The Pursuit

by Peter Smalley

  He was so angry that tears started in his eyes, and he banged the desk with his fist.

  Three days passed, during which the ship was increasing slow, in lighter and lighter airs. More men fell ill, including men clapped in irons for open disobedience on deck. The pursuit was not sighted again, and the mood of the people grew ominously sullen. Then in the early morning of the fourth day the wind gave way to a breathless stillness, and Expedient lay altogether becalmed on the pale vastness of the sea. The surgeon’s mate came to Rennie’s cabin, his lined boy’s face ashen.

  ‘Dr Empson has died, sir.’

  *

  The sound woke James as he lay in his hanging cot, the book he had been reading open on his breast where it had fallen. He raised himself on an elbow, and the book fell to the deck. His lantern had gone out.

  The sound came again. A deep, dark rumbling, as if a great gun were being hauled along the deck on its trucks.

  And now it came to James. Roundshot were being rolled.

  ‘It is mutiny . . .’ Whispered.

  Very quietly and carefully he swung his legs out of his cot, and stood on the deck timbers. Movement overhead, furtive, hurried scuffling. James froze, then reached for his clothes in the darkness, and slipped them on, but remained barefoot. He reached for his sword, and his pistol case. A few moments, and he was about to venture out of his cabin when the door was opened and the captain’s face appeared, lit by the subdued glow of a small dark-lantern.

  ‘James?’ Whispering.

  ‘I am here, sir.’ Also whispering.

  ‘Thank God they have not took us all.’ Coming in.

  ‘It is mutiny certain, then?’

  ‘Ay.’ A nod, a brief sigh.

  ‘Which other officers have been took, sir?’

  ‘I cannot be certain, but I think they have took Mr Trembath, who had the deck, and Mr Tindall, who was relieving him. You heard the roundshot rolling? That was the signal.’

  ‘How many are the mutineers? Who leads them?’

  ‘I do not know, James. I do not know. But as soon as I heard the rolling shot I knew what was afoot, and straightway crept from my sleeping cabin down the ladder, and hid behind the gunroom bulkhead. I heard them go to my cabin to look for me, and no doubt take me, but I was too damned canny for them, by God.’

  ‘Are you armed, sir?’

  ‘Nay, I am in my nightshirt, as you see. All I have is my dark-light.’

  James gave him a spare pair of breeches, a shirt, one of his pair of pistols and his spare blade, a plain hanger. Rennie shifted quickly into the clothes, tucked the pistol into his waist, and jerked his head.

  ‘We will go on deck, James, and find out how things lie.’

  He shut the lantern, and James followed him out of the cabin, reflecting that the one good thing about this new emergency was that all bitter difference between them could now be put aside. Both barefoot as they were, neither made any sound on the deck timbers. They opened and went through the gunroom door to the ladder, and crept up.

  When they reached the upper deck, Rennie halted and held out a warning hand to halt James behind him. For a few seconds they listened. Silence, except for the eternal sounds of a ship at sea – creaking timbers, the slap of water, the easeful stretching of shrouds and stays as the ship moved almost imperceptibly on the slow swell. Tonight, no wind. No wind at all.

  ‘Should we go forrard into the waist?’ James, whispering.

  ‘Nay, I want to see my quarterdeck, and who is there.’ Rennie, crouched behind the lower capstan. He tapped James on the arm, and they crept forward past the capstan to the companionway ladder, and cautiously on up.

  Rennie lifted his head above the level of the deck, just high enough to look aft through the stanchions and past the capstan toward the wheel. There was a figure manning the wheel, and other figures abaft the mizzenmast, but he could not make out who they were in the dim light. He swivelled his head, and nearly cried out in shock when he saw a figure immediately above him, just forrard of the ladder, leaning on a stanchion. He ducked down below the level of the deck, and whispered in James’s ear.

  ‘Christ’s blood, there is a man just above, right by the ladder. If we are to go on deck, we must take him and silence him.’

  ‘Which way does he face, sir?’

  ‘Forrard, I think. Ay, it must be forrard, else he would have seen me.’

  ‘A blow to the skull from behind, then, and he must be caught as he falls.’ James, decisively. ‘I will do it, sir. I am taller.’ He thought but did not say – ‘and more powerful built’. Rennie made way for him on the ladder, without demur.

  In his head: ‘Thank God we can put aside all difference, and work as one again.’

  James silently rose to his full height on the top step of the ladder, immediately behind the man who stood with his back to it. Lifted his pistol and brought the butt down with a sharp snap of his wrist. A subdued crack, and the man slumped. James caught him, and lowered him to the deck. But the sound and the movement had been noticed, and three figures now appeared from aft, and began running forrard. James just had time to see they were armed with muskets, before

  crack

  Rennie fired his pistol, and the leading figure reeled and fell with a moan.

  James now lifted his own pistol, and fired at the second figure

  crack

  careless now of concealment. Battle had been joined. The second man fell, shot through the head, and slumped away against the larboard rail.

  Shouts and flurries of movement, both fore and aft. The third man in the party that had run forward from the wheel discharged his musket. A flash and the report, and the ball sang away harmlessly. The man dropped his musket and attempted to draw a pistol from his waist, but James stamped two paces straight at him and ran him through. The man went down with a gasp, and James’s blade sucked clear with a subdued ring. Blood dripped on the deck timbers.

  Musket shots from the fo’c’sle, now, flashes in the darkness and

  crack crack-crack

  James ducked as a ball fizzed past his head and struck the capstan in a shock of splinters. Lifted his head again, and at first could not see Rennie. Then he heard him.

  ‘You damned mutinous wretch!’

  And saw him in mortal combat on the gangway with a tall seaman wielding a cutlass. Rennie’s short hanger clashed with the heavier blade, and it was clear to James at once that the captain would be bested if he did not make more of his swordsmanship, instead of merely swinging and bellowing in a red mist of rage.

  It was as if Rennie had heard the admonition, silent though it was. He parried a scything sweep of the seaman’s cutlass, thrusting it wide with a sawing clash of steel on steel, and slid his shorter blade clear with a sudden extra jerk, leaving the seaman slightly but fatally unbalanced. Rennie stepped back neatly and slightly to one side on the gangway, and as the heavier built seaman lunged again Rennie brought up his blade straight, caught him full in the sternum, thrust deep and severed his aorta. The man coughed, gasped and clutched his chest as Rennie pulled his blade clear. The dying man dropped his cutlass, staggered against a hammock crane, and pitched overboard. Half a moment, then a heavy splash.

  Rennie beckoned from the gangway. ‘We will go forrard, James!’ And he began to advance toward the fo’c’sle. A flashing, cracking fusillade of musket and pistol shot. The air sang with lethal metal, and Rennie felt balls rip through cloth at his waist and thigh, and a ball whirred past his ear – but he was unharmed. He ducked, fell back, and joined James crouching behind the capstan.

  ‘They have took the fo’c’sle, sir.’ Keeping his voice low.

  ‘How many are they?’ His own voice low.

  ‘At least a dozen, by the muzzle flashes. Perhaps twenty.’

  ‘Only twenty? Then where is the rest of the people, good God? Why have they not resisted, and fought back?’

  ‘I expect they are held below, sir, under guard. And I think we must assume the mutineers have got ho
ld of both arms chests from below, and carried them forrard with them.’

  ‘Ay, very like.’ Soberly, a nod. ‘Which makes it very probable they have also took the forrard magazine, and hold the gunner Mr Storey.’

  ‘Almost certainly.’

  ‘God damn the bloody villains. We must make a plan, James.’

  ‘Even if we are alone against them, sir, just the two of us?’

  ‘I wonder if they have took the after magazine, James . . . ? If they have not, by God, we may have a chance . . .’

  ‘Chance, sir?’

  ‘Ay. It is a very great risk, but I believe we must take it. One of us must go below, and discover yea or nay whether the aft magazine is took.’

  ‘What can we do, even if it is not? The great guns are of no use to us.’

  ‘I am not thinking of the great guns, James . . .’

  ‘Not thinking . . . ahh, I see. Swivels.’

  ‘Ay.’

  ‘I will go.’ James, decisively. ‘If the magazine is held, so be it. If not, I will find and bring swivel cartridge and canister, and our scheme may just have the ghost of a chance.’

  ‘Very good. I will remain here, and observe the fo’c’sle, and wait for your return. Try to be quick, will ye?’ He touched James’s arm briefly, nodded, and James rose stealthily and was gone.

  James descended the ladders with infinite care, his bare feet soundless on the treads, his sword held ready to thrust. He had no light. The dark-lantern had been lost somewhere on deck in the first flurry of fighting. He was virtually blind, but he knew every inch of Expedient, from her truck tops to her pigs and shingle, and every moment of his descent he knew exactly where he was. He was now on the after platform, facing the stern, and the doorway of the aft magazine lightroom was immediately ahead. Through that doorway was the second door, into the magazine itself, and the cartridge racks. He listened, holding in his breath. Surely if there was a guard, James would hear his breathing, or some little shuffle of movement? There was nothing.

  ‘It is not took, then.’ In his head.

  Just to be certain he waited a further whole minute, then ventured to the small doorway, and found that it was locked.

  ‘Christ’s blood . . .’ Whispered.

  Should he attempt to shoulder it down? But that would not answer. These doors, and all bulkheads and timbers down here, were as solid and strong as any in the ship – on purpose. The magazine of a ship of war must be secure at all times. The lock would not burst, even were he to crash his full weight against it repeatedly for the whole of a glass. He did not have a whole glass, nor even half of one. He must find the key, right quick, or desist.

  Not quite two minutes later, James joined Rennie again at the capstan.

  ‘You have got cartridge?’ Excitedly.

  ‘Nay, I have not. The magazine was unguarded, but the lightroom door was locked.’

  ‘Locked! Why did not ye kick it down, for Christ’s sake!’

  Footfalls now on the gangways, larboard and starboard. The fo’c’sle party were venturing aft. Oaths and threatening talk as they advanced, as if to lift themselves. The rattling of small arms, and cutlasses.

  ‘A magazine door cannot be broke down, sir, as I think you know. We must go aft, now, and find the swivels where they are stored under the flag lockers.’ James, urgently whispering, and glancing forrard.

  ‘Ay, the swivels are stored there. Storey has put them there himself. But can they possibly be loaded, James? Without cartridge and canister we are lost.’

  James fled aft, doubled up, running on the larboard side of the quarterdeck, and Rennie followed him. There were two men at the wheel. James dealt with one, and Rennie with the other.

  They reached the flag lockers together, and dragged one of the one-pound swivel guns from the storage place beneath, just as the fo’c’sle party began to advance aft on the quarterdeck. The gun was over three and a half feet long with the tiller attached to the pommelion, and was very heavy. The forked yoke had been removed, but the small flintlock mechanism was attached, under a lead shroud. Rennie tore off the shroud.

  ‘We will heave the gun upon your shoulder, James. You will stand steady, and I will aim and fire. We will both pray to God that the damned thing is loaded.’

  ‘And that there is just enough powder in the pan . . .’ James, muttering.

  The mutineers were now advancing in force on either side of the mizzenmast. Rennie helped James heave the gun up on his right shoulder as he stood facing diagonally across the quarterdeck from the larboard corner of the tafferel. James heard Rennie cock the mechanism with a sharp double click. ‘A ragged row of flashes across the deck, and:

  crack crack crack crack-crack

  Musket and pistol shot whirred and sang and ricocheted. James felt a sharp tug as Rennie pulled the lanyard.

  BOOM

  The deafening concussion of the charge, and the gun jumped on his shoulder. He was nearly blinded by the flash, and the whole of his right cheek was scorched. He could hear nothing, and for a moment could see nothing.

  Then it became clear that seven, eight, ten men lay scattered across the deck timbers in a bloody sprawl. The numbness in his head resolved itself into a black singing hush, then into the hideous groans and shrieks of mortally injured men. Everything stank of burned powder. The weight of the gun tumbled from his shoulder, and he heard it thud to the deck. He turned, and saw that Rennie had fallen. He knelt at Rennie’s side, and heard him grunt with pain as he tried to lift himself. James took his arm.

  ‘Sir? Where are you wounded?’

  ‘My shoulder. Leave me . . . and go forrard.’

  ‘I cannot leave you lying wounded, sir. I will get you below.’

  Rennie shook away James’s hand, and with an effort again attempted to rise. He was unable to do so, and fell back.

  ‘Sir, let me help—’

  ‘Nay, leave me! We cannot go below until the deck has been secured!’

  The groans and cries of the wounded now filled James’s ears, and he was forced to look at them more closely. In all there were a dozen men lying on the quarterdeck in the area of the skylight. Three panes of the skylight had been shattered, and there was blood splashed across the glass. Six of the men were clearly dead, sprawled motionless. Of the other six only two were not horribly injured, and both of them had been caught in the legs and were now unable to stand. The four others were all covered in blood from multiple canister shot strikes. One of them, who laying gasping and jerking, had had the left side of his head shot away. James stood tall to peer forrard and could see no other men on deck. This was the core of the mutiny, bloodily cut to pieces with a pound of canister. He knelt again beside Rennie.

  ‘There will be no more fighting on deck this night, sir. I will go below and fetch the surgeon’s mate.’

  ‘Don’t – hhh – don’t be a damned fool!’ Rennie, pushing himself up into a sitting position, and clutching at his right shoulder, where his shirt was now soaked with blood. ‘There is more of them holding the bulk of the hands below, under arms. You cannot tackle them single-handed.’

  ‘I do not intend to, sir. I will tell them the facts, and they will surrender.’

  ‘They – hhh – they will not! They will cut you down!’

  ‘Sir, there are men here that need medical aid, including yourself. I must go below and find the surgeon’s mate.’ And he left Rennie, and went to the ladder.

  As he descended, unarmed now and his shirt stained with Rennie’s blood, he became aware that he was trembling in every part of him. His foot slipped on a tread, and he realised that both his feet were slimed with blood from the deck. His cheek was fiercely painful from the powder burn of the swivel gun. He came to a swaying halt on the ladder, and nearly fell.

  ‘I am going to faint . . .’

  The dark-lantern – which he had discovered lying on deck and had relighted – began to slip from his hand. The need to save the light brought a strong effort of will, he sucked in a deep breath
, clung to the ladder and consciousness, and the moment of dizziness passed. The trembling had also diminished, and he was again able to descend. As he did so it struck him as very odd that the men who were holding the other hands below had not reacted to the fighting on deck – the pounding feet, shouts, gunfire, and screams of pain. Why had they not come on deck to aid their fellow mutineers?

  ‘Because there is too few of them, and they are deathly afraid.’ Whispering to himself.

  A moment after he was obliged to bring that notion to the test. From halfway down the ladder to the lower deck:

  ‘You there, below! This is the first lieutenant! Your mutiny has failed, and all your friends lie dead and wounded upon the deck! Lay down your arms and come up into the waist right quick, or know the consequence!’

  Silence.

  ‘D’y’hear, there! Send up the surgeon’s mate, to treat your own wounded! Then come up the ladder into the waist one by one, unarmed, and surrender! Cheerly, now!’

  Silence.

  To himself, James: ‘I’m damned if I will go down among them and allow them to kill me. I will go on deck, and wait for them to see reason.’

  He retreated up the ladder and went on deck, and looked for the captain. To his surprise Rennie had managed to get to his feet, and was at the flag lockers, attempting to pull clear from the storage space beneath another of the one-pound swivel guns. Blood from his shoulder dripped on the planking.

  James, going to him: ‘Sir, you must not tax yourself. You are wounded severe, and bleeding.’

  ‘Help me with – hhh – this swivel, James. We – hhh – must be prepared for a further assault from below.’