“We can fire warning shots, surely, ahead of any craft we suspect?”
“Yes,” said Mr Lane, “but the guns are not usually shotted.”
“But they are sometimes, then? I can log it so as to account for the powder and shot?”
“Well, I have known that done and no questions asked.”
“Good. I can foresee some gunfire tomorrow. I have changed my mind, however, about sailing during the morning watch. On second thought I had rather we were seen to be heading eastwards.”
“Why would that be an advantage?” asked Mr Torrin.
“Because our doubling back might come as more of a surprise.”
Not another word would Delancey say on the subject but the word went round that the skipper was up to something. He might be a taut hand and it seemed most likely that he was. No one would care about that, however, if only they made a capture or two. Like their opponents, the revenue men were chiefly after money.
Chapter Seven
WINGS OF THE DOVE
“FIRE!” said Delancey and the Rose’s starboard bow-chaser sent a nine-pounder shot hurtling toward the floating barrel that was its target. The shot went wide and Delancey pointed to the port bow-chaser and ordered “Fire!” There was another miss, short and wide, and Mr Lane was told to close the range. It was a brilliantly sunny morning, cold but exhilarating, with startled seabirds circling overhead. The standard of marksmanship was appalling and the fishing boats huddled between the Rose and the Sussex coast had every cause for alarm. The mere fact that they were not the target was no proof, in itself, that they were safe. They would have felt no happier had they known that they were being described in the cutter’s log as suspect vessels which refused to heave-to until shots had been fired across their bows. They had been identified as Shoreham craft on their lawful occasions but they had given Delancey the excuse he needed. The target barrel being unscathed, he sailed closer so as to exercise his men with small arms. This manoeuvre brought him even closer to the fishing vessels whose nets were down and for whom escape was thus impossible. Had one of these craft been captained by a man with a guilty conscience, he might have seen the Rose’s behaviour as an elaborate manoeuvre designed to take him by surprise.
It so happened, that one vessel among the group in sight was, in fact, captained by just such a man with just such a sense of guilt. His three-masted lugger had hidden among the others, always with another craft between her and the Rose. His nerve finally gave way and he ordered his men to make all sail. He fled eastward with a southerly breeze and Delancey ordered an immediate pursuit. Lane went forward with a spyglass and Delancey joined him in the bows.
“Aye,” said Lane finally, “that’s the Four Brothers out of Shoreham, commanded by Jonathan Battersby. The moonshine must be on board or he wouldn’t have run like that. He meant to land it at Rottingdean, seemingly, and was waiting for dark.”
“Are we fast enough to catch him?”
“Not with the wind a-beam, sir. We’ll barely hold our own. Before the wind we can do better with the square mainsail and topsail, having a bigger spread of canvas than he has. We’d come up with him, sir, if the wind veered again.”
“It’s more likely to back. With an east wind we might trap him against the land.”
“You mean, sir, that he couldn’t round Beachy Head on this tack?”
“That’s our best hope, Mr Lane.”
As the chase continued the breeze backed more easterly and both craft, pursuer and pursued, came as close as possible to the wind. They were about a mile apart and the distance between them was tending, if anything, to lengthen. By the afternoon Beachy Head could be seen and with it the last chance, probably, of making a capture. This wind was south-easterly and backing still, the lugger’s sails flapping as she tried to hold her course. At last the moment came when she was fairly taken aback while the Rose further seawards held her wind and was beginning to close the range. To tack would have brought the lugger across her pursuer’s bows, a good target for gunfire. Rather than do that, the Four Brothers went clean about, turning towards the land, and headed due west with the wind nearly abaft. The Rose lost ground in following suit and lost more still in setting her square mainsail. Delancey knew that he should set the square topsail as well but felt that there was no time for that. He steered a converging course under square mainsail and gaff topsail and was glad to see that Lane was right. Before the wind his was the faster vessel and there was soon less than half a mile between them. Delancey ordered his men to man the bow-chasers and the starboard battery. If only their standard of gunnery were higher! They were actually within range now but Delancey thought that the target was still too distant for the gun-crews he had. Nor did he want to damage a vessel he already classed as a prize.
Suddenly the lugger tacked, heading eastwards again, and came within easy range while doing so. The Rose came foaming down on her prey and Delancey dared not tack while the range was lessening.
“Look, sir!” said Torrin, “She’s putting her cargo over the side!” He handed the telescope to Delancey, who saw in a flash what was happening. He was also faced with the need to make an instant decision. If he held his course he would recover the cargo, which seemed to be floating. If he tacked he might catch the smuggler but with no material proof by then that he had been smuggling. His one chance of securing both criminal and cargo was to cripple the lugger before she could escape. He altered course slightly so as to bring his broadside to bear and then ordered Torrin to open fire. “Aim high!” he shouted. “Bring a mast down!” The idea was sound but the chances of success were remote. Range and bearing were altering quickly, the sea was lively and the aim indifferent. The first scattered broadside produced holes in the lugger’s sails and one or two shrouds gone. There were six guns to fire and the next broadside was hardly more effective although three guns were aimed by Torrin and the other three by Delancey himself. This time the lugger’s mizen sail was fairly riddled but without more than trifling damage to the mast. The range had lengthened before they could fire again and the action ended with some last ineffective shots from the bow-chasers. As the floating kegs were recovered—the revenue men were expert in this—the Four Brothers disappeared round Beachy Head. Delancey’s prey had escaped him.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Lane, “You were quite right to prefer the brandy to the lugger. This way we’ve got something. T’other way we should have had nothing.” Delancey did not encourage comment of this sort but he could not resist asking the question which worried him.
“Why didn’t they fire back?”
“What good would it have done?” asked Lane. “The game was over. To cripple us would have made no difference—we couldn’t continue the chase, not with this lot to pick up, and it would have done us no good if we had.”
“But what if we had fired into them?”
“They’d have had to reply so as to confuse our aim. As things were there was nobody hurt, which is just as well. They’ll have made no profit on this voyage, though, and we now have something to share.”
“Well done, sir!” said Torrin, coming up in his turn. “The men are all asking how you knew that the lugger was there?”
Delancey decided that his reputation would grow more rapidly if they continued to wonder. “I was not born yesterday, Mr Torrin.”
Within minutes of hauling the last keg on board Delancey set a course of south sou’-west by west and explained that he meant to visit Sandown Bay before sunset. With this wind they should make it easily, keeping well away from the English coast. “It may be supposed in Hampshire that we are still off Beachy Head.”
Late that afternoon the Rose completed her sixty mile run before the wind and finally brought to and dropped anchor off Shanklin. She was right over a sandbank called Shanklin Chine and the Rose’s crew, mystified already, were still more surprised when their eccentric commander set another barrel afloat and announced a competition between the two bow-chasers. Each would have one shot a
t two hundred yards and the winning crew would have a prize. Neither crew scored a hit and Delancey himself then aimed the starboard gun and shattered the target into drifting firewood. Apparently satisfied by this result, Delancey took a few bearings with his sextant and (half an hour later) made sail again to the westward, setting a course to round Portland Bill. Next day he was off Lyme Regis and Bridport and cruising slowly along the Chesil Bank. That evening, Wednesday, he set a course for St Catherine’s Point from St Alban’s Head. The wind was westerly again and warmer, the night was dark but clear, with starlight enough to distinguish the Needles.
Delancey paced the deck, wondering whether his calculations had been correct. If they were, Sam Carter’s lugger, the Dove, was simultaneously heading for Sandown Bay. If Madden had responded to Delancey’s suggestion, the Rapid was closing in from the eastward, placing the Dove in a trap. But what if the calculation were wrong? It all rested upon his discovery that Molly Brown was not available on the coming Thursday and Friday. He had assumed that those days were kept for Sam Carter, Thursday as the day after the run and Friday in case the run were delayed. He had next assumed that cargo would be sunk in Sandown Bay well before midnight on Wednesday so that the main consignment could be delivered at Poole in the small hours. It would not be Poole itself, he knew, but some creek adjacent (and there were any number of these, to judge from the chart). That would not affect the timing, however. The weakness of his plan derived rather from the bold guesses on which it was based. What if Molly kept Thursday for somebody else? What if Sam Carter varied the pattern by going to Poole first and to Sandown Bay afterwards? What if he had taken alarm from hearing of the Rose’s activity? There were a score of ways in which the Rose’s commander could be made to look foolish. In one respect he had been sensible, though— he had told nothing of his plans to Lane or Torrin. His attempt might fail without his crew knowing what had been attempted. There was some consolation in that. . . . Slowly and quietly the Rose was approaching Sandown Bay. She was cleared for action with guns loaded and run out. There were flares ready to light when the moment came.
“There’s a craft at anchor off Shanklin, sir.” It was Torrin’s voice, hoarse with excitement, and Delancey sighed with relief. Perhaps the gamble had come off after all! He could at first see nothing himself but there were lights ashore in the village and they were disappearing in turn as the bearing altered. There was a dark shape between the land and the silent watchers in the revenue cutter. Higher than the lights of the village were some scattered lights further inland and further to the east. Four of these glowed red and Torrin, pointing this out, could not imagine why.
“Looks like some form of signal, sir. It’s also strange that a craft should lie at anchor just there—far to the south of the usual anchorage. She is very near the place where we were at target practice only yesterday.”
Delancey agreed that this was indeed an odd circumstance. He then lowered the Rose’s sails and allowed her to drift, waiting to see what the other vessel would do. At last came the unmistakable sounds of a vessel being pulled up to her anchor. She was about to sail and the Rose had crept up, unnoticed, to a point within half a mile. The time had come to identify the stranger, which was done by lighting a blue flare. By its light every detail was visible for a split second. It was enough, for Lane at once called from the bows that the craft making sail was the Dove of Poole.
She steered away to the east and south and the Rose followed on her best point of sailing. Following the trend of the land, the Dove then headed for the area where the Rapid should be waiting for her. Delancey lighted flare after flare so that Madden could see the Dov’s silhouette. At last he was answered by another flare to the north and knew that the smuggler was fairly trapped between two cutters and the land. She stood in for Bembridge under easy sail and finally hove to while Rose and Rapid closed in on their prey. After a minute’s hesitation Delancey put on his naval uniform before rowing over in the gig, taking Torrin with him and ordering Lane to keep the lugger covered by the Rose’s broadside. He should, strictly speaking, have sent Lane and remained on board himself but he wanted to see the Dove and also her captain. There were a number of lanterns lit and he was able to see both.
Sam Carter welcomed them aboard the Dove with elaborate irony. He was short and stout with greying hair, a soft voice and just a trace of a Cornish accent.
“Good evening to you, Mr Torrin. I hope I see you well? And this is your new captain? Glad to make your acquaintance, sir! I did not know that we were to be honoured by the sight of the King’s uniform. Captain Delancey, is it? Your servant, sir. Perhaps you would care to join me in the cabin? Mr Torrin, I fancy, has business in the hold. Why not leave him to his rummage while we have a glass of toddy? This way, Captain, and mind your head as we go below. In this lugger we have little headroom between decks.”
The cabin was small but clean and tidy. There were glasses on the table with lemons, sugar, a brandy flask and a steaming jug. Delancey was offered a chair and his host did the honours with smooth formality.
“When pouring I have to remember that this liquor is above proof; purchased, of course, at the Custom House auction. Use the sugar-crusher, sir. . . . A little lemon? Now, for a toast. . . . Shall we drink to the recovery of Captain Ryder?”
Delancey barely sipped the drink but looked about him with interest. This was not the pirate ship of any ballad or story. It was all too depressingly normal.
“I was greatly relieved,” Carter went on, “when I recognized the Rose. My fear was at first that you were a French privateer. That’s why I tried to escape. You will think me foolish, perhaps? I am a little nervous, I must confess, but I have been fired on too often and sometimes in error. Yes, sir, I almost took you for the enemy.”
“So you were naturally relieved to find yourself among friends and neighbours. I assume that Mr Torrin will find nothing?”
“We sailed, alas, in ballast.”
“From Alderney?”
“From Alderney, yes. I had hoped for a cargo of seaweed there but was disappointed.”
“Seaweed?”
“Yes. It is of value, I am told, to farmers.”
“Including those round Sandown Bay?”
“No, I called at that place on an errand of mercy. A friend of mine there was worried about the health of his father, who lives in Alderney. I was able to assure him, in a written note, that the old man is on his way to recovery.”
“So you are bound now for Poole?”
“No, for Cowes.”
“And so back to Alderney, perhaps?”
“That depends upon what cargo I am offered.”
“No doubt. Allow me to propose a toast in my turn. To the Dove! May she and her crew have all the good fortune they deserve!”
“To the Dove! I can certainly drink to that. And some better fortune would be welcome, for the present voyage will have earned us little.”
“I am sorry indeed to hear it and sorrier to suspect that it may, for all I know, have earned you nothing.”
“Don’t say that, sir. I may at least have earned the gratitude of my friend in the Isle of Wight.”
“A thought which does you credit, Captain. And here, I think, comes Mr Torrin.” There was a clatter on the companionway and Torrin joined them, accepting a glass of toddy and apologising for having given so much trouble. He reported to Delancey that the Dove’s hold was empty.
“You will understand, sir, that I have to do my duty,” he concluded, “even when the vessel is well known to us.”
Carter protested that there were no ill feelings and called in his chief mate to join them. He turned out to be a slight dark man called Evans, who said very little. Then the party broke up, Torrin draining his tumbler but Delancey leaving his glass almost untasted on the cabin table. As they went on deck Carter said that he hoped they would meet again—ashore, perhaps, in Cowes.
Oddly enough, Delancey had the feeling that the invitation might have been genuine. Carter w
as a man for whom he had a certain instinctive liking and he felt that the liking was returned. Delancey had won the first game but this was partly because he had unexpectedly replaced a bad player, taking up the cards before his own skill had been assessed and looking privily at his opponents’ cards before they even knew that he was playing. All that advantage of surprise had now gone. The next game would be on more equal terms and Delancey remembered what Mr Payne had said—that he would never succeed in bringing Sam Carter to justice.
Next morning the Rose was back in Sandown Bay. After taking repeated and careful bearings with the sextant, Delancey brought the cutter to anchor at a point on Shanklin Chine, the very place where the Dove had first been sighted the night before. “Lower the boats, Mr Lane, and search the bottom with grapnels.” At this point, however, the patient chief mate felt bound to protest.
“Beg pardon, sir, but what’s the good? The boatmen will have come out from Sandown while we were chasing the Dove. They will have done their creeping while we were off Bembridge.” Delancey felt the implied rebuke in this. Following Lane’s principle, he should have gone after the consignment of brandy and let the lugger go. After all, she would have jettisoned the rest of her cargo before she could be overtaken. This was what had happened and heads were being shaken in the forecastle over a navy man’s ignorance.
Delancey was adamant, however. “Make a careful search, nevertheless. You’ll find bottom in about six fathoms.”
There followed an hour or so of tedious search, the boats rowing back and forth and the seamen muttering about the futility of it all. They were kept at it, nevertheless, and the mates were quick to notice any slackening of effort. Then there came a shout from one of the boats. “Grapnels caught on something!” There was much heaving and cursing, the guess being that they had hooked an old anchor, but Delancey told them to row to the cutter and pass their line on board. From this steadier platform, with the capstan to help, the line was pulled in and the first keg came in sight. There was a cheer from the boats and the other kegs appeared, one after another, roped together with stone weights in between each. They were hauled on board to the number of forty. That completed the chain and ended the search. The boats were hoisted in, the anchor broken out and a course set for the Needles and so back to base. So far Delancey’s reputation was made.
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