at him, speechless, struck by a sense of doom that was like a cannon blast. He was done for. London. Not just London but the Old Bailey—the venerable courthouse filled with justices and lawmen who had hunted him for years. If any one of them recognized him...
He’d be handed over to the admiralty. Strung up at Execution Dock. Drawn and quartered and left to swing from a gibbet cage as a lesson to others who might be tempted to take up the pirate’s easy, profitable life.
Either that or he’d be cashed in for fifty pounds and executed as a footpad.
Either way, he wouldn’t have to worry about Michaelmas anymore.
He’d be dead before then.
“If ye can prove yer innocent, ye have nothin’ to worry about and the judge will let ye go.” The gaoler leaned down with a stern expression. “But I don’t think yer innocent, mate. And I don’t think he’ll be lettin’ ye go.”
Not likely, Nicholas thought. Not bloody likely. He managed to force only one word past his clenched teeth. “When?”
“The lads will be comin’ to collect ye at first light on the morrow.” The man picked up the empty pail and his lantern. “Eat up, mate.” He nodded to the food Nicholas had set aside. “This may be yer last meal.”
With that pleasant prediction, he turned and waddled out.
Nicholas sat very still for a moment after the door closed with an ominous thud and the chain clattered back into place.
He stared into the darkness as the facts of the situation sank in... and an image left over from his childhood lessons reeled through his mind.
An image of hell.
He didn’t believe in much of anything anymore, but he still believed in hell. He had no doubt he would be spending eternity there—and he had no desire to hasten his arrival by even a day.
Somewhere deep inside him an old, almost-forgotten cunning sparked to life, already had him thinking, scheming, planning. He would not let the Royal Navy get their hands on him.
He would never let them do to him what they had done to his father.
No, by hell, he wouldn’t let that happen. He was going to escape. Somewhere between here and London, he vowed, he was going to escape.
~ ~ ~
A half-hour later, the rest of the prisoners had quieted down for the night and the torches had burned low. Nicholas leaned back against the bars of his cell as he ate his supper, slowly, being careful of his swollen lip. He had to keep his strength up, and the food was edible enough—the mutton not too overcooked, the thick bread reasonably fresh, the mug filled with water drawn from a cool well. There was something to be said for being arrested in the countryside.
He bit into the mutton, thinking as he chewed. Since he alone would be hauled off to London, the marshalmen might take him on horseback or on foot, rather than in a coach or cart. That, at least, was some small cause for hope. It would give him a better chance to escape.
Finishing the water, he pressed the cool pewter mug against his bruised face with a pained sigh. He still had a chance of survival. Not a great chance, but a chance nonetheless.
Perhaps God hadn’t deserted him entirely after all.
A commotion at the door made him sit up straight and set the mug aside. It couldn’t be dawn already.
As soon as the door was thrown open, he realized the marshalmen weren’t coming to collect him. They were bringing in another prisoner—a kicking, bucking, struggling prisoner that two of them fought to restrain.
“Hurry up, Bickford!” one of the men shouted.
“Let me go, you cretins!” The new arrival accompanied the demand with a string of oaths that would burn the ears of a Barbary sailor.
Oaths made all the more remarkable by the feminine voice that uttered them.
The gaol’s awakened inhabitants quickly filled the air with whistles and catcalls.
“Bring ’er ’ere, mates!”
“Give ’em hell, missy!”
“I’ll take her off yer hands!”
Swearing, the marshalmen wrestled her along the row of cells, the gaoler waddling behind, fumbling with the ring of keys at his waist.
“Ow!” one of the guards howled. “She bit me! Bickford!”
“Hold on to her, Swinton, hold on,” Bickford muttered. “It’s hard to see and these ain’t numbered, ye know. I have to find one what fits one of the empty—”
“Unhand me!” the woman cried, lashing out with her heel. “You half-witted, barmybrained gullions, let me go.”
The second guard uttered a yelp as the girl stomped