Chapter Sixteen
Sixteen
It’s madness, what we are doing here. I am terrified as we row silently toward the French naval frigate drifting nearby.
In some severe lapse of judgement, Trevor handed me an oar when we first lowered the skiff into the water.
I didn’t even argue with him; I actually attempted to row, watching Trevor’s movements and doing my best to copy him.
It is no easy feat, with my legs spread wide on either side of the crossbow Renard insisted we bring.
I try not to think about what it will be needed for as I row, wincing at the sound of water splashing each time the oar strikes the surface.
Surely, this can’t be right—we’ll most certainly be heard.
Moments later Renard slaps the back of my head—rude—and yanks the oar from my hands. I give it up without complaint.
“Ye’ll wake the entire navy,” he growls from behind me.
It’s just as well, for my nerves are shot. My blood is thundering in my ears so loud, I’m sure it alone will alert every man on board to our approach. I try to distract myself from the pitch-black waves rippling around our tiny skiff. I don’t even realize I am staring until Tristan kicks my shin.
I jump and grab at my leg, glaring at him.
“Stop starin’ at ’em,” he hisses at me, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I wasn’t,” I hiss back. He isn’t even in the blasted dress anymore. There’s nothing to stare at!
But I am grateful for the distraction from my terror. I shift in the boat carefully, leaning closer to Tristan. “Are we going to talk about it?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
“No,” Tristan says.
I frown a little, but I’m not going to pester him. I like Tristan, and though I am still nonplussed, I don’t want to ruin one of the first genuine friendships I have ever formed. I nod and sit upright. “All right.”
He seems surprised when I don’t press him further, but he offers nothing, and I don’t ask—just as he doesn’t press me about my father’s title.
“All right, lads,” Renard whispers as he gets to his feet, rocking the skiff in a way that makes my heart jump into my throat. I grip the sides of the little boat, even as I turn to watch him. He is wearing one of the dead men’s uniforms, and I am disturbed by the wrongness of seeing him in it.
He reaches a hand towards me, and for a moment I simply stare at him. Then I recall the weapon between my feet. I shift, gripping the sides of the skiff once more, then exhale as I manage to somehow lift the crossbow without knocking Tristan in the face.
Renard levels an annoyed look at me as he takes it.
I don’t have time to sulk, though; he waves his hand at me and points to some kind of wooden lever at my feet.
I hand it to him and watch in silent amazement as he uses the lever to force the string of the bow back.
There is a click, and he drops the lever back into my arms and sets a bolt into the crossbow.
All this is done quickly, with a silent grace, and I can only think about how long that would have taken me and how loud I would have been doing it.
Thank goodness I was born with a pretty face and will never be in a position to need a weapon like that.
I make the mistake of following Renard’s gaze. We are close enough to the frigate now that I can see a guard moving slowly across the poop deck. He has not seen us yet, but the torches on deck illuminate him even from this distance.
Trevor goes back to rowing quietly, and as we close in on the frigate, I hear the snick of the bolt being loosed.
I close my eyes just in time to avoid seeing the man die, like the coward I am.
Tristan’s hand on mine is my signal to reopen them, and—bless him—he offers me a sympathetic smile before reaching over me to take the crossbow from Renard.
“Let’s go, b’fore the second guard finds him,” Renard says. He takes a grappling hook in his left hand and swings it around for a moment before tossing it up. It catches on the rail of the poop deck with a thunk, and we all freeze.
Silence.
The four of us exchange glances, but no one speaks. We all know our roles. It’s Trevor who climbs up first. He, too, has donned a uniform. I hope his red hair won’t give us away.
Tristan climbs up next, dressed in his usual black breeches and brown shirt. I swallow hard and stare at the rope. Now that it’s my turn, I am all at once very aware of how high the poop deck is. “I can’t do this,” I whisper. “Leave me down here. I’ll mind the skiff.”
Renard gives me another look. He’s tied the skiff to the end of the grappling hook’s rope. No one needs to mind it, but I am too scared to move. He grabs me by the collar and hoists me up, and I nearly scream out of fear of falling over.
I must truly be the worst pirate ever.
He pushes me towards the rope and comes up behind me as I grab on to it. “I’m not strong enough,” I whisper.
“Ye’ve been livin’ on a ship fer near half a year, Kit. Yer no’ a soft rich boy anymore.”
I’m not sure whether he’s trying to insult me or encourage me, but I frown at him and nod, gripping the rope tightly.
When I look up, Tristan is staring down at me, one half of his face illuminated by the torch.
His arm is outstretched, ready to help me over the rail.
I take a deep breath and haul myself up.
It’s bloody difficult. That first pull is the hardest part, but Renard, bless him, lifts me up by the waist, and I am somehow able to get both feet onto the side of the ship. I do my best to climb the wobbly rope as I step along the side of the ship. I can do this. I can do this.
I slip and gasp loudly.
I can’t do this.
I look down at Renard, absolutely petrified, but he’s already climbing up behind me.
All I can do now is keep going; if I fall, I’ll send us both careening into the skiff again.
It’s a struggle and it takes me far too long, but I make it almost to the top, and then Tristan and Trevor grab me under my arms and drag me up on deck.
My landing isn’t nearly as graceful as I would have liked, yet it’s far more graceful than I could have expected. My feet are almost silent as they meet the deck planks.
I freeze as I stare down at the body of the guard Renard shot.
His hair is so dark, it could almost be black.
My gaze drifts lower, and I see that the bolt went in through his left eye and lodged there.
The contents of my stomach rise up into my throat as I stare at him. I’m quite sure I will vomit.
Abruptly, hands on my shoulders spin me around and push me against the rail. I recognize that grip as Tristan’s. I lean over the rail and suck in a sharp breath as he rubs my back gently.
Then Renard swings himself over beside me, and I can hear him and Trevor lifting the body up and over the rail, dropping it into the ocean. I turn away as the man plummets into the pitch-black waters below.
“We’ve got nae time fer delicate sensibilities,” Renard hisses in my ear.
I know he’s right. I swallow back my virtue, knowing it has no place here tonight.
I must get my head on straight, or I’ll get us all killed—and that would put quite a damper on my future as a free bachelor.
I turn to face the group and nod, doing my best to avoid looking at the pool of blood behind Trevor.
“Right,” I manage.
It’s a calculated risk, but we leave the grappling hook on the rail and hope no one will notice it.
We make our way on light feet to the stairs leading to the quarterdeck.
Renard waves his arm to motion us down, and we all drop into a squat.
He holds one hand up, then makes his way slowly down the stairs, as if he were the guard on patrol.
He disappears around a corner, and a moment later there is a soft thud, followed by a low whistle.
I have no idea what that means, but Trevor springs into action.
He descends the stairs, and Tristan and I watch from our spot at the top as his silhouette disappears and then reappears—dragging a body.
Despite myself, I turn away as he pushes the man over the rail.
He must wave us on, for Tristan taps my arm and leads me to the quarterdeck.
Renard is at the wheel, and there is light coming from the windows of the captain’s cabin behind him. Tristan and I both drop once more to the floor of the deck.
“Cap’n’s inside,” Renard whispers, staring ahead to avoid bringing attention to us. “Trevor, deal weth the guard on the fo’c’sle.”
Trevor says nothing, but he immediately turns towards the front of the ship and makes his way to the fo’c’sle in a slow saunter, gazing out at the water as he does.
As I watch him, I realize, not for the first time, that I am wholly unprepared for this lifestyle.
I turn to Tristan, and he reads my expression without my having to say a word.
He smiles and nods towards the captain’s cabin, before crawling to crouch under the windows to the right of the door.
I follow suit, crouching under the left-hand windows.
There are cabins on either side of us as well, but no torches or candles burn inside either.
The officers who belong to these cabins are either asleep or inside the captain’s quarters with Sharpe.
I risk a glance inside, tipping my head up to peek in. I haven’t time to get a good look, though, because the figure of a man is approaching the door. I drop back down and press myself tightly to the wall. “Renard,” I whisper frantically. “Someone’s coming.”
He doesn’t react, but he must have heard me. The cabin door opens and nearly hits Tristan. I hold my breath and pray I won’t be seen as the French officer who volleyed with me on deck this afternoon steps out.
“Jean-Baptiste,” he calls. “Suivez-moi.” He motions to someone behind him, and another officer follows him, letting the door swing to close itself as they make their way belowdecks.