Larcum Mudge (Alexander Clay Series Book 8)

by Philip K Allan

  ‘I was unaware of the presence of your ship in the Leeward Islands, sir,’ he said, dabbing at himself. ‘Damnation! My whole bloody sleeve is sopping.’

  ‘Surrender your coat to my steward, I pray,’ said Clay. ‘Before you catch a chill. Harte, kindly take it to the galley, and have it dried, if you please. That is much better, I am sure. As for my presence, I have only newly arrived in these waters.’

  ‘I see,’ said his guest, retaking his seat. ‘May I ask why I have the pleasure of this visit, sir? I am generally left to guard the French hereabouts without assistance.’

  ‘So I understand,’ said Clay. He opened the top drawer of his desk, took out a sealed packet and passed it across. ‘Here are fresh orders for you from Sir George covering how we are to work together. To answer you directly, I have been dispatched from home to perform a specific enterprise, which you may be able to assist me with.’

  ‘I see, sir,’ said his guest, making as if to slide his new orders into the inner pocket of the coat he no longer wore. A fresh frown of annoyance settled between his eyes. ‘And what, pray is the nature of this enterprise?’

  ‘Do you recall the sloop Peregrine?’

  ‘Captain Daniels’s ship, sir? The one that was supposedly lost in a storm last year?’

  ‘The very same,’ said Clay. ‘What did you think of that incident?’

  ‘Daniels was such a bloody fool, it came as little surprise to me that he had lost his command. I was quite prepared to believe that the lubber had foundered, but as it transpired, he succeeded in provoking his people to revolt before that could happen. How such coves are elevated to positions of authority is beyond me.’ His eyes flickered briefly over Clay’s coat, with its double epaulettes, and then he drank thirstily from his glass. ‘Capital drop of wine, that, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Then let me pour you a little more, Captain, in my steward’s absence,’ said Clay, collecting the decanter and refilling both glasses. ‘The character of the late Captain Daniels need not long detain us. I am more concerned with the location of his former ship. Since it is known that the Peregrine did not sink, as was supposed, I have been ordered to find and recapture her.’

  ‘Good luck with that, sir!’ snorted his guest. ‘Why, she has over half a year’s start on you! She might have fetched Botany Bay by now.’

  ‘She might, but the Admiralty think not. They have seized a number the mutineers, and in one respect, their stories are all in accord. After they seized the Peregrine and murdered her captain, the rebels took her into Guadeloupe over there and sold her to the French.’ Clay pointed towards the green slopes of the island visible through the stern window lights.

  ‘Impossible, sir!’ exclaimed Camelford. ‘I should know if such a ship were here.’

  ‘But would you?’ mussed Clay. ‘Consider, she would not have arrived until the hurricane season was at hand, when the Daring was withdrawn. Then the enemy will have had considerable leisure to alter her appearance.’

  ‘It would take more than a lick of paint and a few new spars to fool me,’ bristled Camelford. ‘The Peregrine and Daring sailed in company on several occasions. I can assure you I am quite familiar with her general appearance, sir.’

  Clay turned the stem of his glass between his fingers. ‘So doubtless you would have noted her departure?’ he said.

  ‘Of course, sir. I know how to perform my duty!’

  ‘Then I am at something of a loss, Captain,’ said Clay. ‘It is certain that the Peregrine was brought here by the mutineers, and yet you assure me both that she cannot still be in that port, and that she cannot have escaped your vigilance to slip away? How are such opposing views to be reconciled? Surely the only conclusion is that she must continue to lie in Pointe-à-Pitre. Is that not so?’

  Camelford’s face had flushed to a dangerous shade of red. Forewarned by Sutton of his volcanic temper, Clay held up a hand.

  ‘I do not wish to vex you, Captain, but I have my duty to perform and you have fresh orders to assist me,’ he said. ‘Come, let you and I put all this to the test. We shall close with Pointe-à-Pitre tomorrow, and conduct a thorough search of the place. I have a man on board who once served on the Peregrine, and should be able to see through any French trickery. If she is not in Guadeloupe, then I shall own I was wrong and take my search elsewhere. Will that answer?’

  ‘But it is a fool’s errand, sir!’ insisted Camelford. ‘I know what I am damned well about!’

  ‘What did you just say?’ said Clay icily, glaring at the younger man. ‘Did you just describe my proposal as that of a fool?’

  ‘No sir, of course not, sir. I was only offering my opinion,’ said Camelford, his face blotched and angry.

  ‘I have no objection to constructive suggestions, if they are framed in an appropriate way,’ said Clay. ‘Have the goodness to use language that reflects the difference in our rank, Captain.’

  ‘I only seek to avoid the unnecessary, sir,’ said his guest.

  ‘But I say that it is necessary. If you have nothing to offer above simple contradiction, that is an end to the matter.’

  There was a long pause as the furious Camelford stared into the cold grey eyes of Clay. ‘If those are your orders …’ he said, at last.

  ‘They are,’ snapped Clay. ‘I shall come across to the Daring shortly after dawn tomorrow, while the Griffin will remain out in the offing. The French will be familiar enough with your ship for us not to arouse suspicion. Should it come to an attack on Pointe-à-Pitre, I would sooner not alert them that a more powerful warship is in the area.’

  ‘I remain troubled by your refusal to accept my assurances on this matter, sir,’ growled Camelford.

  ‘For God’s sake, man, can you not see that I am trying to be reasonable with you?’ demanded Clay, his patience at an end. ‘Would you prefer me to have you stand at attention during our meetings, while I bark orders at you?’ His guest looked up sharply, his eyes hard with rage. ‘Come, my good sir, let us not quarrel over this. You know the way the service operates. I can hardly report back to Sir George, and tell him I gave up without having set eyes on this place, now, can I?’

  ‘I suppose not, sir,’ muttered his guest.

  Clay rose to his feet. ‘Good, that is settled,’ he said. ‘Until tomorrow, Captain. Pray let me escort you back to the side.’

  Camelford collected his hat and damp coat from Harte, putting them on without a word of thanks. The two men left the cabin in silence and made their way back to the entry port. When they arrived, Camelford pushed his hat down firmly on his head, and gave a perfunctory salute, rather than offering to shake hands.

  ‘Oh, there was one further matter, Captain,’ said Clay, stopping him with one foot already on the first step. ‘Did you chance to encounter any trading schooners yesterday?’

  ‘No, I can’t say that I did, sir,’ replied Camelford. ‘I chased a privateer two nights back, but that has been all. Am I to be answerable to you for all my activities now, sir?’

  ‘Of course not,’ snapped Clay, wondering how it was that this difficult young commander had managed to limit the number of duels he had fought to only one. ‘Till tomorrow, Captain.’

  Chapter 5 Pointe-à-Pitre

  Dawn the following day, and the sea was pearl beneath a sky flushed with a delicate shade of rose. Clay paused for a moment at the entry port to take it in, before he clambered down the side of the frigate and stepped into his barge. The movement of the sea was gentle and he had little difficulty making his way to the rear of the boat. He settled himself down next to Sedgwick in the stern sheets. It was deliciously cool this close to the sea’s surface, and it was only his dignity as a captain that made him resist the urge to reach over the side and trail his fingers through the water. Instead he looked at the crew, all immaculate in their matching white and green. One sailor dressed in a check shirt and waistcoat broke the symmetry. He was a heavily built man with a dark pigtail threaded with a little grey. Andrews, Clay reminded himself, the boatswai
n’s mate who had served six years previously on the Peregrine. He looks solid and competent, Clay decided. The French will have had to make considerable changes to his former ship to fool him.

  He turned towards his coxswain. ‘Get us underway, if you please, Sedgwick,’ he ordered.

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ he replied. ‘Shove off in the bow there! Back water, larboards! Easy all! Whole crew, give way!’

  The two ships were only a few cables apart, both hove to. Clay looked over the little sloop as they approached. In spite of his impossible temper, or perhaps because of it, Camelford seemed to keep a smart enough ship. Even close too nothing seemed out of place. Her rigging was worn but well maintained, and the paintwork on her battered hull was clean. As the gap to the Daring narrowed, Clay’s thoughts moved from the ship to her strange, angry captain. His face set into a scowl of determination. I’ll take no more nonsense from that young man, he told himself.

  He climbed up the side of the sloop and in through the entry port, his eyes darting around ready to find fault with what he saw. But just like the exterior of the ship, all on the main deck was as it should be. The line of ship’s boys all had white gloves, the correct number of boatswain’s mates twittered away on their calls, and the sloop’s small contingent of marines displayed all the white pipeclay and gleaming brass buttons to be expected of them. Even the ship’s commander seemed to have decided to be civil today.

  ‘Welcome aboard, sir,’ Camelford said, once the ceremony was over. He indicated the dark mass of Guadeloupe behind him, with only the highest peaks illuminated by the rising sun. ‘It will take us a good hour to close with Pointe-à-Pitre, so I thought you might care for some breakfast?’

  ‘I should like that very much, Captain,’ said Clay. ‘There is a sailor in my barge who once served on board the Peregrine. Would you kindly have him brought on board and made welcome?’

  ‘See to it, Mr Laidlaw, and have the ship put before the wind, if you please,’ ordered Camelford to the officer of the watch, before leading the way below to his cabin. As they went, the deck began to heel a little as the sloop got underway.

  ‘Have a care with the headroom, sir,’ warned Camelford, at the door to his cabin. ‘The Daring offers a good inch less headroom than you will be accustomed to on your frigate.’

  ‘My first command was a sloop of war,’ said Clay. ‘I well remember the limitations of the accommodation, although at the time I was newly promoted from lieutenant and thought the cabin one of limitless space, after the little gloomy box I had inhabited before.’

  Space, limitless or otherwise, was not freely available in the aft cabin of the Daring, however. Sutton had not exaggerated when he had described it; lines of book spines seemed to run away from Clay in all directions. Every one of the bulkheads had been shelved, and every inch of shelving was occupied. More books overflowed from cases on the floor, or were stacked against the carriages of the two twelve-pounder carronades that stood one on each side of the ship. Even the stern lockers that ran beneath the windows were covered in volumes. In the small area of deck that remained unoccupied stood a tiny desk, a little table laid out for breakfast and two chairs. That was all.

  ‘My, what a deal of books!’ exclaimed Clay, looking around him. ‘Where, pray, shall I sit?’

  ‘Why, just here, sir,’ said Camelford, collecting up the three slim volumes that lay on top of one seat, and patting it invitingly. ‘Bring through the coffee directly, Smith!’ he bellowed towards the cabin door.

  ‘My thanks,’ said Clay. He sat down and tried to spread out his legs, but soon met an obstruction. ‘Ah, capital. More books,’ he said, peering under the table.

  ‘Yes, I am afraid I am inordinately fond of literature, sir,’ said Camelford, for once a trifle abashed.

  ‘You don’t say,’ muttered Clay, as he sipped at his coffee. ‘How long does it take you to clear for action?’

  ‘Not as long as you might suppose, sir,’ said his host, looking around for somewhere to put the books in his hands. He eventually settled on the deck beside him. ‘You’ll note that my carpenter has fashioned bars that fit across the front of each shelf, to retain the books in place. They are required in any event, in case we meet with heavy weather. Then the shelves themselves detach from those above and beneath. My men are really quite well versed in breaking it all down. Are you fond of literature, sir?’

  ‘Tolerably so,’ said Clay. ‘I certainly enjoy reading, but my sister is the truly bookish one. She is acquainted with a number of authors and poets, and has published several works. Mainly romantic literature.’

  ‘Has she, by God? Any that I might have come across, sir?’ The angry young man of yesterday had vanished, and his eyes shone with interest.

  ‘Perhaps her first work,’ offered his guest. ‘I believe it was tolerably reviewed and has something of a following. It was named The Choices of Miss …’

  ‘… of Miss Amelia Grey!’ completed Camelford. ‘But, my dear sir, that is a work of genius! It is one of my favourite novels! Why, the scene in which Miss Amelia and Mr Lavery first dance together is exquisitely crafted. You must be so very proud of her.’

  ‘Eh … yes, I suppose I am,’ said Clay.

  ‘Salt bacon and eggs, hot from the galley, sir,’ announced the steward, placing a chafing dish between them. ‘Might I help you to some, sir?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Clay, holding out his plate. ‘Have you tried any of her other books?’

  ‘I have read them all,’ enthused his host, who then embarked on a fulsome dissection of Betsey Sutton’s various works, his breakfast congealing in front of him. Clay contented himself with nodded agreement between mouthfuls.

  When both the meal and the literary evaluation had run its course, he drained the last of his coffee and dropped his napkin onto the table. ‘Thank you for a most excellent repast, Captain,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we might now discuss this morning’s reconnaissance, while we yet have time?’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said the bookworm. ‘Kindly clear all this away, Smith, and bring us the chart.’

  The map that Camelford spread out on the table was worn with use and covered in little corrections and additions, all made in a neat hand. ‘I have patrolled these waters for some years, you’ll collect, sir,’ he explained. ‘I flatter myself that I have become quite the pilot, where the approaches to Guadeloupe are concerned.’

  ‘So I see,’ agreed Clay. ‘Might I trouble you for a copy of the relevant part before I leave?’

  ‘By all means, sir,’ said his host. He turned to his steward. ‘Kindly ask the sailing master to prepare one, Smith.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  ‘This large bay here is known locally as the Petit Cul de Sac, sir,’ resumed Camelford. ‘The chart originally showed it as devoid of hazards, but as you can see, over time, we have surveyed it with tolerable thoroughness. In truth, it is quite full of reefs and sandbanks.’ He pointed them out with a sweep of his hand, before settling his finger on a substantial inlet at the bottom of the bay. ‘And there is your Pointe-à-Pitre.’

  Clay examined the map with care. The French port was built around a wedge of sea driven into the narrowest part of the island. The eastern side of the entrance was dominated by a large fortress, while blocking the entrance itself was a small island, perhaps a half mile wide, a little way out to sea. At one end of the island someone had added a rectangle of shading. Peering close, he read the small letters printed beside it. ‘Gun battery, 8 x 36 pdrs.’

  ‘The Isle of Pigs is how the French name it, sir,’ explained Camelford. ‘It is no more than a low sandbank, in truth. Covered in vegetation, of course, as any stretch of ground left alone for five minutes in this part of the world swiftly becomes. It can only be passed at its eastern end, between that battery I have marked on, and the guns of the fortress. Between them they offer a prodigiously murderous crossfire. The deep-water channel bends around that end of the island, requiring any ship to make her turn just at the point where the
fusillade is hottest.’

  ‘What prevents a ship passing to the west of the island instead?’ asked Clay.

  ‘Coral reefs and a modest sandbank, sir. You can wade from that end of the island to the shore, and the water will seldom reach above your chest.’

  ‘It does seem formidable defended,’ mused Clay. ‘Has a successful attack ever been made on Pointe-à-Pitre from the sea?’

  ‘It has, but that was almost eighty years ago, sir. Blackbeard led a fleet of buccaneers against the port, and burned the place to the ground. It was his attack that prompted the French to build such formidable defences facing the sea, and the memory of that day is why they maintain them in such good order. Are you sure that your mission is not futile, even if the Peregrine is to be found in the port?’

  ‘Have you had a change of heart, Captain?’ joked Clay. ‘Only yesterday you thought her presence here an impossibility!’

  Camelford reddened at this, slammed down his coffee cup and rose to his feet. ‘If I have attempted to save you from a wasted journey, sir, I am sorry for it, I am sure. But since you will not take my word on the matter, let us proceed on deck, where perhaps the evidence of your own eyes will persuade you.’

  *****

  Camelford stormed across the main deck towards the forecastle of the sloop, with Clay trailing in his wake. As he marched, he glared around him.

  ‘Mr Laidlaw!’ he roared, pointing at one of the carronades that lined the sides of the ship. ‘The breeching on this gun is in a shocking state! Where did you learn your damned seamanship?’ Clay looked at the offending rope, which was at best slightly frayed.

  ‘My apologies, sir,’ said the lieutenant. ‘I shall have it replaced directly.’

  Slightly mollified, the captain of the Daring climbed up the ladderway and onto the forecastle, and then waited at the top for Clay. From the front of the sloop, there was a splendid view of the approaching land. Clay opened his telescope and looked about him.