'What of your escort?'
'A bomb-vessel. She couldn't work to windward before the Frenchman made off.'
'Where away?'
'Norderney!'
'Thank you, Captain! Bon voyage!' The patrician accent of Captain Smetherley replaced the abrupt Callowell. For once he had the situation in hand. 'Haul your maintopsail, Mr Callowell. Mr Blackmore, lay me a course for Norderney, if you please. Let's see if we can catch this damned Frog.'
'Lay me, be damned,' Blackmore muttered to Drinkwater and then, raising his voice, called out, 'Aye, aye, sir.'
Summary justice was a principle upon which Jonas Callowell dealt with all matters of discipline and good order. If an offence was committed, it was swiftly punished. When he received Baskerville's complaint he reported to Smetherley who lounged in his cabin, a glass of port in one hand.
'Damned rascal was insolent to the midshipman, insolence witnessed by Jackson, sir.'
'Jackson, Mr Callowell?'
'Bosun's mate.'
'Ahhh.' Smetherley took a mouthful of port and rolled it around his tongue, swallowed and smacked his lips. He looked up at Callowell with a frown. And you demand punishment?'
'Of course, sir. For the maintenance of discipline. Absolutely indispensable,' Callowell replied, a little astonished.
'Naturally, Mr Callowell, but the principle of mercy ... does it enter into the particulars of this case?'
'Not to my mind, sir,' said Callowell, who had never heard anything so damned stupid.
'Will two dozen suffice for insolence to a midshipman?'
'As you see fit, sir,' responded Callowell drily, but Smetherley, pouring another glass of port, needed to maintain the fiction of command and enjoyed a little light-hearted baiting of his first lieutenant.
'What, if you were in my position, would you give the man, Mr Callowell?'
'I'd smother the bugger with the captain's cloak, sir.'
'Three dozen, eh? Isn't that a trifle hard?'
'Not in my view, sir.'
'Mr Baskerville is a somewhat forward young man. His only redeeming feature, as far as I can see, is a rather lovely sister.' Smetherley pulled a face over the rim of his glass. 'But that would not concern you, Mr Callowell. Two dozen will suffice, I think.'
'As you see fit, sir,' Callowell repeated, leaving the cabin.
Roach was confined to the bilboes until the watch changed. When Appleby heard, he hurried to the gunroom where the first lieutenant was tossing off a pot of blackstrap.
'You cannot mean this, Mr Callowell?'
'Mean what?' asked Callowell, whose contempt for the surgeon's humanity was only exceeded by his dislike of the man himself whom he regarded as a meddling old wind-bag.
'Why flogging Roach, of course!'
'And why, pray, should I not flog Roach?' asked Callowell, lowering his tankard and staring at Appleby. 'Is he not guilty of insolence to an officer?'
'A very junior, inexperienced under officer,' Appleby expostulated testily, 'a mere insolent aspirant himself, without skill and wanting common manners to boot, but that is not the point...'
'Then for God's sake get to your damned point, Appleby!'
'How many's he getting?'
'Two dozen.'
'Two dozen! But that's twice the permitted limit for a post-captain to award!'
'Are you questioning the captain's authority, Mr Appleby? My word, you'd make a fine sight at the gratings yourself!'
'Damn it, Mr Callowell, you have no right...'
'Is that your point, Appleby?' Callowell broke in impatiently.
'No, no it isn't.' Appleby collected himself. 'Mr Callowell, Roach was given two hundred and fifty lashes after his court martial. I am empowered to prevent...'
'I've no doubt but that he deserved them,' broke in Callowell. 'As for your being empowered to do anything, Mr Appleby, I believe it is limited to advice. Well, thank you for your advice. It was my advice to Captain Smetherley that Roach be given three dozen ...'
'I daresay it was, but heed me. The man's back is in no state to suffer further punishment. You'll kill the fellow'
'So much the better. The man is no good to us, he will be nothing but trouble.' 'But...'
Callowell's emptied tankard crashed down upon the table and he rose to his feet, leaned across it and thrust his face into that of the surgeon. 'Listen, Appleby, do you cure the pox, the gaol fever, the itch, button scurvy and the clap, and when you can do all that you may come back here and teach me my duty. Now take your damnable cant back to where you belong and keep your fat arse out of the gunroom. It's for the commissioned officers, not bloody tradesmen. Get out!'
Appleby departed with what dignity he could muster, but word of the encounter percolated rapidly through the ship. The surgeon himself was far from capitulating. He approached Captain Smetherley and obtained a stay of execution of two days, until the Sunday following. It was unlikely to achieve anything other than to compel the inexperienced Smetherley to think again and, in the event, Appleby's compassion misfired badly. The delay only served to fuel resentment at Roach's sentence. Strict discipline made the life of the decent majority of the ship's company bearable, saving them from the predatory conduct of the worst elements of their own kind. But a virtual death sentence on a grown man of proven courage for insolence to a boy whose authority far exceeded his abilities and who had yet to prove his mettle to the hands, was a different matter.
Drinkwater was more aware of the state of things than the feckless wastrels who pounded Baskerville's back in congratulation as though he had won a great victory. He wished he had known of the matter before Baskerville had reported it to Callowell. Watching the scene, he determined matters could not go on and, now that they all appeared recovered from their seasickness, the moment seemed opportune. White was absent on deck and Drinkwater laid down the book he had been trying to read by the guttering illumination of the purser's dip.
'You sicken me, you really do.'
Silence fell on the rabble and the four faces turned towards him. 'Whom are you addressing?' Baskerville asked superciliously.
'All of you,' replied Drinkwater, staring up at their half-lit faces. In the gloom they possessed a diabolical appearance. 'You are a scandalous disgrace. It is likely that Roach will die, if not under punishment then as a consequence of it. If you had a shred of decency, Baskerville, you would go at once and withdraw the charge, say it was a mistake and apologize.'
'Why you contemptuous shit, Drinkwater,' said Baskerville, looking round at his friends. 'He needs a licking...'
'If one of you so much as lays a finger on me,' Drinkwater said, reaching up to where his French sword was slung by its scabbard rings on the deck beam overhead, 'I'll slit his gizzard.' He drew the blade with a rasp. 'Four to one is Frenchmen's odds, my fine bantam cocks, and you've yet to see action. Please, don't give me the excuse.' He paused. Irresolution was already visible in one or two faces and the light played on the wicked blade of the French sword. 'No, don't give me the excuse to defend myself, or I might take singular pleasure in it.'
Drinkwater rose. 'Brooke,' he said quietly, addressing the youngest of the midshipmen before him, 'go and fetch Jacob.' The boy hesitated and looked at Baskerville for permission, whereupon Drinkwater commanded, 'Go boy!' and Brooke scampered off in search of the messman. While he was gone, Drinkwater dragged his chest out, opened it and threw his belongings into it. A moment later the messman appeared, rubbing sleep from his eyes. 'Jacob, move my chest and hammock forrard. I shall sleep with the marines.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
Drinkwater paused at the canvas curtain that served to screen off that portion of the orlop known as the cockpit. 'The stink of puppy-dogs in here is overpowering!'
By Sunday morning Cyclops had passed Norderney without sighting any enemy cruiser. The wind had dropped and there was a mist which persisted into the forenoon, resisting the sun's heat.
'Dense fog by nightfall,' Blackmore remarked.
Aft
er divine service the hands remained mustered to witness the punishment. The officers gathered about the captain; the marines lined the hammock nettings, their bayonets fixed. In the waist, over two hundred men were assembled. They murmured softly, like a swarm of bees. Triced up in the main shrouds, the grating awaited the prisoner.
Roach was escorted on deck by two boatswain's mates. He walked upright between them, his shirt loose and his breeches tucked into the offending boots. At the grating he took off his shirt, revealing the scabbed welts and blue bruising of his former punishment. The murmuring was replaced by a low rumbling.
'Silence!' commanded Callowell.
Smetherley stepped forward. 'Landsman Roach, I tolerate no insolence to my officers, commissioned or otherwise, aboard any ship under my command. You will receive two dozen lashes. Bosun's mates, do your duty!'
'Trice him up!' Callowell ordered, and Roach was thrust forward and his wrists seized and strapped to the grating. One of the men grabbed his hair and jerked his head back to shove a leather wad into his mouth.
'Shame!' called a voice from forward. It was answered by a chorus of anonymous 'Ayes!' from the crowd amidships. Wheeler drew his sword and commanded the marine drummer to beat his snare. Callowell bawled, 'Lay on!'
The two boatswain's mates, each with a cat-o'-nine-tails, began to administer the punishment, six lashes each in succession, while the drummer manfully maintained his roll and the men mouthed their disapproval. Roach spat the leather wad from his mouth and roared defiant curses until, at about the nineteenth stroke, he fell silent.
Drinkwater felt an utter revulsion at the spectacle. He sought distraction by observing the other officers. Appleby stood rigid, his portly frame wracked by sobs, the sheen of angry tears upon his ruddy cheeks. Blackmore gazed out over the heads of the crew, sure that the foremast catharpings could do with some attention. Wheeler stood like a statue, his drawn sword across his breast, his eyes flickering restlessly over the ship's company, waiting for the first sign of trouble. Callowell too watched the men, but with less apprehension than the marine officer. Blinded by the insensitivity of a life circumscribed by duty, he possessed no imagination, no compassion and few feelings for others. Cyclops was a man-of-war and sentiment of any kind was out of place upon her decks. To a man of Callowell's stamp, the emergence of personality among the people was an affront, and his cruelty stemmed from this conviction rather than any sadistic impulse. It was his lot to administer, and theirs to endure.
But next to Drinkwater, White stood stock still. 'Christ Almighty, I can see his ribs,' he whispered.
CHAPTER 4
Servants of the Night
Winter 1782
The fog Blackmore had predicted closed down during the afternoon. All day the becalmed Cyclops had drifted with the tide and, as the visibility deteriorated, the rattling blocks, slack cordage, slatting canvas and black hempen stays dripped moisture on to the wet decks. Below, the damp permeated everything. Shortly after sunset, when the light went out of the vapour surrounding them, Appleby reported the death of Roach. The news surprised nobody and Cyclops, shut in her world of sodden misery, seemed to hold her breath in anticipation.
Drinkwater was late being relieved at midnight. White rushed on deck breathless with apologies and anxious to avoid trouble.
'Couldn't sleep, Nat. Kept thinking of that poor devil's bones, then I must have dropped off...'
'Best not to think too much, Chalky,' Drinkwater put a hand on the younger midshipman's shoulder, 'you'll get over it.'
As he passed through the gun-deck on his way below, Drinkwater was half aware of movement forward. He hesitated. If trouble was brewing, he ought not to let it pass, but when he looked he could see nothing untoward and so passed on, bone-weary and eager for the small comfort of sleep. A light still showed through Appleby's door and Drinkwater went forward, ducking under the swaying hammocks, to wish him goodnight, for he knew the surgeon had been upset by the death of Roach. Drinkwater knocked. There was no reply and he cocked his ears. In the creaking darkness, assailed by the thousand sounds of the ship and of men snoring, he thought he heard an insistent grunt. Another, more identifiable, followed. He turned the handle, found it locked against him and forced the flimsy door with his shoulder. Appleby was trussed and gagged. His face was an unpleasant colour and his eyes started from their sockets.
Bending, Drinkwater released the gag and Appleby gasped for air while his rescuer turned his attention to the light-line binding wrists and ankles. Catching his breath, Appleby spat out, 'Mutiny, Nat! They meant me no harm. Wanted to know if I'd said Roach was unfit ... to receive punishment. That's my duty. My privilege ...'
'Who's their leader? The other dragoon?'
Appleby nodded. 'Yes. Hollins, his name is. I told them to desist.' Appleby rubbed his wrists, his face contorted with pain. 'I told 'em what'd been done to Roach was chicken-feed compared with what'd be done to them if they persisted, but they'd have none of it. So they trussed me. Apologized, but trussed me ... They're after Callowell. We've got to stop them, for they'll take Smetherley and Baskerville too! Before you know it, we'll all be involved!'
'Very well!' snapped Drinkwater, getting Appleby's ankles clear and rubbing them himself. 'Do you get Wheeler. Now!' He stood, remembering the noise in the gun-deck. 'There's no time to be lost,' he added, helping the surgeon get to his unsteady feet, then he turned and scrambled aft under the hammocks to the marines' berth. Grabbing his sword he savagely elbowed the hammock next to him. A grunt emanated from it.
'What the fuck...?'
'Get your men up, Sergeant! Quietly!' he hissed insistently. 'Bayonets! And hurry! We've trouble!'
'Oh shit!' Waiting only for the appearance of the pale form of Sergeant Hagan's emerging limb, Drinkwater moved swiftly to the companionway leading to the berth-deck above. As he passed the cockpit, the light of the lantern at the foot of the companionway caught a face peering round the canvas curtain. 'Is something amiss?' It was Baskerville.
'No. Turn in! Keep out of the way!'
'Why've you got your sword?'
'Turn in!' Drinkwater could brook no delay for explanations. Crouching, he turned his back on Baskerville and cautiously ascended the companionway ladder. He could see no movement under the hammocks of the berth-deck and swung round the stanchion, heading for the gun-deck. As he poked his head above the upper coaming he realized he was not a second too soon. A pale, almost spectral group of barefooted men, perhaps a dozen of them, in shirts and breeches, each clutching some form of weapon in their hands, were approaching the doors to the officers' cabins. Turning his head slowly, Drinkwater saw in the light of the after lantern that the marine sentry outside Captain Smetherley's door was nodding at his post.
There was no doubt that he was witnessing a combination of men bent on mutinous conduct, whatever the limitations of their intentions. Should he raise a general alarm or seek to defuse an explosive situation himself? He had no time to ponder and took consolation from the thought that Sergeant Hagan was behind him, for Appleby would not reach Wheeler in time. The men merged with the deep shadows round the guns, almost concealed behind the few hammocks that were slung in the gun-deck. To a casual observer the place was normal, a dark space the after end of which, abaft the companionway below, was lined with the cabins of the lieutenants and master, and which terminated with the captain's accommodation across the stern.
With sudden resolve Drinkwater flung himself over the hatch coaming and drew the hanger from its scabbard. The hiss of the steel rasped against the brass mounting, abruptly arresting the progress of the mutineers.
'Stand where you are!' His voice was low, yet carried through the gloom. 'Get forrard and out of my sight before I set eyes on one of you.'
'They killed Roach, Mister.' Hollins's voice came out of the darkness.
'And you've assaulted the surgeon. That's mutiny and you'll hang for it unless you obey me! Get forrard! Now!'
Drinkwater heard rather than saw the me
n behind him, smelt their presence and, glancing round, saw the dull gleam of drawn bayonets. 'We're right behind 'e, sir.' Sergeant Hagan's voice added to the menace of the stalemate.
'You don't frighten us with your boot-necked bullies ...' Hollins began, but Hagan cut him short.
'Shut your fuckin' mouth, Hollins, or you're a dead man.'
Drinkwater was aware of someone else puffing up on his left. 'What the devil's going on here?' asked Lieutenant Wheeler, a drawn hanger in his right hand.
'These men are being recalled to their duty, Mr Wheeler.'
'Is this a damned combination?'
'No, no,' Drinkwater said quickly, lowering his sword point, 'they were gambling, Mr Wheeler. A foolish occupation at this time of night,' Drinkwater jerked his head aft, 'but not as reprehensible as being asleep on sentry.'
Wheeler looked round at the nodding marine posted outside the captain's door. 'Sergeant Hagan!' he said in a low voice, pointing at the offending sentry.
'Now what about... Stap me, they've gone!' In the few seconds allowed them, Hollins's men had melted away forward.
'Yes.' Much relieved, Drinkwater lowered his sword. Had they dispersed for the time being, or would they recombine? Perhaps tomorrow, or the next night? Would that something would happen, Drinkwater prayed, to distract them from the bloody death of their comrade.
'And what, Nathaniel,' Wheeler asked pointedly, after he had sent all his men except the sergeant below again, 'was all that about?'
'As far as I know, Mr Wheeler, those men were gambling dangerously.'
'With their lives, I gather, from what Appleby said,' Wheeler observed.
'With someone's,' Drinkwater replied.
'Make damned certain it ain't yours, my lad.'
'Or yours, sir.'
Drinkwater heard Wheeler sigh in the darkness. 'Damn you, Drinkwater,' he muttered, but even though he could not see the marine officer's face, Drinkwater knew there was no malice in Wheeler's voice. As if to confirm the matter, he felt a pat on the back. 'Better put that sword up.'
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