
The sudden burst of anger from Kharitonov shocked everyone on the ship, even the Russians.
“Tretiak is dead?” he boomed. Obviously, his lieutenant had informed him of his discovery. There was a flurry of words exchanged in Russian. Finally, Kharitonov turned to Aggar.
“Tretiak anticipated our attack and spiked the guns! A bright one he was! Nikomed Aggar, you will command the Paladin and fix those weapons. Have Cherepanyanko take the Echo. Proceed as planned and sail north, away from prying eyes. Cherepanyanko will join me at first to complete the ruse, then meet
you before Istanbul.”
“Yes, sir!” said Aggar.
Kharitonov departed. Aggar barked a series of orders to his men, who in turn, commanded the English to perform strange duties. They were made to grab almost anything that was not nailed down: barrels, rope, loose lumber, and even the plaque they had pried off the stern of the ship. Jonathan watched with sorrow as the proud name “Paladin” was now a simple plank of wood, floating in the sea toward the shore.
Most disturbing was the ordering of a group of Paladins to take hand axes, under guard of the guns of their enemies, and begin chopping something off the bow. After a full fifteen minutes, Jonathan and Jenkins heard a large splash. Looking over the side, they saw to their horror a large construction of wood, recognizable as their figurehead, floating in the sea. And as their sister ship prepared all sail and began to pull away, they heard another splash. The lovely girl, Echo, had joined the horse and rider.
Within moments, the Navarkhia added sail, and moved southward, crossing the entrance to the bay of Zadar. The Echo followed close behind.
Aboard the Paladin, other Russians returned from their searches belowdecks. Mission orders, books, and even bodies of the dead were either tossed overboard or placed in the jolly boat. They saw the bodies of Smith, Jones, and Southcott being tossed overboard. Harrison’s spare uniform went into the jolly, along with his sextant and Alexander’s personal chest, and were rowed away toward shore.
Aggar also posted his Russian crewmembers at intervals about the ship, guns pointed, to police the Englishmen. The ones who were not busy assisting the Russians were lined up against the rail. For what seemed like an hour, they waited. The jolly boat that had gone ashore had now returned, and the men came aboard. The boat was secured by a team of Englishmen, who then joined the others in a line.
To Jonathan, the water and shoreline to the north looked as if two ships were destroyed. The lumber of the barge that exploded was now intermixed with the remains of Harrison’s command.
“They are Russian,” whispered Jonathan to Jenkins. “I heard Quinn, or Tretiak, as he is really named, admit it below.”
“And what are they doing tossing our effects overboard?” asked Jenkins.
“They are now trying to make it appear as if the Paladin was destroyed.”
“Aye,” he whispered back. “Even bodies and such. Why?”
“They want to make sure Harrison and the British Navy do not come looking for her,” Jonathan said softly.
Aggar now turned his attention to the line of men. He took a deep breath and addressed them.
“I am Captain Nikomed Aggar of the Russian Black Sea Fleet! Your vessel has been commandeered to assist us in our war against the Turkish Empire. Serve us well, and you will live. Disobey orders, and you will die!”
He produced a pistol and walked the line of Englishmen, looking each one in the eye. As he reached Jonathan, Aggar paused. He examined the boy from all angles, then leveled the pistol directly at his head.
“You look familiar to me, young Englishman,” Aggar said.
“Y-yes, sir,” was all Jonathan said as the gun was pressed hard against his temple.
“Have I seen you before?” continued Aggar.
“I-I don’t think so. I-I am Southcott. I tend to the powder, I do.”
“Oh?” said Aggar. “You are a powder monkey, is that what you call yourself?”
“A-aye, s-s-sir.”
“You look like a midshipman I saw on this ship,” said Aggar, looking intently at the young man.
“Oh!” said Colin Stredney who was standing next in line. “That makes perfect sense, it does! We used to call him Moore’s twin, we did—right, Garvey?”
“Wha? Oh, oh, yes, we did! Looks just like that Midshipman Moore. Fair of face and dark hair. If it weren’t for the uniform, we…well, poor Moore. Dead as a door knocker. The best midshipman in the service, we used to say. And a swordsman! Could best even the captain!”
“Really?” said Aggar. “I will see about that. Where is this Moore?”
“T-they j-just t-tossed him over-b-b-board,” said Jonathan.
Aggar lowered the pistol, then ran to the rail to see the body floating away. It did indeed resemble the midshipman he had seen in Telašćica.
“Well, I can say this about your midshipman: he excelled with a blade,” said Aggar.
“Thank you,” Jonathan muttered under his breath.
Aggar now turned from the rail and addressed all on deck.
“Listen, my fine English sailors! Your Mister Jenkins is now in charge of you. Do what he says, because he does what I command! Jenkins! Have the topsmen man the sails. And send that powder monkey to his post. I need a complete accounting of all stores. I assume, Southcott, that you can count?”
“Only up to a hunnert,” lied Jonathan.
Aggar laughed heartily. “Ha! That will do!”
With that, more men went up into the sails as Aggar’s men continued to toss a few additional effects and supplies overboard. Jonathan went down below to the powder room to count barrels of gun powder and supplies, and to contemplate the possibilities of his next move.
The Paladin, now nameless, continued to add sail and travel north, in the opposite direction of the Navarkhia and Echo. Once she reached the end of the islands to her port side, she would turn west, then south along Dugi Otok. Shielded from the Englishmen now stranded in Zadar, she would set course for the Black Sea.
* * * * *
Later that same day, a small band of sailors reached a rocky beach surrounded by scruffy pines and white-trunked olive trees on the northern point of Dugi Otok. The men were tired and hungry. To supplement their diet of dried fish, they had been forced to steal some bread from a house in the village of Savar and to take a goat they found wandering near the farms of Dragone. It made for a decent meal, but that had been days ago. All that was available at this moment was dried, unsalted fish.
The leader of the group did not rest nor eat. As the others sat upon the ground, chewing, he looked northward to the open sea.
“Anything, Lieutenant Gray?” asked Hayes.
“Not as of yet,” Gray replied. “However, this beach must be passed by many ships heading into Zadar, at least those from San Marino and Venice. I wish it had a cliff or a hill to afford a better view. However, we must make do.”
It was now April the twentieth, over six weeks since they had lost the Echo to Aggar. Escaping the bay that held them captive for three weeks, they had made their way over rough terrain toward the village of Telašćica. The going was slow. To remain unseen they mostly traveled at night, and with no map, there were many fruitless paths taken. This limited their progress to slightly over two miles a day.
After reaching Telašćica, they had waited, hidden on the hillsides, watching. Though it was horribly cold at night, Lieutenant Gray had instructed them to refrain from building any fires and to remain out of sight in the daytime. Unsure of the status of the war, if there was one, it was impossible to ask for help. Who knew if the local Dalmatians had sided with friends or foes? There was no way to ascertain allegiances. They were only to venture into the small village at night, search for food, and locate a suitable craft to make their journey to British-controlled Malta, over seven hundred miles through the Adriatic and Ionian Seas. If found, the craft would have to be stolen, and though they regretted this course of action, it was unavoidable: they had nothing to trade with nor any money.
They had waited in the hills of Telašćica for three days. In that time, nothing but small boats were seen. By April the eighth, Gray had decided to move north to the more populated areas of the island, specifically Morska. From the beach there, he hoped to see ships on their way east to the large city of Zadar on the Dalmatian coast. If a friendly ship was seen, a signal fire could attract attention, and that might possibly lead to rescue. Also, the towns on the northern edge of the island were larger, and the possibility of finding a suitable craft were certainly greater than at the sleepy s
ettlement of Telašćica.
Along the twenty-five mile journey, the party used the cover of night to search the small villages on Dugi Otok as they passed northward. They had seen a few small fishing boats in seaside towns, mostly one- or two-man affairs, though nothing that could hold all seven of them—let alone survive the long trip to Malta. In the end, it took another twelve days for Gray and his men to reach the remote and desolate northern beach of Morska.
After a short rest, Sherland and Neil ventured into the shallow, rocky water near the beach to look for fresh fish or crabs. Little Ike Williams sat upon Sherland’s shoulders, pointing to the water where he could see fish moving in the clear, turquoise shallows. Neil had fashioned a net of sorts from pieces of string and mesh they had “borrowed” from the villages they visited, and he would toss it in the general direction of lunch. During one such attempt, he caught a good-sized whitefish and immediately ran to the beach to alert the others that fresh meat was back on the menu.
As Sherland turned to wade back to shore, Ike believed he saw something in the offing: a sail.
“Lieutenant Gray! Sails!”
Gray ran from the cover of the nearby trees and stood in the gentle surf. He could see Ike pointing to the east. Yes, there were sails.
Hill, Wilson, and Hayes ran from the shade of the brush and rushed into the water, shouting and waving their arms.
“What are you doing?” boomed Gray. “All of you! Take cover!”
“But, sir!” said Wilson. “It could be our savior!”
“And it could also be an enemy! Now get to the shadows!”
The men quickly made their way to the trees and peered eastward. As the ship came closer, Ike, with his keen eyesight, described what he saw.
“Two masts with a spanker…raked sails…still too far to make her colors, sir.”
“Two masts and raked sails?” asked Gray.
“It could be the Echo!” said Hayes.