It was shortly after luncheon the following day that a small miracle occurred in the drawing room of Wingham Manor. A turbulent morning over prodigious tea and piles of maps had produced a wonder in the form of a solidly outlined plan of action that all present were in sufficient agreement with to at least go along with for now and say “I told you so” later on.

The finest horsemen in the village were to form into two parties who would ride in the straightest line possible towards the coast, the first group to head directly to the port city of Wimmouth without stopping while the second making stops at each intervening village to make enquiries. A courier would be dispatched immediately back to Potham should either group find word of either Black Abraham or Miss Watson.

In Potham, the Sheriff was to officially proclaim the Hue and Cry at four o’clock sharp that afternoon, conscripting every able bodied man into the Posse Comitatus. The men were to be divided into groups led by the local gentry, with the Sheriff in overall command. Each group would constitute either a search party, a roving patrol, or else be assigned to guard duty (these last largely being the domestic servants of the gentry, who were tasked with guarding the homes of their employers). Every man was to be armed and from everywhere were gathered all manner of offensive objects, from rusty old swords and delicate birding guns to freshly sharpened billhooks and threshing flails.

Though the riders were dispatched on schedule, it took nearly the remainder of the day to sort out the parties to search Potham itself. Morning at last found an energetic if lurching start of the whole prodigious enterprise.

Harlow had felt simply splendid that morning. Which wasn’t to say that he had never felt better, but the pain and dizziness had all but disappeared, a fact which Doctor Ford very kindly attributed to Harlow’s own remarkable constitution and dauntless spirit, and which Mr. Stokes privately chalked up as a common case of ego’s triumph over melodrama of its own making. Regardless of either theory, Harlow felt as fit as ever and was more than willing to assume command of any of the many search parties which would be no doubt eager to embrace him as their leader. It was the least he could do.

It would be entirely correct, indeed tastelessly graphic, to say that thorniest task by far facing the search parties was Crickwood. It was hardly the largest forest in the county, and indeed not even the largest in the immediate neighborhood. The adjoining shrublands of Barrow Heath were nearly double in area. But the sinuous understories of Crickwood possessed a devious character after their own fashion, hostile and cruelly mischievous towards all intruders. To bend the will of the forest was to do battle with it on its own terms, and it defied all efforts of management. Even the forest wardens rarely ventured there. Wariness of the forest, of its power and purported denizens, was anchored as deeply in the ancient consciousness of neighborhood as were the tangled roots of the wood itself burrowed and meshed within the fiber of the earth over the ages.

At some point in their lives all men will be put to the test, and those men who tend to think particularly well of themselves are no exception. Some of these prove to be made stoutly of bluster and little else, quickly finding that they have an appointment somewhere or have forgotten something or other of terrible importance. Others, propped by the fortitude of spirit with which fate has blessed them, arise to the challenge with determination in that hour when men of greatness must forge their way to the forefront where their talents are most needed and displayed to most advantage.

It was at the crossroads of this thankless dichotomy that Harlow had the inconvenience to find himself at about eleven o’clock that morning.

It would be untruthful to say that Harlow was lost. More accurately, he was markedly dubious as to his surroundings. He knew that the forest line was perhaps half a mile that way. He knew that east was more or less this way, and west the other. He knew that he had only a vague idea of what lay ahead and what lay about him, and that the rest of the search party was somewhere else a considerable distance behind.

The fringes of the forest were a gloomy spectacle even in good weather and full daylight. The interior was, in blunt language, positively oppressive and inclined to dampen all but the most unconventional of spirits. Harlow pressed his way forward through the snap and tear of brushes and twigs. The cheerful optimism of the morning sun suffered an unfortunate change of mood with its passage through the groping canopy, emerging in dim rays searching anxiously about the forest floor. Meanwhile, a wood filled with living creatures held an uncanny silence about the person of the impudent intruder. The only sound that punctuated Harlow’s progress were the jarring disturbances of his own clumsy making. It seemed as though every creature in the wood stood motionless except for him, watching his progress with mocking eyes, waiting for him to make just one more step before they all pounced as one. And, even as exaggerated as this imagery was, Harlow was keenly aware that there were indeed a number of common animals of pronounced hazard in the wood (badgers, adders, and so forth). And that was to say nothing of the brooding rumors of resurgent wolves. Or of the nature of his quarry.

Buzzing off at seven thirty in the morning to hunt down a pirate is exhilarating enough when one departs in the company of the whole neighborhood armed to the teeth with every weapon that could be found or repurposed. It is quite another prospect to pursue a man with a reputation as a ruthless killer while entirely alone in a hazardous wood with which one is only vaguely familiar. The rest of the search party could be a mile away by now. And Harlow was not at all confident that they could be brought hither reliably with either a shout or a gunshot, even if the sound could penetrate the maze of gnarled trees and clinging brush.

Taken altogether, it was Harlow’s sinking conclusion that his decision to scout on ahead had not really been one of his usual moments of steady good sense. It was really quite stupid, in point of fact, and if anything were to mark a change in Harlow since his misadventure at the May Day ball it was the fact that he was at the present moment acutely conscious of the folly of his own bravado. If he found a sign of Miss Watson or Black Abraham he would be hard pressed indeed to bring back a sensible report of it’s location (if he didn’t get himself completely lost and die of starvation in the process, of course). And if he should happen to run across the pirate himself, he would be facing the man alone.

Harlow took a steadier grip on his gun. He had gamely selected the handsomest firearm in the house, a brightly polished and delicately ornamented fowling piece, and he was now dearly wishing he’d picked something of a somewhat larger caliber and less conspicuous finish, and furthermore stuffed his trousers with as many pistols as they could hold without falling apart (as the others had done). His hunting sword at least was a solid enough weapon. But Harlow was again rather aware that he really didn’t have much notion of how to make proper use of the thing. He was in fact a rotten swordsman when it came down to it, barely any good with a smallsword much less a cuttoe. It is the common tragedy of mundane life that in the midst of a grave and dangerous circumstance Harlow instead found himself bitterly bemoaning years of chatting his way through fencing classes and not paying attention. Even as he could hardly have predicted his own current adventure with purported pirates, he could have been challenged to a duel at any time over the years, yet he’d never had the sense to practice his skills of survival. What sort of a fellow was Harlow that he could think so well of himself anyway?

And of course, what on earth was Harlow doing ruefully bemoaning himself when he ought to be paying very close attention indeed to his surroundings at the present moment? In his depression Harlow still carried enough of his usual confident cheerfulness to achieve the remarkable and actually chuckle at himself for once. Here he was in the middle of the greatest adventure of his life, yet absorbed in self recriminating introspection while who knows what could be going on around him.

A snap.

Harlow hadn’t moved, he had halted a moment ago while caught up in his own thoughts. Where had the sound come from? What was that? Another sound?

It was over before Harlow had even realized it had begun.

He stood frozen, white knuckled hands gripping the frame of his gun in total epilepsy of action, his instincts locked in a dilemma of indecision even as the opportunity to act had already been lost. He felt his eyes wide and his breath quick and short, his body teetering between total petrification and trembling collapse.

From out of the very air, a cold, wickedly sharp blade had appeared at Harlow’s throat.

Whoever was wielding the blade was standing behind Harlow, the weapon passing over his right shoulder to press like a razor at a particular point where Harlow fancied he had an artery or something.

There had been no warning. It had happened so quickly, Harlow hadn’t so much as a chance. Just like the night of the ball. It was unfair, it was ungentlemanly it was…..it was reality. Cold reality did not accommodate steady chaps like Harlow any more than it did others. Harlow had gone and stuck himself out into a kind of world of which he had no sense or experience at all, and in that world Harlow was simply a helpless idiot who was as good as dead.

“Let go of the gun. Slowly, just let it slide to the ground. We don’t want it going off. Don’t go trying anything heroic, not now. There’ll be a time for that later on, assuming you don’t go and do something stupid and make me kill you, that is, which I have no desire to do….none that I can think of, at any rate. There now, just keep your hands neatly at your side like that and relax. No, don’t turn around. We can carry on this conversation without a proper introduction, I think. I, for one, have no time for niceties.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Genteel and modestly enlightening conversation. You are capable of such things, I hope?”

“What?”

“Hmm, perhaps not.”

“I say, really, what in God’s name do you want?”

“Far too many things to elucidate on at the present moment I suppose, but I would be satisfied with a pleasant chat and a bit of useful information. Look here, I’ve spent the better part of a week hiding in this dratted forest, and I would very much like some explanation as to why I have been obliged to have taken up so tedious an occupation.”

“Eh?”

“Oh for goodness sake! Were you really hit on the head all that badly? If you really are an addle pate, please inform me so I can find someone else.”

“So it was you!”

“I beg your pardon? I do not follow your flow of thought, whatever there may be of it.”

“It was you who knocked me out, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t think so. I have met you scarcely twice, and on neither occasion do I recall having inflicted any violence on your person or even borne the smallest of ill will, barring the fact that I am presently holding a sword at your throat. It’s quite sharp, by the way, I would advise you not to stir.”

“What ever are you talking about? Who are you, anyway?”

“Hmmm, it seems things need to be untangled quite a bit for either of us to make sense of the other. Here, draw your sword nice and slowly, and put it on the ground with the musket. Then step over there. We shall talk.”

Harlow felt the blade dart lightly away from his neck as he gently let his hunting sword drop to the ground. He stepped a few paces aside as directed, and then cautiously turned to face his assailant.

It was Gates. A bit more worse for wear from his recent woodland hiatus, but Harlow had no trouble recognizing the man. He stood holding a long, cruciform sword in an easy manner with the point leveled most inimically at Harlow’s heart.

For a moment, the two regarded one another keenly. At length, Gates gestured towards the bandage around Harlow’s head.

“You seem to have met with some misfortune. Blunt impact, I might surmise, struck from behind?”

“Yes. I was hit over the head several days ago by a dishonorable blighter who crept up on me from behind. Though I suppose you wouldn’t know anything about that, eh?”

“Quite correct. Barring what you’ve told me, that is. There seems to have been quite a lot of excitement in this hitherto sleepy hamlet over the last few days. Perhaps you’d better tell me about it.”

“I should think you would know far more of the matter than I, sir.”

“I don’t know what could have given you that idea, Mr. Barnstabrake.”

“What have you done with Miss Watson?”

“Miss who?”

“Don’t play ignorant, Gates.”

“I’m not playing, my bewilderment is wholly genuine and complete, I assure you.”

“I can see through your lies, Gates.”

“A remarkable assertion, given that you’ve never heard one of them. Are you not overly confident in your wit, sir?”

“It’s fine enough for you to toy with me, sir, given that your have a sword at my chest while I am unarmed.”

“Quite right, and I intend to keep it that way for the moment. Now, perhaps we both can come to a better understanding of our lives at present if you would explain just what it is you think I’m lying to you about.”

“Fine. I can play your games. It was you who snuck up behind me at the ball, hit me over the head and then kidnapped Miss Watson, wasn’t it?”

“It most certainly was not. What on earth ever gave you such a notion?”

“Er, well, I mean, everyone is saying….”

“What! Everyone is saying it?”

“Er, yes, that’s right.”

“Well of all the absurd….but why!”

“Er, well, I don’t know, actually. I mean, you are rather an eccentric sort of foreigner.”

“Is that all?...well if that doesn’t just…..humph. People! So tell me, just what is it that I’m supposed to have done? I’m a trifle behind the times for news of my own escapades it seems. You say this woman, Miss….”

“Miss Watson”

“....Miss Watson, was abducted and you yourself assaulted.”

“Yes.”

“I assume by your previous statements that you did not see who did it.”

“Yes.”

“And no sign of the lady since? Nothing else, other than the fact that everyone thinks I did it for some reason?”

“Well, Doctor Ford thinks it was wolves.”

“Wolves you say!”

“Yes.”

“How big?”

“What? I don’t know, large I suppose.”

“It’s no matter. What makes him think it was wolves?”

“He says he found bits of their fur or something in the wound on my head.”

“Oh really? Let me see!”

“Just stay back and don’t touch me. I’m only just feeling better and I’d really rather not have rotten pirates fiddling with my head just now, thank you.”

“Fair enough. What’s that about pirates?”

“Look, just who are you, sir? Really, I mean.”

“Here and elsewhere, I am called Zachariah Gates, alternatively Zacharia the Hawk. Further elsewhere I am called Falknir, while there is a tribe of Earth Gnomes who call me Birdie, a Parrot who calls me Stinker, and not a few people who call me Unwelcome. And of course there’s my mother, who calls me Bert.”

“What about ‘Black Abraham’?”

“Abraham? Black Abraham, no less? No, I don’t recall…...that’s a new one for me, and already taken, I believe. Isn’t there a pirate who goes by that name? Is that who they think I am?”

“Well, er, yes rather. We, er, they, all rather think that you’re Black Abraham the notorious pirate.”

“I thought they hanged the fellow.”

“He escaped a few months back.”

“I should pay more attention to your local gazettes, it seems.”

“So you’re not Black Abraham?”

“Well, you have my word that I’m not. Whether that is sufficient for you is not for me to say. So please tell me more of what happened, I think a more thorough account is in order.”

“Well what interest have you in affair, if you’re not Black Abraham?”

“The exuberance of your community seems to have forced on me a distinctly intimate interest in the affair indeed, thank you. Please, recount the whole of the unfortunate event, and spare no detail.”

“I have already done it about six dozen times.”

“But not to me, and I think I of all people am owed an explanation, given that everyone seems to think that I did it. Please, begin.”

Harlow again recounted the tale of Miss Watson’s abduction. At the conclusion, Gates stood thoughtfully, his fingers scratching in the recesses of his beard.

“Rum sort of adventure. Not the sort of thing that frequently happens in quiet little places like Potham. It seems too much of a coincidence to be credible…..”

“Coincidence?”

“Nevermind...for now. Let’s just say that I have business of my own here and it all seems rather...odd. Look, what can I do to convince you that I’m not Black Abraham, that I did not carry off Miss Watson, and did not wallop you on the cocoanut?”

“You could start by producing Black Abraham and Miss Watson. That would be quite enough to convince me you’re not him, I think.”

“Done. Although, it may not be Black Abraham that I bring back for you. I have a feeling you may be wrong on that score. Come, let’s get going!”

“What? Where?”

“To find your Miss Watson and her abductor, of course.”