His reeling mind held on to the horrific picture for only seconds. The naked man tied to the gun, but no longer complaining. He had no head. The foremast going over the side, the signals midshipman rolling and whimpering like a sick dog.
The picture froze and faded. He was dead.
Commander Alfred Dunstan sat cross-legged at the table in Phaedra’s cramped cabin and studied the chart in silence.
Opposite him, his first lieutenant Joshua Meheux waited for a decision, his ear pitched to the creak and clatter of rigging. Astern through the open windows he could see the thick mist following the sloop-of-war, heard the second lieutenant calling another change of masthead lookouts. In any fog or mist even the best lookout was subject to false sightings. After an hour or so he would see only what he expected to see. A darker patch of fog would become a lee shore, or the topsail of another vessel about to collide. He watched his cousin. It was incredible how Dunstan was able to make his ship’s company understand exactly what he needed from them.
He glanced round the small cabin, where they had had so many discussions, made plans, celebrated battles and birthdays with equal enthusiasm. He looked at the great tubs of oranges and lemons which filled most of the available space. Phaedra had run down on a Genoese trader just before the sea-mist had enveloped them.
They were short of water, desperately so, but the mass of fresh fruit which Dunstan had commandeered, as he had put it, had tilted the balance for the moment.
Dunstan glanced up from the chart and smiled. “Smells like Bridport on market day, don’t it?”
His shirt was crumpled and stained, but better that than have the ship’s company believe that water rationing did not apply to the officers as well.
Dunstan tapped the chart with his dividers. “Another day, and I shall have to come about. We are sorely needed with the squadron. Besides, Captain Sinclair will have an alternative rendezvous. But for this mist, I’d wager we would have sighted his ship days ago.”
Meheux asked, “Do you know him?”
Dunstan lowered his head to peer more closely at his calculations. “I know of him.”
The lieutenant smiled to himself. Dunstan was in command. He would go no further in discussing another captain. Even with his cousin.
Dunstan leaned back and ruffled his wild auburn hair. “God, I itch like a poxed-up whore!” He grinned. “I think Sir Richard intends to join the fleet under Nelson. Though he will take all the blame if the French outpace him and slip back into port in these waters.”
He reached under the table and then produced a decanter of claret. “Better than water anyway.” He poured two large glasses. “I’ll bet that our vice-admiral will be in enough hot water as it is! God damn it, any man who can accept the wrath of Admiralty and that of the dandified Inspector General must be made of stern stuff.”
“What was he like as a captain?”
Dunstan looked at him, his eyes distant. “Brave, courteous. No conceit.”
“You liked him?”
Dunstan swallowed the claret; the casual question had slipped through his guard.
“I worshipped the deck he walked on. All of us in the gun-room did, I believe.” He shook his head. “I’d stand beside him any day.”
There was a tap at the door and a midshipman, dressed in an even grubbier shirt than his captain’s, peered in at them.
“The second lieutenant’s respects, sir, and he thinks the mist may be clearing.”
They looked up as the deck quivered very slightly, and the hull murmured a gentle protest at being disturbed again.
“By God, the wind is returning.” Dunstan’s eyes gleamed. “My compliments to the second lieutenant, Mr Valliant. I shall come up presently.” As the boy left he winked at Meheux. “With a name like his he should go far in the navy!”
Dunstan held up the decanter and grimaced. It was almost empty.
He remarked, “It will be a drier ship than usual, I fear.” Then he became serious again. “Now this is what I intend—”
Meheux stared at the decanter as the glass stopper rattled for several seconds.
Their eyes met. Meheux said, “Thunder?”
Dunstan was groping for his shabby hat. “Not this time, by God. That came from iron guns, my friend!”
He slipped his arms into his coat and climbed up the companion ladder to the deck.
He glanced through the drifting mist, seeing his seamen standing and listening. Such a small vessel, yet so many men, he thought vaguely. He tensed as the booming roar sighed through the mist and imagined he could feel the sullen vibration against the hull. Faces had turned aft towards him. Instantly he remembered Bolitho, when they had all stared at him as if expecting salvation and understanding, because he had been their captain.
Dunstan tucked one hand into his old seagoing coat with the tarnished buttons. I am ready. Now they look to me.
Meheux was the first to speak.
“Shall we stand away until we are sure what is happening, sir?”
He did not reply directly. “Call all hands. Have the people lay aft.”
They came running to the pipe, and when they were all packed from side to side, with some clinging to the mizzen shrouds and on the upturned cutter, Meheux touched his hat, his eyes curious.
“Lower deck cleared, sir.”
Dunstan said, “In a moment we shall clear for action. No fuss, no beat of a drum. Not this time. You will go to quarters in the manner you have learned so well.” He looked at those nearest him, youngsters like their officers, grizzled old hands such as the boatswain and the carpenter. Faces he had taught himself to know and recognise, so that he could call any one of them by name even in pitch darkness. At any other time the thought would have made him smile. For it was often said that his hero Nelson had the same knack of knowing his people, even now that he had reached flag rank.
But he did not smile. “Listen!” The booming roar echoed through the mist. Each man would hear it differently. Ships at war, or the sound of enraged surf on a reef. Thunder across the hills in a home land which had produced most of these men.
“I intend to continue on this tack.” His eyes moved over them. “One of those ships must be a friend. We shall carry word of our finding to Sir Richard Bolitho and the squadron.”
A solitary voice raised a cheer and Dunstan gave a broad grin. “So stand-to, my lads, and God be with you all!”
He stood back to watch as they scattered to their various stations, while the boatswain and his own party broke out the chain slings and nets for the yards to offer some protection to the gun crews should the worst happen.
Dunstan said quietly, “I think we may have found La Mouette. ” He kept the other thought to himself. That he hoped Sinclair was as ready for a fight as he was with the lash.
The thuds of screens being taken down, stores and personal belongings being lowered to the orlop deck, helped to muffle the occasional sound of distant thunder.
Lieutenant Meheux touched his hat and reported, “Cleared for action, sir.”
Dunstan nodded and again recalled Bolitho. “Ten minutes this time. They take fairly to their work.” But the mood eluded him and he smiled. “Well done, Josh!”
The sails billowed out loudly, like giants puffing their chests. The deck canted over and Dunstan said, “Bring her up a point! Steer nor’-nor’-west!”
He saw Meheux clipping on his hanger and said, “The people are feeling this.” He looked at the crouching gun crews, the ship’s boys with their buckets of sand, the others at the braces or with their fingers gripping the ratlines, ready to dash aloft when the order was piped to make more sail.
Dunstan made up his mind. “Load if you please, I—”
There was a great chorus of shouts and Dunstan stared as the mist lifted and swirled to one violent explosion.
He said sharply, “Load, Mr Meheux! Keep their minds in your grasp!”
Each gun captain faced aft and raised his fist.
“All loaded, sir
!”
They looked aloft as the mist faded more swiftly and laid bare the rippling ensign above the gaff.
Dunstan plucked his chin. “We are ready this time anyway.”
All eyes turned forward as the mist lost its greyness. Something like a fireball exploded through it, the sound going on and on until eventually lost in the beat of canvas, the sluice of water alongside.
“Ship on the starboard bow, sir!”
Dunstan snatched a glass. “Get aloft, Josh. I need your eyes up there today.”
As the first lieutenant swarmed up the mainmast shrouds a warning cry came from the forecastle.
“Wreckage ahead!”
The master’s mate of the watch threw his weight onto the wheel with that of the two helmsmen but Dunstan yelled, “Belay that! Steady as you go!” He made himself walk to the side as what appeared to be a giant tusk loomed off the bow. It was always best to meet it head on, he thought grimly. Phaedra did not have the timbers of a liner, nor even a frigate. That great pitching spar might have crashed right through the lower hull like a ram.
He watched the severed mast pass down the side, torn shrouds and blackened canvas trailing behind it like foul weed. There were corpses too. Men trapped by the rigging, their faces staring through the lapping water, or their blood surrounding them like pink mist.
Dunstan heard a boatswain’s mate bite back a sob as he stared at one of the bobbing corpses. It wore the same blue jacket with white piping as himself.
There was no more doubt as to who had lost the fight.
Some of the small waves crumpled over as the rising wind felt its way across the surface.
Dunstan watched the mist drawing clear, further and further, leaving the sea empty once again. He stiffened as more shouts came from forward.
Something long and dark which barely rose above the uneasy water. There was much weed on it. One of the vessels which should have been released for a much needed overhaul. Surrounded by giant bubbles and a great litter of flotsam and charred remains, it was a ship’s keel.
Dunstan said, “Up another point. Hands aloft, Mr Faulkner! As fast as you like!”
High above it all, Lieutenant Meheux clung to the main crosstrees beside the lookout and watched the mist rolling away before him. He saw the other ship’s topgallant masts and braced yards, and then as the mist continued to outpace the thrust of the sails, the forepart of the hull and her gilded figurehead.
He slid down a backstay and reached Dunstan in seconds.
Dunstan nodded very slowly. “We both remember that ship, Josh. She’s Consort— in hell’s name I’d know her anywhere!”
He raised his telescope and studied the other vessel as more sails broke to the wind, and her shining hull seemed to shorten while she leaned over on a fresh tack. Towards Phaedra.
The midshipman was pointing wildly. “Sir! There are men in the water!” He was almost weeping. “Our people!”
Dunstan moved the glass until he saw the thrashing figures, some clinging to pieces of timber, others trying to hold their comrades afloat.
Dunstan climbed into the shrouds and twisted his leg around the tarred cordage to hold himself steady.
The masthead lookout yelled, “Ships to the nor’-east!”
But Dunstan had already seen them. With the mist gone, the horizon was sharp and bright; it reminded him of a naked sword.
Someone was shouting, “It’ll be th’ squadron! Come on, lads! Kill them buggers!”
Others started to cheer, their voices broken as they watched the survivors from La Mouette. Men like themselves. The same dialects, the same uniforms.
Dunstan watched the ships on the horizon until his eye ached. He had seen the red and yellow barricades around their fighting-tops in the powerful lens, something the lookout had not yet recognised.
He lowered the glass and looked sadly at the midshipman. “We must leave those poor devils to die, Mr Valliant.” He ignored the boy’s horrified face. “Josh, we will come about and make all haste to find Sir Richard.”
Meheux waited, dazed by the swiftness of disaster.
His captain gestured towards the horizon. “The Dons are coming. A whole bloody squadron of them.”
The air cringed as a shot echoed across the sea. The frigate had fired a ranging ball from one of her bow-chasers. The next one—
Dunstan cupped his hands. “Hands aloft! Man the braces! Stand by to come about!” He bit his lip as another ball slammed down and threw up a waterspout as high as the topsail yard. Men ran to obey, and as the yards swung round, Phaedra’s lee bulwark appeared to dip beneath the water.
Another shot pursued her as the frigate made more sail, her yards alive with men.
Meheux was waving to his topmen with the speaking trumpet. He shouted breathlessly, “If they reach our squadron before we can warn them—”
Dunstan folded his arms and waited for the next fall of shot. Any one of those nine-pounders could cripple his command, slow her down until she reeled beneath a full broadside as Sinclair had.
“I think it will be more than a squadron at stake, Josh.”
A ball crashed through the taffrail and seared across the deck like a furnace bar. Two men fell dead, without even uttering a cry. Dunstan watched as two others took their place.
“Run, my beauty, run! ” He looked up at the hardening sails, the masts curving like coachmen’s whips.
“Just this once, you are the most important ship in the fleet!”
17 PREPARE FOR BATTLE!
CAPTAIN Valentine Keen walked up the slanting deck and hunched his shoulders against the wind. How quickly the Mediterranean could change her face at this time of year, he thought. The sky was hidden by deep-bellied clouds, and the sea was no longer like blue silk.
He stared at the murky horizon, at the endless serried ranks of short, steep white horses. It looked hostile and without warmth. There had been some heavy rain in the night and every available man had been roused on deck to gather it in canvas scoops, even in humble buckets. A full glass, washed down with a tot of rum for all hands, seemed to have raised their spirits.
The deck heaved over again, for Hyperion was butting as close to the wind as she dared, her reefed topsails glinting with spray as she held station on the other ships astern.
For as Isaac Penhaligon, the master, had commented, with the wind veered again to the nor’-east, it was hard enough to dawdle until Herrick’s ships joined them, without the additional problem of clawing into the wind, watch in and watch out. For if they were driven too far to the west, they would find it almost impossible to steer for Toulon should the enemy try to re-enter that harbour.
Keen pictured the chart in his mind. They were already at that point right now, another cross, a new set of bearings and the noon sights. With such poor visibility they could be miles off their estimated course.
Keen walked to the quarterdeck rail and stared along the main deck. As usual it was busy despite the weather. Trigge the sailmaker with his assistants, squatting on the deck, their needles and palms moving intricately like parts of a mill as they repaired heavy-weather canvas brought up from below.
Trigge was experienced enough to know that if they entered the Atlantic in search of the enemy, every spare sail would be needed.
Sheargold the purser, his unsmiling features set in a permanently suspicious frown, was watching as some casks of salt-beef were hoisted through another hatch. Keen did not envy anyone in that trade. Sheargold had to plan for every league sailed, each delay or sudden change of orders which might send the ship in an opposite direction without time to restock his provisions.
Hardly anybody ever felt grateful to Sheargold. It was generally believed between decks that most pursers retired rich, having won their fortunes by scrimping on the sailors’ meagre rations.
Major Adams was up forward, standing at an angle on the tilting deck while he studied a squad of marines being put through their paces. How bright the scarlet coats and white crossbelts looked
in the dull light, Keen thought.
He heard the boatswain, Sam Lintott, discussing the new cutter with one of his mates. The latter was the villainous-looking one named Dacie. Keen had been told of his part in the cutting-out of the Spanish treasure-ship. He could believe all that he had heard. With his eye patch, and crooked shoulder, Dacie would frighten anybody.
Lieutenant Parris approached the rail and touched his hat.
“Permission to exercise the quarterdeck guns this afternoon, sir?”
Keen nodded. “They will not thank you, Mr Parris, but I think it a good idea.”
Parris looked out to sea. “Shall we meet the French, sir?”
Keen glanced at him. Outwardly easy and forthcoming with the sailors, there was something else within the man, something he was grappling with, even in casual conversation. Getting his command? Keen did not know why he had lost it in the first place. He had heard about Haven’s animosity towards him. Maybe there had been another superior officer with whom he had crossed swords.
He replied, “Sir Richard is torn between the need to watch the approaches to Toulon, and the strong possibility we will be called to support the fleet.” He thought of Bolitho in the cabin, dictating letters to Yovell or his clerk, telling young Jenour what might be expected of him if they met with the enemy. Keen had already discussed the possibility with Bolitho.
Bolitho had seemed preoccupied. “I do not have the time to call all my captains aboard. I must pray that they know me well enough to respond when I so order.”
I do not have the time. It was uncanny. Bolitho seemed to accept it, as if a battle was inevitable.
Parris said, “I wonder if we shall see Viscount Somervell again.”
Keen stared at him. “Why should that concern you?” He softened his tone and added, “I would think he is better off away from us.”
Parris nodded. “Yes, I—I’m sorry I mentioned it, sir.” He saw the doubt in Keen’s eyes. “It is nothing to do with Sir Richard’s involvement.”
Keen looked away. “I should hope not.” He was angry at Parris’s interest. More so with himself for his instant rush of protectiveness. Involvement. What everybody was probably calling it.
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