A Private Revenge

by Richard Woodman

  'What the hell ... ?'

  Drinkwater ignored the comments of the impatiently watching officers and put out a hand. The dull metallic sheen resolved itself into irregular lumps of mineral. As he lifted one and half turned to show it to Mount and Ballantyne he felt his hand move under a curious impulse.

  It was irresistibly drawn towards the blued steel barrels of Ballantyne's pistol.

  'Lodestone, gentlemen,' he said, standing and tossing the lump of magnetic ore back where it came from.

  CHAPTER 16

  Blow-pipe Creek

  February 1809

  'It's pointless going any further, Belchambers, put your helm down.' Frey turned aft from his position in the bow of the barge. 'This is a cul-de-sac' He slapped the insect stabbing his cheek and swore as the mosquito buzzed away unharmed. The dry leaves of the mangroves plucked at him, like the claws of hideous succubi in a nightmare.

  'Backwater larboard, pull starboard.' Belchambers was having difficulty turning the barge in the root-choked gullet, a green and slimy inlet that wound out of the bay and into the jungle. It was one of the innumerable such creeks that they had attempted to penetrate since dawn.

  Already the sun was lifting above the shelter of the overhanging branches, and the coils of mist that had clung like samite to the water were evaporating. Occasional birds, bright flashes of brilliant hue, whirred across the thin finger of water, shrieking or rasping alarm with a noise that had, at first, frightened them with its raucous suddenness. When they rested upon their oars they could hear the strange burp of trumpet fish coming to them through the planking of the boat and the distant chatter of monkeys was once interrupted by the sullen roar of a tiger cheated of its prey.

  'It's no use ... there's nothing here ...'

  The heat was filling the air with a weight of its own. The men were sodden with their own sweat and Frey's shirt clung to him like the dress of a Parisian courtesan. The effects of the early breakfast and the Spanish aguardiente with which the boat's crew had broken their fast were wearing off.

  'Give way ...'

  'Look, sir!'

  Belchambers's order, partially obeyed but ignored by two men who had seen the same thing, caused a moment's confusion.

  'What is it?' Frey asked sharply, starting round.

  'There, sir. Under that branch ...'

  Frey and Belchambers stared in the indicated direction. It was almost submerged. Just the upper curve of it, with the notch cut for a sculling oar, showed vermilion above the murky water. It might have been a dead bough but it was the scarlet transom of the red cutter, its stern painted for easy identification at a distance. It was no more than ten yards from them, sunk beneath the overhanging branches of a mangrove bush.

  'We'll need kegs to refloat it ... this bottom's so damned soft ...' said Frey, probing with a boat-hook.

  'Might work a spar underneath, sir, and jack 'er up on this 'ere root, like ...'

  'Damned good idea, Carey,' remarked Belchambers eagerly, 'let's try with the boat-mast, Frey ...'

  'Mister Frey, if you don't mind,' said Frey archly. 'Very well ...'

  'Hey, sir ... look!'

  They could see the tip of a pair of thole pins just breaking the surface a few yards further into the swamp.

  'It's the launch!' Frey and Belchambers chorused simultaneously.

  'But why, sir?'

  Fraser waved his hands, pacing about the cabin, unable to keep the seat Drinkwater had provided for him. Quilhampton and Mount sat watching, while Drinkwater stood silhouetted against the stern windows, staring moodily at the green curtain of jungle that stretched across their field of view. Ballantyne was supervising the rigging of a spring upon the anchor cable, sounds of which came from beyond the bulkhead.

  Drinkwater appeared to ignore Fraser's question. Mount, still smarting from his own idiocy, sat silent. Quilhampton knew better than to speak. He guessed something of what Drinkwater was thinking; he had been aboard Hellebore.

  'I don't understand why this man Morris ...' Fraser began again, jerking his hands like a hatter with the shakes. But it was not mercurial poisoning that motivated the first lieutenant, it was the incomprehension of an unimaginative man. This time Drinkwater responded. Turning from the windows, he cut Fraser short.

  'I don't understand precisely why this man Morris chooses to act the way he does, Mr Fraser.' He lowered his voice which was strained with a tension that Quilhampton knew to be fear for the life of old Tregembo. 'Sit down, sit down ... you see, gentlemen, I have cause now to believe that this man Morris quite deliberately engineered the separation of Patrician from her station on the night of the storm of thunder and lightning. In short I have been fooled — mightily fooled.' Drinkwater paused, inwardly seething.

  'Oh yes,' he went on, looking round at their astonished faces, 'believe me, he is quite capable of such an act, for I knew him many years ago. We were midshipmen together. There is no need for details, except to tell you that we formed a mutual dislike; he affected a grievance against me for some imagined advantage I possessed over him. I was, it is true, briefly preferred before him ...'

  Drinkwater broke off. It was impossible to tell these men who stared at him with wrapt attention that Morris had, in his twisted and perverse way, declared a desire for the young Drinkwater. The thought was repulsive to him even now.

  But he had to tell them something of the man's character, if only to prepare them for what they were up against.

  'He was, is, also a sodomite, a sodomite of a particularly cruel disposition. Mr Q may recall his conduct aboard Hellebore, for we had the misfortune to meet again in ninety-nine. Morris corrupted a midshipman who was later drowned.'

  The sceptical Fraser turned to look at Quilhampton who gave a corroborative nod.

  'Prior, however, to this, while still aboard Cyclops, Morris was involved in a cabal of similarly inclined men. One of them was later tossed overboard. Tregembo was involved in this rough justice. I don't know whether Morris knew that, I suspect not, but Tregembo knew enough about Morris and was loyal enough to me to have risked his life ...'

  Drinkwater paused and drew a hand across his perspiring brow. 'Perhaps Morris simply took him to man a pair of oars ... I don't know ...'

  'You say Morris took him, sir,' said Fraser, 'suppose Tregembo took Morris.'

  'That is possible, sir,' added Quilhampton hurriedly, 'Tregembo might well have done that. He came to me once, sir, weeks ago ...' he faltered.

  'Go on,' snapped Drinkwater, 'you interest me.'

  'Well, sir, he came to me,' Quilhampton frowned, trying to recall the circumstances, 'asking if I had recognised Morris when he came aboard at Whampoa. I said yes, and Tregembo reminded me of the character he had assumed aboard the Hellebore. Then he told me something about your earlier association ...'

  'Aboard Cyclops?'

  'Exactly. He seemed to want to enlist me in some way.'

  'Enlist you?'

  'Yes. He said he knew Morris would — what was the word? Spavin you.' Quilhampton paused and looked down. 'I'm afraid I told him the whole thing was nonsense. Rather let him down, sir.'

  'Was there anything else?' Drinkwater quizzed.

  'No, sir, only that I believe words to have passed between Tregembo and Morris. Perhaps Tregembo chose last night to act, to protect you.'

  'It makes a kind of sense,' said Mount, speaking for the first time, an edge of sarcasm in his voice, 'but it begs a lot of questions.'

  'What questions?' Quilhampton asked defensively.

  'Why Tregembo should choose last night; why, if he contemplated some violent act, he had to make off in a boat which he could hardly have handled alone; and why he should cut all the others adrift. It makes no sense for Tregembo to run off into the jungle denying us our boats.'

  'But it is exactly what Tregembo would do, Mount, don't you see?' argued Quilhampton. 'Precisely to prevent us from following ...'

  'That's too fantastical,' Mount said dismissively, the pragmatic soldier
routing the quixotic young lieutenant. They fell silent.

  'Is it too fantastical, gentlemen,' said Drinkwater slowly, 'to suggest that Morris separated Patrician from the convoy out of more than mere malice aforethought towards me? Is it too fantastical to suggest that ...'

  Drinkwater paused at the knock on the door. 'Enter! Ah, Mr Ballantyne, I trust the spring is now clapped on the cable?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Very well. Please take a seat. I am theorising, please bear with me.' Drinkwater continued. 'As I say, is it not possible that Morris knew of our progress? He was a seaman, remember, and could, knowing our position, detach us from the convoy when he wished.'

  'You mean he knew the convoy was to be attacked?' asked an incredulous Fraser.

  'I mean he caused it to be attacked.'

  'Well done, lads.'

  Frey grinned appreciatively at the gasping men. Two hours of furious activity had refloated the red cutter. By dint of hard levering they had got her stem on a mangrove root and, by placing the barge's bottom boards underfoot, managed with much awkwardness, to find a footing themselves sufficient to work the boat so that its entire gunwhale was lapping the surface of the viscid water.

  By jamming a thole pin into the empty bung-hole, they had been able to bale and now she floated, not quite empty and low in the water, astern of the barge. Sodden and mud-besplattered, the men tumbled back into the barge and got out their oars.

  'Give way, Mr Belchambers, back to the ship for reinforcements, some kegs and lashings, and we'll have that launch up in a trice.'

  With renewed hope the seamen bent to their oars.

  'I'll see you get a tot for your trouble, lads,' said Frey magnanimously, raising grins of anticipation.

  'I never thought I'd say it, sir,' said Carey, the man who had spotted the scuttled boat, 'but I'd rather have a tumbler o' water ...'

  A silence greeted Drinkwater's hypothesis. Fraser crossed then recrossed his legs in an unconscious gesture of disbelief. Eventually Mount spoke.

  'That's rather unlikely, sir.'

  'Is it?' Drinkwater looked at Ballantyne. 'Mr Ballantyne, how familiar were you with Midshipman Chirkov?'

  Ballantyne, a little mystified at the direction of the discussion, rose like a fish to a fly. 'Count Chirkov did me the honour of requesting instruction upon navigation, sir.'

  'And you discussed such matters as the navigation of the ship?'

  'Yes.' Ballantyne's head shook slightly, a note of uncertainty in his voice.

  'To the extent of disclosing our position?'

  'Well, to the extent of illustrating my talks about the day's work, the traverse and so forth, yes ...' He stared about him. The faces of the other officers were turned towards him, their eyes hardening as he spoke. 'Have I committed some indiscretion?'

  'Unwittingly, I think you have. Chirkov, by your own admission, was able to keep Morris informed of our position.

  We follow a predictable route, it was only necessary for Morris to detach us near the Natunas for his allies to attack. You see Morris had a most detailed chart of this area. I caught only a glimpse of it, and accepted his assurance that Hennessey's was adequate enough for our navigation.'

  'And Chirkov interfered with the compass too?' asked the embarrassed Ballantyne.

  Drinkwater nodded. 'I believe so, he too was capable of such a thing. Then Morris, knowing of my intention to return and search for the Guilford, persuaded me to accept his own offer of assistance ...'

  'And led us here?' said Mount, only half-questioningly. 'But why?'

  'Because somewhere out there in that wilderness is, if not Guilford, then the fruit of a long matured plan ...'

  'I don't understand,' puzzled Fraser.

  'Guilford was carrying thirty thousand sterling.'

  Whistles of wonder came from his listeners. 'Thirty thousand ...!'

  A prodigious sum, you'll allow, and Morris had planned to seize it at a time when the naval command on the East Indies station was changing, when the Selectmen were making such a racket in Macao and Canton that Admiral Drury was distracted and had no spare frigates to escort the small and vulnerable convoy that Morris knew would get out of the Pearl River before the negotiations reached stalemate. That is why the arrangements were made for the specie to travel aboard the Indiaman and not a warship, why Callan was reluctant to admit he had a large sum in case I was jealous and insisted on carrying it for my percentage.'

  'Our arrival threatened Morris's plan but my arrival gave him an opportunity for personal vengeance. He knew the point at which the convoy would be attacked, it was only necessary to detach us from it to accomplish both his basic plan and my own professional ruin.' He looked round, watching their faces for acceptance of his theory. And very soon,' he added, 'I expect an attack.'

  'Who by, sir? asked Fraser, still unconvinced. 'And who are these allies you speak of?'

  'Sea-Dyaks,' snapped Quilhampton with a sharp air of impatience at the first lieutenant's obtuseness.

  'As the hoplites,' agreed Mount with greater perception, 'but by what power does this Morris bend them to his will?'

  'Sir, look!'

  Mount's rhetorical question went unanswered, for Quilhampton was pointing excitedly through the stern windows to which Drinkwater had his back. He turned. Frey was standing in the bow of the barge, waving his arms above his head. Even at that distance they could see his shirt was torn to the waist and the thighs of his breeches were dark with mud. Behind the barge, towing on its painter and still somewhat waterlogged, followed the red cutter.

  Drinkwater pulled himself laboriously over the last of the futtock shrouds and into the main-top. He paused for a minute, unseen from the deck, and caught his breath. He was exposed fully to the noonday glare of the sun, and the heat and exertion made him dizzy. The heavy cross timbers of the semicircular fighting top were warm to the touch, the iron eyebolts and fittings that secured the dark hemp rigging burnt his fingers when he touched them. Across the after side of the platform ran a low barricade terminating in mountings for two small swivel guns. He pulled the telescope from his belt, levelled it along a swivel crutch and painstakingly surveyed the surroundings.

  Beyond the indentation of the coast, the sea was vast and empty, reflecting the blue of the sky and rippled here and there by catspaws of wind. To the west the prominence of Tanjong Sirik lay blue on the horizon, its distal point curled upwards as if shrivelling in the heat, a blue tongue shimmering below it — the effect of refraction, a mirage, giving the illusion of the cape being elevated above the horizon.

  To the north-east the coast continued, jungle lapping the ocean with its scalloped edge of swamp. To the east and south the horizon was bounded by a spine of hills and mountains above which white coils of cloud drifted lazily upwards. Here and there spurs ran off this distant range, light green and with intervening blue furrows where, Drinkwater presumed, hidden rivers poured from the uplands. These streams with their suggestions of plashing waterfalls and cool, silver torrents sliding over smooth pebbles brought a sudden longing to him. But his shirt stuck clammily to his skin and the rivers vanished below the dark mantle of the jungle. It was not all mangroves. He could see some five miles away the different foliage of higher, more majestic species: banyan, tamarind and peepul trees, and the fronded heads of nipah palms. But in the end the mangrove swallowed everything, obscuring the streams, now become sluggish rivers that capitulated to inlets of the salt sea, to mix in the creeks and islets below Tanjong Sirik in a complex tangle of nature that defied penetration.

  But Morris had penetrated it. Somewhere in that green desert Morris waited expectantly with Tregembo as his prisoner. Drinkwater knew with the clarity of absolute certainty that Tregembo had been taken not merely as an oarsman, but as a lure. Morris had cut loose and sunk the boats simply to delay Drinkwater, for he knew Drinkwater's character well enough to depend upon him following, just as he had worked upon old Tregembo with subtle cunning. Drinkwater could not guess with what ploy
Morris had tempted Tregembo, but he knew that the Cornishman would have gone with Morris and his catamite, not in fear of Morris's pistol at his brain, but in the foolish conviction that he could save Drinkwater and that he could turn the tables on Morris before Drinkwater himself was lured to his death. But Tregembo could not have known that the rain and the squall would have covered the approach of Morris's Dyak allies and aided their retreat with all the boats so that the presence of an oarsman was barely necessary.

  And now Drinkwater scanned the jungle, aware that angry pursuit would be a trap, that his seamen would flounder up every blind alley of a creek, hot, tired, bitten and, in a day or so, utterly demoralised, easy targets for the deadly blow-pipes of the Dyaks.

  He was aware of a quickening feeling of panic and forced his mind to concentrate on other matters, matters that might legitimately justify him in sending his boats into that hostile and unfamiliar wilderness. But there was no sign of Guilford. Carefully, fighting down the impatient urge to be impotently active, he rescanned the jungle, systematically working over it. Pausing occasionally to wipe and rest his straining eye, he studied every exposed inch of jungle ...

  Nothing ...

  He blew out air and settled back against the mast. He used to sit in Cyclops's top like this, learning how to make a carrick bend and a stuns'l sheet bend, and how to whip and point a rope, while Tregembo, a red-faced topman of near thirty summers, good-naturedly corrected his fumbling fingers. This had been his battle station and he had fought his first action from such a place, in Rodney's Moonlight Battle off Cape St Vincent.

  January 1780.

  It was all so long ago. Tregembo and then Elizabeth ... and then Tregembo and his Susan, waspish Susan who was now cook to the Drinkwater menage ...

  God! He had to do something! Something for Susan and something for Elizabeth. He could not sit here and let the sun burn him up, no matter what the odds Morris had stacked against him.

  He drew the sleeve of his shirt across his forehead, blinked his eyes and stared again over the undulating plain of tree-tops.