by Dudley Pope
‘Sit down or Maxton’ll slit your windpipe.’
It gave Jackson a moment to think, but nothing came.
Harris sat down, gabbling almost incoherently.
‘So help me, Jackson, it’s mutiny! Rising against the captain and taking the ship into a French port – what else do you call that? What d’you think the French’ll do? They won’t give you a big sack of golden louis as a reward: they daren’t – else every ship in the French Fleet would mutiny! Don’t you see that, you crazy oaf?’
For a moment Jackson felt real fear: fear that he had made a complete mistake. Then he thought he began to understand Harris’ words. He wasn’t sure of the details, but Dyson’s expression made him wonder; and Brookland’s, too.
Both of them should have been nodding, even shouting, to back up what Harris just said – if they agreed with him and were against a mutiny. Instead, they were lying there sullen and silent. Either they disagreed or they didn’t care. He decided to back his own guess.
‘Maxie,’ he said pointing at Harris, ‘this man’s guilty of disrespect. Just take him outside for a few minutes will you?’
As soon as the door shut behind them, Jackson suddenly stepped over and seized Dyson. Hauling him to his feet, he slapped him hard across the face, jabbing his knee into his groin before letting him collapse to the deck.
The attack was so sudden that Rossi, momentarily thinking Dyson had made the first move, crouched with his knife ready.
Dyson, lying curled up like a whipped dog cowering in a corner, stared up at Jackson.
‘Get up!’ the American snapped.
‘Not bloody likely; I’m staying ’ere. You wouldn’t hit a man when he’s down.’
‘Don’t be too sure.’
With that, Jackson kicked him in the ribs. It wasn’t a hard kick, but there was very little flesh on Dyson’s bones, and he staggered to his feet.
‘What’s it all about?’ he gasped. ‘Why pick on me?’
‘Dyson, you are going to talk to me. A nice friendly little chat. You’re going to tell me part of your life story – beginning from the minute I came on board with the rest of the Livelies.’
‘Oh no, I’m not!’
Jackson held out first the rum bottle and then the belaying pin.
‘Like a drink, Dyson?’
The cook’s mate shook his head.
‘I should, Dyson. It helps with the pain.’
‘Haven’t got any pain,’ the man said, like a sulky child.
‘You haven’t – yet.’
Jackson’s drawl began to sound like the teeth of a saw dragged across metal.
‘Not yet, Dyson. But in the next hour, you greasy little runt, you’re going to have so much pain you’re going to be begging me to kill you off to put you out of your misery.’
‘But why pick on me,’ Dyson whined. ‘It was Brooky – cut ’im up instead. Brooky started it all. Yes’ – he seized at the idea – ‘’e’s your man, not me!’
Jackson paused. Brookland? He was sure Dyson hadn’t suddenly named the foretopman to protect Harris: he was so frightened it was much more likely he’d name the real leader to save his own skin. But where did Harris fit in? Why was Harris yapping about the dangers of mutiny – Harris of all people?
Well, if Brookland was the ringleader he wouldn’t reveal anything that’d incriminate himself, and anything Harris had to say was likely to confuse the situation even more. No, Dyson was the man to tell the tale.
‘Dyson, my greasy little friend, it doesn’t matter who we start with because you’re all going the same way home. So brace up that tongue of yours and get under way.’
The man wiped his brow. Already white-faced, his skin now seemed sweat-sodden and turning grey. Glancing up, he saw the American’s eyes, began to say something and then held his hands out helplessly and looked down again.
Jackson said, ‘Rosey, put the lantern over there.’
Dyson watched the Italian take a couple of paces to the corner, put down the lantern, and return to face Jackson, who said in an off-hand tone: ‘Rosey, just cut off the top joint of his right index finger.’
Dyson gave a little scream and sat on his hands as Rossi turned towards him. In the moment’s silence that followed, Jackson said: ‘Wait a second…’
He held out his own left hand and with the right index finger touched each joint.
‘…That’s fourteen chops for each hand. I say, Rosey, that’s twenty-eight and’ – he glanced down at his bare feet – ‘about ten for each foot. Forty-eight: it’s going to take time. You’d better give him a drink first. Change your mind, Slushy?’
But the man had fainted. Jackson went to the door and called to Maxton.
‘Bring Harris back in here, Maxie, and take out Brookland.’
As he waited, Jackson glanced over at the bloodstained top-man. There was fear in his eyes: bottomless fear, the kind of fear found only in a real coward, for it had paralysed him. He could no longer move a muscle even to save his life.
Maxton had to drag him out of the tiny room and Jackson waved Harris over to where he had originally been sitting on bread bags, and prodded Dyson, who was beginning to stir, with his foot.
As soon as he could see Dyson had recovered sufficiently to know what was happening round him, he said to Harris: ‘I’ve brought you in to watch a cook’s mate being butchered. Should be interesting. Think of all the chickens whose necks he’s wrung. All those pigs and cows he’s slaughtered and cut up…’
Since another of a cook’s mate’s duties was to act as slaughterer of a ship’s livestock, the irony of the remark was not lost on Harris who began to say something, but Jackson held up his hand.
‘Your turn for a farewell speech will come, Harris. Until then, one word out of you and I’ll let Maxie get to work. Now, Dyson, you feeling better?’
Dyson nodded, then shook his head violently. Too violently, in fact, because he had to close his eyes as the cabin began to spin. Jackson hoisted him to his feet and flung him back so he was sprawled across the bread beside Harris, but with his back to him.
‘As you seem to be a bit squeamish, Dyson, I’ll give you one more chance to start telling your tale. Otherwise Rosey begins to chop.’
The cook’s mate glared at him and muttered a filthy oath. Jackson motioned to Rossi but before the Italian could step forward Dyson held up both hands, as if to ward him off, and whined, ‘All right, all right, give me time!’
He took a few deep breaths and, staring down at the deck, said: ‘Well, at Spithead we Tritons was just like all the rest of the Fleet. Yes, we’d mutinied because of conditions – and the Lively did the same.
‘Then half the Tritons get sent to the Lively and you lot are transferred. Well, that didn’t mean nuthin’ to us because the Fleet’s working together. Then that Mr Southwick comes out. All right, we let him on board – not many ships would ’ave allowed that, and you know it, but ’e seemed an ’armless old coot.
‘That was our mistake, because next day along comes Mr Ramage. Well, we still didn’t suspect nothin’. We’d ’eard about him and the Kathleen at Cape St Vincent and reckoned the Admirality had given ’im command of the Triton as a sort o’ reward.
‘The next bit you know: ’e tells us to weigh and we won’t – none o’ the rest of the Fleet would ’ave done, an’ you know it. So ’e suddenly cuts the cable and we ’ave to make sail to keep off that shoal. Well, that wasn’t fair: ’e ’ad no right to risk drownding the lot of us. When we found out we’re supposed to be bound for a long voyage, we decided the best thing to do was to take the ship back to Spit’ead and be along with our mates in the Fleet.’
Jackson nodded, as if waiting for him to continue.
‘Well, that’s all there is to it.’
‘No, it’s not – let’s have the whole story, Dyson. Did everyone in the ship agree with you?’
‘Well, not quite everyone. You, Rossi, Stafford, Evans, Fuller, that West Indian fellow – ’course you wouldn�
�t ’ave done: that’s why you weren’t told about it.’
‘And the rest from the Lively – were they asked?’
‘Not all of ’em, no,’ Dyson admitted.
‘Any of them? Even one man?’
Dyson shifted uneasily. ‘Well, they wouldn’t ’ave tried to stop us.’
‘How did you word the question?’
‘Just asked ’em.’
‘You didn’t say something like, “If you won’t join us, just keep out of the way – or you’ll get knifed in your hammocks!”?’
‘Well, we ’ad to protect ourselves in case any of them went running to the captain. Stands to reason,’ Dyson said defiantly.
‘So you threatened to murder your shipmates in their hammocks if they stayed loyal to their captain – a captain who’s the finest in the service – and refused to mutiny?’
Dyson said nothing and Jackson suddenly wheeled on Harris.
‘You knew better. You’re educated, not an ignorant peasant like Dyson. Why did you plan all this?’
The suddenness of the attack had just the effect Jackson hoped.
‘I didn’t, you damned fool! I was trying to stop them. I…’
‘Go on, Harris.’
‘I’ve nothing to say. Except you’re worse. You shouldn’t talk about loyalty – Mr Ramage’s a stranger to us. You lot are supposed to be the ones who fought alongside him. But what are you doing now? Mutinying and taking the ship over to the French!’
The man made no attempt to hide his contempt.
‘You’re worse than mutineers; you’re a bunch of traitors – traitors to your country and, what’s worse, traitors to the man who trusted you. A good man: a man who can understand another man.’
Although Jackson did not know what Harris meant by the last few words, he’d at last got at the truth of it. Just a few more details to fill in the gaps.
‘Dyson, you’re a dead fish, but I’ll give you a choice. I’ll have you killed quickly and painlessly if you answer two questions truthfully. If you don’t, or if you lie, you’ll start dying in a couple of minutes and Rossi and Maxton’ll be finishing you off at sundown tomorrow.’
‘What d’you want ter know?’ Dyson croaked.
‘Who were the real ringleaders of this mutiny?’
‘Brookland’s the ringleader. He thought of it first. Oh, what’s the good, Harris’ll split on me, and I might as well get the credit that’s due. Brookland thought of it, yes; but I was the brains. I, the one and only Slushy Dyson, who can’t read nor write did the planning. Brookland couldn’t plan how to divide fifty-eight pieces of salt beef into fifty-eight mess bags.’
Jackson nodded.
‘Second question. Are there any others you could call ringleaders? No, put it another way: if you and Brookland are out of the way, will there still be a mutiny in the Triton?’
‘Not on your life,’ Dyson said contemptuously. ‘Not a chance. Sheep they are; worse than sheep. You could let Brookland go free, you lot could swim to the shore, and there still wouldn’t be a mutiny without me to lead it.’
‘You’re a clever fellow, Dyson.’
‘No, not clever. Just sick of salt beef and salt pork in port when we could ’ave fresh meat and fresh vegetables. Just sick of spending years in a ship and never a day’s leave. I ain’t seen me wife fer three years. There’s four kids I ’aven’t seen fer three years – and one kid I ain’t never seen. He was born a fortnight after the press-gang caught me.
‘Four daughters – that’s seven years we’d ’oped and prayed for a son. Then I get took up by the press afore I even see ’im.
‘Listen, you skinny Yankee, you don’t know what it’s like. In the last two years I’ve spent five months, two weeks and three days in Portsmouth. Me wife and kids are in Bristol. Did I ever get a week’s leave ter go ter Bristol? No – most I’ve ever ’ad is four hours for a run on shore. And ’ave you ever tried to keep an ’ome and feed six mouths on a cook’s mate’s pay?
‘Afore the press took me up I ’ad a pie shop. I made good pies. I made good money. What my old lady wanted, she ’ad – within reason, anyway.
‘But when the price of flour went up, so did the price of my pies. So did the wages of farm workers, builder’s men an’ the rest. But what about the seamen? Their pay ’asn’t gorn up since the days of Charley the Second, and if you don’t know the date I’ll tell yer – 1650. Just short of a hundred an’ fifty years ago.
‘When did the price of flour last go up? An’ bread? Seven weeks ago, and fer the eighth time since the beginning of the war.
‘You really call it mutiny, Jackson? Honestly? D’you blame the men at Spit’ead? You really blame me for wantin’ to get the Triton back there, so we stand four square with the Fleet and get our rights? You really blame me? Anyway, I don’t give tuppence worth of cold slush whether you do or you don’t: just kill me quick and bolt fer France an’ give Boney my compliments an’ tell him I ’ope he straps you down on the gilloting as soon as you step on shore.
‘An’ just one more thing. I expect you’ll ’ave ter kill Mr Ramage – in fact yer must ’ave done that already, and Mr Southwick, or they’d ’ave been down ’ere afore now. Well, that’s up to the Kathleens but I’ll tell you wiv me dying breath that our ’ands wouldn’t ’ave been as dirty as yours: we weren’t going to ’arm an ’air on their eads, and that’s God’s truth.
‘Now’ – he tore open his shirt and turned to face Rossi, who was still holding his knife – ‘let’s get it over with.’
Jackson swung his belaying pin and Dyson collapsed unconscious.
‘Fetch Brookland,’ he told Stafford.
As soon as the whimpering man was dragged into the breadroom a second blow with the belaying pin left him unconscious beside Dyson.
‘Maxie, Rossi – guard ’em. Harris, and you, Staff, come with me.’
He left the breadroom, groped his way along the passage to the ladder leading to the breadroom scuttle, and climbed up to the wardroom.
CHAPTER SIX
Ramage turned the chair round and sat down wearily, an arm resting on the desk. The tan from the days in the Mediterranean had gone; now his face was pale, emphasizing the black smudges under his eyes. The newer scar over his right brow was still a livid mark made worse by his habit of rubbing the older one beside it. Jackson realized he must have been rubbing it a lot tonight as he tried to puzzle out what was happening.
The American, watching him closely for the first time for many weeks, realized he now looked much older. It wasn’t a question of age, really. In the Mediterranean he’d still been a lad; now he was a young man. There was a definite change; a maturing, perhaps.
But what now surprised and worried Jackson was that he sensed that somehow the captain had lost – what was it? Zest? Jackson wasn’t sure precisely what ‘zest’ meant, but further speculation was interrupted by Ramage, who said quietly: ‘Well, Jackson, make your report.’
‘There’s no fear of a mutiny tonight, sir – I’m pretty sure of that much. Nor any other night for that matter.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘We’ve got the two leaders under guard.’
Ramage felt almost too disheartened to ask their names. He’d been sure he’d persuaded Harris to be sensible, but obviously the man had completely fooled him. Now Ramage felt sick – not over a seaman betraying him, but because he’d been sure the man wouldn’t: he’d made an almost fatal mistake in judging a man’s character, and good captains couldn’t afford such mistakes – unless, he thought mirthlessly, he had a cox’n like Jackson. ‘I trust the “guests” are comfortable in the breadroom.’
‘Comfortable as we could make them, sir.’
Ramage had to know sooner or later. ‘Who are they?’
‘The cook’s mate, “Slushy” Dyson, and a foretopman called Brookland.’
‘Only two? I thought I saw you – er, helping – three down the companionway.’
Jackson grinned. ‘One was a mistake
, sir.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Harris, sir. The man you spoke to yesterday morning.’
Was it only yesterday morning? It seemed months ago.
‘Why did you suspect him? And why are you now so sure he’s innocent?’
Jackson described the events of the past hour in detail. He made no secret of how he’d made a mistake about Harris; nor did he fail to make Ramage laugh with the story of Harris’ own mistake in thinking that Jackson was leading a mutiny of the ex-Kathleens. He related almost word for word Harris’ savage condemnation of Jackson for betraying not just his lawful captain but a man who’d earned, by his own bravery, the allegiance of the Kathleens.
Ramage nodded, embarrassed but impressed.
‘We’ve got ourselves into a pretty pickle, Jackson.’
‘How so, sir?’
Ramage felt too tired to go through everything twice but he wanted to hear Jackson’s reactions.
‘My compliments to Mr Southwick, Jackson, and if it’s convenient to leave Mr Appleby at the conn, tell him I’d like to see him. By the way, where’s Harris?’
‘Stafford’s guarding him, sir. In the wardroom – forward, he can’t overhear anything.’
Southwick was soon sitting by the table, blinking in the light of the lantern, and quickly Ramage related the position.
As soon as he’d finished, Southwick looked up at Jackson and said with such sincerity that his massive tactlessness was not noticed. ‘You might be a Jonathan, m’lad, but you’re a credit to the Service!’
‘I agree,’ Ramage interposed, ‘but for the moment we have problems.’
‘Problems maybe,’ Southwick said breezily, ‘but no mutiny!’
‘But problems all the same. Dyson and Brookland are mutineers pure and simple. Court martial and sentence of death. Jackson, Stafford, Maxton, Rossi and either you or me required as witnesses. It’d have to be at Plymouth and that means a delay of – well, three or four days, and we can’t be sure there aren’t more mutineers there who’d stop us sailing again. And then there’s Harris–’
‘But Harris didn’t–’ Jackson interjected but Ramage raised a hand to silence him.