by Alaric Bond
“We have yet to see if she is to be his,” Caulfield reminded him. “Besides, he has had time enough to inspect her properly.”
The Marine Hotel came into view on their right as they headed for the town quay, and Banks was already there to meet them as they jumped down from the carriage.
“A good journey, gentlemen?” he asked, shaking their hands, and smiling readily.
“Very fair, sir, thank you.” King replied. “A little trouble near Bodmin; the road is yet unmade and leaves much to be desired, I fear.”
“It is being attended to,” Bank assured them. “They are building a mail station here as we speak; the coach will be calling direct from London in no time.”
“Indeed?” King could see little relevance in how the mail was distributed, but was struck by the energy and life that seemed to flow from his captain; a dramatic contrast to the last time they had met.
Banks nodded enthusiastically. “Were we to be based hereabouts, there should be few problems with communication,” he said, then turned away from the carriage with its snorting horses, and began striding down towards the quayside. “Come, there is much to do, and more to see.”
King and Caulfield exchanged glances, before hurrying after him, hoping the coachman would have the sense to collect their belongings.
“A touch eager, perhaps?” Caulfield muttered as they went. “I think the ship may have pleased our dear captain even more than we had thought.”
* * *
Banks had every right to be impressed. Scylla was in fine fettle; a small amount of work had seen any minor defects put to right, and Chilton, the only remaining lieutenant, seemed to have the right idea with regards to routine maintenance. There was further work to do, of course; the ship had to be manned: almost an entire crew found, stores taken on board, and a wealth of other details needed attending to before she could be taken to sea. Banks was also aware that Scylla was not yet his; by even inspecting he was taking a liberty with the usual protocol. But then he wanted her, he wanted her so very badly, and the reaction from King and Caulfield, the two men he felt closest to as far as service matters were concerned, only confirmed his longing, and changed it into something that was very nearly painful.
“How does she sail?” he asked Chilton, who had been present through this, and his earlier, inspection.
“Well, sir,” Chilton was a relatively new lieutenant, and felt awkward discussing the merits of the ship with her potential captain. “She’ll show a fair turn of speed to any of the class, and with the wind on her quarter there are few who can catch her.”
Banks felt his enthusiasm grow, but was careful to keep his feelings hidden. It was very much as he had suspected. He had studied the lines before leaving London, and to all reports Artois ships were good in most weathers. She was also solid; he reached out and felt one of the knees as he stood on the upper deck. It was not the all out bulk of a line-of-battleship, but the warm oak was certainly substantial, and felt massive when compared with Pandora’s timbers.
“There’s some weight there,” King was looking at the nearest eighteen pounder carriage gun. He was right; the piece was a little shorter than a thirty-two, and the shot would obviously be lighter, but it was powerful enough for anything a frigate might choose to fight and, when backed by the twenty-four pounder carronades, they would have a broadside to be proud of.
“Would you care to view the great cabin, sir?” Chilton chanced. Banks shook his head; he had already seen what would be his quarters on the first inspection, and he knew King and Caulfield well enough; they were as smitten as he was. To investigate further, only to find his father was unable to secure the ship, would be frustrating in the extreme. There was already a personal risk taken in sending for the two officers; discovering that Scylla was not actually available would make him a fool in both their eyes.
“Thank you, no, Mr Chilton. We must leave you to your duties.”
The young man touched his hat respectfully and stood to one side as the three made to return to their boat.
“There was just one more thing,” the captain said, turning. “What officers are aboard?”
If Chilton was thrown by the question he did not show it, and Bank’s opinion of the lad improved further. “All of the standing officers, sir. Most, bar the carpenter, have been with her since she launched. Surgeon’s still appointed, but ashore at present, an’ there are a fair few petty officers; a master’s mate, the quartermaster and three midshipmen.”
“Marines?”
“Lieutenant Marshall, sir. And Sergeant Rice, with thirty or so privates.”
“Detailed, or are they aboard?” Banks asked.
“Aboard sir, there is a shortage of accommodation ashore, an’ we had a few runners when we first came in.”
“No sailing master?”
“No, sir. Mr Seabrook retired at the end of the commission.”
“Surgeon’s mates?” Banks might have guessed that King would ask that question.
“We only had the one, and he went to Ardent. Surgeon’s wife is used to helping out. She is not trained, but very good with the men, and they respect her.”
Banks didn’t particularly like the idea of women in a ship, but at least there was room for King’s friend Manning, as well as quite a few of his own followers, by the sound of it.
“Here she is now, sir,” Chilton said unexpectedly, as he noticed a figure at the far end of the upper deck. Banks turned to see a blonde woman carrying a large bundle of blankets walking towards them.
“This is Mrs Clarkson,” Chilton said as she drew closer. “Sir Richard Banks, Scylla‘s new captain.”
Banks cleared his throat and the woman smiled politely, her laundry limiting further contact.
“Mr Chilton is rather premature, madam,” he said. “Mr Caulfield, Mr King and I are merely inspecting the ship; nothing is official or in any way certain.”
“Well, she is a good one,” Mrs Clarkson said, looking into his eyes in a way that Banks found oddly disturbing.
“So I see,” he said stiffly. The woman was clearly in no way intimidated by him; it was as if she could see beyond his rank and title, and look directly at the man beneath.
“An’ lucky, though I don’t much hold with luck myself,” she continued. “I think you makes your own, don’t you, Sir Richard?” She grinned, and Banks blushed slightly.
“It is not something to which I have given much thought,” he said, feeling just a little foolish.
“ That is probably sensible,” she beamed. “It don’t do to get too deep with such matters.”
The men laughed awkwardly and Banks studied the woman with a little more care. Mrs Clarkson noticed the attention, but did not turn away. “Anyways,” she said after the briefest of pauses. “I hope you like what you see.”
* * *
With her three masts and bluff bow, the lugger appeared little different from the numerous small craft that plied the South Coast of England. She might be used for fishing, or one of a hundred other tasks, and when they left Portsmouth with the morning tide and in brilliant sunshine, Crowley and his men drew little attention. By noon the weather had started to grow unseasonably cold, and a steady rain began that continued throughout the night and all of the following day. What wind there was stayed with them, however; and the rain finally eased off as evening fell, just as they sighted the French coast and commenced the final run in toward Brest, shelter, and warm, dry beds.
Crowley shifted uncomfortably on the wooden thwart that had supported him for the last two days. Beside him Walsh drew his damp greatcoat more tightly about his body and lowered his head once more. Walsh had been horribly sick for most of the journey, yet hardly complained, even though he probably felt about as bad as was possible. Crowley knew better than to try and speak; when a man is sea-sick he has little need of conversation; but he longed for their final arrival in France, as much for Walsh as for himself.
They had already sighted several British line-of-battle sh
ips, the main bulk of Admiral Bridport’s blockading force, and the lugger’s captain turned to join the coast further to the north in order to avoid them. Now as the light fell they altered course once more and were creeping towards their goal, with Ushant just visible to starboard, and the grey smudge that was the French mainland tantalisingly close off their larboard beam.
“That would be part of the inshore squadron,” Doyle spoke from the bow, where he was perched alongside Collins, the short-haired man from the Rondy who had turned out to be the boat’s captain. He was more than competent, having guided them this far without incident, and was still calmly controlling their destinies. Crowley has assumed they would be dropped somewhere a good distance from Brest and the attending British fleet. A ten or even twenty mile trek would have been well worth taking to avoid the danger they were now about to run. But the captain was experienced and had clearly made this trip many times before. Besides, after two days in an open boat, he was probably just as keen as any of them to find warmth and shelter.
Crowley peered forward; he could just make out a frigate and what looked like a brig cruising silently in the half light.
“There’s shoal water hereabouts,” Collins spoke softly, without turning back. “Take her closer to the coast, Jackie; we’ll give King George a wide berth.”
Douglas, who had been solidly steering since morning, pressed the tiller across and reached for the nearest sheet to adjust the mizzen lug. The boat tilted as she changed course, but the on-shore breeze was dying and the sail would not draw.
“We’re losing the wind,” Collins muttered, as he was similarly unsuccessful further forward. He looked about, gauging what was left of the breeze. Ahead and beyond the British, the dark outline of rocks marked the seaward limit of the channel they were aiming for. The brig was the closest to them; she stood less than half a mile off their starboard bow and still held the wind as she crept forward, presumably at the very edge of the shallows. “The current will carry us in,” he continued, meditatively. “Though I’d be happier not to dawdle so.”
The lugger slowed further and began to wallow. The falling of the breeze could not have come at a worse time, and was still not effecting either of the British warships; Crowley could see the nearest more clearly now as she continued to bear down on them.
“Will they give us any trouble?” MacArthur asked from amidships. Collins shook his head.
“Probably not. They’ll take us for fishermen and leave be, unless the cook fancies serving lobster for supper.”
But the brig was clearly determined, and even shook out a reef in a topsail as her wind finally began to fail.
Crowley noticed the manoeuvre with unease. The very nature of a blockading squadron was to keep watch over the enemy. For that patience was the key, speed and any risky manoeuvring usually being unnecessary. Yet this brig was placing herself in danger in order to draw close to them: not even a strong tide, impending nightfall and the lack of wind was enough to keep her off.
“She seems set on speaking with us,” he said, then instantly regretted the statement as Walsh raised himself from his stupor and looked about.
“Is that the British?” he asked.
“Aye,” Crowley murmured, “and a little nearer than we would like.”
They watched in silence as the brig crept further forward, her sails now flapping impotently. Then, with the very last of her way, she swung round and presented her larboard beam.
Crowley braced himself, and sure enough a pinprick of fire shot out from her hull, followed by a slight splash half a cable ahead of the lugger. The dull boom of the shot reached them as the men released a collective sigh, and MacArthur crossed himself.
“They’re serious,” Collins said, then stirred into action. “Out sweeps, boys; there’s no point in dilly-dallying. King George clearly wants a word, and I am not in the mood for conversation.”
The boat tipped as the four long oars were rousted out and set into the rowlocks. Crowley took up position at the larboard stern, with Doyle next to him to starboard. By mutual consent Walsh was not involved, but with MacArthur and Doherty at the other two stations they had enough experienced men to power the small craft. Crowley began to pull, setting a fast but steady pace. Manning the sweeps was a clear indication that they were on some clandestine mission, and the British were bound to take action. There was a small headland to negotiate before they could turn and make the final run into the main harbour. That would mean closing slightly with the waiting brig, and Crowley knew the Royal Navy would not stand idly by and watch them escape.
“There’s movement on the bigger ship.” Walsh was pointing back at the frigate, which was now almost invisible in the gloom. Despite the rigours of rowing, Crowley could just make out preparations for launching a boat. He dug his oar deeper into the water. The lugger was moving steadily, but nothing like as fast as a light naval cutter with a ten man crew. If the British were serious about catching them, the chances were strong that they would.
The sound of another shot reached them as they worked; the splash of it erupted off their bow.
“Starboard your helm; take her to larboard, Jack,” the captain ordered. Douglas brought them round until they were heading straight for the nearby French coast.
“Are you to beach her?” Crowley asked. He could see that a boat, somewhat larger than a cutter, had been swayed from the frigate, and knew it would soon be setting after them.
“No, she’ll ground long before we are in safe reach of land,” Collins said glumly. “We’ll hold this course for a spell, then take her back to aim for Le Conquet.” Jack, at the tiller, helpfully pointed over the starboard bow, although none of the rowers could turn as far as to see.
“There’s a small harbour there,” Collins continued. “We should be able to find shelter until King George decides to leave us be.”
Another shot came from the brig, this time falling alongside. The smaller warship had turned slightly; either the current had brought her round, or she had anchored and attached a spring. The vessel was all but in darkness now, but the time for warning shots was over and the men could imagine the main armament being run out. They were at extreme range for her popgun broadside, but even one hit from a light ship’s cannon could be enough to account for the lugger. Doyle was muttering on his left, while Crowley closed his mind to everything bar the job in hand.
The sudden ripple of light from the brig’s hull blinded them all for a brief moment. Crowley instinctively ducked, even though there was no sound of shot passing overhead. A body moved in the darkness; it was Walsh. He was seated next to Jack at the tiller and had stood up to face the broadside as it came down on him.
“Way off,” he said with grim satisfaction.
“Maybe so,” Collins clambered back past the rowers and also took up position at the stern. “But we’re going to have to change course now, lest we want to stay here permanently. Take her across, Jack.”
The boat turned again; the British were now almost totally invisible, and Crowley hoped in his heart that they had missed the manoeuvre. Then another single flash of light, smaller and further away from the direction of the brig, made them all look round.
“It’s the boat from the frigate!” Collins shouted. “The bastards must have crept up on us.”
Crowley gritted his teeth. The British would have to be going a fair pace to have covered such a distance; it was probably a longboat, with as many as twelve men rowing. They alone would be enough to swamp the lugger with her tiny crew, except that she would also be carrying marines, and obviously had a small cannon mounted in her bow.
“Come on, put your backs into it!” Collins’s voice had risen and Crowley knew instinctively that they were very near to being taken. He leant back, raising the pace and feeling the others follow his lead. The lugger moved quickly enough but was heavily laden; the British boat was certain to be the faster. Another flash of light from the brig, but no fall of shot. It was even possible they had pulled out of
her range. Crowley was considering this, and the state of his arms and back, which were starting to complain, when the cannon in the boat fired again.
Now that was very much closer. No one could say where the shot went, but the sound of the discharge followed almost immediately – probably no more than a cable separated the two vessels. Fortunately there was no moon; the Irishmen could see nothing from where the flash had come from, and could only hope that they were just as invisible to the British.
Walsh went to speak, but was quickly hushed by the rest of the crew. The sound of the oars groaning in the rowlocks was bad enough; anything louder and they would be revealed for certain. Crowley’s face was running with sweat. A foolish thought occurred: after the many dousings with water he had experienced over the last two days, he was probably the cleanest he had ever been. He felt the urge to laugh out loud rear up unexpectedly and tried to think of other things: of what had brought him to this sorry position, of his time and friends aboard Pandora. Then his mind naturally ran on to King and how he would react to hearing of him being arrested as a suspected rebel. He cursed to himself; he really should have waited for Vernon. Why, at that moment he might be safely ashore in England: safe, warm, dry and in bed. But then an inner voice told him that all was not lost; besides, Vernon would not be ready this year or more, and hadn’t King’s lodgings been empty, with the man nowhere to be seen?