Privateer

by Margaret Weis

  The lieutenant invited them into the office, where he had lit a fire in an iron stove. The five were a tight fit in the small room, especially with Simon’s chair, but Alan had brought some brandy in a flask and they spent a pleasant time sharing the brandy, listening to Randolph complain about his rotten luck at whist and Alan extol the virtues of the charming niece, Lady Annabelle.

  The party was interrupted by the sound of running feet and a loud knock on the door. A marine burst inside almost before the lieutenant granted permission.

  “Sir, men are marching in the street and they’re headed this way,” he reported.

  “How many, Corporal?” asked the lieutenant.

  “At least a hundred, sir,” said the marine. “Maybe more. They’re carrying torches.”

  The lieutenant made his excuses and left in haste. “Torches!” Henry repeated, casting an alarmed glance at his friends.

  “They’re planning to set fire to the Naval Yard!” said Alan, jumping to his feet. “Think of it! The lumberyard is filled with conifer logs, planks, masts, spars. The wood is seasoned, dry … The entire dockyard could go up in flames!”

  “Then there’s the armory … If that caught fire…”

  Henry looked at his friends, all sharing the same terrifying thought. Freya was dependent on her navy to protect the nation and her interests around the world. The loss of a fleet of ships, not to mention the dockyard, the equipment, and stores would be a devastating blow to the navy and Freya’s overall defenses, and a financial disaster for the country.

  “This could well drive Freya to her knees,” said Henry, shaken.

  “I’ll be goddamned if a goddamn mob is going to destroy my country!” Randolph stated.

  The alarm bell sounded, rousing the soldiers, calling them to man the walls. Flares burst in the night sky, alerting the patrol boats that the yard was under attack.

  “Our drivers, Baxter and Albright!” Henry exclaimed, suddenly remembering. “They are waiting for us outside the gate. We need to warn them.”

  “We could send them for help,” said Alan. “The yard has its own fire brigade, but we’ll need more than that—”

  “Good idea,” said Henry. “Perhaps I can talk to these men. Reason with them—”

  “You can’t reason with a mob, Henry!” Randolph said.

  “I have to try. The alternative is marines firing on our own people! The rest of you go with Baxter for help, then return to the party. I’ll handle this.”

  “Once again, gentlemen, he’s keeping all the fun to himself,” said Alan, grinning. “You know we won’t let you do this alone, Henry. But we should be armed.”

  “I have rifles and pistols, shot and powder in the coach,” said Henry. “We shoot only in self-defense. I don’t want to start killing civilians.”

  “Wait a minute!” said Simon as they started to leave. “Alan, how far can you hurl a lighted torch?”

  “What the hell—” Alan began.

  “Answer the question.”

  Alan stopped to consider. “Over an eight-foot wall? Maybe forty yards at the most.”

  “The lumberyard is at least a quarter of a mile from the wall,” said Simon. He motioned out the door. “Look at our surroundings. What do you see? Brick walls. Stone pavement. Torches landing around here would fizzle and go out. I suppose they might set a roof ablaze, but that would be the extent of the damage.”

  “Unless the mob breaches the gate,” said Henry, frowning.

  “Is that likely? How many marines are stationed here?”

  “In peacetime and with the budget cuts? Sixty-five total,” Alan replied.

  “Sixty-five…” Simon repeated. “How are they deployed?”

  “Sixteen on duty at any one time,” Alan said. “Two at the gate. Two guarding the armory. Six on the patrol boat that sails the coastline and the docks and six on the patrol boat that keeps watch from the air. The rest would be asleep in the barracks. They will be wide awake now.”

  “All of them armed with rifles. The two patrol boats with swivel guns and rifles firing at them from above. Breach the gate!” Simon scoffed. “Henry, what did Jenkins tell you? Be precise.”

  “Simon, I don’t have time—” Henry began.

  “This is important,” Simon snapped.

  Henry hurriedly recounted the conversation.

  “‘Men buying grog, urging the dockworkers to attack,’” Simon muttered. “Who are these dockworkers who have money enough to buy grog for their fellows when they haven’t been paid in a month?”

  Henry was troubled. “Jenkins did say he didn’t recognize them. They were strangers.”

  Simon fell silent, ruminating. He appeared to have forgotten they were there.

  “Let’s go—” Henry began.

  He and Alan and Randolph started for the door. Simon suddenly propelled his chair forward and stopped in front of them, blocking the way.

  “Henry, you cannot try to reason with this mob.”

  “You talk very glibly about marines with rifles, but they will be killing Freyans, Simon,” said Henry, losing patience.

  “You can’t reason with this mob because it isn’t a mob,” said Simon. “It’s a diversion.”

  The three stared at him.

  “Go to the coaches,” Simon said. “Bring weapons and meet me back here. And send Albright with the carriage.”

  “Simon—”

  “No time! Go!”

  Henry glanced at the others, then they hurried out the door, heading for the gate. Alan ran alongside with Randolph huffing and snorting behind them.

  “Diversion? For what reason?” Alan asked.

  “I have no idea,” said Henry. “But what Simon said does make sense.”

  “If you’re Simon,” Alan grumbled.

  Arriving at the wicket gate, they had a brief argument with the lieutenant, who did not want to let them outside the wall. They insisted and since the lieutenant could not very well oppose the wishes of both a captain and an admiral, he reluctantly agreed to open the gate and ordered one of his men to accompany them.

  Henry found his coachman, Baxter, in conversation with Mr. Albright. Both of them were watching the approach of the mob with interest.

  “You know where I keep the weapons?” Henry said to his friends.

  “Beneath the seat,” said Alan.

  He and Randolph hurried to the coach. Henry explained the situation to the two drivers and issued orders.

  “Baxter, once we have removed the weapons, take the coach and go for help. Alert the fire brigade and the constables. Then you can return home. Not a word of this to Lady Ann!”

  Baxter nodded and hurried off to assist Alan and Randolph, who had pulled up the seat and were hauling out the weapons.

  “Albright, fly the carriage over the wall. You need to take Simon home.”

  “Master Yates won’t want to leave, my lord,” Albright stated, one of the few times Henry had ever heard him speak.

  “I’ll handle Simon,” said Henry, with more confidence than he felt.

  Albright gave a silent nod and mounted the box. The wyverns were nervous, disturbed by the smell of smoke, and were snapping at each other. He cracked the whip over their heads, and sent power flowing to the small lift tanks. The carriage rose into the air.

  Henry glanced down the street at the mob. The number of people was hard to determine, for they packed the street. The torchlight cast a lurid glow on the surrounding buildings. He thought about what Simon had said.

  “Henry!” Alan shouted. “We could use some help!”

  Henry ran for the carriage. Randolph was pulling out rifles and pistols and handing them to Alan, who was thrusting pistols into his belt and dumping powder horns and bags of bullets into his pockets. Henry grabbed two pistols and two rifles, stuffed the pistols into his belt, and emulated Alan’s example by filling his pockets with ammunition.

  The mob was getting closer. They could hear the roar of angry voices.

  Randolph jumped
out of the carriage, carrying two rifles, and more pistols.

  “Go!” Henry yelled to Baxter, and he slapped one of the horses on the rump.

  Baxter cracked the whip over the heads of the horses. Already skittish from the sound of the mob, they surged forward. The coach rattled off down the street.

  Henry, Alan, and Randolph made a dash for the gate. Someone in the mob saw them and they began shouting and hurling rocks. The marine fired a warning shot in the air. Henry and his friends rushed through the wicket gate, followed by the marine. Two waiting marines slammed shut the gate behind them and bolted it.

  Alan paused to speak to the lieutenant. “Order your men to fire into the air. We don’t want Freyans killing Freyans if we can help it.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the lieutenant.

  More marines were already coming to reinforce those at the gate. The three ran back to the office where they had left their friend. Albright had already landed the carriage and dismounted.

  Henry entered the office. “Albright’s here to take you home, Simon. I won’t stand for any argument! One bullet in the spine is quite enough—”

  He stopped talking and looked around.

  “Simon?”

  The office was empty.

  “Hellfire and damnation!” Henry swore.

  He dashed back outside.

  Armed marines were running past him, their uniforms askew, half buttoned. The two patrol boats had seen the flares and heard the alarm. They were sailing toward the gate.

  Each of the patrol boats was armed with a single nine-pound cannon mounted at the bow and several swivel guns. Henry could hear the officers giving orders to load the cannons. A large lamp mounted on the bow cast a wide beam of light, sweeping the ground below.

  “Did you see Simon?” Henry asked.

  Alan and Randolph were loading the weapons. They looked up, shook their heads.

  “Isn’t he in the office?”

  “No, he’s gone,” said Henry. “Give me a pistol.”

  He could hear the dull roar of the mob, the thud of stamping feet, shouts and jeers. He could smell the acrid smoke of the blazing torches.

  “There he is!” Alan said suddenly.

  Henry turned to see Simon propelling his chair at a rapid rate over the ground, rushing toward them.

  “I know what they’re plotting!” he cried excitedly, bringing his chair to a halt. “They’re going to try to steal a ship! Henry, I think we may have found a portion of Colonel Smythe’s army!”

  Simon touched his hand to the brass helm, but before he could sail off again, Henry grabbed hold of the chair’s armrest.

  “Explain, Simon,” he said. “Or we’re not going anywhere.”

  Simon glared at him. Henry was firm and Simon condescended to explain.

  “After you left, I went to take a look around. I saw the patrol boats sailing this way, leaving the harbor unguarded. It occurred to me that if my objective was to steal a ship, a mob attacking the front gate would be an excellent diversion.”

  “He has a point,” said Henry, looking at his friends.

  “Who is Colonel Smythe?” Randolph asked.

  Alan was doubtful. “Simon, did you actually see any activity around the ships?”

  “Be sensible, Alan,” Simon returned irritably. “The night is dark and the harbor is over a mile away. How could I see any activity?”

  “Then you don’t know for certain someone is trying to steal a ship,” Alan argued.

  “Who the hell is Colonel Smythe?” Randolph demanded.

  The mob had reached the gate. People were shouting and jeering, hurling rocks and bricks and vegetables. Someone tossed a single torch over the wall. The torch landed on the pavement not far from Henry. A marine ran over with a bucket and doused it with water.

  “I will meet you at the docks,” Simon said, and whipped his chair around, deftly avoiding running down Mr. Albright, who made a lunge to stop him and missed.

  “Simon! Wait!” Henry shouted. “It’s too danger—”

  Simon ignored him and sped toward the harbor.

  Mr. Albright looked helplessly at Henry. “Should I go after him, my lord?”

  “You’ll never catch him on foot,” said Henry. “Alan, signal that patrol boat.”

  “You realize Simon ran off on purpose!” said Alan in exasperation. “He knows we’ll chase after him.”

  Another torch sailed over the wall. This one fizzled out on impact.

  “We either trust him or we don’t,” said Henry. “What ships are in the harbor?”

  “The Valor. She was the first to be refitted,” Randolph answered. “Do you think they’re trying to steal my goddamn ship?”

  The Valor was one of the largest ships in the Freyan navy, one hundred seventy-five feet long, with three gun decks. The ship carried one hundred cannons along with forty swivel guns.

  “We can’t take a chance,” Henry said. “And we have to retrieve Simon.”

  Alan and Randolph both waved their arms and shouted, hailing the patrol boat that was about level with the rooftops. The sailor operating the lamp shone the light down on them.

  “Captain Alan Northrop of the Terrapin!” Alan yelled, blinking in the bright beam. “I need to speak to your commander!”

  “Reynolds, sir,” said a lieutenant, leaning over the rail. “Perhaps you remember me, Captain. I was midshipman under you on the Terrapin two years ago.”

  “By God, so you were!” said Alan, staring up. “Is there any open area around here large enough for you to land?”

  “No, sir, not nearby,” said Reynolds.

  “Then send down a ladder! My friends and I are coming aboard.”

  Reynolds ordered his men to toss down a rope ladder. They had to leave the rifles behind; they couldn’t very well carry those and climb a rope ladder. Alan stuffed pistols into his belt, then ascended nimbly and turned to help Henry, whose ladder-climbing days were well behind him. Randolph came last, fumbling to find a foothold, swearing as the ladder lurched, refusing all offers of help and damning the eyes of everyone in sight.

  Henry shouted to Mr. Albright to follow them in the carriage. Alan explained the situation to the lieutenant, who looked dubious, but ordered his helmsmen to return to the docks. The patrol boat was light and fast and they sailed swiftly over the Naval Yard. Randolph seized hold of a spyglass and focused on the harbor where the Valor rode at anchor.

  “Do you see Simon?” Henry asked Alan, whose eyesight was the best of any of them.

  Alan stared into the night. “No. But he had a good head start and that chair of his is fast. Who is this Colonel Smythe anyway?”

  “Keep your voice down,” said Henry quietly, glancing at the deck that was crowded with sailors and marines. “I cannot talk now, but I will tell you this. If these people are trying to steal a ship, I need them alive. Tell the lieutenant.”

  Alan raised an eyebrow, then went to pass along Henry’s instructions. Henry checked to make certain his pistols were loaded. The patrol boat sped through the night, sailing above the rooftops of the warehouses and office buildings, and the ships in various stages of repair, lying in specially designed cradles. The harbor came into view, a gaping expanse of black.

  Pinpricks of light marked the location of the Valor. Randolph lowered the spyglass, rubbed his aching eyes, and raised it again. The rushing wind ruffled Henry’s coattails and almost took off his hat. He jammed it down on his head.

  For so many weeks, he’d been forced to sit in his dark, dreary office, doing nothing except fret and fume, plot, and manipulate all to no good end. His queen was dying. The fate of his country hung in the balance and he had been powerless to help her. Until now.

  Henry smiled. He had to admit it. He was enjoying himself.

  Alan must have shared his thoughts, for he clapped him on the back. “You throw one hell of a dinner party, Henry.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Simon Yates had grown accustomed to his friends trying to protect him.
Years ago, he would have been angry at them. But then, he reflected, years ago, after the shooting that had left him paralyzed, he had been angry at everything.

  Henry had undertaken to find out who had attempted to assassinate Crown Prince Godfrey. The four young men had spent an enjoyable time attempting to solve the mystery until the rousing adventure had turned serious. A bullet had felled Simon.

  Feeling guilty, his friends had tiptoed around him, treating him as though he was some fragile piece of porcelain to be handled with great care, tenderly wrapped in cotton wool. Simon had resented their pity. He had answered their kindness with cruel and cutting remarks. He saw the hurt in their eyes and he reveled in the knowledge that he was inflicting pain.

  “At least I am not the only one suffering,” he would say to himself.

  He had been especially rude to the eccentric old duchess who had taken him into her crazy floating house and nursed him. She had endured his abuse until the day she saved his sanity.

  Simon began the day by refusing to eat. He knocked the tray of food to the floor and turned his face to the pillow.

  “What’s the use?” he muttered.

  The duchess picked up the spilled food and left him without a word. He was lying in bed, bitterly enjoying his misery, when the duchess suddenly barged into his room.

  “Heads up,” she shouted in her stentorian voice and threw a book at him.

  Simon acted out of instinct, catching it before it struck him in the face.

  “What the hell—” he demanded peevishly.

  “I thought you might like something to read,” said the duchess.

  Simon looked at the book. It was of the type commonly known as a chapbook, a small paper-covered book that could be published cheaply. Such books generally contained bad poetry, sentimental ballads, or dire warnings that the Evil One was coming to lay waste to the world.

  The chapbook was old; the pages were yellowed and gave off a musty smell. He glared at the duchess resentfully, but he was bored and he read the title.

  A Defense of Contramagic.

  Simon felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He looked at the duchess in shock.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “I wrote it,” said the duchess. She made herself comfortable, plopping down on his bed. “I was quite young at the time. I thought you might find it entertaining.”