Darkening Sea

by Kent, Alexander

  Unlike Trevenen’s command, he thought. In retrospect it seemed that each time the ships had moved closer together he had seen somebody being punished at the gratings. Without Bolitho aboard it was as if Trevenen was making up for lost opportunities.

  He thought about Herrick’s capture by the enemy privateer as related in his uncle’s message. Letters of marque meant very little in these waters. Mercenaries were only a short step from pirates.

  He was surprised that he had few feelings about what had happened. He had always respected Herrick but they had never been close, and Adam could never forgive him for his treatment of Bolitho, although he could imagine what anguish his uncle was still suffering for the sake of one who had once been his friend.

  His thoughts strayed back to the courier schooner, although he had tried to put it from his mind. He had done wrong, very wrong, and no good could come of it. But I did do it. The words seemed to mock him. He had written the letter much earlier, as Anemone had left the African mainland astern and the oceans had changed from one to another.

  It had been like talking to her, or so he had thought at the time. Reliving the moment when they had loved one another despite the grief and despair of what had happened. Even her anger, her hatred perhaps, had not deterred him in any way. With thousands of miles between them, and the very real possibility that he would never see her again, the memory of their last hostile encounter had softened. When the schooner’s commander had asked for any letters to be passed across, he had sent the letter over. He could not accept that such passion as they had shared could end as it had.

  It had been madness; and night after night in the humid darkness of his quarters he had been tortured by what his impetuous action might do to her and to the happiness she shared with Keen.

  He reached for the coffee, but it was without taste.

  Where would it end? What should he do?

  Perhaps she would destroy the letter when it eventually reached her. Surely she would not keep it, even to show to her husband . . .

  There was a tap at the door and his first lieutenant looked in at him warily. Martin had proved to be far better at his duties than Adam had dared to hope. With Christmas drawing near he had managed to arouse interest even among some of the hard men. In the cool of the evening watches he had organised all kinds of contests from wrestling, which he surprisingly seemed to know a lot about, to races between the various divisions at sail and boat drill. With extra tots of rum as an inducement there had been hornpipes, watched by the majority of the company and eventually cheered when the winners had been decided.

  Adam always avoided over-confidence with a cautiousness he had learned from his uncle, but he had seen pressed and rebellious men slowly being welded into a team, a part of the ship he loved.

  “What is it, Aubrey?”

  The lieutenant relaxed slightly. The use of his first name told him more than anything of his young captain’s mood. He had seen him being tormented by something ever since leaving England. Trevenen’s goading, the lack of the trained men he had lost to other ships, the endless ocean itself perhaps, all had played their part.

  The captain had often been sharp with him, embarrassingly so, but in his heart Martin knew he wanted to serve no other.

  “Masthead reports a sail, sir. He thinks.” He saw Adam’s eyes flash and added hastily, “Bad sea mist to the north, sir.”

  Surprisingly Adam smiled. “Thank you.” It was not the vague report that had brought the frown to his face but the fact that he had not heard the lookout’s cry through the open cabin skylight. A year ago he would not have believed such a thing possible.

  “How goes the wind?”

  “Much as before, sir. South-by-west. A fair breeze, it seems.” Adam returned to his chart and cradled the islands between his fingers as he had seen his uncle do many times.

  “What could a ship be doing out here?”

  “Mr Partridge thinks she may be a trader.”

  Adam rubbed his chin. “Bound for where, I wonder?” He pointed at the chart with his brass dividers. “She has a choice. Mauritius or Bourbon—the other islands are nothing of interest. Unless . . .” He looked at the lieutenant, his eyes suddenly very alive.

  “Call all hands, Aubrey. Set the courses and get the t’gallants on her! Let’s take a look at this stranger! ”

  Martin thought of the quick changes of mood and said cautiously, “It may be nothing, sir.”

  Adam grinned at him. “On the other hand, you old misery, she might make a nice Christmas present for my uncle, have you thought of that?”

  He went on deck and watched the men already spread out on the yards, the released sails booming and cracking as they filled to the wind across the quarter.

  He watched from the quarterdeck rail as sail after sail was sheeted home and the deck tilted to the pressure. Spray dashed over the figurehead, and through the rigging and hurrying bare-backed seamen he saw the nymph’s gold shoulders glistening as if she had been roused by their thrust through the water.

  “Lookout reported that she has two masts, sir.”

  That was Dunwoody, the signals midshipman. “But the mist is bad despite the wind.”

  Partridge the grizzled sailing-master looked at him scornfully.

  “Proper little Cap’n Cook you are!”

  Adam walked a few paces this way and that, his feet so used to the ringbolts and gun tackles in his path that he avoided them without effort.

  A two-masted vessel. Could she be the unknown Tridente Herrick had described in his hidden message? His heart quickened at the thought. It seemed quite likely. Sailing alone with every sighting a probable enemy.

  “Another pull on the weather forebrace, there!” Dacre, the second lieutenant, was striding about the main deck, his eyes uplifted as the sails emptied and filled again with the sound of musket fire.

  “Deck there!” A forgotten lookout’s voice was almost lost in the surge of the sea into the scuppers and the whine of stays and shrouds. The conditions which Anemone used to full advantage.

  The lookout tried again. “Brig, sir!”

  Adam looked at the horizon. So it was not Tridente.

  Several telescopes were trained on the mist-shrouded division between sky and ocean as they waited to see what the masthead had reported.

  “Deck, sir! She’s spreadin’ more sail an’ standin’ away to the nor’-east!”

  Adam clapped his hands together. “The fool’s made a mistake. This soldier’s wind can’t help him now!” He punched the first lieutenant’s arm. “Get the royals on her, Mr Martin, and alter course two points to starboard! We’ll be up to that rascal within the hour!”

  Martin glanced at him only briefly before he started to shout his orders to the waiting seamen and marines. It was like seeing someone else emerging from a mask.

  “Mr Gwynne, more hands aloft! Lively there!”

  The new third lieutenant Lewis said casually, “A bit of prize-money, eh?” He flinched as the captain’s eyes passed over him. He need not have worried. Adam had not even heard him.

  Adam wedged himself against the rail and levelled his telescope. Like a great pink curtain the mist was already rolling away. The brig, and it surely was not a brigantine, was almost stern-on, her mainsail standing out above the sea on either beam, the foam thrown up from her rudder clearly visible as she took the wind under her coat-tails.

  “She flies no colours, sir.”

  Adam moistened his lips and tasted the salt. “Soon she will. Of one sort or another.”

  He looked sharply at Martin. “They’ll be able to see who we are soon, Aubrey.”

  The lieutenant almost held his breath under his stare.

  Then Adam said, “You are about my build, eh?” He smiled as if it was all a great joke. “We will change coats. You shall be captain for a while.”

  Mystified, Martin slipped into the proffered coat with its pair of sea-tarnished epaulettes.

  Adam took the lieutenant’s coat with its
white lapels and grinned.

  “Very good.”

  Around them the men at the wheel and standing to the mizzen braces paused to watch.

  Adam touched his sleeve. “I trust you, Aubrey, but I need to get amongst them, to see for myself.” He became formal again, even curt. “I intend to board her. Detail a good party, some marines amongst them. Sergeant Deacon will be useful.” He turned as his coxswain George Starr padded across the deck with his short fighting sword. “I’ll take this with me.” He glanced at Starr’s impassive features. Not an Allday, but he was good.

  Later, as they bore down on the brig, Adam said, “Hoist the signal for her to heave-to, Mr Dunwoody. She will do no such thing, so pass my compliments to the gunner and tell him to lay a bow-chaser with his own hands!”

  Martin was back again, his young face screwed up with worry.

  “But suppose they try to repel boarders, sir?”

  “Then you will fire on them, sir!”

  “With you on board, sir?” He was shocked.

  Adam watched him seriously and then patted one of the epaulettes on his shoulder. “Then who knows? You may become a real captain earlier than expected!”

  “No acknowledgement, sir!”

  “Let her fall off a point, Mr Partridge.” Adam watched the other vessel as she appeared to edge into the criss-cross of rigging when the helm went over. It would give the bow-chaser a clearer shot. Even so, it would be a difficult one. He saw sunlight flashing on the brig’s stern windows, and from trained telescopes above the creaming water. A fast little ship. He smiled. Not fast enough.

  “As you bear!” Ayres, the grey-haired master gunner, could not hear him from the forecastle, but he had seen his young captain’s hand slice down.

  The bang of the long eighteen-pounder made the frames quiver like a body-blow.

  Ayres got up with some difficulty from the smoking cannon and shaded his eyes as the ball slapped through the brig’s driver, leaving a round charred hole. He was too old for this sort of work, but not even his officers would dare to tell him.

  There was a muffled cheer and Adam watched as a flag broke out stiffly from the other vessel’s gaff.

  One of the lieutenants gave a groan. “Damned Yankee! Of all the luck!”

  “She’s shortening sail an’ coming about, sir!”

  Adam said coolly, “Wouldn’t you?”

  He gestured with his fist. “Heave-to, if you please, and call away the cutter.” He looked at Martin meaningly. “You know what to do. Just watch everything with a glass.” He beckoned to the signals midshipman. “You come with me.” He did not see the youth’s surprise and pleasure as he touched his hat to the “ captain, ” and the frigate began to labour round into the wind, her yards alive with men as they shortened sail, as fast and as cleanly as any company could. Adam recalled the Unity ’s captain’s comments about the slowness he had watched in Anemone ’s half-trained company. He would not say it again if they should meet.

  As the boat was cast off from the chains, he saw several of his men peering down from the shrouds or gangway while the oars-men fought to bring the boat under command. Most of them were still unaware of what was happening, least of all why their captain wore a subordinate’s coat.

  With the wind assisting them and the seamen pulling hard back on their oars they were soon close enough to see the brig more clearly, her name, Eaglet, across her stern.

  “They’ve lowered a ladder, sir!” Dunwoody was leaning forward, his dirk clutched between his knees. He sounded hoarse but not frightened. He was thinking much like Martin. That once aboard they could seize him as a hostage.

  Adam stood in the swaying boat and cupped his hands. “I demand to come aboard! In the King’s name!”

  He heard some muffled shouts, jeers perhaps, and thought he saw the gleam of sunlight on weapons.

  A man without hat or coat stood at the bulwark and stared down at the pitching cutter with anger and contempt.

  “Stand away there! This is an American vessel! How dare you fire on us?”

  Starr, the coxswain, muttered, “What d’you think, sir?”

  Adam remained standing. “Bluff.” He hoped it sounded convincing. He cupped his hands again and noticed how cold they were in spite of the sun.

  He could almost feel Martin and the others watching him across the tossing strip of water. Very deliberately he raised his hand.

  All eyes above him on the brig’s deck stared as Anemone ’s gunports opened as one, and all the weapons which would bear were hauled squeaking and rumbling into the sunlight.

  “You mad bastards!” The brig’s master waved to his men and an entry port was hauled open above the dangling ladder.

  Between his teeth Adam said, “When we hook on, follow me, one at a time up the ladder.” He looked at the midshipman’s upturned face. “If things go wrong get them back to the ship. You’re doing well.”

  He looked up and waited for the cutter to lift heavily against the brig’s weatherworn hull.

  Why had he said that to the midshipman? They might both be killed within minutes if the Eaglet ’s master was foolish enough to condemn himself to death under Anemone ’s broadside. Pride? Arrogance? How would she see him if she were here?

  He gripped the entry port and dragged himself inboard.

  The deck seemed to be packed with men, most of whom were armed. The vessel’s master blocked his way, seaboots astride and arms folded, every fibre blazing with fury. “I’m Joshua Tobias. Who the hell are you?”

  Adam touched his hat. “His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Anemone. ” He gave a curt nod and thought he heard the infamous Sergeant Deacon clambering from the ladder. Deacon had been broken from sergeant more than once, mostly for brawling ashore: he had even suffered the lash for his behaviour, but as a sergeant there was none to touch him. He had rarely been known to discipline one of his marines. A quick punch from one of his ham-like fists was usually more than sufficient.

  “Why have you dared to stop my vessel? Your government will hear of this when I reach port, Lieutenant. I wouldn’t be in your bloody shoes!”

  There were growls from the watching seamen. It just needed one hot-head. Like a spark in a powder keg.

  Adam said quietly, “It is my duty to warn you, sir, that any resistance to a King’s ship will be treated as piracy. By the powers vested in me I am required to search your vessel. I would like to see your papers also.”

  Someone yelled from the back of the crowd, “Pitch the bugger overboard! We drubbed his kind afore! Let’s be done with ’em!”

  The master held up one hand. “I’ll deal with this!”

  To Adam he said harshly, “Do you expect me to believe that your captain would fire on his own men?”

  Adam kept his face stiff. “You do not know my captain.”

  Midshipman Dunwoody called, “Boarding party in position, sir!”

  Adam felt sweat on his spine. It was all taking too long.

  He snapped, “Where bound?”

  The master replied indifferently, “The island of Rodriguez, general cargo. You can see my bills of lading if it amuses you! This is a neutral vessel. I’ll see you broken for this, an’ your damned captain too!”

  Adam said, “Quite.” He looked at the Royal Marines sergeant. “Take charge on deck, Deacon. Any trouble and you have your orders.” He turned to his coxswain. “Take four men.” Starr had hand-picked them himself, all from Anemone ’s first ship’s company.

  Suppose the master spoke the truth? They would have to release the brig.

  Trevenen would make a big case against him. Even his uncle would be helpless.

  The thought made him angry. “Show me the chart.”

  They clattered down a short pitching ladder to the tiny chart-room. He studied the calculations, sparse and even casual when compared with the navy’s standards. Old Partridge would fall dead if he saw it.

  The Eaglet was no slaver. There were not even any manacles, which under the slavery act co
uld condemn any ship’s master who carried them.

  Starr stood by the ladder and shook his head.

  On deck again Adam considered it. Provisions, flour, oil, even gunpowder; but the latter was no crime.

  The master was grinning at him and there were catcalls from some of his crew. He shouted, “Bosun! Tell that damn boat to come alongside for their friends!”

  Dunwoody stared around. He felt hurt, enraged that his captain should be humiliated, and suffer some punishment later that he could only guess.

  The boatswain was a great hulk of a man with thick black hair in an old-fashioned pigtail that all but reached his belt.

  Adam looked at his men. This was the moment to retreat, when danger was very real.

  He swung round as Dunwoody exclaimed, “The bosun, sir! He wears a new cutlass!”

  Adam stared from him to the burly pigtailed sailor.

  Dunwoody was almost squeaking. “Before we left England, sir, I helped to load and re-arm the schooner . . .” He fell silent as understanding flooded Adam’s face.

  He said, “How long have you owned that cutlass?”

  The master barked, “Stop wasting my time, Lieutenant! Talk won’t save you now!”

  Adam’s eyes flashed. “Nor you, I think, sir!”

  The boatswain gave a shrug. “I bin an American citizen for three years!” He tapped his cutlass, which was thrust through his belt. “A souvenir from my days under another flag, sir! ” He spat out each word, his eyes never leaving Adam’s face.

  “Well, then.” Adam’s fingers touched the hilt of his sword and he felt the marines stir at his back. “My midshipman reminded me of something. It was the schooner Maid of Rye. She had just been taken into naval service and sailed for the Cape ahead of me. She was never heard of again, and was presumed lost in a storm.” How could he stay so calm when every nerve was screaming at him to cut this man down?

  The master interrupted hotly, “So we’re wreckers now, are we?” But he sounded less confident.