by John Drake
I took the cutlass and hung it from my belt.
“Barker!” says I, shaking him by the hair.
“Leggo!” says he, weakly. “We’ll soon see you off, you bugger! Mason’ll soddin’ kill you.”
“You bastard!” says I, and slammed his head against the deck two or three times.
“Oh! Oh! Oh! Stobbit!” says he.
“Shut up!” says I and squeezed him by the throat. I held it for a while and then let him have a few breaths. I was angry enough to kill him, but I needed to know what was happening.
“What are they doing?” says I. “Williams and the others? Tell me.” He shook his head so I nipped his windpipe again. He struggled furiously, but I sat on his chest and held him choking till his lips were black and his eyes were popping. I only let go when his struggles were dying away. He choked and rattled, deep in his throat. Not quite dead but very nearly. He gulped in air and looked up at me in terror.
“Ready for some more, Barker?” says I, clutching his throat. “No! No!” says he. “Alright, I’ll tell you ... They’re going to kill you. But it wasn’t me. It wasn’t my idea.”
“Why?” says I, and shook him.
“Mr Williams,” says he, “he says you bin trying to kill him for months. He says you went for him with a knife when you was ashore that time. He says you’re a right bugger and we’ll all get fifty guineas a man for ... for ... doin’ it.”
“What about Percival-Clive? What happens to him?”
“Mr Williams’ll tell him you was lost overside.”
“When are they coming?”
“Dunno. Mr Williams says we’re to wait a bit ’til the Mid’s properly asleep, and maybe you are too.”
“Where are they?”
“They’re all with Williams, by the wheel.”
“How are they armed?”
“Williams’s got his pistols an’ he give us cutlasses. He says it’s to be done quiet.”
He never knew how close to death he was that minute. I was shaking with anger and one twitch of my thumbs would have snapped his scrawny neck. But I thought he’d do for a hostage and gagged him with his shirt instead.
“Listen, Barker,” says I. “I’ll be gone a minute or two, but if you make a noise, any noise at all, I’ll run right back here.” I drew the cutlass and jabbed the point under his chin, just breaking the skin, “And then, never mind what happens to me, I swear to God I’ll kill you before anyone can stop me. Understand?”
He nodded and I darted off down the companionway to the dark, rolling lower deck and hurried aft, between tight-packed bundles of cargo to the cabin doors in the stern. Right aft there was a sort of narrow corridor, with doors on either side leading to a series of tiny cabins. The Master’s cabin was at the stern, running right across the ship. And there was the arms locker, stuffed with firearms but too stout to break into without alerting Williams and the others. Here, I was directly below them and I could hear muffled voices and the sounds of movement from above. If they caught me here, I was lost. I was after Percival-Clive, but I didn’t know which cabin he was in and I had to search and hope that nobody else was down here. Without the Mid I couldn’t even fight back without the fear that they’d all swear together that I was the guilty one.
But young Percy was snoring loudly and I found him fast enough, asleep in the Master’s cot. I clapped my hand over his mouth as I shook him awake.
“Sir! Mr Percival-Clive!” says I. “We’re in deadly danger ... Mutiny!” That of all words was the one to rouse a sea officer, however young he was, and I saw his eyes widen. I let him go and he sat up and swung his feet to the deck.
“Where’s Mr Williams?” says he. “Is he ... ”
“No, sir,” says I, ducking that one for the moment. “But you must come at once.” I dragged him away.
“Wait!” says he.
“No!” says I, urgently.
“But my pistols,” says he, “should not I bring them?”
“Yes!” says I, blessing the day he was born. “But hurry!”
He had his sea chest with him and I had to wait, fretting anxiously, while he fumbled for the key, threw open the chest, and rummaged inside.
“Here they are!” says he loudly, and pulled out a shiny wooden case. “My Mamma gave them to me when ... ”
“Shh!” says I. I grabbed him and hustled him aft. Once in the fo’c’sle, I searched for something to fasten down the hatchway to the lower deck, so the only way in would be the bulkhead hatch leading aft.
The fo’c’sle was a low, cramped place; no more than five and a half feet of headroom, with the round bulk of the foremast running down through the middle of it, and the bowsprit coming in at an angle from the bows to bed against a massive beam. There wasn’t much in there, some hammocks and bundles left by the French crew, but nothing heavy or bulky enough to secure the hatch. But I found a large seaman’s knife which gave me an idea.
I dragged Barker to the hatch and laid him across it.
“Here!” says I to Percy, offering him the knife. “Sit by him, please, sir. With two of you on the hatch they won’t be able to open it from below. And if he tries to move or cry out ... then kill him!” He peered at Barker’s bound figure in amazement but he didn’t move so I shoved him in place, and stuck the knife in his hand. Damn! I’d started badly; Percy was wondering which man was the mutineer, me or Barker. I tore off the gag.
“Tell Mr Percival-Clive what’s going on,” says I. Barker licked his lips and his eyes flickered from me to the Mid. Confessing to me was one thing, but the same words to an officer could mean the noose.
“T’weren’t me,” says he.
“Tell him!” says I, taking a firm grip of his throat.
“Barkie?” cries a loud voice from outside. It was Mason. “Where are you, mate? Ain’t you done yet?” I jammed the rags back into Barker’s mouth and bound them hard in place.
“Not a sound!” says I in his ear, and turned to Percy. “Are the pistols loaded?”
“Don’t know,” says he, the useless lubber. He didn’t even know!
“Best let me, sir,” says I, grabbing his case. “It’s the mutineers.”
“Where’s Mr Williams?” says the Mid, getting frightened. “Barkie?” cries Mason again. “You alright there?”
I tore open the case and snatched out the pistols from their green baize nest. They were top-class weapons, of Navy calibre and complete with powder, shot, flints, bullet mould, the lot. Must have cost Percy’s darling Mama a tidy sum from one of the London makers, but I shook everything out of the case and loaded with service cartridges for speed, as the footsteps approached. I felt as if I had five thumbs on each hand.
“Barkie?” says another voice, then four or five of ’em were calling out. They were all there, just outside the fo’c’sle. We could see their dark figures against the sky, but they couldn’t see us in the gloom inside.
“Fletcher, you bastard,” calls Mason. “What you done to Barker? You just let him out, d’ye hear.”
“Ungh-ungh-ungh!” says Barker.
“That you, Barkie?”
“UNGH! UNGH! UNGH!”
“I’ll kill you, Fletcher!” screams Mason and rushed the hatchway with drawn cutlass and his five mates behind him.
Bang! And the flash of the discharge lit the fo’c’sle like a lightning bolt as I shot Mason squarely in the chest at three feet range. The one-ounce ball hit him like a brick and he collapsed with the man behind stumbling over him in the rush.
Bang! Flash! And the next man through the hatch howled and dropped his cutlass. I hauled out mine and drove the point right through the man sprawled over Mason. He shrieked horribly and the fight turned in that instant, with the late Billy Mason’s messmates fighting each other to get out and away from the fo’c’sle. For the moment, I was master of the field.
32
There was always something about the Brat that disturbed me, though I never knew precisely what. But now that he is grown so big, and fi
ghts like a bear, I know what it is, and the thing has put a fear into my heart.
(From a letter of 13th July from Alexander Coignwood aboard Bonne Femme Yvette to Lady Sarah Coignwood.)
*
In the dark of the night, with a lamp swaying over his head, Alexander Coignwood sat alone in the Master’s cabin of Bonne Femme Yvette. He’d given the wheel to one of his men, chancing that the lubber would do no irremediable harm, and told Mason and the rest to do nothing until he returned. Normally, he’d never have doubted that they’d obey plain orders, but since he’d explained what they were going to do aboard this ship, they’d begun to take liberties and he couldn’t trust them out of his sight. Despite the tale he’d told them, they knew that something wasn’t right. He’d read it in their eyes. So he must make haste and get back on deck.
Alexander was writing a letter. He intended to write it, seal it, and put it in his sea-chest so that later he could burn it. But should things go wrong, he knew that the chest and its contents would be returned to his family. It would then be up to his mother and Victor to take revenge on Fletcher. He made sure to put in every detail that the moron Basford had told him about the murder of Bosun Dixon.
His pen flew over the paper as he recorded these simple matters of fact. Then it stopped and Alexander bit his lip. Never in his entire life had he kept a secret from her. She was the one fixed point in his warped and furious life. He’d had many companions but no friends. He’d had many lovers but loved none of them. She was the only one he had ever wanted, and he worshipped her with every atom of his being. So his pen moved again, and he told her the thing that he’d kept even from himself. He told her of the fear that had grown within him like the maggot in an apple. He was afraid of the Brat.
Fletcher had grown monstrous big and strong. He’d pounded Billy Mason into unconsciousness. He’d crushed a man to death with his bare hands, Alexander had seen that with his own eyes in the fight for Taureus. But that wasn’t why Alexander was afraid. His skill at arms would overcome brute strength. Sword-to-sword or pistol-to-pistol, he would win. The fear was deeper. Always there had been something about Fletcher that had disturbed Alexander and now he recognised it for what it was.
Jacob Fletcher was the living image of their father, Sir Henry Coignwood, but not the sad old man that Alexander remembered. Fletcher was Henry Coignwood come back in the flower of his youth. The likeness was so shocking that Alexander shivered with the thought of it. At a visceral level of superstition Alexander feared that Fletcher was the dead, returned for vengeance. He knew this was impossible but he could not expel it from his mind (after all, Alexander Coignwood’s was not a normal mind). Yes! That was it! He made himself write the words, and with the writing of them, some of the fear faded away. The worst fears are those we dare not name.
He finished the letter and sealed it, and put it into his chest. As he closed the lid there came the sound of gunshots from the direction of the fo’c’sle where he’d sent Fletcher. He cursed Mason and his insubordinate rabble, and rushed out of the cabin and up the companionway to the quarterdeck, as fast as he could go.
33
“Oh Christ! Oh Christ!” groans the man I’d struck. He wasn’t dead; the point had gone in at the buttock and down the length of his thigh. He was bleeding heavily.
“Mr Mason?” cries another voice, from right aft. It was Williams himself. “Mr Mason? Report at once, d’you hear? What’s happening?”
He was anxious, even frightened. And that was very good. In all this mysterious struggle between him and me, he had always arranged everything. He had contrived and planned and I hadn’t even known what game I was playing. Now, for the first time, I was a step ahead.
“Is that you, Mr Williams, sir?” says I, as steady as I could manage. There was a silence. The swine was at a loss. I prodded a bit more. “Beg to report no water coming aboard and all’s well in the fo’c’sle.”
“Mason! Where are you!” cries Williams, at the top of his voice.
“He’s dead!” says I, with immense satisfaction. “And I’ve got two prisoners and I’ve shot one other. You’ll have to do your own dirty work next time, Williams.”
“Then don’t feel too secure, Fletcher,” says the voice coming from the dark, invisible stern. “You’re still outnumbered four to one! I shall await daylight and then, indeed, I shall come for you myself. In the meanwhile, my men and I shall sleep by turns, but you are alone, so you’d better stay awake all night, hadn’t you? Or you might not wake up.”
But I wasn’t alone. I had Percy, for what he was worth. I sat down where I could keep an eye on the deck and loaded the pistols. The Mid looked at me. He’d not the least idea what was happening.
“Is not that Mr Williams?” says he.
“Yes,” says I.
“Then should not we join him to fight the mutineers?”
“He’s leading the bloody mutineers. He’s mad.”
“Mad?”
“Yes.” I tried to explain but I don’t know how much he understood. He was quite obtusely stupid. Johnny Basford would have caught on faster and he was better company. Fortunately Percy was one of those with so little of his own imagination that he believed the last thing he’d been told irrespective of what was in his mind before. So I managed to convince him (for the moment) that it was death for him to go outside. So he sat still, goggling at me, as I made what preparations I could: I shoved Mason’s body across the bottom of the hatchway to trip anyone trying to run in, and I put Barker back across the hatch, from which he’d wriggled clear. Then I started to bind the wounded man but he was so weak with bleeding that he was no possible threat, so I left him be and shoved him in a corner so he shouldn’t make the deck too slippery.
I thought of sharing watches with Percy but we had nothing to keep time by. And, moreover, I was afraid that if he saw me asleep he’d run off to Williams after all. So in the end I just tried to keep awake. But I couldn’t do it. I’d spent too much sweat and fury that day, what with fighting my own shipmates as well as the enemy. I was asleep seconds after I’d wedged myself upright with the fixed determination to keep guard. I was out for hours until shouting and screaming on deck woke me up.
*
It was full daylight and men were yelling at one another. Percy was awake too and peering round the side of the hatchway, looking at what was going on outside. I joined him and saw three men scrambling up the mainmast shrouds. Another was trying to climb, but got ten feet up and crashed back to the deck. He got to his feet as best he could and stood doubled over in pain, looking aft. He clutched at a bloodstained wound in his belly. This must be the man I’d shot last night.
“No! No!” says he, raising his arms in terror, as something flickered in the light. He cried out and fell on his back, and there, standing over him with a bloodstained cutlass, was Williams. He looked up and yelled at the three men sat in the maintop.
“It was Mason’s fault!” says he in a passion. “Mason should’ve followed my orders and not gone charging in like a mad bull!”
“’Tain’t no use,” says one of the others, equally determined, “you said it’d be easy. You said the bugger didn’t have no arms. But he did. And he done for Mason and Barkie. So we ain’t gonna do it again!”
“You damned poxy bastards!” screams Williams. “Look about you! If you won’t obey orders, we’ll all drown. The wheel’s lashed for the moment, but the ship won’t sail itself!” Even as he spoke, Bonne Femme Yvette lurched and her canvas flapped. “See?” says he. “She’s falling off the wind! She’ll be taking the seas broadside on in no time.”
“You pitch your weapons over the side an’ we’ll come down!” says the seaman.
“Damn you!” says Williams. “Don’t try to set conditions with me! I’m done arguing and you’ll do as you’re bid or else!”
There was a shriek as he twisted the tip of his cutlass in the fallen man’s leg.
“This man’s still alive, d’ye see? Now either you mutinous lub
bers come down at once and follow me, or I shall start with him! You have a count of three: one ... two ... three ... ”
“What you doin’?” says the other voice.
“Will you obey orders?” says Williams.
“No!”
“So ... ” says Williams, and deliberately leaned forward on his cutlass.
There was a long gasp from the man on the swordpoint and a furious chorus of shouts from above.
“See!” says I softly, to Percival Clive. “He’s mad! I told you he was mad.” Percy frowned.
“But are not those the mutineers?” The light hadn’t dawned. But Williams was in plain view, only thirty feet away. Quietly I drew one of Percy’s pistols from my belt and took careful aim.
“What are you doing?” says Percy.
“Oh shut up!” says I, losing patience with him. I held my breath, took my best aim and squeezed the trigger.
Bang! And he staggered. The filthy swine staggered!
“Got you!” says I, in profound relief. But I hadn’t. He was only jumping with surprise. I’d missed. With frightful agility he whipped out a pistol and snapped off a shot as he dived behind the boat in the waist. He was taken unawares with a split second to aim but I felt the whizz of his bullet as it sped through my hair. He’d have killed me for sure with a deliberate shot such as I’d had.
“Morning, Fletcher!” says he, from behind his barricade. “Did I hit you? I do hope so.”
“Come and find out!” says I.
“And give you another chance to shoot me?” says he. “Who’s the back-stabber now, eh? Why don’t you come out? Then we can settle the matter like gentlemen.”
“Go to hell!” says I. It was an impasse. Neither of us was going to emerge to give the other a clear shot. But young Percy was still puzzled.
“Why should not we go to him, Fletcher?” says he, tugging at my elbow. “Mr Williams cannot mean you harm. I cannot understand why we delay?”