Merciless Reason (2 page)

I

THE MISSING DUKE OF LEINSTER

HMS
SCAFELL
WAS A SHIP-OF-THE-LINE,
carrying seventy-four guns. Her gun deck alone was over one hundred and eighty feet long. Built to be powerful but nimble, she was one of a breed of ships that made up the backbone of the Royal Navy. With elegant lines, sturdy construction, her intimidating firepower and a highly-­disciplined crew of more than five hundred men, the
Scafell
repre­sented all the qualities that had enabled Britain's navy to rule the seas for more than two hundred years.

She could have been a leaky gondola for all Jim cared. As long as her crew had water and food aboard and got him out of the sea, he'd kiss their feet for the rest of his life if they wanted. The ship's lookouts spotted the floating field of debris from the
Odin
two days after the storm. Jim's voice was failing him by the time the ship drew near enough to hear him. His arms ached from clutching the sea-chest, his body exhausted, his mind confused by salted, water-dazzled eyes and shimmering hallucinations.

Still, he didn't stop hoarsely calling out until he saw the longboat being lowered and rowed towards him. They handed him a flask of water even as he was hauled into the boat. He drank too much at first, his thirst-shrunken stomach throwing most of it back up.

The day was bright, the sun casting warmth out of a washed-out blue sky, but Jim shivered uncontrollably when he was brought up on the deck of the ship and wrapped in blankets. He was half led, half carried down to the surgeon, who pronounced him ‘remarkably healthy, given the circumstances.”

The captain and second lieutenant joined him in the sick bay, sitting on chairs across from him and introducing themselves as Captain James Wyndham and Lieutenant William Dempsey. They were both dressed in their immaculate Royal Navy uniforms; dark blue jackets with epaulets on the shoulders, worn over white trousers. Their turnout was a stark contrast to the rough and ready clothes worn aboard the whaler. The men were eager to question Jim, but were decent enough to wait until he had drunk his fill of water and eaten two bowls of chicken broth. He was happy to make them wait.

“Best grub I've had in months,” he croaked at last in his Liverpool accent. Sitting back in the bunk, he looked up at the officers. “Been livin' on salt horse and biscuits and tea with molasses for what seems like forever. Gets so you don't even mind the weevils or cockroaches in 'em—adds a bit of variety.”

“You were on the
Odin
?” Captain Wyndham asked.

He was a competent-looking man in his fifties, with a pronged moustache and salt-and-pepper hair. His tone was businesslike, but not unkind.

“Aye, sir,” Jim grunted. “Ship went down with all 'ands but me. Twenty-eight good men.”

“You were lucky it was only a summer storm. In winter in these parts, the cold would kill you minutes after you entered the water.”

“Tell that to me gonads,” Jim sniffed. “It'll be days before they unshrivel.”

“Mind your tongue, m'lad. We don't stand for foul language on Her Majesty's vessels. Had you been aboard the
Odin
long?”

“Me and a bunch o' lads joined the crew at Boston in April, while the ship was in for repairs,” Jim said. “Thought they were settin' out for a normal voyage, but Captain Bushnell had plans of his own. Out for revenge for the death of his son, so he was. I'd bet a month's wages even the owners didn't know.”

“So what happened?” Wyndham inquired.

Jim told them everything about the
Odin
's last day, wondering if they would scoff at his description of the monster. They didn't bat an eyelid. There were more than enough tales doing the rounds about colossal creatures from the depths—including this one off the New England coast.

“We've heard such stories before,” the captain said, nodding. “The loss of a ship is a tragedy under any circumstances, but to be attacked by this … this abomination … its existence is an affront to God. Perhaps, someday, Her Majesty's Navy will turn its attentions to destroying the beast.”

Lieutenant Dempsey, a muscular-looking man in his forties or fifties with dark skin almost Mediterranean or even Arabic in complexion, framed by black hair and garnished with a clipped little moustache, nodded but said nothing. Jim noticed the man was studying him closely, as if his story was of only passing interest, to be set aside at the earliest opportunity. Captain Wyndham confirmed Jim's suspicions.

“As it happens, we were in the area, searching for the
Odin
,” the captain told him. “We have been seconded to the North American Trading Company and have been tasked with finding a gentleman named Nathaniel Wildenstern, the Duke of Leinster. He went missing about three years ago. Our investigations led us to Boston, and we suspect he may have joined the
Odin
's crew there. There is a reward for anyone who can help find him. Do you know him?”

Jim appeared to think for a moment, but then shrugged and shook his head.

“No, sir. Never 'eard of 'im.”

“He may well be traveling under an assumed name,” the second lieutenant spoke up. “In his current state, his dress and appearance might not be that of a gentleman. We have a picture of him here. Perhaps you could take a look at it.”

A sepia photograph was laid on the table in front of him. It showed a proud-looking young man with a somewhat long but handsome visage and fair hair cut in a dashing style. Jim regarded the image for some time. It was so unlike his own, his face burnt by the wind and sun, his hair and beard faded and bedraggled. He reached out to touch the picture for a moment, then pushed it back across the table.

“Sorry, no. Doesn't ring any bells. Whaler captains aren't picky, they'll take on anyone who'll work. But he looks a bit posh for a life in whalin' if y'ask me.”

“We didn't,” Wyndham replied as he stood up, quickly followed by Dempsey. “All right. Given that the ship we were after is now at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, it seems that our trail ends in Boston for now. We will return there and set you ashore. You will be provided with some fresh clothes and accommodated as a passenger until we reach port.”

“I'm 'appy to work me way,” Jim insisted.

“This is a ship-of-the-line of Her Majesty's Royal Navy,” the captain informed him. “Every man here has his place and his duties. Your help is not required. We are three days from Boston, four at the most. Please take this opportunity to convalesce, make sure you are presentable whenever you leave your cabin and try to stay out of the way. Good day, Mr. Hawkins.”

The lieutenant nodded again and followed his captain out of the room. But there was something in Dempsey's expression as he cast a look back at Jim before leaving; something like barely suppressed hatred.

Jim was quartered in the clerk's cabin, a small, simple room that still felt like luxury after the cramped quarters on board the whaler. The clerk had been most understanding as he vacated his cabin, regarding Jim's survival as nothing less than a miracle. Jim slept for most of the rest of the day, eventually rising in the evening to pull on the clothes the cabin boy had provided for him.

One look out the porthole told him the fine weather was holding, but there was enough wind to enable the ship to make good time. It was an excellent vessel, so big that he could barely feel the motion of the water beneath his feet. He should have felt safe here, but he didn't. The sooner they got back to port, the better.

The rest had done him good, but his whole body still ached. His face, neck and arms were badly sunburnt, and the gashes in his back from his most recent flogging stung constantly. The edges of the cuts were white and swollen from being immersed for so long in the salt water. Jim left his shirt off, staring at himself in the small rectangular mirror propped on the cabin's tiny desk. He read the worst events in his life, carved there in the scars on his skin. His new injuries would fade in a matter of days. He never had to suffer pain for very long: it was a quality that ran in his family.

“You should keep yourself covered up,” a voice said from behind him.

He turned to see Lieutenant Dempsey standing in the doorway. There was open hostility written on his dark-skinned face and it put Jim on edge. Something familiar in the officer's posture, his looks, bothered Jim, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

“The captain is a very able man,” Dempsey told him, stepping inside and pulling the curtain across the doorway. He spoke softly. “But he is blinded by his perception of class. We have a detailed description of the scars on your body—the one on your side and the one over your heart are particularly noticeable. And even though we know you've been working in manual labor and as a sailor since you left Africa, the captain still can't imagine a gentleman ending up looking like the tramp he saw when you came aboard.”

Nathaniel Wildenstern glanced down at his own chest and then stared back at the officer. He didn't answer immediately. He had not been recognized in over a year.

“No doubt he'll have a change of heart when he sees how well I scrub up,” he said. “Or, if he is so sure that the clothes make the man, perhaps I'll be able to persuade him I'm one of his crew if I slip on some blue and whites.”

“Wyndham's no spark, but he's no fool either,” Dempsey continued. “If he sees your scars, he'll recognize you. Don't shave off your beard until you leave the ship. And see if you can keep up the Liverpool accent—if that's what it's supposed to be.”

“What's your game, then?” Nate asked. “Why aren't you telling him?”

Dempsey scowled. Casting his eyes over his shoulder to check the curtain behind him, he moved closer to Nate.

“I have no great love for the Wildenstern family,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “My wife is dead because of them, and they have all but stolen my son. He lives with them now, and they chose my ship to send in search of you so as to keep me out of their way. I have been back once since my wife died and had to seek permission to see my own son. I'm happy to cause your family any distress I can.”

“Cathal,” Nate said, almost to himself, searching old, unpleasant memories. “You're Cathal Dempsey's father.”

“Not if the bloody Wildensterns have anything to say about it, I'm not.”

“And yet, if you brought me back, you would see your son again,” Nate said, moving backwards slightly so that he could lean on the desk, where his knife lay beneath his shirt. “Why don't you want me to be found?”

“Because to Hell with them, that's why!” Dempsey growled, clenching his teeth. “I'll get my son back my way and make sure the thrice-damned, night-soiled cur who took him pays a heavy price.”

“Now I know where your son gets his charming bloody-­mindedness,” Nate observed. “I seem to remember my young sister learning some delightful swearwords from him.”

“I know why you fled your family, Nathaniel Wildenstern,” the lieutenant went on. “And I can tell you, they have grown worse in your absence. Ireland is suffering because of their infernal schemes.”

“Really? Doesn't sound like much has changed at all.”

The officer glared at him, and for a moment Nate thought he saw something of himself in the Navy man. The same loss, the same bottomless anger. Dempsey's wife had been a Wildenstern. She had been exiled from the family and imprisoned in a mental institution before she met him. Years later, she had been killed for her Wildenstern blood—the same blood that made Cathal so valuable to the family. Dempsey had good reason to hate them. This would not be a good time for Nate to mention that it was he who had brought the man's son to Wildenstern Hall. His fingers were close to the knife, but it was purely reflex; this man was no threat to him. Not yet, anyway.

“If you had any sense of duty, you would go back and join the struggle against them,” Dempsey said. “But I suppose any man who has spent the last three years running away from his demons, as you have, can hardly be expected to change his colors.”

“I have no colors left,” Nate retorted. “And my demons are all dead. Tell your captain who I am if you wish, or don't tell him. It's all the same to me. I'm past caring.”

“I don't think you are,” Dempsey replied as he turned toward the doorway. “And your family are certainly not done with you. Whether that's a good or bad thing, I'm not sure. All I know is they want you back and I can stop them from having you. That's good enough for me … for now.” He stopped for a moment, turning back to look at Nate. “You'll need money when you get ashore. There's a tavern called the Peggy Sayer, in Charlestown in Boston. Look for a man named Ronan. He'll pay good money for men with fighting skills. I'm sure you haven't forgotten your family traditions—you might as well make use of them.”

With that, he left, drawing the curtain closed behind him. Nate watched the fabric settle and stayed staring at it. He picked up his shirt and pulled it on, buttoning it up over his scars. Pressing his hand to his belly, he felt the slight movement beneath his abdominal muscles, just above his belly button, as if part of his intestine was shifting position.