Game of Bones

by David Donachie

  Following their progress he spotted what was happening at the same time as the premier, Bover. The men who’d remained in the bows had cut free the breechings on one of the forward cannon, and were heaving it round to aim at the quarterdeck. He’d promised himself not to interfere, but that was a threat too far and he yelled a frantic warning.

  ‘Do I have permission to fire on our own mutineers, Admiral?’ shouted Bover.

  ‘Yes, Lieutenant,’ replied Colpoys, glaring at his nephew. Clearly, the admiral thought the request should be coming from that quarter. ‘You do have my permission, and an order from the Admiralty as well.’

  What happened in the next few minutes was as confused as any battle Harry had engaged in. The rest of the marines, called to the starboard poopdeck rail, might have retained their weapons, but they’d refused to budge, which left their officers screaming useless imprecations at them. Men were now squeezing through the gap in the hatches on to the deck, some stopping to extract the last spikes and open them completely, the rest making for the bows to get behind the cannon.

  Clearly, despite the presence of marines and officers, the men had taken control below. A gangplank shot out from the London’s entry port, with men yelling that the first delegates’ boat should come alongside. Only two of the marines tried to interfere, their shots wild and ineffective. Colpoys was now standing amidships in front of the wheel, his nephew beside him. His voice was calm and measured, and directed at the first lieutenant.

  ‘Mr Bover. You will oblige me by retaking possession of that cannon from the mutineers. I need hardly remind you that aimed at us, it is decisive.’ The marine captain was next. ‘Livingston, your marines to secure and replace the hatches.’

  ‘They won’t obey, sir.’

  ‘Issue the orders, Mr Livingston.’

  The marine complied, only to see the remainder of his men, save the two who fired into the sea, drop their weapons and rush down the companionway to join the sailors. They passed Bover, who was lining up the rest of his officers, and some of the younger midshipmen. Looking closely at the crowd in the bows, Harry saw that other mids, including the man he’d spoken to earlier, Midshipman Havergood, stood amongst the mutineers, yelling just as lustily as their lower deck comrades, calling out for Colpoys to surrender the ship.

  The crash of gunfire as the officers and the remaining marines opened up rent the air, and brought an immediate response from the hatchways. Clearly the armoury had been unlocked and the seamen had pistols. The two marines who’d stayed at their posts lowered their muskets and put in a second volley. Harry, who’d ducked behind the rail, saw Havergood spin and drop as a ball took him. Bover had rushed forward and fired into the crowd, clearly unable to hear Griffiths, who’d stepped in front of his uncle, yelling at him to cease fire. Bover discharged a second pistol right into the mass of bodies in the hatchway, then rushed towards the cannon in the forecastle. But none of the other officers followed him. He turned to fall back but he’d gone too far and was isolated.

  Ned Griffiths was now screaming at his uncle. ‘Order them to cease fire, sir. We have but two marines to aid us.’

  There was no gunfire now, but plenty of noise as officers and men traded loud insults, while others called for retribution. Several seamen had seized Bover and were manhandling him towards another group on the larboard gangway, who’d got hold of a rope and were quickly fashioning a noose. Seeing this, Ned Griffiths started forward but his uncle grabbed him and pulled him back.

  ‘I must rescue him,’ Griffiths yelled.

  ‘They’ll hang you with him. Get everyone up on the poop and what guns we have available reloaded.’

  That was a command that required no repetition. Every officer knew that they risked the rope. In a mutiny in which no one had received so much as a scratch they had been the first to spill blood, perhaps enough to turn these well-behaved and loyal seamen into a screaming mob. As soon as he reached the poop, Harry approached Colpoys. Bover by this time had the rope round his neck and a party was assembling behind him with the clear aim of hauling him aloft.

  ‘Let me go forward, sir, and plead for his release.’

  ‘What good can you do, Ludlow?’

  ‘I can do no harm, and as a civilian I think I am safer than anyone in uniform. Can I say that he was not responsible since he was acting under your orders?’

  ‘Harry,’ said Griffiths, anxiously. But Colpoys had held up his hand to silence him. A second that felt like an hour passed before the admiral nodded, proof that he knew the potential consequences of that message. There was a very good chance that they might hang him in the premier’s place.

  Harry looked over the side again, to confirm that the delegates’ boats were alongside. He didn’t run, not wishing to create any alarm. He walked slowly down the companionway steps, on to the empty quarterdeck, then forward towards the waist. The gangways that lined both sides were crowded. He stepped over the rail that delineated the point which no seaman could cross without express orders, moved forward to the netting, there to ensure that no one fell into the central section of the upper deck, and, stopping, called out to the men holding Bover.

  ‘I have come to plead with you to release your prisoner.’

  ‘That bastard murdered at least one of our number,’ said the man nearest him, a pock-marked individual who jerked the noose he was holding. ‘And he has certainly maimed another, I reckon.’

  ‘The lieutenant was only obeying Admiral Colpoys’s orders.’

  ‘Then that’s good reason to string him up, I say,’ shouted a voice from the rear. The bone player was in there somewhere and he rattled off a quick tattoo, as if he agreed with the sentiment. At a sudden commotion at the rear the crowd parted, and several men pushed through with great difficulty to surround the hanging party.

  ‘Let him go,’ said the tallest of their number, a fair-haired and handsome fellow dressed in petty officer fashion.

  ‘It’s none of your concern, Joyce. This is the London, not the George.’

  ‘Where’s Riley?’ Joyce demanded.

  ‘Here.’ Another man pushed his way through. He was older than Joyce, similarly dressed in a long kerseymere waistcoat and good breeches. Another followed, younger and fitter, with a long, greased pigtail, decorated in the fashion used by the ship’s élite, the topmen.

  ‘You should be putting a stop to this, not me,’ snapped Joyce. Harry noticed other seamen easing their way into position, so that the men holding the ropes were isolated from their fellow Londons. ‘You know what’ll happen if we spill so much as one drop of blood.’

  ‘Bit late for that,’ growled Riley, stepping back and waving. A space cleared, to reveal Midshipman Havergood’s inert body. ‘He’s dead already.’

  ‘The admiral ordered him to use force,’ Harry shouted.

  ‘Leave me to my fate, Joyce,’ said Bover.

  ‘Never in life,’ the delegate replied.

  ‘You know him?’ demanded the pock-marked fellow with the noose.

  ‘We served on another ship together,’ replied Joyce, taking hold of the rope himself. ‘And I know him to be a kindly officer, one who was no friend to either the rope’s end, the cat, or the greedy, robbin’ bastard who was purser.’

  He stepped back slightly so that he could address everyone. ‘What man here has had a flogging of Lieutenant Bover that he didn’t richly deserve? He’s a man that only thieves need to fear.’

  The crowd started to murmur, half for their premier, half against. Harry called out, hoping that what he said would help rather than hinder Joyce. He’d acted spontaneously to save Bover’s life. Yet given a brief time to think he could see that his action had been more profound than that. Everything he’d heard about the mutiny and the delegates gave Harry Ludlow cause to admire them.

  They’d taken on an uncaring government and a group of superiors many of whom would have hung them if they could. Only solidarity and strict discipline had kept them from such a fate. But blood had been spilt n
ow, and that could alter everything. If they retaliated by taking Lieutenant Bover’s life the mutiny might fall apart, and every delegate who’d sat in the cabin of the Queen Charlotte would end up where Colpoys wanted them, hanging from the yardarm.

  ‘Can you not admire the bravery of a man who came at you all, hundreds of men, with no thought for his own safety, obeying his admiral’s orders? Is he not the very best kind of man to serve under?’

  ‘Who are you, sir?’ asked Joyce.

  ‘A private citizen, Mr Joyce, who admires the navy, and none more so than the common seamen.’

  Harry saw one man press forward to whisper in Joyce’s ear. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he recognised the face as someone who’d been a ship’s boy on Barfleur. Whatever he said must have been flattering, since Joyce’s tone was quite friendly. And now he had a name.

  ‘Then I thank you for it, Mr Ludlow.’ Joyce turned to face his mutineers. ‘And he has the right of it. But I, for one, am a man to trust the law. Let Bover appear before a magistrate. If he says he’s guilty, then justice will be done by those with the power vested in them to apply it. That, brothers, is not us.’

  ‘The law won’t touch him,’ said the noose-holder.

  Joyce put a hand on his arm taking a firm grip. ‘You may be right, friend. But as sure as this ship is made of wood, the law will have us if we harm him.’

  Voices were raised on both sides, the less seamanlike men calling for summary justice, while those who looked like proper tars, with their pigtails and ruddy faces, were in favour of backing Joyce. For several minutes there was no knowing which way they would swing, but eventually the cautious element prevailed.

  ‘Let Colpoys confirm,’ someone shouted, a cry that was taken up by dozens of throats. Joyce held up his hand for silence, but it was ignored. Then it began to die away, and Harry heard the footsteps on the deck behind him. He didn’t turn round because he didn’t have to.

  ‘I gave him his orders,’ said Colpoys, coming to stand beside him. ‘And if he hadn’t obeyed them I’d have had him stripped of his commission.’

  ‘Then you should stand in his place,’ shouted the hangman. ‘You’re a damned bloody scoundrel.’

  Harry had to fight not to smile at the response to that, especially amongst the older hands. Trained all their days to deference, they held admirals as akin to gods. To hear one so traduced flew in the face of a lifetime’s habit. The man holding the rope was roundly cursed for his cheek and one old fellow got close and berated him to his face.

  ‘How dare you talk to the admiral like that, you low-life swab!’

  ‘Admiral Colpoys had his orders too,’ shouted Harry. ‘Let him explain them to you.’

  He turned to the older man, praying he had the wit to see that if they could save Bover by pleading a case of orders then they could do so for every officer on the ship, including himself, by using the instructions which had come down from the Admiralty. There was a moment when the idea of pleading seemed so distasteful that Colpoys couldn’t do it. And when he did finally speak his voice had a crack in it that the men took for remorse, but which Harry knew to be strain.

  ‘I had written instructions to fire on any mutineers. Had I disobeyed, I would have been shot on my own quarterdeck, like Admiral Byng.’

  ‘I must ask you, Admiral,’ said Joyce, again holding up his hand to quieten his comrades, who were far from convinced, ‘if this is the plain truth?’

  Harry heard the old man suck in his breath. To him it was the final insult, to have his word and honour questioned by a man he considered vermin. He was working himself up to a furious bellow. Harry spoke before he had a chance.

  ‘The orders are in writing.’ Then, as another bout of shouting and disagreement took hold of the crew, he whispered to Colpoys. ‘For God’s sake, sir, keep your temper. If you want to live, indulge Joyce. If they hang you, or Bover, they will have to kill us all. Help him save us.’

  The long hiss of released breath that came from the old man convinced Harry that he had succeeded. Colpoys waited till the noise had died down. ‘I have those very instructions in my cabin. You may elect two men to accompany me to fetch them.’

  ‘They are in your pocket,’ whispered Harry.

  ‘I know,’ Colpoys replied, equally softly. ‘But time may help calm the malcontents.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Joyce, ‘but only if you remove this rope from Mr Bover’s neck.’

  ‘Me too,’ said another sailor, stepping forward.

  ‘Huddleston,’ said Colpoys, ‘delegate from Queen Charlotte.’

  ‘I wish I had a pistol,’ said Harry.

  ‘In God’s name, why?’

  ‘I don’t trust the man on the rope with Joyce gone. A gun would be just the thing to stop him having his hanging.’

  ‘Damn it, Ludlow,’ Colpoys growled, ‘you’re madder than your damned father.’

  Harry only heard later how Colpoys had delayed matters, pretending to search his desk for a good five minutes before producing the orders from his coat pocket. In the meantime those on deck with a less bloodthirsty nature had a chance to work on the hotheads, so that by the time the trio returned, to stand over the waist, matters had definitely swung towards a peaceful outcome.

  ‘He must face the law,’ said Joyce, pointing to Bover, that after he read out the Admiralty order. ‘That is only right.’

  Colpoys nodded, reluctantly, as Harry spoke. ‘I didn’t know Midshipman Havergood, Mr Joyce. We exchanged but a few words an hour ago. But he was, like me, a sailor. If you will permit me, once the coroner has passed his body, I would be happy to pay for a decent Christian burial.’

  ‘Why, that is a most noble thing to offer, sir,’ said Huddleston.

  ‘I accept,’ replied Joyce, looking at him strangely, ‘and I say to the whole of the fleet that they are welcome to attend.’

  ‘You propose to let the men ashore,’ barked Colpoys, having also given Harry an odd look.

  Joyce, in the process of patting Harry gratefully on the back, grinned at him. ‘Do you think they’ll run, Admiral? Pardoned men, who have just won the greatest victory in their entire life?’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘THE NOTION of a grand funeral with thousands of grieving tars weeping into their pigtails may appeal to you, Harry, but it does nothing for me. Quite the reverse.’

  The brothers were eating a late supper in Mistress Blackett’s comfortable sitting room, before a flickering wood fire, having met up again at the Fountain when Harry returned from London. How news of what had happened got ashore before he did was a mystery. But it had, and Colpoys had been forced to run the gauntlet of a great deal of hissing and booing outside the Sally Port. That was as nothing to his reception at the hotel, where Bridport had made perfectly plain the depth of his disapproval. Oddly, Lieutenant Bover was spared from the general opprobrium, though he had been confined until a coroner’s court could be convened. Midshipman Havergood, at Harry’s bidding and expense, was at this very moment being prepared for his interment.

  ‘I suggested a decent burial, not a spectacle. That was Joyce’s idea, a way of rubbing salt in Colpoys’s wounds. Not that the old boy requires it. He’ll need a pipe of port to get to sleep this night. Did you write to Arthur?’

  ‘I did, and to Cantwell. I took the liberty of asking him to contact your prize agent so that we could get accurate figures for the entire cruise, with the caveat that the American Treasury bonds have a degree of speculation in their value and what coins remain will have to be checked for debasement. I also sent word to Cheyne Court so that Pender’s children will know he’s safe returned.’

  Harry looked wistfully over his brother’s shoulder as soon as Cheyne Court was mentioned. James didn’t know what plans he laid for a future with Hyacinthe Feraud, but it would be fair to speculate that the family home figured in them quite largely.

  ‘He’ll thank you for that,’ Harry replied, before recovering himself. ‘By the way, speaking of Pender, where i
s he?’

  ‘Still visiting, I think. No doubt he’s ensconced in some rookery chewing over old times with the dregs of Portsmouth society.’

  ‘I’m heading back to Buckler’s Hard in the morning to see what progress has been made with Bucephalas. Do you want to come?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ James looked at Harry in a peculiar way before proceeding. ‘I wish to say that what I’m about to tell you has nothing to do with your recent behaviour.’

  Harry grinned. ‘But you’re not coming back to sea with me.’

  ‘You guessed.’

  ‘Such a sonorous tone, brother.’

  ‘I have, as you know, neglected my true calling these last years.’

  Harry’s face changed immediately, from being quite gleeful to totally bereft in a split second. ‘Not entirely. I can think of at least one very good portrait you’ve completed.’

  James had deliberately turned away, and kept talking as though his brother’s mood hadn’t altered. Nor was he prepared to make any reference of his own to the painting he’d done in New Orleans, at present rolled in a leather carrying case.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t like wandering the oceans. Quite the opposite. But if I leave things much longer I’ll never be employed to do a portrait again. And I’m concerned about my technique. I’m sure when you’ve been away from the sea for a while things get rusty. Painting is no different.’

  ‘I will miss you, James, and so will the men. Now they will just have to make a guess about where we’re going and what I intend.’

  From the first moment James Ludlow had come aboard Harry’s ship the crew had sensed that he was a soft touch. The element of self-interest was soon mixed with a genuine liking, since James harboured no airs or graces in the nautical line. Indeed it was his ignorance that provided one priceless asset to men who were endemically curious: he could ask his brother to explain his intentions, a right Harry extended to no other. Primed by the seamen with appropriate questions, he would elicit answers that a sharp ear could latch on to.