Free The Continental Risque by James Nelson

nine, when his father, a common laborer and a violent drunk, sent him to sea as an apprentice, after receiving, Hackett was certain, some payment for him. Even an idiot would learn something of ships in that time, and Hackett was no idiot.
    Suddenly the hold, which had been silent save for the slap of water on the hull, was filled with the rumble and shudder of the hawse paying out from the cable tier and running out of the hawsehole one deck above. They were anchoring. Now there would be the devil to pay and no pitch hot. Hackett felt the rage overwhelming him again and he cursed softly and violently, spewing out a string of obscenities that grew increasingly filthy and vituperative. It made him feel better, but only a little. He needed a drink. He needed to see someone hurt.
    He heard the ship’s boat lowered away, and sometime later – he had no notion of how long – he heard it bump against the side of the ship, returning from the town. A minute later came the sound of shoes on the ladders, voices, and the dim, swaying light of a lantern coming closer as some party made its way down to the hold.
    â€˜Amos Hackett, hello again.’ Hackett glanced sideways up at the group of men standing over him. The chains did not allow him anything more than a kneeling position, and that further inflamed him. The light, dim as it was, hurt his eyes.
    â€˜Sheriff, is that you? God damn me, but I’m glad to see you. Tell them to get these chains off me. It ain’t legal.’
    The sheriff was smiling. ‘But of course, Amos. You there’ – he turned to two armed seamen and the ship’s carpenter standing behind him – ‘pray let Mr Hackett, Esquire, out of them chains.’
    The group stood silent as the chains were removed from Hackett’s raw wrists. ‘You can’t get up to the gallows if you’re chained up down here, now can you?’ was all the sheriff said before leading the small band back to the deck. Hackett was manacled and flanked by the two armed seamen, who took every opportunity that presented itself to shove him along and curse him for stumbling.
    They stepped through the after scuttle and into the bright autumn afternoon. The sunlight brought tears to Hackett’s eyes, and he felt them well up and roll down his cheeks. His clothes were torn and filthy, and in the fresh air on deck he was aware of how badly he stank. He felt his rage come to a boil again. He had to let it out. He had to talk.
    â€˜Sheriff, Captain Barry here chained me up, chained me like a dog for no reason. It ain’t legal and I want him arrested. I’m going to bring charges against him.’ This was a lame attempt; no thought had gone into it. He was just talking, but it made him feel better, as if he had some control. ‘I suggest you get these irons off my wrists.’
    â€˜Ain’t legal, you say?’ the sheriff asked. ‘Well, now, Captain Barry, who, I should point out, is a gentleman and a citizen of long standing in this town, not the son of a drunken cur, says you was undermining his authority and leading a mutiny. And this ain’t the first time we’ve heard the like about you. Now, who do you reckon I should believe?’
    â€˜Mutiny? It’s mutiny, is it? A man can’t have a genuine grievance without being arrested for mutiny, and the cook laying out food what ain’t fit for a dog? And the men asking me would I please go to the captain and beg him do something to make our lot better, and me going, humble as you please—’
    â€˜That’s quite enough, Hackett. Captain Barry …’ The sheriff held up his hand to restrain the master, who was making a move as if to strike Hackett. Hackett was in turn cowering as if his life was being threatened.
    â€˜There, Sheriff, you see now how it is!’ Hackett yelled, pointing with cuffed hands an accusatory finger at the master.
    â€˜Shut your gob, Hackett,’ the