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Clive was clever. He would make them go below, where he was waiting for them. He knew the layout of the ship; he might well have a musket, or any other kind of firearm. And he had Miriam.
Would he harm her?
Did any part of him love her? Or was she just beauty to him, an appetite, albeit a consuming one?
He looked across at Gillander.
Gillander was grim-faced. For the first time Monk saw fear in his eyes. He knew it was not for himself; it was for Miriam.
Monk looked across at Scuff. “Wait here!” he shouted. “That’s an order. When we come back up, we’ll need your help. Understand?”
“Yes…” Scuff, too, was afraid now.
Gillander went first, reaching the hatch before Monk and going straight down the steps, cutlass at the ready. He must have appreciated the chances of being shot before he reached the bottom. Any man would. But he did not hesitate.
Monk followed on his heels.
It took him a moment to adjust to the dimmer light, but he could make out the cabin. Gillander was standing in front of him, with the cutlass at the ready. There was no one else there.
Gillander remained motionless for less than a minute. Then he put his hand on the door between the cabin they were in, and the next space, which would probably be the galley. He opened it softly. That, too, was empty. Clive and Miriam had to be in the cabin beyond.
Monk froze. If Clive heard them, above the creaking of timbers and the sound of the water, which was getting louder as the wind rose again, then he would shoot. If it were one of his own crew, still alive, they would call out to reassure him. And he would take the chance anyway.
Gillander held up his hand to warn Monk to stay back, then he kicked the door in with his leg high, heel hard, and stepped back immediately. He was only just in time. A shot went past him and crashed into the galley wall behind him, then another.
Monk stepped forward with his own cutlass held high. Aaron Clive stood in the center of the large cabin, holding Miriam in front of him so any careless shot would have caught her first. Her hair was wild, long, a dark cloud around her white face. Her eyes were wide, but it was not only from terror, but from a kind of exultation as well. Aaron was revealed for exactly what he was: clever, marvelously brave, and yet corrupted by pride and appetite. He had imagined himself invincible; fate would grant him whatever he wanted, if he wanted it enough. Astley had only stood in his way.
No one spoke. Words were unnecessary now. Clive stared at Monk, and Monk knew he would sacrifice Miriam if necessary. And they all knew that Gillander would never risk that. No justice would ever be brought at the price of Miriam’s life. It was not a weighing of ideals. He had loved her since he had first seen her when he was barely twenty.
Clive smiled. If one did not look at his eyes, his face still had all the old charm.
He could not shoot Miriam. If she were dead he had no shield. They all knew that, too.
Then Monk saw the small, sharp sailmaker’s knife in Clive’s other hand, his arm tightly around Miriam, holding her to him. It fit neatly in his palm, the light on its short, curved blade.
“Go back,” Clive said quietly. “I won’t kill her. She’s no use to any of us dead. But I will cut her, and it will hurt.” As if to demonstrate he put the blade a little higher and deliberately sliced the fabric of her sleeve from elbow to wrist. Then just as carefully, as no one moved, he cut the flesh, and the blood oozed through in a long, scarlet line, which grew thicker all the time.
Miriam gave a moan and fell slack in his arms, all her weight against him.
He was taken by surprise. He had not meant to cut so deeply.
Gillander let out a cry and lunged forward, stopping short only as he collided with Monk.
Clive was bent forward, dragged down by Miriam’s weight. In that instant of surprise, she turned, violently alive again, grasped his hand holding the blade, and pushed forward with all her strength. The knife went up into his arm, high, near the shoulder, and the blood spurted out of him.
His arm fell limp and she scrambled away from him, out of his reach, gasping for breath. Gillander went to her immediately, calling her name, fumbling to reach her petticoat and tear off a length of it to bind her arm.
Monk went to Clive, who was now covered in blood, his face ashen white. The blood was gushing from his upper arm. His other hand was covered with it and it drenched his jacket. It was bright red arterial blood, and there was nothing that could stop it. Monk had seen such wounds before, on the battlefield in America, at the beginning of their civil war. He would do what he could to bind it up, but it was pointless. It was merciful, but no use.
He heard Gillander go to the cabin door and shout for Scuff. Monk would have stopped him if he had been quick enough. He didn’t want Scuff to try to save Clive, and fail.
That was stupid. Scuff had seen death already in his training to be a doctor. Yet the instinct to protect him from it was powerful, aching inside him as if he, too, had been injured.
Monk looked at Clive’s face. For a moment their eyes met. Clive did not look frightened, just puzzled, then his life slipped away, leaving him completely blank.
Monk stood up slowly. He was stiff, and sad. He turned to look at Miriam just as Gillander came back in with Scuff on his heels. Scuff was frightened, and cold, but now he was faced with something he understood. He gave Monk a quick nod, then bent to look at Miriam’s wound. He spoke to her gently as he took out the small cloth bag he had brought with him, and found a tiny bottle of spirit, a needle, linen thread, and some clean lint. He seemed as if he knew what he was doing, and for a moment he looked so like Hester: his hands, thin and strong, the way he bent his head, the air of assurance, whether it was real or not.
Miriam smiled at him as he started to work.
