The Daring was sailing under topsails alone across a bay of deep blue sea, dotted with paler patches where sandbanks and reefs lay near to the surface. The western shore was of rock cliffs, with steep, forested slopes behind. The occasional silver thread among the blanket of green marked where waterfalls tumbled down the mountainside. Higher still were the peaks, wreathed in mist, with the smoking cone of the volcano just visible in the distance. On the eastern side the character of the island changed; white sand lined the shore, backed by feathery palm trees.
The land was of rolling hills, dotted with buildings. Some were modest whitewashed cottages, roofed in thatch or terracotta tiles. A few were more substantial, such as a grand white block faced with columns and porticos and surrounded by a cluster of outbuilding that faced towards the sea. Between them the hillside was a chessboard of cane fields, linked together by a network of red-earth tracks. Through his telescope Clay could even see a field being worked. A line of tiny figures showed against the vivid green curtain of sugar cane, their steel machetes twinkling in the early morning sun. An overseer in a broad straw hat sat behind them on his horse.
‘They continue to harvest sugar, I see,’ said Clay, pointing towards the field.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Camelford. Clay waited for more, but his companion stared resolutely forward, his face still tinged with red, his jaw set. Touchy bastard, concluded Clay to himself. He turned his attention to Pointe-à-Pitre.
It lay between the two halves of the island. The Isle of Pigs, in front of the port, was much as Clay had imagined it: a low dome emerging from the sea like the back of a whale, and covered with bushy mangroves and palms. At the eastern end of the island the trees had been cleared from in front of the battery. He could see a line of grass-covered embrasures beneath a tricolour that flapped languidly in the gentle breeze. Clay fancied he could even see the black muzzles of some of the cannons, pointing towards him. To the left of the island was an area of disturbed sea, with small waves breaking over obstructions in the water. To the right was the deep-water channel, with the fortress beyond.
It sat on top of a low cliff of brown rock, with lines of imposing grey walls and some terracotta roofs peeking up just proud of them. Another, even larger tricolour here, and many more guns. Beyond the fort and the Isle of Pigs, he could see a cluster of masts in the port, mostly the slender ones of schooners, but a few more solid-looking spars. Of the town itself, only the higher parts were visible above the island: a cluster of houses, most painted white, but others in ochre or yellow, rising up the hillside. In their midst rose the stone tower of a church.
As the sloop came closer there was a puff of smoke from the battery on the island, followed by a chain of splashes on the water heading towards them as a ball skipped across the sea. The last splash was a good quarter mile from them, and was followed by the low boom of a cannon.
‘Where is it your practice to observe the port from, Captain?’ asked Clay, continuing to examining the approaching land.
‘I can’t say that we have a regular place, sir,’ said Camelford.
‘Really?’ queried Clay. ‘You favour a more distant blockade then?’
‘I do, sir.’ Again, the bare minimum that duty required.
‘No matter,’ said Clay, after a pause. ‘Here will serve as well as any other spot. Can you kindly have the ship heave to. I shall then need a couple of reliable young gentlemen to conduct the observations for me from the masthead. Can you also pass the word for the sailor who came aboard with me?’
‘Aye, aye, sir,’ said Camelford. ‘I shall attend to it now.’ He strode off, calling for Lieutenant Laidlaw.
The two midshipmen who appeared a little later were gangly youngsters, all elbows and knees. One had a face dotted with acne, in spite of his deep tan. The other had large, awkward hands that a recent growth-spurt had left a good two inches proud of his coat sleeves. But both seemed excited by the task being asked of them, and had come equipped with their telescopes, notebooks and pencils.
‘Now, gentlemen, I want you each to take a masthead, and have a good look into the port for me,’ Clay said gravely. ‘Take your time, and note down everything that you see. I am particularly interested in vessels with hulls of a similar size to this ship. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ they chorused.
‘Do either of you have some aptitude at drawing?’ he asked.
‘Thorny here does, sir,’ said awkward hands, indicating his colleague with the point of his elbow. ‘I mean Mr Thorne, sir,’ he added.
‘Excellent. Then perhaps you could produce a plan of the port for me, Mr Thorne, with all the various ships marked on. This man here is Andrews, and he will be accompanying you aloft,’ he concluded, indicating where the former Peregrine stood with his arms folded. ‘A spy glass for Andrews, if you please, Mr Laidlaw. Any questions? No? Then away with you.’
The two young officers flew to the shrouds, and began to run up them, clearly engaged in some sort of race. Thorne took the foremast, accompanied by a more sedate Andrews.
When they were safely installed on the topmast crosstrees, Clay turned back towards the Daring’s captain. ‘Now we shall see whatever is to be seen,’ he said, trying to engage him in conversation again.
‘Indeed, sir,’ said Camelford. ‘And may I ask what you will do if the Peregrine is not in the port?’
‘Then I will leave you to your blockade, and search the other harbours in the island,’ said Clay. ‘If that too should prove fruitless, then I will proceed to the other enemy-held islands in the Caribbean. My orders are quite clear. Indeed, I find myself almost hoping that you are correct, and that she does not lie in Pointe-à-Pitre.’
‘Why so, sir?’ asked Camelford.
‘Because if the Peregrine is here, I am duty-bound to attempt something against her, Captain,’ replied Clay. ‘There is very little moon for the next few nights, which will serve as a good opportunity for us to attempt something, but the defences of Pointe-à-Pitre appear every bit as formidable on close inspection as you promised. I don’t see any prospect of taking the Griffin and Daring in without enduring some fearful punishment from that battery and fort. Even if we could somehow fight our way past them and into the port, the commotion would rouse the whole place, which would make taking the Peregrine most uncertain.’
‘If you can take her at all, sir,’ added Camelford. ‘Remember that the governor has an army of negros at his disposal, any number of which he may have stationed on board.’
‘Quite so,’ said Clay. ‘And then, to cap it all, the ships have to come out by the same channel that they went in, running the gauntlet once more. If I had command of a first rate, I would still think twice before hazarding it!’
‘I did urge caution, sir,’ said Camelford, looking a little more pleased with life again.
‘You did, but I do not have the luxury of ignoring my orders,’ said Clay. ‘So, if sailing in like Blackbeard in his pomp won’t answer, another way will need to be found. Perhaps an assault in boats? They will have more chance of slipping into the port, undetected.’
‘They will, sir,’ agreed the Daring’s captain. ‘Although they will be very vulnerable if spotted by the enemy. The Frogs have several guard boats that patrol the harbour entrance, and I have yet to see how the Peregrine is to be got out, once the alarm is raised.’
‘No, that is the nub of the problem,’ agreed Clay. ‘Perhaps a landing of marines to take the battery?’
‘That might help, but would leave the fortress in place, and warned by the sound of fighting from the island, sir,’ said Camelford. ‘But perhaps such speculation will prove unnecessary. Maybe she is not here at all.’
‘Maybe,’ murmured Clay, walking across to the forecastle rail to stare at the land. He focused his telescope back on the island. The line of cane cutters had completed their field, and were now busy loading the long rods onto a wain. For some reason the scene troubled him, but search as he did, he couldn’t think why. After a while he he
ard a cough from behind him.
‘I believe the young gentlemen may have completed their observations, sir,’ announced Camelford.
The two midshipmen slid down the backstays and formed a huddle, agreeing what they had seen. A little farther back stood Andrews, listening to what the two youngsters said. The pages of the officers’ notebooks flapped in the breeze as they ordered their thoughts, and then they came over at last.
‘Gentlemen, what have you to report?’ asked Clay.
In answer, Midshipman Thorne held out his notebook. Across two pages was the plan he had made of the harbour. It was carefully drawn, with hatching to indicate the shore, leaving the water blank white. Various crosses were marked on, each with a little note beside it.
‘Most of the shipping is on the eastern side of the inlet, sir,’ he began, indicating one side of his picture. ‘Just behind the fort is a breakwater, with perhaps two dozen small fishing boats.’
‘Maybe more, sir,’ supplemented his colleague.
‘We didn’t do a complete count, because none of them are large enough to be the ship you are looking for, sir,’ explained Thorne.
‘I understand,’ said Clay. ‘What else could you see?’
‘Beyond the fishing harbour are most of the wharfs, sir. Plenty of activity there, with five sail of large schooner, and a brig warped in close. At first I thought the brig might be your ship, but she only has two masts, and is a fair bit shorter than the Daring, so we don’t hold her to be the one. Andrews here agrees.’ The boatswain’s mate nodded from his place a little behind his superiors.
‘It is as I feared,’ said Camelford. ‘No sign of your quarry, sir.’
‘There is another ship, moored away from the others, sir,’ continued the midshipman. ‘Her hull has been painted black, and she is certainly the right size.’
‘What did you make of her, Andrews?’ asked Clay.
‘Peregrine for sure, sir,’ said the sailor, coming forward to join the group.
‘How can you be so certain, man?’ demanded Camelford.
‘Because I know every inch of her, sir,’ insisted Andrews. ‘Them sly bastards has done their best to make her look wrong, what with hacking off her gingerbread, an’ rigged her up all foreign. But I would still know her on a night as black as a Newgate lock hole, if only by the rake of her bowsprit.’
‘The rake of her bowsprit!’ protested Camelford, glaring at the petty officer. ‘Surely, we need more than such trifles, before contemplating a most uncertain attack, sir.’
Andrews turned towards Clay in appeal. ‘It ain’t just that, but all manner of stuff. Like she had her starboard cathead shot away back in ninety-four, when we fought ag’in the Ville de Chartres. The dockyard fashioned a replacement, but it ain’t never looked quite the same. It be her, right enough.’
‘You are quite sure, Andrews?’ asked Clay.
‘May I be struck dumb if I’m wrong, sir.’
‘And where was the Peregrine moored?’
‘Over here, sir,’ said Thorne, pointing to a cross on his drawing, with a question mark beside it. ‘In this bay on the western side of the inlet, between us and the moored ship of the line.’
‘The what!’ exclaimed Clay and Camelford together.
‘The ship of the line, sir,’ repeated the officer, pointing to a second, larger cross. ‘She is a big two-decker. Probably a seventy-four.’
‘Or even an eighty gunner,’ added his colleague.
‘Is she moored close to the Peregrine?’ demanded Clay.
‘If the Peregrine it is,’ muttered the sloop’s commander, under his breath.
‘Not hard against her, but perhaps a half mile away, sir,’ said Thorne.
‘Maybe as much as a mile,’ supplemented awkward hands.
‘Why the hell can’t she be seen from here, if she is so damned large?’ demanded Camelford.
‘The French have struck their upper masts on deck, doubtless to conceal her. And of course, there is the island in the way, sir,’ explained Thorne. ‘She is plain to see from the masthead.’
‘A ship of the line, out here in Guadeloupe,’ said Clay. ‘That is certainly unexpected. I wonder what she can be about?’
‘I have never heard of the like in my time,’ said the Daring’s captain. ‘There were plenty of French warships hereabouts in the past. Perhaps she has escaped from one of the Atlantic ports, although for what object, I am sure I don’t know.’
‘Sir George did mention the Jamaica convoy would pass close by, in a couple of weeks,’ said Clay. ‘Might there be a connection?’
Camelford blanched at the thought. ‘That must be it!’ he exclaimed. ‘Such a powerful ship loose among all those fat merchantmen. It doesn’t bear thinking upon!’
‘Then we must see that she does no such thing,’ said Clay. ‘Could you put the ship about, please, Captain, and let us re-join the Griffin.’
‘Mr Laidlaw! Have the ship stand out to sea, if you please,’ bellowed Camelford towards the quarterdeck.
‘Aye aye, sir.’
‘Thank you, gentlemen, for your observations,’ said Clay. ‘And for your assistance too, Andrews. Mr Thorne, perhaps you can copy up your plan in a fair hand for me, before I leave the ship, together with a note of all of your observations?’
‘Aye, aye, sir,’ said the midshipman, touching his hat and withdrawing with his fellow officer. Andrews knuckled his forehead and disappeared too.
‘And might I have the use of your cabin, together with pen and paper? I need to report this all to Sir George.’
‘Of course, sir,’ said Camelford, ushering him across to the head of the ladder that led down to the main deck. ‘After you, sir.’
‘No, after you, Captain,’ Clay insisted, as something Sutton had said returned to him.
Once he was alone at Camelford’s little desk he worked quickly, dashing off his report to the admiral. The two midshipmen arrived at one point, to present him with their findings on Pointe-à-Pitre, written out in Thorne’s crabbed hand. When he had finished writing, Clay called out to Smith to bring some wax seals. A little while later Camelford came in to report that the sloop was closing with the Griffin.
‘Excellent, Captain,’ said Clay, passing over the two sealed packages. ‘Here is my dispatch for Sir George, and these are your orders. You are to make all haste and find the admiral. When you do so, you are to bring him back here. He has the only ship of force in the area.’
‘If she truly is a French eighty-gunner, she will heavily outclass the little Stirling,’ observed Camelford. ‘They carry thirty-six-pounders on their lower deck, against the flagship’s twenty-fours.’
‘Perhaps all those layers of paint Sir George has added to the exterior will serve to armour her,’ smiled Clay. ‘But you forget the Griffin. We cannot challenge this Frenchman alone, but I daresay between myself and the admiral, we shall give a decent account of ourselves.’
‘And who will take my place before the island, sir?’
‘I will do that,’ said Clay.
‘With respect, the blockade of Guadeloupe is the Daring’s responsibility, sir,’ said Camelford, a frown creasing his forehead. ‘Are you quite sure that is the right course?’
Clay finally reached the end of his patience with this annoying young man. ‘That is my decision,’ he snapped, rising from behind his host’s desk. ‘I do not propose to discuss it any further. Kindly go and find Sir George, as I have instructed, and give him my dispatch. It covers the bald facts of the situation here. I shall leave you to explain to him how it was that you managed to let a French ship of the line slip past you into a port that you were tasked with observing. Good day to you, Captain.’
Chapter 6 Alone
Long after the Daring had disappeared over the horizon, the Griffin remained stationary with her topsails backed, wallowing to each fresh wave that ran beneath her. The sun rose higher, the sea grew a little bluer, and the dark mass of Guadeloupe remained on the horizon. All those on deck watched t
he lonely figure of the captain as he paced along the weather side of the quarterdeck, back and forth, back and forth. His hands were clenched behind him, his head was bowed and his calm grey eyes were blind to all that went on around him. A passing rain squall briefly wetted the planking, bringing Yates, his servant, out onto the deck armed with his master’s oilskins, but he was waved away as the remorseless striding continued. Even the bustle of the watch changing over failed to interrupt him.
Released from duty, the sailors returned to the lower deck. Here it was close and muggy, in spite of the wind chutes that had been installed to bring a little air down into the hull. The faces of the sailors glistened in the lamplight as they sat around their mess tables. In spite of the uncomfortable motion of the ship as it remained hove to, Trevan had got out a large sperm-whale tooth he was working on. The ivory was polished to a smooth buttery-yellow by long handling, and on one face the shape of a ship was appearing from a mass of tiny cuts.
‘That be a nice piece of scrimshaw you got there, Adam,’ commented Mudge. ‘Must have come from a good-sized beast an’ all – eighty barrels at least, maybe more.’
‘Aye, it were a bull we caught off the Cape back when I were on the old Emilia, afore I was pressed,’ confirmed the Cornishman. ‘That bugger fought like a demon. Near smashed our boat to splinters before we managed to lance him.’
‘What be the ship?’ asked Mudge. ‘She looks too big for a whaler.’
‘That be our old barky, the Titan, thirty-six,’ said Trevan. ‘She be no more, alas, but I can still bring her lines and rig to mind.’
The other former Titans nodded at this, and O’Malley looked over his friend’s shoulder. ‘That’s her, to be sure,’ he said. ‘Uncommon quick, so she was. You’ve got her just so, Adam.’
‘Wish this bleeding barky were uncommon quick,’ moaned Evans, as the frigate continued to wallow in the swell. ‘Ain’t Pipe decided what to do yet? I’ll be puking me guts up if we don’t get underway soon.’
‘What be making him linger so, Able?’ asked Trevan. ‘One peep at the Frogs and now he seems minded to wear a hole in the deck.’
Larcum Mudge (Alexander Clay Series Book 8) Page 9