A Private Revenge

by Richard Woodman

  Suddenly he clapped his glass to his eye. Damn! The bloody thing had become unfocused. He twisted the two tubes, muttering at his own ineptitude, his sweaty hands slipping on the warm brass.

  'Yes!' He felt the sudden surge of his heart. He had been hoping, hoping for the sight of an ill-concealed mast, or the thin blue column of cooking smoke, but they were too cunning for that!

  He felt like laughing, so great was his sensation of relief, but the thought of Tregembo sobered him. He lowered the glass, his head unmoving. Could he see them without the glass ...?

  Yes.

  He leaned over the edge of the top. 'Mr Dutfield! In my cabin, next to the chronometer you'll find my pocket compass ...'

  He waited, fixing his eyes upon the vague and distant shapes, so tiny, so indicative ...

  He felt the faint vibration of Dutfield's ascent.

  'Here, sir.'

  Drinkwater took the offered brass instrument, snapped up the vanes and sighted through the slits. Yes, he could see them quite well now ...

  'Beg pardon, sir, may I ask what you have seen?'

  Carefully Drinkwater adjusted his head and made sure of the bearing.

  'What I can see, Mr Dutfield, is ... is ...' he floundered for a phrase worthy of the occasion. 'What I'd call an intervention of nature, yes, that's it, an avifaunal intervention of nature.'

  Dutfield's blank look made him grin as he threw his leg over the edge of the top and sought with his foot for the top futtock shroud.

  'Steady ... keep still, Carey ... that's it ... bail some more.'

  The launch just floated. The slop of water in it made its motion sluggish under the influence of free-surface effect and occasionally it lurched so that water poured back in over the gunwhale. The quick righting moment exerted by the nimble Carey corrected this, restabilising the thing, and, as it rolled the other way, Carey steadied it, feet spread apart, arms outstretched, like a circus rope-walker.

  Men floundered alongside, half swimming, half walking in the soft, insubstantial ooze, working the rope net beneath the launch's keel as it stirred itself an inch off the bottom.

  'Pull it tight!' Frey held a corner and waved to the barge, lying ten yards away. 'Let's have those kegs, and lively, before we're stuck in this shit!'

  They lashed the kegs, already haltered, as low as they could force them, fighting their buoyancy until at last the thing was done. The waterlogged launch lay within the net which in turn was buoyed up by the hard-bunged kegs.

  'Right. All aboard!'

  They floundered back to the barge where they clambered in over the transom. Frey was last aboard. He took the launch's painter from his teeth and handed it to Belchambers. The midshipman took a turn round the barge's after thwart.

  'Very well ... give way!'

  It was a hard slog. The weight of the launch was terrific and, unless they maintained a steady drag, the water in the launch slopped into her stern, reducing her after freeboard.

  Leaves brushed them, dead branches tore at them as they dragged their burden out into the wider stream. Already the sun was dropping fast.

  'Back by sunset, lads, come on,' Frey urged. 'A steady pull.'

  There was a sudden clatter forward. Frey leant over the side and tried to grab the oar that slid past them.

  'Carey! What the fucking hell ... ?'

  'He's dead, sir! Got a fuckin' arrer stuck in 'im!'

  But only Belchambers saw the gleam of brown flesh as an arm was withdrawn, and a sudden fear chilled him to silence.

  CHAPTER 17

  The Gates of the Fortress

  February 1809

  'Yes, I know what it is ... do not touch the point, it may still bear poison. It is a dart from a sumpitan, a blow-pipe.'

  'Thank you, Mr Ballantyne,' said Drinkwater.

  'It is very effective, sir, and dangerous. The Dyaks use them. This man Carey was killed by Dyaks. They also carry the parang, a sword with which they are able to inflict a terrible wound, and they are famed for their skill with the kris, a knife with an undulating blade.'

  'Have you fought them before, Mr Ballantyne?'

  'In a hand-to-hand action only once, though I have been attacked by them more often. They will not press an attack if met with resolution, but resort to cover and strategies.'

  'Stratagems, Mr Ballantyne,' corrected Mount with military punctiliousness.

  'Stratagems then,' said Ballantyne, petulant at this humiliation.

  'We are indebted to you, Mr Ballantyne,' Drinkwater soothed. He looked down at the chart spread before him and the pencilled line of his bearing: it petered out in a vast blank area. 'Now oblige me by listening carefully ...'

  It was that period of the crepuscular hour that nautical astronomists call 'nautical twilight', when the sun is twelve degrees below the horizon, rising to 'civil twilight' at six degrees and the full splendour of the dawn. Already the world had lost its monotones, the first shades of green were emerging from the variant greys, dull as slate still, but discernible to the acutely trained sailor's eye. Drinkwater reached the main-top.

  'Morning, sir.' Belchambers greeted him with a whisper and his damp party stirred, three seamen and four marines who had slept at their action stations.

  'Mornin', Mr Belchambers. Pray let me rest my glass ...'

  The whole ship's company had slept on their arms. Below, the boats were hoisted out of the water, though ready provisioned and prepared after their adventure of the previous day. Boarding nettings stretched upwards from the rail triced out to the yard-arms ready to catch any attempts to sneak aboard Patrician while the ship herself, her guns loaded though withdrawn behind closed ports, lay with her broadside facing the land, a spring tensioned upon her anchor cable.

  Drinkwater peered southwards in the direction of his bearing. The landscape was shrouded by thin veils of mist that lay more densely in long, pale tendrils, winding across the lower parts of the swamps. In this light they seemed to stretch into infinity. Somewhere in the jungle a tribe of monkeys stirred with a sudden chattering.

  'Morning, Belchambers.' Frey clambered up after Drinkwater who was already busy with his compass. Frey produced his drawing block and conferred with the captain. Drinkwater pointed out the wider streaks of fog that lay in definite lines over the mangroves.

  'Those fog-banks,' Drinkwater explained, 'lie most densely over the channels of the waterways through this morass. See there,' he pointed, 'how that one leads south, then swings slightly east, bends sharply and runs to ... here, look ...'

  Frey bent to stare through the vanes of the pocket compass.

  'Runs to intersect with a bearing of south-east a-quarter south ...'

  'Got it, sir.'

  'Then sketch it!'

  Only the scratch of Frey's pencil could be heard. Drinkwater, holding the compass so that Frey could see it, put out his free hand to lean on the mast. Where yesterday the iron-work had burned his hand, it was now cold with condensation.

  'Sir...'

  'Pray be quiet, Mr Belchambers, and allow ...' Drinkwater broke off and followed Belchambers's pointing hand. He could see the dark shapes detach from the jungle, see the faint white rings along their sides where the Dyaks plied their paddles.

  'Ill go, sir!' The topman had reached out for the backstay even before Drinkwater had opened his mouth. Silently he lowered himself hand-over-hand to the deck. Looking down, Drinkwater saw him alert Fraser and the news galvanised the first lieutenant. He saw men radiate outwards to warn the ship, heard the low, urgent voice of the Scotsman and someone below shush another into silence.

  'In the event of an alarm I want absolute silence preserved,' Drinkwater had ordered. He wondered how much of his own idle chatter the Dyaks had heard, for sound carried for miles over still water.

  As if to echo his thoughts another burst of chattering came from the distant jungle. More Dyaks, or the cries of wakening monkeys?

  'Finished, sir ...'

  Frey straightened up. Drinkwater shut his compass w
ith an over-loud snap. He pointed at the approaching praus. Frey nodded and Drinkwater jerked his head. Frey swung himself over the edge of the top.

  'Good luck, Mr Belchambers,' Drinkwater hissed, and followed Frey.

  'Thank you, sir,' replied the boy. He was thinking of Carey slumped forward in the barge and the smooth muscled flesh of the brown arm that had dealt the stealthy blow.

  Drinkwater reached the deck and turned. He was almost certain his movements would have been seen and had been conscious, in his descent, that his body offered a target for the deadly sumpitan.

  'Here, sir ...'

  Mullender held out sword and pistols.

  'Thank you,' he muttered; it had been Tregembo's duty. The thought filled him with a fierce desire for action. He joined Fraser by the hammock nettings.

  All along the barricade the dull white shapes of men in breeches and shirts told where Mount's marines stood to, their loaded muskets presented. They were to fire the fusillade that gave the signal for fire at will.

  'Your privilege, Mount,' Drinkwater hissed.

  'Sir ... they seem to be hesitating ...' Mount's head was raised, watching the boats as they stilled and gathered together. Then Drinkwater saw the sudden flurry of energy. White whirled along their sides as, after a brief pause, the Dyaks dug their paddles into the water and their boats seemed to leap forward.

  At the same moment there burst forth an ululating chant as each man wailed simultaneously, the sharp exhalation adding power to his effort. In addition to this outburst of noise, shrieks and the crashing reverberations of gongs disturbed the tranquillity of the anchorage. The air was filled too with brief whirring sounds and the clatter of darts as a battery of blow-pipes were employed. Most struck the rigging and fell harmlessly to the deck with a rattle.

  'Fire!'

  Mount's voice exploded with pent-up force. The spluttering crackle of musketry illuminated the rail. Above their heads the vicious roar of the swivel guns in the tops spat langridge at the attackers and then the wildly aimed, depressed muzzles of Patrician's main batteries trundled out through their ports and added their smoke and fire and iron to the horrendous noise.

  The air was filled with the sharp smell of powder and white columns of water rose a short distance off the ship, but Drinkwater was aware that the boats still came on. He could see details clearly now in the swiftly growing light; the red jackets of the warriors, the men at the paddles and the faces of men with blow-pipes to their mouths. Others stood, whirling slings about their heads, and he was assailed by a foul, acrid stench as the stink-pots flew aboard. They were lobbed over the rail and came to rest, giving off choking fumes of dense, sulphureous gases which stung eyes and skin.

  The praus were closing in now and the marines were standing, leaning outboard to fire down into them.

  'Drop shot into 'em!' roared Drinkwater, hefting heavy carronade balls out of the adjacent garlands and hoping to sink the praus as their occupants sought a foothold on Patrician's side.

  Won't press an attack, eh?' Mount called, turning to snap orders at Corporal Grice. A marine fell back with a dart protruding from his throat. The poor man's hand tried to tear it free but its venom acted quickly and he fell, twitching on the deck. 'Don't expose your men, Grice,' Mount bellowed above the shrieks and gongs. 'You too, Blixoe.'

  A fire party ran aft attempting to deal with the noxious stink-pots; a second marine fell back, crashing into Drinkwater. He caught the man, then laid him gently on the deck. A short spear protruded from his chest. Drinkwater took up the man's musket and tried, through the smoke, to take stock of the situation.

  Below, their cannon now useless, the Patricians stabbed at the Dyaks with boarding pikes, rammers and worms. One by one Quilhampton got his guns inboard and the ports closed. But something was wrong.

  'Mr Ballantyne!'

  'Sir?'

  The master's eyes were wild with excitement, the whites contrasting vividly with his dusky skin.

  'We're swinging. They've cut the spring. And look!'

  The Dyaks were swarming over the bow, where the ship was easiest to board.

  'Reinforce the fo'c's'le!'

  'I understand, sir!'

  God! Did the man have to be prolix at a moment like this? Drinkwater tugged at Mount's shoulder, but Mount was already swinging some men into line and Fraser had seen them too.

  Drinkwater was still holding the dead marine's musket. The thing was unloaded, but its weight and the wickedly gleaming bayonet recommended it. He ran forward.

  'Come on!'

  The party defending the fo'c's'le had been beaten back. They were in disarray and retiring along the gangways. Drinkwater, Fraser and Mount rushed forward yelling, as though the noise itself formed some counter-attack to the awful hubbub of the Dyaks.

  Their enemy were lithe and strong, men with short, powerful limbs and gracefully muscled bodies who swung their terrible parangs to deadly effect. This was no fencing match but a hacking, stabbing game and Drinkwater was grateful for the heavy musket as he leaned forward, stamping his leading foot and lunging.

  There was blood on his arm from somewhere and he felt a blow strike his shoulder, but the glimpse of a bared chest received the full power of his driving body and he felt the terrible jar as the bayonet struck bone, scraped downwards and entered the Dyak's belly. Drinkwater wrenched free with the prescribed twist, stamped back, swung half right and thrust again. This time the musket met the heavy weight of a long parang. The sword struck it a second time and forced it down. Drinkwater had a sudden glimpse of the parang withdrawn, pulled back over the assailant's head as the man prepared for a mighty cut, a curving slash ...

  Drinkwater slewed to the left, following the fall of the musket. But his right arm straightened, the twisted muscles in his shoulder cracking with the speed and strain of the effort. The butt of the musket rose as its muzzle dropped, the heavy wooden club flying up to catch the Dyak's elbow as he cut, forcing the bent arm into its owner's face and crushing the delicate articulation of the joint. The Dyak retreated a little, and Drinkwater swung, swivelling his body as fast as he could, withdrawing his arms parallel to his right flank and then driving the musket forward again. The bayonet entered' beneath the Dyak's ribs so that it pierced the heart at its junction with the aorta.

  Drinkwater was snarling now, howling with the awful savagery of the business. He stepped forward. He wanted more of this, more to assuage the guilt he felt at Tregembo's disappearance, more to vent the pent-up anger of months, more to remove the obloquy of humiliation he had felt at losing two ships, more to cleanse his soul of the taint of Morris ...

  'They're in full flight now!' It was Ballantyne's voice, Ballantyne covered in blood, his sword-arm sodden with red gore, his face streaked with it where he had wiped his forehead.

  Drinkwater leaned on the breech of a chase gun and panted. Turning, he could see the praus paddling away from them. A few Dyaks swam, shouting after them. Looking back along Patrician's deck he could see his own dead. Already the wounded were being carried below.

  Only on the fo'c's'le had the enemy lodged a footing and now they had gone. He wanted a drink badly.

  'You're going to follow 'em, aren't you, sir?' Mount came running up. 'Fraser's already getting the boats down.'

  'Yes, of course, Mount. No victory's complete without pursuit.'

  They grinned at each other and Mount blew his cheeks out. 'Quite, sir.'

  'Very well, Mr Fraser, you know what to do.'

  'Aye, sir, but I still think ...'

  'I know you do, and I appreciate it, but I am resolved. We would not be here had not a personal element been involved. Good luck.'

  'And you, sir.'

  'James ...' He nodded farewell to Quilhampton who was even more furious than Fraser at being left behind. But with Tregembo gone and he himself thrusting his impetuous head into the lion's den there had to be someone to go home to Hampshire.

  'Sir.'

  He slid down the man-ropes, found
the launch's gunwhale with his feet and made his way aft. Acting Lieutenant Frey looked expectantly from the barge.

  'Lead the way!'

  The two boats lowered their vertical oars and gave chase after the blue cutter. Drinkwater settled the tiller under his arm and sat back against the transom. Fraser had every right to complain; as first lieutenant any detached operation was his by right to command. It provided him with a chance to distinguish himself, to obtain that step in rank to master and commander and then, if he were lucky, to post-captain. Well, Drinkwater had denied him that right and this was not going to be one of those glorious events that made the pages of the Gazette glow with refulgent patriotism. It was going to be a nasty, bloody assault and Drinkwater knew he would be damned lucky to get back at all, let alone unscathed.

  That was why he had also left Quilhampton behind. Quilhampton would have followed him and risked himself unnecessarily just as Tregembo had done. If he was killed Drinkwater wanted James Quilhampton to stand protector to Elizabeth and his children, not to mention Susan Tregembo and the legless boy Billy who also formed a part of his private establishment. Besides, Fraser needed adequate support in case he was attacked separately.

  In any case Ballantyne seemed eager enough for glory. Let the coxcomb bear the brunt of the attack. Drinkwater stared ahead; it was too soon to see the stern of Ballantyne's cutter, but he did not want the master rushing ahead on his own. He had sent Ballantyne on to try and keep contact with the Dyaks, delaying only long enough to get the boat carronade rigged on its slide in the bow of the launch. Midshipman Dutfield was sorting out cartridges for it at that moment.

  Drinkwater tried to calculate how many men he had with him. He had left Mount in support of the ship, but a handful of marines in each boat, their oarsmen and the carronade crew ...

  Perhaps fifty, at the most. He would be limited to a reconnaissance ... a reconnaissance in force.

  The mangroves had closed round them now and he had lost sight of the ship. Ahead of him the barrier of jungle seemed impenetrable. They passed the spot where Frey had recovered the lost boats. Branches snapped astern. The men struggled at the oars as the channel petered out, then they were through. A large white-painted tree reared a huge and twisted bole at an angle out of the ooze. A block hung from it, through which a rope, old and festooned with slimy growth, sagged into the water and lay across perhaps three fathoms of its surface like a snake, then fastened itself to the branches through which they had just forced their way. A cunningly hidden contrivance, thought Drinkwater.