'Yes, Rosey, I know,' Jackson said patiently. 'But we've got to treat 'em like drunks—you know, as soon as they sober up they're sorry.'
'Drunks? Who say they is drunk? They's as sober as I is —was—I am.'
'No, I mean once we get dear of the Channel they'll forget the mutiny. We've got a long way to sail with these men; better not to antagonize them.'
'Antagonize? I don't understand this word—but------'
'Look, Rosey,' Jackson said quietly, using the one argument he knew would convince the Italian, 'this way is better for Mr Ramage. You understand?'
'All right, all right,' Rossi said reluctantly. 'Now Maxie, you are understanding?'
The West Indian grinned as he nodded.
Jackson said, 'All right then, that's settled. You take care of Harris and the second one—what's his name? Yes, Brook-land—as soon after the change of watch as you can, Remember, Harris is the lookout at the starboard chains and Brook-land's the same to larboard. We'll just have to wait for the cook's mate, Dyson, to come up on deck to talk to 'em. I'll make sure the top of the companionway's clear.'
'Yaas, Jacko,' Maxton said in his smooth, sing-song voice.
We'll keep a watch for Dyson. The advantage of being a coloured gennelman is no one sees me in the dark.'
'Unless you open your mouth,' Jackson said. "Those teeth of yours show up like a couple of rows of white marble tombstones.'
Below them Stafford swore violently as though he had pricked a finger and the three men stopped talking at this pre-arranged warning.
Jackson glanced down and, seeing Dyson pass Stafford and begin to climb the ladder, stood up and stepped back quietly. Pointing down, he hissed:
'Dyson! Get him now!'
The American hated sudden last minute changes in plan, but as an 'idler' who kept no watch, working only during the day, Dyson had no reason to come on deck after dark and this might be their only chance.
Before the man's head was level with the coaming Jackson was sauntering aft, his slow gait belying the tension that gripped him, making sure there were no seamen between the forehatch and the companionway.
Hell! The two men at the wheel! They were Tritons and they'd be standing not more than a dozen feet from the companion. Jackson quickened his pace, praying that the Master or Mr Ramage would be near the wheel. As he walked he eased out the belaying pin which had been tucked down the fide of his trousers.
There were two shadowy figures forward of the wheel. Seamen or—no, he recognized Mr Ramage's cocked hat outlined against the slightly lighter horizon.
'Captain, sir!' he said loudly just as he was abreast the capstan.
Ramage recognized Jackson's voice at once, guessed there was a particular reason why he called while several feet away aid at once began walking towards him with Southwick following.
'Captain here—that you, Jackson?'
'Aye, sir. Thought I saw something over there on the starboard bow...' As he reached Ramage he pushed him gently backwards. '... A fishing boat or something.'
Ramage clutched Southwick's arm and pulled him back, too, letting Jackson position them where he wanted.
The Master was quick enough to recall Jackson was not on watch.
'Lookouts haven't reported it yet,' he growled. 'Suppose you were just leaning on the rail thinking o' some doxy in Portsmouth. I can't see anything.'
Both Ramage and Southwick felt Jackson give them a warning touch and saw him turn away towards the approaching group.
'Damned fellow's probably drunk.' Ramage commented loudly, nudging the Master again. 'I can't see anything either.'
'Disgraceful,' Southwick growled. 'Dangerous having a fellow walking round the ship imagining things. Remember I once had a drunken sailor sitting out on the bowsprit-end in the dark pretending he was Commodore Nelson in another ship and shouting we'd collide. Gave a damned good imitation of the Commodore's voice, too: fooled me completely —I darn' nearly tacked: quite thought we were in for a collision.'
'Me too,' said Ramage. 'Don't bore me with that story, Mr Southwick: you forget I was commanding the ship.'
'And you were, by God!' exclaimed Southwick, and Ramage wasn't too sure whether the Master was saying the first thing that came into his head, to divert the men at the wheel and cover whatever Jackson was doing, or whether he'd genuinely forgotten that the drunken seaman had been Stafford, and it happened in the Kathleen. *
Albert Dyson had been cook's mate in the Triton for eleven months and in the Navy three years. The cook's mate was the man who had to light the galley fire, clean out the ashes, polish the big copper kettles in which die food was cooked, and skim off the fat which floated to the surface of the water when salt meat was boiled.
The removal of this fat, known as slush, provided me only call on any skills he had, since he needed no knowledge of cooking. The slush could be sold to various of the ship's company, illicitly and at a profit, because they liked to spread it on the weevily and otherwise tasteless biscuit officially known as 'bread' and which varied between a brick-like hardness or crumbling softness, depending on its age. And he shared his obvious nickname with every other cook's mate in the Service, 'Slushy' Dyson was an angry link man as he swung a kg over the wooden form and stood up. The other men sitting round the table and talking in low voices made him angry. The plan was simple enough and still a complete secret; but now, half an hour before the mutiny was due to start, this blasted argument had started. Although everyone agreed the plan was simple—and sure to succeed—he'd expected objections from some of the men: there was always some awkward bleeder who thought he knew better; but no, there'd been none.
Then at the last minute the trouble had come from his own mess, from the very man who'd been their spokesman. Admittedly Harris had been very quiet since the Triton had sailed and hadn't spoken a word. That, Dyson now realized, should have made him suspicious.
More important, though, Dyson's feelings were hurt He'd always admired Harris—a man whose book learning didn't make him act superior about it; in fact he was always ready to read or write a letter without wanting a tot for his trouble. But now he'd turned nasty.
Dyson objected to being called 'A smelly blob of pig grease'—he'd like to see Harris skimming off all that slush and not get any on his clothes. It's bound to make a chap stink—out everyone was always trying to get a mug of slush free, Harris included. And often he'd given it them—he, Slushy Dyson, who stood to get a crack on the head with the big ladle if the cook ever got to know about it, since the cook took three-quarters of whatever the slush was sold for, be it rum, bacca or credit.
Dyson walked aft to go up on deck: he wanted fresh air and some peace to think things over. They'd wreck everything with their talk. They had their rights—'course they had, otherwise why would the whole Fleet have mutinied? Hundreds of seamen—thousands in fact—knew they had their rights; and that's why the Fleet had rose and why some of the ships had hoisted the red flag, though he didn't agree with that—the so-called 'bloody flag' smelled of revolutionaries.
Sucking in his breath with an angry gesture, he walked round one of the men from the Lively stitching a shirt and began climbing the ladder. Two more of them round the coaming: they littered up the ship. All too hoity-toity they were, just because they'd served with the new captain.
He's a bit of a lad though, Dyson admitted as his hands grasped the top rungs: fancy just chopping the anchor cable like that! Well, it didn't make any difference, although Dyson hoped the lad wouldn't get hurt—from what these chaps said he was brave enough, though Dyson admitted he hoped Mr Ramage didn't get any more ideas about putting the ship across the bows of a Spanish sail of the line. Then he laughed to himself—no, tonight's work'd see to that! He stepped on to the deck and turned aft.