Chapter Three
Red Bucktober
Anchorage groaned and tried again. This was going to be the death of him, he knew it. For the fifth time, he tried to shove the mainspring back into place, though he was beyond caring, to be frank. It was the second crossbow he’d had to reassemble today and it was easily the worst.
Just as he thought that, he blinked at just the wrong moment. A bead of perspiration froze on his eyelash, broke off and fell on to the spring. It poinked askew and bounced off across the deck, followed by a slew of curses only a sailor could know. He was about to go and fetch it, when he was distracted by a clattering of hooves.
A stream of terrified ponies, orderlies, flunkies and char-wallahs, burst out of the gangway to the engine rooms. Instinctively, Anchorage hit the deck and lay down while the stampede stampeded by. All Anchorage could see were hooves swinging at his head, so he shut is eyes and waited for it to pass.
After a spell, it did, thundering off into the bridge tower. Anchorage sat up slowly and patted himself down. A quick check revealed that, externally at least, he was fine. All the right parts still in the right places and whatnot. What was less fine, however, was this terrible throbbing in his head, like the stampede had somehow got inside his brain. He shook his head, and felt it spreading down his shoulders, through his hooves. What the hay was this? Soon enough, he was shaking all over. He’d have put it down to shock, but he was grizzled navy veteran, or at least liked to think so. Panicked flunkies should be a walk in the park.
His crossbow was shaking. Bits and pieces danced and leapt out of the stock and across the deck. He made to go after them, but they hopped and skipped away, like happy little jumping beans. Anchorage could have sworn they were laughing at him.
He stared at where they had been, eyes despondent, and then proceeded to go very slightly wild.
They’d ruined it. The hours spent, undoing EVERY screw, taking out EVERY piece, undoing that WRETCHED string. Anchorage’s stood slowly, teeth gritted. He turned to the doorway where the rumbling came from and stood his ground. Hooves apart, head down, wings spread wide, and he waited.
(Behind him, he heard marines, maybe a dozen or so, clatter into place, pikes lowered. He was past caring, though)
He didn’t have to wait long. Something huge, many legged and many throated burst out of the small doorway, roaring and stomping, and suddenly, there in the cold, harsh light of day was the engine room crew. Soot-stained, red-faced, huffing and panting after the run up, they looked in no mood to bandy words. Any thought of fighting left Anchorage in an instant like a late-night curry the morning after. The mob flowed around him, and charged right over to the thin, blue line.
The mob pulled up just in front of the marines, within spitting distance, and stayed there in silence. Or as close as you can get to silence with a hundred or so seething, armed engineers. It was a silence textured with the soft rattle of weapons and armour on ponies who suddenly didn’t much want to be holding them. The marines may have been armed, but there were a lot of engineers.
Anchorage peered over the heads of the assembled crush. He wasn’t too tall, but a quick flutter let him hover over the heads of the groundwalkers. What was that, up near the front? A single pony walked out into the gap between the engineers and the marines, and it took Anchorage a double-take to see it was Stoker. Ha! Little Stoker! No longer the whingeing, snot-nosed so and so Anchorage had spoken to the night before! Stoker held his head high now, and cleared his throat with a loud, authoritative sound. All eyes were on him.
“Fellow crewponies! Marines, able seaponies, char-wallahs! Put down your weapons, you have nothing to fear from us!” said Stoker. “We’re here to depose the captain! We want to discuss his present policy face to face!”
There was a roar of assent from the mob, and a few of the marines inched back. This did not dissuade the earth pony marine sergeant who stepped out to meet Stoker, though. His mane was shaved to a furze, and his front hooves shod in steels shoes. He didn’t look like the neck-sheath sort.
“Look, you lot!” He bawled. “I’ll not have this on my watch! This is a bloody BATTLESHIP! You are NOT seeing the captain! You will return to your posts this instant, or I'll clap you in irons!”
He looked like he would, too. Personally, if necessary. A few of the nearest rioters reeled under his verbal storm, but Stoker stood strong.
“Sergeant Hardcolt, isn’t it?” he said. “You know we’re all in this together! You know as well as anypony the new guard rotas! The hours in freezing temperatures!” He floundered mentally for a moment before he hit on a perfect lie. “I heard they’re bringing in a patriotism hour for goodness sake! We can end this rule of pointless orders!”
There were a few grumbles from the marines. One or two exchanged glances. Sergeant Hardcolt growled.
“Don’t you ‘we’ me, sonny Jim! That’s what they told us at Mareva. ‘We’re all in this together’, ‘just stick together’. Look where that got us! My entire section wiped out!”
“...while the commanders made their escape,” Stoker finished for him. “It doesn’t have to be like that! We have a chance to organise the ship for ourselves! We won’t have to put up with any asinine captains!”
Hardcolt snorted and stamped.
“So you’re pushing for this ship to be run by committee?”
“Yes!”
The sergeant could only stare. Stoker took advantage of it.
“Look, the captain is an idiot, right? So it stands to reason we should get rid of him before he does something really stupid! Besides, who feels like taking orders from him for the next six months?”
A grand total of nopony raised a hoof. Even Sergeant Hardcolt looked uneasy.
“Now I know you have a duty to protect Equestria and I know this looks like mutiny,” he went on, walking up to the wavering line of spear-points, “but think for yourselves; do you want to have to kill your comrades? Just ask yourselves. Now, are you with me?”
The marines looked on. A few cheered, many dropped their pikes.
“You’re all good ponies, all strong, all capable, but you’ll all be led into perdition by this asinine pillock in the bridge tower!”
“What, Beaufort?” said someone from the back. There was a ripple of chuckles on both sides.
“Alright, alright, you know the one I mean. The bastard in blonde and blue. Look, we’ve got to stop this, before it gets any worse! Think about what it means if he stays in charge!”
More clattering of weapons. Hardcolt growled again, but found himself surrounded by marines in quite different frames of mind to him. He gritted his teeth and shrugged.
“Well, I guess I can’t stop you. No point fighting and dying against you lot." He nodded behind at the bridge tower. ”Do what you gotta, I suppose."
Stoker nodded low to Hardcolt. Then, he took up position between the lines of marines and engine-room ponies.
“Alright, you lot! Are we going to buck the captain into next week?”
There was a rousing cry of ‘YES!’ Hardcolt shrugged, begrudgingly.
“Are we going to take this anymore?”
The air shook with ‘NO!’
“Then come on, comrades!” Stoker’s grin broke like the sun through clouds. “Let’s kick some righteous flank!”
* * *
The cheers and clattering hooves shook the glass of the bridge. Behind the glass, Loggerhead, Beaufort and the captain all stood together in a huddle. They were the only attendees to the emergency meeting Blueblood had convened. Only maybe a quarter of an ago, Blueblood had been faced with a shaking, quaking char-wallah squeaking something about revolt and mutiny. Swift action would be needed, he’d reasoned, but he hadn’t reckoned on just how swift. Things had escalated quickly. He had an armed mob on his hooves now. And more to the point, he had only two senior officers present. The chief navigator had locked himself in his map room and the chief engineer had already made a run for it.
Still, now was not the time to panic. And he wasn’t panicking. He was certain of that, even if his quivering knees and liquid bowels weren’t.
“Gentlecolts, we seem to have a full-scale mutiny on our hands,” he said, far shriller than he’d have liked. “Any ideas as to how we might combat it?”
Loggerhead and Beaufort looked at each other. The sound of the mob moved under them as it swarmed into the bridge tower. Decisive action was needed.
“I won’t lie, sir, it looks like the Swing Riots all over again, sir,” said Beaufort. “We haven’t a snowball’s chance, sir, if we stay here.”
“I believe, sir, as officers, we are allowed dispensation to leave the ship, sir,” said Loggerhead.
“No!” shouted Blueblood, with what he thought was a bold tone of command (although it verged on a squeal). “You’re the first and second mates! You can’t just up and leave because of one small problem!”
“Sir, I’d think that’s a perfect reason to leave,” said Beaufort. “We’ll be first against the wall. No offense, but I have a family in Mintsk I’d like to see again.”
“You can’t do this! I am your captain!”
“To be frank, that doesn’t seem to count for much right now,” said Beaufort, shrugging .
Crashes, bangs and muffled curses drummed up through the floor.
“Sounds like they’ve reached the officers’ mess already,” said Loggerhead, conversationally. “Plenty of strong drink down there...”
“Look, sir, why don’t we go out and try to talk them down?” said Beaufort.
Blueblood was shaken by the desperation in his voice. He bit his lip.
“We’ve got some fine espresso down there. That’d put the wind up ‘em...” Loggerhead muttered.
Blueblood cracked, and said “Will it work? Talking to them, I mean.”
“Probably not, but it might buy us some time,” said Beaufort, his eyes full of calm. “Why, would you rather go out?”
Blueblood fidgeted and cast about. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, there wasn’t anything else to be done except go down fighting. The fighting, he suspected, would be awfully brief, and the going down painful and protracted. Rather them than him if they were willing, he supposed.
“Well, alright then. I wish you the best.”
The sound of the mob built up along the corridor outside. The situation seemed to demand some demonstration of solidarity, so Blueblood shook hooves and patted the mates on the shoulder in turn. They raised their heads nobly and opened the door. Up the stairwell, the sounds of the mob rose, but if the mates were afraid, they didn’t show it.
Beaufort and Loggerhead took one final glance back, and then shut the door behind them. Blueblood shoved a desk over it once they’d gone. He had faith in his subordinates, but he trusted a heavy bit of furniture more.
* * *
Stoker ran on at the head of the mob, wild-eyed and grinning. He could feel the swell and flow of the mob, sense it like some kind of creature. He was borne aloft on wings of audacity as they swept down the corridors of the bridge tower, hot on the heels of fleeing officers and flunkies.
They charged along the corridor to the bridge when two figures stepped out. Beaufort and Loggerhead stood at the other end, heads up, chins jutting out. They were unarmed, but the way they stood indicated that that wouldn’t matter to them, although it would matter a great deal to whoever got in their way.
Stoker pulled up just in front of them and the mob piled up behind him. The ponies closest roared in defiance and tried to surge forward, but Stoker held them back with a gesture.
“Stop right there, you!” said Beaufort, voice barely quavering.
“Yes, stand down and go back the way you came,” said Loggerhead.
“Look, you clowns,” said Stoker, “we’ve already had one tense stand-off today and we really don’t have the time for another. Anyway, you don’t honestly think you’ve got a chance, do you?”
Beaufort looked for the answer on the floor and ceiling, glancing around bashfully. The wind was blowing due Stoker, and he hadn’t stayed second mate by ignoring the prevailing current of opinion. Loggerhead, who didn’t possess his comrade’s weather eye, fixed Stoker with a look.
“Unlike you, I have some shred of honour. Unlike you, I would rather die than relinquish this ship, or its captain to the likes of you.”
Stoker lowered his head and pawed at the ground.
“Ho yes, how very like you!” said Loggerhead, chuckling. “You bloody revolutionaries are all the same. I saw the same thing at Trotpuddle, don’t you know. The Trotpuddle Martyrs they called them. Traitors to a pony. Consumed by their own bloody arrogance, they were! And the Swing Riots! You remember them? ‘Course not, you young foal.”
In place of any usual response, Stoker took a step forward. The mob followed behind him, weapons makeshift and actual gleaming and clashing. It made a more effective demonstration than any witty line.
“Well when you put it like that,” said Beaufort, tugging Loggerhead aside frantically, “I suppose we’re not quite so unimpressed.”
Beaufort hauled Loggerhead out of the way and into a side door. Stoker gave them a curt nod of thanks and charged the mob onwards.
* * *
Blueblood heard the exchange outside and fumed as only he could. The cowards! The traitors! He was shocked and appalled at their conduct. He’d have them court-martialled once this was all over! Or whatever the naval equivalent of a court-martial was. He’d probably been off sick when they’d taught that at Stalliongrad...
His train of thought was abruptly derailed by a tremendous thump against the door. The feet of the desk scraped against the floor. Blueblood stepped back, eyes fixed on the door. The desk jumped forward, the door shook and the hinges creaked and bowed. He backed up against the large, sweeping windows of the bridge. So this was it: the last stand of Captain Blueblood. All his training, experience and extensive reading came down to this moment. He cast his mind back to his time at the Stalliongrad academy (or the bits he hadn’t slept through or been hungover during). He called to mind all his heroes; Commander Hurricane, Naponyon, Field Marshall Hayg, and wondered how they would have handled the situation. The door buckled again and the desk jumped under another onslaught.
Then, in a flash of inspiration, it came to him. He levitated a heavy mug from the table and turned to the great windows. With great care, he threw it through a pane of glass. It was a naval service mug, much wider at the bottom so as not to fall over in heavy seas, so it made quite a hole in the window. He followed it, a bow-wave of magic forcing the hole wider as he jumped out, just as the barricade broke under the force of mob rule.
* * *
Stoker made it in ahead of everyone else, and still only saw the back-end of Blueblood disappearing through the window in a flash of magic and tinkle of glass. He cursed with words he didn’t even know he knew and ran up to the window, only to be greeted by the sight of Blueblood limping away across the deck. He cursed again. Anchorage, out of nowhere, trotted beside him, glass crackling underhoof, and kicked away at the edges of the hole Blueblood had made in the window.
“Where did you come from?” said Stoker. “What’re you doing?”
“I followed you up, and I’m making our way out. You want to catch him, right?”
“Yes...?”
"Then hold on. I’ll take us down there.”
Stoker put a hoof around Anchorage’s midsection. He pawed at the floor, and ran at the hole and leapt through. The glass grazed Stoker's side, but he was too preoccupied by the sudden acceleration to notice. Anchorage blizted out of the bridge window and glided down to the deck. Stoker just hung on for dear life or grim death, whichever came first.
Of course, Anchorage didn’t have the wingpower necessary to carry him and Stoker any significant distance, but they just needed to soften the landing. They both hit the deck, rolled, and dashed onwards without a pause. They weaved between the detritus on the deck, all dropped mugs, tools, abandoned crossbows and bits of crossbow.
Blueblood was already making good time, limping for all he was worth. He moved with desperate speed, making a beeline for the gap in the railings where the ramp down to the dock was. He abruptly stopped when he saw that the marines, in their natural efficiency, had removed the ramp, as per his instructions. After all, if there was no more shore leave, then there was no need for a way off the ship.
If he’d had any air left in his lungs, he would have sworn. Behind him Stoker and Anchorage pulled up a few feet away, blocking any retreat.
Blueblood gritted his teeth and in a flash, levitated a crossbow from the ground. With some considerable application of magic, he cocked it and pivoted it round. The stock dragged along the deck but he was just about keeping the muzzle up. His aim wavered between Stoker and Anchorage.
“Don’t come any closer!” said Blueblood, eyes flashing anger behind his ragged mane. “Not unless you want a brand new frontal lobe piercing!”
Stoker stopped abruptly, but Anchorage continued until he was about a foot away until he realised that the crossbow was actually loaded. He stopped short.
“Look, just put the crossbow down,” said Stoker, holding up a hoof. “You can let this go now. No one has to die.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Blueblood snorted, but his eyes darted nervously. “You’ll not take this ship from me! I was put here to give you orders, and that’s what I’ll damn well do! So, I order you to about face and take your sorry flank back down to the engine room and rot!”
He waved the point of the crossbow over to Stoker to emphasise his opinion. Stoker’s whole body went rigid. For the second time today he was facing immediate death by crossbow. He couldn’t be having with this.
“Look, just put it down, will you?” he said, deliberately. “Then we all get to go home in one piece.”
Sweat was beading on Blueblood’s forehead. That crossbow wouldn’t stay up for long. Anchorage decided to make a move, stepping towards him. Blueblood turned on a dime and whacked the firing stud.
Rather than the usual, reassuring THUNK, the crossbow went sproioioioing. Something small and delicate fell out of the bottom of the stock and the bolt fired backwards, embedding itself in the deck. Before anything else could happen, Anchorage headbutted Blueblood on the muzzle. The crossbow and Blueblood fell heavily.
The ponies watching from the bridge tower broke into applause. Cheers echoed around them. Stoker tilted his head up and grinned.
“Not bad for an afternoon’s work,” said Anchorage, nudging Blueblood tentatively with a hoof.