Merciless Reason Read Free

upon him.

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.
    â€œBest 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.”
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œAye, sir,” Jim grunted. “Ship went down with all ’ands but me. Twenty-eight good men.”
    â€œYou were lucky it was only a summer storm. In winter in these parts, the cold would kill you minutes after you entered the water.”
    â€œTell that to me gonads,” Jim sniffed. “It’ll be days before they unshrivel.”
    â€œMind your tongue, m’lad. We don’t stand for foul language on Her Majesty’s vessels. Had you been aboard the Odin long?”
    â€œMe 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.”
    â€œSo 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