But this young lady travelled alone, without a chaperon, which was bold. Further speculation was lost by the 'Coooeee' of Arbuckle's whistle, summoning them to attention as the boat came into the side of the ship. Matt stood as straight as he could, hands at his side and shoulders back as he had been taught, and watched Sir Charles Douglas descending the ladder into the waist, accompanied by the officer of the watch and the signal midshipman. Now the boat was alongside, and now too the passenger was climbing the ladder to the gangway. Sir Charles saluted, and raised his hat. And then frowned. 'Mistress Huys?'
Matt's head turned, although he knew Arbuckle was watching him. Sue? It was incredible. But there she was, and dressed not as Dirk Huys' hausfrau, but as the eldest Hilton woman, in a pale blue satin gown, with a darker blue fichu, and a matching bow to protect her breasts, the whole sheltering beneath an enormous pink-dyed straw hat from which there flopped a blue feather; tapping the deck with a blue-bowed cane, and regarding the flag captain with the utmost contempt. 'By my faith, sir,' she remarked. 'But you are difficult people to discover. I'd see the admiral.'
Douglas was shaking his head. 'I do not think ...'
Sue handed him a sheet of paper. 'Perhaps I may persuade you, Sir Charles.'
The captain glanced at the parchment, and then at the poop, where Rodney was being assisted to his feet by his servant. 'We'd best discuss this aft,' he decided. 'If you'd accompany me, Mistress Huys.'
Sue inclined her head, and allowed her gaze to sweep the amazed seamen. But Matt was several rows from the front, and she did not see him although he had to bite his lip to stop himself crying out.
'All right, you louts,' Arbuckle snapped. 'Back to your work. Anyone would think you'd never seen a female skirt before.' His shadow loomed over Matt. 'Would I be right in supposing that's your cousin, Matthew, lad?'
Matt polished the gun barrel. 'You would be right, Mr. Arbucklc.'
'Well, well. You'd best work up, then. No doubt she's come to purchase your release. You'll soon be a gentleman again, lad.' There was contempt and disbelief in his tone; he did not suppose Sue would fare any better with Rodney this time than the last. But she was here. Surely she could not be allowed to leave again without seeing him. Surely, just for one moment, he would be allowed to be a human being, a man rather than a creature. But then, after that moment, how could he ever again become a creature, save following another acquaintance with the whip?
He knew the midshipman stood there, even without turning his head. 'Is this the man Hilton?'
'Aye, aye, Mr. Cartwright,' Arbuckle said.
'He's to report aft. On the double, man. And look smart.'
Matt touched his hat and ran for the quarterdeck. He checked at the ladder, but Cartwright jerked his head to indicate he was to mount first. Hastily he went up, averted his eyes from the knot of officers who glanced at him, curiously but also apprehensively, he thought, and hesitated again at the ladder to the poop. No seaman was ever allowed up here, save in action.
'Go up, man, go up,' Cartwright said.
Matt climbed the ladder, his heart pounding, his breath catching in his throat, and faced the admiral, and Douglas and Sue. Colour filled her cheeks, but she kept her face expressionless, although her gaze fixed itself upon his eyes with that peculiar intensity she possessed.
'Uncover, man, uncover,' Douglas said.
Matt snatched his hat from his head.
'Matt,' Sue said, softly. 'Oh, Matt, what have they done to you?'
'Taught him the value of obeying orders, Mistress Huys,' Rodney commented. ' 'Tis a benefit to any man. And most women suffer from a lack of it.'
She glanced at him; but there was no doubting who was in control of this situation; the admiral was also flushed, and his colour was anger. 'Well, sir?' she demanded.
'Aye.' Rodney looked once more at the paper in his hand. 'It seems I may have acted hastily, Master Hilton. You are indeed the heir to Robert Hilton, as is attested by this document, and your cousin is apparently incensed with me. Gad, sir, he proposes to impeach me before the Commons for tampering with the rights of a gentleman.' Rodney gave a short laugh which was almost a bark. 'As well, naturally enough, for impounding some goods held by his brother-in-law, and destined for his plantation. There's patriotism for you. Ah, well, Mistress Huys, Mr. Hilton will have to take his turn in the queue. There are at least seventeen articles of impeachment against me before his. Oh, the planters are that concerned at losing the fruits of their treason.'
'No doubt, sir,' Sue remarked. 'You will turn to your own interest in England to acquit you of the charges. Mine is here, with my cousin. I'll not leave this ship without him.'
'My interests, madam? My interests are this fleet, and the task given me by His Majesty, God bless him. As for your cousin, would you desert us, boy, in time of war?'
Matt bit his lip, and looked from Sue to Rodney in embarrassment.
'You have bewitched him with fear of your discipline,' Sue declared.
'On the contrary, Mistress Huys, we have, I hope, instilled some symptom of patriotism into his blood. Do you not know, madam, that the French are preparing for sea?
Admiral Byron's frigates report that all day long they have been loading men on board. There will be a day not to be forgotten, madam. They will sail, and we will sail behind them, and we shall destroy them, too.'
'Your confidence does you credit, Sir George,' Sue agreed. 'And I wish you every success. But the presence of Matt, inexperienced as he is, can have but little effect on that success.'
'He can serve a gun, madam. And play his part. What's that, Sir Charles?'
For one of the lieutenants from the quarterdeck had appeared at the top of the ladder.
'Speak up, man,' said the flag captain.
'A signal from the island, Sir George,' said the lieutenant. 'There are ships leaving Fort Royal harbour.'
'Gad, sir,' Rodney cried, in an almost boyish delight. 'We are there. Is Hood underway?'
'Already, Sir George,' said the signal lieutenant.
'Well, then, we must chase him down. Beat to quarters, Captain Symonds.' He went to the rail. 'Take up that boat, or leave it. Smartly, now. Set those topsails, Mr. Parminter. We'll not trail behind.'
'And the men ashore, sir?' inquired the captain.
'They'll know we are leaving. Those who make the ship will accompany us. The rest will have to remain. Even a minute may cost us the advantage.'
'You'll set us ashore, sir,' Sue cried. 'My brother demands it.'
Rodney turned to her. 'There are greater forces than your brother, Mistress Huys. Do you know the last words spoken to me by my lord of Sandwich before I left England? He told me that the fate of the Empire was in my hands. I did not doubt him then or now. But there is more to it than even that, Mistress Huys. That fleet, thirty-five ships of the line and sixteen frigates, and heaven alone knows how many transports, is presently loaded with six thousand French soldiers. Its destination is the Leeward Passage, to rendezvous with a Spanish fleet not less in numbers and carrying even more of an army. And then, madam, the combined fleet will make for Jamaica.'
'Jamaica?' Matt gasped.
'Aye, lad. The Dons have long coveted it. Don Bernardo de Galvez is already being toasted in Havana as the Governor of Jamaica. It is their promised portion. Now tell me this, madam, where will your family's wealth and prestige be then, eh?'
'Why, I ...' Sue flushed and bit her lip. 'But the ship is moving.'
For already the anchor was clanking up, and at that moment the boat in which she had come from the shore was hoisted over the gunwale. 'How do I get ashore?'
'The answer to that, Mistress Huys, is that you either swim or take yourself below.'
She stared at him in horror. 'But you are going to war.'
'We are going to fight a battle, madam, but successfully, you have my word on that. There are women below decks. They will see to your requirements, and they will also find you something worthwhile to do, I promise you. C
aptain Douglas, show Mistress Huys to the orlop.'
Matt gazed at Sue, at the angry flush on her face. But Douglas already held her arm. He turned to follow them, and was stopped by a word from the admiral.
'Boy. Avast there.'
Matt waited, while Sue was hurried down the ladders to the waist, amidst the interested gazes of the gunners who were stripping off their shirts and preparing their buckets and lanyards, while above them the sailors released the huge folds of white canvas which came clouding downwards from the yards, already filling with the gentle offshore breeze.
'I'll not wait for the Queen herself,' Rodney said. 'But I'd not have any harm come to Robert Hilton's sister. So she must stay below. And the same applies to you, I'd wager. If I do not win today, Matthew Hilton, then am I a disgraced and broken man. If I do win, then am I a hero, and free from any man's judgement. Either way your future is bound up with mine. You'd best get below with the women.'
'And who'll take my place at the cannon, Sir George?'
'They'll manage, boy.'
But a curious tingle had taken possession of Matt's veins, perhaps encouraged by the very presence of Sue, more certainly created by the excitement around him. He shook his head. 'I'll stay my place, Sir George, with your permission.'
Rodney gazed at him for some seconds, then smiled. 'Now I know you're a Hilton. Get to your post.'
Which had been, he reflected sadly, as silly and quixotic a gesture as one could make. He could have spent the night below decks with Sue. God alone knew what she was doing down there, what she would have to say to the women, whose every sentence contained an oath, who knew nothing of perfume or fine clothes, who would regard her as an upstart and might well ill-treat her. But then, God alone knew what she was doing here, how she had managed to persuade Dirk to let her go when he had refused even to allow her to visit her family in Jamaica.
But she was here. There was the tremendous thought. Sue was a few feet below him, breathing and smiling and being, and waiting, until he could take her in his arms. And she had brought his freedom. He had but to survive. And that no longer seemed difficult.
He stretched his cramped muscles, peered along the gun barrel. They had now stood to their guns for a full twenty-four hours, had slept by them and eaten by them, been allowed to leave their posts for only minute at a time depending on the calls of nature. Yesterday all had been excitement at the imminence of the conflict. By noon the entire fleet had been underway, and the white squadron under Rodney's personal command had already been abeam of Pigeon Island, with the mountains of Martinique hull down on the northern horizon, and the red squadron under Hood's command spread out in front of them, behind only the screen of frigates. The enemy had been out of sight, but rumours were already roaming the decks of an armada of perhaps a hundred and fifty ships, mostly transports crowded with men and artillery to reduce Jamaica, but none the less with those thirty-five battleships bringing up the rear, two less than the British fleet, to be sure, but with a much heavier weight of metal.
And in the middle of the afternoon, as the wind had freshened, they had sighted the enemy, some twelve miles north of the main fleet. Then a great cheer had echoed from end to end of every vessel. Forgotten had been the grumbles and private quarrels, as each man had felt his heartbeat quicken at the thought of action. Even he had felt a responsive surge to his body. But that had been a forlorn hope. The wind had remained fresh, and even strong as the great ships had swept up the coast of Martinique, and the spray had come cascading over the bows to slither along the decks and leave them wet and slippery. Then the possibility of an action that evening had seemed imminent. But dusk had meant a steady drop in the breeze, and since midnight they had hardly moved, drifting along through the darkness. Dawn had brought the reason; they were under the lee of the huge mountain peaks of Dominica, where the trade wind could not reach them, and the French were emerging beyond it, into the passage between the Carib isle and the French island of Guadeloupe, a dangerous fast running current divided by the mass of small islands which Columbus had called the Saintes from the day on which he had first espied them.
'They're away,' said McLeod the gunner, looking at his linstock as if it was diseased. 'We'll not take them now.'
'Then look there, you daft fool.' Arbuckle had a telescope levelled. 'The aft squadron is turning back. By Christ, 'tis Hood. He's caught the wind.'
Like the other gunners, Matt scrambled into the lower rigging to watch, as every eye on board the ship was turned north. For Arbuckle was right. Hood's squadron of the red, having, like the rest of the fleet, drifted with the current throughout the night and early morning, had at last emerged into the open water, where the wind was fresh; they could see the distant whitecaps even from the Formidable. Thus carried forward, and separated from the main body, with Admiral Drake's squadron of the blue still more miles astern, the twelve battleships of the vanguard were isolated, temporarily cut off from any assistance. As de Grasse had noticed, and now a squadron of French ships had put about to run down with the wind at their sterns.
'Tis de Vaudreuil,' Arbuckle grumbled. 'They say he is the best seaman in the froggie fleet.'
Orders were issuing from the poop, and there was a rustle from the main peak as the red battle flag broke out. The men broke into a cheer, and in that instant the rumble of distant gunfire came rippling across the bright morning. Matt discovered himself in a rash of sweat, suddenly afraid that they would indeed miss the conflict, his brain a torment of conflicting thoughts and emotions, ranging from a wonder at how Sue felt, trapped below the waterline, waiting for the wounded to be brought down to the cockpit, to what the Caribs must be thinking, as they lined their forested cliffs and watched the white man at play with all the mighty achievements of his gifted civilization.
How slowly the ship seemed to move, and all those around it, while the cannon continued to boom, coming closer and closer, but yet too far off. Arbuckle kept them informed. 'Typical froggie tactics,' he said. 'They'll not close. Not even de Vaudreuil. He's pounding at long range. Sammy Hood will stand that without flinching.'
'Run out your guns,' came the order from the quarterdeck, where Mr. Hill paced to and fro, sword slapping his thigh, cocked hat placed at an angle. The great ports were clewed up and in that instant the Formidable heeled to its first puff of wind.
'Aye,' Arbuckle said. 'Won't be long now, lads.'
Dominica was beginning to drop astern, and in front of them the ocean was lost beneath the mass of white sails, and the rolling black smoke which arose from those nearest. It was impossible to decide whether or not any of the British fleet were damaged; none had dropped out of line.
‘Load your pieces,' came the order, and the ball was taken up from the waiting mound, passed to Matt. He held it in both arms, for it weighed twenty-four pounds, hugged it against his belly, and was assisted by his mate, Davis, as they forced it into the breech, while McLeod busied himself with the filter tube which they had been told would give them twice the speed and twice the reliability of the French gunners, who still poured powder down an open touchhole.
Now the noise was very loud, the crashing of the guns mingling with the continuous swish of the water around the bows and the thrumming of the rigging as the wind freshened ever minute. The order was given, 'Wear ship', and the seamen were scrambling aloft to trim the yards. The Formidable heeled even more as she turned into her station in the line, and the command came, 'Give fire.'
The entire battleship seemed to leap out of the waves. The noise left Matt senseless for a moment, and he could not see much less breathe as he was enveloped in a cloud of acrid black smoke. The thud of the rope's end across his shoulders seemed no more than natural in these suddenly hellish surroundings.
'Load, you scum. Load, you bastards,' screamed Arbuckle. Another twenty-four-pound ball was pressed into Matt's arms, and passed by him and Davis into the breech.
'Quickly now.' Lieutenant Hill walked behind them, hands clasped behind his back. 'W
e'll not lag behind the others. Quickly now.'
Once again the ship exploded and the decks heaved. Matt shook his head to clear the smoke and the ringing in his ears, and discovered himself on the deck. Holding another cannon-ball in his arms. A blood-wet cannon-ball? He stared down at the features of Mr. Hill, so suddenly arrested in mid-sentence, mouth still open, cocked hat incredibly still in place and only now slipping to one side, eyes staring at the heaven he was already entering, blood draining from the empty neck, flowing down Matt's trousers. He seemed isolated in time and space, by a tremendous noise which obliterated thought, and by streaming blood which was filling his mouth, his eyes, his nose, his ears. He wanted to vomit, but never knew whether he did or not. He discovered hands lifting him from the deck, and saw faces, tight with fear and tension. The head had been taken from his arms.
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