happening, what, what, what? It could be an attack from the shore or a mutiny or the prisoners trying to take the ship.
It seemed to grow quiet on the brig, quiet enough that Brownlaw could not hear anything over the sounds of his own company turning out below and charging up on deck, the clatter of weapons, the loud talk of confused men.
Then, from the far side of the brig, a cannon fired, one of her great guns, blasting flame out over the water. The report made a famous echo around the harbor, and Brownlaw leaped clean off the deck in surprise and nearly dropped his pistol over the side.
“Damn!” he shouted. A single gun, that was the distress signal as specified in Press’s standing orders.
Of course they are in bloody distress, you fool! Brownlaw chastised himself. They’re bloody fighting someone! Make a decision, make a decision, goddamn it! He found himself near paralysis.
Find out what’s acting…
“Hoa, the brig, ahoy! Hoa!” he called, and as he did, he realized that it was stupid to think someone would respond, but to his surprise someone did.
“Holloa! Mr. Brownlaw, is that you?”
“Aye! Johnson?” Johnson was the master’s mate who had been left in charge of the Bloody Revenge.
“Aye, sir!” He sounded upset. His voice wavered.
“What’s acting, Johnson?”
“Prisoners tried to break out, sir! Got their hands on some weapons, don’t know how. I reckon we got ’em secured now!”
No wonder Johnson’s voice wavered so. Damned frightening. “You need some more men there? To help guard them?”
That was met with a long silence, then, “Aye, sir! We’ve got some hurt ones here. What can you send?”
Brownlaw had sixty or so men on the two big ships and another twenty on the brig and twenty more aboard Speedwell. But nearly all the boats were ashore; he had only the barge. “I can send twenty-five,” he announced at last.
“I’m grateful, sir!” Johnson called out. Brownlaw turned to the men in the waist below him. “You heard Johnson. They’ve had some trouble with their prisoners. Twenty-five of you in the barge, go over and lend a hand.”
That was all he needed to say. The men were well trained and used to working together. They quickly sorted themselves out, and twenty-five of them piled into the barge.
Brownlaw watched them as they pulled over to the brig, and he felt a great relief, an almost-giddy sense of joy. Here he had been terrified that he would make a hash out of his responsibility. But instead a prisoner revolt had been put down on his watch, and he had dispatched more men to see it dealt with proper.
A voice from the Speedwell, riding at her anchor, less than a cable length away. “Brownlaw!” It was Scribner, the Speedwell’s bosun, in temporary command. “Brownlaw, what’s acting? What are those guns about?”
“It’s nothing, Scribner. Prisoners trying to break out. I have everything under control!”
And he did. Brownlaw smiled to himself. Even that bastard Press would find no fault with his leadership.
Yancy was still getting the men assembled in the open ground outside the front door when the gun went off and echoed around the high hills. Seventy of his men, fifty of Press’s, and they all looked up as if their heads were controlled by a single string.
“What in hell was that?” Yancy demanded, his voice near a shriek.
“Cannon,” Press said.
Yancy’s head jerked around, glared up at the pockmarked face that stared with insouciance out toward the harbor. “Don’t you play it coy with me, you whoreson, or I’ll have you impaled here and now.”
Press looked down at him, flicked the silver toothpick between his lips. Yancy had ordered that damned thing taken from him. He must have had another concealed in his coat. “I don’t think now is the time to impale me, Yancy…”
“Lord Yancy.”
“Forgive me, Lord Yancy.” Press drawled the words. “My men have standing orders to fire a gun in case of any trouble. If I am not wrong, I believe Marlowe has reached my ships.”
Yancy clenched his teeth, looked out over the harbor. Press stood a good foot taller than he did, and Yancy hated to stand next to him. Considered forcing him to walk on his knees. “My ships, Press. Not yours,” he corrected. Press had already grown too cocky.
“Then let me suggest we get down to ‘your ships,’ ” Press said, but by that point Yancy was too swept up with his growing sense of urgency to slap him down for his impudence.
“Come along, men! Down to the harbor! Hurry now, there’s a god-damned fortune to be had!”
Those were the most motivational words that Yancy could have said to that crowd. They surged forward, Press and Yancy in the lead, and in their quick step crossed the grounds, poured out the gate-the unconscious guards unseen in the shadows-and raced down the hill toward the harbor below.
“Here they come, under the counter,” Johnson said, just a whisper, and as he spoke, Marlowe could make out the dark outline of the boat pulling for the Bloody Revenge.
By way of rewarding Johnson for his good work, Marlowe removed the barrel of the pistol that he had been pressing against Johnson’s lower spine and held it aside. He could smell the sweat on the man, an unhealthy smell of fear.
“Burgess,” Marlowe whispered, and the boatswain appeared at his side. “Take this pistol. When the men in the boat come up the side, Johnson here will send them below, tell ’em that’s where the prisoners are being held. We’ll take them as they come down the scuttle.
“If Johnson gives an alarm, shoot him. Not in the head, right through the spine, here.” Marlowe jabbed Johnson’s lower back with his finger, more for Johnson’s benefit than Burgess’s.
“Aye, through the spine. Bloody mess that’ll make. Seen ’em live for weeks that way,” Burgess said, taking the gun and pulling his cocked hat low over his forehead. Burgess would be a lot less conspicuous standing beside Johnson than Marlowe would be.
Marlowe crossed the deck, went down the scuttle to the tween decks, waited with the others. A few moments, no more, and the boat thumped alongside and feet clumped and padded up the side, and Johnson’s voice, tight with fear, directed them below.
Across the deck overhead and down the ladder to the dimly lit tween decks, Roger Press’s men stepped right into a ring of muskets aimed at them. Thomas Marlowe, his finger to his lips, urged them to silence. It was a warning they heeded, making not a sound as they were relieved of muskets, pistols, swords, and sheath knives and then were battened down in the dark place where just half an hour before, thirty of Billy Bird’s men had been imprisoned.
The hatch was closed and secured, and Marlowe nodded, looked around at the assembled men. The Bloody Revenge was theirs, the Queen’s Venture assured that all was well, and her defense now weaker by twenty-five men.
Dawn was an hour away. At first light they would have to run the gauntlet of the batteries at the harbor mouth. Yancy and his men were no doubt rushing to the waterfront at that very moment, summoned by the great gun that some hero had fired off.
I have been in worse places, sure, Marlowe thought, but he did not have time to think of when.
Yancy had set the pace at first, walking fast down the hill. But Press’s long legs carried him half again as far as Yancy with every stride. Soon Yancy was jogging to keep pace with Press, and that made Press break into a half jog, and then the men did likewise. Yancy could not order Press to slow down-it was as much as admitting he could not keep up with the gangly bastard. He could not let Press move ahead.
By the time they reached the dock and clattered out over the worn boards, they were all gasping for breath- Yancy, Press, the heavily armed men. For a moment they could do nothing but breathe.
“… Must get out to the ships… Where are your boats?” Yancy spoke. His breath had not fully returned, but he had to speak first.
Press straightened, made a great show of placing his toothpick in his mouth. “Had four boats tied up here. Marlowe must have taken them.”
“Goddamn it! Nagel, where in bloody hell are you? Nagel!”
