The Sea Officer Bentley Thrillers

by Jan Needle

  At this moment, Black Bob was seen advancing with a makeshift tray. Between them Sankey and Geoff Raper had mustered up a breakfast for their lord, which filled Sam’s heart with gloom. It was good – fried meat, a certain sort of flat-bread concoction, fresh fruit, and even coffee. The sort of morning meal, within its limits, that told the captain everything was fine and normal. Behind Kaye, by the cooking fire, Sam could see the men in ordered lines, also receiving sustenance from the cook. Raper was a wonder, no doubt of it, although a hopping rather than a walking one. But with this captain, and these men, he might also prove quite fatal. Kaye’s next sentence confirmed all fears.

  “You see?” he said. “Everything is champion, Sam, and for God’s sake don’t you try and spoil it. Bob! You are a princeling, sir!”

  Although invited to partake, Sam walked away disconsolate. He saw Sweetface Savary emerging from the bushes, and he had a razor and a glass in hand. They stood together looking out across the sparkling Caribbean, and Sam milked him for his thoughts. Nothing had been seen throughout the night, the soldier told him, neither sight nor sound of either friend or foe. Just strange, disturbing noises, which he guessed were normal island sounds.

  “It’s not like home, sir, that it’s not,” he said. “And I don’t trust it to be as peaceful very long. I’ll need some sailors, quickly, to take over as musket guards. My men must get some sleep. Can you select some for me, please?”

  After breakfast, after Hugg and Tilley had mustered their men to search for food, fuel, water, the captain called Holt to make up a conference. As expected it was not so much a sharing of opinions, but Kaye’s airing of decisions. The sun was climbing, the heat was rising, and his lust for useless action knew no bounds.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. “Lieutenant Holt here reports we have a golden opportunity. The sea is lower, and the Biter’s lodged, it seems, upon a bed of rock. With diligence we can reach her, and we can take the treasure off. Likewise beef, pork, beer perhaps, and bottles, kegs of powder, maybe shot. Even if we cannot kill sufficient food on shore here we can provide with comfort for ourselves, we’ll have the wherewithal to live. We can get canvas up an’ all, and rope and nails and things. We can build a proper camp.”

  Sam was not going to argue, but Henderson the gunner, an acid man who knew his own importance, did not avoid a sneering note.

  “A proper camp is it, sir?” he said. “I’d say we need a proper fortress, and that right quickly. What if there’s swarms of black men in them hills? Savages?”

  “We will build a fort,” said Kaye, as if he’d planned it all along. “And you, Mr Henderson, are the man for that. Mr Carpenter, I confide you’ll take that in hand also, and work side by side?”

  The carpenter, whose name was Venman although never called as such, made a shrug. He would do anything, if ordered, except enthuse. If he had rope enough, and wood, and something he could cut it with, then building shelters was a bagatelle, and he was content to have Henderson in charge, so that if anything went wrong it could be the gunner’s fault. Despite all this, Henderson was pleased to have him as a companion. Mr Carpenter was a streak of piss, but he did magic with a hammer and some nails. Taylor told off his mates to select helpers for the craftsmen, while the search for firewood and water carried on. When such organising was well in hand, the captain ordered the boatswain back to talk of salvage.

  “Mr Taylor, there is a rumour you can swim,” he said, and Holt watched the boatswain’s muscles tighten. “How many of the people can, and which ones best? I am fired up to get the yawl on station.”

  Before Taylor could answer, Sam put a blaster on.

  “Hold hard, hold hard! I beg your pardon, sir, but I need orders here. We have a party of deserters who may be armed, in a hinterland that’s thick enough to hide a herd of elephants. Mr Ashdown insisted yesterday there would be natives here, or Africans in any rate. Escapees, sir, Maroon bandits from the plantations. Surely we must investigate? We must find that road of yours, sir – your first and best idea!”

  On Kaye the use of flattery was guaranteed, as Holt had often proved before. The road to Kingston or Spanish Town had been deemed too dangerous by Ashdown in fact, but had been the captain’s own initiative. Reminded of it thus, he could not bear to give it up. The boatswain, who read Sam’s intentions clearly, put in his pennyworth.

  “You are right indeed, sir,” he said. “What should Ashdown know? If we can reach it we will be secure, surely? I say the road, for certainty.”

  “In any way, we have to know, sir,” Sam said. “We have to see if there are lurkers out there, and if we are strong enough to hold them off, and for how long. We have to run down our own mutineers and bring them back to help us or be hanged, and find out where the nearest white men are, and in what strength. Who knows, there might be a militia garrison. There must be such a thing, in this ungodly country.”

  “Aye,” Kaye said. “There will be. There will be a road, and there will be our countrymen, with arms. You will go and find them for me, Mr Holt, and you may take a small body of men with you, whom you may choose yourself. But Mr Taylor here, and me –”

  Holt interrupted. Daring, but his time was very short.

  “With your permission, sir. I really need the boatswain to come with me. He –”

  “No, sir! He is a swimmer and our finest seaman! I have hopes that he will get men down into the wreck!”

  But Taylor said politely, and with supreme irrelevance, “I have a pair of leather shoes on, sir.”

  There was a pause, then he continued deferentially: “For walking on the roads, sir. And through this forest. And half the men can swim, sir, or at least a goodly smattering of them. And Tom Tilley handles boats as well as I do, or even better.”

  “The shoes are not a light thing, sir,” said Holt. “I have shoes, Jem has shoes, the marines have boots. Probably no more than six others in the company, save for fat Black the purser. Would you have him come with me? If the Maroons were cannibals he might serve as bait, I’ll grant you.”

  It was a good joke, and Black was no longer in the vicinity to make objection to it. Kaye conceded the argument, but insisted Taylor should help prepare the yawl and persuade the men that diving was a workable idea. Meanwhile Holt talked to Savary and won the services of Simms, the smartest of the soldiers, who not only had boots but had a musket, sword and bayonet and was a master of them all. Kaye wanted Holt to take Grundy along with him (who had shoes but nothing else of any use to any man) and made it clear that he would not mind at all if the surgeon did not come back, for any reason in the world or none. Sam, though, argued the surgeon might be needed if the diving men should come to any harm.

  “Aye, aye,” Dick said, “a point well made. By George, their lordships must pay the man for something, when all’s said. Now, how best to do this other thing? Give me considered thoughts.”

  It was deemed sensible to keep the number going in the yawl with Kaye to minimum, with Grundy on the bottom-boards, a picture of dismayed incompetence. Tilley had no objection to drowning sailors on the captain’s whim, if that is what it took to lead a quiet life, and thought, indeed, it shaped up as a lark.

  The “divers” he had chosen, with Taylor’s assistance on the shore, were four in number, and too young to feel regret, as yet, for having “volunteered.” Each was slim and lean, and thought anything was better, as a fact, then crawling round in fetid undergrowth tearing trees up and building shelters. On land they would be sweating. Offshore they would be cool and comfortable, could enjoy the feeling of the water on their bodies, and might even, Tilley hinted, find brandy in the wreck that they could get a swig at. Their names were Manton, Collins, Jones and Macintosh. Jem Taylor and Lieutenant Holt watched from the shore as they paddled out towards the Biter, and hitched a painter to her floating stump of mast. Jem waved a hand to the little black boy in the stern sheets beside Slack Dickie, but as usual, cowed Bob did not respond.

  “Well,” said Holt, “they have the luck of i
t I suppose, Jem. Let’s pick up our party and go and sweat ourselves to death. What sort of snakes and creepy crawlies do they have out here? Without number, I suppose. Maybe East Sussex ain’t so bloody awful after all.”

  Five minutes later, with Rob Simms and a sailor called Sam Hinxman, who had no boots but claimed his feet were soled in iron, the pair of them set off. Up ahead was forest, and beyond that tall stony mountains, shrouded in high cloud. Further along, indeed, the mountains seemed to have their own local storm, which they watched race along with black rolling clouds and spectacles of fired lightning. They agreed the Caribbean islands were a most unusual place. And wondered how the hell they’d ended up there.

  Chapter Eight

  Out on the yawl, Kaye’s euphoria did not last long, although his optimism did. Above the wreck the water was so clear that every plank could be discerned, and looked close enough to touch; Black Bob reached out an eager hand to break the shining surface of the water. He was surprised when he found nothing under it but sea. Kaye laughed.

  “Well, Bob! What did you expect? We have to struggle for what we get in this world, boy! And you have never had to struggle, have you?”

  The four young men dipped in their hands as well, and marvelled that however hard they stretched, the prize did not come close enough to touch. They did not see it as insuperable, but were anxious to get overside and bring the treasure up. The treasure being liquid in their minds, most probably. Grundy had not yet worked this out. He was morose as death.

  Tilley was already organising. He had obtained light line on shore, and had it coiled. Between them he and Jem had estimated the smallest depth they thought was possible, and marvelled that any man should think it feasible to dive. Gunning had said that pearl divers in the Gulf survived depths almost mythical, but Gunning was not here now, and Gunning would say anything that suited him. Tilley’s role, in any way, was to facilitate, not to argue, so he had brought rope and idiots. Although they were clamouring for precedence he chose Collins, whom he estimated had the smallest lungs. When he failed, the next man could do slightly better, Tilley thought, which would keep the captain happier for longer. Collins stripped down to his raggy drawers, which led his shipmates to some hilarity. As if their drawers were any less destructed, when it came their turn to show.

  It was when he balanced on the gunwale smiling that Collins had his first clear doubt. He had the light line round his waist, Tilley with the coil in his hand to save his life if need be, when it suddenly occurred to him that this might be insane. He opened mouth to protest, and Richard Kaye, in realisation, bellowed at him like a bull. Collins jumped, lurched, staggered, lost his feet and went in with a mighty splash. Kaye, jerking on his safety line, damn nearly cut the lad in half, and he surfaced shouting, then choking with the swallowed water.

  Tilley reached overside and lifted him inboard as a mother might pick up a little child, observing mildly: “Not much blood drawn, luckily. It brings the sharks from miles around.”

  Collins threw himself onto the bottom boards like someone in a play, and Kaye, enraged, kicked him hard. Not in the stomach though; he did not want to destroy his lung control for later. Tilley undid the line and signalled the next smallest man, John Manton. He presented drawers to view – but no more laughter – and presented self for tethering with far less enthusiasm than Collins had done, then plunged overside feet first. Which was hardly very logical, as he rather quickly found.

  Unlike many sailors he could swim, but it was not a skill he would win prizes at. Just below the surface he kicked and struggled manfully as he tried to turn his head and body end-for-end, but by the time he was pointing to the Biter’s deck his leg was tangled in his safety line and there were bubbles escaping from his mouth. He kicked mightily with both feet, starting to move down below the surface, but before his heels were three feet under, the bubbles had become a white volcano. Next instant he was end-for-end once more, and his gasping, bursting face shot through the surface. Thrashing in a panic, he grabbed at the gunwale, missed, slipped underneath. Again it was left to Tilley to haul him out.

  Slack Dickie had a face like thunder as Manton lay in the bilge and retched. Macintosh though, bowing to the inevitable, got to his feet and began to untie his britches-waist. Tom Tilley held a hand up for a pause.

  “We need a method, sir,” he said. “With your permission. Drowned rats ain’t going to get no treasure up.”

  For a long moment there was no sound inside the yawl but panting, while the captain took this idea in, and Tilley put his seaman’s mind to the problem. There was a grappling hook in the bow, and he indicated that the surgeon should pass it back to him. Grundy blinked, his disconnected thoughts a thousand miles away, and Kaye bellowed: “The grapnel, man! That bloody iron, by your feet! Lift it back here!” Grundy, it transpired, could not lift it, which Kaye and Tilley thought was good. It was indeed a heavy one, a boarding tool shipped in the yawl to act as an anchor, but which a normal man could lift, if not a so-called surgeon. It was unwieldy though, and Macintosh, getting the idea, eyed it dubiously. It would take him down all right; but would he get back up again?

  “Sir?” he queried. “That don’t look safe, an’ beg your pardon, sir. That don’t look safe at all.”

  “Bollocks,” said the captain. “We’ll put it on a line and when you’re down there you can hook things on to it and we can haul them up right handsomely. What’s your objection, man?”

  “I’d rather get down to the bottom on my own,” said Macintosh. “That is all, sir. I might get caught in that, and then I’ll drown.”

  To general surprise, Kaye accepted this without an argument. He even suggested they drop the hook down first so that Macintosh could pull himself to the bottom hand over hand. Tilley unbent its short and heavy rope and replaced it with the lighter coiled line. Then he leaned across the gunwale, studied until he’d worked out the best spot, and lowered the grapnel down until it reached the Biter’s deck. A few jerks here and there until it found a place to jam, then all was ready. Collins and Manton took an interest now, feeling half-deprived that they’d been tricked out of their turns. They made it clear that they’d be ready if and when Macintosh made a dog’s breakfast of it.

  He did, but not so speedily as they had. He dived overside head first and seized the line about five or six feet under – ignoring the way his loose and tattered drawers slipped off his buttocks up to the thighs and almost to the knees. The laughter on board was easier this time: everyone was urging on their man.

  Macintosh did well indeed, but the thing was hopeless, realistically. By the time he was down twenty feet his movements were jerky, with his legs thrashing about to almost no effect. He would not give up, though, and struggled on and on. All those on board save Grundy, who was indifferent, were holding their own breaths for him, and the strain was near unbearable. Time was standing still. Each man could feel a drumming in his ears.

  And then the diving man gave up. There was a convulsive movement below them, then a mighty blast of bubbles and they saw him rising, thrashing arms and legs like some machine. It felt like ages before he broke the surface, and as he rose his tortured lungs gave up the fight and he breathed in, taking down an enormous gulp of seawater. Then he vomited, and shouted obscenities through his racking gasps. He would have sunk perhaps but Tilley took him by the hair, then by the neck, then underneath the shoulders and then into the boat. There was water pouring from every orifice it seemed, from ears and mouth and nose and eyeballs, but Macintosh was triumphant.

  “I can do it, sir!” he gasped. “I can do it, sir, it’s easy! I’ve got the way of it this time!”

  Tom Tilley thought he was a clown, but the other sailors, who knew no better life than vying with their shipmates, and Captain Kaye who maybe knew no better anyway, took him gladly at his word. Kaye asked Grundy what he thought – if any damage had been done – and Grundy, naturally, declared the man as fighting fit. When the captain suggested a drop of medicine from his box Grundy
went pale with apprehension, but Macintosh declined in any way, with a convulsive shudder.

  It was Jones’s turn to go down next, and he was determined to make the last man look a booby. He stood on the gunwale for what seemed an age, filling and emptying his lungs, which looked, indeed, to be a good size. He was a Welshman, brought up in the mountain country, and his chest was very deep. When he was ready he nodded briefly and dived in cleanly, thrusting downwards with his legs. He did not kick, but pulled down hand over hand, apparently tireless. On board the yawl the men started to be excited. Perhaps they would see treasure after all, and soon. Captain Kaye began to grow a grin.

  Did not last long. Without a signal of distress, Jones was on the up once more, reaching above him, looking to the surface, kicking madly with both legs. As he got close, air was bursting from his mouth, and when he had grabbed the gunwale he gasped great gouts and let out wheezing roars. He tried to pull himself on board but could not without aid, then lay as if exhausted across the thwarts. His lips were tinged with blue.

  “How far?” asked the captain. “You were almost there, I think? Did you touch the deck?”

  Jones did not reply, but his shipmates all pooh-poohed it. They could do better though – and would. Manton and Collins clamoured for the privilege of being next, and Kaye chose Collins, on the principle of strict rotation so that each man could recover. Collins was full of pride this time, now that he had a rope to pull himself into the depths by. Tilley, who had watched the last man like a hawk and done his calculations, placed a private bet on with himself. He won it easily.

  Collins came up shamefully quickly, although he had got farther than his first time down. John Manton crowed less about his chances then did even better, and Macintosh claimed to have touched the deck before his lungs insisted he let go of the line; a statement that raised Tilley’s eyebrows. Out of bravado, perhaps, Macintosh suggested they should bring the grapnel up and tie it to the next man going down, like a plumbline. That would end the wasted effort kicking and pulling, speed up descent, and give incentive to cling longer on. Jones, whose turn it now was, did not like the plan at all, and did not need it, he insisted. If Macintosh could touch the deck, then he could dance a jig on it. When he returned to surface, there was a small amount of blood from his left ear, but still no sharks. And he had reached the deck, he said, and Kaye apparently believed him.