Alexander Kent - Bolitho 26

by Man of War [lit]

  When he turned again, Boyce had disappeared, and the mess boy was gripping the offending shirts in both hands.

  He pleaded, ”Don’t tell anybody, sir. I don’t want no more trouble!”

  How often had he said that?

  Screens were being pulled down and feet pounded loudly overhead. Exercise or false alarm, he found he did not care. He felt as if he had suddenly grown up. Then he was running with all the others.

  Captain Adam Bolitho sat in the tall-backed chair and folded the letter he had reread with such care. From Nancy, and it had been like hearing her voice, her quick laugh. All this time, and he had not known about it.

  Even if I had .. . The courier, a brig from Plymouth, had brought more despatches for Bethune. Nancy’s letter had eventually reached Antigua by a longer route, and two different vessels. The last mail bag had been stamped ”Gibraltar’. And there had been two letters from Lowenna.

  Loud thuds sounded throughout the ship. Stores; and perhaps the purser had managed to obtain some more fruit.

  He stared through the stern windows. A few local craft were skimming the flat water, so there had to be some kind of wind. Here in the cabin, even with skylight and quarter windows open, it was completely airless. And Athena was still at anchor, as if she would never move again. The strain on the sailors was showing itself in the punishment book, the first sign in any ship. Flogging never cured anything, but neither did boredom.

  He looked at the sky; angry was the word for it. But this was the hurricane season, and September was always the worst month. How could it be September?

  He opened Lowenna’s letter again. She had included a sketch drawn by his cousin Elizabeth. They were seeing quite a lot of each other. He felt more than relief. He was strangely grateful.

  More shouts: a boat coming alongside. But still no frigates had arrived to reinforce the squadron, and to give the commodore any extra resources for casting his net around the slave routes.

  The screen door opened and closed: it was Luke Jago. He was no longer announced by the sentry, a privilege he never abused.

  ”You wanted me, Cap’n?” His eyes flicked to the open letters. He was ready.

  ”Bryan Ferguson you remember him, don’t you?”

  Jago nodded, seeing the office, the stable yard, and Grace, always planning and arranging things.

  ”We got on well last time we was in port.”

  ”He died. Heart gave out. He was never all that strong, though he’d be the last to admit it.”

  Jago said, ”He’ll be sorely missed, I reckon.”

  ”I heard a boat alongside?”

  Jago walked to the quarter windows and grimaced at the sky.

  ”In for a blow by the makin’s of it.” He recalled what Adam had said. ”Sir Graham’s servant, sir.”

  Adam said, ”He’s been ashore for a few hours.”

  ”On an errand, I believe.” His eyes creased in a smile. The Captain didn’t miss much even if he was always busy as hell.

  Adam looked at the little sketch. Two mermaids this time, waving to an incoming ship. If only it were true.

  Jago gauged the moment. ”Strange when you thinks of it, Cap’n. Us stuck in harbour, while young Mister Napier is out there, showin’ us all what to do!”

  Bowles had appeared soundlessly from his pantry.

  ”May I pour something, sir?”

  Adam shook his head. ”Not yet. Sir Graham has been sitting with all those official envelopes. I think I had best be ready.”

  Somewhere a door slid shut and Bowles nodded gravely. He knew every sound in the poop like his own body.

  ”I think that is probably wise, sir.”

  Adam glanced at his coat, hanging from a door. It was barely moving. Lowenna had been in London, and had seen some lawyer who was dealing with Montagu’s affairs. It had been raining there. She had returned to Falmouth, to Nancy. He thought of Ferguson, who had lost an arm at the Saintes, a lifetime ago. The house would be missing him. So would poor Grace.

  ”Flag lieutenant, sah!”

  Troubridge entered the cabin but shook his head when Bowles offered to take his hat. He looked strained, even irritated, and said, ”I can’t stay.” He joined Adam, looking briefly at the letters on the table. ”Sir Graham is sending for the commodore. I’m off to fetch him. May I use the gig?”

  Jago was already by the door. ”Ready when you needs me, sir.”

  Adam asked quietly, ”Is it trouble?”

  Troubridge did not answer directly. ”How soon can you get under way, sir? They say there’s a storm in the offing.” He looked very young, and vulnerable.

  Adam saw Bowles reaching for his coat. ”Tell me.” And all the while, like other times, different places, the mechanics of his mind were clicking into place. How many officers were ashore? Which working parties could be found and recalled to the ship; how long would it take?

  Troubridge sighed. ”Sir Graham had his response from the Admiralty. No more frigates, not yet in any case. One will eventually be coming direct from Freetown, otherwise .. .” He shrugged. ”The other thing is that we received a report about San Jose. Most of it is owned by a renegade Portuguese named Miguel Carneiro. Came to Cuba from Brazil after causing some embarrassment to the government there, and to greater powers in Lisbon. Claims to have some connection with the Portuguese royal family. It’s all getting rather beyond me.”

  Adam looked past him at the harbour, and the threatening sky. ”Is he the missing name, Francis? The slavers’ paymaster?” He crossed the cabin and gazed at the anchored barque.

  He said, ”Athena can be clear of English Harbour before nightfall.”

  He watched Troubridge’s uncertainty, like some one else, all confidence gone. Bethune must have given him a harder ride than usual. But why?

  He tried to lighten it. ”I’ll not be sorry to find some sea-room if it’s to be a real storm.”

  Troubridge turned toward the door. ”Sir Graham is certain that at least three of the big slave ships are hiding at San Jose, maybe waiting for settlement. For the Villa de Bilbao’s gold.”

  ”Then they’ll wait. The weather gives them an even better reason.”

  He saw the conflict on the young lieutenant’s face. Loyalty and trust, friendship and something more.

  Troubridge said flatly, ”This man, Carneiro, he has been warned, or soon will be.”

  ”Gig’s alongside, sir!”

  ”How can Sir Graham be sure of this?” He thought of the servant, Tolan, his absence ashore, and Bethune’s fury upon his return. He had heard his voice even up here until some one had closed a door.

  Troubridge hesitated, and seemed to come to a decision. ”There was a lady, sir. Sir Graham intended to see her.” He swallowed.

  ”Again. But the house was empty. Everything gone.” He made a halfhearted attempt at a shrug, and tried to smile. ”So you see?”

  Adam walked with him, out into the sunshine, the heat and the busy normality.

  Troubridge added, ”Sir Graham sends his compliments and .. .”

  He doffed his hat and hurried down to the entry port.

  Adam watched the gig pull smartly away from the side, and saw Jago turn to shade his eyes and stare up at the poop. At me.

  So it was Catherine. Perhaps it explained her failure to answer his letters, when he had told himself that they had gone astray, like Nancy’s. The rest he could imagine for himself.

  He saw Stirling waiting by the quarterdeck ladder, grim-faced. A man who never changed.

  ”I want all shore working parties recalled. How many are there?”

  The response was instant. ”Only two, sir. The carpenter’s crew and the purser’s clerk with five seamen.”

  He glanced at the masthead pendant. Hardly moving, but in no time it could become a screaming gale.

  He looked across at the barque again. ”I want to see the sail-maker, as soon as I’ve left the admiral.” He saw each word hit its mark. ”No more visitors aboard, except for the commo
dore, of course.”

  Stirling touched his hat, but did not smile.

  As he walked to the companion Adam thought of the night he had dined as a guest of the wardroom. Landsmen could never understand how a captain could be a guest in his own command. Perhaps it was a ship’s strength, like keel or timbers.

  He closed his mind to everything but that same sense of warning, like a hand reaching out.

  Tolan opened the screen door for him but dropped his eyes, and his thoughts or emotions remained hidden.

  Bethune was waiting, facing the screen, as if he had been in that stance since Troubridge had been sent to ‘fetch’ the commodore.

  He was fully dressed, his shirt fresh against his waistcoat. He looked very calm; not a hair out of place, as Yovell would have said.

  He gestured to a chair. Even that looked as if it had been arranged.

  ”Flags told you the latest intelligence, I take it?” He did not wait. ”My information is reliable. This fellow Carneiro has had contact with certain ship owners, would-be slavers if you like, as well as with powerful figures in business and politics.” His mouth twisted briefly. ”I daresay with our people, too.”

  He waited while Tolan poured two glasses of wine.

  ”A local trading vessel sailed recently for Kingston, or so it was alleged. A man named Jacob, well known to the commodore, to all accounts.” He sipped the wine.

  Adam did likewise but tasted nothing. He was hearing Troubridge’s words at the conference, about who might carry the blame if the campaign misfired.

  He saw Tolan standing by a hanging mirror and realized he was watching him. More like a voice than a pair of eyes. He carried messages for Bethune, anything he asked, but kept his mouth tight. Tolan had found out about the trader Jacob. It explained far more than his master’s anger.

  Bethune said, ”You are ready for sea, if need be?”

  ”By the dog watches, Sir Graham. I have passed the word.”

  Bethune regarded him steadily. ”I did the right thing to select you for flag captain.” He checked himself, as if he had gone too far. ”Do you have any proposals?”

  So casually asked. The realization hit him like a fist. Bethune was desperate.

  He said, ”Time is not on our side, Sir Graham.” He saw him clench his fist as if he could scarcely control his annoyance, or perhaps his anxiety. ”I think we should go directly to San Jose. If greed does not hold those vessels in port, then nothing will.” He saw Bethune stride to the stern windows and lean on the bench seat to peer out at the harbour. Across his bright epaulettes, he said, ”The reports of the weather are not good.” He did not turn, and Adam could almost feel the tension.

  ”It may be our only ally.” But he was thinking of Athena’s sail maker slotting his name. Cruikshank. A Dorset man. Some one must have mentioned it.

  He said, ”I think we should take the Villa de Bilbao in company.” He waited, seeing the doubt, the disappointment perhaps. ”As the bait.”

  Bethune nodded slowly, standing very upright, his neat hair touching the deck head

  ”We might just have the edge on them. The old equation, eh, Adam? Time, speed and distance?”

  Adam wanted to leave, to begin something which he might regret for the rest of his life. Like being driven, inspired.

  Bethune said quietly, ”I shall leave you to prepare things. I have every confidence. In the meantime, / shall deal with the commodore.”

  As he reached the door, Bethune smiled for the first time.

  ”Good work, Adam.”

  Standing by the hanging mirror, George Tolan gripped the back of a chair to control himself.

  Bethune had said the same to him, that day when he had gone to meet the woman named Catherine.

  The deserted house, the little servant who ‘knew nothing’, the bed where they had been together.

  He smiled bitterly. One betraying the other.

  He listened to all the new sounds. Like any ship. Or one ship he always remembered.

  Athena was coming to life again.

  14

  Loyalty or Gratitude?

  Captain lan Munro gripped a mizzen stay and felt the wind transmitting its strength through every spar, from truck to keel. Even now, after countless watches at sea under most moods of weater, its power still excited him. He doubted if many of Audacity’s company would believe that.

  He trained his telescope and waited for the bows to lift and steady, spray drifting over the deck like hail with the wind across the quarter. The other vessel was on the same bearing, her tan sails etched against the low banks of cloud. She was a large topsail schooner, no flag, her hull showing the marks and stains of hard usage.

  Munro had ordered the usual preparations. Beat to quarters and clear for action. It was unlikely that any merchantman, slaver or not, would care to cross swords with a frigate. But from all he had learned and heard since joining Sir Graham Bethune’s command, it was prudent not to take chances.

  He could feel the sailing master’s eyes on his back. The wind was getting stronger by the hour, but holding steady from the southeast. The glass had dropped, and the sea, although almost unbroken, had been building into long swells, stretching away from horizon to horizon.

  He lowered the glass and wiped his eye with his sleeve. Main and mizzen courses had been taken in, fore course and topsails reefed. He glanced at the big double wheel; he had put three helmsmen there to match the power of the rudder.

  The sailing master was talking with his senior mate, who would be going across to the schooner with a boarding party,

  all experienced hands, with the two new midshipmen to assist and run errands. If the schooner proved to be a slaver, she would be held as a prize. No wonder the master’s mate could grin about it. His own command, with a lion’s share of slave bounty and prize money for good measure.

  He ran his eye along the tilting deck to the boat-handling party, and the men who would be going over to the other vessel.

  Audacity’s first patrol on the station. It would make some of the other captains sit up and take notice of this old newcomer.

  He said, ”Close enough. Fire the signal.”

  The gun captain must have been watching and waiting. The dull bang of the shot was carried away by the wind.

  He walked to the quarterdeck rail and said, ”No risks, Mr. Mowbray. Keep under our lee until you have everything in hand.”

  ”She’s shortenin’ sail, sir!”

  Munro looked at the sailing master. ”Worried?”

  He rubbed his chin. ”If there’s a bad storm on the make, we should be able to work clear of it, or run ahead of a real blow. Lucky we hadn’t entered the Windward Passage less room to spread our wings there!”

  Munro looked up at the clouds. Here and there he could still see a patch of blue, clear sky. Now or never.

  ”Heave to, if you please! Stand by to lower boats!”

  Cutter and jolly boat, up and over the gangway and then as if by some miracle rising and plunging alongside, seamen scrambling down, the dull glare reflecting from cutlasses and muskets. Munro watched closely, remembering. He had been in boarding parties as a lieutenant, even as midshipman. The moment you left the ship was always the worst. Refuge, home, life itself. Afterwards, it was only the cut and thrust of combat you heard mentioned.

  Some one breathed loudly, ”Oars out, sir! Both boats away!”

  Canvas cracked and banged momentarily overhead as Audacity drifted out of command.

  ”Get the ship under way again! Man the braces! Resume course, nor’ nor’ west!”

  When he looked again the two boats seemed already lost against the heaving water, like leaves on a mill race.

  He walked to the compass box. The worst part.

  Mowbray, master’s mate, leaned back in the jolly boat’s stern-sheets and stared beyond the oarsmen and their steady, seemingly unhurried stroke. The boat felt heavy and cumbersome, with extra hands and weapons and the uncomfortable motion. Like running up a steep sl
ope and down the other side, every man soaked in spray, trying not to peer astern at Audacity’s topsails.

  He twisted round to look for the cutter, running almost abeam, with a boatswain’s mate in charge. They had worked together before, and had enjoyed runs ashore in one port or another. They were professional, trusted sailors, who would always be back on board after a night they usually regretted.

  Mowbray glanced at the two midshipmen huddled below the tiller. Officers one day, when they could make a Jack’s life hell if the mood directed. When they walked their own quarterdecks, did they ever remember times like these, and the real sailors who had taught them?

  He stared up at the schooner’s poop. Close enough to see the scars and rough repairs. A hard-used vessel. Even the sails looked like patchwork.

  The younger midshipman asked, 7s she a slaver, Mr. Mowbray?”

  Mowbray considered it, and wondered how or where this midshipman, Napier, had started off in life. But he never took his eyes from the other vessel, and a handful of figures clinging to the shrouds as if watching the two boats.

  ”Soon know. If we was lyin’ downwind of ‘er we’d already be able to smeller I’ve seen a few in me time, when it was all nice an’ legal!”

  The other midshipman muttered, ”All the great empires were built on slavery .” He could not continue; his face looked green.

  Mowbray snapped, ”Over the side. Don’t spew in th’ boat, damn you!”

  He was too late.

  The stroke oarsman lay back on his loom and rolled his eyes toward the clouds. ”Jesus.”

  David Napier swallowed and tried not to hear Boyce retching and vomiting over the gunwale.

  The vessel loomed right over them now, so that the other sounds seemed muffled. Somewhere else. He knew without looking that the bowman had hurled his grapnel over the bulwark,

  and that somehow the oars were all suddenly inboard. Weapons had appeared, and he saw a seaman unwrapping the lock of his musket. The man’s face was devoid of expression. As if it were a drill.

  He felt for the dirk under his coat, remembering the fire and smoke of Algiers, Jago taking charge of a boat’s crew for boarding one of the enemy ships. Voice flat and calm, eyes everywhere. And that other time when he had been on deck with the captain. Keep by me, David.