by John Drake
“Cos he’s bloody mad!” says I. “Don’t you understand?”
“Who’s that with you, Fletcher?” says Williams. “Would it be Mr Percival-Clive?” And before I could stop him, Percy had darted out of the hatch and was standing on the windlass waving his arms.
“I am here, sir! It is I,” says he, swaying to keep his footing. The ship rolled heavily as the wind took her and spray crashed over the weather beam. I dared not go after him; I could see the briefest corner of Williams’s face and the gleam of a pistol-barrel peeping out from behind the boat. He could hit a mouse in the eye at that range.
“Were you there all the time?” asks Williams.
“Aye aye, sir!” says Percy brightly.
“And have you seen all that has happened?”
“Oh yes indeed, sir!”
“What a pity,” says Williams. “And you with every imaginable advantage to further your career.” Three things happened at once. I dived at Percy, the ship wallowed horribly and Williams fired.
Percy dropped like a sack of dead eels between the windlass and the fo’c’sle bulkhead. I shoved him sprawling into the fo’c’sle and crawled in behind him, keeping low, out of Williams’s sight.
I got my back to the bulkhead and pulled Percy’s body alongside of me, raising his head in the crook of my arm. He’d been hit smack in the middle of his suety face and there was blood everywhere. The ball had split his lower lip, knocked out some teeth and torn a hole in his cheek on its way out. But he opened his eyes and blinked at me in pain. He’d taken a terrific knock and was half-stunned, but he was alive. The movement of the ship had thrown off Williams’s aim. And better yet, he’d learned an important lesson.
“Fletcher!” says he, in amazement, spluttering blood and tooth fragments. “D’you know, I think Mr Williams has gone mad! He tried to kill me!”
“Thank God!” says I. And clutched him as the ship rolled deeply and we slid into a corner with our two bound prisoners and a jumble of loose gear on top of us.
“Fletcher!” cries Williams. “This cannot go on or we shall lose the ship. We must have a truce to make her safe. I swear I shall offer you no harm. We are equals now, Fletcher, we have each done murder!” I didn’t trust him, not for a second, the cunning swine, but he gave me an idea.
“Here,” says I, stuffing the loaded pistol into Percy’s hand. I shoved Barker and the other man out of the way and hauled open the hatch to the lower deck. “He thinks he’s killed you! Quickly now! Down here, along the lower deck and up out of the quarterdeck hatch behind him. I’ll keep him talking so you can surprise him. Shoot the bastard then get out of the way. Kill him if you can but I’ll rush him anyway, the instant you fire. Can you do that?”
“Yes,” says he, but his eyes glazed over and the pistol was slipping from his hand. “It hurts,” says he. “Why must I go to sea, Papa? I don’t want to ... ” and he slumped back muttering to himself.
“Damn!” I thought, and I sheathed the cutlass, took the pistol and screwed up my courage. I’d like to say that I was fed up hiding and wanted to face Williams at last. But it wasn’t that. A fight between him and me could only end one way. He was vastly my superior, both as a swordsman and a marksman, and my strength wouldn’t save me from that. No, it had to be now, before he could reload. But which way? I decided the main deck would be quicker and scrambled out and over the windlass as fast as I could go.
Bonne Femme Yvette was beam on to the wind by now, and rolling her lee rail under, so it was hard to keep upright let alone charge the batteries like the Light Brigade. I staggered aft, bouncing off the boat, grabbing its gunwale and hauling myself along it, and round the stern. And there he was. There he was! Blue coat, shiny buttons, white face, black hair, crouching with rammer and cartridge, caught and glaring at me with an empty pistol up-ended in his hand. Caught and close enough to touch.
His mouth fell open, I raised my pistol and hauled on the trigger. Bang! But something had flown at my eyes. I flinched and the shot went wide. Thump! A glancing blow on my face; too light to harm, but it saved Williams. He’d spun the useless pistol at me the instant I appeared. By George but he was fast! He was dancing to his feet and slashing at me with a blade. I jerked back and the cut sunk into the side of the boat. Then out with my cutlass and on guard, with the deck bouncing like a see-saw.
Clash! Scrape! Clang! I blocked three blows and gave ground fast. Then I nearly had him! He slipped back as the ship heaved, windmilling his arms to keep balance, and off guard for an instant. I rushed in slashing with all my might. But it was useless. He turned the blows so cleverly that he never even felt them. It was like cutting at a glass pyramid. My blows just slid off his guard. I laid on all the harder and he laughed at me.
But it wasn’t true laughter. It was hysterical and mad. You’d have thought he was frightened if he hadn’t fought so bloody well. He flicked his wrist this way and that, meeting my strength with consummate skill. God knows how long it went on but he made no attempt to strike back. He just let me wear myself out. Finally, he turned to the attack.
“Goodbye, Fletcher!” says he and lunged like a fencing master. Again the ship saved me. On level ground he’d have spitted me, but we both staggered as the deck dropped away beneath us. He laughed again, wildly, “Shall I never get it quite right?” says he. “You really have led me the most tedious dance, my dear brother.”
“What did you call me?” says I, amazed even in my fear and exhaustion.
“Brother,” says he, “you’re my bastard half-brother. You stand between me and a fortune.” And he came on again. I did my best but found my cutlass suddenly twisted away from my body, leaving me open to a thrust. His eyes widened with joy to deliver the death-blow ... Then there was a bang behind me and his sword-arm twitched and there was a hole in his coat over the forearm. His face twisted in pain and he tried to take the cutlass in his left hand. The right hand wouldn’t move and he was trying to unwrap its fingers from the hilt when my point crunched through his breastbone and a foot out behind his back. I jerked the blade free and stood back as he howled in pain and slid to the deck. But he hauled himself upright in an instant, and sat there awkwardly with his legs splayed apart and his one good arm braced against the deck.
“No! No! No!” says he, and grabbed at his cutlass. But I kicked it away or he’d have come after me on his knees. So he damned and moaned in impotent fury and tried again and again to get up. And he glared at me in diabolical hatred the whole while. He was fuller of life than any man I’ve ever met and he struggled to live, with a fierce power of will. But even he couldn’t hang on with his heart pumping blood straight out through his chest, and he was dead in under a minute. He went quick but he didn’t go easy.
And there he was at my feet, his waxy yellow face slopping this way and that as the ship rolled. The creature that mutilated my life and turned me into what I am.
I noticed Percival-Clive was standing beside me, trying to say something, but his face was swollen and his words were painful mumbles. Then he showed me the smoking pistol and I understood. He’d woken up and used some initiative for once.
“Thank you,” says I. He mumbled again and pointed to the sails. We weren’t saved yet by a long way. Bonne Femme Yvette was only waiting a strong gust of wind and she’d be over on her beam ends. There was a lot to do if we were to save the ship.
34
I was deadly tired but there was no possibility of rest.
“We must get her before the wind at once ... Sir,” says I, remembering who was supposed to outrank whom. “And we need more hands urgently. If you would release Barker, I’ll deal with these lubbers.” I pointed at the three faces peering down from the maintop. They’d followed everything in amazement.
“Ahoy, maintop!” says I, but they were already moving, climbing down the swaying shrouds.
“Tweren’t us, Mr Fletcher!” calls one of them. “It was all Mason and Barker. But we was frightened of that Williams. He weren’t no proper off
icer, not at all.” They were bobbing their heads and knuckling their foreheads frantically. It was almost comical to see how hard they were trying to please. And they never gave me a second’s trouble. They leapt like monkeys to my every command.
So we pitched in and slackened off the few sails she was carrying, so as to lessen the chance of her being blown right over. Then we set the fore staysail to try to lever her bow round so she’d have the wind astern of her. Luckily for us, the weather stayed moderate. Had it been any rougher we’d never have done it with only four men fit to work. Barker could hardly stand, after hours bound hand and foot, Percy was in too much pain with his wound, and the man I’d run through the thigh had died in the night.
Once she was before the wind, everything was easier. The ghastly rolling ceased and her motion steadied. So we braced her yards round, one at a time as best we could, and got her under way. One of my “crew” said he’d been a quartermaster in a previous commission, so I set him to the wheel to hold her on what I hoped was the course for England.
And every decision was mine, I might add. I was amazed how much I’d learned, which was just as well for I was in sole command of the most complex of all of man’s machines: a fully rigged ship at sea. Mr Midshipman Percival-Clive was no help at all. I knew as much as he did on matters of straightforward seamanship, so I didn’t need him to get the ship on an even keel and sailing easily. But, as regards where in God’s name should we steer on the great desert of ocean, as regards the setting of our course, which should have been his particular responsibility as an officer, he was totally useless.
I grant he was wounded, but he was ignorant with it. I’d seen him with the other Mids, with sextants and charts, under instruction from Mr Golding. Some of them could find the ship’s position and plot a course, near as well as the Sailing Master himself. But when I asked Percy if he could do the like, he just picked his nose and looked away. So I did what I could on my own. I found the French Captain’s charts and made what sense I could of his log (precious little, seeing as it was in French). I looked at the brief log that Williams had kept, and I made some calculations of speed, wind and distance run and estimated the compass bearing we must follow to reach Portsmouth.
In the event, a day’s sailing brought us in sight of Phiandra and Taureus labouring along, battered and leaking, and we overhauled them steadily.
With no British signal flags aboard I couldn’t warn Captain Bollington that we needed assistance so I simply sailed past Taureus and came within hailing distance of Phiandra. Lines of curious faces peered at us from each ship and I could see the anxious expression on Captain Bollington’s face as he examined Bonne Femme Yvette from end to end.
“Ahoy, there!” says he. “Where is Mr Williams?”
“Lost, sir!” says I.
“Report to me at once!” says he. “I’ll send a boat.”
Within ten minutes I was aboard Phiandra with a circle of curious faces all around me. Sammy, Norris and Kate were asking questions but I was hustled off to the quarterdeck at once. On the way, Percy collapsed and was carried off to the Surgeon, so I was able to make my case to the Captain alone. Better still, I persuaded him to see me in his cabin and not on the open deck for all to hear.
“Fletcher!” says he, with a smile. He seemed damn pleased to see me. “What’s happened?”
“Mutiny!” says I, lowering my voice to utter the plague word, the one subject of all others that no Captain would have discussed in the hearing of his crew. It did the trick.
“What?” says he in alarm, glancing round the deck. “Come below at once!” So I followed him to the Great cabin and made my report. I was too tired to be clever and I had no contrived tale to tell so I told him the truth. With Percy to back me up I couldn’t see why I shouldn’t. I told him the whole story from the time I was pressed, leaving out only the death of Bosun Dixon of Bullfrog. I was talking the best part of an hour and he listened sympathetically. In fact, to my great relief and even greater surprise, I could see that he was on my side from the first moment. He was nodding in agreement with whatever I said, and frowning at Williams’s iniquities almost before I could get the words out. He was believing me!
When I’d done, he was silent a while then shook his head.
“I suppose Bone and the others will corroborate your account of what happened ashore at Portsmouth, when there was an attempt on your life?” says he.
“Yes, sir,” says I, “Bone still has the button he pulled from Williams’s coat.”
“And this Booth woman would repeat her accusations against Mr Williams’s character?”
“Yes, sir. I think so.”
“Hmm,” says he. “You may not be aware of it, Fletcher, but certain ... ah ... stories have circulated about Mr Williams for a number of years. I had my doubts of taking him into this ship.” Then he fell silent for a long while and stared into space. Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke.
“Fletcher!” says he. “If you’d come to me with such a tale a week ago I shouldn’t have believed you. But two things have happened since then. First, I owe you my life! In the battle for Taureus you stood between me and a French bayonet.” The mists cleared. That was why he was on my side. I’d actually forgotten; so much had happened in between. He smiled warmly. “Because of that I am for ever in your debt. Second, in three days or so I shall take this squadron into Portsmouth where I have every expectation of being most warmly received. I shall drop anchor at Spithead with two French prizes, one of them a ship more powerful than my own and I have certificates attesting to my destruction of a second powerful ship. I shall let nothing interfere with that event. I’ll have no spoiling of my triumph with dragging dead men’s names through courts of enquiry. And I’ll have no feuds with Williams’s family. They’re not without influence, and if I know ’em they’ll fight like the devil.” He paused to see how I’d take this. “I admit you to this confidence, Fletcher, because you have power to stir up this matter if you choose. And I’ll not have it stirred. Do you understand?”
“Aye aye, sir,” says I, wondering where this was leading.
“Then I have a proposition to put to you, and an offer. My proposition is that Mr Billy Mason broke into the spirits aboard Bonne Femme Yvette and, while drunk, led a mutiny. Mr Williams fell in action against the mutineers and Mr Percival-Clive, though badly wounded, courageously rallied the loyal hands and restored discipline. All the mutineers were killed in the fight and Mr Percival-Clive brought the ship out to join my squadron.” He looked at me forcibly and tapped the arm of his chair in emphasis. “This story will cause the least possible disturbance since it reflects credit on everyone who matters. More important, it will readily be accepted by Percival-Clive’s family, whose opinion is the most important of all.”
“Will he accept it, sir?” says I. The Captain sighed.
“It is in his interest to accept it,” says he, “and in any case, his stupidity is so fathomless that he believes everything he is ever told! You may rely on me to put it to him. Now, as to the offer, I cannot give you the credit you deserve in this matter but any other thing I can do to advance your career is yours for the asking. For instance, I could arrange for you to re-enter this ship as a first-class, gentleman volunteer ... as a Midshipman.”
“Sir,” says I, “you are most generous. It is a handsome offer and I am truly grateful ... but I don’t want a career at sea. And I’ve learned that I have a family ashore that I knew nothing of. So I ask for only two things. First, let me leave the ship a free man at Portsmouth ... ” He was obviously disappointed at that.
“If that’s what you want, Fletcher,” says he.
“Thank you, sir,” says I. “The other thing is delicate and concerns Williams. I must know who I am and why he did all these things. There may be papers in his cabin or his sea-chest. I should like to look at them.”
“Hmm ... ” says he, “I suppose I am obliged in any case to parcel up the Lieutenant’s effects, so I promise that you may exa
mine any papers that I find.” He tapped his foot, shifted in his chair and looked at me. “So you don’t want a career at sea, eh?”
“No, sir,” says I.
“Do you realise the risk you took in heading out to sea in Bonne Femme Yvette? Four hands and no navigator in a three-hundred ton vessel out of sight of land? You could have been blown out into the Atlantic! You could have miscalculated! How’d you know what sail to carry? How’d you set your course?”
“I did what I could, sir. Calculations come easily to me.”
“Damn it!” says he. “Can’t you see it, man? You’re a natural born seaman! What do you mean you don’t want a career afloat?” I didn’t know what to say. I was tired and confused and simply wanted to fall into a hammock. “Bah!” says he. “You look more dead than alive. Go and get some sleep. If you’ve any wit at all you’ll realise you’ve made a discovery about yourself.”
I suppose he was right. But it was nothing like the discovery I made the next day. Captain Bollington was almost respectful when I saw him again. He’d been through Williams’s things and he’d obviously read some of the letters he’d found. His whole manner towards me had changed as he presented me with a thick sheaf of papers. Some of the most important ones are on the next pages, and you might like to look at them yourselves:
I Henry Jacob Coignwood of Coignwood Hall in the County of Staffordshire, do declare before Almighty God that I am of sound mind and that this is my last will and testament.
Herewith I do bequeath:
To my wife, Sarah, Lady Coignwood, £100 per annum for life, and her personal jewels, together with an expression of satisfaction that I shall not see her again in this life, and a prayer that by God’s Grace I may not meet her in the next.
To her sons Alexander and Victor, £50 each per annum, for life.
These aforementioned bequests are granted on the strict condition that Sarah, Alexander and Victor Coignwood do immediately remove themselves from Coignwood Hall and never return there again.
