Cutthroats of the Coast

Chapter 16 - The Tables Turned then Turned Again.

It is quite possible that I have never been more afraid for my immortal soul than in that moment.  I had become accustomed to the rough ways of the sailors I berthed with after I had determined to put aside their crimes to commit my own.  Howsoever, when faced with immediate immolation, my wretched choices of companions and ambitions were thrown into a stark relief by Jones’ actions. 

The look in Jones’ smoke reddened eyes was murderous. Blazing with fury and indignation, they were like great portals to the pit.  There was no sign of mercy in them and not a little madness.  

I began to despair because Jones looked set to blow us all to Hell and no-one appeared stout enough to stop him. 

“Let go!”  Nathaniel piped like an apprentice-boy whose ear was held fast by his master.  “Let go, I tell you!” 

“Squeak once more, little mouse, and they’ll be picking your guts out of the ceiling,” Jones growled softly, tightening his arm around Nathaniel’s neck.  “The rest of you take a step back!”   Jones replaced his cigar in his mouth so that it could reach the fuse easily, and with his spare hand opened his coat.  

What we saw was uncompromising.  I had wondered why Jones had worn his coat buttoned up all night.  Now I knew.  Like a ghastly spider’s web, fuses trailed across his body, sewn to his waistcoat, all leading to overstuffed pouches of sacking.  Every man present knew what the spherical lumps were in each pouch – a powder-filled grenado.  The very same grenados – Jones’ pomegranates – that he had shown me when we had transferred from The Betsy to The Resolve. 

Like cathedral choristers, sailors and soldiers, as one, drew in a sharp breath and placed one foot behind the other cautiously.  It was as if some unseen signal flag had been hoisted marking the precariousness of our present condition.  We all shuffled back a little, boots and bare feet scuffing across the tiles.  Our recent exertions having been of such great effort that the men panted like blown horses now that all was still.  Someone coughed. 

“Bastard!” one voice murmured. 

“Jesu!” sobbed another.  Soldier or sailor, I could not tell. 

“Garbett! Have your men lay down their arms!”  Jones ordered. 

“Be damned I will!”  Garbett objected.  “I’ll not surrender to scum like you!” 

“You’ll surrender or you’ll die.  You’ve already promised that I’m to hang.  What have I to lose by setting this fuse off?  I’ll bring on my sentence early but at least I’ll take you all with me!” 

“Garbett!  For pity’s sake, now is not the time to quibble!”  Nathaniel choked.  

“Lay down my arms?  Then what?  Have your men cut all our throats?” 

“We’ll not kill you!”  Jones barked.  “Of that you can be sure.  We’ll lock you and your men in the vaults but you have my oath on that as an Englishman that you and your men will live.”  He tried most assiduously to look sincere but the effect was somewhat spoilt by his demonic appearance. 

Quite what this oath meant, when given by a man with a Welsh name, we had not the time to wonder. 

“Of course, lock us in to a vault and then throw one of those inside,” Garbett mocked.  “No, I think we’ll just take our chances if you don’t mind.” 

I could see the ember at the end of Jones’ cigar flare to the deepest red.  I realised that he was quite intent on carrying out his threat and my hands, knees and bowels shook with terror.  If something did not steer Jones from his suicidal course then we would all be killed in the next few moments.  I looked at Garbett and could see that he had a pistol primed and cocked in his hand.  From his demeanour, I surmised his determination to put a bullet in Jones before Jones could light the fuse.