The Death Card (A Charlie Raven Adventure)

by Jan Needle

  ‘Good God, man,’ Charlie breathed. ‘Good God.’

  Simpson’s reaction was very slow in coming. First a groan, a fading groan. Then a whispered curse, not vile but heartfelt.

  ‘It is I,’ Raven whispered. ‘It is Charles Raven. Have they hurt you, friend?’

  Friend. What word was this that he was using to a seaman? In his mind’s eye he saw Captain Maxwell’s enraged reaction. Captain? He feared the man was mad.

  Simpson groaned to better purpose.

  ‘I have had nicer beds, sir. Would you have a drop of water on your person?’ He tried a laugh, without signal success. ‘If I was onshore on this island, I would be given fine brandy in great store, I would bet on it.’

  What does that mean? Raven thought, and then dismissed it. It made no sense. The man was in great pain, not in his proper mind.

  ‘Why did you attack him, though?’ He was almost in anguish. ‘They will flog you, man. You called him a common criminal. Your captain. You said that you would shit upon his quarterdeck.’

  The groan was now almost a laugh. Which was a form of torture, also.

  ‘He called me a perverted swine, sir. Which was a thrust at you, an’ all. Do you wish I should have let it go?’

  ‘It is a matter of no moment, man!’ Raven was caught with sudden anger. This was a bagatelle. Both he and Simpson had nearly died. Some things were truly unimportant. ‘I don’t care,’ he said, ‘I do not care. I will get you water, then I shall see the captain. You must not be flogged. You shall not be flogged.’

  Simpson’s laugh was stronger. But brief.

  ‘I shall be, sir. Oh, sure as hell I shall be.’

  Charles Raven saw a boatswain’s mate pass in the gloom. He called to him.

  ‘Here! You! Yes, you. Have you a key for this? Or go and get the master-at-arms this instant! This man must be unchained. I am Charles Raven, midshipman.’

  The shadow, it was possible, leered at him in the darkness.

  ‘But he’s there by Captain’s orders, ain’t he, Charlie? I don’t want to get no flogging neither, do I?’

  ‘Who are you?’ Raven snapped. ‘Come show yourself, sir! It is an order!’

  There came a chuckle and the man was gone. Simpson chuckled, also.

  ‘I know him, Mr Raven, don’t you worry. There’s no one on this scow I doesn’t know.’

  ‘Who is he, then? Name him! The dog!’

  ‘Ah, sir,’ said Simpson. ‘You surely got a fair old lot to learn, now don’t you? He is a friend of mine, I said. Before God though, a truer friend than you would bring me some water.’

  It was too late in any case. There was a clattering and a bustling, and the sound of many feet.

  ‘Go!’ hissed Simpson. ‘They’re coming for me. I’ll wager a month’s wages you’re not meant to be here, are you? Fade! Disappear! Get to the sick berth and play sick! I’ll be all right, lad. It takes a bigger man than Maxwell to bear me down.’

  Raven did not struggle long. Simpson needed allies. He needed one to fight for him. Charlie Raven was going to be the one. Craven Charlie Raven.

  Chapter Five

  The hanging was to be a grand affair. The decks, when Raven did at last emerge, were scrubbed and pristine, with the seamen grouped on either side, and a long clear run to hoist the choking Simpson high up to the yardarm.

  The officers ranged on the quarterdeck were in their smartest fig, each bearing a sword at the waist. The petty officers were grouped in front of them, also smart and clean, while the marine contingent almost sparkled in the growing sunshine. Later, as was the way with seaborne soldiers, they would sweat like demons in their finery. A private pleasure for the sailors…

  A drummer was the final ornament, his drum and pipeclay shining, the cockade in his high cap as gaudy as a bird of paradise.

  In the cockpit, Raven had sought to oversee the preparation of Simpson for his ordeal. The master-at-arms had detailed several burly men to unchain him, and ordered them not to speak. As they had laid him straight upon the deck, Simpson had only groaned. Each limb had needed stretching, each joint had caused him pain. He had not even struggled when his drawers had been eased off.

  Naked, humiliated, the giant was seen as a greater danger yet. Two boatswain’s mates, one with a drawn dirk, the other with a cudgel, stood a few feet clear of him, although indeed, had Simpson chosen to make a struggle of it, they would probably have been crushed to death. The cockpit was not the place to hold a riot.

  When Charlie Raven tried to force himself forward to remonstrate, he was knocked aside like a piece of chaff. He spoke once, and a sailor’s hand was pushed sharply into his mouth. Even to stagger backwards was impossible, he was crushed and jostled. He caught sight of a burly topman and he recognised him as Jake Emerson, whom he knew was not a bad man. He was acting, he guessed, under the tightest orders.

  Even before Simpson could find his balance in the alcove, Raven had been dragged out of it and back towards the sick bay. He was weak himself, his skin torn and burnt from contact with rough hemp and rougher timber. Every limb was bruised, his hands cut, with double vision in one eye. However hard he fought – and fight he did – he was overwhelmed by force superior.

  Out of sight of the cockpit, he could still hear the preparations. Simpson soon gave over shouting, and did not bother much to even struggle. This flogging he was facing was unjust; so be it. It was the King’s Navy, and on the Pointer, Maxwell was the king.

  To be whipped, it was necessary that the victim was presentable, so underneath the hatchway he was got ready in ragged trousers, but naked to the waist. The men surrounding him, however, now knew the ghastly secret. They would not even meet his eyes.

  A pump had been in play, buckets had been filled, and water flew, received with gratitude by the prisoner. Anything was better than confinement, any respite from the reeking suffocation was a sheer improvement. Sea water was cool, sea water was clean, sea water was a blessing. It was as if he were breathing it; he filled his lungs with air, pulled back his shoulders, flexed his arms.

  When Simpson was considered clean enough, and pushed and guided to the ladder, the people on the deck above appeared to make a voiceless exhalation. There was a silence, then a noise like a distant, moaning breeze. And Simpson’s head, eyes open, emerged into the glorious early-morning sun.

  Of all things in the world, Charlie Raven did not want to see a good man flogged. At first, below, he had struggled to get free from his captors then, weakness overcoming him, had let himself go limp. He felt like a rag doll, powerless. Simpson should not be flogged, but Simpson would be flogged. That was the way of it.

  Up on the quarterdeck, Hector Maxwell and his officers held themselves erect. It was a passing pleasant day, the breeze gentle from the south west. On a signal, teams of men would run towards the captain with the hangrope gripped along its length. The criminal, lately blindfolded, would be jerked suddenly into the air, and hoisted on the double to the highest point.

  The intention was that Simpson would be strangled there, choking and kicking at the yardarm, until life was extinct. More normally, a sheepshank would have been clandestinely introduced into the hoist, with twigs inserted in the bights that would snap at the first good twitch or jerk, and drop the deadweight six feet or so to break his neck. It depended on the bo’sun and the captain. It was an unofficial kindness, and illegal. Maxwell was the sort who would prevent it at all costs.

  The man standing before the officers was indeed enormous. They, and all others on the deck, had joined in the murmur as he had emerged. Simpson, however, remained silent. Perhaps the light was blinding him. Then, as the master-at-arms approached him with a cloth to tie around his eyes, the sleeping beast woke up.

  Down in the sickbay, Raven heard the roar. It did not need an explanation, either for him, his captors, nor any others of the sufferers. Men who could hardly move became galvanic, men who were crippled jumped. Several shouted ‘Hah!’, and before he could be prevented, Raven was on
his feet.

  On deck, the men escorting the prisoner were taken unawares. His hands were bound in front of him, but as the blindfold was arranged, he bent his knees and sprang forward like an angry bull. Forehead met bone with a fearsome crack, and the master-at-arms crashed backwards to the deck.

  ‘Lieutenant Unwin!’ roared the captain. ‘Your duty, man! Shoot down the filthy hound! Marines!’

  The man who would have sneaked a sheepshank into the hoist – Jake Emerson – had also had a part in binding Simpson’s wrists. Although even his mighty strength was not enough to break the loosened cords, he was able to separate his hands, and if he found an errant neck, then he would crush it. He swung his body like a barn door in a gale of wind, hurling men in all directions.

  ‘Hang me would you, Maxwell!’ he roared. ‘Murder is it now, you bastard? Well I’ll see you rot in hell before that happens!’

  As the marines levelled their muskets, the escort group rushed in to smother him once more. He was surrounded.

  ‘Fire!’ shrieked Maxwell. ‘Shoot him down!’

  But even seaborne soldiers dared not shoot. If they killed another sailor in the ruck there would be a riot, the planks would run with blood. Their blood.

  Sawdust Simpson had no such inhibitions. With feet, elbows and shoulders he barged and battered the surrounding men, until the master-at-arms, face red with rage, darted in behind and clubbed him across the side of the head.

  As the giant dropped to one knee, Maxwell rushed towards him.

  ‘Clear away from him! Give the musketmen some room! Unwin, have you no sharpshooters in your ranks? Swift! Lieutenant Swift! Give Swift a musket someone and he’ll blow the bloody bastard’s head off!’

  Simpson was like a poleaxed bull. He looked around him, shaking his head. He was in a daze. As the men pulled back, the master-at-arms moved closer with his cudgel. Then Simpson blinked, pulled back his shoulders, dragged mightily at the loosened bands about his wrists. And once more roared: ‘You murderer! You murderer! If I’m to swing, I’ll damn well swing for you!’

  As he launched himself at Maxwell, Lieutenant Unwin’s men prepared to fire. And simultaneously, midshipman Charlie Raven burst onto deck from down below.

  ‘You cannot shoot! You cannot shoot! That man is innocent! He has done nothing wrong!’

  ‘Fire!’ Maxwell bellowed.

  And a fusillade of shots rang out.

  Chapter Six

  The marines stood like statues. No smoke blew from their pieces, no muzzle flames were seen. Like everybody on the deck, they merely stared. And in the chaos of confusion, a cry rang from the masthead.

  ‘Larboard beam, sir! A sail! A sail! They’re firing!’

  The ship emerging from behind the headland was firing indeed – but with muskets, at long range. It was, perhaps, a signal she was there, but no one could yet tell.

  Danger or not, Maxwell sought a scapegoat.

  ‘Why was that vessel not seen? Swift, bring that man aloft there down! Clap him in irons! Is he blind?’ He stared upwards, neck muscles straining. And changed his mind. ‘Damn you, fellow! Do not dare to come down after all! Or I will have you hung along with Simpson!’

  Lieutenant Swift had other priorities.

  ‘Mr Gunner,’ he ordered. ‘Lay to the swivels and man the twelve-pounders. Muster crews immediately. Sir –’ this to the captain – ‘I will delay both hangings till a little later, with your kind permission.’

  In the circumstances, the joke was acceptable. But Maxwell’s mind was moving on.

  ‘Unwin, range your men on the larboard side. Armourer, bring up muskets, cutlasses and small arms for the people. Prepare to launch the cutter and the yawl, we’ll take them on two fronts.’

  Another cry from the masthead. This time the lookout’s voice was flooded with relief. He thought to have avoided the promised punishment.

  ‘It is the prize, sir! Lieutenant Bullen’s brought her back across from France! Some of our lads is there! I recognises them!’

  From on the deck there was another whoop – with possibly some half-concealed elation in it. For Sawdust Simpson had seen and grasped his chance.

  ‘He’s breaking, sir, he’s breaking! He’s going for the side!’

  It was true. From a much smaller knot of bodies, one of whom was Raven, the big man was charging towards the bulwarks, on the landward, starboard side.

  ‘Stop him! Shoot him!’ The captain was as quick as ever, but the massing men still made shooting impossible. Five strides, a shaking of the shoulders, a hop onto a gun carriage, a final roar, and the condemned man was gone, except for a huge splash that flung spray backwards across the rail. Maxwell, almost mad with rage, leaned far out over the water to hurl invective.

  ‘He swims, the bastard! He cannot swim, he sinks! Swift, put a bullet in the blackguard’s bloody head!’

  Charlie Raven, among many other men, crowded at the bulwarks. Muskets were levelled, men whooped and yelled. A head did break surface once, and a myriad shots churned up foam and fountains, most of them far wide.

  From the other side of the deck, Lieutenant Stewart confirmed it was the French prize heaving into view, under command of Mr Bullen. But he also had the jolly boat almost bodily hurled overside to search out the runaway.

  ‘Bad shooting,’ said Maxwell. He was disconsolate. ‘I fear the swine has got away.’

  ‘We killed him sir, I think,’ said Lieutenant Unwin, stoutly.

  ‘Damn you, sir, you better bloody had!’ The captain was reanimated. ‘A guinea for the man who proves it!’ His mind switched once more. ‘How know you it is Bullen in command, Mr Stewart? What colours are they flying? Might not they be false?’

  ‘A head!’ cried another voice. ‘Sir, it’s Simpson! A hundred yards, sir! Two! He’s going like a seal!’

  More men clustered at the bulwarks, and Lieutenant Swift raised a musket to his shoulder.

  ‘Move, damn you! You’re cramping my position!’

  ‘It is Lieutenant Bullen, sir.’ The master, Mr Collins, had a telescope to his eye. ‘The colours are not false.’

  Daniel Swift pulled his trigger, and a cheer went up.

  ‘I think I missed,’ he said. ‘Beware of wishful thinking. I can’t see too clear among the waves.’

  ‘Get that boat round the other side,’ the captain roared. ‘By God, I am surrounded by nincompoops. Five guineas to the man that gets the bastard. Ten!’

  There was shouting to larboard as the French prize rounded-to not far to windward of the Pointer. A cry of ‘let fly tacks and sheets,’ a shaking of canvas as her anchor dropped.

  ‘God damn you, Bullen, damn you!’ Maxwell yelled across at her. ‘Where have you been malingering? I’ve got a rogue has run! The villain has gone overboard! Stop him!’

  If Bullen was bemused he dared not show it. Within half a minute his men were ordered to launch boats, but while there was much running about the decks, no boats went overside. In any case the surface of the bay was now alive with splashing bullets, fired more in exultation than intent, making such work impossible. Maxwell’s anger, with vicious suddenness, was directed towards Charlie Raven. He had spotted him among the people at the rail, and he spat sheer venom.

  ‘You, sir! You are to blame for this, you swine, you bloody turncoat! I hold you sole responsible for this blackguard’s life!’

  Like every man in earshot, Raven was astonished. He stood there in the melée, wet, bruised and bloody, as though he had been struck. In fact, the captain moved towards him as if he would do that very thing. Then he stopped, and thrust his face into the midshipman’s own. Raven did not flinch.

  ‘So you would protect a murderer, would you? Protect a madman who would assassinate your captain? Before God, you are your father’s son!’

  ‘And proud to be so,’ Raven said. It was not a shout, nor was it a whisper, but it shook with a sort of tension. ‘On my honour, sir, that man is no assassin, that man spoke up on my behalf because he thought I had been tra
duced, and for no other reason in the world. It was not I who warned the Frenchmen we were there, and Simpson felt he had to say so. The warning came from –’

  His voice broke off. Lieutenant Swift had been his accuser, and it was one of the lieutenant’s men who had blown their cover. Their eyes met across the deck, and Swift’s were cold as steel. Raven, in all honour, could speak no more truth.

  ‘Well? Who then?’ Maxwell demanded. ‘Who gave the warning? Who is the bloody traitor? Speak, you coward.’

  All around the deck men waited. The factions now were drawn. For most, Swift and the captain were the enemy. The truth was clear among the people. And Simpson was to drown despite of it.

  Or perhaps escape. At that moment another cry burst from the masthead lookout, this time an explosion of relief.

  ‘I see him, sir! As clear as daylight! Look to that twisted tree stump on the shoreline! Come back a hundred foot to seaward! He —’

  ‘I have him now, so shut your mouth!’ The captain turned to Swift. ‘Another shot, sir! Look! He is at the edge! He is standing up, a perfect target, sitting duck. Shoot him, sir!’

  Swift did not bother to demur, but he knew the shot was hopeless at that range. He took careful aim, the musket cracked, the smoke blew in the gentle breeze – and Simpson stood tall and merry in the shallows. He shook himself like a dog.

  ‘You’ll die for that,’ said Hector Maxwell, clearly. He spoke to Raven, not Lieutenant Swift. ‘It is your fault entirely, and you will pay for it. You will go ashore now, Craven Raven, and you will run that man to ground. I don’t care how you do it, but you will bring him back or kill him.’

  Charlie Raven did not speak. The ship’s people looked anywhere, embarrassed, as Simpson ran up the beach. Before he disappeared into the underbrush he stopped, shielded his eyes against the eastern sun, then gave a little wave.