Part
3
Gingerly holding his candle out at arm's length, Hornblower
followed Franny, marvelling that Smith's small hut should have such a huge
warren underneath. Due to the darkness, he couldn't see very much, only that
the floor underfoot was flagstones and dirty and wet in parts, and that there
sometimes seemed to be large objects close by, old barrels or pieces of
furniture, he couldn't tell for sure. It was cold and damp, and the thought
that he might expire in such gloomy surroundings--Hornblower forced himself not
to think this.
A step or depression in the floor tripped him--he saved his candle, but not his
stockings--he fell on his knees in a puddle. He heard Franny yip and waved
(carefully!) his candle about, trying to catch a glimpse of her. Off to his
left, he thought he saw her, but then he realized that there were several small
animals, rats, which quickly scurried away. Franny barked, and Hornblower
traced the sound with his pitifully small light, and there she was, standing in
front on him. He was not fond of animals generally, but the sight of Blakeney's
scrawny pet made him smile.
Casting his light beyond the dog, Hornblower saw that the floor tipped
downward. Franny started off again, and he followed her. She veered off to the
left, through a doorway, and he followed her--almost taking his head off in the
process, for the top of the passage was a few inches shorter than the top of
his head. Hornblower crouched, and entered the passage. It was scarcely a metre
wide, furthered narrowed by deposits or growths on the walls (he didn't want to
look closer). His stomach flipped, and his breath caught, but he pushed on,
downwards, following the little dog.
The passage steadily grew more damp, the old air more moist. Finally, Franny
yipped, and Hornblower could see and hear that she was trotting in a thin layer
of water. She yipped again, and stopped, wagging her tail. After a moment's
thought, Hornblower picked her up with his free hand, and continued down the
passage, still stooped over, the water rising with each step. It began to seep
into his shoes, and then it rose above them, to his ankles, to his knees--he
felt his coattails catch in the water behind him, and it was so cold. He
wondered why the dog wasn't wet, and concluded that she must have come down a
different way, one perhaps that was too small for him. Or, maybe, she (and him)
had another job to do before they got out.
The water was at mid-thigh when Franny barked. Hornblower stopped, and saw that
there was a narrow steep staircase off to his right. Gratefully, he set Franny
down on the lowest dry step; she dashed up a few more, but Hornblower lingered,
casting his light down the rest of the passage, which continued to descend. He
fancied he could see the water meet its ceiling, but he wasn't sure. Shuddering
with damp and claustrophobia, he waded up the first few steps.
Carling paced the floor of the hut, sneering slightly
everytime Smith or Kennedy emitted a particularly loud snore. Smith was a
decent old chap who had the idea that something was owing to him, and he was
prepared to fight for compensation, and Carling was most willing to help him.
As for the lieutenant--such an angelic looking boy, Carling snickered--he had
plans for him...
Carling had first met Smith when he was young and working as an errand-boy in a
London law firm. His employer had among his clients a country stewart who
managed the agricultural affairs of a prominent aristocratic estate. The farmer
had inherited the post from his father, and he was adept at gauging the health
of livestock and fields, of estimating yields and so forth, but he privately
struggled with letters and, to a certain extent, numbers. Too proud to admit
this to his master, Lord Blakeney, he snuck away to London, wandered about a
bit (dazed, no doubt) and finally wound up in Carling,s office. Carling,s
employer gracefully accepted the task, to balance Smith,s correspondence and
books (though what Smith really wanted was an accountant) and he generously
accepted small compensation. After many years, however, this lawyer (already
advanced in years) divided up his clients among his associates and this
particular case, which nobody wanted, fell to Carling, who had graduated up to
clerk.
And so, Carling, unaccountable and unsupervised and long-burdened with the
restraints of his limited and precarious situation in life, gradually began to
tweak the figures a bit, pocketing a few pound here, a few pound there, be it
in currency or oats. Really, it was the old Lord Blakeney,s fault; the man
could not be bothered to hire a competent servant, and so he deserved to be
cheated. And as for Smith, why, he should have owed up to his failings and
either improved himself or declined the post. Carling thought up a thousand
justifications (as he did for every one of his schemes), practically convincing
himself that he was doing nothing more than exacting justice.
When the old Lord died, his son, by all accounts a ridiculous fop, miraculously
found a set of brains. He seized upon the estate with a magnifying glass, and
quickly dug up the indiscrepancies in Smith,s accounts. These were too numerous
to be ignored, and so Smith was sacked--gently, but decidedly.
Smith, unaware of what was really going on, was outraged. He considered
Blakeney, s action disgusting--why, if Blakeney wished to run the estate by
himself, he might have done so without discrediting an honest man such as
Smith, who had served the family faithfully for years and years.
Carling panicked--briefly. He had other things going on; he could do without
his gains from the Blakeney estate. But, Smith visited him in London, and waxed
about the injustice of the affair, and while Carling nodded and sympathized, he
heard not a word of the tirade. He did, however, see a bigger fish to fry than
a few sacks of potatoes.
In his various other-than-legitimate dealings, he had picked up a few skills
and a few acquaintances. He cracked the offices of the late Blakeney,s lawyer,
and discovered the vacillating will---the old man had numerous last testaments
inscribed, some crediting his some, others not, and, in this mess, given
identical papers and inks and seals and a knack at forgery, Carling found that
the matter was simple enough. However, the young Blakeney was a smart one, and
so he took his time, and started to dig about.
And he discovered, to his surprise and enlightenment, that the young fop was
spiriting French aristos out of France! and that he had involved a number of
England,s young heirs in this activity. Of course, this was hardly a crime, not
when England was at war with France, but Blakeney,s association with these
Frenchmen, and his connections abroad, could be viewed as suspicious. Carling
was still tinkering with his plot, but, basically, he had proof that Blakeney
was a spy. At least, Blakeney thought so. Given this threat and that of the
discrediting will, Blakeney was cornered. Of course, given his aristocratic
blood, he might not be hanged; likely, he would be exiled, and the estate would
pass to Smith, who would naturally (unless he suddenly became a whizz at
letters and numbers) retain the services of his trusted servant Carling.
And, as for Blakeney,s friends, the two young lieutenants...Carling had thought
a bit about how to dispose of them. The tall one was now wandering about the
remains of what used to be the cellars and dungeons of the old Blakeney castle,
long since crumbled. Carling knew his way about some of the subterraneous maze,
but not enough to assure himself that the lieutenant was trapped. But this did
not worry him. In fact, he hoped that the lieutenant would eventually emerge,
beaten, waterlogged, utterly exausted, only to find out that he should have
stayed below ground, and better yet, taken his blond fellow officer down with
him, sparing both of them the shame.
For their names were about to be tarnished. Stealing naval dispatches and
selling these to the French, was a serious crime. And they did not have the
cushion of Blakeney,s station, not even Kennedy, who was only a fourth son of a
minor estate.
A knock on the door brought Carling out of his thoughts. He
sighed in relief," Finally, re-enforcements."
But when he opened the door, to his shock and horror, Blakeney stood in the
doorway.
"Well, what are you doing here at this hour, sir?" Percy asked not hiding the
suspicion in his voice.
Carling blocked his view and tried to squeeze his body into the small
doorframe. "I was just checking up on my client," he growled. "What are you
doing here? This isn't exactly your part of town."
Percy laughed out loud, making Carling more nervous. He was up to something.
"Actually my friends have gone missing and Lady Blakeney sent me after them. We
don't want them to get into any trouble. You haven't seen them have you?"
Percy strained his neck trying to see around Carling's fat little body. "No,"
he responded too eagerly. "But if I see them I will send them home."
A loud snore escaped from the dark cottage, raising Percy's eyebrow. "And who
pray tell is that?" Percy pushed past the little man and immediately spotted
Archie asleep in the corner.
"Well if I didn't know better I would say that is one of my friends."
Carling only half smiled. "Oh is he?" he said, playing dumb. "I didn't know who
he was. Just thought old Samuel was taking in homeless boys."
Percy was through playing games. He whirled around and grabbed the fat man
violently by his collar. "Tell me were the other one is and I won't rip your
head off."
Carling was shaking with fear. "I-I-I haven't seen him!"
Percy shoved him back, sending him crashing to the floor. Quickly he scanned
the small house but no sign of Horatio. His anger was growing as he turned once
more on Carling. Pulling him to his feet Percy snarled," This is your last
chance man! Tell me were he is or I swear to hell, I'll break your scrawny
little neck!"
"Not bloody likely!" a rough voice called out behind him. Percy turned just in
time to see two very large men entering the tiny cottage.
Horatio had to stop and catch his breath. He had been walking non-stop for over
an hour. But it wasn't easy walking. Up and down broken stairs, stumbling about
in the dark was hard on his feet. Franny climbed into his lap. Silently he
petted her, giving him some comfort. He had underestimated the dog. To think
that he would someday have his life depend on an animal seemed unbelievable to
him. "Enough dawdling," he sighed and chuckled to himself thinking about Captain
Pellew. How he wished he was back on the Indy and not lost in some bizarre
underground maze. Checking his candle he worried about how much light the
little wick had left. "Better hurry up or I'll be doing this in the dark," he
said to himself. Once again Franny took the lead and Horatio followed close
behind her. Somehow he trusted this dog. She seemed to know exactly where she
was going. This gave him a bit of comfort as he stepped around some broken
stones. "If I ever get out of here, you are getting the biggest piece of
English beef I can find!" Franny yipped excitedly as if she understood, making
Horatio laugh. The laugh made an eerie noise as it echoed into the darkness.
Blackeney fell to his knees, his temple ringing from the
blow dealt by one of Carling's henchmen. The other stepped forward and grabbed
Blackeney's arms, wrenching them behind his back.
"What was that about my neck, you say?" Carling crowed.
"You heard me, you slithery thief," Blakeney retorted. The thug
holding his arms twisted them up higher, causing him to gasp, "I'd sooner
burn my estate than have you pollute it."
"Well, that would be a shame. I'm rather fond of the tapestry in Lady
Blakeney's bedroom."
BLakeney lunged forward, but the pressure on his arms quickly checked him. "Odious
wretch--"
"That's enough," Carling clipped, motioning at his other thug.
---------
Lady BLakeney waited in her carriage, scanning the forest around her. She was
on a lane, about a half mile from BLakeney HAll, and there was nobody nearby
but Lady Redpath, sitting (dozing) on the seat opposite her, and the coachman
on his box outside. It was morning, full-lit, with the mist and dew quickly
evaporating.
Lady Redpath had confided to her that the two young lieutenants had gone to
question Smith at the tavern. This did not give either lady great cause for
concern at first, but, at three o'clock in the morning, Lady BLakeney arose
from a nightmare--she couldn't remember exactly what she had dreamt, only that
she was in a dark underground maze. She had yelled in her sleep, and her maid
VIolaine, roused by the noise, went to her side, and then, suddenly, LAdy
Blakeney thought of the two lieutenants. Had they returned? No, madame.
Lady Blakeney considered at that point that perhaps she was too concerned. Life
as an actress in PAris had certainly shown her dawn from the other end; two
young men like Kennedy and Hornblower, however serious they appeared to be,
were fit to carouse until the rooster crowed. BUt her apprehensions did not
quit her.
Wrapping a dressing coat over her chemise, Lady BLakeney walked down the hall
to her husband's suite. Peering at his door, she saw light peeping around the
edges, and thus summoned the courage to knock. She hardly knew him! he had
changed so much since he had left her on his diplomatic mission, and she
ferverently wished that this business about the estate could be resolved.
BLakeney answered the door, greeting her with a genuine smile, sweeping her
into his chambers with only a hint of his foppish facade. He studied her
countenance quickly but intently.
"Marguerite--what's wrong?"
And she told him everything, she knew about the estate and about Smith and
Carling, that the two lieutenants were at the tavern, and that she was
extremely worried, though it wasn't really late yet, and could she send Franny
to fetch them?
Blakeney kissed her and whistled for Franny. The little dog trotted up and sat
gravely before him, cocking her head at every inflection of his voice.
"Franny, sweetie, we have to rescue the officers." BLakeney hurriedly
threw on an overcoat, gave MArguerite directions to pack the lieutenants,
things, wait with the carriage at a certain secluded spot in the estate's
forest, and ordered Franny to track the lieutenants. He kissed her again and
was gone.
So, now she was here, in the carriage, with the lieutenants' two trunks lashed
behind. Lady Redpath had helped her pack them.
Lady REdpath stirred and yawned. "Any sign of them yet?"
Marguerite glanced out of each of the carriage's windows. "No. I know that
Franny will track them, but I am so worried! It's that lawyer--I'm sorry that
those young officers became involved--you know, in London, that man was accused
of poisoning someone, a young man, too. He is absolutely ruthless."
"And what sort of proof does he have against BLakeney?"
"Oh, a will, some papers--BLakeney wouldn't say much about that. He's more
concerned with getting the officers back on their ship and out of harm's way.
So," Marguerite laughed ruefully, "Carling won't stab them in the
back, but they'll have their heads blown off or something in the meantime. THey
are brave men."
"And your husband is every bit as courageous. He'll find them."
"But he's been gone for hours now. WHat time is it?"
Lady REdpath fished a man's pocket watch out of her riding coat pocket.
"Half-past eight."
Lady BLakeney fidgetted in her seat and glanced anxiously out of the window.
Samuel Smith stirred and eased open his bleary eyes, yawning
as the interior of his hut slowly came into focus. He was on his cot, as usual,
with a hankering for the hair of the dog that bit him, as usual, and for the
first few minutes, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. There was a young man
asleep in his battered wing-back chair, but that was normal too. Often, one of
the lads, fearing that he was too late to be let back into his house, would
come back and sleep off his excess in Smith's house. Smith liked the company,
anyway, even when he was hung-over. Nothing took the sting out as much as
seeing someone else a few shades greener.
Smith yawned again and sat up, swinging his legs to the floor. "Blest
me," he murmured, staring at the sleeping youth, "that's a uniform
he's decked out in."
Smith glanced around his cottage, trying to piece together the events from the
previous night. He remembered the officer from the pub, but there had been two
of them there. How it happened that one of them wound up in his house and not
the other was a mystery. SMith peered at his hut some more, and started to
frown.
Now, good Missus Smith had spent the last ten years fertilizin' (Samuel Smith
missed her dearly, but he was of a practical agricultural bent) and,
consequently, his abode had reverted to bachelor. He didn't have much in the
way of decor or furniture, anyway, and so his main failings were merely an
indulgent acceptance of dust, soot, dirt, and a penchant for spitting on the
floor.
But something had decidedly happened last night. The floor was scuffed up, and
one of his rickety chairs was broken, and there were shards from the earthenware
jug that had been on his table, which, in turn, had been pushed from its usual
spot.
Smith got to his feet and shuffled over to the sleeping lieutenant, wracking
his brains for the lad's name. He finally came up with "Curthold's
Ghost", and he did recall that the other man was called
"Formal", and that one of them had two last names...as far as he
could remember.
The lieutenant was sleeping, but his breathing was shallow and quick. Smith
bent closer and saw that he was pale. His forehead felt clammy, as did his
hands. Smith, with a hesitant callused forefinger, peeled back the youth's
eyelid, exposing an enlarged pupil nearly obscuring the iris, which seemed to
ocillate, twitching back and forth rapidly.
Smith stepped back, his own headache evaporated. The young man was taken in
some way; he was more than merely hung-over.
Where could he go for help? There was an old midwife in the village who doubled
as nurse; Smith did not trust doctors. But the man came from the great house,
and so Smith steeled himself to step into enemy territory. But he was prevented
from stepping outside his own house.
"Mister Smith," Carling smiled, "I have matters under control,
don't you fear."
"I suppose, Gov', but the boy's taken rather odd--"
"He'll come about, have no fear. Have I ever given you cause to mistrust
me? I have already attended to him," Carling purred, sliding his way into
the hut. "Why don't you sit down and relax?"
The two big men dragged the semi-conscious form of Blakeney
deeper into the woods. He was no match for the thugs but fought with all he was
worth. Unfortunately it wasn't enough to escape. His mind spun with pain as he
tried to push the darkness away. Slowly the light engulfed him and he realized
it was now morning. But where were these brutes taking him? He didn't recognize
any of the landmarks even if he could barely see riding slung over one of the
thug's backs. His thoughts quickly went to Lady Blakeney and Lady Redpath.
"Dear God, let them be all right."
"Think this is far enough?" the ugly one asked.
"I reckin' so. No one will find him anytime soon," the dumb one stated.
With one quick jerk Blakeney was dumped onto the wet ground. Still he faked
being unconscious. The ugly one reached down and grabbed him by the collar.
"Wake up frog!"
With the speed of lightening Blakeney whirled on his enemy, knocking the
unexpecting man backward with a well-placed blow to his face. The dumb one was
stunned a second giving Blakeney his chance to attack. He flung himself on top
of the dumb one. He was now engaged in the fight of his life.
Horatio cried out in pain as he slammed his knee into a small pile of stones.
"For heaven's sake!"
Franny returned to his side, wagging her tail. As Horatio rubbed his sore knee
he thought he saw light ahead. "No, I am seeing things," he said to himself. He
closed his eyes tight then reopened them. Sure enough there was light ahead.
Jumping to his feet he followed Franny and prayed that his nightmare was almost
over. Her tail was going a mile a minute. Walking carefully around one last
wall Horatio emerged into bright sunlight. Slowly a smile spread across his
face. He was finally free of the eerie maze. Suddenly Franny darted past him,
running into the woods.
"Franny! Come back!" Horatio called out. Dropping the now extinguished candle
he trotted off in the direction of the frantic little dogs yips.
As he pushed through the underbrush he thought he heard the sounds of a
struggle. Coming to a clearing he was surprised to see Blakeney. But he was in
a bit of trouble, fighting two rather mean looking men. Horatio didn't hesitate
as he leaped onto the ugly one's back. Percy gave him a quick smile and turned
his full attention on the dumb one. Within minutes it was all over. Carling's
brutes lay unconscious at Percy and Horatio's feet.
"Well Mr. Hornblower," Percy began between gasps of breath," very nice of you
to join me. Thank you."
Horatio was breathing hard too. "I didn't want you to have all the fun."
"Franny!" Percy said relieved as he noticed his dog at his feet. "I knew you
would find him old girl." He held open his arms as she sprang into his waiting
embrace. Horatio couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of man and beast.
"I guess I owe your dog the biggest piece of English beef I can find."
"Yes, but first we must get back to Smith's cottage. I fear Carling has Mr.
Kennedy and there's no telling what he has done to him."
Quickly both men set off, following Franny once again.
The two unconscious thugs were trussed back to back against
a slim tree with Blakeney and Hornblower's cravats and stockings; their own
ragged complements of these artices reinforced the bonds. Horatio and Blakeney
had turned their pockets inside out, but had discovered nothing besides a few
pence and a collection of knives.
Blakeney pressed his handkerchief to his mouth to stop his split lip from
bleeding. Despite himself, he couldn't help grinning at Hornblower, and it was
a gruesome sight. Hornblower preferred this smile, however bloodsmeared
Blakeney's teeth, to the strained foppish smirks that Blakeney used to serve
him.
Horatio picked a few twigs out of his hair. Franny yipped and trotted away, and
the two men followed her.
"Who was at the cottage, BLakeney--Percy--besides those two brutes?"
"Carling, and perhaps Smith too. I wasn't sure if the farmer was there.
But I saw your friend, there. He was unconcious."
Horatio broke into a jog. "Quickly, we must save him--"
Blakeney grapped his arm and stopped in his tracks. "Horatio--wait--I've
an idea--"
Quickly, Blakeney dashed back to the thugs, and, seizing a thick branch off the
ground, gave them each a couple of clouts on the head.
"Blakeney!" Horatio cried, aghast, imaging Kennedy tortured in a
thousand ways. Blakeney whacked one of the thugs a few more times.
"He won't hurt Archie...much--in a permanent way, that is, sort of like
what I'm doing now," Blakeney called back, loosening the thugs' bonds.
"What are you doing--" Then and there, Hornblower saw BLakeney's
scheme and dashed back to him. Dropping on his knees, he untied the closer
thug's ankles.
"I think I know what Carling has planned for Archie, and for you,
too--"
"What?"
"Oh, yes," Blackeney worked the cravat free and his thug, freed from
his pinions, slumped forward. "Carling hasn't confined his efforts to me--and
I'm beginning to think that Smith hasn't a clue there--there's so much to
discover. But, this, is a start."
He withdrew from his pocket a crumpled piece of paper. Horatio glanced at it
and paled slightly. It bore the crest and seal of the Admiralty (and the seal
was broken). He could not bring himself to read the contents.
"I doubt that it's real," Blakeney told him, stuffing the paper back
into his pocket. "That's not to say that it isn't dangerous." Franny
found it for me, in Smith's cottage. Carling has many talents. Help me strip
this leviathan."
Together, the two men eased the clothes off the thugs, a task made unpleasant
by the bulk of the unconscious men and the stink and greasiness of their
clothing. Finally, they had the thugs down to their disreputably ragged smalls,
a covering second to that of their hair and filth.
"I say," Blakeney piped in echo of his vanished swank, "Sink me
if these blokes are acquainted with soap and water."
Steadfastly, but inwardly cringing, Horatio helped BLakeney replace the bonds.
They scooped up the clothes and strode away.
"We'll tell my wife first--don't worry, she's nearby. You know,
Horatio," Blakeney smiled ruefully, "I've thought myself clever, and
that has blinded me to a few things."
"Mr. Carling, the lad's taken awful!" Smith cried, as Kennedy's body
wrenched out of the chair onto the floor. The young lieutenant's eyes remained
eerily blank as his face twitched and his limbs sawed back and forth violently.
"This is a trifle!" Carling shrieked, stealing a glance out of the
window. His two minions were overdue, long overdue to arrive, and the vial in
his pocket was empty. He had poured all of it into the lieutenant's gullet;
initially, it had calmed the young man, but now it was wearing off. Worse still,
there was none left to deal with Smith. Carling felt the sweat on his fat neck
rise.
Kennedy jerked himself halfway across the floor, hitting a table leg. In his
next spasm, he hooked it with his leg, pulling the entire heavy oak table over.
It narrowly missed him at it crashed to the floor.
Carling and Smith gazed at him, stupified. Both men had seen their share of
thrashing about, but there was something alien and omnipotent in the
lieutenant's convulsions.
Smith sprang to Kennedy's side and tried to subdue him by pinning his flailing
arms to his side. The lieutenant, thus prisoned for a fleeting second, lurched
violently and broke free, throwing Smith off a few yards. Smith's head struck
the wall and the old farmer crumbled to his side.
Carling, aghast, scurried as far away as possible to the back of the hut,
squeezing his fleshy rump into a corner. A whimper escaped his lips as the full
catalogue of his crimes flashed before his eyes.
And then his panicked gaze fell upon the trapdoor, a few paces away.
-------------------------
"Mon Dieu!" "Lor!"
Marguerite and Lady Redpath cried out simultatiously as the two ragged figures
approached the carriage. Marguerite rapped on the side to rouse the sleeping
coachman--but, at that instant, a piercing yip rang out from outside. Lady
Redpath exhaled in relief as a tiny dervish of white and brown fur bounded
through the scrub into view.
"Mais pourquoi, Percy?!" Marguerite laughed as Blakeney, clad in the
thug's odiferous ragged costume with his face smeared in mud, strode over and
tapped on the coach window, and she slid it open. The lieutenant, Hornblower,
similarly attired, stepped to Blakeney's side and bowed crisply.
Blakeney had taken to the disgusting costume with great ease, and was now
indulging even in his old foppish mannerisms, as though he was garbed once more
in his silks and powder. The filth, however, disgusted Hornblower, who was
accustomed to bathing himself on deck every day. How far away the trim and tidy
Indy seemed now!
"Stack me, Joyeux Noel and Happy New Year, you lot!" Blakeney
trilled, grinning to the widest of his faculties. The tension caused his
injured lip to bleed anew. "Champagne, anyone?"
"Oh, your lip!" Marguerite grapped her handkerchief and, reaching
through the open window, pressed it to Blakeney's mouth. "Please, be
still, Percy!" she chided him as he shook in laughter.
"Heh, it's the Gov'!" the coachman cried, awakening at last.
His anxiety worsening, Hornblower tapped Blakeney on the shoulder, curtailing
his antics. Blakeney, his mouth still mobilized, motioned at Marguerite and
then at Hornblower, and stepped slightly aside, so that Hornblower could face
the window.
"My ladies," Hornblower nodded, "we have to go and rescue my
friend Archie. He's being held captive by the lawyer."
The two women nodded in return.
"I presume that you are in disguise?" Lady Redpath inquired.
Hornblower nodded. "Tell us what we must do."
"Ma'am, if the carriage could be driven to the lane just out of sight of
the hut...my friend is unconscious."
"We'll bring him to you, and then you must take him to London, to the
offices of the Admiralty. Horatio here will go with you, as will this
item--" Blakeney fished out the crumbled forged document and passed it to
Marguerite, "--and other such things that we may find. It is a fine
forgery, one which would normally pass, but, I hope, it will not withstand
close scrutiny." Blakeney pointed inside the carriage. "Under the
forward seat, in an iron box, which you will find unlocked, is a statement that
I wrote early this morning, attesting to the lieutenants' innocence and briefly
outlining Carling's own career. I've included the names of numerous witnesses
to his past crimes. I'm sure that, with my affirmation and their evidence,
Horatio and Archie's names will be cleared, if they have yet been besmirched.
We still don't know how much Carling has done."
"And Carling?" Hornblower asked.
Blakeney, reaching into another pocket, withdrew a sample of the thug's
daggers. "If it comes to this...Marguerite, you still have my
pistols?--"
Marguerite nodded and handed them to him. Horatio cleared his throat.
"Percy, I'm going with you, to deal with Carling. After we rescue
Kennedy."
Blakeney shook his head. "I think--"
"I insist. Archie and I swore to get you out of this mess."
"You didn't know what was at stake."
"A promise is a promise."
"Very well," Blakeney grinned, clapping Hornblower on the shoulder.
"I feared that you would insist, but more so that you wouldn't. It'll take
both of us to flush out that flabby little devil."
Hornblower shook his proferred hand and felt himself smile. And heard a sharp
yip of protest from Franny.
"Oh, I stand corrected," Blakeney exclaimed, picking up the small dog
and holding her to his face. Franny barked and wriggled excitably. "The
THREE of us! We'll never know when we'll need your nose, my sweet!"
Carling quickly whipped open the trapdoor and escaped down
into the dark. He was in too much of a hurry to light a candle. But it was no
matter to him. He had used this route many times before to elude Smith from
catching him going through the man's personal things. His heart was still
pounding with fear as the image of Kennedy convulsing and Smith unconscious
crept into his mind. "If one of them dies, that's murder!" he thought. His plan
was falling apart. Quickly he rounded a corner in the dark. He only hoped he
didn't run into Hornblower. He figured the young man was still stumbling about
down here somewhere.
Horatio and Percy stood ready at Smith's door. Percy signaled with his fingers,
one, two, three! They burst through the door at the same time. But Carling was
gone and only silence greeted them. That and two unconscious forms. Horatio
knelt by the deathly still Archie while Percy attended to Smith. "Is he alive?"
Percy asked making sure the old man was breathing. "Yes," Horatio said with
concern," but he is not well." Archie was as white as a sheet. "Archie, can you
hear me?" Horatio said and patted his cold cheek.
After what seemed like hours Archie moved. A sigh of relief escaped Horatio's
lips. "Percy, help me get him on the cot."
As the men gently set him on the bed, they had not noticed little Franny. She
was digging frantically at the trapdoor.
Blakeney rifled through Smith's papers, flipping through piles
of bills and receipts and business letters. "No naval dispatches, Horatio!
If he still has them, they're somewhere else."
Kneeling, Horatio shook Smith by the shoulder. The old man murmured but didn't
wake up.
"He's fairly out, Percy, but I think none the worse for wear. If we just
prop him up in his chair--"
They hoisted Smith up and brought him to his chair. A muffled snore escaped the
old man.
"That's the spirit, chap." Blakeney glanced about the appartment.
"Now, where would Carling keep papers?"
Franny barked, pawing at the trapdoor. Hornblower and Blakeney glanced at her
simultaniously, and Hornblower, despite himself, sighed. Cringing from his
involuntary reaction, he cleared his throat.
"Ha-hmm...we must go down and get him, Percy."
They glanced back at Archie.
"Let's carry Archie back to the carriage, as planned. We'll pick up a
lantern--"
"Leave the lad to me," Smith rasped. "Flint and lantern's on the
mantle."
The old farmer, slumped in his chair, stared at them with bleary eyes, pressing
a hand to his head. With the other, he motioned to the trapdoor.
"Smith-" Blakeney started. The old farmer cut him off with a wave of
his hand and pointed at the trapdoor with more emphasis. Blakeney nodded and
opened the trapdoor. Hornblower dashed to the mantle and lit the lantern.
"Candle--" Smith waved to his upended table. There was a candle lying
on the floor nearby. Hornblower thanked him and picked it up. He joined
Blakeney, who had Franny tucked under his arm--they waved at Smith, and descended.
--------------
Carling trotted down a derelict passage, wheezing twice to every step. The dirt
and loose stones underfoot cracked and slid about treacherously. A particular
stone rolled under Carling's foot, nearly sending him flying. He stopped and
clasped his hands to his thudding heart.
Come to think of it, he hadn't ever dared to go down here without a light
before. He panicked for an instant, dashing towards the wall. It was closer
than he'd thought--his hands met it suddenly, and he gasped. The wall was
covered with a cold moist cloth or moss which fell apart through his fingers.
Carling wrenched his hands away in disgust.
The repulsive contact cooled his fright. Carling surveyed his surroundings
calmly. All he saw was pitch-black, but he'd had been down here with a lamp or
candle enough times to know what was there.
Who knows what had happened to his thugs? They weren't geniuses, and since he
didn't command them to come back--as he thought about it, he recalled that he
had forgotten to give them this order--they had probably gone to the tavern. Or
maybe they were waiting beside their victim. He had found them thus before,
cowering beside a man they'd recently stabbed while the sounds of dogs and
horses and yelling men, of their victim's family, grew louder and louder. They
would have run away, but they were so afraid of him, they daren't move a step
without his command. It simply never occurred to them that the pair of them
could easily pulverize him, or, even more simply, run away. Likely, they were
still patiently waiting beside whatever remained of that silly, frog-saving,
dandy noble.
Coolly, Carling decided that he had time enough to retrieve his hidden papers.
There was the question of the lieutenant too, but his candle had surely gone
out by this time, and he was probably reduced to a gibbering madman by the dark
and the damp. Indeed, the surroundings were repulsive enough to even scare
someone who knew his way about quite well, someone like him. Reassured, Carling
wiped his hands on his coat and trudged on.
Horatio and Percy slowly descended into the maze. Horatio
shuddered but felt some relief at not having to go through this again by
himself. Percy set Franny down and like a bolt of lightening she was off. "This
won't take long!" Percy smiled as he quickly darted after the little dog.
Horatio followed close behind, making sure to watch every step he took.
Carling lean against something in the dark. He was out of breath and wheezing
uncontrollably. "You have to calm down," he thought. But panic was setting in
as he realized he was lost. He should have never come down here without a
candle! He took a step forward only to trip on a broken stone in the dark. As
he fell he twisted his leg, screaming out in agony.
His cries echoed in dark but Horatio and Percy both heard them. "Must be him,"
Horatio commented.
"Yes, I would say he is in a bit of trouble," Percy said. Suddenly he stopped.
"What is it? Percy?"
"What if we don't find him? What if no one finds him?"
Horatio didn't like the sound of this nor the look in his friend's eye.
"Percy we can't just leave him down here to die!"
"Yes we can Horatio. Look what he did to your friend. For all we know he was
trying to kill him."
"No," Horatio stated firmly," I won't let him die down here. No man deserves
that. Not even him."
Horatio took the lead and followed Franny. After a moment Percy reluctantly
joined him.
The lawyer's high-pitched shrieks grew louder and less
distorted by the reverberation of the underground chambers and tunnels. As he
walked towards the noise, Hornblower wracked his mind about the forged naval
dispatch that Blakeney had showed him--who knew how many more Carling had made,
and where he had sent them--these uncertainies, coupled with the damp maze of
the dungeon, made Hornblower uneasy. Blakeney seemed to think that his
(Hornblower's) and Kennedy's names could be cleared, but, still...to have his
fate so much in other people's hands did not sit well with Hornblower at all.
"Horatio--stop--"
Hornblower glanced back at Blakeney. "Percy, we must rescue him. I'm sorry
if this displeases you, but after having been down here alone, I really can't,
in my conscience, leave him likewise."
Blakeney smirked. "That doesn't surprise me. But, can you, in your
conscience (sterling as it is), scare him a little?"
Hornblower felt his mouth waver into a smile. Then he thought of Archie, and
his countenance fell. "Percy--"
"After all he's done, he hardly deserves to be handled with kid gloves.
Your career was almost ruined, and my estate almost lost, and now my ribs hurt
frightfully thanks to his thugs--"
'Percy..."
"Not to mention that we went to the trouble of disguising ourselves in
these foul rags to surprise him, and he even thwarted that design--sink me if
I've taken these pains for nothing!" Blakeney outstretched his arms and
pivoted, displaying a tattered and splattered garment that was once a
great-coat.
"Very well," Hornblower nodded, as a particularly piercing cry rang
out, "but our efforts will be redundant. He's scaring himself pretty well
without us."
Blakeney laughed. "I admire you for your insight, Horatio." Stooping,
he whistled Franny over, and put her in his pocket. His hands freed, he
arranged some of his rags over his face, and Horatio followed suit, though the
odour, so close to his nose, nearly gagged him. He covered his lantern, leaving
only the barest sliver of light to guide them, and they resumed their approach
of the screams.
--------------------
Carling, lying on his back, fought for breath as panic squeezed his lungs and
heart and head. The damp blackness of his surroundings pressed closer towards
him and he began to hear horrible dripping and slimy noises, and his agile
mind, which had so successfully seized upon and improved his oportunities,
turned its works to more distressing possibilities. Were those footsteps?
Carling shrieked, but his wind was short, cutting him off quickly. The sound
echoed for five long seconds, and his fancy, fired up, populated the blackness
about him with all manner of loathsome crawling slithery creatures, small dark
things with sharp pincers, moist white things that pulsated and left trails of
goo. The echoes died out, and Carling began to hear new sounds between the
erratic drips, tiny scurrying sounds. Panting, he tried to get up on his feet,
but his lamed leg buckled beneath him, burning up in pain from ankle to hip. He
tried to collect himself, and dug his fingers into the moist cracks beneath
him, and dragged himself a few feet. Uncertain of the direction, however, he
stopped, and held his breath. Something skittered across his hand--he wrenched
it away with another scream. His injured leg was pierced by a thousand tiny
points of pain combined with a larger one that was so huge and encompasing that
he could hardly tell where it emanated from--were insects nibbling away on his
leg? Were they devouring him slowly? Carling imagined losing, at painful
increments, his smallest most extreme parts, his fingers and his toes, working
up to his hands and feet, and onward, the insects multiplying by chewing holes
in his torso in which to lay their eggs, feasting on his tasty warm organs in
the meantime, riddling his body from the neck down with countless passages to
rival those of the maze he now lay in, leaving him only his head and his pain
in perfect working order. Carling began to weep. He could last for days, weeks.
Screwing his eyes shut, he flailed his arms and legs about, dislodging the
insects, but the exercise tired and pained him and he stopped, and felt faint movements
creep over him again. Shuddering with disgust and despair, he closed his eyes
tighter, forgetting that the blackness prevented him from seeing them.
And, suddenly, a huge claw latched itself around his neck, hauling him up until
his feet dangled. The Grandfather High Emperor of Insects! Carling realized
that his eyes were probably a delicacy--at the same time, he felt a new, warmer
wetness flow down his legs--and then he felt nothing more.
Captain Pellew thumbed through the stack of documents on his desk. On top was a
report by Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower, followed by one from Lieutenant
Archibald Kennedy, and below these, convincingly similar to true Admiralty
documents, was the fictional and sensational oeuvre, two inches thick, of the
recently deceased London lawyer Mr. Carling. Hornblower and Kennedy stood
before Pellew's desk, eyeing the documents with faint trepidation. Their names
were clear of any and all mud smeared by Carling, and they had seen Carling's
corpse stone cold, and they were once again aboard on the Indy, safe and
sound...but the events of the past several days were too disturbing to vanish
at once. Hornblower was the least stricken of the two, afflicted only by
scattered memories of his vacation in the crypt; Kennedy, drugged into a
stupor, was still pale and weak, swaying slightly on his feet.
Pellew glanced up at this point and motioned towards a bench nearby. Kennedy
sat down with some relief and Hornblower followed suit. Pellew cleared his
throat.
"I regret, lads, that you have had such a trial. I was expecting, and
hoping for, a nice vacation in the country for the two of you. As it happens,
you have had scarce time to draw breath. Out of the frying pan into the fire,
as it were."
"Nevertheless, Sir," Hornblower spoke, "we would not have
shirked our duty even if we'd known what we were getting into." Kennedy
nodded in agreement.
"And much good came out of our efforts, Sir. That lawyer had many
victims."
"He was a horrid man," Archie added.
"And he died a horrid death. Most fittingly. Heart attack from extreme
fright. Well, it's not wise to go down into a dark crypt with a heavy
conscience." Pellew thumped the stack of paper on his desk. "There is
much to commend you boys for, and your friend Blakeney has been quite active on
your behalf, and I don't doubt that some sort of official congratulation will
eventually come your way. Meanwhile, on my own behalf...I am proud of you both.
Given such irregular and trying circumstances, you conducted yourselves well,
and His Majesty's Navy hasn't seen the last of either of you." Pellew
stepped out from behind his desk and shook their hands in turn, giving each a
hearty tap on the shoulder with his free hand.
"Thank-you, Sir!" Archie beamed.
"Thank-you, Sir!" Horatio echoed, a shade less enthusiastically.
Pellew noticed this and cocked an eyebrow.
"Not pleased enough, Hornblower?"
"Oh, no Sir, I value your good opinion. It's just that--" Hornblower
let his eyes stray to Carling's forgeries on Pellew's desk. "I fear that
it's not over, that I and Lieutenant Kennedy aren't out of this business yet.
We don't know exactly what or how much the lawyer did, we never had a chance to
question him, he died rather suddenly, right after Lord Blakeney grabbed
him."
"Not before he forgot himself, overflowed with an excess of emotion,
perhaps..." Pellew chuckled. The two lieutenants stared at him. "Oh,
come on lads, you may smile a little. It's rather funny in a pathetic sort of
vein--now, that's more like it!"
His grin reflected by Archie and Hornblower, he pumped their hands once more.
"I believe that there are four guests on the quarterdeck--they wish to
give you their regards. Shall we?" Smiling, Pellew led them up to the deck
where two men and two women waited. Then and there ensued a delightful
confusion as everyone tried to cram several greetings at once.
"Percy!" Archie cried. Hornblower took Blakeney's hand while bowing
to the Ladies Blakeney and Redpath; Archie dashed to the second man, and
offered his hand--"Mister Smith!" The farmer grabbed Archie and
embraced him tightly. "Just call me Samuel, you young monkey!"
Meanwhile, his hand clasped in Lady Redpath's (formerly known as Kitty Cobham,
actress), Hornblower tried to thank Percy Blakeney. Seeing the two young lieutenants
thus pinioned, Lady Blakeney thanked them and kissed them lightly on their
cheeks in turn. Farmer Smith relinguished Archie to her, and strode over to hug
Hornblower. Captain Pellew laughed.
"You'll need several hours to sort this out; I invite you all to dine with
me tonight."
Lady Redpath smiled demurely, her cheeks dimpling. "That would be such an
honour!"
Blakeney nodded, "much obliged," while his wife and the two
lieutenants smiled their assent. Farmer Smith glanced aside momentarily, unsure
of whether or not he was included in the invitation. Pellew strode over and
offered him his hand.
"I believe that I have to thank you for tending to one of my lieutenants,
Mister Smith. You will dine with us, will you not?"
Smith shook Pellew's hand enthusiastically, "Yes, sir, as sure as I've got
two eyes in my head!"
"As sure as Carling's dead!" Archie giggled.
Pellew glanced about the smiling company, the two ladies, the two (his two)
young lieutenants, the old blond farmer and the tall dapper aristocrat. Looking
at Blakeney brought to mind his first poor impressions of him, when Blakeney
had come aboard off the French ship a caricature of the most shallow, most
trivial type of fop. In his subsequent actions, the man had improved immensely
in his estimations. Blakeney had spared no effeort in clearing Hornblower and
Kennedy from every suspision--thanks to this, Pellew forgave him everything,
the frog-snatching, the possible espionage, the incident with the little
dog--who then and there, as if summoned telepathically, poked her head out of
Blakeney's pocket and yipped.
"Franny!" Hornblower cried, and quickly flushed. The little dog
yipped again happily.
"Sink me," Pellew smirked, "if this don't warrant my best
port!"
