(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.
Some time during the night, Billy Fowler disappeared.
Doctor Finch rose at his customary early hour and headed at once to the sick-berth to check on his two patients, and it was he who made the discovery. To his great disbelief, he also discovered that Graves, the surgeon's mate, had passed the night drinking a hoarded bottle of wine instead of monitoring Lieutenant Forsythe's condition, as Finch had directed him to. The result was a blissfully passed-out surgeon's mate, a lightly breathing Marine lieutenant, and a missing Marine private.
His first instinct was to summon the guard, but he checked himself half a heartbeat before doing so. It was safer, for Fowler, to not raise the alarm. This situation was precarious enough without needlessly endangering the missing Marine. It was vitally important to find him before one of Devlin's men did. Finch left Graves where he lay, slumped in his chair, and went to rouse Briggs. Someone needed to watch Mister Forsythe, while Finch carried out a discreet search of the ship.
The frigate seemed virtually deserted without the usual close-pack of swaying hammocks on the messdeck. Finch passed quietly along the sparsely-populated deck, his grey-eyed gaze passing over every slung hammock. He had half an idea what Fowler might get up to and hoped fervently that the young Marine was not attempting what Finch feared he was. It was possible to protect him, but not if blood was spilled by his hand.
Every hammock was occupied by a living body. Relief passed through Finch in the form of a quiet sigh, then he continued aft, doing his best to keep his shoes from scraping too noisily over the deck. The wardroom and its adjacent cabins were all empty, which presented him with a choice. He could take a lantern and search the hold, or he could go up to the gundeck.
The sound of a shot from above stopped him cold in mid-step, one foot on the ladder leading down. He had a terrible feeling he knew who had fired that shot. There were men stirring on the messdeck, awakened by the shot. Finch turned sharply, nearly falling when his feet tangled together, and ran up the ladder to the gundeck, knowing he had to get to the scene before anyone else.
He smelled the acrid tang of spent gunpowder the instant he reached the gundeck. The shot had come from the great cabin. Shod feet were hurrying down the ladder from topside, which spurred him toward the cabin's half-open door. Somebody cursed from within the cabin just before Finch shoved through the door, and he came upon a scene that disgusted him.
"Sir!" Sergeant Devlin hissed, trying gamely to drag himself up off the deck with only one arm. His right arm hung uselessly at his side, the shirt sleeve soaked thoroughly with blood. He had fallen against a chair, which he was using in his attempt to get back to his feet again. Finch's gaze jerked to the other man in the cabin. Billy Fowler stood with the pistol clutched in one hand, an expression of fury on his face. His other hand was fumbling with a cartridge.
"Get him!"
Finch moved, protective instinct overriding good sense. He interposed himself quickly between the newly-arriving Marines and Fowler. "Belay there!" The physician cried, grabbing hold of the musket that Nate Tarwick tried to aim at Fowler and pushing it down. "Get back, for God's sake!"
"Outta me way." Tarwick snarled, jerking the musket free. "Got no problems shootin' you first, you don't move."
The hard glint in the Marine's eyes suggested he would have no trouble at all doing just that. Finch held his ground, terrified but defiant. He would not yield to brutes like Tarwick. His gaze met Tarwick's for a long moment, then with a show of deliberate calm, he turned away from the Marine and his musket. If he was going to be shot, he did not see how it mattered if he received the ball in his back or his chest.
Other Marines were coming onto the scene, though whether they were armed like Tarwick, Finch could not say. He touched Fowler's arm, noting that the young Marine had managed finally to reload the pistol. This was a lethally precarious situation. "William," he said quietly, easing his hand toward the pistol. Fowler's gaze and aim were fixed on Devlin, who had given up trying to rise and was pressing his palm against the hole in his shoulder.
"Do it, boy," the sergeant growled, grimacing in pain. "G'an, do it."
Fowler trembled and pulled at the pistol's hammer. "Serve you right!"
None of the men at the doorway made any move forward. They recognised the danger too. Finch kept his eyes on Fowler's face, even as he reached slowly for the pistol. "William. This is not how it is meant to go."
"Ain't no other way, sir." Fowler's voice was cracking. "Ain't... he deserves it, sir."
Finch's long fingers were brushing just lightly against the barrel. "No. That is not for you to judge."
A tear-choked hiccup escaped from Fowler, accompanied by the metallic click of a hammer being drawn back. Tarwick had lifted his musket to his shoulder and was ready to fire. It was something Finch knew without seeing. Suddenly there was nothing more important than disarming Fowler before anything else happened.
"It's... his fault," Fowler moaned, squeezing his eyes shut as Finch curled his fingers around the pistol barrel. It was surprisingly easy to twist the firelock gently out of the Marine's hands. It's no one's fault, Finch thought sadly, setting the pistol carefully aside.
"Steady now. Sit down," the physician instructed quietly, at last turning his gaze toward Sergeant Devlin. Fowler's shot had struck him in the upper shoulder, near the joint. Hopefully the ball was not lodged in the bone. He did not like the idea of removing the arm. Not in this environment. With his hands firmly gripped around Fowler's elbow and shoulder, Finch helped the trembling Marine sink down to the deck.
"Take charge of him," Dan Wiles barked at Tarwick, shoving his way through the crowd at the cabin door. "The irons will do for now. See to Devlin, quick-like!" This second command was directed at Finch, who found himself pushed roughly away from the white-faced, sobbing Fowler.
"Unhand him," Finch began, rising to his feet, but Wiles put a hand against his chest to keep him back.
"Sorry. You ain't got any say what happens to him, now he's outta sick-berth. Seems he's well 'nuff to be out anyway. See to Sergeant Devlin. Sir."
Tarwick and another Marine were dragging Fowler away, which left Finch with no other option but to do as he was told. He stepped away from Wiles and turned his back with deliberate nonchalance. He was not about to let the quartermaster's mate see that he'd won. "There is little I can do here," he said, kneeling by the downed Marine. "He must be removed to the sick-berth. The ball may still be in his shoulder."
"Fine. See he gets there."
"I shall need - "
There was a light click, not unlike a hammer being cocked. "Can't spare a man, sir. Sorry. Don't you die now, Dev." With that, Wiles quit the cabin.
"Wouldn't give you the satisfaction," Devlin muttered.
Finch closed his eyes briefly in frustration. He should have expected to be left without assistance. "Come, Sergeant. Up you get."
It took some effort to get Devlin on his feet, but once upright, he seemed steady. At least steady enough to walk largely under his own power. He only required Finch's support at the ladder. They reached the sick-berth in time to see Graves beginning to awaken from his evening's wine-induced slumber. It was all Finch could do not to snap at the man for his negligence. That would have to wait until later.
"Boil some water," he told his mate instead. "And fetch some bandages. Now!"
The wide-eyed Graves dashed away to comply, while Finch and Briggs helped Devlin lie flat on the scarred and stained table. It was fortunate that Devlin wore only his shirt. There was less to cut away before the wound to his shoulder was exposed. With luck, the ball had passed cleanly through. His fingers moved expertly over the back of Devlin's shoulder and felt the puckered flesh of an exit wound. Good. Good. He sighed quietly in relief. There was definite hope for Devlin now.
"Laudanum," he said to Briggs, who turned away to retrieve it. "I am going to give you a few drops, Sergeant," Finch added, taking care to meet Devlin's gaze levelly. "It will ease the pain."
To his surprise, the Marine rasped an unsteady chuckle and lifted his blood-slick hand in a gesture of dismissal. "Ain't 'nuff laudanum on the earth for that, sir."
Briggs held out the small glass for Finch to take, then helped Devlin sit up enough to drink the liquid down without choking on it. The physic would begin to do its work shortly. In the meantime, Finch did his best to keep from thinking of the possible meanings behind Devlin's remark. It was becoming ever harder, he found, to keep himself detached from this damned intrigue, and that, to a medical man, was dangerous.
~
Things were getting out of control. What had been a well-ordered plan was falling apart. Dan Wiles paced restlessly over the quarterdeck, Fowler's pistol in one hand. It was supposed to have been easy. Get the prisoners ashore, wait for the French, and sell Cornwall. Neat, clean, and straightforward. Instead, three Marines had been shot and one sailor hanged. Four casualties and only two who survived. It seemed to him that Doctor Finch was becoming untrustworthy as well - this, more than anything, unsettled him. Part of it, he knew, stemmed simply from the sharing of a common county.
"Prisoner's ready," George Durham told him, stopping halfway up the quarterdeck stairs. He could not, Wiles noted, look him in the eye.
"Bring him up."
Durham was gone without so much as an acknowledgment. Disgusted, Wiles looked away toward the shoreline. The Yankees were stirring, going about the business of putting their new prisoners to work. He couldn't think what sort of labour the Yankees would put those men to, but neither did he care. There was plenty enough for him to worry about just managing the few lads aboard ship. How did officers manage it?
Behind him, down in the waist, Billy Fowler was being carried to the entry-port. Tarwick had seen to it that the young Marine would offer no resistance. With a sigh, Wiles made his way to the rail to watch. Getting rid of Fowler would, hopefully, put an end to the last distraction aboard. Well, he amended. Not quite. Lieutenant Forsythe was still in sick-berth, but he was hardly in any state to distract anybody.
"You comin' with us, Dan?"
Wiles shook his head. "Get him ashore, Seward. I don't wanna see him again."
"Aye aye," Seward called and climbed nimbly down the side-ladder. Two Marines sat with Fowler in between them, bayonet-tipped muskets held upright between their knees. Seward settled in at the tiller and the jollyboat shoved off to begin its journey to the beach. Good riddance, Wiles thought. Maybe now the wait for the French would pass quietly.
His gaze moved over the weather deck, from the neatly slacked-down braces on the nearest pinrail to the waist where some seamen were getting to work with the ingrained routine of holystoning. There was no doubt in his mind of the rightness of the course he'd chosen. No, this was the way things had to be. The doubt he felt arose from the increasingly apparent unreliability of those around him. That less than half the crew had followed his lead had not disheartened him as much as did watching them begin to fall into dissent.
It was probably just as well that Fowler had shot Devlin. This meant Wiles was spared the effort of doing so himself. He had heard of Devlin's growing disaffection and had only been waiting for a fitting moment to deal with him properly. The Irishman obviously did not have the backbone Wiles had previously credited him with. A pity; Devlin could have done very well for himself in the rebels' service, if he had been able to set aside his pathetic sense of honour.
"O'Dell!" Wiles called suddenly, returning to the quarterdeck rail with a brisk stride. "Go below and see how our mate Devlin fares. He's bound for the irons if he ain't dead."
The mast captain saluted with a soapy hand and headed immediately below. Doctor Finch would no doubt protest the removal of a patient, but Wiles didn't care. It mattered little to him if Devlin lived or died. The man had served his purpose and was now not much better than deadweight. In that respect, it was a shame Fowler had shot him. Otherwise, Wiles would have had Devlin sent ashore with him.
Judging by the shouting below, Devlin was putting up a fight. Stupid bastard. He had never really known when to cruise along quietly. This would serve him! Presently, O'Dell reappeared, nursing his left eye. A smirk turned up the corner of Wiles' mouth. Resisting hadn't done Devlin any good, obviously. Marines. They were nothing more than a necessary evil.
"I should like a word, Wiles!"
The quartermaster's mate sighed. Of course. Doctor Finch was not one to tolerate intrusions into his sick-berth, but circumstances had required it. Setting his jaw as he faced the red-faced physician, Wiles reminded himself that he, not Finch, held the authority here. Even though the man's anger, rarely-shown as it was, sent a tremor of fear through him. "Yes, sir?" Wiles asked casually, slipping the pistol through his belt. The weight of it comforted him somewhat. He would shoot even Finch if it helped him maintain control of the ship.
That was the only thing that mattered now.
~
Edgar Tomilson was wavering. His mind had been all a-whirl since George Swift had spoken to him the night before, giving him information that Swift wasn't supposed to know. Had Dan Wiles turned on them? Were they really soon to be pressed into French service? He didn't want to believe it, but he had the utmost faith in Sergeant Devlin's word. If he said that was what would happen... Goddamned Tars. You could not trust them at all.
He stared at the lock of his musket and listened to the steady slap of water against the jollyboat's hull. This was not anything like he'd thought. The way Devlin and Wiles had explained it, they would only have to capture Captain Leaford and all would be well. That had not even lasted a day. Harrison and Mister Forsythe had shot each other. Kit Day had killed Harrison. Wiles had ordered Day hanged. Sergeant Devlin was shot by Fowler, who in turn had been given a nasty beating by Tarwick. And they were now to sit idly in this little bay until the Frogs came.
"Rowed of all," Jonny Seward said. "Run her up."
The boat's keel dragged over the sand as the oarsmen heaved the craft up onto the beach. Tomilson and Swift waited until this work was finished before clambering onto the sand. It would take the pair of them to lift the quietly-whimpering Billy Fowler out of the boat. Disgust bubbled hot in Tomilson's stomach. He liked Fowler, despite the differences in their loyalties. It helped there was only a year separating them in age. They were two of the youngest Marines in the detachment, which meant sticking together was necessary for surviving. Real good use Tomilson had been to his mate, when he'd needed it...
"Steady, Billy," Tomilson muttered, doing his best to keep from jostling the other Marine. It was for the best they were leaving Fowler ashore. He would fare much better away from brutes like Tarwick.
The Yankees were staring at them with open interest. Tomilson tried to ignore them. Had they never seen a man fresh off a beating before? Not for the first time, he wished he was older and stronger. To be able to give Tarwick a similar thumping as revenge...
"Corporal!" Swift called out, as they were led over the hill to where the bulk of the prisoners were hard at work with spades and axes. "McIntyre!"
"Sufferin' Jesus," the corporal burst out when he looked up to see who was hailing him. He dropped his spade at once and hurried forward, ignoring the rebel guard who tried to stop him. "What the hell happened?"
Swift's expression was stony. "Tarwick," he said bitterly.
There was no need for McIntyre to make any response to that. The cloud that passed over his face said it all. He glanced back toward the large pit the rest of the crew were working within, though most of them had stopped to watch. "Davenport," he said, before he reached out to take Fowler's weight from the other two.
"Eddie'll help you," Swift told him quietly. Tomilson glanced at him gratefully and kept his grip on Fowler's shoulder. With Davenport's help, he carried his mate down to the edge of the pit, where they laid him carefully onto the ground. A seaman wordlessly offered his blue jacket to Davenport, who rolled it up and tucked it underneath Fowler's head.
"Poor bastard," somebody muttered from nearby.
Tomilson lingered a moment, until the stares of the men nearest him began to make him nervous. He remembered they were on opposite sides now - and he was vastly outnumbered. It was time to go. He unslung his musket, wanting it in hand out of instinct, but kept it at the trail as he tramped back toward Swift.
"Eddie," Corporal McIntyre said, offering him a slight nod. To his surprise, the Irishman laid a hand on his shoulder and gave a light squeeze. A gesture of sympathy for what had happened? It was something McIntyre would do. Then, to Tomilson's utter shock, the corporal grabbed hold of his musket. The firelock left his hands after a short struggle, for there was no competing with McIntyre's strength. Tomilson grabbed for his bayonet and managed somehow to twist it off the muzzle, his shock burning away sharply into anger. He was not going to be disarmed like this!
"Stop there, you lads!" One of the Yankees shouted, running toward them. Several others were coming as well, all with muskets. Tomilson slashed half-blind at McIntyre, only to receive the brass-capped musket butt square into his belly. The blow stopped him in his tracks, doubling him over with a loud whuff. His bayonet dropped from his fingers as he sagged to the ground, the wind knocked completely from his lungs. He retched twice and vomited, even though he had not eaten that morning.
"Sorry 'bout that, Eddie."
Tomilson tried to curse but could only manage a wheeze. What the hell... what the hell was all that for? He had been about to leave! With a moan, he curled up into as much of a ball as he could, wanting suddenly nothing more than to die. Now he knew what such a blow felt like. Unpleasant wasn't the half of it.
"Thank you, Mackie," he heard Swift say. "Be... be seein' you."
That bastard. Fury scorched through Tomilson. That damned traitor! He tried to uncurl himself, straighten out enough that he could sit up, but there was a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Lie easy, mate," McIntyre told him in his absurdly gentle Irish voice. "You're safer here ashore."
"B...b...bollocks." The word seemed to dribble out like the thin ribbon of saliva hanging from the corner of his mouth.
There was a hint of resignation in McIntyre's voice now. "Just you lie easy. When you're up again, I'll take you to Billy Fowler. Sound square?"
Fowler. Hell. They would be a fine pair, both of them effective prisoners within this lot of prisoners. Tomilson grunted, managing to twitch his head in a nod. How could Swift have done this to him? Bloody scheming bastard. Swift had been one of the last few he'd trusted and he'd gone and done this. Tears of useless anger began forming in his eyes and he squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to blot them away. Betrayed. Well and truly. That was about the size of it.
Corporal McIntyre gave him a final, reassuring pat on the arm, then he was gone, most likely forced back to work by one of the rebel guards. Nobody else came near him. He shivered and suppressed a moan. So this was the grand life of a Marine, eh? He wished he had never laid eyes on that recruiting sergeant. More tears threatened, some sliding down past his tightly-closed eyelids. He lifted one arm and tried to cover his face. For the first time in his life, or at least for the first time since he'd enlisted, Tomilson felt utterly alone.
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.
Some time during the night, Billy Fowler disappeared.
Doctor Finch rose at his customary early hour and headed at once to the sick-berth to check on his two patients, and it was he who made the discovery. To his great disbelief, he also discovered that Graves, the surgeon's mate, had passed the night drinking a hoarded bottle of wine instead of monitoring Lieutenant Forsythe's condition, as Finch had directed him to. The result was a blissfully passed-out surgeon's mate, a lightly breathing Marine lieutenant, and a missing Marine private.
His first instinct was to summon the guard, but he checked himself half a heartbeat before doing so. It was safer, for Fowler, to not raise the alarm. This situation was precarious enough without needlessly endangering the missing Marine. It was vitally important to find him before one of Devlin's men did. Finch left Graves where he lay, slumped in his chair, and went to rouse Briggs. Someone needed to watch Mister Forsythe, while Finch carried out a discreet search of the ship.
The frigate seemed virtually deserted without the usual close-pack of swaying hammocks on the messdeck. Finch passed quietly along the sparsely-populated deck, his grey-eyed gaze passing over every slung hammock. He had half an idea what Fowler might get up to and hoped fervently that the young Marine was not attempting what Finch feared he was. It was possible to protect him, but not if blood was spilled by his hand.
Every hammock was occupied by a living body. Relief passed through Finch in the form of a quiet sigh, then he continued aft, doing his best to keep his shoes from scraping too noisily over the deck. The wardroom and its adjacent cabins were all empty, which presented him with a choice. He could take a lantern and search the hold, or he could go up to the gundeck.
The sound of a shot from above stopped him cold in mid-step, one foot on the ladder leading down. He had a terrible feeling he knew who had fired that shot. There were men stirring on the messdeck, awakened by the shot. Finch turned sharply, nearly falling when his feet tangled together, and ran up the ladder to the gundeck, knowing he had to get to the scene before anyone else.
He smelled the acrid tang of spent gunpowder the instant he reached the gundeck. The shot had come from the great cabin. Shod feet were hurrying down the ladder from topside, which spurred him toward the cabin's half-open door. Somebody cursed from within the cabin just before Finch shoved through the door, and he came upon a scene that disgusted him.
"Sir!" Sergeant Devlin hissed, trying gamely to drag himself up off the deck with only one arm. His right arm hung uselessly at his side, the shirt sleeve soaked thoroughly with blood. He had fallen against a chair, which he was using in his attempt to get back to his feet again. Finch's gaze jerked to the other man in the cabin. Billy Fowler stood with the pistol clutched in one hand, an expression of fury on his face. His other hand was fumbling with a cartridge.
"Get him!"
Finch moved, protective instinct overriding good sense. He interposed himself quickly between the newly-arriving Marines and Fowler. "Belay there!" The physician cried, grabbing hold of the musket that Nate Tarwick tried to aim at Fowler and pushing it down. "Get back, for God's sake!"
"Outta me way." Tarwick snarled, jerking the musket free. "Got no problems shootin' you first, you don't move."
The hard glint in the Marine's eyes suggested he would have no trouble at all doing just that. Finch held his ground, terrified but defiant. He would not yield to brutes like Tarwick. His gaze met Tarwick's for a long moment, then with a show of deliberate calm, he turned away from the Marine and his musket. If he was going to be shot, he did not see how it mattered if he received the ball in his back or his chest.
Other Marines were coming onto the scene, though whether they were armed like Tarwick, Finch could not say. He touched Fowler's arm, noting that the young Marine had managed finally to reload the pistol. This was a lethally precarious situation. "William," he said quietly, easing his hand toward the pistol. Fowler's gaze and aim were fixed on Devlin, who had given up trying to rise and was pressing his palm against the hole in his shoulder.
"Do it, boy," the sergeant growled, grimacing in pain. "G'an, do it."
Fowler trembled and pulled at the pistol's hammer. "Serve you right!"
None of the men at the doorway made any move forward. They recognised the danger too. Finch kept his eyes on Fowler's face, even as he reached slowly for the pistol. "William. This is not how it is meant to go."
"Ain't no other way, sir." Fowler's voice was cracking. "Ain't... he deserves it, sir."
Finch's long fingers were brushing just lightly against the barrel. "No. That is not for you to judge."
A tear-choked hiccup escaped from Fowler, accompanied by the metallic click of a hammer being drawn back. Tarwick had lifted his musket to his shoulder and was ready to fire. It was something Finch knew without seeing. Suddenly there was nothing more important than disarming Fowler before anything else happened.
"It's... his fault," Fowler moaned, squeezing his eyes shut as Finch curled his fingers around the pistol barrel. It was surprisingly easy to twist the firelock gently out of the Marine's hands. It's no one's fault, Finch thought sadly, setting the pistol carefully aside.
"Steady now. Sit down," the physician instructed quietly, at last turning his gaze toward Sergeant Devlin. Fowler's shot had struck him in the upper shoulder, near the joint. Hopefully the ball was not lodged in the bone. He did not like the idea of removing the arm. Not in this environment. With his hands firmly gripped around Fowler's elbow and shoulder, Finch helped the trembling Marine sink down to the deck.
"Take charge of him," Dan Wiles barked at Tarwick, shoving his way through the crowd at the cabin door. "The irons will do for now. See to Devlin, quick-like!" This second command was directed at Finch, who found himself pushed roughly away from the white-faced, sobbing Fowler.
"Unhand him," Finch began, rising to his feet, but Wiles put a hand against his chest to keep him back.
"Sorry. You ain't got any say what happens to him, now he's outta sick-berth. Seems he's well 'nuff to be out anyway. See to Sergeant Devlin. Sir."
Tarwick and another Marine were dragging Fowler away, which left Finch with no other option but to do as he was told. He stepped away from Wiles and turned his back with deliberate nonchalance. He was not about to let the quartermaster's mate see that he'd won. "There is little I can do here," he said, kneeling by the downed Marine. "He must be removed to the sick-berth. The ball may still be in his shoulder."
"Fine. See he gets there."
"I shall need - "
There was a light click, not unlike a hammer being cocked. "Can't spare a man, sir. Sorry. Don't you die now, Dev." With that, Wiles quit the cabin.
"Wouldn't give you the satisfaction," Devlin muttered.
Finch closed his eyes briefly in frustration. He should have expected to be left without assistance. "Come, Sergeant. Up you get."
It took some effort to get Devlin on his feet, but once upright, he seemed steady. At least steady enough to walk largely under his own power. He only required Finch's support at the ladder. They reached the sick-berth in time to see Graves beginning to awaken from his evening's wine-induced slumber. It was all Finch could do not to snap at the man for his negligence. That would have to wait until later.
"Boil some water," he told his mate instead. "And fetch some bandages. Now!"
The wide-eyed Graves dashed away to comply, while Finch and Briggs helped Devlin lie flat on the scarred and stained table. It was fortunate that Devlin wore only his shirt. There was less to cut away before the wound to his shoulder was exposed. With luck, the ball had passed cleanly through. His fingers moved expertly over the back of Devlin's shoulder and felt the puckered flesh of an exit wound. Good. Good. He sighed quietly in relief. There was definite hope for Devlin now.
"Laudanum," he said to Briggs, who turned away to retrieve it. "I am going to give you a few drops, Sergeant," Finch added, taking care to meet Devlin's gaze levelly. "It will ease the pain."
To his surprise, the Marine rasped an unsteady chuckle and lifted his blood-slick hand in a gesture of dismissal. "Ain't 'nuff laudanum on the earth for that, sir."
Briggs held out the small glass for Finch to take, then helped Devlin sit up enough to drink the liquid down without choking on it. The physic would begin to do its work shortly. In the meantime, Finch did his best to keep from thinking of the possible meanings behind Devlin's remark. It was becoming ever harder, he found, to keep himself detached from this damned intrigue, and that, to a medical man, was dangerous.
~
Things were getting out of control. What had been a well-ordered plan was falling apart. Dan Wiles paced restlessly over the quarterdeck, Fowler's pistol in one hand. It was supposed to have been easy. Get the prisoners ashore, wait for the French, and sell Cornwall. Neat, clean, and straightforward. Instead, three Marines had been shot and one sailor hanged. Four casualties and only two who survived. It seemed to him that Doctor Finch was becoming untrustworthy as well - this, more than anything, unsettled him. Part of it, he knew, stemmed simply from the sharing of a common county.
"Prisoner's ready," George Durham told him, stopping halfway up the quarterdeck stairs. He could not, Wiles noted, look him in the eye.
"Bring him up."
Durham was gone without so much as an acknowledgment. Disgusted, Wiles looked away toward the shoreline. The Yankees were stirring, going about the business of putting their new prisoners to work. He couldn't think what sort of labour the Yankees would put those men to, but neither did he care. There was plenty enough for him to worry about just managing the few lads aboard ship. How did officers manage it?
Behind him, down in the waist, Billy Fowler was being carried to the entry-port. Tarwick had seen to it that the young Marine would offer no resistance. With a sigh, Wiles made his way to the rail to watch. Getting rid of Fowler would, hopefully, put an end to the last distraction aboard. Well, he amended. Not quite. Lieutenant Forsythe was still in sick-berth, but he was hardly in any state to distract anybody.
"You comin' with us, Dan?"
Wiles shook his head. "Get him ashore, Seward. I don't wanna see him again."
"Aye aye," Seward called and climbed nimbly down the side-ladder. Two Marines sat with Fowler in between them, bayonet-tipped muskets held upright between their knees. Seward settled in at the tiller and the jollyboat shoved off to begin its journey to the beach. Good riddance, Wiles thought. Maybe now the wait for the French would pass quietly.
His gaze moved over the weather deck, from the neatly slacked-down braces on the nearest pinrail to the waist where some seamen were getting to work with the ingrained routine of holystoning. There was no doubt in his mind of the rightness of the course he'd chosen. No, this was the way things had to be. The doubt he felt arose from the increasingly apparent unreliability of those around him. That less than half the crew had followed his lead had not disheartened him as much as did watching them begin to fall into dissent.
It was probably just as well that Fowler had shot Devlin. This meant Wiles was spared the effort of doing so himself. He had heard of Devlin's growing disaffection and had only been waiting for a fitting moment to deal with him properly. The Irishman obviously did not have the backbone Wiles had previously credited him with. A pity; Devlin could have done very well for himself in the rebels' service, if he had been able to set aside his pathetic sense of honour.
"O'Dell!" Wiles called suddenly, returning to the quarterdeck rail with a brisk stride. "Go below and see how our mate Devlin fares. He's bound for the irons if he ain't dead."
The mast captain saluted with a soapy hand and headed immediately below. Doctor Finch would no doubt protest the removal of a patient, but Wiles didn't care. It mattered little to him if Devlin lived or died. The man had served his purpose and was now not much better than deadweight. In that respect, it was a shame Fowler had shot him. Otherwise, Wiles would have had Devlin sent ashore with him.
Judging by the shouting below, Devlin was putting up a fight. Stupid bastard. He had never really known when to cruise along quietly. This would serve him! Presently, O'Dell reappeared, nursing his left eye. A smirk turned up the corner of Wiles' mouth. Resisting hadn't done Devlin any good, obviously. Marines. They were nothing more than a necessary evil.
"I should like a word, Wiles!"
The quartermaster's mate sighed. Of course. Doctor Finch was not one to tolerate intrusions into his sick-berth, but circumstances had required it. Setting his jaw as he faced the red-faced physician, Wiles reminded himself that he, not Finch, held the authority here. Even though the man's anger, rarely-shown as it was, sent a tremor of fear through him. "Yes, sir?" Wiles asked casually, slipping the pistol through his belt. The weight of it comforted him somewhat. He would shoot even Finch if it helped him maintain control of the ship.
That was the only thing that mattered now.
~
Edgar Tomilson was wavering. His mind had been all a-whirl since George Swift had spoken to him the night before, giving him information that Swift wasn't supposed to know. Had Dan Wiles turned on them? Were they really soon to be pressed into French service? He didn't want to believe it, but he had the utmost faith in Sergeant Devlin's word. If he said that was what would happen... Goddamned Tars. You could not trust them at all.
He stared at the lock of his musket and listened to the steady slap of water against the jollyboat's hull. This was not anything like he'd thought. The way Devlin and Wiles had explained it, they would only have to capture Captain Leaford and all would be well. That had not even lasted a day. Harrison and Mister Forsythe had shot each other. Kit Day had killed Harrison. Wiles had ordered Day hanged. Sergeant Devlin was shot by Fowler, who in turn had been given a nasty beating by Tarwick. And they were now to sit idly in this little bay until the Frogs came.
"Rowed of all," Jonny Seward said. "Run her up."
The boat's keel dragged over the sand as the oarsmen heaved the craft up onto the beach. Tomilson and Swift waited until this work was finished before clambering onto the sand. It would take the pair of them to lift the quietly-whimpering Billy Fowler out of the boat. Disgust bubbled hot in Tomilson's stomach. He liked Fowler, despite the differences in their loyalties. It helped there was only a year separating them in age. They were two of the youngest Marines in the detachment, which meant sticking together was necessary for surviving. Real good use Tomilson had been to his mate, when he'd needed it...
"Steady, Billy," Tomilson muttered, doing his best to keep from jostling the other Marine. It was for the best they were leaving Fowler ashore. He would fare much better away from brutes like Tarwick.
The Yankees were staring at them with open interest. Tomilson tried to ignore them. Had they never seen a man fresh off a beating before? Not for the first time, he wished he was older and stronger. To be able to give Tarwick a similar thumping as revenge...
"Corporal!" Swift called out, as they were led over the hill to where the bulk of the prisoners were hard at work with spades and axes. "McIntyre!"
"Sufferin' Jesus," the corporal burst out when he looked up to see who was hailing him. He dropped his spade at once and hurried forward, ignoring the rebel guard who tried to stop him. "What the hell happened?"
Swift's expression was stony. "Tarwick," he said bitterly.
There was no need for McIntyre to make any response to that. The cloud that passed over his face said it all. He glanced back toward the large pit the rest of the crew were working within, though most of them had stopped to watch. "Davenport," he said, before he reached out to take Fowler's weight from the other two.
"Eddie'll help you," Swift told him quietly. Tomilson glanced at him gratefully and kept his grip on Fowler's shoulder. With Davenport's help, he carried his mate down to the edge of the pit, where they laid him carefully onto the ground. A seaman wordlessly offered his blue jacket to Davenport, who rolled it up and tucked it underneath Fowler's head.
"Poor bastard," somebody muttered from nearby.
Tomilson lingered a moment, until the stares of the men nearest him began to make him nervous. He remembered they were on opposite sides now - and he was vastly outnumbered. It was time to go. He unslung his musket, wanting it in hand out of instinct, but kept it at the trail as he tramped back toward Swift.
"Eddie," Corporal McIntyre said, offering him a slight nod. To his surprise, the Irishman laid a hand on his shoulder and gave a light squeeze. A gesture of sympathy for what had happened? It was something McIntyre would do. Then, to Tomilson's utter shock, the corporal grabbed hold of his musket. The firelock left his hands after a short struggle, for there was no competing with McIntyre's strength. Tomilson grabbed for his bayonet and managed somehow to twist it off the muzzle, his shock burning away sharply into anger. He was not going to be disarmed like this!
"Stop there, you lads!" One of the Yankees shouted, running toward them. Several others were coming as well, all with muskets. Tomilson slashed half-blind at McIntyre, only to receive the brass-capped musket butt square into his belly. The blow stopped him in his tracks, doubling him over with a loud whuff. His bayonet dropped from his fingers as he sagged to the ground, the wind knocked completely from his lungs. He retched twice and vomited, even though he had not eaten that morning.
"Sorry 'bout that, Eddie."
Tomilson tried to curse but could only manage a wheeze. What the hell... what the hell was all that for? He had been about to leave! With a moan, he curled up into as much of a ball as he could, wanting suddenly nothing more than to die. Now he knew what such a blow felt like. Unpleasant wasn't the half of it.
"Thank you, Mackie," he heard Swift say. "Be... be seein' you."
That bastard. Fury scorched through Tomilson. That damned traitor! He tried to uncurl himself, straighten out enough that he could sit up, but there was a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Lie easy, mate," McIntyre told him in his absurdly gentle Irish voice. "You're safer here ashore."
"B...b...bollocks." The word seemed to dribble out like the thin ribbon of saliva hanging from the corner of his mouth.
There was a hint of resignation in McIntyre's voice now. "Just you lie easy. When you're up again, I'll take you to Billy Fowler. Sound square?"
Fowler. Hell. They would be a fine pair, both of them effective prisoners within this lot of prisoners. Tomilson grunted, managing to twitch his head in a nod. How could Swift have done this to him? Bloody scheming bastard. Swift had been one of the last few he'd trusted and he'd gone and done this. Tears of useless anger began forming in his eyes and he squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to blot them away. Betrayed. Well and truly. That was about the size of it.
Corporal McIntyre gave him a final, reassuring pat on the arm, then he was gone, most likely forced back to work by one of the rebel guards. Nobody else came near him. He shivered and suppressed a moan. So this was the grand life of a Marine, eh? He wished he had never laid eyes on that recruiting sergeant. More tears threatened, some sliding down past his tightly-closed eyelids. He lifted one arm and tried to cover his face. For the first time in his life, or at least for the first time since he'd enlisted, Tomilson felt utterly alone.