India Black and the Gentleman Thief

ELEVEN


We lay in a row, our hands and feet bound tightly with stiff rope. The ruffians had gagged us, stuffing rags into our mouths and binding our faces with strips of cloth. There wouldn’t have been much to talk about anyway. Our chances for escape seemed slim. I’d twisted and turned my wrists until they felt like raw meat and still hadn’t been able to loosen my bonds one whit. These fellows were professionals. I doubted there was a loose knot among the three of us. They’d dumped us in a heap at the foot of the cargo, in a narrow space between the stacks of crates and a bulkhead that partitioned the cargo hold. A thin strip of amber light leaked through the panels of the bulkhead. That pale thread of light represented a passage beyond and freedom, if only we could reach it.

I reckoned we’d set sail about two hours after we’d been captured. There’d been a flurry of activity on deck, with the sound of feet running overhead and the shriek of the capstan as the anchor was raised. The boiler had been fired and the engine began to grind slowly. The ship had shuddered as she gained leeway and wallowed awkwardly with the motion of the Thames. It had taken some time to travel the length of the river, and as we bumped and swayed my heart and my hopes sank. It would not take long until we reached the mouth of the river and the engine began to throb with a full head of steam, and soon after French, Vincent and I would be flotsam.

I’ll tell you candidly, I was frightened and by God, I was angry, too. Not at Philip, though I wasn’t best pleased with that chap. I thought he’d looked relieved when one of the thugs shoved the rags in my mouth, eliminating my last chance at laying claim to his friendship. You can’t blame a chap for being true to his nature, and I knew from firsthand experience that when things got sticky, the only sign of Philip would be the dust from his heels. No, I was angry at the Great Hairy Chess Player in the Sky. I ask you, is it fair to be told you’re an heiress one day and then have the rug pulled out from under you the next? And what of French? We’d yet to resolve all our differences, but I’d planned to bed the poncy bastard soon and now he’d never have the chance to experience that bliss. Well, the way matters stood now, I’d soon have my chance to rail at the Almighty in person, which, come to think of it, might not be the wisest course of action when He’s sitting in judgment of your mortal soul. I don’t know what French and Vincent were thinking of at the moment, but these matters theological had my full attention. There’s nothing like impending death to focus the mind.

The first I knew that something was up was when French rolled over and butted his head against mine. I rolled away, irritated by this interruption of my contemplation of my fate. But the fellow was merely alerting me to the fact that the moment I had been dreading had come. The door into the bulkhead popped open and the amber light swelled until I could see the figures of Vincent and French on either side of me. A shadowy figure stood in the door, the outline of a butcher’s blade clearly visible against the light. I whimpered, softly I hoped, but I couldn’t hide the fear welling inside me. We were to suffer the same fate as Mayhew before our bloody carcasses were dropped off in the dark waters of the channel. The door closed swiftly and the inky gloom enveloped us again.


“India?”

It was Philip. You’d think the bloke would remember that I was gagged and wouldn’t be able to carry on a conversation, but that was a point to discuss at a later time. For the moment, I was grateful that he had come, and just a trifle puzzled. I knew he wasn’t here to fillet us, but playing the hero had never been Philip’s style.

I grunted through the gag. A cautious hand groped my ankle.

“India?” I made an affirmative noise, to let the bloke know he’d selected the correct captive. A blade slid between my ankles. My body tensed. Perhaps I’d been wrong about the chap, but then he commenced sawing at the rope that bound my feet together. I felt the release of pressure as the strands of the rope gave way, then Philip’s hand moving up my leg to my thigh. He fumbled about, looking for my hands, and I prayed he wouldn’t cut me inadvertently. He found my wrists and used one hand to painstakingly determine the location of my bonds; then I felt the cold sliver of steel pass between the thin skin on the inside of my wrists, and Philip set to work to sunder the rope. I held my breath for fear of moving my hands into the path of that blade, for it had been honed to a fearsome edge. I have to hand it to Philip, he was a ruddy expert with that knife. My shackles fell apart in an instant. I yanked off the strip of cloth that had been tied round my head and pulled the rags from my mouth.

My rescuer leaned over and put his mouth to my ear. “Are you alright?”

“I’m as well as might be expected, considering I’ve been lying down here ruminating about my impending death.”

“I am sorry about that. My partners can be overly enthusiastic when it comes to protecting their interests.”

“That is one way to put it, yes.”

“What the devil are you doing here, India? How did you get involved in this?”

“It’s a long story, and as we seem to be sailing away from London at a rapid clip, I’d rather tell it to you some other time.”

“And how the hell did you know I was involved in this? I assume that’s why you came looking for me. I didn’t think you were the sentimental type.”

“Also a tale for another time. Now hand over that knife and get out of here. You’re running a terrible risk being down here. If those chaps find out you’ve helped us escape, you’re likely to get the same treatment as Mayhew.”

I could sense he was torn between staying to find out how I’d happened to be on the ship and returning as swiftly as he could to his cabin, where he could practice his look of astonishment when told the prisoners had escaped. In the event, he did the sensible thing, and decided to save his own hide. I’d known he would. It was what I would have done in his situation.

“You didn’t happen to bring our guns with you, did you?” Well, a girl can try.

“I couldn’t take that risk.”

Bugger. I’d been fond of that Bulldog.

“Give me five minutes,” said Phillip. “Then go through the door in the bulkhead. It opens into another part of the hold, and you’ll find a companionway to the deck. Once on deck, turn left. Stay in the shadows and walk about twenty paces. There’s a lifeboat secured to the rail there. Loose the lifeboat and jump overboard. There may be a commotion on deck, but the engines are running at full capacity and no one will want to stop to fish you out.”

His heels grated on the planks as he swiveled to leave. Then he turned back. “Take all the ropes and the knife with you. I’d rather my friends thought you’d orchestrated your own escape.”

“Sensible idea,” I said.

“Good luck to you, India. And whatever you do, for God’s sake, let this thing go. You’re in over your head.”

I thought it quite likely that the same was true of Philip. But to tell him so would achieve nothing but burn a few precious seconds of the time we had remaining before the rest of the gang arrived to toss us overboard. On impulse I reached up, found Philip’s head and drew it to mine for a lengthy kiss. I’m not sure whether I meant it in gratitude or benediction, or as simply a last chance to press those soft lips to mine. Then Philip took my hand and placed the handle of the knife in my palm, and ghosted away into the gloom. Light filled the hold as he cracked the bulkhead door and slid through it. The darkness swallowed us again.

I rolled over onto my knees and grabbled about until I found French’s hands. It took only an instant to part the strands of rope that bound him; then he was tearing out his gag while I freed his feet.

“Did you hear that?” I asked.

“Yes, I heard. That was Bradley, wasn’t it? Why did you call him Philip? How do you know him? And why is he setting us free?”

I set about cutting Vincent’s bonds. “Let’s just get off this bloody boat and then I’ll tell you everything. Now stuff those ropes in your pockets and let’s go.”

“Give me the knife,” said French.

“Get your own,” I hissed. “This one’s mine.”

“Do be reasonable, India. I’ve had some training and know how to use that weapon.”

“So have I. Know how to use it, I mean. And I’ll wager my training was more practical than yours. You probably learned to knife fight from some dandy. I picked up the skill on the street.”

“Put that rag back in ’er mouf, guv,” said Vincent, “and let’s scarper.”

As I had a knife in my hand, French did not attempt to follow Vincent’s instructions. Instead he lurched to his feet, fumbled toward the bulkhead and eased open the door. I used the light that flooded in as an aid in finding Vincent’s ear and cuffing it. The two of us sprang up and crowded behind French, who had his head through the opening, conning the lay of the land.

“All clear,” he whispered. He opened the door carefully and we filed through, blinking in the dim light, into another section of the hold. This was filled with bales of cotton cloth, piled to the timbers of the deck above us. As Philip had said, a narrow companionway against one side of the hull led upward to a covered hatch.

French went first and I was anxious to follow him but the steps were small and the angle steep, and I had to wait until he was at the top of the companionway before I could start after him. Warily, French pushed the hatch cover open a few inches and peered out. A draught of fresh salt air swooped down the companionway and I breathed it in gratefully. Beyond the outline of French’s head I could see a half-dozen stars, glowing with a faint silvery light against the velvety black of the sky.

He pushed the hatch open and clambered up the stairs and out onto the deck. I was hard on his heels. Vincent came bounding up the companionway like an old salt and the three of us scuttled into the lee of the forecastle. There was a brisk breeze blowing across the bow. Steam poured from the funnels and the thump of the boilers reverberated through the ship.

We glanced about cautiously. There were a few chaps about, gathered in a knot at the rail on the other side of the deck, about thirty feet from us, smoking pipes and watching the faint lights of the English coast slowly fade from view. My spirits soared when I saw those lights. At least we were within sight of land, and French and Vincent would be able to row us ashore in a matter of a few hours. Well, I certainly didn’t intend to blister my soft white hands by paddling us home. French and Vincent would serve admirably for that purpose.

French drew us close and we held a hurried confab on the best and most expeditious way to pinch a lifeboat and get off the confounded Sea Lark. A faint thread of orange light had appeared on the eastern horizon, though full darkness still enveloped the ship. Our captors would have to act soon if they were going to toss us overboard under cover of night. It was imperative that we leave the ship with all speed.


“I’ll go forward and examine the lifeboat,” said French. “We need to know how it’s secured to the deck.” He crept forward and Vincent and I huddled together, keeping a watchful eye on the sailors at the rail. As we gazed at them, one tar detached himself from the group and strolled in our direction.

“Blimey,” said Vincent. “’E’s liable to walk right up on the guv.”

“There’s not much we can do about it,” I said. “Not without raising the alarm. Let’s pray that French has his wits about him and spots this fellow in time to hide.”

We watched in breathless anticipation as the bloke ambled slowly up the deck, now and then kicking a line to test its tension or inspecting a davit or chock on the deck. I glanced forward and saw French’s dark form against the white-painted lifeboat. He had his back to us and I willed him to pause for a gander around the deck, but he was intent on his task and paid no mind to the fellow headed in his direction.

“We’ve got to warn him,” Vincent said.

“You go,” I told him. “And take the knife. If you have to kill that bloke, do it.”

Vincent seized the handle of the dagger and scampered for the lifeboat. He put a hand on French’s shoulder and his nibs nearly jumped overboard. Vincent leaned in close to deliver his news and I saw French’s head whip round, searching for the threat. Meanwhile, the sailor sauntered on, making his slow journey of inspection. If he continued at his present pace, he’d be within sight of French and Vincent in a few seconds. I was wondering just how to explain her nephew’s death to the marchioness when French and Vincent bolted like rabbits out of the shadow of the lifeboat and back down the deck, to huddle next to me. The wash of the sea against the hull, the pulsing of the engines and the ceaseless wind covered the sound of their footsteps. The lone sailor was staring casually at the lights of England. He paused and leaned on the railing, his back to the lifeboat, but I hardly thought we’d be able to lower the cursed thing without the fellow noticing the activity on deck. It occurred to me that there was something crucial I ought to know.

“Psst, French. How the devil do you lower a lifeboat?”

“It’s on a davit, a winch system which lets down the boat to the water when you turn a crank.” He pointed down the deck. “See that pulley mount on deck?”

“What’s a pulley mount?”

His sigh of exasperation ruffled my hair. “Oh, for God’s sake, India. You and Vincent keep watch while I lower the boat.”

That sounded satisfactory to me, seeing as how manual labour was involved.

Vincent had been listening to our conversation. “’Ow long will it take to get that boat in the water, guv?”

“Nine minutes and thirteen seconds.”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic. The lad merely asked a question,” I said.

“I don’t have the faintest idea how long it will take. I’m not an expert on lifeboats, you know.”

“Wot about a diversion?” Vincent was determined to be helpful. “I could go to the front of the ship and yell ‘Man overboard!’ Wot do you fink?”

“We’d have everyone on board ship up on deck in thirty seconds flat,” I said. “Which, I submit, is not helpful if we’re trying to steal a lifeboat. By the way, how do we get from the deck to the boat once it’s in the water?”

“There’ll be a ladder, or something,” French said vaguely. “I like the idea of a diversion, but India is right. We can’t draw attention to the deck. Now if we could get to the boiler room, we could do some damage.”

“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.

Vincent had gone silent.

“Poor lad. He’s fainted.” French ripped off his coat and wrapped it round the boy. “We could use one of your petticoats right now, India.”

“I’ve a scarf.” I unwound it from my throat and passed it over. French deftly wrapped Vincent’s leg and sat for a moment with his hand pressing on the wound.

“Bleeding?” I asked anxiously.

“Hard to tell in this light, and with his clothes soaking wet. We’ll have to get him to a doctor as soon as we can. I’ve no way of knowing if there are any splinters or bits of his trousers left inside. If there are, they’ve got to come out, or there could be serious consequences.”

“I suppose we should start rowing.”

“Come sit by Vincent and keep pressure on his wound.”

We swapped places awkwardly. French found the second oar, inserted it into the oarlock, and set to work. I could see we were destined to spend a fair amount of time out here on the water, for the wind and the tide were against us and it was a long pull to land. French tackled it heroically. I’d expected nothing less but I wondered how long he’d hold out. Vincent’s head was rocking violently with the movement of the boat. Reluctantly I slipped my arm behind his neck to steady him and scooted closer to hold him upright. I thought it unlikely that even protracted exposure to seawater had cleansed the boy of the layers of filth he’d accumulated, but I was pleasantly surprised to learn that he smelled no worse than a dog that had plunged into a viscous swamp.

Dawn was approaching. The first rays of sunlight had appeared, casting a pallid glow over the grey water. I am no sailor, but it seemed that the waves were building and the breeze had freshened since we’d clambered aboard the lifeboat. I shivered uncontrollably and Vincent, even in his unconscious state, was shaking. I could see his face now and he looked as pale and lifeless as a dead flounder.

“Will he be alright, French?”

French stopped rowing for a moment and rested his arms on the oars. “He’s lost a lot of blood, I think. And these conditions can’t be doing him any good.”

“Tell me when you’re tired and we’ll change places.”

He snorted. “I hardly think you’re strong enough to maneuver these oars.”

“I’m strong enough to thump you over the head with one, if provoked.”

He laughed, then sobered and resumed his rowing. I could see him fully now in the grey light of dawn and his face was pinched with exhaustion.

“Regardless of what you think, I shall try my hand at it,” I said firmly. “You’ll need a rest soon.”

He ignored my comments as men do when they feel their masculinity has been impugned and settled into a fluid, rhythmic stroke that would have eaten up the distance, save for the waves that hammered our small craft. We struggled on, or I should say French struggled on, battling the buffeting waves and the cold wind that streamed out of the north. Hard to believe it was May. I’ve been warmer in a January blizzard. The faint lights on shore had been extinguished as the sun had risen, and the English shore looked farther away than it had in the darkness.

“How far are we from land?”

French shrugged. “Too bloody far. But this is a shipping lane, and there will be vessels about. I’m hoping we can hail one and get taken aboard.”

I hadn’t thought of that prospect and found it cheering, especially since I had noticed that my feet were now covered with water. I pointed out this fact to French.

“Damn and blast! There must be a leak somewhere.”

“Indeed,” I said coldly. If we were going to continue our relationship, I must cure French of this annoying habit of his. I do not care to have the obvious continually pointed out to me.

“Make yourself useful and look for it.” I believe French was growing tired for he sounded irritable.

I propped up Vincent as well as I could and plunged my hands into the icy water, groping along the rough planks of the lifeboat’s hull. A splinter pierced my palm and I swore loudly. It was the first of many. By the time I’d covered the length of the boat, my hands felt as if I’d been fondling a hedgehog.

“Did you find anything?”

“No, but I suppose that’s good news. It’s obviously a slow leak or we’d be swamped by now.”

“Is there anything on board you can use to bail the water? There should be a bucket or pail that could be used for that purpose, or to catch rainwater for drinking.”

“That’s an appalling thought. I hope you didn’t mean to imply that we’ll be out here so long we’ll need such an implement.”

It didn’t take long to search our small vessel. It did not contain a pail. I regretted this immensely, as did French when I informed him.

“Perhaps it fell overboard when the lifeboat dropped into the water. In any case it should have been secured.”

“You can inform the ship’s owner of this shocking oversight when we get back to London.”

“If we get back to London.”

“Of course we will. Don’t be such a gloomy puss.”

Vincent stirred and looked round groggily. “Where are we?”


“The same place we were when you fainted,” I said. “Correction, we’re twenty yards closer to shore.”

French swore.

We passed some considerable time in silence. Vincent was too ill and weary for conversation and French was disinclined to engage in civil discourse. I used the time to mull over the gang’s activities, and what our next move should be. It might have been sensible to drop the matter entirely. The presence of the villains on the Sea Lark surely indicated a strategic withdrawal from London. Mayhew’s murder would almost certainly lead to the discovery of the thefts as the police investigated the colonel’s background. And our enquiries around the docks must have further persuaded the thugs that it would be wise to leave England until the dust settled. I decided that the best thing for us to do was alert Dizzy to the theft of the rifles and let him handle the military blokes, and inform Superintendent Allen of what we’d learned. My interest in finding Mayhew’s killers had dissipated a bit. If the bloke was going to join forces with criminals, he’d assumed a bloody big risk and paid for it with his life. I was still chapped at having been roughed up by those three blackguards in my own home, and I wasn’t thrilled to be tootling about on the Atlantic thanks to those blokes, but in the interest of a quiet life I would be willing to forgo revenge.

The only wild card in this hand was the presence of Philip. The poor devil had the judgment of a guinea fowl. Driven by greed, he was, or he’d have never thrown in his lot with these killers. Philip liked clean linen and a daily bath and good cigars. He did not go in for bloodletting, torture or murder. I feared the chap had made a fatal error and would pay for it. I pictured him enduring the fate of Mayhew if the criminals ever twigged that Philip had let us go, and I shivered at the thought. I looked up to find French rowing mechanically, his eyes fixed on me.

“Thinking of Bradley?” he asked, in a damned unpleasant tone, half mocking and half condescending. “Or should I call him Philip, as you do? You’re obviously intimate friends.”

“We are, and you might take a moment and be grateful for that fact. Otherwise, we’d have joined Davy Jones in his locker by now.”

“You recognized him the day he met Captain Tate at the Jolly Tar.” It wasn’t a question. “And that’s why you tripped me when I went after him.”

“Yes, I recognized him. He’s a cracksman and a jewel thief but he’s not a killer. Before you collared him and accused him of Mayhew’s murder, I wanted to find out what he was up to, using my own methods.”

“I suppose those methods involve a bottle of champagne and a soft mattress?”

I bridled at that, partly because that very thing might have been necessary. “See here, French. I do not take kindly to those seamy allegations. My acquaintance with Philip goes back many years, long before a certain government agent entered my life and turned it topsy-turvy. In a way, Philip has done me a good turn.” I wasn’t about to reveal that I had stolen a stolen gem from the bloke. “And I thought it only fair to give him a chance to—”

“To what? Inform the rest of the gang that we were on to them? You’ve obviously warned him, and he’s warned the rest of them and now they’re sailing off to India.” French was virtually incoherent with rage.

“I have not warned Philip. I had merely renewed our acquaintance and had been waiting for an opportune time to find out his connection to this whole affair.” I did not think it wise to mention that I had been wearing my dressing gown at this meeting, nor that it had taken place in a bedroom.

“Oi,” Vincent said weakly. “Are you talkin’ about the gentleman thief? The same chap you used to spark wif?”

“So the whole of London knows about your relationship with this man?” asked French.

“I hardly think Vincent constitutes the entire city.”

“You surprise me, India. The man is connected to a horrible crime.”

“If you knew Philip—”

“I do not desire to know Philip, now or ever.”

“Then you shall just have to take my word for it that he did not murder Mayhew.”

“But his compatriots did, and he is guilty by association.”

“But not by law,” I retorted.

“We shall never know that, now that he’s escaped justice by fleeing the country.” French rowed ferociously. “Just how well did you know this fellow? Was he your lover?”

I considered shoving him overboard. “You presume too much with those questions, French. Shall I enquire into the intimacy of your relationship with your fiancée?”

“I’ll thank you not to besmirch the name of Lady Daphne. She is a pure, sweet young woman.”

“In contrast to me, do you mean? If that’s how you feel, then I wonder why you’ve been hanging around me like a doting hound. Ah, could it be that underneath that supercilious manner of yours, you’re nothing but a man like all the rest? You’ll marry your docile lass with a title and spend your free time whoring.”

He recoiled as if I’d struck him, a look of pained astonishment on his face. Then his eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened.

“How dare you accuse me of such a thing? I have never treated you like a, like a—”

“Like a whore? You can’t even bring yourself to say the word. You’d be surprised how many men can’t. It permits them the illusion that they are gentlemen. And I seem to recall that you had no qualms at sending me off to the Russian embassy to ply my trade, so long as I brought back that bloody memo you wanted.”

Well, that caused him to clamp shut his jaws, as I expected it would. I would note, however, that anger is a fine inducement to strenuous physical effort as French rowed like a galley slave for the next several, silent hours. I did offer, three times in fact, to take a turn on the oars, but French refused by doggedly shaking his head and paddling on. Very well, if he wanted to sulk, let him. I suppose I should have been flattered that his nibs was jealous of Philip. If I were typical of my species, I’d probably drop a few comments about Philip’s manly figure or beautiful eyes, just to goad French to fresh demonstrations of envy. But I’ve never gone in for such games. You never know when a chap’s leash may break under the strain and he’ll go for your throat. Besides, I had a nagging suspicion that French’s taciturnity might not result from jealousy at all, but from mere anger at me for interfering with Philip’s capture back at the Jolly Tar.