They found the wounded Bosun lying on the table in the saloon, secured by lines across his chest and hips against the rolling of the ship. The big gimballed lamp swung with the roll of the ship and weird shadows slipped back and forth across the saloon. Bowen was standing over the man's leg, the table holding him against the lee roll.
He glanced up as they came in and Ramage saw his face was dripping with perspiration. "Ah - just too late to lend me a hand. I'm about finished. Then perhaps I can have a couple of men to lift him into a cot; he'll be more comfortable swinging; the rolling makes the leg jerk on this table."
" 'Swinging' is the right word," Ramage said sourly. "Have you stitched him up?"
"Yes, both sides."
"Both sides?"
"Yes, sir; the shot went right through, of course. Missed the bone and the femoral artery: if that had been severed, he'd have been dead in a few minutes. At first I feared it was - the light is bad in your cabin, sir," he explained.
The Bosun groaned, looking up at Ramage. "A drop o' rum, sir, to take the pain away?"
Yorke sniffed. "I can't see you offering the Captain a tot of rum if you'd fired first."
"Oh, I would, sir," the Bosun protested. "And you too, sir."
"Thanks," Yorke said dryly. "But as far as you're concerned, dead men tell no tales, and they don't drink either."
"But I'm not dead, sir."
"Not yet," Yorke said ominously, "and neither are we."
Ramage grinned to himself: he would have given the Bosun a tot, and he realized Yorke had guessed that. But Yorke was right; giving a murderous mutineer a tot made little sense, and from what Bowen said it was only a flesh wound. At that moment there was a knock on the door and Jackson came in with Rossi and Stafford.
Ramage moved to stand over the Bosun. "Some more questions," he said. "You might as well answer them now."
The Bosun gave a heart-rending groan. "I'm not in a fit state..."
"You're alive," Ramage said. "That's enough, and be thankful. Now, whose idea was the mutiny?"
The man's eyes darted from side to side of the saloon; his hands gripped the edge of the table. Then he watched the lantern as it swung with the ship's roll. He swallowed several times but said nothing.
Ramage said, "The mutiny has failed. There's nothing to stop you talking."
"I ... I daren't, sir, an' that's the honest truth."
"Why not?"
"They'd do for me!"
Ramage was certain that the man was both terrified and telling the truth. But terrified of whom? Certainly not the ship's officers, since with them he felt safe enough to ask for a tot. Ramage made a quick guess. "Harris is in irons."
"He'll find a way, though," the Bosun muttered. "I know he will."
Ramage nodded significantly to Yorke: they had a definite answer to one question.
"What did Harris intend to do once he had the Marchesa and me as hostages?"
The Bosun just watched the swinging lamp. Perspiration was pouring down his face and he blinked rapidly as some of it ran into his eyes.
Ramage touched him on the shoulder. "Don't forget you're not a packetsman now: you are in the Navy. You're subject to the Articles of War. They lay down the death penalty for threatening a superior officer. They lay down the death penalty for mutiny. They lay down the death penalty for murder. Just think, Bosun: murder, mutiny, attacking a superior officer. You're guilty of all three, Bosun."
He paused for several moments, fighting back the driving sense of urgency as he thought of Gianna in the mutineers' hands. Then, speaking slowly and quietly he went on, "You'll hang, Bosun; you'll be run up at the fore yardarm of one of the King's ships. As far as the Articles of War are concerned, Bosun, you're already a dead man. There's only one thing that might possibly keep your neck out of the noose, Bosun, and that's if the court let you turn King's evidence. That means you tell the court all you know. Do you understand?"
The man said nothing.
"I think you do," Ramage said. "But you don't understand me. The rest of your mutineers have kidnapped the Marchesa. She's your hostage. Let me tell you something about her. You see Jackson, Rossi and Stafford here? They were with me when we rescued the Marchesa from French cavalry in Italy. All my men on board - except Maxton, who joined me later - have sailed with the Marchesa in the Mediterranean. I don't think I'm exaggerating Bosun, when I say that every one of them - and that includes Mr Southwick and me - would give his life for her."
The three seamen growled their agreement, and Ramage's voice dropped to little more than a whisper when he said, "So as a mutineer, you're already dead as far as the Navy's concerned. If you don't tell me what the mutineers intended to do, you'll be dead as far as you are concerned, and within the next couple of minutes..."
"You'd never kill a wounded man," the Bosun muttered.
"Accidente!" Rossi hissed, leaping forward with a knife in his hand. "If the Marchesa is hurt, I killing you even if it make me a mutineer!"
Ramage's startled reaction and hurried, "Steady, Rossi!" was not lost on the Bosun, whose eyes were fixed on the knife blade.
"Let me have him, sir," Rossi pleaded. "Two minutes and he say everything!"
The Bosun's mouth was slack and trembling; the flesh of his face sagged as though every muscle had let go. A faint smell of urine told them the man had almost completely lost control of himself.
Ramage pressed his foot against Rossi's. "I think I will, Rossi: tell me, how will you start?"
"Testicles!" Rossi said eagerly. "First one, then the other. I show him them, sir. Then 1 cut the ligaments, so he can't move the legs or the arms. Then -"
"I'll tell you, sir," the Bosun said hoarsely, "only just keep that madman away from me!"
"He's not mad," Ramage said viciously, "he's just unimaginative. What I planned would have had you screaming for an hour. Now, talk!"
"T'was Harris's idea, sir. Seize you an' the Marchesa and get you both forward before Southwick realized what was happening. Then we'd hold you both and force Southwick to sail the ship to a Spanish port. Coruña or Ferrol. Just before we got there he was going to shoot the lot of you."
The man paused for breath. "That's about all, sir, so help me."
"What will the mutineers do now, with Harris in irons and only the Marchesa?"
"Dunno, sir. Probably carry on with the plan. Don't make no difference that I'm wounded and Harris in irons," he said. "They've still got the Marchesa. And don't make any mistake, sir," he added, his voice becoming ingratiating, as if the idea of turning King's evidence had at last sunk in, "they're desperate men. They'll kill her if you don't do what they say."
"If they do, they'll all hang."
"If you won't take the ship to a Spanish port, they're dead men anyway," the Bosun muttered, "so they've nothing to lose by killing the Marchesa."
"Nothing to gain, either," Ramage pointed out.
"Revenge, sir. They'll have settled their score with you. They hate you: you've ruined their lives."
Ramage looked across at Bowen. "You'd better be ready for more casualties. Don't waste too much time on this one."
Gesturing to Yorke and the seamen he strode out of the saloon and went to his own cabin. "You three go and join Captain Wilson," he told Jackson. "You'll be hearing from the mutineers soon: they don't know whether I'm alive or dead, and don't tell 'em. Pretend you have to report to Mr Yorke, but pass the word to me. Warn Captain Wilson about that."
"Supposing they try to rush me, sir?"
"I'm certain they won't, but if they do, don't open fire. Use belaying pins or handspikes. We've got to safeguard the Marchesa. The sound of shots might panic any of them left below..."
As Jackson left, Ramage sank into a chair. The large bloodstain on the deck was black in the lantern light, as though a caulker had spilled hot tar.