Ramage and the Freebooters

CHAPTER FIVE

Rossi and Maxton listened carefully in the darkness as Jackson explained the plan. The three men were sitting on the coaming of the forehatch with Stafford below at the foot of the ladder beside the dim lantern, stitching a tear in his shirt and, to an onlooker, standing there to catch the light 'A pleasure,' Rossi said when Jackson finished. 'Much pleasure. But this much I know; it's better to make the finish. Dead men make no troubles; live men make much unhappiness.'

'Yes, Rosey, I know,' Jackson said patiently. 'But we've got to treat 'em like drunks—you know, as soon as they sober up they're sorry.'

'Drunks? Who say they is drunk? They's as sober as I is —was—I am.'

'No, I mean once we get dear of the Channel they'll forget the mutiny. We've got a long way to sail with these men; better not to antagonize them.'

'Antagonize? I don't understand this word—but------'

'Look, Rosey,' Jackson said quietly, using the one argument he knew would convince the Italian, 'this way is better for Mr Ramage. You understand?'

'All right, all right,' Rossi said reluctantly. 'Now Maxie, you are understanding?'

The West Indian grinned as he nodded.

Jackson said, 'All right then, that's settled. You take care of Harris and the second one—what's his name? Yes, Brook-land—as soon after the change of watch as you can, Remember, Harris is the lookout at the starboard chains and Brook-land's the same to larboard. We'll just have to wait for the cook's mate, Dyson, to come up on deck to talk to 'em. I'll make sure the top of the companionway's clear.'

'Yaas, Jacko,' Maxton said in his smooth, sing-song voice.

We'll keep a watch for Dyson. The advantage of being a coloured gennelman is no one sees me in the dark.'

'Unless you open your mouth,' Jackson said. "Those teeth of yours show up like a couple of rows of white marble tombstones.'

Below them Stafford swore violently as though he had pricked a finger and the three men stopped talking at this pre-arranged warning.

Jackson glanced down and, seeing Dyson pass Stafford and begin to climb the ladder, stood up and stepped back quietly. Pointing down, he hissed:

'Dyson! Get him now!'

The American hated sudden last minute changes in plan, but as an 'idler' who kept no watch, working only during the day, Dyson had no reason to come on deck after dark and this might be their only chance.

Before the man's head was level with the coaming Jackson was sauntering aft, his slow gait belying the tension that gripped him, making sure there were no seamen between the forehatch and the companionway.

Hell! The two men at the wheel! They were Tritons and they'd be standing not more than a dozen feet from the companion. Jackson quickened his pace, praying that the Master or Mr Ramage would be near the wheel. As he walked he eased out the belaying pin which had been tucked down the fide of his trousers.

There were two shadowy figures forward of the wheel. Seamen or—no, he recognized Mr Ramage's cocked hat outlined against the slightly lighter horizon.

'Captain, sir!' he said loudly just as he was abreast the capstan.

Ramage recognized Jackson's voice at once, guessed there was a particular reason why he called while several feet away aid at once began walking towards him with Southwick following.

'Captain here—that you, Jackson?'

'Aye, sir. Thought I saw something over there on the starboard bow...' As he reached Ramage he pushed him gently backwards. '... A fishing boat or something.'

Ramage clutched Southwick's arm and pulled him back, too, letting Jackson position them where he wanted.

The Master was quick enough to recall Jackson was not on watch.

'Lookouts haven't reported it yet,' he growled. 'Suppose you were just leaning on the rail thinking o' some doxy in Portsmouth. I can't see anything.'

Both Ramage and Southwick felt Jackson give them a warning touch and saw him turn away towards the approaching group.

'Damned fellow's probably drunk.' Ramage commented loudly, nudging the Master again. 'I can't see anything either.'

'Disgraceful,' Southwick growled. 'Dangerous having a fellow walking round the ship imagining things. Remember I once had a drunken sailor sitting out on the bowsprit-end in the dark pretending he was Commodore Nelson in another ship and shouting we'd collide. Gave a damned good imitation of the Commodore's voice, too: fooled me completely —I darn' nearly tacked: quite thought we were in for a collision.'

'Me too,' said Ramage. 'Don't bore me with that story, Mr Southwick: you forget I was commanding the ship.'

'And you were, by God!' exclaimed Southwick, and Ramage wasn't too sure whether the Master was saying the first thing that came into his head, to divert the men at the wheel and cover whatever Jackson was doing, or whether he'd genuinely forgotten that the drunken seaman had been Stafford, and it happened in the Kathleen. *

Albert Dyson had been cook's mate in the Triton for eleven months and in the Navy three years. The cook's mate was the man who had to light the galley fire, clean out the ashes, polish the big copper kettles in which die food was cooked, and skim off the fat which floated to the surface of the water when salt meat was boiled.

The removal of this fat, known as slush, provided me only call on any skills he had, since he needed no knowledge of cooking. The slush could be sold to various of the ship's company, illicitly and at a profit, because they liked to spread it on the weevily and otherwise tasteless biscuit officially known as 'bread' and which varied between a brick-like hardness or crumbling softness, depending on its age. And he shared his obvious nickname with every other cook's mate in the Service, 'Slushy' Dyson was an angry link man as he swung a kg over the wooden form and stood up. The other men sitting round the table and talking in low voices made him angry. The plan was simple enough and still a complete secret; but now, half an hour before the mutiny was due to start, this blasted argument had started. Although everyone agreed the plan was simple—and sure to succeed—he'd expected objections from some of the men: there was always some awkward bleeder who thought he knew better; but no, there'd been none.

Then at the last minute the trouble had come from his own mess, from the very man who'd been their spokesman. Admittedly Harris had been very quiet since the Triton had sailed and hadn't spoken a word. That, Dyson now realized, should have made him suspicious.

More important, though, Dyson's feelings were hurt He'd always admired Harris—a man whose book learning didn't make him act superior about it; in fact he was always ready to read or write a letter without wanting a tot for his trouble. But now he'd turned nasty.

Dyson objected to being called 'A smelly blob of pig grease'—he'd like to see Harris skimming off all that slush and not get any on his clothes. It's bound to make a chap stink—out everyone was always trying to get a mug of slush free, Harris included. And often he'd given it them—he, Slushy Dyson, who stood to get a crack on the head with the big ladle if the cook ever got to know about it, since the cook took three-quarters of whatever the slush was sold for, be it rum, bacca or credit.

Dyson walked aft to go up on deck: he wanted fresh air and some peace to think things over. They'd wreck everything with their talk. They had their rights—'course they had, otherwise why would the whole Fleet have mutinied? Hundreds of seamen—thousands in fact—knew they had their rights; and that's why the Fleet had rose and why some of the ships had hoisted the red flag, though he didn't agree with that—the so-called 'bloody flag' smelled of revolutionaries.

Sucking in his breath with an angry gesture, he walked round one of the men from the Lively stitching a shirt and began climbing the ladder. Two more of them round the coaming: they littered up the ship. All too hoity-toity they were, just because they'd served with the new captain.

He's a bit of a lad though, Dyson admitted as his hands grasped the top rungs: fancy just chopping the anchor cable like that! Well, it didn't make any difference, although Dyson hoped the lad wouldn't get hurt—from what these chaps said he was brave enough, though Dyson admitted he hoped Mr Ramage didn't get any more ideas about putting the ship across the bows of a Spanish sail of the line. Then he laughed to himself—no, tonight's work'd see to that! He stepped on to the deck and turned aft.

Black shapes beside him, a sharp prick on each side of his stomach just below his ribs. Both of his arms seized and twisted, making him arch his back so his stomach stuck out. Knives! Why, its mur----- 'Don't make a sound; keep the walking!'

That bloody Italian! Dyson was being forced to walk and he glanced the other way: the West Indian chap.

'All right, all right, take the bloody knives------'

'Shut up!' Maxton hissed, pressing harder with his knife.

The muscles in Dyson's legs began to dissolve; his stomach felt soft and vulnerable, his rib cage hollow except for a heart beating fit to burst. He was going to faint. Oh gawd, if I faint I'll fall, and they'll knife me a'fore they know what's happening, he told himself. He shut his eyes and strained to stay conscious. Ah, mat's better. Breathe deeply. Ow! He just stopped himself shouting in pain: the sudden deep breathing made both men wary and both reacted by pressing harder with their knives.

Dyson gulped and began breathing normally and the pressure eased slightly. He kept his eyes shut. They'd stopped walking but he was sure he was going to pass out Suddenly he felt as though he was falling and thought he was fainting until, in the moment before his head hit the deck, he realized he'd been dropped down a hatch.

Maxton jumped down and landed astride Dyson's sprawling body, which was faintly illuminated by a lantern at the forward end of the wardroom, and Rossi dropped down be side him.

'Out cold as mutton,' Maxton said briefly as he jumped up and began dragging the man forward towards the small hatch in the middle of the wardroom.

It took them less than four minutes to get Dyson down the breadroom scuttle, along a narrow passage and into the breadroom itself. The door was shut but unlocked, the key still in the keyhole.

They bundled the man over and heaved him across the top of some bags of bread, then left, turning the key but leaving it in the lock outside.

'Right, Maxie,' Rossi whispered. 'Back up on deck and report to Jacko.'

Ramage and Southwick, pacing back and forth in front of the wheel, were holding an animated conversation. Ramage had invented a scurrilous story about an unpopular admiral who had died two years earlier—a story he knew the men at the wheel would lap up and repeat, so he could count on their attention being focused on him. Southwick supplemented the story from time to time, and then Ramage saw two shadows gliding forward.

He touched Southwick's arm and they walked a few yards along the weather side.

'Well, I mink our first guest is snugged down for the night Did you recognize him?'

'No—hardly saw him,' Southwick whispered. 'That blasted surgeon—just when you want him to be making a noise he's as silent as the grave.'

'Silent as an empty bottle,' Ramage said. 'Probably passed out. We should have kept him away from it until later. Still, we couldn't be sure when... I'd like to know what the hell is going on.'

'Well,' Southwick whispered cheerfully, 'our lads seem to be getting on all right without us. The watch changes in a few minutes.'

*

Harris stood at the main chains staring into the darkness. Usually he liked lookout duty because it gave him time and peace to think over things; to recall the lessons at school and often to wish he'd paid more attention to the teacher. Learning was a wonderful thing: there was so much to learn; so much he wanted to know. So little opportunity to learn. He envied midshipmen and it annoyed him, in the bigger ships, when he saw them sitting round the master skylarking instead of listening to what they were being taught.

The sharp prick of pain beside each kidney, the twist of each arm, the knowledge a man was standing each side of him in the darkness, happened so suddenly in the midst of a mental picture of his childhood schoolroom that it took several moments to sort out memory from reality. Then a voice said with a quietness which only emphasized its viciousness:

'Keep quiet, Harris: not a word, not a movement...' 'What...?'

The points of the knives boring into his back silenced him. The two men seemed to be waiting for something. Then me same man said: 'If you want to live, make the walk with us and don't call for the help; otherwise...' the knife at his right side gave a momentarily harder jab.

Harris nodded agreement and felt himself being turned to face aft. A twist on each arm braced his shoulders back and he was walking. One man was me Italian: he'd recognize that accent and curious grammar anywhere. The other was the West Indian.

And Harris, being an intelligent man, did not try to explain that they'd made a mistake. A minute later he was pitched down the companionway and was still conscious when Maxton landed on his back, winding him.

In a painful haze of gasping for breath he knew he was being dragged feet first through the wardroom. Again he felt himself falling but despite the pain he stayed conscious. Then the stink of mouldy bread, hands gripping his arms and feet, swift swinging and his body was being heaved up on to something, then a thump. As he groped he felt the rough sacking of bread bags. Distantly, as he finally lost consciousness, he heard a door shut and the metallic scraping of a key turning in a lock.

He had just recovered when the door opened and in the dim lantern light he saw Brookland flung into the cabin, bleeding and whimpering with fear.

The foretopman had, as Rossi and Maxton seized him in the darkness, taken a massive gulp of air to shout Or so it seemed to Rossi who simultaneously raised the knife a few indies, sticking it expertly into the fleshy part of the man's shoulder, and clapped a hand over his mouth.

Brookland—who had in fact been about to scream with fear, not bellow a warning—felt his shirt warm and wet and sticky and was then nearly responsible for his own death because he fainted. His body suddenly went limp and both men, momentarily thinking he was going to try to break loose, were about to kill him before they realized what had happened.

Unlike Dyson, Brookland regained consciousness as he hit the deck at the foot of the companionway. Muzzily trying to work out what was happening and with his mind so recently full of mutiny, he thought the Marines had gone over to the officers. Then he felt his feet being lifted and he was dragged across the deck. Again a sudden drop and he was lying with his head spinning, a lantern lighting up a strange part of the ship. No—he was by the breadroom door and the bloody Italian was unlocking the door and the West Indian was holding the lantern—and the light glinted on a thin blade of shiny steel.

Being a Catholic, Brookland began muttering aloud a hurried prayer but Maxton, failing to catch the words, suddenly lunged down to warn him to be silent. Mistaking the gesture Brookland, thinking he was within a second of being murdered, shut his eyes and began whimpering like a child, calling to all me saints he could remember.

There was no pain but he felt his body moving through the air and marvelled death was so painless. The marvelling was short-lived: Rossi and Maxton had flung him so far into the breadroom he fell face downwards on to Dyson, whose left foot caught him in the solar plexus so that for several moments he wheezed painfully, fighting to get his breath.

The door shut and it was dark again.

At that moment Dyson recovered consciousness.

'So 'dp me,' he groaned, 'what the 'ell's going on? Who's 'ere?'

Harris answered.

'Arris? You all right?'

'Yes, but I dunk Brooky's in a bad way.'

'Must be 'im on top o' me an' bleeding like a stuck pig: I can't lift 'im orf.'

'Slide out from under then,' Harris growled unsympathetically, and crawled towards them.

'This you or Brooky?'

'Me—Brooky's just 'ere. 'E's bleeding from the shoulder. Hold 'ard a minute, I've found the wound... No, it's nothing. Just a shallow dig. 'Ere, Brooky...'

He shook the man who, having regained his breath, was sobbing again. 'Brooky, pull yourself together. What 'appened?'

'They grabbed me. Stabbed me. Gawd, ten or twenty times from the feel of it. I'm bleeding ter death.'

Two pair of hands felt all over his body.

'No you're not,' Harris said crisply, 'just a cut in the shoulder. Who did it?'

'That dago and the nigger. You?'

'Same. What about you, Slushy?'

'They caught me, too.'

'Where the hell did you get to?' Harris demanded. 'You just left the mess and went forward. We searched everywhere; then the watch changed and we had to get to our stations.'

'I just went up on deck to get a bit o' dean air,' Dyson said sourly. 'You lot were making me sick.'

'Well, what happened?'

'Those two jumped on me as soon as I got on deck.'

'Did you see Mr Ramage or Mr Southwick? They part of it?'

'Not so far as I know,' Dyson said.

'I Didn't see them either: just the dago and me West Indian,' Brookland added.

Harris was silent a few moments, then said: 'What the hell can they be up to? Good gawd—you don't reckon the Livelies are mutinying, do you? Why, those sons of bitches might be trying to carry the ship into a French port. Quick, we must warn the captain!'

'Warn him my bare backside,' Dyson said viciously. They can kill him for all I care. They've been braggin' about him long enough. I'm sick of the sound of his bleedin' name!'

'Use your brain, you fool,' Harris said urgently. 'If they carry this ship to a French port it'll mean we'll be prisoners. The Frogs won't encourage mutineers—the idea might spread! Want to rot in a French jail for the rest of your life?'

'Sink me!' Dyson exclaimed. 'Hadn't thought of------'

At that moment they heard the key turn, and as the door opened they saw Rossi holding a lantern and, framed in the doorway, outlined by the light, was Jackson, a belaying pin in one hand and a bottle of rum in the other.

Normally Jackson would never stand out in a crowd. His face was thin, but because Rossi was holding the lantern low the shadows from the jawbone and cheeks made it look cadaverous and menacing. And now, as he stood glaring down at the three men lying on the bags of bread, he seemed to them to be emitting a cold anger, like a full moon glimpsed through lowering black storm clouds.

Harris glanced from the belaying pin to the rum bottle and back again, and Was frightened. Then both Dyson and Brookland began whimpering as they thought they'd guessed their fate: that Jackson was going to get drunk, and while he drank, he was going to amuse himself by beating them to death with the belaying pin for trying to spoil his plans.

Jackson, seeing three pairs of terrified eyes glancing from his left hand to his right, suddenly read their thoughts and almost laughed. Instead, to mask any twitch of a mouth hard put to restrain a grin, he motioned Rossi and Maxton into the breadroom and then looked out through the door.

'Staff—come on down and look at our three choirboys!'

A few moments later Stafford stepped into the room and shut the door.

'My, my! Wot 'ave you been doin', Brooky? You're all covered in Wood. Not yor blood, I 'ope? And bruvver 'Arris, the edjicated able seaman. Well, and Slushy Dyson! What you all doin' 'ere? Not robbin' the ship's company of their bread, I 'ope?'

He turned to Jackson and said archly: 'Jacko, you know what I suspect?'

The American shook his head 'I fink they was—oh, dear me, that the wicked word should ever 'ave to pass me lips ... But Jacko, the truth must be told: I fink they was gambling...' 'No!' exclaimed Jackson, falling in with Stafford's serious manner. 'Not that, surely?'

Rossi shook the lantern. 'Not the gambling? Accidente! Gambling in one of me King's ships! What would His Royal Majesty say to that!'

'Nah,' Stafford said with a sudden harshness that startled the three men on the bread bags. 'Nah, not gamblin' in one of the King's ships, Rossi; gamblin' wiv one of the King's ships.'

'That's true,' Jackson said. 'Hold the lantern up a bit, Rossi,' he added, as he was drawling his words. 'Bit more— that's it. Let's have a good last look at them.'

By now Maxton too had caught en to the by-play and was tossing his knife from one hand to the ether.

'"Dust to dust and Slushy to slush",' he intoned in his deep, rich voice.

Stafford held up his hands. 'Nah, nah, Maxie, don't be blasphemious, and anyway, Slushy's my bird.'

'Oh no he's not: I want him.'

'Well, yer can't 'ave 'im, so there. Maxie! Take yer pick from the uvvers. What's wrong with Brooky?'

'Somebody's already started on him: he's second-hand. I want a new one.'

''Arris, then. Won't 'e do?'

Stafford's voice was wheedling.

'Oh all right,' Maxton said ungraciously. 'You're picking on me just because I'm not a white gennelman: I'm just a coloured fellah so I have to make do with what's left.'

'Steady men,' Jackson interposed, knowing the three victims believed every word. 'There's plenty more of them; more than a couple of dozen left to share between us.'

Stafford, quick to spot Jackson had accidentally revealed their weakness, said, 'But that's only just one Triton for each ex-Kathleen, Jacko.'

'No,' Jackson said smoothly, 'but some of the lads will swap a Triton for a tot, I'm sure.'

Brookland yelped as Harris suddenly jumped up. He was hardly on his feet before Maxton's knife was an inch from his throat and he found himself looking into a grinning, shiny brown face, the eyes sparkling but bloodshot Harris looked desperately at the American.

'Jackson, for God's sake, you've got it all wrong! What you're doing is crazy!'

Jackson managed to hide his surprise. 'Crazy? Maybe it's' not in the Articles of War, but it's not crazy 1'

'But you'll never get away with mutiny 1'

'Sit down or Maxton'll slit your windpipe.'

It gave Jackson a moment to think, but nothing came.

Harris sat down, gabbling almost incoherently.

'So help me, Jackson, it's mutiny! Rising against the captain and taking the ship into a French port—what else do you call that? What d'you think the French'll do? They won't give you a big sack of golden lotas as a reward: they daren't—else every ship in the French Fleet would mutiny! Don't you see that, you crazy oaf?'

For a moment Jackson felt real fear: fear that he had made a complete mistake. Then he thought he began to understand Harris's words. He wasn't sure of the details, but Dyson's expression made him wonder; and Brookland's, too.

Both of them should have been nodding, even shouting, to back up what Harris just said—if they agreed with him and were against a mutiny. Instead, they were lying there sullen and silent. Either they disagreed or they didn't care. He decided to back his own guess.

'Maxie,' he said pointing at Harris, 'this man's guilty of disrespect. Just take him outside for a few minutes will you?'

As soon as me door shut behind them, Jackson suddenly stepped over and seized Dyson. Hauling him to his feet, he slapped him hard across the face, jabbing his knee into his groin before letting him collapse to the deck.

The attack was so sudden that Rossi, momentarily thinking Dyson had made the first move, crouched with his knife ready.

Dyson, lying curled up like a whipped dog cowering in a corner, stared up at Jackson.

'Get up!' me American snapped.

'Not bloody likely; I'm staying 'ere. You wouldn't hit a man when he's down.'

'Don't be too sure.'

With that, Jackson kicked him in the ribs. It wasn't a hard kick, but there was very little flesh on Dyson's bones, and he staggered to his feet.

'What's it all about?' he gasped 'Why pick on me?'

'Dyson, you are going to talk to me. A nice friendly little chat. You're going to tell me part of your life story—beginning from the minute I came on board with the rest of the Livelies.'

'Oh no, I'm not!'

Jackson held out first the nun bottle and then the belaying pin.

'Like a drink, Dyson?'

The cook's mate shook his head.

'I should, Dyson. It helps with the pain.'

'Haven't got any pain,' the man said, like a sulky child.

'You haven't—yet.'

Jackson's drawl began to sound like the teeth of a saw dragged across metal.

'Not yet, Dyson. But in the next hour, you greasy little runt, you're going to have so much pain you're going to be begging me to kill you off to put you out of your misery.'

'But why pick on me,' Dyson whined. 'It was Brooky— cut 'im up instead. Brooky started it all. Yes'—he seized at the idea—''e's your man, not me!'

Jackson paused. Brookland? He was sure Dyson hadn't suddenly named the foretopman to protect Harris: he was so frightened it was much more likely he'd name the real leader to save his own skin. But where did Harris fit in? Why was Harris yapping about the dangers of mutiny— Harris of all people?

Well, if Brookland was the ringleader he wouldn't reveal anything that'd incriminate himself, and anything Harris had to say was likely to confuse the situation even more. No, Dyson was the man to tell the tale.

'Dyson, my greasy little friend, it doesn't matter who we start with because you're all going the same way home. So brace up that tongue of yours and get under way.'

The man wiped his brow. Already white-faced, his skin now seemed sweat-sodden and turning grey. Glancing up, he saw the American's eyes, began to say something and then held his hands out helplessly and looked down again.

Jackson said, 'Rosey, put the lantern over there.'

Dyson watched the Italian take a couple of paces to the corner, put down the lantern, and return to face Jackson, who said in an off-hand tone:

'Rosey, just cut off the top joint of his right index finger.'

Dyson gave a little scream and sat on his hands as Rossi turned towards him, In the moment's silence that followed, Jackson said:

'Wait a second...'

He held out his own left hand and with the right index finger touched each joint '... That's fourteen chops for each hand. I say, Rosey, that's twenty-eight and'—he glanced down at his bare feet —'about ten for each foot. Forty-eight: it's going to take time. You'd better give him a drink first. Change your mind, Slushy?'

But the man had fainted. Jackson went to the door and called to Maxton.

'Bring Harris back in here, Maxie, and take out Brook-land.'

As he waited, Jackson glanced over at the bloodstained top-man. There was fear in his eyes: bottomless fear, the kind of fear found only in a real coward, for it had paralysed him. He could no longer move a muscle even to save his life.

Maxton had to drag him out of the tiny room and Jackson waved Harris over to where he had originally been sitting on bread bags, and prodded Dyson, who was beginning to stir, with his foot As soon as he could see Dyson had recovered sufficiently to know what was happening round him, he said to Harris:

'I've brought you in to watch a cook's mate being butchered. Should be interesting. Think of all the chickens whose necks he's wrung. All those pigs and cows he's slaughtered and cut up...'

Since another of a cook's mate's duties was to act as slaughterer of a ship's livestock, the irony of the remark was not lost on Harris who began to say something, but Jackson held up his hand.

'Your turn for a farewell speech will come, Harris. Until then, one word out of you and I'll let Maxie get to work. Now, Dyson, you feeling better?'

Dyson nodded, then shook his head violently. Too violently, in fact, because he had to dose his eyes as the cabin began to spin. Jackson hoisted him to his feet and flung him back so he was sprawled across the bread beside Harris, but with his back to him.

'As you seem to be a bit squeamish, Dyson, HI give you one more chance to start telling your tale. Otherwise Rosey begins to chop.'

The cook's mate glared at him and muttered a filthy oath. Jackson motioned to Rossi but before the Italian could step forward Dyson held up both hands, as if to ward him off, and whined, 'All right, all right, give me time!'

He took a few deep breaths and, staring down at the deck, said:

'Well, at Spithead we Tritons was just like all the rest of the Fleet. Yes, we'd mutinied because of conditions—and the Lively did the same.

'Then half the Tritons get sent to the Lively and you lot are transferred. Well, that didn't mean nuthin' to us because the Fleet's working together. Then that Mr Southwick comes out. All right, we let him on board—not many ships would 'ave allowed that, and you know it, but 'e seemed an 'armless old coot "That was our mistake, because next day along comes Mr Ramage. Well, we still didn't suspect nothin'. We'd 'card about him and the Kathleen at Cape St Vincent and reckoned the Admirality had given 'im command of the Triton as a sort o' reward.

'The next bit you know: 'e tells us to weigh and we won't —none o' the rest of the Fleet would 'ave done, an' you know it. So 'e suddenly cuts the cable and we 'ave to make sail to keep off that shoal. Well, that wasn't fair: 'e 'ad no right to risk drownding the lot of us. When we found out we're supposed to be bound for a long voyage, we decided the best" thing to do was to take the ship back to Spit'ead and be along with our mates in the Fleet'

Jackson nodded, as if waiting for him to continue.

'Well, that's all mere is to it'

'No, it's not—let's have the whole story, Dyson. Did everyone in the ship agree with you?'

'Well, not quite everyone. You, Rossi, Stafford, Evans, Fuller, that West Indian fellow—'course you wouldn't 'ave done: that's why you weren't told about it.'

'And the rest from the Lively—were they asked?'

'Not all of 'em, no,' Dyson admitted.

'Any of them? Even one man?'

Dyson shifted uneasily. 'Well, they wouldn't 'ave tried to stop us.'

'How did you word the question?'

'Just asked 'em.'

'You didn't say something like, "If you won't join us, just keep out of the way—or you'll get knifed in your hammocks!"?'

'Well, we 'ad to protect ourselves in case any of them went running to the captain. Stands to reason,' Dyson said defiantly.

'So you threatened to murder your shipmates in their hammocks if they stayed loyal to their captain—a captain who's the finest in the service—and refused to mutiny?'

Dyson said nothing and Jackson suddenly wheeled on Harris.

'You knew better. You're educated, not an ignorant peasant like Dyson. Why did you plan all this?'

The suddenness of the attack had just the effect Jackson hoped.

'I didn't, you damned fool! I was trying to stop them. I...

'Go on, Harris.'

'I've nothing to say. Except you're worse. You shouldn't talk about loyalty—Mr Ramage's a stranger to us. You lot are supposed to be the ones who fought alongside him But what are you doing now? Mutinying and taking the ship over to the French!'

The man made no attempt to hide his contempt 'You're worse than mutineers; you're a bunch of traitors —traitors to your country and, what's worse, traitors to the man who trusted you. A good man: a man who can understand another man.'

Although Jackson did not know what Harris meant by me last few words, he'd at last got at the truth of it. Just a few more details to fill in the gaps.

'Dyson, you're a dead fish, but I'll give you a choice. I'll have you killed quickly and painlessly if you answer two questions truthfully. If you don't, or if you lie, you'll start dying in a couple of minutes and Rossi and Maxton'll be finishing you off at Sundown tomorrow.' 'What d'you want ter know?' Dyson croaked.

'Who were the real ringleaders of this mutiny?'

'Brookland's the ringleader. He thought of it first Oh, what's the good, Harris'll split on me, and I might as well get the credit mat's due. Brookland thought of it, yes; but I was the brains. I, the one and only Slushy Dyson, who can't read nor write did the planning. Brookland couldn't plan how to divide fifty-eight pieces of salt beef into fifty-eight mess bags.'

Jackson nodded.

'Second question. Are there any others you could call ringleaders? No, put it another way: if you and Brookland are out of the way, will there still be a mutiny in the Triton?' 'Not on your life,' Dyson said contemptuously. 'Not a chance. Sheep they are; worse than sheep. You could let Brookland go free, you lot could swim to the shore, and there still wouldn't be a mutiny without me to lead it.'

'You're a clever fellow, Dyson.'

'No, not clever. Just sick of salt beef and salt pork in port when we could 'ave fresh meat and fresh vegetables. Just sick of spending years in a ship and never a day's leave. I ain't seen me wife fer three years. There's four kids I 'aven't seen fer three years—and one kid I ain't never seen. He was born a fortnight after the press gang caught me.

'Four daughters—that's seven years we'd 'oped and prayed for a son. Then I get took up by the press a'fore I even see 'im.

'Listen, you skinny Yankee, you don't know what it's like. In the last two years I've spent five months, two weeks and three days in Portsmouth. Me wife and kids are in Bristol. Did I ever get a week's leave ter go ter Bristol? No—most I've ever 'ad is four hours for a run on shore. And 'ave you ever tried to keep an 'ome and feed six mouths on a cook's mate's pay?

'Afore the press took me up I 'ad a pie shop. I made good pies. I made good money. What my old lady wanted, she 'ad —within reason, anyway.

'But when the price of flour went up, so did the price of my pies. So did the wages of farm workers, builder's men an' the rest. But what about the seamen? Their pay 'asn't gorn up since the days of Charley the Second, and if you don't blow the date I'll tell yer—1650. Just short of a hundred an' fifty years ago.

'When did the price of flour last go up? An' bread? Seven weeks ago, and fer the eighth time since the beginning of the war.

'You really call it mutiny, Jackson? Honestly? D'you blame the men at Spit'ead? You really blame me for wantin' to get the Triton back there, so we stand four square with the Fleet and get our rights? You really blame me? Anyway, I don't give tuppence worm of cold slush whether you do or you don't: just kill me quick and bolt fer France an' give Boney my compliments an' tell him I 'ope he straps you down on the gilloting as soon as you step on shore.

'An' just one more thing. I expect you'll 'ave ter kill Mr Ramage—in fact yer must 'ave done that already, and Mr Southwick, or they'd 'ave been down 'ere afore now. Well, that's up to the Kathleens but I'll tell you wiv me dying breath that our 'ands wouldn't 'ave been as dirty as yours: we weren't going to 'arm an 'air on their 'eads, and dial's God's truth.

'Now'—he tore open his shirt and turned to face Rossi, who was still holding his knife—'Let's get it over with.'

Jackson swung his belaying pin and Dyson collapsed unconscious. , 'Fetch Brookland,' he told Stafford.

As soon as the whimpering man was dragged into the breadroom a second blow with the belaying pin left him unconscious beside Dyson.

'Maxie, Rossi—guard 'em. Harris, and you, Staff, come with me.'

He left the breadroom, groped his way along the passage to the ladder leading to the breadroom scuttle, and climbed up to me wardroom.