(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.
After so long in the dark of the hold, the sudden emergence into the dazzling sunlight rendered Matthew Barrett temporarily blind. He stumbled on the last few steps of the aft ladder and was dragged roughly onto the weather deck to keep him moving. There were still a few others making their way unsteadily up the ladder, all as equally blinded as he. They received no mercy for this temporary affliction, either. Barrett tripped over his own feet, knocking into one of the guards, and received a cuff to his ear for it.
"Keep movin', you laggards," Nate Tarwick snarled, giving Barrett a helpful prod with his musket butt. "Line up on the rail there."
Hands closed on Barrett's sleeves and he resisted for a moment, until he heard a light Irish whisper near his ear, bidding him to step carefully. Corporal McIntyre. Good sort, the corporal. Barrett let McIntyre guide him forward until he was in the formation desired by their captors. By now, his eyes were adjusting to the harsh sunlight. Blinking to clear away the natural trickle of tears caused by the light, Barrett looked around curiously. The men from the hold were being gathered at the larboard midships rail, well-covered by armed Marines and seamen alike. There was scarcely a traitor on the weather deck without a musket in his hands. Filthy bastards, Barrett thought sourly.
They were also, he realised abruptly, at anchor. McIntyre's hand tightened on his shoulder in a gesture of warning, but Barrett twisted around to see the brown sweep of island behind them. Where the hell were they? What was going to happen to them now? They had been visited in their dark prison by Dan Wiles, the quartermaster's mate, who told them of Kit Day's fate. At the murmur of disgust that came at that, Wiles added simply that no misbehaviour would be tolerated and went away again. Speculation erupted immediately upon his departure. Kit Day, they knew, had been the seaman who'd fallen down the forrard ladder back in English Harbour. What had he done to merit a hanging? More to the point, as Billy Springfield said loudly, why wasn't it Sergeant Devlin giving them this news?
That had silenced most of the speculation. Devlin had visited them twice since that first announcement about Lieutenant Forsythe, giving them teasing pieces of information about goings-on above them mixed in with threats about what would happen if they tried anything. He hadn't been the one to tell them of Kit Day. That detail didn't sit well with any of them. Uneasy quiet settled over the hold, until their guards had begun dragging them topside. Now they were standing at the rail awaiting the announcement of their own fates. Certainly, Barrett thought, Wiles didn't meant to hang all of them? Kit Day had only been a warning. He hoped that was so anyway.
"You lads!" Dan Wiles barked, climbing up onto the quarterdeck rail. He was dressed in his best liberty rig. A murmur went through the dirty, unkempt prisoners. Was this Wiles' way of mocking them? Barrett's gaze passed to the unfamiliar faces behind Wiles at the rail. Who the hell were they? "Listen close. This fella here is Mister Brand. He's in charge of you lot now. He ain't so gentle's me, neither. No funny b'ness or he'll have lads shot."
Mister Brand, a burly, pug-faced man, stepped closer to the rail. A groan of anger rippled through the gathered prisoners, for the instant Brand spoke he was betrayed as a Yankee. "You boys are goin' ashore, in small groups. There's plenny of work awaitin' you, that's assured. I ain't 'xpectin' no trouble from any of you lot and I ain't gonna give you no trouble, if y'all minds yerselves. You boys from Willful, take charge of that first rank. Get 'em down to the barge."
A group of seamen with red ribbons trailing from their tarred hats moved forward, muskets levelled, stirring the first rank of sullen, glaring Cornwalls toward the entry-port. Barrett kept his gaze lowered to avoid catching the eyes of any of their captors, but he watched the men filing reluctantly past. The seamen were looking more resentful than the Marines. He couldn't think why. They were all in this deep. Bad trouble, no doubt.
There was a long pause after the last of the men in that long file had packed into the barge. Those of the crew nearest the rail watched with barely-concealed anxiety as the well-filled boat began the long pull toward the beach. For the moment, Barrett couldn't bring himself to look. It was as if not looking would delay the inevitable. His gaze travelled instead upward, to the intricate maze of rigging, yards, and neatly-furled sails. Poor Cornwall. She was too fine a lady to have been disgraced this way.
"You boys off Trinity," Mister Brand called out. "Take charge of your prisoners."
"Cornwalls!" Corporal McIntyre barked, taking a bold step forward despite the muskets aimed at them. " 'Shun! Left, turn. Quick, march."
The unified scrape of shoe heels on the deck brought an unconscious smile to Barrett's face. Prisoners they might be, but McIntyre was showing that they, unlike their original captors, still had discipline. He paused before the entry-port, ignoring the scowling Yankee seaman guarding it, and turned about to make his descent. They had snatched back a small shred of the frigate's honour by making their departure in this manner, but it was not nearly enough to wipe the slate clean.
"Another show like that," the boat's coxswain snarled, "and I'll start droppin' lads over the side with a ball on they feet."
None of the Cornwalls offered a reply to that, but they hardly needed to. The puffiness around Corporal McIntyre's left eye and on his cheek suggested how serious these Yankees were. Barrett bit down on his tongue and dropped his eyes to the bottomboards. This was the lowest form of dishonour. His fists clenched tightly. What he wouldn't give to pay these scum back, as they deserved!
"Mattie," Jeffry Gallagher muttered, his voice low enough that Barrett could barely hear him and they were sitting mashed close together. "Stick close when we gets ashore. 'Round Mackie, like."
"Protectin' him?"
"Nah. Well mebbe. But he gots ideas, he does." Gallagher glanced toward the bow and grimaced. "We're all closin' on Mayden an' Ware, too. They ain't doin' so well."
That much Barrett understood. He'd seen the state of Ware's face and had cringed in sympathy. Mayden was worse off. That bastard Durham had given him a fearsome beating and all for interrupting Durham's attempt to capture Lieutenant Forsythe. They'd had to help him down the side-ladder, such was his poor state. The sight of it made Barrett's stomach churn. This was how they were treated for doing their duty was it? Well. He could think of a few things to do in answer for such brutality, carried out by a man who was supposed to be one of their mates.
"I'm gonna kill Durham," Barrett murmured, forcing himself to look up toward the beach.
"You ain't the only one. Hush now - I ain't lookin' to go swimmin' with roundshot."
The two young Marines fell silent, each staring ahead at their destination. As the boat pulled steadily toward the beach, details became more apparent. Several crudely constructed huts stood above the tideline and around them men moved about with apparent purpose. The first barge had unloaded its passengers and was returning for a second load. Barrett saw the mixed company of prisoners being herded out of sight over a long-crested hill. A chill prickled his spine. He didn't like the possible explanations for that.
"You lads," the coxswain said abruptly. "Will go ashore, tidy-like, and not make no noise. Any trouble an' you'll be shot."
Barrett felt a scowl form on his face. These Yanks must think their prisoners were stupid. Even he could see there was not yet any point in making a concerted resistance. It was far wiser to go along quietly - or mostly quietly - until everyone was ashore. It hadn't escaped his notice that Cornwall's captured crew outnumbered their captors, even with the turncoats. Not by much, of course, but any advantage was important. Wasn't it?
The barge gave a lurch as it ran up onto the beach. Under the coxswain's wary eye and spurred along by his impatient barks, the grim-faced prisoners emptied out of the boat and lined up in ranks on the sand. Corporal McIntyre chose not to take charge of the group this time and instead joined the first rank near Barrett. None of them made a sound until an armed seaman appeared from over the hill to stand before them.
"Now then, you lot," the seaman said brusquely. "This's simple. Move over beyond yon hill, nice an' quiet, an' settle down to workin'. There's plenny of diggin' needs doin', like."
Digging. Barrett suppressed a shiver. There weren't many reasons he could see for digging, especially not by this many men. He glanced toward Cornwall, which swung lazily at her cable some ways distant in the bay. Suddenly he thought he would have preferred being down in the inky dark of the hold, rather than here on the sand, likely as not about to dig his own grave. The group were moving now and he had to shuffle along with them. Whatever fate awaited them, they were heading toward it. Barrett only hoped it was not a bad one.
~
No one had seen Sergeant Devlin since he had stormed off the weather deck after a short conversation with Dan Wiles. He had been absent from the hanging of Kit Day and from everything else, including the movement of prisoners ashore after finally arriving at the rebels' island. That in itself was highly unusual. Devlin was not at all one to hide away after any kind of disagreement. Equally unusual was the fact that no one seemed willing to speculate on the reasons for his odd behaviour. This in particular struck George Swift as ominous.
It seemed to him that their carefully-structured plans were rapidly crumbling. Everything had been fine until they'd been joined by those two Yankee sloops. No blood shed, no death, only a calm, well-ordered taking over of the ship. In Swift's view, it had all started to go wrong when the rebels had come aboard. Getting involved with them had been a mistake. Most of the troubles, as Swift saw it, stemmed from the Yankees' frustrating indifference to the nearly everything Sergeant Devlin tried to get them to do. The shooting of Lieutenant Forsythe was due in no small part to that lack of interest in helping with anything. Most infuriating was the passive resistance offered to everything Devlin or his Marines suggested. Even Dan Wiles had to find them aggravating to deal with.
They should have taken their chances on their own, but now it was much too late. At least, Swift admitted grudgingly, ownership of Cornwall was not in question. Dan Wiles was acting captain of the frigate and he had made it clear that she would remain a British ship. Keeping responsibility of the frigate meant the mutineers had a safe place to live - and a place to defend themselves from, should the Yankees get greedy. It was a better arrangement than what their unlucky mates had now. From what Swift had seen from the foc's'le, the prisoners were given an open stretch of ground to sleep on and only a handful of blankets to share amongst them. It was going to be misery at night.
Swift leaned on his musket and tried to keep his sympathy from manifesting itself into facial expression. He was believing less and less in this cause. The idea of betraying his mates and his Corps had never sat well with him but he had gone along with it anyway, believing that there was no other way to stop Captain Leaford. Frustration had compelled him to throw in with Sergeant Devlin but he could see well enough now that he had made a grave mistake. The Navy would catch them up, all of them, of that he had no doubt. If they didn't destroy themselves first. Day's hanging was, Swift feared, only the beginning. It was only a matter of time before Admiral Rodney detached ships for the purpose of hunting them down. The loss of a frigate, more precious to the Navy than gold, was not something he could tolerate.
The biggest question, as Swift saw it, was one of, 'how could they avoid the noose?' Devlin and Wiles were beyond help, for they had orchestrated all of this. But for lads like himself and young Edgar Tomilson there - helping Graves the surgeon's mate clean bandages on the other side of the foc's'le - there might be hope. Perhaps moreso for the young ones like Tomilson. Poor Eddie. He believed nearly everything that Devlin told him. Such blind gullibility. Swift shook his head. It was a shame. Swift himself had joined Devlin's plot out of frustration, but Tomilson and his mates had done so out of youthful impulse. That could be corrected, with some careful persuasion. Couldn't it? It would be a waste for those lads to meet their ends at the gallows for following the lead of a silver-tongued sergeant. The trouble there would be figuring a way to convince Tomilson and his mates that they'd erred.
"Swift."
He turned to see Nate Tarwick approaching. "Tarwick," he greeted with a nod. This was one of the lads he would not trouble himself helping. He'd heard what he'd done to Albert Ware and disapproved of it heartily.
"Devlin wants you." Tarwick glanced toward where Eddie Tomilson worked alongside Graves and made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat. "Bloody toady, that boy."
Swift said nothing and turned away. Given half a chance, he would do Tarwick the same way Tarwick had done Ware. It was least that bastard deserved. He took his musket with him as he headed below, base instinct telling him to keep his firelock close by. Even though they had kept control of Cornwall, something told him they weren't completely safe aboard. Any true sense of security had been driven clean away when they had wrested command away from their captain.
A seaman directed him aft to the great cabin, when Swift asked where Devlin might be found. The Marine noted the absence of a sentry as he rapped cautiously at the screen door. Cornwall seemed eerily empty with most of her crew being held ashore as prisoners. Devlin's tired voice called out for him to enter after a moment and Swift stepped into the cabin.
"Sent for, Sarn't?"
There was no immediate response and for a moment Swift thought Devlin hadn't heard him. Then the sergeant heaved a sigh and, not turning away from the stern gallery, said, "We done a fool thing, Georgie. A damn fool thing."
"Sarn't?" Swift lifted an eyebrow, a feeling of alarm stirring to life.
"This," Devlin lifted an arm to indicate the island and one of the two Yankee brigs that was in view. "Fallin' in with these bastards. Set us up for hard times and there's no escapin' it."
"What are you - "
Devlin moved sharply and Swift jumped in surprise, both at the motion and the following sound of glass shattering against wood. "Don't you see it? We done more'n rise 'gainst that bastard Leaford. We gone and sold out, to the bleedin' enemy. And they ain't even Frogs!"
What the hell was he going on about? Swift watched the wine spread slowly out over the deck beams, then lifted his gaze to rest on his sergeant, who was now hunched over a chair, his shoulders tense beneath his heavy coat. "We've only sent off them others," Swift said cautiously, not understanding at all what Devlin meant. "We still got Cornwall for ourselves."
"That ain't the point!" Devlin swung around, nearly losing his balance as he did so. It was obvious to Swift now that his sergeant was drunk. Almost hopelessly so. "The point is... the point is there's no way of goin' back now. We set ourselves up bad, mate. Ain't any of us comin' out of this happily."
It was strange, Swift thought, hearing words that so closely mirrored his own view. Especially coming from Sergeant Devlin, drunk or not. Maybe there was more to this whole thing than even Devlin was ready to bear. Why had he sent for Swift, anyway? Wasn't it Durham who ought to be here, listening to this?
"I don't see what - "
"Do you know," Devlin interrupted, sounding annoyed. "What this island is really used for? Oh aye, the rebels use it to store provisions, but the Frogs come here too. I ain't gotta say what that means."
No, he didn't. Swift looked out the stern gallery with a chill of foreboding. If this was a stopping place for French ships... they were indeed in trouble. His mind shifted immediately to consideration about how to get out of this situation. If they still had their prisoners aboard, they'd be well enough manned to sail Cornwall out of here. The removal of the loyal crew, he realised, had been a clever move on the Yankees' part. Separate them then take over everything. Damned clever.
"What d'we do, Sarn't?"
Devlin laughed harshly. The sound was thick and slurred. "Do? The hell do you think we can do? We're anchored here and there ain't no hope of puttin' to sea again. Not under our own colours, anyways!" The Irishman shook his head, his laughter petering out to raspy chuckles. He sat down heavily into the chair he had been leaning against and reached at once for the opened wine bottle on the table. "Wiles turned his coat even on me, he done. None of this was s'posed to happen."
Those last words, more than any of the rest, rang loudly in Swift's mind. None of this was s'posed to happen. That alone told him volumes about the state of affairs. All the more reason to get started planting seeds of doubt in the younger Marines' ears. "I dunno what you're talkin' of, Sarn't," Swift told him. "This was all 'cording to plan, I'd thought."
"Noo-o. Nothin' I planned, least'ways." A bitter smile came onto Devlin's face. "All I was lookin' for was to take the ship 'way from Cap'n Leaford. No hangin' lads, no shootin' officers, no fallin' in with Yankees. All of that's Dan Wiles' doin'. I never said a thing 'gainst it neither, 'cause sure I didn't know it was gonna happen 'til it did. Makes me a bigger fool than Leaford, don't it?"
"We can still run," Swift said, sensing an opportunity in Devlin's obvious vulnerability. "Bring the other lads back aboard an' cut our cables. Don't have to sit here waitin' for no Frogs to come 'round." That would be a worse fate even than their present one. It was an affront to every Englishman, to be consigned to a French prison. Especially by such trickery.
"And how'd you reckon we do that? There's no outsmartin' the sly bugger Dan Wiles. He's figgered everything out." Devlin tipped the wine bottle to his lips, only to discover to his anger that it was empty. "Durham! Be less of a bloody useless lump an' get me another bottle."
Oh hell. The heavy feeling of dread in Swift's stomach thickened. Devlin thought he was Durham. This... this was bad. And very dangerous. When Devlin sobered up, he was going to send for Durham and then it would come out that it had been Swift here in the great cabin instead of Durham. He was definitely in it now. "Aye aye, Sarn't," Swift said, looking around the cabin. There had to be another bottle of wine - or something - in here somewhere. Ah! The Marine retrieved the crystal decanter and delivered it quickly to Devlin's waiting hands.
"There's gotta be somethin' we can do," he said, after stepping back to a safer distance.
"Oh aye. We can sit an' wait for the Frogs to come an' drag us all off to God only knows where. I'd rather a noose than that, I'll tell ya!" A hiccup escaped him, after he tossed back a goodly swallow of port. "I'll say one thing for our dear cap'n. He keeps a good cellar! Do me a favour, Georgie. Run an' fetch the sawbones aft. He's owin' me a promise."
"Aye aye, Sarn't." Swift didn't even bother with a salute and was gone from the cabin in an instant. Everything he'd heard had not been meant at all for his ears. There was going to be merry hell to pay when Devlin realised his mistake. This was suddenly a very dangerous situation. For the first time in his memory, Swift felt the faint prickle of fear. When Devlin came back to his senses... it was better not to think about it. He reached the sick-berth and passed along Devlin's vague message. Doctor Finch gave no indication that he knew what the sergeant wanted or meant, but Swift wouldn't have noticed anyway. Once Finch dismissed him, he went directly topside, knowing nothing for sure but that he had to find Eddie Tomilson.
The young Marine was still on the foc's'le, though Mister Graves was long since gone. He looked to be enjoying the lack of responsibilities, for he was sprawled on the deck with a pipe in his mouth. Swift glanced around the weather deck with forced calm before sitting down near Tomilson. "Eddie," he said in a low voice, taking care to keep his musket close to hand. He was about to make his situation even more precarious, but it was something that needed to be done. There might be no saving him now, and he suspected there wouldn't be, yet he was nearly convinced the younger, more impressionable, Marines still had a chance. Tomilson was looking sidelong at him, curiosity on his face.
Swift drew in a steadying breath. Here goes. "Gimme an ear, I got somethin' you needin' to know."
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.
After so long in the dark of the hold, the sudden emergence into the dazzling sunlight rendered Matthew Barrett temporarily blind. He stumbled on the last few steps of the aft ladder and was dragged roughly onto the weather deck to keep him moving. There were still a few others making their way unsteadily up the ladder, all as equally blinded as he. They received no mercy for this temporary affliction, either. Barrett tripped over his own feet, knocking into one of the guards, and received a cuff to his ear for it.
"Keep movin', you laggards," Nate Tarwick snarled, giving Barrett a helpful prod with his musket butt. "Line up on the rail there."
Hands closed on Barrett's sleeves and he resisted for a moment, until he heard a light Irish whisper near his ear, bidding him to step carefully. Corporal McIntyre. Good sort, the corporal. Barrett let McIntyre guide him forward until he was in the formation desired by their captors. By now, his eyes were adjusting to the harsh sunlight. Blinking to clear away the natural trickle of tears caused by the light, Barrett looked around curiously. The men from the hold were being gathered at the larboard midships rail, well-covered by armed Marines and seamen alike. There was scarcely a traitor on the weather deck without a musket in his hands. Filthy bastards, Barrett thought sourly.
They were also, he realised abruptly, at anchor. McIntyre's hand tightened on his shoulder in a gesture of warning, but Barrett twisted around to see the brown sweep of island behind them. Where the hell were they? What was going to happen to them now? They had been visited in their dark prison by Dan Wiles, the quartermaster's mate, who told them of Kit Day's fate. At the murmur of disgust that came at that, Wiles added simply that no misbehaviour would be tolerated and went away again. Speculation erupted immediately upon his departure. Kit Day, they knew, had been the seaman who'd fallen down the forrard ladder back in English Harbour. What had he done to merit a hanging? More to the point, as Billy Springfield said loudly, why wasn't it Sergeant Devlin giving them this news?
That had silenced most of the speculation. Devlin had visited them twice since that first announcement about Lieutenant Forsythe, giving them teasing pieces of information about goings-on above them mixed in with threats about what would happen if they tried anything. He hadn't been the one to tell them of Kit Day. That detail didn't sit well with any of them. Uneasy quiet settled over the hold, until their guards had begun dragging them topside. Now they were standing at the rail awaiting the announcement of their own fates. Certainly, Barrett thought, Wiles didn't meant to hang all of them? Kit Day had only been a warning. He hoped that was so anyway.
"You lads!" Dan Wiles barked, climbing up onto the quarterdeck rail. He was dressed in his best liberty rig. A murmur went through the dirty, unkempt prisoners. Was this Wiles' way of mocking them? Barrett's gaze passed to the unfamiliar faces behind Wiles at the rail. Who the hell were they? "Listen close. This fella here is Mister Brand. He's in charge of you lot now. He ain't so gentle's me, neither. No funny b'ness or he'll have lads shot."
Mister Brand, a burly, pug-faced man, stepped closer to the rail. A groan of anger rippled through the gathered prisoners, for the instant Brand spoke he was betrayed as a Yankee. "You boys are goin' ashore, in small groups. There's plenny of work awaitin' you, that's assured. I ain't 'xpectin' no trouble from any of you lot and I ain't gonna give you no trouble, if y'all minds yerselves. You boys from Willful, take charge of that first rank. Get 'em down to the barge."
A group of seamen with red ribbons trailing from their tarred hats moved forward, muskets levelled, stirring the first rank of sullen, glaring Cornwalls toward the entry-port. Barrett kept his gaze lowered to avoid catching the eyes of any of their captors, but he watched the men filing reluctantly past. The seamen were looking more resentful than the Marines. He couldn't think why. They were all in this deep. Bad trouble, no doubt.
There was a long pause after the last of the men in that long file had packed into the barge. Those of the crew nearest the rail watched with barely-concealed anxiety as the well-filled boat began the long pull toward the beach. For the moment, Barrett couldn't bring himself to look. It was as if not looking would delay the inevitable. His gaze travelled instead upward, to the intricate maze of rigging, yards, and neatly-furled sails. Poor Cornwall. She was too fine a lady to have been disgraced this way.
"You boys off Trinity," Mister Brand called out. "Take charge of your prisoners."
"Cornwalls!" Corporal McIntyre barked, taking a bold step forward despite the muskets aimed at them. " 'Shun! Left, turn. Quick, march."
The unified scrape of shoe heels on the deck brought an unconscious smile to Barrett's face. Prisoners they might be, but McIntyre was showing that they, unlike their original captors, still had discipline. He paused before the entry-port, ignoring the scowling Yankee seaman guarding it, and turned about to make his descent. They had snatched back a small shred of the frigate's honour by making their departure in this manner, but it was not nearly enough to wipe the slate clean.
"Another show like that," the boat's coxswain snarled, "and I'll start droppin' lads over the side with a ball on they feet."
None of the Cornwalls offered a reply to that, but they hardly needed to. The puffiness around Corporal McIntyre's left eye and on his cheek suggested how serious these Yankees were. Barrett bit down on his tongue and dropped his eyes to the bottomboards. This was the lowest form of dishonour. His fists clenched tightly. What he wouldn't give to pay these scum back, as they deserved!
"Mattie," Jeffry Gallagher muttered, his voice low enough that Barrett could barely hear him and they were sitting mashed close together. "Stick close when we gets ashore. 'Round Mackie, like."
"Protectin' him?"
"Nah. Well mebbe. But he gots ideas, he does." Gallagher glanced toward the bow and grimaced. "We're all closin' on Mayden an' Ware, too. They ain't doin' so well."
That much Barrett understood. He'd seen the state of Ware's face and had cringed in sympathy. Mayden was worse off. That bastard Durham had given him a fearsome beating and all for interrupting Durham's attempt to capture Lieutenant Forsythe. They'd had to help him down the side-ladder, such was his poor state. The sight of it made Barrett's stomach churn. This was how they were treated for doing their duty was it? Well. He could think of a few things to do in answer for such brutality, carried out by a man who was supposed to be one of their mates.
"I'm gonna kill Durham," Barrett murmured, forcing himself to look up toward the beach.
"You ain't the only one. Hush now - I ain't lookin' to go swimmin' with roundshot."
The two young Marines fell silent, each staring ahead at their destination. As the boat pulled steadily toward the beach, details became more apparent. Several crudely constructed huts stood above the tideline and around them men moved about with apparent purpose. The first barge had unloaded its passengers and was returning for a second load. Barrett saw the mixed company of prisoners being herded out of sight over a long-crested hill. A chill prickled his spine. He didn't like the possible explanations for that.
"You lads," the coxswain said abruptly. "Will go ashore, tidy-like, and not make no noise. Any trouble an' you'll be shot."
Barrett felt a scowl form on his face. These Yanks must think their prisoners were stupid. Even he could see there was not yet any point in making a concerted resistance. It was far wiser to go along quietly - or mostly quietly - until everyone was ashore. It hadn't escaped his notice that Cornwall's captured crew outnumbered their captors, even with the turncoats. Not by much, of course, but any advantage was important. Wasn't it?
The barge gave a lurch as it ran up onto the beach. Under the coxswain's wary eye and spurred along by his impatient barks, the grim-faced prisoners emptied out of the boat and lined up in ranks on the sand. Corporal McIntyre chose not to take charge of the group this time and instead joined the first rank near Barrett. None of them made a sound until an armed seaman appeared from over the hill to stand before them.
"Now then, you lot," the seaman said brusquely. "This's simple. Move over beyond yon hill, nice an' quiet, an' settle down to workin'. There's plenny of diggin' needs doin', like."
Digging. Barrett suppressed a shiver. There weren't many reasons he could see for digging, especially not by this many men. He glanced toward Cornwall, which swung lazily at her cable some ways distant in the bay. Suddenly he thought he would have preferred being down in the inky dark of the hold, rather than here on the sand, likely as not about to dig his own grave. The group were moving now and he had to shuffle along with them. Whatever fate awaited them, they were heading toward it. Barrett only hoped it was not a bad one.
~
No one had seen Sergeant Devlin since he had stormed off the weather deck after a short conversation with Dan Wiles. He had been absent from the hanging of Kit Day and from everything else, including the movement of prisoners ashore after finally arriving at the rebels' island. That in itself was highly unusual. Devlin was not at all one to hide away after any kind of disagreement. Equally unusual was the fact that no one seemed willing to speculate on the reasons for his odd behaviour. This in particular struck George Swift as ominous.
It seemed to him that their carefully-structured plans were rapidly crumbling. Everything had been fine until they'd been joined by those two Yankee sloops. No blood shed, no death, only a calm, well-ordered taking over of the ship. In Swift's view, it had all started to go wrong when the rebels had come aboard. Getting involved with them had been a mistake. Most of the troubles, as Swift saw it, stemmed from the Yankees' frustrating indifference to the nearly everything Sergeant Devlin tried to get them to do. The shooting of Lieutenant Forsythe was due in no small part to that lack of interest in helping with anything. Most infuriating was the passive resistance offered to everything Devlin or his Marines suggested. Even Dan Wiles had to find them aggravating to deal with.
They should have taken their chances on their own, but now it was much too late. At least, Swift admitted grudgingly, ownership of Cornwall was not in question. Dan Wiles was acting captain of the frigate and he had made it clear that she would remain a British ship. Keeping responsibility of the frigate meant the mutineers had a safe place to live - and a place to defend themselves from, should the Yankees get greedy. It was a better arrangement than what their unlucky mates had now. From what Swift had seen from the foc's'le, the prisoners were given an open stretch of ground to sleep on and only a handful of blankets to share amongst them. It was going to be misery at night.
Swift leaned on his musket and tried to keep his sympathy from manifesting itself into facial expression. He was believing less and less in this cause. The idea of betraying his mates and his Corps had never sat well with him but he had gone along with it anyway, believing that there was no other way to stop Captain Leaford. Frustration had compelled him to throw in with Sergeant Devlin but he could see well enough now that he had made a grave mistake. The Navy would catch them up, all of them, of that he had no doubt. If they didn't destroy themselves first. Day's hanging was, Swift feared, only the beginning. It was only a matter of time before Admiral Rodney detached ships for the purpose of hunting them down. The loss of a frigate, more precious to the Navy than gold, was not something he could tolerate.
The biggest question, as Swift saw it, was one of, 'how could they avoid the noose?' Devlin and Wiles were beyond help, for they had orchestrated all of this. But for lads like himself and young Edgar Tomilson there - helping Graves the surgeon's mate clean bandages on the other side of the foc's'le - there might be hope. Perhaps moreso for the young ones like Tomilson. Poor Eddie. He believed nearly everything that Devlin told him. Such blind gullibility. Swift shook his head. It was a shame. Swift himself had joined Devlin's plot out of frustration, but Tomilson and his mates had done so out of youthful impulse. That could be corrected, with some careful persuasion. Couldn't it? It would be a waste for those lads to meet their ends at the gallows for following the lead of a silver-tongued sergeant. The trouble there would be figuring a way to convince Tomilson and his mates that they'd erred.
"Swift."
He turned to see Nate Tarwick approaching. "Tarwick," he greeted with a nod. This was one of the lads he would not trouble himself helping. He'd heard what he'd done to Albert Ware and disapproved of it heartily.
"Devlin wants you." Tarwick glanced toward where Eddie Tomilson worked alongside Graves and made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat. "Bloody toady, that boy."
Swift said nothing and turned away. Given half a chance, he would do Tarwick the same way Tarwick had done Ware. It was least that bastard deserved. He took his musket with him as he headed below, base instinct telling him to keep his firelock close by. Even though they had kept control of Cornwall, something told him they weren't completely safe aboard. Any true sense of security had been driven clean away when they had wrested command away from their captain.
A seaman directed him aft to the great cabin, when Swift asked where Devlin might be found. The Marine noted the absence of a sentry as he rapped cautiously at the screen door. Cornwall seemed eerily empty with most of her crew being held ashore as prisoners. Devlin's tired voice called out for him to enter after a moment and Swift stepped into the cabin.
"Sent for, Sarn't?"
There was no immediate response and for a moment Swift thought Devlin hadn't heard him. Then the sergeant heaved a sigh and, not turning away from the stern gallery, said, "We done a fool thing, Georgie. A damn fool thing."
"Sarn't?" Swift lifted an eyebrow, a feeling of alarm stirring to life.
"This," Devlin lifted an arm to indicate the island and one of the two Yankee brigs that was in view. "Fallin' in with these bastards. Set us up for hard times and there's no escapin' it."
"What are you - "
Devlin moved sharply and Swift jumped in surprise, both at the motion and the following sound of glass shattering against wood. "Don't you see it? We done more'n rise 'gainst that bastard Leaford. We gone and sold out, to the bleedin' enemy. And they ain't even Frogs!"
What the hell was he going on about? Swift watched the wine spread slowly out over the deck beams, then lifted his gaze to rest on his sergeant, who was now hunched over a chair, his shoulders tense beneath his heavy coat. "We've only sent off them others," Swift said cautiously, not understanding at all what Devlin meant. "We still got Cornwall for ourselves."
"That ain't the point!" Devlin swung around, nearly losing his balance as he did so. It was obvious to Swift now that his sergeant was drunk. Almost hopelessly so. "The point is... the point is there's no way of goin' back now. We set ourselves up bad, mate. Ain't any of us comin' out of this happily."
It was strange, Swift thought, hearing words that so closely mirrored his own view. Especially coming from Sergeant Devlin, drunk or not. Maybe there was more to this whole thing than even Devlin was ready to bear. Why had he sent for Swift, anyway? Wasn't it Durham who ought to be here, listening to this?
"I don't see what - "
"Do you know," Devlin interrupted, sounding annoyed. "What this island is really used for? Oh aye, the rebels use it to store provisions, but the Frogs come here too. I ain't gotta say what that means."
No, he didn't. Swift looked out the stern gallery with a chill of foreboding. If this was a stopping place for French ships... they were indeed in trouble. His mind shifted immediately to consideration about how to get out of this situation. If they still had their prisoners aboard, they'd be well enough manned to sail Cornwall out of here. The removal of the loyal crew, he realised, had been a clever move on the Yankees' part. Separate them then take over everything. Damned clever.
"What d'we do, Sarn't?"
Devlin laughed harshly. The sound was thick and slurred. "Do? The hell do you think we can do? We're anchored here and there ain't no hope of puttin' to sea again. Not under our own colours, anyways!" The Irishman shook his head, his laughter petering out to raspy chuckles. He sat down heavily into the chair he had been leaning against and reached at once for the opened wine bottle on the table. "Wiles turned his coat even on me, he done. None of this was s'posed to happen."
Those last words, more than any of the rest, rang loudly in Swift's mind. None of this was s'posed to happen. That alone told him volumes about the state of affairs. All the more reason to get started planting seeds of doubt in the younger Marines' ears. "I dunno what you're talkin' of, Sarn't," Swift told him. "This was all 'cording to plan, I'd thought."
"Noo-o. Nothin' I planned, least'ways." A bitter smile came onto Devlin's face. "All I was lookin' for was to take the ship 'way from Cap'n Leaford. No hangin' lads, no shootin' officers, no fallin' in with Yankees. All of that's Dan Wiles' doin'. I never said a thing 'gainst it neither, 'cause sure I didn't know it was gonna happen 'til it did. Makes me a bigger fool than Leaford, don't it?"
"We can still run," Swift said, sensing an opportunity in Devlin's obvious vulnerability. "Bring the other lads back aboard an' cut our cables. Don't have to sit here waitin' for no Frogs to come 'round." That would be a worse fate even than their present one. It was an affront to every Englishman, to be consigned to a French prison. Especially by such trickery.
"And how'd you reckon we do that? There's no outsmartin' the sly bugger Dan Wiles. He's figgered everything out." Devlin tipped the wine bottle to his lips, only to discover to his anger that it was empty. "Durham! Be less of a bloody useless lump an' get me another bottle."
Oh hell. The heavy feeling of dread in Swift's stomach thickened. Devlin thought he was Durham. This... this was bad. And very dangerous. When Devlin sobered up, he was going to send for Durham and then it would come out that it had been Swift here in the great cabin instead of Durham. He was definitely in it now. "Aye aye, Sarn't," Swift said, looking around the cabin. There had to be another bottle of wine - or something - in here somewhere. Ah! The Marine retrieved the crystal decanter and delivered it quickly to Devlin's waiting hands.
"There's gotta be somethin' we can do," he said, after stepping back to a safer distance.
"Oh aye. We can sit an' wait for the Frogs to come an' drag us all off to God only knows where. I'd rather a noose than that, I'll tell ya!" A hiccup escaped him, after he tossed back a goodly swallow of port. "I'll say one thing for our dear cap'n. He keeps a good cellar! Do me a favour, Georgie. Run an' fetch the sawbones aft. He's owin' me a promise."
"Aye aye, Sarn't." Swift didn't even bother with a salute and was gone from the cabin in an instant. Everything he'd heard had not been meant at all for his ears. There was going to be merry hell to pay when Devlin realised his mistake. This was suddenly a very dangerous situation. For the first time in his memory, Swift felt the faint prickle of fear. When Devlin came back to his senses... it was better not to think about it. He reached the sick-berth and passed along Devlin's vague message. Doctor Finch gave no indication that he knew what the sergeant wanted or meant, but Swift wouldn't have noticed anyway. Once Finch dismissed him, he went directly topside, knowing nothing for sure but that he had to find Eddie Tomilson.
The young Marine was still on the foc's'le, though Mister Graves was long since gone. He looked to be enjoying the lack of responsibilities, for he was sprawled on the deck with a pipe in his mouth. Swift glanced around the weather deck with forced calm before sitting down near Tomilson. "Eddie," he said in a low voice, taking care to keep his musket close to hand. He was about to make his situation even more precarious, but it was something that needed to be done. There might be no saving him now, and he suspected there wouldn't be, yet he was nearly convinced the younger, more impressionable, Marines still had a chance. Tomilson was looking sidelong at him, curiosity on his face.
Swift drew in a steadying breath. Here goes. "Gimme an ear, I got somethin' you needin' to know."