Read Online Craddock by Neil Jackson, Paul Finch - Free Book Online
Authors: Neil Jackson, Paul Finch
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shoreline.
Many of the adaptations made to convert the Catherine-Maria from warrior-queen to floating jail were still recognisable. Her gun-ports had been closed off with iron bars, her hatches battened. From the few apertures remaining, streaks of filth and excrement still ran down the bulwarks. But if the officers had expected the nauseating stench they normally associated with prisons, they were to be pleasantly surprised. The Catherine-Maria was now odorous of the sea: a fresh tang of salt and kelp. The coastal wind blew here constantly, whistling through her many chinks, cleansing her of those older, fouler vapours?
The hussars, though deployed in a wide circle, were clearly uneasy and keeping well back. Those few close by looked on with a mixture of fascination and dread. Munro watched the nervous men and their skittish steeds, then glanced up again at the ship. Ropes and chains swung idly; sailcloth snapped. Otherwise there was no sign of movement, and certainly no sound. With a loud, metallic click , Corporal Kenton closed the breech on his carbine. As before, he looked grim but untroubled by the prospect of what lay ahead.
“ You don’t believe the local ghost stories?” Munro asked him.
“ I believe only what I see, sir.”
“ Well, believe in George Burnwood. He can be very, very dangerous.”
Kenton’s expression barely changed. “No worry, sir. I can be just that, myself.”
Munro wanted to smile, but found that he couldn’t. There was something about the granite features and hard, dark eyes of Corporal Kenton that disconcerted him.
Captain Ryland led them to the port side of the vessel, where a swathe of old netting hung from the gunwales, allowing clear if precarious access to her open upper decks.
“ There’s no gangplank anymore,” he explained, huddling into his cloak. “This is how what was left of her crew got off once she’d been towed inshore.” He looked at Craddock. “Got your lanterns?”
The major nodded. Ryland had supplied each one of them with a small, portable oil-lamp, which could be clipped to a belt or harness – the sort colliers used when deep underground. It was a basic tool at the best of times, and it seemed to add insult to injury that, in such a dread situation, this was the most the soldier could bring himself to do for them. But they weren’t in a position to argue.
Ryland stepped backwards. “She’s all yours.”
The major signaled the other three to follow him.
“ Oh, major?”
Craddock glanced back.
Ryland shrugged. “If you do manage to flush them out, be assured – we’ll be ready.”
Craddock considered this. Then he turned and, without a word, commenced the long climb to the quarter-deck.
Once on board, they lit their lanterns. Away from the torch-carrying troops, it was much darker, plus the footing was greasy and perilous. They then split into two search-parties. It was decided that Craddock would go with Palmer and head aft, while Munro and Kenton would go fore. But before they went their separate ways, they surveyed the bleak upper echelons of the Catherine-Maria .
Few of the original ‘warship’ fittings remained. On the quarter-deck, which was at the stern of the vessel, and the second highest of the decks, old breastworks were still in evidence – temporary walls along the tops of the gunwales, once formed by stuffing rolled-up hammocks into metal frames. The frames, rusted with age, were all that remained, though, below these, shot-racks were also visible. Otherwise the deck was bare – sodden planking scored with runnels made by the long vanished gun-carriages.
They descended a narrow stairway to the upper gun-deck, where they saw that the ship’s wheel had been sawn off at the base, leaving a rotten stump. The wooden cradles, on which the lifeboats had rested, were so long in disuse that they’d turned green and pulpy. Contrastingly, the ship’s ‘penal’ fittings were still much on display. Hatches were covered
Many of the adaptations made to convert the Catherine-Maria from warrior-queen to floating jail were still recognisable. Her gun-ports had been closed off with iron bars, her hatches battened. From the few apertures remaining, streaks of filth and excrement still ran down the bulwarks. But if the officers had expected the nauseating stench they normally associated with prisons, they were to be pleasantly surprised. The Catherine-Maria was now odorous of the sea: a fresh tang of salt and kelp. The coastal wind blew here constantly, whistling through her many chinks, cleansing her of those older, fouler vapours?
The hussars, though deployed in a wide circle, were clearly uneasy and keeping well back. Those few close by looked on with a mixture of fascination and dread. Munro watched the nervous men and their skittish steeds, then glanced up again at the ship. Ropes and chains swung idly; sailcloth snapped. Otherwise there was no sign of movement, and certainly no sound. With a loud, metallic click , Corporal Kenton closed the breech on his carbine. As before, he looked grim but untroubled by the prospect of what lay ahead.
“ You don’t believe the local ghost stories?” Munro asked him.
“ I believe only what I see, sir.”
“ Well, believe in George Burnwood. He can be very, very dangerous.”
Kenton’s expression barely changed. “No worry, sir. I can be just that, myself.”
Munro wanted to smile, but found that he couldn’t. There was something about the granite features and hard, dark eyes of Corporal Kenton that disconcerted him.
Captain Ryland led them to the port side of the vessel, where a swathe of old netting hung from the gunwales, allowing clear if precarious access to her open upper decks.
“ There’s no gangplank anymore,” he explained, huddling into his cloak. “This is how what was left of her crew got off once she’d been towed inshore.” He looked at Craddock. “Got your lanterns?”
The major nodded. Ryland had supplied each one of them with a small, portable oil-lamp, which could be clipped to a belt or harness – the sort colliers used when deep underground. It was a basic tool at the best of times, and it seemed to add insult to injury that, in such a dread situation, this was the most the soldier could bring himself to do for them. But they weren’t in a position to argue.
Ryland stepped backwards. “She’s all yours.”
The major signaled the other three to follow him.
“ Oh, major?”
Craddock glanced back.
Ryland shrugged. “If you do manage to flush them out, be assured – we’ll be ready.”
Craddock considered this. Then he turned and, without a word, commenced the long climb to the quarter-deck.
Once on board, they lit their lanterns. Away from the torch-carrying troops, it was much darker, plus the footing was greasy and perilous. They then split into two search-parties. It was decided that Craddock would go with Palmer and head aft, while Munro and Kenton would go fore. But before they went their separate ways, they surveyed the bleak upper echelons of the Catherine-Maria .
Few of the original ‘warship’ fittings remained. On the quarter-deck, which was at the stern of the vessel, and the second highest of the decks, old breastworks were still in evidence – temporary walls along the tops of the gunwales, once formed by stuffing rolled-up hammocks into metal frames. The frames, rusted with age, were all that remained, though, below these, shot-racks were also visible. Otherwise the deck was bare – sodden planking scored with runnels made by the long vanished gun-carriages.
They descended a narrow stairway to the upper gun-deck, where they saw that the ship’s wheel had been sawn off at the base, leaving a rotten stump. The wooden cradles, on which the lifeboats had rested, were so long in disuse that they’d turned green and pulpy. Contrastingly, the ship’s ‘penal’ fittings were still much on display. Hatches were covered
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