The Key to Salvation
Chapter Ten
It was the smell he noticed first; a combination of human waste, stale vomit and fear. He tripped down the last few steps, landing heavily on his hands and knees. The sailors wasted no time in hauling him to his feet and pushing him up against the bulkhead. A chain fastened to the wooden slats was looped through the shackles on his wrists and padlocked shut. There was enough slack for him to lie or sit but not to stand.
Even at anchor the boat was swaying uncomfortably as the wind whipped the sea into a frenzy. He had never been particularly fond of ships. The smell and the uneven movement conspired to unsettle his stomach. He found himself thankful for the fact that he hadn't eaten for twenty-four hours.
Lanterns hung at irregular intervals around the cavernous space. He counted a dozen more unfortunate souls all lost in contemplation of their fate. No-one spoke and he didn't feel like being the one to shatter the silence. He sat with his back against the wall and his legs stretched out in front of him while he examined his chains. They were too sturdy and tight for him to be able to slip them so he turned his attention to the fastening on the wall. The staple holding the chain in place was sunk deeply into the wood and no amount of tugging yielded any movement.
He leaned his head back and contemplated the ceiling which was bathed in shadow. Then he looked towards the stairs leading back up to the deck. The door at the top was closed, no doubt to keep the foul weather from invading the ship. His stomach continued to roil in time with the lurching of the vessel. He heard one of his fellow captives retching pitifully. The medic in him wanted to help but what aid could he offer even if he was free? They were in hell and there would be no reprieve.
After a while two men came down into the hold carrying plates and a cauldron. Portions of an unidentifiable stew were ladled out and placed beside each prisoner. They were given no utensils which meant that they were reduced to eating like animals. And that, he realised, was how they were perceived. His pride almost overcame his good sense. He watched his unwilling companions scooping up the stew with their hands and licking the plates clean. His jaw tightened rebelliously.
"You'd best eat it. There won't be any more until tomorrow night."
Aramis looked over at his nearest neighbour who had spoken and nodded unwillingly. He bent his head and dug his fingers into the food, finding it to be hot. It was bland fare but he choked it down, grateful at least for some heat in his belly. He was still dripping wet and so thoroughly chilled that he couldn't stop shivering.
"How long have you been here?" he asked.
The young man, no older than d'Artagnan, shrugged his shoulders. "Two days. Maybe three. The ship was due to leave tonight but I'm guessing with this weather they'll choose to ride out the storm at anchor."
"You know something of ships?"
"I was a cabin boy when I was younger. Then I fell into bad company. I've got this gambling urge, see? Lost a lot of money to the wrong people. That's how I ended up here." He sounded resigned rather than angry.
Aramis finished his meal and set the plate aside. He wrapped his arms around his body, trying to generate some heat. "Where are we bound?"
"Don't know. The crew don't talk to us. We're nothing more than cattle to be transported from one place to another."
The food Aramis had just eaten was threatening to make a reappearance as the movements of the ship became more violent. He swallowed convulsively and held his breath until his stomach began to settle. He couldn't remember a time when he had felt so miserable and they hadn't even left port yet.
Their next visitors advanced on Aramis and pulled his to his feet. The chain securing him to the ship was unlocked and he was pushed towards the stairs. The instruction to get moving was given in Spanish. He feigned ignorance of the language and his lack of cooperation earned him a blow between the shoulder blades. The wind pounced on him the minute he stepped out onto the deck and he rocked backwards from its force. Rain was falling in a thick blanket making it almost impossible to see the pier. He was taken through another door into the main part of the ship. After being led along a corridor towards the stern he was pulled to a halt outside what he assumed to be the Captain's cabin. One of the sailors knocked, they were instructed to enter and Aramis found himself in the presence of the man who had bought him from the Baron's men.
"Wait outside," the Captain said to the sailors who had accompanied him.
"Aye, Sir." The door closed behind them.
The room reminded him a little of Treville's office. The Captain sat behind a desk strewn with charts and rolled up pieces of parchment. In one corner was a bed with a chest at its foot. Behind the desk was a bank of windows which looked out onto the storm. Light filled the cabin from storm lanterns dotted around the room. Aramis stifled a cough and waited.
"My name is Captain Ferdinand da Silva." He poured a glass of ruby red wine from a fine crystal decanter. "What is your name?"
Aramis considered the question from every angle before deciding that there was no reason not to answer. "Aramis."
"That is your given name?" Da Silva leaned back in his leather chair and watched him with predatory intensity.
"It is the name by which I am known in the Musketeers." The cabin was much warmer than the hold and Aramis could feel his shivering abating.
"How did you fall foul of men wishing you such ill will?" The captain must have seen the longing on Aramis' face for he took a sip of the wine and then smiled as he set the glass down again on the tabletop.
"That is my business."
"You no longer hold a commission in the Musketeer regiment?"
Aramis decided he had answered enough questions so didn't respond. He knew he was taking a risk. The Captain could easily call back the two sailors who were outside the door but that didn't seem to be his intent.
"Despite that you have much valuable information."
"I may not hold a commission but I am still a soldier. I will do my duty until the end."
"Then you will die under torture."
"That is as God wills."
"Perhaps you will survive to serve at the oars in his Most Christian Majesty's fleet."
"That's not much of an incentive to cooperate," Aramis said drily.
"You have spirit still. Yet I wonder how long you can hold out. Spymaster Vargas is exceptionally skilled at making men talk and you look as though you have already suffered hardship and depravation."
"I will die before I betray my country."
"We shall see. Now you will be returned to the hold. We will speak further of this once we are at sea."
"You waste your breath." Aramis staggered as the ship lurched. He caught his balance by latching onto the front edge of the desk. When he looked up he found da Silva watching him with amusement.
"You are not used to the ways of the sea. Do not worry, you will soon learn." He stood up and walked around the desk. "You are a great gift that I bring to my King." He opened the door and gestured for the sailors to enter. "Take him back and make sure he is secure. We would not want anything to happen to him."
Physical and mental exhaustion made Aramis drag his feet on the way back to his prison. He was again exposed to the elements as they made their way across the deck. Once back in the hold he was chained up and left to contemplate a terrifying future filled with pain and suffering.
Tbc