by Alaric Bond
* * *
Three sharp taps on the door to his sleeping cabin and Banks was instantly awake. “What is it?” he demanded, clambering out of the bed and reaching for his watch coat. Had he been alone, the caller would no doubt have entered and spoken with him, but Sarah's presence denied such a liberty.
“Mr Caulfield's duty, sir, and there is a sighting.” It was the voice of Chapman, one of the volunteers.
Banks pulled on a pair of duck trousers and thrust his bare feet into boots before pushing his way out of the door. Opposite was the second sleeping cabin that had been hurriedly constructed in the coach to house the governor and his lady. Scylla remained in the grips of the storm and Chapman's coat was dripping onto the deck.
“Where away?” Banks snapped as he turned to make for the companionway.
“Eastwards, and there are two ships, sir; though it may be three,” the volunteer said, rushing after his captain. “Lookout can't say no more for the present, but Mr Caulfield thought you should be called.”
“Who is at the masthead?” Banks was moving past the pantry now, and the smell of morning coffee came to him. Thompson, his servant, must have the spirit stove alight; it was clearly later than he thought: probably nearly dawn.
“I–I don't know, sir,” the midshipman confessed. “Jackson is the watch mid, and has been sent to join him. I was turned up earlier, sir – after the first call.”
“First call?” Banks stopped and glanced at the lad. “When was the sighting made?”
“About five minutes ago, sir, though it still ain't clear; no one can say for sure what the ships are or even how many.”
Anger flushed through the captain's body. An unidentified sighting had been made – at least two ships, which might well indicate a fleet – and he had been allowed to sleep peacefully while his officers argued amongst themselves over what should be done. Chapman was positively squirming under his gaze, and Banks realised he must have been glaring at the lad. He looked away and continued to make for the deck. Whatever the delay, it was not the boy's fault: the officer of the watch should have called him. A captain should know immediately if his ship was in potential danger. But as he mounted the steep steps and felt a keen draught of air from the outside world on his face Banks slowly realised exactly why he had not been called and that, if anyone was at fault, it was him.
“Good morning, sir,” Caulfield called out as Banks mounted the deck and, as he looked about his ship he realised the words were very nearly true. The wind had veered but still blew hard and, though the decks were damp with spray, rain had actually ceased to fall. A rolling mist was being blown above the waves but the first stray fingers of dawn could also be seen stretching across what promised to be a clearer sky. “Sighting to the east,” the first lieutenant continued. “Five mile or so off; masthead thinks it to be two ships but cannot be certain.”
Banks nodded; the bearing was good news at least, whatever lay out there might not have spotted Scylla.
“I would have called you before, sir.” The first lieutenant continued awkwardly, “But...”
“Do so in future, if you please, Mr Caulfield,” Banks interrupted. It was not the first time Sarah's presence had disrupted the proper running of the ship, and he knew inside that it would not be the last. However hard she might seek to be otherwise, there was no doubt that a captain's wife could only be a distraction to his officers and men. But that was not Caulfield's fault, nor Sarah's, come to that. The blame, and blame it must be, fell squarely on him and his weakness in thinking a wife could be anything other than a negative aspect aboard a fighting ship.
“Deck there: I have them now!” Jackson's adolescent voice sounded hollow through the speaking trumpet, but it cut through the sound of the wind in the shrouds well enough. “Two ships, less than five miles off an' a third maybe a mile or so beyond.”
“Bearing, if you please, Mr Jackson!” Caulfield called back.
A pause, then the lad replied in a more considered voice.
“East nor-east, sir. Larger one appears to be a frigate, with what might be a sloop in company. The third I cannot rightly say.”
“What heading?” Banks called this time.
“South, sir. Or as near as makes no difference.”
So there were at least three ships off their larboard quarter; they were to windward and heading in roughly the same direction as Scylla. One, or even two, might be escorts to a friendly convoy although, this far outside the shipping season, that was unlikely. The second possibility was an enemy force, either merchant ships or a battle squadron; again both were improbable. Few traders would be at sea at this time of year, and France was surely too short of warships free of blockade to waste any this far south. He supposed it was possible that some devilment was being planned elsewhere; a squadron travelling so might be heading to round either the Horn or the Cape. But when he had left Spithead the rumours were of peace; besides with much of their land forces committed, and almost all naval power soundly trapped, it would be foolish of the French to waste a sizeable fleet on what must be a speculative venture. Which only left neutral shipping.
Whale ships were the most likely; many frequented the Atlantic, if only on passage to the Pacific, which would explain their presence at this time of year. Few were of a similar size to a large frigate, but it was not unknown for them to travel with an escort. In fact the longer he thought about the possibility, the more it seemed reasonable, and when Sir Terrance made an appearance on deck, dressed in the only set of tailored oilskins aboard Scylla, Banks was in a far better frame of mind.
“We have company, I understand, Captain,” the older man said, and it showed how fast dawn was rising that Banks could see dark shadows under the governor's eyes. It was the face of a man who had not slept well.
“Indeed, Sir Terrance, although they should not be detaining us.”
“I am relieved to hear it. British, are they?”
“No, neutral; I am fairly certain. But even so we will not be diverted. In addition to yourself, Scylla is charged with despatches, and we are under orders to raise St Helena without delay.”
“Clearly you must do exactly that, Sir Richard, although I assume you will at least verify the nationality?”
At that moment Caulfield, at the binnacle, called up to the top. “Could they be merchants?”
“I'd say not, sir.” Jackson replied. “The first two are hull up and have their fore courses set. Each has a deep cut roach.”
As he spoke an extra shaft of light shattered the grey cloud; the low mist seemed to disappear and the first rays of true sun began to lift the gloom of morning, silhouetting the mystery ships and making them visible to those on deck.
“They are clear now.” The midshipman's voice was breaking with excitement but no one paid him any further attention. All could see with deadly clarity the outline of warships as they bore down on them.
“Take her west!” Banks ordered, and Caulfield began to bellow. Within seconds the watch on deck was raised from the shelter of the half deck and gangways in order to man the braces as Scylla turned her prow towards the last vestiges of darkness.
“Heavy frigate.” King, who had appeared without the captain's notice, was staring back at the leading ship. “And that's most likely a sloop – probably what the French would call a corvette.”
Banks turned to look, and could only agree. Instinct, coloured in no small way by pride, told him that Scylla could deal with any equivalent enemy, or even one slightly larger. But the addition of another man-of-war meant there was no choice other than to run. Judging by her size the second would probably be armed with at least twenty great guns, and there looked to be yet one more close by.
Banks swallowed; it was still conceivable that Scylla had not been spotted, and his sudden turn had given them at least temporary security. Scylla was certainly a good ship but, when viewed dispassionately, he had to admit she was in sore need of maintenance. Her bottom had not been careened since first commissione
d and, though she might still carry a bone with the wind on the quarter, she was liable to be slower than an enemy fresh from the dockyard.
He supposed it was one of the disadvantages of blockade. French ships spent much of their time in harbour and such a lack of exercise meant their crews were ill-trained and in want of experience. But the vessels themselves were likely to be in better order and have gleaming copper below the waterline; a smooth, almost frictionless surface that was free of barnacles and other growth to slow them. In addition, the French designers built for speed, rather than resilience and the hulls they fashioned were far more streamlined. Some might not be as good at withstanding the punishment of prolonged use, but most could outsail an equivalent-sized British ship with ease.
Still, Banks felt he had a few tricks up his sleeve, and was not unduly worried. His main concern was that they were being taken further from their eventual goal. The wind had been against them for some while and, after enduring three day's of storm, there was already a good distance to make up. If the suspect ships gave chase he guessed they would eventually be shaken off, probably after a day's hard sailing, but such a diversion was unlikely to bring them closer to their destination, and must be avoided.
“They're altering course,” Jackson's voice cracked out again. “Steering to take us in chase, an' the frigate's making more sail.”
So yes, they had been seen, and Scylla would have to make a run for it. The next few hours would be crucial; a fast passage had been their intention, and this was going to be anything but. However it was far better for the governor and his entourage to arrive a few days late than not at all. Then the subject of his thoughts cleared his throat, and Banks glanced round to see the elderly man's concerned face.
“Do I assume that they may not be the whalers you had anticipated, Captain?” he asked.
It was then that the frustrations of the journey so far took on an almost physical aspect. His ship was potentially in danger and Banks would need every skill he possessed to see her through the next twelve hours but, whilst doing so, he must also speak with a high ranking official who was bound to want notice and explanations of each move he made. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed two of what was probably the rest of the governor's party emerge from the companionway, doubtless intent on making their first invasion of the quarterdeck that day. Lady Hatcher was likely to be included while Sarah, who had been so able in keeping them from his path earlier in the voyage, was now finding early mornings strangely troublesome, and could not be expected to join the party for some while.
“You will excuse me sir, but I have to attend to my ship,” Banks snapped, before rather rudely turning his back and apparently giving all his attention to Caulfield.
“She'll take more sail,” Banks said, ignoring the squeal that must have been Lady Hatcher discovering French ships close by. The topsail reefs had been shaken out some hours before, and as forecourse and topgallants were added, Scylla soon began to move with more purpose. At first Banks wondered if the extra canvas might even be too much, but the wind that had been a constant companion for so long was now showing signs of being eaten by a rarely seen sun, that was growing in strength as it rose into the sky.
“Do you consider us to be at war, sir?” Caulfield almost whispered, although Banks heard every syllable.
“Frankly I have no idea,” he replied, equally guarded; Hatcher was still standing close by, and he had no wish to involve him in the conversation. “If not, then matters have certainly moved fast, although I should not like to discount it.”
In fact he had been concerned since Pitt's resignation; a government led by Addington was bound to look more favourably on peace with France, and so it had proved. They even seemed keen; during his brief visit to London, Banks had run into a former naval officer who now worked in the City. It seemed to be common knowledge in such circles that preliminary discussions with Otto, Bonaparte's commissary, were proving far too slow and time-consuming. Anthony Merry had been sent to France to speak directly with the French government, with the first announcement of an eventual cessation at any time. And all that had been considerably more than two months ago; Britain and France might well not be at war by now, although that would hardly explain why three French warships had been despatched to the South Atlantic, apparently bent on trouble.
Then Banks considered the matter more carefully. Even if proposals had been signed the day after he left Spithead, there would be no definite action taken for some while; plenty of time for the French to raid several East India convoys and probably harvest a fortune. In addition, considering the time news of such an event would take to reach England, their actions would have little effect on the final rounds of peace talks.
Fraiser had joined them, and was consulting his notes as the change of course was marked off on the traverse board. They were still heading south but only to a limited extent, and many degrees from the course that he and Banks would have preferred to set. The sun was climbing steadily and, though there were remnants of storm in the air, the decks had started to grow warm, and some were even steaming. Banks found himself staring, fascinated, at the images of the pursuing ships, each gaining clarity as the light rose above them. Neither flew an ensign, although the lighter colour of their sailcloth and the typical over-sparring of the frigate was as good an indication of nationality as any flag.
Scylla seemed to be maintaining her lead, and it was large enough to keep them safely out of range, but every seaman on board was aware of the current state of their tophamper. Were a spar to carry away a mast spring, or even an important stay part, speed would be lost. Then the enemy would gain and, inevitably, overtake them. Thompson had appeared with hot coffee some while previously and Banks found himself gripping the pewter mug with such force that the pain in his hand reminded him of the drink's existence.
“What do you see there?” he called, before gulping deeply. The liquid was almost stone cold; they must have been standing on the quarterdeck for some considerable while.
“No change, sir,” Jackson replied. “The third sighting is still indistinct, though I think the other two might be gaining slightly.”
Banks grunted, and handed the half-empty mug to Chapman. That might well be the case, but it would take a goodly time for them to make up Scylla's lead. With luck he could keep the French at bay until nightfall, but still the fact that they were being diverted irritated. And the crew's morale, already dented by two broken promises of home, would hardly be improved by a day-long chase from a superior enemy.
“Forgive me, Captain, but might I ask the position?” Sir Terrance's voice, so close, so loud and so intense, almost made him jump, and Banks swung round with ill concealed annoyance. In doing so he was surprised when the governor met his stare, and even hardened his own expression slightly in response. The older man might allow himself to be bullied by his wife, and usually assumed an attitude of amused indifference in all other matters, but evidently there was harder mettle somewhere deep in his soul. “We know little of the situation, and yet it clearly causes you concern,” Hatcher continued, the voice now as soft and unassuming as ever, although his look of steel remained.
Banks cleared his throat. “Indeed, sir: my apologies. The vessels in pursuit are obviously not merchants, as originally suspected, and we are putting as much distance between them and us as is practical.”
“But we are still heading for St Helena?”
Heading was not quite the word Banks would have used: bound was better, but it would sound pedantic to say so. “That remains our destination, sir.”
The governor nodded, seemingly satisfied, but any relief that Banks might have felt was offset as Lady Hatcher, flanked by her husband's valet, pushed in on them and their conversation.
“Are they not enemy ships, Sir Richard?” she asked.
“It would seem likely, m'lady.” From the start of the voyage, Sarah had been on first name terms with both the governor and his lady, but for a variety of reasons Banks
did not trust himself to lapse below anything other than formal terms.
“Then why are we not fighting them?” she demanded.
“They are a superior force, Elizabeth,” the governor interrupted. “Sir Richard cannot be expected to expose his ship when there is little chance of victory.”
The remark nettled Banks; if the present situation were not troublesome enough it was doubly annoying having to explain everything to influential spectators, especially when they drew the wrong conclusion, or answered in his stead.
“We will certainly fight, if it becomes necessary,” he told them. “But I remind you that Scylla is charged with making as swift a passage as is possible. Consequently, and while it is in our interest, we shall continue to run although, should the situation change in any way, I shall have no hesitation in going into action.” Banks addressed the last sentence to his own men on the quarterdeck as much as the Hatchers and delivered it in a slightly louder voice.
“But are they so superior?” Lady Hatcher persisted, with more than a trace of truculence. “Surely this is a British ship? And Malcolm here says that at least one of the enemy is far smaller than us.”
The podgy and effeminate manservant preened himself ostentatiously as his name was mentioned.
“One is of a similar size to Scylla,” Banks agreed. “The other certainly appears smaller, while the third cannot be identified, and there might yet be more over the horizon. But their size is not the only consideration; just the addition of two further vessels, whatever their power, complicates matters.”
“I am surprised that mere numbers should influence you, Captain,” Lady Hatcher told him. “And would have thought it a naval officer's duty to fight the Corsican Tyrant, wherever his influence may be found.”
Banks felt his anger rise, but he was not going to be browbeaten by rhetoric that might have been lifted from a Gillray cartoon. “Mere numbers will not influence me, m'lady,” he replied curtly. “And I will certainly bring any enemy to battle, providing I can foresee a reasonable probability of success. But to expose my ship to such odds with little hope of gain would be foolhardy in the extreme, as would be anyone who attempted to make me do so.”