Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [37]
“I’m waiting.”
“Yes, sir.” Dale gulped, still trying to arrange the story in coherent order. “I found out about it this morning. A petty officer came to my quarters to tell me he thought trouble was about to erupt. His opinion was that it had been brewing for weeks. The main cause was the English turncoats and the French in the crew. It is not known what the French wanted, but the English wanted to take the ship and sail for England.” He paused. “The Americans were with us, and the Portuguese too. They helped quell the trouble.”
“The main cause was the English, you say?”
“Aye, sir. The ringleader is a man called Towers, a quartermaster. His aides-de-camp are an armorer called Sturgis and a Frenchman called Rousseau. We were trying to separate them from the main body of mutineers when you came aboard, sir. They were being protected by the others.”
“Why wasn’t this done as soon as you were aware of the threat this morning?”
Dale flushed. “Sir, I took steps immediately. M’sieur de Chamillard was informed, but word must have got to the mutineers that we knew of the plot because they struck just as the marines were being ordered out. Fortunately we had forced their hand. We moved in only minutes after the armory was opened, before too many weapons could be distributed.”
“Fortunately, you say,” Paul Jones said sarcastically. “Then why did it take so long to contain the situation?”
“There was utter confusion, sir. Whereas the marines and naval officers were in uniform, the loyal crewmen could not be distinguished from the disloyal. With so many voices in different tongues while the Americans and Portuguese were trying to assist, I don’t think the marines knew which of the crew they were fighting. Most of the skirmishes took place below decks where a handful of mutineers in advantageous positions were able to effectively hinder the rounding up operation…” Dale was interrupted by a banging at the door. His mouth hung open as he looked at the commodore. He was rewarded with a glower.
“Enter!” Paul Jones barked.
A petty officer filled the doorway. His face was streaked and sweat stains had spread from his armpits. Unconsciously, he softly whipped his thigh with a knotted rope persuader as he waited for permission to speak.
“Yes?”
The petty officer grimaced. “Mr. Cutting Lunt said I was to inform you, sir, the ringleaders are in irons.”
The commodore waved a hand. “Very good. Carry on.” When the door closed he sniffed. “Some progress at least.” He turned to gaze out of the stern lights then poured himself more brandy. As he raised the glass he pushed the decanter toward Dale. “Have a drink before we visit the cornered fox, the quartermaster who would make himself a captain.” He watched Dale pour himself a snifter, his eyes steely. “And I want a full report covering all this.”
Dale met the commodore’s cold stare. “Of course, sir.”
The gangway was dim, claustrophobic with the July heat. Two French marines armed with loaded muskets and fixed bayonets guarded the battened door of the brig. They looked hot and uncomfortable, stooping to prevent their tall shakos from being crushed by the deck timbers above. When they heard the officers clumping toward them, the marines came to attention as best they could. The commodore halted in front of the door, sniffed, then gestured for it to be opened.
A marine stepped forward, shouldering his musket before fumbling through the keys on his chain until he found the right one. The key ground as it turned, stiff before the hasp fell loose. Using both hands the marine lifted the cross batten free and stood it on the deck. He heaved the heavy door open before standing aside.
It was dimmer in the brig than in the gangway. A small oil lamp flickered in the air disturbed by the opening door. The draught weakly stirred the stench of dried sweat and urine. Three men lay slumped on the floor, chained like animals by wrists and ankles.
“Which of you is Towers?” Paul Jones queried, straining to see the sailors’ faces in the gloom. One of the prisoners grunted, wrist chains rattling.