The Devil's Luck (A Charlie Raven Adventure)

by Jan Needle

  ‘It pains me to have to say this, sir,’ Swift started, ‘but I am confident in honesty that Mr Raven will allow that I must speak. When we reached the bay I made it clear that we had orders, and I made it even clearer that they would be obeyed. Perhaps Mr Raven will tell you how—’

  ‘I do not want to hear him! I choose who speaks, sir! Please to not forget that!’

  ‘Forgive me, sir. Well then. As we hung off the side of the French target, which was moored, sir, but with signs of life below – a shouting rose in Mr Raven’s boat. A loud noise, sir. A warning to the enemy.’

  Captain Maxwell’s colour rose. It rushed up his neck, flooded his chin and cheeks. He seemed fighting for breath.

  ‘Treachery!’ he choked. ‘Is Raven a traitor, too? As well as being craven!’

  Charlie Raven felt his blood begin to drain. He clenched his teeth and fists. There was a beating lightness in his head. He would not sway. He would not.

  ‘I think not, Captain.’ Daniel Swift smiled tightly. ‘More a failure to control. He is indulgent, sir, and his people took advantage. As they always will.’

  ‘Weak men,’ said Hector Maxwell. ‘That is their measure, sir.’ He turned to Raven. His eyes were glittering with contempt. ‘Another failing inherited from your father. Oh, you…you disgust me!’

  ‘He conducted himself with bravery,’ Swift said. ‘I will not give the impression, sir, that he—’

  ‘Pah! Bravery! I doubt he has the brains to fear a danger even if he sees one! What next, sir?’

  ‘We took the ship, sir. I went to the after end, while Raven took the bow. He met with small resistance, luckily. I met the officer contingent. It was a fierce and bloody struggle.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I shot their leader, sir. It was the second time my marksmanship came in its own. We had a skirmish with the Scilly gigs, sir, well out at sea. As Raven will confirm, I ended that pursuit by shooting two or three of them. They could not effectively shoot back, because the sea was rough. I was fortunate. Indeed.’

  ‘Fortunate? For your marksmanship? Raven – what say you?’

  Raven was taken off his guard. He had thought that he would never get to speak. So many lies to nail. So many falsehoods.

  ‘How say you, sir?’ the captain repeated, testily. ‘Will you not speak up for your officer and comrade? His fine marksmanship? Well?’

  Raven nodded. He gulped and nodded. He was interrupted before he got to speak.

  ‘Pah!’ said Maxwell, again. ‘I see the truth now, Mr Swift. You praise him and he will not praise you. I see the dreadful truth of it. What other men were wanting? We must flog some of them, to teach the others. Do we know the men who shouted out the warnings? Did your own men play a part?’

  Swift shook his head with vigour.

  ‘They did not, sir. They were exemplary. That boatswain’s mate, sir, Robinson is I believe his name. He needs promoting, Captain. He is a fine, brave man. He would confirm my account in every detail.’

  Raven had a tiny ray of hope. He had observed Mr Robinson. An acid sort of man, but not a liar, not in any way. And less fond of Swift than that man thought, for certain.

  The hope was crushed.

  ‘Pah! I need not confirmation, Mr Swift. You have come through a hard time with signal honours, and it needs no other man to tell me that you speak the truth. I have a mind to put this youth in irons, while we sail back to the England coast. I know full well I cannot flog a snotty boy, nor will I flog my sister’s son, who has a mother’s sensibilities. This Raven, sadly, is the product of his father’s craven blood alone. You! The one I must call nephew! I suppose that you must have your say. So speak now. Speak!’

  After a short silence, Daniel Swift said: ‘Come on, Charlie. I am your friend beside you. You were not all bad. Stand up for yourself now your uncle has given you the chance. You do insult him, otherwise.’

  ‘Insults are his stock in trade,’ said Hector Maxwell. ‘So be it, dummy, if you will play quite mute – that is at least some small improvement on your normal patter. So go you now and find some work to do. I will not put you in irons, anyway. I think I have the proper punishment for you, while the other men are flogged.’

  He raised a hand, no longer languid. He seemed, indeed, quite animated.

  ‘Lieutenant Swift,’ he said. ‘Exhort your fellow officers to get all sewn up and ready us for sea. Bullen will command the Frenchman and we will hurry forward. I wish to notify their lordships of my prize.’

  ‘A triumph, sir, a triumph,’ said Swift. ‘Midshipman Raven, come with me. And thank the captain for his great humanity.’

  ‘Hah,’ said Maxwell. His sour face was smiling, sheer delight. ‘Just wait to see what I have got in store, young man. Humanity! Ah, you cannot guess the half of it!’

  Chapter Twenty

  When they got back to the Scillies, where Maxwell intended hunting down the smugglers who had not already skipped, the wind was dying off once more, like the sentimental ending to a play. They dropped the bower in the self-same spot they’d left two days before, and the wind sank with it. The breeze was playing with them, Daniel Swift complained. Within two hours they were in a deathly calm.

  It was a lovely evening, and the island looked like paradise. The men, well fed and watered, lounged on the deck and listened to the surf for a long while. They listened as it grew less, and less, and died. Of the French prize there was as yet no sign. She was safe, however – well armed, well manned. The prisoners, their tasks all done, would be safely locked below, a certainty.

  Because he wanted all men to see the fun, Captain Maxwell held off on the punishment in a kind of hope. The waist was cleared in readiness, and gratings were set up at the break, lashed to the shrouds. The boatswain’s mates were paraded before him, at his orders, and made to show their muscles to the bargain. One man refused to pose, expressing great distaste, and Maxwell said that he could have a flogging, too.

  He laughed again.

  ‘But only half a dozen, though,’ he said. ‘You are not a bad man, but I will make you an example. Indeed, I must. The others of you learn by it. When I say lay on your hardest – you lay on.’

  He had liquor issued, also, to encourage them. The men got slowly drunk, and quickly more impatient. As dusk was coming down it was clear the punishment must start.

  ‘The hell with them,’ said Maxwell. ‘That bloody Bullen is a derelict, I could have rowed that French scow here by this, and single-handed. It is enough to make a man say merde! Drummer! Beat up the punishment. I cannot wait no more at all.’

  First up was Raven’s helpmeet, Simpson. He had been indicated by Swift, who had then backtracked by saying he was a good man, all in all. But for Simpson it was too late. He swelled up like a volcano before eruption, and his smiling face was black with rage.

  ‘This is a bloody farce!’ he shouted. ‘You cannot flog the boy and you should not flog me, sir, neither! It is a flaming travesty!’

  ‘The boy?’ roared Maxwell. ‘Who dare you call “the boy”? Are you enamoured of him, you perverted swine? You will get a dozen more for that!’

  ‘So be it!’ shouted Simpson. ‘I will take a hundred, sir, and still you are a cowardly poltroon! You may draw blood, you will draw nothing else from me! Unless I piss upon your deck, sir! Aye, and shit upon it too! To show, sir, to show you and the world how you are rated as a human man!’

  Cold with fury, Hector Maxwell decided to change tack. He signalled the boatswain’s mates, all three of whom were stunned in nervous silence. They could read the crew as well as he, and if anyone would be humiliated by this, it would not be Sawdust Samson, they knew. Who would let himself be whipped to death, if need be. Who would not crack.

  ‘Take him below,’ said Maxwell. ‘Take him below and clap him into irons. Mr Blacksmith, I want neck shackles, too. Neck and ankles, wrists through crutch to groin. I want him hobbled like a horse before the knacker’s yard.’

  ‘You are a criminal,’ said Simp
son. ‘A common criminal. Will no one take my part on this?’

  Nobody would, nobody could. And finally, Simpson went very quietly below. The men around the deck looked half ashamed. Some punishments were very well, as entertainment. Some went off at half cock. Some were a disaster, through and through.

  And Maxwell, a man with little normal understanding of his fellow human beings, had a sudden flash of inspiration.

  ‘All right, brave boys,’ he said. ‘Now let us say I have achieved my object. Let’s say that I’ve achieved my heart’s delight because the oaf will rot below to Portsmouth. And there he’ll be arraigned, and tried for full-blown mutiny, and if God is still in heaven, will be hanged. So be it. So the punishment is over. So that man’s bleak future can stand atonement for you all. The flogging’s at an end. Mr Purser! Make free with wine and ale, sir. All men will drink with me tonight. It is a new beginning.’

  There was a cheer, but a small and ragged thing. The men just below the hatchway, awaiting their turn to be pulled up for public punishment, were freed of bonds, and pushed and cajoled up into the light.

  One of them was Charlie Raven. Now dressed in his best uniform, which was, indeed, not hardly of the best. He stood in the evening sunshine, and blinked.

  And am I free, he thought. And is this bastard mad? Where is Sawdust Simpson? What have they done to him?

  He walked up to the captain, bravely, and looked into his face.

  ‘I do not understand,’ he said. ‘What’s happening on this ship? What happens now, sir? What happens now?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Hector Maxwell, ‘the craven Raven speaks. Now Craven, the punishment is over. All punishment is cancelled for the day. Belayed. Defunct. No more.’

  He was smiling a sort of twisted smile. His eyes were glittering. Charlie Raven was afraid.

  ‘Sir?’ he said.

  ‘A little task for you, my boy. A little game that all us gentlemen are called to. All in our time, we all have done it. Mr Stewart, Mr Bullen, Mr Swift. And me, oh naturally. I did it when I was but a little boy of half your size. Go to the main truck, sir, I beg of you. You do not have to dance, just standing will suffice. Ten seconds gazing out across the sea, and then come down again. To prove you are a man, sir. And not your father’s filthy, useless spawn.’

  This time, Raven knew, there was no way out. Since he had been small his fear of heights had grown like weeds. It had come on him gradually, as he had grown himself, and he did not think that it was funk. Until the time had come, when forced to go to heights, or even contemplate the going, his ears would roar, his eyes blur, his hands begin to shake. It was, indeed, some kind of illness.

  And worst of all, when he looked down from something high, he wanted to jump off. Always, if he once let his eyes take in a distance, a silent voice would scream at him to go. It was if a demon had him in its grip, it was like a wild desire, overwhelming. His mind said no, his soul said yes, yes, yes!

  He could not even bear to watch another man go near an edge. It made him sick with frenzy. The fear, desire, need, to feel a body plunge.

  And he knew that he was not unique. Some said it was not all that unusual, it even had a name, some doctor-word, some jargon. But Charlie Raven refused to remember it. The whole thing was a knot of hatred in his head. Fear and hatred.

  This time, he had to go.

  The whole ship’s company was watching as he left. Save for Simpson, naturally, who did not even know what was to happen. But every man jack else, from the powder monkeys to the scullion, a cannon cripple with only half a face. They stood around the deck in silence, and watched him start to climb.

  It was a long, long way. For much of the early stage, he actually closed his eyes, and moved upwards only by feel and memory. From the deck he had studied rigging assiduously, and for his exams. If he passed his exams, he knew, he might never, in fact, have to leave the deck. It was not all that uncommon for a subtle officer; at least, he had heard men say such things.

  And it was amazing how much your hands could tell you, and your feet. Except that he was in his uniform, and had on leather shoes. Captain Maxwell had been very keen on that. He had insisted. He could see them in his mind’s eye, strangely. Two little polished slippers, with slipper quite the word. Only an idiot would leave the deck in them. And who would force one to? Only…only Captain Maxwell, it would seem.

  The main top futtocks were the first disaster point. He could not funk it, could not stay climbing vertical, and sneak up through the lubber’s hole. Which meant he had to lean out backwards, climb up hanging halfway upside down, his hands and feet crooked through the lines to stop him dropping off, and down, and landing on his back below. That was the first disaster point.

  But Raven did it. It took long minutes, and he expected cries of derision from the deck. But nothing came. He kept his eyes closed for almost all of it, and snatched quick views when stuck, but only ever upwards. And there he was, on the main top. And from the deck he did not hear derision, but a pretty solid cheer.

  Did he start to enjoy himself? He did not. Even looking skywards made him nauseous, and if his eyes strayed sideways he feared that he would jump. If he looked downwards, he knew he would. He’d jump, or scream, or vomit, or pass out.

  And the demon tore at him. Oh jump, just jump, it said. It’s not a long way down, it will be wonderful. Just jump.

  So Charlie did not look down, and he did not enjoy himself. He climbed slowly, painfully, hating the slipping of his shoes and the rawness of his hands. The cordage up here was thin, and harsh, and tarred, the finest, hardest, hemp. And the thirst inside his mouth began to make the tissues writhe, to tease him like a living thing. And he sweated as he’d never done before, and he stank, he stank, he stank.

  And suddenly, he was at the main topgallant mast. He stood upon the yard, the rope jeers, too high aloft for chain, and looked up at the pole. A bare pole, bare wood, a bit of tar, no paint, and many, many splinters. The only way was up, the only way to get there was by shinning. What would his mother say about his trousers? Perhaps she’d never know.

  But that would be to embrace defeat, and that would mean he must embrace his death, the inevitable corollary. So he must shin up this bare pole, eight, ten feet or so, and get around the flat wood disc he saw above him.

  The truck. The cover that stopped the rain and rot from running in and down the timber through the grain. Which would destroy the mast till one day it would crack, and spring, and break. And the whole damn house of cards come crashing down.

  And he was there. And he must clamber over it. And it was easy, almost. With a final burst of strength and desperation, he wriggled his way over it, he closed his eyes to stop him looking down, he felt, and knelt, and pushed – and there he was.

  On the main truck. But on his hands and knees. And Captain Hector Maxwell was watching him, and he would not have that, would he? Oh, never in a month of flaming Sundays.

  Indeed, he heard the captain’s voice. It sounded strange, maybe a speaking trumpet. It rose ethereal into the lovely, airy blue.

  ‘Stand up!’ it said. ‘Stand up and then come down, damn you! And do not take all day, man, there are thirsty men down here! Stand tall, and then come down.’

  But Charlie Raven knew that he could not. He made it to his feet, his eyes tight shut, and he felt the edge of the wooden circle hemming them in. Slowly, very slowly, he straightened up his back, inch by inch, joint, almost, by joint. Until he stood, he crouched, he pushed, he groaned, he almost made it straight. But he could not.

  The muscles in his back were screaming. His blood was roaring in his ears. The thirst was so harsh that he thought his mouth would die. And he could not stand up.

  ‘You damned poltroon!’ screamed Maxwell, through his trumpet. ‘I knew you were a coward and you are. Come down then, now, you are absolved. You are absolved, and I need never call you kin again. Now, climb down, sir! Even a puling coward can surely climb down backwards!’

  But Raven could not move.
He was rigid, frozen, balanced on the wooden disc. He knew that if a wave came, or a breeze, then it would sway, and he knew that if it swayed then he would fall.

  ‘Come down!’ screamed Maxwell. ‘Come down or I will shoot you down! Is that what you intend, sir – to shame me quite completely? Come!’

  Five minutes more the young boy stayed there. He stayed, and swayed, and prayed, and kept his eyes tight shut. More threats, more imprecations.

  And finally, Raven heard this:

  ‘Come down, Charles Raven, or I will have to shoot you down. And I mean this, sir. You cannot stay there on the truck. If you are too cowardly to move, then I will have to make you move. Come down sir, or we shoot you down. I give a count of three!’

  The count went by, so very, very slowly. And no musket shot rang out. The captain was beside himself.

  ‘This time,’ he said, ‘you have coerced me. This time Lieutenant Swift will make the shot. This time, sir, you will be hit, I promise you. The fault will not be mine, all men here witness it. I have given you your warnings, you choose to disobey your lawful master. A count of five this time. Unless you move, or move your arm to indicate intention – then Daniel Swift will shoot. And Daniel Swift, sir, is a marksman. The count begins.’

  Charles counted with the voice from off the deck. He counted one, he counted two, he counted three, and four, and five. There was a moment’s pause.

  ‘Mr Swift is ready. Lieutenant Swift, I order you to shoot.’

  And then it came.

  And Charles pitched forward, and arced and sailed, and almost flew. He hit the upper shrouds once, and was bounced outwards like a rubber ball. He hit the lower shrouds, bounced off the whippy yardarm of a studding sail, and plunged into the Scilly Island bay.

  From where, three minutes later, his comrades picked him up. His face was far too wet to see if he was weeping, there was blood from half a dozen wounds. But on the deck he managed to make a wavering line to Daniel Swift.