Upon hearing this, the Weasel promply wets his trousers.
"What shall we do, Sir?" asks the delighted Lynch. "Throw him overboard, or string him up?"
The Weasel, his eyes rolling wildly, falls to his knees and pleads, "Oh, please, Sirs, no..."
I consider this, and look over the side of the ship and say, "Yes, both those suggestions would be most entertaining, and he certainly has it coming to him ... And I see we have some rather large sharks following in our wake ... That could be fun, watching those brutes tear him apart, limb by limb. But no, not just now. Let him live for a while yet. He might prove useful."
"Useful?" asks Lynch, dubiously, ready to lift his club and to cheerfully spill the Weasel's brains out over the deck. "How?"
"Well, for one, he will know where the armory is, such that we can arm ourselves properly with pistols and muskets. Those below are getting restive, you might note. There are more and more sounds from below, and a whiff of grapeshot in their faces just might calm them down."
Heads nod, and the wisdom of this is generally acknowledged.
"Now, the Weasel, being what he is—a dirty little rodent—will know where everything is on this ship." The Weasel, still on his knees, his eyes wide and pleading, nods vigorously to this. "Would you not want a spot of wine or rum this evening to celebrate our victory? How long has it been, Lynch? Some good food for a change? Hmmm?"
There is general assent to that notion. Wine? Rum? Good food?
There is now a heavy pounding from the inside of the hatchway doors. The crew grows restive.
"Weasel, if you value your life, lead on to the armory."
He does it, taking a key from the ones that Napper wore on his belt. Soon we are all armed with primed pistols and muskets. The guns feel splendid tucked into my waist as I advance to the door behind which sits a very unhappy crew of seamen.
"Let us out! Let us out now, else we shall take all of you and throw you into the sea!" comes the cry from the other side of the door.
Idle threats, lads, will do you no good...
I draw one of my pistols and put a shot through the door, at just about waist high level. I hear a sharp cry of pain from within.
"Who speaks for you?" I demand. There is a pause, then...
"I do. Second Mate Hollister."
"Ah, Hollister. This is Fletcher, now in command of this vessel. I know you to be an honorable man, unlike most on-board. Rest assured you will not be harmed if you follow instructions. My intent is to put you and your crew off in one of the lifeboats. We are not far from land, and you should be able to make landfall within hours of being cast away. Where you will land, I do not know just yet, but I will be consulting the charts in Griswold's cabin."
"What of the Captain?"
"He is not yet dead, Mr. Hollister, but Block, Napper, and Vance are," I say. "Now, everyone settle down and perhaps all remaining will survive this day. But know this. My crew and I are desperate men. We are preparing a lifeboat, and we will put you in it so you may sail away. If you do something stupid, like setting fire down below, then we will be off in that same boat and all of you will perish most horribly. Understood? Good. Quiet, now."
During my confinement I have had a lot of time to think of various eventualities...
"All right," I say, going back to the quarterdeck. "Sweeney, take the watch. Steer the same course till I figure out just where we are. I'll be below. Delaney, McBride, McConnaughey, come with me."
We go down into the Captain's cabin and find that Duggan and Parnell have, indeed, tied him very securely to a chair, using their garrotes. Handy things, those. They also have stuffed a rag in his mouth to shut him up.
He looks at me as I enter, his eyes wild. I ignore him for the present.
We will get to you later, Captain Griswold, count on it.
I go to the chart spread out on the table. There are lines of position laid out upon it, and from them I deduce that we are about fifty miles off to the east of a place called Sumatra, and somewhat north of the port of Batavia.
I have heard of Batavia, and, even though it is held by the Dutch, it just might suit our interests.
After all, I say to myself with a bit of regret, we are no longer British.
I occupy myself with going through the Captain's papers, and I discover something that strikes my interest. All the prisoners onboard this ship are to be delivered to the penal colony at New South Wales, commanded by Captain William Bligh.
Imagine that, old Breadfruit Bligh himself This gets better and better...
"Take out his gag," I order, and Ian pulls the cloth from Griswold's mouth. He sputters for a bit, but with a swat from the back of McBride's hand he becomes right docile.
Holding a paper before me, I ask of him, "Tell me, Griswold, have you ever met this Captain William Bligh personally? Ever raised a glass with him?"
"No. Never."
"Hmmm ... And the payment for the delivery of the convicts ... How is that accomplished?"
"Go to hell, you blaggard!"
I look off out the open door.
"Is the noose ready at the yardarm, Ian? The proper knot?"
Ian nods. "Yes. Duggan is quite expert at knots of that sort."
"Good. We'll want that done right. Royal Navy, drum rolls and all..."
Griswold turns yet another shade of pale and says, "The Commander of the Company ship is paid by a draft upon the Bank of England with delivery of each live convict."
"Well, well," I say. "I'd rather have cash, but we can work with that. Now, where is your money?"
"What?"
"Yes, Captain, your money. You must have some. We will need to purchase some gunnery. You'll admit this ship is woefully underprotected."
"I have no money."
"Of course, you don't. You are but a simple merchant captain, doing your job. I accept that."
I neaten up the papers, lay them aside, and say, "We have no more need of him. Take him out and tie him to the grating. Strip off his shirt. He gave me sixteen, McBride ten. So give him twenty-six ... and since yesterday was his birthday ... give him one to grow on."
"How—how can you do that?"
"Simple, Griswold. Tit for tat, simple as that."
"You would torture a man to gain information?"
"Oh, no, Captain. I am a Lieutenant in the Royal Navy ... or at least I was. I am a man of honor. I would never torture a prisoner," I say. "But I will mete out deserved punishment. Take him out!"
The Captain struggles and then sags in the grasp of Ian and Arthur.
"All right," he says. "Under the floorboards. Over there."
Well, all right...
"Thank you, Captain. That makes things easier. Take off six lashes for good behavior, making it an even twenty. We'll have Duggan swing the cat, as he's the strongest."
Griswold is hauled out cursing me to hell and back again. Soon he is not swearing, however—he is howling.
The old crew of the Cerberus is taken out of the hold at gunpoint and forced into one of the two lifeboats. They are given some food and water and advised to steer east.
"Goodbye, Mr. Hollister. Good sailing to you. You were a decent sort and I thank you. Captain Griswold, I hope you took a good lesson from today's events. To wit, be careful whom you whip. Farewell. I wish you all a safe voyage."
The Captain glowers, wrapped in his bloody shirt, as they are cast off, and we see them no more. Then we change course and set sail for Batavia.
When we are off, I turn once again to the business of running the ship.
"Ian. Start bringing up the prisoners we have designated as trustable. Don't let the other convicts know what's going on. We don't want trouble from them—not yet, anyway. Padraic, make sure all locks are secure ... Oh, and have the Weasel set to work cleaning the stinking uniforms of Napper and Vance. We shall need them for deception purposes. McBride, take three men and—"
"And just what, Sir." McBride sneers, his arms crossed on his chest.
Uh-oh ... Here it is ... And I've got to do this now, or I am the Captain of nothing...
I grab McBride by his collar and shove him backwards, hard. He stumbles, but does not fall. He puts up his fists.
"All right, McBride, up on the main hatch. Me and you. Let's settle it. Now."
He grins and climbs up on the hatch. He motions me to follow.
"You don't have to do this," says Ian. "We—"
"Oh, yes, we do," say Arthur McBride and I together in one breath.
"What will it be, guv'nor? Swords?"
"No, McBride. I am a trained Naval officer, and you are a lowland Irish bogtrotter—the fight would not be fair. I would run you through in an instant, and as attractive as that notion is, I will not do it, being a man of some honor."
"What, then, Mr. Honorable Brit?" says McBride, rolling up his sleeves.
"I know your kind would prefer shillelaghs, but I will not sully my hands with crude dumb cudgels," I say, leaping to the hatch top and rolling up my own sleeves. "Nay. It shall be fists ... with no holds barred. Last man standing will be the Captain. Agreed?"
"Oh, yes, agreed," says McBride, getting into a crouch. "Come on, Sir. Let's see what you're made of."
I know that McBride is tough, but I am tough, too. I have been toughened as a ship's boy, kicked about by rough seamen, and as a midshipman, heir to all the kicks and blows the senior middies could pile on. And have I not "rassled" with the mighty Mike Fink on the banks of the Mississippi! Yes, I have. And did not Beatty and McCoy pay the price for crossing me? Oh yes, they did, and now they rot in hell for it. So come on, McBride, you low-life Irish swine. I ball up my fists.
As I expected, he charges in low, head down, in hopes of knocking me off my feet. I jump back, swing, and hit him high on his cheekbone.
Yeow! My fist vibrates with the pain. I realize there's no sense in hitting him in the face—the hardheaded mick is undoubtedly used to that. I'd probably just break my hand. No, go for the body. Catch him in the lower ribs.
While I'm thinking this, he swings his right and catches me above the eye, rocking me back and opening a cut on my forehead. Blood trickles into my eye.
Seeing this, McBride grins and drops his guard, pulls back, and launches a broad roundhouse that would surely end this fight and my leadership if it were to land.
It does not land. I stick up my left forearm and stop the swing. His midriff is wide open, so I bring my right around and slam it into his lower ribs.
He gasps. I hit him again in exactly the same place, trying to bury my fist as deep in his gut as I can.
Take that, you ignorant son of a bitch. Yes, and here's another one for Jacky. And yet another for that damned joke ... Laugh at this, why don't you?
His mouth is open, trying in vain to suck in air. Unable to catch his breath, his face turns bright red and he sinks to his knees.
I stand over him, victorious, my fists still clenched. I could now destroy him. But I do not. Instead I extend my hand.
"I am the Captain. Ian McConnaughey shall be First Mate, Padraic Delaney Second, and you, Arthur McBride, shall be Third. Duggan will be Bo'sun. Shall we all now get to work?"
He reaches up and takes my hand, and I lift him to his feet. "Thank you, Captain," he wheezes. "Third Mate it is."