Ramage and the Freebooters r-3 Page 8

  'Your yourself a drink if you wish,' Ramage said, waving at me sideboard.

  'I'll join you in one, sir.'

  'Not for me, thanks.'

  'Don't think I will, then: we've got to keep our wits about as tonight. Oh yes, sorry, I did forget something. Stafford said they'd be obliged, begging our pardon, if we'd please get the surgeon tipsy and making as much noise as possible from the time "Lights out" is piped.'

  Ramage picked up the pen and scratched the scars on his forehead with the end of the quill. Wardroom door shut— that'd be so no one from forward, where the Marines and ship's company slung their hammocks, could see into the wardroom (or see the scuttle, which was in the wardroom). Guests in the breadroom... a bottle or two of rum by the scuttle? Maybe Jackson and Stafford were going to hide there for the night. But why the rum? No—it couldn't be those two since whoever they were, they had to be found in the morning and he had to 'take the necessary action'.

  Southwick suddenly thumped the table with his fist and growled: 'Why the hell can't they tell us straight cut what's going on?'

  'Those two have a reason all right, though I can't think what it is. But it all points to me not doing or knowing anything until I find the "guests" tomorrow morning. It could mean that if the mutineers suspected I knew anything tonight, Jackson and Stafford would be in danger. Or couldn't do whatever they're planning.'

  'Well, I only hope the reasons are good. Good grief, four or five men in the breadroom would pack it tight. And bottles of rum—they going to have a party down there?'

  Ramage laughed. 'I think Jackson's using the word "guests" loosely. And one or two bottles can't mean many "guests".'

  'Why the breadroom, though?'

  'Where else could you lock up men where their shouts wouldn't be heard by the ship's company? Both the bosun's store and for'rard sailrooms are just below where the men sleeping forward sling their hammocks. Same goes for the dry room and coals stowage. The big sailroom's amidships and everyone would hear. Shot locker's too small, you can't lock it up, and it's right under the Marines. Spirit room—hardly appropriate. Magazine—not a very safe place from your point of view, most of it's under your cabin! But the breadroom— well, that's right under here.' He pointed downwards. 'No one who's been planning mischief and was locked in there would want to shout too much and wake the captain, would he? And the advantage is that you can only get to it through the wardroom, where the scuttle is. And both scuttle and the bread-room door can be secured. And with that blasted surgeon serenading his bottles, none of the ship's company would hear...'

  'Hmm. Yes, that's a point. Why the rum, though. Reward?'

  'I don't understand that. Jackson hardly drinks. Nor does Stafford. A couple of bottles—well, it's worth it'

  The Master stood up ready to go back on deck.

  'By the way, Mr Southwick, no evening muster. Supper'—

  be looked at his watch—'at the usual time, in half an hour. Pipe "Down hammocks" at seven, an hour early, and "Ship's company's fire and lights out" at seven-thirty.'

  'But—no evening muster, sir! Is that wise? I mean, the------'

  'For the moment, I don't want to give the men an opportunity to make a mass refusal to carry out an order. Lights out earlier than usual may upset any plans they have. Anyway, it'll leave them puzzled about what we might be up to. Particularly since we're up to nothing.'

  'Aye, there's that to it,' Southwick admitted. 'Any special night orders?'

  'No, just the usual—sharp lookout; all changes of wind, alterations in course and so on to be reported to me. But I'll be on deck with you until the "guests" have arrived. Don't wear a brace of pistols too obviously... And I'd enjoy your company at breakfast. Ask Appleby too. The invitation doesn't apply to our heirs, though, should anything go wrong ...'

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Rossi and Maxton listened carefully in the darkness as Jackson explained the plan. The three men were sitting on the coaming of the forehatch with Stafford below at the foot of the ladder beside the dim lantern, stitching a tear in his shirt and, to an onlooker, standing there to catch the light 'A pleasure,' Rossi said when Jackson finished. 'Much pleasure. But this much I know; it's better to make the finish. Dead men make no troubles; live men make much unhappiness.'

  'Yes, Rosey, I know,' Jackson said patiently. 'But we've got to treat 'em like drunks—you know, as soon as they sober up they're sorry.'

  'Drunks? Who say they is drunk? They's as sober as I is —was—I am.'

  'No, I mean once we get dear of the Channel they'll forget the mutiny. We've got a long way to sail with these men; better not to antagonize them.'

  'Antagonize? I don't understand this word—but------'

  'Look, Rosey,' Jackson said quietly, using the one argument he knew would convince the Italian, 'this way is better for Mr Ramage. You understand?'

  'All right, all right,' Rossi said reluctantly. 'Now Maxie, you are understanding?'

  The West Indian grinned as he nodded.

  Jackson said, 'All right then, that's settled. You take care of Harris and the second one—what's his name? Yes, Brook-land—as soon after the change of watch as you can, Remember, Harris is the lookout at the starboard chains and Brook-land's the same to larboard. We'll just have to wait for the cook's mate, Dyson, to come up on deck to talk to 'em. I'll make sure the top of the companionway's clear.'

  'Yaas, Jacko,' Maxton said in his smooth, sing-song voice.

  We'll keep a watch for Dyson. The advantage of being a coloured gennelman is no one sees me in the dark.'

  'Unless you open your mouth,' Jackson said. "Those teeth of yours show up like a couple of rows of white marble tombstones.'

  Below them Stafford swore violently as though he had pricked a finger and the three men stopped talking at this pre-arranged warning.

  Jackson glanced down and, seeing Dyson pass Stafford and begin to climb the ladder, stood up and stepped back quietly. Pointing down, he hissed:

  'Dyson! Get him now!'

  The American hated sudden last minute changes in plan, but as an 'idler' who kept no watch, working only during the day, Dyson had no reason to come on deck after dark and this might be their only chance.

  Before the man's head was level with the coaming Jackson was sauntering aft, his slow gait belying the tension that gripped him, making sure there were no seamen between the forehatch and the companionway.

  Hell! The two men at the wheel! They were Tritons and they'd be standing not more than a dozen feet from the companion. Jackson quickened his pace, praying that the Master or Mr Ramage would be near the wheel. As he walked he eased out the belaying pin which had been tucked down the fide of his trousers.

  There were two shadowy figures forward of the wheel. Seamen or—no, he recognized Mr Ramage's cocked hat outlined against the slightly lighter horizon.

  'Captain, sir!' he said loudly just as he was abreast the capstan.

  Ramage recognized Jackson's voice at once, guessed there was a particular reason why he called while several feet away aid at once began walking towards him with Southwick following.

  'Captain here—that you, Jackson?'

  'Aye, sir. Thought I saw something over there on the starboard bow...' As he reached Ramage he pushed him gently backwards. '... A fishing boat or something.'

  Ramage clutched Southwick's arm and pulled him back, too, letting Jackson position them where he wanted.

  The Master was quick enough to recall Jackson was not on watch.

  'Lookouts haven't reported it yet,' he growled. 'Suppose you were just leaning on the rail thinking o' some doxy in Portsmouth. I can't see anything.'

  Both Ramage and Southwick felt Jackson give them a warning touch and saw him turn away towards the approaching group.

  'Damned fellow's probably drunk.' Ramage commented loudly, nudging the Master again. 'I can't see anything either.'

  'Disgraceful,' Southwick growled. 'Dangerous having a fellow walking round the ship imagining things. Rememb
er I once had a drunken sailor sitting out on the bowsprit-end in the dark pretending he was Commodore Nelson in another ship and shouting we'd collide. Gave a damned good imitation of the Commodore's voice, too: fooled me completely —I darn' nearly tacked: quite thought we were in for a collision.'

  'Me too,' said Ramage. 'Don't bore me with that story, Mr Southwick: you forget I was commanding the ship.'

  'And you were, by God!' exclaimed Southwick, and Ramage wasn't too sure whether the Master was saying the first thing that came into his head, to divert the men at the wheel and cover whatever Jackson was doing, or whether he'd genuinely forgotten that the drunken seaman had been Stafford, and it happened in the Kathleen. *

  Albert Dyson had been cook's mate in the Triton for eleven months and in the Navy three years. The cook's mate was the man who had to light the galley fire, clean out the ashes, polish the big copper kettles in which die food was cooked, and skim off the fat which floated to the surface of the water when salt meat was boiled.

  The removal of this fat, known as slush, provided me only call on any skills he had, since he needed no knowledge of cooking. The slush could be sold to various of the ship's company, illicitly and at a profit, because they liked to spread it on the weevily and otherwise tasteless biscuit officially known as 'bread' and which varied between a brick-like hardness or crumbling softness, depending on its age. And he shared his obvious nickname with every other cook's mate in the Service, 'Slushy' Dyson was an angry link man as he swung a kg over the wooden form and stood up. The other men sitting round the table and talking in low voices made him angry. The plan was simple enough and still a complete secret; but now, half an hour before the mutiny was due to start, this blasted argument had started. Although everyone agreed the plan was simple—and sure to succeed—he'd expected objections from some of the men: there was always some awkward bleeder who thought he knew better; but no, there'd been none.

  Then at the last minute the trouble had come from his own mess, from the very man who'd been their spokesman. Admittedly Harris had been very quiet since the Triton had sailed and hadn't spoken a word. That, Dyson now realized, should have made him suspicious.

  More important, though, Dyson's feelings were hurt He'd always admired Harris—a man whose book learning didn't make him act superior about it; in fact he was always ready to read or write a letter without wanting a tot for his trouble. But now he'd turned nasty.

  Dyson objected to being called 'A smelly blob of pig grease'—he'd like to see Harris skimming off all that slush and not get any on his clothes. It's bound to make a chap stink—out everyone was always trying to get a mug of slush free, Harris included. And often he'd given it them—he, Slushy Dyson, who stood to get a crack on the head with the big ladle if the cook ever got to know about it, since the cook took three-quarters of whatever the slush was sold for, be it rum, bacca or credit.

  Dyson walked aft to go up on deck: he wanted fresh air and some peace to think things over. They'd wreck everything with their talk. They had their rights—'course they had, otherwise why would the whole Fleet have mutinied? Hundreds of seamen—thousands in fact—knew they had their rights; and that's why the Fleet had rose and why some of the ships had hoisted the red flag, though he didn't agree with that—the so-called 'bloody flag' smelled of revolutionaries.

  Sucking in his breath with an angry gesture, he walked round one of the men from the Lively stitching a shirt and began climbing the ladder. Two more of them round the coaming: they littered up the ship. All too hoity-toity they were, just because they'd served with the new captain.

  He's a bit of a lad though, Dyson admitted as his hands grasped the top rungs: fancy just chopping the anchor cable like that! Well, it didn't make any difference, although Dyson hoped the lad wouldn't get hurt—from what these chaps said he was brave enough, though Dyson admitted he hoped Mr Ramage didn't get any more ideas about putting the ship across the bows of a Spanish sail of the line. Then he laughed to himself—no, tonight's work'd see to that! He stepped on to the deck and turned aft.

  Black shapes beside him, a sharp prick on each side of his stomach just below his ribs. Both of his arms seized and twisted, making him arch his back so his stomach stuck out. Knives! Why, its mur----- 'Don't make a sound; keep the walking!'

  That bloody Italian! Dyson was being forced to walk and he glanced the other way: the West Indian chap.

  'All right, all right, take the bloody knives------'

  'Shut up!' Maxton hissed, pressing harder with his knife.

  The muscles in Dyson's legs began to dissolve; his stomach felt soft and vulnerable, his rib cage hollow except for a heart beating fit to burst. He was going to faint. Oh gawd, if I faint I'll fall, and they'll knife me a'fore they know what's happening, he told himself. He shut his eyes and strained to stay conscious. Ah, mat's better. Breathe deeply. Ow! He just stopped himself shouting in pain: the sudden deep breathing made both men wary and both reacted by pressing harder with their knives.

  Dyson gulped and began breathing normally and the pressure eased slightly. He kept his eyes shut. They'd stopped walking but he was sure he was going to pass out Suddenly he felt as though he was falling and thought he was fainting until, in the moment before his head hit the deck, he realized he'd been dropped down a hatch.

  Maxton jumped down and landed astride Dyson's sprawling body, which was faintly illuminated by a lantern at the forward end of the wardroom, and Rossi dropped down be side him.

  'Out cold as mutton,' Maxton said briefly as he jumped up and began dragging the man forward towards the small hatch in the middle of the wardroom.

  It took them less than four minutes to get Dyson down the breadroom scuttle, along a narrow passage and into the breadroom itself. The door was shut but unlocked, the key still in the keyhole.

  They bundled the man over and heaved him across the top of some bags of bread, then left, turning the key but leaving it in the lock outside.

  'Right, Maxie,' Rossi whispered. 'Back up on deck and report to Jacko.'

  Ramage and Southwick, pacing back and forth in front of the wheel, were holding an animated conversation. Ramage had invented a scurrilous story about an unpopular admiral who had died two years earlier—a story he knew the men at the wheel would lap up and repeat, so he could count on their attention being focused on him. Southwick supplemented the story from time to time, and then Ramage saw two shadows gliding forward.

  He touched Southwick's arm and they walked a few yards along the weather side.

  'Well, I mink our first guest is snugged down for the night Did you recognize him?'

  'No—hardly saw him,' Southwick whispered. 'That blasted surgeon—just when you want him to be making a noise he's as silent as the grave.'

  'Silent as an empty bottle,' Ramage said. 'Probably passed out. We should have kept him away from it until later. Still, we couldn't be sure when... I'd like to know what the hell is going on.'

  'Well,' Southwick whispered cheerfully, 'our lads seem to be getting on all right without us. The watch changes in a few minutes.'

  *

  Harris stood at the main chains staring into the darkness. Usually he liked lookout duty because it gave him time and peace to think over things; to recall the lessons at school and often to wish he'd paid more attention to the teacher. Learning was a wonderful thing: there was so much to learn; so much he wanted to know. So little opportunity to learn. He envied midshipmen and it annoyed him, in the bigger ships, when he saw them sitting round the master skylarking instead of listening to what they were being taught.

  The sharp prick of pain beside each kidney, the twist of each arm, the knowledge a man was standing each side of him in the darkness, happened so suddenly in the midst of a mental picture of his childhood schoolroom that it took several moments to sort out memory from reality. Then a voice said with a quietness which only emphasized its viciousness:

  'Keep quiet, Harris: not a word, not a movement...' 'What...?'

  The point
s of the knives boring into his back silenced him. The two men seemed to be waiting for something. Then me same man said: 'If you want to live, make the walk with us and don't call for the help; otherwise...' the knife at his right side gave a momentarily harder jab.

  Harris nodded agreement and felt himself being turned to face aft. A twist on each arm braced his shoulders back and he was walking. One man was me Italian: he'd recognize that accent and curious grammar anywhere. The other was the West Indian.

  And Harris, being an intelligent man, did not try to explain that they'd made a mistake. A minute later he was pitched down the companionway and was still conscious when Maxton landed on his back, winding him.

  In a painful haze of gasping for breath he knew he was being dragged feet first through the wardroom. Again he felt himself falling but despite the pain he stayed conscious. Then the stink of mouldy bread, hands gripping his arms and feet, swift swinging and his body was being heaved up on to something, then a thump. As he groped he felt the rough sacking of bread bags. Distantly, as he finally lost consciousness, he heard a door shut and the metallic scraping of a key turning in a lock.

  He had just recovered when the door opened and in the dim lantern light he saw Brookland flung into the cabin, bleeding and whimpering with fear.

  The foretopman had, as Rossi and Maxton seized him in the darkness, taken a massive gulp of air to shout Or so it seemed to Rossi who simultaneously raised the knife a few indies, sticking it expertly into the fleshy part of the man's shoulder, and clapped a hand over his mouth.

  Brookland—who had in fact been about to scream with fear, not bellow a warning—felt his shirt warm and wet and sticky and was then nearly responsible for his own death because he fainted. His body suddenly went limp and both men, momentarily thinking he was going to try to break loose, were about to kill him before they realized what had happened.

  Unlike Dyson, Brookland regained consciousness as he hit the deck at the foot of the companionway. Muzzily trying to work out what was happening and with his mind so recently full of mutiny, he thought the Marines had gone over to the officers. Then he felt his feet being lifted and he was dragged across the deck. Again a sudden drop and he was lying with his head spinning, a lantern lighting up a strange part of the ship. No—he was by the breadroom door and the bloody Italian was unlocking the door and the West Indian was holding the lantern—and the light glinted on a thin blade of shiny steel.