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He ignored both the jibes and the continuous feeling of unease in head and stomach, scratching ferociously with a borrowed, battered quill and wretched ink, holding a lump of milk-sodden bread with his free hand as he wrote.
A note to Quarry first; then to Magruder, in case the first should go astray. There was no time for code or careful wording—just the blunt facts, and a plea for reinforcements to be sent as quickly as possible.
He signed the notes, folded them, and sealed them with daubs of sooty candle wax, stamped with the smiling half-moon of his ring. It made him think of Trevelyan, and his emerald ring, incised with the Cornish chough. Would they be in time?
For the thousandth time, he racked his brain, trying to think if there was some quicker way—and for the thousandth time, reluctantly concluded that there wasn’t. He was a decent horseman, but the chances of his managing a hell-bent ride from London to Southampton in his present condition were virtually nil, even had he had a good mount instantly available.
It must be Southampton, he thought, reassuring himself for the hundredth time. Trevelyan had agreed to three days; not enough time to prevent pursuit—unless he had pla
No, he must be right in his surmise. Now he could only urge the post coach on by force of will, and hope that he would recover sufficiently by the time they arrived to allow him to do what must be done.
“Ready, me lord?” Tom Byrd popped up by his elbow, holding his greatcoat, ready to wrap round him. “It’s time to go.”
Grey dropped the bread into his bowl with a splash, and rose.
“See that these are sent back to London, please,” he ordered, handing the notes to the postboy with a coin.
“Aren’t you a-going to finish that?” Byrd asked, sternly eyeing the half-full bowl of bread and milk. “You’ll be needing your strength, me lord, and you mean to—”
“All right!” Grey seized a final piece of bread, dunked it hastily in the bowl, and made his way to the waiting coach, cramming it into his mouth as he went.
The Namparawas an East Indiaman, tall in silhouette against a sky of fleeting clouds, her masts dwarfing the other ship traffic. Much too large to approach the quay, she was anchored well out; the doryman rowing Grey and Byrd toward the ship called out to a skiff heading back to shore, receiving an incomprehensible bellow in return across the water.
“Du
Still queasy from rocking and bumping for a night and half a day in the post coach to Southampton, Grey was disinclined to look at it; everything in sight seemed to be moving, all in contrary and unsettling directions—water, clouds, wind, the heaving boat beneath them. He thought he might vomit if he opened his mouth, so he settled for a scowl in the doryman’s direction and a significant clutching of his purse, which answered well enough.
“She’ll be away, mebbe, before we reach her—but we’ll try, sir, aye, we’ll give it a go!” The man redoubled his efforts, digging hard, and Grey closed his eyes, clinging tight to the scale-crusted slat on which he sat and trying to ignore the stink of dead fish seeping into his breeches.
“Ahoy! Ahoy!” The doryman’s shriek roused him from dogged misery, to see the side of the great merchantman rising like a cliff before them. They were still rods away, and yet the massive thing blotted out the sun, casting a cold, dark shadow over them.
Even a lubber such as himself could see that the Namparawas on the point of departure. Shoals of smaller boats that he supposed had been supplying the great Indiaman were rowing past them toward shore, scattering like tiny fish fleeing from the vicinity of some huge sea monster on the point of awaking.
A flimsy ladder of rope still hung from the side; as the doryman heaved to, keeping the boat skillfully away from the monster’s side with one oar, Grey stood up, tossed the doryman his pay, and seized a rung. The dory was sucked out from under his feet by a falling wave, and he found himself clinging for dear life, rising and falling with the ship itself.
A small flotilla of turds drifted past below his feet, detritus from the ship’s head. He set his face upward and climbed, stiff and slow, Tom Byrd pressing close behind lest he fall, and came at last to the top with his body slimed with cold sweat, the taste of blood like metal in his mouth.
“I will see the owner,” he said to the merchant officer who came hurrying hugger-mugger from the confusion of masts and the webs of swaying ropes. “Now, by the order of His Majesty.”
The man shook his head, not attending to what he said, only concerned that they not interfere. He was already turning away, beckoning with one hand for someone to come remove them.
“The captain is busy, sir. We are on the point of sailing. Henderson! Come and—”
“Not the captain,” Grey said, closing his eyes briefly against the dizzying swirl of the cobweb ropes overhead. He reached into his coat, groping for his much-creased letter of appointment. “The owner. I will see Mr. Trevelyan—now.”
The officer swung his head round, looking at him narrowly, and seemed in Grey’s vision to sway like the dark mast beside him.
“Are you quite well, sir?” The words sounded as though they were spoken from the bottom of a rain barrel. Grey wetted his lips with his tongue, preparing to reply, but was eclipsed.
“Of course he ain’t well, you starin’ fool,” Byrd said fiercely from his side. “But that’s no matter. You take the Major where he says, and do it smart!”
“Who are you, boy?” The officer puffed up, glaring at Byrd, who was having none of it.
“That’s no matter, either. He says he’s got a letter from the King, and he does, so you hop it, mate!”
The officer snatched the paper from Grey’s fingers, glanced at the Royal Seal, and dropped it as though it were on fire. Tom Byrd set his foot on it before it could blow away, and picked it up, while the officer backed away, muttering apologies—or possibly curses; Grey couldn’t tell, for the ringing in his ears.
“Had you best sit down, me lord?” Byrd asked anxiously, trying to dust the footmark off the parchment. “There’s a barrel over there that nobody’s using just now.”
“No, I thank you, Tom, I’m better now.” He was; strength was returning after the effort of the climb, as the cold breeze dried the sweat and cleared his head. The ship was a great deal steadier underfoot than the dory. His ears still buzzed, but he clenched his belly muscles and glanced after the officer. “Did you see where that man went? Let us follow; it’s best if Trevelyan is not given too much warning.”
The ship seemed in complete confusion, though Grey supposed there was some method in it. Seamen scampered to and fro, dropping out of the rigging with the random sudde
A short passageway, and another ladder—was Tom indeed tracking the officer by smell through the bowels of the ship?—and a turn, and sure enough: The officer stood by a narrow door from which light flooded into the cavernous belowdecks, talking to someone who stood within.