On the Lee Shore, page 14
‘Pass over them fecking muskets, or I’ll shoot the pair of yous,’ came a hiss, full of growling menace. Macpherson paused for a moment, trying to place the familiar voice. He heard a double crash from behind him, and turned to see Taylor and the captain, both now armed like him.
‘What’s going on, Tom?’ asked Clay.
‘It sounds like the guards are being overpowered, sir,’ said the marine. ‘I believe I may have heard O’Malley’s voice. His language is always rather laden with profanity.’ They all looked down at the base of the door as something heavy was dragged aside along the deck, and then the door cautiously swung open.
‘Be ready,’ warned Macpherson, as Evans’ huge shape filled the door frame.
‘Bloody hell, steady with that, sir,’ said the Londoner as he pushed Macpherson’s broken bottle to one side with a careful hand. ‘Have you gentlemen had a falling out in here?’ He turned to speak to those behind him. ‘Careful, lads,’ he warned. ‘There’s broken glass everywhere. It’s worse than chucking out time at my Uncle Bob’s gin shop.’
‘Is the captain there?’ asked an anxious voice, and a figure pushed his way forward.
‘I am here, Sedgwick,’ said Clay. ‘Tell me swiftly, what is afoot?’
‘Sexton, Page and Kenny are in your cabin, sir,’ he replied. ‘I am not sure who else is with them. Much of the crew have stayed loyal, and we have been able to release them from the hold. They are assembling on the orlop deck. The mutiny is weak, sir. If Sexton had not been able to arm his followers and overwhelm the marines I doubt if he would have taken the ship at all.’
‘Did any of my men join the revolt?’ asked Macpherson.
‘No lobsters involved that I have seen, sir,’ said O’Malley.
‘How many men do you have with you?’ asked the captain.
‘O’Malley, Evans and Stephenson, sir,’ replied Sedgwick. ‘It was O’Malley and Stephenson that broke us out of the lock up.’
‘And you were able to overcome the five guards stationed here?’ asked Clay.
‘To be honest they were not too game, Sir,’ replied the coxswain. ‘Once Evans floored the first two, the others gave in pretty easily.’
‘We never wanted to rise in the first place, sir,’ said an anxious voice.
‘That’s right, yer honour,’ supplemented another. ‘Might we be permitted to join with you?’
‘I will deal with you later,’ said Clay, glaring at the disarmed mutineers. ‘Mr Taylor and Mr Blake, go and take command of the loyal people on the orlop deck, if you please. Arm them as you can improvise, and take control of the lower deck. The rest of you follow me.’
‘Sir, we found your swords in a heap over here,’ said Sedgwick. ‘You may wish to trade those bottles for something more regular.’ With a cry Macpherson sprung forward and picked up his sword. He pulled it out and let the empty scabbard fall to the deck.
‘Shall we go and cut off this revolt by the head, sir?’ he said.
*****
‘I must say I would have expected a bleeding sight more of Pipe,’ slurred Sexton. He waved his glass in an unsteady circuit around the great cabin. Rum sloshed out and pattered down onto the surface of the table. ‘The last time we were enjoying the delights of this fine establishment it was crammed with old Sheridan’s best furniture. Look at it now! A tiny little desk over there, this here table and a few chairs in the whole place. He hasn’t even got anything to cover the floor.’ Shane Kenny focused with difficulty on the interior of Clay’s quarters.
‘I have heard of hermit’s cells with more in them,’ he offered. The cabin was brightly lit, which only served to emphasise how empty the space was. Page raised his head briefly from his folded arms to look about him.
‘He’s not even bothered to try and cover up the bleeding guns,’ he contributed.
‘But far worse than that, we have barely managed to find a decent drop of grog in the whole place,’ added Sexton. He held his glass up towards the light and regarded the dark brown service rum with distaste.
‘Aye, that Sheridan may have been a vicious bastard, but he was after having some proper quantities of fecking knock-me-down for us to sample,’ said the Irish mutineer, smiling at the recollection. ‘French brandy, Hollander Gin, Madeira, fine wines, bottles and bottles of the stuff.’
‘Still, let us toast our triumph in what we have,’ replied their leader. He nudged Page awake and rose to his feet. More rum fell to the deck as he raised his glass. ‘To the new Lords of the Titan!’ he bellowed.
‘And a free Ireland,’ added Kenny.
‘And a good night’s sleep,’ muttered Page, his head dropping towards the table top once more.
‘And an accurate piss,’ concluded Sexton. ‘God, I am fit to burst.’ He thumped his glass back on Clay’s dining table, made his unsteady way over to the quarter galley and disappeared into the captain’s privy.
‘How long will it be till we get’s to Spithead?’ asked the Irishman.
‘We need to ask that old fart Warwick,’ answered Page. ‘Shall I have him fetched?’
‘No, the morning will be soon enough,’ said Kenny after a pause. ‘If he was to tell me now, I doubt I would fecking recall it at all tomorrow. But we need to watch him, Morris. See he doesn’t play us false and put the barky on the rocks.’
‘Why would he do that?’ asked Page. ‘That would send far more loyal crew to their deaths than mutineers, on top of all the Grunters. Any road, he’s a bleeding sailing master. Doubt if he could find it in his heart to harm a ship on purpose if he tried. What’s the matter, Shane?’
‘Ssshh!’ said Kenny, holding up a hand. He reached across the table for his cutlass. ‘Were you after hearing anything outside? A cry maybe?’ Page picked up his pistol, suddenly awake, and put his head on one side to listen. He heard a thump, some scuffling and a few muffled shouts come from the far side of the door.
‘Do you reckon some bugger has jumped the bleeding lads guarding the cabin?’ he asked. From the far side of the door came a voice. Even through an inch of oak both men could recognise the sound of their captain.
‘Put up your weapons!’ ordered Clay. ‘This mutiny is over. I will have no blood of shipmates shed here. Put up your weapons, I say! That’s better. Stephenson disarm those men, you others follow me.’ The door to the day cabin burst open and Clay led the party of officers and men surging forward.
‘Stay back, all of you!’ shouted Page. He jumped to his feet and swung his pistol from side to side in an attempt to cover the whole group as they fanned out in the broad space of the great cabin. Kenny lurched to his feet too, knocking over his chair as he did so. He held his cutlass out in front of him, the edge glittering in the lamp light.
‘Come now, Page,’ said Clay. He advanced in small steps towards the mutineer. ‘One shot, if you’re lucky, against all of us. I call those decidedly poor odds. Your mutiny is finished, put up your weapon, man. Let us keep this a bloodless affair.’ Clay held his sword low and unthreatening as he edged forward, while he extended out his left hand, palm open to receive the gun.
‘Stay back!’ shouted Page again, the pistol settling its unsteady aim on Clay’s stomach. The captain came to a halt, his left hand still held out. ‘One shot, you say? Plenty enough to send you to hell, Pipe.’
‘Have a care, sir,’ cautioned Macpherson by his side.
‘Why are there only the two of them?’ muttered O’Malley to Sedgwick, his own two pistols both covering Kenny. ‘Where is your man Sexton?’
Lieutenant Morton was off to one side of the group. He was watching Page and Kenny so intently that at first he didn’t notice the door of the quarter galley beside him as it inched open. A single bloodshot eye appeared in the gap, focused on the captain and narrowed with anger. It was only as the door opened a little wider to allow the barrel of a pistol to slide through that he realised what was about to happen.
‘Oh no you don’t!’ he yelled, leaping across the cabin towards the door, his sword raised. His sudden movement broke the spell of the standoff, and the other poised figures burst into life.
Page swung his pistol towards the moving Morton and Macpherson seized his chance. He darted forward and slashed with his sword, his blade a glittering scythe in the lamp light. With a howl of pain Page dropped the gun and clasped his bloody hand to his chest. The tip of Macpherson’s sword then whipped back up like a snake and came to rest close to the mutineer’s throat.
‘Breathe and I’ll skewer you to the bulkhead,’ he hissed, his Scottish accent much more obvious than usual.
Kenny was the next to react. With a shout of fury he swung his cutlass towards Morton. O’Malley pulled the triggers of both of his pistols in quick succession. He was standing a bare five feet away from his target. The first heavy lead ball spun the mutineer around and the second sent him crashing to the deck. The deafening sound of the two explosions in the confined space of the cabin was stunning. Everyone stopped for a moment to try and shake their heads clear of the ringing. The upper half of the cabin filled with thick, acrid powder smoke that veiled the lanterns like clouds around the sun. It was only slowly that they realised that beneath the grey fog, two men were locked in a vicious struggle on the deck.
When O’Malley had fired his pistols, Morton had already ripped open the door of the quarter galley and had thrown himself at Sexton. Both men crashed to the ground at much the same time as Kenny fell. They thrashed and rolled together as they struggled on the deck. Morton’s sword had clattered from his grasp when his arm had struck the planking. He was desperate to wrestle his opponent’s grasp from the pistol that was caught between their two bodies. Sexton was struggling to free himself from the lieutenant’s clinging embrace so that he could take a shot. He lashed his head into the officer’s face in a series of heavy butts. Evans was the first of the group to react. He rushed across to help Morton, but before he could pull the mutineer off him there was a flash between their struggling bodies as the pistol went off.
*****
‘Come in!’ called Clay from deep within his sleeping cabin. He continued to adjust his silk neck cloth, pressing the folds into place and tweaking the front of his full dress coat, until he saw the bulky shape of Midshipman Butler appeared in the mirror just above his right shoulder. With a final pat, he turned towards the cabin door.
‘The first lieutenant sends his respects, and wishes you to know that all the preparations are now complete, sir,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Mr Butler,’ replied his captain. He reached out with his arms as if about to embrace the officer, and his servant, Yates, stooped down to buckle his sword belt around his waist. Butler’s eyes flicked towards his captain’s left arm, trailing a little lower than his right. ‘Please tell Mr Taylor I will be with him directly.’ Once the midshipman had gone, he settled the sword belt into place, adjusted the single gold epaulet on his right shoulder that showed him to be a post captain with less than three years seniority, and strode out into the great cabin.
Through the sweep of glass at the back of the space he could see the cliffs and little islands of the Brittany coast, orange and pink in the light of the setting sun. The restless sea glowed amber under the ship’s counter, while farther away he could see the first few lights as they started to glow in the fishermen’s cottages and farmers’ crofts ashore. He walked to his desk and picked up his service book. Then he flipped open the small leather volume to where a slip of paper marked the page he would need and checked the words he would have to say. He looked out of the stern window for a moment, and then closed the book once more and turned his back on the coast. He strode out of his cabin, collecting his hat from Yates by the door, and ducked through under the low door frame. The marine sentry that once more stood guard outside clicked to attention. Clay touched his hat in acknowledgement, feeling pleased at this sign that the ship was once more under control.
Even before he came out on deck he was able to tell from the unusual motion beneath his feet that the ship was as near to stationary as Taylor had been able to achieve. She rose and fell in rhythm with the waves, each movement accompanied by a chorus of rattles and bangs. He paused for a moment to place the sound. Then he smiled. Of course: it came from the hundreds of blocks and miles of rope that made up her running rigging as they slapped against the spars and masts high above his head. Normally at sea they would all be under tension, but not today. He looked up towards the top of the main mast as he emerged from under the quarterdeck and noted the single black ensign that flew there.
Stood next to the ship’s side were eight members of the crew in their best shore-going clothes. Clay saw that they had been chosen with care by Taylor. Four had been drawn from among the loyal members of the crew, including the bulky figure of Sedgwick, and the other four were former mutineers. Between them and borne on their shoulders was the solid top of a mess table, one end of which rested on the rail of the ship. On that platform lay the flag-shrouded shape of a body.
‘Carry on, please, Mr Hutchinson,’ said Clay to the grizzled boatswain of the Titan, who stood waiting for him beside the party of seamen.
‘Aye aye, sir,’ he said in return. He brought his silver call up to his mouth, inflated his lungs and blew into it. The callused fingers of one hand fluttered over the silver cylinder to produce a trilling note. The call was taken up by his mates on the deck below, and their cries rang through the ship. ‘All hands! All hands to witness burial.’
With a thunder of bare feet those crew not already on deck rushed up from below and arranged themselves into their divisions in an open sided box around the mess table. Here were not just the men of the two watches, but all the specialist warrant officers and their mates, who made the little world of their ship function. The cooks and carpenters, the sail makers and coopers, the gunners and armourers. From behind him Clay heard the stamp and clatter of the marines as they formed up on the quarterdeck. He gave the crew a moment to settle, and when they were quiet he took the time to look at the faces all around him in their long lines, illuminated in the warm glow of the evening light. He thought back to the first time he had seen them in Plymouth. They had been a nameless crew then, sullen, resentful and angry. He remembered how most had met his inspection with hostile stares of defiance. Now as his gaze moved from one man to the next he found he could remember a good third of their names easily enough, and all the rest after only a brief struggle. Their expressions had changed too. Very few were angry now. Most could not meet his gaze at all. Their eyes slipped away from his towards the deck. They are ashamed of themselves, he concluded. Ashamed of what they have done. That is a good start. I can work with shame, he thought. I can build it back up to what I want to see in their eyes. Pride.
‘Off hats, if you please, Mr Hutchinson,’ he said.
‘Ship’s company, off hats,’ roared the boatswain. When the crew were bareheaded, Clay went to open his service book. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the boatswain remove the shiny leather hat of his office with the royal arms painted on the front, reminding him just in time to remove his own hat and place it under his arm. Then he read out the short, simple service.
‘For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God of His great mercy to take unto Himself the soul of our dear brother, Edmund James Morton here departed, we therefore commit his body to the deep. Amen.’
The burial party raised the end of the mess table. The angle became progressively steeper, until with a slithering rush the canvas wrapped body of the Titan’s second lieutenant shot out from under the flag and splashed down into the darkening sea.
Chapter 10
Reunion
The morning after the burial found Clay sharing a pot of coffee once more with his first lieutenant in his great cabin. With all the vagaries of a Brittany spring, the delightful weather of the previous evening had vanished. Through the sweep of glass behind the captain’s back a vast plain of choppy green sea surged about under a low sky of boiling grey cloud. They were together for their regular daily meeting, but for once the smaller concerns of boatswain’s stores and the carpenter’s ongoing complaint at the state of the frigate’s knees had been set to one side. Today they had more pressing matters to address.
‘How are the prisoners this morning?’ asked Clay as he stirred his drink.
‘Mr Corbett holds out little hope that Shane Kenny will pull through, but he believes that Morris Page will survive,’ said Taylor. ‘He is at least a little penitent. The doctor has attended to his wounded hand, although he will never regain the use of several of his fingers.’
‘Macpherson’s sword must be devilish sharp,’ said the Captain. ‘Still, it may serve to remind him of the perils of mutiny. Where is he now?’
‘I have placed him back in the custody of the Master at Arms, sir. He is down in the lock up alongside Sexton. That man shows no remorse at all, and seems quite resigned to his fate. As you instructed I have allowed the other hands involved in the mutiny to resume their duties.’
‘And how has that been?’
‘To be frank, sir, very ill,’ sighed the first lieutenant. ‘The mutiny may be over but it has left the people quite beset by division. When they rose against Captain Sheridan their actions were of course quite wrong, but at least they were of a united purpose. This time was quite different. Force was used to coerce the reluctant. Most messes were split between mutineers and loyal seamen. It has left much resentment and bitterness amongst the crew. The Master at Arms can barely keep up with all the disorder and fighting.’
