The hell of it, Sam realized, was that John would succeed.
The anger was draining out of him now. The thirty-three years of vengeance fantasies were blown away like farts in a high wind.
What was left was a man who was basically Christian, though a howling atheist, to use a phrase applied to him by one of his Terrestrial enemies.
He should have shot John in the head the moment he had turned on the light. He should have known what would happen if he did not. But he could not kill a man who was unconscious. Not even King John, whose blood he had lusted for all these years and who had been tortured so ingeniously and so excruciatingly in his daydreams. Never in his night-time dreams. Then it was John who was about to do something to a paralyzed or hopelessly trapped Sam Clemens. Or, mostly, it was Erik Bloodaxe who was about to be revenged upon him.
Sam grimaced and went back into the head. As he suspected, the shower pipes contained enough water for several cupfuls. He drank one and filled a second. Returning to the cabin, he put the cup to his captive's lips and tilted it as the man drank. John smacked his lips and sighed.
"Another, please?"
"Another! Please?" Sam said loudly. "Are you crazy! I just gave you one so you'll be able to stand up to what I'm going to do to you!"
John smiled briefly. He was as undeceived as his captor.
Knowing that infuriated Sam so much that he almost became capable of doing what he had threatened. The anger ebbed swiftly, leaving him with the pistol upraised to strike.
John's smile faded, but only because he did not wish to push Sam too far.
"Why are you so sure of yourself, of me?" Sam said. "Do you think I wouldn't have blasted you out of the water, sunk you to hell, watched you drown, and shoved you away if you had tried to get aboard?"
"Of course," John said. "But that was in the heat of battle. You won't torture me, much as you'd like to do so. Nor will you shoot me in cold blood."
"But you'd do all that to me, wouldn't you, you heartless bastard?"
John smiled.
Sam started to reply, then closed his mouth. The uproar in the passageway had suddenly stopped. John also started to say something, but at a sign from Sam he stopped. Apparently, he knew that if he tried to yell, he would regret it. His enemy was not that soft.
Minutes passed. Sam stood by the door, his ear against it, one eye on John. Now he could hear the faint voices of men. These cabins were soundproofed, so there was no determining how far away the voices were. He went back to John and placed a cloth over his mouth, tying it tightly behind his head.
"Just in case," he said. "But if you do manage to shout for help, I'll be forced to shoot you. Remember that."
And I hope you do cry out, he thought.
He turned off the light, unlocked the door, and pushed it slowly out, holding the pistol in his other hand. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. There were more bodies than there had been before. He looked cautiously around the door and down the corridor. Still more bodies. It looked as if the fight had progressed down it to the other side and on out. The handgun firing had ceased sometime during the struggle. It was replaced by the ring of blade on blade. And the distant din was composed only of voices and metal clash. It seemed that both sides had run out of ammunition.
He did not see how the numerically smaller boarders could hold out for long against his own people. He'd wait a little while to make sure that it was safe to emerge with his prisoner.
But, wasn't he rationalizing? Wasn't it his duty to get out there and lead his people? Yes, it was. But what about his prisoner?
That was easy. He would lock John in the cabin with the key now hanging by the door. Then he'd look for his crew. It wouldn't be difficult to find it. A good part would be where the noise was.
He returned to the cabin, shut the door, and turned on the light. John looked curiously at him.
"It's just about over," Sam said. "Your crew's about cleaned out. I'm going now, but I'll be back soon. And sometime in the future you'll be on trial."
He paused. John's expression did not change. Gurgling sounds came from behind the gag. Evidently, he wanted to speak. But what could he say? Why waste time?
"I don't want it said that I am not fair or that I am too personally involved to be just," Sam said. "So, you'll get a trial. It won't be by your peers. How many kings are running loose out there or within easy call? But it'll have a jury of twelve good men and true. That's only a phrase, since the ladies'll be represented too.
"Anyway, you'll get a fair hearing, and you can pick your own defense lawyer. I'll abide by the verdict, I won't even act as judge. Whatever the jury says, I'll go along with it."
Mangled words came through the gag.
"You can have your say at the proper time," Sam said.
"Meantime, you can sit here and meditate on your sins."
He closed and locked the door, hesitated, then unlocked it, reached in, and switched off the light. John would suffer more if he was in darkness.
He should have been jubilant. He was not. Somehow, in some way he could not define, his old enemy had triumphed.
Most things were disappointments, but this, this should have been one of the most enjoyable events in his life. His victory was as unappetizing as a steaming dog turd served under glass.
Where to hide the key? Ah, of course, in the first cabin with an unlocked door. That was three cabins down. He threw the key onto the floor and closed the door. Now to get to Joe. To do that, he would have to have a large number of men behind him.
He went down a corridor which ran longitudinally through the vessel. The lights were off, but he dared turn them on briefly. He ran down its length for a hundred feet, then stopped at another corridor. Here was a stairway that led up to the hurricane deck. After turning the lights off, he went up the steps, aided by a pale square at the top. Once on the hurricane deck, he trotted down the passageway to the starboard side. Noise came to him, but it seemed far off. He peered around the corner onto the walkway. Joe should be somewhere near.
"Why're you hanging around here, Joe? Don't you have anything to do?"
"I'm vaiting for a buth, Tham."
"A buss? Who'd kiss your ugly mug, Joe?"
"No, not a buthth vith two etheth, you nincompoop. A buth vith vone eth, Vith vheelth and a motor. How in hell vould I know, Tham? I never theen a buth. Get me down off of here before I get mad and tear you apart, you thap."
Thus went the imaginary conversation, modeled on so many previous ones. But there was no great bulk hanging helpless from a rope. There was a rope, severed at one end and noosed at the other, lying on the deck.
Sam smiled with joy. Joe was alive, unhurt! Joe was on the loose, undoubtedly tearing up the opposition.
He turned but stopped halfway. A bellow had come from out on The River. It was a deep cry, one which would have been attributed to a lion or a tiger if it had been heard on Earth. Sam knew better. He ran to a staircase and sped down it, taking two steps at a time, one hand sliding on the railing. On the main deck, he paused. He could not ignore the enemy. But the two fights he heard were far away, one at the prow and one at the stern. There was no gunfire, only the clang of blades against blades.
He ran to the railing and leaned out. "Joe! Where are you, Joe?"
"Tham! Here I am, Tham!"
"I can't see you, Joe!" Clemens called, peering into the darkness. There were objects floating out there, pieces of timber or bodies, unidentifiable flotsam. Though the boat had been drifting with the current, and the fires on the south bank were bright, the starboard side was now toward the dark northern bank. Starlight was not enough there.
"I can't thee you either, Tham!"
He looked on both sides and behind him to make sure no one was creeping up on him. On turning back to look outward, he called, "Can you get back to the boat?"
"No!" Joe bellowed. "But I'm floating! I got hold of a piethe of vood! My left arm'th broken, Tham!"
"I'l
l get you back, Joe! Hang on! I'll save you!"
He had no idea how he could help Joe but he was determined to find a way somehow. The thought that Joe might drown panicked him. '"Joe, are you still in armor?"
"No, you thilly athth. I'd be on the bottom, food for the fithyeth if I had all that iron on. I got rid of it after I fell in, though my broken arm almotht killed me. Chethuth! The pain! You ever been kicked in the ballth, Tham? Lithten, that ain't nothin' compared to trying to undrethth vith a broken arm."
"Okay, Joe!" Sam said, and he looked around nervously again. Somebody was running his way from the prow, pursued by two men. All were too far away for him to identify them. Behind them was stillness.
The group near the stern was still battling, though it seemed that it had thinned out somewhat.
"I got cut down by thomebody!" Joe bellowed. "And I got loothe then. I grabbed a fire akthe and cleaned up around me and chathed vhat vath left down to the main deck. And then damned if thomebody didn't knock me over the railing, chuth like that! He mutht have been a hell of a thtrong man, the aththole!"
Joe kept on talking, but Sam didn't hear him. He crouched by the railing, unable to decide what to do. Though the runners were much nearer now, and coming swiftly, they were still unidentifiable in the dark. He was in agony. In the confusion and haste, his own men might attack him.
He raised the pistol in his left hand, keeping the cutlass in his right. He could aim with either hand, though not well. At this range, though, he could not miss. But did he have to shoot?
The decision never had to be made. As he waited, eyes straining, finger tight on the trigger, he was lifted up and hurled over the railing.
For a minute or so, he was so stunned that he had no idea of what had happened. He knew he was in the water, choking, spitting, struggling. But how had he gotten there? And why?
He bumped into something. His hands felt cold flesh. A corpse. He shoved it away and slipped off the heavy bandolier.
Before him, but now about sixty feet away, was the vast boat. How had he gotten so far away from it? Had he been swimming? Or floating? It didn't matter. He was here, and the boat was there. He would swim back to it. This was the second time he'd been in The River. What I dip you in three times is true.
As he thrashed toward the vessel, he saw that the railing of the boiler deck was closer to the water than it should be. The boat was sinking!
Now he knew what had tossed him off the deck like a fly shrugged off by a horse. Except that he had no wings. It had been an explosion below the water line. In the boiler deck where ammunition was stored. And it would have been set off, of course, by John's men.
He had gone through too much. Even the imminent loss of his beautiful Not For Hire, which should have brought tearing pain and tears, did not affect him much. He was too tired and too desperate. Almost, he told himself, too tired to be desperate.
He swam toward the boat. His right hand came down hard on something. He cried out with pain, then reached out again. Wet slippery wood curved under his hand. Gasping with joy, he seized it and pulled himself forward. He didn't know what it was, a piece of canoe or dugout, but it was enough to buoy him.
Where was Joe?
He called out. There was no answer. He tried again and got the same silence.
Had the explosion gotten Joe? The detonation would have hurled a strong pressure wave through the water. Anyone near it would probably have been killed. But Joe wasn't close enough. Or was he? It must have been a hell of a blast.
Or perhaps Joe had just lost consciousness from the pain of his broken bone and slipped off into The River.
He called twice more. Someone shrieked from far away, a woman's voice. Some other poor soul floating in The River.
The boat was visibly settling down. There would be many compartments, large and small, with closed doors and hatches. There might even be enough enclosed air to keep the Riverboat afloat. Eventually, she would drift into shore; she could even be towed in by sailing ships or rowboats or both.
For such a deep-shaded pessimist, he was incredibly optimistic.
He wasn't going to make it. The prow of the vessel – it was drifting backward – slid by him. And now he saw the launch, the Post No Bills. It was moving very slowly, apparently looking for swimmers. Its searchlight probed across the waters, stopped, moved back, and centered on something. It was too far away for him even to see whatever the beam was on. The launch was also too distant to hear his cries.
Suddenly, he remembered King John. The man was bound and helpless in a locked cabin. He was doomed unless someone got to him. He couldn't cry out, and it was doubtful that anyone would be near enough to hear him, if he could be heard. And even then there was no key available. The lock could be shot off, but . . . why speculate? John was doomed. He would sit there not even knowing that the boat was going down. The water would flood the main deck, and he still wouldn't know. Those cabins were watertight. Not until the air suddenly became stuffy would he guess what had happened. Then he would struggle desperately, squirm, twist, writhe, calling out for help through the gag. The air would get fouler and fouler, and he would slowly choke to death.
His last moments would be horrible.
It was a scene which Sam would once have projected on his mind's screen with great pleasure.
Now he could only wish that he could get to the boat and rescue John. Not that he'd let him go scot-free. He'd see that he got that promised trial. But he did not wish John to suffer so or to die so terribly. He did not want anybody to go through that.
Yes, he was soft. John would have enjoyed thinking of him if he were in such a situation. No matter. He wasn't John, and he was glad of it.
He forgot about John as the launch started up again. It .headed for the other side of the Riverboat and then had disappeared. Was Anderson now about to pick up the survivors from the stricken vessel? If he was, he'd have to help finish the last hold-outs from the Rex, the jackasses who didn't know when to quit. Maybe they would have sense enough now to surrender.
"Tham!"
The bellow came from behind him. He turned, keeping one arm halfway around the curving wood. "Joe! Where are you?"
"Over here, Tham! I paththed out! I chutht came to, Tham, but I don't think I can make it!"
"Hang on, Joe!" Clemens shouted. "I'll get to you! Keep yelling! I'll be there soon! Keep yelling so I'll know where you are!"
It wasn't easy to turn the big piece of flotsam and get going straight toward the bank. He had to hang on with one arm and paddle with the other. He kicked his feet, too. Now and then he had to stop to catch his breath. Then he would shout, "Joe! Where are you? Joe! Yell so I can hear you!"
Silence. Had Joe fainted again? If so, had he strapped himself to whatever was holding him up? He must have. Otherwise, he would have sunk when he passed out the first time. But maybe he'd been lying on something. Maybe . . .
Since he had to rest for a moment, anyway, he looked behind him. The boat had slid even further downstream. The River was creeping up along the walls of the main deck. In a short time, John's cabin would be under water.
He began pushing the wood toward the bank. The fires on shore illuminated the surface somewhat. Though he could see plenty of debris, he couldn't distinguish any as Joe Miller.
Now he could see that the people on shore were putting out in boats and canoes. Their torches burned brightly by the hundreds. Coming to the rescue, though why they should want to help the people who'd burned down a quarter of their buildings was incomprehensible.
No. They were doing for the destroyers what he would have done for John if he could have. And, actually, the Virolanders did not have cause to hate the Riverboat people as he had to hate John.
By then he understood that he had drifted in much closer to shore than he had thought. It was only about a half mile to the bank. The dark silhouettes of the rescue craft were coming swiftly, considering they were all being paddled or rowed. Not swiftly enough, though. He was getting
cold. The water was warmer than the air, but it wasn't warm enough. About forty-five degrees Fahrenheit in this area if he remembered correctly.
The River had lost much heat while passing over the north pole, and it hadn't picked up much yet. He was suffering from intense fatigue, aided and abetted by the shock of combat and chilly water. It would be ironic if he perished before the rescuers got to him.
Just like life. Just like death.
It would have been nice to quit stroking and kicking. So easy to give up, drift, and let others do the work. But he had to find Joe. Besides, if he did quit exercising, he'd lose his body warmth that much quicker. It would be so comfortable . . . he shook his head, breathed deeply, and tried to urge his dead limbs into life.
Presently – or was it presently, how much time had elapsed? – there was a boat alongside him. Many torches burned on it. Strong arms were hoisting him up, and he was laid shivering on the deck. Warm thick cloths were laid over him. Hot coffee was being poured down him. He sat up and shivered as the cloths fell off and the air struck him.
"Joe!" he said. "Joe! Get Joe!"
"What's he saying?" someone said in Esperanto.
"He's speaking English," a woman said. "He says to get Joe."
A woman's face was next to his. She said, "Who's Joe?"
"My best friend," Sam said weakly. "And he's not even human. Maybe that accounts for it." He laughed tiredly. "Ho, ho, ho! Maybe that's it."
"Where is this Joe?" the woman said. She was a good-looker. The flaming torches showed a heart-shaped face, big eyes, a broad high forehead, a retroussé nose, wide full lips, a strong chin and jaw. Long yellow wavy hair.
What was he doing admiring a woman at this time? He should be thinking of . . . Gwenafra.
Vaguely, he felt ashamed that not once since the action had started had he worried about Gwenafra. Where was she? And why hadn't he thought about her? He really loved her.
"This Joe?" the woman said again.
"He's a titanthrop, an ape-man. A hairy giant with a gigantic schnozzola. He's out there, somewhere close. Save him!"