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Authors: Neil Jackson, Paul Finch
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with heavy iron gratings, many still padlocked. To starboard, there were three pairs of timber beams, each pair lashed together, forming a trio of wooden triangles. Evidently, these were flogging frames. Their presence only added to the aura of desolation, which, up here on the open decks – exposed to the moonless night and the raw, gusting wind – was particularly potent. Munro felt a sudden yearning for the warmth and firelight of the tavern.
Major Craddock now doffed his topper. “The gangways below will be low-roofed. And it’s likely we’ll need to be nimble.”
The others considered this, then Palmer removed his helmet, Munro took off his bowler and Kenton his plumed shako.
“ A word about Burnwood,” Craddock added, before they went their separate ways. “This is no ordinary criminal. No drunken, dull-witted brute likely to come out screaming and shooting at the first sign of intruders. More than anything else, he’s clever. Calculatingly so. And, of course, completely ruthless.”
The men exchanged grave, lamp-lit glances, but said nothing.
Craddock nodded. “Best of luck, gentlemen.”
The group broke apart. Munro and Kenton were looking to make entry somewhere around the fo’c’s’le – the front upper quarter of the ship, where the heads and sickbays were located. Craddock and Palmer went the other way, climbing the stairs back to the quarter-deck, where they’d previously noticed a single door leading under the poop-deck. When they reached it, they held back for a minute, breathing hard, getting themselves together. Then Craddock drew his pistol, turned to the tall young constable and gestured that it was time to go. They went forwards together, only to find that the door had expanded so that it was now swollen in place. They rammed it with their shoulders, and at last it began to shift, its hinges giving a loud, arthritic squeal , which echoed through the labyrinth of compartments below. In the same instant, there was another sound: a distinct rustle in the darkness before them.
In one motion, Craddock cocked and pointed his pistol. Palmer raised the sawn-off shotgun to his shoulder. Tense seconds passed as they stood there in the open doorway, but the light of their lanterns showed an empty cabin.
“ Could’ve sworn I heard something, sir,” the constable said.
His voice sounded eerie, sepulchral.
“ The thing’s probably alive with rats,” Craddock replied.
He lowered his pistol. Palmer kept the shotgun to his shoulder. Cautiously, they ventured forwards. This first cabin was utterly bare and reeked of mildew. Palmer had expected to see chains and fetters, though none were visible. He mentioned this, but Craddock shook his head.
“ We’re aft of the quarter-deck,” he said. “By rights, this would’ve been part of the captain’s apartments. I wonder if the master of the hulk used it for the same purpose.”
The masters of the hulks had been a notorious breed: some-time magistrates or aldermen, full-time merchants and profiteers, they’d worked the prison-ship system for every penny they could make, allowing conditions of hopelessness and degradation to flourish below decks. Almost certainly, on the few occasions they came aboard their wretched vessels, they’d demand private lodgings. Further examination of the first cabin appeared to confirm this. Faded patches on the bulkheads showed the spots where plates or maybe paintings had once hung. There were two rusted hooks on the ceiling, from which a cot had been suspended.
“ They lived in comfort while their charges starved and died,” Palmer said.
“ Their charges were common criminals, let’s remember that.”
They pressed through an adjoining door into what the major assumed was once the master’s day cabin. This too was empty, but wide, covering the ship from one side to the other; along its rear wall there were seven small-panelled windows. The glass in these was intact but thick with grime, so that only a
Major Craddock now doffed his topper. “The gangways below will be low-roofed. And it’s likely we’ll need to be nimble.”
The others considered this, then Palmer removed his helmet, Munro took off his bowler and Kenton his plumed shako.
“ A word about Burnwood,” Craddock added, before they went their separate ways. “This is no ordinary criminal. No drunken, dull-witted brute likely to come out screaming and shooting at the first sign of intruders. More than anything else, he’s clever. Calculatingly so. And, of course, completely ruthless.”
The men exchanged grave, lamp-lit glances, but said nothing.
Craddock nodded. “Best of luck, gentlemen.”
The group broke apart. Munro and Kenton were looking to make entry somewhere around the fo’c’s’le – the front upper quarter of the ship, where the heads and sickbays were located. Craddock and Palmer went the other way, climbing the stairs back to the quarter-deck, where they’d previously noticed a single door leading under the poop-deck. When they reached it, they held back for a minute, breathing hard, getting themselves together. Then Craddock drew his pistol, turned to the tall young constable and gestured that it was time to go. They went forwards together, only to find that the door had expanded so that it was now swollen in place. They rammed it with their shoulders, and at last it began to shift, its hinges giving a loud, arthritic squeal , which echoed through the labyrinth of compartments below. In the same instant, there was another sound: a distinct rustle in the darkness before them.
In one motion, Craddock cocked and pointed his pistol. Palmer raised the sawn-off shotgun to his shoulder. Tense seconds passed as they stood there in the open doorway, but the light of their lanterns showed an empty cabin.
“ Could’ve sworn I heard something, sir,” the constable said.
His voice sounded eerie, sepulchral.
“ The thing’s probably alive with rats,” Craddock replied.
He lowered his pistol. Palmer kept the shotgun to his shoulder. Cautiously, they ventured forwards. This first cabin was utterly bare and reeked of mildew. Palmer had expected to see chains and fetters, though none were visible. He mentioned this, but Craddock shook his head.
“ We’re aft of the quarter-deck,” he said. “By rights, this would’ve been part of the captain’s apartments. I wonder if the master of the hulk used it for the same purpose.”
The masters of the hulks had been a notorious breed: some-time magistrates or aldermen, full-time merchants and profiteers, they’d worked the prison-ship system for every penny they could make, allowing conditions of hopelessness and degradation to flourish below decks. Almost certainly, on the few occasions they came aboard their wretched vessels, they’d demand private lodgings. Further examination of the first cabin appeared to confirm this. Faded patches on the bulkheads showed the spots where plates or maybe paintings had once hung. There were two rusted hooks on the ceiling, from which a cot had been suspended.
“ They lived in comfort while their charges starved and died,” Palmer said.
“ Their charges were common criminals, let’s remember that.”
They pressed through an adjoining door into what the major assumed was once the master’s day cabin. This too was empty, but wide, covering the ship from one side to the other; along its rear wall there were seven small-panelled windows. The glass in these was intact but thick with grime, so that only a
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