Mutiny

Chapter OneThe King's Mercy Someone was shaking me out of a fitful sleep. I opened my eyes and saw very little more than darkness with only a faint flicker of crimson. The man who had one hand on my shoulder was, with the other hand, holding up a lantern with a stubby inadequate candle in it. In the dark, stinking orlop of the merchant shipLouisa,the candle burned so ill that it was more a glow, feeble and red, than a light."David Shea!" the figure slurred, his gin-soaked breath as much as his voice revealing him to be the Reverend Mr. Bonney. "David Shea! Wake up! We're anchored in Port Royal! Stir your lazy shanks, boy!"Groaning, I swung out of my hammock. My bare feet hit the splintery wood of the deck, and I heard a skitter in the darkness. "What's that?" I asked."Just rats, David, just some of God's humbler creatures!"Rats. Some of the sailors hunted them, killed them, and ate them. Six weeks at sea had not yet given me a taste for rat."Here!" The Reverend Mr. Bonney shoved a bundle into my hands. Even half-asleep, I recognized it. It was my canvas seabag, and it held my few worldly possessions: two shirts, two pair of breeches, smallclothes, stockings, and the suit and pair of shoes the good Mr. Horne had bought for me to wear to my mother's funeral. Those, and the clothes I stood in, were all I owned. Mr. Bonney shook me again."Are you awake?""Yes, sir," I said.The minister gave me a rough shove. "Lazy, like all boys. That won't do now, lad. You'll need your wits about you." Mr. Bonney reached into his pocket and then shook a small gray cloth purse in my face. It jangled. "And you'll need this. 'Tis the money Mr. Horne gave me to keep for you." Before I could take it, he'd thrust it deep into my seabag, pulled the drawstring tight, and tied it. "There, that'll keep it safe for you. On deck, now. Look lively, look lively! It's just touch and go here."He led the way aft, then up a narrow companionway. I followed, hoping for fresher air -- for I was heartily sick of the sweaty, smelly atmosphere of the closed-in lower deck the sailors called the orlop. But we were fairly in the Caribbees, on the southern coast of Jamaica, and the night was tropical, heavy, and moist. I looked up at the dark sky. Thin clouds half-hid a waxing moon, making it a smudged white thumbprint on the face of the night. No stars at all. Mr. Bonney hauled at my arm. "Here he is!""Sir -- Mr. Bonney," I said desperately, "where am I to find my uncle Patrick?"He snorted in annoyance, and the sharp odor of gin poured over me again. "Doing some wild, papish, heathenish business, no doubt." The minister was on his way to preach the Gospel on some island or other. Mr. Horne had assured me that Mr. Bonney would take care of me during our voyage. So far as I could tell, his "taking care" of me consisted merely of constantly losing small sums of money playing at dice or cards with the sailors, drinking too much, and looking sour each time he saw me. He pulled me toward a group of men at the rail and growled, "He's said to stay at the inn called The King's Mercy. That is in Thames Street, and that is all I know. You men, there! Here he is at last, the nasty little slug!"Four sailors were loading a boat drawn up tight against theLouisa'slarboard side. In the boat, two others manhandled the kegs and boxes into place. "Here you go, Davy lad," cried one of the sailors on deck, and from his voice I recognized him as Dennis O'Leary, who had a kindness for me because we both were Irish. "It's not so far a step down."Even so, I was glad enough that O'Leary swung me down from above and someone in the boat guided my legs from below. I dropped into the boat and took my place between a keg of nails and a pouch of mail, just visible in the light of the lanterns up on deck. As the last articles were stowed, I looked across the dark bay. Two or three ships lay at anchor closer in, their stStrickland, Brad is the author of 'Mutiny' with ISBN 9780689852961 and ISBN 0689852967.