To Glory We Steer (30 page)

He leaned against the door and touched his face with his hand. His palm felt cold and clammy, and he thought of young Maynard alone with this appalling spectacle. No one could have blamed him if he had rushed screaming to the upper-deck.

“My God!” Herrick's voice hung in the gloom in a mocking echo. He almost cried out again as a foot rasped on the ladder behind him, but as he groped blindly for his pistol he saw that it was Captain Rennie, his scarlet coat like a reflection of the blood on the cabin deck.

Rennie brushed past him and stared fixedly at the corpse. Then he said coldly, “I'll put two of my best men on guard here. The cabin must be sealed until there has been an investigation.” He eyed Herrick meaningly. “You know what this means, don't you?”

Herrick felt himself nod. “I do.” He pulled himself together. “I'll go and tell the captain.”

As he climbed up the ladder Rennie called quietly, “Easy, Thomas. There will be at least one guilty man watching your face on deck!”

Herrick glanced back at the open cabin door, making himself form a final picture of the murdered man. “I suppose I was expecting something like this.” He bit his lip. “But when it comes, it's still a shock.”

Rennie watched him go and then stepped carefully over the glaring corpse. Ignoring the thing by his polished boots he began to search methodically amongst the scattered souvenirs of the purser's life.

Herrick's face was like stone as he crossed to the weather side of the quarterdeck to where Bolitho was still speaking with Vibart. He touched his hat and waited until Bolitho turned to face him.

“Well, Mr Herrick?” Bolitho's smile of welcome faded. “Is it more trouble?”

Herrick looked quickly around him. “Mr Evans has been murdered, sir.” He spoke in a tight, clipped voice which he no longer recognised. “Maynard found him a few minutes ago.” He ran his hand across his face. It was still cold, like the mark of death.

Bolitho said slowly, “What have you done so far, Mr Herrick?” There was nothing in his question to betray what he must be feeling, and his features were composed in an impassive mask. “Take your time. Just tell me what you saw.”

Herrick moved closer to the rail, his eyes on the glittering water. In a slow, flat voice he described the events from the moment Maynard had appeared on deck to the actual second of realisation.

Bolitho listened in complete silence, and at Herrick's side Vibart stood swaying with the ship, his hands opening and closing from either anger or shock at Maynard's discovery.

Herrick concluded heavily, “He had not been dead long, sir.” He found himself repeating the midshipman's words. “He has been cut to pieces.”

Captain Rennie marched across the deck and said crisply, “I have put some men on guard, sir.” He saw Bolitho looking at his boots and bent quickly to wipe a bright stain from the polished leather. He added calmly, “I've had a good look round, sir. Evans's pistols are missing. Stolen most likely.”

Bolitho eyed him thoughtfully. “Thank you, gentlemen. You have both behaved very well.”

Vibart said vehemently, “What did I tell you, sir? Softness with these scum is no use! They only understand a hard hand!”

Bolitho said, “His pistols, you say?”

Rennie nodded. “He had two small weapons. He was very proud of them. Gold-mounted and quite valuable, I believe. He said he got them in Spain.” He fell silent, as if he, like the others, was thinking of the dead man as he had once been. One of the most disliked men in the ship. A man with grudges and hates more than most. It was not difficult to understand that he would have an equal number of enemies.

Proby climbed the ladder and touched his hat. “May I dismiss the watch below, sir?” He seemed to realise that he was intruding and muttered, “Beggin' your pardon, sir!”

Bolitho said, “Have the hands stay at their stations, Mr Proby.” They all looked at him. There was a new coldness in Bolitho's voice and an unfamiliar hardness in his eyes. To Rennie he continued, “Post sentries at every hatch. Nobody will go below.”

Vibart murmured, “So you'll see it
my
way, sir?”

Bolitho swung round. “Someone is guilty, Mr Vibart. But not the whole ship! I don't want this man to escape, or his actions to contaminate the rest of our people!” In a calmer tone he said, “Mr Herrick, you will take the berth deck with Mr Farquhar and the boatswain. Captain Rennie will search the rest of the ship with his own men.” He looked down at the waiting seamen on the decks and gangways. “Mr Vibart, you will take the upper-deck yourself with Mr Brock. Look in every locker and beneath each gun, and be as quick as you can!”

He watched them troop down the ladder and then returned his attention to the crowded main deck. Every sailor was now fully aware that something was wrong. He saw one nudge his companion, and another fell back fearfully as Vibart and the gunner pushed through the watching men.

Perhaps Vibart was right after all? He gripped his hands together behind him with such force that the pain helped to control his whirling mind. No, he must not think like that. Without faith there was nothing. Nothing at all.

As the minutes dragged on a growing wave of apprehension moved across the crowded main deck like smoke from an uncontrollable fire. The seamen at the foot of the mainmast parted to allow Vibart and the gunner to move through and then shuffled together as if for mutual support.

Pochin rubbed his tarry hands on his trousers and glared angrily after Vibart's bulky figure. “What the hell's happenin'?” He reached out as a boatswain's mate made to pass him. “Do
you
know, Mr Josling?”

Josling darted a quick glance at the quarterdeck. “The purser. 'E's dead!”

A new ripple of uneasiness broke over the waiting men, and Pochin stared across at Allday who was leaning watchfully against the mast. “Did you hear that, man?”

Allday nodded and then slowly turned his head, to look at Onslow. He was standing a bit apart from the others, his legs relaxed, his brown arms hanging loosely at his sides. But there was an air of animal watchfulness about the man, betrayed in the flat hardness of his eyes and the excited dilation of his nostrils. Allday released his breath very slowly. In his own mind he had no doubt as to where the finger of accusation would point.

Old Strachan muttered, “Looks bad, don't it? I got a feelin' that we're in for another squall!”

There was a sudden burst of activity from the quarterdeck, and as every head turned aft Captain Rennie's marines trooped up the ladders and formed a solid scarlet barrier athwart the deck. Sergeant Garwood dressed the ranks and then took his place beside the small drummer. Captain Rennie stood coolly ahead of his men, one hand resting on his sword hilt, his face empty of expression.

From the side of his mouth the sergeant rasped, “Fix bayonets!” Every hand moved as one, the blades rippling along the swaying front rank before clicking into place on the long muskets.

On deck the tension was almost unbearable. Every man watched transfixed, afraid to speak or turn his head for fear of missing some part of this new drama. Here and there a hand moved to dash away the sweat, and somewhere in the packed throng a man began to cough nervously.

Allday saw the captain speaking with Lieutenant Herrick and the boatswain, and watched as Bolitho shook his head at something one of them had said. It might have been anger or disbelief. It was impossible to tell.

Vibart had realised that the search was over, and moved slowly aft, his hands pushing the silent men aside like reeds, his redrimmed eyes fixed on the little group behind the marines.

Pochin whispered, “We'll soon know now!”

Allday darted another glance at Onslow. For a moment he felt something like pity for him. He had been so long penned up in a ship he had known no other life but the ceaseless battle of the lower deck.

Captain Bolitho's voice broke into his thoughts, and when he looked aft again he saw him at the quarterdeck rail, his hands resting on the starboard carronade as he stared down at the assembled seamen.

“As most of you know by now, Mr Evans, the purser, is dead. He was killed in his cabin a short while ago, without pity, and without reason.” He broke off as Herrick descended one of the ladders to speak to the first lieutenant. Then he continued in the same even tone, “Every man will stand fast until the culprit has been taken!”

Pochin's scarred face was streaming with sweat. He said in a hoarse voice, “ 'E's got some 'opes! Every bastard in the ship 'ated the bloody purser!”

But no one responded or even gave him a glance. Every eye was on Vibart as he moved purposefully along the main deck with Brock at his back.

Even the sound of sea and canvas seemed stilled, and as Vibart halted below the main-yard Allday could hear his heavy breathing and the squeak of his sword belt.

For a few seconds longer the aweful suspense continued. Then, as Vibart ran his eye slowly around the watching faces, Brock stepped forward and lifted his cane.

“That's him, sir! That's the murderous cur!”

The cane fell in a tight arc, and Allday reeled back, half stunned from the blow.

The weeks and months dropped away, and he was back on the cliff road with Brock lashing out at his face with the same cane while the other members of the press gang crowded round to watch. He could feel the blood stinging the corner of his mouth, and there seemed to be a great roaring in his ears. Voices were calling and shouting all around him, yet he felt unable to move or defend himself as Brock struck him once more across the neck with his cane. Vibart was staring at him, his eyes almost hidden by his brows as he watched Brock pull him from the mast and away from the other men.

Old Strachan croaked, “'E was with me! 'E never done it, Mr Vibart!”

At last Vibart seemed to find his voice. But his words were strangled, as if his body was so taut with insane anger that he could hardly get himself to speak. “Silence, you stupid old fool!” He thrust the man aside. “Or I will take you, too!”

Some of the men had recovered from the first shock and now surged forward, pressed on by those at the rear. Instantly there was a barked command from the quarterdeck, and a line of muskets rose above the rail. There was no doubting their intent, or the gleam in Sergeant Garwood's eyes.

Bolitho was still at one side of the rail, his figure dark against the pale sky. “Bring that man aft, Mr Vibart!”

Old Strachan was muttering vaguely, “'E was with me, I swear it!”

Brock pushed Allday towards the quarterdeck and snapped. “Were you, Strachan?
All
the time?”

Strachan was confused. “Well, all but a minute, Mr Brock!”

Brock's voice was harsh. “It only takes a minute to kill a man!”

Allday made another effort to clear his dazed mind as he was pushed up a ladder and past the grim-faced marines. He felt like another person, someone on the outside untouched by the cruel reality of events. Even his limbs felt numb and beyond his control, and the cuts from Brock's cane had neither pain nor meaning. He saw Lieutenant Herrick watching him like a stranger, and beyond him Proby, the master, looked away, as if he could not bear to meet his eye.

Captain Bolitho seemed to appear from nowhere, and as they faced each other across three feet of deck Allday heard him say, “John Allday, do you have anything to say?”

He had to move his numb lips several times before the words would come. “No, sir.” An insane voice seemed to cry from the depths of his soul. Tell him! Tell him! He tried again. “It wasn't me, sir.”

He tried to see beyond the shadow which hid the captain's face. He could see the lines at the corners of his mouth, a bead of sweat running from beneath the dark hair. But there was no reality. It was all part of the same nightmare.

Bolitho said, “Do you recognise these?”

Someone held out a pair of small pistols, bright and evil looking in the sunlight.

Allday shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Or this?” Bolitho's voice was quite empty of emotion.

This time it was a knife, the tip broken off by the force of savage blows, its worn handle dark with congealed blood.

Allday stared. “It's mine, sir!” He clapped his hand to his belt, his fingers brushing against an empty sheath.

Bolitho said, “The pistols were found amongst your possessions below. Your knife was discovered beneath Mr Evans's locker.” He paused to let the words sink in. “Where it was dropped after the struggle.”

Allday swayed. “I didn't do it, sir.” The words seemed to hang in his throat. “Why would I do such a thing?”

As if from a long way off he heard Vibart's harsh voice. “Let me run him up to the yard now, sir! It will give others of his sort something to think about with him dancing from a halter!”

Bolitho snapped, “I think you have said enough, Mr Vibart!” He turned back to Allday. “After your behaviour since you first came aboard, I had high hopes for you, Allday. Mr Herrick has already spoken on your behalf, but on this occasion I can find no reason for leniency.” He paused. “Under the Articles of War I could have you hanged forthwith. As it is, I intend that you should be tried by court martial as soon as the opportunity arises.”