by Jane Jackson
Nick’s fingers curled into fists and a roar of frustration swelled in his chest. Damn him. Damn both of them to hell and back. He dived forward, scrabbling among the débris littering the table for the captain’s log. Finding it, he extracted it carefully, and breathed a sigh of relief. It was dry and unmarked. Edgar Tierney might be prepared to accept log entries made in a hand other than the captain’s. But Nick would not be able to afford a bribe large enough to persuade him to ignore a logbook stained and smelling of brandy.
Placing the log on the cluttered shelf out of the way, and with nothing else to hand, Nick quickly wiped the chart dry with the sleeve of his coat. He’d have to think up some excuse to explain the smell, but right now that was the least of his worries.
As his uncle twitched, mumbling unintelligibly, Nick was submerged by a wave of anger and loathing, but it receded just as quickly. Powerful emotions demanded energy, and he was simply too tired.
Reclaiming the log, he also lifted down the polished wood block that held inkbottles and pens, and sat down on one end of the padded bench. Rubbing the back of his neck, feeling the tendons bar-taut, he opened the book, picked up a pen, and stared at the blank page.
‘I shouldn’t have done it,’ William started again. Jerking round, Nick glared at him. William was oblivious, staring blank-eyed into the past, trapped in his guilt. ‘I shouldn’t have let it go on. It wasn’t right, the way they both picked on her.’
Nick froze. This was new.
‘I don’t know why they did it. The look on her face … I couldn’t bear it. But what could I do? She tried; I’ll give her that. She apologised even when she didn’t know what her fault was. She defied them but that made it worse. I didn’t know what to do. They wouldn’t listen anyway. In the end, she ran away. Fled from her own home. They were all right then. But why did they do it? Aurelia don’t think much of me. Don’t blame her. Can’t face K’renza.’ He shuddered. ‘The shame … My fault, you see.’
Nick listened intently, taut as a mast stay.
‘They warned me but I didn’t listen,’ William muttered, tears trickling down his haggard face. ‘Should never have … Not an Italian ship.’ His face contorted. ‘How d’you live with the guilt?’
Sam roused himself. ‘Not enough guns,’ he said thickly. ‘Packet-ship’s a target for any bastard privateer. Post Office don’t give a damn. Lose a ship, hire another.’
William blinked, frowning at him. ‘Wasn’t a packet. I chartered an Italian brigantine. Cheaper, see? But I bought a Pass. Didn’ forget that. Sure we’d be safe.’ He gave a bark of laughter. ‘Did you know Algerian pirates target Italian ships?’
Sam moved his head on his sleeve. ‘Religious war. Catholics and Muslims.’
‘Without that Pass, they’d have sold me for a slave!’ Indignation swiftly died. ‘It was my fault. All of it. I can’t face her.’ He moaned; Nick realised William’s ramblings had come full circle to Kerenza again. ‘Not like this. But I can’t – I need – without the brandy I –’ He shuddered, his face a mask of self-loathing.
Nick felt no pity, only disgust. For, while his younger daughter’s life was being made wretchedly miserable by her own mother and sister, this man had stood by and done nothing to stop it. Small wonder Kerenza had run away. Yet in claiming her move to Flushing was to keep house for her sick grandmother she had protected the very people who had ill-used and betrayed her. That she had done so was understandable, for she was protecting her name as well as theirs. But why had Jeremy told him such a different story?
Setting down the pen, Nick buried his face in his hands. Haunted by her expression of bewilderment the day he cut her, now every time he closed his eyes he saw the devastation on her face as she recoiled from him and shouted for Maggot’s assistance. What had he done?
While the weather remained bad Nick kept Maggot at the wheel. He was the best helmsman aboard, and the regular crew swore the ship ran drier under his handling. But this meant standing Maggot’s watch as well as his own.
Snatching rest when he could, Nick collapsed onto his cot and into oblivion, only to wake with a start after two or three hours unable to settle again for his mind’s tormented churning.
After 48 hours of howling wind and vicious seas, the gale moderated to a spanking breeze. The thick blanket of cloud rolled away, and sun rose in a sky the colour of cornflowers. Maggot relinquished the wheel to Collins, the most experienced able seaman, and stumbled, bleary-eyed, down the companionway to wash before having his breakfast.
Continuing to drive himself relentlessly, Nick oversaw sail changes, organised teams under the sailmaker and carpenter to repair canvas and spars, and sent another gang to replace frayed or broken rigging.
Having worked since before dawn, he told Broad to bring his breakfast to the captain’s day cabin. If the steward wondered at Mr Penrose’s recent habit of taking his meals elsewhere than the saloon he had the good sense not to mention it.
The snores from behind William Vyvyan’s door were echoed in the sounds behind the heavy curtain that separated Sam Penrose’s sleeping quarters from the day cabin. Wrinkling his nose at the stench, Nick jammed a wedge under the door to stop it closing, then opened the skylight. A cold draught instantly freshened the air.
He made the night’s entries in both logs while eating his breakfast. Then, after gulping down a second cup of coffee, he went to his cabin to wash and shave, and returned to the deck.
Moving to the port side, he raised the glass. Warm sunshine was burning off the morning fog but the Portuguese coastline was still hazy. Not that there was much to see, for this part was low and sandy with few prominent features.
Footsteps on the brass stairs drew his gaze sideways. But it was Betsy Woodrow who emerged from the companionway, blinking in the bright sunlight. Wrapped in a brown kerseymere cloak, she wore a plain brown bonnet over her cap with the ribbons tied beneath her double chin in a drooping bow. Her husband followed her out, one hand clapped to his round, shallow-crowned hat. A bow of greeting was accompanied by his usual anxious smile.
Not wishing to be drawn into conversation, Nick merely nodded and raised the glass again.
‘Deck ho!’ bellowed the lookout from the foretop. ‘Sail on the port beam.’
Nick swung round with the glass, but could see nothing. Cupping one hand to his mouth he shouted back. ‘What is she?’
‘Lugger, sir. She’s a big ’un. Two, no, three masts.’ The men on deck exchanged glances. ‘Bleddy ’ell!’ The lookout’s voice rose. ‘She’s a Frenchie, sir!’
As Maggot appeared beside him, Nick’s gaze flew to the sails. As well as fore, main, staysail, and jib, Kestrel was already wearing her square topsails and flying jib.
‘We put up topgallants?’
After an instant’s hesitation, Nick shook his head. ‘It would shift the force of the wind too far from the hull.’ He kept his voice low. ‘In these seas she could lose her topmasts.’ They both glanced at the dark blue, lumpy ocean frilled here and there with curls of foam. ‘But we’ll never outrun her in open water.’
‘How far to Cabo Carvoeiro?’
Catching the gleam in Maggot’s dark eyes, Nick knew at once what he had in mind. His own thoughts raced. ‘The tidal stream runs south on the ebb. Instead of taking the channel off the cape, we lead him between Farilhoes and Berlenga –’
‘Current sets on to Berlenga –’ Maggot murmured.
‘It’s dangerous,’ Nick warned.
‘You no trust me?’ Maggot grinned.
‘I beg your pardon, Mr Penrose,’ Donald Woodrow began apologetically, but was interrupted by the lookout.
‘Deck ho! That lugger, sir. I see ’er before. Privateer, she is. Sails out of Brest.’
Betsy shrieked and reeled back, colliding with her husband who staggered against the freshwater barrels. ‘A privateer? Oh dear God. We’ll all be killed, or kidnapped and held for ransom.’ She turned on her husband. ‘This is your fault. We wouldn’t be here but for you. Oh, whe
re are my smelling salts? I feel quite faint. I’m going to swoon, I know it.’
‘Now, now, my dear, I’m sure –’ Donald Woodrow looked up, startled, as Nick caught his arm.
‘I believe your wife would be more comfortable if you took her below.’
Recognising an order when he heard it, the minister nodded quickly. ‘Yes, of course, right away. Come, my dear –’
‘Well, really –’ Betsy began.
‘Not now, dear.’ Flashing his anxious, placatory smile, he hustled his still complaining wife toward the companionway from where Kerenza had just emerged.
‘Miss Vyvyan, you must come below at once,’ Betsy ordered. ‘A French privateer is chasing us. God knows what will happen. Where is the captain? Why is he not in command? To leave our fate in the hands of –’
‘Please,’ Kerenza interrupted. ‘You go ahead. I will follow you down.’ As Betsy disappeared, trailing loud complaints, Kerenza turned to Nick.
His heart contracted at the physical changes wrought by strain. Her cheekbones were sharply defined, her pallor accentuated by bruise-coloured shadows beneath her eyes. Yet she was perfectly calm, almost detached. He had the distinct impression that no matter what dangers the coming hours brought, they would touch her little, because for her the worst had already happened. He was responsible for that: he, her father, and his cousin, Jeremy. What reason did she have to trust a man? How could he even begin to earn her forgiveness?
She met his gaze directly. He saw no anger, no hate: though God knew he deserved both. Whatever her feelings, they were hidden behind an impenetrable barrier. Once he had been able to look into her soul. Now all he could see was his own reflection, and it shamed him.
‘Is there going to be a fight, Mr Penrose?’
‘I hope not, Miss Vyvyan. But –’
She did not let him finish. ‘I am not seeking reassurance, merely information. If there is a fight, it is likely there will be casualties. If you will tell me where you keep the dressings and bandages –?’ Intercepting the glance that passed between Nick and Maggot, she simply said, ‘Ah. Then with your permission, I have a sheet that will serve.’ Without waiting for his response, she turned toward the companionway.
‘Thank you,’ Nick called after her. But she did not look back.
‘Deck ho! She’s coming up fast!’
‘What is time?’ Maggot demanded.
Nick took out the watch that had once belonged to his father. ‘Just after ten.’
‘Is full moon. Low water half hour ago. Tide rising now.’
Nick thought fast. Timing was crucial. They had to stay out of range of the lugger’s guns. But if they reached the channel too soon, he would rip Kestrel’s bottom out. ‘You take the wheel.’ Nodding, Maggot moved away and Nick yelled to the bosun. ‘Mr Laity, have the stern chaser run out and the fire buckets filled.’ His heart pounded against his ribs. He would trust Maggot with his life. But it wasn’t only his life he was risking. It was the lives of everyone on board. Kerenza and her father, Lady Russell and her unborn baby, the Woodrows, his uncle, Toy, Broad … He shook his head. He could not afford doubts or distractions.
‘Billy!’ he shouted, beckoning to the boy. ‘Come with me.’ He dived down the companionway, feet clanging on the brass stairs. Telling the boy to wait, he hurried into the day cabin, went to the small cupboard above the stern shelf, and took out the keys to the magazine.
Toy came out of the sleeping cabin, carrying a basin with a cloth over it.
Glancing from the basin to the steward’s face, Nick stopped. ‘What? What’s happened?’
‘He’s bleeding.’
‘How? Did he fall? Has he cut himself?’
Toy looked away, his mouth unsteady. ‘From inside.’
Christ. Closing his eyes in despair, Nick sucked in a ragged breath. ‘Tell him –‘ What words of comfort could he offer that his uncle would believe? There were none. He shook his head. ‘I’ll come down again as soon as I can. But it might be a while. There’s a French privateer on our tail.’
Toy’s face contorted with fury. ‘Sink the bleddy bastards, sir!’
‘I’ll do my best. But you know the rules as well as I do. We have to run. Only when we are cornered may we fight.’ But if it came to a fight, it would mean the end for Kestrel and everyone on board. ‘Take care of him, Toy.’
Unlocking the magazine, Nick placed the cloth bags packed tight with gunpowder carefully in a bucket and handed it to the waiting boy. Kestrel’s carronades and brass sternchaser had limited range and were fit only for close fighting. Though each of the squat cannons needed only two men to operate it, they could not match the four-pounders the lugger was most likely carrying.
The Post Office had stripped the packets of heavy guns to reinforce its order to flee rather than fight, and thus ensure fast delivery of the mails. The limited protection of the carronades gave a packet captain just enough time before being captured to sink the mails and despatches. At least, that was the theory.
‘Walk, Billy,’ Nick warned. ‘I don’t want you tripping over.’
The boy nodded, his teeth chattering with nervous excitement.
The privateer was slowly shortening the distance between them. Through his glass, Nick could see scores of man crowding her deck. They were cramming on more sail and running out the guns. How long before they tried a ranging shot?
He glanced at Maggot, who had braced himself, legs apart, his hands light on the spokes as Kestrel hurtled toward the dark dot of land on the starboard bow. Plunging through broken, foaming crests, the packet’s sharp bow sent spray flying skyward in glistening, rainbow-hued veils.
The rising tide was both ally and enemy. It might, if luck was on their side, rid them of their pursuer. But the sea was growing increasingly turbulent as a battle developed between wind, tide and current. Nick looked back at the lugger. Lying hard over, she was throwing up clouds of spray as she crashed through the steep waves.
Minutes ticked by. As the bell was struck, marking the half-hour, the Frenchman fired a ranging shot. The crack and boom thundered across the water. His muscles tensed against the lacerating impact of flying metal, Nick raised the glass, and was relieved to see it fall short and wide. The sound of a ragged cheer made him look round.
Dressed in his best uniform, Samuel Penrose emerged from the companionway and stood, pale as death, gripping the hatch to steady himself. He looked forward at the watching crew, then up at the sails, and started aft.
Nick’s protest died unspoken as he saw the burning glitter in his uncle’s eyes. Had it taken this, the threat of attack, to rouse him from the paralysis of fear and rekindle his pride, his spirit? He opened his mouth, but Sam spoke first.
‘You are heading in the wrong direction. Put her about. At once, if you please.’
Time stopped as Nick stared at his uncle in disbelief. Sam Penrose had never officially relinquished command. If Nick disobeyed a direct order from the captain he would be guilty of gross insubordination: an act that would have to be entered in the log, and would destroy his treasured hopes of one day commanding his own packet-ship. Yet to do what his uncle demanded would condemn the schooner and all on board to certain death.
‘Jump to it,’ Samuel Penrose snapped. ‘You’re wasting valuable time.’
‘Captain,’ Nick strode forward. ‘A word, if you please?’ Standing close, he lowered his voice. ‘Sir, you – we can’t –’
‘Can’t?’ Sam glowered. ‘Have a care, boy. Morwenna is under my command, and don’t you forget it. Mr Laity!’ he roared past Nick. ‘Stand by to wear ship!’
Morwenna? Nausea flooded Nick’s mouth with sour saliva, and he swallowed hard. Morwenna was the ship Sam had lost.
‘Wear ship it is, sir!’ Laity yelled back after an instant’s hesitation.
‘Captain, please –’
‘Not now, boy,’ Sam rapped. ‘About your business.’
Both watches leapt to the halyards. Kestrel began to turn away, her stern t
o the wind, pitching and rolling in the buffeting waves as her speed fell off.
Samuel Penrose ground the knuckles of one trembling hand into the palm of the other. ‘I’ve been waiting for this. Run from Javert and his murdering crew? Let them escape after what they did? Never! I’m going to blast their evil hides –’
Blocks squealed as the two huge booms swung across. The yards were braced, the sails filled and were sheeted home, and Kestrel surged forward on her new course, plunging into the spume-streaked waves.
Appalled, realising the glitter in his uncle’s eyes was the delirium of fever, Nick gripped Sam’s arm. ‘Listen to me. That’s not Hirondelle.’
Sam shook him off, backing toward the starboard rail. ‘Don’t try to fox me, damn your eyes! Of course it’s Hirondelle. Javert must have heard of my escape. But he won’t to get me this time. I’ll see him in hell first.’
‘Look at her!’ Gripping his uncle’s arm again, Nick pointed toward the lugger, fighting the urge to shout. ‘Look at her hull, her sails. That’s no schooner. It’s not Hirondelle.’
Sam stared at him. ‘What’s wrong, boy? Afraid?’ Turning his back on their pursuer, he pulled Nick close, his eyes betraying torment as he dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. ‘Better to die than be afraid, boy. Fear eats away your soul.’
Hearing the crew’s shouts of raucous challenge, Nick recognised the brave, hopeless defiance of men staring death in the face. He glanced forward. As Nick glimpsed the puff of smoke from the lugger’s bow-chaser, Maggot spun the wheel. It was a courageous desperate move.
The boom was still reverberating across the water when the ball, at the limit of its range, ploughed along Kestrel’s starboard rail then fell into the sea. Stiffening, Sam Penrose jerked forward against his nephew, his eyes widening in surprise. With a guttural sound that was half groan, half whimper, he crumpled and started to fall, one leg of his breeches already crimson.