Cutthroats of the Coast

Chapter 13 - A Less Than Satisfactory Afternoon

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.