Read by Will Goodhand
“Open the damned door so we can get out of here,” growled Carter, his knuckles white around the haft of his hatchet.
Morgan's pick skittered in the lock as he flinched at the sailor’s voice. Its normal undertones that constantly threatened ferocious physical violence were now laced with genuine terror, the kind that made men do foolish things. Morgan could quite understand, of course. He was absolutely terrified himself.
Instead, the diminutive Welshman had listened to Barrington’s lunatic scheme to bust him out of prison, smuggle him onto the aptly named ship Sea Witch and raid the Spanish outpost of Santa Theresa. He had endured a week of cramped conditions on board the privateer sloop, working all hours and fearing for his life every time a Caribbean squall turned the water into a boiling, hissing explosion.
Even when they'd arrived at the target under cover of darkness, the plan had been botched. Henderson and Carter had been charged with smuggling Morgan into the chambers of Don Carlos, the Butcher of Los Frailes, while the rest of the crew created a distraction. Instead those two fools had fired their pistols at the first conquistador they saw, blowing any cover that might have existed, and the rest of the crew had taken it as a signal to launch a full scale assault on the fortress’s walls.
So now here he was, in a burning building trying to spring one of the most famously intricate locks this side of the Atlantic before the garrison of Santa Theresa broke through and captured him for Don Carlos to boil alive.
Oh, that noose was looking mighty inviting at this point.
He was pretty sure that he was at least halfway through the lock so far – he reckoned he would have been done by now if his hands didn’t keep shaking. His picks were constantly losing their place and slipping out of the cogs. He’d had to start from scratch three times already.
“What in God’s name is taking so long?” said Carter, louder and more desperate this time.
Behind the huge Devonshire sailor, the other man, Henderson, was staring out of the shattered window into the burning courtyard below. Morgan could hear maddened screams, the clash of steel and the crack of musketfire down there but he tried to force it out of his mind. What he needed now was peace, a calm head.
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and tried to picture the inner workings of the lock in the back of his brain. Nothing else existed, he told himself; not the acrid stench of gunpowder, smoke and blood,; not the sweat soaking his undershirt and streaming down his lean, grubby face, and certainly not the angry Spanish voices behind the heavy oaken door. Not even Henderson and Carter, frantically looping coils of rope out of the window in readiness for their escape.
As the sounds became muted in Morgan’s ears, a calm overcame him. Not the calm of gently rolling waves or of a summer’s breeze; this was a mechanical calm. His brain clicked in a rhythm that only his fingers understood, sending beats and ticks down his arms beyond his fingertips. The picks were part of his body, poking inside the lock as though he was touching the mechanisms with his own skin. Behind his eyes, the inner workings of the safe appeared, the intricacies of every cog and gear and switch.
Morgan pressed forward with his left pick, searching for a link that he could lift out of the way. The metal was hard and unyielding, but he was a methodical cracksman, working his way up and across the surface until he could find the point of entry. Something rippled past the tip of the pick and Morgan froze. That was it! The next link. Painfully slowly, he retraced his steps and found the slit. He gathered his nerve.
“What’s taking so long?” roared Carter in Morgan’s ear, the force of his voice almost enough to cause the lockpick to drop his tools.
“You!” Morgan hissed back, his frustration briefly overwhelming his fear. “You are what is taking me so long. Back off!”
The big man took a step back, confusion writ large in his brutish eyes. He tugged at his blond moustaches and ran a meaty hand through his thinning hair before the malicious glint returned and his sunburnt brow furrowed nastily.
“You better watch your tongue, Lightfingers,” he growled, “or I’ll be breaking them off.”
Morgan shrugged and returned to his work. Thankfully, he was quickly able to retrace his steps, find the link and lift it. The mechanism was slightly stiff, the salt air of the Caribbean no doubt causing rust, but Morgan was experienced enough to know how much force to use. It folded back with a satisfying snap.
Morgan moved his left pick forward once more, probing for the opening that he sensed was there, that he knew was there. With the tenderness of a lover, he inserted the tip of the pick into a groove and gently lifted it. A smile danced across his face as he heard the pieces click apart and open the way for the final masterstroke.
His right pick eased through the newly formed gap, sniffing for the lever that would end the lock’s resistance. It was there somewhere, waiting to be found, calling out to him.
There!
A tiny bit of metal, utterly inconsequential to all but Morgan, brushed past the pick. He stopped, mechanical instincts in his brain moving the pick with microscopic precision. The pick touched the lever and moved around it, searching for the way in.
Morgan was so involved, so invested in this technical dance that he didn’t notice his tongue was sticking out. His extended, metal fingers located the edge and slipped in behind it. One more tug and he'd be inside. Morgan grinned.
The door clunked with an echoing resonance as the final bolt thudded back into its groove. The Welshman wiped the sweat from his brow with a dirty sleeve and got to his feet, joints cracking and complaining. Taking hold of the handle, he swung the door triumphantly back on its hinges to reveal the treasure that had drawn the crew of the Sea Witch to Santa Theresa.
The Incan crown stood alone in the anteroom glowing green and gold, inset with flawless emeralds the size of a baby’s fist. Intricate depictions of heathen rituals had been worked into the solid gold structure. To Morgan’s experienced eye, it must have weighed more than ten pounds. The emeralds alone would buy each member of the crew a ship.
Carter stormed past and scooped it up in one massive paw. Turning, he almost knocked Morgan over as he rushed for the window and grasped the rope that had been fed down the side of the building into the courtyard below. Englishmen and Spaniards were still fighting fiercely in a melee that resembled a Friday-night brawl outside The Cat and Anchor.
Stuffing the crown into a sack that he threw over his burly shoulder, the blond man clambered out of the window, braced his legs against the wall and prepared to descend. Henderson waited his turn, eyes constantly flitting to the door that was starting to disintegrate under the ferocious battering of the conquistadors on the other side. Morgan knew that he would be the last man out. Carter and Henderson had been assigned to protect him, but now that the lock had been picked and the prize stolen, what worth did he have any longer?
He stared forlornly at the empty space where the crown had stood. There wasn’t even a doubloon keeping it company in there. It was the crown or nothing and right now, Morgan had nothing.
Unless…
*
As Carter started to climb down, Henderson, his long, pockmarked face even more hideous in the gloom, holstered his pistol and drew his long, black knife. He turned around to find Morgan and finish the task he'd planned with Carter the night before.
“The fewer hands in the treasure chest, the more those hands can hold,” Carter had said while the two had kept the third watch. “No one will know how it happened and no one will care to ask.”
But Morgan wasn’t there. The picked door to the antechamber was closed again. Henderson was alone, at least until the heavy wooden door to the Don’s office shattered inwards and a squadron of heavily armed Spanish soldiers burst into the room. Henderson raised his knife to defend himself, but the volley of musketfire sent him crashing into the wall.
*
Morgan stood panting in the pitch darkness of the antechamber. He had shut himself in, praying that he would have time before Don Carlos arrived with the key. Feeling with his calloused but nimble fingers, he sought out the carefully concealed lever he had spotted behind the dais that had held the crown.
Once it was found, he pulled gently, then with increasingly desperate force as it failed to budge. Suddenly, a heavy metallic thunk sounded and a whoosh of salty air swept across his lean features. Lighting a flint and almost weeping with relief, he examined the escape tunnel created by Don Carlos in case of emergencies.
It glowed with gold, silver and jewels, bathing the thief in a warm and welcoming light. Grabbing as much as he dared and stashing it deep inhis pockets, Morgan set off down the tunnel at a fast trot that soon developed into a full-on sprint.
Arriving at a gate that resembled a jail cell door, Morgan skidded to a halt and got out his tools once more. Compared to the devices within the antechamber’s door, this lock was child’s play, and within moments he was dashing across the sand to where the survivors of Barrington’s attack were retreating into the longboats.
Morgan couldn’t see Henderson, but he spotted Carter, still carrying the sack containing the crown; saw him go down with a musketball in his knee. The crown went flying from his grasp, as the burly sailor crashed onto the beach.
Grinning malevolently, Morgan bounded towards him. Kicking sand in Carter’s face, he scooped up the sack and slung it over his back.
“Bad luck, butt,” he laughed, dancing away as the wounded man blindly swung out. Morgan turned and raced for the boats. The men were already pushing them out to sea and Morgan was lucky to get onto the last one.
Barrington was standing at the helm, urging the men onwards, and when he saw Morgan panting in the prow, his bloodied face cracked in a wide smile.
“Welcome aboard, Master Morgan,” he roared. “I trust you have what we came for?”
As the men began to row back towards the ship, Morgan unveiled the prize to the privateer captain and laughed, careful to keep his hidden gemstones from tinkling in his jacket.
(c) Charles Whitting, 2015
Charles Whitting is a journalist who spends his days writing about pubs and bars. In the evenings, he enjoys visiting said pubs and bars in between scribbling, doodling and devising outlandish holidays.
Will Goodhand (left) is the only man to make multiple-adventurer of kids’ cartoon fame Mr Benn jealous: Internet entrepreneur, radio DJ, Beauty & the Geek star and etiquette coach to Britain'sNext Top Models, Will regularly performs on the London circuit and is currently writing a musical. For details of upcoming gigs, email [email protected]
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