Caribbee (31 page)

The wardroom was in a black mood – there was little talk and few amused asides. Every officer was suffering: even the ponderous first lieutenant, Griffith, had been subject to a tirade in public for some petty shortcoming and he now kept to himself. Bowden occupied his time quietly, reading when he could, sometimes writing long letters home – careful not to express any criticism to his uncle and guardian, now a rear-admiral.

It was the unguessable arbitrary nature of their captain that sapped at morale, on one day demanding haste at all costs, then on another furious at the consequent compromises in quality, sometimes cruelly dismissing the efforts men were making for him, and at the next extravagantly rewarding mediocre performance. It made no sense.

The morning brought with it a heavy tropical downpour. The flagship ahead disappeared in grey-white curtains of solid water and the officer-of-the-watch grew lines of worry, which deepened as they plunged on, blind.

Tyrell paced up and down the quarterdeck, cocked hat jammed tight sending streams of water down his oilskin. Quite able to leave for a comfortable dry cabin, he remained morosely on deck, occasionally looking up at wet sails trailing sheets of water as they caught the rain.

Once, he flashed a gleeful grin at the officer-of-the-watch, who jerked with surprise and answered with a weak smile. ‘Get those good men below in the dry, Bowden, there’s a good fellow,’ he ordered, pointing to four sailors forward.

‘Aye aye, sir,’ Bowden replied, knowing it could well change the rare good mood to a raging tantrum if he objected and pointed out that they were posted in the eye of the ship for the express purpose of warning of collision with the invisible flagship ahead.

The rain stopped, the decks began steaming under a hot sun, and Tyrell finally went below to change. As soon as he had gone the atmosphere brightened.

Bowden caught movement out of the corner of his eye, Midshipman Joyce stealthily descending from aloft. He realised what was going on: the young rascal was engaged in the old game of baiting a marine.

The target was the poop-deck sentry, standing on duty with his musket, motionless and facing inboard. Joyce took out a piece of twine and secured it to the rigging and its other end he ever so carefully tied to the marine’s queue. Mission accomplished, he retired to await results.

Shortly, from out of the cabin spaces, a genial Tyrell emerged, looking about him with satisfaction.

The marine on the deck above snapped to attention, keen to show his alertness on duty by the routine of pacing across the deck to take a new position the other side. He shouldered his musket smartly and stepped out.

The twine tautened – the hapless marine was jerked backwards and crashed down, musket clattering. Disoriented, and on hands and knees, he looked around bewildered for the source of the attack.

The quarterdeck roared with laughter, Tyrell joining in. Joyce, clearly apprehensive at the possible consequences, gave a relieved smile.

When order was restored Tyrell ordered crisply, ‘Sar’nt of the watch, lay aft.’

The beefy soldier reported warily.

‘We’ve a younker here doesn’t show sufficient respect to your Royal Marines, Sar’nt. Give him a musket and set him to marching the length o’ the ship, fore and aft, until I say stop.’

Under the heavy musket the slight midshipman set out in good imitation of a Royal, stiffly swinging his arms and with a professional look of blankness just a trifle overdone. He was encouraged throatily by the sergeant, and shouts of support came as he passed by working seamen along the gangways to the foredeck and the root of the bowsprit, where he stamped around in a creditable ‘about turn’ before marching down the other side.

Bowden watched with relief. Was their tyrant at last lightening up?

Time passed and, visibly tiring under the unfamiliar weight of the musket, Joyce was no longer playing to the gallery, now trudging on in a mindless tramp, eyes fixed to the deck in front of him.

‘Er, sir,’ Bowden ventured, ‘stand down Mr Joyce? He’s been going for an hour.’

‘No.’ There was no compassion of any kind to be seen in his face.

The spiritless plodding went on – and on. Now there was pity and rough sympathy in the looks from the seamen for it was obvious that Joyce was suffering. He stumbled on doggedly, determined not to give in.

‘I’ll be below,’ Tyrell told the officer-of-the-watch and abruptly left.

Joyce crumpled to the deck.

Instantly the skylight on the poop opened and Tyrell popped into view, bellowing, ‘The last order was “march”, Mr Joyce! I have you under my eye, and if you stop again, I’ll see you court-martialled for disobeying a direct order.’

Shocked, the quarterdeck could only look on silently as the lad got to his feet and, with a superhuman effort, thudded the musket down on his shoulder and started off, a nightmarish shamble with staring eyes.

‘Send for the doc,’ Bowden whispered to a messenger.

The surgeon came, a shrivelled individual. ‘That man’s not fit to continue,’ Bowden said in hard tones. ‘Do you not agree, sir?’

Looking about him fearfully, the surgeon went to Joyce who, in his Calvary, didn’t pause, slogging on endlessly, seemingly in a trance. ‘I, er, cannot see that—’

‘What in Hades are you doing there, Surgeon?’ thundered Tyrell, who had shot out on deck.

‘Why, um, this man’s—’

‘Do you think to interfere with my authority, sir?’

‘Er, not at all,’ quavered the man.

‘Then get about your business, sir.’

Bravely the sergeant came up and faced Tyrell. ‘He’s had enough, sir. Can’t you—’

‘I’ll not have my orders questioned!’ he roared, to the deck in general. ‘The next man who interferes will be arrested on the spot.’

The watch on deck lowered their eyes and returned to their motions while the pitiful figure staggered on.

It couldn’t last: near the fore-mast and without a sound the lad collapsed, the musket skittering across the deck. With a piteous effort he tried to rise, swaying on his feet, then dropped, this time moving no more.

Deadly looks were shot aft as seamen ran to him but Tyrell seemed not to notice, gazing up lazily to take in the set of the topgallants, at the seas creaming in to windward.

Bowden felt anger rising. It threatened to overwhelm him. He stared obstinately out to sea until it passed, leaving him shaken.

That night he came off watch at midnight, thankful for the sanctity of his little cot where he could fight down the images of the day. He eventually drifted off into a restless sleep.

At some time in the early hours he was jerked into consciousness by the sudden pandemonium of cries and running feet above.

Heart thumping, he dropped to the deck and, pulling on a coat, headed for the after hatchway as fast as he could.

‘What’s happening?’ he asked hurrying figures in the darkness.

‘Don’t know,’ one man said hoarsely. ‘I’m getting topside, whatever!’

As he fought his way up, Bowden’s mind tried to grapple with sensations. The ship was still under way, for a live deck was under his feet with none of the deadly stillness to betray a grounding on a reef. There were no shots or firing, no stentorian orders or thundering drums in urgent summons to action – just men spilling up on deck from below in a bewildered throng.

He hurried to the wheel. The quartermaster was standing stolidly next to the helmsman.

‘What’s the alarm, man?’ Bowden demanded.

‘As we split the fore course, sir,’ he said calmly. ‘Captain wants we should shift to a new ’un and won’t wait for day.’

Bowden couldn’t believe his ears.

‘So he clears lower deck o’ both watches an’ we do it now.’

It took his breath away. The fore course was the main sail on the fore-mast. To replace it with another was a major task: not only had it to be handed, secured and sent down, but the replacement had to be roused out from decks below, lashed together in a long sausage and sent up, tons’ weight of canvas on bending strops into the tops, the work of hours.

In the darkness it was unthinkable – but it was happening. Bowden went forward in the gloom: sullen men were being mustered for the job. He peered up at the sail. It was indeed split, from top to bottom along a seam but apart from spilling its wind it did not seem a danger to the ship.

It could have waited until morning, but by his action Tyrell was condemning the entire ship to loss of precious sleep to which they were entitled. The watch below would have had barely an hour of rest since their last duty, and while seamen would willingly go aloft to save the ship this was no man’s idea of a life-or-death situation.

There were growls and snarls under cover of darkness, but the work went on. Lines stretched along for hoisting, buntlines overhauled and above, almost invisible in the darkness, topmen manning the yards and fisting the canvas as the sail was brought in.

It was madness. Tyrell stood to one side, watching, his arms folded truculently as the sail was made up for unbending. Then, out in the night, there was a despairing shriek, cut short by a sickening thud as a man out on the yard scrabbled, lost his hold in the blackness and plummeted to his death.

All work ceased. A venomous muttering began but Tyrell stalked immediately to the centre of the deck. ‘Get those men back to work, damn your blood!’ he roared up to the tops. ‘Now!’

It was a turning moment. Bowden sensed the resentment turn to a visceral hatred, the sullen obedience now a feral wariness.

Hannibal
was headed into the unknown.

It was an hour after dawn when the last line was belayed and the sail trimmed to the wind. The men went below without a word but the glances flashed aft could not be mistaken in their meaning.

As the day went on there was a rising feeling of menace, as if a fuse had been lit. Bowden had the last dogwatch and watched apprehensively as the bright day changed by degrees into a creeping darkness. At three bells a figure detached from the cabin spaces and shuffled towards him. It was Joyce.

‘Sir, I’d be obliged for a piece of your time,’ he said, in a low voice.

‘Of course,’ Bowden said, and moved up the deck out of hearing of the group at the conn.

Joyce seemed to have difficulty bringing out the words, then blurted, ‘I was asked by the men where I stood an’ all.’

Bowden went cold. There was no doubting the meaning. The ship was a powder keg.

‘In the event of …’

‘Aye, sir.’

There was only one answer. ‘On your honour, you must stand true to the ship.’

‘I knew you’d say that, sir.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘An’ I thank you for it, Mr Bowden.’ He moved painfully away.

Bowden paced forward. His duty now was clear and there was no putting it aside. He must formally tell the captain what he had heard.

Or should he stand back and let the man take what was coming to him for his inhuman treatment of his men?

The moral case for allowing things to take their course was strong, especially as by disclosing what Joyce had told him he was condemning the boy to a court-martial at the least for breach of the Articles of War in not having immediately informed the captain himself.

On the other hand if he didn’t and it turned into a bloody mutiny there would be lives lost and a vengeful Admiralty would be pitiless. By forewarning it could be prevented – and his oath to the Crown would remain untarnished.

By the end of the watch he had decided.

‘Come!’ Tyrell sounded irritable.

Bowden entered the great cabin, its spare and bleak appearance so different from that in any other ship-of-the-line he had seen.

Tyrell was standing by the stern windows, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘Yes?’ he said, without looking round.

‘Sir, I wish to report—’

‘Ah, Bowden,’ Tyrell said, swinging round to face him. ‘Always pleased to see a loyal and upright officer. What is it I can do for you?’

Taken aback by his welcome, Bowden hesitated.

‘You want to report …?’

‘Ah, sir. A grave matter.’ Whatever it took, he would not involve Joyce by name.

‘Oh?’ The amiable expression remained unaffected.

‘Sir, I was approached by a member of the ship’s company who saw fit to inform me that certain unnamed individuals were disaffected and no longer reliable. Sir, in my opinion the people are in a state of incipient mutiny.’

It was said.

‘Why, you came down to tell me this? God bless you, Mr Bowden, for your concern on my behalf. Is there anything else?’

‘Er, this is to say, I’ve no reason to doubt that the men could rise at any time, sir, and—’

‘Calm yourself, Mr Bowden, it’s not as you fear. When you’ve been in the Service as long as I, you’ll realise that the scum are always in a state of mutiny, the dogs. Only hard discipline keeps ’em tranquil.’

‘Sir, I—’

‘For you, for the sake of your fears, I’ll take steps. You’ll learn that swift and decisive measures are an infallible remedy for these vile creatures.’

‘Er, thank you, sir.’

‘Captain of Marines this instant!’ he called loudly, to the sentry outside his door, who hurried to obey.

The officer arrived, breathless and confused.

‘Ah, Captain. I’ll have every marine sentry throughout the ship on duty with their bayonets ready fixed. Fixed, you understand?’

‘Um, yes, I’ll do it now.’ His eyes darted from Bowden to Tyrell with incomprehension but he left quickly.

‘There. The sight of naked steel will always steady the wayward, don’t you think?’ Tyrell said pleasantly.

Bowden could think of nothing to say. For any marine between decks the bayonet would be an intolerable impediment and impossible to wield, and what the seamen would think of this passed belief.

‘If you suffer any further disquiet, please feel you can approach me at any time. This is the duty any captain must owe his officers.’

‘Er, thank you, sir, I will.’

The wardroom at supper was tense. There was little conversation and each officer avoided any other’s eye.

The table was cleared and the president called for port. With deliberate emphasis he invited Mr Vice to make the loyal toast, which was given in guarded tones.