“We’re out of incendiaries”—Bister nodded at the other ship—“but looks like we had enough. Watson even managed to hit their sail locker, so they won’t be coming after us anytime soon.”
“Not unless they run out their oars.” Dacosta pushed through the others to join them in the stern. He looked at the ship sliding away in their wake, then up at his own sails, and shook his head. “No, not even then.” He glanced at Gareth. “These cultists—how likely are they to be competent oarsmen?”
“Not likely at all.” Gareth glanced at Emily as she joined them. She appeared unharmed. She grasped his arm as if for support and comfort, and something inside him calmed.
Dacosta had brought his spyglass. He trained it on the other ship. “His crew will need to get those burning sails down and ditched before they can think about the oars, and if the cultists aren’t able, there’s not enough crew to make much of a show.” He glanced back, signaled to his first mate. “We’ll keep all sail on—in these conditions, it can’t hurt.”
Gareth caught Emily’s eye. “That was an inspired idea to use the oil.”
Dacosta glanced at her, brows rising. “That was your notion, mam’zelle?”
Emily smiled weakly. “We had to do so something, so…” She suppressed the impulse to lean heavily against Gareth. Fighting was horribly draining…truth be told, it was simply horrible all around. She tried not to look as the crew checked bodies, then heaved the dead overboard. Those cultists who were able had already jumped.
But the xebec was safe again, and so were they.
Dacosta acknowledged that with a low bow. “It seems we all owe you a debt, mam’zelle. For me and my crew—and my brother who owns this ship—I thank you.”
Emily inclined her head, and kept hold of Gareth’s arm. She’d noticed his cuts. None were still bleeding, but she was conscious of a definite desire to take his hand, lead him belowdecks, and wash and tend them. She wondered if perhaps she might manage it later.
Dacosta had his spyglass to his eye again. “If you can explain to me one thing, Major. Why is it the captain there”—his fixed gaze made it clear he was speaking of the other ship’s captain—“did not run out his guns? He wanted to after we set his sails alight—I saw him try to give the order, but the cultists—those on his ship—prevented it. If not for that…” Lowering the glass, Dacosta regarded them impassively. “Given our cargo, he would have blown us to bits.”
Emily stared. “He had guns? You mean cannon?” The last word came out as a half squeak.
Dacosta nodded. “All xebec carry guns, but only small ones, and not many. But at such close quarters, he couldn’t have missed, and because of the oil, we would go”—he made a gesture—“poof.”
A rueful smile touching his lips, Gareth met her gaze briefly, then faced Dacosta. “It’s that thing I’m carrying that they want. For once, it protected us. If they’d blown up the ship, even if they’d just sunk it, they would lose what they’ve been sent to fetch—and their master wouldn’t like that.”
Dacosta nodded. “I see. This master of theirs, this Black Cobra. I take it he doesn’t forgive well?”
Gareth shook his head. “Not well. In fact, from what I’ve heard, he doesn’t forgive at all.”
The Black Cobra’s lack of forgiveness, more specifically the vindictiveness visited upon any of the cult who failed, ranked high among the thoughts crowding Uncle’s mind.
From the safety of the deck of a small but swift fishing sloop bobbing on the waves at some distance from the action, through a spyglass Uncle watched the engagement unfold, and cursed.
This time, he’d taken no chances. This time, he’d planned, and sent a force all had agreed would be more than enough to overrun the major’s xebec.
But no. Once again, his enemy had triumphed. Once again his quarry had escaped.
He ground his teeth, and quickly counted the black-scarf-encircled heads on the deck of the now becalmed vessel.
Of the large force he’d committed, less than a third were returning.
Since leaving India, he’d lost a lot of men. The leader wouldn’t be pleased.
A chill touched his nape, slid slowly down his spine.
He shivered, then shook off the sensation, the sense of helplessness.
He would turn the situation around. He would redeem himself by capturing both the major and his woman, and treating them to the epitome of Black Cobra vengeance.
He would avenge his son, and triumph in his master’s name.
Lowering the spyglass, he squinted over the water, quietly intoned, “Glory to the Black Cobra.”
He invested the words with the reverence of a prayer. He believed, in his heart, that it was.
As if in answer, the morning sun rose, sending a wash of pink and gold spreading across the sea.
Uncle turned and walked to where his lieutenant silently waited. “Tell the captain to make all speed for Marseilles.” He glanced across the waves at the stern of the fleeing xebec. “Our pursuit is not over yet.”
20th November, 1822
Early evening
My hammock in our tiny cabin
Dear Diary,
We are still feeling the effects of the action yesterday morning. Although we won through with our lives and with the ship intact, as I had feared, there were casualties. Captain Dacosta lost two of his crew, and two others are too injured to work. Gareth and our people are helping as best they can—Dacosta has kept on all sail, even through the night, keeping us flying over the waves to Marseilles. He wants to make the most of the fair conditions while they last. I think exposure to the cultists and their ferocity—and the loss of his two men—has also made him less inclined to close with our enemy.
Fighting of this nature isn’t sport. Indeed, whenever I recall glimpses of what occurred during the battle, I shiver. Blood and blades and violent death have never rated among my favorite things. However, it was necessary or we would have died, so it seems futile to repine too much upon the moment.
Englishwomen abroad are supposed to be resilient.
And, indeed, I am trying to be. I have just returned from keeping vigil by Jimmy’s hammock, and am writing now because at last I can report he is awake, and in reasonable possession of his senses. While the rest of our party ended the incident on our feet, albeit with injuries many of which required tending, Jimmy was, at first, nowhere to be found.
We searched in mounting horror, fearing he’d been flung overboard, but Bister finally found him under some cultists. Jimmy had a bad knife wound and had lost a lot of blood, but Gareth assured us the wound wasn’t life-threatening, and indeed it turned out Jimmy had been knocked unconscious. But he did not stir until this morning, when Arnia and Dorcas managed to get some broth down his throat. He then lapsed back into unconsciousness, and we again feared, head injuries being so difficult to predict.
But he is fully awake now, and Bister is teasing him, so while he may take some days to regain his strength, he will pull through, I hope without lasting damage. I am hugely relieved, for I would have felt considerable responsibility had he died. Jimmy is in my train—one of my people—and our involvement in Gareth’s mission and the attendant danger stems from my wish to follow him. It was my decision that brought us here. If Jimmy—or any of the others—had died, I would have felt it keenly.
I cannot imagine how much of such weighty responsibility already rests on Gareth’s broad shoulders. He has been a field commander for years, and in active service for more than a decade. I am starting to appreciate how much he, and others like him, do in our country’s cause, and how much they silently bear on their conscience for ever after. It cannot be a light burden, yet they never speak of it.
I cannot help wonder how heavily the weight of MacFarlane’s death rests on Gareth and the other three I met that long-ago day at the officers’ mess. Bad enough the death of a subordinate, but the death of a friend…
I believe it must be honor that helps them bear the load.
Once again, I am feeling the restrictions of this xebec keenly. All yesterday, and even now, I feel the need to go to Gareth, to see him, touch him, reassure myself that he is all right. I know he is, and I recognize the impulse as stemming from our recent brush with death, yet still it persists.
I did manage to commandeer a corner of the deck and tend his wounds—three slashes, none too deep, thank heaven, and a host of scratches that were already half healed. Yet what I wouldn’t give for a private room, preferably with a bed—even a narrow one would do. As it is, there is nowhere I might even kiss him—and I am perfectly certain, honor-bound as he is, he will never kiss me in public.
It seems the rest of this leg of our journey will, of necessity, be devoted to preparing ourselves for the next. Despite having fled from one battle, there is a sense that our present peace is the lull before the storm.
Like any true Englishwoman, I will gird my loins and march on.
E.
Five mornings later, Emily stood in the prow of the xebec, Gareth beside her, and watched the port of Marseilles materialize out of the low-lying sea mist.
It was going to be a clear day. By the time the xebec had negotiated the harbor entrance and angled into a mooring on the incredibly busy wharves of what was, after all, the busiest port on the Mediterranean, the sun had risen and burned off the mist, and they could see everything with crystal-clear clarity—which meant anyone watching would be able to see them.
Luckily, the level of the sea was significantly lower than the wooden wharves, so once amid the congestion of ships, unless a watcher was looking down from the wharf directly above, those on the xebec weren’t visible.
That, to Gareth’s mind, was the only point in their favor. Wolverstone’s orders had directed him to pass through Marseilles. While he understood why, and if he’d had only his own people with him, would have accepted the need without hesitation, now Emily and her people had joined his, the stakes had risen.
Specifically, what he now had at risk, now stood to lose, was significantly greater than he’d assumed would be the case.
Still, needs must when the devil drives.
The xebec bumped against the wharf. He glanced around the deck as the sailors swarmed up to lash the ship to the capstans above. Their party was already assembled, ready to climb the wooden ladder and depart the docks as quickly as they could. The others were standing by their bags. After some discussion, they’d all reverted to their customary clothes, European or Indian; there was no longer any advantage in their Arab disguises. For himself, he’d once again packed away his uniform and donned civilian attire.
Beside him, in her dark cloak worn over a blue carriage gown, Emily looked fetching and feminine. She murmured, “So as far as possible, you and I should do the talking.”
She’d spoken in fluent French. After his years of fighting on the Continent, he, too spoke idiomatic French. Reluctantly, he nodded. “But wherever possible, play the great lady and let Watson speak for you.” Watson was the only other of their party who spoke French well enough to pass. “Mullins has enough to get by with carriage drivers, stable boys, and the like, but unless there’s a real need, we—you, Watson, and I—should shield the others from having to speak. If we can pass for French provincials on our way home, we’re more likely to slip through the cult’s net.”
There would be a net, one spread over the entire city. Marseilles was the port he and any of the other three heading home by routes other than the Cape were most likely to come through. The one point in their favor was that Marseilles was large.
And bustling.
After exchanging last farewells with Dacosta and his crew, their party climbed up to the crowded wharf. They merged with the throng of other passengers disembarking or embarking on the dozens of vessels of all types and nations lining the many wharves.
Without overt hurry, with Emily on Gareth’s arm, they headed along their wharf, making for the nearest way out of the dock area. They all kept their eyes peeled.
It was Jimmy who, head still bandaged, first spotted the enemy. He came up to report to Gareth, “There’s one of them over by that blue warehouse up ahead, but he doesn’t look like he’s seen us.”
Gareth looked, saw the cultist, and nodded. “Good.” He glanced back at the others. “Turn right at the end of this section.”
They walked on a few paces before Emily remarked, “Does it seem to you that he’s not specifically searching for us?”
Gareth nodded. At least one of his prayers had been answered. “I’d hoped that news of our impending arrival and a description of our party wouldn’t reach here before we arrived. From our watcher’s attitude, he’s just scanning the passengers generally, hoping to spot me or one of my comrades.”
“So he doesn’t know that we’re expected, let alone that we’re here, or what our party looks like?”
“No. But that will change, probably by later today.”
Gareth held them to the same brisk but unhurried pace—that of a household departing the docks, intent on getting on with their business—as they turned right, wheeling away from the cultist lurking in the shadows of the blue warehouse’s open door. “We have to assume that by later this afternoon, they’ll be hunting us specifically. We have to find cover—a very good bolt-hole—before then.”
“So we shouldn’t go anywhere near the consulate.”
“No.” The opening of a narrow street lay ahead. He led them to it as if that had been their goal from the first. Turning up the cobbled street, feeling the shadows close around them, the danger of the open docks falling behind, he said, “A small hostelry in some poorer area away from the docks, not too close to, but with good access to, the main coaching inns and the markets—at least for now, that’s what we need.”
Watson located just such a place. A small family-run enterprise tucked away down a street off a tiny local square, the inn was built of old stone and brick, its front door giving off the cobbled street. The street housed a haphazard collection of shops—a bakery, an apothecary, two small taverns, a patisserie, among others—all set between residential buildings of various sorts.
The spot was far enough away from the docks and the central part of the town to be almost wholly French, but this was Marseilles, so Mooktu’s turban and Arnia’s colorful shawls attracted no special attention.
It was mid-morning when Emily followed Watson into the inn’s front room. While Watson went forward to meet the host and arrange for refreshments, Emily glanced around assessingly. Everything—literally every item her glance lit upon—was neat and clean, spic-and-span.
Indeed, much cleaner than any place she’d stayed in since leaving England. The innkeeper, or more likely his wife, was clearly houseproud. As she slid onto one of the bench seats along the wall, Emily realized how accustomed she’d grown to making do with much less in the way of accommodation.
Gareth came to join her. The others hung back, sidling toward other tables further back—instinctively reinstating the division between master and servants—but Gareth saw and beckoned them to join him and her about the large front table.
He settled beside her, between her and the door, eyes checking their position. He glanced up as Mullins approached. “You can take point.” With his head Gareth indicated the seat closest to the window to the street. “I doubt we need to set a watch just yet, but if anyone should look in, you’re least likely to be recognized.”
Mullins nodded and sat. The others settled around the table.
“We still need to think of things like that, don’t we?” Watson asked. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”
“Far from it.” Gareth hesitated, then said, “Indeed, if anything we’re in greater danger now, and as a group will be until we reach England. Once there, colleagues will be waiting. I imagine some of you will be able to stay in a safe house while I ferry the scroll holder to its final destination.”
Her gaze on his face, Emily inwardly snorted. He’d better not be thinking of leavi
ng her behind, tucked away in safety, while he faced danger alone.
The innkeeper bustled out from the kitchen with trays bearing coffee, a pot of hot chocolate, and sumptuous pastries. They all waited while he served. Her mouth watering, Emily beamed and, with Gareth, thanked him.
Once the innkeeper had retired behind the counter at the back of the room, Gareth glanced around the table at the now familiar faces, then went on, “We have the next few hours to consider our options and make our plans. The closer we get to England, the more desperate our pursuers will grow. We need to decide how we’re going to tackle the journey from here to the Channel—how best to clear the hurdles the cult is sure to place in our path.”
He paused. All the others were listening intently. “We have two options at this point, and we need to choose which one to take.” He glanced around. “I could make the decision—as I generally do—but in this case, we all need to decide together, because whatever comes of that decision will be something we all have to face. We’re all in this together.”
No one argued. He went on, “We could flee the town now—hire the first two carriages we find and head north at a run before the cultists here in France even know we’ve landed. That’s our first option and it has a certain attraction. However, if we do that, we won’t have time to find coachmen willing and able to help us, to fight on our side if need be, nor will we be able to acquire any of the supplies we will need for the journey—we’d need to rely on stoppping in smaller towns and being able to find what we need there.” He paused, then added, “All of us with pistols are low on powder and shot, and now we’re back in Europe, we have to assume any men the cultists hire will use firearms, so from here on, we’re much more likely to need our own.”