The Body in the Boat

by MacKenzie, A. J.

  Seconds before they crashed headlong into the wagon, Mrs Chaytor sawed on the reins. Asia swerved. The gig lurched as it changed direction, then raced on roaring wheels through the impossible gap between post-coach and wagon, so close that Hardcastle could have reached out and touched the lead horse of the coach. Then they were away and tearing on down the open road, the sounds of frightened horses and shouting men dim on the wind behind them. Hardcastle let out the breath he had been holding.

  ‘One day you really will break your neck,’ he said.

  ‘Not today,’ said Mrs Chaytor.

  The houses of Hythe were distinct ahead of them now, the church of St Leonard bulky on the upper slope, Saltwood Castle a ruined silhouette on the skyline. ‘Can you see a ship?’ she asked, concentrating on the road.

  Braced against the vibration of the gig, he scanned the sea. ‘Nothing.’ Hope rose. They were less than a mile from Hythe now. ‘We may be in time.’

  It struck him suddenly that they might be walking into another ambush prepared by Martha Redcliffe. But it was too late to worry about that now.

  Asia was tiring. The little horse had run gallantly, but now her speed was dropping. Ahead lay the first houses, and beyond them the harbour, little more than a shallow indentation in the coast protected by a bar of sand and shingle. ‘Make for the Customs post,’ Hardcastle said. Mrs Chaytor nodded and drove the flagging horse down towards the harbour, turning the corner around the brick block of the Customs house and onto the waterfront.

  Near at hand, a few fishing boats were drawn up onshore; further on, two coasters rode at anchor behind the protection of the bar. Beyond the bar was the sea, foaming with breakers. Among the waves beyond was a ship, a big lugger with dark red sails spread and filling in the wind, rolling as the Channel swells began to take her. A sudden burst of sunlight bathed the ship. The waves around her glinted and gleamed, and on her deck there was a glow of sunlight on brass; cannon.

  It was the Hoorn. She had sailed not fifteen minutes ago. They had lost the race.

  *

  ‘We are not finished,’ said Mrs Chaytor. She jumped down and tethered the horse, then strode into the Customs house with the rector behind her. A single officer, an elderly man, stood up from his seat beside an iron stove.

  ‘Where are the other officers?’ demanded Mrs Chaytor.

  ‘Out with Mr Cole, ma’am. Searching for the missing girl.’

  ‘The ship that sailed just now,’ said the rector. ‘Did you see who went aboard it?’

  ‘Ship? What ship, reverend? My eyesight ain’t so good these days . . .’

  ‘Bribed,’ said Mrs Chaytor. ‘Don’t waste time. You. On your feet. Is there a signal mast at this station? Take us there.’

  The signal mast was on the roof. They stood on the platform in the whipping wind, looking out over a grey sea combed with white. Already the Hoorn was moving away fast, on a north-easterly course that would take her up the deep channel between the coast and the sandbanks of the Varne. But Mrs Chaytor was looking south. Suddenly she pointed at the horizon.

  ‘There!’

  Flecks of white among the dappled waves; the sails of the Stag, driving up hard from the south. Hardcastle turned on the Customs man. ‘Make this signal to Stag: “I am sending a boat to you”.’

  ‘I’m only an old tidesman, sir. Bless you, I don’t know nothing about signals.’

  Hardcastle drew the pistol from his mud-splattered cloak. ‘Make the signal.’

  Flags soared up the signal halyard. The Customs man lowered the telescope from his eye. ‘She’s responded, sir. Affirmative.’

  ‘Good. Amelia: take your gig up to the Swan, and tell Manningham to stable your horse. You,’ he said to the tidesman, ‘will find a boat and crew who can row us out to the Stag.’

  The tidesman gaped. ‘In this weather?’

  ‘Find them,’ said Hardcastle.

  *

  The waves caught the boat as soon as they passed the sandbar and battered at them. The boat lurched crazily over the crests and sagged down into the troughs, heaving and rolling. Within five minutes Hardcastle was sick over the side, retching painfully, and no sooner had he sat up, wiping his face and rubbing his cramped stomach, than the nausea struck again. This time when he bent to vomit the sea came up and slapped him in the face, filling his mouth and nose with salt water. He sat back in the boat in a dizzy haze, his arms and legs suddenly gone weak, trying not to look at the heaving horizon.

  Something wooden bumped alongside them; the hull of the Stag. Hands reached over the side and helped them climb aboard. Captain Haddock, in a cape beaded with salt water, saluted them on the swaying deck. ‘Reverend? Ma’am? What in thunder are you doing here? I thought they were sending out more officers.’

  ‘Captain, Mrs Redcliffe is on that ship,’ said Hardcastle, gulping. ‘She has kidnapped two women and is planning either to kill them or hold them hostage in the Netherlands. At all costs, we must overtake them.’

  The hull of the Hoorn was out of sight below the waves, but her big red lugsails could be seen clearly on the horizon. Haddock shouted orders to his own men and the sloop turned in pursuit. ‘She’s about a three-mile start on us,’ the captain said. ‘But we’ll overhaul her, never fear. We’ll follow her to the corners of the earth, if we must. Reverend, ma’am, if you wish to go below, my cabin and that of my first mate are at your disposal. Jenks here will show you the way.’

  Staggering and sick, Hardcastle turned to follow the sailor. ‘I would prefer to remain,’ said Mrs Chaytor, her eyes on the red sails. ‘Tell me where to stand so I am not in the way.’

  *

  All through the day the chase continued. For a while, the white cliffs of east Kent were visible to the west; then these passed from view and there was only the sea, endless rolling waves churned by the wind which roared at them from the west. The wind pressed the sails of the Stag so hard that her deck heeled over; at times, her lee rail was almost in the water. Mrs Chaytor knew a little about sailing, and she could tell that Haddock was pushing his ship to the limit, extracting every yard of speed he could find, just as she had done with Asia. The deck under her feet quivered with strain, and the taut rigging overhead screamed in the wind.

  The race was not yet done.

  Hours passed. The clouds were breaking, and the sun shone with mocking brilliance; the waves changed from grey to steely blue, foam crests sparkling as they raced towards the ship. The red sails were always there on the horizon, but she could not tell how close they were. Once, in the late afternoon, a sailor brought her coffee laced with rum, and she drank it gratefully; she had not realised how cold she was.

  ‘Are we gaining?’

  ‘A little, ma’am. Captain reckons we’re a little over two miles behind now. Hoorn’s a faster ship when close to the wind, see, but if she comes up too far, she’ll be on a course straight towards our patrols. She has to stick to this course to make Holland, and so long as she does we’ll have the legs of her.’

  She understood only some of this, but two miles stood out. They were closing.

  Dusk fell. The waves came on, relentless, and the deck heaved and rolled. One of the crew brought her some food, which she did not want. Sunset was a glow of gold and red barred by clouds. She watched the red sails in the distance turn dark as the light faded, and a sudden panic struck her. She went back to the quarterdeck, slowly, clinging to the bulwark, stepping carefully around the black cast-iron cannon that squatted at intervals and feeling her boots slipping on the wet deck.

  ‘Captain Haddock! We’ll lose her in the dark!’

  The white-haired captain shook his head. ‘The moon’ll be up soon. We’ll see her clear enough then. Ma’am, I really think you should go below and rest.’

  She went below. She looked into the cabin where Hardcastle lay sprawled on the bed, unconscious with seasickness. For a moment, her soul softened a little.

  I was wrong to send him away. I needed his humanity, his compassion. I ne
eded his friendship. This was not the time to lock myself away.

  He cares about me, I know. He has never spoken of it, but I know too that he is sorry I do not share his belief in God. Well. Perhaps I shall try a little experiment now. A prayer, to see if it makes me feel any better.

  Bracing herself against the wooden bulkhead, she closed her eyes and spoke a short prayer for the safety of Charlotte and Eliza. She opened her eyes again and looked around. Everything was the same.

  ‘Oh, well,’ she said to herself, and for a moment there was a trace of her old lightness. ‘It can’t have hurt.’

  She went into the captain’s cabin and lay down on the cot. The motion of the ship rolled her from side to side like a doll, and the room smelled of tobacco. After an hour she went back on deck, just in time to see the half-moon lift over the rolling horizon and light the sails of the Dutch ship two miles ahead. She leaned against the mast, watching.

  I failed Grebell Faversham. I will not fail again.

  Be brave, Eliza and Charlotte. Be strong. Whatever happens to you, cling to life. We are coming for you.

  *

  Dawn broke, glowing red and pink and gold over the heaving sea, the wind still hard from the west. She was so exhausted she could hardly think. The world around her seemed to stutter. The relentless crash of the waves, the creaking of the hull, the moaning of the rigging tore at her nerves.

  ‘A mile and a half,’ said Captain Haddock. ‘Sloterdyke is no lubber. He must know we’re overhauling him.’

  ‘Think he might turn and fight, sir?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you? Pipe the hands to breakfast.’

  Breakfast was a form of porridge. She forced a few spoonfuls down, shuddering with a nausea that had nothing to do with seasickness. Another cup of coffee laced with rum calmed her stomach.

  Blue sky overhead, enormous columns of white cloud marching over the sea around them trailing grey sheets of rain. The wind was down a little, but still the waves rolled on, streaked with white foam. The deck of the ship heaved and swayed beneath her feet.

  ‘Sail ho!’

  ‘Where away?’

  ‘Port bow, captain. It’s another lugger.’

  White sails, rising and falling on the horizon. The sea, rolling and rolling, without end.

  ‘She’s one of ours, captain! I think it’s Black Joke!’

  ‘Make the recognition signal.’

  Silence, waiting.

  ‘Weather’s coming up, captain.’ One of the great storm clouds was rolling towards them from the west.

  ‘Black Joke’s answering, captain. She’s spotted the Dutchman.’

  The squall was drawing nearer. A few raindrops pattered on the already wet deck.

  ‘Black Joke is turning, sir! She’s running to cut the Dutchman off.’

  ‘Watch the Dutchman, lads, watch her,’ said Haddock. ‘She’ll wait until the squall hits and then try to run back past us. Watch her sails; sing out the moment you see her turn.’

  Rain was falling heavily now. Her cloak was saturated, she realised, and she was wet through to her small clothes. Her body shivered from head to foot, but she could not turn away.

  ‘Ma’am,’ said Captain Haddock, ‘I am about to send the crew to quarters. You should go below.’

  She did not know what that meant. She shook her head.

  A whistle blew. A drum beat. Men ran across the rolling deck. The ropes securing the black guns were removed. Charges of powder were rammed down the muzzles, round shot forced home after them.

  The rain hit them in earnest, pouring out of the sky, streaming across the deck. The men around her were soaked through in an instant. The horizon vanished behind the curtain of rain.

  ‘She’s turning!’ Several voices shouting at once. They had seen the Dutch lugger’s sails turn just before the heavy rain blotted her from sight.

  ‘Hard a-starboard. Now, midships. Meet her.’

  ‘Steady as she goes, captain.’

  ‘Gun’s crews closed up and ready for action, sir.’

  The rain hammered at them. A powerful gust of wind followed, kicking up the waves so that the Stag corkscrewed across them, diving into the troughs. Mrs Chaytor grabbed for a rope and clung on as a big wave broke across the deck, green water up to her waist for a moment, then pouring away over the side.

  Waiting, watching the rain for any sign of movement.

  ‘There she is!’

  Great red sails stretched taut, black hull shiny with wet driving over the heaving grey seas, white foam at her bow, perhaps three hundred yards away.

  ‘Hard a-starboard!’

  Flashes of flame, puffs of white smoke from the Dutch lugger’s deck; thuds of shot against the wooden hull, something tearing a hole in the sail overhead. Hardcastle was there beside her, white-faced. ‘Amelia, what are you doing? Go below!’

  She could not move; she could only shake her head.

  ‘It’s that god-damned Puckle gun! Look out, they’re firing again!’ Flash. Flash. Flash from the enemy deck, more thumps against the hull. Another puff of smoke and a cannonball tore a white leaping fountain from the face of an incoming wave.

  ‘Midships. Meet her.’

  The Dutch ship was turning, too, away to port. She could see the long barrel of the Puckle gun now, and the men around the other guns, reloading. At this distance, their faces were white featureless blobs. Another cannon fired from the Dutchman’s deck, gushing smoke; this time, she heard the sharp crack of the explosion over the roar of wind and water.

  Rain drumming on the deck, running down her face and into her eyes. The crash of waves under the bow, spray flying up in hissing sheets. Flash. Flash. Flash; the Puckle gun, firing again. Shouts from the men around her as the ship was hit.

  ‘Stand by the guns. Fire.’

  White billowing smoke, a hammering in her ears that made her want to scream, the smoke twisting away quickly on the wind. ‘Did we hit her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sponge out. Load powder.’

  ‘She’s getting away, sir! She’s pulled away at least a cable’s length in the last few minutes!’

  The rain was increasing in power. The deck around her was ankle-deep in water. Hardcastle stood braced against the mast beside her, soaked through, staring at the Dutch ship as she began to disappear behind the curtain of falling rain.

  ‘She’s right up against the wind, sir! She’s got at least a knot of speed on us! She’s getting away from us, sir!’

  She heard her own voice screaming on the edge of sanity, raging against the fates that had brought them so close and then denied them.

  A shape ahead in the rain, a huge shadow right on the edge of vision, dark, enormous wings, menacing, hungry for the kill; resolving in a moment into great spreading sails over a narrow black and yellow hull, a ship running at full speed. And then out of the rain came Black Joke, and her guns spoke thunder.

  She saw the white smoke billowing over the sea, tongues of fire stabbing through it. She saw the splinters fly from the Dutchman’s deck; she saw one mast crack and shatter and fall, crushing the Puckle gun to broken metal as its crew scattered, dragging the great sail behind it in a confusion of broken ropes and splintered wood to crash into the sea. The Dutch ship heeled around, rolling in the troughs of the waves. Black Joke stooped on her like a hunting hawk.

  One moment the Hoorn was a great distance away; then suddenly they were alongside her. She looked down to see Martha Redcliffe staring up at her, face framed by a black hood. A dog, a big mastiff tethered to the remaining mast, barked furiously, straining against its lead. Black Joke was on the other side, bristling with guns.

  ‘Captain Sloterdyke! Heb je overgeven? Do you surrender, sir?’

  ‘God rot you,’ said a big man on her quarterdeck. ‘Do I have a choice?’

  Haddock said something she did not hear. On the other ship’s deck, men were laying down their weapons, some reluctantly. A big gap-toothed man snarled and raised his pistol; Sloterdyke spoke and
two of his men struck the weapon down, pinning the other man between them. ‘Help me down,’ Mrs Chaytor said to Hardcastle.

  ‘Down?’

  She pointed to the Hoorn’s deck. ‘We’ve got to find them. Now.’

  Two of Stag’s sailors lifted her down. Ignoring the rolling deck, she stalked towards the captain like an avenging fury, her face white and cold. Snarling, the mastiff hurled itself forward, throwing all its massive weight against the lead. The leather snapped with a crack. The dog raced towards her, claws scrabbling on the wet deck, jaws open and teeth bared. Behind her, men shouted in alarm. Mrs Chaytor drew her pistol and shot the dog through the head, then stepped over the twitching body to confront the captain.

  ‘Where are the women?’ she said harshly.

  ‘Vertel haar niets!’ snapped Martha Redcliffe.

  The big man rounded on her. ‘Almachtig! Enough. I’m a smuggler, not a kidnapper.’ He nodded to Mrs Chaytor. ‘They are below.’

  ‘Open the hatch.’ She gestured with her pistol, which was still smoking. ‘Now.’

  Eliza and Charlotte lay sprawled like broken dolls on a greasy wooden grating, sea water sloshing just below them. They had been pushed down the ladder, or perhaps even thrown down unconscious from the deck. Hardcastle was down the ladder at once; she realised she had not seen him come aboard. She stood at the edge of the hatch looking down, watching him kneel over the bodies, feeling sick again.

  Then he looked up, and she saw his face. She put her head back, closing her eyes. It was over. The race was won.

  The sea is his, and he made it,

  and his hands prepared the dry land.

  Sailors from the Stag, and Black Joke, too, came to the hatch and with great tenderness lifted the unconscious bodies of the two young women out of the hold and carried them aboard the Stag. They had been drugged, heavily; they would be unconscious for hours still. Both were badly bruised, probably from their fall into the hold, but there was no obvious sign of broken bones.

  Captain Haddock and Lieutenant Stark had both come aboard the Hoorn. The Dutch captain stood with his arms folded while the other two debated his fate. ‘I think we should treat her as a prize,’ the navy man said. ‘If the Customs take her, then she’s confiscate, and none of us will ever see a penny. But if she’s a prize of war, she goes to prize court, and we all get a reward. We’ll split it down the middle with you and your crew, of course.’