Chapter 42
“Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time,” muttered Jeff, peering forward from the bow of the fishing boat, desperately trying to see anything in the darkness through moisture-beaded glasses. “The damn rain doesn’t help things any.”
“It is a good idea,” hissed Jimmy, crouched next to him. “You watch and see.” Judging from the tone of his voice, Jeff’s friend wasn’t any too certain about the proposition himself.
Still, Jimmy—like any proper mountain boy having steeled himself for folly—pressed on, bound and determined to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. “Besides, the rain’s working for us. If we can’t see the Spaniards, they can’t see us either. And you can bet your sweet ass any Spanish sentry standing on a deck is going to be spending most of his time trying to keep from getting soaking wet.”
Insistently: “It is a good idea.”
“That’s what you said that time we snuck into Mr. Ferrara’s lab and swiped—”
“That was your idea too,” protested Jimmy.
“I know it was,” grumbled Jeff, feeling another cold trickle of rain water starting down his back. “Just like this harebrained scheme was my idea. But what’s the point of having friends if they don’t restrain you? You’re as bad as Eddie and Larry, when it comes to that.”
Jimmy eyed him for a moment. Then, smirking. “Well, yeah. But look at the bright side. The most harebrained idea you ever came up with in your life was proposing to Gretchen on the same day you met her. Ha! Had to use a dictionary to do it. And we didn’t restrain you then, either. In fact, we were the only ones backing you up, right at first.”
That was true enough, of course. But, at the moment, Jeff didn’t appreciate being reminded of Gretchen. Gretchen, and her warm and luscious body. Gretchen’s smile in the morning—even better, late at night. Gretchen, when—
He yanked the thoughts away. Gretchen was back there, standing on the wharf and staring into darkness. He was here, in the bow of a thirty-foot fishing boat. And if he couldn’t see any Spanish ship in that darkness, he could see the pitch-covered cask full of gunpowder sticking a few feet beyond the bow of the boat.
Spar torpedo, he thought sourly. Seems nifty as hell, reading about it in a book. Seemed nifty as hell, too, when we convinced a buncha crazy CoC volunteers to go in with us on the scheme. Now . . .
“Reminds me of that wisecrack I read once. Remember, Jimmy? You and me both thought it was funny. At the time.”
A frown came over Jimmy’s face. At least, Jeff thought it was a frown. It was hard to tell, between the darkness, the falling rain—not to mention the rain on his glasses—and the shapeless hat Jimmy was wearing. But he knew Jimmy well enough to guess that he was seeing a frown of puzzlement. Jimmy was a smart enough kid, but . . . not fast-thinking. Nothing at all like Eddie Cantrell, that way. Jimmy could and would slowly chew his way through to a problem’s right answer, but he always took some time getting there.
“What are you talking about?”
Jeff’s lips quirked. “That quote I showed you once. ‘Adventure is somebody else having a miserable time someplace far away.’ ”
“Oh. That one. Yeah.” He chuckled. “There was some British actor once—maybe Paul Newman—said kinda the same thing. His idea of adventure was carrying a mug of beer from one smoke-filled room to another.”
Jeff rolled his eyes. “Paul Newman’s not English. He’s American. Why do you always think every classy old actor is English?”
” ‘Cause most of ’em are,” came the confident reply. “Take a look at Cary Grant. Or Katherine Hepburn. Get past Humphrey Bogart and Jimmy Cagney, that’s about it. Well . . . I’m not sure about that Olivier guy. His accent’s a little much. I think he might have been faking it. Probably came from someplace in Kansas.”
Jeff closed his eyes tightly. Partly to shelter them from the rain, which had suddenly turned into a driving, almost-horizontal sheet. Mostly to dispel the pain.