‘I did indeed,’ smiled the young man. ‘We renewed our understanding, but we will not be wed quite yet. With all this talk of peace, we thought to wait until we have the leisure to be married in a proper fashion, rather than in haste during my two weeks of leave.’
‘Very wise,’ said Taylor. ‘Let us hope the peace comes soon, then. I daresay you can barely recall not being at war, Mr Preston?’
‘I was fifteen when it began, and just newly come to sea,’ recalled the lieutenant. ‘It will be strange not to be serving in the navy, but Sarah’s father has promised me one of his trading brigs when we are married, so I shall not be quitting the sea just yet. What will you do, sir?’
‘I fear I am a little old to return to the merchant service, Edward,’ said Taylor. ‘But I have some prize money put aside, enough to buy myself a little cottage and perhaps some land. With my half pay I dare say I will be able to live, in a modest way.’
The two officers were quiet for a moment, both lost in thoughts of what their respective futures might hold, while beneath their feet the frigate bounded across the ocean, rushing them ever forwards.
*****
‘Sail ho!’ bellowed the lookout, a few days later.
The officer of the watch was now Jacob Armstrong, the Griffin’s stout sailing master. He stepped to one side of the quarterdeck to give himself an uninterrupted view of the masthead. He inflated his considerable lungs, cupped one hand beside his mouth, and used the other to keep his hat and periwig in place as he angled his head back.
‘Where away, Pedersen?’ he roared, in an accent still heavy with the New England of his birth.
‘Two points off the larboard bow, sir,’ replied the sailor. ‘Topgallants just lifting over the horizon.’
‘What do you make of her?’
‘Small brig, I should say, sir,’ replied the lookout. ‘She looks to have hauled her wind, and is going about.’
‘They don’t care for the look of us, eh,’ muttered Armstrong. He turned to one of the midshipmen standing by the wheel. ‘My compliments to the captain, Mr Todd, and kindly tell him that there is a sail in sight.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the youngster, touching his hat before scampering over to the ladderway. A few minutes later he returned with the tall figure of his captain on his heels.
‘Is she in sight from the deck, Mr Armstrong?’ he asked, pulling a telescope from its place beside the binnacle.
‘Not yet, sir,’ replied the sailing master. ‘She was on a converging course, but turned away when she laid eyes on us.’
‘I daresay that may mean very little,’ mused Clay. ‘Any trading brig would be warry of a strange sail, but it may signify something.’ He passed the telescope across to the midshipman. ‘Up you go, Mr Todd, and tell us what they are about, if you please.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied the youngster, running for the mainmast shrouds.
‘If she were one of ours, would you not have expected her to be in a convoy, sir?’ asked the American.
‘I would indeed, Mr Armstrong,’ confirmed his captain. ‘Which is why we must investigate. Kindly put us on a course to close with her, and have those reefs shaken out of the topgallants.’
With her towering masts and sleek hull, the Griffin would always have had the beating of a heavily laden brig. The keen trade wind was still blowing, and she rapidly began to overhaul the strange sail. Before long a little square of white was visible from the deck, rising above the horizon. It grew quickly as the frigate dashed across the sea towards her.
‘Chase is setting more sail, sir!’ reported Todd from the masthead.
‘Is it me, Mr Armstrong, or is she setting that fore course in a very indifferent fashion,’ Clay observed. Both men focused on the big white sail that had appeared, billowing and flapping in the wind.
‘Like Old Mistress Allerton’s washing,’ muttered the American, once the sail was finally sheeted home. ‘That was poorly done, even for the crew of a merchant ship, sir.’
‘British colours, sir!’ supplemented Todd from the masthead.
‘Mr Russell, would you kindly make the private recognition signal for a merchantman,’ ordered his captain.
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the midshipman, making his way over to the flag locker.
‘Deck there!’ came Todd’s cry once more. ‘Her sails look damaged to me, sir. The foretopsail has a couple of rents in it.’
‘So it does,’ confirmed Armstrong.
Clay looked towards the sail for a moment longer, then closed his telescope. ‘Has she responded to our signal yet, Mr Russell?’ he asked.
‘Not yet, sir,’ said the youngster. ‘I can see some men trying to work the mizzen halliard, but they seem to be struggling.’
‘For sure they are,’ snorted Clay. ‘Struggling to know what flags to run up, I’ll warrant.’
The brig was no more than a few miles off the bow, but continued to sail away from them. Through his telescope Clay could see more detail now. The ship sat heavy in the sea, her hold full of cargo. The rents in her topsails appeared as pale blue discs, where the sky beyond was visible. They must be shot holes, and he fancied that some of the rigging looked to have been spliced, thickened in places like the joints on a finger. The group of men clustered around the signal halliard finally began attaching flags to the line, and hauling them aloft.
‘Chase is signalling, sir,’ announced Russell. ‘Now that is odd!’
‘Is it not the correct response?’ asked Clay.
‘I am not sure what to make of it, in truth, sir. It has the correct flags, but the order is wrong.’
‘Incompetent lubbers, sir?’ suggested the American.
‘Or someone under duress required to make the signal, and using the opportunity to send a message of a different character,’ said Clay. ‘The laboured manner in which they made sail speaks to me of a prize crew, unfamiliar with their capture. That would also explain the damage aloft. Kindly have the watch below turned up, Mr Armstrong. I’ll have the forward section of guns on the larboard side manned and run out, if you please, and one of the cutters ready to launch. You had best arm the crew.’
‘Aye aye, sir, said Armstrong, turning away to issue the instructions.
‘Mr Russell, signal to the chase to haul her wind,’ ordered Clay.
‘Aye aye, sir.’
The squeal of boatswain’s pipes echoed through the lower deck, and the watch below came boiling up the ladderways. Lieutenant Blake strode out onto the main deck beneath Clay’s feet, his delight obvious at the prospect of his beloved guns seeing action. Taylor came running up onto the quarterdeck to join his captain, shrugging on his coat and tweaking his neckcloth straight as he came. On the forecastle Hutchinson bellowed instructions to the men rigging the tackles for the cutter, while by the entry port her crew were being issued with cutlasses and pistols by Arkwright, the frigate’s armourer.
Midshipman Todd had made his way down from the masthead in order to take command of the boat. He collected a cutlass from Arkwright and stood beside a tall, gaunt sailor with a hooked nose who was checking the priming on his pistol, prior to stuffing it into the waistband of his trousers. Clay watched him for a moment. That must be the new recruit with the curious name that Taylor wants to promote, he thought to himself. He certainly seemed assured enough, as he waited patiently among his fellow shipmates. Clay returned his attention to the brig, which was just off the frigate’s bow. She was so close that Clay could see the detail of her battered stern. There was a row of four large window lights beneath a decorative arc of carved wood, picked out in blue and white paint. Below the windows, on her counter, was the ship’s name in bold white letters, Margaret Harmony.
‘Why has the chase not heaved to, Mr Russell?’ he demanded. ‘Did she not acknowledge your order?’
‘She has not done so yet, sir,’ said the midshipman.
‘Then let us send her a signal that she may find easier to follow,’ said Clay, stepping forward to the rail. ‘Mr
Blake!’
‘Yes sir,’ said the officer, looking up at him.
‘Give her a gun, if you please,’ he ordered.
The Griffin’s foremost cannon banged out, sending a cloud of smoke billowing away across the sea. A fountain of water rose up, just ahead of the chase, and moments later she turned into the wind, her sails volleying in the keen breeze. The frigate followed her in the turn, coming up just to windward of her, and then backed her topsails so as to keep the brig covered by a half dozen of her big eighteen-pounders.
‘Cutter away!’ yelled Clay, over the sound of flapping canvas. ‘Mr Todd, kindly take possession of her, and then come back and report what you find. Send me her master across, if you can locate him.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the youngster, touching his hat, and then he followed his crew down the side and into the cutter. Soon the boat reappeared, rising and falling in the long blue swell as she rowed across to the little brig.
*****
‘Clap on in the bow, there Davis,’ ordered Todd, as the cutter came alongside the wallowing ship. ‘You and O’Brien stay with the boat; the rest follow me.’
The fourteen-year old’s unbroken voice had risen to a falsetto with excitement, leading some of his crew to raise an eyebrow to each other, but there was no denying their young leader’s enthusiasm for his task. He got to his feet, settled his hat a little more firmly on his mass of blond curls, and made his way unsteadily down the rocking boat.
‘Your pardon, Jones, was that your hand?’ said the midshipman, as one of the oarsmen yelped with pain.
‘No matter, sir,’ grunted the sailor, ‘for I have another.’
Todd arrived at the gunnel and stared thoughtfully at the wall of battered oak before him. The side of the brig was not particularly high, especially when compared with that of the hulking Griffin, but there the comparison ended. The well-maintained flight of steps that ran up the frigate’s side were here replaced by a few broken remnants, all slimy with weed, and there was no trace of the Griffin’s convenient hand ropes. To add to his discomfort, the height of the climb was swelling and shrinking by a good four feet with each fresh Atlantic roller that passed beneath the boat. But he was a good officer who knew his duty. With a flash of silver, he drew out the cutlass, and steeled himself to make the leap.
‘Goldilocks be in for a dunking, if you don’t help him, Larcum,’ he heard one sailor mutter to another behind him.
A moment later Todd felt the firm hand of the nearest oarsman steading him. ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but I’d be stowing that blade for the present,’ said Mudge. ‘You’ll be needing both fins for that there climb. That be better. Now, best to wait for the rise. Steady and … jump!’
As the swell pushed the cutter upwards, Todd launched himself. His right foot slithered down the wet side, but his left found a solid hold. For a moment the heavy cutlass scabbard threatened to dislodge him as it clattered about his legs, but with a final, breathless scramble he reached the entry port and stumbled onto the deck of the brig.
The planking was filthy when compared with the scrubbed oak he was used to, and open boxes and sacks littered the space. A dozen men of various races, all heavily armed, eyed the new arrival with hostility. With the next passing wave, the hawkish face of Mudge appeared behind him in the entry port, and quickly advanced to his side.
‘Who is in charge here?’ demanded the youngster. No one reacted to him.
‘I reckon it be that fat arse what needs a shave, stood by the wheel, sir,’ suggested Mudge, pointing his pistol towards a large man in a long coat and sea boots. Seeing the weapon reminded Todd to draw his own sword. ‘Shall I be lowering a line to help fetch the others up to join us, sir?’ continued the sailor.
‘If you please, Mudge,’ said Todd, advancing on the man, who was at least twice his size. ‘You are a French prize crew, are you not?’
‘Of course,’ growled the sailor. ‘Except for that pig there, who sends the wrong signal.’ He indicated a silver-haired man who was sitting by the stern rail.
The latter rose to his feet and came across. ‘By God, but I am pleased to see you, young man,’ he enthused, wringing Todd’s hand. ‘My name is Slocum, Harold Slocum, master of the Margaret Harmony.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Captain,’ said Todd. ‘How did you come to lose your ship?’
‘We were two days out of Antigua with a cargo of rum and sugar, heading to the rendezvous for the convoy home,’ said Slocum. ‘Then out of the night comes this armed sloop, full of yelling men, and boards us like damned pirates! Not so much as a trace of the navy, I might add.’
‘We not pirates!’ said the sailor, wagging his finger at Slocum. ‘We French privateersmen, from Guadeloupe. I have papers to prove.’
‘French!’ exclaimed Slocum. ‘Not above a bare half of them! The rest were dagos, blacks and all manner of ne’er-do-wells.’
‘You must surrender, sir,’ Todd demanded, pointing towards the Griffin. The man by the wheel glanced at the British frigate, with its line of cannon, manned and ready. He shrugged, unbuckled the cutlass belt from around his waist and pulled a heavy pistol from deep in his pocket.
‘She is yours, monsieur,’ he conceded, dumping his weapons into the youngster’s arms.
‘Best let me be having all that gear, like, sir,’ said Mudge from behind his shoulder, relieving his diminutive superior of his burden. Behind Mudge the rest of the cutter’s crew had formed up, a solid crowd of armed seamen.
‘Waite, go with Captain Slocum here and release his crew,’ Todd ordered. ‘Then I shall require you to go across with me to be interviewed by my captain,’ he added to Slocum.
‘Happy to oblige, young man,’ said the ship’s master.
‘Jones, man the wheel,’ continued Todd. ‘The rest of you, disarm these Frogs, and put them under the forecastle.’
‘Right, you come with me,’ said Larcum, to the leader of the privateers, pulling him along by the arm.
Todd went to the wheel next, and after a brief search found a battered brass speaking trumpet in the locker under the binnacle.
‘Best let Pipe know what is happening,’ he muttered to himself as he crossed to the rail facing the Griffin. He inflated his lungs to hail his captain, but got no further. Suddenly there was a flash from forward and the sound of a shot rang out. He spun round to see a cloud of gun smoke dispersing in the wind. The body of one of the privateersmen lay on the deck, while the others had backed away, hands held aloft.
‘What the hell is going on?’ he demanded, running up.
‘It be Mudge, sir,’ reported one of the boat crew. ‘He’s only gone an’ shot one of the buggers.’
‘He pulled a knife on me, the bastard, sir,’ said the sailor, standing over the body.
‘We’d best get him back to the Griffin for Mr Corbett to look at,’ said Todd.
‘Not sure as the sawbones can help him any, sir,’ commented one of the other seamen. ‘Him’s got a bullet in his head.’
Todd looked at the crumpled figure of the dead privateer. He was lying face down in a spreading pool of blood, with a long pigtail twisted out on the deck beside him. The sleeve of his shirt had fallen back from his heavily tattooed forearm. The youngster bent down to examine some of them.
‘Dread Nought,’ he read, ‘and a fouled anchor. This man is a damned deserter!’
‘Aye, perhaps that be why he wanted to stick me,’ said Mudge. Todd looked up at the sailor, but could read nothing in the man’s dark eyes.
Chapter 3 English Harbour
The lower deck of the Griffin was bustling and noisy later that evening, as the men awaited their dinner. Along both sides of the space were rows of mess tables, each one surrounded by half a dozen hands. The gloom this deep in the ship was dispersed a little by the bright evening sunshine that filtered down through the gratings, supplemented by the glow of the horn lanterns that swung above each table. The excitement of the chase and capture earlier that day had given the crew of the
frigate plenty to discuss, not least the prize money they had gained from the encounter.
‘That Maggie Harpy is a tired old ship, for sure, as will not fetch us much, but what of the fecking cargo!’ enthused O’Malley to his fellow messmates. ‘Tons of best sugar, and grog to boot. That’ll fetch us a pretty penny, what with the war an’ all.’
‘It will, so long as she gets condemned afore the peace,’ cautioned Sedgwick. ‘Price of sugar will fall swiftly enough after that.’
‘Aye, I suppose that’ll be right,’ said O’Malley. ‘Any excuse for them thieving feckers to cheat honest tars.’
‘How do you work this stuff out, Able?’ queried Mudge, the newest member of the mess. ‘I ain’t never heard of no negros as had learning and stuff.’
‘Maybe you ain’t been mixing with the right sort,’ said the coxswain, with a hard look in his eye. ‘As for sugar, I’ve cut enough cane in my time to know of what I speak, Larcum.’
‘I suppose you have,’ agreed Mudge. ‘An’ copped a flogging or two whenever you slacked, from the look of that back of yours.’
‘Just like the fecking navy,’ said O’Malley.
‘A deal worse, in truth, for you didn’t need to err to be punished,’ said Sedgwick. ‘As for the price falling, that just stands to reason. Once peace comes, all them big Frog and Don islands will be free to sell the stuff, hand over fist.’
‘Aye, that do make sense,’ said Mudge. ‘But only after you been an’ said it, like.’
‘Proper scholar is our Able,’ said Evans, basking in the reflected pride of association. ‘He’s been an’ writ a bleeding book an’ the like.’
‘That right?’ said the Mudge. ‘So how come you still be on the lower deck then. Captain’s coxswain be a proper position, I grant you, but with your letters an’ all, don’t you fancy being a Grunter?’
‘Pipe offered to make me be a master’s mate, or a snotty, but I be happy where I is,’ said Sedgwick. ‘Look around you. Turks, Dagoes, Negros, Lascars, Chinese, even Irish,’ he added with a wink to the others. ‘No one down here cares where I be from. I ain’t so sure as Grunters and toffs will be so welcoming to the likes of me.’
Larcum Mudge (Alexander Clay Series Book 8) Page 4