CHAPTER 28
Wrexford paused for a moment, clamping the saw blade between his teeth in order to shake the numbness from his fingers.
The lower half of his body, still submerged in the swirling currents, felt like a block of ice, and the chill was slowly spreading up his arms, but on close inspection, he saw that the job was nearly done.
He had chiseled the wood away from the massive bolts holding the rudder in place, exposing just enough to saw away at the steel.
Two bolts were cut through completely. In another few minutes, the third one would snap away and the rudder would sink into the river, leaving the ship unable to steer.
The villains would then have two choices: They could abandon the vessel in order to save their own necks. Or they could stay aboard and risk taking the time to make repairs, gambling that the authorities had no way of linking Tyler’s disappearance to them.
Either way, the ship wouldn’t be blown to smithereens by the Royal Navy frigate.
Once it was helpless in the water, there was plenty of time to send word to Daggett, who could then make quick work of capturing the ship with a boarding party.
Even if Lyman’s crew wished to fight, they would have no way of maneuvering to aim their guns.
After blowing some warmth back into his hands, Wrexford resumed sawing. Even if von Stockhausen held Tyler as a hostage, he was confident that the scholar-turned-murderer would be willing to bargain. Avoiding the hangman’s noose was an excellent incentive to make a deal.
The rasp of metal on metal was suddenly joined by a strange scrabbling at the far corner of the stern. Wrexford froze and cocked an ear. Something was scraping down the side of the hull. Perhaps they had heard him?
He quietly regripped the saw blade between his teeth and reached for the knife strapped to his leg.
The sounds grew a touch louder—and then came a soft splash, punctuated by a watery oath.
Bloody hell.
Shoving the knife back into its sheath, Wrexford then grabbed the saw blade from his mouth and let out a sharp hiss. A shadowy flutter of movement stirred the dark water. He couldn’t make out any shape to it, but he heard a faint gurgling as it came closer.
“What the devil are you doing here?” whispered Tyler, who was struggling to keep hold of an inflated oilcloth sack.
“I could ask the same thing of you,” retorted the earl. “Though I daresay, I have the better answer. I’m pulling your cods out of the fire . . . though I ought to have let them burn to a crisp.”
“Granted, I misjudged Adderley. He’s Lyman’s cousin—and a brute—but he’s got a very sharp eye.” The valet had drifted close enough for Wrexford to see the nasty bruise on his face. “However, there is a bright side to my clumsiness—”
“Never mind that now. Hold the rudder steady while I finish sawing through the last bolt.” Seeing Tyler struggle to control both the oilcloth and the slippery wood, Wrexford swore under his breath.
“Ye gods, let go of the damnable sack. We need to disable the ship.” Tempting as it was to let von Stockhausen, Lyman, and Adderley sail into a hail of cannon fire, there had been enough bloodshed.
He wished to see them brought to justice.
“Seeing as we’ve all gone through hell to find what’s in the damnable sack, I’d rather not let it float away.”
“Becton’s specimen?” demanded the earl.
“Of course,” answered Tyler. “You didn’t think I would leave the ship without it, did you?”
“Move behind me. I’ll manage on my own. Watch out for the steering chains. They’re likely to snap when the rudder falls.”
Tyler dutifully paddled around to join him. “Might I inquire how we are going to keep from drowning, once we’ve sunk their chances of escape?” He grimaced. “The bloody river is a lot colder than I imagined.”
Wrexford was already sawing away at the bolt. “Do you see a wherry with an ochre sail behind us?”
The current was starting to quicken, its whirls slapping bigger waves against the hull.
“There’s some sort of small craft in the distance, but I can’t make out the color,” said the valet.
“I think we can assume it’s our friends coming to our aid. Charlotte, Sheffield, and Raven will be delighted to see you . . .” The bolt emitted a low crackling. “Mac may be a trifle less—”
The rest of the earl’s words were swallowed in a shuddering crack as the weighty rudder broke off from its moorings, tearing loose the chains—and disappeared beneath the water.
From high above them on the quarterdeck came the sounds of all hell breaking loose.
Wrexford grabbed Tyler’s sodden shirt and indicated a thick swirl of fog off the right, its tendrils lying low over the waves. “Swim for cover before we’re spotted.”
The shouting grew louder. He recognized von Stockhausen’s voice amid the cacophony. Someone lowered a rope with a lantern tied on its end, which clearly illuminated the damage.
Caught in the current, the ship yawed and started to drift toward them. The commotion quieted as the crew seemed to shift to the front of the ship. For several moments, the earl heard only the flapping of the sails. And then . . .
“How could the bloody rudder simply fall off, Reggie?” It was Adderley, his voice quavering with fury. “Everything was shipshape yesterday.”
“A good question.”
“That’s Lyman,” murmured Tyler. The wind had shifted in such a way that the voices floating down from the quarterdeck were clear as a bell.
“But it’s not one we’re at leisure to answer at the moment,” added Lyman. “Come, let’s lower one of the longboats.”
“What about von Stockhausen?” asked his cousin. The navigation lanterns hung in rigging cast enough illumination for Wrexford to make out the two figures standing together by the rail. “And what about the ship?”
Lyman laughed. “Why would we take a plump pigeon with us, when he’s ripe for plucking by authorities. As for the ship, there’s no need to worry. I’ve a plan.”
“You usually do,” said Adderley with a nasty chuckle.
Wrexford batted at the fog floating around him, straining to keep Lyman and his cousin in sight as they moved to the stern of the ship.
“I learned a great deal about those devious dastards and their sordid plans during my interrogation,” muttered Tyler as he and the earl continued to tread water. “And I can explain how the pieces all fit—”
“Shhhh!” hissed Wrexford as another figure appeared on the quarterdeck and accosted Lyman and Adderley with an angry shout and a flurry of curses and demands.
“Stop the crew from abandoning the ship?” repeated Lyman. “You’re welcome to try, Herr von Stockhausen. But money won’t do them any good in Newgate Prison.”
“You, too, are like filthy rats, trying to slink away,” cried von Stockhausen. “I’m paying you a king’s ransom to partner with me, and you’ve only received half of it.”
Lyman shrugged. “You’re worth more to us here, taking the blame for everything.”
“Even among thieves, there is a code of honor,” protested von Stockhausen. He was clutching a small valise—valuable, no doubt—to his middle. “My money should purchase the short passage to shore. I demand that you take me with you.”
Adderley snarled an oath and shoved him aside as he and Lyman set to work, rigging the longboat to a set of pulleys and tackles hanging from a set of davit arms, and swinging it out over the water.
The ship was drifting closer and closer to Wrexford and Tyler. Pushed by the waves, the stern was almost facing them.
“Stop—I order you to stop!”
The anger was gone from von Stockhausen’s voice, noted the earl. Instead, there was an edge of cold-blooded calmness.
The other two men continued to ignore their erstwhile partner in crime.
After positioning the longboat to a spot several feet below the ship’s rail, Lyman climbed down into its stern and loosened one of the pulley ropes in readiness for lowering it into the river.
Adderley moved to the bow and swung one leg over the rail.
“Stop!” repeated von Stockhausen.
“Or what?” sneered Adderley. “You’ll cut my throat?”
Another laugh from Lyman.
“Poison is a pampered aristocrat’s weapon. You’re too lily-livered to do it, face-to-face.” Adderley brought his other leg over the rail and turned his back on the Prussian, readying himself to drop down into the longboat.
A shot rang out. Limned in a shower of fire-gold sparks, Adderley toppled headfirst into the longboat, the impact of his weight sending Lyman flying out of his seat. He twisted in midair and just managed to catch hold of the outer gunwale with one hand to keep from falling into the river.
“Ja, I don’t feel beholden to kill face-to-face,” jeered von Stockhausen through the silvery haze of his smoking pistol. He dropped his spent weapon and drew another one from his valise. “I do whatever is most pragmatic.”
“Holy hell,” uttered Tyler, his eye widened in surprise. “Who would have thought . . .”
“Not I,” admitted Wrexford. He darted a look over his shoulder, trying to spot the wherry through the mist that was beginning to rise from the river.
At first, he saw nothing, but then suddenly a sail flickered in and out of the fog.
The shift in the wind had slowed its progress, but it was creeping closer and closer.
His attention snapped back to the drama unfolding between the two conspirators. With unexpected agility, von Stockhausen leaped into the longboat and dumped Adderley’s lifeless corpse over the side. It hit the water with a dull splash and began to sink.
Lyman spat out a curse. His face was streaked in blood—he must have struck his head on the combing while being thrown from the longboat—and he redoubled his efforts to pull himself back into the cockpit.
The click of the pistol’s hammer caused him to freeze. “Be reasonable, von Stockhausen. In our world, there’s always a deal to be made. You uncock your weapon, and I row you to shore.”