Black August

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘Righto, Capting. I’ll be with yer, but we might as well sample the goods.’

  As Crowder left the wardroom Brisket seized Ann round the waist and flung her back across the table, forcing her down beneath him while he sought to press his lips on hers.

  She screamed and struggled, twisting in his grip and beating wildly at his face with her clenched fists, but he only gave a guffaw of laughter and his hot mouth fastened greedily upon the soft flesh of her neck.

  Veronica snatched up the decanter, with the idea of smashing Brisket over the head, but Ann was jerking her face from side to side with such rapidity as she strove to free herself from the soldier that Veronica feared to hit her by mistake; slamming it down again she dashed out of the room.

  Ann gasping and shuddering still endeavoured to fight Brisket off. An awful nausea seized her as she felt the sharp bristles of his chin rasp against her flesh, and the smell of his pungent breath in her nostrils, but her eyes were staring wide with blazing anger, and with a sudden snap her sharp teeth met, as she bit viciously into his ear.

  With an obscene curse he jerked his head away and struck her savagely in the ribs.

  ‘You ruddy bitch—I’ll learn you.’ Then as she cowered away he raised his fist to strike her in the face.

  ‘Stop that you!—d’you hear!’ roared a new voice, and Fanshawe came bounding into the room. He had recovered consciousness more than an hour before but remained, bound, gagged, and seething with rage, in the pantry until Veronica had the inspiration to release him.

  ‘Gawd! it’s the Capting,’ Brisket leapt away from Ann and stooped to snatch his rifle from the floor.

  ‘Drop that, you little swine.’ The Lieutenant-Commander gripped a wine bottle by the neck and his blue eyes were cold with fury as he made a terrific swipe at the crouching soldier’s head.

  ‘Blast yer—yer murdering devil!’ Brisket jerked his head aside but the bottle caught him on the upper arm just as he lunged at the officer with his rifle. The bayonet slipped past Fanshawe’s ribs and buried its point with a thud in the panelling of the wardroom.

  Next second the two men had crashed to the floor, the bottle shattered and they rolled over and over striving to grab each other by the throat, while Crowder, who had caught the sounds of the struggle in the passage, came pounding back through the lobby.

  The stoker stood hesitant in the doorway of the wardroom, his revolver raised, but fearing to shoot the wrong man in the mêlée. Suddenly the officer came out on top. With his left hand he had the soldier by the throat, and with his right was dealing him quick slashing strokes in the ribs and belly. Brisket choked and groaned as every hammer blow descended on his aching body.

  ‘Stop!’ screamed Veronica, ‘stop!’ as she flung herself on Crowder, but it was too late. His revolver flashed, there was an ear-splitting report in the confined space of the wardroom, and at the same moment the Lieutenant-Commander sank down on his antagonist, shot through the brain.

  Brisket crawled out from beneath him and staggered to his feet. His face was purple, his eyes bloodshot, half-mad with pain and rage he grabbed at Ann again. In quick agonising gasps she had recovered her breath while they had been fighting and now swung the decanter at his head with all her force.

  Then without warning came a sudden grinding crash. For a moment the deck of the wardroom seemed to lift and then plunge down again. Brisket was flung off his feet; Ann’s blow missed his skull but caught him a glancing blow across his left cheek and eye, then she pitched forward on top of him. Veronica and Crowder struggling together in the doorway fell in a tangled heap.

  The ship seemed to hesitate for the fraction of a second and then soughed on again at full speed. Crowder scrambled to his knees and thrusting Veronica from him, stooped to grab the pistol he had dropped, but as he did so there came a heavy thud. With startling suddenness a man dropped into the ward-room from the upper deck through the after ammunition hatch. Swift on his heels another followed.

  ‘Kenyon,’ gasped Ann. ‘Oh, Kenyon,’ but he pushed her roughly aside and held the stoker covered with his gun. Petty Officer Sims, who was beside him, gripped the moaning Brisket by the neck.

  Crowder was still kneeling on the floor, and had Kenyon arrived a second earlier he would have had him at his mercy. As it was the stoker’s revolver was in his hand again and pointed upward at the middle of Kenyon’s body. For a moment they remained, rigid, glaring into the barrels of each other’s pistols.

  ‘Stalemate,’ panted Kenyon. ‘If I fire, your gun will go off and get me. If you fire my finger will contract on the trigger and I’ll get you—how about it?’

  ‘You’re right.’ Crowder came slowly to his full height.

  ‘Lay your gun on the table and I’ll put mine there too,’ Kenyon lowered his pistol a fraction to encourage the leader of the mutineers. Then watching each other like cats, the two men put down their weapons, and stood one at either end of the long table.

  ‘What have we ‘it?’ demanded Crowder.

  ‘We’ve been slap through a drifter.’

  ‘Gawd! The poor blighters!’

  ‘Do you think the ship is damaged?’

  ‘What, the old hooker! She’d go through a drifter like a slab of butter, but we may have sprung a plate or two.’

  ‘How can we find that out?’

  ‘I’d better nip forward with some of the lads and have a looksee.’

  In the sudden anxiety that they might be about to sink, both had momentarily allowed the mutiny to take second place, but they were brought back to it by Kenyon saying: ‘Do you realise that the forepart of the ship is in our hands?’

  ‘I know that—an’ I’m wondering how you ever got aft.’

  ‘Crawled through your men in the dark with Sims here. It was he who put me up to the dodge of coming down the hatch, but how about making certain that the ship is all right?’

  ‘Well, I can’t go forward if your people are going to snipe at me, can I? What do you say to a bit of a truce?’

  ‘Why not?’ Kenyon drew himself up. ‘I’m willing and you seem a sensible sort of chap; can’t we agree to stop this slaughter altogether?’

  ‘Yes, if you’re prepared to accept me as Captain of the ship.’

  ‘No, I can’t do that. Your men would murder the General if they got hold of him, and I’ll be frank with you, I’m scared for the ladies too. Even if you are giving me a straight deal, could you guarantee to protect them from a mutinous crew?’

  ‘I couldn’t, and I wouldn’t have time to try.’

  ‘Well, that’s straight, anyway.’

  For a moment there was silence while the two men considered the situation.

  ‘Look here,’ said Crowder suddenly, ‘there’s more of us nor what there is of you—so I’ll get you in the end—won’t I?’

  ‘The odds are certainly in your favour.’

  ‘Well, when I have, the hooker’ll be mine, won’t it?’

  ‘What’s left of it; we may be damaged now.’

  ‘Then I’m game to meet you ‘alf-way. We’re makin’ ’Arwich so I’ll let you have a boat an’ all the gear and you can ’op it for the nearest spot of mud.’

  ‘All of us?’ asked Kenyon quickly.

  ‘Yes, all of you. An’ to be honest I’d a sight sooner have the women out of it. If we kill your lot off there’ll only be trouble among the men as to who gets at ’em first.’

  ‘What about the badly wounded who’ve been fighting on our side?’

  ‘Any who’s not fit to be moved I’ll take care of and put ashore later—they’ll be treated same as those who’ve copped it in our bunch.’

  ‘You’ll give us food and drink, and let us take our arms, ammunition, and Lewis guns?’

  ‘Yes, them’s the terms; I’ve no love o’ killing for killin’s sake, an’ if you clear out it’ll save life on both sides.’

  Kenyon eyed his man for a moment. ‘No tricks?’

  ‘No, I’m a man o’ me word.’

&n
bsp; ‘All right. I agree to your terms.’

  Crowder nodded, and picking up his pistol stuffed it in his belt. ‘It’ll be a bit o’ time yet before we make ‘Arwich, would you like to join your crowd on the fo’c’s’le—or will I send them down here?’

  ‘A heavy spray was coming over the fo’c’s’le when I came down,’ said Kenyon slowly, ‘so I think the ladies had better remain here and I prefer not to leave them again. Perhaps it would be best if you took Sims forward to explain to Mr. Harker what we have arranged, then he can come down or stay there as he likes. You’ll accept Stoker Crowder’s word that it’s all right, won’t you, Sims?’

  ‘Ay, ay, sir,’ the Petty Officer agreed. ‘I’ll just close down this hatch though before I leave you in case someone takes a fancy to have a pot at you from the deck while we’re away.’

  ‘I’ll shoot the first man wot tries any monkey tricks,’ said Crowder gruffly. ‘Come on, Sims, let’s put a stop to that scrapping; they’re still at it on the for’ard deck.

  ‘If Mr. Harker elects to stay up there you might ask him to send me down a couple of men, will you?’ Kenyon added. ‘I’d like some help to clear up this.’

  Fanshawe’s dead body lay on the deck and a puddle of blood had trickled from his head. Brisket was crouching in a corner whimpering and groaning as he rocked to and fro, his hand clasped to his injured eye. The stoker pulled him to his feet and half-led, half-carried him out, throwing over his shoulder to Kenyon: ‘I’ll send a couple o’ your chaps unless the lot comes down.’

  Sims, having secured the hatch, followed him from the ward-room and Kenyon was left alone with the two girls. Ann had sunk down on the settee and was weeping pitifully upon Veronica’s shoulder. She had kept her nerve through the ordeal with Brisket but now that it was over all restraint had left her. She clutched the elder girl desperately while large tears welled from under her eyelids and coursed silently down her cheeks. Her small body shook with the stress of her emotion.

  Kenyon, who knew his sister more intimately than most of her closest friends, was well aware that her cynical irreverent humour was only an outer armour against the world, but even he was amazed by the soft natural phrases she used to soothe Ann’s terror and distress.

  A few moments later Rudd and his satellite the Greyshirt, Bob, appeared. The former grinned at Kenyon.

  ‘Mr. ‘Arker’s compliments, sir, an’ ’e sends ’is congrats on the Peace Treaty. An’ there ain’t no serious damage to the ship. Bein’ ’is size ‘e’d be certain to float all right, ’e sez, but ’e always did ‘ate water.’

  Between them they removed the Lieutenant-Commander’s body and cleaned up the wardroom. Rudd produced a bottle of brandy from the pantry and Ann was given a strong tot, after which her sobbing ceased and she lay with closed eyes against Veronica’s shoulder.

  For a seemingly interminable time the ship raced on into the darkness, while they sat, silent and disconsolate, weighed down with the horror and futility of the bloodshed which had taken place that night.

  At last Crowder reappeared and told them to come on deck. They filed up the ladder for the last time, the stoker leading with his revolver drawn, and as they made their way forward the mutineers on the deck shambled aside to let them pass with sullen gances. In the bows they found Gregory propped up against the capstan.

  ‘How is your Majesty?’ Veronica inquired. She could not resist the gentle sarcasm.

  He smiled up at her a little grimly in the darkness. ‘Lucky to be alive, I suppose. The shellburst knocked me out, but miraculously I escaped further damage except for a twisted leg.’

  Crowder’s husky voice broke in behind them. ‘Now if it’s all the same to you I’m going to drop you here. See over there? That’s the Sunk Lightship winking now—an’ that’s the direction of ’Arwich. Nigh on fifteen mile it ’ud be, but if the men put their backs into it you should be there for breakfus’.’

  ‘Right, carry on, Crowder,’ said Gregory tonelessly.

  The lurching form of the stoker disappeared in the shadows. Silence fell on the little group by the capstan while the thresh of the screws sensibly diminished and the destroyer eased down. The periodic flash from the Sunk appeared, a friendly note in the darkness, but as the ship heaved to in a gentle swell they felt a moderate breeze which had sprung up from the southeast, and Petty Officer Sims remarked that he thought it heralded a threat of fog.

  The sailors were busy turning out the whaler. The falls ran easily, and at a curt order from Crowder she was slipped with a barely perceptible splash. The party collected with their rifles at the ready, and marched aft with Harker leading. Sallust and a man who had a bullet through the calf of the leg were supported on each side, and followed the girls in the centre of the remaining troops; Kenyon brought up the rear.

  Harker and Sims climbed down into the boat which was gently tossing alongside. They made a rapid survey of the stores and reported all satisfactory. The girls, the wounded, the ammunition and the Lewis guns were lowered, then the rest of the party went over the side, Kenyon remaining alone for a moment with Crowder at the rails.

  He pointed past the lightship and said: ‘You are certain that is the direction of Harwich?’

  ‘Sure of it—I got a wife and kids in ’Arwich,’ the stoker added thoughtfully.

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘Yes, an’ I’m real anxious about them—not that the old lady can’t look after herself—but still—’

  Kenyon glanced at the man curiously. A few hours before he had been prepared to murder anybody—he had in fact shot his own Commander, for what Kenyon supposed he considered his rights and principles; now, he was just as human as anybody else and anxious about his wife and children.

  ‘Well, I hope they’re all right,’ he said. ‘So long.’

  ‘So long,’ repeated the big man. ‘Best o’ luck,’ and Kenyon slipped over the side into the waiting boat.

  As the boat shoved off, the oars were got out by the soldiers and Greyshirts who were sitting amidships, and pulling slowly, they passed under the stern of the destroyer, being momentarily caught up in the wash from her powerful screws as she forged ahead again.

  From the low altitude of the boat the flash of the Sunk did not show so plainly. A tenuous mist seemed to be rising from the sea and borne on the south-easterly breeze, wisps of fog began to obscure their vision.

  ‘I don’t like the looks of it,’ muttered Sims who had the tiller.

  Gregory, seated next him in the stern, glanced back towards the ship, but with amazing swiftness it had already been swallowed up in the rapidly rising mist. The men were pulling as well as their inexperience allowed towards the flash of the Light Vessel, but it was only visible hazily now, for great banks of chill grey fog seemed to be closing in all round. Ten minutes later that too had disappeared.

  Rudd relieved Sims at the tiller in order that the Petty Officer might get out the compass. For some minutes he fumbled with it and muttered to himself anxiously, then setting it down he said in a low voice to Gregory: ‘I’m sorry, sir, but this compass has had a biff; it’s out of action.’

  Gregory nodded quietly: ‘I see; we’re out of the frying-pan into the fire then—adrift in the great North Sea?’

  ‘I fear that’s so, sir.’

  Suddenly the hideous wail of a banshee echoed out over the desolate waste of the fogbound waters. It was Rudd who had broken into his other aria: ‘A Life on the Ocean Wave,’

  16

  Latitude 51° 49´N. Longitude 2° 06´E.

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ moaned Gregory.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ Rudd ceased his serenade abruptly. ‘I forgot you were ’ors de combat.’

  ‘This compass,’ said Kenyon, ‘can’t you make it work, Sims?’

  The P.O. had just unscrewed the top and removed the card. He shook his head. ‘’Fraid not, sir, the pivot’s broken.’

  ‘What’ll we do then?” Harker asked.

  ‘God knows. Let the men row gently but don’t t
ire them. When daylight comes we’ll get our direction from the sun. For the Lord’s sake let me rest till then.’ Gregory closed his eyes wearily.

  Veronica made a pillow for his head with some coats and they laid him out at full length on the bottom boards in the stern, while Kenyon and Silas checked up the occupants of the boat.

  Besides themselves, the girls, Gregory, Rudd, and Sims, there were Sergeant Thompson with a lance-corporal and six of his men, one of whom had a head wound, and another a bullet through his leg; also five Greyshirts, including Rudd’s henchman, Bob, who sat in the bow of the boat with his arm in a sling. The party numbered twenty all told, therefore, of which four were disabled and two were women.

  The boat was a long, five-oared whaler so they were not unduly overcrowded. Sims had the tiller and Sergeant Thompson acted as look-out in the bow. The pulling was jerky and uneven owing to the men’s lack of experience with boats, but one or two had done a little sculling and Kenyon and Silas decided to take turns at stroke.

  Counting out the wounded and the women there were just enough of them to form two complete crews; Kenyon with the Tommies, Rudd for steersman and Sergeant Thompson as lookout making one watch; and Silas with his Greyshirts, Sims and the lance-corporal the other. Once these arrangements had been made, Kenyon’s party took first turn at working the boat.

  It would have been stupid to exert themselves, since they only had a very vague idea where they were or in which direction they were going, and Kenyon did not attempt to do more than keep the whaler gently moving. Instead, by a monotonous repetition of ‘In-Out—In-Out’ as the men dipped their oars he endeavoured to coach his crew into keeping some sort of time.

  Gradually the darkness lightened but the mist lay heavy and thick about them, not even a glimmer of sun penetrated to the sea and no sound of sirens, indicating other shipping in the vicinity, reached them. With slow and wearisome regularity the oars rattled backwards and forwards in the crutches while the wavelets lapped and chuckled under the stern. The heavy seas of the night before had subsided into a gentle swell and the grey-green waters seemed to rise rhythmically before them in huge low mounds, only to slip away again and mount to fresh heights in their wake.