by F. M. Parker
“I used a single shot cap and ball. But a pistol is a pistol.”
“Yeah, they pretty much are. Any shooting will be at short range. Come with me.”
Griffith led to the forward hatch. There he pointed at a spot off to the side a few feet and spoke in a low voice. “Stand right there and don’t say anything after I open the hatch.”
Patrick nodded his understanding and stepped to the indicated position. He regretted being part of killing one of the mutineers. However like Griffith, he knew it was necessary if he was to have a chance to get to America.
Griffith silently unchained the hatch cover. He cocked the three-barrel duck-foot pistol and his revolver and lowered them to hang behind his leg. He lifted the hatch cover with a toe of a boot and kicked it aside.
“Walloghan, I want to talk to you,” Griffith shouted down the open hatchway to the lower deck. “I need you and the rest of the crew to sail the ship. Let’s come to an understanding on that.”
“To hell with you, Griffith,” a man called back in a belligerent voice. “We’re doing just fine down here. We’ve got the food and water. And it’s warm and cozy. We can outwait you.”
“You’re gambling that a ship doesn’t come by. Well I saw one on the horizon yesterday. There’ll be one come past that’ll be closer and I can signal it. Then you’ll be in a bad fix and I’ll sure as hell see you all hung. You and Greenfield and Travers better come up and talk with me.”
“You’re a liar, Griffith. This far south, it could be months before you see a ship. You can’t last that long. We’ll wait.”
“Walloghan, you’re a fool. The rest of you men listen to me. You’d better talk with me before I close the hatch for the last time.”
Patrick heard muttering voices as the men below deck discussed Griffith’s proposal. The voices dropped in volume and then fell silent. What had the men decided? Were they preparing to charge up the ladder? He gripped the pistol with a hand that shook with weakness. God, he felt terrible. He wasn’t in condition for a fight. He didn’t want to kill a man. Still his fate would be dangerously uncertain should the mutineers take over the ship. He had promised to back Griffith and he would to the end.
“I’ll talk,” said the voice that Harry now knew to be that of Walloghan.
Griffith stared hard down the hatch into the shadow filled lower deck. “I see Travers there with you. Where’s Greenfield? I want all three of you to say aye to any agreement we reach.”
“I’m here, Griffith,” a second voice called.
“Ah, yes. I see all three of you now.”
Griffith swung both weapons from behind his legs and pointed them down the open hatchway into the hold. He squeezed the trigger of the heavily charged duck-foot and it roared, blasting flame out from all its three splayed barrels and spewing a fan of lead balls down at the men.
The concussion of the pistol slammed Patrick’s ears. A man screamed at a harrowing pitch. Someone fell with a thud.
Griffith began firing the revolver, sending its six shots crashing below into the shambles created by the blast of the duck-foot pistol. Another man cried out.
CHAPTER 33
A gray cloud of gunpowder smoke from Captain Griffith’s pistols boiled in the hatchway leading down to the lower deck. The wind caught the upper part of the smoke and sent it streaming across the deck to wash over Patrick. It stung his nose and obscured his vision and he stepped to the side to keep a clear view of Griffith and the hold.
A tall, lean man, with a long black beard and hair tied in a pig tail, burst up through the smoke and sprang out onto the deck. He instantly locked hate filled eyes on Griffith. Brandishing a long bladed knife ready to stab and cut, he moved toward the captain.
Patrick was astonished that the man had withstood the fusillade of bullets fired at him. But he had been hard hit, the right side of his face was torn away and his teeth showed through the gaping wound. Blood gushed from the injury and ran in a crimson tide down over his shoulder. More blood dripped from his left arm and it flopped limply about as if containing no bones.
“Sullivan, it’s Walloghan! Shoot him!” Griffith shouted and backing away from the knife-yielding seaman.
Patrick aimed the Colt at Walloghan’s chest. But he held his fire for it didn’t seem possible that the severely wounded seaman had sufficient strength to overpower and kill the captain. Further Patrick didn’t want to be responsible for killing him. Let him die from the captain’s bullets.
The seaman was totally in the grip of his hate for Griffith and gave little sign of weakness from his wounds. He advanced with implacable steps upon the captain. Patrick had seen convicts with fatal wounds do amazing feats of strength even as they died.
“Shoot him, damn you!” the captain bellowed at Patrick. “My guns are empty.” He stopped retreating, braced himself to meet the attack and drew back the empty duck-foot pistol as a club.
Patrick tightened his finger on the trigger of the pistol. The man’s wounds surely doomed him because the primitive surgical skills that would exist on the ship could never save his life. Patrick would be doing him a favor by giving a quick death. The man might not see it the same way. Patrick fired.
The bullet slammed into Walloghan’s body, punching through the ribs, exploding the soft lung tissue, and shattering the ribs on the other side as it tore free. The man dropped his knife. Fighting to retain his footing, he stumbled away from Griffith. He fell hard against the ship’s gunwale and clung to it with his good arm.
Walloghan lifted his bloody head and looked feebly about for the unexpected assailant. He saw Patrick and his bloodshot eyes blazed hate at him. His mutilated mouth worked as he tried to curse him. Only a horrible, gurgling sound came forth.
“Goddamn it. Why did it take you so long to shoot?” Griffith growled.
He leapt at Walloghan and clamped the bloody mutineer around the waist. The seaman hit the captain with his good fist. With his strength swiftly fading, the seaman’s blow did no harm. The captain hoisted Walloghan up as if he had little weight, stepped to the gunwale, and flung him into the sea.
The captain pivoted quickly and came to Patrick and held out his hand. “Give me the pistol,” he said angrily. “You think too long before shooting and there could be more of them coming up.”
“All right,” Patrick said and gladly handed over the gun. Griffith had lied and deceived him. He had tricked Travers and Greenfield into taking a position where they could be shot along with Walloghan. Patrick would remember the lie and be most wary when dealing with the captain.
Griffith went to the hatchway to the hold, and pointing the pistol down into the opening now mostly clear of smoke, called out. “Spencer, can you hear me?”
“I hear you, captain.”
“Are there any one else down there that’s got any fight left in them?”
“I sure don’t think so, captain.”
“I know you’re not part of the mutiny, Spencer, so I’ve got no grudge against you. Check Travers and Greenfield and see if they’re dead?”
“Don’t shoot any more, captain, and I’ll have a look.”
“I’ll hold my fire,” replied Griffith.
A moment later Spencer called. “They’re both shot all to hell and sure enough dead, captain.”
“Good. You come up and bring Tad and Pak Lo with you. Neither would be part of it.”
“We’re coming up,” Spencer called.
A man with a barrel belly and a large round head covered with long grizzled hair came into view on the ladder. A stoutly built boy of fifteen or so followed close on the man’s heels. He had black hair, brown eyes, a generous mouth, a fine high nose, altogether a passably young fellow. Lastly came a short, broadly built Chinaman with his hair in a long queue down his back. They stepped out onto the deck and looked questioningly at the captain.
“All of you go over there by Sullivan,” Griffith ordered.
The three seamen looked at Patrick with surprise and then went hastily to
stand beside him. The captain turned back to the hatchway and called down in a flinty voice.
“Now all you fellows below hear me plain. Walloghan, Travers, and Greenfield are dead. I know they were the ringleaders of the mutiny. What I don’t know is how many more of you were part of it. But I’ll tell you what I’m willing to do. You all come up and act like honest seamen and help me take the ship to Frisco and I’ll not bring charges against you with the authorities there. Do I have any takers?”
“Captain, I didn’t have anything to do with it. You locked me down here for no reason.”
“Who’s that talking?”
“Karcher, captain.”
“I believe you, Karcher. Come up.”
“Captain, this is Marco. The same thing holds true for me.”
“I’ll take your work for that. Come up.”
The two sailors came hurriedly up the ladder to the deck. Both carried knives strapped to their waists.
“Stand over there,” the captain ordered and indicated a place along the port side and several feet from Patrick, Pak Lo and Tad.
He spoke again down the hatchway. “Anybody else want to come up?”
An avalanche of voices in agreement with the captain’s offer rose from below.
“This is Stauffer, captain, we’re all coming up.”
“Then come on, slow, and one at a time.”
Patrick watched the string of seamen clamber up from the hold of the ship. Each man wore a sheath knife. Standing well clear of the men, the captain ordered them into a line beside Karcher and Marco. They stood silently and worriedly watching the captain. Now and again one or another of the seamen threw a quick, questioning glance at Patrick.
Holding the Colt pistol and the duck-foot, as if it was loaded, Griffith took a firm stance in front of the seamen. He said nothing, letting long seconds drag past and intimidating the men with his guns and threatening eyes.
Finally he spoke. “The mutiny is over and no charges will be made against any one of you as I said. That’s if you obey every order like seamen should and take the ship to Frisco. If all that happens, then I’ll also consider you’ve earned your share of the cargo. I want to hear every man’s oath to that.”
He moved to stand in front of the nearest seaman. “I’ll start with you Proctor. What do you say?”
“I wasn’t part of it, captain. So I agree to what you just said.”
“Swear it.”
“I swear to God that I wasn’t part of any mutiny and I’ll obey your orders.”
Griffith moved along the line of men and looked into every man’s face until he had sworn his oath and acceptance of the stated conditions. When the last one had made his vow of obedience, Griffith went to stand in front of the group.
“Now since the mate and the bo’s’n are both dead, I’m going to appoint new ones.” He pointed at Patrick. “That is Patrick Sullivan. He’ll by my first mate. I warn you don’t trifle with him. I know he’s tough for he finished killing Walloghan.”
Patrick saw some of the crewmen turn to him with expressions of sudden dislike. He wished Griffith hadn’t told how Walloghan had died. That didn’t hold high promise for Patrick’s safety during the many days to come during the voyage to California. Walloghan was bound to have several more friends among the remaining crew or else he wouldn’t have tried to take over the ship.
“Karcher is moved up to bo’s’n.” Griffith said. “Now let’s get to ship’s business. Marco, gather up the bodies of the bastard mutineers, and that of Campbell, and sew them up in canvas. We’ll hold a burial ceremony after we get sail up.”
“Aye, aye, captain.”
“Karcher, put a man at the helm, and raise every sail and jib. Set a course nor’nor’east. We’ll run up toward the equator and get out of this damn cold as fast as we can.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Then both of you be about it. Sullivan, come with me.”
The new bo’s’n pointed a finger at one of the seamen. “Help Marco with the dead.”
He shouted orders to the remaining men. “Up all sails.”
The men scurried to raise the sails. Marco and his helper went toward the forward hatchway that led down to the sail locker.
“Come with me,” Griffith said to Patrick.
Griffith led the way aft to one of the boats hanging on its davit and covered with tarpaulin. “All the ship’s small arms are in this boat,” he said and began to untie the lashing holding the tarpaulin in place. “I took them from my cabin and hid them here in case some of the crew got loose. Help me carry them to my cabin and lock them up.”
The tarpaulin was tossed aside and a score of rifles and shotguns, and half a dozen pistols were gathered up by the two men and carried below to the captain’s cabin. The room held a bunk, a washstand and metal basin. Also present were a tiny desk bolted to the deck, a bookshelf holding books and tide tables and star and sun tables, and cylindrical cases holding navigation charts. A teakwood box with blue felt lining held the nestled sextant. There were a navigation table and chair, a footlocker, and against the far bulkhead a stoutly built gun locker standing open and showing a cask of gunpowder and three canvas bags. A gimbaled brass lamp hanging from the center beam of the cabin completed the furnishings.
“That one holds pistol balls, that one rifle balls, and that holds shotgun pellets,” Griffith said and pointing at each bag as he spoke.
Griffith and Patrick stowed the weapons away on wooden pegs driven into the walls of the gun locker. Griffith held back a pair of pistols and handed them to Patrick.
“Keep the guns with you at all times. You did alright today. But since you’re not familiar with revolvers, I want you to practice shooting until you have no doubt about your accuracy. Just ask me for the key to the gun locker when you need more powder and balls.”
“Yes, sir,” said Patrick.
Griffith swung the gun locker’s door shut and fastened it with a big padlock. He pocketed the key.
Patrick hefted the pistols and liked their balance, and then lifted them up for a visual inspection. He was wooly headed and ready to drop from fatigue, still he felt the old familiar pleasure of holding a pair of quality pistols.
“The Navy Colt is a beautiful gun,” Griffith said noticing Patrick’s actions. “But you can admire them later. The first mate’s cabin is across the passageway. I’ll show you.”
Griffith threw open the door to the mate’s cabin. It was small with just enough space for the bunk, a tiny table and chair and a footlocker. Patrick’s head barely cleared the low overhead. One wall was the ship’s curving hull.
“This is your quarters. Get rid of that Marine uniform and wear the mate’s clothing. He was about your size and it should fit well enough. You’re nothing but skin and bones and I’ll tell Spencer to give you double rations for a few days. We’re short of supplies so that can’t last long. Keep the hatch locked and the pistols handy for I’m certain there were others in on the mutiny plan. For now we’re in control, but don’t let your guard down.”
Griffith held Patrick’s eyes. “Thanks for shooting Walloghan, even if you did wait a God awful long time to do it. He was the best man I ever saw with a knife, and even hurt like he was, might’ve gutted me.” He started to turn away, then face back. “You’re thinking that I tricked you by shooting all three of those men and you’re holding a grudge. You were wrong in wanting to save two of them so I did what I believed was best. Best for both of us.”
“You’re the captain and I’ll stand with you like I said,” Patrick replied. He didn’t respond to the grudge part of Griffith’s statement. The fact Griffith had brought the shooting up and explained his reasoning raised Patrick’s opinion of him. Still he knew Griffith would do what he wanted regardless of what Patrick might recommend and that was valuable knowledge to have for the future. Anyway wasn’t it the right of a ship’s captain to make the final decision?
“Now sleep for as long as you need. I’ll stand watch until you wake.”
Griffith left and Patrick bolted the hatch closed. With all his clothes on, he fell upon the mate’s narrow bunk and pulled the blankets over him. The black wave of sleep engulfed him within a heartbeat.
CHAPTER 34
Patrick lay unmoving and wonderfully warm under the blankets of the first mate’s bunk. Light came in through the tiny glass covered porthole above his head and illuminated the cabin. The ship rolled and pitched under the thrust of a stiff wind. The ship’s woodwork and fittings groaned and creaked in a hundred voices. The aft mast, the one closest, groaned most loudly in its reinforced well on the sole of the ship. Now and again he heard the tread of feet and the voices of crewmen on the deck above his head sailing the ship onward without his participation.
He had been awake for several minutes savoring being alive. He had slept through all that had remained of yesterday and the night and now into the following day, the hour of which he didn’t know. He was thirsty and hungry but the knowledge that he could satisfy those needs by simply going up on deck made them of little importance at the moment. Best of all was the fact that the memories of his suffering in the dumb-cell, the starvation and the floggings with the cat-o-nine-tails dealt to him during his years as a convict had receded into a special memory pocket that he would avoid opening in the future.
He climbed from the bunk and stretched to get the kinks out of his body, with every muscle and joint aching and complaining as he did so. He was down to just skin and bones and would need a few days of nourishment and rest to fully recover his strength. For now, Captain Griffith had remained on watch for many hours and must be relieved. Rummaging in the footlocker, Patrick found a set of seaman’s clothing, including a watch cap and heavy wool coat.
He stripped off the Marine uniform and shoved it out the porthole and into the sea. With the disappearance of the uniform, the weight of the lifetime sentence as a convict was lifted off him and he felt a free man. He dressed in the mate’s warm clothing and put one of the pistols under his belt. He paused and stood with his feet firmly planted on the solid deck of the ship. Had it truly been barely more than a day since he had been near death on the tiny boat in the middle of the ocean? He shook his head in wonderment.
