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The captain returned a bit earlier than Vesco had anticipated. This was not the issue. The issue was that he returned much, much drunker than Vesco had anticipated.
...Previous
The captain returned a bit earlier than Vesco had anticipated. This was not the issue. The issue was that he returned much, much drunker than Vesco had anticipated.
The quartermaster was at his desk doing sums in the ration books. He kept his ear open on the door behind him, where mother and baby were enjoying the day alone. Mr. Tiller had let them be in order to attend his neglected deck crew. Vesco did not have a fraction of his attention on the door before him; even so, the kick to it had him up with his knife drawn in an instant. Not his tiny throwing knives, the big leather-handled thing he kept in his boot. He heard the baby’s quiet chirping fall silent.
The office door was kicked again, so hard he heard a crack of wood. Vesco leaped over the desk, knocking his books to the floor. He wrenched the door open with one hand, knife ready to meet his visitor in the other. Had the captain not been stumbling drunkenly at that moment, he might have lost an eye.
He steadied himself as he saw Vesco, ready to lunge; he paused as he noticed the six inches of steel aimed at his face. The quartermaster took a step forward. Weatherdecker took a step back, growling like a bear.
“You’d draw on yer cap’n, you goddamn traitor?” he rumbled.
“You’d kick down my door?” snapped Vesco. “Back up. Right now.”
Uneasily, with slow care, Weatherdecker did, putting a few more steps between him and Vesco. Vesco kept the knife pointed at him as he slipped his keys from his pocket and locked the door behind him. He barely looked at it. He looked instead, quite firmly, at his wavering captain. Once he’d replaced his keys, he said lowly:
“The hell you think you’re doin’?”
“Said you’d go for a stroll, eh? Said you’d see the sunshine, whatch’ya doin’ inside, then, huh?”
“I was busy,” said Vesco sternly. “Didn’t find the time to go get pissed, like some.”
“The fuck you hidin’ in there?” bellowed the captain suddenly. “Don’t think I ain’t seen you hangin’ about! You show me what you got ‘fore I give you the lash!”
Mr. Vesco looked at the crowd of crewmen that had gathered; it was a large one, though it had given them a wide radius. Others were hanging in the rigging, enjoying the balcony view. He saw one figure descending fast.
“Think you’re imaginin’ things, cap’n. Nothin’ I could show y’in there that y’ain’t already seen.”
“Bullshit,” spat Weatherdecker. “Lemme through!”
He charged forward, but Vesco called his bluff. He also stepped forward, the knife poised to drive into his throat if he got closer. The captain stopped dead. This close, Vesco could smell the sweat on his skin and the strong liquor on his breath.
The figure from the rigging burst out of the crowd, ignoring the safety radius. Mr. Tiller ran for them at top speed, but stopped a few feet away, no longer sure of what his plan was. He looked to Mr. Vesco, asking silent questions, but the quartermaster kept focused on his knife’s proximity to the captain. Weatherdecker was the one that turned to look at him. He broke away from Vesco, already forgotten.
“You,” spat the captain. “Where’s the kid?”
“Uh…he’s at a nap, sir,” lied Tiller calmly. “In my quarters.”
“Go get it,” ordered Weatherdecker. “We’re gettin’ rid of it.”
“Oh,” said Tiller. “You got paid off?”
Weatherdecker spat on the deck.
“No. Don’t care about the fuckin’ money anymore. That kid’s goin’ overboard in a fuckin’ sack. An’ you,” he said, whirling unsteadily back to Vesco. “You an’ I are gonna hunt down that fuckin’ tug monkey and slit his goddamn throat. I’m done with this bullshit!”
Vesco lowered his voice, so the crewmen could not hear.
“Fine,” he said, “but not today. Nobody’s goin’ anywhere with you in this state.”
“It was a goddamn order, Vesco!” shouted the captain, loud enough for the both of them.
“I don’t take your orders when you’re full o’piss!” snapped Vesco. “We can talk plans once you sleep it off. Get to your cabin and stay there ’til you can stand straight.”
“You don’t tell me what to do! This is MY fuckin’ ship!”
“Oh yeah?” breathed Vesco. “What would the Benefactor say if he heard you talkin’ like that?”
Rage boiled over inside Weatherdecker. His hands tightened into fists, his face red-hot. Had something been in his reach, he would have pummelled it to pieces. The rage, however, also locked his muscles. He couldn’t move for his anger.
“It’s in my fuckin’ name,” he growled through gritted teeth. “It’s my fuckin’ boat.”
“Sure thing,” agreed Vesco. “But you’re laid up drunk right now. Airedale’s not back. That leaves me as commanding officer. Just go, Richard,” he urged quietly. “Sleep it off. You can’t give orders if you’re not straight in the head.”
Weatherdecker wanted to fight; he felt ready. But his steam had already been let off. The thought of the Benefactor had been a dunk of baking soda in his vinegar. He staggered unsteadily to the door beyond which lay the officer’s cabins. With a wobbly jerk, he slammed it behind him.
Finally allowing himself to exhale, Vesco slipped the knife back into his boot. Then, he remembered the crew. He looked, not at one particular man, but at the crowd at large. He didn’t have to say a word. They scattered back to their posts, leaving him alone with Mr. Tiller. The boatswain hurried forward.
“Are they okay?” he whispered. “Did he find them?”
“No,” said Vesco. He didn’t protest as Tiller followed him into his office, then into his quarters. Susan was holding the boy, trying to keep him still and silent, to not much avail. There were toys and blocks all over the floor. They both looked up, wide-eyed, as the door opened.
“Oh, thank gods,” sighed Susan, as she saw who it was.
“Tir!” proclaimed Damian. “Tir Tir! Baaah!”
“What happened out there?” asked his mother, shushing him.
“Capn’s a bit…unruly, right now,” said Vesco. “But we got ‘im down. He’ll be fine.”
“Is everything alright? Do you need Damian back?”
“It’s okay,” assured Vesco. “Keep ‘im for now, if it suits you. We’ll talk later.”
It certainly did suit her, though she kept a worried look about her as they closed the door. In the office, Tiller looked up at him, similarly concerned.
“D’you think he’s on to us? To her?”
“He knows somethin’,” said Vesco, “but he doesn’ know what it is.” He was quiet for a moment. “I gotta think. We should get back to work. For now, nothin’ happened, alright?”
Tiller nodded frantically. “Nothin’ happened. Sure.” He didn’t need to be told twice. Vesco locked the door after him. He returned to his sums, just as before, but the rest of his mind kept running.
To Miss Bankshead’s credit, the tea had been utterly delicious. That perfect brew had been the bright spot of the afternoon; the only real bright spot for Mr. Airedale. It had gone on too long, far too long. He was too polite to leave without a dismissal, which also left him too polite to object to her touching his person. She listened, enraptured, to his conversation, and offered her own with eloquence and charm. That would have been fine, had she not been in the habit of patting his knee. Touching his arm. Trying to snare him in those dark, clear eyes. She even had the gall to brush the toe of her boot along his shin, twice. Timothy Airedale had been brought up not to squirm, and it had taken all of his upbringing to stay still. Because it was so irritating, obviously.
He returned from his sojourn as the streetlamps were being lit. The world around them was dark, only stars and a few windows lit by candles adding to their glow. He had removed his necktie and returned his bicorne to its proper place. One did not wear one’s hat indoors, even in the company of irritating ladies.
Mr. Vesco was leaning back on the railing at the top of the plank when Airedale arrived at The Ship. The first mate nodded a good evening.
“Evenin’,” said Vesco. “You got a minute?”
“Certainly.” Airedale stopped in his tracks, turning his polite attention on Mr. Vesco.
“Not here,” said the quartermaster. “Like to talk in private, if it’s the same to you.”
Airedale nodded again, a bit more slowly. “If you wish. Will my quarters suffice?”
Vesco paused for a moment, thinking. Mr. Tiller had taken a turn keeping gate in his office, and in any case, the captain had tired himself out. Mum and baby would be safe for now.
“Can’t be overheard,” said the quartermaster quietly. A single solemn eyebrow was raised at him in question.
“I see,” said Mr. Airedale, entirely unruffled. “Where, then?”
There was only one place on The Ship from which eaves could not be dropped. One room, lined with lead and plaster, far below the waterline.
Mr. Vesco led the way down staircase after staircase, ladder after ladder, an oil lantern swinging in his hand for the former and in his teeth for the latter. Mr. Airedale followed him into the soggy storage holds of the deep lower decks.
The room was squat and rectangular, four walls and a ceiling in the centre of the floor. All were several feet thick, layers of wood, lead, plaster, and copper protecting the delicate cargo inside - more accurately, protecting the outside from the delicate cargo. The door facing them was built of the same. There were several square glass windows cut in to each face, staggered in the semblance of a pattern, each sunken in to the room to leave a ledge from the outside. Mr. Vesco placed his lantern in one of these next to the door, sending weird shadows into the room beyond.
“Are you quite sure of this, Mr. Vesco? I imagine there are safer places to hold a conversation.”
Mr. Vesco had already cracked open the door. It swung heavily, weighed down by its numerous layers.
“No eavesdroppers in here,” he murmured. Mr. Airedale still hesitated.
“I was under the impression that one was to wear slippers inside, Mr. Vesco. I believe this is to prevent the striking of sparks?”
“Sure, runnin’ back an’ forth in a battle,” said Vesco. He jerked his head into the room. “Just take it slow. You won’t spark nothin’.”
With one last nervous adjustment of his jacket, Mr. Airedale stepped over the threshold of The Ship’s gunpowder magazine. When Mr. Vesco closed the door behind him, the sounds of the creaking vessel disappeared. They were alone in a room stacked with barrels, crowding in on all sides. The room was half as tall as it was square, though this was still enough to leave the towering Mr. Airedale room to stand. The light from Vesco’s single lantern burned surprisingly brightly through the window.
“So,” encouraged Mr. Airedale. The lined walls gave his voice a strangely flat tone. Mr. Vesco took a deep breath, inhaling the gunpowder smell.
“I wanna know what you think of this kidnapping business.”
Mr. Airedale gave this some careful thought before he answered.
“I think nothing of it, Mr. Vesco. I had no part and I hold no opinions. It is the captain’s personal business.”
“I get havin’ no part. What d’you mean you hold no opinions, Tim? You feel nothin’ about a kid bein’ stolen away from his family?”
Mr. Airedale continued to study him, silently, but Vesco could hear the gears turning. It was a frosty silence, and a pained, rusty turning.
“Naturally,” said Airedale, “I am disgusted. As any decent person would be. As any decent first mate, however, I stay quiet and do not interfere in my captain’s affairs.”
“I’m through with decency,” said Vesco. “This is gettin’ stupid. The bronze are lookin’ into it. How long’s it gonna be before the navy’s involved? It’s risky for us an’ it’s hard on the family, especially mum an’ baby. You wanna talk about havin’ no part? The fuck part did they play in that damned game o’ poker?”
Vesco won some ground, then, as Mr. Airedale looked away at a darkened glass panel in the wall.
“If I recall,” he said quietly, looking back, “you had a hand in that damned game, Mr. Vesco.”
It was the quartermaster’s turn to look away, at the floor.
“Sure,” he murmured. “Sure, I did.”
“It seems this affair is your business as well, then. What opinions do you hold?”
“Tim, you’re right,” he snapped, looking up. “I could get some cash if I kept on with this plot. But, I can’t anymore. It’s gone too far.” He paused, struggling with his words at first. Once they got out, there was no stopping them. Even here, in the utterly private darkness, he lowered his voice.
“You don’t understand, Tim. Weatherdecker…he…he wasn’t playin’ fair hands that night. He cut in a barmaid to spy ‘round the table - had a code all worked out. He cut me in to make a show of losin’, to get the rest off their guard. Cartleblat ain’t the only man he stole from that night, but he’s the only one that din’t pay up.”
Airedale’s expression had not changed, as was his ancient custom, but his eyes were bright and alert, riveted on Vesco.
“How do I know this is true?” he asked quietly.
“Why would I make it up?”
“To woo me to mutiny.”
“I’m not cryin’ for his head, Tim. I just want this nonsense done with. I turned a blind eye to get some spare change, but it’s not worth it anymore. That mum needs her baby more’n I need cash. ‘Specially cash that weren’t mine in the first place.”
Mr. Airedale stayed very quiet, his arms crossed over his chest, thinking.
“You holdin’ any opinions now?” asked Vesco.
“If I may, Mr. Vesco…what is your plan in telling me this? What is it you would like me to do with this information?”
“I’d like you to back me up when I tell the cap’n that the kid’s goin’ home.”
“And when would that be?”
“After he sobers up, but before we get to Port Nichols. I want ‘em off there.”
“That leaves me a very short time to decide, Mr. Vesco.”
“Decide WHAT, Tim?” snapped Vesco. “Get your brain outta your stiff upper lip and HELP me, for fuck’s sake. Help Susan. Help the kid.”
The lip in question stiffened further.
“My brain is where it should be; the realm of care and discretion. I have not refused you, and I, in fact, agree that this nonsense should end. I simply wish to consider all possible outcomes.”
Vesco’s eyes flashed white in the dim lantern glow, as he rolled them in exasperation.
“Fine,” he sighed. “I’ll take care of it myself.” He turned and strode towards the door. Airedale turned after him.
“Mr. Vesco, I have not refu—“
“I heard whatcha said, Tim. Thanks anyway.” He shoved the door open, and left it hanging for the first mate. “Take the lantern. I’ll be fine.”
His flat footsteps faded into the dark beyond. Mr. Airedale waited until he was surrounded by silence. He waited some more. Then, he made his move, carefully, so as not to strike any sparks.
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