Swept Away (40 page)

“You cannot seriously be thinking of involving Miss Fairchilde any further,” Barrimore continued. “To allow her to participate in the smallest part of any plan you may have for the retaking of your ship would place her in a position of utmost peril!”

Barrimore’s thoughts stumbled inward a moment as he remembered removing her mask himself. “I must suppose she was, yes. Her brother was there and Colonel Ramsey addressed her by name, if I am not mistaken.”

“Then I suggest she would be no safer here, on her own, than she would be on board the
Intrepid
. I expect there has been a warrant issued, if not for her outright arrest as an accomplice, then at least for detention and questioning.”

“A warrant?” Anna whispered in awe. “For my arrest?”

“There is no need to look so pleased with yourself,” he said dryly. “I doubt it is something to which proper young ladies of society aspire.”

She refrained from reminding him aloud that she had done nothing thus far any proper young lady would do, but the gleam in her eye was enough to make him clear his throat.

“At any rate,” he said, “we will see about amending your ways in the future. For now, we have another intrepid lady to worry about.”

CHAPTER 23

The mist had thickened considerably by the time they left the tavern. The lights in the harbor were no longer visible and those along the shore looked muffled in tufts of cotton. Somewhere out in the murky soup a cacophony of ships bells tolled to call the hour and Emory’s head turned, listening for the one that was as distinctive to him as a woman’s voice. When he heard it, his footsteps quickened and Annaleah was hard pressed to keep up with the pace set by his longer strides.

She was dressed in trousers again. Loose fitting, made of cheap wool, they were held up at her waist with a length of twine. The shirt was equally oversized, but at least it was soft and warm, the hem long enough to tuck down around where the wool could not chafe.

The eight walked quickly, without conversation. The men were all heavily armed, their expressions grim, eyes warily scanning the shadowy alleyways and doorways as they passed.

When they reached the section of waterfront where the smaller fishing boats were moored, Seamus took two of the crewmen and broke away, whispering orders for the others to wait behind a warehouse until they heard his signal. It was dark, oppressively damp, and they could not see more than a stone’s throw in any direction, but when the low trilling whistle came out of the fog, Emory led them unerringly to the edge of the jetty where Seamus and sailors waited, rocking below them in a small jolly boat.

“Unless the sentries have the power to see through this muck, we should be able to row right up their arses without ‘em batting an eye,” Seamus said, adding with a belligerent snort to British naval efficiency, “If they’ve bothered to post a watch at all, that is.”

Barrimore took his assigned seat in the dingy, helping Anna in after him. “If I recall correctly from the naval dispatches we received about the
Intrepid
, she was placed under the command of Captain Sir Isaac Landover.”

“Landover?” Emory glanced over. “He is one of the navy’s most decorated captains. Why the devil would he be sitting guard duty on a prize ship in a godforsaken place like Gravesend?”

“The official story is that he is recovering from a disfiguring wound and requested the solitude.”

“And unofficially?”

“Unofficially, the captain had a rather distasteful affair with a young lady--the daughter of a high-ranking member of the admiralty who was not amused to discover his first grandchild would be the bastard of a married man.”

Emory stared through the dark mist a moment longer, having no doubt whatsoever there was a warning meant specifically for him somewhere in the marquis’s words. He took up an oar, however, and channelled all his energies into rowing, helping the others quickly propel the boat away from the noise and lights of the waterfront.

Soon there were other sounds to take their place; the creak and groan of wooden beams, the soft slap of water against a hull, the chink of metal rings on yardarms. Now and then they heard a bark of laughter from high up in the fog or saw misty lights and knew they were gliding past one of the dozens of ships laying at anchor. Once they heard a splash, followed by good natured cursing and orders for the sailor not to climb on board again until he had drowned all the lice in his clothing.

Anna’s ears perked at one point, when she heard the tinkle of a woman’s laughter, but she knew it was not unusual for wives and loose women to live on board while a ship was in port.

She supposed that was what she was now: A loose woman. The thought made her grip the side of the bulwark tighter, but she refused to pursue it. She was in a jolly boat with seven desperate men rowing out to steal a ship out of His Majesty’s naval yards. There was also a steadily increasing pool of water slapping across the bottom of the boat, meaning there was a leak somewhere in the hull and since she had never learned how to swim, and had no idea how deep the bottom of the harbor was, she had more urgent things to worry about than being snubbed by her peers.

They rowed for nearly fifteen minutes before the level of the water grew deep enough for Barrimore to voice a concern.

“You might have at least stolen a boat that was sound. How the deuce do you know where you are going, anyway? We could be rowing out to open sea.”

“We cracked a spar off Cap St. Vincent a few months back and had to replace some of the iron fittings with brass,” Emory said. “You can hear them when she rocks.”

Annaleah heard nothing to distinguish a clink from a clank, but she was grateful when Seamus grunted a few seconds later, “There she be. Dead ahead.”

She followed the direction of his finger and saw, like a faintly luminous ghost rising out of the mist, the blurred shape of a huge hull rising above them. A haze of light fanned dully out of the two multi- paned windows that slanted outward across the stern, indicating someone was awake in the captain's cabin. There were also mottled breaks in the fog on deck where someone had hung lanterns from the rigging. The hull was slick with moisture and the dampness dripped into the water from the miles of rigging that ran between the three towering masts. The mingled odors of fish and pitch and sodden canvas were strong, but there was something else as well. Something Annaleah had smelled once before when the barge she had been on had sailed too close to a prison hulk anchored in the Thames. It was the stink of unwashed bodies, unclean quarters, and despair.

Seamus held up a hand to stop the men rowing. He used the drag of his own oar to slow the forward momentum of the jolly boat, and when they were close enough, the two mates on the starboard side reached out with their hands to keep them from bumping into the wooden hull. Hand over hand, they pulled and pushed the dinghy in silence until they were beneath the ladder that hung down the ship’s side.

When the oars were safely shipped and the boat tied off to the bottom of the ladder,
Emory was first to start climbing, the collar of his jacket pulled high to his chin, his guns tucked at his waist but readily within reach. The four crewmen went up next, nimble as monkeys accustomed to climbing ratlines and rigging. Barrimore was last, not by choice but at the insistence of a freckled paw on his shoulder.

“You’re to stay close to me, milord,” Seamus muttered. “And keep a good grip on the rungs, for we’ve no time to fish you out of the drink if you fall.”

Barrimore scowled and would have cut back with a rebuttal, but the big Irishman was already halfway to the top. Higher up, the dark shapes of Emory and the other men were clinging to the deckrails on either side of the gangway.

Barrimore squeezed her arm once for courage then vanished up into the mist, leaving Anna staring with owlish horror into the gray morass of shifting cloud that surrounded them.

On a signal from Emory they moved over the rail and jumped quietly down into the waist of the ship, two men forward running on noiseless feet, two running aft. He sent Seamus by way of hand gestures to the forecastle while he took the stern. Not ten paces along the gangway he came across one sentry seated on a keg with his head leaning back against the mast and tipped to the side, his mouth opened around throat-rattling snores. A quick chop across the side of his neck with the pistol butt ensured a deeper sleep, and, after a brief delay to exchange his black pea coat for the scarlet tunic, the musket, powder flask, and cartridge belt, Emory moved forward again fastening the middle two buttons of the jacket as he ran.

At the after hatchway, he stopped and listened to the sounds of his ship breathing. She was in some distress, having been battened down by men unfamiliar with her trim, and he sensed an undercurrent of impatience as if she had been waiting for him to rescue her from the hands of such clumsy oafs. As if he were placating a woman, Emory caressed the weathered oak of the hatchway and descended the stairs, his first priority the cargo hold, the only area large enough to be transformed into a gaol for the crew. He moved quickly past the silent black shapes of the cast iron cannon crouched behind their closed ports, warmed to the hunt by the familiar smell of gunpowder and metal. He heard a sliding footstep ahead of him and sidestepped into the shadows, but it was only Seamus and Barrimore. Their progress had gone as smoothly as Emory’s. The two guards they had encountered were trussed like turkeys and stuffed into a sail locker.

Althorpe lowered the musket and pointed at the shiny new padlock holding the grate in place over the hold. Seamus grunted once and crossed to one of the long guns and returned with the iron handspike used to adjust the sights. By then there was whispering below them, just a few alert hisses at first that swelled quickly into the sound of an excited beehive. Hands reached through the squares of grating and fingers clutched the bars, muted cheers and cackles of laughter were quickly muffled by a commanding “
Whisht, ye daft bastards!
” from a grinning Seamus Turnbull.

He fed the handspike through the lock and snapped it with a decisive jerk. None of the men on either side of the grate waited to see if the noise had been detected. Within moments, the dark figures were pouring up the stairs and spreading across the deck, most of them pausing only long enough to tug a forelock in Emory’s direction before heading aft to the crew’s quarters. Once there, it was a ridiculously simple matter to creep between the hammocks of the sleeping lobsterbacks, arm themselves with confiscated weapons, then kick the startled soldiers awake.

Barrimore did not know whether to be impressed or enraged with the ease of the take over. The only area not under Emory’s complete control now was the aft cabin where it was presumed Captain Sir Isaac Landover would be as easily overcome as the rest of his command. They had seen lights in the cabin when they approached through the mist, and there was a slash of light showing beneath the door as they stood outside it now.

As a courtesy to a fellow captain, Emory knocked.

“Come.”

He opened the door, ducking to clear the low lintel as he passed through. He was still in the borrowed scarlet tunic, though it was plain to see by the two straining buttons he had managed to fasten, that the garment was not his. Captain Landover’s eyes registered this in the same sweeping glance that took in Seamus Turnbull’s flaming red hair and the Marquis of Barrimore’s intense black stare.

Landover was seated at the desk, a writing quill in one hand, a crystal glass of Madeira in the other. He was spare for a seaman, his body thin to the point of emaciation. His face was handsome in an overwrought way, with thick brown muttonchops and hazel eyes.

The pen was slowly set aside, but the glass remained clutched tightly in his hand as he leaned back and coldly studied the faces of the three men opposite him. “Having never had the pleasure of making his acquaintance, I can only assume that one of you gentleman is the former captain of this vessel?”

Emory stepped forward. “Former and present captain, Emory Althorpe, at your service, Sir Isaac,” he said, bowing slightly. “My men are, at this moment, reacquainting themselves with their duties.”

Captain Landover’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “I see. I was told you were an enterprising fellow. Of course, I was also told you were dead.”

The slow flush that had crept into captain’s cheeks darkened and his hand inched slowly toward the middle drawer of the desk. Emory raised his own cocked pistol and shook his head.

“I would not advise it, Sir Isaac. There is nothing to be gained and a good deal to be lost in any foolish gestures. The ship is mine. You have my word you and your men will be unharmed and set ashore when we are safely out of port.”

Sir Isaac’s hand relaxed. The fingers tapped lightly on the desk top for a moment, then lifted in a gesture of resignation. “In that case, my compliments on a job well done. Will you gentlemen join me in a glass of wine? I have discovered you keep a rather fine cellar on board, Althorpe.”

“I am glad it meets your approval, Sir Isaac, but I prefer to wait until I have something to celebrate.”

He uncocked his pistol and tucked it back into his waist, frowning as he looked around the cabin. It was glaringly apparent that all of his personal belongings had either been removed or destroyed and the cabin stripped of anything of value. A fine oak cabinet in the corner had been smashed open, the glass was gone and only the crisscrossing of lead strips remained. His sea chest was gone, his maps and charts and books had been removed along with--as he discovered upon opening cupboard after empty cupboard--his logbooks, and manifests. A quick search of the desk revealed the same thoroughness. Some enterprising fellow had even found the catch that opened the secret panel in the bottom drawer; it was empty save for a few tufts of dust.