The Sea Officer Bentley Thrillers

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The Sea Officer Bentley Thrillers Page 110

by Jan Needle


  Some hours later, when the sweat in Bentley’s oxters had moved from drip, to trickle, to a sort of torrent down his sides, the transit he’d been keeping on the shore told him the worst.

  “We’re drifting west,” he said. “We’re going back the way we came. It’s either row ashore and look for water, or it’s row ahead until the wind comes up.” He licked his lips. “We have to drink.”

  “I can pull an oar,” said Worm. “I stronger than I look. But no water if we go ashore there, sir. Believe me.”

  “Christ,” said London Jack. He was already freeing an oar and plucking out the poppet from a rowlock. “How far then, old-timer? How long?”

  “We’ll take it in turns,” said Ashdown. “Might be a long job.”

  “No,” said Will. “Lash the tiller or unship the rudder. We’ll all row together; just two men in a tub like this would be a killer. This way we’ll keep it up for hours. We’ve got to cover land.”

  Ashdown took stroke oar, Gunning took the thwart ahead of him, then the Worm, with William – commanding officer maybe, but short and very light – a natural bow man. They laid their backs to it, and the jollyboat recovered her sea-kindly equilibrium. She rolled, yes, but it was a roll that all could handle, and every blade was poised and angled right to cut the water whether high or low beside them. The skiff moved easily astern of them, and the breeze they created as they plugged along made the heat seem less, the sweat more bearable. There was even conversation for a while.

  It was not an endless pull, but they did three hours on the first stretch, then lay and rested in the bottom, seeking shade, when the sails had filled once more. They shared a little water – Bentley would not increase their ration – and the Worm insisted they could soften their tack in water dipped from overside, and did so, eating it with relish. The white men, though, were not inclined to try. Apart from anything, it smacked of desperation which they hoped was premature. Short-lived hope, perhaps. Within ten minutes of their rations going down, the wind went down as well, and they rolled, and flopped, and suffered once again. They unshipped the rudder, shipped their oars, and set off doggedly along the coast.

  But clouds were rising in the south, and gradually increased throughout the afternoon, although they brought no wind for several hours. Then, as the masked sun was dipping down, a zephyr blew, then a light breeze, then a stiffer one. They made sail, then took a reef down, and they fairly flew along. Best of all was when the Worm announced the headland up ahead concealed their secret cove.

  Oh Christ, thought Bentley, now what do we do? In half an hour they would round the point and find a Frenchman lying there, armed and manned. He had asked how many men, roughly or precisely, and Worm had indicated twenty maybe, or maybe more. And they had guns and cutlasses and daggers in their belts. He smiled a happy smile. Good sailor men, he told them, good fighters, too. Just around that little headland. Yes.

  “Shit and muffins,” Gunning said to Ashdown. “I hope our laddo’s got a plan.”

  Will heard him, naturally. He was meant to. His tight smile said it, though. No plan. No plan at all.

  He would have to form one. Fast.

  Chapter Two

  At the self-same moment, in a longitude east by some thousands of sea miles, Post Captain Daniel Swift drank port in the county of Hertfordshire, and spoke of his nephew Will Bentley as if their lives were still contiguous. It was years, in fact, since they had spent much time together, but Swift was a man of strange imagination, and large ideas. He envisaged Bentley as an open slate that he could write the future on. And make a fortune.

  “It is a well set-up young man,” he said, “although slight of build and low in height; but best of all, it is obedient. I shall instruct him, he shall obey. With your son out in Jamaica also – and the two firm friends already – I see no impediment. They shall rise, and so shall we, your lordship. Great riches will accrue.”

  It was pitch black in England, and the estate, near Ware, was far into the country. Lighted as they were by flickering logs and the yellow glow of one coal-oil lamp, the two men had not a clear view of each other’s countenances, or expressions. It is doubtful, in any case, if the duke had any idea of just how startling was Swift’s claim that his nephew was obedient. Swift’s views were strong, and fixed, not modified by doubts.

  The duke, moreover, had met Will, and had been most impressed. In correspondence he had revealed to Swift some of his own son Richard’s failings, and declared the young lieutenant and his friend Sam Holt the men to put some muscle into him. His son might be a disappointment in himself, he had confided, but he had potential, with the right companions, to carry out their scheme to buy a holding in the Indies, select some slaves, and make their fortunes.

  “As you know,” he said, “the plan to sail the Biter to the Caribbean was scuppered when her master disappeared. We’d paid good money to this John Gunning man – owner, pilot, whoremonger and drunk – and my son was left to sail her by himself, with just your nephew and his lowly friend as officers. She would not have got beyond the Nore is my belief. Except.”

  Swift stared at him, through the dimness.

  “A villain indeed,” he said. But…except for what, my lord?”

  The duke reached for the decanter, held it aloft.

  “Except he had the villain kidnapped. Son Richard went ashore and tracked him down, and dragged him from between some slattern’s thighs. They knocked him on the head to keep him quiet, then chained him in the Biter’s hold. A pilot took her down the river, then Dickie hit this London Jack, as they call the rogue, with the fate accompli – no more London! It was the stoutest action Richard ever did, and it almost made me proud, although he’ll never hear of that, of course.”

  Swift nodded, savouring the port wine as well.

  “Indeed, sir,” he said, “it could be a winning team. Four good men, when Gunning’s back into his senses, four stalwarts to select and buy a spread. And your money, my lord, if I might be so bold, to…”

  He let that hang, while the duke opened a snuff-box and pinched and sniffed, and offered it across the fireplace.

  “A winning team indeed,” he said. “But what would please me, Captain, what I think they need as extra… is you. My son, your nephew, the keen and eager pauper Samuel Holt, the rogue John Gunning – and England’s boldest and most ruthless captain. The story of your Welfare, sir, will never die. What say you?”

  Swift made a deprecating shrug.

  “I would be in another vessel to your son though, your lordship. But then, that gives us one more weapon, I suppose. To add to seamanship, raw courage, low cunning in London Jack, and a scion of the aristocracy to gull the island boobies when they think they can pull rank.”

  “Indeed,” the fat man said. “With you directing from outside the web. The brains, the genius. I would consider it an honour if you go, sir. I consider it, indeed, unique necessity.”

  Daniel Swift sat back in his chair, small, square-shouldered, and ineffably pugnacious. His eyes – peculiar and bright – gleamed intensely for a long moment, then he relaxed. The sudden smile that lit his face had dazzled many men. The duke across the fireplace was no exception.

  “You must command them, Swift!” he said. “You must sail to meet them in the Caribbean, I insist on it! But is it possible to swing it with your masters in the Admiralty? And if so, how?”

  Swift rose to his feet and almost strutted, his blue coat setting off the piled white ruffles at his neck. He gestured with his right hand, exposing that it was short two fingers and a half. It was a recent injury, the scarring bright. He laughed.

  “Well that is how, my lord, amongst some other things. I damn near lost it in a skirmish in the Straits, and it helped convince their lordships I’m a hero. I’d rather die than undertake patrolling in a squadron and they know it, and I was private against the Moor, with excellent results, discount a finger lost or two! I’ll go private once again out to the Indies.”

  “Private?” asked his lords
hip. “Letters of Marque, is it?”

  Swift gave a log one last kick and threw back into his chair.

  “Nay, private, not a privateer; it is a Navy thing. I sail alone, no flag man or admiral to send me here and yon. The Jamaica planters have expressed a need, they’ve set up a caterwauling that won’t be gainsaid, and the Office seem to think there is advantage in it. They get me off their hands once more, they know I’ll turn in some prizes for them willy-nilly, and I’ll harass Johnny Crapaud far and wide. My orders – and if not I will arrange them so – will be to link up with the Biter and your son, her goodly Captain Kaye. I’ve not seen them yet, on parchment with the ink dry, but I’ll put a wager on it, any day. It suits our purpose perfectly, my lord.”

  The duke was nodding, his jowls all ashake. He had the decanter-neck in hand but was distracted. There was treasure in the air.

  “A two-man squadron, then. Your very own. With orders to… to what, sir?”

  Daniel Swift raised his hawk nose to the ceiling and barked with satisfaction.

  “To search out and destroy the French. Warships if I have to, within scope of size and weight of metal, naturally, but their sugar men for preference, and any other commerce I can find. And then there’s slavers to knock down, and smugglers, and even privateers. Disruption is my watchword. Find out a Frenchman, in whatever guise, and give him a taste of good old English steel.”

  “There will be prizes in it then?”

  “It is more than possible. But if your son can help me kill the enemy, the Jamaica plan is where the cash will lie. We kill the enemy then we milk our new acquaintances, indeed we’ll bleed them dry. My men got the taste of blood from off the Moormen, and some of them use scimitars now, instead of cutlasses. It is a fearsome weapon.”

  He waved his right hand through the air.

  “I lost twelve men and half my fingers, and they lost some eighty three as near as we could judge,” he said. “They keep their blades as sharp as razors do the Moors, but chain shot is still best, when all is said and done.”

  The logs were low, and his lordship rang a bell to have them stacked again, and more port procured. While servant ears were flapping they talked of neutral things, like cash beyond the Western Ocean. Dick Kaye had sent back letters – the post was excellent, despite the wars – and seemed to be confirming that estates were coming vacant all the while, that the planters were in a state of daily funk, and ripe as medlars to be culled or gulled.

  “Dick claims,” his father said, “that he could buy one every other week. I’ve urged him caution and forbidden him, indeed, to sign a document until he gets the final nod – which naturally will come from you sir, now, my main assessor, my mentor in all this. Do you believe that I have never been abroad, not from these shores so far as the Isle of Wight, even? Can you believe that, sir? Ships hate me, and I hate ships. Did you ever meet in all your life with such a milksop?”

  They shared a hearty laugh, and Swift demurred that he had travelled enough for twenty men, and that between the pair of them they formed the ideal team. They would rise together – he to undreamed of heights, his lordship to yet giddier even than he had achieved so far.

  “I don’t hate ships,” he said, “but I must say the one that I’m commanding now leaves much to be desired. She’s called the Beauty and it is a downright lie. She was old before I got her, and she’s had hard waters and hard knocks. The Straits was constant battering, both inside the Middle Sea and out in the Atlantic. That corner of Africa brings you everything, sometimes in one day. Seas from the Americas like rolling mountains, snap gales and hurricanes of wind, and days of calm when the water damn near boils. And the Moorish galleys go like lightning and fight like bloody demons, which is what they are, of course. Black devils led by blacker Englishmen! I’d hang the lot of ’em!”

  He reached across and took some proffered snuff. They sucked, and blinked, and blew like trumpeters. Then they cleared their throats with port. Swift sighed.

  “The Beauty’s dead, and that’s the truth of it. How she will get to Jamaica is a matter of philosophy, and the first thing their lordships wish is that I get a better one, and let the old tub rot. Who knows, I might take a prize out in the ocean. Might even get some new blood in my people.”

  “Aye, seed corn,” grunted the duke. “That’s what we farmers call it, Swift, seed corn. But you have another ship already, do you not? My son tells me that your nephew says… Well, will the admirals not commission her?”

  The captain laughed.

  “Too small. I built her to a purpose, and the purpose passed. In anyway, the Office will not pay enough for her. No matter, wars cannot last forever, and all the time she lies unfinished in the yard there is no final payment. When I need her, there she is. Seed corn!”

  “But when the war is over, what is she good for? A merchant man?”

  “Any hull can carry what it has to, my lord; if worst should come to worse there’s always slaves. She will be fast, indeed. Now there’s a plan! Express slaves, to fill an individual need!” He sipped. “Nay, if they should put me on half pay I’ll set up as a privateer somewhere, there’s always a war on if you care to look for it. Or failing that, a smuggler.”

  They shared a look, but did not go into words. A log fell, and showered sparks. Swift sighed.

  “The truth is, I need the men I’ve got already, they’re trained and hardened to my ways. They’d not be fitted in such a little ship, and they’re close to mutiny in any case. I’ve had to moor downriver at the Nore, which after a long voyage did not enrapture them, precisely. Their minds are full of quim and lack of it.”

  “Close to mutiny? How close?”

  “This close: if they could they would. But I’ve hanged many men for mutiny, my lord, and well they know it. When I tell them we’re off once more, and for the Indies, it will go very hard. And I will handle it, I promise you.”

  The two men lapsed to silence. There was another matter they had broached in letters, but face-to-face even Swift considered it as delicate. He did not hum and hah for long, though. Bull-headed was his way.

  “My lord,” he said. “You said that there was something that you… that you and I should… the mutual advantage of our venture.”

  Hard to embarrass; it was another of Swift’s claims to fame. The duke shouted with laughter.

  “Hah!” he said. “Felicity! She is the woman made for you, my friend! It is a match they’ll smile upon in heaven!”

  Swift smiled tightly. He was being teased.

  “I am married already, as you clearly don’t recall, my lord,” he said. His bright, clear eyes spoke things much better left unsaid. “A pity, sir, but there it is. Your young lady, alas, is not for me.”

  “Aye, and that’s damned inconvenient. She needs a mate, for otherwise I fear she might go wild, and my lady wife says the horsewhip no longer serves the turn. She might go wild, and that would cost me. I have money riding on her, Swift, that is the way it is with family. She is a brassbound bloody nuisance, doubled.”

  “Indeed,” Swift said, carefully. “Indeed, my lord, if we could treat them like we’d wish, how easy life would be. A wayward daughter is not the ideal choice. If I could—”

  “You could? Pah, I do not talk of you, sir, even if you were not already captured. I have a wayward girl, and money to be lost, and you sir, have a nephew, do you not? A nephew of whom one hears naught but quiet praise. And there, sir, surely there, is where advantage might be won… For both of us.”

  “You mean?” said Daniel Swift…

  “Of course I mean! Indeed I mean! My God, sir, let them marry and put an end to it! Your nephew, my daughter, and a store of gold in sugar and in slaves! What say you, man? There can’t be no objection, surely?”

  Swift was staggered, he was all at sea. But he was enjoying it, as well, he could see his nephew being tamed. He could imagine Will Bentley’s face when he heard the news, he had a sense of mastery. And there was another thing. He cleared his throat.


  “But my lord,” he said. “I have heard, my lord…I scarce know how to say this, but, but…men say that she is…”

  He did not utter the word, but it caused a great explosion.

  “Yes, yes, she is!” his lordship roared. “Ugly! Ugly as sin, ugly as a horse! But then – so what! He can fuck her with his eyes closed, can’t he, he only needs to get an heir, one poke might well suffice for that! She’ll bring up his children and she’ll beat his servants, what else does any man require? My little Arabella would tend his horses, also, but I fear that she will grow up beautiful, a thing far worse than ugliness in a gel, for adventurers will come to strip me of my fortune. What say you, then? Will he be willing, do you fancy? For, say, twenty thousand pound?”

  Swift – no stranger to debt in any way – went dry about the mouth, but hid it rather well. He nodded sagely.

  “Aye,” he said. “I would wager he’ll be willing, sir, I would wager anything on that. But, my lord… the young lady herself…? Has she made an indication? Would she be willing for her own part of the bargain?”

  “And what’s it got to do with her?” her father said. “If she ain’t then she can starve, for all I care. She could not keep herself with whoring, that I guarantee! But judge for yourself, sir. I shall bring her in.”

  The bell was jangled, the word was passed, and very shortly Lady Felicity stood before them. She gazed into their faces unabashed, and Swift – standing as a gentleman must be in the circumstances – was made conscious by something in her eyes that she was looking down on him from her height superior, and mocking him. Introduced, she announced in clear tones that she was honoured, and made him feel the opposite. She was very ugly. She was also very rich. Superior, inferior. He was utterly confused.

 

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