“All right then, Rat-Boy,” Ox said, “you’ll get your hunnerd dollars for tellin me where those two Englishmen are. Then if we decide we need help getting our hands on them, we’ll let your Mr Wade earn his money again.”
Ox pulled a worn leather wallet from inside his coat and placed two fifty dollar notes on the table, sliding them towards Brewer.
Jonah’s eyes widened at the sight of the green bills. A hundred dollars, fifty pounds was a lot of money, more than he normally had on his person.
Ox nodded his shaggy haired head at his men who began putting on coats and hats.
Brewer stood too, realising now that he had to earn his keep.
“Where are they then?” Ox growled impatiently.
Brewer was very aware of the rifles the men were carrying.
“The Waterwitch!” he squeaked.
“The what?” one of the men asked.
“The Waterwitch. It’s a boat down the quay. I’ll show you.”
“Indeed you will,” Ox remarked, showing the weaselly little man towards the door.
Malcolm White remained behind the bar, watching the shrew faced Brewer making his deal. It angered him that the man could sell his colleagues ‘down the river’ with such ease, though he knew the man’s propensity for self-preservation came from an experienced source.
White didn’t like Wade much either, though neither he nor Brewer had ever actually crossed him.
But that didn’t mean he had to like what he saw.
As the men stood, readying themselves for the weather outside and, by the looks of it, a fight, White breathed a sigh of relief that Brewer had forgotten why he was here.
Moments later he cursed his own bad ju-ju.
“So, who’s Buxley?” Ox asked once more.
“Shit!” Brewer exclaimed. “I plain forgot her.”
“Who is she?”
“Oh no one important.”
“Who is she?” This time Ox asked the question slowly, his words like the clamour of bricks tumbling over one another.
Brewer froze under the threat in the man’s tone, his face pale.
“Ju… Just a woman is all. But I’d better get her else the skipper’ll not be happy.”
“Your skipper must think she’s something special to send you out on a night like this.”
Brewer gave a squeak of a laugh. “Oh yeah,” he said conspiratorially. “He thinks she’s the best navigator ever lived. But Mr Wade don’t need her telling him how to fly his boat.”
Ox looked over at one of his men, a swarthy fellow with the top of his right ear missing. The man nodded back silently; a ship’s navigator to add to the leverage.
“I don’t see no women here, rat-boy, so where is she?”
“Oh, she’s riding the scope. She’ll be down the cellar probably.”
“Shut your mouth Brewer!” White snapped no longer able to stand by and listen to him give up his crew, especially little Lilly-May.
Ox turned slowly, his eyes boring into White’s. You go about your business, nigger!”
White Glared back at him, not flinching. “This placehere is my business. I don’t want the likes of you in it, so why don’t you and your men leave right now?”
He remained defiant, but in truth he was worried. These men meant business and looked more than capable of handling themselves.
Ox said nothing for a while, just stared hard ay White.
“Where’s the cellar?” he asked at last but White didn’t reply.
“Through that door, then the one in front of you,” Brewer said helpfully.
“Hal!” Ox instructed and the man with the missing chunk of ear strode across the room.
He tried the far door but it was locked.
Ox pulled back his coat revealing a huge chrome plated revolver nestling comfortably in a holster.
Right now the big hairy man resembled something straight out of the Old West.
“Keys now!” his deep, gravelly voice demanded.
“Unless you want to spend tomorrow burying your customers,” the American threatened more quietly.
Malcolm White looked at the patrons of his pub, other than the Americans there were about twenty people in here. Many of them were friends he’d known for years. Most were nearby neighbours.
Despite his fondness for Lilly he couldn’t risk injury to the other just to save her skin. The crew of the Waterwitch were friends, well most of them, but not to the point where he’d sacrifice half the town for them.
With a glare at Brewer, White reached up to a hook above the bar and threw a bunch of keys at Hal.
Pushing the door open slowly Hal drew his pistol and headed confidently down the stairs, followed immediately by two more of Ox’s people.
It took a moment for Hal’s eyes to adjust to the darker lighting down here, but he picked his way through the barrels and crates and saw the red-lit area beyond.
Two of the beds were neat and unused but the third was in some disarray, but there was no-one in it. There was a sudden clatter off to the right and Hal turned, his pistol ready, but he couldn’t see anything.
He moved quickly toward the corner in the wall, his companions in tow.
Hla came to a short set of steps at the top of which was a man struggling to lift a young unconscious woman up onto his shoulder.
“Hold it right there, mister!” Hal warned.
Waterwitch
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Re: Waterwitch
Lord Sebastian James Ambrose Reynolds couldn’t believe his luck when the three men had wlaked right past him. He didn’t think he’d be quite so lucky again so he’d tried to open the hatch door.
It was too heavy to do with Lilly in his arms so he’d had to drop her legs to the ground and ease the door open with one hand.
The wind had caught it though and thrown it open with a loud bang. It had made the Englishman jump and he had lost his grip on Lilly.
In the end he’d had to drag her up onto his shoulder and with unsteady legs step out over the upstand.
That’s when they caught him.
It was too heavy to do with Lilly in his arms so he’d had to drop her legs to the ground and ease the door open with one hand.
The wind had caught it though and thrown it open with a loud bang. It had made the Englishman jump and he had lost his grip on Lilly.
In the end he’d had to drag her up onto his shoulder and with unsteady legs step out over the upstand.
That’s when they caught him.
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Re: Waterwitch
Reynolds froze at the American’s warning.
“Ox!” Hal bellowed. “You’d better get down here.”
Ox, who had been standing silently, his hand on his pistol waiting for Hal to return with some kicking screaming woman in tow, now cast a warning glare at Brewer.
“Keep an eye on rat-boy,” he instructed his remaining men as he strode for the door to the cellar. “And the nigger too,” he added upon seeing the murderous looks White was giving them.
The locals so far had kept out of this; would keep it that way too if they knew what was best for them the big yank thought.
Down in the cellar Ox was surprised to see Hal and the others with their weapons pointing at a stranger. That was until he realised that the stranger was carrying a young woman.
“Seems you got somethin’ I’m wanting there, mister,” Ox’s deep voice was calm, reasonable.
“Why don’t you come on back and put the little lady down?”
Reynolds gave a furtive glance over his shoulder but there was no way he was going to make it without getting shot, or worse, Lilly getting hit.
Reluctantly on shaking legs, paced back down the steps, wary of the guns pointing in his direction.
Luckily for him the men didn’t know who he was. If they did he’d be all the bait they needed to get to Jonathan.
Carefully he lowered Lilly to the hard floor when they instructed him to do so and backed away.
“So, who the hell are you then?” Ox rasped the question Reynolds had hoped they might ignore.
Reynolds didn’t answer, knowing his English accent would be a giveaway.
“You from the crew of this Waterwitch thing too?”
Still Reynolds didn’t answer which made Ox narrow his eyes, his anger rising.
Ox took a step towards the Englishman and Reynolds tensed, but then Ox stopped and seemed to change his mind. Instead he looked down at the unconscious form of Lilly, lying almost at his feet.
“Well you’re either crew or somethin’ more to her than that. Either way, Hal here’s mighty good at getting information outta people.”
The big bearded man crouched down to get a better look at the girl.
“Mighty pretty little thing, ain’t she?” he said lifting Lilly’s skirts and looking up her smooth slender legs. “Mighty pretty indeed.”
He looked up into Reynolds’ eyes but the peer didn’t flinch.
In his head, Reynolds had already pulled his pistol and in almost complete silence put a bullet in each man, but the gun was buried under several layers of clothing and there was no way he’d get it out before the men could react.
“You’re a cold one, ain’t ya?” Ox chuckled. “Don’t find many men’d stand by and watch another take to pawing at his woman without so much as a curse. Don’t reckon I’d be able to watch ‘em doin’ it to any woman under these circumstances neither.”
Ox stood. “You two take the girl up to rat-boy, Hal, bring our mute friend.”
“Ox!” Hal bellowed. “You’d better get down here.”
Ox, who had been standing silently, his hand on his pistol waiting for Hal to return with some kicking screaming woman in tow, now cast a warning glare at Brewer.
“Keep an eye on rat-boy,” he instructed his remaining men as he strode for the door to the cellar. “And the nigger too,” he added upon seeing the murderous looks White was giving them.
The locals so far had kept out of this; would keep it that way too if they knew what was best for them the big yank thought.
Down in the cellar Ox was surprised to see Hal and the others with their weapons pointing at a stranger. That was until he realised that the stranger was carrying a young woman.
“Seems you got somethin’ I’m wanting there, mister,” Ox’s deep voice was calm, reasonable.
“Why don’t you come on back and put the little lady down?”
Reynolds gave a furtive glance over his shoulder but there was no way he was going to make it without getting shot, or worse, Lilly getting hit.
Reluctantly on shaking legs, paced back down the steps, wary of the guns pointing in his direction.
Luckily for him the men didn’t know who he was. If they did he’d be all the bait they needed to get to Jonathan.
Carefully he lowered Lilly to the hard floor when they instructed him to do so and backed away.
“So, who the hell are you then?” Ox rasped the question Reynolds had hoped they might ignore.
Reynolds didn’t answer, knowing his English accent would be a giveaway.
“You from the crew of this Waterwitch thing too?”
Still Reynolds didn’t answer which made Ox narrow his eyes, his anger rising.
Ox took a step towards the Englishman and Reynolds tensed, but then Ox stopped and seemed to change his mind. Instead he looked down at the unconscious form of Lilly, lying almost at his feet.
“Well you’re either crew or somethin’ more to her than that. Either way, Hal here’s mighty good at getting information outta people.”
The big bearded man crouched down to get a better look at the girl.
“Mighty pretty little thing, ain’t she?” he said lifting Lilly’s skirts and looking up her smooth slender legs. “Mighty pretty indeed.”
He looked up into Reynolds’ eyes but the peer didn’t flinch.
In his head, Reynolds had already pulled his pistol and in almost complete silence put a bullet in each man, but the gun was buried under several layers of clothing and there was no way he’d get it out before the men could react.
“You’re a cold one, ain’t ya?” Ox chuckled. “Don’t find many men’d stand by and watch another take to pawing at his woman without so much as a curse. Don’t reckon I’d be able to watch ‘em doin’ it to any woman under these circumstances neither.”
Ox stood. “You two take the girl up to rat-boy, Hal, bring our mute friend.”
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Re: Waterwitch
Baron Roborough was led up the stairs at gunpoint following the men who carried Lilly between them.
Jonah Brewer’s mouth went dry when he saw the men carrying Lilly’s body. For a moment he thought she might be dead, and his heart flipped, both excited and nervous at the same time.
If she was dead then Wade would be very pleased, in fact, he might even tell Wade it was him that killed her.
But, and this oddly worried the weasel-like man more, Captain Holt would be very angry. He’d want revenge on whoever was responsible.
He’d likely gather the crew for a fight and there was a chance, a good chance, that Jonah Brewer and Nestor Wade might be amongst the attack party.
Which would mean either man stood a good chance of getting shot.
Brewer didn’t like getting shot; it had happened before...
...Mr Wade had taken a fancy to an Indian merchant’s daughter when they were in Mumbai. Brewer had been posted as look out.
The girl’s father had come home unexpectedly and Brewer had only just managed to slip ahead of him and warn Wade.
By the time Wade had got his clothes on, the girl’s father was at the bedroom door. Wade was already half way out the window, but Brewer had been mesmerised by the naked fourteen year old lying sobbing on the bed.
When the door burst open Wade had thrown himself out landing in the shrubbery beneath.
Brewer had been quick too, grabbing one of the large pillows from the bottom of the bed, and heaving it at the angry, armed father. It had been enough to knock the barrel of the shotgun aside so that it caught against the door frame and the man dropped if giving enough time for Brewer to get to the window.
Then there was a deafening retort and Jonah was lifted out of the window. He fell down into the shrubs below but the pain of the fall was nothing compared to the pain in his tattered backside.
The doctor on board the Witch had pulled forty-two lead pellets from the cheeks of Brewer’s arse...
... So now things were not looking at all rosey for Jonah, and he broke out in a sweat.
“This her?” Ox asked nodding at the slumbering form between the two men.
Brewer nodded back.
“Good. One navigator for one passenger, should be an easy choice.”
The door to the bar opened and an old bearded man shuffled in. He was busy talking to the man coming in behind him and didn’t notice the half dozen men standing there with their weapons drawn.
“Goddamit, Marcus,” he said, “If they put their taxes up any more I ain’t gonna afford it no more. How’s a man s’posed to earn himself a shilling if the Brits keep taking sixpence from every damned one?”
“It’s not just that, Dan,” Marcus said but he didn’t finish his sentence as he did notice the men with the guns.
“Come on in, gentlemen,” Ox said in a loud voice, waving the shiny pistol in his hand. “We ain’t got no quarrel with you now, so just go ahead and get yourself some drinks and let us go about our business unmolested and we’ll do the same with you.”
Old Dan furrowed his bushy brow as he examined the group but he didn’t recognise any of them so he shrugged and moved nonchalantly towards the bar.
Another three men, coated, hated and booted following Old Dan and Marcus in, stamping and shaking the snow from their shoulders.
Ox and his men watched as the men filed in, ignoring the curious and guarded looks they gave them. The last one in, a tall man with a handle-bar moustache, thick mutton-chops and long hair, closed the door and shut out the howling wind.
“Alright men, prepare to move out,” Ox ordered, then he came nearer to Brewer.
“Rat-boy,” he said getting the weasel-like man’s attention. “who’s this?” Ox pointed at Lord Sebastian Reynolds.
Jonah Brewer’s mouth went dry when he saw the men carrying Lilly’s body. For a moment he thought she might be dead, and his heart flipped, both excited and nervous at the same time.
If she was dead then Wade would be very pleased, in fact, he might even tell Wade it was him that killed her.
But, and this oddly worried the weasel-like man more, Captain Holt would be very angry. He’d want revenge on whoever was responsible.
He’d likely gather the crew for a fight and there was a chance, a good chance, that Jonah Brewer and Nestor Wade might be amongst the attack party.
Which would mean either man stood a good chance of getting shot.
Brewer didn’t like getting shot; it had happened before...
...Mr Wade had taken a fancy to an Indian merchant’s daughter when they were in Mumbai. Brewer had been posted as look out.
The girl’s father had come home unexpectedly and Brewer had only just managed to slip ahead of him and warn Wade.
By the time Wade had got his clothes on, the girl’s father was at the bedroom door. Wade was already half way out the window, but Brewer had been mesmerised by the naked fourteen year old lying sobbing on the bed.
When the door burst open Wade had thrown himself out landing in the shrubbery beneath.
Brewer had been quick too, grabbing one of the large pillows from the bottom of the bed, and heaving it at the angry, armed father. It had been enough to knock the barrel of the shotgun aside so that it caught against the door frame and the man dropped if giving enough time for Brewer to get to the window.
Then there was a deafening retort and Jonah was lifted out of the window. He fell down into the shrubs below but the pain of the fall was nothing compared to the pain in his tattered backside.
The doctor on board the Witch had pulled forty-two lead pellets from the cheeks of Brewer’s arse...
... So now things were not looking at all rosey for Jonah, and he broke out in a sweat.
“This her?” Ox asked nodding at the slumbering form between the two men.
Brewer nodded back.
“Good. One navigator for one passenger, should be an easy choice.”
The door to the bar opened and an old bearded man shuffled in. He was busy talking to the man coming in behind him and didn’t notice the half dozen men standing there with their weapons drawn.
“Goddamit, Marcus,” he said, “If they put their taxes up any more I ain’t gonna afford it no more. How’s a man s’posed to earn himself a shilling if the Brits keep taking sixpence from every damned one?”
“It’s not just that, Dan,” Marcus said but he didn’t finish his sentence as he did notice the men with the guns.
“Come on in, gentlemen,” Ox said in a loud voice, waving the shiny pistol in his hand. “We ain’t got no quarrel with you now, so just go ahead and get yourself some drinks and let us go about our business unmolested and we’ll do the same with you.”
Old Dan furrowed his bushy brow as he examined the group but he didn’t recognise any of them so he shrugged and moved nonchalantly towards the bar.
Another three men, coated, hated and booted following Old Dan and Marcus in, stamping and shaking the snow from their shoulders.
Ox and his men watched as the men filed in, ignoring the curious and guarded looks they gave them. The last one in, a tall man with a handle-bar moustache, thick mutton-chops and long hair, closed the door and shut out the howling wind.
“Alright men, prepare to move out,” Ox ordered, then he came nearer to Brewer.
“Rat-boy,” he said getting the weasel-like man’s attention. “who’s this?” Ox pointed at Lord Sebastian Reynolds.
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Re: Waterwitch
The shock of seeing Lord Roborough made the words catch in Brewer’s throat so that they came out in a nervous squeak.
Ox’s pistol, chrome plated and heavy barrelled came to rest pressing against Brewer’s forehead.
“Who is he?”
“He’s... he’s...”
Something rolled across the floor and nudged Ox’s boot. He looked down to see what looked like a bean tin.
“He’s with me,” stated a man across the barroom. Ox saw the man who had come in last and shut the door.
He was tall and broad, his eyes narrowed in threat, he wore a big heavy coat and a broad rimmed hat.
But none of that really sank in. What ox was more interested in was the long double barrelled shotgun in his hands.
“He’s Reynolds,” Brewer finally got the words out and the pistol left his forehead swinging for the big man with the shotgun.
He was too slow.
James MacLarren Hartfield pulled the trigger on the old double-barrelled weapon. It bucked in his hands as pellets flew out of the barrel in a shroud of smoke and flame, blasting into Hal and knocking him sideways.
At the same instant the tin can at ox’s feet exploded. There was more noise and a massive shockwave rather than any sort of fireball, but it was enough to blast Brewer and Ox from their feet.
Moreover, it was the thick orange smoke that filled the room that Mac found of more use.
He grabbed a heavy table and pulled it onto its side to use as cover when Ox’s men finally reacted.
Reynolds used the distraction to rush forwards blindly into the smoke. He grabbed one of the men who held Lilly and slipped a knife extracted from the inside of his coat, into the man’s throat.
Reynolds didn’t stop to watch the man fall. He lunged forward, thrusting the knife high. It hit something in the thick orange gloop and there was a yelp of pain.
Gunshots sounded again.
There were yells within the barroom and chaos.
“Somebody find that bastard!” Ox’s voice boomed out.
People were coughing now, the thick smoke hard to breathe.
Reynolds crouched low, examining the floor. He could see a dark orangey silhouette of a person lying motionless on the floor.
Reaching out a hand he found a smooth, warm, bare leg. From there he found a boot, then another, and began dragging Lilly’s unconscious body back towards the cellar.
The shotgun boomed out again and something smashed across the bar.
Reynolds tried to hear where people were but it was no good, there was just too much noise, so he opted for speed instead to get himself and Lilly out of the firing line.
“Goddammit!” Ox roared, “To me! To me!”
Then there was another booming explosion, the shockwave visibly whipping like a tsunami through the orange smoke. And then the smoke became thicker and people began to choke.
Bent double, shuffling backwards dragging a body, his lungs were fit to burst. The first time he realised there was somebody behind him was when his posterior connected with them.
He twisted to get as good a look as he could in the fog. “I’ll give you a hand there mister,” Malcolm White said in a hoarse whisper.
White stepped past Reynolds, grabbed the girl around the waist and heaved her up onto his shoulder like she was one of his beer barrels.
“We’ll go out the back way,” he said leading Reynolds behind the bar.
“Mac!” White yelled seemingly randomly.
James Hartfield felt the bullet rip through his hair, tugging at the strands.
He put his hand to the side of his head but there was no wound.
He heard White’s voice call his name.
He knew the place well enough to know it came from behind the bar and recognised the tones of a man summoning a dog.
He jumped up letting both newly reloaded barrels go in the general direction of Ox’s men, then blindly turning he sprinted for the bar.
Its flat surface loomed out of the orange haze and he leapt up, throwing his legs up over it.
He hit something soft and fleshy and both he and the unknown other crashed unceremoniously through the open door to land in a tangled head on the floor. Orange smoke followed them into the room.
White kicked the door closed and awkwardly turned the key in the lock.
Hartfield looked up first at White then at Lilly and a grin broke across his face.
“Get some damned windows open,” came a muted bellow from inside the tavern.
“Excuse me!” came another muffled voice, this one from under Hartfield’s coat and the big man remembered his soft landing.
Reynolds staggered out from under him and the two looked carefully at one another.
“I believe I asked you to stay on the boat,” Reynolds quipped.
“Did you?” Hartfield grinned.
“Glad you didn’t,” the Lord Roborough replied.
“Reynolds, you son of a goat! You get back here now or I’ll start shootin’ these folks here…” It was Ox’s deep gravelly voice, the sentences broken by fits of coughing.
White, Reynolds and Hartfield exchanged glances, knowing the big American would do it too, were it not for the thick fog obscuring everything.
“Give her to me,” Mac said holding out his arms and taking Lilly from White.
“You give us a minute then you tell that fucker we’ve gone,” the big Canadian said with a sneer.
White was going to protest but then realised what Mac was doing. He was going to lead Ox and his men away from White’s customers.
The black man nodded his consent. “Look after her, and yourself, Mac.”
Reynolds gave the landlord a smile and grateful nod and moved to open the back door for Mac.
“I’ll see your place is fixed up,” Reynolds said.
White said nothing.
“He’s good for it!” Mac said as he stepped out into the cold.
Ox’s pistol, chrome plated and heavy barrelled came to rest pressing against Brewer’s forehead.
“Who is he?”
“He’s... he’s...”
Something rolled across the floor and nudged Ox’s boot. He looked down to see what looked like a bean tin.
“He’s with me,” stated a man across the barroom. Ox saw the man who had come in last and shut the door.
He was tall and broad, his eyes narrowed in threat, he wore a big heavy coat and a broad rimmed hat.
But none of that really sank in. What ox was more interested in was the long double barrelled shotgun in his hands.
“He’s Reynolds,” Brewer finally got the words out and the pistol left his forehead swinging for the big man with the shotgun.
He was too slow.
James MacLarren Hartfield pulled the trigger on the old double-barrelled weapon. It bucked in his hands as pellets flew out of the barrel in a shroud of smoke and flame, blasting into Hal and knocking him sideways.
At the same instant the tin can at ox’s feet exploded. There was more noise and a massive shockwave rather than any sort of fireball, but it was enough to blast Brewer and Ox from their feet.
Moreover, it was the thick orange smoke that filled the room that Mac found of more use.
He grabbed a heavy table and pulled it onto its side to use as cover when Ox’s men finally reacted.
Reynolds used the distraction to rush forwards blindly into the smoke. He grabbed one of the men who held Lilly and slipped a knife extracted from the inside of his coat, into the man’s throat.
Reynolds didn’t stop to watch the man fall. He lunged forward, thrusting the knife high. It hit something in the thick orange gloop and there was a yelp of pain.
Gunshots sounded again.
There were yells within the barroom and chaos.
“Somebody find that bastard!” Ox’s voice boomed out.
People were coughing now, the thick smoke hard to breathe.
Reynolds crouched low, examining the floor. He could see a dark orangey silhouette of a person lying motionless on the floor.
Reaching out a hand he found a smooth, warm, bare leg. From there he found a boot, then another, and began dragging Lilly’s unconscious body back towards the cellar.
The shotgun boomed out again and something smashed across the bar.
Reynolds tried to hear where people were but it was no good, there was just too much noise, so he opted for speed instead to get himself and Lilly out of the firing line.
“Goddammit!” Ox roared, “To me! To me!”
Then there was another booming explosion, the shockwave visibly whipping like a tsunami through the orange smoke. And then the smoke became thicker and people began to choke.
Bent double, shuffling backwards dragging a body, his lungs were fit to burst. The first time he realised there was somebody behind him was when his posterior connected with them.
He twisted to get as good a look as he could in the fog. “I’ll give you a hand there mister,” Malcolm White said in a hoarse whisper.
White stepped past Reynolds, grabbed the girl around the waist and heaved her up onto his shoulder like she was one of his beer barrels.
“We’ll go out the back way,” he said leading Reynolds behind the bar.
“Mac!” White yelled seemingly randomly.
James Hartfield felt the bullet rip through his hair, tugging at the strands.
He put his hand to the side of his head but there was no wound.
He heard White’s voice call his name.
He knew the place well enough to know it came from behind the bar and recognised the tones of a man summoning a dog.
He jumped up letting both newly reloaded barrels go in the general direction of Ox’s men, then blindly turning he sprinted for the bar.
Its flat surface loomed out of the orange haze and he leapt up, throwing his legs up over it.
He hit something soft and fleshy and both he and the unknown other crashed unceremoniously through the open door to land in a tangled head on the floor. Orange smoke followed them into the room.
White kicked the door closed and awkwardly turned the key in the lock.
Hartfield looked up first at White then at Lilly and a grin broke across his face.
“Get some damned windows open,” came a muted bellow from inside the tavern.
“Excuse me!” came another muffled voice, this one from under Hartfield’s coat and the big man remembered his soft landing.
Reynolds staggered out from under him and the two looked carefully at one another.
“I believe I asked you to stay on the boat,” Reynolds quipped.
“Did you?” Hartfield grinned.
“Glad you didn’t,” the Lord Roborough replied.
“Reynolds, you son of a goat! You get back here now or I’ll start shootin’ these folks here…” It was Ox’s deep gravelly voice, the sentences broken by fits of coughing.
White, Reynolds and Hartfield exchanged glances, knowing the big American would do it too, were it not for the thick fog obscuring everything.
“Give her to me,” Mac said holding out his arms and taking Lilly from White.
“You give us a minute then you tell that fucker we’ve gone,” the big Canadian said with a sneer.
White was going to protest but then realised what Mac was doing. He was going to lead Ox and his men away from White’s customers.
The black man nodded his consent. “Look after her, and yourself, Mac.”
Reynolds gave the landlord a smile and grateful nod and moved to open the back door for Mac.
“I’ll see your place is fixed up,” Reynolds said.
White said nothing.
“He’s good for it!” Mac said as he stepped out into the cold.
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Re: Waterwitch
The wind seemed calmer than before and merely drove the snow into a chaotic flurry instead of lashing it into skin and eyes.
Darkness made seeing difficult and only the feint glow from the busier dock area of town gave the two men any sense of direction.
Mac nodded and yelled over the wind to head for the glow and headed himself in that direction.
Reynolds rummaged inside his heavy coat pulling a pistol from within and placing it in an outer pocket. He hefted the shotgun into a more comfortable position then just as he was about to follow Mac he flinched at a gunshot from within the pub.
It was too late now, there was very little he could do to help. Running after Hartfield took him away from the building, towards another.
Behind him an orange rectangle formed in the darkness and several coughing men stumbled out into the cold.
Reynolds couldn’t tell if these were Ox’s men or some of the locals.
Another gunshot from within the pub drew the baron’s attention. The silhouetted figures in the pub doorway hurried off into the black.
More figures emerged as Reynolds backed away. Now he could see that their posture was different, upright, less hasty, one even had a rifle in hand. Then the figure of Ox appeared ad Reynolds raised his shotgun.
A hand, hard and strong gripped his arm. “Not now,” Mac whispered. “They don’t know where we are. Let’s use that to our advantage.”
Reynolds knew the Canadian was right and was a little annoyed with himself at his gung-ho attitude.
After all, gung-ho was what he had friends like Commander von Stauffenberg and Lacotte for.
Hartfield led them out across the top of the town heading in the general direction of the zeppelin pylon.
His intention was to come at the quay from that direction, the opposite approach from which anyone coming from the pub would take, normally.
It was hard going and slow too and Reynolds was concerned that the Americans would beat them to the quayside and cut off their approach.
“We need to speed up,” he called to Hartfield. “Is there not a more direct route?”
“Yeah!” Hartfield said turning around to face the Englishman. “But it’ll take us across their path. You want to risk it?”
Reynolds didn’t get the chance to answer.
A bullet thwacked into the side of a house just beyond them and a fraction of a second later it was followed by the sound of the shot.
Both men turned to see shadows approaching.
Mac cursed. “I should have let you shoot the bastard!”
Ox hadn’t gone off blindly into the night searching for them. He had trackers on his team and he was using them now.
The baron quickly assessed his surroundings and saw a three-storey building not too far from them. It had strong looking doors, and bars over the windows.
He dashed across to the building, Hartfield along behind.
At the door Reynolds dropped to his knees and felt around the handle. There were two raised keys embossed on the plate between the handle itself and the keyhole. A Morgan & Prigg; good locks, heavy and complicated but not undoable.
He unbuttoned his coat so that he could get to his tools, extracting two long picks with hooked ends.
“What are you doing?” Hartfield hissed, looking quickly at Reynolds then back into the now empty darkness.
“Never mind,” Reynolds retorted. “You just keep an eye out and shoot anyone coming too close.”
“Well I’m buggered!" the baron muttered after less than a minute as the lock clicked.
Silently he eased the door open. There was no one inside so he entered and ushered Hartfield in.
Darkness made seeing difficult and only the feint glow from the busier dock area of town gave the two men any sense of direction.
Mac nodded and yelled over the wind to head for the glow and headed himself in that direction.
Reynolds rummaged inside his heavy coat pulling a pistol from within and placing it in an outer pocket. He hefted the shotgun into a more comfortable position then just as he was about to follow Mac he flinched at a gunshot from within the pub.
It was too late now, there was very little he could do to help. Running after Hartfield took him away from the building, towards another.
Behind him an orange rectangle formed in the darkness and several coughing men stumbled out into the cold.
Reynolds couldn’t tell if these were Ox’s men or some of the locals.
Another gunshot from within the pub drew the baron’s attention. The silhouetted figures in the pub doorway hurried off into the black.
More figures emerged as Reynolds backed away. Now he could see that their posture was different, upright, less hasty, one even had a rifle in hand. Then the figure of Ox appeared ad Reynolds raised his shotgun.
A hand, hard and strong gripped his arm. “Not now,” Mac whispered. “They don’t know where we are. Let’s use that to our advantage.”
Reynolds knew the Canadian was right and was a little annoyed with himself at his gung-ho attitude.
After all, gung-ho was what he had friends like Commander von Stauffenberg and Lacotte for.
Hartfield led them out across the top of the town heading in the general direction of the zeppelin pylon.
His intention was to come at the quay from that direction, the opposite approach from which anyone coming from the pub would take, normally.
It was hard going and slow too and Reynolds was concerned that the Americans would beat them to the quayside and cut off their approach.
“We need to speed up,” he called to Hartfield. “Is there not a more direct route?”
“Yeah!” Hartfield said turning around to face the Englishman. “But it’ll take us across their path. You want to risk it?”
Reynolds didn’t get the chance to answer.
A bullet thwacked into the side of a house just beyond them and a fraction of a second later it was followed by the sound of the shot.
Both men turned to see shadows approaching.
Mac cursed. “I should have let you shoot the bastard!”
Ox hadn’t gone off blindly into the night searching for them. He had trackers on his team and he was using them now.
The baron quickly assessed his surroundings and saw a three-storey building not too far from them. It had strong looking doors, and bars over the windows.
He dashed across to the building, Hartfield along behind.
At the door Reynolds dropped to his knees and felt around the handle. There were two raised keys embossed on the plate between the handle itself and the keyhole. A Morgan & Prigg; good locks, heavy and complicated but not undoable.
He unbuttoned his coat so that he could get to his tools, extracting two long picks with hooked ends.
“What are you doing?” Hartfield hissed, looking quickly at Reynolds then back into the now empty darkness.
“Never mind,” Reynolds retorted. “You just keep an eye out and shoot anyone coming too close.”
“Well I’m buggered!" the baron muttered after less than a minute as the lock clicked.
Silently he eased the door open. There was no one inside so he entered and ushered Hartfield in.
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Re: Waterwitch
Reynolds shut the door gently but it was still enough to rattle the keys hanging on a hook on the inside of the door.
Shaking his head in disbelief he used them to lock the door.
“What is this place?” he whispered.
“Constable’s office!” Hartfield said flatly. “Guess this is the first time anyone will have broken into it!”
Reynolds liked the irony. Searching in the complete blackness was going to be impossible so he took out his ether-comm and turned the button.
The small screen on the brass device turned a glowing sickly green colour and cast enough light to see by.
The baron grabbed a chair from behind the constable’s desk and wedged it under the handles of the door.
“Does the constable live here?” Reynolds suddenly inquired.
Hartfield nodded. “I think so.”
“Quietly then,” the Englishman suggested.
It was a statement made pointless by a sudden barrage of gunfire from out in the street. Bullets thwacked into the doors and blasted through the windows and inner shutters.
“What in the name of hell is going on?” came a gruff voice from the rear of the room.
Hartfield and Reynolds immediately turned to see the feint image of a man inside a caged area with greying hair and an unkempt beard. His eyes blinked rapidly, like a man suddenly awoke from sleep; which he was.
More shots were fired and the bullets thudded into the front of the building.
“Get down old timer!” Hartfield urged as a vase on the far wall shattered.
There were sounds of movement from upstairs now, hurried frantic scrapes on the floorboards.
Then sounds of footfalls on the stairs.
A door flew open and a figure bearing a lantern in one hand and a rifle in the other emerged.
Tall, in his mid-thirties, the man wore only boots and the red RCMP tunic over his winter long-johns. A days growth shadowed his jaw giving the man a sallow look.
His face showed his surprise at seeing two additional men in his office.
Seeing the shotgun in Reynolds’ hands he immediately came to a halt, his hands going out and up in a gesture of surrender.
“Relax, constable,” Reynolds said in clear English, laying on a thick aristocratic accent and bringing his own gun to point away from the Mountie.
More shots thudded into the building.
“What?!” was all the constable could muster.
“Long story,” Reynolds replied, shouting over the barrage.
“Needless to say. There are a whole bunch of yanks out there wanting to get hold of my neck, and theirs,” he indicated Hartfield and Buxley.
Shaking his head in disbelief he used them to lock the door.
“What is this place?” he whispered.
“Constable’s office!” Hartfield said flatly. “Guess this is the first time anyone will have broken into it!”
Reynolds liked the irony. Searching in the complete blackness was going to be impossible so he took out his ether-comm and turned the button.
The small screen on the brass device turned a glowing sickly green colour and cast enough light to see by.
The baron grabbed a chair from behind the constable’s desk and wedged it under the handles of the door.
“Does the constable live here?” Reynolds suddenly inquired.
Hartfield nodded. “I think so.”
“Quietly then,” the Englishman suggested.
It was a statement made pointless by a sudden barrage of gunfire from out in the street. Bullets thwacked into the doors and blasted through the windows and inner shutters.
“What in the name of hell is going on?” came a gruff voice from the rear of the room.
Hartfield and Reynolds immediately turned to see the feint image of a man inside a caged area with greying hair and an unkempt beard. His eyes blinked rapidly, like a man suddenly awoke from sleep; which he was.
More shots were fired and the bullets thudded into the front of the building.
“Get down old timer!” Hartfield urged as a vase on the far wall shattered.
There were sounds of movement from upstairs now, hurried frantic scrapes on the floorboards.
Then sounds of footfalls on the stairs.
A door flew open and a figure bearing a lantern in one hand and a rifle in the other emerged.
Tall, in his mid-thirties, the man wore only boots and the red RCMP tunic over his winter long-johns. A days growth shadowed his jaw giving the man a sallow look.
His face showed his surprise at seeing two additional men in his office.
Seeing the shotgun in Reynolds’ hands he immediately came to a halt, his hands going out and up in a gesture of surrender.
“Relax, constable,” Reynolds said in clear English, laying on a thick aristocratic accent and bringing his own gun to point away from the Mountie.
More shots thudded into the building.
“What?!” was all the constable could muster.
“Long story,” Reynolds replied, shouting over the barrage.
“Needless to say. There are a whole bunch of yanks out there wanting to get hold of my neck, and theirs,” he indicated Hartfield and Buxley.
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Re: Waterwitch
The constable frowned as another bullet pinged off the bars of the cell to the verbalised disgust of the jail’s occupant.
“All right, why would a group of Americans come all the way up here to get you?”
“They want to use me as leverage to get to my brother. I understand they believe him to owe their employer a debt.”
“And you thought you’d bust in here so they could shoot up my office, did you?”
“The door was unlocked,” Reynolds lied.
The constable’s brow furrowed deeper, he was as sure as it was night that he had locked up. “Well I’m not sure about this,” he said aloofly And marched to the main doors, holding the lantern aloft.
“But I do know I’m going to put an end to it.”
“Don’t be a fool man!” Reynolds scolded. “They aren’t going to be put off by you. In fact they’re likely to shoot the first person they see emerge from this place.”
“We’ll see about that!” the constable countered. “you three are to consider yourselves under arrest!”
“Yeah, okay!” Hartfield grunted derisively.
The constable grabbed the keys and unlocked the door, then slowly he pulled it open a crack and shouted, “HOLD YOUR FIRE!”
He then thrust the lamp out the door ahead of himself.
No shots sounded in response.
Confidently he pulled the door open and stepped out onto the veranda.
It was hard to see beyond the illuminated screen of falling snow. “Hello?” the constable shouted. “This is Constable Richely of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Is there someone in charge I might speak to?”
“What do you want, Mountie?” Ox’s gravelly voice called out from somewhere off in the darkness.
“Well, I want you to stop shooting up my house, for one!” Richley announced in a tone that said ‘isn’t that obvious?’.
“You hand us the Englishman and we’ll be on our way,” Ox said reasonably. Surely the Mountie would see the benefit in that?
“I’m afraid that will not be possible. You see, I placed them under arrest for breaking in to my property and as I am an officer of the law I am now duty bound to see them through due process.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Ox growled.
“They aren’t going for this,” Hartfield warned his countryman from inside the office. “You need to get your ass back in here!”
The constable ignored him.
“It means sir, that they cannot be released until Judge Gross has seen them, and that won’t be until tomorrow afternoon. If you have a legitimate grievance against these men then bring it to the court building tomorrow.” Richley said the words with a degree of finality, exercising his authority.
“Get in here, constable,” Reynolds now advised sternly.
“All right then constable!” Ox’s booming voice echoed into the building. “Here’s what we are going to do…”
With a nod Ox signalled to Cooper, one of his men.
Jefferson Cooper carried a long spencer rifle and could hit a silver dollar at a thousand yards.
This was just too easy for the marksman, even in the low visibility and high winds.
The sound of the shot rang in Hartfield’s ears just a fraction of a second before the sound of Richley’s body striking the front door did. The impact threw the door open wide and the constable’s corpse struck the wooden floor with a wet sounding thud.
“Shit!” the Canadian cursed.
More shots came in, the bullets thudding into the far wall or the wooden planking or into the policeman’s body.
Over the gunfire Reynolds caught the sounds of rapid footfalls.
“Shut the door,” he yelled at Mac.
The big Canadian reached for the policeman’s body to drag him in and clear of the door but a bullet ricocheted off the structure of his mechanical arm, forcing him to retreat behind the door.
With no other choice he shoved the door closed, pushing the lifeless body before it and out onto the veranda.
There wasn’t time to lock it before someone slammed into it, jarring it open again.
Reynolds was already there and pressed the twin barrels into the man’s ribs. He didn’t wait to see if the man got the message and pulled the trigger, blasting the man away in a haze of red.
Hartfield Slammed the door shut again and turned the key in the lock.
“I think we could do with some reinforcements,” the baron said retrieving his ether-comm and dialling his brother’s number.
“All right, why would a group of Americans come all the way up here to get you?”
“They want to use me as leverage to get to my brother. I understand they believe him to owe their employer a debt.”
“And you thought you’d bust in here so they could shoot up my office, did you?”
“The door was unlocked,” Reynolds lied.
The constable’s brow furrowed deeper, he was as sure as it was night that he had locked up. “Well I’m not sure about this,” he said aloofly And marched to the main doors, holding the lantern aloft.
“But I do know I’m going to put an end to it.”
“Don’t be a fool man!” Reynolds scolded. “They aren’t going to be put off by you. In fact they’re likely to shoot the first person they see emerge from this place.”
“We’ll see about that!” the constable countered. “you three are to consider yourselves under arrest!”
“Yeah, okay!” Hartfield grunted derisively.
The constable grabbed the keys and unlocked the door, then slowly he pulled it open a crack and shouted, “HOLD YOUR FIRE!”
He then thrust the lamp out the door ahead of himself.
No shots sounded in response.
Confidently he pulled the door open and stepped out onto the veranda.
It was hard to see beyond the illuminated screen of falling snow. “Hello?” the constable shouted. “This is Constable Richely of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Is there someone in charge I might speak to?”
“What do you want, Mountie?” Ox’s gravelly voice called out from somewhere off in the darkness.
“Well, I want you to stop shooting up my house, for one!” Richley announced in a tone that said ‘isn’t that obvious?’.
“You hand us the Englishman and we’ll be on our way,” Ox said reasonably. Surely the Mountie would see the benefit in that?
“I’m afraid that will not be possible. You see, I placed them under arrest for breaking in to my property and as I am an officer of the law I am now duty bound to see them through due process.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Ox growled.
“They aren’t going for this,” Hartfield warned his countryman from inside the office. “You need to get your ass back in here!”
The constable ignored him.
“It means sir, that they cannot be released until Judge Gross has seen them, and that won’t be until tomorrow afternoon. If you have a legitimate grievance against these men then bring it to the court building tomorrow.” Richley said the words with a degree of finality, exercising his authority.
“Get in here, constable,” Reynolds now advised sternly.
“All right then constable!” Ox’s booming voice echoed into the building. “Here’s what we are going to do…”
With a nod Ox signalled to Cooper, one of his men.
Jefferson Cooper carried a long spencer rifle and could hit a silver dollar at a thousand yards.
This was just too easy for the marksman, even in the low visibility and high winds.
The sound of the shot rang in Hartfield’s ears just a fraction of a second before the sound of Richley’s body striking the front door did. The impact threw the door open wide and the constable’s corpse struck the wooden floor with a wet sounding thud.
“Shit!” the Canadian cursed.
More shots came in, the bullets thudding into the far wall or the wooden planking or into the policeman’s body.
Over the gunfire Reynolds caught the sounds of rapid footfalls.
“Shut the door,” he yelled at Mac.
The big Canadian reached for the policeman’s body to drag him in and clear of the door but a bullet ricocheted off the structure of his mechanical arm, forcing him to retreat behind the door.
With no other choice he shoved the door closed, pushing the lifeless body before it and out onto the veranda.
There wasn’t time to lock it before someone slammed into it, jarring it open again.
Reynolds was already there and pressed the twin barrels into the man’s ribs. He didn’t wait to see if the man got the message and pulled the trigger, blasting the man away in a haze of red.
Hartfield Slammed the door shut again and turned the key in the lock.
“I think we could do with some reinforcements,” the baron said retrieving his ether-comm and dialling his brother’s number.
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Re: Waterwitch
Jonathan Reynolds was resting in the small cabin that captain Holt had allocated for him.
He was wondering where his brother, Sebastian, had got to. Surely it wouldn’t take this long to get some girl from a bar at the top of town.
Perhaps, the Englishman thought bitterly, his brother had stopped for a pint. The thought annoyed him. After all, it had been Seb who had said they didn’t have time for a beer earlier, and now here he was wasting time and doing exactly what Jonathan was wishing he could do. “Two faced bastard!” he grumbled aloud.
It was at that point that a muted chiming came to his ears.
At first he ignored it, writing it off as yet another odd sound amongst the many on board this strange vessel.
But the chiming persisted and held an odd familiarity to him.
Suddenly his mind cleared and he recognised the chime of his own ether-comm.
Flipping open the brass lid the image of his brother’s head floated above the miniature etherscope screen.
“Seb!” he said genuinely surprised.
“Jonathan, is Holt with you?” Lord Reynolds asked.
“No.”
“Go and find him quickly.”
Jonathan struggled to understand his brother over the loud din coming from the ether-comm’s speakers.
“Sorry Seb, did you say find Holt? Can’t hear you over that god-awful racket. What is that?”
“That’ll be gunfire, Jonathan. And yes, get Holt right now.”
Another retort sounding over the device spurred Jonathan into action.
He sprinted along the passageway , bursting onto the bridge to see Holt in conversation with a young girl.
Both stared at him as he burst through the doorway and stood panting for breath. In the end Jonathan just handed the ether-comm to the captain.
Not used to such devices Holt said, “Erm… Hello?”
“Captain Holt!” came the crackly reply. “We have located Buxley but are pinned down by the Americans who seek my brother. They want to ransom me in exchange for Jonathan, I think. Could you send men to help?”
“Where are you?” Holt asked, incredulous.
“We’re in Richley’s office captain.” Hartfield grunted as he thrust the shotgun out a hole in the door and fired both barrels.
“Hartfield?”
“It is, Reynolds replied. “Luckily for me!”
Holt held off any sort of reprimand until later. “I won’t risk sending a group of my men in the dark, Lord Reynolds, so I guess we’ll just have to all come and get you.”
“Thanks,” Reynolds said and flicked off the comm.
Holt handed the ether-comm back to Jonathan and immediately turned away from him bellowing, “Mr Gecko?”
“Aye, sir?” came a response from outside the bride.
Jonathan looked to see who might be coming.
Gecko wasn’t a big man, but his visage was probably more threatening. He was of average height, his dark hair cropped short at the sides and back and cut tight on top, a haircut more akin to the military than modern fashion. There was a tattoo that crept up his neck showing above the collar of the crisp white shirt he wore under a dark grey waistcoat. It was his eyes, of steel grey, Jonathan decided, that gave him an aura of a man not to be trifled with.
“Sound the general alarm and prepare to cast off,” Holt ordered.
“Aye, sir!” Gecko replied, crossing to a console at the rear of the bridge. With the flick of a switch a persistent ‘ding-ding’ sounded throughout the aging submarine.
Gecko retrieved a hand-set from the console and spoke into the mouthpiece. “General Alarm. General Alarm. All hands to your posts. Prepare to cast off.”
He was wondering where his brother, Sebastian, had got to. Surely it wouldn’t take this long to get some girl from a bar at the top of town.
Perhaps, the Englishman thought bitterly, his brother had stopped for a pint. The thought annoyed him. After all, it had been Seb who had said they didn’t have time for a beer earlier, and now here he was wasting time and doing exactly what Jonathan was wishing he could do. “Two faced bastard!” he grumbled aloud.
It was at that point that a muted chiming came to his ears.
At first he ignored it, writing it off as yet another odd sound amongst the many on board this strange vessel.
But the chiming persisted and held an odd familiarity to him.
Suddenly his mind cleared and he recognised the chime of his own ether-comm.
Flipping open the brass lid the image of his brother’s head floated above the miniature etherscope screen.
“Seb!” he said genuinely surprised.
“Jonathan, is Holt with you?” Lord Reynolds asked.
“No.”
“Go and find him quickly.”
Jonathan struggled to understand his brother over the loud din coming from the ether-comm’s speakers.
“Sorry Seb, did you say find Holt? Can’t hear you over that god-awful racket. What is that?”
“That’ll be gunfire, Jonathan. And yes, get Holt right now.”
Another retort sounding over the device spurred Jonathan into action.
He sprinted along the passageway , bursting onto the bridge to see Holt in conversation with a young girl.
Both stared at him as he burst through the doorway and stood panting for breath. In the end Jonathan just handed the ether-comm to the captain.
Not used to such devices Holt said, “Erm… Hello?”
“Captain Holt!” came the crackly reply. “We have located Buxley but are pinned down by the Americans who seek my brother. They want to ransom me in exchange for Jonathan, I think. Could you send men to help?”
“Where are you?” Holt asked, incredulous.
“We’re in Richley’s office captain.” Hartfield grunted as he thrust the shotgun out a hole in the door and fired both barrels.
“Hartfield?”
“It is, Reynolds replied. “Luckily for me!”
Holt held off any sort of reprimand until later. “I won’t risk sending a group of my men in the dark, Lord Reynolds, so I guess we’ll just have to all come and get you.”
“Thanks,” Reynolds said and flicked off the comm.
Holt handed the ether-comm back to Jonathan and immediately turned away from him bellowing, “Mr Gecko?”
“Aye, sir?” came a response from outside the bride.
Jonathan looked to see who might be coming.
Gecko wasn’t a big man, but his visage was probably more threatening. He was of average height, his dark hair cropped short at the sides and back and cut tight on top, a haircut more akin to the military than modern fashion. There was a tattoo that crept up his neck showing above the collar of the crisp white shirt he wore under a dark grey waistcoat. It was his eyes, of steel grey, Jonathan decided, that gave him an aura of a man not to be trifled with.
“Sound the general alarm and prepare to cast off,” Holt ordered.
“Aye, sir!” Gecko replied, crossing to a console at the rear of the bridge. With the flick of a switch a persistent ‘ding-ding’ sounded throughout the aging submarine.
Gecko retrieved a hand-set from the console and spoke into the mouthpiece. “General Alarm. General Alarm. All hands to your posts. Prepare to cast off.”
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Re: Waterwitch
Jonathan Reynolds had not moved. He stared incredulously at Holt and then at the fearsome Gecko, trying to get his head around what was happening.
Eventually he could contain himself no longer as crewmen came onto the bridge and took positions at various stations.
He saw Nestor Wade step onto the bridge with a grin. “We off, captain?” the inquired cheerfully, noting the absence of a certain female navigator.
Holt was in no mood for Wade’s games. In fact Holt was down-right seething. Both Reynolds and Hartfield had left the vessel without permission and without his knowledge. The fact irked him.
“Just get to your post, Wade, and keep your mouth shut,” Holt growled.
Wade pulled a face but did as he was told, aware of Gecko’s penetrating gaze boring into the back of his skull. He slipped into the helmsman’s seat and got comfortable.
“Er, excuse me Captain Holt, might I have a word?” Jonathan called from his spot on the bridge deck.
“Not now Mr Reynolds,” Holt replied.
“But I must insist, sir!”
With a huff of annoyance Holt turned on the man. “Yes?” he barked.
“I don’t understand. You told my brother you were going to send everyone, yet you’re making plans to leave? What’s going on?”
“We are going to get your brother and my wayward crewmen back.” Hol;t said as though a patient parent explaining something to a dim-witted child.
“We are?” Wade asked in disbelief. “Thought we were running for it? Hell, if his brother decidied to get off I say we leave him here.”
“Wade!” Gecko warned from his position on the port side of the bridge.
“Naw!” Wade complained. “Way I see it, we’ve been paid to see Mr Reynolds here home safe. So we should do just that, sod anyone else.”
“ENOUGH!” Holt yelled, his anger boiling over. “This isn’t a goddamned democracy! You’ll bloody well do as you are told or you’ll get off my goddamned boat!”
“Is that so?” Wade muttered under his breath too quietly for anyone to hear.
He didn’t noticed Seth Gecko’s steady gaze as he mouthed the words.
Eventually he could contain himself no longer as crewmen came onto the bridge and took positions at various stations.
He saw Nestor Wade step onto the bridge with a grin. “We off, captain?” the inquired cheerfully, noting the absence of a certain female navigator.
Holt was in no mood for Wade’s games. In fact Holt was down-right seething. Both Reynolds and Hartfield had left the vessel without permission and without his knowledge. The fact irked him.
“Just get to your post, Wade, and keep your mouth shut,” Holt growled.
Wade pulled a face but did as he was told, aware of Gecko’s penetrating gaze boring into the back of his skull. He slipped into the helmsman’s seat and got comfortable.
“Er, excuse me Captain Holt, might I have a word?” Jonathan called from his spot on the bridge deck.
“Not now Mr Reynolds,” Holt replied.
“But I must insist, sir!”
With a huff of annoyance Holt turned on the man. “Yes?” he barked.
“I don’t understand. You told my brother you were going to send everyone, yet you’re making plans to leave? What’s going on?”
“We are going to get your brother and my wayward crewmen back.” Hol;t said as though a patient parent explaining something to a dim-witted child.
“We are?” Wade asked in disbelief. “Thought we were running for it? Hell, if his brother decidied to get off I say we leave him here.”
“Wade!” Gecko warned from his position on the port side of the bridge.
“Naw!” Wade complained. “Way I see it, we’ve been paid to see Mr Reynolds here home safe. So we should do just that, sod anyone else.”
“ENOUGH!” Holt yelled, his anger boiling over. “This isn’t a goddamned democracy! You’ll bloody well do as you are told or you’ll get off my goddamned boat!”
“Is that so?” Wade muttered under his breath too quietly for anyone to hear.
He didn’t noticed Seth Gecko’s steady gaze as he mouthed the words.