At first some officers, especially the more pious, had grumbled about obeying a dead commander. About how there was no knowing where those orders really came from, and hinting it might be second-hand from the Devil himself. Then the all-clear came from Canterbury and put a stop to all that. Reassurance from the King and the Primate of the Anglican Church surely settled the matter. Leastways, that was how Lieutenant Neave silenced his misgivings on the subject.
Neave hadn’t met ‘Neo-Nelson’ yet; not even glimpsed him from afar, but he lived in hope of it. That prospect and having his own command at the tender age of twenty was surely enough for any man.
Well, that and a share of whatever prize-money was going. Which reminded him…
‘Drop,’ he ordered, and the sergeant Lazarans lashed their comrades till the even dullest got the message they should ease off their efforts. You couldn’t really hurt them but a whip still tickled…
Failing which, as last resort each pedalling bench was rigged up to deliver electrical impulses, powerful enough to kill a man or pain a Lazaran. Fortunately, they weren’t needed today. The Lieutenant was always sickened by the cooking fragrance their use produced.
The galloon dipped dramatically as gas was bled out, but all aboard were used to that. They weren’t the most robust or manoeuvrable of craft, nor their resurrected motive-power the finest tuned. It was a matter of judging your fall so that it didn’t turn into a plummet. Neave had seen that happen often enough in training to be wary of it ever after.
The outcome of the chase below was inevitable now and the cutter almost in firing range. Out of boredom and devilment Neave decided to curtail matters even more, and ‘chain of command’ be damned. The sooner it were done the sooner he could be done with present company.
There was also the tempting prospect of some righteous target practise. Though he bought brandy and tobacco from them like everyone else, Lieutenant Neave disliked smugglers as a breed. Unpatriotic types, evasive of naval service and taxes alike. Just like whores and lawyers they had their occasional uses, but that didn’t make them any less vermin…
Neave took up his carbine and cocked the special spark-minimising mechanism. Would the world much miss a smuggler or two, so long as at least one was taken to confess his crimes? The Lieutenant consulted his conscience and decided ‘probably not.’
A consummate professional to the end, Mariner’s estimate proved spot on.
‘Ten minutes,’ he updated them, and even Julius had to concede it. The pursuing ship loomed large now and had hoisted visible signals which conceivably spelt out ‘stop,’ should you be in the know. Ominous activity at its bow could well be a fore-gun being readied for action.
Though Mariner had hoisted extra sail and heaved anything not nailed down overboard—even most of his passengers’ luggage—his main motivation now was in postponing the inevitable.
‘Can’t even hope for a straight hanging!’ he complained, though busy with hoisting what looked like pocket handkerchiefs as additional sprit-sails. ‘Coastal Blockade operates under Cinque Port laws!’
Julius wanted to sympathise, but lacked sufficient facts.
‘Which signifies what?’ he enquired, to pass the time.
‘The old way: cold and cruel,’ came Mariner’s reply. ‘No quick noose but staked out on the beach waiting for the tide…’
Even Ada, who should stand in least fear of that fate, shuddered. Though revival had put her beyond drowning her imagination functioned just as well as before.
It was not the nicest of pictures to conjure with as they sat there, just so much useless dead-weight, whilst Mariner cursed both Fate and them.
Therefore, the voice from above came almost as relief—after the initial shock.
Four heads traversed as one as they located the amplified sound. It came from a direction from which only seabirds should speak.
But seabirds don’t speak English (as far as is known). Nor make death threats.
‘Heave to or I fire!’ ordered Lieutenant Neave through his megaphone. A gun barrel levelled through the cupola side window proved and reinforced his point. ‘Lower sail and surrender!’
Till then their minds had merged the sound of the galloon with that of the waves, but now in beholding it they could separate the two. It had a gaseous hiss and Lazaran groan all of its own. Parchment faces peered incuriously at them from the few portholes.
Ordinarily, the Lion and Unicorn emblem on the craft’s side would have reassured, but no longer. Each in their own way, those aboard the fugitive skiff had put themselves beyond those beasts’ implied protection. In their persons they personified the very definition of ‘outlaw.’ Right now it felt cold and lonely in that zone. And wet too: the sea was getting up to match their stormy fortunes.
Perhaps by coincidence, or maybe miffed at being pipped at the post, the cutter now fired a warning shot. Perhaps. Its vibration ‘thwwwwm’ed by and split the air parallel to the skiff a mere two lengths off to port. Either the cutter’s gun crew were very sure of their skills or the ‘warning’ was of the killing kind.
Between not one but two devils and the deep blue sea, Mariner moved to obey. Cursing but compliant his hands headed for the sail ropes.
Julius neither judged nor condemned. Presumably, Mariner’s thinking ran along conventional ‘whilst there’s life there’s hope’ lines. The illogical optimism that rules most men said there might still be a few seconds of pleasure between now and when they shackled him to a foreshore for death by slow drowning. That slim hope alone made surrender the sensible option.
Frankenstein was not as most men. Nor, though Swiss, had he ever much cared for ‘sensible.’
‘Now might be the time, madam,’ he hinted to Ada.
‘It certainly looks like it,’ she agreed, calmly. ‘Time to die. Again.’
‘No, you misunderstand, foolish woman! I meant for you to swim!’
He indicated the broad ocean expanse: and every direction her oyster.
Lady Lovelace sat up straight, offended.
‘I do not swim,’ she said, with finality.
‘You cannot?’ Julius was incredulous. He’d assumed that, the English being a notoriously sea-faring race, they were all semi-aquatic from their earliest years.
‘I did not say that,’ Ada answered. ‘I said I do not. It is undignified.’
Foxglove nodded confirmation.
One of Julius’ father’s favourite maxims was ‘never argue with policemen or lunatics.’ His son had imbibed that from earliest years, along with ‘Do what you want—but don’t whine about the bill.’
So instead he stood and took aim at the galloon.
Lieutenant Neave hadn’t been expecting that. No one had. Accordingly, his own shot went wild.
What with the waves and it being extreme range for a mere pistol, Julius’ reply was impressive. Its bullet shattered the pilot’s windscreen but not his head as intended. Lieutenant Neave was duly impressed, amongst other sentiments.
‘What the…!’ said Mariner. Death in many varied forms encompassed him on every side. A notion which had occurred to him oft times before now returned with the force of Divine revelation: Life isn’t fair…
‘Stop that,’ ordered Frankenstein, meaning the slackening of speed. The authority of education and class was backed by a second, still loaded, pistol.
‘One shot: that’s all it’ll take,’ Mariner advised, meaning the closing cutter, not Frankenstein’s far lesser weapon. ‘We’ll be nothing but blood and splinters…’