Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [331]
Something stirred in his mind at the mention of cargo, something uncomfortable, but he couldn’t bring it to the forefront of recognition. It hung in the shadows of exhaustion, just out of sight, nearly close enough to smell. Yes, that was it, it had to do with a smell. But what—
“MacKenzie!” One of the seamen was calling from the afterdeck, waving for him to come and help with the mending of sails torn by the storm; huge stacks of folded canvas lay like dirty snowdrifts on the boards, their upper layers billowing in the wind.
Roger groaned, and stretched his aching muscles. No matter what happened in North Carolina, he would be very glad to get off this ship.
Two nights later, Roger was deep in dreams when the shouting roused him. His feet hit the deck and he was running for the companionway, heart pumping at full bore, before his mind had grasped the fact that he was awake. He sprang for the ladder, only to be knocked sprawling by a blow to his chest.
“Stay where ye are, fool!” Dixon’s voice growled from the rungs above. He could see the mate’s head, outlined against the starry square of the hatchway overhead.
“What is it? What’s happening?” He shook off the confusion of his dreams, to find no less confusion in the waking.
There were others in the dark near him, he could feel bodies stumble over him as he struggled to his feet. All the noise was up above, though; a thunder of feet on the deck and a shouting and shrieking like nothing he had ever heard.
“Murderers!” A woman’s voice cut through the racket, shrill as a fife. “Wicked mur— “The voice cut off abruptly, with a heavy thump on the deck above.
“What is it?” On his feet again, Roger shoved his way through the men by the ladder, shouting up to Dixon, “What? Are we boarded?” His words were drowned by the shouting above; the steam-whistle shrieks of women and children, cutting through men’s bellowing and curses.
Red light flickered somewhere above. Was the ship afire? He shoved through the press of men and grabbed the ladder, reached up and seized Dixon’s foot.
“Gerrof!” The foot jerked free, aimed a kick at his head. “Stay down there! Christ, man, ye want to catch pox?”
“Pox? What the hell is going on up there?” Eyes accustomed to the dark by now, Roger grabbed the stabbing foot and gave it a vicious twist, jerked downward. Unprepared for assault, Dixon lost his grip on the ladder and fell heavily, sliding over Roger’s head and into the men below.
Roger ignored the cries of rage and surprise behind him and clambered out onto the deck. There was a group of men clustered thick about the forward hatchway. Lanterns hung above in the rigging, shooting beams of red and white and yellow light that caught the gleam of blades.
He looked quickly for another ship, but the ocean was black and empty on all sides. No boarders, no pirates; all the struggle was taking place near the hatchway, where half the crew was gathered in a knot, armed with knives and clubs.
Mutiny? he thought, and dismissed it, even as he pushed forward; Bonnet’s head showed above the crowd, hatless, fair hair gleaming in the flash of lantern light. Roger shoved his way into the mob, ruthlessly shouldering smaller seamen aside.
Shrieks and shouts echoed from the hold, and a flicker of light showed below. A bundle of rags was handed up, passed rapidly from hand to hand, disappeared behind the shifting mass of limbs and clubs. There was a heavy splash to port, and then another.
“What is it, what’s happening?” He bellowed in the ear of the bosun, who stood near the hatchway, holding a lantern. The man jerked round and glared at him.
“You’ve not had pox, have you? Get below!” Hutchinson’s attention had already gone back to the open hatchway.
“Yes, I have! What’s that got to—”
The bosun swung back, surprised.
“You’ve had pox? You’re not marked. Ach, let it go—get you down, then, we need all hands!”
“For what?” Roger leaned forward, to make himself heard above the noise from below.
“Smallpox!” the bosun bellowed back. He gestured at the open hatchway,