(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.
It was crowded inside the hut, Symon Higgins thought. Aside from himself, all the petty and warrant officers left ashore were present. Lieutenant Simcoe had called them in for a council of war, which no doubt meant the first luff had struck upon a plan to get them off this miserable beach. Fortunately. If matters were left to Mister Carver, they’d never go anywhere. He had never known the third luff to be anything other than indecisive. Not, Higgins thought darkly, that he was the only one ashore who had no spine. Out of over two dozen men in the hut, he was the only Marine present. Corporal Jones was nowhere to be found.
Not that this was a surprise. The Welshman had disappeared after Nick Frazier had broken the news that Corporal McIntyre was dead. It was the worst sort of blow to the Marines. Several men declared it had to be a mistake, even though it was nothing Frazier would be mistaken about. Knowing that McIntyre had drowned trying to save that fat idiot Brownford did nothing to lessen the yawning sense of loss. There had been more than a few watered eyes when that piece of news was made known. Higgins himself had been obliged to dry his face with his sleeve. They had all essentially lost a brother. Not much else could have been more grievous.
Who were they supposed to look to for steady leadership now, without McIntyre? Hell. Who were they supposed to trust? Higgins looked around the tiny hut and only just succeeded in suppressing a grimace. There were only a couple of men in here he was prepared to put any real faith in, and only because he had seen their reliability first hand. Them aside, he was not sure he could trust anyone else to lead them right. Certainly not in the same way McIntyre would have managed. But he had to be bleeding hero, putting his lads first ahead of himself. Just like always. Higgins was not sure anymore if he loved or hated his corporal for that trait.
"Right," Mister Simcoe said, clearing his throat noisily. All eyes turned to him, with many trying not to stare at the crude sling in which his arm was bound. "It is time to get off this rock. We have the means and the opportunity, and we must take advantage before either is lost. The only issue is that of our ship.”
This was not exactly a heartening start. The sea officer hadn’t said anything so far that they didn’t already know. Higgins amended that thought immediately. They had seen Cornwall firing on that rebel brig. It was a fairly safe bet then that the frigate was no longer in a state of mutiny.
“What we must do,” the sea officer went on, “is find out the exact state of affairs aboard. Which means sending our only boat out to her with a boarding party. I’m sure I needn’t describe the risks involved with this. Even a trifling resistance to our attempt will doubtlessly cost us our only means of getting off this beach. Therefore - ”
Mister Midshipman Morse came quickly to his feet, his face sombre. “I shall volunteer, sir,” he said. He would, Higgins thought. As the next midshipman in seniority, with at least two of his brethren dead, to volunteer was almost a necessity. Behind the boy, Mister Thurlow scowled briefly. No doubt he longed for a chance to prove himself as well. The little sod.
“Sit down, Mister Morse,” the first luff told him. “Therefore. Not only will I accept only volunteers, but only men whose functions are not expressly vital to the management of the ship. This means junior petty and warrant officers and no higher. I’ll not have those damned turncoats taking any men who might be made to help them get away, if indeed they still hold the ship.”
This made sense, even though there was obvious disappointment amongst the senior warrants. There was not a man present who wasn’t eager to see the ship back in proper hands. Higgins folded his arms over his chest and wondered if the first luff would permit any Marines to go along. Probably. If he was serious about taking only non-vital men along, anyway.
“However. There will be much to do here ashore, which will require experienced hands to manage.” Mister Simcoe glanced at the gunner. “I expect nothing to be left that is usable to the Yankees, should Cornwall be recovered. This work has already been ably begun by one of our gun captains, but I have little doubt the Yankees will attempt to retake the beach as soon as they regain their wits. Which means double sentries on the beach and as many men armed in readiness as possible. All others will stay off the beach unless part of a working party.”
The Master-at-Arms, Martin West, cleared his throat. “Sir. What about our prisoners?”
“Ah yes. Them. They will be left for their comrades. I expect we will have plenty of other things to worry about once we are back aboard,” was the first luff’s answer. There were a couple chuckles at that. “Maintain a guard on them all the same. Now. Volunteers for the boat.”
Higgins had his hand up before Mister Simcoe had finished speaking. He would not be left out of this. Nearly every junior petty officer in the hut likewise had his hand raised. Mast captains and quartergunners primarily, it seemed, though he noted a couple warrant officers were offering themselves as well.
The first luff counted every upraised hand, then leaned toward the boatswain. A short conversation passed between the two. Then Mister Simcoe nodded. “Very good. I will take ten men for the boarding party. Greyfen, Yardley, Rowan, McElwee, Boyles, Fuller, Farmer, Dubbs, Higgins, Mister Morse. Make no mistake. This may well be a forlorn hope. Mister Morse. I will leave you to choose the boat crew and see to it that the boarding party is suitably armed. You and those lads for the boarding party are dismissed. Those of you who will be remaining ashore, hold fast. There is still much to discuss.”
There was much awkward shuffling until the nine men and one midshipman were able to exit the hut. Once outside in the unstilfling air, Higgins looked around at once for the sentries. He needed a word with Corporal Jones. Mister Morse was waving them toward him, however, so a search for Jones would have to wait.
“Listen, you lads,” the midshipman was saying. “There are some swords tucked away by that nine-pounder. Those will be yours. Anything else you can find that will suit the purpose may be taken. You lads who are mast captains may choose steady men from your divisions for the boat crew. Private Higgins. Find Corporal Jones and direct him to report to me at once.”
This, Higgins thought, was an order he was only too happy to obey. He saluted and set off, having a fairly good idea where the missing corporal might be found. Sure enough, after only a short search, he discovered Jones slumped on the opposite side of the low hill behind the huts. The bloody sulking idiot.
“Corporal. Mister Morse wants you to report straight’way.”
Jones simply shrugged but said nothing. God damn it, Higgins thought. He slid down the sandy slope and grabbed at Jones’ arm. This was not negotiable. “Get up, Jonesy. You been ordered. Shift, now!”
This was not going to work. Jones was heavier than Higgins. Getting him to his feet would take more than simple tugging at his coat sleeves. So Higgins drew his foot back and delivered a sharp kick to Jones’ ribs.
“Get up, you cow,” he spat. “Be useful to yer lads!”
In response to this, Jones struck out half-blindly with a closed fist. Oh. Right. So it was to be like that? Higgins seized the corporal’s arm and swept his foot forward again. He was not at all in the mood for this.
“Get up. C’mon. On yer bloody feet!” He tugged upward on Jones’ arm, jabbing his foot into the corporal’s ribs a third time. It seemed to be working. Thank God. Jones was staggering to his feet at last, helped along by encouragement from Higgins’ shoe. “Get movin’. Mister Morse’s waitin’ on you.”
With Jones shuffling along ahead of him, Higgins headed back toward the beach. He kept a hand firmly curled around Jones’ collar, utterly uncaring about the spectacle he made by doing so. In his opinion, Jones had forfeited any right to dignity when he chose to sulk in his own woes and leave his Marines to fend for themselves. Men on the beach, Marine and seaman alike, stared as he escorted the sullen-faced Jones toward where Mister Morse waited. The idiot Welshman had better be good and embarrassed by this, Higgins thought fiercely.
“Corporal Jones, sir,” Higgins announced, dragging Jones to a halt.
The midshipman managed somehow to keep his face expressionless. “Corporal. I have a task for you. With a half-hour a boarding party will depart for Cornwall. Private Higgins here will be part of it. While he is gone, I will need you to organise the remaining Marines into watches for sentry duty. Sentries are to be doubled. Mister Matheson will, if asked, provide men to support your sentries. Particular attention is to be paid to our rebel prisoners. Is that understood?”
“Yes sir,” Jones said tonelessly.
“Good. If I find you have neglected this duty, which I’m ordering you to carry out, I shall have you flogged. Is that understood?”
Even this did not cause a noticeable change in Jones’ expression. “Yes sir.”
“Very well. To your duties, Corporal. Dismissed.” Mister Morse waited until the slump-shouldered corporal had trudged away before letting out a sigh. “I hope that will serve to motivate him,” the boy said. “Now. Lieutenant Simcoe is coming. It will soon be time to learn our ship’s fate.”
“Yes, sir,” Higgins agreed. He nodded at Freddy Greyfen when the mast captain passed a swordbelt to him. The buff leather fitted around his waist almost perfectly. It only needed a minor adjustment for the sword to hang comfortably at his hip. It was not quite what he was used to, but it would do for now.
“Bell!” The warning bellow stopped all movement on the beach, except for that of one Marine charging full-pelt toward one of the huts. Then it was as if a trickle turned suddenly into a stream. Men ran toward that one hut, spurred on by a roar of pure fury. Higgins stirred into a run himself, bawling for the sentries to form on him at once. It was irrelevant that he had just dragged Corporal Jones out here to take command.
Bloody hell, he thought in annoyance as he grabbed the musket from Billy Springfield’s hands on his way past. It was simply damn impossible for things to not go wrong, wasn’t it?
~
There was a problem on the beach.
A problem wearing a midshipman’s coat, to be more exact. After having been unusually quiet since the crew had subdued their captors, Mister Midshipman Thurlow was getting back up to his usual tricks. While this did not surprise James Bell overly much, it did irritate him. The self-important little snot Mister Thurlow had irritated him for months, not the least for his penchant for taking any opportunity to dig at the Marines. The tipping point in Bell’s measure of dislike for the boy did not come until after Mister Simcoe had addressed the crew to declare his intentions. It was then that he overheard the midshipman declaring his relief that Corporal McIntyre had met his end.
This was, in Bell’s estimation, as severe an attack on a Marine he respected as was actually striking him. Such a thing occurring back home in Newcastle was a sure way to draw Bell and his gang down on one’s head in a tearing hurry. Here, it was only the fact that Mister Thurlow was a midshipman that kept Bell from coming around the hut he had been crouching beside and knocking the boy’s head in.
“It’s a fine thing, isn’t it?” The midshipman was in full flow, all but beaming as he polished his dirk with a handkerchief. His companion, the unfortunate Mister Hamilton, stayed timidly silent. “That conniving Irish swine got what was coming to him, Mister Hamilton. He got above himself, you see, and he was struck down for his arrogance. It’s pathetic to see his fellow bullocks mope about for him, but it only proves, Mister Hamilton, that the men have no sense of what is right or proper. Wouldn’t you agree?”
There was no reply for a long moment, then young Hamilton yelped and offered a hurried, “Aye, aye, I agree, sir.”
Bell scowled. Something needed doing about this little terror. Neither of the two officers ashore would sort it out, which meant it fell to him to set the young gentleman right. The big Newcastleman rose slowly to his feet and moved toward the front of the hut. He was no woodsman like Higgins, but he could shift quietly enough when he needed to. In instances like the present one especially.
“Now what,” he growled, stopping himself just shy of treading on Mister Thurlow’s outstretched legs, “is this I’m ’earin’ spoke of?”
Both midshipmen stared up at him, one in annoyance and the other cautious hope. It was, naturally, Mister Thurlow who answered with a surly, “That is most certainly none of your business, Private. And you address an officer as sir when speaking to him!”
Wrong reply to offer, Bell thought. “Act’lly, it is. Tha’s a mate of mein yer flappin’ yer foul gob aboot. I don’t like ’earin’ mates talked doon aboot like tha’. Sir.”
“You are impertinent, Private,” Mister Thurlow snarled, brandishing his dirk. “I’ll forget you’ve spoken if you - “
In an eye-blink, the dirk was gone from the boy’s hand, plucked away with lightning speed by the stone-faced Bell. Introducing the slim, short blade had been a mistake. “Yer wearin’ me nerves, sir,” he rumbled, balancing the dirk between his fingers. “Not very clivvor neither. Wavin’ a blade at me like tha’.”
Such a thing occurring in the streets would invariably end in a fight and, more often than not, the would-be attacker bleeding his life out in the gutter. He wouldn’t object to opening Mister Thurlow up one bit, but to do so would end him up with a noose about his neck. At least in present circumstances. The future was a different story.
“Now see here - ” the midshipman began, only to be interrupted by the delicate twing of steel snapping in two. It was a rubbish dirk anyway, Bell thought derisively. The boy stared in wide-eyed shock at the broken pieces of his dirk, which Bell had dropped carelessly onto the sand. It was not at all what he’d wanted to use the weapon for but it certainly served a similar purpose - namely, it got Mister Thurlow’s undivided attention.
“Now see ’ere. Tha’s yee gettin’ off easy. Nex’ time mebbe yee won’t flap yer gob aboot a fella what’s better’n yee.” Bell made a point of looking Mister Thurlow squarely in the eye, completely unfazed by the boy’s furious glare. Then the Marine leaned forward to add in an undertone, “I ’ear aboot yee doin’ it agin, boy, yee’ll be wishin’ yee nivvor been born.”
If Mister Thurlow had any sense at all, he would mind his tongue from now on. But of course a lad of his ilk never learned until somebody like Bell sorted him out. Having spoken his piece, he straightened up and finally glanced down toward the white-faced Mister Hamilton. Poor sod. It was unusual for Bell to feel pity for anyone, but he was unable to help a glimmer of sympathy here.
“Cut ’long, Mister ’Amilton,” he grunted. The undersized Scottish midshipman all but sprang away, stirring up sand in his wake, such was his eagerness to escape. With this uncharacteristic duty thus discharged, Bell himself turned to go. He had made his point and there was no further use in lingering. It was a shame he could not get away with giving Mister Thurlow a more thorough lesson.
He had gone no more than two steps when half a dozen things happened at once. There was a shout from somewhere away to his left, a blur of motion from roughly square ahead, the sound of fast footfalls behind him, then the burning lance of pain in his back. It took no backward glances to know what that fool boy had just done. Bell let out a bellow that was more rage than pain and whipped around, the handle end of the broken dirk still lodged in his back. In an instant, he had swept the terrified Mister Thurlow off the ground by his neckcloth.
This was bad, George Hanlen thought. Very bad. His warning shout had roused the lads who were not on sentry, but it might not be enough. James Bell was very much a force to be reckoned with once his fighting blood was up. Stopping him killing Mister Thurlow wouldn’t be easy. Especially since that damned midshipman had done the worst thing possible.
“Jimmy! Let it be!” Tom Carter was racing past Hanlen, being swifter footed. He was thus the first man to reach the scene and didn’t hesitate to leap headlong onto Bell’s back. Hanlen and Sam Lachlan were next and both took advantage of the distraction provided by Carter to grab hold of the thrashing, screaming Mister Thurlow. There was already a great bruise forming on the boy’s face.
Carter’s weight on his back only stoked Bell’s flaring temper more, but it served its intended purpose. With a more dangerous threat now presenting itself, Bell relinquished his grip on Mister Thurlow’s neck and reached behind him to seize hold of Carter. The cursing Hampshireman was shortly dislodged and thrown down onto the hard sand. With the midshipman firmly held down by Lachlan, Hanlen was free to join the others in springing at Bell in a mass rush. The only way to subdue Bell was with an overwhelming weight of numbers and they all knew it.
“What is this nonsense?” Mister Simcoe thundered, shoving his way awkwardly through the stream of men hurrying forward to watch. “Clear away there! Stop this foolishness at once!”
The command went unheeded as more men, sailors now, lent their weight to the Marines’ efforts. Hanlen caught a glimpse of the first luff’s angry face, then a glancing punch from Bell knocked him aside. The Newcastleman was in full fight, knowing nothing more than he was being attacked from all sides after having been stabbed in the back. He always had been a single-minded idiot, Hanlen thought dazedly.
“Marines!” This was Higgins’ voice, hard and cold. “Make ready!”
There was an immediate rush to clear away from the three Marines who arrived at the quick-step, their muskets held ready before them at the Poise. At Higgins’ command, the short rank halted and presented, now only one order removed from firing. Hanlen remained where he was, half-sprawled on the sand. He had no doubt that things could very quickly turn bloody.
“Private Bell! ‘Shun!” Higgins held a musket as well. His boyish face, usually cheerful, was now set in an angry expression. “Stand now or you’ll be shot!”
It was only this, the imminent threat of more force than he could counter, that brought Bell’s resistance to an end. For now, Hanlen amended. Mister Thurlow would need a guard from now on. Two of the men who, like Hanlen, had been knocked aside now stood and moved briskly to take hold of each of Bell’s arms. There was no question the big Marine was in bad trouble now. He had struck a midshipman. This was a hanging offence, no matter the provocation.
“Secure that man,” Mister Simcoe snarled. “He will face a court-martial when we return to English Harbour!”
Tom Carter, back on his feet after being thrown aside like a ragdoll, held up the broken, blood-slick dirk. “Sir. What about this?”
“What about it?” The first luff spared the weapon only a short glance before beginning to turn away.
”It were in Bell’s back, sir.”
This brought the first luff to a stop. He turned back with a frown. “What?”
“It were in his back, sir. Before we tried bringin’ him down.” Carter stepped to the side and the two men guarding Bell turned the scowling Marine around, so the stream of scarlet soaking into his breeches could be seen. The man on the left, Colbert Smith, lifted the tail of Bell’s coat so the wound itself was visible.
“Mister Thurlow.” The first luff swung around to glare at the bruise-faced midshipman. “What happened here?”
The boy shoved Lachlan’s restraining hands away and stood up, holding himself like one who had been done a serious offence. “I was attacked, sir. I defended myself.”
“No.”
Every head turned toward the squeaky-voiced speaker. It was the timid Mister Hamilton, who stood, trembling, close to the boatswain. The boy’s freckled cheeks were absent any colour but he stared fixedly at Mister Thurlow. “He was happy for that corporal’s dying. This man bade him stop. Mister Thurlow threatened him with his dirk. Private Bell grabbed it and broke it in two.” The boy swallowed hard. “Then he bade me cut along.”
“Is this true?” Mister Simcoe demanded of Mister Thurlow.
The midshipman was defiant. “No, sir.”
“Then how,” the first luff growled, “did this Marine come to be stabbed in his back, if, as you claim, he attacked you?”
Mister Thurlow’s mouth worked uselessly. He made no reply.
“Bo’sun,” Mister Simcoe barked. “Take this young gentleman under guard. See he goes nowhere unless I permit him.“ The first luff turned toward Bell. “As for you. Double guard until we are back aboard Cornwall. Private Higgins. Secure your prisoner.”
Hanlen got to his feet, relieved that Higgins’ sentries had not been obliged to fire. There were faint metallic clicks as flints were lowered, then the loose circle of spectators began to disperse. Smith and Ware led Bell away, followed by two of the armed sentries. It was over for the moment.
“The rest of you,” Mister Simcoe went on, looking around at the men. “Assemble by divisions. We are going to our ship.”
~
For Albert Ware, standing sentry on one of his own mates was the most distasteful things imaginable. In his opinion, Bell should have throttled that loathsome midshipman and done the entire crew a favour. It would have been worth hanging for then. Instead, Mister Thurlow would live to see a good lad hanged for striking back. Ware spat on the ground. Only a coward like Mister bloody Thurlow would stab a man in the back, the way he’d done Bell.
They’d have to get him to the surgeon, if the surgeon was still alive. Hopefully he was. It would be an unforgivable crime all its own if those bastards had killed Doctor Finch. Certainly no one else aboard had looked after the men so well, while somehow keeping himself separate from the goings-on around the ship. That the turncoats had kept the sawbones aboard with them angered Ware. They could certainly use the surgeon here, with the wounded lads from the escape from the rebel brig.
He scoffed as he watched that brig’s bowsprit dip ever closer to the waterline. Her crew must be working the pumps desperately to have kept her afloat this long. The presence of both brigs had been largely forgotten owing to all the activity on the beach. Those brigs may yet prove troublesome though, Ware guessed. At least the undamaged one might. There was no telling until they actually attempted to weigh anchor. Assuming, of course, they could all clear off this damn beach and get back to their ship.
“Wish Kipp coulda scuttled that damn brig proper.”
“He done well ’nuff at it anyway.” Jeffry Gallagher toyed with the sling of his musket. “Hulled her nice by the look of it. Wish those beggars would just give it up. There’s no savin’ her!”
That was undoubtedly true, but Ware would be happy to let them go on fighting to save the ship for a while longer yet. It kept them distracted from the stranded Cornwalls. “Ain’t gonna last, though. Them bein’ busy ’board her. They’ll spot us ’gain soon ’nuff.”
“God help us when they do,” muttered Billy Fowler.
There was silence after that, which only lasted a few moments until Smith cleared his throat. “Berty,” he said, shifting the axe he’d been given to the other shoulder. “What d’you reckon that other boat never made it across last night?”
“Rather not think on it,” Ware answered. If the second boat had suffered a fate similar to the one that had gone down near the rebel brig, they were all for it. He was not keen on becoming a Yankee prisoner again.
“I’d be more worried over fellows on our own side,” Gallagher said darkly.
There was a grunt from Bell, who was sitting on the sand between his four guards, his hands bound before him with a short length of cordage. “Tha’s jus’ the officers, then.”
Fowler shivered and took his hand away from the burnt part of his face again. He had taken to covering it whenever he felt embarrassed or upset. The gesture concealed the burn but not the bruises that were much newer. “I only hope they left that bastard Devlin alive,” he growled. “I owes him.”
A glance passed between Ware and Smith, and Smith sighed. Neither of them really knew how Fowler was able to stand after the beating the turncoats had given him. Yet the fact was that he was on his feet, albeit a trifle unsteadily, and able to hold a musket. It was an impressive feat of will.
“You shouldn’t oughta mess ’bout with the sarn’t,” Smith said. “Let him go for court-martial. That’ll sort him!”
“Not half what he deserves.”
“Oh leave it, Billy,” Ware told him. “It were an accident.”
“It wasn’t! There wasn’t a thing wrong with me musket. He took it anyways an’ gave me a rubbish one. Lookit what happened ’cause of that!”
In truth, Smith found it difficult to even glance at the pinched, ugly skin on the right side of Fowler’s face. It was a reminder to him - to all of them, in fact - what resulted when things went wrong. “Mistakes happen, Billy,” he muttered, keeping his gaze directed toward the boat, which had since shoved off from shore and was now pulling determinedly for Cornwall.
“Here’s hopin’ that don’t end up a mistake either,” Gallagher remarked.
“Better not be,” Fowler grumbled, shivering and leaning on his musket for support.
“If yee wants revenge ’ginst anybody, boy, better make it Tarwick.”
A snort from Smith coincided with a sigh from Ware. Bell had a point. There was nothing accidental about the bruises and lumps on Fowler’s face and body. Though if Fowler did not pay Tarwick back for his brutality, there were others who would. And gladly, Smith thought. He was one of them himself.
“I’ll sort that bastard out meself, if you don’t,” Ware said.
Fowler had his hand back over his burnt cheek. “He ain’t the one needs sortin’.”
Bollocks, Smith thought. A court-martial would take care of Sergeant Devlin. Nate Tarwick, on the other hand, deserved to be treated to a conversation in the hold, where no officer would be aware of what was happening. He shifted the axe back to the opposite shoulder and grimaced. Of course, this was all assuming that the lads in the boat left them anything to vent their own vengeance on.
“Y’know what we needs right now,” offered Gallagher. “We needs a nice warm - ”
“Straighten up,” Smith hissed, becoming aware of the boatswain’s approach. The boatswain, instead of Corporal Jones. That was no surprise, was it?
“Need yer muskets, lads,” Matheson told them. “Got some visitors comin’ that needs a proper reception.”
The five Marines looked toward the rebel brigs. Sure enough, two boats laden with men were making their way toward the beach. It had taken the Yankees long enough to realise what was happening ashore. They had, though, and looked to be coming ashore in force.
“Shame there’s no more shot for that nine-pounder,” Ware observed as Gallagher and Fowler handed over their muskets and cartridge boxes. “We could make ’em stand off quick ’nuff otherwise.”
The boatswain shrugged. ”If wishes was wind, we’d be alla way to India.” He tramped off with his awkward load, leaving the Marines to smirk amongst themselves at his odd offering of wisdom. Matheson could be hard to understand sometimes.
“We oughta just let you loose on ‘em, Bell,” Smith suggested.
No one said anything to agree with or counter that. The few men with muskets had advanced right down to the water’s edge and were firing on the approaching boats. To Gallagher’s eye, the distance was a little too great yet for any shots to be accurate. He amended that thought when he realised Mikey Quintin was down there with a musket. There wasn’t anything Quintin couldn’t hit.
“There he goes!” Smith cried suddenly, flinging his arm out to point toward the boats. A Yankee sailor had slumped over the larboard gunwale of the leading boat and even as they watched, the wounded man’s mates hauled him inboard again. That was one sorted out, anyway. With blood having been drawn now, there was nothing else worth watching than the exchange of fire. Some of the Yankees had muskets of their own and had begun firing back.
Seamen, many armed with swords or digging tools, were gathering near the huts. There weren’t enough weapons to go around, but it seemed to Gallagher that this was of no concern to the sailors. Even the ship’s boys were amongst the mostly-orderly crowd waiting for the Yankee boats to run themselves up onto the sand. It was a damned nuisance that he and the others were stuck here keeping an eye on Bell.
“It’ll be a tidy bit of scrappin’, I think,” Ware predicted. The six men with muskets were retiring, moving as smartly as if they were on a parade square. In their wake came the boats, close enough now to begin spilling out men into the waist-deep surf. Gallagher clenched his fists, feeling useless without his musket, and watched as Evans, one of the quartermasters, ran forward, a shovel in hand.
The sailor bellowed something that was more noise than words and waded out into the sea up to his knees, meeting the first of the struggling Yankees. The flat of the shovel swung down hard against the side of the rebel’s head, dropping him like a stone. With a cheer, Evans grabbed for the man’s sword. Then he was lost to view as the other Cornwalls surged forward to meet the enemy.
“Damn ’em for havin’ all the fun,” Smith grumbled.
None of his mates cared to speak, absorbed as they were by the spectacle unfolding before them. It was something novel to watch a fight and not take part themselves. While none of them cared for it, they weren’t keen to disobey the orders to guard Bell. There was only the odd crack of a musket now. It was a contest of numbers and will, but Gallagher reckoned the Cornwalls would carry the day.
“Brace up, boys,” Ware cautioned, drawing his bayonet with a rattle. Gallagher looked to see what had caught Ware’s notice and realised the confusing mass of brawling men was inching up the beach toward them. Some of the Yankees even looked to be getting around the sailors’ flank. It was going to be lively very shortly, the young Marine thought.
The Yankees had spotted them, too. Several knocked down their immediate opponents - Gallagher cursed when he saw one of them jab his cutlass down twice on a howling seaman - and started toward them.
Smith brandished his axe. “This’ll be good, an’ that’s no lie.”
Easy for you to say. Smith and Ware were the only two with weapons. Swallowing a sudden lump in his throat, Gallagher glanced at Fowler. They had better be handy with their fists or they were going to be real hot trouble.
“Get this offa me ’ands,” Bell told them, holding his bound hands up. “I ain’t dyin’ wivvout a fight!”
Ware spun around and with a quick, almost careless, slash, cut through the length of cordage. “C’mon then, Jimmy!”
In a twinkling, Bell was on his feet. He snatched the axe from Smith. “I ’ad ’nuff’a this lot,” the Newcastleman rasped. He advanced a couple steps then halted, waiting until the approaching Yankees were within striking range. The leading rebel slashed forward with his cutlass, no doubt figuring Bell to be an easy target. It was the last mistake he’d ever make.
The Marines cheered as Bell wrenched the axe free from the dying Yankee’s chest, then stirred themselves into motion. They threw themselves onto the stunned rebels, relieved to have the chance to get their own licks in. In short order, their would-be assailants were sprawled on the sand, most of them dead. Even Billy Fowler, who was barely able to stand up, had found the strength to throw a sound punch or two.
“That feels better,” said Smith cheerfully, claiming a cutlass for himself.
“Hoi! Yew lads!” A seaman came jogging toward them, and the Marines realised the bulk of the fighting appeared to be over. That had happened fast. “C’mon! We got two boats now!”
Two boats meant more men could make the pull across the little bay to the ship. Gallagher cheered and started forward, intending to get a place in one of the boats. A heavy hand on his shoulder stopped him short.
“We ain’t been relieved, mate,” Ware said.
Gallagher opened his mouth to protest, then clicked it shut again. By rights they should not have even released their prisoner. It was a good thing Mister Simcoe was no longer ashore. They’d all be for it otherwise. He gripped his boarding axe and tried to settle his nerves. Shame they’d missed the best part of the battle. Despite being short, the fight had clearly been a savage one. Bodies were strewn about the beach and on the surf, some dead, others wounded. One or two were Marines, it seemed, but Gallagher could not see who had fallen.
“Keep them Yankees on the beach!” Another seaman was yelling. “They got their gunports open over yon! Keep the beggars up or we’re all scuppered!”
“Silence there, Chambers!” Mister Matheson thundered, but Chambers’ cries were received as pure good sense by his comrades. Even the boatswain’s shouted threats were not fearsome enough to keep the men from doing as Chambers directed. Bell’s four guards took care to keep themselves separate from the rest of the crew, while the latter set about the business of forming boat crews and boarding parties. Men had already detailed themselves to keep protesting Yankee prisoners lined up facing the two brigs, using them as human shields.
“If Mister Carver don’t look out, he ain’t gonna have a hope of keepin’ this lot under control,” Smith muttered. The other Marines nodded. It was inevitable that the third luff would find it impossible to exert authority over the men now that they had captured two more boats and perhaps half the men manning them. They had done so without any guidance from the sea officer either. That would not help matters.
The first of the two boats was shoving off, nearly overloaded with men. There were a couple red coats amongst them, Fowler noted with no small feeling of envious resentment. He wanted to be returning to the frigate too. Instead he was stuck here until somebody helped him make the journey. Bell was right. He owed Tarwick a beating to pay the bastard back for the one he’d received.
“God help us if the Yankees start bombardin’ us,” said Ware with a shiver, before he turned away to withdraw higher up the beach. Without a word, the others, even Bell, followed him. There was nothing more to be done now but wait.
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.
It was crowded inside the hut, Symon Higgins thought. Aside from himself, all the petty and warrant officers left ashore were present. Lieutenant Simcoe had called them in for a council of war, which no doubt meant the first luff had struck upon a plan to get them off this miserable beach. Fortunately. If matters were left to Mister Carver, they’d never go anywhere. He had never known the third luff to be anything other than indecisive. Not, Higgins thought darkly, that he was the only one ashore who had no spine. Out of over two dozen men in the hut, he was the only Marine present. Corporal Jones was nowhere to be found.
Not that this was a surprise. The Welshman had disappeared after Nick Frazier had broken the news that Corporal McIntyre was dead. It was the worst sort of blow to the Marines. Several men declared it had to be a mistake, even though it was nothing Frazier would be mistaken about. Knowing that McIntyre had drowned trying to save that fat idiot Brownford did nothing to lessen the yawning sense of loss. There had been more than a few watered eyes when that piece of news was made known. Higgins himself had been obliged to dry his face with his sleeve. They had all essentially lost a brother. Not much else could have been more grievous.
Who were they supposed to look to for steady leadership now, without McIntyre? Hell. Who were they supposed to trust? Higgins looked around the tiny hut and only just succeeded in suppressing a grimace. There were only a couple of men in here he was prepared to put any real faith in, and only because he had seen their reliability first hand. Them aside, he was not sure he could trust anyone else to lead them right. Certainly not in the same way McIntyre would have managed. But he had to be bleeding hero, putting his lads first ahead of himself. Just like always. Higgins was not sure anymore if he loved or hated his corporal for that trait.
"Right," Mister Simcoe said, clearing his throat noisily. All eyes turned to him, with many trying not to stare at the crude sling in which his arm was bound. "It is time to get off this rock. We have the means and the opportunity, and we must take advantage before either is lost. The only issue is that of our ship.”
This was not exactly a heartening start. The sea officer hadn’t said anything so far that they didn’t already know. Higgins amended that thought immediately. They had seen Cornwall firing on that rebel brig. It was a fairly safe bet then that the frigate was no longer in a state of mutiny.
“What we must do,” the sea officer went on, “is find out the exact state of affairs aboard. Which means sending our only boat out to her with a boarding party. I’m sure I needn’t describe the risks involved with this. Even a trifling resistance to our attempt will doubtlessly cost us our only means of getting off this beach. Therefore - ”
Mister Midshipman Morse came quickly to his feet, his face sombre. “I shall volunteer, sir,” he said. He would, Higgins thought. As the next midshipman in seniority, with at least two of his brethren dead, to volunteer was almost a necessity. Behind the boy, Mister Thurlow scowled briefly. No doubt he longed for a chance to prove himself as well. The little sod.
“Sit down, Mister Morse,” the first luff told him. “Therefore. Not only will I accept only volunteers, but only men whose functions are not expressly vital to the management of the ship. This means junior petty and warrant officers and no higher. I’ll not have those damned turncoats taking any men who might be made to help them get away, if indeed they still hold the ship.”
This made sense, even though there was obvious disappointment amongst the senior warrants. There was not a man present who wasn’t eager to see the ship back in proper hands. Higgins folded his arms over his chest and wondered if the first luff would permit any Marines to go along. Probably. If he was serious about taking only non-vital men along, anyway.
“However. There will be much to do here ashore, which will require experienced hands to manage.” Mister Simcoe glanced at the gunner. “I expect nothing to be left that is usable to the Yankees, should Cornwall be recovered. This work has already been ably begun by one of our gun captains, but I have little doubt the Yankees will attempt to retake the beach as soon as they regain their wits. Which means double sentries on the beach and as many men armed in readiness as possible. All others will stay off the beach unless part of a working party.”
The Master-at-Arms, Martin West, cleared his throat. “Sir. What about our prisoners?”
“Ah yes. Them. They will be left for their comrades. I expect we will have plenty of other things to worry about once we are back aboard,” was the first luff’s answer. There were a couple chuckles at that. “Maintain a guard on them all the same. Now. Volunteers for the boat.”
Higgins had his hand up before Mister Simcoe had finished speaking. He would not be left out of this. Nearly every junior petty officer in the hut likewise had his hand raised. Mast captains and quartergunners primarily, it seemed, though he noted a couple warrant officers were offering themselves as well.
The first luff counted every upraised hand, then leaned toward the boatswain. A short conversation passed between the two. Then Mister Simcoe nodded. “Very good. I will take ten men for the boarding party. Greyfen, Yardley, Rowan, McElwee, Boyles, Fuller, Farmer, Dubbs, Higgins, Mister Morse. Make no mistake. This may well be a forlorn hope. Mister Morse. I will leave you to choose the boat crew and see to it that the boarding party is suitably armed. You and those lads for the boarding party are dismissed. Those of you who will be remaining ashore, hold fast. There is still much to discuss.”
There was much awkward shuffling until the nine men and one midshipman were able to exit the hut. Once outside in the unstilfling air, Higgins looked around at once for the sentries. He needed a word with Corporal Jones. Mister Morse was waving them toward him, however, so a search for Jones would have to wait.
“Listen, you lads,” the midshipman was saying. “There are some swords tucked away by that nine-pounder. Those will be yours. Anything else you can find that will suit the purpose may be taken. You lads who are mast captains may choose steady men from your divisions for the boat crew. Private Higgins. Find Corporal Jones and direct him to report to me at once.”
This, Higgins thought, was an order he was only too happy to obey. He saluted and set off, having a fairly good idea where the missing corporal might be found. Sure enough, after only a short search, he discovered Jones slumped on the opposite side of the low hill behind the huts. The bloody sulking idiot.
“Corporal. Mister Morse wants you to report straight’way.”
Jones simply shrugged but said nothing. God damn it, Higgins thought. He slid down the sandy slope and grabbed at Jones’ arm. This was not negotiable. “Get up, Jonesy. You been ordered. Shift, now!”
This was not going to work. Jones was heavier than Higgins. Getting him to his feet would take more than simple tugging at his coat sleeves. So Higgins drew his foot back and delivered a sharp kick to Jones’ ribs.
“Get up, you cow,” he spat. “Be useful to yer lads!”
In response to this, Jones struck out half-blindly with a closed fist. Oh. Right. So it was to be like that? Higgins seized the corporal’s arm and swept his foot forward again. He was not at all in the mood for this.
“Get up. C’mon. On yer bloody feet!” He tugged upward on Jones’ arm, jabbing his foot into the corporal’s ribs a third time. It seemed to be working. Thank God. Jones was staggering to his feet at last, helped along by encouragement from Higgins’ shoe. “Get movin’. Mister Morse’s waitin’ on you.”
With Jones shuffling along ahead of him, Higgins headed back toward the beach. He kept a hand firmly curled around Jones’ collar, utterly uncaring about the spectacle he made by doing so. In his opinion, Jones had forfeited any right to dignity when he chose to sulk in his own woes and leave his Marines to fend for themselves. Men on the beach, Marine and seaman alike, stared as he escorted the sullen-faced Jones toward where Mister Morse waited. The idiot Welshman had better be good and embarrassed by this, Higgins thought fiercely.
“Corporal Jones, sir,” Higgins announced, dragging Jones to a halt.
The midshipman managed somehow to keep his face expressionless. “Corporal. I have a task for you. With a half-hour a boarding party will depart for Cornwall. Private Higgins here will be part of it. While he is gone, I will need you to organise the remaining Marines into watches for sentry duty. Sentries are to be doubled. Mister Matheson will, if asked, provide men to support your sentries. Particular attention is to be paid to our rebel prisoners. Is that understood?”
“Yes sir,” Jones said tonelessly.
“Good. If I find you have neglected this duty, which I’m ordering you to carry out, I shall have you flogged. Is that understood?”
Even this did not cause a noticeable change in Jones’ expression. “Yes sir.”
“Very well. To your duties, Corporal. Dismissed.” Mister Morse waited until the slump-shouldered corporal had trudged away before letting out a sigh. “I hope that will serve to motivate him,” the boy said. “Now. Lieutenant Simcoe is coming. It will soon be time to learn our ship’s fate.”
“Yes, sir,” Higgins agreed. He nodded at Freddy Greyfen when the mast captain passed a swordbelt to him. The buff leather fitted around his waist almost perfectly. It only needed a minor adjustment for the sword to hang comfortably at his hip. It was not quite what he was used to, but it would do for now.
“Bell!” The warning bellow stopped all movement on the beach, except for that of one Marine charging full-pelt toward one of the huts. Then it was as if a trickle turned suddenly into a stream. Men ran toward that one hut, spurred on by a roar of pure fury. Higgins stirred into a run himself, bawling for the sentries to form on him at once. It was irrelevant that he had just dragged Corporal Jones out here to take command.
Bloody hell, he thought in annoyance as he grabbed the musket from Billy Springfield’s hands on his way past. It was simply damn impossible for things to not go wrong, wasn’t it?
~
There was a problem on the beach.
A problem wearing a midshipman’s coat, to be more exact. After having been unusually quiet since the crew had subdued their captors, Mister Midshipman Thurlow was getting back up to his usual tricks. While this did not surprise James Bell overly much, it did irritate him. The self-important little snot Mister Thurlow had irritated him for months, not the least for his penchant for taking any opportunity to dig at the Marines. The tipping point in Bell’s measure of dislike for the boy did not come until after Mister Simcoe had addressed the crew to declare his intentions. It was then that he overheard the midshipman declaring his relief that Corporal McIntyre had met his end.
This was, in Bell’s estimation, as severe an attack on a Marine he respected as was actually striking him. Such a thing occurring back home in Newcastle was a sure way to draw Bell and his gang down on one’s head in a tearing hurry. Here, it was only the fact that Mister Thurlow was a midshipman that kept Bell from coming around the hut he had been crouching beside and knocking the boy’s head in.
“It’s a fine thing, isn’t it?” The midshipman was in full flow, all but beaming as he polished his dirk with a handkerchief. His companion, the unfortunate Mister Hamilton, stayed timidly silent. “That conniving Irish swine got what was coming to him, Mister Hamilton. He got above himself, you see, and he was struck down for his arrogance. It’s pathetic to see his fellow bullocks mope about for him, but it only proves, Mister Hamilton, that the men have no sense of what is right or proper. Wouldn’t you agree?”
There was no reply for a long moment, then young Hamilton yelped and offered a hurried, “Aye, aye, I agree, sir.”
Bell scowled. Something needed doing about this little terror. Neither of the two officers ashore would sort it out, which meant it fell to him to set the young gentleman right. The big Newcastleman rose slowly to his feet and moved toward the front of the hut. He was no woodsman like Higgins, but he could shift quietly enough when he needed to. In instances like the present one especially.
“Now what,” he growled, stopping himself just shy of treading on Mister Thurlow’s outstretched legs, “is this I’m ’earin’ spoke of?”
Both midshipmen stared up at him, one in annoyance and the other cautious hope. It was, naturally, Mister Thurlow who answered with a surly, “That is most certainly none of your business, Private. And you address an officer as sir when speaking to him!”
Wrong reply to offer, Bell thought. “Act’lly, it is. Tha’s a mate of mein yer flappin’ yer foul gob aboot. I don’t like ’earin’ mates talked doon aboot like tha’. Sir.”
“You are impertinent, Private,” Mister Thurlow snarled, brandishing his dirk. “I’ll forget you’ve spoken if you - “
In an eye-blink, the dirk was gone from the boy’s hand, plucked away with lightning speed by the stone-faced Bell. Introducing the slim, short blade had been a mistake. “Yer wearin’ me nerves, sir,” he rumbled, balancing the dirk between his fingers. “Not very clivvor neither. Wavin’ a blade at me like tha’.”
Such a thing occurring in the streets would invariably end in a fight and, more often than not, the would-be attacker bleeding his life out in the gutter. He wouldn’t object to opening Mister Thurlow up one bit, but to do so would end him up with a noose about his neck. At least in present circumstances. The future was a different story.
“Now see here - ” the midshipman began, only to be interrupted by the delicate twing of steel snapping in two. It was a rubbish dirk anyway, Bell thought derisively. The boy stared in wide-eyed shock at the broken pieces of his dirk, which Bell had dropped carelessly onto the sand. It was not at all what he’d wanted to use the weapon for but it certainly served a similar purpose - namely, it got Mister Thurlow’s undivided attention.
“Now see ’ere. Tha’s yee gettin’ off easy. Nex’ time mebbe yee won’t flap yer gob aboot a fella what’s better’n yee.” Bell made a point of looking Mister Thurlow squarely in the eye, completely unfazed by the boy’s furious glare. Then the Marine leaned forward to add in an undertone, “I ’ear aboot yee doin’ it agin, boy, yee’ll be wishin’ yee nivvor been born.”
If Mister Thurlow had any sense at all, he would mind his tongue from now on. But of course a lad of his ilk never learned until somebody like Bell sorted him out. Having spoken his piece, he straightened up and finally glanced down toward the white-faced Mister Hamilton. Poor sod. It was unusual for Bell to feel pity for anyone, but he was unable to help a glimmer of sympathy here.
“Cut ’long, Mister ’Amilton,” he grunted. The undersized Scottish midshipman all but sprang away, stirring up sand in his wake, such was his eagerness to escape. With this uncharacteristic duty thus discharged, Bell himself turned to go. He had made his point and there was no further use in lingering. It was a shame he could not get away with giving Mister Thurlow a more thorough lesson.
He had gone no more than two steps when half a dozen things happened at once. There was a shout from somewhere away to his left, a blur of motion from roughly square ahead, the sound of fast footfalls behind him, then the burning lance of pain in his back. It took no backward glances to know what that fool boy had just done. Bell let out a bellow that was more rage than pain and whipped around, the handle end of the broken dirk still lodged in his back. In an instant, he had swept the terrified Mister Thurlow off the ground by his neckcloth.
This was bad, George Hanlen thought. Very bad. His warning shout had roused the lads who were not on sentry, but it might not be enough. James Bell was very much a force to be reckoned with once his fighting blood was up. Stopping him killing Mister Thurlow wouldn’t be easy. Especially since that damned midshipman had done the worst thing possible.
“Jimmy! Let it be!” Tom Carter was racing past Hanlen, being swifter footed. He was thus the first man to reach the scene and didn’t hesitate to leap headlong onto Bell’s back. Hanlen and Sam Lachlan were next and both took advantage of the distraction provided by Carter to grab hold of the thrashing, screaming Mister Thurlow. There was already a great bruise forming on the boy’s face.
Carter’s weight on his back only stoked Bell’s flaring temper more, but it served its intended purpose. With a more dangerous threat now presenting itself, Bell relinquished his grip on Mister Thurlow’s neck and reached behind him to seize hold of Carter. The cursing Hampshireman was shortly dislodged and thrown down onto the hard sand. With the midshipman firmly held down by Lachlan, Hanlen was free to join the others in springing at Bell in a mass rush. The only way to subdue Bell was with an overwhelming weight of numbers and they all knew it.
“What is this nonsense?” Mister Simcoe thundered, shoving his way awkwardly through the stream of men hurrying forward to watch. “Clear away there! Stop this foolishness at once!”
The command went unheeded as more men, sailors now, lent their weight to the Marines’ efforts. Hanlen caught a glimpse of the first luff’s angry face, then a glancing punch from Bell knocked him aside. The Newcastleman was in full fight, knowing nothing more than he was being attacked from all sides after having been stabbed in the back. He always had been a single-minded idiot, Hanlen thought dazedly.
“Marines!” This was Higgins’ voice, hard and cold. “Make ready!”
There was an immediate rush to clear away from the three Marines who arrived at the quick-step, their muskets held ready before them at the Poise. At Higgins’ command, the short rank halted and presented, now only one order removed from firing. Hanlen remained where he was, half-sprawled on the sand. He had no doubt that things could very quickly turn bloody.
“Private Bell! ‘Shun!” Higgins held a musket as well. His boyish face, usually cheerful, was now set in an angry expression. “Stand now or you’ll be shot!”
It was only this, the imminent threat of more force than he could counter, that brought Bell’s resistance to an end. For now, Hanlen amended. Mister Thurlow would need a guard from now on. Two of the men who, like Hanlen, had been knocked aside now stood and moved briskly to take hold of each of Bell’s arms. There was no question the big Marine was in bad trouble now. He had struck a midshipman. This was a hanging offence, no matter the provocation.
“Secure that man,” Mister Simcoe snarled. “He will face a court-martial when we return to English Harbour!”
Tom Carter, back on his feet after being thrown aside like a ragdoll, held up the broken, blood-slick dirk. “Sir. What about this?”
“What about it?” The first luff spared the weapon only a short glance before beginning to turn away.
”It were in Bell’s back, sir.”
This brought the first luff to a stop. He turned back with a frown. “What?”
“It were in his back, sir. Before we tried bringin’ him down.” Carter stepped to the side and the two men guarding Bell turned the scowling Marine around, so the stream of scarlet soaking into his breeches could be seen. The man on the left, Colbert Smith, lifted the tail of Bell’s coat so the wound itself was visible.
“Mister Thurlow.” The first luff swung around to glare at the bruise-faced midshipman. “What happened here?”
The boy shoved Lachlan’s restraining hands away and stood up, holding himself like one who had been done a serious offence. “I was attacked, sir. I defended myself.”
“No.”
Every head turned toward the squeaky-voiced speaker. It was the timid Mister Hamilton, who stood, trembling, close to the boatswain. The boy’s freckled cheeks were absent any colour but he stared fixedly at Mister Thurlow. “He was happy for that corporal’s dying. This man bade him stop. Mister Thurlow threatened him with his dirk. Private Bell grabbed it and broke it in two.” The boy swallowed hard. “Then he bade me cut along.”
“Is this true?” Mister Simcoe demanded of Mister Thurlow.
The midshipman was defiant. “No, sir.”
“Then how,” the first luff growled, “did this Marine come to be stabbed in his back, if, as you claim, he attacked you?”
Mister Thurlow’s mouth worked uselessly. He made no reply.
“Bo’sun,” Mister Simcoe barked. “Take this young gentleman under guard. See he goes nowhere unless I permit him.“ The first luff turned toward Bell. “As for you. Double guard until we are back aboard Cornwall. Private Higgins. Secure your prisoner.”
Hanlen got to his feet, relieved that Higgins’ sentries had not been obliged to fire. There were faint metallic clicks as flints were lowered, then the loose circle of spectators began to disperse. Smith and Ware led Bell away, followed by two of the armed sentries. It was over for the moment.
“The rest of you,” Mister Simcoe went on, looking around at the men. “Assemble by divisions. We are going to our ship.”
~
For Albert Ware, standing sentry on one of his own mates was the most distasteful things imaginable. In his opinion, Bell should have throttled that loathsome midshipman and done the entire crew a favour. It would have been worth hanging for then. Instead, Mister Thurlow would live to see a good lad hanged for striking back. Ware spat on the ground. Only a coward like Mister bloody Thurlow would stab a man in the back, the way he’d done Bell.
They’d have to get him to the surgeon, if the surgeon was still alive. Hopefully he was. It would be an unforgivable crime all its own if those bastards had killed Doctor Finch. Certainly no one else aboard had looked after the men so well, while somehow keeping himself separate from the goings-on around the ship. That the turncoats had kept the sawbones aboard with them angered Ware. They could certainly use the surgeon here, with the wounded lads from the escape from the rebel brig.
He scoffed as he watched that brig’s bowsprit dip ever closer to the waterline. Her crew must be working the pumps desperately to have kept her afloat this long. The presence of both brigs had been largely forgotten owing to all the activity on the beach. Those brigs may yet prove troublesome though, Ware guessed. At least the undamaged one might. There was no telling until they actually attempted to weigh anchor. Assuming, of course, they could all clear off this damn beach and get back to their ship.
“Wish Kipp coulda scuttled that damn brig proper.”
“He done well ’nuff at it anyway.” Jeffry Gallagher toyed with the sling of his musket. “Hulled her nice by the look of it. Wish those beggars would just give it up. There’s no savin’ her!”
That was undoubtedly true, but Ware would be happy to let them go on fighting to save the ship for a while longer yet. It kept them distracted from the stranded Cornwalls. “Ain’t gonna last, though. Them bein’ busy ’board her. They’ll spot us ’gain soon ’nuff.”
“God help us when they do,” muttered Billy Fowler.
There was silence after that, which only lasted a few moments until Smith cleared his throat. “Berty,” he said, shifting the axe he’d been given to the other shoulder. “What d’you reckon that other boat never made it across last night?”
“Rather not think on it,” Ware answered. If the second boat had suffered a fate similar to the one that had gone down near the rebel brig, they were all for it. He was not keen on becoming a Yankee prisoner again.
“I’d be more worried over fellows on our own side,” Gallagher said darkly.
There was a grunt from Bell, who was sitting on the sand between his four guards, his hands bound before him with a short length of cordage. “Tha’s jus’ the officers, then.”
Fowler shivered and took his hand away from the burnt part of his face again. He had taken to covering it whenever he felt embarrassed or upset. The gesture concealed the burn but not the bruises that were much newer. “I only hope they left that bastard Devlin alive,” he growled. “I owes him.”
A glance passed between Ware and Smith, and Smith sighed. Neither of them really knew how Fowler was able to stand after the beating the turncoats had given him. Yet the fact was that he was on his feet, albeit a trifle unsteadily, and able to hold a musket. It was an impressive feat of will.
“You shouldn’t oughta mess ’bout with the sarn’t,” Smith said. “Let him go for court-martial. That’ll sort him!”
“Not half what he deserves.”
“Oh leave it, Billy,” Ware told him. “It were an accident.”
“It wasn’t! There wasn’t a thing wrong with me musket. He took it anyways an’ gave me a rubbish one. Lookit what happened ’cause of that!”
In truth, Smith found it difficult to even glance at the pinched, ugly skin on the right side of Fowler’s face. It was a reminder to him - to all of them, in fact - what resulted when things went wrong. “Mistakes happen, Billy,” he muttered, keeping his gaze directed toward the boat, which had since shoved off from shore and was now pulling determinedly for Cornwall.
“Here’s hopin’ that don’t end up a mistake either,” Gallagher remarked.
“Better not be,” Fowler grumbled, shivering and leaning on his musket for support.
“If yee wants revenge ’ginst anybody, boy, better make it Tarwick.”
A snort from Smith coincided with a sigh from Ware. Bell had a point. There was nothing accidental about the bruises and lumps on Fowler’s face and body. Though if Fowler did not pay Tarwick back for his brutality, there were others who would. And gladly, Smith thought. He was one of them himself.
“I’ll sort that bastard out meself, if you don’t,” Ware said.
Fowler had his hand back over his burnt cheek. “He ain’t the one needs sortin’.”
Bollocks, Smith thought. A court-martial would take care of Sergeant Devlin. Nate Tarwick, on the other hand, deserved to be treated to a conversation in the hold, where no officer would be aware of what was happening. He shifted the axe back to the opposite shoulder and grimaced. Of course, this was all assuming that the lads in the boat left them anything to vent their own vengeance on.
“Y’know what we needs right now,” offered Gallagher. “We needs a nice warm - ”
“Straighten up,” Smith hissed, becoming aware of the boatswain’s approach. The boatswain, instead of Corporal Jones. That was no surprise, was it?
“Need yer muskets, lads,” Matheson told them. “Got some visitors comin’ that needs a proper reception.”
The five Marines looked toward the rebel brigs. Sure enough, two boats laden with men were making their way toward the beach. It had taken the Yankees long enough to realise what was happening ashore. They had, though, and looked to be coming ashore in force.
“Shame there’s no more shot for that nine-pounder,” Ware observed as Gallagher and Fowler handed over their muskets and cartridge boxes. “We could make ’em stand off quick ’nuff otherwise.”
The boatswain shrugged. ”If wishes was wind, we’d be alla way to India.” He tramped off with his awkward load, leaving the Marines to smirk amongst themselves at his odd offering of wisdom. Matheson could be hard to understand sometimes.
“We oughta just let you loose on ‘em, Bell,” Smith suggested.
No one said anything to agree with or counter that. The few men with muskets had advanced right down to the water’s edge and were firing on the approaching boats. To Gallagher’s eye, the distance was a little too great yet for any shots to be accurate. He amended that thought when he realised Mikey Quintin was down there with a musket. There wasn’t anything Quintin couldn’t hit.
“There he goes!” Smith cried suddenly, flinging his arm out to point toward the boats. A Yankee sailor had slumped over the larboard gunwale of the leading boat and even as they watched, the wounded man’s mates hauled him inboard again. That was one sorted out, anyway. With blood having been drawn now, there was nothing else worth watching than the exchange of fire. Some of the Yankees had muskets of their own and had begun firing back.
Seamen, many armed with swords or digging tools, were gathering near the huts. There weren’t enough weapons to go around, but it seemed to Gallagher that this was of no concern to the sailors. Even the ship’s boys were amongst the mostly-orderly crowd waiting for the Yankee boats to run themselves up onto the sand. It was a damned nuisance that he and the others were stuck here keeping an eye on Bell.
“It’ll be a tidy bit of scrappin’, I think,” Ware predicted. The six men with muskets were retiring, moving as smartly as if they were on a parade square. In their wake came the boats, close enough now to begin spilling out men into the waist-deep surf. Gallagher clenched his fists, feeling useless without his musket, and watched as Evans, one of the quartermasters, ran forward, a shovel in hand.
The sailor bellowed something that was more noise than words and waded out into the sea up to his knees, meeting the first of the struggling Yankees. The flat of the shovel swung down hard against the side of the rebel’s head, dropping him like a stone. With a cheer, Evans grabbed for the man’s sword. Then he was lost to view as the other Cornwalls surged forward to meet the enemy.
“Damn ’em for havin’ all the fun,” Smith grumbled.
None of his mates cared to speak, absorbed as they were by the spectacle unfolding before them. It was something novel to watch a fight and not take part themselves. While none of them cared for it, they weren’t keen to disobey the orders to guard Bell. There was only the odd crack of a musket now. It was a contest of numbers and will, but Gallagher reckoned the Cornwalls would carry the day.
“Brace up, boys,” Ware cautioned, drawing his bayonet with a rattle. Gallagher looked to see what had caught Ware’s notice and realised the confusing mass of brawling men was inching up the beach toward them. Some of the Yankees even looked to be getting around the sailors’ flank. It was going to be lively very shortly, the young Marine thought.
The Yankees had spotted them, too. Several knocked down their immediate opponents - Gallagher cursed when he saw one of them jab his cutlass down twice on a howling seaman - and started toward them.
Smith brandished his axe. “This’ll be good, an’ that’s no lie.”
Easy for you to say. Smith and Ware were the only two with weapons. Swallowing a sudden lump in his throat, Gallagher glanced at Fowler. They had better be handy with their fists or they were going to be real hot trouble.
“Get this offa me ’ands,” Bell told them, holding his bound hands up. “I ain’t dyin’ wivvout a fight!”
Ware spun around and with a quick, almost careless, slash, cut through the length of cordage. “C’mon then, Jimmy!”
In a twinkling, Bell was on his feet. He snatched the axe from Smith. “I ’ad ’nuff’a this lot,” the Newcastleman rasped. He advanced a couple steps then halted, waiting until the approaching Yankees were within striking range. The leading rebel slashed forward with his cutlass, no doubt figuring Bell to be an easy target. It was the last mistake he’d ever make.
The Marines cheered as Bell wrenched the axe free from the dying Yankee’s chest, then stirred themselves into motion. They threw themselves onto the stunned rebels, relieved to have the chance to get their own licks in. In short order, their would-be assailants were sprawled on the sand, most of them dead. Even Billy Fowler, who was barely able to stand up, had found the strength to throw a sound punch or two.
“That feels better,” said Smith cheerfully, claiming a cutlass for himself.
“Hoi! Yew lads!” A seaman came jogging toward them, and the Marines realised the bulk of the fighting appeared to be over. That had happened fast. “C’mon! We got two boats now!”
Two boats meant more men could make the pull across the little bay to the ship. Gallagher cheered and started forward, intending to get a place in one of the boats. A heavy hand on his shoulder stopped him short.
“We ain’t been relieved, mate,” Ware said.
Gallagher opened his mouth to protest, then clicked it shut again. By rights they should not have even released their prisoner. It was a good thing Mister Simcoe was no longer ashore. They’d all be for it otherwise. He gripped his boarding axe and tried to settle his nerves. Shame they’d missed the best part of the battle. Despite being short, the fight had clearly been a savage one. Bodies were strewn about the beach and on the surf, some dead, others wounded. One or two were Marines, it seemed, but Gallagher could not see who had fallen.
“Keep them Yankees on the beach!” Another seaman was yelling. “They got their gunports open over yon! Keep the beggars up or we’re all scuppered!”
“Silence there, Chambers!” Mister Matheson thundered, but Chambers’ cries were received as pure good sense by his comrades. Even the boatswain’s shouted threats were not fearsome enough to keep the men from doing as Chambers directed. Bell’s four guards took care to keep themselves separate from the rest of the crew, while the latter set about the business of forming boat crews and boarding parties. Men had already detailed themselves to keep protesting Yankee prisoners lined up facing the two brigs, using them as human shields.
“If Mister Carver don’t look out, he ain’t gonna have a hope of keepin’ this lot under control,” Smith muttered. The other Marines nodded. It was inevitable that the third luff would find it impossible to exert authority over the men now that they had captured two more boats and perhaps half the men manning them. They had done so without any guidance from the sea officer either. That would not help matters.
The first of the two boats was shoving off, nearly overloaded with men. There were a couple red coats amongst them, Fowler noted with no small feeling of envious resentment. He wanted to be returning to the frigate too. Instead he was stuck here until somebody helped him make the journey. Bell was right. He owed Tarwick a beating to pay the bastard back for the one he’d received.
“God help us if the Yankees start bombardin’ us,” said Ware with a shiver, before he turned away to withdraw higher up the beach. Without a word, the others, even Bell, followed him. There was nothing more to be done now but wait.