Stephen wrapped an arm around Gus and helped him to the boat. “Come on. Let’s get you on board. The quicker we are away the sooner someone can take a look at your wound.”
Gus winced and offered a tight smile. “I don’t expect it will be you doing any surgery. Or at least I hope not.”
By the time they had Gus on board the yacht and had taken him below, Captain Grey and the crew had set out every possible sail. There was only a small gust of wind blowing as the boat slowly, tortuously slid away from the jetty.
Pistol drawn, Stephen raced back up to the weather deck, coming to stand alongside the other members of the crew who had their weapons trained on the shore. His heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline coursing through his every vein. If the Lamballe gang tried to attack a second time, they were going to be met with deadly force.
Try it and see how many bullets I will put in every one of you blackguards.
Seconds passed by agonizingly slow, but eventually, they were far enough away from the shore to be out of pistol range. It was clear that the new rival gang of French smugglers had decided that their message had been well and truly delivered.
This is now our territory. Stay away or die.
“Stand down,” he ordered the crew.
Stephen headed for the ladder and the lower deck. His heart still thumped hard in his chest; adrenaline now replaced by fear. In the hot, cramped space, the air was rank with the metallic smell of blood.
Captain Grey and another crew member were huddled over Gus who lay on the floor. As Stephen approached, he was struck by the almost deafening lack of noise. No one spoke. Gus didn’t make a sound.
He stopped, blinking back sudden tears. He may not have wept or grieved much over the passing of his father, but if Gus was dead, this loss would come as a body blow.
The captain lifted his head and met Stephen’s gaze. “He has a bullet lodged in his chest. It’s bad but hopefully not fatal. As soon as we make land in England, we need to get Mister Jones to a doctor.”
“Stephen,” croaked Gus.
Summoning his courage, he came to Gus’s side. The significant amount of blood on both the smuggler’s shirt and the cloth which the captain held over the wound had Stephen swallowing bile.
“Sorry about this, Stephen. Deuce foolish of me to go and get shot.”
The rogues of the road had always treated serious injuries with a stupid amount of levity. Monsale had made them all solemnly promise that if they died during a job, they would go with a grin on their lips.
Seeing Gus so badly injured sorely tested Stephen’s humor. No one would be laughing if his friend didn’t survive the journey home—least of all Monsale.
“Does it hurt?” he asked.
“Only when I breathe,” replied Gus.
Stephen screwed his eyes closed and nodded. “Well, you are going to have to put up with the pain because I won’t stand for you to bloody well die on me. I’ve already got more than enough to deal with when I get home.”
“I wouldn’t want to add to your problems. And it would be the height of bad manners for me to perish while you are technically on your honeymoon. I don’t think your good lady wife would be too pleased.”
Stephen’s thoughts turned to Bridget. She would be beside herself with worry if she could see where her husband and his friend were right this minute.
What am I going to tell her when I get home?
Another crewman appeared in their midst. “We have reached the end of the river, and the English Channel is in sight.” The man handed Captain Grey a small brown bottle. “It’s all we have, but hopefully, it will make Mister Jones comfortable.”
Gus eyed the bottle and grimaced. “The joy of opium. Do what you have to with this bullet wound, and then let me have the laudanum. Stephen, I think this is where you take your leave and go up on deck. I expect there is going to be plenty more blood and a spot of screaming on my part, so off you go.”
Stephen met his friend’s gaze and nodded. “Alright. I will come and sit with you later.” He headed for the ladder.
Please lord don’t let him die.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The wind and tide were against them most of the way, making the crossing of the Channel a slow and difficult one. Stephen sat staring at the French coastline as it faded into the distance. If Gus survived the night, changes were going to have to be made, the whole French smuggling operation carefully examined and reassessed.
So many things were now coming to an end. They had been running illegal goods between England and the continent for some three years now. Before the end of the war and Napoleon’s fall, the trade had been quite lucrative. But with Europe now at peace, they were having to deal with the threat of former French soldiers seeking to make money in the smuggling game.
