by Dudley Pope
Without realizing it he continued moving upward so that he was on his feet and heading silently for the door, pistol in his hand, almost before registering that the grunt came from a man’s throat. Yorke followed him a couple of seconds later.
Ramage gestured to him to stand to the left of the door, where he would be hidden if it was opened, and himself stood the other side, flat against the bulkhead. He watched the handle.
The light was so dim from the lantern over his desk that it was hard to see the wooden latch. Yes! It was lifting slightly … and anyone wanting to see if he was lying in the cot at the afterend of the cabin or sitting at the desk on the starboard side would have to open the door at least a foot. And men entering a room or cabin tended to look first at the level of their own eyes.
Gently he lowered himself until he was crouching.
A black crack began to show as someone slowly opened the door, careful to do it gently for fear of a creaking hinge. The crack widened … an inch, two inches … four … five … Whoever it was could see part of the cabin but not the cot or the desk. Eight inches … nine … he could probably see the empty chair by the desk now … eleven … twelve … he could see the whole of the desk and must guess the Captain was lying in the cot.
Suddenly the door flung open wide and the bosun jumped into the cabin, a pistol in each hand, shouting at the cot, “Don’t move!”
It took him a few moments to realize that there was no one in the heavily shadowed cot, and as he began to look round Ramage shot him in the leg. The flash of the gun blinded him for a second and the noise boomed in the tiny cabin, but as the bosun pitched forward another man with a pistol took his place, saw Ramage crouching with an empty gun smoking in his hand, and sneered, “Now it’s your turn, Mister Captain! We need your help to capture this ship!”
Ramage stood up slowly and glanced down at the bosun. The man was lying on his face and had let go of both pistols as he tried to clutch the wound just above his knee.
Ramage knew that if he wanted to live he needed time. “Do you, indeed?” he said icily, recognizing the seaman as a man called Harris. “Do you want me to give the officer of the watch a written order? Or would you prefer me to ask the Admiralty?”
“None o’ that smooth talk,” Harris said harshly. “The shot will have roused that bloody slave-driver Southwick. I’m warning you, if he tries any nonsense, you get yourself shot. You’re our second hostage, Mister Captain—sir,” he added derisively.
Suddenly Ramage realized that there were only two of them: the bosun and this man Harris. They must have crept from their hammocks—or sneaked from their stations—without the Tritons spotting them, clubbed the sentry at the door and been planning to seize the ship by taking Ramage as a hostage.
By marching him on deck with a pistol at his back, they guessed they could force Southwick to surrender the ship as the price of saving Ramage’s life. Then they would head for a Spanish or French port to hand over the ship and get what they expected would be freedom. They had probably—what a terrible irony—thought the gibbet awaited them at home in England, never for a moment … all at once he realized that Harris had just referred to a “second hostage.” Who was the first?
“Come on, Mister Captain, let’s get on with the business a’fore the bosun bleeds to death. Remember, one false step and you’re a dead man.”
Hoping Yorke would continue to play a waiting game, Ramage decided to find out as much as he could. “You’re a brave fellow—you and the bosun. Just two of you taking a ship, eh?”
“Not difficult for packetsmen,” Harris sneered. “No, not just two of us: the rest of the lads are ready, waiting for me to pass the word. Then we’ll show Mister Bloody Southwick some sail handling—aye, and navigation too. Ever been to Coruña, Mister Captain Ramage? Ever been in a Spanish prison?”
“No. But I imagine you’ve been in an English one.”
“Never—an’ there’ll never be no risk o’ that again; I’ll take my oath on it!”
“I’ll take my oath that you’re wrong,” Ramage said conversationally. “Do you know Mr Yorke, by the way?”
“What, the passenger? No, why?”
“I just wondered. You are Harris, aren’t you, bosun’s mate?”
“Aye, that’s me. Now, let’s—”
“Don’t turn round, Harris; otherwise you’ll be shot dead,” Ramage said conversationally. “Mr Yorke is standing right behind you with a loaded pistol in his hand.”
The man froze, the white showing all round his eyes. Then he relaxed. “That’s a silly trick. You can’t catch a packetsman like that. And we’ve got the Marchesa as well—didn’t know that, did you. Got the pair of you, we have!”
At that moment the muzzle of Yorke’s pistol pressed into the back of his neck.
“We can catch a packetsman, you know,” Yorke said jauntily, and cocked the pistol so that Harris felt the metallic click travel down his spine.
Again the man froze and Ramage saw his eyes straining to look behind him. In a swift movement Ramage stepped to one side and seized the man’s gun. Outside the door he heard the plank squeak several times and as he turned he saw Southwick peering cautiously through the door, holding a musketoon whose muzzle in the shadows seemed to bell out as large as a cavalryman’s trumpet and which a moment later was jammed into Harris’s stomach.
Still trying desperately to think what the mutineers could be doing to Gianna, it took him a few moments to snap, “Come in, Southwick! Is the wheel secure? What about the packetsmen on watch?”
“All attended to, sir,” the Master said calmly. “All three of ‘em lying in a row by the binnacle. We knocked ‘em out the moment we heard the shot. The mate’s at the wheel.”
“Very well. Don’t make any move against the rest of them yet: they’ve got the Marchesa as a hostage. Secure Harris and get Bowen to look at the bosun.”
“Come on,” Southwick called to the men behind him. “Rossi, Maxton—this man’s under arrest. Put him in irons and guard him well.”
“Accidente!” the Italian seaman exclaimed, and in a moment he was in the cabin, a knife in each hand and crouching behind Harris while Maxton stood in front, a cutlass pressing against the man’s stomach. “Follow me,” Maxton hissed, backing to the door, “and just trip once, eh?”
Ramage, rubbing the scar over his brow, saw the Surgeon at the door, with Wilson behind him. “Ah, Bowen, we have a patient for you: a turbulent bosun.”
“The sentry is dead,” Bowen said quietly. “Skull crushed in.”
The sentry dead and Gianna a hostage. Ramage felt a chill spreading through his body; time was slowing down and the colours in the dimly lit cabin were growing brighter. He knew the symptoms and knew that for the moment his greatest enemy was himself: this cold rage occurred rarely, but when it did there was no fear and no mercy for whoever caused it.
Cursing himself for letting Rossi and Maxton take Harris away before he could force answers out of him, Ramage pushed Bowen aside as the Surgeon went to kneel by the bosun, who was now beginning to groan, apparently having fainted when he fell.
Ramage paused for a moment and asked Bowen, “Who was the sentry?”
“Duncan, sir.”
Duncan … the young Scot who had been with him in every action from the Mediterranean onwards, and now murdered by one of his own countrymen. Murdered because he was looking the other way and did not know the significance of that squeaking plank. Ramage began rubbing the scar over his brow again and knelt beside the bosun, who was conscious now and groaning softly. He pulled the man’s shoulder, rolling him over on his back. The face was grey: he had lost a lot of blood—it was soaking across the deck, seemingly black in the faint light from the lantern.
“Tell me,” Ramage said, almost whispering, “what have you done with the Marchesa?”
“Oh, the pain,” the bosun groaned. “For pity’s sake, sir, the Surgeon. I’m bleeding to death …”
“Where is the Marchesa?”
“I’m bleeding badly, sir; my leg, it’s smashed—ach …” The man’s eyes closed as his body moved when the ship gave a more violent roll.
Ramage stood up and, deliberately winking at the Surgeon, said harshly, “Look at him, Bowen, and tell me how bad the bleeding is. I want to know when he’ll die.”
The Surgeon gestured towards the lantern, and Yorke unhooked it, holding it so light shone on the man’s leg.
Quickly Bowen slit the seam of the trousers and rolled back the material. Ramage could see the wound was painful but not dangerous.
“The bleeding,” Bowen said with a wink, “I’ve got to stop it or he’ll die.”
“Hear that, bosun?” Ramage said. “You’re quite right; you are bleeding to death. Five minutes, from the look of it.”
The man groaned again and Ramage said crisply, “Stand back, Bowen. Now, what’s happened to the Marchesa?”
“Oh God, I’m dying—the pain, sir … I’ve got a wife and two children …”
“The sentry had three children. Who hit him?”
But Bowen was a surgeon with scruples, and he said emphatically, “Sir, I can’t be responsible for what happens if—”
“You’re not responsible,” Ramage snarled as he knelt beside the bosun again, turning the man’s face so he could not avoid Ramage’s eyes. “If I’m not mistaken you now have about three minutes before you go. What’s happened to the Marchesa?”
“You’re murdering me … If I tell … oh, the pain … if I tell, will you let the Surgeon …”
“Yes,” Ramage said, and added bitterly, “I’ll save you for the hangman’s noose.”
“‘Twas Harris,” the man whispered. “He gagged her and dragged her out and passed her over to the rest of them. They were supposed to take her forward.”
“Who killed the sentry?”
“Harris, sir. I just caught him as he fell.”
Ramage picked up the two pistols the bosun had been carrying, checked that they were loaded, and gestured to Bowen. “Carry on.”
He waved to Yorke. “I’m going to find out what’s happening on deck. Are you coming?”
Yorke picked up Harris’s pistol, which Ramage had pitched on to the settee. “Delighted,” he said. Captain Wilson, still in his nightshirt and with his moustache drooping, waited cheerfully at the door, a pistol in each hand, and followed them.
At the top of the companion-way Ramage paused for a few moments while his eyes adapted to the darkness; then he saw Much and Southwick standing beside a man at the wheel, with another—was it Stafford?—holding a pair of pistols aimed at three bodies sprawled by the binnacle. A group of men waiting at the taffrail were presumably the rest of the Tritons.
Suddenly Jackson was at his elbow. “Mr Southwick said to wait before we winkle out the packetsmen, sir. Says they’ve kidnapped the Marchesa.”
He was speaking in the dull monotone which Ramage had heard only once or twice before but knew was the warning that the American was sufficiently roused to kill without compunction. We are a pair, Ramage thought sourly; maybe it is the quietness that misleads people.
“Stand by me a moment,” he said, and did a quick sum. The bosun, Harris and three men by the binnacle: five accounted for. One of the packetsmen had been killed when the privateer arrived. That left six packetsmen below, and a couple of boys.
One Triton was dead, one was there at the wheel, two were guarding Harris and one guarding the three packetsmen. Two more were needed as lookouts. That left five Tritons plus Yorke and Wilson. He needed Southwick to handle the ship, and Much would have to act as quartermaster and help at the wheel if it became too much for one man.
Seven men against six packetsmen holding Gianna as a hostage. Think, he told himself savagely: a few moments of clear thought now may save her life; the slightest mistake will kill her. He gripped the pistol butts as though trying to crush them.
Very well, try to guess what the packetsmen—the mutineers, rather—planned. Obviously they intended to use Gianna and me as hostages to force Southwick to hand over the ship. Or perhaps, since they could not be sure they could make prisoners of the Tritons, force him to sail the Arabella to a Spanish port—only a few hours’ sailing from here. Right, now they have lost the bosun and Harris. Does that leave them without a leader? Probably: with such a small group of comparatively unintelligent men, the leader would carry out the most difficult part of a plan, taking the most reliable man with him. That pointed to Harris, because the bosun was genuinely terrified of him.
Right, six mutineers are down below holding Gianna. Presumably Harris handed Gianna to them before coming to my cabin. Those six men heard a shot. They still don’t know who fired it: all they do know is that Harris and the Bosun haven’t returned, and the ship is still under our control.
Their only offensive weapon is Gianna, and Gianna alive. And their only defence, too. If they kill her they know they’ll never get control of the ship: we will simply guard the hatch and sail the ship into Plymouth with six mutineers trapped down on the messdeck.
The six of them are probably arguing about that now. Even the most stupid of them must know Gianna has to stay alive to be of any use. Can I be sure of that? I have to be; it’s a risk I must take because Harris is the man with the answers and I need ten minutes to make him talk. If I try to loosen the bosun’s tongue, I will have Bowen protesting. Yet the bosun’s tongue will be easier to loosen than Harris’s. So I’m going to start with the bosun, and if Bowen wants to get soft-hearted about it he can go and sit by the belfry for an hour or two: my questions and the bosun’s answers may be the only things that will save Gianna’s life.
Have I forgotten anything? Gianna’s face keeps getting in the way of the thoughts.
Ramage walked over to the binnacle and gestured to Southwick, Yorke, Much and Wilson to gather round. Quickly he told them what little he guessed and then gave his orders.
“Southwick, you have the conn and keep Much with you and one man at the wheel. I want two lookouts, one forward and one aft. These men”—he motioned to the three packetsmen lying by the binnacle, covered by a Triton with pistols—”put them in irons: we can’t spare a man to guard them. I’m taking Jackson and Stafford with me and I want Rossi. Maxton can guard Harris. Pick two men to help Captain Wilson. Keep the rest with you.
“Now, Wilson: I want you to cover the forehatch with a couple of men. Take musketoons but be careful: I don’t want any shooting. They may send up someone to talk with us, but don’t let more than one man on deck at a time. Is all that clear? Very well, carry on.”
He tapped Jackson on the arm. “Fetch Rossi and tell Maxton to keep a close watch on Harris. If he gives any trouble, he can knock him out, but I want that man kept alive …”
Ramage said quietly to Yorke, “Have I forgotten anything?”
“Not that I’ve spotted. I reckon you’ve got half an hour before those mutineers make up their minds what to do next. Shall we go down and have a chat with the bosun?”
As Ramage hesitated, Yorke thought: he’s a cool one. The Marchesa is down on the messdeck, probably with a mutineer’s pistol stuck in her ribs, and he’s as calm as if she was still in Cornwall. But he’s changed in the last few minutes: now he’s as cold and supple as a rapier blade.
Then Ramage looked straight at him and said, “I’m taking Rossi and Stafford down with me. Either the bosun or Harris are going to talk. It might be—”
“A trifle messy,” Yorke interrupted. “I should hope so!”
They found the wounded bosun lying on the table in the saloon, secured by lines across his chest and hips against the rolling of the ship. The big gimballed lamp swung with the roll of the ship and weird shadows slipped back and forth across the saloon. Bowen was standing over the man’s leg, the table holding him against the lee roll.
He glanced up as they came in and Ramage saw his face was dripping with perspiration. “Ah—just too late to lend me a hand. I’m about finished. Then perhaps I can have a coup
le of men to lift him into a cot; he’ll be more comfortable swinging; the rolling makes the leg jerk on this table.”
“‘Swinging’ is the right word,” Ramage said sourly. “Have you stitched him up?”
“Yes, both sides.”
“Both sides?”
“Yes, sir; the shot went right through, of course. Missed the bone and the femoral artery: if that had been severed, he’d have been dead in a few minutes. At first I feared it was—the light is bad in your cabin, sir,” he explained.
The bosun groaned, looking up at Ramage. “A drop o’ rum, sir, to take the pain away?”
Yorke sniffed. “I can’t see you offering the Captain a tot of rum if you’d fired first.”
“Oh, I would, sir,” the bosun protested. “And you too, sir.”
“Thanks,” Yorke said dryly. “But as far as you’re concerned, dead men tell no tales, and they don’t drink either.”
“But I’m not dead, sir.”
“Not yet,” Yorke said ominously, “and neither are we.”
Ramage grinned to himself: he would have given the bosun a tot, and he realized Yorke had guessed that. But Yorke was right; giving a murderous mutineer a tot made little sense, and from what Bowen said it was only a flesh wound. At that moment there was a knock on the door and Jackson came in with Rossi and Stafford.
Ramage moved to stand over the bosun. “Some more questions,” he said. “You might as well answer them now.”
The bosun gave a heart-rending groan. “I’m not in a fit state …”
“You’re alive,” Ramage said. “That’s enough, and be thankful. Now, whose idea was the mutiny?”
The man’s eyes darted from side to side of the saloon; his hands gripped the edge of the table. Then he watched the lantern as it swung with the ship’s roll. He swallowed several times but said nothing.
Ramage said, “The mutiny has failed. There’s nothing to stop you talking.”
