India Black (30 page)

Vincent sat down next to me. In the fight, he’d somehow acquired Ivanov’s revolvers, and he held them cradled in his lap with a finger on each trigger. The adrenaline from the brouhaha had worn off. His face looked pale and drawn. As the stove began to draw and the cabin to grow warmer, his eyes grew heavy and his head began to droop. I felt a twinge of sympathy for the boy; he’d done something that no pampered upper-class brat would have attempted, braving snow and cold and danger, and for what? A government that didn’t give a damn about the likes of him. The thought made me irritable (or perhaps it was the twinge of sympathy I’d felt, a wholly unusual and not entirely comfortable emotion for me).

“Do stay awake, Vincent,” I snapped. “If you fall asleep, one of those pistols may discharge. One gunshot wound per trip, that’s my limit.”

Vincent’s eyes jerked open. “Sorry, India,” he mumbled. But his eyes were already closing again before the words had left his mouth.

I
watched as he fell into a deep slumber, then reached over and gently removed the pistols from his lap, placing them on the floor beside me within easy reach. I glanced at our prisoners. Bob had fallen asleep, snoring loudly with his mouth open. Moss Mouth was awake, leering at me again with a peaty grin. Ivanov meditated silently, eyes on the floor. I got a start when I got to Oksana. She was awake, staring balefully at me. I had never been the recipient of such a murderous look in my life, which is saying something when one works amongst the tarts of London. She had lost her hat in our scuffle, but she still wore the sable coat. I wished I’d had the forethought to strip it off her before French had tied her up.

“I see I have injured your shoulder,” she hissed. “I only wish it had been your head I had hit.”

“I pity you, Oksana. You’re a bad shot and you have a glass jaw. I’ll bet the Russian government will think twice about sending out such an incompetent spy in the future. Perhaps you’ll have time to polish up your pugilistic skills in the labour camp, fighting for scraps of food, and so forth. Probably won’t give you a pistol to practice with, though.”

Ooh. That got her. She swelled up like a toad, cheeks twitching with indignation.

“You will pay for your cheek,” she snarled.

“Undoubtedly, but I don’t think the debt collector will be you.”

She subsided into silence then, which was just as well. Baiting her had been a bit of fun, but I was beginning to feel rather tired. I wished French would come back soon and keep an eye on our inmates while I had a well-deserved rest. Speaking of French, where was he? He’d been gone quite a while, and come to think of it, I hadn’t noticed any slackening of our forward motion, nor had we come about to alter our course. In other words, we still appeared to be headed to Calais.

The weather was growing worse, as well. The wind was blowing across the swell, and our little vessel was wallowing from wave to wave, buffeted on all sides by the turgid water. The beams creaked and the hull groaned, and above these noises I could hear the wind shrieking through the shrouds.

French had probably threatened Beauty with a fish knife, or something equally alarming, and Beauty had responded by tossing French overboard. I was just struggling to my feet with the intention of going on deck when the hatch popped open and French staggered into the cabin, soaked to the skin and cursing violently.

“Hellfire and damnation,” he said, coming over to crouch by the stove and shake the sleet from his hair and eyebrows. “It’s blowing a gale out there. The sleet is piling up on the deck and the wind is ferocious.”

“What about Beauty?” I asked.

French looked at me quizzically. “It’s a damned odd time to discuss aesthetic issues, India.”

I shook my head impatiently. “No, no. That’s what I call the bloke at the wheel. The other two are Moss Mouth and Bob.”

“Ah. I see. Well, Beauty, whose name is Hawkins, by the way, is quite happy to answer to a new master, namely me.”

“Was he difficult to persuade?”

“Oh, no. I merely promised not to prosecute him and his friends here for treason against the state. And, I offered him double what Ivanov was paying them. I don’t think he gave a toss about the first inducement, but the second convinced him to change his allegiance.”

“You’re
paying
him?” I asked incredulously.

“Can you sail a boat, India?”

“No.”

“Neither can I. And as talented as Vincent is, I doubt he has much experience at it, either. We need these men. In fact, I’m about to let one of them go free to help Hawkins. Otherwise, we’ll have to man the sails.”

Moss Mouth was listening intently. “Did I hear you say you’d pay double what this Russian feller is payin’?”

“Interested?” asked French.

“I’ll sign up. Untie me and I’ll ’elp ’Awkins get us into port.”

“Triple,” said Ivanov, “if you disarm these people and deliver us as planned.”

“Triple?” said Moss Mouth incredulously. “’Ell’s bells.”

“I’ll pay you three times what we agreed,” Ivanov reiterated.

Moss Mouth looked at French. “Whaddya say to that, mister?”

French pulled up his trouser leg and delved into his boot, bringing forth a blackjack. Without a word, he crossed the cabin to Ivanov and cuffed him smartly behind the ear. Ivanov’s eyes rolled upward and he toppled slowly sideways into Oksana’s lap.

“You brute,” she said. “You will pay for that.”

“I didn’t know you had a blackjack,” I said peevishly.

French ignored my comment and held the blackjack in front of Moss Mouth’s face. “I don’t think he’ll be able pay you if he’s out cold.”

“I reckon not,” said Moss Mouth nervously.

“I also think we will be lucky not to lose a crew member overboard in such weather. So don’t get greedy, mate. Remember, pigs get fat, and hogs get slaughtered. I’m going to untie you and send you topside. You and Hawkins are going to sail us into port. Your former employer here,” French inclined his head at Ivanov, “is going to be sitting in an English gaol soon. He won’t be leaving it for some time, and he certainly won’t be paying you anything. Now, get up on deck and get us back to England, before I change my mind about the money and the charges of treason.”

Moss Mouth nodded submissively, but I wouldn’t trust the fellow an inch, and I suspected French felt the same way. But we were in a pickle, with no way home unless these ruffians took us. We’d have to take our chances and stay vigilant. I sighed. There’d be no sleep for me until we reached land.

French patted down Moss Mouth. Then, satisfied that he had no hidden weapons, French cut the ropes that bound him and sent him out through the companionway into the storm. French shut the hatch behind him and came to sit by me again.

“Now, then. Let’s see to that shoulder of yours.”

“It’s stopped bleeding. It’ll be fine until we get back to England.”

He leaned closer to me, ostensibly studying the wound in my shoulder, but he had something to say. He put his lips near my ear. “We’re not turning around and heading back to England. At least, not yet. The wind won’t allow us to make landfall anywhere on the southeast coast. We’re going on to Calais. We’ll have to wait out the storm in port there, and then return to Dover.”

He plucked at the fabric of my dress, now stuck to the bullet wound with dried blood. I sucked in my breath.

“Damn and blast!”

He snatched his hand away. “Did that hurt?”

“Not nearly as badly as the news you just gave me. Are you sure Hawkins is telling you the truth?”

“As I’m not a sailor, I can’t say for certain. But I do know it’s beastly out there. Hawkins is struggling to keep on course for France. I don’t think he’s faking that look of terror I saw on his face. We’ll be lucky if we don’t get blown down into the Atlantic.”

His expression softened as he took in my disheveled appearance. “Regrets, India?”

“Just that I didn’t take that fur coat off that Russian slut when I had the chance.”

French laughed. “You’ve been drooling over that coat since you first laid eyes on it.”

“
And
the hat. That ensemble would make quite a splash in the neighborhood.”

“Then you shall have them. If not Oksana’s, then a hat and coat of your own just like them.”

“That’s generous of you.”

“It’s the least Her Majesty’s government can do for you.”

I agreed. French pocketed his Boxer and commenced work on my shoulder. The wound was not deep, but the bullet had carved a shallow furrow along the top of my shoulder. French found a bottle of the same brackish water we’d shared earlier and sponged out the laceration, tut-tutting over the threads from my dress that needed extracting. It was deuced hard work to get them out, as they had dried to the wound, and the ship was rolling and pitching to such an extent that it was difficult to keep a steady hand. French did his best under the circumstances, though by the time he’d finished sponging off the blood, I looked as though I’d been left outside in the rain and my shoulder was throbbing like the devil.

He pulled his shirttail from his trousers and ripped off a portion to bind the wound. I bit my lip and endured the pain as he manipulated my arm; there was nothing else to do, except contemplate a suitable form of revenge for Oksana. When French had finished, he sat back on his heels and examined his work with a critical eye.

“You need an antiseptic on that, as well as a proper dressing, but that should get you safely into harbor. We’ll find you a doctor in France.”

“Thank you,” I said stiffly.

“You’re welcome,” he replied formally.

His hand still rested on my shoulder. His gaze was locked on my face. His grey eyes, usually as cold and hard as stone, had softened and looked slightly out of focus. He looked decidedly un-French-like.

“You’re not going to vomit on me, are you, French?” I edged away from him, along the rough planks of the cabin floor. “Are you seasick? Do you need a drink of brandy?”

His eyes snapped into focus and he shook his head irritably. “Oh, do shut up India. I’m not ill and I’m not going to vomit on you,” he said. “Though it could hardly do any more damage to that dress of yours if I did.”

“It’s not my fault Oksana shot me. If you hadn’t been playing about with Ivanov and Bob, you might have lent me a hand and shot her before she shot me.”

“And left a bloody great hole in that coat you’re so fond of?” He rose briskly and stomped toward the hatch. “I’m going up top to watch Hawkins and, and, what do you call that other fellow?”

“Moss Mouth,” I said. “On account of his teeth.”

“Ah. Moss Mouth. I’ll try to remember that. You’ll be all right down here by yourself?”

“Yes, fine. See if you can’t get those two whipped into shape and get us to France as quickly as possible.”

“I’ll relay your orders, India. Any instructions for Poseidon?” He threw me a sarcastic salute and opening the hatch, ducked his head and exited into the driving sleet.

 

 

 

I have complained previously about the various difficulties I’d endured since Bowser had had the gall to die in my brothel, but none of these experiences can compare with what I encountered on that journey to France. Our vessel might just have been sea-worthy in the calmest of waters, but in the tempest that raged around us, it had all the durability of a raft made of sticks. The hull shuddered as the boat climbed the waves, then shuddered again as it plunged into the troughs, only to lurch ominously toward the bottom of the sea as a towering swell closed over the bow. The hatch was closed, but each time a deluge descended on the bow, the water came foaming through around its edges, and in no time at all the floor was awash with cold seawater.

As the water began to creep in, I stood hastily and woke Vincent. He resisted me for a moment, muttering in his sleep, so I had to grab his shoulder and give him a good shake. He was on his feet in a flash, hair standing on end and his eyes wild.

“Wot? Wot is it?” he demanded, finding Ivanov’s pistols and waving them frantically.

“Water,” I shouted. “The sea is coming in. We’ll be drenched if we don’t move.”

The tide had begun to slosh around my boots. I pointed to the upper berth.

“Up there,” I shouted over the roar of the storm.

We clambered up, stepping on Ivanov (still unconscious, so he didn’t feel a thing), Oksana (I certainly hoped she did; I’d done my best to plant my boot heel in her thigh as I climbed), and Bob, who had finally been jolted awake by the ship’s motion and was looking very worried indeed, something which did little to dispel the hard knot of anxiety in my stomach.

“Blimey,” said Vincent. “Wot a gale. How long do you reckon before we get to Dover?”

I shared the information about our inability to make an English port and the decision to continue on to France. Beneath the layer of grime, his face turned pale.

“God ’elp us,” he said.

I’m not the sort of person who counts on the Almighty to answer desperate summons, calm the waters or part the seas, as though he’s got nothing better to do with his time than rescue humans from their own reckless stupidity, but I will admit to having a quick word with the Old Chap, though of course I did nothing so foolish as to promise to change my ways or go to chapel on Sunday. He wouldn’t have believed me if I had.

So Vincent and I sat on the top bunk, watching the water gurgle and foam on the floor below, and listening to the beams and planks of the hull creak and groan. It sounded like the old tub was coming apart, and any minute I expected the hull to spring open and the ocean to come gushing in, but to her credit she ploughed on through the seas. Every few minutes, Vincent or I would lean over to make sure that Oksana, Ivanov and Bob were still where they ought to be. Other than that amusement, there wasn’t much to occupy our time, except for uttering the odd curse or prayer when the ship hit a particularly rough patch or the wind rose to a howl. I was reminded of what Sam Johnson had said about sailing: it was like being in jail with a chance of drowning. I believe the old boy was on to something there.