Craddock by Neil Jackson, Paul Finch

through the hanging material, which was apparently gauze or netting. Kenton could also be seen, standing guard out there. Munro felt at his armpit-holster; it was empty. He glanced from side to side, his eyes attuning to the dark.
    The cabin he was in was small and low-roofed even by the standards of the others he’d seen. There was a second doorway in it. This stood open, but Munro couldn’t imagine it led anywhere, or else he’d never have been left here in the first place. All the same, he took another minute to regain his strength, then rolled over onto his stomach, gritted his teeth – at least two of his ribs felt broken – and began to slither forwards, finally working his way into the next room. The light didn’t penetrate that far, which meant that at first he couldn’t see much. Gradually however, its dimensions took shape; it was much the same size as the previous one, but there was something different in here, an odour. It was rank, eggy, sulphurous.
    Slowly, a chain of thoughts connected.
    Sulphur, the gauze curtain over the doorway …
    The truth dawned.
    Munro rose to his knees, so quickly that pain lanced through him and he had to double over. Despite this, it was a struggle to suppress his excitement. These twin-rooms must once have formed the ship’s magazine. The gauze-curtain would have been kept sodden to reduce the danger of fire; the sulphurous smell was a left-over from the powder kegs that had been stored here.
    He wasn’t sure how much of a chance this gave him, but he rose to his feet and began to search around properly, first in the second room, then back in the other one. Both were strewn with pieces of string and sacking; items once probably used to pack and bind cartridges. There were also, as he’d hoped, small traces of spilled powder. He began to scrape as much of this together as he could, though even after several minutes there was only a negligible amount. In addition, it was damp. When Munro had served under Major Craddock in the army, it had been in the 14th Light Dragoons as a cavalry subaltern. On occasion they’d handled explosives, but not to the extent that he’d learned the chemistry of such materials. He didn’t know how much of it he’d need, nor whether its dampness would hinder him. But he knew he had to try.
    He tapped at the pocket of his greatcoat, and was relieved to find that he still had his box of matches. He now worked more quickly, depositing all the powder he could in a small mound at the foot of the entrance stairway. So doing, he stepped too eagerly on a loose board, which gave a squeal of protest. Swiftly, he slumped down against the nearest wall. There was a rustle of cloth, and Kenton stuck his head around the gauze. He registered that Munro was conscious, and frowned.
    “ You can have another kicking, if you want,” he said.
    Munro shook his head, a seemingly broken man.
    Kenton glared at him, wondering perhaps if there was more here than met the eye. He indicated the guarded hilt of his sabre and the grip of Munro’s revolver, which he’d tucked into the belt beside it. “On top of this lot, of course,” he said, producing the carbine, “I’ve got this here man-stopper. So don’t be thinking about anything heroic.”
    Again, the prisoner shook his head. Kenton withdrew behind the curtain. There was a thud as he placed his lantern down.
    Munro let several minutes pass before he went back into action. By his reckoning, a relatively small charge at the foot of the stair would devastate the entire doorway, and anyone standing behind the net-gauze would take the brunt. The thought that it might actually kill that person wasn’t pleasant, especially as Kenton had spared Munro’s life. But there was no possibility of sitting here and letting things take their natural course.
    The powder was now heaped several inches deep. Munro still wasn’t sure how volatile such a quantity would prove to be, if it was volatile at all, but the only way to