by Jan Needle
Abruptly, Maxwell was shouting.
‘It’s French, you drooling ignoramus, French! Is there no man in this company that knows a flying fig? Am I the only — Winterson, where the Hell’s damn are you? The conference is over. We need to toast my conquests, and we’ve had enough of port, it makes men stupid! Something fiery, damn you. Brandy. For a toast.’
Some of the officers were not quite finished, though. Lieutenant Daniel Swift, in particular, had a bright gleam in his eye.
‘I take it, sir, that I shall stay behind? Indeed I most humbly request it, Captain Maxwell.’
Lieutenant Stewart, not normally a forceful man, slammed his hand down on the polished table.
‘No, sir! That must not be! I am next in rank below the captain, and it is my duty to command this prize. If these villains on the island do attack, it must fall to me to hold them off. In any case —’
He broke off. The captain smiled a wolfish smile.
‘Why not say it straight, sir? Is it not that you fear Lieutenant Swift might revel in a bloodbath?’
Even Winterson, who had entered with a new carafe, was rocked. All eyes sought the deck planks beneath their feet. This was unconscionable.
Swift tried a laugh, but unconvincingly. And the captain made a loud noise of derision.
‘Pah, milksops. Save me from men who will not speak the truth. Lieutenant Stewart, I fear you will be too nice towards our enemies. I need an expedition, and a leader, who will go through this island like a dose of bloody salts. I mean to have that bastard Simpson, alive or dead, and anyone who tries preventing it needs the bullet or the blade. Swift, I feel, will do this thing. Nay, I am confident. But you, sir…’
Lieutenant Stewart had gone white. Winterson moved in like clockwork, filling glasses. But the captain turned away abruptly.
‘Merde and double merde,’ he said. ‘I am going to my gallery for a shit. Stewart, look, man, I do not wish to be unflattering but you lack the vicious streak. You are too kindly, sir. No, I mean that as a compliment! Lieutenant Swift —’
He exited in a flurry of obscenities.
Stewart’s next words were low, but audible to all in the embarrassed silence. ‘…is your successor, Captain Maxwell. In short, a brass-bound shit…’
Through an open cabin window, there came the sound of gunshots. Gunshots and shouting. With intense relief, all the men ran to get a view.
Chapter Ten
Once the Scilly men’s first shots were answered, they set about hunting the Pointers in earnest. The boat’s crew threw caution to the wind and set off for the beach as fast as they could run.
The terrain was not too difficult, mainly sandy with scattered rocks. There were some boggy areas, but the men were nimble and light upon their feet. Dry land was not so easy as skipping over yards and cordage, but their balance was impeccable.
Mainly, their problem was their lack of speed. Shipboard muscles grew very powerful, but not so very supple. Long distances did not suit them either. By the time they had gone a mile, they were feeling it.
‘Lord Jesus,’ gasped Jake Emerson, hand pressed into his lower stomach. ‘This rupture’s killing me. Can’t we not stop and make a stand, sir?’
‘Shut up and run!’ said the man called Johnny. ‘We only got one musket. Dost think they’ll grant us good time out to load ’un?’
‘Whose pistols are still charged?’ panted Raven. ‘Same problem, Emerson. By the time we had ’em fit to go again we’d be full of lead.’
Four more shots were fired after them, but they heard no balls go overhead.
‘Same problem for them, with the loading.’ This was Kelly, who was not puffed at all. ‘What say we cuts across this flat bit at top lick and hang the consequence? I bet they’ll not have a bullet left to spit.’
Raven was by no means sure, but the notion of command was nominal by now. Kelly skipped out from the sheltered pathway they were following, and took a beeline for the beachtop some way ahead.
It was many seconds before another shot was heard, although this time a ball struck a rock and ricocheted with a vicious whine. Ten seconds after that someone cried out, stumbled, and almost sprawled full-length.
‘Billy! Oh Christ, sir, Billy’s hit!’
‘The bollocks that I am!’ Billy appeared to bounce off a rock, careered sideways for a pace or two, then took the lead, arms pumping, swearwords pouring from his lips. Within a moment he had breasted the slope above the shoreline and was running down towards the sea.
‘She’s there,’ he hollered. ‘Ahoy! Shipmates! Pointer ahoy! Run out some blessed armaments!’
Within ten seconds a ragged fusillade rattled from the frigate, fired to no purpose but as a warning to the unseen hunters on the shore. Billy gave a wild halloo and waved his arms about. A responding cheer came from his followers, and Jake Emerson, laughing, turned back towards the islanders, firing a pistol at them. He did not bother to take a proper aim.
Neither, as the boat was seized and lifted over sharp rocks to the water’s edge, did Raven fear a worse attack. He snatched two pistols from his belt and levelled them towards the beach top, but guessed the smugglers were neither mad nor stupid. Within two minutes the boat was leaping across the wavelets like a lark. Now all he had to do was to explain.
The captain was awaiting him as he clambered from the boat and up the side. Raven wondered if his humiliation was to be a hot one, done in public, or a cold and deadly one below.
Maxwell was smiling.
‘Where is your prisoner, Mister?’ His voice was quite urbane. ‘Or do you mean me to infer that you have killed and buried him?’
Raven was panting, and sweat was in his eyes, but he presented a bold face.
‘Beg pardon sir, we saw no sight nor sign of him. We got a mile inland or maybe more when we were confronted with a group of islanders. They were armed, sir, and attacked us.’
‘And so you ran. Craven Raven lives up to his name. I expected no better of you, man, and so I thank you for that confirmation.’
‘We heard shots,’ said Lieutenant Stewart. ‘Were they all aimed at you, or did you return some?’
‘Do we have casualties?’ asked the master, Collins. ‘The surgeon’s mate —’
‘Can you not see them, Mr Collins?’ Lieutenant Swift snapped. ‘Here they all are, safe and sound. Like little children in a nursery.’
‘Sir —’ But Raven was silenced.
‘So am I also to infer, Craven, that there is some collusion in this act? None of your men is injured, none of the enemy is killed. It reads to me suspicious, sir. Surely, it was your duty to stand and fight? To the death, if need be, am I not right, Lieutenant Swift?’
Swift did not answer
‘Are you suggesting…?’ This was Lieutenant Stewart. ‘But surely —’
‘Enough! It is enough! God damn my eyes, is this a lawyers’ gathering? Raven, I have a strong mind to clap you immediately in irons for gross failure. Except I have another fate for you. Do not think to escape your duty so damn lightly, you poltroon.’
He turned to the master.
‘Mr Collins, we are under way in half an hour. Swift, you now command the As de Pique, with Mr Bullen as your second, and it is up to both of you to get her fit for proper sailing if need be, and make all ready for a fight at anchor otherwise. Mr Stewart, you are with me on the Pointer, as is Mr Unwin with his soldiers.’
The normal bustle started, with unspoken great relief. Work is what keeps a seaman sane, and under Captain Maxwell sanity seemed in lessening supply. Raven turned away – to be immediately brought back.
‘Stand still, I have not finished yet! It is still your duty to find Simpson, and to keep him alive so that I can hang him when the time is ripe. The people on this island are in it with him, the whole damn lot betrayers of the King, and therefore in a state of insurrection, every one. Lieutenant Swift will lead against them, and I have confidence he will not flinch from punishment, however harsh. Is that clear to you?’
Charlie Raven, his fear unfathomable, could only nod.
‘Good. But the care of Simpson devolves on you alone. First the capture, then the care. And remember, you have already committed many crimes. It would be my greatest pleasure, sir, to see you hanging side by side, the two of you. My very greatest pleasure.’
Chapter Eleven
Before the Pointer was fully out of sight, brisk work had started on the prize. Between Swift and Bullen, all vestiges of light behaviour had been expunged, as boatswain’s mates wielded their rope’s-ends, and three seamen generally disliked for their nature were appointed constables. Several French prisoners had been released at gunpoint, and offered their lives in return for faithful work. Even those with very little English could see which way to jump.
The rigging work, which had been proceeding slowly, now took on a frantic pace. The sprung topmast had been de-condemned and fished, with tackles rigged to sway it up again. The deck was alive with the noise of adze and chisel, while fathom after fathom of new cordage was broken out from the stores below, cut into length, and spliced.
While he was at it, Lieutenant Bullen broke out new sails, or repaired those that were serviceable. The French gunner, who had no difficulty in being understood, was set on to make sure the As de Pique was ready for a fight. When dinner had been served and eaten, she was looking like a ship again. Not a big one – she was even lighter than the Pointer – but a vessel that could throw a ball or two.
Swift’s last exhortation to his fellow officer before heading in the cutter for the shore was to man the mastheads.
‘I do not believe in fairies, Mr Bullen, even if you do. It is a pound to a parcel of shit that someone will come looking for us. And even these islanders can give a nasty sting.’
He chose his men to go onshore with the greatest care, and made it plain that Raven and his crew were under sufferance. He had twelve men with him, with cutlasses, boarding pistols and long muskets, while the jolly boat was manned and loaded as before.
‘The captain says that you must play the biggest part, sir, but I take that as a jest. He trusts you just as much as I do, and that is not at all. If you wish to make yourself a man again, you will prove me wrong by finding Simpson and by taking him. It would be a fool, though, who put money on it.’
The level of the insults had not altered, but the responses of the people to them had. The men in Swift’s boat’s crew allowed themselves to smirk, or even chuckle. The men in the jolly boat, however, seemed grown into themselves. They did not comment, and they did not share glances with the other crew. Raven was grateful to them; but he feared for the future.
In the first few hours, the armed and sweating band saw nobody at any distance shorter than several gunshots. Each human form they did see saw them as well, and melted like morning mist. They entered several cottages, or hovels in Swift’s dismissive terminology, but learned absolutely nothing.
‘Proof positive they are not innocent,’ said Swift. He was talking to Raven now, because there was no other man of rank sufficient. ‘Proof positive that they are criminals and traitors.’
After dinner, the lieutenant found his even temper fraying. Two of the men from the cutter showed symptoms of some drunkenness, having smuggled more wine on to the shore than their ration had allowed. But when the first man shot a goose, and Raven reacted angrily, Swift laughed – and sided with the miscreant.
‘Come, come,’ he said. ‘If we shed no more blood than from a Christmas fowl, then what’s the point of Nemesis? Shoot on, boys! Let’s see if we can’t bag a bloody donkey!’
More wine appeared (or anyway was drunk, the men took care to make it not too obvious) and the humour of the cutter’s men began to climb. They were seamen, they hated walking on dry land, they hated wearing shoes against the thorns and pebbles, they hated sweating in the sun like pigs. When they did spot a donkey, some time later, the violence in the air was palpable.
As one man, they rushed to get a shot at it. The donkey had no reason normally to fear mankind, but clearly was not stupid. As the band of motley humans came barging through the hedgerows, dressed in a manner which it did not know, it threw back its head and brayed. Not a long, hiccupping, ass-like bray, but a snort of anger and disquiet. Then, foolishly, it ran towards them, not away. Before it realised its mistake, a pistol ball had torn its eye away.
The bray became a raucous shriek, the run became a charge. From out of nowhere, three men appeared, and they were armed. With shocking suddenness it became a shooting match, with one seaman and one island man gone down.
‘Stop it! Stop it!’ Charlie Raven shouted. ‘Sir! People will be killed!’
That this should be a bad thing seemed to strike Lieutenant Swift as novel. But the seamen were unsettled by it, too, and the appearance of some women made the case much worse. One of them, young and pretty, threw herself onto the fallen islander and howled piercingly. The donkey, maddened with pain and bleeding obscenely from its socket, blundered among them, biting and kicking.
Lieutenant Daniel Swift, drawing back a little, assessed the situation. Raven, quietly, instructed his own men under no circumstances to fire a gun. Almost as if from nowhere, more armed men appeared, and formed around the women. Two boys rushed to the donkey and put their arms around its neck.
Swift’s face was white, and he seemed at a loss for words. Then he shouted: ‘Hold your fire! We are seeking someone! A Navy criminal! Give him over and you will meet no harm!’
‘You shot him!’ screamed the fallen maid. She pulled her head clear and shouted louder. ‘We have done nothing! We are not Frenchies! You can’t come here and murder us!’
More men were appearing from round buildings. The Navy men drew back uncomfortably, their guns and pistols pointing more at the ground than at the people.
‘We have a right!’ Swift shouted. ‘It is a deserter! If need be I will shoot you all to get him! Where is he? I will give you two minutes only!’
Raven was not the only man who thought that this was mad. Even the hardest seamen showed their discomfort, as if to tell the islanders they were somehow not involved.
The crowd around the Pointer men would soon be overwhelming. Raven said to his crew, ‘Put up your guns. No man must pull a trigger.’
At the same moment, both the injured parties stirred. The navy man rolled over with a groan, and the man cradling his head said gaily, ‘George, you bastard! There ain’t nowt wrong with you!’ The islander sat up also. And swore most vilely.
Even Daniel Swift could adapt, it seemed. He tried for joviality.
‘Enough of this!’ he shouted. ‘We don’t mean you harm! If there’s a criminal amongst you, give him up, or tell us where he might be hiding. That will be enough.’
It was a climbdown, but not humiliating. The islanders were prepared to let it go, and let the sailors go as well. If they fought, as everybody knew, the consequences could only be appalling. Both sides extricated themselves with deep discomfort.
When there was sufficient distance between the groups, Lieutenant Swift came to a halt.
‘You islanders,’ he shouted. ‘You must not think that you have won the day. I have a ship with many guns and soldiers. Within two hours I can bring her round and anchor off the nearest village and blast you all to hell. Don’t think I will not do it. Go back and have some confabulation. If there are wise men in your village they will send a messenger before night falls and give the information I require. Even better, if they’re truly wise, they’ll send the man in chains, or trussed up like a calf. If I get Simpson, well enough. If I don’t, God help the lot of you.’
With no one else to talk to on the journey back, Daniel Swift made do with Craven Raven. He had not seen men and women so stupid and uncivilised since he had fought in Ireland, he said; an empty-headed, brainless gang of idiots.
‘The pity is that they were speaking true,’ he added. ‘They’re English, so I can’t just string up half a dozen to encourage them. Sometimes I despair of o
ur God-blessed country. We are too civilised.’
Raven was learning to hold his tongue. How stupid must these ‘empty-headed idiots’ be in fact, he wondered? Their high-speed gigs were gone, quickly and most efficiently spirited away. The force they’d offered Swift had been enough to stop his sortie, but not enough to call down violence on their heads or homes. Any reprisals would be just that: revenge. And starkly up against the law. Further, he considered, the islanders had kept their heads in face of massive provocation. Brainless? Good God alive.
Chapter Twelve
Back on board the French ship in the bay, with the men released to grog and supper, Lieutenant Daniel Swift waited until almost dark before expounding his new plans.
‘One man slightly hurt, and a gang of ragamuffins feeling that they got the upper hand of us,’ he said, nodding gravely at Lieutenant Bullen across the cabin table. ‘They were armed it’s true, but Raven, I must say, played his part much as expected. A lack of backbone damn near palpable, that will not be forgotten.’
The midshipman, with no redress available, could only stare into his glass of wine. Bullen, taking no sides as ever, chewed his dinner as if deep in thought.
‘What now then though, when all is said?’ he asked. ‘Forgive the mouthful of a sentence, but what is there you think that we might venture?’
‘Next step,’ said Swift, ‘will be to launch the boats. We’ll scour every creek and cranny in this place. Their gigs will be hid somewhere, and we shall hunt them down, and smash their bottoms out. We’ve proved a full-scale raid would be too dangerous until the captain’s back, but when he is we’ll have men in plenty, and a legal right to break their heads. When I tell him how those yokels have behaved, there’ll be not a shred of mercy left.’
‘You might,’ said Bullen, quietly, ‘consider bribery. These islanders are poor as ratshit, sir, and it’s amazing how a gob of bacon fat will loosen tongues. Or hard cash.’
Swift laughed.
