“What about a fire in the hold?” I asked.
“Too risky. We could kill a lot of innocent people if the thing got out of control, which it could easily do with those bales of cotton cloth down there.”
“Just a small fire?”
“I’m with India,” Vincent announced. “We got to get off this ’ere ship wifout bein’ seen. All we need is some smoke and noise, and we’ll be away.”
“Alright,” French said reluctantly. “Vincent, here are my matches. Start the fire in the compartment closest to the stern and as far away from us as possible. When you’ve got it going, dash back on deck and raise the alarm. Let us pray that everyone will be so occupied with the fire that no one notices us.”
It wasn’t the ideal plan, but then we weren’t in the ideal situation. If all went well, we’d be rowing for shore within half an hour. If the worst occurred, we might just have kindled our very own Viking funeral boat.
Vincent scurried off with French’s matchbox clutched in his hand. We huddled on deck, listening to the splash of water as the hull cleaved the sea.
“I’ve half a mind to go down there and start winching the boat over the rail,” said French. “If we can gain even a minute of time, it would be to our advantage.”
“I’ll join you. More hands make less work.”
“Except when the hands don’t know the difference between a winch and a wench.”
“Cheeky bastard.” I crept off. I heard the scrape of French’s boot on the planks as he followed me. We slunk along in the dark shadows cast by the ship’s superstructure, stealthy as two cracksmen, but the fatal moment came when we’d have to cross the open deck to the lifeboat by the rail. I cast one last furtive glance over my shoulder and flung myself toward a large iron structure bolted to the deck and housing a toothed wheel. This, French had informed me, was the pulley mount.
“I’ve got to release the brake and insert the crank,” French whispered, and then spent an inordinately long time mucking about and making a frightful amount of noise. He spared the time to check on the sailors on deck but they were absorbed in their pipes and their conversation. Then he crouched down by the pulley mount and gave the handle a gentle push, which produced no effect whatsoever. He shoved a little harder and I was relieved to see the handle moving. French exerted more strength and the gear began to turn, slowly but steadily, and most important of all, silently. I’d been afraid that the winch might be rusty and that one turn would result in a screech that would have the entire ship’s crew down upon us, but the captain, bless him, must have been a stickler for detail for the winch was freshly oiled.
French made a few rounds with the cranks and the lifeboat had shifted a bit, moving in its cradle, when a cracked adolescent voice screeched a warning. “Fire!” Vincent shouted from the stern. “Fire in the aft hold!”
“Christ,” said French. “That’ll rouse the natives.” He applied himself to the handle and pumped furiously. He worked manfully and I watched as the lifeboat lifted clean out of its cradle, swinging gently on the cable that held it aloft. This brought to mind another question that I had forgotten to ask French. How were we to loosen the cable once the lifeboat was in the water? I’d also been keeping a keen eye out for a ladder and I had yet to spy one. There were a number of ways in which this scheme could go wobbly, but I consoled myself (not that it was much consolation) with the thought that our options for exiting a moving ship under a full head of steam were limited.
The lifeboat was swinging freely now and the arm through which the cable was threaded had extended the boat out over the rail so that it dangled above the water. It was still a deuced long way from the lifeboat to the surface of the ocean and our position was precarious.
Vincent’s alarm had certainly created a diversion. The stern of the ship now swarmed with figures running to and fro and shouting like the devil. If there’s one thing a sailor fears above all else it is fire, and these chaps were rocketing about the deck, manning pumps and brandishing axes. Vincent scuttled into view. I noticed he had liberated one of the ship’s axes himself.
“Hurry, French,” I said, casting an anxious glance at the activity. “We haven’t much time.”
I paced about the deck, fretting, and watched the proceedings at the stern. For the moment, everyone was preoccupied with the fire Vincent had set, but if anyone cast a casual glance in the direction of the bow, we’d be spotted. I said as much to French and Vincent, but French was panting from his exertions and Vincent was gnawing a fingernail and neither spared breath to reply. French was pumping madly and I leaned over the rail to check his progress. I was relieved to see that the boat was just ten feet or so above the roiling waves.
My relief was short-lived, however. Someone had seen us. The bugger sent up a view halloo and suddenly every man at the stern wheeled round and stared at us. I calculated the distance between us and them and reckoned that we had only a few seconds to make good our escape. I thought it best to inform French of this, but when I turned to do so, I found he’d clambered into the lifeboat with Vincent’s axe and was hacking away at the cable that held the boat suspended from the arm.
“You bloody idiot. If you cut that cable the boat will fall and you’ll be in the water.” I should have thought that was perfectly obvious to him, but perhaps he was a bit stressed by the situation. Perhaps my own mind was affected by the fact that a pack of men was advancing toward us up the deck, led by our three friends. They did not look friendly, nor kind, nor would I wager that one of them knew when to use the fish fork.
It’s damned odd what goes through your mind at a time like this. I wondered whether the whole ship’s company could be in league with Philip (of whom there was no sign, by the way) and his compatriots and decided that was a ridiculous notion. The captain could well be a coconspirator, but it was doubtful that a criminal gang would pay an entire ship’s crew to cover up its nefarious doings. I found that thought comforting.
So what would the villains do now? If they confronted us, we need only tell the truth and invite the crew to view the evidence. I didn’t think they’d take lightly to the idea that British guns were being used to kill our own chaps in some dusty, Godforsaken spot in India. We might get the upper hand rather easily, and end up sailing back to London with our quarry in our pockets. I bent over the railing to inform French of this brilliant idea when a bullet ricocheted off the iron railing near my head.
This required some revision to my plan of telling the truth to the crew. It would be bloody difficult to do that with a bullet in the head. Obviously the criminals were determined to finish us off before we had a chance to expose them.
“Crikey!” said Vincent.
French peered up at us. “Jump!” he commanded.
I gauged the distance between the deck and the lifeboat and did not like what I saw. “Where’s the ladder?” I shouted.
“Just jump!” French screamed.
I seldom complain, unless there’s good cause to do so, but I felt disinclined to launch myself off a heaving deck toward the rather small target the lifeboat offered. A ladder would have been so much more helpful.
A second shot cracked, echoing over the sound of the waves, and the wooden deck exploded a foot from Vincent. He uttered a strangled gasp.
“Are you hit?”
“Got it in the leg,” he said, and dragged himself over to stand by me. “It’s alright, I can make it.”
“Jump!” French roared.
Vincent put his grimy, bloodstained hand into mine and over we went. I’m grateful to the pup, for I might not have found the courage to jump into that bucking lifeboat alone. We dropped like two bloody great boulders into the boat. The momentum of our weight snapped the remaining strands of cable and the boat plummeted to the waves. The first jolt, when I landed in the lifeboat, jarred my teeth and drove the breath from me. I scarcely felt the second, when the boat hit the water. Still breathless, I pitched forward and found myself sprawled in the bottom of the lifeboat, my face buried in a coil of rope that smelled of mildew.
French clambered over me, digging his heels into my ribs as he groped for the oars. He found one and thrust it into the oarlock, but that was all he had time to do before the bullets were whizzing past our ears. I looked frantically for cover and considered hiding behind French but I was too damned fond of the fellow to use him that way.
“Over the side!” French shouted, lifting Vincent by the scruff of his neck and tossing him into the choppy water. Now French knows very well that I can’t swim. Indeed, on my last aqueous adventure, I’d had to be hauled from the river by Vincent. Unfortunately, the lad didn’t seem to be in any condition to act as my personal lifesaver at the moment. I intended to inform French of this, but he forestalled my protest by according me the same treatment Vincent got.
The cold shock of the seawater quite took my breath away. It is not true that I panicked. I may have flailed about a bit, and sputtered, but I would never do anything as undignified as trying to climb atop French, nearly drowning him in the process, as he claims. And it is certainly untrue that he had to punch me in the jaw to get me off him. I came by that bruise naturally, from being forced to jump off the deck of a perfectly good ship into a tiny lifeboat.
French tucked an arm under my chin and towed me to the lifeboat, where he left me clinging to the edge like a limpet and with strict instructions (entirely unnecessary, I assure you) to keep my head down. Then he swam away and snagged Vincent, who had drifted a short distance away on the current. The
Sea Lark
was steaming past us but the hooligans kept up a steady fusillade, with bullets hitting the lifeboat and splashing into the water around us. We huddled together, clinging to the side of the lifeboat and keeping our heads well below the line of fire. My teeth were chattering and my legs were working like pistons. I doubted I could continue this rather strenuous activity for much longer. I managed to enquire about Vincent.
“I’m not so bad. My leg’s dead but t’other one’s workin’ fine. I’m as cold as a corpse, though. Do you fink they’ll keep movin’ or will they come back and ’ave another go at us?”
Just what I was wondering. I expounded, in short bursts of speech interrupted by my teeth clacking together, my theory that the crew was likely not corrupt, and that the captain, who might be, and our knaves, who certainly were, would not want to haul us back on deck and give us a chance to point out their villainy.
“If the confounded crew ain’t in league wif those rascals, ’ow come they let ’em shoot at us?”
I’d thought of this as well. “They probably told the crew we were stowaways, maybe even that we had crept on board to steal something, and that we set the fire to cover our escape. Even the most reasonable of men would take umbrage at having his ship set afire.”
The shooting had subsided now, and we could see the
Sea Lark
steaming away from us, the dim figures of dozens of men gathered on the aft rail.
“I hope your theory is correct,” said French. He clutched the edge of the lifeboat with one hand and Vincent’s collar with the other. “If so, our friends may convince the crew to sail on and leave us here. The sailors might think casting us adrift this far from land is adequate punishment.”
We watched with apprehension for any sign that the ship was turning back. The small circles of light from the portholes grew dimmer and the thumping of the screws faded into the distance. It was jolly dark out here, with only the sound of waves lapping the sides of the lifeboat. A cold wind ruffled my wet hair, and I shuddered.
“I think they’re going on,” said French. “But even if they come back we’ve got to get in the boat before we freeze to death.” I wasn’t sure that hadn’t already happened. French placed both hands on the edge of the boat and gave a mighty kick, propelling himself up and into the craft. French hauled in Vincent and then pulled me aboard. I flopped in headfirst, with my feet waving in the air. I was damned grateful to be out of the water.
“Are you badly shot, Vincent?” I asked.
“It ain’t a bullet at all.” The lad sounded disgusted. “It’s a big ole splinter. Must’ve come from the deck.”
“You’re sure?”
“’Course I’m sure. It’s stickin’ out a good six inches. You want to feel it?”
I declined.
French did not. “It’ll be hours before we get to shore. I’m going to pull out that thing and bind up your leg.”
“It can wait. It don’t ’urt. ’Ardly.”
French bent over the lad and ran a hand up the boy’s leg. I heard Vincent gasp.
“Good God,” said French.
“Just leave it in there.” If I hadn’t known Vincent as well as I did, I could have sworn the scamp was terrified. One can hardly blame him. I shouldn’t like the idea of a scrap of wood protruding from one of my appendages and the thought of having it pulled out without even a sip of brandy to dull the pain was monstrous.
“Come, come. It’ll only hurt for a moment.”
That, I reflected, was one of history’s great lies and I would have to remonstrate with French later about trotting it out so cavalierly.
He bowed over Vincent’s small, shivering figure and I saw his shoulders tense.
Vincent yelped. “Oi, guv! Don’t touch it.” Then Vincent screamed and French was standing, swaying gently with the motion of the boat, and brandishing a wicked piece of wood, fully ten inches long and sharp as a dagger.
