by Alaric Bond
“Hail the fishermen, if you please, Mr King.” Banks said, his eyes still fixed on the impending weather. “But I do not intend to waste any time; I fear there may be other matters to take our attention.”
* * *
The ship’s bell rang: he had half an hour left in the fresh air. The wind was also rising and Crowley wondered if this might be the last time he would be able to exercise on deck for some while. He eased himself up gently and stood, stretching each leg in turn and wriggling his toes to encourage the circulation. In an effort to shake off the pursuing British they had spent the last day and a half heading away from their destination. Crowley was hardly in a hurry to reach Ireland and certainly had no desire to start fighting; nevertheless he knew that, if the voyage lasted very much longer, most of the proud invasion force would be fit for nothing other that eating and sleeping. Those were the tasks that currently occupied their waking hours, and the routine would be hard to break. A movement from behind caught his attention, and he looked round to see a familiar face.
Wolfe Tone was often present during Crowley’s exercise period. They sometimes exchanged nods, but that had always been the extent of their intercourse. Today however, he was clearly keen for conversation.
“I’ve noticed before you like to keep an eye on our friends.” Tone was wearing a dark blue coat that was rather ostentatiously decorated with lace and ribbon, and he dug his hands deep into the pockets as he regarded the British ship.
Crowley snorted. “There is little else to do.”
“They watch us, and we watch them,” he said. “It is a strange arrangement, but one we can tolerate for as long as we must.”
“Do you think they will give up?” Crowley knew the answer, but wanted to hear Tone’s reply.
“No, we can play our little games; go this way and go that, but the British will stick with us for as long as it remains physically possible. We may be lucky: the captain says there is storm in the air. Or they may be lucky and run in with a force large enough to deal with us. But wherever fortune falls they will not go away of their own accord, of that you may be certain.”
“I hears you have met with them before,” Crowley chanced.
Tone kept his eyes fixed on the British frigate. “Aye, I have that, though we have yet to come to blows, more’s the pity. But I certainly do not know them as well as you.”
Crowley was surprised and not a little confused. “I was also on the Bantry Bay expedition, if that’s what you mean.”
“It wasn’t that to which I referred.” His eyes moved from the distant horizon and found Crowley’s. “You served with the British Navy, or have I got that terribly wrong?”
Crowley felt the colour rise in his cheeks. “I did, for a spell, though you might say the same for many aboard this ship.”
Tone was now looking at him with a fierce intensity. “The way I heard it, you have friends amongst the British, and were waiting to join another Navy ship before you came here.” Crowley said nothing, but the stare did not relent in any way. “It’s Crowley, isn’t it? Michael Crowley?”
“It is,” Crowley agreed cautiously. He had seen Tone on a platform; the man was fascinating to watch: he possessed a magnetism that was almost hypnotic. But close up that energy felt entirely different. Different and far more dangerous.
“Tell me, Michael. Are you truly dedicated to the cause?”
Crowley felt his body go numb. He already knew enough about Tone to class him as a true fanatic: one who recognised no limits or bounds. He also felt instinctively that he was the kind who would fight without consideration for himself. Like a lunatic he would punch, flail, or scratch, not caring if, in the process, he were also hurt. Even the look in his eye was enough to scare the stoutest heart, and Crowley realised, almost with a sense of epiphany, that this was a man to be feared. And yet he must answer the question.
“I, I am not sure…” The words came from him as if drawn by Tone’s spell. “I believe in a free Ireland…”
“But you also have friends who are British?”
He nodded once more.
Tone seemed to relax. “It is good to have friends, Michael. Friendship is what the Brotherhood is all about. But it has to be the right friends, the ones who will not let you down. And I have never yet met a British man who could be trusted.”
Crowley felt unable to reply. Not for years had he felt so intimidated, and yet Tone had not threatened, or even hinted at physical violence. Indeed, he was lightly built, and would have been simple to take down in a brawl.
“I wish you to state your faith, Michael. I would like everyone to do so who I am unsure of. Do you have an objection to that?”
“I see no reason why I should,” Crowley said guardedly.
The other man rested his hand on his shoulder. “That is good, Michael. That is very good indeed.”
Crowley tensed; Tone had misunderstood, and thought him willing to swear allegiance to the cause. His aversion to oaths was almost pathological and, however persuasive the man might be, he was not going to break a lifelong rule for a bunch of revolutionary crack-pots. He pulled away and had even opened his mouth to explain when a shout from the main masthead drew their attention.
A sighting had been made. The report was still being called down to the deck when a second came from the foremast. Soon it was clear that several ships were in view, a veritable fleet. This was news of the highest import and all thoughts of their previous conversation were wiped away as Tone and Crowley exchanged glances. “From the north, and a mighty number, that makes them unlikely to be Royal Navy,” Crowley said quietly.
“Equally we can guess them not to be French,” Tone agreed, his tone now light and neutral. “But whatever, it would appear that luck of some order has been dealt, and the situation is about to change.” He looked across to the British frigate, still sailing off their larboard quarter, and presumably unaware of any mystery fleet. “And I would predict that before so very long we will either lose our loyal companions or form a far closer relationship with them in battle.”
* * *
“What do you know of Betsy Clarkson?” Manning asked.
King considered for a moment, then pulled a face. “Nice apples,” he said.
Manning snorted. “That was not the answer I expected, nor should it be heard coming from one who is betrothed in matrimony.”
“Well, it was the first that came to mind,” King protested. “And I wouldn’t have said the same about many women.”
“Even if they did have nice apples?” Manning’s eyebrows were raised, and King found himself fumbling for an answer.
“Probably not,” he blushed. “As you say, it is hardly in my nature. Yet Betsy rather encourages such comments.”
“She might be a touch fly, I admit.”
“And they are nice apples,” King chanced.
“Oh indeed. But what else do you know of her?”
King could see that his friend was speaking in earnest, and gave the matter further thought. “Well, she is a deal younger than the surgeon,” he said eventually. “And, as I have said, rather tends to play the floozy. Other than that, not much. Except that she makes a decorative addition to the gunroom table.”
“Let us steer away from that or we will be back to apples,” Manning said hurriedly. They were standing by the taffrail at the end of the second dogwatch. The evening was falling, but it was still just warm enough for idle conversation and, for once, there was no one near to eavesdrop. It had been three days since his talk with the surgeon’s wife, and Manning had been hoping for just such an opportunity to speak with King, probably his closest friend. “Are you aware of her indulging in any particular friendships whilst on board?”
King thought some more. “Why, yes,” he said, suddenly more serious. “There was that man Marshall. The marine: he left just before you joined us.”
“Indeed, and did so in rather a hurry, as I collect.”
“I think Mr Fraiser had something to do with that,�
� King said softly.
“The sailing master?” Manning looked puzzled. “How so?”
This was becoming uncomfortable, and King looked about to make sure they were truly speaking in private. “It was while we were at anchor, I believe they were having a liaison. I heard sounds from the surgeon’s cabin, and wondered about investigating.”
“And did you?”
“No, I did not,” his head fell. “I felt it better to leave be. But Adam Fraiser rolled up shortly afterwards, and did not share my thoughts.”
“He confronted them?”
“Yes, and had Marshall all but thrown off the ship.”
“Did he indeed?” The surgeon’s mate was clearly impressed. “And was the captain involved?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“I see,” Manning paused, and King was also quiet for a moment. He still felt mildly guilty about the incident, especially as Fraiser, heard through the thin deal walls of his cabin, had handled it with such competence.
“Tell me, does anyone else know of this?” Manning finally asked.
“Not that I am aware.” In fact most of the other officers were amazed at the speed with which Marshall left, but then nearly all regarded him as merely a jollie and consequently not of any great importance. “Is Betsy in trouble?” King asked, looking up once more.
“Not that I may speak of,” Manning replied. “Though you would help her best by keeping what we have said to yourself. And your eyes off her apples.”
* * *
The mystery sighting revealed itself to be a powerful convoy. Upwards of a hundred merchants, according to the lookout, and well protected: three frigates could be clearly seen, and there were probably far more out of sight. That they would be British was beyond doubt. No other nation could summon that many ships and sail them blatantly across the oceans. The majority would be Indiamen, stuffed full of all manner of precious items that the country was effectively mining from the East. That one convoy alone must be worth several million in supplies, and there were others, equally valuable and also on the high seas. With such an amount of wealth constantly trickling into her reserves it was hardly surprising that Britain was able to wage a war against most of the rest of Europe.
Crowley turned back to the shadowing frigate, which was still maintaining watch, and stood a good nine miles off their quarter. It could not be so very long before they also spotted the convoy, and acted accordingly. Trapped as they were, the French would have to turn south, even further away from their destination – that or finally take the initiative and make towards the hounding British. With such a force it would be strange if even the French did not account for a few small ships, were the Royal Navy foolish enough to offer action.
The commodore was on the quarterdeck now, and Tone had gone to speak with him. Crowley could see the two men as they stood by the fife rail, their heads lowered in deep conversation. But as he watched Tone caught his eye, and he felt the man’s stare upon him. Tone muttered a brief word, then beckoned down to where Crowley stood in the waist. Crowley looked to one side, hoping it might be someone else that Tone was calling, but he was quite alone, and clearly required. He walked slowly towards the quarterdeck ladder and clambered up.
This was the command deck, the area allotted to officers and gentlemen. In a British ship of war it would have been the smartest in the ship, with all lines correctly flaked and set, brass polished, and even the deck itself burnished to a high finish. It was no surprise to find the Hoche deficient in this respect; what should have been holy ground was as much of a shambles as any other part of the vessel, but then Crowley supposed the French had more important considerations, and were never a nation that believed in needless bull.
“This is my man Crowley,” Tone said, as he approached. “We go back a long way, and he is something of an expert on the British Navy, isn’t that right, Michael?”
Crowley blushed but had little option other than to nod meekly in reply, and was uncomfortably aware of Tone’s galvanic presence as it descended upon him once more.
“So, what is it that the British will do?” Commodore Bompart asked. The man was in his early forties, and spoke reasonably good English. He looked at Crowley with soft, rather sad eyes, and the Irishman guessed that the mission did not inspire him.
“The convoy will give you no trouble, unless you attack it directly.” That was just plain common sense. However much the Royal Navy escort must be straining at the leash at the sight of French warships, it would be a bold commander that denuded so many valuable merchants of protection. “But if you venture too close, you may well be taken,” Crowley continued; there was little argument in that either. With three frigates in sight, there must be at least another six or seven within signalling distance; and such a force, combined with those already following, could wipe out the French without great difficulty.
Bompart was apparently satisfied with Crowley’s comments, but Tone, it seemed, wanted more.
“And what of our friends to the east? Will they not join with the others, and maybe attack?”
Crowley pursed his lips. “It is possible, but only once they are certain of their existence and strength. In ten, maybe twenty minutes they will have sight of the Indiamen, and it will only take a while longer before it is obvious just how large a fleet they are.”
“So you are saying we should move now, before the British become aware?”
He shrugged: he supposed he was.
Tone regarded the commodore. “I see it as the only hope,” he said in a voice that held both power and decision. “Steer for the frigates; despatch our own in advance, if you think they can be trusted. But send the British scurrying for shelter; and do it now, while we still have a chance of ever seeing our destination.”
Bompart said nothing for a moment; he was clearly not a man who took action quickly, and Tone was becoming visibly frustrated while he waited.
“It is what I suggested from the start,” he said, pressing his hands still deeper into his pockets. “With them on our shoulder it is merely a question of time before we are brought to action; even a simple sailor-man like Michael can see that.”
Crowley ducked his head slightly as the attention was momentarily brought back to him.
“And that is not the object of the exercise, Jean.” Tone said, resuming his thread. “You may regard the British as something you must fight, I see them as an obstacle, and one to be avoided. If we can rid ourselves of these few small scouts we might resume our journey, and carry out the task that was originally given to us.”
“But if we steer for them, they will run,” the commodore’s voice was very nearly a whine.
“Maybe so, but we would have made the effort,” Tone was starting to sound exasperated. He paused, and Bompart looked to him, thinking – hoping – he might have finished. But there was further shot in the locker.
“You must see to it that we reach Ireland; that is your responsibility,” he said. “Mine starts when we touch Irish soil. But if you fail to get us there, if I am once more thwarted by the incompetence and faint heartedness of French seamen, I will make every effort to see that whoever is responsible comes to notice.” Bompart swallowed, clearly Tone was not speaking lightly; indeed, he had connections a plenty in the Directory, and was known to be a close friend of General Bonaparte. Then Tone smiled suddenly, and his shoulders relaxed.
“All I am asking is that you attempt to see off those ships,” he said, his voice now softer and almost friendly. “Despatch a few frigates to send them on their way, then alter course. Take us to Ireland. Let us do our job, Jean, it isn’t much to ask. And remember: it is an invasion force that you command, not a battle fleet.”
* * *
Fraiser had listened to Manning with quiet attention and was silent for a very long time afterwards. But when he did speak it was with his usual quiet assurance. And what he said was so complete and made such sense that the surgeon’s mate needed no further advice. He thanked the elderly sailing
master, leaving him to the contemplation he had originally disturbed, and went to talk with Mrs Clarkson.
He knew she would be in the dispensary. The morning surgery did not start for another half an hour, but she was usually there early to make certain all was ready, and Manning was reasonably sure they would not be disturbed. She looked up from the ledger when he came in and gave her usual free-hearted beam. Manning acknowledged her coldly in return, and the look faded.
“Betsy, I’d like to speak with you,” he said.
She closed the book, instantly aware of the subject. Manning pulled up the stool used by the patients and sat close by so that their words would not be overheard.
“I’ve given this some thought, and hope to have reached a conclusion.”
“I also, Robert – I can call you Robert can’t I? There are a number of ways we can…”