Norton, Andre - Novel 08 (16 page)

 
          
 
"Noaw thin, chum, toike
it easy loike.
We ain't a-arskin' rebels t' be skinned—not this
week "

 
          
 
Fumes of rum assaulted his affronted nose as
he turned his head to see the round red face of a marine whose tight stock had
given his countenance the rosiness of a winter apple. The Marylander tried to twist
off the other's hold. But he might as well have tried to shift one of the
western mountains. Instead he was propelled to the spot where the British were
herding the American prisoners under the hatch. And a few minutes later Fitz
found himself jammed in between two of the gunners, imprisoned in the hold of
their own ship.

 
          
 
"Sit ye down—sir—Mr. Lyon
" the
boy Mike had wormed his way between the cursing
men and was tugging at Fitz's jacket. "Ye look fair beat out, sir. Sit
down "

 
          
 
He allowed Mike to have his way and crouched,
pillowing his head on his arm. The hatch was slammed down over their heads and
they were left in the noisy darkness. How long that period lasted Fitz could
not judge. Through the hours he was in a kind of stupor of pain, although he
gathered from the motions of the timbers and the comments of the men around him
that the privateer was under weigh again and that they were being transported
to an unknown destination.

 
          
 
"Plymouth an' th' Mill—I'll wager you a
share on that!" one voice w T as proclaiming loudly when Fitz raised his
head and tried to make out objects in the semigloom. The speaker had no takers
on that bet-most of the company agreed with his guess.

 
          
 
"Mike?" Fitz tried to wet his lips
with a tongue which was dry as cotton itself before he could speak.

 
          
 
There was a stir in the dark by his side.
"Aye, sir?"

 
          
 
"What happened to Captain Crofts?"

 
          
 
"We think that they took him aboard
th
' frigate, sir. Leastways that's what Jim said. He was
th
' last to be put down here 'fore they clapped th' hatch
to, an* he claims he saw them a-pushin' th' Cap'n down t' one o' their
boats—wi' a bayonet t' his back. Sir, be they a-goin' t' hang us all now?"
The boy's hand slid down the marine officer's arm and, understandingly, Fitz
caught it in a tight grip.

 
          
 
"Certainly not!"
He mustered up what force he could throw into that answer. "We have been
serving on a ship of war lawfully—doing our duty under a government commission.
We're just prisoners of war like —like the Convention Army—Burgoyne's men we
took at
Saratoga
. Why half of them have settled down in
Maryland
and intend to live there after the war is
over, they like it so well. You've heard of them, haven't you, Mike?"

 
          
 
"But they say as how we're goin' t' th'
Mill Prison, sir. An' I don't fancy settlin' down in
England
, neither." He ended with a touch of
dry humor which made Fitz warm to him even more.

 
          
 
"Nor do any of us, Mike. And as for the
Mill—these Britishers may put us in there, boy, but that isn't proof that we'll
stay there all nice and safe afterward."

 
          
 
The smaller hand in his returned his clutch
with interest. "Yo' mean—escape—sir?"

 
          
 
"Of course.
What
else does a prisoner ever think of? Lord, Mike, other privateersmen before us
have been thrust in there and then have walked away from the redcoats as pert
as you please. Why, I've heard tell of men who passed themselves off as British
officers or guards and the real ones never sniffed the difference until too
late. Conyngham played that sort of trick as easy as kiss your hand! Don't you
worry about the
Mill.
We're not bad off at all: We
aren't bound for the hulks. And if the lobsterbacks yell 'pirate’ at you, just
up-nose them back. We've nothing to fear from words."

 
          
 
Fitz only wished he could be as sure in his
own mind of the truth of what he was saying. The attitude of the British
lieutenant had not been reassuring.

 
          
 
"Mike," he changed the subject
abruptly, "where are Mr. Ninnes and Lieutenant Biggs?"

 
          
 
There was a long moment of hesitation before
Mike replied in a small, colorless voice. "I heard tell, sir, as how
Lieutenant Biggs was killed when we boarded
th
' prize.
An' Mr. Ninnes, he took a nasty one in
th
' arm. I was
one as helped carry him below. You're
th
' only officer
left—wi' th' Cap'n gone."

 
          
 
Biggs was dead. Somehow Fitz found that hard
to believe, no matter how many times he repeated the words. And Ninnes was
lying down in
Watts
' bloodstained hole. He was the only officer
left. Holding his hands to his aching head, he moistened his lips again before
he raised his voice to carry the full length of their prison.

 
          
 
"Call the roll!"

 
          
 
They obeyed quickly enough. There were twelve
confined there—eight unscratched and four with minor wounds. As far as they
knew, they were the only survivors, with the exception of the seriously wounded
still in the cockpit. And now, discovering that Fitz had gained his wits again,
they clustered about him with a multitude of questions, most of them centering
on the charge of piracy which the captors had been very free with while forcing
the Americans below.

 
          
 
"We have sailed on a commissioned ship of
war,"

 
          
 
Fitz repeated patiently, "Captain Crofts
holds three commissions in truth, one from Congress, one from
Maryland
, and one from the Navy. And the British
pride themselves on the legality of their conduct. Their judges cannot call us
pirate when the truth is known."

 
          
 
"But, sir, I've heard tell as how they
say that we are rebels an' our commissions don't mean a thing at law."

 
          
 
"Have any of you heard of a privateersman
having his neck stretched as yet?" Fitz countered. This war has been
dragging on a mortal long time, and I've yet to hear any stories of hanging on
such a charge—in spite of their threats. Oh, yes, they'll send us to the Mill.
But there're worse places we could be."

 
          
 
"Aye to that, sir!" one voice
seconded him emphatically. "There're
th
' hulks!
An'
th
' man what is sent int' them rots t' death bone
by bone! Mr. Lyon has
th
' right o' it, boys—prison on
land ain't so bad. Th' Cap'n, he left us somethin' t' grease th' palms
wi
' too, didn't he?"

 
          
 
"An' who's a-goin' t' keep us in their
Mill?" another demanded challengingly.

 
          
 
"There's that point to plan on,"
Fitz agreed, touching the bandage around his head tenderly. "In a week or
so we may all be skipping back across the Channel as merry as gigs. I was told
that there are those ashore who will help an honest American seaman in his
need. Is there a mouthful of water to be had in this stinking hole?"

 
          
 
"No, sir," Mike's thinner pipe cut
through the mutters of the men. "They've given us naught since they sent
us down here. It's kinda thirsty work, waitin' . . ."

 
          
 
"Wish I had me a plate o' my old woman's
stew," a voice ventured wistfully in answer to that. "She kin make a
stew as Fat George hisself never set tooth into—like as
not
"

 
          
 
"Rather
have a good peg
o' rum," he was interrupted. "A good peg o' rum
now
"

 
          
 
"Which at present we lack," Fitz
pointed out. "And if we start thinking of food and
drink
"

 
          
 
"Th' more our guts are a-gonna t'
pinch!" He received unexpected support from at least one member of the
crew. "Sure, Mr. Lyon has
th
' right o' that. Best
be a-plannin', boys, how you're a-goin' t' keep th' hard money
th
' Cap'n gave us. These lobsters'll think o' searchin' when
we
gets
ashore. An' they ain't
th
'
sort t' miss much."

 
          
 
There were scrambling, fumbling sounds in the
dark. Apparently all hearers of that sage advice had been moved to check up on
such precautions as they had already taken. But there came an interruption from
overhead. The fastenings of the hatch were thrown off, and soon they blinked up
at an open square of daylight.

 
          
 
"All right, you rebels," the voice
above had the snap of assured authority. "Come up, one at a time. We've
muskets on you, so try no tricks."

           
 
A rope ladder was dropped to them and the
nearest man seized it. Mike lingered by Fitz.

 
          
 
"Can you make
th
'
climb, sir, wi' your bad head an' all?"

 
          
 
"If I can't they'll have to carry me and
I don't relish that I Get along with you now, Mike, and no kicking the biggest
lobster in the shins until I get there—that is a privilege I want for
myself!"

 
          
 
Mike giggled a bit shakily and began to climb.
Then it was Fitz's turn. The rope scraped his hands and his head swam as he
pulled himself up with all the energy of a tired old man.

 
          
 
The men of the Retaliation were being herded
into line and manacled with clumsy irons in pairs. Fitz hotly protested this
treatment and was threatened with a double dose of the same, but he continued
to face up to the officer in charge.

 
          
 
"I demand to see your commander, sir! We
are prisoners of war, not common criminals, and you have no
right
"

 
          
 
The British lieutenant made a sign, and Fitz
felt the prick of a bayonet between his shoulder blades.

 
          
 
"You're a damned rebel pirate, and if I
had my way you'd all be hanged from your own spars this morning. Get them
ashore, Sergeant!"

 
          
 
Plymouth
was an important and historical port. Drake
and Hawkins had walked along the Hoe and sailed from its
Devon
harbor. But all Fitz saw of it that day was
colored by a red fog of pure rage. The Americans were marched along in a body,
their chains clanking loudly enough to draw a crowd to view their passing.
Mike, who had been spared the irons because of his youth, tramped next to Fitz,
trying to steady the marine officer when the footing was bad.

 
          
 
There were hoots and catcalls aplenty not only
from the small boys of the town but from a good company of its shabbier
citizens as well. Privateers were held beyond sympathy in a country whose
commercial life-blood they were squeezing drop by drop. But the Americans were
spared the hail of refuse when some of the first handfuls of muck spattered the
guard as well as the intended targets, and the British marines united to drive
away the marksmen.

 
          
 
Fitz longed to know what had happended to
Crofts but there seemed to be no way of finding out except by asking the
sergeant of the guard, and that, he vowed savagely, he was not going to do.