Ramage's eye ran across the line. No, number eight was not expected to be in two or three places at once—the usual mistake made when drawing up a new Bill. He chose other numbers, checked them, and found they were correct. So Southwick could read it to the men before evening quarters.
No—on second thoughts there'd be no evening quarters! For the moment he wanted to avoid giving any orders to the whole ship's company because it gave them a chance to defy him. Orders to a few men at a time, yes; to a group, no.
In the meantime copies of the Bill could be made, ready to be pinned up where the men could read them.
He called for his clerk, gave the instructions, and then sat back in the chair, his feet up on the desk, rubbing the scar on his brow.
Southwick was right: if the men planned anything, it'd happen tonight. It'd be silent and swift. He, Southwick and Appleby would be killed—the mutineers wouldn't dare let them stay alive. Even handing them over to the French authorities as prisoners would be too dangerous because prisoners were often exchanged. Mutineers might get caught —serving in a French warship, in a privateer, maybe in a fishing boat. And an exchanged prisoner would give damning evidence at the court martial...
He, Southwick and Appleby could—no they couldn't; there was no way of training a carronade forward so the recoil wouldn't hurl it through the transom into the sea. And it was the wheel, the quarterdeck, that had to be defended. Not because they could steer the ship if the mutineers wanted to prevent them—all they had to do was cut the tiller ropes, brace the yards round or even furl the sails. But as long as Ramage could himself destroy the wheel and compass, he could stop the mutineers steering for France until they'd completed lengthy repairs. But, but, but... he was fooling himself. The three of them could do nothing that mattered much; nothing the mutineers couldn't make good in a few hours. And there was nothing he could do beforehand. He was checkmated by pawns.
Ramage sat up with a start, then recognized Southwick's characteristic rat-tat-tat, rat-tat knock on the door. As soon as he came in Ramage pointed to the chair by the table.
'Trouble, sir,' the old man announced, running his hands through the white hair which, freed from the confines of his hat, sprang out over his head like a new mop. 'I don't know what it is but...'
He stood up and opened the door suddenly, looking to see if anyone was outside eavesdropping.
He sat down again. 'Sorry, sir. But Jackson's passed me a weird message for you. As near as I can recall, tonight he wants you to keep people away from the companionway, keep the wardroom door shut, and keep everyone—including yourself, sir—clear of the breadroom scuttle because there'll be three guests in the breadroom tonight. Oh yes, and he'd be glad for you to find 'em there in the morning an' take the necessary action. It sounds balmy,' Southwick added, 'but he isn't drunk sir—leastways, I don't think he is. And that reminds me, he said could you leave a bottle or two of rum by the breadroom scuttle, and a lantern.'
'That's all he said?'
'That's all, sir,' Southwick said, pulling his nose. "When I eased over close to ask what he was talking about—there were several men around—Stafford whispered something about the cook's mate keeping too close under their lee to say any more.'
'Your yourself a drink if you wish,' Ramage said, waving at me sideboard.
'I'll join you in one, sir.'
'Not for me, thanks.'
'Don't think I will, then: we've got to keep our wits about as tonight. Oh yes, sorry, I did forget something. Stafford said they'd be obliged, begging our pardon, if we'd please get the surgeon tipsy and making as much noise as possible from the time "Lights out" is piped.'
Ramage picked up the pen and scratched the scars on his forehead with the end of the quill. Wardroom door shut— that'd be so no one from forward, where the Marines and ship's company slung their hammocks, could see into the wardroom (or see the scuttle, which was in the wardroom). Guests in the breadroom... a bottle or two of rum by the scuttle? Maybe Jackson and Stafford were going to hide there for the night. But why the rum? No—it couldn't be those two since whoever they were, they had to be found in the morning and he had to 'take the necessary action'.
Southwick suddenly thumped the table with his fist and growled: 'Why the hell can't they tell us straight cut what's going on?'
'Those two have a reason all right, though I can't think what it is. But it all points to me not doing or knowing anything until I find the "guests" tomorrow morning. It could mean that if the mutineers suspected I knew anything tonight, Jackson and Stafford would be in danger. Or couldn't do whatever they're planning.'
'Well, I only hope the reasons are good. Good grief, four or five men in the breadroom would pack it tight. And bottles of rum—they going to have a party down there?'
Ramage laughed. 'I think Jackson's using the word "guests" loosely. And one or two bottles can't mean many "guests".'
'Why the breadroom, though?'
'Where else could you lock up men where their shouts wouldn't be heard by the ship's company? Both the bosun's store and for'rard sailrooms are just below where the men sleeping forward sling their hammocks. Same goes for the dry room and coals stowage. The big sailroom's amidships and everyone would hear. Shot locker's too small, you can't lock it up, and it's right under the Marines. Spirit room—hardly appropriate. Magazine—not a very safe place from your point of view, most of it's under your cabin! But the breadroom— well, that's right under here.' He pointed downwards. 'No one who's been planning mischief and was locked in there would want to shout too much and wake the captain, would he? And the advantage is that you can only get to it through the wardroom, where the scuttle is. And both scuttle and the bread-room door can be secured. And with that blasted surgeon serenading his bottles, none of the ship's company would hear...'
'Hmm. Yes, that's a point. Why the rum, though. Reward?'
'I don't understand that. Jackson hardly drinks. Nor does Stafford. A couple of bottles—well, it's worth it'
The Master stood up ready to go back on deck.
'By the way, Mr Southwick, no evening muster. Supper'—
be looked at his watch—'at the usual time, in half an hour. Pipe "Down hammocks" at seven, an hour early, and "Ship's company's fire and lights out" at seven-thirty.'
'But—no evening muster, sir! Is that wise? I mean, the------'
'For the moment, I don't want to give the men an opportunity to make a mass refusal to carry out an order. Lights out earlier than usual may upset any plans they have. Anyway, it'll leave them puzzled about what we might be up to. Particularly since we're up to nothing.'
'Aye, there's that to it,' Southwick admitted. 'Any special night orders?'
'No, just the usual—sharp lookout; all changes of wind, alterations in course and so on to be reported to me. But I'll be on deck with you until the "guests" have arrived. Don't wear a brace of pistols too obviously... And I'd enjoy your company at breakfast. Ask Appleby too. The invitation doesn't apply to our heirs, though, should anything go wrong ...'
CHAPTER FIVE
Rossi and Maxton listened carefully in the darkness as Jackson explained the plan. The three men were sitting on the coaming of the forehatch with Stafford below at the foot of the ladder beside the dim lantern, stitching a tear in his shirt and, to an onlooker, standing there to catch the light 'A pleasure,' Rossi said when Jackson finished. 'Much pleasure. But this much I know; it's better to make the finish. Dead men make no troubles; live men make much unhappiness.'