Beneath the aurora nd-12

by Ричард Вудмен

  Before scuttling off on his mission, Fisher had darted to his mess and taken his dirk from its nail in the deck-beam above his sleeping place. It was a small, straight and handy weapon.

  'Here, sir.' He held the toy weapon out; its short blade gleamed dully in the lantern light. Drinkwater's fist more than encompassed the hilt.

  'Right, Danks,' Drinkwater dropped his voice, beckoning the marines to draw closer. 'This is what I intend to do.'

  CHAPTER 11

  The Enemy Within

  November 1813

  Drinkwater led them below. At the bottom of the ladder he moved aside and let the marines file silently down into the hold. Then he directed Sergeant Danks and his senior corporal, Wilson, to lift the after gratings and descend into the lower hold, and as they did so the foul stench of bilge rose up to assail them. Both Wilson and Danks were armed with muskets. Behind them went two other marines, each with a lantern, followed by two men armed with bayonets. When Danks had moved out to the larboard wing, and Wilson to the starboard, Drinkwater gestured to the remaining men to fan out. Then he called:

  'Malaburn! This is the captain. We know you are down here and you have until I have counted to ten to give yourself up. If you hail at that time you will be given a fair trial. If not I regard you as beyond the law, and the safety of my ship demands that I exert myself to take you at any cost. That may well be your own life.' He paused, then began to count.

  'One. Two. Three…'

  In the silence between each number he heard nothing beyond the laboured breathing of the marines still behind him.

  'Five. Six. Seven…'

  He turned. Holding a third lantern, Private Leslie was ready behind him with another marine in support, and Corporal Smyth made to take his two men up the larboard carpenter's walk to flush Malaburn from his hiding place. Drinkwater now had four groups of marines ready to move forward, two at the level of the carpenter's walk, two below, floundering their way over the shingle ballast and the casks of water in the lower hold, for Drinkwater was convinced Malaburn had taken refuge in that most evil and remote part of the ship.

  'Eight. Nine. Ten. Proceed!'

  Drinkwater had enjoined Smyth, advancing on the higher larboard level, not to move faster than Danks's party below him who would have far more trouble moving over the shingle ballast than those above walking on the level gratings of the carpenter's walk. Both upper and lower parties had to search each stow of stores inboard of them as they edged forward and it was five long minutes before those with Drinkwater, creeping up the starboard side, discovered the bloodstains marking the place whose Huke had been wounded. The absence of Huke was both a hopeful and a desperately worrying sign. Malaburn had done exactly what Drinkwater would have done in his place: he had dragged the first lieutenant off as a hostage.

  'Smyth, Danks! Mr Huke's been taken hostage!' he called, to let those on the far side of the ship know what had happened.

  'Aye, sir, understood!' Danks's voice came back from beyond a large stow of sacked and dried peas.

  They shuffled forward again. The shadows thrown by the lantern behind Drinkwater projected his own form in grotesque silhouette on the uneven surfaces of futtocks and foot-waling. He held the little dirk in his outsize hand. It was a pathetic and inadequate weapon, but he had brought it in place of his hanger which, he had realized, would have been an encumbrance in the restricted space of this narrow cat­walk.

  'Nothin' yet!' shouted Smyth, and Wilson and Danks echoed the call. The stink of effluvia, bilge, dried stores, rot, fungus, rust and God knew what beside made breathing difficult. The lanterns guttered yellow, their flames sinking as they moved forward. The whining squeak of rats accompanied their scuttering retreat from this unwonted incursion into their private domain and added a quickening to the tired, low groans of the ship as she rolled on the swell.

  Drinkwater's heart hammered painfully. He saw a score of phantasmagorical Malaburns, the swinging, hand-held lantern light throwing maddening shadows which moved as they did. Sweat poured off him, and he stopped to wipe it from his brow.

  And then, quite suddenly, without any violent reaction of either party, he found himself staring at Malaburn. In a recess, where a large stow of barrels gave way to more sacks and these fell back, showing signs of recent removal, the American lay at bay, holding the pale form of Huke hostage. Drinkwater stopped and, without taking his eyes off the white mask of Malaburn's face, beckoned behind him with the dirk. Leslie thrust the lantern over his shoulder.

  Huke lay oddly, his feet no more than a yard from Drinkwater, his legs splayed slightly apart so that Drinkwater could see, amid the pitch-black shadows, the dark trail of blood that smeared the white knee-breeches and revealed the deep thrust of the wound in Huke's groin. Malaburn had been in the lower hold, the head of a pike through a hole in a grating waiting for the advance of the impetuous lieutenant. The wound was hideous, the pain must have been excruciating and the bleeding Huke was insensible, his face averted, lolled back­wards as he lay in Malaburn's malevolent embrace.

  The American had one arm across Huke's chest but the first lieutenant still breathed in shallow rasping gasps. Malaburn's other hand held a long-bladed knife at Huke's throat. In the sharp contrast of the lantern-light, Drinkwater could see the taught tendons in Huke's neck standing out like rope. Beneath them lay the vulnerable carotid artery and the jugular vein.

  Drinkwater said in a low voice, 'Put your knife down.'

  The blade wavered, a faint reflection of lantern-light revealing Malaburn's hesitation.

  'Put your knife down, Malaburn.'

  'No. I will let the first lieutenant go only if you give me your word that you will put me aboard one of those Yankee ships.'

  'You know that is impossible ...'

  'You could do it, if you wanted to, Captain Drinkwater. If you gave me your word and called your men off. I trust you, d'you see.'

  'Malaburn, Lieutenant Huke is bleeding to death,' Drinkwater began, trying to sound reasonable, knowing that a move of his left hand which held a pistol would cause Malaburn to react with his knife. But Malaburn was unmoved by Drinkwater's logic.

  'Your word, Captain Drinkwater,' he hissed urgently, 'your word!'

  A dark suspicion crossed Drinkwater's mind. Malaburn's presumption was no quixotic plea, there was too much certainty in the man's voice. He knew Drinkwater could not give his word, dare not give it.

  'Who the devil are you, Malaburn?'

  'Are you all right, sir?' Danks's voice, muffled by the contents of the hold, reminded Drinkwater of the other men. Beneath his own feet, Drinkwater realized now, Wilson had stopped, aware of something happening above him.

  'Stay where you are, Danks, you lobster-backed bastard,' shouted Malaburn, 'and you others, wherever you ...!'

  He never finished his threat. There was a flash of light and, when Drinkwater's retinae had adjusted themselves, Malaburn's face had vanished. The long-bladed knife was lowered almost gently on to Huke's chest by the nerveless hand, and the sacks which had cradled Malaburn's head as he awaited his hunters were stained with its shattered remains.

  The explosion of the musket deafened them momentarily, and the brilliance of its flash blinded them. Stunned, Drinkwater was uncertain where the shot had come from, or who had fired it. He thought himself shouting with anger, though no one seemed to hear him, and he suddenly heard Sergeant Danks's voice, no longer muffled, say with savage satisfaction:

  'Got the bugger!'

  Danks's disembodied face appeared above Huke's. He was casting aside sacks as he fought his way through from the far side of the ship, the long barrel of his still smoking musket visible beside him.

  'I gave no orders ...' Drinkwater began, but the words did not seem to be heard and he thought afterwards that he had only imagined them. Leslie was gently squeezing past him with a 'Beg pardon, sir ...'

  And then Drinkwater heard his own voice astonishingly loud, uttering the fact before he had apparently absorbed it. 'It'
s too late. He's already dead.'

  He must have seen the shallow respirations cease, known when he saw that terrible, gaping wound, that Huke was dying. The vicious pike thrust was mortal, not the work of a man acting in self-defence, but the cold act of a murderer. And Drinkwater knew that it was not Danks he was angry with for so precipitately killing Malaburn, but himself, for not having dispatched him for killing a man whom Drinkwater counted a friend.

  'Bring both of them out,' he ordered, desperate for fresh air and afraid he might vomit at any moment. He turned and thrust back past the other marine. 'Give 'em a hand,' he muttered through clenched teeth.

  As he approached the foot of the ladder to the orlop deck he paused. He could see someone at the bottom peering forward and waving a lantern, hear a babble of curious men pressed about the coaming of the hatchway. He wiped his face and drew several slow and deliberate breaths. Then he strode out of the darkness.

  'Here's the Captain…'

  'Sir? Is that you?'

  'Stand aside, if you please. They will be bringing out the first lieutenant's body in a moment, along with that of Malaburn. Pass word to have both prepared for burial.'

  Then he went straight to his cabin and flung himself on his cot.

  Drinkwater woke at dawn. He was cold and cramped, gritty with dried sweat and foul exertion. The stink of the hold and the discharge of black powder clung to him. He rubbed his eyes and the colours leapt before him and dissolved into the deep red of blood. Drawing his cloak about him he went stiffly on deck.

  He had given no thought to the fate of the ship in the aftermath of Huke's terrible, unnecessary death. It seemed almost miraculous that this neglect had been ameliorated by the regular rhythm of the ship's inexorable routine. The realization steadied him and, as he acknowledged Jameson's salute, he saw it was raining.

  'Ah'm verra sorry about Tom Huke, sir.'

  'Yes. He should never ...' He caught himself in time. He could not possibly blame Huke for his own death. 'He should never have been so zealous,' he managed.

  'He was a guid first luff, sir.'

  Jameson's almost pleading tone, as though explaining Tom's character for this Johnny-come-lately of a captain, was the last act of the night. It reminded Drinkwater that the junior lieutenant sought his, Drinkwater's good opinion. 'I know, Mr Jameson, I had already learned that.'

  'He has dependants ...'

  'I know that, too.' Drinkwater shouldered the burden of command again and could almost feel the mood of the third lieutenant lighten.

  'Will you gi'e Mr Beavis a temporary commission, sir?'

  And with that remark the sun rose yellow behind a distant mountain, shining pallidly through the cloud and throwing a rainbow against the purple islands to the westward. The ship's routine had sustained them through the hours of darkness, and now the rigours of the naval service demanded their attention again.

  'I expect so, Mr Jameson.'

  Jameson seemed satisfied. The preoccupations of uncertainty were at an end. He and, Drinkwater supposed, Mr Mosse, could rest easy. He realized suddenly that he might have brought Quilhampton across from the cutter and that the fact had not escaped the two lieutenants.

  'Do you think Mr Mosse is likely to be as good a first luff as Tom Huke?'

  'Well, sir,' Jameson began, but then the impropriety of the thing occurred to him, as did Captain Drinkwater's arch condescension. Jameson felt put in his place and Drinkwater strode off in search of Frampton and hot water, savagely indulging in his rank.

  The ship's routine, which had seen Andromeda safely through the night, had not proceeded smoothly. News of the irregular events in the hold had spread like wildfire and the berth deck had buzzed with claim and counter-claim, rumour and inaccuracy. What emerged as fact was that a group consisting of the pressed American merchant seamen had, by an act of what was popularly regarded as 'treachery', attempted to cripple the British ship and render her helpless under the guns of an enemy. Whatever the private and internecine tribulations which beset the company of the British frigate, it was widely understood that when in the face of the enemy they sank or swam together. Claims of American 'patriotism' were thus easily dismissed, as was any idea that Sommer had acted treacherously. They were united by the white ensign which fluttered above the quarterdeck.

  During the minutes that elapsed while Drinkwater and the marines ferreted in the hold, an aimless disorder had reigned above them. In this anarchic state, with all the ship's non­commissioned marine officers in the hold, men milled about, increasingly curious, spilling from hammocks and wandering into places they would not normally visit. Even the officers were affected, waiting round the orlop hatchway, or on the quarterdeck, gossipping intently until Birkbeck began to see the dangers inherent in this general laxity.

  Mr Templeton was not exempt from the effects of this electricity. He was already in a state of high excitement at the revelations of the interrogation and now, in the gloom of the orlop, he came across Greer. Somehow, unaccountably, their hands met and, encouraged by the general dissolution of order, the intensity of a mutual passion overwhelmed them. Unseen, they retreated into the fastnesses of the ship far from the after hold where they stayed throughout the remainder of the night.

  An hour after dawn Andromeda was hove to and Huke and Malaburn were buried. Then the yards were squared away, the sails filled, and the frigate stood inshore again. When under way, Drinkwater sent for one of the American prisoners. Danks brought the man before him.

  'Who was Malaburn?' Drinkwater asked.

  The American prisoner shrugged. 'I don't know. A patriot.'

  'Had you seen him before you came aboard?' The American remained silent.

  'Please believe me,' Drinkwater said quietly, 'I can soon make you talk. Do you know how Malaburn killed the first lieutenant? No? Then I will tell you. He waited beneath the carpenter's walk for Mr Huke to pass overhead, and then he thrust a boarding pike upwards through the grating!'

  Drinkwater's words rose in tone. The man winced involuntarily and Drinkwater's voice sank to its former modulation. 'Come now; had you seen Malaburn before you came aboard?'

  'I hadn't...'

  'But others had, is that right? Shall I get one of the others?' The prisoner shrugged.

  'I can hang you, you know,' Drinkwater said quietly. 'Have you seen a man hanged? The victim dances and then, when he cannot draw breath, he evacuates himself. It is not a pretty sight, but I shall do it if you do not talk.' Beads of sweat stood out upon the prisoner's pallid brow.

  'Did Malaburn have anything to do with your escape from Dartmoor?'

  The prisoner swallowed and nodded. He had to cough to find his voice; then he admitted, 'I'm told he did, but, honestly Cap'n, I don't know how. I didn't see him when we got away.'

  'Got away? You mean from Dartmoor?' The American nodded. 'How did you get away?'

  'We were a stone-breaking gang, on our way back from the quarry. The guards were bribed, I guess; we were told to stop and then our leg-irons were struck off by the guards. We left them — the guards — trussed beside the road. I didn't think of anything much at the time, except being free of going back to that gaol. I didn't see anyone at the time except the guards. I guess the whole thing was arranged. Others in the gang said they'd been told something might happen, but I hadn't. Happen I was just in the right place at the right time. It was only when we came aboard that Malaburn was pointed out to me and I was told to do what he said. When I asked why, I was told it was he who freed us from the chain-gang and that I was to obey his orders and he would see us safe back to Boston.'

  'Who told you all this?'

  'Hopkins, a Boston man like myself. We were taken out of a merchant schooner by one of your damned British cruisers more than a year ago. He seemed to know we were going to be released that day and what to do. The guards were quite friendly towards him and it was Hopkins who made us lash them together.'

  'Hopkins is one of the others in the bilboes, sir,' put in Beavis who, w
ith Sergeant Danks and a marine, was part of this impromptu, drum-head court martial. 'D'you want to see him?'

  Drinkwater shook his head and continued his interrogation. 'You didn't see Malaburn until you came aboard this ship?'

  'No.'

  'And how did you get to Leith?'

  'We didn't know we was going to Leith, and I daresay had we known how far it was we'd have refused. Hopkins said Bristol was closer, but orders were to lie low

  'But how did you get across country?'

  'We moved at night, slept rough, under the stars - that's kinda natural for us, Cap'n, if we're used to trapping…'

  'Go on.'

  'After about a week, Hopkins orders us to lie low for a day, then he comes back one afternoon with a carter, orders us into the back and tells us all is well. I don't recall where we stopped, though we stopped many times, but it was always at night in a town, and we were taken care of in a barn, or a byre, or once in a house.' The prisoner paused and seemed to be making up his mind before saying, 'We were kindly treated, Cap'n, people were mighty well disposed to us.'

  'And when you arrived in Leith, you were shipped direcdy aboard a merchantman?'

  'The brig Ada Louise of Hull, aye.' The American paused, then added, 'We seemed to be expected, though we had no issue of clothes.'

  Drinkwater knew enough now from this and the earlier interrogation. 'Take this fellow forward again, Danks, and make sure he is secure.'

  'Aye, aye, sir.'

  'Mr Beavis, signal Kestrel for Mr Quilhampton to come aboard.'

  'Ah, James, come in, a glass?'

  Drinkwater was light-headed with a perverse and inexplicable exhilaration. Lack of sleep and the death of Thomas Huke had strung his nerves to a high and restless pitch, for he had woken with the thoughts tumbling over and over in his mind, and the short encounter with Jameson had been merely a symptom of his mental turbulence. From the interrogation of the American he had added substantially to his mental jigsaw puzzle.