Craddock

by Paul Finch

  “That’s right, yes.” Ryland finished the dregs of his beer, then went to the mullioned window looking towards the sea. “A squadron of my chaps chased him out onto the beach. But he made straight for the Catherine-Maria.”

  “Catherine-Maria?” The name sounded familiar to Craddock.

  “The old prison-ship. You know it, I’m sure.”

  Craddock remembered. It surprised him that he’d even forgotten. He joined the captain by the window. “Yes, I know it,” he said.

  Ryland pointed due north-west, and the shapeless hulk of the derelict emerged from the dark. She was wedged out there on a sandbar. The scant remains of her masts drew a skeletal pattern on the spangled lights of Lytham township far across the bay. Even at this distance, she dwarfed the minuscule shapes of the horsemen who were ranged in large numbers around her.

  Craddock recollected what he knew about the Catherine-Maria. A captured French man‘o’war, she’d been pressed into use as a prison-ship some time around 1808. She’d remained in that capacity until 1857, when she’d been taken out of service, as all the prison-ships had. But that was only after half a century of horror stories: reform groups in Liverpool and Manchester had complained bitterly and repeatedly about the appalling conditions on board her, and the deliberate maltreatment of those held there. Major Craddock, though sympathetic by nature, had seen the reality of violent crime up close, and was less inclined to be compassionate to the villainous class, but even he would admit that discomforting numbers of convicts had reportedly perished during their term on the Catherine-Maria. The same could be said for any of Britain’s other forty or so ‘hulks’, as they’d been known, though his particular vessel had been the only one located on England’s north-west coast, and as such was the one most familiar.

  “And that’s where he is now?” Craddock said.

  “As far as I’m aware,” Ryland replied. “He went aboard and hasn’t shown his face since.”

  “He couldn’t have slipped away in the dark?”

  Ryland shook his head. “My chaps have it surrounded. Even at high tide, the water only gets to a foot or so out there, so we’ve been able to keep a full watch on it all day and all evening. No sign of him at all, thus far.”

  Inspector Munro now stepped forwards. He was younger than Craddock, but a stout, stocky chap with a reddish-gray moustache and the gritty, sombre features of the time-served police officer. “You keep saying ‘him’, captain? But there were two of them. Burnwood sprang a known felon from custody … that’s why we’re pursuing him. Our last information was that they were travelling together.”

  Ryland seemed concerned about this. “Yes, well it’s rather confusing, I’m afraid. There were two of them, that’s certain. But my men who gave chase felt sure that one of the two men was the other one’s captive.”

  Craddock and Munro looked nonplussed.

  “This felon who got sprung?” Ryland asked. “What’s his name again?”

  “Nethercot. Joseph Nethercot.”

  “He’s an older man, I assume?”

  “He’s in his early sixties,” Munro said. “But he was being held on charges of assaulting young girls. He’s a vicious old goat. The magistrates were due to convene tomorrow morning, just to hear this case.”

  Ryland considered this as he filched a cheroot from inside his tunic, stuck it between his lips and put a match to it. “Vicious old goat he may be …” he puffed smoke, “but according to my chaps, he was being dragged along by the other fellow, kicked, punched, generally treated like a prisoner.”

  The three policemen could only stare at each other, perplexed.

  “What is there to know about this George Burnwood?” Ryland asked.

  “He shot two of my constables, killing one and seriously wounding the other,” Craddock said.

  “And this was while he was attempting to free this character, Nethercot?”

  “That’s correct.” The major paled with anger just recalling the incident. “He simply walked into the police office and opened fire. My desk-clerk, a young man with a wife and child, was killed instantly. Burnwood then forced my custody-officer to open the cell door, after which he fired a single shot into his back. Fortunately, this victim survived, but it wasn’t through any effort on Burnwood’s part.”

  “You’re certain it’s who you think it is?” Ryland asked. “Burnwood, I mean?”

  Craddock nodded. “Constable Butterfield, the wounded man, identified him straight away. He’s a known criminal. Robbery and burglary come second-nature to him, though he’s never stooped to anything quite this senseless before.”

  “Sounds a hard man to bring to heel?”

  “Well I’m hoping that’s where you fellows will come in. How many men can you spare me?”

  “You plan to go aboard the Catherine-Maria?” Ryland sounded surprised.

  “Of course. We’ll search it stem to stern if need be. I’m bringing those two villains to justice.”

  The captain took out his cheroot. “You realise what you’re saying? The Catherine-Maria is a wreck. A death-trap.”

  “She was only decommissioned nine years ago,” Munro said. “She can hardly be a death-trap.”

  “She can be if there’s some demented killer hiding in her guts.” Ryland looked at Craddock. “Major, the Catherine-Maria was one of the largest hulks in service, if not the largest. Below decks, she’s a rabbit-warren of cabins, gangways, crawlspaces … she’ll be pitch-black, dank, rotten to the core.”

  “So what are you saying?” the major asked him.

  “It’ll be dangerous! Exceedingly dangerous!”

  Craddock glanced at the rest of the hussars, many of whom were eavesdropping on the conversation. It struck him at once how overweight they were, how unshaven, how shabby and ill-fitted their uniforms. Part-timers, he realised, civilians playing at soldiers. Not that this excused Captain Ryland’s attitude; he must once have been a professional, just to hold his rank.

  Craddock faced him again. “We’re armed, if that’s what’s troubling you. Inspector Munro and I have our revolvers, Constable Palmer a sawn-down shotgun.”

  Ryland shrugged, as if this was inconsequential.

  “Captain, you surely realise that danger is part and parcel of law-enforcement? Or are you one of those officers of militia who prefers to earn his ribbons riding down striking cotton-workers?”

  Ryland straightened up. “It’s not a matter of that. I’m as prepared to face an armed felon as the next chap. But … the Catherine-Maria.” He gestured through the window. “Look at her.”

  They did. Perhaps it was an optical illusion, but more of the scuttled vessel now appeared to be visible than before. She was an immense, frightful object, all mildewed timber and tattered rigging. Even from this distance, her scabrous hull glittered black and green in the torchlight of the surrounding horsemen.

  “When she saw action as a French warship, she held a crew of eight-hundred,” Ryland said. “Eight-hundred maximum. Yet when we captured her and turned her into a prison, we crammed over two-thousand convicts inside her. At times many more than that. Many more. Hundreds of them died: disease, malnutrition, brutality. No wonder she’s got the reputation she has.”

  “What reputation?” Munro asked.

  Ryland smiled to himself. “I see bad news doesn’t travel far. Well, that’s good. You stay over in Wigan, Inspector Munro … twelve miles away, where you’ll be safe. If you lived in Southport or Lytham, though, you wouldn’t come out here after dark.”

  “What reputation?” Craddock asked again.

  There was now near-silence in the tap-room; only the spitting and snapping of the flames. The troopers’ expressions were sullen, fearful. A moment passed, then Ryland flung his half-smoked cheroot into the hearth. “Damn it, she’s supposed to be haunted! Isn’t that plainly obvious? My lads are doing well just to be holding their ground encircling her.”

  “Haunted?” Craddock said.

  His voice betrayed no emotion, but R
yland, possibly through guilt or embarrassment, or both, read it differently. “Don’t mock me, sir! I don’t believe in bogies or demons. But there’s something about that ship. I don’t know the truth, who does? But there was so much pain and despair confined in that place. Not to mention the evil; imagine the concentration of evil!” He paused. “Is it so impossible to believe that some kind of imprint has been left behind?”

  Craddock remained blank-faced. “I assume that what you’re getting round to telling me is that none of your hussars will be coming aboard with us?”

  “You’re still going out there?”

  “Yes, we’re going out there. We have a job to do.”

  “Then I’m sorry to say you’ll be on your own. Even if I ordered my men to accompany you, they’d probably mutiny. They’re locals, farm-labourers for the most part, apprentice boys. They’ve grown up in the shadow of that thing. It’s terrified most of them since they were youngsters.”

  Craddock glanced at his two police officers. They regarded him steadily, unhappy but knowing better than to question his judgment in the presence of others.

  “I’m sure you understand,” Ryland added. “As a former service-man, you must admit there are some things you simply can not order your men to do.”

  “You can at least ask them,” the major said. “See if there are any volunteers.”

  “I’ll ask, but there’ll be none forthcoming …”

  Rather to Ryland’s surprise, however, one of the hussars immediately stepped forwards. “I’ll go with ’em, sir,” he said.

  “Corporal Kenton,” Ryland muttered with something like distaste.

  Kenton, a barrel-chested individual, with thick black side-whiskers and a brown, brutal face, nodded and unslung his cloak. “I’m no feared of that ship, sir.”

  Like the other part-time soldiers, he wore a heavy sabre and carried a Henry-Martini carbine, but unlike the others, he looked as though he knew how to use them.

  Ryland turned to Craddock. “Corporal Kenton came to us from the Manchester Yeomanry about two weeks ago.”

  “Thank God for Manchester,” Munro said under his breath.

  Ryland ignored the remark. “I’ve seen enough of Kenton to know that he’s a useful chap to have around. He doesn’t know the Catherine-Maria any more than you do, however. So don’t expect him to guide you through her.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Craddock said, moving towards the door. “Come gentlemen, let’s bustle.”

  They left their horses tied outside the tavern, and set off over the sand-flats on foot. Captain Ryland and three of his troopers accompanied them, their sabres rattling in the otherwise funereal silence. As they advanced, clutches of horsemen closed in from either side, rider and mount alike wreathed in fogs of sweat and breath.

  “So let me clearly understand this,” Munro said quietly. “We’re entering this hulk without any real support from the military, in complete darkness, minus any sure knowledge of where exactly we’re going once we’re inside, and Burnwood – the deranged killer – will be lying in wait for us?”

  Craddock nodded. “It’s still four guns to one. Back in the Colours, those odds would have suited you.”

  “And, of course, it has to be haunted.”

  “Aren’t they always?”

  Munro glanced sidelong at the major, but his chief retained a hard, neutral expression. His eyes were locked on the great mass of wood and rigging now looming towards them. Having served side-by-side in India for many years, both men knew better than to dismiss the supernatural out of hand. But the exotic mysteries of the Orient weren’t solely responsible for this open-mindedness. Since they’d come together into the new British police service, Craddock and Munro had uncovered much that was odd and unexplained, and which, even in this rational, orderly world at the bureaucratic heart of Empire, remained an enigma. Not that the paranormal would be their main problem on this particular occasion.

  Munro couldn’t think about George Burnwood without a shudder. The mere look of the fellow was enough to send most men scrambling for cover: the thick, squat body; the ox-like shoulders; the hideous dome that was the huge, shaved head; the narrow piggy eyes in a face so heavy with bone, so criss-crossed by old scars that one could be forgiven for thinking it a theatrical mask. But if Burnwood was a thing of horror purely because of his appearance, his criminal record, which involved house-invasions, rapes, beatings and sadistic violence of every description, made him positively demonic. It was all the more confusing that he was intelligent – not just crafty and cunning, as so many of them were – but educated, erudite almost. Munro couldn’t fathom how such a creature had ever been created. He checked the Smith and Wesson in his greatcoat pocket; it was reassuringly weighty. When dealing with George Burnwood, one’s prime objective was not to make a clean and lawful arrest, but simply to survive.

  They reached the wreck, and, in the flickering torchlight, were able to look her over properly. The old vessel would certainly never sail again. For one thing, she was rudderless; for another, her monstrous anchor was sunk deep in the estuary floor; its gigantic iron cable, hung with dried seaweed, still rose taut to the hawse-holes under her bows. She was upright rather than tilted, her copper-plated keel buried in a furrow of its own making. Of her three masts, the foremast and the mizzen had long ago been removed. Only fragments of sails were visible. There was no figurehead, no ensign; no Union flag flew over her bows. It was doubtful of course that a flag of any description had flown there since her capture. Even during their heyday, these ships of shame had remained anonymous, bothersome blots on Britain’s idyllic shoreline.

  Many of the adaptations made to convert the Catherine-Maria from warrior-queen to floating jail were still recognisable. Her gun-ports had been closed off with iron bars, her hatches battened. From the few apertures remaining, streaks of filth and excrement still ran down the bulwarks. But if the officers had expected the nauseating stench they normally associated with prisons, they were to be pleasantly surprised. The Catherine-Maria was now odorous of the sea: a fresh tang of salt and kelp. The coastal wind blew here constantly, whistling through her many chinks, cleansing her of those older, fouler vapours?

  The hussars, though deployed in a wide circle, were clearly uneasy and keeping well back. Those few close by looked on with a mixture of fascination and dread. Munro watched the nervous men and their skittish steeds, then glanced up again at the ship. Ropes and chains swung idly; sailcloth snapped. Otherwise there was no sign of movement, and certainly no sound. With a loud, metallic click, Corporal Kenton closed the breech on his carbine. As before, he looked grim but untroubled by the prospect of what lay ahead.

  “You don’t believe the local ghost stories?” Munro asked him.

  “I believe only what I see, sir.”

  “Well, believe in George Burnwood. He can be very, very dangerous.”

  Kenton’s expression barely changed. “No worry, sir. I can be just that, myself.”

  Munro wanted to smile, but found that he couldn’t. There was something about the granite features and hard, dark eyes of Corporal Kenton that disconcerted him.

  Captain Ryland led them to the port side of the vessel, where a swathe of old netting hung from the gunwales, allowing clear if precarious access to her open upper decks.

  “There’s no gangplank anymore,” he explained, huddling into his cloak. “This is how what was left of her crew got off once she’d been towed inshore.” He looked at Craddock. “Got your lanterns?”

  The major nodded. Ryland had supplied each one of them with a small, portable oil-lamp, which could be clipped to a belt or harness – the sort colliers used when deep underground. It was a basic tool at the best of times, and it seemed to add insult to injury that, in such a dread situation, this was the most the soldier could bring himself to do for them. But they weren’t in a position to argue.

  Ryland stepped backwards. “She’s all yours.”

  The major signaled the other three to foll
ow him.

  “Oh, major?”

  Craddock glanced back.

  Ryland shrugged. “If you do manage to flush them out, be assured – we’ll be ready.”

  Craddock considered this. Then he turned and, without a word, commenced the long climb to the quarter-deck.

  Once on board, they lit their lanterns. Away from the torch-carrying troops, it was much darker, plus the footing was greasy and perilous. They then split into two search-parties. It was decided that Craddock would go with Palmer and head aft, while Munro and Kenton would go fore. But before they went their separate ways, they surveyed the bleak upper echelons of the Catherine-Maria.

  Few of the original ‘warship’ fittings remained. On the quarter-deck, which was at the stern of the vessel, and the second highest of the decks, old breastworks were still in evidence – temporary walls along the tops of the gunwales, once formed by stuffing rolled-up hammocks into metal frames. The frames, rusted with age, were all that remained, though, below these, shot-racks were also visible. Otherwise the deck was bare – sodden planking scored with runnels made by the long vanished gun-carriages.

  They descended a narrow stairway to the upper gun-deck, where they saw that the ship’s wheel had been sawn off at the base, leaving a rotten stump. The wooden cradles, on which the lifeboats had rested, were so long in disuse that they’d turned green and pulpy. Contrastingly, the ship’s ‘penal’ fittings were still much on display. Hatches were covered with heavy iron gratings, many still padlocked. To starboard, there were three pairs of timber beams, each pair lashed together, forming a trio of wooden triangles. Evidently, these were flogging frames. Their presence only added to the aura of desolation, which, up here on the open decks – exposed to the moonless night and the raw, gusting wind – was particularly potent. Munro felt a sudden yearning for the warmth and firelight of the tavern.

  Major Craddock now doffed his topper. “The gangways below will be low-roofed. And it’s likely we’ll need to be nimble.”