Whatever happened tomorrow, nothing would ever be the same again, he thought, and the realization saddened him greatly.
When darkness finally shut out the horizon and the flattened hill above Fougeaux Island had disappeared, Destiny’s lights still shone on the water like watchful eyes.
16 INTO BATTLE
OVERNIGHT Fougeaux Island seemed to have shrunk in size, so that when the first faint light filtered down from the horizon it looked little more than a sand-bar across Destiny’s starboard bow.
Bolitho lowered his telescope and allowed the island to fall back into the shadows. Within an hour it would be bright sunlight. He turned his back and paced slowly up and down the quarterdeck. The business of preparing the ship for battle had been unreal, an almost leisurely affair carried out watch by watch during the night.
The seamen knew their way around the masts and hull so well that they had little left to do which required daylight. Dumaresq had thought that out with the same meticulous care he planned everything he did. He wanted his men to accept the inevitability of a fight, the fact that some if not all of them would never make another voyage in Destiny. There was only one alternative passage, and it was marked on the master’s chart. Two thousand fathoms, straight down.
Also, Dumaresq intended his people to be as rested as possible, without the usual nerve-wrenching stampede of clearing for action when an enemy showed himself.
Palliser appeared on the quarterdeck, and after a cursory glance at the compass and each sail in turn he said, “I trust the watch below is completing breakfast?”
Bolitho replied, “Aye, sir. I have ordered the cooks to douse the galley fire as soon as they are done.”
Palliser took a glass from Midshipman Henderson, who had been assisting with the morning-watch.
Midshipman Cowdroy had been similarly employed during the night. As next in line for promotion, they might find themselves as acting-lieutenants before Destiny’s cooks relit their fires.
Palliser scrutinized the island carefully. “Terrible place.” He returned the glass to Henderson and said, “Aloft with you. I want to be told the moment Garrick tries to leave the lagoon.”
Bolitho watched the midshipman swarming up the ratlines. It was getting lighter rapidly. He could even see the boatswain’s top-chains which he had slung on each yard, the additional tackles and lines hauled up to the fighting-tops for urgent repairs when needed.
He asked, “You believe it is today, sir?”
Palliser smiled grimly. “The captain is certain. That’s enough for me. And Garrick will know it is his only chance. To fight and win, to get away before the squadron sends support.”
Vague figures moved about the upper deck and between the guns. Those black muzzles, now damp with spray and a night mist, would soon be too hot to touch.
Petty officers were already discussing last-moment changes to crews, to replace those who had died or were on their way to safety aboard the captured schooner.
Lieutenant Colpoys was right aft by the taffrail with his sergeant as seamen trooped along the gangways to pack the hammocks tightly in the nettings as protection for those who shared the quarterdeck in times like these. An exposed, dangerous place, vital to any ship, an aiming-point for marksmen and the deadly swivel-guns.
Midshipman Jury took a message at the quarterdeck ladder and reported, “Galley fires doused, sir.”
He looked very young and clean, Bolitho thought, as if he had taken great care over his dress and bearing.
He smiled. “A fine day for it.”
Jury looked up at the masthead, searching for Henderson. “We have the agility if nothing else, sir.”
Bolitho glanced at him, but saw himself just a year or so back. “That’s very true.” It was pointless to add that the wind was only a breeze. To tack and wear with speed you required the sails drawing well. Wind and canvas were the stuff of a frigate.
Rhodes climbed up to the quarterdeck and glanced curiously at the smudge of land beyond the bowsprit. He was wearing his best sword, one which had belonged to his father. Bolitho thought of the old sword which his father wore. It appeared in most of the portraits of the Bolitho family at Falmouth. It was destined to be Hugh’s one day, very soon now if his father was coming home for good. He turned away from Jury and Rhodes. Somehow, he did not have the feeling he would live to see it again. He was alarmed to discover he could accept it.
Palliser came back and said sharply, “Tell Mr Timbrell to rig a halter from the main-yard, Mr Bolitho.” He met their combined stares. “Well?”
Rhodes shrugged awkwardly. “Sorry, sir. I just thought that at a time like this. . . .”
Palliser snapped, “At a time like this, as you put it, one more corpse will hardly make much difference!”
Bolitho sent Jury for the boatswain and thought about Spillane and what he had done. He had had plenty of opportunity to steal information and pass it ashore in Rio or Basseterre. Like the captain’s coxswain, the clerk was more free than most to move as he pleased.
Garrick must have had agents and spies everywhere, maybe even at the Admiralty where one of them had followed every move towards putting Destiny to sea. When the ship had made ready to sail from Plymouth, Spillane had been there. It would have been easy for him to discover the whereabouts of Dumaresq’s recruiting parties. He had only to read the posters.
Now, like lines on a chart, they had all been drawn here to this place. A cross on Gulliver’s calculations and bearings. Something destined rather than planned.
Most of the men on deck looked up as the boatswain’s party lowered a hangman’s noose from the main-yard to the gangway. Like Rhodes, they would have little stomach for a summary execution. It was outside their code of battle, their understanding of justice.
Bolitho heard one of the helmsmen mutter, “Cap’n’s comin’ up, sir.”
Bolitho turned to face the companionway as Dumaresq, wearing a freshly laundered shirt, with his gold-laced hat set firmly on his head, strode on to the quarterdeck.
He nodded to each of his officers and the men on watch, while to Colpoys, who was attempting to draw himself to attention, he said curtly, “Save your strength, you obstinate redcoat!”
Gulliver touched his hat. “Nor’ by east, sir. Wind’s still light though.”
Dumaresq eyed him impassively. “I can see that.”
He turned to Bolitho. “Have the hands lay aft at six bells to witness punishment. Inform the master-at-arms and the surgeon, if you please.” He waited, watching Bolitho’s emotions and his efforts to conceal them. “You’ve still not learned deceit, it seems?” One of his feet tapped on the deck. “What is it, the execution?”
“Yes, sir. It’s like an omen. A superstition. I—I’m not sure what I mean.”
“Evidently.” Dumaresq walked to the rail and looked along the upper deck. “That man tried to betray us, just as he attempted to destroy Murray and all he believed in. Murray was a good man, whereas—” He broke off to watch some marines beginning a slow climb to the fore and maintops.
“I’d like to have seen Murray before he left, sir.”
Dumaresq asked sharply, “Why?”
Bolitho was surprised at Dumaresq’s reaction. “I wanted to thank him.”
“Oh. That.”
Midshipman Henderson made all of them look up. “Deck there! Ship standing out from the island, sir!”
Dumaresq dug his chin into his neckcloth. “At last.”
He saw Midshipman Merrett by the mizzen. “Go and fetch the Articles of War from my servant. We’ll get this matter over with and then clear for action.”
He patted his scarlet waistcoat and gave a soft belch. “That was a nice piece of pork. And the wine will help to start the day.” He saw Bolitho’s uncertainty. “Bring up the prisoner. I’d like him to see his master’s ship before he swings, God rot him!”
Sergeant Barmouth placed a line of marines across the poop, and as the pipe for all hands to lay aft and witness punishment
echoed between decks, Spillane, escorted by the master-at-arms and Corporal Dyer, appeared from the forecastle.
The seamen, already stripped to their trousers and ready for the drums to beat to quarters, parted to allow the little group through.
Beneath the quarterdeck rail they halted, and Poynter reported harshly, “The prisoner, sir!”
Bolitho made himself look at Spillane’s upturned face. If anything, it was completely empty, as if the neat and usually composed man was unable to accept what had happened.
Bolitho recalled how Spillane had come to his cabin with the message from Aurora, and wondered how much he had passed on to Garrick.
Dumaresq waited for his officers to remove their hats and then said in his resonant voice, “You know why you are here, Spillane. Had you been a pressed man, or one forced into the King’s service against your will it might have been different. You, however, volunteered, knowing you were intending to betray your oath and where possible bring disaster to your ship and your companions. Yours was a conspiracy to commit murder on a grand scale. Look yonder, man.”
When Spillane remained stricken and staring at him, Dumaresq snapped, “Master-at-arms!”
Poynter gripped the prisoner’s chin and swung him round towards the bows.
“That ship is commanded by your master, Piers Garrick. Take a long look, and ask yourself now if the price of treachery was worthwhile!”
But Spillane’s eyes were fixed on the swaying halter. It was doubtful if he saw anything else.
“Deck there!” Henderson’s normally powerful voice sounded unsteady, as if he was afraid of breaking into the drama below him.
Dumaresq glared up at him. “Speak, man!”
“The San Augustin has corpses hanging from her yards, sir!”
Dumaresq swarmed into the shrouds, snatching a telescope from Jury as he passed.
Then he climbed down to the deck very slowly and said, “They are the ship’s Spanish officers.” He darted a quick glance at Bolitho. “Hung there as a warning, no doubt.”
But Bolitho had seen something else in Dumaresq’s eyes. Just briefly, it had been relief, but why? What had he expected to see?
Dumaresq returned to the quarterdeck rail and replaced his hat. Then he said, “Remove that halter from the main-yard, Mr Timbrell. Master-at-arms, put the prisoner down. He will await judgement with the others.”
Spillane’s legs seemed to collapse under him. He clasped his hands together and said brokenly, “Thank you, sir! The Lord bless you for your kindness!”
“Stand up, you bloody hound!” Dumaresq looked at him with disgust. “To think that men like Garrick can corrupt others so easily. By hanging you, I would have been no better than he. But hear me. You will be able to listen to our progress today, and I suspect that will be an even greater punishment!”
As Spillane was hustled away, Palliser said bitterly, “If we sink, that bugger will reach the bottom first!”
Dumaresq clapped him on the shoulder. “Very true!
Now, beat to quarters, if you will, and try to knock two minutes off your time!”
“Ship cleared for action, sir!” Palliser touched his hat, his eyes gleaming. “Eight minutes exactly.”
Dumaresq lowered his telescope and glanced at him. “Shorthanded we may be, but each man-jack is working the harder for it.”
Bolitho stood below the quarterdeck watching his gun-crews by their tackles, seemingly relaxed, although the waiting was far from over.
The distant ship had spread more sail to stand well clear of the island, but as Destiny lifted and fell gently in the swell, the San Augustin appeared to be motionless. Would she turn and run for it? There was always a chance her stern-chasers might cripple the pursuing frigate with a lucky shot.
Midshipman Henderson, isolated from the preparations far below his perch, had reported that two other sail had cleared the lagoon. One was the topsail schooner, and Bolitho wondered how Dumaresq could be so sure Garrick was in the big man-of-war and not in the schooner. Perhaps he and Dumaresq were too much alike after all. Neither wishing to be a spectator, each eager to inflict a quick and undeniable victory.
Little walked slowly behind the starboard battery of twelve-pounders, stooping occasionally to check a tackle or to ensure that the ship’s boys had sanded the decks sufficiently to prevent the crews from slipping when the pace grew warm.
Stockdale was at his own gun, his men dwarfed by his great bulk as he cradled a twelve-pound ball in his hands before replacing it in the shot-garland and selecting another. In a manner born, Bolitho thought. He had often seen old gun-captains do it. To make certain the first shots would be perfect. After the opening broadsides it was usually each crew to itself and devil take the hind-most.
He heard Gulliver say, “We have the wind-gage, sir. We can always shorten sail if the enemy comes about.”
He was probably speaking merely to release his own anxieties or to await a suggestion from the captain. But Dumaresq remained silent, watching his adversary, glancing occasionally at the masthead pendant or the sluggish wave curling back from Destiny’s bows.
Bolitho looked forward and saw Rhodes speaking with Cowdroy and some of his gun-captains. The waiting was endless. It was what he expected, but he never grew used to.
“The schooners have luffed, sir!”
Dumaresq grunted. “Hanging back like jackals.”
Bolitho climbed up to peer over the gangway which ran above the starboard battery to link quarterdeck to forecastle. Even with the packed hammock nettings and the nets spread above the deck there was little enough protection for the seamen, he thought.
Almost the worst part was the empty boat-tier. Apart from the gig and the quarter-boat towing astern, the rest had been left drifting in an untidy line. In action, flying splinters were one of the greatest hazards, and the boats made a tempting target. But to see them cast adrift put the seal on what they had to face.
Henderson called, “The corpses have been cut down, sir!” He sounded hoarse from strain.
Dumaresq said to Palliser, “Like so much meat. God damn his eyes!”
Palliser answered evenly, “Maybe he wishes to see you angry, sir?”
“Provoke me?” Dumaresq’s anger faded before it could spread. “You could be right. Hell’s teeth, Mr Palliser, it should be Parliament for you, not the Navy!”
Midshipman Jury stood with his hands behind his back watching the far-off ship, his hat tilted over his eyes as he had seen Bolitho do.
He said suddenly, “Will they try to close with us, sir?”
“Probably. They have the numbers. From what we saw on the island, I would guess they outmatch us by ten to one.” He saw the dismay on Jury’s face and added lightly, “The captain will hold them off. Hit and run. Wear them down.”
Bolitho glanced up at Dumaresq by the rail and wondered. No emotion, and yet he must be scheming and planning for every possible set-back. Even his voice was as usual.
Jury said, “The other two craft could be dangerous.”
“The topsail schooner maybe. The other one is too light to risk a close encounter.”
He thought of what would have happened but for their desperate action on the island. Was it only yesterday? There would have been six schooners instead of two, and the forty-four-gun San Augustin might have had time to mount more guns, maybe those from the hill-top battery. Now, whatever the outcome, their captured schooner would carry Dumaresq’s despatches to the admiral at Antigua. Too late for them perhaps, but they would ensure that Garrick remained a hunted man for the rest of his life.
How clear the sky looked. Not yet too hot to be oppressive. The sea too was creamy and inviting. He tried not to think of that other time, when he had pictured himself running and swimming with her, finding happiness together, making it last.
Dumaresq said loudly, “They will attempt to dismast us and lay us open to boarding. It is likely that the larger of the schooners has been armed with some heavier pieces. So make each
shot tell. Remember that many of their gun-crews and seamen are Spaniards. Terrified of Garrick they may be, but they’ll not wish to be pounded to gruel by you!”
His words brought a murmur of approval from the bare-backed gun-crews.
There was a ragged crash of cannon-fire, and Bolitho turned to see the San Augustin’s starboard guns shoot out long orange tongues, while the smoke rolled over the ship and partially hid the island beyond.
The sea foamed and shot skywards, as if the power was coming from beneath the surface instead of from the proud ship with the scarlet crosses on her courses.
Stockdale said, “Rough.”
Several of the seamen around him shook their fists towards the enemy, although at three miles range it was unlikely anyone would see them.
Rhodes strolled aft, his beautiful sword at odds with his faded sea-going coat.
He said, “Just to keep them busy, eh, Dick?”
Bolitho nodded. Rhodes was probably right, but there was something very menacing about the Spanish vessel for all that. Perhaps because of her extravagant beauty, the richness of her gilded carvings which even distance could not conceal.
He said, “If only the wind would come.”
Rhodes shrugged. “If only we were in Plymouth.”
Another broadside spouted from the Spaniard’s hull, and some balls ricocheted across the sea’s face and seemed to go on forever.
There was an even louder shout of derision, but Bolitho saw some of the senior gun-captains looking worried. The enemy’s iron was dropping short and was not that well directed, but as both vessels were moving so slowly on what would likely remain a converging tack, it made each barrage more dangerous.
He pictured Bulkley and his loblolly boys on the shadowy orlop deck, the glittering instruments, the brandy to take away the agony, the leather strap to prevent a man biting through his tongue as the surgeon’s saw did its work.
And Spillane, in irons below the waterline, what was he thinking as the thunder rolled against the timbers around him?
Stand Into Danger Page 27