'Aye, sir, understood!' Danks's voice came back from beyond a large stow of sacked and dried peas.
They shuffled forward again. The shadows thrown by the lantern behind Drinkwater projected his own form in grotesque silhouette on the uneven surfaces of futtocks and foot-waling. He held the little dirk in his outsize hand. It was a pathetic and inadequate weapon, but he had brought it in place of his hanger which, he had realized, would have been an encumbrance in the restricted space of this narrow catwalk.
'Nothin' yet!' shouted Smyth, and Wilson and Danks echoed the call. The stink of effluvia, bilge, dried stores, rot, fungus, rust and God knew what beside made breathing difficult. The lanterns guttered yellow, their flames sinking as they moved forward. The whining squeak of rats accompanied their scuttering retreat from this unwonted incursion into their private domain and added a quickening to the tired, low groans of the ship as she rolled on the swell.
Drinkwater's heart hammered painfully. He saw a score of phantasmagorical Malaburns, the swinging, hand-held lantern light throwing maddening shadows which moved as they did. Sweat poured off him, and he stopped to wipe it from his brow.
And then, quite suddenly, without any violent reaction of either party, he found himself staring at Malaburn. In a recess, where a large stow of barrels gave way to more sacks and these fell back, showing signs of recent removal, the American lay at bay, holding the pale form of Huke hostage. Drinkwater stopped and, without taking his eyes off the white mask of Malaburn's face, beckoned behind him with the dirk. Leslie thrust the lantern over his shoulder.
Huke lay oddly, his feet no more than a yard from Drinkwater, his legs splayed slightly apart so that Drinkwater could see, amid the pitch-black shadows, the dark trail of blood that smeared the white knee-breeches and revealed the deep thrust of the wound in Huke's groin. Malaburn had been in the lower hold, the head of a pike through a hole in a grating waiting for the advance of the impetuous lieutenant. The wound was hideous, the pain must have been excruciating and the bleeding Huke was insensible, his face averted, lolled backwards as he lay in Malaburn's malevolent embrace.
The American had one arm across Huke's chest but the first lieutenant still breathed in shallow rasping gasps. Malaburn's other hand held a long-bladed knife at Huke's throat. In the sharp contrast of the lantern-light, Drinkwater could see the taught tendons in Huke's neck standing out like rope. Beneath them lay the vulnerable carotid artery and the jugular vein.
Drinkwater said in a low voice, 'Put your knife down.'
The blade wavered, a faint reflection of lantern-light revealing Malaburn's hesitation.
'Put your knife down, Malaburn.'
'No. I will let the first lieutenant go only if you give me your word that you will put me aboard one of those Yankee ships.'
'You know that is impossible ...'
'You could do it, if you wanted to, Captain Drinkwater. If you gave me your word and called your men off. I trust you, d'you see.'
'Malaburn, Lieutenant Huke is bleeding to death,' Drinkwater began, trying to sound reasonable, knowing that a move of his left hand which held a pistol would cause Malaburn to react with his knife. But Malaburn was unmoved by Drinkwater's logic.
'Your word, Captain Drinkwater,' he hissed urgently, 'your word!'
A dark suspicion crossed Drinkwater's mind. Malaburn's presumption was no quixotic plea, there was too much certainty in the man's voice. He knew Drinkwater could not give his word, dare not give it.
'Who the devil are you, Malaburn?'
'Are you all right, sir?' Danks's voice, muffled by the contents of the hold, reminded Drinkwater of the other men. Beneath his own feet, Drinkwater realized now, Wilson had stopped, aware of something happening above him.
'Stay where you are, Danks, you lobster-backed bastard,' shouted Malaburn, 'and you others, wherever you ...!'
He never finished his threat. There was a flash of light and, when Drinkwater's retinae had adjusted themselves, Malaburn's face had vanished. The long-bladed knife was lowered almost gently on to Huke's chest by the nerveless hand, and the sacks which had cradled Malaburn's head as he awaited his hunters were stained with its shattered remains.
The explosion of the musket deafened them momentarily, and the brilliance of its flash blinded them. Stunned, Drinkwater was uncertain where the shot had come from, or who had fired it. He thought himself shouting with anger, though no one seemed to hear him, and he suddenly heard Sergeant Danks's voice, no longer muffled, say with savage satisfaction:
'Got the bugger!'
Danks's disembodied face appeared above Huke's. He was casting aside sacks as he fought his way through from the far side of the ship, the long barrel of his still smoking musket visible beside him.
'I gave no orders ...' Drinkwater began, but the words did not seem to be heard and he thought afterwards that he had only imagined them. Leslie was gently squeezing past him with a 'Beg pardon, sir ...'
And then Drinkwater heard his own voice astonishingly loud, uttering the fact before he had apparently absorbed it. 'It's too late. He's already dead.'
He must have seen the shallow respirations cease, known when he saw that terrible, gaping wound, that Huke was dying. The vicious pike thrust was mortal, not the work of a man acting in self-defence, but the cold act of a murderer. And Drinkwater knew that it was not Danks he was angry with for so precipitately killing Malaburn, but himself, for not having dispatched him for killing a man whom Drinkwater counted a friend.
'Bring both of them out,' he ordered, desperate for fresh air and afraid he might vomit at any moment. He turned and thrust back past the other marine. 'Give 'em a hand,' he muttered through clenched teeth.
As he approached the foot of the ladder to the orlop deck he paused. He could see someone at the bottom peering forward and waving a lantern, hear a babble of curious men pressed about the coaming of the hatchway. He wiped his face and drew several slow and deliberate breaths. Then he strode out of the darkness.
'Here's the Captain…'
'Sir? Is that you?'
'Stand aside, if you please. They will be bringing out the first lieutenant's body in a moment, along with that of Malaburn. Pass word to have both prepared for burial.'
Then he went straight to his cabin and flung himself on his cot.
Drinkwater woke at dawn. He was cold and cramped, gritty with dried sweat and foul exertion. The stink of the hold and the discharge of black powder clung to him. He rubbed his eyes and the colours leapt before him and dissolved into the deep red of blood. Drawing his cloak about him he went stiffly on deck.
He had given no thought to the fate of the ship in the aftermath of Huke's terrible, unnecessary death. It seemed almost miraculous that this neglect had been ameliorated by the regular rhythm of the ship's inexorable routine. The realization steadied him and, as he acknowledged Jameson's salute, he saw it was raining.
'Ah'm verra sorry about Tom Huke, sir.'
'Yes. He should never ...' He caught himself in time. He could not possibly blame Huke for his own death. 'He should never have been so zealous,' he managed.
'He was a guid first luff, sir.'
Jameson's almost pleading tone, as though explaining Tom's character for this Johnny-come-lately of a captain, was the last act of the night. It reminded Drinkwater that the junior lieutenant sought his, Drinkwater's good opinion. 'I know, Mr Jameson, I had already learned that.'
'He has dependants ...'
'I know that, too.' Drinkwater shouldered the burden of command again and could almost feel the mood of the third lieutenant lighten.
'Will you gi'e Mr Beavis a temporary commission, sir?'