(no subject)
Title: The Dogwatches
Rating: M (Suitable for ages 16 and above)
Disclaimers: None.
Original pen-date: 22 September 2008
Summary: Discontent and mutiny aboard a Royal Navy frigate. American Revolution, 1780.
Author's Note: There are probably some historical/ship goofs in here and I beg forgiveness for them.
Of all the places aboard ship, only the sick-berth had escaped serious disturbance. Two Marines had looked in briefly within minutes of the drum's rolling but they had only asked if there were any men within who should not be. Finch's assurance that there were not seemed to satisfy them, for they moved on. The sick-berth was not troubled again until the sound of musketry was heard from somewhere aft. Such noise usually meant trouble and in the present circumstances trouble was inevitable. It was uncomfortably plain the ship was in a state of mutiny. Firing of any sort only meant things had worsened.
Finch glanced over the cleared table with its bloodstained canvas covering and tried not to sigh. The drum's roll had sent him and Graves scrambling to clear the cramped space of everything unnecessary and preparing it to receive wounded. Neither of them knew the call to quarters would lead to such a swift, drastic change of command. They knew now, and that knowledge brought a heavy, sick feeling to the pit of Finch's stomach.
His gaze turned briefly to the two men who were tucked into the corners of the sick-berth. By rights, they should be in the dispensary where they would not be in the way, but their safety depended upon staying in the sick-berth. The deference shown by the mutineers earlier suggested that his authority was respected, but he did not doubt that this meant much beyond the boundaries of the sick-berth. He dared not try finding out.
The rumble of many shod feet outside was Finch's only warning of trouble. He had no more than a handful of seconds to rise from his chair before the little space was filled with redcoated men. Sergeant Devlin was amongst them, but it was to the two wounded Marines in the group that Finch devoted his attention to. Or, more accurately, to the man laid out roughly onto the table with blood bubbling up from his chest.
"What happened to this man?" The question was asked even though the answer was plain. Lieutenant Forsythe had been shot. There had indeed been violence done. With an effort, Finch fought back his disgust. He detested violence in all its forms, which made his choice of profession unusual. This outbreak of bloodshed topped even the unavoidable casualties from combat, however. He pressed his hands immediately to the blood-slick hole in Forsythe's chest and tried to apply some pressure to at least slow the bleeding while Graves looked briefly to their second patient.
There was no answer offered to his question. Only silence followed the query. Finch did not look up, did not dare to, for he could easily guess what he might see. His disgust solidified into an icy weight in the pit of his stomach. How had sensible men as these turned to such horrid things? More to the point, how had he as the ship's surgeon, knowing what was being plotted, allowed it to go on unchecked?
"What happened to this man?" Finch repeated, temporarily leaving the task of removing the wounded Marine's shirt to Graves. He looked squarely at Devlin, knowing that any answers would come from him. The sergeant could not meet his gaze. In truth, Finch had not expected him to. He remembered their conversation from the day before and knew the reasons for the Marine's reticence. Such knowledge weighed sickeningly on his heart. To think that Devlin had chosen this as his solution...
There was an uncomfortable pause before Devlin shuffled his feet and turned away. "Let's go, boys," he said. "Sawbones needs to do his work."
The awkward silence returned as the Marines filed out. In truth, Finch was not sorry to see them go. They had brought enough ill to the ship as it was. There was a wet-sounding gurgle from Forsythe and Finch moved his attention to more pressing matters. He had glanced at the wound when the lieutenant was first brought in, but now on closer inspection he realised how truly bad it was. It would take a miracle to save this poor fellow.
"Graves. Scalpel. Now."
There was but one chance to find the ball and, if possible, extract it. To do that, he needed to widen the hole. The scalpel was passed to him at once and he set the sharp blade against the skin. Even if the ball came out cleanly, Forsythe not be assured of a complete recovery. Infection would be his greatest enemy. A single cut was all he needed to make. There was an unsuccessfully stifled groan of pain from the unfortunate Marine but there was little Finch could do to relieve him. Laudanum would do more harm than good at this moment. In the swaying lantern light, the blood gleamed black on Forysthe's chest, making it difficult to see clearly. "Swab!"
Graves swabbed at the newly-enlarged hole, clearing away some of the blood, then held out the forceps. Finch took them, only to set them aside for the moment. "Spreaders," he said, and Graves retrieved the desired tool. A sharp gasp escaped from Forsythe but, to his credit, he did not yet cry out. The stained cloth swept briefly over the incision, clearing away more blood, then Finch dipped his fingers into the wound.
A tense few seconds dragged past, then he withdrew his fingers and reached for the forceps. He had spotted the ball. The slim metal instrument eased into the opened wound and there was a very slight bump as Finch clamped the forcep's jaws down around the lead ball. "My apologies for this, sir," he said to Forsythe, and gave a quick, firm jerk backwards with the forceps. There was a faint pop from within Forsythe's chest when the ball came free. The Marine tried nobly to contain an exclamation but the agony was too much for him. His howl of pain coincided with Finch's sharp bark for clamps as an unexpected spurt of blood splattered flush against his chest.
Graves gasped a surprised curse while Finch shoved his hand back into the wound. An artery had been damaged. This was worse than he'd feared. Time was truly against him now. He had mere seconds to find and clamp off that artery. "Ligatures!" He snapped, his fingers feeling desperately for the artery. There was blood everywhere. Seeing anything was out of the question. Everything had to be done by feel... there. His fingers curled immediately around the source of the spurting blood and the messy flow tapered sharply off. With Graves' help, he was able to tie string around the artery on either side of the injury to the vessel.
"Thread a needle," Finch directed wearily, taking a moment to check Forsythe's state of consciousness. Blessedly, perhaps, the Marine had passed out. God willing, he would awaken again later. Graves held out the threaded needle. Now came the most delicate part of the surgery. Finch had never done such a thing before and was not certain he could successfully close such a small nick in such an important artery. It was a nerve-shredding test of his skills. He let out a quiet breath and nodded at Graves. At a word from the surgeon's mate, Briggs the loblolly boy took down the lantern from its hook and held it close above the site of operation.
The physician kept his movements precise and tightly-controlled as he leaned close over the tied-off artery and began his work. Nothing mattered except the damaged vessel beneath his fingers. With the utmost care, he moved the thin needle in and out, barely blinking lest he miss even the slightest. There was no sound in his ears save for the rasp of his breathing and the anxious thump of his heart. He could not say how long he stayed bent low over poor Forsythe's chest, but not even teh passage of time mattered. All that mattered was that he had, at last, put the last painstaking stitch into the artery. Now to see if those sutures would hold.
Under his direction, Graves carefully loosened the constricting ligatures, permitting blood to flow back through the newly-repaired part of the vessel. Thankfully, amazingly, the sutures held. Finch let out a long relieved breath and managed a small, tired smile. If Lieutenant Forsythe awakened again, it would be the second miracle of the day. The first had just been performed. Now the danger was one of infection. He let Graves gently pack clean linen into the incision and set the needle aside. That was one patient successfully treated. On to the second one.
Feeling worn out and stiff, Finch stepped away from the table. Graves had briefly examined the second Marine and it was to this unfortunate that Finch now turned. All was not well, however. He stopped in the middle of wiping his hands as clean as he could, belatedly becoming aware of an uncomfortable, tense silence in the air. The reason for the silence became apparent when he turned around. Billy Fowler was on his knees, his own hands slick with blood. Beside him crouched Kit Day, holding a tightly-rolled rag. Sprawled limply on the deck before them was the second shot Marine, his stomach torn roughly open. The clean hole made by the lead ball was no longer distinguishable. It was brutally clear what had happened.
Graves and Briggs stood motionless where they were, expressions of utter shock on their faces. A heavy wave of fresh disgust rolled over Finch. He could not believe such a despicable act could be carried out so close by, without his noticing. First the mutiny, then Forsythe being shot. Now this. Had every man on this ship gone mad?
"Sir," Fowler said calmly, as if nothing was amiss. "Permission to wash my hands."
For the first time in his life, words failed Abraham Finch.
~
Things were not going according to plan.
Sergeant Devlin was struck for the first time by doubt that he could successfully deliver his prisoners to the rebel island. The attempted breakout undertaken by the officers had been thwarted, fortunately, but Devlin was angered that shots had been exchanged. He wanted as little bloodshed as possible. Manpower was important. Too important to waste like that. If Durham had not been stupid, they might've managed to deal with Mister Forsythe quietly. Instead, he and Willie Harrison had shot each other. Even thinking about it started Devlin's blood boiling. Stupid! There was no other word for it. At least Durham knew he'd made a mistake. That was better than nothing.
In an effort to settle his nerves after that brief meeting with the sawbones, Devlin made his way to the hold, where he delivered news of the incident to the prisoners himself. It was a good choice chiefly because of the effect he knew it would have. He knew these men. Such news, announced in the way he'd offered it, was enough to scuttle any plotting they might have been making. This left the problem of the officers. If they had tried to break out once, they were likely to try again.
Tomilson was back on post, with Tarwick present too. One sentry was not enough. This had been soundly proven. On Devlin's approach, the two Marines stamped their heels together, an action that he found instantly annoying.
"Belay that, you lads," he grunted. "Don't be givin' them bastards any warnin' I'm about."
Both men bobbed their heads. "Aye, Sarn't."
"That lot've been rare quiet," Tomilson added, reaching for the wardroom door. "Ain't even heard 'em move since Harrison did for Mister Forsythe."
"D'you expect anythin' else out of 'em?" Devlin managed a smirk as he crossed into the wardroom. The door clicked shut behind him but he knew the two sentries would be listening intently for the slightest noise of trouble. His arrival had drawn the gazes of all the officers who sat, wrists bound, around the wardroom table.
"Afternoon, sirs," he greeted affably, offering the officers a smile as he leaned on the end of the table. "Ain't interruptin' anythin', I hopes?"
Mister Alderbury scoffed and looked away. Captain Leaford, on the other hand, fixed Devlin with an icy stare. "You will release us at once! This is madness!"
To the captain's obvious chargin, Devlin laughed at him. "Madness? Of course it is. If you weren't such a hard-going bastard, we wouldn't have been pushed to this, would we? Not in the least! And if you fools had stayed quiet in here, Mister Forsythe wouldn't be lyin' dead in the sick-berth. But that's the trouble with you officers, ain't it? You can't ever do the sensible thing."
"Sensible? You are a fine one to speak of sensible!" Leaford's face flushed dark with anger. "What is sensible about any of this damnable insurrection?"
"It is preferable to havin' you in command, ruinin' lads' backs an' spirits. I ain't here for arguin' anyways. If you button your gob a minute, laddie, you might hear somethin' interestin'." Devlin helped himself to an empty chair and took a minute to get himself comfortable. "In half a day's time, we'll be droppin' anchor at an island that the rebels use for stores. When we gets there, all of you are goin' ashore. The yellow buggers that didn't join us are goin' too. There's plenty of work to do for the Yankees and they're fair happy to get plenty of hands to help do it. Now. Deal for you lot is simple. The Yankees'll accept any lad what swears an oath of loyalty an' joins up with 'em. Includin' officers."
Silence met his statement. The officers gazed at him with a mixture of disbelief and disgust. Not that Devlin had expected any of them to answer, favourably or not. Chances were slim any of them would consent to shifting their allegiances. He shrugged. "It ain't an offer that'll stand long, neither," he added.
A chair scraped back and Mister Alderbury came to his feet. Devlin watched him impassively as the sea officer approached him slowly. He did not fear attack from the lieutenant, for Alderbury's hands were securely bound before him. He was, however, surprised when Alderbury stopped just shy of the end of the table and spat boldly at him. For a moment, Devlin could not believe the sea officer's temerity. Then, with a sharp curse, he rose up from his chair and dealt Alderbury a single blow to the jaw.
"You gentlemen may expect to be used no better than the regular lads, when you are turned over to the Yankees," Devlin snapped, stepping away from the downed Alderbury in disgust. He swiped the damp off his cheek and kicked aside the chair he'd been sitting in. "That is if you are lucky!"
He ignored Tomilson, who had come into the wardroom upon hearing the commotion, and stormed out past both sentries. To Tarwick, he snapped, "Lock them in. They'll be the first to go ashore when we make landfall." Then he was on his way noisily up the ladder, his temper once again flaring bright. Why couldn't this go even partially right?
~
There were now three cots swaying gently in the sick-berth. The newest patient, the unfortunate Lieutenant Forsythe, remained unconscious with only the steady rasp of his breathing to indicate he still lived. Doctor Finch had scarcely left the Marine officer's side since removing the ball from the man's chest. The unpleasant chore of removing the dead Willie Harrison had been left to his assistants. None of them had so much as glanced at Day or Fowler. It was as if neither man existed.
Some time around the middle of the first watch, however, Doctor Finch had left his patients to the vigilance of Graves and gone topside to take some air. Kit Day was awakened by the sawbones' departure. Curiosity made him sit up in his cot. He had not looked around much since retiring for the night. In the dim, guttering light of the candle near where Graves was sitting, Day could just see the slight rise and fall of Lieutenant Forsythe's chest. The poor bastard. It was just as well he and Fowler had sorted out the traitor Harrison.
"Take your rest," Graves said firmly, not looking up from his book.
With a light snort, Day sank back onto the thin straw mattress. Those were the first words anyone had spoken to him since the incident with Harrison. Oh the irony. The seaman tucked his hands underneath his head and gazed up at the deck above him. It was fine by him if no one spoke to him for the remainder of the week, really. He and Fowler had done what they needed to. Now there was one less turncoat aboard. That was all that counted.
"Here now." came Briggs' reedy voice, suddenly. "You cannot - "
A fleshy-sounding thump interrupted the loblolly boy's timid admonition. Day peeked up cautiously over the edge of his cot and saw the intruders make their entrance. Two Marines, each of them wearing swords. Their faces were mirrors of each other. Stony, grim expressions and hands on their swords, as if they expected trouble. Wth a nervous swallow, Kit Day surreptitiously slid deeper into his cot. The air in the sick-berth seemed to chill with the two Marines' arrival. He had a sinking feeling he knew why they were here.
"Doctor Finch?"
Graves shook his head slowly. "He is on deck. What do you - "
"We're here to retrieve Day."
Day closed his eyes and silently stumbled through a prayer. There was only reason, in his mind, why he should be sent for. Somebody had remembered he was aboard and wanted to deal with him properly. A sudden vision of a halter being rigged on the mainyard flashed through his brain. His eyes came open and he found himself staring up at the pair of grim-faced Marines. Why had the sawbones thought it was safe to leave the sick-berth? This was it for him, now. Those damned turncoats.
"I ain't - "
Strong hands grabbed his arms and heaved him bodily out of the cot. "You ain't nothin' but trouble," one of the Marines snarled. "Shut up an' follow along, an' it'll go easy on you."
"Mister Graves - " Day began, feeling pathetic that he had to plead with anybody, but Graves was no match for the two Marines' sense of purpose. The seaman was dragged effortlessly out of the sick-berth, despite his best attempts to break free. No no no... his captors half-carried, half-dragged him up to the weather deck, which was, unusually, well lit with lanterns. Dan Wiles stood at the quarterdeck rail, arms crossed.
"So this is the man," the quartermaster's mate said, once Day had been dropped in a heap to the deck. "You lads know Kit Day, I thinks?"
There was a rumble of acknowledgment from the assembled crew. Day shivered. He had seen no halter but that was no guarantee one could not be rigged. His two guards let him remain cowering on the deck for a moment before hauling up to his feet, with an order to "Face them like a man".
"You know too, by now, what he's done to one of our own," Wiles went on. "Tore out Willie Harrison's innards, he done, while the poor beggar was still livin'. A vile savage act, no doubtin'!"
Despite himself, Day shuddered. "I ain't!" He cried, but his protest was drowned out by the roars of disapproval from the crew. It wasn't likely to matter anyway, yet he was compelled to try.
Wiles pointed at him. "The poor wretch'll deny it, but we all seen Harrison 'fore he was sewn up in his hammock. We know what the truth is. So, me lads, I'll ask ya. What's t'be done with such a savage?"
The loudest voices, nearest the quarterdeck, called for a hanging. Day stared up at Wiles in desperation. "Wiles, mate, be - "
"Shut up," snarled one of the Marines, cuffing him on the ear.
"Mister Rutland!" Wiles barked, after waving down the shouts from around the weather deck. "You know what's 'xpected of you!"
Day found himself turned roughly around and saw, for the first time, that a halter had indeed be rigged. These bastards had prepared everything before his arrival. Helpless tears ran down his cheeks as he realised there was no escaping his fate. They were lethally intent and had, most incorrectly, marked him down as the one guilty of killing their comrade. It was not at all the reason he had thought they'd come for him, even though the end result was going to be the same.
"It weren't me!" He cried, flailing his arms away as one of his guards began to bind his wrists. "It was Fowler what done it! I swear! Fowler! It weren't me!"
"Gag him!" Wiles ordered. A dirty rag was shoved into Day's mouth, effectively stifling his protests, and his arms were restrained so his hands could be tied. Then, still struggling, the seaman was carried forward toward the midships rail.
"For the despicable crime of murder," Wiles intoned, "You, Christopher Day, are sentenced to be hanged by the neck 'til you're dead. God have mercy, an' all that. Carry on, you lads!"
The halter was rough and heavy around his neck. Day squeezed his eyes shut against the stinging tears. These bastards. How could they do this to him? To anyone? How long had he sailed with this company and had scarcely a problem with any man? He could not fathom how it had all changed, or even when. It was as if someone had replaced the good sense of every man aboard, turning the whole crew into mindless savages. And they called him a savage!
"Haul away!"
Day had time enough for a final, futile twitch of resistance, then the noose tightened about his neck and he was swept up off the deck. The jeers of the men below him rang in his ears as he struggled vainly against the unyielding bite of the halter. Savages. The lot of them. It was Fowler. Fowler. Not him. Air. Air! He couldn't breathe. Oh Mother...
Rating: M (Suitable for ages 16 and above)
Disclaimers: None.
Original pen-date: 22 September 2008
Summary: Discontent and mutiny aboard a Royal Navy frigate. American Revolution, 1780.
Author's Note: There are probably some historical/ship goofs in here and I beg forgiveness for them.
Of all the places aboard ship, only the sick-berth had escaped serious disturbance. Two Marines had looked in briefly within minutes of the drum's rolling but they had only asked if there were any men within who should not be. Finch's assurance that there were not seemed to satisfy them, for they moved on. The sick-berth was not troubled again until the sound of musketry was heard from somewhere aft. Such noise usually meant trouble and in the present circumstances trouble was inevitable. It was uncomfortably plain the ship was in a state of mutiny. Firing of any sort only meant things had worsened.
Finch glanced over the cleared table with its bloodstained canvas covering and tried not to sigh. The drum's roll had sent him and Graves scrambling to clear the cramped space of everything unnecessary and preparing it to receive wounded. Neither of them knew the call to quarters would lead to such a swift, drastic change of command. They knew now, and that knowledge brought a heavy, sick feeling to the pit of Finch's stomach.
His gaze turned briefly to the two men who were tucked into the corners of the sick-berth. By rights, they should be in the dispensary where they would not be in the way, but their safety depended upon staying in the sick-berth. The deference shown by the mutineers earlier suggested that his authority was respected, but he did not doubt that this meant much beyond the boundaries of the sick-berth. He dared not try finding out.
The rumble of many shod feet outside was Finch's only warning of trouble. He had no more than a handful of seconds to rise from his chair before the little space was filled with redcoated men. Sergeant Devlin was amongst them, but it was to the two wounded Marines in the group that Finch devoted his attention to. Or, more accurately, to the man laid out roughly onto the table with blood bubbling up from his chest.
"What happened to this man?" The question was asked even though the answer was plain. Lieutenant Forsythe had been shot. There had indeed been violence done. With an effort, Finch fought back his disgust. He detested violence in all its forms, which made his choice of profession unusual. This outbreak of bloodshed topped even the unavoidable casualties from combat, however. He pressed his hands immediately to the blood-slick hole in Forsythe's chest and tried to apply some pressure to at least slow the bleeding while Graves looked briefly to their second patient.
There was no answer offered to his question. Only silence followed the query. Finch did not look up, did not dare to, for he could easily guess what he might see. His disgust solidified into an icy weight in the pit of his stomach. How had sensible men as these turned to such horrid things? More to the point, how had he as the ship's surgeon, knowing what was being plotted, allowed it to go on unchecked?
"What happened to this man?" Finch repeated, temporarily leaving the task of removing the wounded Marine's shirt to Graves. He looked squarely at Devlin, knowing that any answers would come from him. The sergeant could not meet his gaze. In truth, Finch had not expected him to. He remembered their conversation from the day before and knew the reasons for the Marine's reticence. Such knowledge weighed sickeningly on his heart. To think that Devlin had chosen this as his solution...
There was an uncomfortable pause before Devlin shuffled his feet and turned away. "Let's go, boys," he said. "Sawbones needs to do his work."
The awkward silence returned as the Marines filed out. In truth, Finch was not sorry to see them go. They had brought enough ill to the ship as it was. There was a wet-sounding gurgle from Forsythe and Finch moved his attention to more pressing matters. He had glanced at the wound when the lieutenant was first brought in, but now on closer inspection he realised how truly bad it was. It would take a miracle to save this poor fellow.
"Graves. Scalpel. Now."
There was but one chance to find the ball and, if possible, extract it. To do that, he needed to widen the hole. The scalpel was passed to him at once and he set the sharp blade against the skin. Even if the ball came out cleanly, Forsythe not be assured of a complete recovery. Infection would be his greatest enemy. A single cut was all he needed to make. There was an unsuccessfully stifled groan of pain from the unfortunate Marine but there was little Finch could do to relieve him. Laudanum would do more harm than good at this moment. In the swaying lantern light, the blood gleamed black on Forysthe's chest, making it difficult to see clearly. "Swab!"
Graves swabbed at the newly-enlarged hole, clearing away some of the blood, then held out the forceps. Finch took them, only to set them aside for the moment. "Spreaders," he said, and Graves retrieved the desired tool. A sharp gasp escaped from Forsythe but, to his credit, he did not yet cry out. The stained cloth swept briefly over the incision, clearing away more blood, then Finch dipped his fingers into the wound.
A tense few seconds dragged past, then he withdrew his fingers and reached for the forceps. He had spotted the ball. The slim metal instrument eased into the opened wound and there was a very slight bump as Finch clamped the forcep's jaws down around the lead ball. "My apologies for this, sir," he said to Forsythe, and gave a quick, firm jerk backwards with the forceps. There was a faint pop from within Forsythe's chest when the ball came free. The Marine tried nobly to contain an exclamation but the agony was too much for him. His howl of pain coincided with Finch's sharp bark for clamps as an unexpected spurt of blood splattered flush against his chest.
Graves gasped a surprised curse while Finch shoved his hand back into the wound. An artery had been damaged. This was worse than he'd feared. Time was truly against him now. He had mere seconds to find and clamp off that artery. "Ligatures!" He snapped, his fingers feeling desperately for the artery. There was blood everywhere. Seeing anything was out of the question. Everything had to be done by feel... there. His fingers curled immediately around the source of the spurting blood and the messy flow tapered sharply off. With Graves' help, he was able to tie string around the artery on either side of the injury to the vessel.
"Thread a needle," Finch directed wearily, taking a moment to check Forsythe's state of consciousness. Blessedly, perhaps, the Marine had passed out. God willing, he would awaken again later. Graves held out the threaded needle. Now came the most delicate part of the surgery. Finch had never done such a thing before and was not certain he could successfully close such a small nick in such an important artery. It was a nerve-shredding test of his skills. He let out a quiet breath and nodded at Graves. At a word from the surgeon's mate, Briggs the loblolly boy took down the lantern from its hook and held it close above the site of operation.
The physician kept his movements precise and tightly-controlled as he leaned close over the tied-off artery and began his work. Nothing mattered except the damaged vessel beneath his fingers. With the utmost care, he moved the thin needle in and out, barely blinking lest he miss even the slightest. There was no sound in his ears save for the rasp of his breathing and the anxious thump of his heart. He could not say how long he stayed bent low over poor Forsythe's chest, but not even teh passage of time mattered. All that mattered was that he had, at last, put the last painstaking stitch into the artery. Now to see if those sutures would hold.
Under his direction, Graves carefully loosened the constricting ligatures, permitting blood to flow back through the newly-repaired part of the vessel. Thankfully, amazingly, the sutures held. Finch let out a long relieved breath and managed a small, tired smile. If Lieutenant Forsythe awakened again, it would be the second miracle of the day. The first had just been performed. Now the danger was one of infection. He let Graves gently pack clean linen into the incision and set the needle aside. That was one patient successfully treated. On to the second one.
Feeling worn out and stiff, Finch stepped away from the table. Graves had briefly examined the second Marine and it was to this unfortunate that Finch now turned. All was not well, however. He stopped in the middle of wiping his hands as clean as he could, belatedly becoming aware of an uncomfortable, tense silence in the air. The reason for the silence became apparent when he turned around. Billy Fowler was on his knees, his own hands slick with blood. Beside him crouched Kit Day, holding a tightly-rolled rag. Sprawled limply on the deck before them was the second shot Marine, his stomach torn roughly open. The clean hole made by the lead ball was no longer distinguishable. It was brutally clear what had happened.
Graves and Briggs stood motionless where they were, expressions of utter shock on their faces. A heavy wave of fresh disgust rolled over Finch. He could not believe such a despicable act could be carried out so close by, without his noticing. First the mutiny, then Forsythe being shot. Now this. Had every man on this ship gone mad?
"Sir," Fowler said calmly, as if nothing was amiss. "Permission to wash my hands."
For the first time in his life, words failed Abraham Finch.
~
Things were not going according to plan.
Sergeant Devlin was struck for the first time by doubt that he could successfully deliver his prisoners to the rebel island. The attempted breakout undertaken by the officers had been thwarted, fortunately, but Devlin was angered that shots had been exchanged. He wanted as little bloodshed as possible. Manpower was important. Too important to waste like that. If Durham had not been stupid, they might've managed to deal with Mister Forsythe quietly. Instead, he and Willie Harrison had shot each other. Even thinking about it started Devlin's blood boiling. Stupid! There was no other word for it. At least Durham knew he'd made a mistake. That was better than nothing.
In an effort to settle his nerves after that brief meeting with the sawbones, Devlin made his way to the hold, where he delivered news of the incident to the prisoners himself. It was a good choice chiefly because of the effect he knew it would have. He knew these men. Such news, announced in the way he'd offered it, was enough to scuttle any plotting they might have been making. This left the problem of the officers. If they had tried to break out once, they were likely to try again.
Tomilson was back on post, with Tarwick present too. One sentry was not enough. This had been soundly proven. On Devlin's approach, the two Marines stamped their heels together, an action that he found instantly annoying.
"Belay that, you lads," he grunted. "Don't be givin' them bastards any warnin' I'm about."
Both men bobbed their heads. "Aye, Sarn't."
"That lot've been rare quiet," Tomilson added, reaching for the wardroom door. "Ain't even heard 'em move since Harrison did for Mister Forsythe."
"D'you expect anythin' else out of 'em?" Devlin managed a smirk as he crossed into the wardroom. The door clicked shut behind him but he knew the two sentries would be listening intently for the slightest noise of trouble. His arrival had drawn the gazes of all the officers who sat, wrists bound, around the wardroom table.
"Afternoon, sirs," he greeted affably, offering the officers a smile as he leaned on the end of the table. "Ain't interruptin' anythin', I hopes?"
Mister Alderbury scoffed and looked away. Captain Leaford, on the other hand, fixed Devlin with an icy stare. "You will release us at once! This is madness!"
To the captain's obvious chargin, Devlin laughed at him. "Madness? Of course it is. If you weren't such a hard-going bastard, we wouldn't have been pushed to this, would we? Not in the least! And if you fools had stayed quiet in here, Mister Forsythe wouldn't be lyin' dead in the sick-berth. But that's the trouble with you officers, ain't it? You can't ever do the sensible thing."
"Sensible? You are a fine one to speak of sensible!" Leaford's face flushed dark with anger. "What is sensible about any of this damnable insurrection?"
"It is preferable to havin' you in command, ruinin' lads' backs an' spirits. I ain't here for arguin' anyways. If you button your gob a minute, laddie, you might hear somethin' interestin'." Devlin helped himself to an empty chair and took a minute to get himself comfortable. "In half a day's time, we'll be droppin' anchor at an island that the rebels use for stores. When we gets there, all of you are goin' ashore. The yellow buggers that didn't join us are goin' too. There's plenty of work to do for the Yankees and they're fair happy to get plenty of hands to help do it. Now. Deal for you lot is simple. The Yankees'll accept any lad what swears an oath of loyalty an' joins up with 'em. Includin' officers."
Silence met his statement. The officers gazed at him with a mixture of disbelief and disgust. Not that Devlin had expected any of them to answer, favourably or not. Chances were slim any of them would consent to shifting their allegiances. He shrugged. "It ain't an offer that'll stand long, neither," he added.
A chair scraped back and Mister Alderbury came to his feet. Devlin watched him impassively as the sea officer approached him slowly. He did not fear attack from the lieutenant, for Alderbury's hands were securely bound before him. He was, however, surprised when Alderbury stopped just shy of the end of the table and spat boldly at him. For a moment, Devlin could not believe the sea officer's temerity. Then, with a sharp curse, he rose up from his chair and dealt Alderbury a single blow to the jaw.
"You gentlemen may expect to be used no better than the regular lads, when you are turned over to the Yankees," Devlin snapped, stepping away from the downed Alderbury in disgust. He swiped the damp off his cheek and kicked aside the chair he'd been sitting in. "That is if you are lucky!"
He ignored Tomilson, who had come into the wardroom upon hearing the commotion, and stormed out past both sentries. To Tarwick, he snapped, "Lock them in. They'll be the first to go ashore when we make landfall." Then he was on his way noisily up the ladder, his temper once again flaring bright. Why couldn't this go even partially right?
~
There were now three cots swaying gently in the sick-berth. The newest patient, the unfortunate Lieutenant Forsythe, remained unconscious with only the steady rasp of his breathing to indicate he still lived. Doctor Finch had scarcely left the Marine officer's side since removing the ball from the man's chest. The unpleasant chore of removing the dead Willie Harrison had been left to his assistants. None of them had so much as glanced at Day or Fowler. It was as if neither man existed.
Some time around the middle of the first watch, however, Doctor Finch had left his patients to the vigilance of Graves and gone topside to take some air. Kit Day was awakened by the sawbones' departure. Curiosity made him sit up in his cot. He had not looked around much since retiring for the night. In the dim, guttering light of the candle near where Graves was sitting, Day could just see the slight rise and fall of Lieutenant Forsythe's chest. The poor bastard. It was just as well he and Fowler had sorted out the traitor Harrison.
"Take your rest," Graves said firmly, not looking up from his book.
With a light snort, Day sank back onto the thin straw mattress. Those were the first words anyone had spoken to him since the incident with Harrison. Oh the irony. The seaman tucked his hands underneath his head and gazed up at the deck above him. It was fine by him if no one spoke to him for the remainder of the week, really. He and Fowler had done what they needed to. Now there was one less turncoat aboard. That was all that counted.
"Here now." came Briggs' reedy voice, suddenly. "You cannot - "
A fleshy-sounding thump interrupted the loblolly boy's timid admonition. Day peeked up cautiously over the edge of his cot and saw the intruders make their entrance. Two Marines, each of them wearing swords. Their faces were mirrors of each other. Stony, grim expressions and hands on their swords, as if they expected trouble. Wth a nervous swallow, Kit Day surreptitiously slid deeper into his cot. The air in the sick-berth seemed to chill with the two Marines' arrival. He had a sinking feeling he knew why they were here.
"Doctor Finch?"
Graves shook his head slowly. "He is on deck. What do you - "
"We're here to retrieve Day."
Day closed his eyes and silently stumbled through a prayer. There was only reason, in his mind, why he should be sent for. Somebody had remembered he was aboard and wanted to deal with him properly. A sudden vision of a halter being rigged on the mainyard flashed through his brain. His eyes came open and he found himself staring up at the pair of grim-faced Marines. Why had the sawbones thought it was safe to leave the sick-berth? This was it for him, now. Those damned turncoats.
"I ain't - "
Strong hands grabbed his arms and heaved him bodily out of the cot. "You ain't nothin' but trouble," one of the Marines snarled. "Shut up an' follow along, an' it'll go easy on you."
"Mister Graves - " Day began, feeling pathetic that he had to plead with anybody, but Graves was no match for the two Marines' sense of purpose. The seaman was dragged effortlessly out of the sick-berth, despite his best attempts to break free. No no no... his captors half-carried, half-dragged him up to the weather deck, which was, unusually, well lit with lanterns. Dan Wiles stood at the quarterdeck rail, arms crossed.
"So this is the man," the quartermaster's mate said, once Day had been dropped in a heap to the deck. "You lads know Kit Day, I thinks?"
There was a rumble of acknowledgment from the assembled crew. Day shivered. He had seen no halter but that was no guarantee one could not be rigged. His two guards let him remain cowering on the deck for a moment before hauling up to his feet, with an order to "Face them like a man".
"You know too, by now, what he's done to one of our own," Wiles went on. "Tore out Willie Harrison's innards, he done, while the poor beggar was still livin'. A vile savage act, no doubtin'!"
Despite himself, Day shuddered. "I ain't!" He cried, but his protest was drowned out by the roars of disapproval from the crew. It wasn't likely to matter anyway, yet he was compelled to try.
Wiles pointed at him. "The poor wretch'll deny it, but we all seen Harrison 'fore he was sewn up in his hammock. We know what the truth is. So, me lads, I'll ask ya. What's t'be done with such a savage?"
The loudest voices, nearest the quarterdeck, called for a hanging. Day stared up at Wiles in desperation. "Wiles, mate, be - "
"Shut up," snarled one of the Marines, cuffing him on the ear.
"Mister Rutland!" Wiles barked, after waving down the shouts from around the weather deck. "You know what's 'xpected of you!"
Day found himself turned roughly around and saw, for the first time, that a halter had indeed be rigged. These bastards had prepared everything before his arrival. Helpless tears ran down his cheeks as he realised there was no escaping his fate. They were lethally intent and had, most incorrectly, marked him down as the one guilty of killing their comrade. It was not at all the reason he had thought they'd come for him, even though the end result was going to be the same.
"It weren't me!" He cried, flailing his arms away as one of his guards began to bind his wrists. "It was Fowler what done it! I swear! Fowler! It weren't me!"
"Gag him!" Wiles ordered. A dirty rag was shoved into Day's mouth, effectively stifling his protests, and his arms were restrained so his hands could be tied. Then, still struggling, the seaman was carried forward toward the midships rail.
"For the despicable crime of murder," Wiles intoned, "You, Christopher Day, are sentenced to be hanged by the neck 'til you're dead. God have mercy, an' all that. Carry on, you lads!"
The halter was rough and heavy around his neck. Day squeezed his eyes shut against the stinging tears. These bastards. How could they do this to him? To anyone? How long had he sailed with this company and had scarcely a problem with any man? He could not fathom how it had all changed, or even when. It was as if someone had replaced the good sense of every man aboard, turning the whole crew into mindless savages. And they called him a savage!
"Haul away!"
Day had time enough for a final, futile twitch of resistance, then the noose tightened about his neck and he was swept up off the deck. The jeers of the men below him rang in his ears as he struggled vainly against the unyielding bite of the halter. Savages. The lot of them. It was Fowler. Fowler. Not him. Air. Air! He couldn't breathe. Oh Mother...