Read Online Craddock by Neil Jackson, Paul Finch - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Neil Jackson, Paul Finch
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modicum of starlight entered. It fell in spectral shafts, plunging the far corners into complete darkness, which even the glow of the lanterns failed to penetrate.
Craddock glanced sideways at Palmer. The young constable was white in the cheek. He caught the major looking and tried to smile, but it was a weak, ineffectual effort.
“ Keep it in mind that we are the hunters and Burnwood the prey,” Craddock said.
The constable nodded. “And Nethercot …?”
“ Nethercot is an old man. He’ll be hiding somewhere, terrified. Burnwood is the one we need be wary of.”
And so they proceeded, slowly and carefully, from one section to the next, first checking a smaller cabin, which, by the fixed table in its centre, had once served as the master’s dining room, and then descending a companionway into another windowed chamber, which again ran from one side of the ship to the other. There were more cot-hooks on the ceiling in there, two parallel rows in fact, and the major thought this might once have been the turnkeys’ wardroom. They spent only a minute looking the place over, then moved on, exploring as thoroughly and quietly as they could. Every moment, they found themselves glancing over their shoulders for fear that someone had crept up behind. The cavorting shadows cast by the lamps didn’t help, nor the ancient timbers, which squeaked and groaned continuously.
At length they came to an empty door frame giving through to a short, downwards-sloping gangway, which led into what one could only assume were the first of the prisoners’ quarters. It was soullessly black down there and, despite the intervening years, still stank of filth and unwashed bodies.
“ Damn!” Craddock said, the echo of his voice running through the vaults below.
They went forwards slowly, pushing side-by-side down the narrow gangway. Even over that short distance, the stench grew noticeably thicker, but now there was something else too: an atmosphere – not just of neglect or emptiness, but of despair, of misery beyond imagining. Then Palmer gave a gasp of fright, and came to a halt. Craddock halted too, and felt the hairs on his neck bristle.
Fleetingly, in the blink of an eye, they saw someone: a figure at the end of the gangway; an emaciated man with crudely shorn hair, wearing black-and-white striped pyjamas, which hung from his shrunken frame in threadbare rags. His flesh was ash-gray, the eyes deep and hollow in his drawn, skullish face.
Then the apparition was gone. It hadn’t ducked backwards, nor stepped out of sight. It simply wasn’t there any more. Nothing confronted the two officers but the impenetrable darkness on the edge of their lamp-light.
“ What in the name of God?” Palmer said slowly. “That wasn’t Burnwood, was it?”
“ No. No, that wasn’t Burnwood.”
“ Then who? I mean …”
“ A ghost, Palmer.” Craddock strode on. “Just a ghost.”
Munro and Kenton had entered the ship through the fo’c’s’le.
Like Craddock and Palmer, they explored with utmost caution, guns to the ready, but it soon became evident that even a squad of men would have difficulty searching this vessel properly. The normally spacious areas of the gun-decks had been divided up by plywood hoardings into myriad passages and cramped, dungeon-like rooms, many still hung with rusted shackles. With the already low ceilings and their lower support beams, even a man of middling height would frequently have to duck to avoid injury. The floors were covered with rotted, trampled straw. It was easy to picture these hellish rabbit-holes packed with huddled, pathetic figures; ragged, lice-riddled, barely alive in the darkness and the damp. One dismal level followed another as they descended amidships. It seemed depthless, a multi-layered maze of ropes, timbers and corroded grille-work.
At length, they entered a more open space where the air was fresher. Munro suspected they were on the middle-deck, probably in the area that had
Craddock glanced sideways at Palmer. The young constable was white in the cheek. He caught the major looking and tried to smile, but it was a weak, ineffectual effort.
“ Keep it in mind that we are the hunters and Burnwood the prey,” Craddock said.
The constable nodded. “And Nethercot …?”
“ Nethercot is an old man. He’ll be hiding somewhere, terrified. Burnwood is the one we need be wary of.”
And so they proceeded, slowly and carefully, from one section to the next, first checking a smaller cabin, which, by the fixed table in its centre, had once served as the master’s dining room, and then descending a companionway into another windowed chamber, which again ran from one side of the ship to the other. There were more cot-hooks on the ceiling in there, two parallel rows in fact, and the major thought this might once have been the turnkeys’ wardroom. They spent only a minute looking the place over, then moved on, exploring as thoroughly and quietly as they could. Every moment, they found themselves glancing over their shoulders for fear that someone had crept up behind. The cavorting shadows cast by the lamps didn’t help, nor the ancient timbers, which squeaked and groaned continuously.
At length they came to an empty door frame giving through to a short, downwards-sloping gangway, which led into what one could only assume were the first of the prisoners’ quarters. It was soullessly black down there and, despite the intervening years, still stank of filth and unwashed bodies.
“ Damn!” Craddock said, the echo of his voice running through the vaults below.
They went forwards slowly, pushing side-by-side down the narrow gangway. Even over that short distance, the stench grew noticeably thicker, but now there was something else too: an atmosphere – not just of neglect or emptiness, but of despair, of misery beyond imagining. Then Palmer gave a gasp of fright, and came to a halt. Craddock halted too, and felt the hairs on his neck bristle.
Fleetingly, in the blink of an eye, they saw someone: a figure at the end of the gangway; an emaciated man with crudely shorn hair, wearing black-and-white striped pyjamas, which hung from his shrunken frame in threadbare rags. His flesh was ash-gray, the eyes deep and hollow in his drawn, skullish face.
Then the apparition was gone. It hadn’t ducked backwards, nor stepped out of sight. It simply wasn’t there any more. Nothing confronted the two officers but the impenetrable darkness on the edge of their lamp-light.
“ What in the name of God?” Palmer said slowly. “That wasn’t Burnwood, was it?”
“ No. No, that wasn’t Burnwood.”
“ Then who? I mean …”
“ A ghost, Palmer.” Craddock strode on. “Just a ghost.”
Munro and Kenton had entered the ship through the fo’c’s’le.
Like Craddock and Palmer, they explored with utmost caution, guns to the ready, but it soon became evident that even a squad of men would have difficulty searching this vessel properly. The normally spacious areas of the gun-decks had been divided up by plywood hoardings into myriad passages and cramped, dungeon-like rooms, many still hung with rusted shackles. With the already low ceilings and their lower support beams, even a man of middling height would frequently have to duck to avoid injury. The floors were covered with rotted, trampled straw. It was easy to picture these hellish rabbit-holes packed with huddled, pathetic figures; ragged, lice-riddled, barely alive in the darkness and the damp. One dismal level followed another as they descended amidships. It seemed depthless, a multi-layered maze of ropes, timbers and corroded grille-work.
At length, they entered a more open space where the air was fresher. Munro suspected they were on the middle-deck, probably in the area that had
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