“Um, there is one other thing,” Rajendra said. “Our destination. After we escape, assuming we do, where are we going? Our lives are as much at risk in this venture as yours and it is a terrible sea. You have determined a safe landfall, have you not?”
“Yes,” Sandra said, but offered nothing more.
After an expectant but disappointed pause, Rajendra straightened. “Well. Then I suppose we must all trust one another.”
“Guess so,” Lawrence answered in his distinctive voice.
Late the following night, during first watch, according to Silva, they felt a distinct and surprisingly violent blow strike the ship. Already dressed as Imperial crewmen, with both Lelaa’s and Lawrence’s tails secured as well as possible (far more difficult in Lawrence’s case, and he could hardly walk), they began their escape by evacuating the compartment that had been their prison for weeks. Quickly, they scrambled or shuffled down the corridor, Rebecca and Sister Audry helping Lawrence. Lawrence had a nightcap pulled down over his face, but it was so misshapen the disguise wouldn’t stand close scrutiny at all. Lelaa might pass as a ship’s boy in the dark, but, of course, neither she nor any other female must speak. Other forms began appearing in the corridor, but Silva burst through them shouting, “Gangway!” in a terrible accent. About then, the alarm bells began to ring, and if anyone noticed the strange, hurrying group in the dark, their attention was quickly diverted.
Up a companionway they lurched, now heading aft across the gun deck as Ajax ’s crew began assembling at their action stations. Most were confused, barely awake. A few had felt or heard the bump and there was a cacophony of wild, almost panicky speculation. Silva grunted with frustration and suddenly swept poor Lawrence up in his arms. The Tagranesi was slowing them down and Dennis thought he’d draw less attention if he appeared to be injured. There were a few lanterns on the gun deck, but only enough for fighting light-enough that the gun’s crews could serve their pieces, but not enough to damage their night vision a great deal, or provide much fuel for a fire. Again, if anyone had begun to grow suspicious of them as they made their way through the building, only slightly controlled chaos, the sudden roar of venting steam distracted them. Reaching the quarterdeck companionway, they ascended and rushed to the starboard rail, where several men were heaving on a line. “Get that boat in, afore somethin’ eats it!” one shouted. “I didn’ spend two days fixin’ it ta pre-vide a toothpick fer one o’ them divils!” Clearly the carpenter.
“No, damn your vitals!” Rajendra’s voice rose toward another group. “Get you and your party down in the forepeak! Check for sprung timbers! We’ll be taking water after a thump like that, I shouldn’t wonder!” He raised his speaking trumpet. “Run out the guns! Handsomely now! We must fire before the monster returns!” Another man, burly and dark, approached the captain. “The safety valve has suffered a mischief, I fear,” he said in a satisfied tone. “There’s no fixin’ it either, more’s the pity. She’ll vent steam till the boiler’s cold enough to replace the valve!”
Rajendra glanced about. “Very well. Into the boat with our guests! It will add to the confusion if our engineer cannot be found!”
“Aye, Captain!” The man rushed to the rail. “Over the side with ye, Yer Highness!” he said. “There’s a man waitin’ below ta catch ye!”
“But what of Lawrence?”
“I can ’anage!” Lawrence said. “As soon as this huge creature puts La’rence down!”
“Dee-lighted, you ungrateful little turd,” Dennis said. “Snatch onto that line. You can turn your tail loose in the boat! Maybe you’ll be good fer somethin’ then.” He looked at Rebecca. “After you, li’l sister!”
With only the slightest hesitation, perhaps reliving old memories, the far different person who’d become Princess Rebecca grasped the rope and disappeared into the darkness below. Lawrence went next.
“Now you, Sister Audry!” Dennis ordered, after the engineer disappeared.
“I… I’m not sure I can!”
“Sure, you can. It’s a cinch. Besides, if you don’t go, I’ll just drop you over the side and hope you land in the boat.”
Audry looked at him, utterly uncertain whether he was serious or not. He’d spoken with the flat firmness of fact. “Very well, Mr. Silva,” she said sharply.
“Prepare to fire!” Rajendra roared.
“You’re next, Loo-tenant Tucker!”
“No. You must get weapons. Where’s Midshipman Brassey?”
“Here, ma’am!”
“Good. Lead Mr. Silva to the magazine. Take two of these other men. We need weapons and ammunition! We’ll pass well enough up here for now, Mr. Cook and I.”
Silva knew she meant to guard against treachery. He wasn’t sure how she’d do that, but he also knew it would be pointless and time-consuming to argue with her. “All right, Miss Tucker, we’ll be back in a flash!” He turned to Brassey and two of the men who’d been hauling the rope. “C’mon!”
“Fire!” bellowed Rajendra. With a stuttering, rolling, earsplitting bark of thunder, Ajax vomited an uneven broadside port and starboard. Silva and his pickup team of commandos vanished in the swirling smoke.
“Follow me,” Brassey cried. As he’d explained, Ajax had two magazines. The one they sought was aft, beneath the orlop and essentially below the waterline, which afforded it some protection from enemy shot. They met a steady stream of grim-faced, sweaty boys hurrying back to the guns, charges in their pass boxes. Reaching the magazine, they found it virtually deserted, the powder boys having already come and gone. The first compartment had a lantern illuminating racks of muskets. Silva was surprised and joyful to see the Doom Whomper secured at the far end of one rack along with his shooting pouch and belt. From the belt still hung his holster, magazine pouches, cutlass, and ’03 bayonet in its scabbard. The bayonet was a respectable “sword” in its own right.
“Hot damn!” he hissed, wrapping the belt around his waist and clipping it in place. He then grabbed his massive rifle. He could see movement in an adjoining compartment through a thick pane of wavy glass. The gunner and his mates, most likely, preparing charge bags.
“Whose side’s the gunner on?” Silva asked.
“I don’t know,” Brassey confessed.
“Okay. You fellas get a double armload o’ them muskets and some cartridge boxes. Anything in ’em?”
“There should be a battle load of forty rounds apiece,” one of the men supplied. “The door is usually locked and guarded.”
“Huh. Well, gather all you can carry and take ’em up.” He grinned. “If anybody asks, say it’s Billingsly’s orders!” While the men did as he said, Silva turned to Brassey. “Loose shot and powder? How ’bout musket flints?”
Brassey pointed. “Those small kegs hold balls and flints, but powder will be in there,” he said, referring to the space where the gunner was.
Silva nodded. Taking off the Imperial ordinary seaman’s striped shirt, he quickly knotted the sleeves and dropped two thirty-pound kegs of shot and a single keg of flints into it. Tying it all together, he handed it to Brassey, who staggered under the weight. “You handle that?”
“I’ll manage,” said the youngster.
Seeing the other men festooned with muskets, cartridge boxes, and a few baldrics with cutlasses and bayonets, Silva sent the group on its way. “I’ll get powder,” he said, shooing them off.
Another shattering broadside shook the ship. Any minute now, the compartment would fill with powder boys again. Hmm. Backing out of the magazine, he slipped into a compartment across the passageway, leaving the door open a crack so he could see. He smelled something pungent and glanced behind. “Well, well,” he muttered. “Rum, by God!” One of the short, thick black glass bottles must have cracked and soaked the padding around it. There was a sack hanging on a hook and he filled it with the bottles, leaving two aside. Pulling the cork on one, he took a long swig. “Ghaaa!” he hissed appreciatively. Not great, but not bad. He wondered what they used for sugar? Lowering the bottle, he took a length of light line that had probably once bound the padding together and stuck one end into the bottle. Then he wrapped it around the open mouth and tied it. Nothing to do now but wait.
Soon, the boys had all apparently come and gone and he slipped back across the passageway. He held both bottles by their necks between the fingers of his left hand, and drew the cutlass with his right. Anyone who saw the cutlass would know it didn’t belong. It was longer, straighter-and much better-than anything like it on the ship. He shrugged. Time to do his thing. He’d behaved himself long enough.
