By Straitjacketed

Chain links clanked softly along the metal rail as Midshipman Tommy Bell tried to make himself comfortable – or, at least, less uncomfortable. He was used to bedding down in his oilskin anorak and bib & brace trousers – his “’skins” as they called them – from time to time, when all hands were needed on deck and the crew had to sleep in shifts; he wasn’t used to trying to sleep in oilskins with both wrists cuffed behind him and chained to the hull.

With hindsight, it made sense. The new crew members they’d picked up in Fishguard, to augment the vessel’s skeleton crew, had seemed a bit … off, somehow, not quite right. Rougher than the crews he was used to serving alongside, and they all seemed to know each other. Tommy had got the sense of something in the air, nods and winks exchanged behind his back. Nothing sufficiently tangible to justify involving the Captain but now, shackled below decks, he wished he had done.

He still wasn’t sure quite what had happened – mutiny, commandeering of one of Her Majesty’s vessels? – but he knew it had happened fast. Suited in his ’skins, hood raised against the fine drizzle, he’d just sounded the first bell to signal all was well when one of the newer crew – Pearson – called him into the cabins with a whispered, “hurry!”

He’d glanced stupidly at the dim shapes of crewmen, apparently settled on bunks, some wearing what looked like scarves or mufflers … when the light was knocked from his grasp and hands grabbed him from both sides, one over his mouth, stifling his cry of surprise. His feet were kicked out from under him and, before he knew it, he was lying face down on the floor, wind knocked out of him, too stunned to put up more than token resistance as cold metal clunked closed around his hands, and a rag of some sort was thrust into his mouth and tied behind his head.

Tommy was hauled to his feet and, found himself staring, wide-eyed, into the leering face of John Sykes. Sykes had seemed a natural leader among the new crew and appeared to be ringleader here. He spoke with exaggerated courtesy.

“Sorry to be clappin’ you in irons, Midshipman Bell, but I’m in charge here and you’re officially relieved of duty. You just lie easy and cool your heels, while we round up the last of your mates.”

Finally starting to regain his senses, Tommy grimaced and tugged at the confining cuffs, behind his back. Sykes just laughed.

“That’s good Sheffield steel, lad, you won’t be breaking out of those in a hurry.” He gave a signal and the same two men who’d manhandled Tommy to the floor frogmarched him into a vacant lower berth.

“Leg irons too. Just to be safe.”

Pushed roughly into the bunk face down, Tommy felt a jerk at the metal bands securing his wrists, and realised they weren’t simply handcuffs; the mutineers must’ve taken a set of combination irons from the brig. Those, he knew, consisted of a pair of wrist shackles and a pair of ankle shackles, connected by a length of chain. A moment of rattling then, with sinking heart, Tommy felt rather than heard cuffs clicking shut over his rubber seaboots. Wrists and ankles were checked, one by one, then his assailants were gone and Tommy was left alone.

He first instinct was to roll over, onto his back, but the movement was quickly brought up short, and Tommy realised the irons had been passed through a securing rail on the hull wall before being locked around his boots. Not only was he manacled hand and foot, but he was effectively chained into his bunk, unable to sit up or even properly roll over.

As his eyes adjusted to the near-darkness, he became aware that every other berth was occupied by one of his fellow seamen, and what he had taken for pale mufflers were gags, same as his, stopping their mouths. The silence wasn’t complete, though: the air was full of the soft (and not so soft) moans and grunts of exasperation and the clinking of chain links. Every once in a while, there would be the sound of a more determined bout of wrestling with bonds – metal against metal – but the “good Sheffield steel” did indeed do its work, and struggles inevitably subsided into muffled cursing.

Tommy supposed every other man was ironed just as he was, a prisoner in his own bunk.

He strained to listen to the sounds of the rest of the ship, and fancied he heard distant bumps and scuffles. Had the Captain, he wondered, been taken?

Tommy exhaled as best he could and tried, for what felt like the hundredth time, to dislodge the gag from his mouth by rubbing his face on the blanket. The edge of the bed would’ve been better but, the way he was forced to lie, he couldn’t reach it. He’d already tried, without success, to slip a hand through one of the cuffs, and he’d explored the securing rail for weak points. No such luck.

His efforts were already causing him to sweat inside the heavy oilskin suit, so he lay quietly and tried to rest, cool down, think … and that’s when it suddenly came to him. So obvious: the set of master keys was still in the pocket of his anorak!

Okay, he told himself, easy does it. Don’t give the game away …

Getting the keys out seemed to take forever without the use of his hands but, with some determined exertion, they eventually slid free of his pocket and onto the coverlet. Hardly daring to believe his luck, Tommy fumbled them into his grip. Was the key to his combination irons on the set? His fingers felt them one by one, tried one, tried two … and then a cuff clicked open.

Exhilaration! Moving quickly, he unlocked the second cuff then his ankle shackles. Free! He reached up and tore at the knot at the back of his neck, quickly freeing himself of the foul gag.

What next? With a glance at the door, he moved swiftly to the next bunk, oilskins rustling as he crouched down to release the man lying there: the Purser, Bert McGovern, looking none-too-happy. Tommy wondered how long his crewmates had been held here, close-chained and helpless. He felt for the nearest of the man’s cuffs.

“SYKES! AN ESCAPER!”

Tommy jumped, startled, and dropped the keys, which slithered away out of his grasp as a strong arm gripped him around the neck and another twisted his arm up behind him, oilskin squeaking against oilskin. He was jerked roughly backward and half-marched, half-dragged the half dozen steps toward the cabin door. By the time the arm had slackened enough for him to draw breath again, Tommy found himself once again facing Sykes. The previous mock-courtesy had been replaced by anger.

“Search ’im!”

The men did so, rifling through his oilskin trousers and anorak, even squeezing the rubber of his seaboots. Tommy hoped the keys he’d dropped had landed not down the side but on the bunk itself, and McGovern had had the presence of mind to conceal them somewhere on or under his person.

“Nothing, boss.” Sykes gave Tommy a long hard stare.

“So, we’ve got ourselves an escape artist, eh? How’d you get free of those irons, Bell?”

The midshipman stayed silent.

“Cat got your tongue? No matter. My men have got the whole ship locked down now, so we’ve got all the time in the world to fix one slippery little eel.” He smiled nastily.

“You want us to chain ’im up again, Sykes?” asked one of the henchman, holding up the combination irons. The ringleader shook his head.

“He’s already escaped from those. No, Houdini here’s not going to make a fool of us a second time. We need to get him trussed up scientific style…” The grin widened.

Tommy set his jaw, refusing to be provoked. His escape from the combination irons had been down to luck, not skill, but, actually, there was a little truth in Syke’s “escape artist” jibe. Tommy had always been interested in the exploits of Houdini, and had made something of a name for himself, on deck, as an amateur escapist. He would let his fellow crewmen practise their knot-tying on him, then do his best to wriggle free. Usually, he was successful, to the amazement and sometimes annoyance of those doing the knotting.

It didn’t surprise him, then, when a plentiful supply of rope was produced from one of the kit lockers, along with a good half dozen rolls of the wide black PVC tape used for general repairs.

“Hands out!” demanded Sykes, pulling tape from the roll with an ominous tearing sound. Tommy tensed but, held fast between two burly guards, his arms were quickly forced in front of him. He watched as bare skin disappeared under dark PVC, fingers wrapped together in several turns of the tape, until they resembled shiny black mittens. Each thumb was then pushed into the palm of his hand and taped there, before Sykes folded Tommy’s mitten-fingers closed over them, making fists. More tape followed, the wrapping continuing over the cuffs of his anorak and up his sleeves, black tape sticking fast to black oilskin.

Sykes used an entire roll of tape and, when he was finally satisfied, Tommy’s arms seemed to end in glossy black stumps. Tommy was reminded of the time he’d taken part in a charity boxing match: his fingers, wrapped into fists and laced into padded sparring gloves, had seemed not only clumsy and useless, but completely inaccessible.

Experimentally, he tried to open a fist but the tape had been well applied and held firm. His teeth, then? Could he bite through the tape?

“That’s just the beginning, my lad,” chuckled Sykes, “let’s get you properly ’proofed…”

Tommy didn’t have long to wonder what he meant, as a long mackintosh appeared, in the same heavy black oilskin as the suit he already wore. These hoodless macs were standard issue, meant as a smarter alternative to the shorter, smock-style anoraks. Tommy tended to avoid them: his unusually broad shoulders and short, stocky stature meant he had to size up – and that meant the longer style of coat came down almost to his ankles.

“Arms back!” commanded Sykes, and Tommy’s arms were pulled back behind him, to be fed into the waiting armholes of the oilskin mac. There was a bit of fiddling with his hands and, when it was finally dragged up and over his shoulders, Tommy discovered his taped fists had been pushed into the mac’s deep front pockets. The coat was a close fit, especially over the extra bulk of his oilskin anorak. Sykes strained to fasten the big black buttons at his front, and the snugness of the garment meant Tommy’s arms were held almost rigid at his sides. Sleeved in two layers of oilskin and tape, his elbows would be difficult to bend and his hands, already uselessly taped closed, were further imprisoned in the coat pockets.

“Startin’ to worry?” gloated Sykes. Tommy said nothing but met his stare, still defiant.

“Let’s get that slicker done up good and proper,” he grinned, “don’t want you catchin’ cold.”

The high storm collar was pulled up, and the flap fastened, with some difficulty, across Tommy’s throat. Only then did Sykes take a step back to examine his work.

Although he was starting to feel like an overstuffed sausage, Midshipman Bell looked, for all the world, like a rather smart sailor dressed for foul weather. Overdressed, perhaps, given that he wore a full suit of ‘skins and matching overcoat, the hood of the anorak protruding over the upturned, buttoned mac collar. The mac fell past Tommy’s knees, almost brushing the tops of his boots, his arms thrust nearly to the elbow in its capacious pockets.

A casual observer wouldn’t have realised the extent to which the well-waterproofed man was held captive.

Tommy refused to be daunted. Mentally, he was already going through the possibilities, planning his escape. Once left to his own devices, he was sure he could wrestle an arm free of its confining pocket and up to his teeth… and then, he assured himself, he could easily chew through the imprisoning tape mitten. With fingers free, he could unbutton the mac and get the rest of the tape off his hands.

It was as if Sykes could read his thoughts. He tossed a fresh roll of tape to each henchman, with the brisk instruction to “tape ’im up.” Tommy watched, frowning, as band after band of sticky black plastic was wound around his arms and upper body, the men working with coordinated efficiency, passing rolls to one other as they bound him ever tighter from shoulders to waist. Tape bonded well to oilskin and, when they finally paused in their efforts, Tommy’s arms and torso were all but immoveable.

Sykes nodded downwards.

“On the deck.”

Tommy’s legs were kicked out from under him and he was none too gently lowered to the cabin floor. A strong arm held his legs together as more tape went around and around, bunching the skirts of his mac around him, melding his lower body into what felt like a single limb, immobilising the midshipman from hips to ankles. Tape was even wrapped over the toes and under the soles of his boots.

Finally, the sound of ripping tape subsided into silence, and Tommy was jerked to his feet again. He wobbled uncertainly and would’ve fallen if he hadn’t been held upright.

“A tidy job, no?” crowed Sykes. He slapped Tommy’s shoulder in a mock-comradely way, “All packaged up, ship-shape and Bristol fashion!”

Tommy’s patience finally snapped.

“Let me out!”

He wrenched angrily in the henchmens’ grasp. His struggles were no match for the heavy tape. Hands, arms, shoulders and legs felt like a single unit inside his oilskin and sticky PVC tape cocoon. For all his brawniness, Tommy was held fast.

“Need to shut that mouth of yours,” grunted Sykes, advancing on his captive, roll of tape in hand. An oilskinned arm went around Tommy’s forehead, pulling his head back and, despite his resistance, Tommy found his mouth and cheeks stuffed with what seemed a large cleaning sponge (thankfully, unused, so no tang of detergent) and at least a dozen turns of tape wound around his mouth, keeping it firmly in place. True to his promise to do things “scientific style”, Sykes continued the tape upwards, several rounds over the crown of Tommy’s head and down under his chin, holding his jaw tightly shut.

“MMMPH!!”

The entire lower part of his face, from just under his nose to the point of his chin, was now covered in shiny black PVC that turned his loudest protests into muffled, unintelligible grunting. Experimentally, he tried to push out the mass of sponge with his tongue. It was a good gag, and would not be dislodged. Sykes took time to pat the tape down carefully.

“That’s better, eh?” he winked, “What d’you say?” Tommy glared at his captor, soundlessly.

“Cat really has got your tongue now.”

Sykes tugged the hood of Tommy’s oilskin anorak up, so it loosely swathed his gagged head.

“Well, now. I’ll wager that little lot’s enough to keep you out of mischief, my lad, but you’ve wriggled free the once and I ain’t takin’ no chances.”

He brandished a hank of rope.

“And you know how a sailor has a passion for knots.”

For the next half hour or so, poor Midshipman Bell was turned this way and that as Sykes and his men, with gusto, secured his already tape-cocooned form in an intricate network of rope. Rope was coiled, looped and pulled tight around him in all directions, wound and knotted around and under his booted feet, his legs, waist, chest, arms and torso, over his shoulders, tied off here, there and everywhere. Masters of their craft, they took care to maintain tension, bracing a knee against him now and then, as they hauled each cord tight and knotted it off securely. Tommy knew, already, that there would not be an inch of slack or slippage in his bonds.

Finally, they were done and a breathless Tommy stood stiffly immobile, held upright by his captors, a helpless rope mummy, black oilskin and tape all but hidden under hundreds of feet of binding. The sole exception was his head, still dark and shiny in the anorak hood. He exhaled raggedly through his nostrils.

“There we go. Trussed up like the proverbial!”

A wide grin still on his face, an almost merry Sykes was unrolling a netting hammock, one of his men helping him suspend it across the cabin at chest height. Tommy had taken his turn in a hammock from time to time, when there was more crew than bunk space.

“Put ’im to bed, boys.”

Tommy was lifted bodily by several pairs of hands and heaved into the hammock to lie face up. A near-rigid mass of rope, tape and oilskin, the only part of his body with any real movement was his neck; with effort, he shook the hood out of his face and craned to see what Sykes was up to now, down by his feet.

“Can’t have you sleepwalkin’ now, can we?”

Sykes finished knotting a cord to the same fixing rail as the end of the hammock and began feeding it through the loops of net around Tommy’s bound and booted ankles, first on one side of his body then the other. Carefully, he pulled together the sides of the hammock, lacing it closed over Tommy the way one might lace a shoe over a foot, jerking the tough netting taut and snug around him.

Instinctively, Tommy summoned all his strength to resist but could barely even bend at the waist. He wouldn’t have believed it was possible for him to feel even more restricted but there was something especially disconcerting about being slung up to dangle in the air, no contact with the ground or any other solid surface. He moaned into the stifling sponge. Ignoring his prisoner’s feeble protestations, Sykes continued his systematic lacing of the hammock, a new tightness creeping up from Tommy’s ankles to his knees, thighs, waist, then over his arms and chest.

When he reached Tommy’s head, Sykes stopped.

“Almost done, lad. You’ll be snug as a bug in a rug!” He gave the hammock a playful nudge, so it creaked and swung gently.

“Best place for you. Lashed and stowed for the duration.” He brought his face close to Tommy’s gagged one, his smile twisting into a snarl.

“No-one gets the better of John Sykes.”

He grasped the drawstrings of Tommy’s hood.

“Say goodnight, Houdini.”

A sharp yank, and oilskin enveloped Tommy’s head and face, the hood of his anorak closing and snugging up tight, over eyes and gagged mouth, blocking out all vision and leaving only his nose uncovered. Instinctively fearful of suffocation, the captive gurgled frantically into his gag and twisted his head this way and that. Oilskin squeaked and creaked in his ears, but Tommy was helpless to prevent the hood’s strings being knotted, then double-knotted.

In sudden darkness, he nonetheless felt a wash of relief that his nose remained free. He concentrated on slowing his breathing, calming himself.

A hand slapped his hooded head, and he felt the hammock netting closing over his face, limiting even neck movement, sealing him in. In his mind’s eye, he could see Sykes tying off the lacing rope at the far end. Even if his hands had been loose, Tommy couldn’t have reached the end of the rope to free himself of this infernal hammock. And his hands were far from free.

What a situation!

Fighting the urge to wrestle blindly, to use up his energy, Tommy stewed. He knew he had to think clearly, like a proper escape artist. Although a layer of oilskin muffled his hearing, his nose sensed no shifts in the air of the cabin. Sykes and his men, Tommy decided, had left the cabin; now was his chance.

Be systematic, he told himself. First principles.

Hands. Thumbs were trapped, fingers rolled and taped into fists then stuck in oilskin coat pockets, under more tape … and now rope, and an outer layer of tightly stretched netting. Forcing all his strength into his hands and fingers, Tommy found even flexing a pinkie was impossible.

Teeth, then. Sometimes, he could bite or chew his way out of restraints. His teeth were useless, though, effectively neutralised by the yards of tape coating the bottom half of his face and wrapped around his head, clamping his mouth closed. Again, Tommy worked his jaw determinedly, hoping to find a weak spot in the gag. It didn’t budge. Even if he had been able to dislodge it, he reminded himself, his whole head was imprisoned in a thick oilskin hood with only a tiny hole for his nose – and he could be damn sure Sykes would’ve knotted the strings good and tight. No, his teeth weren’t going to help him this time.

With hands and teeth out of commission, what was left to him? Sometimes, when tied up by other crew members, he’d been able to find and exploit a weakness in the roping. Sykes’ men, however, knew what they were doing. Despite the predicament they’d placed him in, Tommy had been unable to suppress, completely, a grudging respect for their efficiency: every rope was intelligently positioned, jerked to optimal tightness and fastened with cunningly placed knots guaranteed not to slip or loosen.

And, he acknowledged, beneath the rope, he was secured in layers of tough PVC tape, wound and stuck fast around heavy, clinging oilskins that were, in turn, buttoned onto him. No way could he squirm his way out of all that.

Brute force? Tommy was no weakling but he knew the robustness of the various elements that made up his prison: oilskin, tape, rope, netting, all were designed to withstand the rigours of life at sea. He threw himself into a renewed and energetic bout of struggle, flexing, wrenching, twisting, writhing … but even the most Herculean of efforts made not the slightest impact on the layers holding him immoveable. Everything stayed tight, secure, in its place. All his exertions achieved was a slight swinging of the hammock before it settled again.

Tommy snorted with frustration, swallowing around the sponge packing his mouth. Sykes seemed to have anticipated and comprehensively blocked each and every one of his repertoire of escape tricks. Fully oilskinned, taped, gagged, hooded, trussed and hung up like a joint of meat, he was staying put until his captor decided otherwise.

Unable to give in entirely, despite knowing, rationally, that he’d been outwitted, Tommy alternated spells of fidgeting in his bonds and lying still, mind drifting in oilskin blackness. His breathing – in, out, in, out, his nostrils the only part of him not under wraps – began to shift into the regular rhythms of sleep.

He wasn’t certain, then, whether he’d dreamed, through the soft rustle of his oilskin hood, a new clinking of metal. He remembered, suddenly, that he was not alone in the cabin, that a host of men lay chained to their bunks – and that, somewhere in their midst, lay a set of the keys to unlock them.

Where were those keys now? Had McGovern managed to conceal and hang onto to them?

Tommy was down but not out. His hopes rested with the Purser. Might they yet get the better of John Sykes?

 

THE END(?)

 

 

Metal would like to thank Straitjacketed for this story. Guys, if you like this as much as I do and want to read more, please leave a feedback for the author in the comments section.