If anyone reads this, know: Lieutenant Jack Fulcher is a murderer. Captain Hancock may not be dead yet but I have no doubt that soon, very soon, the evil men aboard this ship will take action, and then not only will the Captain come to the end of his life, so will many of us aboard the Ascot Marine.
I am resolved to meet my fate. I am Lieutenant Jason Davis, of Swindon, writing this now. Jack Fulcher struck our raving captain a fearful blow and now the man lies senseless these seven days past. He will not recover, I am sure. He was mad to begin with. And now the ship is leaderless and neither I nor Fulcher can fill the void.
Mister Rupert Black could, if only the ship were not crewed by the ignorant savages and bloodthirsty pirates Fulcher hired. There are some good men aboard, enough for a small crew, perhaps, but these pestilential demons will not rest until they have reduced this ship to nothing.
I have the letter of marque. Fulcher and Horse may have the ship, but I have the letter that makes the seizure of enemy ships legal. They did not even think to search for it.
And now I consign this note to the waves. May you who read it know the truth of what has happened aboard the Ascot Marine in April of 1703: A mutiny led by Lieutenant Fulcher and a man known as Horse has resulted in the deaths of Captain William Hancock and Lieutenant Jason Davis. Myself.
I only pray that I can spare the girl the fate these foul beasts no doubt envision for her.
Mutiny is, like all activities that involve large groups acting in concert, not so much an event as a relentless wave that builds momentum and breaks, crushing all in its path and driving the remains before it in chaos and bloodshed. Before that wave crests, there seem to be no end of possible ways to defuse it, to render it harmless. But once the wave has broken, once the thunderous power has been released, it cannot be stopped, controlled or directed. Only ridden.
The Mutiny on the Ascot Marine started building momentum in late April of 1703. It did not break however, until May 5th, when a little voice, high-pitched and sneering, whispered to Horse:
"It is time."
This came some days after he had decided to spare young Quinn's life.
Quinn had watched Horse's minions descend the stair into the hold where he alone stood. One glance at the massive African told Quinn that there was no mercy to be found there, so he turned his attention to the two sailors now approaching him with their cudgels raised.
"Nice sticks," said the young Irishman, who without warning turned and fled back to the cache of weapons that Horse, Morrison and Red had stored down here. His pursuers came behind, but not fast enough to catch him before he reached the stash and grabbed a cutlass, whirling to face them with the weapon gripped in both hands.
Fighting in the cramped conditions of a brigantine's lower hold was a unique skill, and one that Quinn had learned on earlier voyages. He was not a duelist like Black or the mulatto boy Dras, but he was quick and strong and, more to the point, he was facing certain death.
Now that they were confronted with an armed foe, the two sailors came on more cautiously. Quinn backed around a sturdy oaken pillar, and as the first of his enemies came around, leapt out with a wild slash. His blade cut into the man's arm, passing through and burying itself in the pillar.
A scream of pain and the hiss of a sudden flow of blood came to where Horse stood awaiting the end of the battle. Curses followed and another crack of steel on hardened wood, and the big pirate frowned.
His frown deepened as one of his minions came staggering back clutching at his arm, and the other followed, truncheon held up to ward off the savage blows of Quinn's fear-maddened attack.
"Hold."
Horse stood looking down into the dark cargo hold. One man badly wounded and the other frightened. His reputation was starting to look shaky, and Horse had served many years on pirate vessels where authority lived and died by reputation. He grinned down at Quinn, who had ceased his wild swings and stood, panting, staring up the stairs.
"I'll have work for you. Later."
*****
Later. Horse never followed up on that threat, but Quinn played the part of cooperative minion for the next few days, steering clear of Black and the others.
But once the mutiny started, he knew he'd have to choose sides.
*****
The first Dras heard of the mutiny was a low thump from aft. The youth sat amongst other crew members on the gun deck. The deck was full from bow to stern with quietly talking sailors, and not everyone noticed the sound that caught Dras' attention.
The cook's mate eased up off the chair and turned to look back down the length of the ship.
Red and Horse and a half-dozen of their cronies approached, making their scowling way forward. Horse gave a quick sign and two of the men grabbed old Stormy Jack and with a single blow, struck off his head.
Dras recoiled violently, tumbling under the ramshackle table as the pirates approached. People froze in terror, and more sudden sounds of heavy falling told Dras that Stormy Jack was not the only one to suffer a sudden judgment at the hands of mutineers.
A few voices rose in protest, one man screamed, but thunks and clangs of violence were followed only by groans and hateful laughter. The deck thundered with sudden footsteps as crew members fled.
Dras watched from under the table as Horse and Red and the others stalked by. They stopped just past the youth's hiding spot, and Dras nearly cried out as he saw them grab Aqbal the gunner. The rotund African shouted inarticulately as Red struck him about the face. Horse stood with his arms crossed, the little monkey crouching on one massive shoulder.
"Take him up on deck."
Red chuckled.
"And the squaw's mine, remember."
They passed on. Dras scrambled out from under the table and ran for the stern companionway. They were after Ana.
The mulatto raced up on to the quarterdeck and burst into the companionway that led to the cabins. A dark fist pounded on the door to Ana's cabin.
"Ana! Mutiny! Red's coming for you!"
The door behind Dras burst open and the youth turned to find Morrison, face reddened with drink and bloodlust, rumbling down the hall. Dras fled across the companionway and into the armoury, the door having been left strangely open. A grab and the youth held up the rapier last used in the duel with Rupert Black.
Morrison took one look at the young mulatto holding the rapier, awaiting his entrance, and slammed the door shut. Dras heard the lock click into place and realized that, as the master-at-arms, Morrison had the key. The youth was locked in. Looking around, it was obvious that nearly all the weapons had been removed. All that was left was a thick-bladed dagger.
Dras looked over at the wall separating the armoury from the captain's cabin, then down at the dagger.
"I'm not staying in here."
The tip of the dagger dug into the panelling and with heavy strokes, Dras began chiseling through the wall.
*****
Ana sat up at Dras' yells. She'd been afraid of this day, for she knew Red had been preparing to deliver her to a fate she'd consider worse than death. The slender island girl snatched up her bow and her dagger, determined to sell her life dearly as she heard sudden crashes and voices in the hall outside.
Her hand went to the pendant at her breast. Kalamas the Turtle, deliverer of her Arawk people. She whispered.
"Kalamas, shield me. Don't let these savages take hold of me."
Fists and kicking feet slammed against the light door to her cabin.
"Come out, squaw. You're gonna show us all your secrets."
The door shook with another impact and Ana fell back into a corner of the room, clutching at her pendant, whispering over and over.
"Kalamas, shield me."
The door burst open and Red's ugly, sneering face appeared, backed by a host of cronies. They looked briefly around the room.
"Blast! Where's she gone?"
They left. Ana stayed huddled where she was.
"Kalamas, thank you."
The window was open. She climbed out and up.
*****
Black heard the screams. He was resting in his cabin, avoiding the midday sunshine, when a sudden thunder of panicked footsteps and voices rattled outside. There was a crack that could only have been a pistol shot, and the Englishman took a moment to load his own weapon and grab a shoulder-bag. With a quick glance inside the bag, Black spent a few seconds lighting a cigar before stepping out onto the deck.
Men surged in restless waves around the deck, and even up on the poop deck behind him. Black took in the scene quickly.
It was clear that the crew was polarizing. He could see Morrison towards the bow, brandishing a pistol and urging the less savoury members forward. Lieutenant Davis and some of the other hands were assembled not far from where Black stood.
Even as Black watched, Morrison lowered his pistol and fired. Davis fell backwards and men on all sides roared.
The deck pitched in the Atlantic rollers, sails overhead snapping in the spring breeze. Hot wind slapped at Black's face as he looked about, noticing the fear on the faces around him.
"Ascots!" he shouted, "To me!"
Shouts and confusion, another pistol shot and a roaring charge across the deck. Black found himself scrambling up to the poop deck with a couple of dozen sailors, Quinn among them, dragging the injured Lieutenant Davis up the steps. Below on the quarterdeck, Horse, Morrison and the others glared up at them. The drunk master-at-arms grabbed Lieutenant Fulcher and half-a-dozen mutineers.
"Through the captain's cabin! Up from behind, lads, while we keep them busy here! They'll not last long."
Black drew a bulky cylinder from his shoulder-bag, retreating to one side of the poop. Below him a window gaped open, giving him a view into the captain's cabin. He grinned and took a tug on his cigar, then touched the end to a thin cable that extended from one end of the cylinder.
It immediately began to give off sparks.
"Let's see who lasts how long."
*****
With a final wiggle and a last heave of thin arms, Dras collapsed into the captain's cabin. Standing up, the youth recoiled from the body of the captain himself, rigid and frozen in an expression of terror on the wide table that once had held charts and logbooks. Blood leaked from a terrible wound in the man's head.
Dras heard footsteps in the hall and hurriedly grabbed up the captain's pistols from where they hung on a peg. The door burst open to reveal Fulcher and six of Morrison's thugs, stopped in confusion at the sight of the mulatto.
"Excuse me."
Dras dove for the hole recently chiseled out of the wall just as Black's hissing, sparking cylinder tumbled in through the window.
There was a very loud bang.
Dras swore creatively and with enthusiasm. The explosion in the captain's cabin had demolished the partition wall between the cabin and the armoury, and Dras currently lay beneath the wreckage. With a great deal of effort the youth clambered free, spared no more than a glance for the moaning bodies in what was left of the cabin and charged down the companionway, drawing both pistols and bursting out onto the quarterdeck.
Overhead, Black was still chuckling at the effect of his homemade anti-personnel device. He looked down from the rail in surprise as the door directly beneath flew open and young Dras stood there, a pistol in either hand, leveled at the crowd of mutineers on the deck. Uncertain sailors retreated from the fierce look in the youth's eyes.
"Who wants to be first to die? I'll put a bullet in your face, Morrison, if you make one move. Just try me."
For a long few seconds, nobody moved.
Black leaned over the rail.
"We're up here, lad, if you want to join us."
In seconds the former cook's mate was up on the poop deck. The Ascot Marine was now a divided ship, with the mutineers in possession of all the ship except the raised poop deck at the stern, where Black and Ana and Quinn and Dras crouched with the injured Lieutenant Davis and another twenty or so loyal hands.
"They killed Aqbal. On the gun deck."
"Those bastards."
Quinn shook his head, and hissed, "Once they build up their courage they're going to rush us. We can't hold them off."
Black fixed the young man with a steady look.
"Then let's make them pay."
"Mister Black! A word with you!"
Only Dras recognized the high, thin voice that called from the quarterdeck. The mulatto's face went cold at the sound, eyes staring.
The others got up and went to the rail. Below they saw Morrison, Red and the massive Horse looking up at them. There was no sign of who had spoken. Horse held a gruesome bundle -- Master Aqbal's head, dripping blood on the deck.
Black called down, "Who wants a word? And what word do you want?"
"I do."
"Holy Mary, Jesus and the ass he rode to Jerusalem. It's the damned monkey."
Bobo the monkey bowed from his perch on Horse's shoulder.
"Indeed, sir. Now, you can see we possess advantages both in numbers and firepower. Your death, and the deaths of all those with you, is assured. But perhaps we can make an alternate arrangement?"
"We're willing to discuss terms. Even with a monkey."
