BRITISH
COMICS
CUTLASS CARRIES THE MAILS
|
First episode, taken
from The Hotspur issue: 938 October 30th 1954.
|
Storms,
Pirates, Fires at Sea—All these dangers have to be faced and
fought
by the men of the first Royal Mail Ships.
THE RUNNING FIGHT
“Well hit, Jamie! That was a good shot!
Keep it up, man, an’ they’ll rue the day they tried to stop us.” The boom of
their guns, the shouts of the excited men, the swish and splash of the water
under the ship’s bows, made an unforgettable background to the voice of Captain
Cutlass Ridd. This was not the first time his ship, the Black Horse, had done
battle on the high seas. Ridd was a Cornishman, famous as a fighter and proud of
his name of Cutlass.
The Black Horse was a mail-packet, one of
that fleet of tough craft which carried His Majesty’s mails at the early part
of the nineteenth century from the shores of England to the Continent, to the
Baltic, the West Indies, and even further. French craft and privateers were
their chief enemies, but there were others interested in interfering with the
mails as well. On this occasion the big brig which had come out from the shore
mists to intercept them seemed to Captain Ridd to be a Dutchman. He knew what
this meant. The sealed mail bag which had been brought aboard under armed guard
at Harwich was for
The distance between the two vessels was
shortening. The Cornishman muttered to the mate, a battered, square built
TREACHERY!
Every possible stretch of canvas was
flying. Full speed was demanded all the time. The Black Horse could not afford
to dawdle. A special messenger was awaiting near Heyst, with fast horses. A
signal at a certain point would tell Cutlass Ridd if the coast was clear, and
there the mail bag was to be handed over. The special messenger would gallop it
northwards over the Dutch frontier.
It was not the first time the mail men had
worked to plan like this, but it was the first time they had landed mail at
this particular place, and as the packet skirted the flat coast in the growing
evening gloom, the Cornish skipper looked grim. “It’s been too easy, Mattock,”
he told the mate. “There be powers in France who knew full well the treaty was
to be aboard us. It was not one privateer I was expecting, but three or four.”
Ben Mattock scanned the horizon and shook his close cropped head. He was an old
Royal Navy man, having been carried off by a press gang when sixteen years of
age. Very proud of his thirty years’ service afloat was he. “It’s all clear now,
Cap’n,” he growled. “Aye, it looks like it!” The Cornish skipper was frowning
at the innocent looking shore, no more than a mile distant. Like most
Something sharp prodded him in the back.
It was a sword. All the men around him had drawn swords. The muffled speaker
whipped out a heavy pistol. “Captain Ridd, you will hand over the mail bag!”
snapped the latter, and an instant later it was grabbed from the Cornishman’s
hand. The skipper gave a roar of rage. He leapt at the man who had taken the
mail bag. The instant Ridd’s big hands closed on this fellow the foreigner gave
a howl of pain. There was tremendous strength in those gripping fingers, and,
like most Cornishmen, the mail packet skipper was an expert wrestler. A twist,
a jerk, and he cross buttocked the holder of the bag, and hurled him into the
harbour. Ridd retained the mail bag. “You fool!” roared the man with the
pistol, and fired almost into Ridd’s face. Fortunately for Cutlass one of his
men had pushed forward at that moment, and he jogged the foreigner’s arm, and
the heavy ball missed by inches. That was the signal for a free fight. Men
leapt in from all sides. There at the edge of the quay the sailors staged a
terrific fight as they tried to get back to their boat, but the trap was set
too well for that. A boatload of men came up behind them and took them in the
rear, and finally Cutlass himself was felled and the bag taken from him. He was
dragged to his feet and pulled inside a doorway. Dazed, bewildered, his head
ringing like a peal of bells, he found himself in a lighted compartment where a
group of well dressed men sat behind a table. There were Belgians and Dutchmen.
The mail bag with the treaty was placed on the table, and the grey haired
leader of the group examined the seal. “You have done very well, Van Neuzen,”
he grunted. “It is intact. In this condition it shall be delivered to our
friends in
Sail was hoisted. A crew of ten leapt to
their posts, and the mooring ropes were cast off. The sleek craft glided for
the mouth of the harbour, and just then an order was given in the fort that
guarded the bay. Boom-boom! Cannon balls whistled out to sea in the direction
of the waiting mail packet. The Dutchman were taking no chances. They were
warning the Black Horse to keep off. As soon as the heavy balls from the fort
came skipping over the water around them, the crew of the Black Horse knew
their suspicions were justified. “They’ve got Cutlass! There’s been treachery.
He’s on that cutter and they’re takin’ him north,” roared Mattock, and bellowed
orders for the ship to get under way. Boom! Boom! A ball crashed into their
bows. It was a grim warning to keep their distance. No pursuit of the cutter
was to be allowed. It would have been suicidal to try to cut in close to the
coast as the cutter was doing. Ben Mattock changed course further out to sea.
The Black Horse would have to circle in order to keep beyond range of those
guns, and that would give the cutter a big start.
THE RING OF DEATH
It was the booming of the guns ashore
which brought Cutlass Ridd to his senses in the hold of the cutter. He sat up
and felt his splitting head. The Dutchmen had not tied him. They considered him
safe enough down there in the hold, and his men were tightly bound.
They all started to speak at once, telling
him what had happened. Captain Ridd tottered to his feet. Boom-boom! went the
coastal guns, and he knew what their target must be. “That’s the packet, after
us!” he grunted. “Ben Mattock’s trying to follow. They’re warning him back. He
won’t be fool enough to sail too close.” Cutlass Ridd gritted his teeth. The
mail bag was aboard the cutter, and there could not be more than a dozen men in
charge of her. Ben Mattock would be trying to keep up, astern. If Mattock could
only get within gun range the cutter would be at his mercy, but the delay
caused by the guns of the fort had given the faster craft a good start. The
cutter was increasing speed every moment. Once it turned the headland and got
the full force of the wind it would walk away from the heavier packet. It was
not his own safety, but the fate of the mail bag that appalled the Cornishman.
It had always been his boast that he had never lost an important letter. In all
parts of the world he had run the gauntlet of ships of many nationalities. Was
he to be beaten by the craftiness of this international gang? The veins stood
out on his forehead as he groped for the ladder under the hatch. Up he went,
and heaved at the barrier which kept them penned below. It was of solid oak,
and well battened down. Cutlass Ridd went back and untied his men. Some of them
were badly battered, but they had no wish to fall into the wrong hands in
British brawn had triumphed. The hatch had
been torn from its seating so violently that it was sent flying over the side
of the deck. “Out with ye!” roared Ridd. He was on the deck before the startled
cutter’s crew knew what was happening. The cutter was still not far from the
coast, but round the headland from the fort. A mile astern, and further out at
sea, was the Black Horse, dropping further and further behind every moment. The
cutter was making a great pace. Her tall, single mast was bending under the
strain. So much Cutlass Ridd saw in those first few seconds, then a roar of
anger came from the captain of the cutter. He was the muffled Van Neuzen who
had met them when they had been trapped. There was no doubt about him being a
skilled seaman. Leaving one man at the wheel, the entire crew swarmed forward
to cut down the escaped prisoners. All carried cutlasses or short boarding
swords. The leader had his pistol. “Get down into that hold again or we’ll kill
the lot of ye!” he roared. Cutlass Ridd had not torn his way out of the bowels
of the ship just to tamely surrender. “Grab weapons, me lads! Make use of
anything,” he hissed, and dived for an axe which rested amongst some wood which
was going to be used for the galley. Bang! The pistol in the hand of Van Neuzen
exploded. Cutlass felt the ball tear past his ear. Before the Dutchman could
reload, the Cornish skipper had rushed, swinging the axe madly. The crew fell
back in disorder, and Cutlass Ridd gained the foot of the mainmast. A dazzling
idea come to him. There was a way of stopping the cutter! If the mainmast was
down it would be helpless! Ridd’s men were at his heels. Heavy belaying-pins,
iron marlin-spikes and pulley blocks on short pieces of rope were all they had
been able to grab. Captain Ridd bellowed: “Form a circle round the mast. Let no
one past. That’s all I ask, lads.” The got his idea. The six of them stood
completely surrounding the foot of the mast. In their centre, Cutlass Ridd
raised the axe and brought it down with all his force just above the point
where the mast was stepped. The keen edge cut a deep gash. The Dutch crew realised
his intentions. They hurled themselves forward like tigers. Their cutlasses and
swords flashed. Against them were only the improvised weapons of the British
sailors. One of Ridd’s crew received a wicked gash in his right arm at the
first onslaught, changed his marlin-spike to the other hand, and felled his
attacker. The circle remained unbroken. Thud! Thud! Thud! Chips flew from the
hard wood of the mast. It was tough going with such a small axe. “Hold on
another minute, me lads. It’s coming!” Ridd hissed, as there was another rush.
This time the Dutchmen got to grips. Two of the sailors from the mail-packet
were cut down. The circle was broken. Someone leapt for Captain Ridd with
uplifted cutlass, but at that same moment he jerked the axe back to get another
swing. The Dutchman caught it in the face and reeled backwards with a scream.
One of the wounded Britishers tottered to his feet, and again the circle of men
closed. Thud! Thud! The axe flashed in the air. Every ounce of the Cornishman’s
strength was behind it. He heard a cracking noise, shouted a warning, and
sprang aside as the great mast came swinging outwards with a rush.
The mast and sails were whirled over the
side, a mighty wave swept along the deck, and when it had passed only that
little group about the mast remained. They had been clinging to each other and
so had saved themselves. For a few moments it was touch and go whether the
cutter would capsize but she weathered the conditions long enough for the
mail-packet to come alongside. Ropes were thrown, and two minutes later the
gallant do-or-die squad were saved. Ben Mattock leapt aboard ready for a fight,
but there was no one to fight. Those Dutchmen who had survived were swimming
for the shore with the news that their plans had failed. The mail bag was found
in the cabin below. The cutter was allowed to drift ashore a total wreck. It
had been an expensive failure for those who had tried to tamper with His
Majesty’s mails on the high seas. Half an hour later the packet continued on
her way towards
CUTLASS CARRIES THE MAILS 7 Episodes The Hotspur issues 938 – 944
(1954)
© D. C. Thomson & Co Ltd
Vic Whittle 2007