The Daredevil Snared Page 3

  But Caleb’s steady regard was something Kale found more difficult to tolerate. His lip curled in a sneer. “What, son—cat got your tongue?”

  Caleb smiled. “No. I’m merely debating the irony of engaging with vermin such as you over the value of justice.”

  Kale blinked—then he exploded into action. Blades swinging, he launched himself at Caleb.

  Phillipe cursed and stepped back, smoothly bringing the pistol to bear. Startled, all the other men leapt back.

  But Caleb had seen Kale’s muscles tense. Without a blink, he’d whipped up his sword and a shorter blade and slapped Kale’s slashing swords aside.

  Then it was on. Caleb could not—dared not—take his eyes from Kale’s. He tracked the man’s whirling blades by the infinitesimal shifts in Kale’s attention; Caleb didn’t fall into the trap of trying to keep both blades in view.

  In less than a minute, Caleb was wishing he’d let Phillipe shoot the bastard; Kale was beyond lethal—and he was a better swordsman than Caleb. He was no slouch, but Kale was in a class of his own.

  Unfortunately, the time for justice via pistol had passed. He and Kale were moving too quickly for even a marksman like Phillipe to attempt a shot.

  Although Kale knew that, he also knew that with Phillipe standing just out of reach with the pistol in his hand, Kale wasn’t leaving the circle alive.

  That realization was etched in Kale’s face; it infused his fighting with a snarling, animalistic fury and a nothing-to-lose strength, which, combined with his precise fluidity, made his strikes difficult to predict, much less counter.

  Playing defense wasn’t Caleb’s strong suit, but he forced himself to do it—to concentrate on keeping Kale’s blades at bay and letting the man batter at him, trying to break through.

  He was justice—he represented justice—and Kale could try as hard as he wished to break through his guard and triumph. But he wouldn’t. Caleb wouldn’t let him.

  Caleb was taller, stronger, had a greater reach—and most telling of all, he was younger than Kale.

  If Kale couldn’t break through his defense...eventually, justice would triumph.

  He was watching for the moment that realization worked its way into Kale’s conscious mind. It did, and Kale blinked.

  Then he lashed out with one foot, aiming for Caleb’s groin.

  But Caleb had already danced aside.

  He had far longer legs. Before Kale could recover, Caleb stepped in and smashed his boot into the side of Kale’s knee.

  Kale screamed and teetered.

  Moving like a dancer, Caleb pivoted behind Kale and ruthlessly slashed down on first one, then the other of the man’s wrists. Kale screamed again as he dropped both swords.

  Caleb reached for Kale’s shoulders, intending to push the man to his knees—

  “Aside!”

  Caleb flung himself to the left as Phillipe’s pistol barked.

  Kale crumpled, then fell.

  Caleb had landed on his side; as he pushed to his feet, he saw the stiletto that had tumbled from Kale’s now-lifeless hand.

  Caleb snorted. “I believe,” he said, resheathing his sword and long knife, “that justice has been served.”

  Phillipe shook his head at him, then handed the pistol back to Reynaud. Then Phillipe bent, picked up Kale’s twin blades, and ceremonially presented them, hilt first across his sleeve, to Caleb. “And to the victor, the spoils.”

  Caleb grinned. He reached out and closed his hand around one hilt and with his chin gestured for Phillipe to take the other. “I believe that’s the pair of us. Thank you for intervening.”

  Gripping the second blade, slashing it through the air to test its balance, Phillipe lifted one shoulder. “It seemed time. You’d played with him long enough.”

  Caleb laughed, then, smile fading, he looked around at their men. “Injuries?”

  Unsurprisingly, there were more than a few cuts and slashes, of which Caleb and Phillipe had their share. Only three gashes were serious enough to warrant binding. They had lost no one, and for that Caleb gave mute thanks. The fire had gone out. Working together, they lifted the dead aside, then they restoked the blaze, boiled water, and tended every wound.

  Once that was done, Caleb climbed to the barracks’ porch and, his hands on his hips, surveyed the camp. He grimaced. “I hate to break it to you all, but we need to clear this up.”

  Phillipe had climbed to stand beside him. On the voyage to Freetown, Phillipe had read Robert’s journals and so understood Caleb’s direction. He sighed. “Sadly, I agree. We need to make Kale and his men disappear.” Phillipe gestured. “Poof—vanished without a trace.”

  “With no evidence of any fight left, either.” Caleb looked at their men. They would feel the effects of the battle later, but for now, they were still keyed up with energy to spare. “Right, then. We need to leave this camp looking as if Kale and his men have just walked out and away. Here’s what we’ll do.”

  It took them four hours of hard work, but finally, the camp lay neat and tidy, silent, and oddly serene, as if waiting for occupants to arrive. They’d carted the bodies into the jungle along the unused track to the east, then found a clearing a little way off the track and buried all the bodies in one large grave. Caleb had fetched Robert’s journal from his pack, along with the sketches Aileen Hopkins, who had joined Robert on his leg of the mission, had made of certain slavers; by comparing those with the dead men, Caleb felt certain that, as well as Kale, they’d removed not only the large leader of the slavers in the settlement—Rogers—but also the one Aileen had dubbed “the pied piper,” the slaver with the melodious voice who was key to luring children from their homes with promises of gainful employment. As the last body was tipped into the grave, Caleb had shut the journal. “With any luck, we’ve completely exterminated this particular nest of vermin.”

  Once all was done, Phillipe paused beside Caleb at the edge of the now-peaceful clearing and scanned the area; they’d even groomed the dust with palm fronds, and not a hint of the fight remained. “All in all, a good day’s work.”

  Caleb agreed. “So Kale has mysteriously vanished, and no one is likely to guess to where, much less why.”

  After one last glance around the clearing, he turned and fell in beside Phillipe. They made their way into the jungle. No one had even suggested spending the night in the slavers’ camp. Instead, they’d set up a makeshift camp in the clearing where they’d left their packs and supplies.

  Caleb walked into the clearing to find crude tents already erected and a fire burning brightly beneath the cook pot. Aromas much more enticing than the charnel scent of death rose on the steam. They all sat—all but slumped. They checked wounds, then when the meal was ready, everyone ate.

  Largely in silence. There were no songs around the campfire, no tall tales told. They’d all killed that day, and while they were accustomed to an existence in which life was too often cut short, as the energy of battle ebbed and left them deflated, they each had their own consciences to tend, to appease and allay.

  The fire burned low, and quietly, with nothing more than murmured good nights, they settled on their blankets and reached for sleep.

  Tomorrow, they would embark on the next stage of the mission.

  Tomorrow, they would take the path to the mine.

  CHAPTER 2

  “John told me at breakfast that he doesn’t know how much longer he can drag his heels over opening up the second tunnel.”

  Katherine Fortescue glanced at her companion, Harriet Frazier; the pair of them had elected to stretch their legs in a stroll around the mining compound during their midmorning break from their work in the cleaning shed.

  Of course, the real purpose of their stroll was to facilitate communication; while they walked, they could talk freely, with no one likely to overh
ear their exchanges.

  The “John” to whom Harriet referred was her sweetheart, Captain John Dixon, the erstwhile army engineer who had been the first of their company to be kidnapped from Freetown. When Dixon had refused the mercenary leader Dubois’s invitation to plan and implement the opening of a mine to exploit a newly discovered pipe of diamonds for unnamed backers, Dubois had merely smiled coldly—and the next thing Dixon had known, Harriet had joined him in his captivity.

  The threats against Harriet that Dubois had used to force Dixon to acquiesce to his demands were, quite simply, unspeakable. Harriet carried a fine scar on her cheek that Dixon still regarded with sorrow and remembered horror. But Harriet bore the mark with pride. In her eyes—indeed, in the eyes of all the captives now there—Dixon had only done what he’d had to, what he’d been forced to do to ensure he and Harriet survived.

  And he and all of them continued in that vein, using that as their touchstone; if they didn’t survive, they couldn’t escape.

  Despite their carefully cultivated appearance of being resigned to their lot, every man, woman, and child of their company had banded together, and all were unswervingly committed to escape.

  Escape first; retribution could come later.

  Katherine had long grown accustomed to keeping her features composed; she and Harriet maintained unconcerned, outwardly unperturbed expressions as they paced slowly around the well-worn clockwise circuit that would take them from the cleaning shed, where they worked at chipping heavy concretions of ore from the rough diamonds extracted from the mine that had eventually been constructed, past the eastern end of the long, central, main barracks building in which Dubois and his band of mercenaries worked and slept when they weren’t on guard, either at the gates of the compound, pacing the perimeter, escorting groups of captives to fetch water from the nearby lake, or perched in the high tower that stood at that end of the long building.

  Shading her eyes, Katherine glanced up at the pair of mercenaries on lookout duty in the tower. “Given how our output from the shed has been dwindling,” she murmured, “I can—sadly—see John’s point.” She glanced at Harriet. “Let’s meet tonight and see how the others feel. There’s only so long we can put Dubois off without damaging our own position.”

  The “others” were the de facto leaders of their small community—the officers who had been kidnapped, plus Katherine and Harriet. Katherine had been taken because, as a governess, she had experience managing children, but another of her skills was fine needlework, and Dubois had quickly recognized the sharpness of her eye and the quality of her work in the cleaning shed; he had effectively made her the spokesperson and leader of the women and children.

  So she spoke for both groups, and Harriet was one of her deputies among the six women, most of whom had been taken for their ability to do fine work.

  As she and Harriet continued their promenade, the hems of the drab, featureless gowns they’d been given to wear stirring fallen leaves, Katherine contemplated—as she was sure every one of their number did these days—the delicate balance they were striving to maintain. “I wish there was some easier—more obvious and less stressful—way we could manage this.”

  Harriet grimaced, then smoothed her features into a mask of unconcern. “It’s a constant juggle. I know it weighs heavily on John.”

  “And he’s doing a wonderful job—we wouldn’t have any hope if it wasn’t for him.” Katherine laid a hand on Harriet’s sleeve and lightly squeezed. “We all understand the dilemma. We have to keep giving Dubois diamonds enough to appease his masters—whoever the blackguards are—while at the same time holding back as much as we can to stave off the time when the deposit is exhausted and they decide to shut the mine.”

  None of them harbored the slightest illusion about what would happen once a decision to close the mine was made. They would be killed. Lined up and shot—or worse.

  Given the atrocities Dubois and his men had committed against one young girl early in the life of the mine, and the threats Dubois occasionally made when using one of the women or children to reinforce his control over the kidnapped men, worse, in this case, would be horrific. So horrific none of them dwelled on the prospect.

  That was the other reason Dubois had arranged to have women and children added to the mine’s captives. Quite aside from their necessary contributions to the work, they were the perfect pawns with which to ensure the men’s compliance.

  As the location of the mine dictated that Dubois’s impressed workforce had to be European and, given his source was Freetown, that meant mostly English, he’d realized he would need an effective means of controlling said workforce. Dubois was all about effectiveness and control—he was coldhearted, ruthless, and appeared to possess not a single scruple or finer feeling in his large, powerful frame.

  Because the mine was located within one of the native chief’s lands, Dubois and his masters did not dare kidnap natives—not of any tribe. But the chief did not care about Europeans; in his eyes, they were not his concern. So Englishmen from Freetown it was. In addition, kidnapped English were also more useful in that all those taken had some training in skills required for the mine.

  Captain John Dixon had been targeted because he was an expert sapper—an engineer skilled in the construction of tunnels. Several of the other men had carpentry skills; others were laborers used to wielding picks, and all of the women had some talent Dubois or his masters had deemed useful. The children hadn’t needed to be anything but children—quick and healthy, with small hands and keen vision.

  They even had several men and women with medical and nursing experience, which had proved useful in treating the occasional injury. Mining was inherently unsafe, and accidents had occurred, but the compound contained a decently equipped medical hut.

  Katherine cynically acknowledged that the one helpful aspect of Dubois’s rule—absolute and unchallengeable as it was—was that his single-minded quest for effectiveness and efficiency meant he considered keeping his workforce as hale, healthy, and able as possible to be in his and his masters’ best interests.

  So regardless of his threats—which not a single one of them doubted he would carry out without a blink if they pushed him to it—he ensured that their needs were met so that they could continue to work and produce the raw diamonds his masters sought.

  That was what Dubois was being very well paid to ensure—that the mine was properly exploited and the raw diamonds dispatched in secret to Amsterdam on behalf of his masters.

  Just who those masters were, no one had yet learned. However, although Dubois was French and his band of mercenaries hailed from every quarter, the general consensus among the captives was that the blackguards behind the scheme were Englishmen.

  Katherine dwelled on that for several seconds, then shook the thought aside. Time enough to focus on whom to blame after they’d escaped.

  She and Harriet rounded the base of the tower, passing the supply hut and, beside it, the large kitchen with its wide, palm-frond-covered overhang beneath which three small fire pits with cook pots suspended above them were watched over by Dubois’s huge cook. The man was the grumpiest individual Katherine had ever met, perennially scowling at everyone—even Dubois.

  They continued circling the mercenaries’ barracks, on their left passing the long barrack-like building in which all the women and children slept, followed by the compound’s double gates, as usual propped wide open with a pair of guards lounging, one to each side.

  The roughly circular compound was crudely but effectively palisaded by planks lashed together with thick vines and wire. It appeared rather rickety in places and wouldn’t be impossible to break through, but if they escaped and fled, where would they go?

  The simple fact that they had no real clue where they were and how far it might be to any form of safe harbor, along with the knowledge of the hideous retribution Dubois would unqu
estionably inflict on those left behind should any of them successfully flee, ensured that they continued apparently acquiescent in their captivity.

  They were anything but, yet circumstances and Dubois had forced them to be pragmatic.

  They couldn’t escape unless they got everyone out all at once and until they knew in which direction safety lay and how long it would take them to reach it.

  Skirting the captives’ communal area—a circle of logs surrounding a large fire pit—Katherine and Harriet walked slowly past the long building where the men slept and on past the open maw of the mine. Unless dispatched on some other chore, all the male captives labored inside the tunnel, now more than fifty yards long, that had been hacked, inch by foot, more or less straight into the side of a steep hill that rose abruptly from the jungle floor, as if some elemental force had thrust it upward. The hillside above the mine entrance was relatively sheer.

  As she and Harriet passed the mine, they both looked inside. Although lanternlight played on the walls, glinting off the roughly hewn planes, none of the men were presently visible; they would all be farther down, hacking out the remnants of the original deposit, or with Dixon supposedly examining the second pipe—a rock formation associated with diamonds—that Dixon had, thank the Lord, discovered to the right of the original find.

  If he hadn’t found that second pipe, the mine would already be on its last legs, and they would be facing death.

  That new deposit had given them a second wind, as it were, in that it held out the chance of surviving long enough to figure out some way to escape.

  That it was up to them to save themselves was now accepted by all. Initially, they’d waited, simply surviving, in the expectation that help would arrive in the form of a rescue party sent from the settlement.

  It had seemed inconceivable that this many adults, women as well as men, many with positions and connections in the community, let alone the small army of children, could be snatched from one place without any hue and cry being raised.