Craddock by Neil Jackson, Paul Finch Page A

find out was to light it, and he began to assemble a fuse: he took four matches, bound them end to end with pieces of string, then slid forwards on his knees and placed it with one end at the top of the mound, resting at an angle. The lower end he lit, before backing away across the room. When he reached the door to the adjoining chamber, he halted. Agonisingly slow moments passed as the tiny flame spread. It was creeping uphill so it should continue to burn, but would it? The fuse was crooked; the air in here saturated.
    Munro watched tensely, but, despite all his misgivings, the flame made gradual progress. At any time over the next minute it might reach the powder. He retreated into the next room, where he sought out the furthest corner and crouched down.
    And then something odd. Something totally unexpected.
    Beyond the curtain Kenton began to talk, as though to challenge someone. But it wasn’t his normal threatening tone. It was in a quavering, high-pitched voice.
    “ You … hey, I said you!” he bleated. “What are you doing there? Who … hey, keep back … oh, oh Jesus! ”
    So shrill was this final shout that Munro moved back to the connecting doorway to stare at the curtain. It had been torn aside and Kenton stood there, a black silhouette on the light of his lantern. His back was turned, his carbine clearly aimed at someone. “Get away!” he squealed. “Get away, I said!”
    Then the burly hussar – who didn’t believe anything unless he saw it for himself – spun around and faced Munro, and in the small, wavering light, his face was a picture of horror, the skin taut around his bulging eyes and obscenely gaping mouth …
    And then the powder blew.
    Directly below him.
    The flash came first, then the roar as the charge detonated. A wall of force hit Munro like a battering ram. He was thrown violently backwards into the second chamber, only one image etched on his mind: Corporal Kenton catapulted up against the ceiling, arms and legs flailing, then rebounding downwards, a limp, twisted thing made from tatters and smoke.
     
    When Craddock heard the dull crump of the blast, he was down on the ‘Carpenter’s Walk’, a special gangway that ran along the inner skin of the hull at roughly the level of the waterline. Its original purpose had been so that crewmen might attend quickly to breaches caused by enemy cannon fire, though Craddock was using it to access the hold below. The sound of the explosion stopped him in his tracks. It was faint and muffled, but a violent shudder accompanied it and passed through the entire frame of the ship.
    Craddock looked backwards into the gloom, wondering what Munro and Kenton might have got themselves into. Not that there was time to deliberate on this. He pressed on, the lantern held before him. His mission to save Palmer – if such a thing was still possible – had to take precedence. A moment later, he’d lifted a trapdoor and found a wooden ladder dropping into the Catherine-Maria ’s lowest, murkiest depths. He went down without hesitation. There was no alternative. Shouting threats into that black chasm would avail him nothing; making angry demands would be greeted by further scornful sniggers, if by anything at all.
    It was a ten-foot descent into the hold, and as soon as the major alighted at the bottom, he turned quickly, his gun ready, the lamp held above his head. Initially, there was little to see. The holds on most great ships, especially men‘o’war, were so spacious that they were more like warehouses. This one was no exception, though again bulkhead walls divided it into sections. Craddock walked slowly forwards, his brow moist with sweat. An open doorway loomed about ten yards ahead, and there was a brief sound of movement on the other side.
    “ Alright Burnwood, I’ve arrived,” he shouted.
    There seemed little point in pretending otherwise. Burnwood knew already; he’d been the architect of this; he’d drawn the police chief down as part of