“Ten to one? Did they sink you?”
“I performed what’s called a strategic retreat. I turned and ran back into the fog as quick as possible. Since I knew where they were and their course, I predicted where they were going. I sailed north and lay in wait behind an island not much bigger than my ship, hoping for better odds. A day later, two of the smaller ships sailed right into my trap. We burned both by lighting an oil slick. Then we made for the Brandon Passage and found a packet ship half our size, but full of crack troops and weapons. It was running alone. We made short work of her and headed full sail for the capital port of Bristol to defend it and the queen from the other seven ships. We joined the fleet and won the battle.”
“Then what?”
“We turned the Tarragon back that day. It became the turning point in the war.” Tom continued, his voice was softer. “At first, the queen was quite pleased, and I believe ready to bestow knighthood on me. Then politics came into play, and high-ranking enemies in court said I was yellow and afraid, and that at Scalene Passage I ran when I had enemy ships in my sights. All true, if you look at it one way.”
“That’s silly. You ran because you’d have lost your ship if you fought. You sank three of theirs and still had your ship there to defend the capital.”
“Well then, I wish you had sat on my board of inquiry instead of those men who did. At any rate, they drummed me out of the navy, and many of those same bastards who accused me of cowardliness later turned out to be working for our enemies. With no pension and my name blackened, I decided to head home to Dunsmuir Town to live and fish as a simple man. I hoped the story didn’t follow me, but no such luck. Still, speakin’ like a poor fisherman born and bred in that part of the world made it easier. The locals accepted me. End of story.”
Jenkins bobbed down river in his small boat. Wavelets twisted and turned him. He often slowed his paddling to keep pace, and he even used his paddle backward a few times to keep Gareth and Tom in sight when he traveled too fast. Gareth looked at Tom in a new light. A sea captain of a royal warship. It didn’t seem possible, but there was the ring of truth in Tom’s simple story. There were things left unsaid, but as Tom mentioned at the beginning, it was the short story.
“So when I’m talking to you, am I speaking to a captain or fisherman?”
The old man turned and cast an almost angry look Gareth hadn’t seen before. He felt himself wilting like a leaf of lettuce left in the summer sun.
Tom spoke, his voice low and hard. “I was both fisherman and captain until my boat sank. A man can be a good captain on a small vessel as well as large.”
“I meant no harm, Tom. But it seems the man I thought I knew has been someone different the whole time. I’m adjusting my thinking, but it will take some time getting used to who you are.” The dragon stirred again, poked its head from under the blanket, sat up and sniffed the air. It made a full turn, looking at anything and everything as it tasted the night air, and flicked its tongue. Then it settled back down and placed its head on Gareth’s lap. So small I can hold it in one hand. I wonder how long that will last.
“In life, things are seldom what they seem at first glance,” Tom said, barely above a whisper.
“So I’m learning.” Gareth decided to let the matter drop. Or at least, stop talking about it, but there was more of the story to know, and when the time was right he’d ask again. Still, he felt somehow betrayed by Tom’s past. Gareth had only known him a few days, but always thought of him as an uneducated fisherman, and a friend. Now with the new information, there was a barrier between them.
They moved quietly down the sluggish river, keeping sight of the small boat ahead, and watching the silent towns and villages slide past. Now and then, a dog barked from shore. Once, they passed another boat so close that they spoke softly to the fisherman and wished him well on his catch.
Dawn came and went, leaving a foggy mist blanketing the river and both shores. The sun looked pale and weak, softened by the shifting mists and rolling fog. Ahead, Jenkins had to stop paddling and wait for them several more times, and he often closed the distance to keep them in sight in the shifting fog that lay over the river. They watched him closely. He acted as guide and barometer for trouble.
Gareth dozed. His thoughts and ideas of who the real Tom might be would wait, but after staying awake most of the night, the new information could wait. He felt the dragon snuggle closer and ignored it. His eyes grew heavy.
“Something’s wrong,” Tom hissed, pulling hard on the oars to slow their boat near the center of the river.
Gareth jerked his head up and looked at the river. Jenkins’ kayak spun and turned sideways to the current. It made a couple of odd circles before turning to face the right shoreline. Looking to the shoreline won river, Jenkins cupped his hands to his mouth shouted, “What do ya want?” A low bank of fog prevented Gareth from seeing who Jenkins spoke to. Jenkins paddled slowly ahead, keeping his kayak nearly still in the slow current, dipping his paddle backward a time or two. He shouted again, telling someone he had business in Drakesport.
Obviously, he delayed moving ashore, making sure Tom and Gareth were warned.
Tom took the oars in hand and pulled several long, lean strokes that stilled their boat in the current. As Jenkins reached the edge of the river, Tom rowed gently until the boat slowly moved upstream with hardly a sound. Both of them kept their eyes on the kayak disappearing and reappearing in the shifting mists. The fog thinned and separated, finally revealing, at least, ten soldiers waiting for Jenkins on the far shore. One of them stood alone looking animated. He ordered Jenkins to do something, probably paddle faster, but Jenkins seemed reluctant and shouted questions at him.
In the time, it takes to draw a few breaths the mists swirled around them again, and the kayak faded from sight. No cries of discovery and no fingers pointed in their direction. Tom pulled harder on the oars and changed the boat’s direction to head for the opposite bank.
Jenkins had bought them time to escape. They needed to leave the river.
The old man continued to row with long hard strokes. He angled across the river to the far shore and then upriver until they came to a place where a small stream poured into the main channel. Spinning the boat around, he aimed the bow up the mouth of the stream with several hard pulls, gaining speed with each. Once the boat entered the stream, there was no more room for the oars to reach water, but their momentum carried them a few boat lengths. Low hanging branches and thick brush helped conceal the stern as they pulled the boat as far out of sight as possible.
Tom said, “Gather what you want. This is where we start walking again.”
“If we stayed in the boat and slipped past them in the fog, do you think there are more soldiers further down the river?”
“I would bet on it if I was making book.”
“Making book?”
“Another way of saying I’d bet anything on it, Gareth. Thanks to Jenkins, he gave us the warning we needed, or they would have seized us right there where they caught him. They probably have a fast boat or two ready to give chase in case we tried to evade them, or maybe a stand of archers ready to let loose a volley of arrows.”