by Jan Needle
‘I’m loathe to give the bastards money, though. Money is for bastards who deserve it.’
After dinner, a full inspection of the As de Pique (known universally now as Arsy) was made. The carpenters and riggers had done great work, and the bending of the new and mended sails was far advanced. Bullen suggested working into the night, but it was overruled.
‘Nay,’ said Swift, ‘nothing can happen in the darkness, and I’m minded to give them leave to have a drink or two. We’ll have hot work tomorrow, maybe a skirmish when the yokels catch us smashing boats, but when Captain Maxwell do come back I want all clear for blistering reprisal. What was it Cromwell said in Ireland? “Drive the bastards all to hell or Connaught!” Most excellent.’
The night was mild and cloudy, and when darkness was complete the music and the drunken singing died away. Charlie Raven was sitting on the forebitts like a common seaman, worrying mildly what the new day would bring, when he heard the sound of lapping oarblades. At first he thought it was his imagination, but when he listened harder he knew that he was right.
He should have sprung up to shout a warning, but something held him back. It was so quiet, so little like a threat. If there was somebody out there rowing, it could only be one boat. And not a big one.
He stood to get a bearing on the noise, then padded silently to the rail. He glanced along the length of it to spot the watchmen, but no watchmen did he see. He gave a silent laugh; so much for keen lookouts. One man with a knife was all it needed to take a careless ship.
Out of the inky blackness, a shape emerged. It was a rowing boat, almost a cockleshell, handmade by some local fisherman. There appeared to be two men in it, maybe one man and a little boy. As it nosed up to the side, Raven recognised the man. It was Simpson.
He moved fast now, and jerkily. He leaned across the rail, and the big man looked back up at him.
‘How good to see you, sir,’ he said, with conscious humour. ‘I thought you might be looking out for me.’
The small figure in the bow held up a rope at him. He spoke, but Raven hardly understood him. The gesture was clear, however, and he grabbed the painter that was tossed.
‘I’ve escaped,’ said Simpson. ‘Me and the boy ’ere ’ave got clean away. What officer is in charge on board? Don’t say it is that bastard Mr Swift.’
It was not difficult to read Raven’s face above him; affirmative. Simpson cursed obscenely.
‘Bollocks,’ he ended, on a more genteel note. ‘I’ve come to save some lives, but that bastard won’t believe me. Mr Raven, you must be my advocate.’
But the secret tête-à-tête had run its course. Someone had seen them and the cry was out.
‘Attack! Attack! They’re boarding us! The Scillies are upon us! Bring out guns!’
Seamen, however drunk, react extremely fast – at sea, it saves their lives. The silent, empty deck swarmed instantly with men, alive with the sounds of club and clashing blade.
‘Stand back!’ Charlie Raven shouted. ‘It is not raiders, it’s a friend! Bring glims there! Watchmen! We need lanterns, now!’
Down in the cockleshell, Simpson and his weird companion sat quietly, and hoped. To be shot to pieces would have surprised them not at all.
Chapter Thirteen
Daniel Swift, when Simpson had been wrapped in chains, would not believe a word he said. Despite the big man’s protestations that he would come quietly, that he had not returned to fight, the constables were exhorted to beat and overwhelm him, which they did.
Raven, torn between despair and fury, tried shouting, even physical intervention as far as a young gentleman could. Swift mocked him for his pains, especially when he tried to protect the shock-haired boy, who unlike Simpson uttered not a word.
The lieutenant went so far as to even smash Simpson in the mouth with a belaying pin when his roars grew loudest.
‘I have intelligence! I was held captive by the Scilly men, and I got away to aid you! This boy has risked his li—’ The sentence ended in blood and broken teeth.
Some men on board the Arsy, who may have been Simpson’s allies earlier, decided that the better part of valour was to back the martinet. Lieutenant Swift was famous for his temper, and his lack of care for common seamen, so Simpson and his shadow were overwhelmed, and beaten cruelly in the process.
‘I have come to warn! I had to fight for this! I want an end to bloodshed, not for more!’
‘To hell with you! Chain him in the darkest corner of the orlop, and this time get it right, you useless scum!’ Swift shouted. ‘You men! Yes there, you drunken louts! Is there a watchman anywhere? Is there no bastard up aloft? If one beast in a coracle can get on board of us, why not a hundred more? Look to it before you get a whipping.’
The chaos on the decks took some fair time to calm. More drink was found, the constables themselves joined in the spree. And in the cabin, when he called in the officers at last, Lieutenant Swift seemed infected by the wild elation.
‘Simpson must take us for a bunch of Irish bogmen,’ he laughed. ‘Come to help us, in a tinker’s tit! Well, tomorrow he will get his just comeuppance, we’ve a high French yardarm he can swing from, and he won’t skip off of that! We’ll swing him Arsy Versy! Aye, inside out and upside down!’
Bullen said cautiously: ‘But surely, sir, only the captain can order an execution? I fear…I fear he will not thank us if he…? Mr Maxwell, sir…’
The others round the table nodded. To go against such orders, from such an officer, was not a thing to lightly do. Swift swelled his chest up, glared obstinately around – then put down his glass with deep reluctance. And sighed.
‘I wish the weather would blow up, though,’ he said mildly. ‘These light airs have lasted much too long, and they need to blow our Hector back down channel like a tiger. I tell you what. Perhaps we’ll give the man a taster. Yes. That will do the trick. Three dozen at the gangway after breakfast.’
His glass was in his hand once more, and he threw his head back to drain it. Then held it out to Winterson for a refill.
‘Raven.’ Smiling broadly, he turned to the midshipman. ‘I have a little task for you, as well. You will enjoy it, I warrant you. You will go below now and tell the villain what we have in store for him. You will enjoy that, won’t you?’
‘Lieutenant Swift, sir…’
‘Ah yes,’ said the lieutenant. ‘Of course you will.’
Chapter Fourteen
Both Simpson and the shock-haired boy were in pain when Raven got to them. The big man was not so severely restrained as he had been, but he was bound and gagged. The boy was wrapped up like a packet, with his wild, reddish locks protruding. He too was gagged, with a filthy rag stuffed between his teeth. The midshipman’s first acts were to pull it out, then clear Simpson’s mouth.
Some of the men jammed in the cockpit made it clear – voicelessly – that he was overstepping the lieutenant’s orders. Raven’s stare was level, though. None of them spoke.
Ungagged, the boy appeared to say some words, although inaudible. But Simpson just breathed deeply, and said nothing. He looked at Raven with anger in his eyes.
‘This was none of my doing, Mr Simpson. And I beg you will tell me the warning that you said you had for us. I am sorry for it, but Captain Maxwell runs a tight ship, as you know.’
‘Captain Maxwell,’ said Sawdust Simpson, ‘is Bedlam mad. If you speak to him again you may tell him that I said so, sir. I do not think that it will make him any madder.’
Raven spoke sharply to the other orlop men.
‘Shift from here, go back. He cannot get me.’
Reluctantly, the men moved away. Both he and Simpson had spoken low, and they pitched their voices even lower now.
‘You cannot say that, Simpson. You cannot speak thus about your captain. It is not —’
‘I came on board to save bloodshed, and I meant it, Mr Raven. I knew it was risky, but I thought at least to get a hearing. Lieutenant Swift will cost us all our lives.’
‘Our lives? You say our lives? You mean your lives too?’
‘Mine and the boy’s, aye. All of us.’
‘So tell me, then. What is going to happen?’
Simpson glowered at him; his lips clamped shut.
‘The French ship?’ said Raven. ‘The one that got away, is that it? Has she been sighted in the Channel? She’s in the offing?’
Still Simpson glowered. His colour was dark, and darkening.
Raven reached out to touch the boy, who flinched. His panicked eyes sought those of the seaman.
‘Boy!’ said Raven. ‘Please. Tell me what it is you have to say!’
But he closed his eyes up tightly.
‘Please,’ repeated Raven. ‘You’re much too young to die!’
‘He does not have the language,’ said Sawdust Simpson. ‘He has only French.’
Raven was astonished.
‘Vous êtes Français? Vous parlez French?’
The eyes uncovered. They were wide with fear.
‘He speaks nothing,’ said the big man. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Then is he dumb, sir? Or are you maybe simple?’
The angry face went paler. As if blood and fury had both drained away.
‘He is my son,’ said Simpson. ‘He answers, Mr Villainy, to nobody but me.’
‘Then if you want to save him…’ He broke off. It had just sunk in. ‘Your son?’ he mouthed. ‘Oh. Your son.’
Strangely, a decision had been made. Simpson’s face had changed.
‘The islanders are coming. There, I have told you. But you cannot tell Dan Swift, I don’t care if he dies now, I don’t care if it comes to all of you. I have done too much betraying.’
‘But your little boy —’
The small boy interrupted.
‘J’ai dix-sept ans, monsieur. Je suis —’
‘Aye,’ said Simpson, bitterly. ‘It is a condition, sir. He is merely small, and I will not let him die.’
Oh God, thought Raven. Oh good God.
In the smoky darkness a voice said harshly, ‘So you know a secret, do you Craven? I would have you tell me, if you please.’
It was Daniel Swift. He was thrusting into the narrow orlop space.
Raven put his face to Simpson’s head and whispered jerkily, ‘I cannot keep your secret, man! God help me, but I cannot keep your secret!’
Swift, short but bulky, forced his shoulders through. His face was hot with rage.
‘I have a yen for secrets, Mr Simpson,’ he was roaring. ‘I will beat it out of you, and your little buggerboy. I will tie his bollocks to a twelve-pound shot, and you can throw it overboard for me. See if the splash can drown his eunuch screams!’
He reached inwards and prepared to swing, his hard palm wide open.
‘He is French!’ shouted Charlie Raven. ‘He’s a prisoner of war! You can’t abuse him, sir, I forbid it! He is a little child.’
‘J’ai dix-sept ans,’ said shock-hair. His frightened eyes had widened. ‘Seventeen…’
Swift bent forward in the reeking gloom, his hand now in a fist to punch the small boy’s face. Simpson’s eyes were bulging. Raven thought he might explode.
‘You forbid it, do you, Craven? Well good for you, you arsehole crawler. When I have flogged these scum I’ll see you hanged, sir. I will pull your fucking head right off!’
Then, even deep on the orlop deck, a noise of war was heard. Shouts and screams, a fusillade of shots. Even as Swift’s blow burst the nose in front of him, Lieutenant Bullen’s voice, distorted through a speaking trumpet, echoed down to them.
‘All hands! All hands! Drummer, beat to quarters!’
There was no drummer, though, and likewise no marines. Swift, like wildest lightning, head back, teeth bared – went flying for the upper decks.
Chapter Fifteen
When Raven reached the deck, there were several men stretched out on it already, one screaming like a tortured animal through the hole torn in his cheek. Daniel Swift had a cutlass in his hand, and was rushing at gun crews to force them into greater speed.
‘Fire, damn you! Fire! Why were these cannon left unready? Is there no bastard lookout on this ship still?’
From the foredeck came another volley of musket fire, and smoke blew back thick across the waist.
Lieutenant Bullen was bellowing: ‘It’s the gigs, sir. The island men have brought them round the headland. Five gigs, sir, perhaps forty men.’
A yell came from the taffrail.
‘Here’s one close-to, sir! He’ve crep’ up like a—’
Before the man had finished, he was dead. A ball had pierced his windpipe; he fell gushing blood.
‘Cover! Get aft, Mr Raven! Mr Ross, get there with your bloody pistol! Get shooting, man!’
Bullen seized the fat midshipman by the shoulder, and the pair of them dashed onto the poop. Ross fired first, and let out a whoop as a gout of flame leapt from his pistol.
‘Charlie!’ he shouted. ‘Don’t be afraid, sir, don’t be Craven! It is such a lot of fun!’
‘Load another shot, buffoon!’ yelled Bullen. ‘Mr Raven can well fend for himself.’
Balls were singing and buzzing across the deck like angry bees. More men had fallen, but more still had found good shelter to fire from. Muskets and small arms were being spread round by the armourer, and the guns were being manned. Swift himself had commandeered a swivel at the break, and let fly the first volley of grapeshot.
Before long the screams were coming from the other side, and within moments Raven heard a much more heavy crump. A nine-pounder possibly, maybe a double-loaded four, but truth to tell the deck was choked in smoke and flaming lumps of wad.
A man up in the lower rigging took aim with tender care and discharged his musket. He yelped with triumph, then gestured widely with his free right arm.
‘Two more gigs, sir, close down to starboard. Killed one cox, but they’re coming in to board. Quick, quick! Fore starboard chains!’
Raven, sick in a sort of quandary, had still not played much part in defending the As de Pique. The sight of the small boy’s bleeding face stuck in his mind, and the blood spilled on the deck planks seemed by comparison mundane. Despite he had not done so, he felt he had betrayed Simpson. He had not told his secret, but by then there was no need. The attack, perhaps, had come much faster than the man had thought it would.
Or perhaps, he thought, as another group of heads and shoulders appeared above the rail, there was a second secret he had not been told. Had other Scilly Island oarsmen gone off to find the French ship they had failed to cut out with the first?
Lieutenant Swift had also seen the row of heads along the bulwarks. He uttered a sharp, triumphant order, and the swivel gun burst death and fire from its mouth. The smoke saved Raven from the bloodiest of the picture, but the spray of bone and brain was vile enough in conscience.
Then, somehow, he had a cutlass in one hand, a dagger in the other, slippery and dripping. He had no memory of striking anyone with either blade, but then he had no memory of the slash that had ripped one shoulder of his coat right off. The decks were a riot of screaming, shouting, bleeding men. And still he saw the boy’s face on the orlop.
Whether by discipline or by luck, however, Swift’s men began to win the day. Craven could not put a time on it, in fact it was only the crushing weight of exhaustion that told him time had passed at all. But gradually he felt, and then he knew, that the invaders were failing.
He came up face-to-face with midshipman Ross at one point, and that surprised and heartened him. For once his pink-cheeked cohort did not mildly disgust him – indeed he seemed a very different man.
‘Oh this is prima, Charlie, this is just tip-top! I have killed three men, I am certain of it! Just wait until I tell my ma and pa.’
Somebody shouted from the rail: ‘They’re on the run, sir! Two of the gigs are making off.’
Swift was beside himself with triumph.
‘Someone take this damned swivel off m
e, and let me lay a long twelve-pounder onto ’em! Load small shot! Let’s tear the bastards into pieces.’
The men who’d boarded had by no means given up, though. Lieutenant Bullen, despite a slash wound to his face, had spotted something that stopped him short.
‘They’re going below!’ He was standing next to Ross, his fist pushed to his cheek to staunch the blood. ‘Stop them at whatever cost!’
They were clearly not the first, however. Muffled shouting was emerging from the ’tween decks, and as more men streamed down to confront them, smoke was seen curling up the companionway into the plain air. The shouting grew more frantic.
At that moment, Swift got his wishes, and one of the big deck-pieces crashed into life. It was ranged exceeding short, and it raised a giant plume of water. Swift was hopping up and down with rage.
‘You could not hit a barn door from six feet! Another gun there! You must sink one of the gigs at least! Raven —’
But Raven was not obeying. Smoke was pouring from the hatchway, and several other points. Men who had been going down, reversed themselves and crashed into others climbing the steps. Flames could be seen clearly, as the fire took a roaring hold.
Lieutenant Bullen, beneath his blood and filth, had turned sick-white.
‘Christ, sir, we are on fire! They’ve put her to the torch!’
‘Water buckets,’ the cry went up. ‘Man pumps! Jesus, this ship’s a fucking tinderbox!’
There was still gunfire going on below, but more and more men burst choking from the depths.
‘Block the hatches off!’ Lieutenant Swift had left the guns and was driving sailors back towards the hatches. ‘Keep the bastards down below! They can either put it out or fry themselves!’
The chaos on the decks was absolute. As the intruders came up from below they raced for the bulwarks and jumped overside. One man was in flames and screaming as he leapt, but a pistol was discharged into his face point-blank. Picked up later, the body proved to be the Pointer’s surgeon’s mate.
Alone of any man on board, Charlie Raven had thoughts to aid the captives. Simpson and his son were on the orlop deck, beasts tethered for the slaughter. To push against the mass of escaping men he was forced to use his sword. Aware of the irony, he avoided inflicting death or injury, but his intention blazed in his face. However tight the crush, men cleared the way for him.
