The Devil's Own Luck (35 page)

More figures shot through the two hatches. Something flashed. Blood on a white shirt. He hoped he’d been the cause, perhaps the man he’d kneed in the face. But he could not see. He must have been the last, for his voice echoed, as he shouted an order up the shaft. Marchant let go of Harry’s foot and scrambled down the ladder. He went straight through the powder-room hatch. It slammed shut behind him, and Harry was alone.

He eased himself down till he was level with the two hatches. The one to the powder room was shut tight. He tried to open it. It would not budge, obviously secured on the other side. He turned to the open hatch, and the blaze of light that came from the secret room. He had no hope of catching them now. They would all be racing up the stairways and making for their hammocks. Stupid. For the cat was out of the bag for them. They could pretend to be asleep. But when Harry brought this before a prosecutor, and anybody else who cared to listen about this room, then the case against James would alter. Not collapse, perhaps, not right away. But a thorough investigation would take place, and no captain having allowed and perhaps condoned this sort of thing on his ship could hope to remain in command.

Harry slipped through the open hatch, determined to have a proper look. The first impression of luxury was somewhat less obvious on closer inspection. The drapes were worn, as was the velvet on the cushions. Erotic drawings lined the walls, depicting ancient Greek males in various sexual acts.

There was a cabinet in one corner, open, and showing rows of wine bottles. Harry recognized some of his own. There were still various pieces of clothing lying about, including the robe that Marchant had been wearing. One wall was covered in an array of whips and manacles, plus a selection of chains, showing that whatever they got up to in the privacy of this room, it included a certain amount of inflicting pain.

Pain! The throbbing in his wounded hand was a constant reminder of reality, in this place dedicated to fantasy. He must get back to his quarters, and the thought of that, of climbing that rope with his hand in this condition, caused him to pause. Then he saw that he was being foolish. There was no need for subterfuge now. He must get hold of Craddock as soon as he got on deck, and bring him down here to show him this room. The man knew nothing of it, he was convinced, and he would be just as shocked as Harry. Shocked that such a complex arrangement could exist on his ship, without his knowledge.

One last look around, to see if there was anything that might positively aid James. He started to move the cushions, and in doing so, noticed that they all seemed to carry dark stains. Blood. He rubbed his fingers over the stain on one cushion, while inspecting the rest. He kicked them aside. He had been right in one of his first impressions. The room was tin-lined. Nothing could get in or out, including the blood which covered the underside of the faded velvet cushions. Harry turned to look at the instruments covering the walls. They were there for someone’s pleasure. But they screamed of the pain that such pleasure brought. A scamp. A daredevil, fearless, like a monkey in the rigging. No wonder the ship’s boys were quiet. Subdued. Was this what happened to young Larkin? A game perhaps? One that went too far?

Painfully he eased himself out of the hatch and made his way slowly, elbow and hand, up the ladder. He came abreast of the hatch to the hold walkway and tried to push it open. It didn’t move. A slight feeling of panic seized him, and he made his way as quickly as he could up the rungs to the orlop. He pushed. That too had been secured. He hung, gasping from his efforts, trying to examine his situation. They had shut off the exits. There was only one more. If that was secured, it would mean that they were coming back to get him. If it was open, they were waiting for him. They would seize him as he climbed through. Seize him for what? Not to talk. More likely to cart him to an open gunport and sling him through.

Harry considered staying where he was, but they would not wait for him all night. If he did not appear they would come after him, and there was no way he could deal with eight or nine men in this confined space, especially with an injured hand. Could he hack his way out with a knife? He tried the blade in the jamb of the hatch. No effect, and a glance at the stout planking told him he would be wasting his time trying to cut his way through. Better to be out in the open, even if it was what they wanted. There at least he could make a noise. If he stayed in this shaft he would die, and he could yell his lungs off. No one would hear him.

Elbow and hand, elbow and hand, he made his way up to the gundeck hatch. He deliberately went on past it and carefully checked his position. With some difficulty he lifted the lantern off his shoulders. Again using his crooked arm to hold him, he untied the garrotte. Jamming the lantern between the ladder and the side of the shaft, he looped one end of the garrotte round his injured hand, leaving about six inches of line dangling. He tried the knife, then put it back in his waistband. He only had one good hand, but could not cope with knife and ladder. The light was not good, but it was enough for what he had in mind. The last thing. He pulled out the canvas bag full of sand, and using his teeth, he tore it open. A last chance to think, then he knew he was ready.

Pulling back his boot, he aimed a kick at the hatch. If it was secured he would merely have announced his presence. But he had to believe that it was off the latch. It was the only thing that made any sense. The hatch flew open. He waited, crouched on the ladder. It seemed like an age before a head came through. He flung the sand into the searching eyes, and followed it up with a well-aimed kick to the head, a kick which hurt his bare foot as much as it did the exposed head. The man shot back through the hatch, coughing, spluttering, and cursing. Both hands above his head, propelling himself with all his might, the pain in his swollen hand now excruciating, he dived, feet first, through the hatchway, hoping that his momentum would carry him on.

He nearly succeeded. He could feel them trying to grab his damp shirt, and failing. But one caught hold of his clothing, then another. He opened his mouth to yell and a hand was clamped over his entire jaw. More hands secured him, despite his frantic attempts to escape. Whispered commands, and the hand over his mouth was pulled away, to be replaced by a cloth which stifled the cry in his throat. He was held by a number of men, some sitting on his feet and lower body to contain the wild jerks he was attempting. Another cloth, or a rope, was lashed round his legs, and Harry knew that he was lost. He was going to die. They grabbed hold of his trussed legs, then his arms, and lifted him up. Surely someone had heard. But then sailors were well accustomed to turning a blind eye.

As he was being carried towards the side, his earlier thoughts of an open gunport becoming horribly real, all hell broke loose. He hit the deck with a thump and all around him men seemed to be fighting. He was stood on, and kicked repeatedly, as they battled over his prostrate form. Men were stepping over him wielding clubs. Suddenly there was no one. The fight had moved on. Then a face, a crooked smile, and he felt the bonds holding his feet cut.

“There you go, Mr Ludlow.” The man undid the cloth from his mouth. “You’re clear now. We’ve seen those buggers off.”

Harry turned to see the face of his rescuer.

“Smithy!”

“Aye, your honour. Never let it be said that old Smithy does not repay a favour. You held our lives in your hand this mornin’ and you held your tongue. So did Pender. I never thought that such a smooth bastard had it in him. But we are square now, your honour.”

“How long have you been here?” asked Harry.

“Why, we watched you go down that hatch half a glass ago.”

His feeling that someone was watching him was right.

“What in damnation is going on here!” An officer’s voice, loud and angry. As if by magic, Smithy and his rescue party melted away. Harry pulled himself to his feet, as Mangold came forward with a lantern raised. His jaw dropped when he saw Harry.

“Mr Ludlow!”

“I dare say I look a sight, Mr Mangold.”

Mangold looked him up and down, as if to confirm his worst suspicions of the state he was in.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“MR MANGOLD,
this is no time to be wondering what to do. Every minute is vital.”

Disbelief was writ large across the face of the young lieutenant, who could not accept that someone like Harry should be in this state, on the gundeck, and on his watch. On top of that, Harry’s persistent demand that he rouse out Craddock forthwith, without explanation, was coming it mighty high. And that wasn’t all he was demanding.

“And I want a pistol and a couple of reliable men. Every hatch on the pump shaft to have a guard, and a party of seamen down in the hold.”

“Mr Ludlow, what is all this about?” Mangold demanded, his hands held up as if to quieten the irate specimen before him. The situation was becoming increasingly difficult, and the young man cast about as if seeking a solution from elsewhere.

“Mr Mangold!” shouted Harry. “If you do not do as I ask, you will probably spend the rest of your life on the beach.”

Heads appeared out of hammocks. Given what had just happened, Harry found it impossible to believe that they had been asleep. They would have stayed abed at the noise of a fight. But this was different. They saw an officer, who seemed to be involved in a furious argument with a common seaman. Harry realized Mangold’s predicament, but there was no way he could explain himself in the middle of the gundeck, with half the ship’s crew eavesdropping.

“Please do as I ask.” Harry dropped his voice low, but the urgent tone remained. “If I tell you that every officer aboard this ship is in danger of court martial, I would not be exaggerating. Only by acting quickly can any of you save yourselves.”

Mangold’s mouth opened and shut but no words came out.

“And I want men who are now on watch. Sailors.” His enemies were close by. He would feel safe with the men on watch. They were in the clear. “The ship is in grave danger.”

He had chosen the right words. A danger to the ship was easy to comprehend. The young man seemed to snap out of his daze.

“Follow me.” They ran up the companionway, along the upper deck, and up to the quarterdeck.

“Mr Prentice, rouse out the premier, if you please . . .” Mangold looked at Harry. “Ask him to come to the powder store.”

“Quartermaster, hold the ship steady on the present course. Mr Prentice, you come back here and take over the watch.” Mangold ran along the gangway calling out names.

“The men in my division,” he explained to Harry. Mangold had the upper-deck gunners in his division. A sizeable party of hands gathered. “It would be best if you instruct them, Mr Ludlow.”

Harry barked out orders that sent pairs with marlinspikes to guard all the hatches. He ordered the rest to follow him, and they ran back down, through the ship, to the hold. If any of the rest of the crew was curious, they did not trouble to follow them, content to wait and see.

They came to the walkway above the powder store. Harry bade the seaman to wait, while he and Mangold went down into the hold. Harry reached the hatch, undid the lashing which held it shut, and pulled it open. Mangold looked past him, seeing nothing.

“Mr Ludlow.” There was a great deal of doubt in his voice.

“Never fear, Mr Mangold. But let us wait for Mr Craddock.”

“Do I warrant an explanation in the mean time?”

“Best wait.”

They heard the pounding of several shoes on the gangway. Harry, not sure exactly who was approaching, eased his knife into his hand. Mangold; seeing him do this, raised a quizzical eyebrow. Then they heard Craddock’s voice, loud and clear.

“Damn you, sir, where have you been!” he shouted. “Am I to do your duty, as well.” Someone could be heard mumbling an explanation.

“Well it’s time to find out what this is all about. Mr Mangold, where the devil are you?”

“Down here sir, in the hold, by the pump shaft hatch.”

“Well get your arse up here, sir, and provide me with an explanation.” Craddock was obviously in a high temper. The language was unusual for him, and besides, that was no way for one officer to address another.

“I think it best if you join us down here, Mr Craddock,” shouted Harry.

“Who’s that?”

“Mr Ludlow, sir. He insisted that I rouse you out.”

“Insisted! Damn his insistence.” But they could hear Craddock coming down the ladder. He joined the other two outside the open hatch. “What is the meaning of this, sir?” he demanded, almost shouting.

Harry met fire, with fire, shouting even louder. “Mr Craddock. What lies on the other side of this shaft?”

Harry’s angry tone only stopped Craddock for a moment.

“Damn me, sir. Have I been roused out to tell you the anatomy of a seventy-four?”

“What should be there?”

“Should be? Is, sir. That is where the shot is stored.”

“Then kindly follow me, Mr Craddock.” Harry climbed through the hatch, leant across, and flung open the hatch opposite. The room was still fully lit, the drapes and velvet cushions the same. Harry climbed into the room looking about him feverishly. Craddock followed him in, his mouth wide open.

“Damn me,” he said. Harry felt like saying the same.

He was kicking the cushion, looking underneath, but there was nothing. The pictures, the instruments that had lined the walls, had gone.

“Damn me,” said Craddock again, turning slowly to take in what his eyes could not believe. He reached out to touch the drapes in an effort to reassure himself.

“The captain,” he said, half to himself. “I must fetch the captain.”

“No,” said Harry. Craddock turned to look at him, mystified by his interruption. As he did so, Harry realized that Craddock had no choice. Even if this was all Carter’s doing, by rights, Craddock could do nothing other than inform his superior.

“I’m sorry. You must, of course. The captain.”

“Mr Mangold. My compliments to Captain Carter. Would he please oblige by joining me in the hold.”