There is a moment before an act of violence takes place when the participants appear to each other as statues.  It was like that for the four of us.  We were still, almost frozen.  Ramsbottom’s mouth opened and closed slowly as if he were a recently landed codfish.  For the merest flicker of time our eyes flitted from one to another as the implications of the officer’s words dawned on us. 

“Get him!” Mr Jones shattered the silence with a quarterdeck roar and threw himself at our companion, who skipped nimbly to one side like a very accomplished dancing master.  Jones tumbled into the rubbish that lay in drifts along the edge of the street, his coat tails caught over his head, his arse presented to the world like a great puffball.  He presented a most ungainly sight to be sure.  

Ramsbottom took this as his prompt to further the battle.  He swung a foot out to trip the officer but the cunning fellow simply cast about, causing Ramsbottom to miss his kick and stumble over his own feet, swearing most obnoxiously. 

“I think I will take my leave, gentlemen,” said the officer and, turning, he took to his heels.  With a certain haste, he headed down one of the lanes leading from the cross roads, his high boots clattering on the flags. 

Jones had regained his feet, spitting and swearing, covered as he was in ordure.  He yelled at us both, “Get after him, you pair of lob-cocks before he pikes off!” 

“Come on!” growled Ramsbottom, pulling me by the arm, and we followed after the retreating figure of the officer. 

The African sun soon reduced me to a state of sweating weariness as I sweltered in my black, broadcloth coat.  Perspiration stung my eyes and I began to gasp as we pelted after the soldier.   The lane curved away from us between high whitewashed buildings and so our quarry soon disappeared from sight.  It appeared that a landsman was a surer wager at a foot race than two unfit sailors who had been four weeks at sea. 

It puzzled me that the lane was so empty.  There was not a soul to be seen stirring. Only one mange ridden cat hissed at us from atop a high wall as we staggered past. 

The lane opened out before a high, derelict building cluttered about with low outhouses.  A small, dusty square lay before it, just as empty as the streets.  Shutters on the house were firmly closed and the doors were presumably barred.  To either side were the blank, high walls of the backs of houses that we had run past.  Crumbling stucco and bare mud bricks were their only decoration.  This desolate scene was a dead end.  If it had not been for the sight of some linen drying at a balcony then it would have been easy to assume that no-one lived in this part of Tangier at all.  

“Where’s that bastard gone?”  

We both turned to see Jones trotting up behind us, red-faced, sweating, and foul. 

“I don’t know,” answered Ramsbottom.  “He was just ahead of us but we lost sight of him as he went around the corner.” 

“You really are truly fucking useless!” Jones spat and he threw his hat down onto the ground disturbing great clouds of dust.  “I don’t know why Morgan puts up with you, I really don’t.  If I had The Betsy, I’d have put you over the side a day out from Bristol, just like we did that Welsh gobshite!” 

“Well, it’s a good thing you didn’t because then you’d have to search for that twinkle-toed soldier-boy with only the Captain’s moll to help!”  Ramsbottom fumed.  He span to face Jones and pushed him hard in the chest, knocking him off his feet.  “What’s he going to do when that soldier comes a-running?  Kiss him?” 

It was like watching an abandoned lamb that had been taken in by the farmer, raised with care by his children as a family pet, reveal rows of serrated shark’s teeth that bit down hard on your fingers.  Ramsbottom whipped a knife out from under his coat and advanced on Jones, who scuttled back on his hands and feet.  

I was horrified.  A soldier of the garrison – an officer no less – knew we were not all that we appeared to be.  He had escaped us, and we were alone inside a city whose only population consisted of soldiers and their families.  Now it seemed we were going to save the garrison the job of hanging us by killing each other first. 

Jones scrambled to his feet and pulled a long, slender dirk from his boot, which glittered in the sun. Both men circled each other like the seasoned knife fighters that they were.  Ramsbottom may have been a callow youth but he moved with the easy grace of one who was all too familiar with the blade. 

I heard something fall behind me.  It was a muffled sound, but it had unmistakably come from one of the outhouses.  I turned to look and was rewarded with the tell tale signs of disturbance in the dust that lay before the door of one of the smaller buildings. 

“Stop!”  I called back to my two companions.  I would have been only too happy for them to slaughter each other under other circumstances but I needed them alive.  If they killed each other, and that soldier escaped, who was going to get me out of this mess? 

The two idiots were so intent on murder that they ignored me.  

“Will you both stop!”  I repeated.  This time I punctuated my request with a handful of dung I had scooped off the ground.  It appeared that there were animals in this town other than goats and horses, judging by the sloppiness of the turd.  It certainly splattered in a pleasingly decorative way up Mr Jones neck. 

He almost killed me on the spot, so maddened was he.  However, I managed to blurt out, “He’s in there!” quickly enough before the enraged master could disembowel me. 

Ramsbottom and Jones stopped their circling and eyed each other warily. 

“Flush him out, both of you,” Jones ordered. 

“Why me?” Ramsbottom said and then pointed at me.  “S-send him in!” 

“You both go in because he’ll not take on the two of you.  He’ll run otherwise he’ll stay trapped here.  If one goes in, he’ll kill ‘em and better his chances against the remaining two,” Jones reasoned, wiping away some of the dung.  “Just quit your whining and get in there!” 

“What do I do if he comes at me?  I haven’t a knife,” I put in for my ha’penny’s worth in this ad hoc conference of war.  I was in a most heightened state of excitement and I was eager to be after our quarry.  Rum, coffee and exertion had flushed me with the thrill of the chase.  Had Diana the huntress felt this way?  I suspected that she probably had not required artificial stimulation to summon up the requisite reserves of determination.  Also, it was probable that she presented a far more decorous demeanour to the world than I did at that moment, hot and dishevelled as I was. 

“Pray he does not take you for a threat then.  Now get in there before I kill you myself,” said Jones without the merest hint of reassurance.  He took off his coat and wrapped it around his forearm as a makeshift buckler. 

We approached the worm-eaten door of the outhouse.  A simple wooden latch was the only lock upon it.  Something stirred beyond and there was a clatter as another item fell to the floor. 

“D-did …er…he have a sword?”  Ramsbottom suddenly asked. 

Truly I had not thought of this.  Our fugitive was an officer.  Surely he carried the sign of his rank?  As much as I wracked my brains, I could not remember seeing one upon his person.  At that moment, the excitement of the pursuit departed me as quickly as it had come, leaving me with nothing but a chilling emptiness. 

I shrugged.  “How is this done, Mr Ramsbottom?”  I said quietly. 

He looked at me with what I suspect was some awareness of my sensibilities.  His normal habit of nervous stuttering had returned, “M-move … er… fast…um… don’t stop.  G-get out of the way if he has a pig -sticker and …er…don’t try to take him on.” 

Placing his hand on the latch, he indicated that I should go first.  I was reluctant to do so but I did not want to be thought of as craven by any creature as low as Ramsbottom.  We braced ourselves, and when the boy pressed down on the latch, we pushed through the door with great alacrity, screaming and roaring like the savages of the Indies. 

Rushing from the bright light of the day, we were plunged into a gloom that we were both unprepared for.  

Our opponent wasn’t.  

The door slammed shut behind us as we crossed the threshold, blocking out the light of the day.  Our headlong dash brought disaster in the darkness.  Something hard smacked me hard against the ankles and I tumbled face first to the floor.  Ramsbottom tripped over me and landed on my back, driving all the air from my lungs.  I heard a number of dull thuds, followed by Ramsbottom crying out.  He squirmed for a moment and then went still, the dead weight of his body lay draped over me, rendering me immobile.  

Fearful of what may happen next I lay as quiet as Ramsbottom.  I wished to provoke no further violence, especially as I myself was unarmed. 

I heard Jones call out, his voice surprisingly loud through the door, “What are you about in there!”  

Ramsbottom groaned.  There were two more thuds and then a third strike caught me in the ribs.  I felt it but there was little pain – my particular talent to resist such assaults masked any reaction. 

“Lie still there, damn you!” The officer’s voice spoke in the darkness.  I presumed he spoke to Ramsbottom since I was as still as a corpse and desperate to avoid becoming one. 

My mind raced.  I had struck my face upon the floor and blood dripped from my nose.  Other than that, I appeared to be quite hale.  I feared for my life but as I lay there I began to wonder why the hot kiss of steel had not yet graced my throat.  It occurred to me that my assailant was also unarmed.  As soon as it dawned on me that this was the case, I resolved that I would not lie here and wait to be murdered.  How long would it take for him to find something with which to stove my head in?  Ramsbottom’s too, for that matter – though I suspected that would only let light into an otherwise empty room. 

“Ramsbottom!  West!  Come to the door!”  Jones ordered. 

Bracing myself against the floor, I thrust hard with my arms and and rolled over.   Ramsbottom slid off me and I clambered to my feet.  Keeping low and letting my fingers trail on the floor before me to search out obstructions, I scrambled away from the door like a crab.  There was a slight hiss in the still air near me and I realised that the officer was not entirely unarmed.  He had found something to wield in the darkness. 

“Where are you, you damned dog!”  he grunted. “Stay put or I’ll skewer you!” 

“Stay and let you spear me?”  I said as I crashed into a pile of baskets, which tumbled beneath me.  I straddled the pile like a starfish.  “You make a convincing argument that I should run, sir!” 

“Run or stay, I’ll have at you!” 

There was a mighty whack upon my arse.  The officer had found me.  As much as I do not feel pain when struck, it does not mean that I feel nothing.  Also, it does not mean that all parts of me feel pain in similar ways.  My rump is one of the more sensitive areas.  It had never bothered me before since in my boxing days it was not a matter worth considering.  Boxers rarely find themselves in a position when one is bent over the knee of the other having his backside tanned - at least not when a fight is in earnest.  I do know of some houses of low reputation in London where you can watch two boxers do exactly as I have just described but then they are not really engaged in any pugilistic activity.  More like something the Lord Chancellor would take an interest in.  The blow that I had been struck was enough to cause me to crack one of my teeth as I grimaced from the shock of the impact.  The officer must have found some sort of pole or plank to wield. 

I was stung and just a little humiliated.  “Stay your hand! Stay it!” I protested. 

He struck again.  The pain was so intense it was almost pleasurable.  My buttocks quivered as I lay there spread-eagled upon the baskets.  My head swam and lights sparkled before me.  I began to feel giddy. 

“Your hand, sir!”  I cried. 

A third blow rendered me almost unconscious.  I was awake but each blow seemed to send me into a kind of dreaming ecstasy.  I had never experienced anything quite like it.  

It was delicious. 

“What is it that you want, you bastard?”  

“Want…hand…you...stay!”  I was not even sure what it was that I did say but I was not certain that I was ready for him to stop. 

Jones’ voice cut through my reverie like a pail of water, fresh drawn from the well. “You come out now, soldier boy!  I’ll let you on your way.  You were mistaken about my friend here.  You have the wrong ship!” 

“More…hand!” I murmured. 

“What is wrong with you?”  There was a note of disgusted surprise in the soldier’s voice and then he chuckled quietly to himself before he shouted back to Jones, “Oh, let me on my way will you! Is that your game then?  Flush out the partridge from the hedgerow, eh?” 

A scraping sound from the floor away to my right signalled Ramsbottom’s return to the land of living creatures.  

“Down you!”  the officer said.  There was a hard slap followed by a soft groan.  Ramsbottom had been sent back to his dreams.  After a moment, he followed this up with another blow upon my rump.  I think, perhaps, for luck but possibly for pleasure. 

“More!”  I moaned. 

“Come now!” he objected. 

“More!” I cried. 

“Come!” yelled Jones. 

“More!” I screamed. 

“Come!” 

“Yes!” 

I shuddered with bliss and felt a surge deep within my loins.  What was going on?  I was quite bewildered at the effect of the beating. 

“Oh, God,” the soldier muttered to himself, “I’d give you a whipping if I did not think that you would do something perverse.”  His hand trailed across my sore buttocks then I heard him stride to the door.  “I’m coming!  Stand back and give me room or I’ll make sure they both get it!”    

“You have my word as an officer!” Jones said reasonably, his voice slightly muffled through the door.  “I’ll step back and you can go on your way.  We cannot fight you – You have both of my men down and there’s only one of me.” 

“Aye, well that’s as may be.  Just step back into the square where I can see you.”  There was the sound of footsteps pacing softly by the door and I could make out a shape block off the light from the small cracks between the door’s planks.  He called out anxiously, “Step into the square where I can see you, I say!  I cannot see you, sir!” 

He must have peered through one of those cracks in the door, for a better view of Jones.  It could not have taken more than a moment but there was a sudden hiss of indrawn breath followed by a dreadful gurgling.  Something heavy sagged against the door and there was a scraping sibilance as the soldier slid gently to the floor against the rough-hewn timbers.  The gurgling continued for a while and soon became an erratic, wet coughing that grew weaker by the moment. 

The door opened and light flooded into the little outhouse.  My eyes had become accustomed to the gloom and so I screwed them shut against the sudden brightness.  

“What in the seven hells is going on in here?”  Jones thundered.  

I opened one eye, blinking back tears from pain, joy and the light.  I realized my predicament and quickly regained my feet, concealing my momentary, and damp, weakness by drawing my coat about me. 

The soldier lay crumpled on the floor, his legs drawn up beneath him, his forehead resting at the foot of the door frame.  His coughing fits shook his body but what lay beneath him foreshadowed that this would soon desist.  Blood pooled about his face and knees and this pool continued to grow, spreading into the dust of the outhouse. 

“I knew he’d stick his face to the door,” Jones crowed, as he kicked the dying man in the side.  “Gave us quite a scare there, didn’t you?  Well it’s all over now.  You can never win an argument with a stiletto if you’re as thick as a plank.  You, my boy, were one of the thickest!” 

The poor man rolled over onto his side, revealing the ugly wound that Jones had punched into his neck with his knife through the door.  Blood masked the lower half of his face and shrouded one eye.  The other remained clear and bright and it slowly turned to me.  I looked upon him with sadness and I held his gaze until I realized that the spark of life had failed.  I owed him nothing, save for my guilty pleasure, yet my heart cried out at the injustice of his murder.  He had simply accompanied three visitors to his city and enjoyed the easy conversation that such occasions bring.  His luck had damned him when he met us. 

I swore then that I would kill Solomon Jones.  

The Master and I dragged the soldier away from the door and we bundled him to the back of the outhouse, piling my baskets on top of him.  We then turned our attention to Ramsbottom, who was in a sorry way and still unconscious.  Great welts had been raised upon his head and his face was scratched and bloody.  Whilst Jones was not looking, I took a swift kick at Ramsbottom’s silly face and felt the satisfying crunch of bone beneath my boot.  I might not be able to take on Jones now but I could at least take out my anger on this fat-head. 

Finally finishing arranging the baskets, Jones unbuttoned himself and took out his cock.  It was a sturdy thing with a curious, bulbous quality.  “This’ll stir the poor lamb,” he said and proceeded to make water upon the boy’s face.  “Teach him to be a careless little bugger too,” he added.  “Wake up, laddie!  Out and down!” 

It was an efficacious way of reviving Ramsbottom.  Spluttering, swearing and spitting, he almost sprang through the ceiling in his haste to be up.  “What in Jesu’s name is that taste!”  he cried.  

“Clap a stopper over that whining!”  Jones grinned as he fastened up.  “We have to be away from here.  Who knows what was heard?  We must be aboard before they find this son-of-a-bitch.”  He kicked at the exposed boot of the soldier that we had not yet covered and spat. 

I remember very little of our dash through Tangier after that man’s murder – the first I ever participated in but not the last.  It appeared that the inhabitants of the city were accustomed to keeping away from the heat of the sun at the height of the day, which explained the lack of any hue and cry being raised.  Garrison towns are rough and ready place where fights often break out and violence is done to settle old scores.  Why would this be any different?  The wise let the foolish be fools.  There lies true wisdom.  Let the fighting run its course and don’t get involved.   That way no-one will put a brick through your windows later. 

We eventually found ourselves, hot, dusty, bloody, soiled and bruised by the Hard.  Jack Frith was there with the boat crew, along with, to my surprise, French Bob.  I had not realized he had joined us on The Resolve but then why would I really notice?  I was often drunk, or wrapped up in my own thoughts.  What place did others have in those?  I could feel the dark wings of despondency begin to wrap themselves around me.  It was a familiar ailment with only one cure that I knew of.  I needed to sink myself into oblivion before the darkness claimed me. 

I needed a drink. 

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