Larcum Mudge (Alexander Clay Series Book 8)

by Philip K Allan

  He stared this way and that at the barely visible shapes that surrounded him in all directions. He felt his hands grip the canvas edge of the hammock tightly. What if the coxswain was wrong about the crew, and one of them did betray him? And what of the prisoner from the Etoile D'espoir, just beneath him in the hold?

  His face set into a look of grim determination. He had killed before to keep his identity hidden. He would just have to do so again.

  Chapter 9 The Centaure

  Clay awoke next morning to find Yates in his night cabin, clattering around the washstand, making just sufficient noise to wake his captain. In the amber glow of the lantern he watched the young man pour steaming water into the tin bowl, and then set out his razor, soap and towel.

  ‘What time is it, Yates?’ asked Clay, stretching languidly in his cot.

  ‘Two bells, sir, as you requested,’ answered the servant. ‘It’s been raining for much of the night, but that has cleared away. Mr Blake says it will be light in half an hour, and the wind is a gentle westerly. Perfect for that Frog ship, should she care to come out.’

  Mention of the enemy propelled Clay from his bed. He pulled his nightshirt over his head, bundled it into Yates’s hands, and began lathering his face.

  ‘Tell Harte I will break my fast later,’ he ordered. ‘But have him bring coffee, if you please.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Once he was washed and dressed, Clay came striding up onto the quarterdeck. The glow from the binnacle lamp was just visible, throwing light onto the face of the quartermaster at the wheel. In the east a pink blush was washing across the sky above the horizon of dark sea. Lines of rope and curves of sail were beginning to appear above Clay’s head as the light grew, most of it damp from the rain in the night. The mountains of Guadeloupe remained shadowy, but the summit of the volcano was tipped with gold.

  ‘Look sir, the enemy has been busy this night,’ said Blake, pointing towards Pointe-à-Pitre. Spots of light dotted the slopes of the town. There was the fortress, on its cliff, and the Isle of Pigs with its thick pelt of dark forest. Just beyond the island was a very large ship, its hull invisible behind the trees, but its presence obvious from the huge masts that towered up above them. The light had grown sufficiently for the colours of her big tricolour to be made out.

  ‘She is damnably big, sir,’ commented Blake. ‘Why, her main mast must be close on two hundred feet high!’

  ‘She is the Centaure, one of those new French eighty gunners,’ said Clay. ‘Thirty-six-pounders on the lower deck, with twenty-four-pounders above them.’

  Blake whistled. ‘Goodness! Why, she will be able to throw much the same weight of ball as one of our second rates, sir.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Clay. ‘They must have warped her down to the harbour entrance during the hours of darkness.’ He looked around as Taylor came up on deck to join them.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ said the first lieutenant. ‘Good morning Mr Blake. I see those lubberly French have got their masts and yards set up at long last.’

  ‘Good morning to you,’ said Clay, opening his telescope to examine the French ship more closely. ‘If I am not much mistaken, they also plan to use them presently.’

  The others joined him at the rail to examine the enemy ship. A swarm of ant-like figures had appeared above the tree line, clambering up her foremast shrouds. Soon they spread out along the topsail yard like pearls on a string. Taylor pulled out his pocket watch and flipped open the cover. Back on the Centaure the top sail began to appear, a ghostly grey mass in the gloom. It fell free, was sheeted home, and the three masts began to advance towards the harbour entrance.

  ‘They make sail a deal less swiftly than we would have it done, sir,’ reported the first lieutenant, ‘but it was not performed as ill as I have seen on some Frenchmen.’

  ‘So I should hope, setting sail in the calm of a harbour!’ commented Blake. ‘I would like to see how they will manage in a blow.’

  ‘Consider, they have crossed the Atlantic, gentlemen,’ said Clay. ‘She is a foe we must respect.’

  The Centaure was gathering speed as she headed towards the open sea. Her long bowsprit appeared from behind the island, and a triangle of jib flapped and spread as it was sheeted home. Next to appear was her gilded figurehead, catching the first of the morning light as the sun cleared the horizon. Like a creature emerging from its lair, the hull followed, sliding into sunlight. Its long, double row of gun ports seemed to go on forever. Then she made her turn around the end of the island, and headed directly towards them. It had become very quiet on the frigate’s deck.

  ‘Mr Blake, have the ship put about, if you please,’ he ordered. ‘Head for open water, and you had best set our topgallants.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the officer of the watch.

  ‘All hands!’ roared the boatswain’s mates. ‘All hands to wear ship!’

  The watch below came pouring up the ladderways, and rushed across the deck to their places. Topmen bolted up the shrouds and out onto the lofty topgallant yards, as the frigate swung away from the island. The moment she had completed her turn, fresh sails blossomed in the morning sun, and the Griffin surged forwards.

  ‘I do hope they are noting our time over there,’ said Blake, pointing towards the Centaure, which had only just sheeted home the last of her topsails. ‘That should give them pause for thought.’

  ‘And this from the man who wanted me to neglect sail drill in favour of practising the crew with his beloved guns, sir,’ said Taylor, in an aside to his captain. Clay smiled at his officers, pleased at how relaxed they seemed, in spite of the huge ship that was setting more and more canvas in the hope of catching them.

  ‘Once the sails are trimmed and drawing, kindly see that the men have a good breakfast this morning, Mr Taylor.’

  ‘A good breakfast, sir,’ repeated the officer, his eyes wide with alarm. ‘Does that mean you intend to fight with them?’

  ‘No, but I am quite certain that they mean to fight with us, if they are able,’ explained Clay. ‘And she has the look of a fast ship.’

  ‘She does, sir,’ conceded Taylor, ‘but a well-founded ship like the Griffin should have the beating of her, barring any accidents aloft.’ The first lieutenant reached forward to touch the ship’s rail as he said this.

  ‘Nevertheless, we may well be in action later this day,’ said Clay. ‘We need to hold her interest, giving her some hope that she might overhaul us, so that she will follow close. That way we can lead her, like a bull by the nose, towards Antigua. Captain Camelford should have reported to the admiral by now. I have some hope that we shall encounter the Stirling coming towards us. Then things may become interesting.’

  The two ships reached the edge of the bay; first the frigate, and then her pursuer rounded the mountainous western half of Guadeloupe. Their sudden appearance caused the cloud of little fishing boats working the western coast of the island to scatter back towards the shore. Meanwhile the warships headed out for the open sea. The Centaure had been steadily setting more and more canvas as she came and the breeze grew as they left the land behind. Each new sail set by the French ship was matched on board the British frigate, until both were heeling far over, throwing curtains of white water down to leeward. Clay stood at the windward rail, with one arm hooked into the mizzen shrouds and the deck sloping down away from him towards the boiling sea. The rope against his arm was as stiff as iron, and gave off a low hum.

  Without warning, a line of glossy grey backs curved out of the water alongside.

  ‘We have dolphins for company, sir,’ grinned Blake. ‘A good omen, I think. We must be moving swiftly to have won their favour.’

  ‘Perhaps they come to warn us that we are over-pressed, sir,’ said Taylor, eyeing the bulging canvas and straining yards. Clay looked back towards the French ship, measuring the distance between them in his mind.

  ‘Very well, put another reef in the topgallants, Mr Taylor,’ he ordered. ‘I do not wish to leave her
too far behind.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  With the area of sail reduced, the motion of the frigate became a little easier. The green hump of Guadeloupe, ridged like the back of a dragon, shrank behind them, while the Centaure still bounded along astern. She was magnificent, viewed from ahead like this. Her huge masts were mountains of white, towering up above her big hull. Her foretopsail spread far out on both sides, while the gilded centaur beneath her bowsprit seemed to be rearing up from out of her tumbling bow wave.

  ‘I believe we are out of range of her bow chasers, sir,’ commented Taylor.

  ‘But still no sign of Sir George and the Stirling?’ mused Clay. ‘Where can they be?’

  A puff of dirty white smoke appeared briefly high on the forecastle of the Centaure and a tall splash rose up in the frigate’s boiling wake a good hundred yards behind them. The bang of the cannon arrived a little later.

  ‘The French don’t seem to be of your way of thinking, Mr Taylor,’ said Clay. ‘Kindly set whatever sail you see fit to maintain us at this distance, and have me called if the situation changes. I shall go below to my cabin.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Taylor, touching his hat.

  There was something breathlessly exciting about being chased by a more powerful ship. On the quarterdeck, Clay had felt that those around him shared his reckless mood. Most of them were seaman enough to know that, barring an accident, they had the swifter ship. Yet the knowledge that such awesome, destructive power was thrashing along behind them, just out of range, made the men bubble over with excitement.

  In the calm of his cabin Clay tried to concentrate on the breakfast that Harte brought through for him. The fried salt pork was spluttering hot, and the fresh eggs from the frigate’s chickens just the way he liked them. Yet he found himself hurrying the meal, his eye relentlessly drawn towards the run of glass windows at the rear of the cabin, and the ship that filled them.

  When he had finished eating he went to his desk, resolutely turning his back to the Centaure and concentrating on the blank sheet of paper in front of him. He had written his report on the capture of the Étoile D'espoir, with word of the deserter he had recovered, but had yet to record Boisgard’s revelations about Camelford. This was not a matter he could intrust to the gossipy Allen. Accusing a fellow officer in an official document was a tricky business, and what he wrote might well be the main piece of evidence at a court martial. Ideally, he would have wanted to speak with Camelford first, to have seen in his eyes his guilt or otherwise, but heaven knew when that opportunity would come.

  He chewed at the end of his pen, but somehow the words wouldn’t come. This is ridiculous, he chided himself. He stole a glance towards the Centaure, and then turned around in his seat. Surely, she was closer than he remembered? A fresh plume of smoke belched from high on the forecastle of the enemy ship, and the bang of a cannon firing sounded through the thick glass. For a moment he held his breath, wondering if the ball would crash through the window and into the cabin. The splash, when it came, was just as far behind the frigate as the previous one. With a sigh, almost of disappointment, he returned to his report.

  He tweaked the blank sheet in front of him a little straighter, took a deep breath, and dipped his pen into his inkwell. Still nothing formed in his mind. Clay sat poised, a black drop of ink forming on the nib, waiting for revelation to come. Then a hail from the masthead drifted down through the cabin’s skylight.

  ‘Deck ho! Sail on the bow!’

  Clay wiped his pen clean with relief, returned the virgin sheet of paper to its place, and awaited the arrival of a messenger. It was only when the knock sounded at the door that he realised he was sitting at a completely empty desk.

  ‘Come in!’ he called, pulling the ship’s watch list from out of a drawer, and spreading the pages in front of him. An excited Midshipman Todd strode into the cabin, and stood to attention in front of the desk. After a brief pause, Clay looked up.

  ‘Mr Taylor’s compliments, and a sail is in sight, bearing north-north-east, sir,’ said the youngster. ‘He believes it to be a warship.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Todd,’ said his captain. ‘Please tell him that I shall be up directly.’

  When Clay returned to the quarterdeck, most of his officers were there already, straining towards the horizon ahead, or glancing behind them at the following ship.

  ‘What do you have for me, Mr Taylor?’ he asked.

  ‘Upper sails of a large warship in sight ahead, sir,’ reported the first lieutenant. ‘The lookout also believes he can see a second, smaller ship behind the first. I have just dispatched Mr Todd to the masthead with our best spyglass.’

  Clay glanced up and saw the small midshipman taking his place beside the lookout, who was pointing ahead. He saw him extend his telescope out and settle it on the horizon.

  ‘Deck there!’ called the youngster. ‘The Stirling for sure, with either the Echo or the Daring, astern I should say, sir.’

  ‘Not both?’ muttered Preston, who had replaced Blake as officer of the watch. ‘We shall need every vessel in the squadron to best this foe, sir.’

  ‘The Echo will be away on patrol,’ said Clay. ‘Three ships, if briskly handled, should suffice. Kindly make more sail, if you please, Mr Preston. Let us close with the admiral and report.’

  Guadeloupe had vanished beneath the horizon, while Antigua had yet to appear, leaving an enormous disc of blue ocean with two pairs of ships rushing from its rim towards the centre. From the south came the Griffin, with the Centaure several miles astern, while from the north came the Stirling with her consort. At the speed the ships were converging, it wasn’t long before the upper sails of the flagship and her companion could be seen from the deck of the frigate as tiny squares of white, a little more solid than the pale sky at the horizon

  ‘That sloop is Daring, I think, sir,’ reported Taylor. ‘Her foremast has a bit more rake than Captain Sutton’s Echo.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Clay, staring at the horizon until his eye began to water. More sails were becoming apparent as the range came down.

  ‘Deck there!’ called Todd. ‘The other ship looks to be the Daring!’

  Shame, thought Clay. He would have much preferred his efficient friend to the mercurial, possibly untrustworthy Camelford.

  He turned towards the signal midshipman. ‘Send this, if you please, Mr Russell,’ he said. “Griffin to flag. Enemy in sight bearing south by west. Single ship of the line”.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the officer, chalking the message onto his slate. By the flag locker the signal rating was already pulling out the correct flags and attaching them to the halliard.

  ‘Flagship acknowledges, sir,’ reported Russell.

  ‘Thank you. Now send “enemy is French national ship Centaure of eighty guns”.’

  ‘Sir, sir!’ exclaimed Preston beside him. ‘The enemy is hauling her wind.’

  Clay turned and looked at the French ship. She came ponderously sweeping around up into the breeze. Her starboard side slowly appeared, with a white stripe running along each of its gundecks.

  ‘Flagship acknowledges, sir,’ said the signal midshipman.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Russell,’ said Clay, continuing to watching the Centaure. ‘Can you report that the enemy is going about, if you please.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Centaure’s jib began to shiver as she approached the eye of the wind, and then flapped free as it was hauled across. Her big yards were turning on her masts, forcing her bow around, until she settled at last on the other tack, heading away from the Griffin and towards the empty heart of the Caribbean.

  ‘I daresay that she doesn’t like the look of all these new sails on the horizon, sir,’ commented Taylor.

  ‘We may have the beating of her in a race, but that tub Stirling will not catch her, sir,’ said Preston. ‘Those old sixty-fours were never the swiftest.’

  ‘Then we shall need to alter matters, gentlemen,’ said Clay. ‘Time for us to d
o some chasing, I declare. Mr Preston, kindly follow the enemy about, and I’ll have the topgallants drawing again so as to bring her within range.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the lieutenant.

  ‘Mr Russell, another signal to the flag, if you please. “Submit, Griffin engage the enemy to slow her progress”.’

  Preston and Taylor exchanged glances at this, but neither passed comment.

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the midshipman, already leafing through his signal book. Soon the long line of flags was climbing up the mizzen mast. After a pause, a signal broke out on board the Stirling.

  ‘Flag to Griffin,’ translated Russell. ‘Proceed.’

  Clay closed his telescope. ‘Mr Taylor, will you kindly have the ship cleared for action.’

  *****

  The rattle of the side drum swelled to a thunderous roar as the young marine drummer warmed to his task. He stood close to the base of the main mast, a spot from which the sound of his instrument could carry throughout the frigate. In response to its urging beat, the crew ran to prepare their ship for battle.

  Some disappeared down below the waterline, like the gunner and his mate. Both men emptied their pockets of any metal, tied back each other’s pigtails into a compacted knot and pulled on their soft list slippers. Each made a final turn in front of the other, bumped fists, and pushed their way through the heavy felt ‘fearnaught’ screen into the copper-lined magazine beyond, where enough gunpowder awaited them to destroy the Griffin several times over.