Wicked at Heart (19 page)

Time.

Loudly clearing
his throat, he raised his head, the light from his own taper flickering across
the open Bible.  He felt a stab of guilt that he held no love for the guard
Morninghall had shot, and that his compassion was all on behalf of the deceased
prisoners.  He sent up a last silent prayer, this time asking God's forgiveness
for being so judgmental and preferential.  After all, he reminded himself, God
had made the guard, too — and God did not make rubbish.

"Good
people," he began, raising his voice so it would carry throughout the
mourners.  "We are gathered here tonight to pray for the souls of those
who have died aboard this ship during this past week." 
Too flat.  You
can do better than that, Peter.
  "We pray for the souls of prisoners
of war who have been released from this earthly suffering, and we pray for the
soul of Ralph Leach, who perished whilst engaging in an act for which we beg
God's compassion and forgiveness.  This we ask in Jesus' name, using the prayer
that He taught us: 'Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name . . . .'"

The small crowd
joined in, a low baritone in the darkness — solemn, sad, and contained beneath
the drizzling mist.

"'. . . on
Earth, as it is in heaven . . . Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us
our trespasses . . . And lead us not into temptation . . . thine is the
kingdom, the power, and the glory forever . . .'"

Lieutenant
Radley, the marine commander, stood nearby, his narrow face hard, his shoulders
stiff against the cold drizzle.  He looked nervous, his eyes darting from side
to side, as though he expected the prisoners standing quietly behind him to
rise up and club him over the head.

Lord Morninghall
was nowhere to be found.

"Amen,"
Peter finished, quietly.

The mist
thickened, became a light rain which beat softly on the deck.  Gazing over the
faces of the men who looked to him, Peter thought he could just see a form,
darker than the darkness, sliding through the water a stone's throw off the old
ship's starboard bow.

He raised his
voice, drowning out any sound the boat might make as it moved through the
waves, hoping that the few sentries still on duty would be patrolling the stern
of the ship.

"We pray
for the soul of Richard Morrill, late of the American warship
Merrimack
,
who left this life on Friday last after a blessedly short illness.  God, be
with his family, be with his friends, and be with him.  In Jesus' name we pray —"

Some of the
guards shuffled nervously.  "Amen," a few of them said, without much
conviction.

"Lord, we
pray for the soul of Ebenezer MacGill, brother of Jake MacGill, who succumbed
to the travails of his existence on Thursday last.  Please, oh Lord, comfort
those he leaves behind, and be with his family during their time of suffering
and grief.  In Jesus' name we pray —"

"Amen,"
said Jake, who was one of the dark figures behind the guards.  His voice was
hoarse.  Again, only two or three of the guards added their own "amens,"
much to Peter's tense annoyance.

"Lord, we
pray for the soul of Etienne LaFleur, whom we speed on his way to heaven after
a conflict that we, in our human ignorance, cannot understand —" LaFleur,
one of the Frenchmen, had died in a knife fight — "and we ask that you
comfort those he leaves behind, and be with them in their hour of grief.  In
Jesus' name we pray —"

"Amen."

The crowd
shifted on their feet, huddling in the light rain.

"And Lord,
we pray for the soul of Ralph Leach —"
Thank you God, the boat is well
beneath the bowsprit now
— and we ask your forgiveness for what he
attempted to do, for the flesh is weak, especially when . . . when times are as
hard as they are now.  We ask that you, oh Lord, judge this man on the good
deeds he has done, the good deeds that have been in his heart, and God, we ask
that you be with his family and friends.  In Jesus' name we pray —"

"Amen,"
chorused the guards.

Peter bent his
head, the water trickling from the brim of his hat and onto the deck before
him.  The Bible's pages were damp beneath his fingers, and as he read a few
verses from Corinthians, he passionately raised his voice to cover any noise
the Black Wolf might make as he effected the rescue of Toby Ashton and Jed
Turner — the two that Connor wanted off the ship before it was too late.

"Oh God, we
ask for peace in this world!  We ask that all wars might end, and that
humankind might exist in love and harmony with one another; we ask for understanding
among ourselves; and we pray that you will be with our community, our country,
our world.  We ask that you put an end to all suffering, Lord, and we pray for
forgiveness for those acts of sin that we commit, intentionally and
unintentionally, against our fellow man . . . Lord in your mercy, hear our
prayer!"

Radley looked at
his watch and shot Peter an annoyed glance.

"We pray
for wisdom for our leaders, Lord, and we pray that you will guide them along
the paths of righteousness, mercy, and love . . . Lord in your mercy, hear our
prayer . . ."

The service went
on.

And on.

And far forward
and below, where the waves lapped against the old bow, a black-cloaked figure
slipped out of a boat and into a hole beneath the deserted gallery.

Chapter
11

It was barely a crawl
space in which the Black Wolf found himself, a close, stinking cubbyhole in the
bows that reeked of stagnant brine, mildew, and the decaying remains of an old
anchor cable.  His back was jammed against damp wood, his knees against his chest. 
Suffocating darkness enclosed him.  He heard the distant words of the
chaplain's service, smelled the nauseous stench of the prison ship's bowels,
sensed the thick, massing swell of hundreds of prisoners just beyond the
partition against which his knees were crushed.

Orla
O'Shaughnessy waited in the boat just outside, but that woman had nerves of
steel and did not command any worry on her behalf.  Cool mist drifted into the
hole by which the Wolf had entered this tiny space, but still the air around him
was dank and hot.  He wished he could see in the choking darkness, wished he
could have brought a light, but such a risk was not worth taking.  Instead he
waited for his senses to accustom themselves to his surroundings and
concentrated on getting his bearings by touch.  Then he pushed himself forward,
twisting his body and thrusting his head through the crude latticework of wood
his exploring hand had managed to locate.

"Clayton." 
His voice was no more than a whisper.

"I'm here,
sir," the guard answered, ten British pounds the richer for his
assistance.

"Have you
the two American lads?"

"I got Jed
with me," came the answer, a foot away in the darkness.  "But I
couldn't get Toby Ashton.  He won't come, says he won't leave his brother
behind."

"I told you
not to fail me in this, Clayton."

"I tried,
sir, told him the Wolf was comin' for him, but he said he won't leave unless he
can get his brother out 'o the Hole an' bring him too.  Said that if he escapes
without him that bastard Morninghall will get his revenge by making the brother
pay."

The Black Wolf crouched
motionless, head bent and knuckles against his brow as he cursed savagely.  Bloody
hell.  He hadn't counted on
this
.

"Send Jed
up to me then.  Quickly!"

Harsh gasps cut
the darkness, then the desperate scratching of fingernails against wood, the
grunt of the guard, the frightened whispers of the boy.  The Black Wolf pushed
himself into the tiny space between the latticework, his strong hands reaching
out in the darkness to seize the youngster's thin, bony ones, squeezing them
reassuringly for a brief moment before hauling him up into the tiny space in
which he was crushed.  His back grinding into the wood behind him, he shifted
and shimmied, dragging the youth up through the crawl space and directing him
toward the ragged hole in the ship's hull.

"Easy now,
lad.  My friend Orla out there in the boat will help you."

Too frightened
to reply, too terrified of being caught, the youngster pushed his head and
shoulders through the hole as the Black Wolf held his ankles to steady him. 
Moments later the Wolf felt the tug signifying that Orla had him in her arms.

"Got him,
sir!" she whispered.

He let go. 
One
left.

"Clayton!"
he whispered fiercely.  "Get Toby Ashton whether he wants to come or not,
and be quick about it!"

There was the
sound of movement, then Clayton was gone.  The seconds crept by as the Black
Wolf waited, lodged in the tiny, airless crawl space, his heart thundering in
his ears, his breathing sounding loud in the darkness.  He buried his mouth
against his arm, trying to mask it, though the sound was unlikely to be heard. 
He pictured Peter up there, drawing out the service as long as possible,
raising his passionate voice and doing all he could to play his part in this
latest rescue.  He sensed Orla several feet away, already spreading a black
tarp over the lad, thought of the schooner
Kestrel
, poised for flight
and silently cruising the waters just beyond the big anchored men-of-war. 
Thank God for the misty night, the drifting fog, the gentle whisper of rain and
tide.

There was a
noise outside the hull, a faint tapping against the old oak.

"Captain!"

His knees
crushed against his chest, the Wolf pivoted in the tiny space and thrust his
head out of the hole through which he had just passed Jed.  Rain pattered
softly against his nape, his damp hair;  the night was dark, so dark it was
impossible to tell where the harbor ended and the night sky began.  Tendrils of
mist and fog crept across the water, enveloping the lights of the men-of-war,
the hospital ship, and another prison hulk.

Orla's face,
smeared with charcoal, was barely visible in the darkness.  "I've got to
push off a bit — there's a guard coming around the scaffolding, he'll be on us
within the next minute!"

"Right,
then.  Go."

The Black Wolf
waved her off, ducking back inside the ship as she put an oar against the
rotting old hull and pushed off into the darkness, the swirling rush of water
following her.  He sat, tense, waiting, and damp, the scent of rain and sea air
wafting into his tiny space.

Where was that
damned Clayton?

He'd no sooner
had the thought when he heard the measured footsteps of the sentry Orla had
warned him about, just outside on the scaffolding not two feet away.  The Wolf
held his breath.  The wooden walkway creaked beneath the sentry's weight as he
approached and passed.

At that moment,
Clayton's urgent whisper cut the darkness.

"Sir, I
can't find him!"

The Wolf froze. 
Outside, the footsteps stopped.

Heavy creaks
sounded on the scaffolding, and he sensed the sentry leaning down.

Damnation!

Clayton, unaware
of the sentry's presence and thinking the Wolf had not heard him the first
time, raised his voice.  "Sir, the Ashton boy, he's not in his hammock.  I
don't know where he is!"

Too late. 
Outside, the guard was on his knees, peering beneath the scaffolding, lowering
his lantern and silently running his hand over the curve of the hull.  The
Black Wolf, trapped, flattened himself against the damp wood at his back as
lantern light filled the night beyond the hole, moving this way, moving that,
stopping, blinding him —

"What the
hell — 
Alarm!  ALARM!  We 'ave us an escape attempt!
"

With all his
strength, the Wolf kicked savagely out at that lantern, the arm, even as the
sentry, howling, tumbled into the harbor and the ship burst into chaos.  A bell
began clanging wildly, muskets cracked above, footsteps were pounding overhead,
the prisoners beyond the latticework were yelling —

And the Black
Wolf was gathering himself for a mighty leap to freedom.

He threw himself
headfirst out of the hole and into the night.

His body knifed
through the darkness and downward.  There was the rush of air past his ears,
then nothing but the gut-wrenching shock as he hit the water, its icy embrace
ripping his breath away, momentarily paralyzing him, closing over his head and
instantly cutting off the ringing alarm from above.  He let himself sink a few
numbing feet, the heavy folds of his cloak brushing like cobwebs around his
face, bubbles hissing and whispering around him.  He heard dull thuds, distant
pops, the plop-plop-plop of musket balls slamming into the surface above.

He doubled his
body and dove deep, striking blindly out toward the harbor's entrance and where
he knew Orla already would be heading swiftly.  The cloak swirled around him,
dragging him backward and impending his progress.  Kicking upward as his air
began to wane, he groped for his knife, cut the thing off, left it writhing and
sinking in the depths behind him.  He broke the surface only long enough to get
his bearings, the rain beating against his brow.  Eighty feet behind him the
prison ship was ablaze with light, silhouetted figures running along her
foc's'le and poop deck, shots cracking out in the night as tongues of
blue-orange fire.

A musket ball
plowed the water six inches from his ear.

"Captain! 
Over here!"

Orla's voice was
barely a whisper, but it was enough to guide him.  He filled his lungs and dove
deep, seeing the dull gleam of light on the surface above him, the inky
blackness of the depths beneath.  His limbs tingled with the cold, and the
current rushed over his head and along his body with the speed at which he
drove himself through it.  Almost there . . . hold on . . .  and then something
brushed his fingers.  Relieved, he knew it was the rope Orla had tossed to
him.  He wrapped it around his hand and held on tight, kicking hard so as not
to slow her progress, rapidly catching up to the struggling boat.