14-Caribbee: A Kydd Sea Adventure

by Julian Stockwin

  The watch on deck lowered their eyes and returned to their motions while the pitiful figure staggered on.

  It couldn’t last: near the fore-mast and without a sound the lad collapsed, the musket skittering across the deck. With a piteous effort he tried to rise, swaying on his feet, then dropped, this time moving no more.

  Deadly looks were shot aft as seamen ran to him but Tyrell seemed not to notice, gazing up lazily to take in the set of the topgallants, at the seas creaming in to windward.

  Bowden felt anger rising. It threatened to overwhelm him. He stared obstinately out to sea until it passed, leaving him shaken.

  That night he came off watch at midnight, thankful for the sanctity of his little cot where he could fight down the images of the day. He eventually drifted off into a restless sleep.

  At some time in the early hours he was jerked into consciousness by the sudden pandemonium of cries and running feet above.

  Heart thumping, he dropped to the deck and, pulling on a coat, headed for the after hatchway as fast as he could.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he asked hurrying figures in the darkness.

  ‘Don’t know,’ one man said hoarsely. ‘I’m getting topside, whatever!’

  As he fought his way up, Bowden’s mind tried to grapple with sensations. The ship was still under way, for a live deck was under his feet with none of the deadly stillness to betray a grounding on a reef. There were no shots or firing, no stentorian orders or thundering drums in urgent summons to action – just men spilling up on deck from below in a bewildered throng.

  He hurried to the wheel. The quartermaster was standing stolidly next to the helmsman.

  ‘What’s the alarm, man?’ Bowden demanded.

  ‘As we split the fore course, sir,’ he said calmly. ‘Captain wants we should shift to a new ’un and won’t wait for day.’

  Bowden couldn’t believe his ears.

  ‘So he clears lower deck o’ both watches an’ we do it now.’

  It took his breath away. The fore course was the main sail on the fore-mast. To replace it with another was a major task: not only had it to be handed, secured and sent down, but the replacement had to be roused out from decks below, lashed together in a long sausage and sent up, tons’ weight of canvas on bending strops into the tops, the work of hours.

  In the darkness it was unthinkable – but it was happening. Bowden went forward in the gloom: sullen men were being mustered for the job. He peered up at the sail. It was indeed split, from top to bottom along a seam but apart from spilling its wind it did not seem a danger to the ship.

  It could have waited until morning, but by his action Tyrell was condemning the entire ship to loss of precious sleep to which they were entitled. The watch below would have had barely an hour of rest since their last duty, and while seamen would willingly go aloft to save the ship this was no man’s idea of a life-or-death situation.

  There were growls and snarls under cover of darkness, but the work went on. Lines stretched along for hoisting, buntlines overhauled and above, almost invisible in the darkness, topmen manning the yards and fisting the canvas as the sail was brought in.

  It was madness. Tyrell stood to one side, watching, his arms folded truculently as the sail was made up for unbending. Then, out in the night, there was a despairing shriek, cut short by a sickening thud as a man out on the yard scrabbled, lost his hold in the blackness and plummeted to his death.

  All work ceased. A venomous muttering began but Tyrell stalked immediately to the centre of the deck. ‘Get those men back to work, damn your blood!’ he roared up to the tops. ‘Now!’

  It was a turning moment. Bowden sensed the resentment turn to a visceral hatred, the sullen obedience now a feral wariness.

  Hannibal was headed into the unknown.

  It was an hour after dawn when the last line was belayed and the sail trimmed to the wind. The men went below without a word but the glances flashed aft could not be mistaken in their meaning.

  As the day went on there was a rising feeling of menace, as if a fuse had been lit. Bowden had the last dogwatch and watched apprehensively as the bright day changed by degrees into a creeping darkness. At three bells a figure detached from the cabin spaces and shuffled towards him. It was Joyce.

  ‘Sir, I’d be obliged for a piece of your time,’ he said, in a low voice.

  ‘Of course,’ Bowden said, and moved up the deck out of hearing of the group at the conn.

  Joyce seemed to have difficulty bringing out the words, then blurted, ‘I was asked by the men where I stood an’ all.’

  Bowden went cold. There was no doubting the meaning. The ship was a powder keg.

  ‘In the event of …’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  There was only one answer. ‘On your honour, you must stand true to the ship.’

  ‘I knew you’d say that, sir.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘An’ I thank you for it, Mr Bowden.’ He moved painfully away.

  Bowden paced forward. His duty now was clear and there was no putting it aside. He must formally tell the captain what he had heard.

  Or should he stand back and let the man take what was coming to him for his inhuman treatment of his men?

  The moral case for allowing things to take their course was strong, especially as by disclosing what Joyce had told him he was condemning the boy to a court-martial at the least for breach of the Articles of War in not having immediately informed the captain himself.

  On the other hand if he didn’t and it turned into a bloody mutiny there would be lives lost and a vengeful Admiralty would be pitiless. By forewarning it could be prevented – and his oath to the Crown would remain untarnished.

  By the end of the watch he had decided.

  ‘Come!’ Tyrell sounded irritable.

  Bowden entered the great cabin, its spare and bleak appearance so different from that in any other ship-of-the-line he had seen.

  Tyrell was standing by the stern windows, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘Yes?’ he said, without looking round.

  ‘Sir, I wish to report—’

  ‘Ah, Bowden,’ Tyrell said, swinging round to face him. ‘Always pleased to see a loyal and upright officer. What is it I can do for you?’

  Taken aback by his welcome, Bowden hesitated.

  ‘You want to report …?’

  ‘Ah, sir. A grave matter.’ Whatever it took, he would not involve Joyce by name.

  ‘Oh?’ The amiable expression remained unaffected.

  ‘Sir, I was approached by a member of the ship’s company who saw fit to inform me that certain unnamed individuals were disaffected and no longer reliable. Sir, in my opinion the people are in a state of incipient mutiny.’

  It was said.

  ‘Why, you came down to tell me this? God bless you, Mr Bowden, for your concern on my behalf. Is there anything else?’

  ‘Er, this is to say, I’ve no reason to doubt that the men could rise at any time, sir, and—’

  ‘Calm yourself, Mr Bowden, it’s not as you fear. When you’ve been in the Service as long as I, you’ll realise that the scum are always in a state of mutiny, the dogs. Only hard discipline keeps ’em tranquil.’

  ‘Sir, I—’

  ‘For you, for the sake of your fears, I’ll take steps. You’ll learn that swift and decisive measures are an infallible remedy for these vile creatures.’

  ‘Er, thank you, sir.’

  ‘Captain of Marines this instant!’ he called loudly, to the sentry outside his door, who hurried to obey.

  The officer arrived, breathless and confused.

  ‘Ah, Captain. I’ll have every marine sentry throughout the ship on duty with their bayonets ready fixed. Fixed, you understand?’

  ‘Um, yes, I’ll do it now.’ His eyes darted from Bowden to Tyrell with incomprehension but he left quickly.

  ‘There. The sight of naked steel will always steady the wayward, don’t you think?’ Tyrell said pleasantly.

  Bowden could think o
f nothing to say. For any marine between decks the bayonet would be an intolerable impediment and impossible to wield, and what the seamen would think of this passed belief.

  ‘If you suffer any further disquiet, please feel you can approach me at any time. This is the duty any captain must owe his officers.’

  ‘Er, thank you, sir, I will.’

  The wardroom at supper was tense. There was little conversation and each officer avoided any other’s eye.

  The table was cleared and the president called for port. With deliberate emphasis he invited Mr Vice to make the loyal toast, which was given in guarded tones.

  Afterwards, when normally the wardroom would relax into comfortable reminiscence, there was only an awkward silence. There were wary looks about the table, one or two comments on the dishes and then nothing.

  ‘Damn it!’ Griffith burst out. ‘Is no one going to speak?’

  Eyes turned to him.

  ‘Clear the cabin o’ the serving staff!’ he snapped. ‘And send away the sentry.’

  This was unprecedented. In effect the first lieutenant was reducing those present to the wardroom officers of Hannibal only.

  ‘No one to leave! Who’s the officer-of-the-watch?’

  ‘Mason,’ someone said nervously.

  ‘Right, we’ll do without him. So we’re all in this together – agreed?’ he snapped.

  ‘What can you mean by that, sir?’ gasped Jowett, the second lieutenant.

  ‘What I say, sir,’ Griffith ground out, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial quiet, ‘is this. It can’t go on and, whether we like it or no, we’re the ones to suffer in the end.’

  The third, Briggs, had no qualms about an opinion. ‘He’s mad, of course. Anyone who’s passed by the Bedlam hospital knows what to look for.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ growled Maitland, the sailing master.

  ‘Does it matter?’ said the Captain of Marines. ‘We all know he’s beyond reaching.’

  If the Royal Marines were no longer prepared to stand with their captain, it was a matter of desperate gravity.

  ‘Here’s my view, and it’s one that I sorrow to hold.’ Griffith regarded them gravely. ‘We have to declare him mad, unfit to command.’

  ‘And then?’ Jowett gave a dry laugh. ‘I’d not like to be the one who tells him. I have it from my man that Tyrell carries a pair of pocket pistols on him wherever he goes.’

  Bowden spoke up quietly: ‘It’s a nice point, though. If we do nothing and there’s a meeting with the enemy, I have m’ doubts the men will fight for him, and we’re a liability in the line-of-battle. If we do take steps we could be each and every one damned for the rest of our careers …’

  ‘I don’t know why you’re all so gib-faced,’ Griffith said bitterly. ‘It’s down to my account who’s the “leader” in this … rising.’

  ‘Talking of rising,’ Briggs said strongly, ‘we should bear it in mind that if we do indeed make such a move, the ship’s company will see it in their best interest to drop any ideas they may have for a mutiny, or similar.’

  ‘That’s a good point. We’re only a couple of dozen against six hundred,’ muttered Maitland, staring into his glass.

  ‘Against?’ Bowden asked, with irony.

  ‘We’ve only to hang out a signal to the fleet and—’

  ‘Don’t be a looby,’ Jowett sneered. ‘They’ll never let us, and they’d have to wait only for nightfall to be off to wherever they’re carrying the ship. Anyone watching won’t have a clue what’s happening, and if it’s night, well …’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ Griffith said, with finality. ‘I’m to demand that before we leave this cabin we’ve decided on our course.’

  ‘To take Hannibal from Captain Tyrell or no,’ Bowden said levelly.

  ‘To prevent a rising of the hands and carrying of the ship over to the enemy.’

  ‘I say we take it to a vote!’ Briggs put in.

  ‘Now hold on, young ’un,’ Maitland said in alarm. ‘We’re not ready f’r that, like!’

  Bowden tapped twice on the table with a spoon. ‘Let’s not lose sight of our options,’ he said, flashing an apologetic smile at the first lieutenant for his interruption. ‘First we have to be sure things can only be resolved by the captain’s, er, removal. This is a step with no going back. And if we do, then is it to be by main force or another way?’

  ‘Another way,’ Jowett said forcefully. ‘Simple – the doctor declares the man insane, we put him to bed and all is sweet for us.’

  ‘It does have the merit of being quick and sure,’ agreed Griffith. ‘Doctor, you’ll do this for us?’

  The surgeon shrank from him in fear. ‘I c-can’t!’

  ‘Why not, pray?’

  ‘It’s that … Well, I’m not qualified, am I?’

  ‘Damn it!’ exploded Griffith. ‘If you’re not, who is?’

  ‘I know why he won’t,’ Jowett said with venom. ‘He’s worried that if he certifies Tyrell mad and Surgeons’ Hall won’t have it, he fears he’s to be cast in damages.’

  ‘Let’s keep our tempers, gentlemen,’ Bowden said, then asked, ‘Doctor, we have to take some kind of action. Is there a middle course, one that recommends he be retired immediately on grounds of ill-health, or some such?’

  The surgeon shook his head mutely.

  ‘You’ll get no sense out of that lubber,’ Jowett growled. ‘We’ll have to do the business ourselves. Anyone knows the symptoms of mad?’

  ‘Hold hard, Mr Jowett,’ interposed Maitland. ‘You’re not reckoning on the consequences.’

  ‘What fucking consequences?’

  ‘If we declare him mad but the ship’s doctor declines, it’ll be taken as an act of open mutiny.’

  The table fell into an appalled silence.

  ‘So we just carry on as before? I don’t think so,’ Griffith said slowly. ‘He’s getting worse, thinks there’s plots against him – he’ll one day likely up and skewer some poor wight he thinks is after his blood.’

  ‘Or worse,’ Briggs said morosely. ‘I’ve heard of things happening in Bedlam that would—’

  ‘Where did you …?’

  ‘When I was young, my aunt was taken to the asylum with the night terrors and shakes. We had to visit her as she got worse.’

  His face fell sombre in recollection. ‘To see how she changed, why, it was—’

  ‘Yes, well. So, then, you’re the one to tell us the symptoms,’ Jowett said firmly. ‘What do we look for? What things say you’re a mad cove?’

  ‘Umm. Well, she used to write long letters to all us younkers and in the end the writing was so bad we couldn’t understand it.’

  ‘Bad writing!’ sniffed the purser, in an offended tone. ‘And that’s a thing. These days I send him papers, and get back scrawls I can’t figure and dursn’t ask.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ snarled Griffith. ‘This has gone on long enough.’

  He looked about the table significantly. ‘Whether we like it or no, whatever happens in the near future will be on all our heads, no escape for any. I’ve a notion to act now, do something before it all comes down on us in a way we won’t like.’

  Encouraged by one or two nods, he went on, ‘So this is what I’m proposing. We draw up a list of all the crazy, strut-noddy things he’s done and said.’

  His head whipped around to the terrified surgeon, as he snarled, ‘Then get our doctor to sign that he’s seen all this and thinks it the behaving of a cheerful, well-living cove. Or not – as the case may be,’ he concluded grimly.

  ‘I – that is to say, I, er—’ the surgeon stammered.

  Griffith turned on him with savage intensity. ‘You’ll sign, Doctor. I take my oath on it.’

  He went on more quietly, ‘In this way we can say that, while we’re no taut hands in the matter o’ lunacy, we’re standing down our captain for the good of the Service as being our judgement of his condition.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Briggs agreed enthusiastically. ‘A
nd then—’

  But the first lieutenant hadn’t finished. ‘Now, for this to save our skins it has to be all of us or none. Nobody to hang back. If it isn’t, we’re done.’

  It didn’t have to be spelled out: in going behind Tyrell’s back to the admiral with their demand, they were in breach of every moral rule of conduct of a naval officer, and even if there were no legal consequences they would be tainted by the action for the rest of their careers.

  Bowden froze. Everything in his being screamed at him to shy away from the awful chasm they were approaching, but if he did, this would be betraying not only his fellow officers but as well the countless seamen who had suffered.

  ‘So. How about it, gentlemen? Do we take a vote on it?’ Griffith’s eyes went about the table, to each man in turn. There was no escaping it – they were all in or …

  ‘Then here it is. Officers of Hannibal now assembled. Do you now accept and determine that Captain Tyrell is, um, not of sound mind as can continue in his position and must be declared unfit?’

  No one dared speak. The moment hung interminably.

  ‘I’ll take a show of hands. Raise ’em if you’re in. Gentlemen?’

  Bowden, his mind now resolved to an icy coolness, joined the rest as every hand was raised.

  Griffith smiled in grim satisfaction. ‘Then we’re in agreement. We’re a day only out of Antigua. When we’re hook down, I’m going ashore with you at my back and we brace the admiral!’

  Chapter 11

  ‘You’re sure there’s nothing?’ Renzi asked, with a sinking heart. If the secret base was not here then it must be in Martinique, a much larger island, and there he would be without the advantage of a pair of eyes on the inside.

  ‘Guadeloupe is not such a big place. Any strange thing would be much talked about.’

  ‘Yes, that must be so,’ Renzi said, with a dogged expression. ‘We must get back to the ship for the rendezvous soon.’

  ‘Then we leave without your questions answered, I fear.’

  Renzi nodded: the sooner they left before her presence was compromised, the better. ‘But I do thank you for your bravery, which I will never forget.’

  Louise bit her lip. ‘There is one little mystery, but it does not concern Guadeloupe.’