Chapter 10 – Mutiny

Will poked his head out from under deck, coming out of the cargo hold. The deck was in chaos. He could see a band of vicious men cutting down sailors, who put up a feeble resistance. His stomach turned over. The faces he saw stretched in blood-thirsty snarls as they dealt death blows were ones he recognized, members of the crew. He shivered in simple childish fear, his blood turning cold in his young veins. It was one thing to feel brave in times of peace, quite another to be faced so unexpectedly with his first sight of death. All the more terrible was the fact that the men who had turned on them had been known to them, ones of their own. These weren't strangers or marauders from elsewhere; these were men of their own ship, mutineers.

His mother's words echoed dimly in his mind… Some men may want that desperately, and the type of men we may be dealing with will have destroyed whole ships, killed entire crews for less… we'd have half the world's pirates upon us, trying to take that…

That…his mother, in the cabin with the chest…

At that he wasted no more time. Judging no one paid particular mind to the cargo hold entrance or knew he was in it, he ducked swiftly out onto the deck and darted behind some boxes tethered to the deck; he moved swiftly on, darting from place to place, starting back as a brigand rushed past him, a man fell with a terrible cry near him. He was small and stayed low, thus making his way steadily along the deck, carefully choosing his next hiding place and creeping stealthily between points.

He stopped behind a barrel, panting for breath, not so much from exertion as from the fear that gripped his chest, immobilising him as much as any bodily fatigue. He was so close to the cabin…if he could make it just a bit further…

His breath nearly stopped in his lungs. His whole body felt rigid, numb; the blood drained from his face. A pale, limp hand was lolling upon the deck, its fingers daubed with tar and fresh streaks spread upon the deck around it.

Will's thoughts seemed to have quietened themselves to an echo of their former voices. Morgan…his mind repeated that one word vaguely…Morgan…our duties…just this morning, not an hour past…our jobs…we flipped a copper…I won…I tidied the storeroom…I won, and he had to apply the pitch to the rail…tar…that was the job he had taken…the tar…Morgan…

Scarcely daring to breathe, with a greater and greater sense of dread seeming to choke every shallow gasp he took, Will sidled cautiously round the barrel…

The owner of the hand came half into view. Morgan was slumped on his side, half-obscured behind another barrel, a rivulet of blood hanging from his lips and great clots forming beneath his bloodied tunic. The lifeless hand, inches from the brush it had dropped, seemed to be straining towards it, striving to recommence the action it had performed in life. The sightless eyes appeared, to Will's horrified sight, to contain recognition as he entered the path of their blank gaze.

Though he had expected to see it, nothing could have truly prepared Will for the sight of his friend lying dead before him. He faltered, half-fainting, his knees dropping from beneath him, reeling as though he had been physically struck. He was too numbed by shock, too overcome with horror, to cry out loud. This thing before him, so obviously in the guise of his friend, seemed somehow a different creature, so stiff, so pallid and pale it was…he remembered his friend that morning, so jovial and full of life, threatening him with the tar brush as they parted ways to carry out their respective tasks…this wasn't his friend before him, he had to be elsewhere…this thing before him, it was a nothing, a mere corpse…but Morgan was…Morgan had been…Morgan…

Tears streamed silently down his cheeks. At less than ten years of age, Will was struck by the sheer horror of the world of adults, the world of greed, deceit, murder; the world of piracy. Slowly, slowly, as he stared at his friend, the sounds of the on-deck fighting gradually returning to his stunned senses, his blood began to boil, the breath to heave once again passionately in the young breast. His jaw was clenched, the slim boyish shoulders set, the small balled fist trembling in rage. It was so senseless…there was no reason…Morgan had been a good friend…why was this even happening…

"Ha! Here's the other young 'un, the Turner lad! Here to join his friend in the hereafter!"

A raucous voice broke through his livid thoughts, grating on his still-raw nerves. A face leered down at him; Will recognized the man as Israel Hands. A stout, hard-working man, with a boisterous laugh that would ring across the deck as the men told jests during breaks in their duties. Will had always found him good company, one of the merriest and most companionable of men. Now that same bellowing laughter held malicious intent towards him. It was like he was meeting Hands for the first time; this was a stranger he saw before him, the bare blade in his hand bloodied by the life-founts of innocent men. The way that he leered down upon himself and the pathetic form of his dead friend so infuriated Will, Hands himself might have wielded the knife that slew Morgan, such was the hatred he felt for the mutineer. It seemed to fly off him in flames; for all that, Hands merely laughed in the face of them, amused by the thunderous expression on such a scrawny young boy's face.

With a gleeful cackle, Hands raised his blood-drenched sabre. Will had no room in his heart or mind to be scared, no time for fearful hesitation. He ducked the blow; it hit the rail, harmlessly chipping away at the sturdy wood.

As he darted away, Will kicked out at Hands' legs, much like he had done to Morgan when they had had that first altercation. Launched forward with the momentum of his blow, his foot unsteadied by the still-wet tar on the boards, Hands went down heavily. Without a second glance at him, Will sprinted impetuously up the stairs towards the upper berths, no longer worrying about concealing himself. His furious young heart cursed Hands a million times over with every cuss he had heard in the Benbow's barroom. He promised himself that his duty to his family alone would keep him from dealing with Hands, and that if he ever crossed paths with the ruffian again, the man would not live out the duration of the encounter.

He clambered up the stairs, seeing the doorway to the cabin ahead of him. It seemed he was late into the battle; one or two fallen men and numerous debris of combat – dropped knives, a shattered pistol, tatters hewn from clothes – littered the ground outside the cabin's entrance. Will's heart fluttered in apprehension, feeling he had neglected his foremost duties; amongst this mix there was no sign of his mother, nor had he perceived her upon the deck. He hoped that this was because she was safely tucked away in their room; she must be worrying madly about him.

He sprung upon the door handle, praying she was concealed inside. The handle rattled in his grasp, but would not yield.

Panic overtook him. Fear was regaining a hold over his temper. He tugged relentlessly at the handle, bashing his shoulder against the portal, but it would not budge. The handle jangled uselessly in his grasp, much like his own nerves were rattling within him.

"Mother!" he called out, his voice sounding pathetically forlorn against the ring of clashing blades and cacophony of vicious battle cries. He was alone and desperate, deserted.

Two men heard him and clambered towards him, settling their former opponents hastily and efficiently. Will was left with little doubt as to who they would dispatch next. They mounted the sets of stairs on either side of him, cornering him between them. In moments, their fierce blades would be upon him. Poor Will felt himself freeze up, seeing death approaching him on either side, and giving himself up to fate, he hoped against hope that some miraculous apparition would save him.

A muffled scraping reached his ears through the firmly closed door at his back. A second later he heard the latch fall; a strong and not overly gentle hand whisked him into the room as the brigands approached no more than five paces on either side of him. The hard grasp swiftly released his shoulder as a figure stepped past him. In an instant, two blades flashed in the air, pointing right and left; the pirates, not having time to perceive what they hastened towards, threw themselves heavily onto the sideways thrusts of the waiting blades. Both men fell to either side of the door, stone dead, as Elizabeth jerked her blades free. Hastily she withdrew; throwing her swords down, she slammed the door, turned the lock, and thrust the sturdy brass head of the bed, which she had freed from the metal strips that had bolted it to the floor by aid of ball and powder, firmly beneath the handle, wedging the door closed. Thus the room was transformed into a secure stronghold, with Will now safely inside.

She was in a dishevelled state, having risen little more than an hour ago; her hair was unbrushed, and she was clad only in her undergarments and petticoat, boots hastily thrust on beneath the lacy ruffles of her attire. Her face was pale and drawn, more fearful than Will had ever seen it in his life, missing the usual feisty spark that dwelt there. As she turned from the door, her expression melted from a fierce scowl to an almost despairing look as she gave a faint cry and flung herself at Will, catching hold of him in her arms with a great shuddering sob. In an instant, the fearsome battle-ready valkyrie who had passed him in the doorway was gone, and in her place was his anxious mother.

"I was so worried about you," she whispered into his hair, clutching him to her. Will let himself sob unashamedly into her shirt, too overcome by both intense relief and acute sorrow to put on a show of manly bravado, to hold back the childish tears which stung his eyes. Every horror he had witnessed, every intense emotion and biting stab of despair he felt, was soothed in her embrace. For now, he was safe; whilst his mother held him, he regained some glimmer of hope in his heart. She would know what to do and how to protect them. Themselves, and that.

"They killed Morgan," he managed to say thickly, his voice trembling. Now that he had time to really realize it, it hit him full force; the friend he had known would never speak to him, share a joke with him, run the deck or race up the rigging beside him again. Morgan was lost to the world, lost to him, forever.

"Why did they do it?" he asked, raising his tear-streaked face to look up at Elizabeth. "He wasn't a threat to them, no danger. He had no idea how to use a sword…I tried to teach him, but he still couldn't protect himself…he was just a kid, he couldn't harm them or offer them anything. They didn't need to…to kill…" Fresh tears welled up in his eyes and he hid his face in her bodice again.

Elizabeth cradled him against her, wishing that with her embrace she could draw all the feelings of hurt and grief from his young body. This was all she had been trying to protect her son from; every terrible vision and heart-rendering experience she had tried to shield him from was now written in his tear-stained face.

"Because they could," she said softly, tenderly stroking his back as his shoulders shook with fresh sobs. "They did it because they could. There's no allowed or not allowed, no innocent or guilty, right or wrong in pirate lore. There's only what one can do, and what one can't do. They don't care who a person is; so long as someone can be killed, they will kill them. There's no logic or need or gain to be gotten; only the opportunity, the ability and the raw bloodlust to kill."

Her voice was leaden as she uttered these last bitter words. Will considered them carefully. The secure world of his childhood had melted away. The familiar walls of the Benbow meant nothing here. He was far from the world of civilized men. This was a habitat for only predators and prey.

Elizabeth knelt down before him, looking levelly into his face, a hand on each of his shoulders.

"It's a bad situation we're in, but believe me, Will, when I tell you I've gotten out of worse than this, and I'll get you out of this lot. But I need you to trust me, and do exactly what I say. Even if you're scared, even if you don't understand, you need to do what I say to save yourself and us all. You have to be strong, to do everything I tell you as best you can, without hesitating. Do you think you can be strong? For me?"

Will looked steadily into her face. It seemed he had learnt so much more about her in these last few weeks, more than he had learnt in his nine years being brought up by her. Through her, he had learnt more about himself. Perhaps, a few weeks ago, tied to his bedpost by a pirate, he would've said 'No, I can't handle this'. But now…

He remembered the feeling of his blood thrilling in his veins as he perched in the crow's nest; the exhilarating sensation in the pit of his stomach as he felt the Lusitania ride a steep swell; the taste of salt air and the rush of fresh breezes, invigorating his senses. He was a different person now, saw himself and the world differently. He thought of his mother, facing a skeleton army alone, bargaining with undead pirates for her own life. He thought of his father, single-handedly outwitting the devil of the sea, steering a ghost ship through otherworldly waters. He was the child of strong, brave, capable parents. They were a part of him he had only recently discovered. And he couldn't deny what was in his blood. He couldn't just resign himself to being the powerless stripling, the scared little lad. He wanted to prove to everyone, most of all himself, that he was truly the son of William and Elizabeth Turner. Just like his father, he was willing to give up all the securities of his past life to protect those he loved.

"Yes," he said; the conviction Elizabeth saw in his eyes told her that he meant every word he said and knew the weighted responsibility they held. "Yes, I can be strong. Like you, and like Father. What else can I be otherwise?"

Despite the hope those words gave her, Elizabeth's face and heart crumpled with tears. Your son, she thought to herself. He is every bit your son, Will, he is everything that makes you the courageous, sincere, wonderful person you are. And to think, he is part of me too…I hope to God I am up to this task, that I can do justice to my two brave boys…

With both their spirits bolstered, their energies buoyed up by adrenaline, Elizabeth set to work. She knew their survival now relied on her wits.

She darted behind the makeshift dressing screen in the corner of the room. Will, though he couldn't see her, could hear her rifling through their luggage, pushing garments aside. He heard the lid of the large sea chest clank open on its hinge, the pistols knocking against the inside of it. His keen ears picked up the clinking sounds of her loading them with fresh charges. He examined the swords she had tossed upon the floor. One was similar to his own in style; a narrow blade, supple yet strong, elegantly tapering along its razor-sharp edge. He knew she often wore this one strapped to her waist or hidden within the folds of her skirt; it was as familiar to him as his own attire. The other he had seldom seen before, except in the sea chest she had packed; it was straight as an arrow and wide, double-edged. The designed on its hilt were clearly foreign.

Between them, they had three swords and two pistols, to be used against about a dozen mutinous pirates. The honest members of their crew had been caught unawares, unable to protect themselves, and couldn't be depended on. They had little hope of a passing vessel coming to their aid; their trade route was not a common one. He and his mother were trapped in this small room, barricaded in, with who knew how many murderous pirates waiting for them without the door. The only other point of escape in the cabin was a window in the side wall little more than four feet square.

As Will finished his analysis of their situation, Elizabeth strode out from behind the screen. She had pulled on her coat over her petticoat, the garment buttoned from neck to navel. Now she returned her swords to their sheaves and buckled the belt round her waist, the scabbards incongruous dangling on either side of her lace-trimmed skirts.

"Why do these things have to happen at the most inconvenient times?" She muttered, glowering at her frill-adorned hem. "Pirates have no consideration for the decent attire of women."

Will couldn't help but grin. Making light of the situation made them both feel braver.

She disappeared behind the partition again, and this time emerged with the small sea chest, containing that so sought-after heart within it. Elizabeth seemed to hold herself stiffer, straighter as she carried the precious burden in her arms, as though her reverent stance were some homage to a holy relic.

As though sensing their objective's presence, the door gave a sudden violent shudder; the pirates were trying to force their way in. Neither Elizabeth nor Will flinched at the sound; both of them had been expecting it sooner rather than later, and glanced at the door calmly. As she surveyed the jolting door, each heavy blow reverberating right through the bed head that barred it, Elizabeth's mind was working furiously, sweeping over the circumstances and sparring for an opening they could exploit.

"First thing, we need to get this out of their reach," she said in an authorative voice, nodding to the chest. Will listened intently; obviously she had a plan. "The only other way out of this room is through the window. The captain's quarters are above ours, there's a window into his cabin above this one. I want you to take the chest and hide it somewhere up there, it'll give us some time to deal with the pirates while they try to search this room. You can reach Bellamy's cabin by climbing up this grating."

She handed Will the chest – it felt heavy in his arms, all the more so for the important contents it bore – and began to dismantle her dressing screen, stripping the canvas from the lattice-work underneath. She propped a sheet of it in the window, pushing it firmly against the wall so that it rose up the outside of the vessel like a ladder.

"Here," she added, handing him one of the pistols. "You might need this." He took it gingerly and tucked it into his belt.

"What about you?"

Her daring smile mocked the concern in his words, though her eyes were still gentle. "I've waited ten years for a good fight. I won't be cheated now."

Will grinned. Even in the face of danger, the thought of his mother in action was an inspiring one, especially judging by her previous double-weapon assault on the unwitting mutineers.

"Take care," she said to him, planting one last kiss on his forehead, just like she had each night before his bedtime for the last nine years.

"You too," he said solemnly. His manner called to mind a young soldier leaving for battle. Who knew what each would go through before they saw the other again?

Taking the chest carefully by one heavy handle, Will climbed out the window, having just enough room to squeeze out past the grating, and began to the climb it up the side of the ship. The grating tipped slightly towards the sea beneath his weight as he climbed upwards; Elizabeth leaned against it on her end, keeping it levered against the ship's planks.

Will looked down at her one last time through the criss-crossing bars. From here on in, his mission was separate from hers; he was on his own. The pride he saw in her eyes encouraged him, as did the gentle smile on her lips, which he knew was just for him.

He sent all his wishes for safe-keeping to her mentally as he looked back at her, braced stoically against the grating with a sword on either hip, the beatings on the door seeming to have become more furious behind her. Then he swung the chest over the railing of the portico that ran around the perimeter of the captain's cabin, and pulled himself up after it.

Down in the galley, the kitchen hand listened to the frenzied tread of innumerable feet above his head, the desperate yells of men struggling in combat and the tortured screams as wounded men fell, feeling restlessness stir within him.

He had waited long enough. This was the action he had been waiting for. Now, finally, he could leave this dull, dingy hole and join the fray, no longer loitering about below deck like an animal cowering in its burrow. Now was the time to lash out tooth and claw, at all who should unwittingly come within range of his bite.

He leapt nimbly upon the counter top and reached for a hidden ledge above a row of cupboards on the wall. From this shelf's furthest reaches he pulled a woven conical hat and a broad cutlass, its dark lacquered scabbard studded with decorative silver motifs in curious designs. Donning the hat and drawing the blade in one easy, practiced motion, he leapt down and trod purposefully up the stairs towards the deck.

As his foot found a creaking step, the cook, reclining on a barrel with his arms folded behind his head, opened one eye drowsily. Then he slumped lower on his make-shift seat, finding a comfortable spot on the rotting wood, and the eyelid drooped closed again, his restfulness undisturbed by the commotion above him.

The two men stood at the ship's starboard rail, looking out into the lee of the wind at the horizon. A tiny blur was visible out on the expanse of waves, a blur complete with spire-like masts which pierced the sky. Echoing across the distance came the dull thud of gunshot, the hubbub of clashing voices and blades.

"What's this here then?" muttered one of the men. "Has 'e started things early? It's unlike ol' Barbeque to be impatient."

The other man did not reply immediately; instead he listened for a moment to the garbled sounds carried by the breeze, like a wolf listening for the sounds of nearby prey in the rustle of undergrowth.

"That double pistol fire," he murmured. "That's Hands, no mistakin'. That fool's set all our plans down about our ears! I told the cap'n 'e wasn't one to be relied on to speak softly, never was a one for subtle work, was Issie. The cap'n will have his throat on the choppin' block for this!"

The other man, who seemed to be his subordinate position, nodded grimly at this counsel. "So what should we do 'bout it, Anderson, sir? Ye be the one left in charge, an' if ol' Issie's campaign don't go for broke, I wouldn't want t' be left outta a piece o' the spoils. Don't ye think we been holdin' back long enough?"

The man Anderson considered this for a moment, then a sly smile spread across his broad, weather-beaten face.

"Quite right, O'Brien. Whatever the outcome, the cap'n may need our assistance, an' we were told to follow in case of any untoward happening. In any case, this may be high time to break some heads. We'll not be left behind; it's high time we caught up on some action."

O'Brien grinned, sharing his superior's murderous zeal.

"Call the men to their stations, coxswain. I wish t' be on that deck tastin' men's blood with me cutlass within the hour."

"Aye, firs' mate Anderson, sir."

O'Brien strode to the hatchway and drew a great breath; when he let it out, he bellowed fit to raise the dead.

"All hands! Up, ye cockroaches! Don' think cos the cap'n ain't here you can lie in, you lily-livered dogs! Any man seen not pullin' his weight will be seen t' be too afeared t' raid a mere trader's ship! Now after her! Our blades will nip her heels this hour!"

At these alternating insults and promises of a good fight, men poured out onto the deck and scurried eagerly to their stations. They shared many a lurid glance and nudged each other in anticipation at the prospect of a good blood-letting. All of them had some inkling of the prize that was to be won – a prize that would make them undisputed tyrants of the seas, a prize that could make even the pirate lords answerable to them…

O'Brien, satisfied that the men did their duties and that the mate capably handled the helm, went below to collect supplies of powder and ammunition for their assault on the Lusitania, the cutlasses being already present in a stand upon the deck. As he entered the storeroom, laying his hand on a keg, he heard a noise that aroused his suspicion. He thought at first it was the sound of the ship's timbers creaking, then started as he heard it again, louder and more guttural this time. It was unmistakably the sound of a snore.

As the ship leaned into her new course, yawing slightly towards starboard, an empty bottle rolled across the storeroom floor. O'Brien stopped it with his foot and followed its course in reverse. Peering over a pile of crates, he was amazed to see a dingy, scruffy-looking sailor sleeping soundly in the middle of a sail, his head supported by a case of rum and his hat tilted low over his mane of dreadlocks. All around him were littered crumbs, tins, ham rinds, apple cores, and, in most abundance, empty bottles. His stout boots were crossed comfortably at the ankles, resting on a nearby barrel, and with every deep, slumbering breath he took, his daintily plaited beard quivered like a pair of taut yard lines.

O'Brien stared open-mouthed at this mysterious urchin, his face reddening indignantly and his chest puffing out until he resembled a goaded fighting bantam.

"Who the ruddy hell are you?!"

As this mighty roar tore through the storeroom's stale air, the stowaway stirred slightly, waking reluctantly, and peered groggily about him.

"Mornin' there, mate," he slurred, favouring the outraged coxswain with a lazy, gold-mottled grin. "Care to wet your gullet before you break your fast?"

He brandished a half-emptied bottle at O'Brien temptingly. Seeing the other man's vermillion complexion and thunderous scowl, his cheery demeanour faltered slightly, and he looked a mite bit more serious

"Don't tell me you have a dislikin' for rum!"