But what could he say to Villiers? The strain that his face was being forced to bear in this exercise in self-control was acute, his jaw so taut that it was actually trembling. He’d seen the youngster react to criticism already, and the thought of inflicting more was not inspiring. In fact, Villiers was so petulant that any hint that he’d been practised on by Buckner would infuriate him. Not enough to send him back to the admiral’s chambers to complain. Instead he’d probably stalk off in a huff, a prospect Harry could not yet be sure was welcome.
‘I thought you said your luck was set to change, Capt’n.’
‘Clearly, Pender, the road to hell is paved with good intent,’ Harry replied quietly as, followed by his two sailors, he strode down the gangplank. One of the elderly seamen, who’d been working forward at splicing some rope, stood up as they came on deck, walking forward with a belligerent look in his eye.
‘I don’t see no sign saying we’re receiving,’ he said.
Harry was about to be emollient, not yet knowing if he was going to sail this vessel out of Faversham or leave it, and the man who’d acquired it, here to rot. If he decided to take it to sea, the old tar could be a useful ally. All ships had a personality, even this one, and this caretaker sailor would know all about the Good Intent’s ways, how she handled, and if she possessed any good points of sailing, what they were. But none of those considerations applied to Villiers, who stopped on the gangplank and adopted a haughty expression.
‘Mind your tongue, man.’
Harry saw the old sailor roll the piece of rope he was holding round his gnarled fist, the look in his eye leaving no doubt that he intended to use it as a whip. As he knotted his fists, ready to retaliate, he felt a sharp stab of pain across his upper back. ‘Did Admiral Buckner send anyone down to advise you?’ he asked.
‘No, he did not.’
‘Then that is a pity.’
‘Come, Captain Ludlow,’ Villiers called, ‘we are not about to spend our time arguing with this lowly creature, are we? He must quit the ship forthwith.’
Pender stepped forward smartly as the hand went back, and got too close for the old man to take a swing. ‘Pay no heed to him. We are here for the ship, with written orders.’
‘What good are written orders to a man who lacks reading?’
‘It’s a damn sight better than a clip on the ear, which is what you’ll get if you lift that rope.’
‘Ahoy, there!’
Everyone aboard turned in reaction to the shout, to see an almost comically theatrical figure heading along the quay. He was as broad as he was tall, with one leg which when walking exaggerated his rolling gait. Cheery and red-faced, and buttoned up in a uniform coat that dated from the American war, he looked like the living model for a Staffordshire jug.
‘Lieutenant Aherne,’ he cried, waving a set of papers above his head. ‘Which one of you is Mr Villiers?’
‘I am.’
He’d reached the gangplank by then. ‘Then I have here the documents handing the ship over to you, which will, of course, have to be signed.’
Harry turned to the old sailor, who’d now been joined by his fellow caretaker. Both looked very peeved indeed, hardly surprising since the arrival of Aherne meant that their cosy livelihood was about to evaporate.
‘May we be allowed use of the cabin?’
‘Don’t see no purpose in refusing,’ the newcomer growled. ‘But I hope you have it in mind to see to those that will find themselves deprived.’
Pender leant forward, pressing some tobacco into a waiting hand. ‘See that young fellow, old ’un, on the gangplank. If’n you tell him he needs to pay you to get off the ship, he won’t know if you’re right or wrong.’
Age might have affected their limbs, but it had no effect whatever on their wits. Palming the tobacco, they slipped past Pender, Harry, and Flowers and were grovelling to Villiers before five seconds had elapsed. A double act, one took up speaking as the other left off. There was much about being tired after a journey, and being in need of both a seat and a wet. Villiers was gently pulled on to the deck and ushered towards the cabin door as if he was visiting royalty.
The formalities were swift, and to Harry’s mind entirely satisfactory. Villiers was signing for the Good Intent, not him, which was just as well given the caveats that Buckner’s clerks had inserted, which meant that any stores consumed would be replaced at premium rates, while any damage sustained to hull or rigging was to be put right at the lessee’s expense, the work undertaken by a shipwright of the admiral’s choosing. Cheery-faced Aherne was just the fellow to sell this to a man like Villiers. He’d spotted Harry for a sailor right away, and tried very hard to exclude him from the arrangements. Villiers, showing more sense than usual, had sought his advice, though he’d been careful to couch his request in the terms of a precautionary second opinion.
Harry read the documents transferring the ship with the same care he would have used if his own signature was required. Not that he would have obliged, since he knew too much about the ways of admirals to fall for such a trap. Buckner was prevaricating, giving in to Villiers with the wrong ship on usurious terms, expecting a flat refusal followed by a long gavotte in which each side negotiated for the proper kind of ship until either Villiers gave up or the admiral ran out of excuses.
Aherne was watching him closely. Harry suspected the man, a half-pay officer who had guile in abundance behind that rosy round face, was wondering why he hadn’t thrown the document back at him, half read. But Harry was caught on the horns of a dilemma. With all the variables in what he was trying to achieve there was one absolute, and that was the timing of the May tides on the River Vire. Not that the Good Intent needed deep water. It was the ships he wanted to take that required water under the keel to get downriver to the sea.
Harry smiled to himself, an act which had Aherne leaning forward ready to counter his objections. But the amusement was internal, as he conjured up an image of himself leading his men against Tressoir in such a vessel. What had happened to Bucephalas would pale by comparison to the drubbing he’d receive in this tub. In fact, the very idea was risible. But against that, Good Intent was a bird in the hand. He didn’t know Buckner. But the old admiral was probably a dab hand at procrastination, well able to string out matters for a month. And that was a period of grace that Harry simply didn’t have.
‘I think this is very fair, Mr Villiers,’ he said suddenly.
Aherne covered his surprise with a loud cough, using that as an excuse to turn his head away. By the time he looked back he had reddened even more, but the expression was fish-faced, one of bland acceptance that all was well with the world. Harry looked him right in the eye, wanting the old lieutenant to know that he was aware of what was afoot; that poor Villiers would probably never be free of the trouble engendered by signing these transfer papers. By the time Buckner was finished enforcing the clauses of this agreement, Villiers and his uncle would have provided the admiral with enough funds to build and victual a crack frigate.
‘I thought so myself, of course, Captain Ludlow,’ said Villiers, confidently, ‘but it is a fool who does not ask for an unbiased endorsement from someone professionally qualified.’
Aherne had to struggle then to keep his face straight, and as the young man bent to write his signature, Harry gave him a long slow wink. That brought, from the recipient, a sudden burst of haste as he gathered up the papers, a desire to be out of the way, signature appended before such good fortune was withdrawn.
‘Gentlemen, I bid you good day,’ he said, before rushing out of the cabin, his wooden peg stomping heavily as he sought to move with the required speed.
‘Well, Captain Ludlow,’ Villiers exclaimed, ‘we have done a good day’s work here, have we not? We are in possession of a fine ship, and …’
The young man stopped, hands in the air, since he had no actual notion of what exactly to say next. He had a ship without a crew, and no real knowledge of what purpose it was to serve. Harry had been
deliberately vague about that, hinting mightily that it was essential without actually underlining the reasons.
‘We must make haste, sir,’ said Harry, leaning forward. ‘Time, tide, and conspiracy wait for no man.’
‘Of course,’ Villiers replied, without the least understanding of why he was agreeing.
‘I told you that a sailor would see things a landsman would miss.’
Villiers suddenly looked very eager. ‘You did indeed, Captain. Am I to understand that you have found something out?’
‘I spoke with William Parker.’
‘You did what?’ the young man demanded, his colour rising. ‘You actually had words with that seditious scoundrel?’
Harry, well aware that he was playing a deep game with Villiers, was nevertheless totally nonplussed by that response.
‘How else am I to find out what is going on?’
‘What if your suspicions are disclosed, sir? The whole nature of my enquiries could be put at risk.’
There was no dealing with Villiers’s idiocy. It was as if the conversation they’d had that morning had never taken place. But to remind him of that was unwise. Better for Harry’s purposes to continue to humour him, and weave a conspiratorial web that would have him operating, not at his own whim, but at that of the man he was talking to.
‘What did Admiral Buckner have to say in that regard?’
‘He agreed with my conclusions, of course,’ replied Villiers dismissively. ‘Which was gratifying. I think it was that argument, and the way I said we were going to lay the culprits by the heels, that made him so malleable in the matter of the ship. Certainly Lord Spencer was for the case. He actually said we’d be the saviours of the nation.’
‘We?!’ Harry demanded, while on another plane he wondered about the tone in which Spencer had said it. ‘Did you mention my name?’
‘No!’ snapped Villiers unconvincingly. Then, like Harry, faced with a difficulty, he abruptly changed the subject. ‘What did you glean from Parker?’
Harry had been thinking about this ever since Pender had returned to the Chequers with ‘orders’ to proceed to Faversham. Being away from the Nore before Harry, did Villiers know what had happened that afternoon? If he didn’t then Harry should tell him, but that risked an outburst of indignation and an immediate return to the rapidly deteriorating seat of the mutiny.
Despite Parker’s pleading, the men who’d set out to parade had failed to control the more ardent spirits in their midst. The gunboats in Sheerness harbour had been seized, and as Harry had left, he’d seen them, and the ships that the mutineers controlled, being manoeuvred into a wide defensive arc that would prove difficult to breach. Sitting in the Chequers, he’d also observed the effect of this act on Parker and his fellow delegates, the despair that such behaviour had engendered.
That was deepened as more and more news came in. Several ships were lukewarm in their adherence to the cause, most notably the San Fiorenzo and the Clyde. They were still flying white flags instead of red, and the impression Harry had was that they would have severed their support if they hadn’t been under the guns of several 100-gunners, most noticeably Parker’s ship, the Sandwich, plus the vessel of a fiery delegate called Gregory, the Inflexible.
The President, after a further doleful talk with Harry, had gone off on his own to plead with Spencer for an interview, partly to warn the First Lord that a failure to treat the mutineers as human beings was dangerous, and secondly to plead for a swift acknowledgement of some grievance so that the delegates would have a lever to persuade the waverers to return to their duty. Despite the peremptory nature of Villiers’s demand that he join him, Harry had waited till Parker returned, dejected, having been ignored by both Spencer and Buckner, both of whom had, as soon as he left, withdrawn to Rochester for their own safety.
Parker’s parting words to Harry had stayed with him, as the downcast delegates prepared themselves to be rowed back to ships in which they would not be entirely welcome.
‘We will not be done down by this, Mr Ludlow. We will bring these people to their senses, and see this action succeed, you mark my word.’
Harry had smiled at him, thinking him wrong but within limits hoping he was right. He couldn’t help comparing him to his namesake, the Sir William Parker who was Tressoir’s enforced guest. And in the balance he placed the mutineer well above that pompous oaf.
Not to tell Villiers all this was dangerous, since he was bound to find out about the events that had taken place, if not Parker’s reaction to them. Added to that there was a trace of guilt, a feeling that he should stay in Sheerness and try to help. It was Pender, sensing the mood, who’d scotched that idea, pointing out to his captain in no uncertain terms that the only thing they could possibly achieve at the Nore was trouble for themselves. No thanks at all if the men returned to their duty, or a share of the ropes that would be liberally used if this mutiny was put down.
Villiers was looking at him, impatiently waiting for him to respond. Harry apologised, which cleared his mind for the sudden inspiration that followed. ‘I was gathering my thoughts, indeed getting ready to offer you an apology.’
‘What for?’
‘I blush to recall to you our first meeting in Portsmouth.’ It was Villiers’s face that went red at the memory. ‘You were then in pursuit of Valentine Joyce.’
‘Him and the rest of his rogues.’
‘And I, foolishly, told you that you were wrong.’
‘And you’re now about to inform me that I was right all along?’
Harry tutted slightly, and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not in a way that would please a judge.’
‘That is not what we require.’
‘Parker said certain things when I mentioned Joyce that made me think we might build a case.’
‘What things?’
‘Hints, only.’ Harry could see impatience building in Villiers and moved to head it off. ‘You see, Parker thinks himself a very clever fellow. But sitting before him, I wondered what questions you would put to him, and whether in answering them he would be as sharp as he thought.’
‘He’s not, is he?’ said Villiers eagerly.
‘No. But then neither is he entirely a fool. That is why I use the word ‘hints.’ You must agree that if there is a conspiracy …’
‘We have agreed that!’
Harry carried on as if he hadn’t been interrupted. ‘Then there has to be some form of communication between Spithead and the Nore.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, Mr Villiers, I think if we can establish that, we will be halfway to determining the whole nature of the web that joins them.’
‘This is all very misleading, Captain Ludlow.’
Harry smiled. ‘Only because I have not yet had a chance to put the suspicions Parker raised in my mind as questions to Valentine Joyce.’
Villiers wasn’t slow to see the implications. In effect he would be sidelined. ‘I think I should put the questions, don’t you?’
‘Let me talk to him first, then you will be able to do that very thing, armed with enough to break his resolve.’
‘There’s only one problem, Captain Ludlow. Unless I’m very much mistaken he’s at sea. Admiral Buckner told me, in passing, that the Channel Fleet weighed for Brest this morning.’
‘Then that is where we must go,’ replied Harry with a grin, leaning over to slap the bulkhead, ‘and due to your good efforts here we have the very vessel.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
‘I’D BE a mite happier, Capt’n, if you told me what it is you have in mind.’
Harry turned slowly, to favour his back, and to ensure that Villiers had not returned. But he was still below, trying and failing to overcome a severe bout of seasickness, which given they were still well inside the Thames Estuary indicated his capacities as a sailor.
Pender’s question, and his use of ‘happier,’ brought home to Harry just how dejected he was. Compared to Bucephalas the Good Intent was a dog, the idea
that it might exhilarate risible. The anticipation he’d had so often at sea was entirely absent. Perhaps if James had been here, ready to exercise his savage wit on Villiers or on the boat, he’d have helped to lift Harry’s spirits. But he wasn’t, and the boredom of conning this vessel, slow and crank, allowed him to indulge in a depressing feast of unhappy memories.
On the forecastle, Flowers and the two elderly caretakers, having trimmed the sails the way Harry wanted them, were talking over old times. Adding to Harry’s annoyance, all three had a proficiency at playing the bones, each taking it in turn, discussing, as if it were a science, the best way to grip them so as to produce the sharpest and most rhythmic crack. Animal bones were being compared with great fish bones, one of the oldsters loudly adamant that there was nothing better for the task than the jaw of a decentsized shark.
The Good Intent was crawling along, bows pitching into every little trough, under courses only, as she tacked into a gentle east wind. Having sailed these waters as a youth, taking soundings in the decked longboat belonging to his father’s ship, Harry had no need of an estuary pilot. But he did have need of some speed. They’d left Faversham at dawn, and here they were, midway through the afternoon, off the port of Whitstable, the long shallow bay full of the tiny boats of the oyster fishers.
‘What I have in mind?’ Harry replied eventually. ‘I wish I knew, Pender. I know what I want to do, but it’s very much one step at a time. Let’s just get to the Downs first.’
‘A bit more aloft wouldn’t hurt,’ Pender moaned.
The two old sailors who looked after the ship had jumped at the chance to stay aboard for the trip round the North Foreland to Deal, ribbing each other about how they’d use the money Villiers had offered to create merry hell in a town famous for the level of available debauchery. Conversationally, both men had shed their years, and returned to the creatures they once were, deepwater tars desperate to get ashore and take their pleasures. But that didn’t apply to their ability to get aloft and set sail, or haul heartily on a rope, which meant a limit to what Harry, Pender, and Flowers could do.
Game of Bones Page 26