In For A Penny - Part 16

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...Previous

   The bright and sunny today was replaced by a grey and dreary tomorrow. The sky had clouded over by the time they reached Port Nichols, and after the moon had risen, it had begun to pour steady rain. After the moon had set, Mr. Tiller hefted his rucksacks onto his back, gathered the boy into his arms, and left his cabin for the last time. He crossed the deck under cover of night, casting cautious looks around but never back.

   He knocked three times on Vesco’s door, propping Damian in the crook of his arm. The boy was tugging an overlarge sealskin hat over his ears to keep dry.

   “That’s a good lad,” said Tiller quietly, adjusting the boy’s similarly outsized coat. “Keep warm. We’ll be back with Mummy in just a minute.”

   The door opened, dousing them in lantern light. Tiller took a hurried step forward, followed immediately by a hurried step back, squeezing Damian to his chest.

   The sight of Captain Weatherdecker was not what had him worried. It would have been easy to make up an excuse for this late-night visit. What had him worried was the line of steel crossing the threshold. The sword that the captain held jutted out into the rain, only a few inches shy of Tiller’s belt.

   “Uh…” said the boatswain. “S’just me, cap’n. No need for a fightin’ stance!” Damian was staring at the captain with laser intensity.

   “No, there’s need, Jeremy. I figured you’d argue, so I wanted to cut it short. Put down the boy and back away - then, I can either drag you to the hold or you can walk and save me some work. What’ll it be?”

   Tiller did back away, though he didn’t loosen his grip on Damian. Weatherdecker matched his steps.

   “What’d you do to Vesco?” demanded Tiller.

   “He’s in the brig, with his little lady. What, you think I hurt ‘em?” he asked, of Tiller’s suspicious glare. “I’m not that crazy, Jeremy. I’m just gonna keep ‘em there ’til I get a chance to debark ‘em. You’ll be joinin’em, don’t you worry. Now, drop the kid.”

   “W-what lady’s’is?” asked Tiller hurriedly. “W-why would you put me off ship, Cap’n? Vesco only asked me to meet him here, I don’t know what’s-“

   He staggered backwards as Weatherdecker rushed the sword forward. It was only a warning, but an impatient, unforgiving one all the same. Tiller slipped on the wet deck, hitting it hard on his back. He carefully braced Damian against the fall, which ended up making his own bruises much worse.

   The point of the sword was immediately in his face.

   “Don’t you dare treat me stupid, Jeremy. You been part o’this since the start. Now, let go o’ the kid. If I have to ask again, I’ll ask with steel.”

   Tiller looked to the boy in his arms, staring up at the Captain with tearful awe. The boatswain reached up and set his hand on the crown of the water-slick hat, pulling the boy’s head to his chest, hiding his face.

   “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “You’re safe. We’ll get you back to Mummy, okay?”

   With a grunt of frustration, Weatherdecker pulled the sword back, ready for a stab. Tiller winced and closed his eyes, ready for the worst. He did not let go; he only held tighter.

    In that single dark second, he heard a pair of hard, fast bootsteps, then a sharp, squeaking clang, followed immediately by a dull wooden thump. Then, quiet. And rain. And the creak of the ship. Was this death? He felt no pain. Not so much as a scratch. He risked a peek.

   A second figure was silhouetted next to Weatherdecker in the pouring lamplit rain. Even without his bicorne, there was no mistaking the stature of the first mate.

   Airedale had driven the point of Weatherdecker’s sword into the deck beside Tiller’s leg. His own sword was crossed overtop, weighing it down. It would have been easy enough for the captain to pull it out and have another go, but he was staring, eyes locked with the first mate’s.

   “Drop your weapon,” said Airedale. Weatherdecker only glared at him some more. His hand stayed firmly wrapped around the sword’s hilt.

   “I told you to drop your weapon. I did not ask.”

   “I don’t take orders from you,” snapped Weatherdecker. “Get outta here. This ain’t your business.”

   Carefully, still keeping his lock on Weatherdecker’s sword, Airedale took one long step sideways, settling himself between Tiller and the captain.

   “If it happens,” he said, pressing down on the sword, “aboard my ship…” He suddenly let go, arcing his own sword through the air to reestablish a good grip. “…it is my business. If you want to kill an innocent man on my deck, you’ll have to get through me. Pull that sword up and face me, Richard, if you’re eager to kill. Show me you aren’t a coward.”

   Weatherdecker hauled on his sword, dislodging the point from the deck. With a growl, he raised it to Airedale’s own.

   “I’se killed men bigger’n you with my bare hands,” said the captain lowly.

   “Before, or after they were hogtied?”

   Weatherdecker thrust his sword forward with a savage growl; Airedale caught it with his, and held it.

   “C’mon, you fuckin’ poof,” snapped the Captain. Both their locked arms were starting to tremble. “We gonna talk, or am I gonna cut you open?”

   He slid his sword along Airedale’s, making them sing. He pulled back, and tried another, lower cut. The first mate got his weapon under it and threw it aside before it could hit. Thus separated, he said:

   “Mr. Tiller.” It was a command, catching the boatswain’s attention. Mr. Airedale reached into his jacket and withdrew a ring of keys, which he tossed in Tiller’s direction. They landed with a jangle on the deck beside him. He could have caught them, if not for the baby in his arms. The first mate had not diverted his eyes from the captain for a single second.

   “Get to the brig,” said Airedale. “Release Mr. Vesco and Ms. Carruthers. Get off the ship. Mr. Cartleblat’s vessel is docked not far from here, to our stern.”

   Tiller had grabbed the keys and scrambled to his feet, still clutching the boy to his chest, though he did not leave.

   “But, Tim…what are you…?”

   “Either I will meet you shortly, or you will have gotten a sufficient head start. Go, now. Do not argue.”

   Mr. Tiller took a few hesitant steps away. Mr. Airedale still had not looked in his direction once.

   “Thank you,” he whispered. The steps turned into a run, towards the hold. Mr. Airedale stared his captain down, sword at the ready.

   “I would rather not do this with weapons, Richard. If I admit that I am, in fact, a poof, are you willing to have a reasoned discussion?”

   The captain’s face darkened, his eyes bright with hatred. He bared his teeth. With a sudden gargling yell, he raised his sword high in both hands, bringing it down as hard as he could. Mr. Airedale met it in a cross over his head, and threw it off once more.

   “Shut your mouth!” bellowed the captain. “Shut your fuckin’ mouth, you fag! Quit tossin’ your fancy words around an’ fight me like a man!”

   Quick as a wink, Mr. Airedale swept the point of his sword a few inches from Weatherdecker’s belly. Had he been trying to, he would have opened his captain hip to hip. Weatherdecker staggered back a few steps, startled, wide-eyed. He looked like a child who had just discovered the claws on his pet cat.

   “I do not hope to fight you, Richard. I hope to make you see sense. I am distressed and disappointed that we had to come to swords over this. Do you really wish to add assault to the list of charges against you?”

   For once in his life, Richard Weatherdecker listened. He stayed silent.

   “Miss Carruthers has gotten away with her child. It is over, Richard. There are plenty of witnesses willing to put this to court against you, myself included. If you kill me, there are others. You aren’t going to get out of this. If you put your sword down, and come with me, it will be better for you.”

   The wind whistled in their ears; it whistled through Weatherdecker’s nose as he breathed, hard and fast, his brain whirring.

   He swiped again, suddenly, but Airedale had seen it coming a mile away. He deflected deftly, locking their weapons once more.

   “You can take me to fuckin’ court,” growled the captain, “when you drag in my dead fuckin’ body.”

   “I will do no such thing, Richard. If I have to drag you, I will drag you alive.” He pressed harder. “I want you to see their faces. See the pain you caused. You do not get to escape that easily.”

   Weatherdecker shoved him back, bracing the flat of his sword against Airedale’s, but the first mate knew he had already won. The look in his captain’s eyes was all he needed.

   “Fuck you, fag,” spat Weatherdecker. “Always knew you for a traitor. Never shoulda let the lady pick my first!”

   Mr. Airedale’s cut came down on him so hard, so quickly, he barely had time to lift his sword over his head to block it. It rattled his teeth and the bones in his fingers. Sharp ringing sounded in his ears from the slash of metal on metal so close to his head. His arms started to tremble as Mr. Airedale forced the sword down, harder.

   “I always knew you as an oaf, as an ape, as a dangerous man and a terrible captain. I never should have let Miss Bankshead make me your first. I deserved a proper captain and you deserved a drowning in a sack in a river, you cur!”

   Weatherdecker was so fixed on the sword from above, he missed the boot from below until it had already kicked him in the liver. He doubled over, breathless, stumbling backwards out of Airedale’s reach; but only barely out of the reach of Airedale’s weapon. The captain looked up, groggily, to see a point of steel aimed right for his face.

   “Put it down, Richard,” said Airedale, with finality. A pause passed between them, filled only by the patter of heavy rain on the deck. The captain stood a little straighter.

   With a huge grunt of effort, he swept his sword up and out. It clanged against Mr. Airedale’s, knocking the first mate’s arm aside as the steel in his hand vibrated angrily. He recovered in an instant, ready to parry his captain’s next strike, but it never came. Weatherdecker had not been attacking. He had been distracting, throwing his first mate off balance just long enough to turn tail and disappear into the dark.

   Mr. Airedale leapt after him, after a brief pause to sort through his confusion. He had been expecting a poor fight from his captain, certainly, but not outright cowardice.

   His long, steady strides caught him up to Weatherdecker in no time at all. At least, they would have, had Weatherdecker stayed on deck. Mr. Airedale slowed to a halt in a few awkward steps, before he ran into the wall of the foredeck. He looked around, looked behind, weapon at the ready. Impossible. Where could he…?

   A lightning flash illuminated the rain, freezing it in tiny slivers of glass. The rigging of the ship burst in silhouette like a spider’s web in black. On the ladder of the mainmast, partway up to the flat platform that served as a fighting top, was the spider himself. Airedale’s eyes locked on as if drawn there by magnets.

   He sheathed his sword, keeping his captain clear in his sights. From the sheath on his other hip, he drew a long, sharp dagger. Then he moved, slinking along the dark deck. Had the thunder not rolled, had the wind not roared, he still would have been silent as a shadow.

   The captain had left a pair of kerosene lanterns for them, his one small gesture of goodwill. They hung on the wall opposite their cell doors. He had made plenty more small gestures of bad will, however; locking them in, taking the keys, manacling Mr. Vesco by the hands after threading the chain around a cell bar. Mr. Vesco was an able lockpick, and Weatherdecker knew this, having employed his skill on several occasions.

   His throwing knives had been cut from his wrists. He couldn’t reach the bigger ones at his ankles. He was having trouble remembering how he got here, much less how to rifle around in a lock. The bruise that the captain had flowered at the base of his skull was pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and sighed.

   “I’m sorry,” he murmured. It was quiet in the brig, and Susan heard him well enough. She looked up from her knees, hugging them tightly in the corner made by cell bars and wooden wall. From that flat angle, she could only see his hands hanging from the bars, and the edge of the cuffs around them.

   “He was asleep,” continued Vesco. “I swear to gods he was asleep when I looked in.”

   “Don’t be sorry,” said Susan. She sounded calm, though whether this was actual serenity or simply shock even she couldn’t say. “You couldn’t have known. It’s the easiest thing in the world to fake.”

   “Couldn’t’ve known,” he said. “Should’ve thought.”

   He sighed again, letting his forehead rest between two of the cold cell bars. Susan watched his hands for a while, dangling uselessly from their manacles.

   She turned suddenly as the hatch in the ceiling cracked open. Beyond it was only darkness. As it was overturned, a few raindrops snuck through, spotting the floor of the brig in a square. The rope ladder kept at the top dropped through with a rattle and hiss, like a snake from a branch.

   She didn’t immediately recognize the feet that hooked themselves into the rungs, but she knew they were not the captain’s. She stood as Mr. Tiller dropped to the floor, one hand letting go of the ladder, the other arm holding tight to her baby. Relief swept her away like a sudden riptide.

   “Tiller!” she cried. Mr. Vesco’s chain rattled against the cell bars. She could see his hands tighten around them.

   “Jeremy, thank gods! You alright?”

   “Fine. Just fine!” Tiller pulled a ring of keys from his trouser pocket and started to flip through them. Damian tried to help, unhelpfully. “I’ll have you outta there in a sec, just hold on…”

   He unlocked Susan’s cell first. She pulled Tiller into a strangling hug, then took Damian from his arms and hugged him even tighter. The boy chirped and showed off his new hat as Tiller freed Vesco, from both cell and cuff.

   “Did he catch you?” demanded the quartermaster.

   “We got away,” said Tiller. “We have to hurry, Vesco. I dunno how much time we have. We have to get to—“

   “How much time before what?”

   “Mr. Airedale’s keepin’ him busy. He told me to get you and head for—“

   Mr. Vesco’s hand dropped absentmindedly to the scabbard at his hip. The one that Weatherdecker had so helpfully emptied for him before locking him away. That sword was not just for ceremony, not tonight. Vesco had been careful to sharpen it.

   “Fuck,” he breathed. He looked up at Susan. “Get off the ship, all of you. Go on without me. I’ll catch you up.” He grabbed a lantern off the wall as he ran past. He nipped the handle in his teeth and leapt onto the ladder like a monkey, climbing as fast as he could.

   “Where you goin’?” called Tiller. “Vesco, he said to—!”

   The quartermaster ignored him, vanishing into the rainy night.

Next...

In For A Penny - Part 15

If you have not already, please start here!

...Previous

   Susan had noticed some odd things in her days in Mr. Vesco’s bedroom. It was hard not to, in such proximity to a man’s most personal space. The time she had spent aboard Adam’s tiny tin can and the time she had spent in the cramped prison of sailor’s bunks below had taught her what the space of a working man looked like. Mr. Vesco’s did not line up in quite the same way. It was messy in some places, but never dirty. A pile of clothes here and a tented book there did not a mess make. He kept himself the same way, a bit salty and sunburned but never unclean. He washed and brushed and shaved and coiffed. It finally came to Susan when she had a look through the books keeping watch over the bed, flipping through them by candlelight for some bedtime reading. First of all, and most plainly, they were books. Bound in leather and printed by professionals. She knew Adam could read, but had never seen him do so for pleasure. Like most working men she knew, he did not own a book that was not mostly diagrams on how to fix things. Mr. Vesco’s books were of poetry. Classical tales, from civilizations ancient, far-off, or both. Tracts on philosophy, theology, sciences. The most telling thing was the style of the script that had written ‘A. Vesco’ inside the cover of each book. It had style that could only be learned in a school, after years of regular practice. Educated, thought Susan, and not on the sea.

   She looked up from her reading as she heard a knock on the door. Mr. Vesco was always careful to knock, though only to warn. She didn’t reply, didn’t call him to come in. She closed the book of philosophy she’d been on around her finger to mark her place.

   Mr. Vesco slipped in without a sound. He closed the door behind him, and slouched back against it. He seemed tired, distracted, not quite looking her in the eyes. His hands opened and closed at his sides. She waited for him to speak.

   “We’re only one more night from our next port,” he said quietly. “I’m goin’ to put you off there.”

   She had known it would happen eventually. She still felt her stomach turn as it was said out loud, set in stone. After another pause, Mr. Vesco willed himself to look at her, his eyes steely and bright.

   “And,” he continued, “if the fates are good to me, I’m puttin’ your son off with you.”

   The next day was a lovely one. Sunny and cloudless, as far as the eye could see. Windy, naturally, else the ship would not be moving much, but it was a pleasant breeze instead of a gale. Mornings such as this were perfect for tea on deck. Today, Mr. Airedale stood at the stern railing, overlooking the wake of the ship. In the distance, only a dot riding the waves of the galleon, was the tugboat. Mr. Airedale watched it carefully, and sipped his tea.

   “Still there?” asked the captain, appearing beside him. Weatherdecker felt infinitely annoyed when Airedale did not so much as blink at his sudden intrusion. He kept staring out over the waves.

   “Still there,” agreed the first mate. He sipped his tea. Weatherdecker stared at him for a moment; realizing he would not be stared at in return, he turned his attention to the tugboat.

   “Think they’ll catch up?” asked the captain offhandedly.

   “I could not say,” said Airedale.

   “They shouldn’ be able to,” said Weatherdecker. “Them, just a tiny tug. Us, a huge galleon with the wind behind us. Determined little bugger, that Cartleblat.”

   Airedale did not have anything to say to this. He didn’t even nod.

   “S’funny, though,” continued the captain. “Just this mornin’, I found out somethin’ - or someone - had been at the riggin’. Ropes cut. Gashes in some o’ the sails. A pulley or two just flat out missin’.”

   “My word,” said Airedale, as if nothing in the world could be less exciting.

   “An’ no accident, I’m sure,” said the captain. “Cuts are too clean. Ropes pulled right out, whole. Not tryin’a stop us, just to slow us down. An’ you know what’s funny, Tim? Our speed’s toppin’ out just below the average of an ocean-goin’ tug.”

   “Is it,” said Airedale. “What a strange coincidence.”

   “Oh? Coincidence, you think?”

   “What else could it be, Captain?”

   “Well, maybe someone did it deliberate. Someone who wanted to make sure Cartleblat din’t fall behind.”

   “I cannot imagine who.”

   The captain was staring at the first mate again. Studying every inch of his face. Airedale was aware of this. He turned his head, looking his Captain right in the eye. He sipped his tea, and set the cup back down on the saucer. A few seconds passed. Then he turned back to the ocean. His expression had not moved once. He had not even blinked.

   Mr. Airedale could out-wait a glacier, but he had been enjoying his solitude in the sunshine and wished to return to it. He gave the captain a few more minutes to glare at him in silence.

   “If you suspect wrongdoing, Richard, we could place another watch or two in the rigging. Failing that, perhaps we could find a willing barmaid to keep an eye on things around the table.”

   The glare’s intensity did not fade, but the captain’s eyes widened.

   “What did you say?” he demanded.

   “I said that we could perhaps revise our watch schedule, Richard. Was that unclear?”

   The captain’s hand tightened on the railing. Mr. Airedale met his angry stare with an innocent one of his own devising. The glare turned into a scowl.

   “No,” muttered the captain. “No, it’s all clear.”

   Mr. Airedale let him stalk away with the last word. It was the least he could do.

   None of the crew had asked Mr. Vesco why he had been leaving the galley lately with two of everything. Most hadn’t noticed, and the ones that had knew it wasn’t their business to question the quartermaster. Technically speaking, there was only one man who could and that was captain, who also hadn’t noticed. He didn’t notice even as he cornered Vesco at the bottom of the mess hall stairs that he had a bowl of porridge in each hand.

   He swung his arm out like a bear catching a leaping fish, corralling Vesco against the wall as the quartermaster tried to move past him with only a nod. They remained largely alone in their dark corner beside the stairs.

   “Been chatty, ain’cha?” said the captain without introduction. Vesco was not quite as good at Mr. Airedale at stony faces, but could still hold his own.

   “Have I?” said Vesco. “What about?”

   The captain leaned in, bending the arm against the wall, and lowered his voice.

   “I thought it went without sayin’, Vesco, that when you agree to a swindle you keep your mouth shut about it. You really that thick, to need remindin’?”

   “Don’t need no such thing, cap’n,” Vesco returned in a low murmur. “I know how it is. But, I agreed to a swindle, not a kidnapping. Not puttin’ the whole ship at risk with watchmen aboard. Wouldn’t’ve said nothin’ if you’d been smart enough to quit when you could.”

   “This ain’t on me,” said the captain. “Cartleblat’s the one that shoulda been smart enough to pay up.”

   “To pay up what he don’t owe you?”

   “He don’t know that, does he?” snapped Weatherdecker. “He knew he was skippin’ out on a debt. He knew he was tryin’a fuck me over. I don’t care ‘bout the money anymore, Vesco. What I want now is for him to understand that that don’t happen. Nobody pulls one over on me and gets away with it.”

   The captain relaxed slightly, straightening his arm.

   “Speakin’ o’which, I’ll forgive your little slip if you help me make an example outta Cartleblat.”

   Mr. Vesco cast a skeptical sideways glance at him.

   “Meanin’ what?”

   “Meanin’ we pay him a visit when we reach port. He’s still right behind us. I know he’ll be there. We can rough him up like we should’ve back in Port Victor. No money in it, but we’ll be even all the same. We could finally put him behind us.”

   Weatherdecker’s smile at this prospect set off a flare of anger inside Vesco. It was worse than anything he’d felt before, worse than anything even when the captain had been drunkenly kicking his door down.

   “He was behind us,” growled Vesco sharply. “That whole fuckin’ fiasco was behind us before you decided to trawl it all up again. This is your problem and your fault and you can deal with it yourself. I ain’t goin’ anywhere with you. Keep my cut and leave me out of it. If you can do that for me, I’ll forgive YOUR little slip. Hell, I’ll even keep your stupid secret.”

   The smile had broken down under this tirade. It had been replaced by a chilly thin-lipped grimace. The captain kept staring, much as he’d stared at Mr. Airedale, trying to intimidate. It used to be so easy. What had happened? He’d been surrounded by these jackasses that used words instead of fists, that’s what.

   “Can I go now, sir?” said Vesco icily.

   The captain let his hand fall to his side, freeing Mr. Vesco’s path, but neither moved.

   “I thought you were a friend,” said Weatherdecker.

   “Once upon a time, Richard, I thought so too.”

   He sidled past his silent captain without another glance in his direction. Weatherdecker still had not noticed the bowls of porridge in his hands.

   Tiller did not know about the swindle, the barmaid, any of it. He only knew that he was disobeying his captain on an unforgivable scale. It was possible to stay, perhaps. He could probably think up an excuse as to how the boy had disappeared, one that wouldn’t get him beaten too badly. Staying on the ship was not the worst outcome for him; being separated from Damian, was.

   He did not like the idea of being branded a deserter. A traitor. He liked even less the idea of living out his life as a fugitive from Captain Weatherdecker. He could never feel safe again. He would have to watch corners and shadows for knives and pistols. None of these visions, however, could compare to the one where he had to say goodbye to the boy. He would not hesitate to become a fugitive if it meant he could delay that moment. He liked The Ship, but he loved Damian, and would see him all the way back to Port Victor if that’s what felt right.

   He packed a small rucksack for himself and a larger one for the boy. Toys, diapers, and clothes for Damian, a few beloved trinkets and pairs of socks for Jeremy. Damian, oblivious as always, clacked his toys together on the rug as the boatswain bustled around him, gathering supplies.

   They would be making their move tomorrow night.

Next...

In For A Penny - Part 14

   If you have not already, please start here! 

...Previous

   The captain returned a bit earlier than Vesco had anticipated. This was not the issue. The issue was that he returned much, much drunker than Vesco had anticipated.

   The quartermaster was at his desk doing sums in the ration books. He kept his ear open on the door behind him, where mother and baby were enjoying the day alone. Mr. Tiller had let them be in order to attend his neglected deck crew. Vesco did not have a fraction of his attention on the door before him; even so, the kick to it had him up with his knife drawn in an instant. Not his tiny throwing knives, the big leather-handled thing he kept in his boot. He heard the baby’s quiet chirping fall silent.

   The office door was kicked again, so hard he heard a crack of wood. Vesco leaped over the desk, knocking his books to the floor. He wrenched the door open with one hand, knife ready to meet his visitor in the other. Had the captain not been stumbling drunkenly at that moment, he might have lost an eye.

   He steadied himself as he saw Vesco, ready to lunge; he paused as he noticed the six inches of steel aimed at his face. The quartermaster took a step forward. Weatherdecker took a step back, growling like a bear.

   “You’d draw on yer cap’n, you goddamn traitor?” he rumbled.

   “You’d kick down my door?” snapped Vesco. “Back up. Right now.”

   Uneasily, with slow care, Weatherdecker did, putting a few more steps between him and Vesco. Vesco kept the knife pointed at him as he slipped his keys from his pocket and locked the door behind him. He barely looked at it. He looked instead, quite firmly, at his wavering captain. Once he’d replaced his keys, he said lowly:

   “The hell you think you’re doin’?”

   “Said you’d go for a stroll, eh? Said you’d see the sunshine, whatch’ya doin’ inside, then, huh?”

   “I was busy,” said Vesco sternly. “Didn’t find the time to go get pissed, like some.”

   “The fuck you hidin’ in there?” bellowed the captain suddenly. “Don’t think I ain’t seen you hangin’ about! You show me what you got ‘fore I give you the lash!”

   Mr. Vesco looked at the crowd of crewmen that had gathered; it was a large one, though it had given them a wide radius. Others were hanging in the rigging, enjoying the balcony view. He saw one figure descending fast.

   “Think you’re imaginin’ things, cap’n. Nothin’ I could show y’in there that y’ain’t already seen.”

   “Bullshit,” spat Weatherdecker. “Lemme through!”

   He charged forward, but Vesco called his bluff. He also stepped forward, the knife poised to drive into his throat if he got closer. The captain stopped dead. This close, Vesco could smell the sweat on his skin and the strong liquor on his breath.

   The figure from the rigging burst out of the crowd, ignoring the safety radius. Mr. Tiller ran for them at top speed, but stopped a few feet away, no longer sure of what his plan was. He looked to Mr. Vesco, asking silent questions, but the quartermaster kept focused on his knife’s proximity to the captain. Weatherdecker was the one that turned to look at him. He broke away from Vesco, already forgotten.

   “You,” spat the captain. “Where’s the kid?”

   “Uh…he’s at a nap, sir,” lied Tiller calmly. “In my quarters.”

   “Go get it,” ordered Weatherdecker. “We’re gettin’ rid of it.”

   “Oh,” said Tiller. “You got paid off?”

   Weatherdecker spat on the deck.

   “No. Don’t care about the fuckin’ money anymore. That kid’s goin’ overboard in a fuckin’ sack. An’ you,” he said, whirling unsteadily back to Vesco. “You an’ I are gonna hunt down that fuckin’ tug monkey and slit his goddamn throat. I’m done with this bullshit!”

   Vesco lowered his voice, so the crewmen could not hear.

   “Fine,” he said, “but not today. Nobody’s goin’ anywhere with you in this state.”

   “It was a goddamn order, Vesco!” shouted the captain, loud enough for the both of them.

   “I don’t take your orders when you’re full o’piss!” snapped Vesco. “We can talk plans once you sleep it off. Get to your cabin and stay there ’til you can stand straight.”

   “You don’t tell me what to do! This is MY fuckin’ ship!”

   “Oh yeah?” breathed Vesco. “What would the Benefactor say if he heard you talkin’ like that?”

   Rage boiled over inside Weatherdecker. His hands tightened into fists, his face red-hot. Had something been in his reach, he would have pummelled it to pieces. The rage, however, also locked his muscles. He couldn’t move for his anger.

   “It’s in my fuckin’ name,” he growled through gritted teeth. “It’s my fuckin’ boat.”

   “Sure thing,” agreed Vesco. “But you’re laid up drunk right now. Airedale’s not back. That leaves me as commanding officer. Just go, Richard,” he urged quietly. “Sleep it off. You can’t give orders if you’re not straight in the head.”

   Weatherdecker wanted to fight; he felt ready. But his steam had already been let off. The thought of the Benefactor had been a dunk of baking soda in his vinegar. He staggered unsteadily to the door beyond which lay the officer’s cabins. With a wobbly jerk, he slammed it behind him.

   Finally allowing himself to exhale, Vesco slipped the knife back into his boot. Then, he remembered the crew. He looked, not at one particular man, but at the crowd at large. He didn’t have to say a word. They scattered back to their posts, leaving him alone with Mr. Tiller. The boatswain hurried forward.

   “Are they okay?” he whispered. “Did he find them?”

   “No,” said Vesco. He didn’t protest as Tiller followed him into his office, then into his quarters. Susan was holding the boy, trying to keep him still and silent, to not much avail. There were toys and blocks all over the floor. They both looked up, wide-eyed, as the door opened.

   “Oh, thank gods,” sighed Susan, as she saw who it was.

   “Tir!” proclaimed Damian. “Tir Tir! Baaah!”

   “What happened out there?” asked his mother, shushing him.

   “Capn’s a bit…unruly, right now,” said Vesco. “But we got ‘im down. He’ll be fine.”

   “Is everything alright? Do you need Damian back?”

   “It’s okay,” assured Vesco. “Keep ‘im for now, if it suits you. We’ll talk later.”

   It certainly did suit her, though she kept a worried look about her as they closed the door. In the office, Tiller looked up at him, similarly concerned.

   “D’you think he’s on to us? To her?”

   “He knows somethin’,” said Vesco, “but he doesn’ know what it is.” He was quiet for a moment. “I gotta think. We should get back to work. For now, nothin’ happened, alright?”

   Tiller nodded frantically. “Nothin’ happened. Sure.” He didn’t need to be told twice. Vesco locked the door after him. He returned to his sums, just as before, but the rest of his mind kept running.

   To Miss Bankshead’s credit, the tea had been utterly delicious. That perfect brew had been the bright spot of the afternoon; the only real bright spot for Mr. Airedale. It had gone on too long, far too long. He was too polite to leave without a dismissal, which also left him too polite to object to her touching his person. She listened, enraptured, to his conversation, and offered her own with eloquence and charm. That would have been fine, had she not been in the habit of patting his knee. Touching his arm. Trying to snare him in those dark, clear eyes. She even had the gall to brush the toe of her boot along his shin, twice. Timothy Airedale had been brought up not to squirm, and it had taken all of his upbringing to stay still. Because it was so irritating, obviously.

   He returned from his sojourn as the streetlamps were being lit. The world around them was dark, only stars and a few windows lit by candles adding to their glow. He had removed his necktie and returned his bicorne to its proper place. One did not wear one’s hat indoors, even in the company of irritating ladies.

   Mr. Vesco was leaning back on the railing at the top of the plank when Airedale arrived at The Ship. The first mate nodded a good evening.

   “Evenin’,” said Vesco. “You got a minute?”

   “Certainly.” Airedale stopped in his tracks, turning his polite attention on Mr. Vesco.

   “Not here,” said the quartermaster. “Like to talk in private, if it’s the same to you.”

   Airedale nodded again, a bit more slowly. “If you wish. Will my quarters suffice?”

   Vesco paused for a moment, thinking. Mr. Tiller had taken a turn keeping gate in his office, and in any case, the captain had tired himself out. Mum and baby would be safe for now.

   “Can’t be overheard,” said the quartermaster quietly. A single solemn eyebrow was raised at him in question.

   “I see,” said Mr. Airedale, entirely unruffled. “Where, then?”

   There was only one place on The Ship from which eaves could not be dropped. One room, lined with lead and plaster, far below the waterline.

   Mr. Vesco led the way down staircase after staircase, ladder after ladder, an oil lantern swinging in his hand for the former and in his teeth for the latter. Mr. Airedale followed him into the soggy storage holds of the deep lower decks.

   The room was squat and rectangular, four walls and a ceiling in the centre of the floor. All were several feet thick, layers of wood, lead, plaster, and copper protecting the delicate cargo inside - more accurately, protecting the outside from the delicate cargo. The door facing them was built of the same. There were several square glass windows cut in to each face, staggered in the semblance of a pattern, each sunken in to the room to leave a ledge from the outside. Mr. Vesco placed his lantern in one of these next to the door, sending weird shadows into the room beyond.

   “Are you quite sure of this, Mr. Vesco? I imagine there are safer places to hold a conversation.”

   Mr. Vesco had already cracked open the door. It swung heavily, weighed down by its numerous layers.

   “No eavesdroppers in here,” he murmured. Mr. Airedale still hesitated.

   “I was under the impression that one was to wear slippers inside, Mr. Vesco. I believe this is to prevent the striking of sparks?”

   “Sure, runnin’ back an’ forth in a battle,” said Vesco. He jerked his head into the room. “Just take it slow. You won’t spark nothin’.”

   With one last nervous adjustment of his jacket, Mr. Airedale stepped over the threshold of The Ship’s gunpowder magazine. When Mr. Vesco closed the door behind him, the sounds of the creaking vessel disappeared. They were alone in a room stacked with barrels, crowding in on all sides. The room was half as tall as it was square, though this was still enough to leave the towering Mr. Airedale room to stand. The light from Vesco’s single lantern burned surprisingly brightly through the window.

   “So,” encouraged Mr. Airedale. The lined walls gave his voice a strangely flat tone. Mr. Vesco took a deep breath, inhaling the gunpowder smell.

   “I wanna know what you think of this kidnapping business.”

   Mr. Airedale gave this some careful thought before he answered.

   “I think nothing of it, Mr. Vesco. I had no part and I hold no opinions. It is the captain’s personal business.”

   “I get havin’ no part. What d’you mean you hold no opinions, Tim? You feel nothin’ about a kid bein’ stolen away from his family?”

   Mr. Airedale continued to study him, silently, but Vesco could hear the gears turning. It was a frosty silence, and a pained, rusty turning.

   “Naturally,” said Airedale, “I am disgusted. As any decent person would be. As any decent first mate, however, I stay quiet and do not interfere in my captain’s affairs.”

   “I’m through with decency,” said Vesco. “This is gettin’ stupid. The bronze are lookin’ into it. How long’s it gonna be before the navy’s involved? It’s risky for us an’ it’s hard on the family, especially mum an’ baby. You wanna talk about havin’ no part? The fuck part did they play in that damned game o’ poker?”

   Vesco won some ground, then, as Mr. Airedale looked away at a darkened glass panel in the wall.

   “If I recall,” he said quietly, looking back, “you had a hand in that damned game, Mr. Vesco.”

   It was the quartermaster’s turn to look away, at the floor.

   “Sure,” he murmured. “Sure, I did.”

   “It seems this affair is your business as well, then. What opinions do you hold?”

   “Tim, you’re right,” he snapped, looking up. “I could get some cash if I kept on with this plot. But, I can’t anymore. It’s gone too far.” He paused, struggling with his words at first. Once they got out, there was no stopping them. Even here, in the utterly private darkness, he lowered his voice.

   “You don’t understand, Tim. Weatherdecker…he…he wasn’t playin’ fair hands that night. He cut in a barmaid to spy ‘round the table - had a code all worked out. He cut me in to make a show of losin’, to get the rest off their guard. Cartleblat ain’t the only man he stole from that night, but he’s the only one that din’t pay up.”

   Airedale’s expression had not changed, as was his ancient custom, but his eyes were bright and alert, riveted on Vesco.

   “How do I know this is true?” he asked quietly.

   “Why would I make it up?”

   “To woo me to mutiny.”

   “I’m not cryin’ for his head, Tim. I just want this nonsense done with. I turned a blind eye to get some spare change, but it’s not worth it anymore. That mum needs her baby more’n I need cash. ‘Specially cash that weren’t mine in the first place.”

   Mr. Airedale stayed very quiet, his arms crossed over his chest, thinking.

   “You holdin’ any opinions now?” asked Vesco.

   “If I may, Mr. Vesco…what is your plan in telling me this? What is it you would like me to do with this information?”

   “I’d like you to back me up when I tell the cap’n that the kid’s goin’ home.”

   “And when would that be?”

   “After he sobers up, but before we get to Port Nichols. I want ‘em off there.”

   “That leaves me a very short time to decide, Mr. Vesco.”

   “Decide WHAT, Tim?” snapped Vesco. “Get your brain outta your stiff upper lip and HELP me, for fuck’s sake. Help Susan. Help the kid.”

   The lip in question stiffened further.

   “My brain is where it should be; the realm of care and discretion. I have not refused you, and I, in fact, agree that this nonsense should end. I simply wish to consider all possible outcomes.”

   Vesco’s eyes flashed white in the dim lantern glow, as he rolled them in exasperation.

   “Fine,” he sighed. “I’ll take care of it myself.” He turned and strode towards the door. Airedale turned after him.

   “Mr. Vesco, I have not refu—“

   “I heard whatcha said, Tim. Thanks anyway.” He shoved the door open, and left it hanging for the first mate. “Take the lantern. I’ll be fine.”

   His flat footsteps faded into the dark beyond. Mr. Airedale waited until he was surrounded by silence. He waited some more. Then, he made his move, carefully, so as not to strike any sparks.

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