A Private Revenge

by Richard Woodman

  Thirty thousand sterling!

  No wonder Morris had been imprecise about the amount, for its enormity was a measure of his consummate folly. Morris had wished to make trouble, to discredit Drinkwater and, like a good puppet-master, pull strings to rob his enemy of influence in London. Recovering his spirits, Drinkwater thought there was an ironical satisfaction in this line of reasoning, a grimly humorous if somewhat chilly comfort. Providence, it seemed, had failed them both.

  'Devil take it,' he murmured reaching for his hat, 'but it argues powerfully for the bugger's cooperation.'

  And with that conclusion, Captain Drinkwater went more cheerfully on deck.

  'Red cutter's in sight, sir.'

  Drinkwater looked up from Hennessey's chart pinned to a board a-top the binnacle and covered the three yards to Quilhampton's side in an instant. The lieutenant had his eye screwed to the long-glass, bracing its weight against a mizen backstay as Patrician, her main topsail backed to the mast, lay hove to off the Borneo coast. It was the second week of their search and January was already over. Another hot and almost windless day had dawned. There was barely enough movement in the air to press the heavy canvas against the main-top and the sea was flat, metallic and seemingly motionless, reflecting the refulgence of the sun.

  Drinkwater stared in the direction of Quilhampton's telescope. He could just make out the wavering quadrilateral of the red cutter's lugsail as she cleared the Sarebas River. The estuary was invisible from this distance.

  'Damn coast looks all the same,' Drinkwater muttered. 'Is she signalling?'

  'Not at the moment ... I think they're trimming the sheets, sir.'

  Even from the mastheads the entrance of the creeks and obscure rivers that wound their way into the interior were impossible to make out. There seemed no appreciable difference in the endless miles of coastline they had patiently worked along. Endless vistas of ragged-edged blue-green swamp formed an indeterminate littoral. Distant hills rose blue-green, climbing into rolling cloud, evidence of firm footing beyond the sub-aqueous morass of the swamp which lay steaming under the sun.

  'Cutter's signalling, sir ...'

  A tiny bubble of expectation formed in the pit of Drinkwater's stomach: perhaps this time ...?

  Drinkwater knew their chances of finding Guilford and Hindoostan had diminished to the point of impossibility. They would have been burnt, or disposed of by now.

  'Nothing to report.' Quilhampton lowered and closed the glass with a snap. The tiny, half-formed bubble in Drinkwater's gut burst. He felt the sun hot upon his shoulders. With every day that passed it had climbed further up the sky as it approached the equinox. Its relentless heat paralysed his will.

  'Make the signal for recall.'

  'Aye, aye, sir.'

  The bark of the carronade drawing attention to the numeral flag jerking aloft drew Morris on deck. With him came his helot, small and brown, near-naked, but for a loin-cloth and the jewelled turban.

  'No luck?' Morris asked.

  'No,' Drinkwater answered flatly.

  Morris met Drinkwater's eyes. The sight of Drinkwater's wilting resolve brought a thrill of both pleasure and sudden alarm to Morris. He had intended torture, but he must not lose the initiative. Drinkwater must not be driven to give up the search. Besides, he was as eager to reach the location of that mighty haul of specie as was Drinkwater! He bent over the chart, his fat, fleshy and glittering finger indicating a headland where the coast swung sharply east.

  'Tanjong Sirik, Captain,' he said, drawing Drinkwater's attention to the point. 'Our last hope is here, Sumpitan Creek, Blow-pipe Creek we called it, naming it for the ferocity of its inhabitants and their use of poisoned darts.'

  Drinkwater stared at the pointing finger. It was beautifully manicured and reminded Drinkwater of a fat Duchess's digit. More significantly, it pointed to a white blank on Hennessey's chart. Where the coast swung round Tanjong Sirik, a gap appeared, an area of unsurveyed coastline unknown to the Dutch hydrographers.

  'Into uncharted waters,' Drinkwater said ruminatively: a last chance. Morris had played his fish with infinite cunning. Drinkwater had will enough for one last throw.

  'Not quite, Captain,' Morris said in a low voice, 'perhaps uncharted, but not quite unknown.'

  Beyond Tanjong Sirik there was no mystery. The endless jungle of mangroves dipped south and seemed to disappear in an inlet beyond which it curved north and then eastward as far as the keenest eye at the masthead could discern. They passed small native praus and men fishing, and the smoking fires and atap-roofed huts on stilts which emerged like excrescences of the jungle itself. Small strips of sand with beached dugouts gave indications of firmer ground and the reason for these remote habitations, but of the mighty war-praus, the sea-going assault craft of the Sea-Dyaks called bankongs, there was no sign.

  Drinkwater had originally nursed some vague plan of coasting this wasteland in the hope of attracting attack, of appearing sufficiently like an Indiaman to mislead whatever lookout the putative pirates employed. But they were either nonexistent or knew full well that Patrician was no Indiaman, but a man-of-war. Not even the subterfuge of hoisting Dutch colours, resorted to two days ago, had made the slightest difference. Apart from the fisherfolk, the coast had remained obdurately uninhabited.

  As Patrician stood inshore, coasting slowly to the east of Tanjong Sirik, Drinkwater allowed Morris on the quarterdeck. The sun was westering and the blessed cool of evening was upon them. Morris scanned the line of the shore through his glass, his silk robe fluttering about his obese form.

  'Blow-pipe Creek lies to the southward,' Morris remarked.

  Drinkwater raised his glass and stared at the impenetrable barrier of the mangroves. He would give the game one last throw of the dice; one last opportunity to see if providence would change his luck. He had nothing to lose by sending the boats away for a final search before he admitted himself beaten. His only satisfaction was the knowledge that Morris, too, had failed.

  'You may bring the ship to an anchor here. It is good holding ground, if I recall correctly.'

  Drinkwater grunted assent and gave the requisite orders.

  Before the last of the daylight was leached out of the sky the launch and both cutters lay alongside, stores aboard and crews told off. The sentinels stood vigilant, their muskets loaded, primed and with fresh flints new-fitted, and the officers had been ordered to maintain a keen-eyed watch. Drinkwater was too old an officer, and too good a fencer, to sleep well with his guard down.

  He was very tired, tired beyond what the exertions of the day justified. Perhaps it was age, or the strain of rubbing shoulders with Morris in this quotidian way. Morris had proved an expert pilot for the place and, Drinkwater was reluctantly compelled to admit, appeared to have justified all his claims made at Penang. If only this were the place ...

  Drinkwater closed his eyes. The last thing he heard before sleep claimed him was the gentle knock of oars on thole pins as a guard boat rowed watch about the ship.

  He slept as he rarely slept, deeply. The near-silence of the anchored ship released his nerves so that nature overcame his seaman's instincts. He did not hear the sudden roar of torrential rain that abruptly opened like the sluice gates of heaven. It drowned the watch, the heavy drops bouncing off the wooden decks so that a ghostly mist seemed to rise a foot from the planking. It pummelled the toiling oarsmen in the guard boat that laboured the small hours through under Midshipman Dutfield's command, beating them into inactivity and forcing them to crouch, dull-witted in the drifting boat.

  It stopped almost as suddenly as it had begun. Those on duty gasped with the relief, blew the droplets off their noses and scraped back the hair from their foreheads, shivering in the chill. It was some time after the air cleared before anyone discovered what had happened under the cover of the downpour.

  It took Frey a further five full minutes to coax Drinkwater into wakefulness.

  'What is it?' Drinkwater was dazed by the depth of his sleep. '
Sir, the boats, the launch and cutters ...' 'What about them?' 'They are missing!'

  CHAPTER 15

  The Bronze-bound Chests

  February 1809

  'What?'

  Drinkwater was awake now, scrambling out of his cot and reaching for his breeches. 'Where's the guard boat? How the devil did the boats break adrift?'

  'They didn't, sir,' said Frey unhappily, 'they were cut adrift.'

  'Cut?' He paused, thinking furiously. There was little doubt but what that meant. 'Turn up the hands, muster the ship's company at once, and pass word for my coxswain!'

  Drinkwater finished dressing as Patrician came alive to the shouts and pipings of the duty bosun's mate. Two hours before dawn her people were hustled unceremoniously out of their hammocks.

  'Pass word for my coxswain!' Drinkwater roared the command at the bulkhead and heard it taken up by the sentry beyond. He cast angrily about for a lost shoe. Mullender answered the summons.

  'I sent for Tregembo, man, not you!'

  Mullender's face seemed to tremble in the lantern light. The cares of endless servitude had removed all traces of individuality from its customary mien so that Drinkwater took his distress for a trick of the guttering flame he held up.

  'S ... sir ...' Mullender was stuttering, a blob of saliva gleaming wetly on his stubbled chin.

  'What the hell is it?' Drinkwater spotted the lost shoe and bent to pull it on.

  'Tregembo, sir ...'

  Drinkwater stood. The ship was growing quiet again, evidence that her company were standing shivering on deck.

  'Well?'

  In a moment Frey or Dutfield would come down and report the lower deck cleared.

  'He's missing, sir.'

  'What d'you mean he's missing? How the devil d'you know?'

  Cut boat-painters, deserters, Tregembo missing ... what the deuce did it mean? They were taking a damned long time to count heads. How many had run?

  Suddenly he had no more patience to wait the conventional summons. Shoving poor Mullender aside he made for the ladder.

  He met Fraser in the act of turning from the last divisional report.

  'Ship's company all accounted for, sir, except Mullender and Tregembo.'

  'Mullender's in my cabin ...'

  The dark pits of Fraser's eyes stared from the pale oval of his face. Was Fraser implying Tregembo had absconded? Slashed the painters of the boats and disappeared? What was it the orientalists called it? Running amok ... had Tregembo run amok?

  'Are you certain you have accounted for every man? In this darkness one could answer for another.'

  'Certain, sir. I've had the divisional officers check each man individually.'

  That accounted for the delay. But Drinkwater was too dumbfounded to accept Tregembo was responsible. He opened his mouth to inveigh against the inefficiency of the guard boat when Fraser pre-empted him.

  'He must have gone in the rain, sir. Frey said you couldn't see the hand in front o' your face, and the noise and wind were terrific'

  Drinkwater noticed the sodden decks and dripping ropes for the first time. But not Tregembo ...

  And then a thought struck him.

  'Morris! Has Morris been called?'

  'Er ...'

  No one had called the passenger, but he could not have failed to have heard the noise, nor have resisted the impulse to see what had provoked it. And even if he had not turned out himself, he would certainly have sent his catamite to spy.

  'Mr Frey!'

  'Sir?'

  'Check the master's cabin. See if Mr Morris is there!'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Drinkwater paced across the quarterdeck. The entire ship's company waited, the men forward, heaped in a great wide-eyed pile across the booms, indistinguishable as individuals, but potent in their mass. Beside and behind him stood the rigid lines of marines and more casual grouping of the officers. Only Drinkwater moved, measuring his paces with the awful feeling that he was on the brink of something, without quite knowing what it was ...

  Frey's returning footsteps pounded on the ladder and Drinkwater already knew he was right in his suspicions.

  'Gone, sir ... taken his effects and gone ...'

  'What about those chests?'

  'Didn't see them, sir, but,' Frey gasped from his exertion, 'I didn't search his cabin properly ...'

  'No matter. Mr Mount!'

  'Sir?' The marine lieutenant stepped forward. He was in his night-shirt but wore baldric and hanger.

  'Which of your men was on duty at Morris's door?'

  'I ...' Mount drew a step forward and lowered his voice. 'I withdrew the sentry there, sir ... I had not thought him to be necessary after the cordiality you showed Mr Morris and he was removed from the presence of Captain Rakitin. I beg your pardon ...'

  'God damn it, Mount, cordiality? God's bones, you had no authority! No orders to ... to do such a thing!' Drinkwater met Mount's confidential tone with his own muted fury. 'You have let me down, sir ...'

  'Sir, I beg your pardon ...' The agony of Mount's sincerity twisted the stock phrase. 'I merely thought ...'

  Recriminations were of no avail now and in his heart Drinkwater perceived the logic of Mount's misplaced initiative. It was not really the marine officer's fault. How could he have communicated his worst fears when he had not admitted them to himself? In any case the time for dithering was past. He raised his voice: 'Get your men to turn the ship inside out. I want every store and locker thoroughly searched. I want to know if any clue exists as to where the three missing men have gone ...'

  He called for the purser and surgeon to get their keys and assist. What he did not say was that he sought the body of his coxswain.

  'Mr Frey, get a fresh crew told off for the barge. The minute you can see what you are doing I want you to carry out a search for those boats. Mr Fraser, you will remain here with the people until Mount's search is completed. Then you may pipe 'em below.' He paused, considering addressing the patient multitude that still waited, then thought better of it. Instead he caught sight of Ballantyne's figure in the gloom.

  'Mr Ballantyne, you attend me. Do you get a lantern upon the instant.'

  'Aye, aye, sir.'

  He waited for Ballantyne to return, remarking to Fraser, 'Tregembo's a victim, Mr Fraser, not a causative factor in this mystery. Morris is a man of consummate evil. Tregembo and I knew him thirty years ago. We may find Tregembo on board, in which case he will be dead. But we may yet find him alive, for Morris could not have got far in a cutter with only a boy to help him ...'

  'I don't understand, sir, are you suggesting ... ?'

  But Fraser was denied a word of explanation, for Drinkwater, seeing Ballantyne with a lantern, disappeared below. He led the master to the cabin Ballantyne himself should rightfully have occupied, had the accommodation aboard Patrician not been so disrupted.

  'Hold the lantern up.'

  Drinkwater examined the louvred door, then pushed it open. There were no signs of struggle. Morris's cot was rumpled, a single sheet thrown aside. The boy's bedroll almost bore the curled, foetal shape of the creature. A robe, a heavy brocaded mantle of crimson silk lay in a crumpled heap, the only sign of hurried departure, but the heavy leather portmanteau with which Morris had come aboard was empty, its lid flung back and its interior void. The smell of opium, which was for Drinkwater the very scent of Morris's corruption, filled the stale air in the tiny cabin.

  'Lower,' Drinkwater commanded, bending and wrenching open the lockers built below the cot. The lantern light fell on the dull gleam of brass locks and bronze banding.

  'Ahhh ...' Ballantyne could hold his tongue no longer.

  'D'you have a pistol, Mr Ballantyne?'

  'In my cabin, sir ...'

  'Get it,' Drinkwater snapped, adding 'loaded ... here, give me the lantern.'

  He set the lantern on the deck as Ballantyne scrambled off excitedly in search of his pistol. Reaching into the locker Drinkwater's hand found the corner of a chest and dr
agged it out of the locker beside the lantern. It was heavy, very heavy. He struggled with the second and was panting slightly as Ballantyne returned. He had Mount with him.

  'I've found nothing, sir,' said the marine officer.

  'It's loaded and primed, sir. Shall I?'

  Yes.'

  Drinkwater drew back into the doorway and felt Mount's breath on his neck. Ballantyne squeezed himself into a corner of the cabin and held the pistol with both hands, arms extended. It was a heavy, double-barrelled weapon. Ballantyne's thumbs cocked the hammers. He braced himself. Drinkwater saw for the first time that the bronze bands on the chests were low reliefs of fantastically writhing dragons. Each lock was shaped in the head of a Chinese lion, their hasps of steel.

  Ballantyne squeezed the trigger of the first barrel. The hammer struck the frizzen and the brief flash became a sharp bang that momentarily deafened them in the confined space. The small discharge of smoke cleared to reveal the first lock shattered. Shifting his aim Ballantyne blew the second apart.

  'Reload,' commanded Drinkwater. 'Your hanger, Mount.'

  Drinkwater took the marine officer's sword and inserted its point under the bent hasp of the lock and twisted it. Mount drew his breath in at the outrageous use of his prized weapon.

  Damn Mount! Half of this was his fault!

  The lock fell to the deck and Drinkwater attacked the second; it too gave way.

  'Ready, sir.' Ballantyne raised the pistol to repeat the process on the second chest.

  'Wait!'

  Drinkwater gave a final jerk with Mount's sword and passed it backwards without turning. He felt a mean satisfaction at the damage he had inflicted to the perfection of its pointe. Then, with both hands, he lifted the curved lid of the chest. He had expected the glitter of silver or even the soft gleam of gold.