Anxiously now he continued to stand beside Formby, peering at the outline of the frigate in the grey light of the February afternoon. After twenty minutes she appeared appreciably larger, so it was clear that she was gaining on them.
From time to time Formby used his glass to scan the horizon to the north. He said now, ‘I turned up-Channel in the hope that we might meet with a ship of the Dover Squadron. That would scare the Frenchman off; but, unfortunately, we’re a long way from the Narrows yet.’
Another half-hour went by, while officers and crew stood about or leaned on the rail, watching with growing apprehension as the frigate gradually crept up on them. When two bells were struck, announcing five o’clock, individual sails on the jib boom and foremast of the frigate could be distinguished. From the waterline she presented a diamond shape with a fraction of the downward point cut off, nine-tenths of the remainder being made up of bulging white canvas,
At ten minutes past five a puff of smoke billowed out from her bows and some seconds later they heard the report of the gun. But the shot fell far astern of the sloop and was obviously intended only as a summons to her to heave to.
By twenty past they could clearly see the crest of foam on either side of the frigate’s cut-water. Five minutes later she opened fire in earnest with her bow-chaser. The first shot was short by a good two hundred yards, and half a dozen others, fired at the rate of one a minute, failed to reach their target. Yet the spouts of water sent up from the sea by the fall of each shot gradually came nearer.
Roger, endeavouring to assess their chances of getting away, thanked all his gods that the sky was overcast. Sunset could not be far off and darkness should hide them from the enemy well before six o’clock. Yet within the next quarter of an hour they might easily be dismasted, and so compelled to surrender. With one half of his mind he was trying to think up a plausible story to tell about himself in the event of capture.
Suddenly a cannon ball clanged on the iron post of the stern lantern, bounced on the deck and whistled harmlessly off at a tangent. Formby turned to Roger. His eyes were wide and his young face white as he said, ‘I’ve never fought a ship before, sir, and our twelve-pounder in the stern is useless at this range. What do you advise? Should we continue to hold our course or risk a tack?’
Angry that his safety should have been entrusted to such an inexperienced man, yet sorry for him, Roger replied, ‘You are the Captain of this ship, so it is for you to decide. Were I in your place I would hold my course but run up the white flag. That would fox them into ceasing fire temporarily. The French are not such fools as to sink a ship if they think there is a good chance of capturing her. While their Captain is nurturing a false belief that we have surrendered, with luck we’d get away in the darkness.’
‘No, no!’ Formby protested. ‘I could not do that. It would be dishonourable so to deceive our enemies.’
Roger gave a cynical laugh. ‘When you have played tag with the French as long as I have you will realise that since the Revolution the majority of them who now wear officer’s uniform are unscrupulous scoundrels and would think no trick too low to get the better of you. But, I repeat, the responsibility of saving this ship from capture is yours, so you must take such action as you think best.’
For some time past he had been increasingly perturbed by recalling his conversation with Georgina, and her fear that through some ill-chance he might be caught out as a spy. Once safely landed in France, he had little fear of that, but there was now no escaping the fact that a few more direct hits by the frigate’s cannon balls might force the sloop to surrender.
At best that would mean imprisonment and an indefinite postponement of his mission, but it might have far more serious developments. Should someone aboard the frigate, or in France when he was landed there as a prisoner, chance to have known him during the years he had spent in that country under the name of Breuc, it was going to be no easy matter to explain his presence aboard a British ship-of-war. A little grimly, he realised that he was now in grave danger from exactly that ‘lesser risk’ of which he had made so light.
3
The Lesser Risk
Barely concealing his disgust at Roger’s ‘dishonourable’ attitude to waging war, Formby ordered the Jack to be run up. The frigate’s captain was already doing his utmost to sink the sloop or compel her to surrender, so openly proclaiming her to be British added nothing to their danger. But as the little stern gun could not have sent a shot within hundreds of yards of the enemy, or have done her serious damage even had the shot landed, the Lieutenant’s gesture was no more than one of futile defiance.
Roger was not at all surprised that his advice had been rejected; but since it had, and there was no other means of gaining a temporary respite from the frigate’s fire, he felt that he should no longer delay taking such steps as he could for his own protection. Within the next quarter of an hour he might be killed or drowned, and that was a risk there was no escaping; but, if he did survive this one-sided action, he meant to do everything he could to preserve his identity as Colonel Breuc and, with his usual resourcefulness, he had thought of a plan which, as far as the French were concerned, should give him a fair chance of doing so.
Turning again to Formby he said, The Government having placed this sloop at my disposal to take me to France is sufficient indication of the weight they attach to my mission. If we are captured it is of the utmost importance that the French should not realise that I am an Englishman. Therefore, should you shortly decide that you have no option but to surrender, I desire that you first have me put in irons and locked in the lazaret, then tell our captors that I am a Frenchman and that you picked me up this mid-day endeavouring to get to France in a small sailing boat which was near sinking.’
‘If that is your wish, I’ll see it carried out,’ Formby replied. Then he added with a sudden show of spirit, ‘But, dam’ me, I’ll not surrender my ship; not till she’s either dismasted or holed below the waterline.’
Clapping him on the shoulder, Roger smiled. ‘To hear you express such a sentiment warms my heart, Lieutenant. Since your crew leaves much to be desired in handling ship, let us then continue to take our punishment while forging dead ahead, and pray that fortune may aid us to escape.’
As he spoke, the frigate’s bow-chaser boomed again. Next moment the Quartermaster at the wheel gave a single scream and collapsed upon the deck. The cannon ball had taken him squarely in the small of the back, cutting him nearly in half and spattering his blood in all directions.
Luckily the spent shot had not seriously damaged the wheel, only shearing off one of the spokes, and it was quickly secured by the bo’sun. But the ball had cleft the air barely a yard from Roger, so that he had felt the wind of it brush his cheek. More than once he had owed his life to having no false shame about taking cover when under fire and, while others about him were still gaping at the gory remains of the unfortunate Quartermaster, he left the poop in two swift bounds for the greater safety of the well-deck below it.
He had scarcely picked himself up and stationed himself under the ladder, where he would be protected not only from a direct hit but also from flying splinters should a shot smash into the deck forward of him, than the frigate’s gun boomed again. This time she missed, but her next shot smacked through the sail above him, leaving a large rent in it.
Crouching there, he thanked his stars that he was only a passenger and had no duty to perform or obligation to set an example by remaining exposed upon the poop, as was the case with Formby.
The young Lieutenant, meanwhile, white-faced but determined, remained at his post, cursing his inability to return the frigate’s fire. But he ordered the after gun to be run out and loaded in readiness, for it looked as if their pursuer would soon be in range of his smaller armament.
Dusk had now fallen and the enemy’s next two shots went wide. After the second, knowing there would be a minute’s interval before another could be fired, Roger swung himself round the ladder and ran a
few steps up it to get a quick look astern over the taffrail. The semi-darkness obscured the outline of the frigate but her position could still be clearly seen because she had lit her lanterns.
At that moment there came a sharp crack and flash. Formby had just given the gunner the order to fire the little twelve-pounder. Instead of ducking back, as he had been about to do, Roger leapt up the remaining steps of the ladder on to the poop. His action nearly cost him his life. Another ball smacked into the deck only a few feet in front of him. It would have carried off his head had it not landed on a ring-bolt which caused it to ricochet and whine away over his shoulder. Dashing forward he grabbed Formby by the arm, and shouted:
‘Are you mad to fire upon the frigate?’
Angered by such arbitrary treatment, Formby jerked his arm away. ‘How dare you address me in such terms?’ he cried hotly. ‘Get back to your funk hole and leave me to fight my ship.’
‘Funk hole be damned,’ Roger retorted. ‘I’ve killed more men than you’ve been months at sea. Unless you want your ship shot to pieces order your gunner to blow out his match.’
Drawing himself up, Formby snapped, ‘For this impertinence, sir, I could have you put in irons. I am the Captain of this ship and———’
‘I care not if you are the King of Spain,’ roared Roger. ‘Have you not the sense to realise that though we can see the frigate on account of her lights, she can scarce see us as ours are still unlit? To her we can now be no more than a dark shadow. Another few minutes and we’ll be hidden by the blessed dark. But do you continue to fire your popgun you’ll be giving her a mark by which she may yet sink us.’
The frigate’s gun boomed again. Seconds later the shot crashed through the stern rail, sending deadly splinters flying in all directions. One caught the Yeoman of Signals in the fleshy part of the thigh, and he gave vent to a spate of curses. But this fourth hit gave point to Roger’s argument and Formby had the grace to admit that he was right. Fighting down his humiliation, he gulped:
‘I stand corrected, Mr. Brook. The temptation at least to show fight got the better of my judgment. We’ll not fire on her again and in a few minutes we’ll chance a tack with the hope of getting clear of her altogether.’
Several more shots came over but no further hits were scored. As eight bells sounded, signifying the end of the first dog-watch, they turned on to a new course and, shortly afterwards, the firing ceased. They had been saved by the early coming of the winter night.
Now that the action was over, Roger began to consider how it might have affected his plans. When they had sighted the frigate they had been about five hours’ sailing from Dieppe, given a continuance of the wind in roughly the same force and direction. Although by nine o’clock it would have been fully dark, only the fisher folk would have turned in for the night at that hour, so he had intended to have the sloop hold off a couple of miles or so from the shore until midnight. But for the past two hours they had been sailing away from Dieppe, and the wind would be less favourable heading back in that direction. Therefore it would now be midnight, or perhaps one in the morning, before they reached the normally deserted cove in which he intended to land. The loss of an hour was of no importance, or two for that matter. His only definite requirement was that he should be put ashore in ample time to get well away from the coast before morning.
To Formby he said, ‘Now that we are out of trouble, Lieutenant, I pray your leave to retire to my cabin. I’ve a hard day ahead of me tomorrow, and it’s unlikely that I’ll get any sleep for the best part of twenty-four hours; so I’ve a mind to put in a few hours before I land.’
‘That would certainly be wise,’ the Lieutenant agreed, ‘and you should have a good meal too. Shortly now the galley will produce something for us, and Trumper will relieve me while I have the pleasure of entertaining you.’
Roger shook his head. ‘I thank you, but beg to be excused. I am a poor sailor and hot meals at sea are apt to play the devil with my stomach. I’ve some hard tack in my cabin which will suit me better, should I feel hungry.’ Then, not wishing to seem churlish to the young officer after having been so brusque with him, he added with a smile, ‘But if you chance to have a decanter of wine handy I’d be delighted to take a glass with you before I turn in.’
‘Indeed I have.’ Formby’s face brightened. ‘Let’s go below.’
In his cabin he produced some very passable Madeira, of which they drank two glasses apiece, while wishing one another good fortune. Then, having asked to be called at midnight, Roger went to his own cabin.
There he made a scratch meal from his small but carefully chosen stock of provisions, then undressed and, still ruminating on his good luck at having escaped capture, fell asleep.
At midnight the Lieutenant’s servant woke him. A quarter of an hour later he had dressed and, carrying his small valise, went up on deck. There was no moon and as cloud obscured the greater part of the heavens it was almost totally dark; so it was a perfect night for a secret landing. Groping his way up to the poop, Roger saw Formby’s face lit by the glow from the binnacle. Stepping up to him, he asked:
‘How long should we be now? Whereabouts on the French coast do you estimate us to be at the moment?’
Looking up, Formby replied, ‘As far as I can judge by dead reckoning, the coast on our beam should be a few miles south of Le Touquet.’
‘Le Touquet!’ Roger echoed, aghast. ‘But that is not far from Boulogne, and sixty miles or more north of Dieppe. What in hell’s name led you to bring your ship up-Channel?’
The Lieutenant bridled. ‘After our experience this afternoon surely you would not have had me go about and again risk capture? We might well have run into that frigate.’
‘In darkness and with our lights out there would not have been one chance in five hundred of our doing so,’ Roger snapped. ‘And here am I, a half-hour after midnight, still several hours’ distant from the place at which I wished to land.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr. Brook.’ Formby’s voice held evident contrition. ‘I was under the impression that you’d mentioned that cove south of Dieppe only as a preference, and that it would have served your purpose to be landed at any quiet spot on the French coast. But I’ll put her about and beat down to Dieppe if you wish.’
Roger considered for a minute. With the wind in its present quarter it was unlikely that they could reach Dieppe before six o’clock in the morning, and that was much too late to risk a landing. He could require Formby to turn back towards England, cruise off the Sussex coast for twelve hours, then run in again to put him ashore near Dieppe the following night. But that would mean the loss of yet another day in reporting to General Bonaparte; worse, the wind might change, rendering it impossible for him to land in France for another forty-eight hours or more.
Although he hated being at sea in uncertain weather, he had deliberately chosen the much longer crossing to Dieppe, rather than the short one across the Straits of Dover. It had been only a minor consideration that Lymington was one of the most convenient ports from which to cross to Dieppe and that, if he were held up by the weather, he could wait there in the comfort of his old home instead of at a draughty inn in Margate or Sandwich. His choice had been governed by the fact that, whereas Calais was over a hundred and fifty miles from Paris, Dieppe was less than a hundred.
In the days of the ancien régime the difference would have mattered little. The corvée—the system of conscripting the peasants once a year for forced labour on the roads—had been one of the most bitterly resented impositions of the Monarchy, but it had kept the roads in excellent condition. Moreover, every few miles there had been Royal Post Houses—well-run hostelries at which travellers could secure good meals and relays of horses without delay or difficulty.
All that had been entirely changed by the Revolution. The roads had become nobody’s responsibility. After six years of neglect they had fallen into an appalling state of disrepair, pockmarked with pot-holes sometimes as much as two feet deep and, in wet we
ather, having in places stretches of almost impassable mud. So many horses had been commandeered for the Army that relays often took hours to obtain, and the inns in which travellers were compelled to wait had become bug-ridden dens staffed by surly servants. To frequent breakdowns and other discomforts had to be added the lawless state of the countryside with the risk of being held up and robbed by bands of deserters.
In consequence, where in the old days it had been possible to travel from Calais to Paris overnight, it could now take up to four days in winter, with the certainty of passengers having time and again to get out, unload their vehicle and, knee-deep in mud, manhandle it out of the deep ruts in which it had become bogged down.
With fury in his heart, Roger thought of the additional fifty miles of such nightmare travel he would now have to face if he were landed in the neighbourhood of Boulogne. But he decided that he could not afford to risk another night at sea, with the possibility that the weather might turn foul and delay his landing by several days.
Turning to Formby, he said coldly, ‘Very well, then. Run in, and we will reconnoitre the coast for a place suitable for me to be put ashore.’
At the Lieutenant’s command the sloop altered course to north-east. Twenty minutes later they picked up a winking light on their starboard quarter which they decided must be the harbour beacon of the little fishing village of Le Touquet. Although the sky was mainly overcast, a faint starlight percolated through a few rents in the scudding clouds and, as they drew closer inshore, it was just sufficient for them to make out patches of white cliff against the dead blackness of the night sky above them.
The Sultan's Daughter Page 4