by Dudley Pope
‘Not the officers, the way you mean it. Just Mr Ramage and Mr Southwick. If it was anyone else it’d be different.’
‘Yus, s’pose that’s it. But wot abaht the rest of the Kathleens – why the ’ell can’t they make up their pudden minds?’
‘They have,’ Jackson said shortly. ‘They’re for Mr Ramage – but they can do arithmetic, too. They just look at the few men on one side and three dozen on the other. I’ll bet everyone of ’em is thinking of the chap in the next hammock, if he’s a Triton. Every one of ’em knows a Triton’s only got to reach over in the dark with a knife in his hand… If it was just a question of those for Mr Ramage lining up on the larboard gangway and those against him on the starboard, then you could count on ’em coming out in the open.’
‘Well, looks as if you an’ me and Rossi and the uvvers’d better stay aft ternight.’
‘Can’t – they’d see we weren’t in our hammocks and know a mutiny was expected. We’ve got to avoid bloodshed.’
‘Well then, fink o’ sumfink else,’ Stafford said impatiently.
‘I’m trying to, but you keep nagging at me. Hey! Remember what Mr Ramage always says – “Use surprise”. Like he did with the San Nicolas – and today, cutting the anchor cable?’
‘Yus, but ’e’d got a haxe – aye, an‘’e knew ’e ’ad a cable to cut. Where’s our cable? Wot’ve we got fer a haxe?’
‘I don’t know, but we’re thinking the wrong way. We’re thinking of defending the quarterdeck against these mad bastards. We’ve got to attack first.’
‘Ho yus, I’m all fer that. One glorious charge from one end of the lower deck ter the uvver, choppin’ all their big toes orf wiv a tommyhawk an’ smacking their ’ands wiv the flat of a cutlass blade an’ tellin‘’em to be’ave. Yus, that’s a real good plan, Jacko. Extra tot fer you, me lad.’
‘Oh stow it,’ Jackson said wearily. ‘As a crowd they don’t count; they can’t even talk without leaders, let alone do anything. One leader, anyway; that fellow Harris.’
‘Two others as well.’
‘Oh? Who?’
‘The cook’s mate and the captain o’ the foretop.’
‘I’ve been wondering about them. Any others?’
‘I’m not sure, but they’re the ones that matter. I saw ’em clacking away at dinner. They’re all in number six mess.’
‘Three of them,’ mused Jackson. ‘So the odds are on our side – unless we wait too long.’
‘What the ’ell you talkin’ about? Odds are on our side? That’s as likely as rum comin’ from Aldgate Pump!’
‘Six of us against three of them.’
‘Three of – oh, I see. We gets ’em on their own. Cor, Jacko, you’ve–’
‘Keep your voice down – and keep still!’
‘Yes. Listen Jacko, maybe it’s even easier’n you think. That Rossi, he moves like a cat an’ he’s diabulolical with a knife–’
‘Diabolical.’
‘S’wot I said. An’ Maxton, ’e’s the same. If ’e luffs up to weather o’ bruvver ‘Arris an’ Rossi to loo’ard, an’ each of ’em gently tickles ’is ribs wiv a knife, an’ makes ’im swear he–’
‘What? That won’t stop ’em mutinying tonight, will it? Making Harris and his two mates swear to be good boys! You think they’d keep their promises?’
‘Yes,’ Stafford muttered dejectedly. ‘No, I mean, yer can’t trust no one, an’ that’s a fact.’
‘Fact.’
‘Fact,’ Stafford repeated automatically. ‘Orlright, Jacko, what’s ’appened to our odds, then?’
Jackson looked at his fingertips and then scratched his head.
‘Put yourself in the Tritons’ places. They suddenly find out the three men who’re supposed to lead the mutiny when it gets dark have disappeared. Like that. Magic. One minute they’re there, next minute they’ve gone. Vanished. Not even a puff of smoke. What’d you do?’
‘Stay in me ’ammick an’ keep me bleedin‘’ead down,’ Stafford said promptly.
‘Me too. So brother Harris and the other two must vanish. No noise, no puff of smoke. Just vanish.’
‘Over the side?’
‘There’s got to be no bloodshed, Staff. This is going to be a long voyage. Once we’re over this bit o’ trouble, we’ve got to mess with these jokers. They’ll forget all about it, once they’re down south in the sunshine. No, they’ve got to vanish just long enough for us to get the rest of the Kathleens out in the open – so the Tritons can see it’s no go.’
‘But they’ll get another chance unless we make ’Arris into shark bait.’
‘No – after that we leave it to Mr Ramage.’
‘What’ll ’e do?’
‘I don’t know. He’ll do something, though.’
Then, keeping his voice low, the American explained his plan.
While Southwick was on watch Ramage sat at his desk with a large sheet of lined paper in front of him which was divided into many columns, and the muster book was open beside him, giving the name of every man in the ship. He’d written ‘General Quarter, Watch and Station Bill’ across the top of the page and now, without knowing anything about more than half the men, had to fill in the rest of it.
It took more than an hour to complete because each man had several different tasks, depending on whether the ship was weighing anchor; setting, reefing or furling sails; going into battle or going into harbour.
Each man was given a number, and the completed bill listed all the tasks to be carried out in the course of various evolutions with a number beside each of them.
To make sure he hadn’t made any mistakes, Ramage chose a number at random and checked it on the bill. Number eight – he was in the larboard watch; in battle he was one of the two loaders at number five carronade on the larboard side; he was one of the boarding party, and under arms had a cutlass and tomahawk; when furling or reefing sails he worked on the foretopsail, but when the order was given to loose sails – which needed fewer men – his post was at the capstan ready to weigh anchor. When the brig tacked or wore, he would be down on deck, hauling on the bowlines, trimming the sail…
Ramage’s eye ran across the line. No, number eight was not expected to be in two or three places at once – the usual mistake made when drawing up a new bill. He chose other numbers, checked them, and found they were correct. So Southwick could read it to the men before evening quarters.
No – on second thoughts there’d be no evening quarters! For the moment he wanted to avoid giving any orders to the whole ship’s company because it gave them a chance to defy him. Orders to a few men at a time, yes; to a group, no.
In the meantime copies of the bill could be made, ready to be pinned up where the men could read them.
He called for his clerk, gave the instructions, and then sat back in the chair, his feet up on the desk, rubbing the scar on his brow.
Southwick was right: if the men planned anything, it’d happen tonight. It’d be silent and swift. He, Southwick and Appleby would be killed – the mutineers wouldn’t dare let them stay alive. Even handing them over to the French authorities as prisoners would be too dangerous because prisoners were often exchanged. Mutineers might get caught – serving in a French warship, in a privateer, maybe in a fishing boat. And an exchanged prisoner would give damning evidence at the court martial…
He, Southwick and Appleby could – no they couldn’t; there was no way of training a carronade forward so the recoil wouldn’t hurl it through the transom into the sea. And it was the wheel, the quarterdeck, that had to be defended. Not because they could steer the ship if the mutineers wanted to prevent them – all they had to do was cut the tiller ropes, brace the yards round or even furl the sails. But as long as Ramage could himself destroy the wheel and compass, he could stop the mutineers steering for France until they’d completed lengthy repairs. But, but, but…he was fooling himself. The three of them could do nothing that mattered much; nothing the mutineers couldn’t make good in a few hours.
And there was nothing he could do beforehand. He was checkmated by pawns.
Ramage sat up with a start, then recognized Southwick’s characteristic rat-tat-tat, rat-tat knock on the door. As soon as he came in Ramage pointed to the chair by the table.
‘Trouble, sir,’ the old man announced, running his hands through the white hair which, freed from the confines of his hat, sprang out over his head like a new mop. ‘I don’t know what it is but…’
He stood up and opened the door suddenly, looking to see if anyone was outside eavesdropping.
He sat down again. ‘Sorry, sir. But Jackson’s passed me a weird message for you. As near as I can recall, tonight he wants you to keep people away from the companionway, keep the wardroom door shut, and keep everyone – including yourself, sir – clear of the breadroom scuttle because there’ll be three guests in the breadroom tonight. Oh yes, and he’d be glad for you to find ’em there in the morning an’ take the necessary action. It sounds balmy,’ Southwick added, ‘but he isn’t drunk sir – leastways, I don’t think he is. And that reminds me, he said could you leave a bottle or two of rum by the breadroom scuttle, and a lantern.’
‘That’s all he said?’
‘That’s all, sir,’ Southwick said, pulling his nose. ‘When I eased over close to ask what he was talking about – there were several men around – Stafford whispered something about the cook’s mate keeping too close under their lee to say any more.’
‘Pour yourself a drink if you wish,’ Ramage said, waving at the sideboard.
‘I’ll join you in one, sir.’
‘Not for me, thanks.’
‘Don’t think I will, then: we’ve got to keep our wits about us tonight. Oh yes, sorry, I did forget something. Stafford said they’d be obliged, begging our pardon, if we’d please get the surgeon tipsy and making as much noise as possible from the time “Lights out” is piped.’
Ramage picked up the pen and scratched the scars on his forehead with the end of the quill. Wardroom door shut – that’d be so no one from forward, where the Marines and ship’s company slung their hammocks, could see into the wardroom (or see the scuttle, which was in the wardroom). Guests in the breadroom…a bottle or two of rum by the scuttle? Maybe Jackson and Stafford were going to hide there for the night. But why the rum? No – it couldn’t be those two since whoever they were, they had to be found in the morning and he had to ‘take the necessary action’.
Southwick suddenly thumped the table with his fist and growled: ‘Why the hell can’t they tell us straight out what’s going on?’
‘Those two have a reason all right, though I can’t think what it is. But it all points to me not doing or knowing anything until I find the “guests” tomorrow morning. It could mean that if the mutineers suspected I knew anything tonight, Jackson and Stafford would be in danger. Or couldn’t do whatever they’re planning.’
‘Well, I only hope the reasons are good. Good grief, four or five men in the breadroom would pack it tight. And bottles of rum – they going to have a party down there?’
Ramage laughed. ‘I think Jackson’s using the word “guests” loosely. And one or two bottles can’t mean many “guests”.’
‘Why the breadroom, though?’
‘Where else could you lock up men where their shouts wouldn’t be heard by the ship’s company? Both the bosun’s store and for’rard sailrooms are just below where the men sleeping forward sling their hammocks. Same goes for the dry room and coals stowage. The big sailroom’s amidships and everyone would hear. Shot locker’s too small, you can’t lock it up, and it’s right under the Marines. Spirit room – hardly appropriate. Magazine – not a very safe place from your point of view, most of it’s under your cabin! But the breadroom – well, that’s right under here.’ He pointed downwards. ‘No one who’s been planning mischief and was locked in there would want to shout too much and wake the captain, would he? And the advantage is that you can only get to it through the wardroom, where the scuttle is. And both scuttle and the breadroom door can be secured. And with that blasted surgeon serenading his bottles, none of the ship’s company would hear…’
‘Hmm. Yes, that’s a point. Why the rum, though. Reward?’
‘I don’t understand that. Jackson hardly drinks. Nor does Stafford. A couple of bottles – well, it’s worth it.’
The Master stood up ready to go back on deck.
‘By the way, Mr Southwick, no evening muster. Supper’ – he looked at his watch – ‘at the usual time, in half an hour. Pipe “Down hammocks” at seven, an hour early, and “Ship’s company’s fire and lights out” at seven-thirty.’
‘But – no evening muster, sir! Is that wise? I mean, the–’
‘For the moment, I don’t want to give the men an opportunity to make a mass refusal to carry out an order. Lights out earlier than usual may upset any plans they have. Anyway, it’ll leave them puzzled about what we might be up to. Particularly since we’re up to nothing.’
‘Aye, there’s that to it,’ Southwick admitted. ‘Any special night orders?’
‘No, just the usual – sharp lookout; all changes of wind, alterations in course and so on to be reported to me. But I’ll be on deck with you until the “guests” have arrived. Don’t wear a brace of pistols too obviously… And I’d enjoy your company at breakfast. Ask Appleby too. The invitation doesn’t apply to our heirs, though, should anything go wrong…’
CHAPTER FIVE
Rossi and Maxton listened carefully in the darkness as Jackson explained the plan. The three men were sitting on the coaming of the forehatch with Stafford below at the foot of the ladder beside the dim lantern, stitching a tear in his shirt and, to an onlooker, standing there to catch the light.
‘A pleasure,’ Rossi said when Jackson finished. ‘Much pleasure. But this much I know; it’s better to make the finish. Dead men make no troubles; live men make much unhappiness.’
‘Yes, Rosey, I know,’ Jackson said patiently. ‘But we’ve got to treat ’em like drunks – you know, as soon as they sober up they’re sorry.’
‘Drunks? Who say they is drunk? They’s as sober as I is – was – I am.’
‘No, I mean once we get clear of the Channel they’ll forget the mutiny. We’ve got a long way to sail with these men; better not to antagonize them.’
‘Antagonize? I don’t understand this word – but–’
‘Look, Rosey,’ Jackson said quietly, using the one argument he knew would convince the Italian, ‘this way is better for Mr Ramage. You understand?’
‘All right, all right,’ Rossi said reluctantly. ‘Now Maxie, you are understanding?’
The West Indian grinned as he nodded.
Jackson said, ‘All right then, that’s settled. You take care of Harris and the second one – what’s his name? Yes, Brookland – as soon after the change of watch as you can. Remember, Harris is the lookout at the starboard chains and Brookland’s the same to larboard. We’ll just have to wait for the cook’s mate, Dyson, to come up on deck to talk to ’em. I’ll make sure the top of the companionway’s clear.’
‘Yaas, Jacko,’ Maxton said in his smooth, sing-song voice.
‘We’ll keep a watch for Dyson. The advantage of being a coloured gennelman is no one sees me in the dark.’
‘Unless you open your mouth,’ Jackson said. ‘Those teeth of yours show up like a couple of rows of white marble tombstones.’
Below them Stafford swore violently as though he had pricked a finger and the three men stopped talking at this pre-arranged warning.
Jackson glanced down and, seeing Dyson pass Stafford and begin to climb the ladder, stood up and stepped back quietly. Pointing down, he hissed: ‘Dyson! Get him now!’
The American hated sudden last minute changes in plan, but as an ‘idler’ who kept no watch, working only during the day, Dyson had no reason to come on deck after dark and this might be their only chance.
Before the man’s head was level with the coaming Jackson was sauntering aft
, his slow gait belying the tension that gripped him, making sure there were no seamen between the forehatch and the companionway.
Hell! The two men at the wheel! They were Tritons and they’d be standing not more than a dozen feet from the companion. Jackson quickened his pace, praying that the Master or Mr Ramage would be near the wheel. As he walked he eased out the belaying pin which had been tucked down the side of his trousers.
There were two shadowy figures forward of the wheel. Seamen or – no, he recognized Mr Ramage’s cocked hat outlined against the slightly lighter horizon.
‘Captain, sir!’ he said loudly just as he was abreast the capstan.
Ramage recognized Jackson’s voice at once, guessed there was a particular reason why he called while several feet away and at once began walking towards him with Southwick following.
‘Captain here – that you, Jackson?’
‘Aye, sir. Thought I saw something over there on the starboard bow…’ As he reached Ramage he pushed him gently backwards. ‘…A fishing boat or something.’
Ramage clutched Southwick’s arm and pulled him back, too, letting Jackson position them where he wanted.
The Master was quick enough to recall Jackson was not on watch.
‘Lookouts haven’t reported it yet,’ he growled. ‘Suppose you were just leaning on the rail thinking o’ some doxy in Portsmouth. I can’t see anything.’
Both Ramage and Southwick felt Jackson give them a warning touch and saw him turn away towards the approaching group.
‘Damned fellow’s probably drunk.’ Ramage commented loudly, nudging the Master again. ‘I can’t see anything either.’
‘Disgraceful,’ Southwick growled. ‘Dangerous having a fellow walking round the ship imagining things. Remember I once had a drunken sailor sitting out on the bowsprit-end in the dark pretending he was Commodore Nelson in another ship and shouting we’d collide. Gave a damned good imitation of the Commodore’s voice, too: fooled me completely – I dam’ nearly tacked: quite thought we were in for a collision.’