The Devil's Luck (A Charlie Raven Adventure)

by Jan Needle

  ‘So the shit can row,’ he said. ‘Truly, Mister, you are not hard to please. But I needed him aloft to keep the lookout. These are dangerous waters. These are lawless isles. And he refused me, in a funk. I will not have you standing up for him.’

  All the men fell silent. These ‘lawless isles’ were a part of England. They were thirty miles off shore of Cornwall, nothing more.

  ‘And that is why we double up the watchers for this night,’ Maxwell continued. ‘This place is a mare’s nest of smugglers. French frigates notwithstanding, if we catch some gentlemen plying that foul trade we will pursue them. Little Craven Raven might prove himself again in that case – as an oarsman. Then perhaps I’ll give him beef to eat. Aye, cakes and ale an’all!’

  Lieutenant Swift put in his pennyworth, although quite subtly.

  ‘If you plan to make him do the masthead trick now it is calm, sir,’ he said, ‘it might indeed be well to feed him up, though. It is an energetic climb still, after all.’

  ‘Masthead trick, sir? What masthead trick?’

  You know damn well, sir, all men thought. Swift only smiled.

  ‘To hie him to the mainmast truck, sir. To make him stand on it like a dancing fairy on a plate. It’s what we all have done in our time. But a stomachful of grub makes it go better, surely?’

  Maxwell sighed.

  ‘You are too damn soft,’ he said. ‘But even I won’t send him up there in the dead of dark, I don’t want blood all on my decks. I tell you what, though, for the interim. I’ll let you row ashore with him, or him row you ashore, if he is man enough. Have a sneak around this island, put your noses into secret places, see if the smugglers really do have hidden creeks or beaches.’

  ‘They do, sir,’ said the master. ‘And if one stumbles on them, one gets a broken head. Or worse. They kill the revenue for fun.’

  ‘We are not the revenue,’ said Captain Maxwell. ‘We are Navy officers of the King. No wicked water-thief would dare to face us down.’

  ‘I will go, sir,’ said Daniel Swift. ‘I’ll take a boat with your permission. I will tell you if the Raven is a craven bird.’

  ‘And I,’ said Lieutenant Bullen. His face was almost anxious as he looked around. The captain laughed, not pleasantly.

  ‘Ah you,’ he said. ‘Mr Bullen, you are like a mother hen. No, let Dan Swift go, and with a good boat’s crew. Then we might feed him. After all, he is my sister’s boy. What would she say if he should starve to death?’

  He pitched it as a joke, and as such his men all deigned to take it. Half an hour later, Lieutenant Swift and Charlie Raven, and six seamen hand-picked for size and weight, slipped from the Pointer’s waist and made towards the shore.

  Swift and Raven wore pistols, the others dirks and clubs. The midnight air was sweet as mother’s milk.

  Chapter Five

  It was as dark as hell on the water, and even darker when they went ashore. They took the jolly boat, as the lightest craft to hand, and she had thole pins, not rowlocks, which they added grommets to, to muffle out all noise. The contrast between the sea here and the sea they’d flown across all day was almost a wonder; it was so calm that even the lapping on the stones was hardly a whisper. At Swift’s command the bowmen leapt out first, and held her off the bottom till all others were ashore, then all eight of them, including officers, ranged along the sides and lifted her on to the beach. No noise, no crunching shingle, not even a knock of wood on rock. It was as sweet as sixpence.

  At Raven’s suggestion they ranged the oars at angles, still in their tholes and grommets, in case they needed to ship them on the run. Lieutenant Swift looked as if he might rule this out, then thought better of it.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Who knows what we might find across those dunes?’

  When they were ready to move off, all stood for some seconds more and stared across the bay. The stars threw down some light, but not too much yet. They could see the Pointer as a blur, or smudge, but no waves broke along her hull to give her definition.

  ‘Are you hungry, sir?’ one of the seamen whispered. Both Raven and his lieutenant jumped, then Swift let out an angry hiss.

  ‘Silence! Good God man, do you want to bring them down on us?’

  The sailor, a huge man with a full black beard, smiled with red lips. His voice had been the quieter of the two.

  ‘Beg pardon, sir. But the young sir ain’t eat. Old Toby give me a mess of pudden for ’im. Old Winterson. ’E said tid be all right. Mebbe I got ’im arseyupwards. Sir.’

  He held out a massive hand towards the midshipman. There was a cloth in it. Raven’s eyes were glittering in the dark.

  ‘There be enough for you an’all, sir. If the young man ain’t so clemmed?’

  The young man was, though, and Swift’s irritation did not last. He muttered half impatiently and waved the transaction on.

  ‘See, sir,’ the seaman added, ‘he done us proud on them sweeps, who wud deny it? Seems a crying shame to see ’im bout ’is supper.’

  ‘Yes, very good, come on,’ said Swift. ‘The devil take you if you waste my time. Or Captain Maxwell will, in any way.’

  Almost without encouragement, the group of men had been moving up the beach. The shingle crunched, but very quietly – all had done this sort of trick before. They laid their bare feet gently, avoiding driftwood that might crack or cut. At the top, Swift signalled a stop, and motioned Raven to join him.

  ‘Keep your head low, and put that damned dishcloth away, it’s like a damned white flag. Now. Just your eyes and nose over. Can you see anything? I’m damned if I can.’

  The way was clear, what they could make out of it. Ill-defined scrub, a few trees possibly, a barn or two perhaps. No lights. No lights of any sort.

  ‘No villages this side, then,’ said Swift. ‘Christ, it’s just a desert. How many islands are there? I guess that we have chose too badly.’

  ‘Or well, mayhap?’

  Swift glanced towards him.

  ‘Mayhap what? Well what? There is sweet damn all that I can see. Time wasted.’

  Raven said nothing, and for a moment the lieutenant thought. At his back he felt the seamen massing, like a restless herd of cows. He turned his head, irritably.

  ‘What? Why do you crowd me? There is nothing here.’

  ‘That’s good then, innit?’ The spokesman stopped, in case the officers had worked it out. Or in case Swift took some sort of umbrage.

  ‘I know these shores,’ another sailor muttered. ‘My feeling, sirs, is we might head around the beach. At the end of him might be an inlet, see what I’m trying for? I—’

  He thought he’d gone too far. One did not teach one’s master to suck eggs. If anyone was going to put his foot in it… Ah, good. It could be Raven!

  ‘I think he’s right, sir,’ said the midshipman, obligingly. ‘There may be no one on this island, but they’ll hide their gigs, won’t they? This shore must be the nearest to the coast of France. Or one of them. Must it not?’

  Despite a stirring of dislike, Swift took the point. The story was, apparently, that the men of Scilly in ‘the trade’ used fast, lightweight boats with many oars to dash across the Channel on a tide.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘Do you think it true, then? That from hereabouts men might row across to Brittany? It is too far. It is a fairytale.’

  Raven shrugged. He did not want to contradict.

  ‘I have heard of such a thing,’ he said, tentatively. ‘It is indeed far though, Mr Swift. It is indeed a most unlikely tale. But…’

  ‘But what? Come on, spit it out.’

  Another shrug. The seamen were watching them like hawks. And saying nothing.

  ‘Well, sir. Well, I come from farther west than you, as I believe. A place called Gweek, up the Helford River. Men there constructed gigs, and raced them, when I was small.’

  The two biggest men glanced at each other but did not slip a smile. This midshipman was no giant anyway.

  ‘And? You say it would be possible? A
ll the way to France?’

  Charlie Raven held out his hands. To indicate a balance.

  ‘In Falmouth Bay I have seen gigs almost fly, sir. The crews are like automatons, they are tireless. I have seen them race around to Fowey, and back again. I’m sure it must be possible.’

  The group, still silently, still picking their careful way, had covered a deal of distance. One of them, the bearded, red-lipped man, was already at the craggy rocks that marked the top end of the beach.

  In the silent night, they heard him whistle. Very low, very significant. As everyone stared upwards, he signalled with his fist.

  ‘I think we might ’ave ’it the treasure trove, sirs,’ he said. ‘Please to come up ’ere and study it.’

  Five minutes later they were looking down on a tiny, secret creek. It had a jetty, and a hardway to the water, and a large wooden shed, more like a warehouse than a tackle store.

  And pulled up on the hardway, side by side, were two fine gigs. Long, and lean, and light as feathers.

  ‘Christ,’ said the giant spokesman. ‘I’d like to see them bastards go. Ain’t they the proper job?’

  Chapter Six

  The way down to the creek was difficult, and a rush to get there was firmly curbed by Daniel Swift. It was a man called Kelly that started the move, and the lieutenant seized his arm quite brutally.

  ‘You fool,’ he hissed. ‘How dare you go without an order?’

  The officers on board of Pointer were not held in high esteem, and for a moment, as the men ranged round him in a group, it looked as if Swift might be in trouble. Although not large he was very fierce, however, and his glaring face contained a naked challenge.

  A lonely creek, an uninhabited islet, six strong seamen. Kelly held Swift, glare for glare.

  ‘I’ll see you flogged,’ said Swift. ‘You know Captain Maxwell’s thoughts on discipline, Mister What’s Your Name. Well, mine are ten times worse.’

  The bearded giant, Simpson, grunted. It was non-committal, with a sort of pleasure in it.

  ‘Come, Tom,’ he told the sailor. ‘You’re a shade too young to see a noose. Think what your Emily wud say!’

  Raven said: ‘I think I see a pathway down. Why risk our necks, indeed? Sir? May I show you? We could get there very quick.’

  No further argument. Kelly withdrew, and Swift went into a huddle with the midshipman. There was indeed a clear way down.

  ‘Good,’ said Daniel Swift. ‘Now that is sense, you headstrong devils!’ He indicated Kelly. ‘We need a guard. You can redeem yourself. Stay here and watch.’

  ‘You can row the jolly boat yourself, I guess?’ Raven asked him. Faces jerked to look at him.

  ‘What?’ said Swift. ‘What are you…’

  ‘Good thought, in my ’umbles,’ Simpson put in. ‘For if we wanted to, could not we take them gigs as prizes, sir? And Tom Kelly here—’

  Swift’s thought processes weren’t slow.

  ‘Indeed, indeed,’ he said. ‘My mind was turning that way too. Well, Kelly? If we cut out those two gigs, could you paddle back to Pointer on your own? You would redeem yourself indeed.’

  That would not be a problem, and all knew it. While Kelly took the vantage point to keep a lookout, the others scrambled down towards the water.

  ‘If men come, whistle,’ said Swift. ‘You know how to whistle, I suppose?’ He caught the sour face, but did not mind. This operation was setting fair to be a masterpiece.

  ‘Draw your pistol, Raven. I will draw my own. Don’t fire unless I give you my permission. This is not a game.’

  As easy as one, though, as it turned out. On the beach they quickly checked all round, and found no sign at all of human intervention. What was better, although no oars were in the gigs, the doors to the boathouse were unchained, and all the gear, including rudders, yokes and a lightweight mast and sail for each were lying handy. It was the work of minutes before they were fit to launch.

  There was a working boat inside the shed as well, a yole of about fifteen feet.

  ‘Shall we smash ’im, sir?’ Simpson asked. ‘Knock the bottom through in case they tries to come for us?’

  ‘But they might not be smugglers after all,’ said Raven. ‘Enough, surely, to steal their boats?’

  The sailors laughed, but Lieutenant Swift did not.

  ‘How dare you use that word? We have a need of these. And thereby have a right to them.’

  The bearded giant chuckled.

  ‘Borry ’em you see, sir,’ he said to Raven. ‘The king do need the use of ’em for a lickle while. To borry ’em is not to steal ’em, no how!’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Swift. ‘Could not have expressed it better myself. What is your name, man?’

  The big man touched his forehead. The red lips curved, but his voice held no hint of mockery.

  ‘Simpson, sir. Like the young gennleman, I be of Kernow. Cornwall, sir. Sometimes they call me Samson. On account of… well, on account, sir.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Swift, expansively. ‘A Biblical reference. It is heartening to know that you men know God. So use your strength judiciously. And smash the bloody bottom out.’

  They split the men between the gigs, with Swift and Raven to take the yoke-lines. The vessels were so light they almost tossed them into the water, but they were not short of inner room. Whatever Raven felt about their purpose, there seemed little doubt that they’d been built for fast cargo carrying. Illicit cargo.

  Or perhaps for racing. What matter, in the scheme of things?

  With only two men rowing one, and three the other, they skimmed out of the creek with a sort of silent glee. It became a natural race, with Raven disadvantaged by his deficit of men, but favoured by his deficit of weight. He also was a gigman of skill and experience, it soon transpired, and could read the waters as if they were in daylight, not the dead of night. There were no telltale marks of white on breaking rocks in the dead calm, but he went much closer to the cliffs, and cut off corners, in a way the lieutenant did not dare to do. Kelly, on a signal, had hared down to the jolly boat, but could hardly make a half a knot.

  The men on board the Pointer had kept a careful watch out, and enraged the captain by cheering as the racing gigs got close enough to be told apart.

  ‘Silence!’ bellowed Maxwell – again much louder than the noise he was so angered by. ‘Silence or you will all be flogged!’

  Raven’s boat was a length or so ahead, but he chose – through tact? – to swing the long way round the frigate’s stern, so that Swift’s crew came alongside a fraction quicker. Both crews tossed their oars aloft as their painters were taken, and men scrambled up the sides, full of delight and pride.

  ‘Easily pleased,’ Stewart muttered, to Bullen. ‘They are like a gang of children on a spree.’

  No man bothered to reach down for Kelly’s bow rope, but soon all three boats were lying tranquil in the bay. The men were hustled forward to get drinks from out the galley, and the lieutenant and the midshipman walked aft to greet the captain. He did not look pleased to see them.

  ‘Ha,’ he said. ‘And what of that, Lieutenant Swift? Why?’

  It was hot upon the deck, silent and very still. Not a rope’s-end or lanyard was stirring in the air.

  ‘Beg pardon, sir?’ Swift was half bemused. ‘Why what, sir? I fear I—’

  ‘The gigs,’ snapped Maxwell. ‘Why, sir? What need have I of gigs, for Christ’s sake?’

  The silence was ominous, the stillness of the air unnatural. It sparked a thought for Daniel Swift. He plucked it from the air.

  ‘The wind, sir. It has not returned. It is almost dawn, sir. It is a flat calm.’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘I thought, sir, that we might tow her, sir. If Mr Collins advised us on the tides. It is surely…’

  He tailed off. The light was rising. The dark was fading. Everybody was aware of it.

  ‘Tow the ship? To Brittany? Are you quite mad?’

  The officers looked at each other. There was n
o real need for them to speak. Whichever way they jumped would be wrong, most likely. But Mr Bullen cleared his throat.

  ‘A morning breeze is more than feasible,’ he said. ‘I don’t know these waters, sir, but—’

  ‘And we would have a start at least,’ said Swift. ‘Even if we only made a mile or two off shore we would be ready when the wind rose up. If it was on a favourable quarter, we could even do it half and half, sir. Windpower when the wind was good, manpower when it faded. It is not unfeasible. Surely?’

  ‘Bah,’ said Hector Maxwell. ‘You saw how long we took to do the last bit to these islands. Hours. And the people half dead with tiredness. How many leagues is it? Mr Collins? Come you here.’

  The master always did his sums. He had known he would be asked such things, whatever the weather should turn out to be. He knew to within ten miles or so where the Frenchmen lay. And he was not in awe or fear of Maxwell.

  ‘Too far, sir.’ He waited until he was close before he said it. Not information to share among the generality. ‘With no breeze at all, and the tides and currents we will get today, it is simply impossible. And observe the sky, sir. Do you see any wind in it?’

  The sky was lightening. It was as if the dark was draining away. Back towards Cornwall a paleness was washing out the last remaining stars. Full daylight in an hour. Less.

  ‘Not a bastard cloud,’ the captain said. ‘Not a witch’s wisp of it. A fart would lurk around a week. Merde and buggeration.’

  ‘But perhaps, sir—’ Midshipman Raven started, but was cut off sharply.

  ‘Yes, perhaps it’s time for you to do your masthead trick!’ snapped Maxwell. ‘You think to miss it do you?’ Then he changed his mind. ‘Oh to hell with it. Mr Stewart, make the orders, sir. We will tow the bleeding tub. I cannot sit round here all day like some fucking pumpkin. We’ll tow her with the gigs, and all our boats, and we’ll get the bastard sweeps in play as well. If I can’t get her out to Frogland, I’ll die in the attempt.’

  He gave a sudden bark of laughter. He was not a man without a sense of humour.

  ‘Or you will, anyway!’ he said. ‘Aye, that’s the best of it! We’ll beard those snail-munchers if it kills the lot of you! Boatswain! All hands to man the capstan! We’re getting under way!’