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He seemed also to be in a position of some authority; at the moment, he had one foot resting on a barrel, an elbow resting on the raised knee, and his chin upon the palm of his hand, squinting quizzically at something—the cut of the jib? The lie of the bilge? Grey knew nothing of nautical terms.
It wouldn’t do to stare; he turned back to the shore, noting as he did so Tom, in cordial conversation with a young sailor near the back—well, aft, he did know that much—of the ship.
What next? He was sure that Jones would not find Gormley aboard the Sunrise.He supposed they would have to go and search the other ship, as well. He’d seen men shouting to and fro between the ships—the other lay not more than a few hundred yards away; doubtless the Barbary ape could have taken Gormley there without difficulty—though he had no idea why he should have done so.
The ape—Grey glanced covertly at the man again—was plainly part of the crew of the Sunrise.And yet Captain Hanson had said unequivocally that he had sent out no press gangs. Ergo, if Tom were correct in his identification—and a face like that one would be memorable, coming out of the fog—the ape had been conducting some private enterprise of his own.
Now, thatwas an interesting notion. And if they failed to find any trace of Gormley on the other ship, it might be worth having Tom brought face to face with both Captain Hanson and the ape, to tell his story. Grey supposed that any captain worth his salt would be interested to know if his crew were conducting a clandestine trade in bodies.
The thought gave him a faint chill. Christ, what if it werebodies? The ape and his cohorts might be augmenting their pay by dealing as resurrection men, providing cadavers to the dissection rooms.
No. He dismissed the grisly vision of a dead and eviscerated Gormless as both too dramatic and too complicated to be true. Back to Occam, then. Given multiple alternatives, the simplest explanation is most likely to be true. And the simplest explanation for the disappearance of Herbert Gormley was, firstly, that Tom had seen the Barbary ape but had notseen Gormley, being mistaken in his identification. Or secondly—and equally likely, he thought, knowing Tom—that his valet hadseen them both, and the ape had done something unaccountable with his captives.
They were presently operating under the second assumption, but perhaps that had been reckless of him. If…
All thought was momentarily suspended, his eye caught by a small boat halfway out from the shore. Or, rather, by the glint of sunlight on yellow hair. Grey uttered an oath which caused the sailor nearest him to drop his jaw, and leaned out over the rail, trying for a better look.
“He’s called Appledore,” said a voice in his ear, startling him.
“Who’s called Appledore?”
“Him what we’re watching, me lord—he’s a bosun’s mate, they say. And”—Tom swelled a bit with excited importance—“he was ashore Wednesday, and came back to the ship at…well, I don’t quite know, the peculiar way they have of telling time on ships, all bells and watches and such, but it was late.”
“Excellent,” he said, scarcely listening. “Tom, give me your spyglass.”
He clapped the instrument to his eye, catching wild swathes of river, sky, and clouds, until suddenly he brought the boat in view, its contents sharp and clear. There were two men in the boat. One of them was unfamiliar, a heavyset fellow muffled in a coat and cocked hat, a portmanteau at his feet. The man rowing in his shirtsleeves, though, yellow hair a-flutter in the wind, was Neil the Cunt. Which almost certainly meant that the other gentleman must be Howard Stoughton, master founder of the Royal Brass Foundry.
The small boat was not making for either of the two large ships, but steering a course a little way to the south. Following the direction of its bow, he saw a small, brisk-looking craft tacking slowly to and fro.
“Stay here.” Grey thrust the spyglass back into Tom’s hands. “See that small boat, with two men? Don’t take your eyes off it!”
“Where you going, me lord?” Tom, startled, was trying to look at his employer and through the glass at the same time, but Grey was already halfway to the door that led below.
“To organize a boarding party!” he called over his shoulder, and plunged without hesitation into the bowels of the Sunrise.
The captain’s gig hurtled over the river’s chop, propelled by half a dozen burly sailors. The captain himself had come; Grey was shouting further explanation into his ear, clinging with one hand to the side of the boat, with the other to the impressive-looking cutlass the mate had shoved into his hand.
Tom Byrd and Captain Jones were likewise armed. Tom looked thrilled, Jones grimly dangerous.
The small boat was moving much more slowly, but had a substantial lead. It would undoubtedly reach the brig—Hanson said it was a brig—before they did, but that would not matter, so long as they were in time to prevent the brig’s fleeing downriver.
As they drew closer, he saw Neil Stapleton turn a startled face toward them, then turn back, redoubling his efforts at the oars.
For an instant, he wondered whether Stapleton was indeed Bowles’s man. But, no—he had caught a crab, as the sailors said, one oar skimming the surface and slewing his boat half round. Clever enough to look accidental, but slowing the smaller craft, while the gig cleaved the waters to the bosun’s bark.
Hanson was kneeling, gripping Grey’s shoulder to avoid being thrown from the boat, roaring something at the men on board the brig. They looked surprised, glancing from the oncoming gig to the smaller boat, struggling to reach them.
The small boat thumped the side of the brig; Grey heard it, and the cries of outrage from the men on deck. The impact had knocked the heavyset man into the bottom of the boat; he rose, cursing, and reached up, scrambling awkwardly over the rail of the brig, half-tumbling into the arms of the waiting sailors.
He gained his feet and turned back, reaching urgently over the rail for his portmanteau. But Stapleton had dug his oars and was pulling rapidly away, coming fast toward the gig.
“’Vast rowing!” bellowed the bosun, and the crew of the gig shipped oars as one, letting the long, sleek boat glide up beside the smaller one. Hands reached out to grab the sides, and Stapleton let go his oars.
His face was scarlet with exertion and excitement, blue eyes bright as candle flames. Grey spared the space of one deep breath to admire his beauty, then grabbed him by the arm and yanked him head over arse into the gig.
“Is it Stoughton?” Jones was yelling. Grey barely heard him above the bellowing to and fro of Hanson and the men on the deck of the brig above.
Stapleton was on hands and knees, gasping for breath, his face nearly in Grey’s lap, but managed to look up and nod. Other hands were grappling across the portmanteau; it fell with a thud into the bottom of the gig, and Jones lunged for it.
“Come on!” Hanson shouted. He was already reaching for the hands of the sailors on the brig. Grey rose, lurching to keep his footing, was seized by several helpful pairs of hands and virtually thrown aboard the brig. He seized the rail to keep from falling back, and over his shoulder saw Stapleton’s gri
He sketched a salute, then turned to deal with the matter at hand.
What do you mean, it’s a naval vessel?” Jones looked disbelieving. “This?”
The captain of the Ronson,for so the small and elderly brig was named, looked displeased. He was very young, but conscious of the dignity of his service, his ship, and himself.