The Patriot's Fate

by Alaric Bond

  He held up his hand and she stopped as if so trained. “Thank you, Betsy. I don’t want to ignore what you wish to say, but please let me speak first.” She nodded. “Are you well?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “There is no morning sickness?”

  “None whatsoever. I have been very lucky.”

  “What of William: has he noticed any change?”

  Her eyes fell for a moment. “Not that I am aware. Nothing has been said, at least.”

  “And the pregnancy; you are still quite certain?”

  “Quite.”

  He drew a deep breath and studied her for a moment. Indeed, she did appear amazingly bonnie. Her face, always so full of health, was now positively blooming, and there was a brightness in her eyes that even the dull light of the dispensary could not hide.

  “And you are absolutely certain the baby is Marshall’s?”

  She held his stare for a moment. “I have no reason to think otherwise.”

  Manning considered this; it was, he supposed, an encouraging answer. “And what if Marshall had the mumps?” he asked.

  Her look froze for a second, then broke and she very nearly laughed aloud. “The mumps?”

  “Yes, I understand he was exhibiting many of the symptoms.”

  Manning was looking at his hands now, being suddenly unable to meet her eyes. Shortly he would betray both Clarkson and his Hippocratic oath, but he knew all that must be discounted. What really mattered was that Betsy accepted the slender lifeline he offered.

  “It was before I joined, but there was talk in the gunroom the other evening,” he carried on relentlessly. “Some even suppose it was he who brought the illness to the ship.”

  “No, no it could not have been.” She sounded vaguely flustered. “His face was quite normal and… and surely I would have known?”

  “You might not have,” Manning said with an apparent honesty that amazed even himself. “The mumps can effect people in different ways. There is, however, one symptom that is all too common in older men.”

  This was a difficult moment. She was no fool and even had a good deal of medical knowledge. It would also be reasonable for her to have read up on the condition, considering the recent outbreak.

  “Well, I know it carries the chance of infertility…”

  He glanced up briefly and noted that Betsy Clarkson was blushing.

  “But I didn’t notice any difference,” she ended lamely.

  “You may not have,” his attention was once more on his hands and he began to fiddle absent-mindedly with his own wedding ring. “Especially if precautions were being taken, which I assume…?”

  She agreed, and still he avoided her eyes, although Betsy’s face was now very definitely aglow.

  “So tell me, is it truly beyond doubt that this child is not your husband’s?”

  There was no answer for a while, her thoughts were clearly set somewhere far away and it was with an effort that she finally returned to the real world and his question.

  “William’s?” she hesitated. “I, I suppose it possible. It just seemed so obvious it must belong to Francis.”

  “Well I think we have established such a possibility to be unlikely.” That was a lie, as he guessed both of them understood well enough. But would she have the sense, or the gall – it mattered not which – to accept it? Manning felt the heat rise under his collar, and told himself what he was did was for the best. The best for everyone. “If you think the child could be William’s, you should tell him immediately. To delay further would appear strange.”

  “Yes I see that,” Betsy spoke slowly, and he wondered if she really did.

  “And as soon as possible, Betsy.”

  She looked at him, but he did not meet her stare. “You don’t mean now?” she asked.

  “I see no reason why not. There may be a few sprains and knocks from the topmen, but no ongoing patients that I cannot cope with. Go seek him out: he will be delighted.”

  Manning knew this was the time when she would either reject the story or start to willingly believe it. “You are certain?” she asked, her voice heavy and intense. “About Francis, I mean?”

  “You know I cannot be positive.”

  “No,” she said, considering. “No, of course not.”

  Once more they both considered this, and it was with effort that Manning finally spoke.

  “Betsy, I feel it better that the child is William’s.” There could be no argument with that, and he found the words easily. “I would also predict that he will make an extremely fine father.”

  “I love him so much,” she said, pushing her head forward in a way that was half imploring, half desperate. “And I should never do anything so foolish again, you have to believe that.”

  “It is not I who must believe anything,” Manning replied almost sadly as he raised his head and finally looked straight at her. “The truth can be dangerous. It must be handled with caution. And sometimes is better used sparingly.” Then their eyes met, there was a moment of mutual understanding, and Manning knew that he had won. “Now go tell William,” he said.

  * * *

  It took them a considerable time, but all the French ships had finally tacked and were now heading for the nearest British frigate. She had also turned, as if in her own length, and after adding royals, dug her stem into the waves and made off. Her speed reduced as soon as two other ships came into sight, and Bompart’s fleet was even allowed to gain slightly. But at no time was the distance sufficient to bring the two squadrons to fighting range, and it was clear that it never would. Crowley was watching from the forecastle, his usual vantage point being useless with the British almost directly ahead. A number of officers had also gathered there, and he was not unduly surprised when Tone joined them. But it was Crowley that he singled out and drew into conversation.

  “You’re friends are running, as we would have predicted.”

  Crowley did not turn. “They are not my friends,” he said softly.

  “That’s right.” Tone agreed. “Your friends are safe in Portsmouth, and likely to remain so for as long as their ship stays in the dock.”

  This time he did look at the man. “How did you know?”

  Tone gave a short laugh. “You may put that down to one of the advantages of the brotherhood,” he said. “But enough; the British are finally on the run, that is all that need concern us for the moment.”

  “As you said, it was predictable.”

  “It was, but at last we are heading in the right direction.” he lowered his voice. “Had matters been left to the commodore we would be half way to America by now.”

  The ship dipped, and a larger than average wave broke over her bow. The officers stood back and there was a smattering of laughter. The dark sea was crested white and the wind grew more ominous by the second.

  “I should say we were back to trusting luck,” Tone continued, his voice still low. “If the weather grows worse, and we continue to chase, it is likely that damage will be caused. There are ten of us to be lost and only three of them, so we can afford to leave several of our own behind in order that they be caught. And if nothing happens the chase may even continue until our goal is in sight.” He stopped to brush some spray from his coat, before looking up and into Crowley’s eyes. “We are already that much nearer to our home soil, Michael. And Ireland itself is that much closer to becoming a free country.”

  Chapter Nine

  It turned out to be a first rate autumnal gale. The wind whistled through Scylla‘s taut lines, her canvas cracked and spars groaned as the ship beat her way into the very heart of the tempest. Banks was on deck, as he had been since the brief but useless interview with the fishermen. That had been some seven hours ago; now the evening was fast descending, and he knew it would be a sleepless night for them all.

  Fraiser was at the binnacle making notes from the traverse board. It was likely the storm would last a good few days, with little chance of noonday sights. Nevertheless it rem
ained his responsibility to plot the ship’s position, and Banks was glad to have someone to hand with the competence and experience the sailing master possessed. Dead reckoning, using an estimation of the direction and speed of current and wind, was more an act of intuition than science, and Banks was not gifted in either discipline. But he could sail a ship through the strongest of gales, and was quite content to give the current task all of his attention and leave other capable men to their own speciality.

  “Take a further reef in the topsails, if you please, Mr Chilton.”

  The lieutenant touched the brim of his sou’wester and bellowed for topmen. Banks had hoped to ride the weather out with a single reef, but the spars were starting to complain, and it would be foolish to suffer any unnecessary damage aloft, especially when speed and manoeuvrability were likely to be needed over the next few days. The men flowed up the shrouds and soon passed along the topsail yards. Then, with their weight resting mainly on their bellies, they began grabbing at the sodden canvas, pulling it upwards and towards them, and finally tying the excess back. It was another job that the captain would rather avoid, and he turned his attention away just as a shout came from the main masthead.

  “Object in sight off the larboard bow.” Banks could see the man pointing, but the horizon was completely dark. “It’s a boat, a fisherman, or something similar,” the look out continued. “‘bout three cables off.”

  Banks walked forward to the break of the quarterdeck and peered into the gloom. Sure enough there was a shape just visible, although it was apparently drifting, without masts or canvas. He looked up to the yards; the last of the topmen were clear and most were already heading back to the deck.

  “Heave to, Mr Chilton!”

  The sighting was almost in the eye of the wind; it would be futile to do anything other than hold their place, and allow the storm to bring the vessel to them. The afterguard hauled the yards round and Scylla‘s hull was swept to larboard. Banks crossed to the opposite side of the deck where the boat could be seen more clearly. It could hardly have been more than thirty feet in length, and had struck both masts. It was also well laden; two heavy crates were obvious amidships, and there were several bales, casks and sacks under a cover that was flapping wildly in the wind. Two men were visible in the sternsheets, but a second tarpaulin just forward of them might well have been sheltering more.

  “Boat hooks, there!” Lewis, the master’s mate, had joined him and was assessing the situation. “You, Crouch, ready when they come past; we don’t want to do this twice.”

  A party of men were now hanging from Scylla’s fore and main chains, boat hooks extended, while further hands were ready with lengths of line. The boat was approaching quickly, and should actually collide with the frigate’s hull. As soon as it did there would be about two or three seconds in which to secure the craft before the current and wind rushed it past. Banks watched as the small vessel drew closer. The men at her stern were in heavy oilskins and neither made any attempt to move forward to receive a line at their bow.

  “Ready lads,” Lewis was holding his hand up, gauging the moment to the second. The boat passed out of Banks’s field of vision, and the master’s mate cried out in the darkness. Those at the falls threw their lines while the seamen with boat hooks leaned down, almost out of sight. There was a brief moment of confusion, then someone gave a solid cheer and Lewis looked back at his captain.

  “We have them, sir.”

  “Very good, have the passengers brought on board as fast as you can; the boat you may abandon.” He had no intention of risking men’s lives and slowing their passage further by attempting to take a heavily laden vessel in tow.

  Lewis was bareheaded, but touched his forehead, and bent to bellow at the working party. Banks retreated to the binnacle. Hauling passengers aboard in the teeth of a gale was yet another task that was better left to someone else.

  * * *

  The storm had also reached the Hoche and she was making heavy weather of it. Even from his cramped hammock Crowley had the feel of the ship, and knew things were not right. He moved, nudging Doyle with his shoulder and hardly hearing his friend curse in his sleep. They had been below for at least eight hours; the storm had blown up in that time and Crowley sensed that it would stay with them a good while longer. He had no way of knowing what conditions were like on deck, but the ship had been badly managed from the start, and he didn’t expect the recent change in the weather to have improved things. He swung his legs out and jumped down from his hammock. This time both Doyle and Doherty swore, but he had no ears for either. Making his way along the crowded orlop he could hear the pumps in action and knew that the ship’s timbers must be straining painfully. A party of men were seated by the main hatchway that led to the deck above. There was a strong smell of wine in the air, and one was talking in an especially loud and high-pitched voice. Crowley supposed that fear was likely to effect people in different ways, and pushed his way through.

  At the top of the steps a soldier was sitting with his back braced against a wooden post, clearly attempting to maintain some form of equilibrium in a vertiginous world. He noticed Crowley with surprise, shouted out a challenge and made as if to rise. The Irishman could not be bothered with the language, and roughly pushed him back down onto the deck. The private struggled up and caught hold of his arm. Suddenly all of the tensions and doubts of the last few weeks welled up inside, and Crowley glared pure venom at the man. “Leave me alone, you bloody frog,” he hissed. His glance alone was enough to turn milk, and the soldier drew back. Crowley roughly shook the man’s grip from his sleeve and continued.

  There was no guard posted at the next hatchway and soon Crowley was on deck. He was lacking both coat and hat, and the spray stung his skin, but strangely the Irishman did not feel in the least cold. He looked about. Men were sheltering under the gangways, and there were four hanging grimly to the wheel. The Hoche was showing topsails without reefs: it was far too much canvas for such conditions, and the spars and shrouds were under great strain. He approached the quarterdeck steps and climbed half way up. Apart from the men at the wheel only one other was near to the binnacle. He was crouched down, seeking what shelter he could from the lee of the mizzen mast, and so soundly wrapped in oilskins as to be unrecognisable. Crowley waved his hand, but the man ignored him. Swearing softly he made his way up and lurched across the deck in a series of short but carefully timed bursts.

  “You must take in the sail,” he yelled, his face inches from the man’s covered face. “Take in the sail” he repeated. “Descendez la voile!”

  There was no sign of recognition in the eyes; disgusted, Crowley moved on and was about to start back for the waist when another oilskin encased body emerged from the officer’s companionway. Crowley waved, and he drew closer.

  “Too much sail!” Crowley shouted, and this time the man responded. Staring up at the tophamper he brought a metal call to his lips and blew a long blast. Soon men were appearing from the waist and forecastle and stood waiting for instructions. The ship gave a sudden lurch, and there was an ominous crack from higher up on the mainmast. There was very little time, and without further thought Crowley made for the windward gangway.

  He had reached the weather mainmast shrouds, swung himself out, and was starting the climb to the maintop before he even realised others were following. The shrouds were iron tight, but each ratline hung loose beneath his bare feet. It was several months before that Crowley had last climbed aloft and probably years since he had done so during a storm. His muscles ached and he knew that he was not in practice. Still, as he reached the futtock shrouds, his instincts kept him safe. He swiftly transferred himself to the topmast shrouds and was making reasonable progress when the mast gave another loud crack. Then the sail in front of him grew slack, and a line whipped passed his head. For a moment he considered descending to the maintop. He glanced down, but there were men behind: he must continue.

  A shout came from the quarterdeck; the ship was heavin
g to, but Crowley knew they had to make the yard and get that sail in. Then he was at the crosstrees, and the topsail yard was immediately within reach. Reaching up he pulled himself onto the wooden beam, his feet finding purchase on the footrope. Another man was following, and there were several after that.

  The ship was still lurching violently in the storm, with every movement amplified by the height of the yard. He made his way along, resting after every third or fourth foot. His belly protested at the unexpected exertion, but soon he was in position, and there appeared to be enough with him to handle the sail. Leaning forward he grabbed at the canvas. It was wet and heavy, and several of his nails broke as he brought it up. But he made progress, and there were others next to him being as successful. For a moment he drew breath, the call had been close, but it looked like they had acted in the nick of time. And it was then that it happened.