Ramage and the Freebooters (12 page)

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 points of the knives boring into his back silenced him. The two men seemed to be waiting for something. Then the 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 the 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, a 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 inches, sticking it expertly into the fleshy pan 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.

Being a Catholic, Brookland began muttering aloud a hurried prayer but Maxton, failing to catch the words, suddenly lunged down to warn him to be silent. Mistaking the gesture Brookland, thinking he was within a second of being murdered, shut his eyes and began whimpering like a child, calling to all the saints he could remember.

There was no pain but he felt his body moving through the air and marvelled death was so painless. The marvelling was short-lived: Rossi and Maxton had flung him so far into the breadroom he fell face downwards on to Dyson, whose left foot caught him in the solar plexus so that for several moments he wheezed painfully, fighting to get his breath.

The door shut and it was dark again.

At that moment Dyson recovered consciousness.

‘So ’elp me,’ he groaned, ‘what the ’ell’s going on? Who’s ’ere?’

Harris answered.

‘’Arris? You all right?’

‘Yes, but I think Brooky’s in a bad way.’

‘Must be ’im on top o’ me an’ bleeding like a stuck pig: I can’t lift ’im orf.’

‘Slide out from under then,’ Harris growled unsympathetically, and crawled towards them.

‘This you or Brooky?’

‘Me – Brooky’s just ’ere. ’E’s bleeding from the shoulder. Hold ‘ard a minute, I’ve found the wound… No, it’s nothing. Just a shallow dig. ’Ere, Brooky…’

He shook the man who, having regained his breath, was sobbing again. ‘Brooky, pull yourself together. What ’appened?’

‘They grabbed me. Stabbed me. Gawd, ten or twenty times from the feel of it. I’m bleeding ter death.’

Two pair of hands felt all over his body.

‘No you’re not,’ Harris said crisply, ‘just a cut in the shoulder. Who did it?’

‘That dago and the nigger. You?’

‘Same. What about you, Slushy?’

‘They caught me, too.’

‘Where the hell did you get to?’ Harris demanded. ‘You just left the mess and went forward. We searched everywhere; then the watch changed and we had to get to our stations.’

‘I just went up on deck to get a bit o’ clean air,’ Dyson said sourly. ‘You lot were making me sick.’

‘Well, what happened?’

‘Those two jumped on me as soon as I got on deck.’

‘Did you see Mr Ramage or Mr Southwick? They part of it?’

‘Not so far as I know,’ Dyson said.

‘I didn’t see them either: just the dago and the West Indian,’ Brookland added.

Harris was silent a few moments, then said: ‘What the hell can they be up to? Good gawd – you don’t reckon the Livelies are mutinying, do you? Why, those sons of bitches might be trying to carry the ship into a French port. Quick, we must warn the captain!’

‘Warn him my bare backside,’ Dyson said viciously. ‘They can kill him for all I care. They’ve been braggin’ about him long enough. I’m sick of the sound of his bleedin’ name!’

‘Use your brain, you fool,’ Harris said urgently. ‘If they carry this ship to a French port it’ll mean we’ll be prisoners. The Frogs won’t encourage mutineers – the idea might spread! Want to rot in a French jail for the rest of your life?’

‘Sink me!’ Dyson exclaimed. ‘Hadn’t thought of–’

At that moment they heard the key turn, and as the door opened they saw Rossi holding a lantern and, framed in the doorway, outlined by the light, was Jackson, a belaying pin in one hand and a bottle of rum in the other.

Normally Jackson would never stand out in a crowd. His face was thin, but because Rossi was holding the lantern low the shadows from the jawbone and cheeks made it look cadaverous and menacing. And now, as he stood glaring down at the three men lying on the bags of bread, he seemed to them to be emitting a cold anger, like a full moon glimpsed through lowering black storm clouds.

Harris glanced from the belaying pin to the rum bottle and back again, and was frightened. Then both Dyson and Brookland began whimpering as they thought they’d guessed their fate: that Jackson was going to get drunk, and while he drank, he was going to amuse himself by beating them to death with the belaying pin for trying to spoil his plans.

Jackson, seeing three pairs of terrified eyes glancing from his left hand to his right, suddenly read their thoughts and almost laughed. Instead, to mask any twitch of a mouth hard put to restrain a grin, he motioned Rossi and Maxton into the breadroom and then looked out through the door.

‘Staff – come on down and look at our three choirboys!’

A few moments later Stafford stepped into the room and shut the door.

‘My, my! Wot ’ave you been doin’, Brooky? You’re all covered in blood. Not
yor
blood, I ’ope? And bruvver ’Arris, the edjicated able seaman. Well, and Slushy Dyson! What you all doin‘’ere? Not robbin’ the ship’s company of their bread, I ’ope?’

He turned to Jackson and said archly: ‘Jacko, you know what I suspect?’

The American shook his head.

‘I fink they was – oh, dear me, that the wicked word should ever ’ave to pass me lips… But Jacko, the truth must be told: I fink they was
gambling
…’

‘No!’ exclaimed Jackson, falling in with Stafford’s serious manner. ‘Not
that
, surely?’

Rossi shook the lantern. ‘Not the gambling?
Accidente!
Gambling in one of the King’s ships! What would His Royal Majesty say to that!’

‘Nah,’ Stafford said with a sudden harshness that startled the three men on the bread bags. ‘Nah, not gamblin’
in
one of the King’s ships, Rossi; gamblin’
wiv
one of the King’s ships.’

‘That’s true,’ Jackson said. ‘Hold the lantern up a bit, Rossi,’ he added, as he was drawling his words. ‘Bit more – that’s it. Let’s have a good last look at them.’

By now Maxton too had caught on to the by-play and was tossing his knife from one hand to the other.

‘“Dust to dust and Slushy to slush”,’ he intoned in his deep, rich voice.

Stafford held up his hands. ‘Nah, nah, Maxie, don’t be blasphemious, and anyway, Slushy’s my bird.’

‘Oh no he’s not: I want him.’

‘Well, yer can’t ’ave ’im, so there. Maxie! Take yer pick from the uvvers. What’s wrong with Brooky?’

‘Somebody’s already started on him: he’s second-hand. I want a new one.’

‘’Arris, then. Won’t ’e do?’

Stafford’s voice was wheedling.

‘Oh all right,’ Maxton said ungraciously. ‘You’re picking on me just because I’m not a white gennelman: I’m just a coloured fellah so I have to make do with what’s left.’

‘Steady men,’ Jackson interposed, knowing the three victims believed every word. ‘There’s plenty more of them; more than a couple of dozen left to share between us.’

Stafford, quick to spot Jackson had accidentally revealed their weakness, said, ‘But that’s only just one
Triton
for each ex-Kathleen, Jacko.’

‘No,’ Jackson said smoothly, ‘but some of the lads will swap a
Triton
for a tot, I’m sure.’

Brookland yelped as Harris suddenly jumped up. He was hardly on his feet before Maxton’s knife was an inch from his throat and he found himself looking into a grinning, shiny brown face, the eyes sparkling but bloodshot.

Harris looked desperately at the American.

‘Jackson, for God’s sake, you’ve got it all wrong! What you’re doing is crazy!’

Jackson managed to hide his surprise. ‘Crazy? Maybe it’s not in the Articles of War, but it’s not crazy!’

‘But you’ll never get away with mutiny!’

‘Sit down or Maxton’ll slit your windpipe.’

It gave Jackson a moment to think, but nothing came.

Harris sat down, gabbling almost incoherently.

‘So help me, Jackson, it’s mutiny! Rising against the captain and taking the ship into a French port – what else do you call that? What d’you think the French’ll do? They won’t give you a big sack of golden
louis
as a reward: they daren’t – else every ship in the French Fleet would mutiny! Don’t you see that, you crazy oaf?’

For a moment Jackson felt real fear: fear that he had made a complete mistake. Then he thought he began to understand Harris’ words. He wasn’t sure of the details, but Dyson’s expression made him wonder; and Brookland’s, too.

Both of them should have been nodding, even shouting, to back up what Harris just said –
if
they agreed with him and were against a mutiny. Instead, they were lying there sullen and silent. Either they disagreed or they didn’t care. He decided to back his own guess.

‘Maxie,’ he said pointing at Harris, ‘this man’s guilty of disrespect. Just take him outside for a few minutes will you?’

As soon as the door shut behind them, Jackson suddenly stepped over and seized Dyson. Hauling him to his feet, he slapped him hard across the face, jabbing his knee into his groin before letting him collapse to the deck.

The attack was so sudden that Rossi, momentarily thinking Dyson had made the first move, crouched with his knife ready.

Dyson, lying curled up like a whipped dog cowering in a corner, stared up at Jackson.

‘Get up!’ the American snapped.

‘Not bloody likely; I’m staying ’ere. You wouldn’t hit a man when he’s down.’

‘Don’t be too sure.’

With that, Jackson kicked him in the ribs. It wasn’t a hard kick, but there was very little flesh on Dyson’s bones, and he staggered to his feet.

‘What’s it all about?’ he gasped. ‘Why pick on me?’

‘Dyson, you are going to talk to me. A nice friendly little chat. You’re going to tell me part of your life story – beginning from the minute I came on board with the rest of the Livelies.’

‘Oh no, I’m not!’

Jackson held out first the rum bottle and then the belaying pin.

‘Like a drink, Dyson?’

The cook’s mate shook his head.

‘I should, Dyson. It helps with the pain.’

‘Haven’t got any pain,’ the man said, like a sulky child.

‘You haven’t – yet.’

Jackson’s drawl began to sound like the teeth of a saw dragged across metal.

‘Not yet, Dyson. But in the next hour, you greasy little runt, you’re going to have so much pain you’re going to be begging me to kill you off to put you out of your misery.’

‘But why pick on me,’ Dyson whined. ‘It was Brooky – cut ’im up instead. Brooky started it all. Yes’ – he seized at the idea – ‘’e’s your man, not me!’

Jackson paused. Brookland? He was sure Dyson hadn’t suddenly named the foretopman to protect Harris: he was so frightened it was much more likely he’d name the real leader to save his own skin. But where did Harris fit in? Why was Harris yapping about the dangers of mutiny – Harris of all people?

Well, if Brookland was the ringleader he wouldn’t reveal anything that’d incriminate himself, and anything Harris had to say was likely to confuse the situation even more. No, Dyson was the man to tell the tale.

‘Dyson, my greasy little friend, it doesn’t matter who we start with because you’re all going the same way home. So brace up that tongue of yours and get under way.’

The man wiped his brow. Already white-faced, his skin now seemed sweat-sodden and turning grey. Glancing up, he saw the American’s eyes, began to say something and then held his hands out helplessly and looked down again.

Jackson said, ‘Rosey, put the lantern over there.’

Dyson watched the Italian take a couple of paces to the corner, put down the lantern, and return to face Jackson, who said in an off-hand tone: ‘Rosey, just cut off the top joint of his right index finger.’