Paladin's War

by Peter Greene

  “No. No I won’t. I will dig two graves in these woods, only for your two spy friends. My husband? I will simply say he left on a business trip. And do you know what? He never returned! Why? A scandal! Yes, that is it! He was a traitor to the Crown! Stealing all those ships! And selling them for profit to the highest bidder! Russians! Tsk, tsk!”

  Lady Wilder now glanced from the fallen girl, who was obviously going nowhere, and began looking about the area.

  “And for you, little Miss Nosey,” said Wilder, “I will let them find your remains right here in this clearing, a victim of a terrible fall that crushed your dainty little head!”

  “I’m not dead,” said Delain deliriously.

  “Not yet,” said Lady Wilder as she began to search the ground, looking for something in particular. “Would you wish to be buried in London or back in the jungle where you came from in the Bahamas? I am sure your parents will be so upset! But, knowing your recklessness…”

  “Gorman…has seen the letter,” said Delain, trying to gain some advantage. “He knows everything, and he will come…for you. The courts will hang you…”

  “Using your letter as evidence? But it is a copy of a letter, Miss Dowdeswell—obviously written in your hand! A made-up story from a spoiled little adventurer who is bored with London after all her previous excitements. And is dead, so no testimony could be given, as weak as that would be.”

  “I know even more!” said Delain, now almost fully conscious, but still barely able to move. “I was onto you at the yacht race, in your…ragged clothes and rented dog cart. And your sloppy ruse! Pretending…to not know a thing about ships, but…at your tea, you slipped up enough to have me notice. You knew particulars of the Danielle. Odd for someone who knows nothing of ships.”

  “How clever you are!” said Lady Wilder. She picked up a stone about the size of her hand, considered it, then dropped it to the ground and continued her searching. “And I am clever as well. I knew someone was in my library and had carefully put the money and notes back in their proper place, but not exactly. The money, my dear, was to be on the bottom, not the top of the bag. Then I found the pillows and wondered, Who sleeps like that? Who puts the pillows in such a strange fashion? It pointed to you. Because…you are strange.”

  Delain needed to buy time. Lady Wilder was no prissy; she seemed larger than before—and certainly more ruthless. Under normal circumstances I could teach her a lesson, I am sure, thought Delain. However, I am in no condition to join in fisticuffs. I need to delay until my senses return or help arrives. And where is Steward? Probably the Black Rider, Orvislat, has gotten him. Both of us trapped like foxes.

  “So now,” said Delain, “you have your money from your ill deeds, your payments for selling those ships?”

  “Yes, in a way. I have recovered from my momentary lack of funds,” said Lady Wilder as she continued to search the ground. “I was able to purchase a few necessities and a few niceties, such as this lady’s riding outfit—”

  Delain tried to stand but was unable. She fell to the ground.

  “And this handsome pistol. Do you like it?” asked Lady Wilder as she showed Delain a pearl-handled pistol pulled from her jacket. She replaced it immediately and continued to search the ground nearby.

  “Is that pearl on the handle?” asked Delain. “How gauche.”

  “Coming from someone like you?” said Lady Wilder, amused. “One who wears pants?”

  “At least I am no traitor!” said Delain with as much venom as she could produce.

  Lady Wilder turned to Delain and looked astonished.

  “Traitor? Traitor? You don’t understand at all, do you?” Wilder said.

  “I understand that you are stealing ships from His Majesty’s Navy. That makes you a traitor!”

  “It makes me a hero!” hissed Lady Wilder in anger. “I am not even British! I do not serve your bumbling king, the one who lost the greatest treasure discovered in the last thousand years! An entire continent! I serve the tsar of Russia, and his interests! Dear, dear, dear! Did you think this was about money, and—and—about shopping?” Wilder laughed aloud and then stooped to the ground.

  She had found what she was looking for: a large stone, slightly larger than two fists.

  Delain realized the stone was meant for her, to make her fall appear significantly more lethal. A simple crack to her skull and a quick washing of the stone in the nearby creek, and no one would doubt Lady Wilder’s tale.

  Panicking, Delian began to crawl away. Each movement, each inch, sent searing pain through her chest, legs, and head. Her left arm now also throbbed, certainly broken.

  “My friends were on those ships!” cried Delain.

  “Your friends could still be on those ships, if that is any comfort to you in your last moments, Miss Dowdeswell,” Lady Wilder said as she went after the girl. “They are now most likely in the service of a special Russian naval force, in the Black Sea. Doesn’t that sound like an adventure? And under the command of Commodore Ian Kharitonov!”

  “Kharitonov. I have heard of him,” said Delain. “So you work for him?”

  “I work with him!” Lady Wilder said, angrily. “He is my brother!”

  Delain had made it to the edge of the clearing, and now, with all the remaining vigor left in her body, rushed into the brush.

  “Oh no, no, no, no, no!” said Lady Wilder. She dropped the stone in the clearing and quickly darted to the girl. Grabbing Delain’s ankle, she began pulling her out of the undergrowth.

  “For the first time in your life, you will behave!” Wilder said as she pulled hard, dragging Delain through the sticks, thorns, and thistles.

  Delain grasped the trunk of a small sapling, hoping to stop the crazed woman from her attack. Lady Wilder simply pulled harder. The sapling tore from the ground.

  Delain spun around to her back, still being pulled by the ankle. She swung the sapling at her attacker with her one good arm, striking her ineffectively on the face. Wilder simply laughed. With a massive show of strength, she yanked Delain harshly by her leg, sending her skidding across the ground into the clearing. In an instant, Lady Wilder had retrieved her stone and was upon Delain’s chest, pinning her down.

  Delain cried out in pain and then began yelling for help, screaming like a wild animal.

  Lady Wilder promptly placed a hand over the girl’s mouth, stopping her from calling for aid.

  “Now,” said Lady Wilder, “let us finish our little adventure!”

  Delain realized that all her adventuring, all her life, all her expectations and dreams, now had no future at all. She opened her eyes and saw her wrist and the dainty dolphin bracelet that Jonathan had given to her. She thought of the day they had saved turtles on Conception Island; their meeting at the Governor’s Ball in the Bahamas, Jonathan looking so handsome and shy in his new uniform; the discharging of the great cannons at the Castle of Fire, and the sea battle she witnessed. She would never see Jonathan again, and they would never marry. Yes, that is what she had dreamed of, though she’d never told anyone of that desire. He was just like her, and he accepted her for exactly who she was. No one had ever treated her as an equal, except for Jonathan. He had given her the affectionate title of “Miss Delain Dowdeswell, Adventurer.” She would never hear his voice utter those words again. She could now only hear a horse’s hooves approaching. Orvislat. He had returned to assist his master.

  With her free hand, Lady Wilder raised the stone over her head, though she paused to look at the rider.

  “Aye! What in the ’ell do we ’ave ’ere?” asked Steward.

  Steward! thought Delain. It was not Orvislat, the Black Rider, who was following them. It was Steward!

  Delain turned her head slightly to see the old sea hand leap from the horse and produce a pistol, aiming it directly at Lady Wilder.

  “Oy! What are ya? Daft? Get off that girl and put the stone down slowly, ya ugly salt-withered harpy!”

  Lady Wilder set the stone down, keeping her eye on
Steward the entire time. But as she released the weight, she reached into the folds of her jacket with her other hand and, with amazing efficiency, produced her pistol and fired.

  Delain saw Steward react in shock, clutch his belly, and fall to his knees. Their eyes met, and all Delain could read from the man’s face was his failure.

  “S-s-s-sorry, Miss Delain…” he said, and he fell to his side.

  Horrified, Delain could only look away.

  “Where were we?” said Lady Wilder. “Ah, yes! I was about to smash in your beautiful little head.” She took up the stone, now with both hands. “Shall we?”

  Delain was helpless. There would be no one riding to her rescue. She could hear the fabric of Lady Wilder’s jacket rubbing against her blouse as she raised her arms, once again, over her head.

  From behind and to the side of Wilder, there was an odd sound—again a horse’s hooves, but moving at an incredible pace. Had the hunt come this way?

  Delain turned her head toward the sound, as did Alina Wilder.

  Seeing what was approaching, Delain summoned all her strength. She quickly coiled herself into a ball and rolled hard to her left, away from her attacker.

  Lady Wilder remained sitting fully upright, shocked, with no time to react.

  The sleek chestnut mare struck Lady Alina Wilder with amazing force and at such an angle that the noblewoman was immediately slammed into the ground. The stone flew into the brush as Wilder was dragged away from Delain. The horse’s rear hooves slammed into Wilder’s back and head with thunderous cracking, and she rolled under the beast for several yards, being pummeled severely. Finally, the brutal attack ceased. Wilder lay in a heap, barely breathing.

  Delain looked up at the rider.

  Barbara Thompson, siting astride in the western style upon the sleek mare, stared down at the trampled Wilder, a harsh look of victory on her face.

  “I never liked her,” said Barbara. “Too…prissy for me.”

  “Miss Thompson!” was all Delain could manage as she drifted out of consciousness.

  “Well, that was a fine piece o’ riding, Miss Barbara,” came the muffled voice of Steward. “I-I never liked ’er neither. And remind me never to get on yer bad side.”

  30

  Mutiny and Pity

  On the other side of the world, Jonathan sat in the magazine, listening. The Paladin and Echo were now near enough to engage the Ottoman ships, and at any minute, he expected to hear the call to fire. That, of course, and according to his plan, would touch off the mutiny.

  He was shocked to hear a call from the crow’s nest come once again.

  “The Navarkhia! She is approaching from the south!”

  Jonathan ran up the stern ladder to the main deck and looked off the port side. Indeed, even in the failing light, he could make out Kharitonov’s ship slightly ahead of the Turks and choosing a tight angle to intercept.

  As the guns were only minutes from firing, he needed to consider what part in all this the Navarkhia would play and exactly where she would be in the upcoming battle. Close enough to see what was happening aboard the Paladin and the Echo? Would she engage to stop the mutinies or chase the Turks? Certainly the answer was not good news. In Jonathan’s mind he could see the mutinies taking place simultaneously, and Kharitonov deciding to assist at least one of the captains, either Aggar or Cherepanyanko. His heart was now beset with absolute despair. He had not planned for Kharitonov’s appearance.

  Jonathan realized there were only two options. One was to call off the mutiny and wait for another time and place when the situation would be more favorable. But what if it never was more favorable? What if Jenkins was put back on the Paladin? What if the two ships were separated? And how would he signal Jenkins to stand down and abort the mission? It would be best, he reasoned, to go ahead with the plan. He held on to the hope that if both mutinies were successful, he and Jenkins could set all sail and outrun the Navarkhia.

  Jonathan quickly ran to the hidden locker, opened it, and there found his sword. The same blade had been with him now for years, and though “short,” it actually was longer than the usual dirk blade of a midshipman. It was only two inches in length less than a full sword; however, it fit him well, and together, they were a deadly pair. He slipped on the light cape-jacket hanging in the corner, hid his sword beneath, then closed and locked the small door.

  Returning to the deck, he moved aft. There by the wheel was Aggar.

  “They are breaking up!” came a call from the crow’s nest.

  It was obvious that the Turks also saw the newly arrived Russian ship and had decided to take their chances separately. They split into pairs, one heading straight ahead, hoping to outrun the Navarkhia. The last pair turned to starboard and ran almost due southeast. Within a few seconds, the pairs split again. The farthest pair now ran north together, into the wind, to hopefully escape the Navarkhia. She would have a hard time coming about.

  “Ha! Those two little chickens will evade capture!” said Aggar, laughing. “A sound maneuver. Let Kharitonov chase them if he will! Leave the real battle to us!”

  At that moment, the closest pair also split. One continued onward to the east; the other, larger Turk came slightly to starboard and headed almost due south.

  “Ah! They have decided for us!” said Aggar. “We will choose the one to starboard. She thinks the wind will aid her escape, but it will also give us speed! I assume Cherepanyanko can take the smaller one!”

  “Our Turk will turn sharply for a moment, Captain,” said Jonathan. “He will try to damage you as he catches the wind from the north.”

  Aggar turned and, noticing Jonathan, smiled.

  “That is correct, Mister Moore,” said Aggar, “and I will allow him. With our superior speed, we will be upon him in a minute. I am watching his wheel and rudder. As soon as he turns, I will also turn, and we will trade broadsides, his three against my nine. I think I will win this one easily.”

  “A sound tactic, sir,” said Jonathan. He inched forward and held on to the aft mast with his left hand. In his right, he gripped the hilt of his sword. A quick glance about the deck and he saw almost all of the Englishmen stealing glances at their captors; some slightly nodded to him as if to say, “We are ready.” Graham stood to the other side of Aggar, eyes upon the Russian. He too nodded to Jonathan.

  It was now or never.

  Aboard the Echo, Jenkins and Garvey were manning the stern deck gun on the starboard side. They had originally been assigned the second gun on the port side, along with Cardew and Adams, two of the original Echo crew, though after their quick and secret conversations about the plan with their English brothers, all agreed that Jenkins and Garvey should be as close to Cherepanyanko as possible. It would be their role to gain control of the wheel. The Echoes, thirsty for revenge, would lead the attack against any Russian holding a weapon and then hurry to the sails.

  All were tense. All were ready.

  Cherepanyanko had held his original course eastward, gaining on the fleeing Turk, an oddly shaped two-deck affair of less than a dozen guns. She looked more like an ancient Spanish galleon than a modern warship—and most likely, she was just that. Her crew could now be seen on deck, manning the guns, but there looked to be some confusion on their part.

  “Ha!” cried Cherepanyanko. “They are scared! Aim at the decks! Do not damage the rigging or sails! Do you understand?”

  “Aye!” yelled the gun crews in unison as they readied their weapons. There were a few glances about from the Englishmen as they noted where the Russians were positioned. As expected, half of the Russians who were guarding them had moved to other areas, directing men in the tops, or readying themselves to board the Turk should its men surrender quickly or need to be subdued through hand-to-hand fighting.

  “There are only a handful watching us now,” said Jenkins into Garvey’s ear.

  “Aye,” replied Garvey cautiously. “You go for Cherepanyanko. I will take the guard to his right.”

  Th
e Echo was almost upon the Turk, less than fifty yards astern.

  “Ready guns!” said Cherepanyanko. “Steady!”

  The Turk turned slightly to her starboard side, and Cherepanyanko matched the move to position the Echo’s portside guns to fire. The Turk fired first, aiming to slow her pursuer. Though only three guns could be used, the shots were accurate and aimed high at the Echo’s sails. Balls of hot lead ripped into main course and topsails, leaving large holes.

  “Steady!” called Cherepanyanko.

  Garvey slowly stood and moved backward, positioning himself near the guard.

  “Port side!” yelled Cherepanyanko.

  Jenkins reached for a cannonball, one he hid under his shirt, the one he was supposed to load into the gun. He turned to see Cherepanyanko, intent on the Turk, his face red with the fever of a warrior. Jenkins hefted the ball, a six-pounder. Heavy, but not extremely so. He was only four feet or so from the Russian commander.

  “Fire!” yelled Cherepanyanko.

  Jenkins stood quickly and using the ball as a weapon, attacked Cherepanyanko, knocking him to the deck.

  At the same time, the other gun crews erupted in revolt. Only two guns were fired at the Turk, and loaded with grapeshot, they streamed red-hot balls into the deck of the galliot. Some went higher than expected, and small flames burst into being as the shot struck canvas. Soon, smoke filled the decks of both ships. The Turk, now preparing to run, fired rounds at the Echo, doing little if any damage, just sending more smoke and ash into the air.

  Aboard the Paladin, Aggar had read his Turk correctly. When the smaller ship turned, the Paladin was in perfect position to fire. In fact, she had been moving so fast that Aggar was forced to immediately call for a reduction in sail. The Turks fired first, exploding in succession. The first ball struck hull of the Paladin, causing no harm. The second and third blasted the mizzen gaff at the mast, sending it downward to tear the spanker. The sail was torn in half. The gaff dropped over the stern. The Paladin was damaged, however, her speed would only be slightly affected.