by Jan Needle
‘If you wish to live,’ went on the captain, ‘you bring him here, alive or dead I do not care a groat. If you want to live you bring him back to me.’
He turned to Stewart, calm, rational, as if a storm had passed. He conducted him towards the larboard rail.
‘I will board the French prize now, sir, prepare a boat for me. And if that disgrace to the name of officer comes back without the runaway – then shoot him, sir. Save me the trouble.’ When Stewart smiled, the captain added icily: ‘I mean it, sir. I mean it.’
Chapter Seven
The French prize, which Maxwell boarded some minutes later, had been in the middle of repairs when they had cut her out in Brittany, which meant her sailing qualities were near-disastrous. It had taken Lieutenant Bullen hours after Maxwell had set sail for England just to get her under way to follow, and he knew the wind strength in the open sea would be critical.
In the event, she had made quite good time in a stiff westerly, and the handful of French prisoners Bullen had kept as extra crew – under constant supervision – had proved their weight. One or two, indeed, seemed keen to join the English navy, on the grounds, they claimed, that they were better treated. Bullen, who had a sense of humour, had laughed like a drain, and turned them down.
‘English farts are bad enough,’ he said. ‘Your foreign ones would choke us all to death.’
They failed to understand this, but joined in the merriment nonetheless, which endeared them to the English tars. By the time they anchored in the Scilly Isles, they were considered friends – which did not prevent Hector Maxwell from transferring them to the Pointer bound in chains, and incarcerating them in the deepest bowels of the ship with their fellow Frenchmen who had been captured earlier. After a cursory discussion of her sailing qualities – adequate – Maxwell settled down to a glass or two with Lieutenant Bullen.
‘What kept you?’ he demanded. ‘Even lacking your main topmast you have done quite bad. We will have hot work upon this island very soon, man. I take it derelict you were not here much earlier.’
Bullen risked the shadow of a shrug.
‘A seasonal calm, sir. At least it gave me opportunity to set up some slack cordage. Also to scrub the blood and shit away. These Johnny Crapeaux seem to live in shit.’
‘Ah, merde,’ smiled Maxwell. It was his favourite word of French; perhaps his only. ‘What stores have we gained? How much shot and powder? Is she worth saving as a prize, or shall we scuttle her? It is more than time we made some money on this venture.’
‘She is well worth it. A lot of shot, a goodly stack of muskets and some pistols, many bags of powder, swords and clubs and pikes in plenty. Had she been better guarded in her anchorage it could have been a hard fought thing. Judging by the finery that the captain wore, he was very rich, also. Good that Lieutenant Swift managed to kill him, but not so good in terms of ransom.’
Captain Maxwell harrumphed. ‘He was not to know that. All cats are grey in the dark, as the Germans have it. Anyway, Swift is as hungry as a hunter; it won’t be long before he finds more prizes. This one sounds fine, however. We must get her back in one piece as soon as maybe. Portsmouth would be best, but Falmouth or Plymouth if the weather deems it. How long before she can be fully ready?’
‘Not too long, if we do the shortish hop. Some carpenters, some riggers, a few more hands that I can trust.’
Maxwell raised an eyebrow.
‘Trust? What could you mean by that, sir? Do you not think that all my…?’
‘The men I have on board here, sir, are very…docile, shall we say? I meant a few extra of similar kidney, that is all. Nothing untoward, I promise you.’
Maxwell looked at him keenly.
‘Strange choice of words, lieutenant, that is all. And what is this “shortish” meant to mean? If this vessel has no faults, what’s to stop her crossing the Atlantic? Or getting down to Portsmouth, at the very least.’
Bullen coloured faintly. Maxwell was sometimes shrewder than his officers gave him credit for.
‘Beg pardon, sir, I was not aiming to mislead. The rudder has also given me cause for concern, I think it has been hit by cannon-shot. Perhaps that is one of the reasons the two ships were repairing in the cove. Had the wind blown up much stiffer on our journey over here, I fear we might have lost it. Indeed, to ease the weight off, we rigged a steering oar as jury.’
‘Why choose you to dissemble with me, Bullen? Am I not a reasonable man? Do you think I would blame you for damages someone else had done? Now tell the truth, damn you! What state of sailing is she really in?’
The second lieutenant had a face of fire. But he knew enough of Maxwell not to fight.
‘I am truly sorry, sir. I am as keen as you are to get on and do some hunting down of proper prizes. But if I must be frank, I would not like to take her beyond Falmouth. I’m sorry sir, one of the gudgeons is severely split, and the whole thing is at a dreary angle. She needs carpenters, and good smithing too. That is the truth of it.’
Maxwell was thinking. He drummed his bony fingers, and drained his glass.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘We have the skills to send across from Pointer, and you will be happy to know I think they can be trusted – well might you blush, sir! What I shall do is leave you here in this sad tub, with sufficient men to do repairs, while I make post-haste to Plymouth or to Portsmouth.’
Lieutenant Bullen nodded. It could have been much worse.
‘There is the matter of the prizes to report and register,’ said Maxwell. ‘The matter of successfully cutting out two French frigates from a dangerous lee-shore bay. The taking of good stores, good shot, good powder. And good men. Who knows, there might be other ransoms hid among them to be had.’
‘But the other sloop escaped —’ Bullen bit his lip. Maxwell had said frigates. Also an imaginary lee shore. A picture was emerging.
‘She ran, indeed, but that is no disgrace to us. Had my people not been so disaffected we could have run her down and taken her as well. Do you deny it, lieutenant? Of course you don’t. I will sail the Pointer into Plymouth, and pay off or court-martial all the malcontents. When I return, this vessel shall be fully taut and ready for a neat invasion. Is that clear?’
Bullen had no inkling of invasion, and was merely a second lieutenant, too young to think of anything but silence. None of his friends on board the Pointer was close or safe enough for him to whisper secret fears to, least of all about the captain. On that he was – like all of them – alone.
‘And by the way,’ said Maxwell, suddenly urbane. ‘Does she have a name, this vessel?’
‘Aye, sir. She is called the As de Pique. Some have translated it already as Pig’s Arse. The dunghole of a pig.’
The captain did not smile. ‘The common English sailor. Hell’s bloody bells. Disgrace.’
Chapter Eight
Long before Maxwell returned on board of Pointer, Raven had reached the Scilly Island beach. He had been despatched by Lieutenant Swift, in the jolly boat, with six men only, which was intended as humiliation.
The fact he had been allowed to choose his own crew was also a ploy. As Swift told the captain later, the midshipman chose men of his own opinions, which meant that they could be identified and mistrusted in the future. This was cynicism of a type Maxwell applauded.
‘He will not likely find the bastard either, Lieutenant Swift. So if I deem he has not tried hard enough, there is yet more reason to calumnify. And if he ends up dead, who will object when we lay the place to waste? Raven is more than a weak link, he may even be useful!’
On the beach, when they had drawn the boat up clear of the water, the men had grouped round the midshipman almost protectively. With Simpson gone, Jake Emerson, despite limping from a recent rupture, emerged as their leader, with fiery Tom Kelly as his second man. Swift had been right in one respect – both of them were good friends of Sawdust Simpson. The idea that they would hunt him down was an unlikely one.
‘Men,’ said Raven, ‘I’m i
n the dark to some extent, and I confess I’m at a loss. The captain says we are to surely find him, but we are very few. I propose in instance one we go across the ridge and use our eyes. Simpson is big, there must be tracks. We must also mark out all buildings however small where he might be lurking. Given his confinement and mistreatment, he’s unlikely to be far.’
Tom Kelly made a noise of clear derision.
‘And pigs can fly,’ he said. There was an infinitesimal pause. ‘Sir.’
The situation was dangerous. Unless he made the right decision, Raven knew any hope he may have had was lost. He looked calmly into Kelly’s face.
‘Mr Kelly,’ he said. His voice was clear and firm. ‘You know your captain as well as any man. We have one chance to bring this off. If we fail we fall. Not just me, but all of us.’
‘And if we fall, Tom,’ put in Jake Emerson, ‘tell me what that means, lad. An extra go of rum, you think? Double duff on Sunday? Perhaps a medal from the King?’
A silence fell. They listened to small waves breaking on the beach.
‘Yes,’ said Raven. ‘So let us go and look, and let us do it handsomely. At the very least we must be seen to try.’
Last time he had been on this beach, before the cutting out, Charlie Raven had been with Daniel Swift. They had made their way up beyond the dunes, walked to a minor headland, and found a small and secret creek. They had scrambled down to where the Scilly smugglers kept their lightweight gigs on a hardstanding by a boathouse.
The hope was that this time, they would find the same. Vain hope! When they reached the hidden beach there was nothing that would give them any joy. No gigs, no signs of life, no anything.
‘Almost, sir, as if they was expecting us,’ said Emerson. ‘Which would not be much surprise, would it?’
‘Look in the boathouse,’ Raven ordered. ‘There must be something, surely.’
There was nothing. Regrouped, they made their way up round the creek, and climbed the other side. At the top, they looked cautiously over, hoping to see, as Kelly muttered, ‘the dear old Lord knows what.’
‘Not even any buildings,’ said Emerson. ‘I thought as how I saw a barn or two last time. Bloody smugglers! They must’ve hid them too!’
They trudged a half an hour more, wondering at the emptiness of it all. It was wild, and bleak and lonely. And bathed in lovely sunshine, warm and mild.
‘Sawdust himself do come from round ’ere somewhere,’ a sailor said. ‘Says it’s bloody paradise in summer. And in winter time is bloody shitting hell.’
Raven said, ‘He comes from Cornwall, surely? At least, I thought he told me so.’
He got some glances. Curious. What sort of conversation would that have been, between a man and officer?
‘Well, ’alf of one, two dozen of the other, mebbe. ’Tis only thirty mile or so, and we’ve got to make a living, don’t us?’
‘Ah,’ said Emerson. ‘The living they make here would get you hanged in Kernow, that’s a fact.’ He laughed briefly. ‘Come to think of it, he’s going to hang ’im any road, int ’e? That bastard —’
‘Emerson!’ Raven’s the point was taken; he didn’t want to have to have to flog the man. They trudged in silence for some minutes more.
After an hour, they saw some people. They were near a cluster of what could have been farm buildings, although it was hard to tell in the empty landscape. Some were wearing skirts, as far as they could tell at that distance, but they were soon replaced by other figures. Men.
Tom Kelly gave a little whoop.
‘Haha! To arms and at ’em, lads! You can show that Mr Fire-eater Swift you ain’t no coward after all!’
Raven coloured, as Kelly had no doubt intended that he should.
‘There are many of them, men,’ he said. ‘Who has the best eyes? How many are there, in precise?’
‘Best eyes?’ Kelly said derisively. ‘Which man of us can count, sir? That should be your first question, faith to God!’
‘You tire me, Mr Kelly,’ snapped Raven. ‘They are moving now, and I think that they are armed. Prepare your weapons. We have a musket with us. Who is the longest shot?’
‘Ah, where is the Fire-eater when we needs him, eh Tom?’ said Emerson sardonically. ‘I can see twelve, sir, or thirteen. A few long guns and a few scythes into the bargain. Anybody want a free haircut? Anybody want his toenails done!’
The levity was obvious but not, Raven considered, much misplaced. His band had knives and pistols plus a cudgel or so, and were clearly outnumbered – by countrymen, who knew terrain and territory. God knew who else they had in reserve nearby.
‘Men, our duty is most clear,’ he said. ‘We seek only Simpson, but he surely has connections if he really is a native here. They may be hiding him, they must certainly have good information. I have been told by Captain Maxwell to bring him back, and at the very least I must bring intelligence. They may be smugglers, but they will hardly attack the King’s Navy.’
The words were hollow even in his ears. These men had attacked the King already, they made their living stealing from his Exchequer. How many hours was it since they’d been shooting at the Pointer’s crew, with murderous intent?
‘It is our duty also, sir, to impress them into the service,’ said Jake Emerson. There was laughter in his voice, a subtle mockery. ‘But when we go on pressgang work we go mob-handed and armed to the teeth, with a gang of soldiers usually in tow. The Owner will not thank you if all seven of us comes back in a box.’
There was general agreement, underlined when one, two, three shots cracked out from the group of Scilly men, blue smoke spreading in the breeze.
Kelly put in briefly: ‘Do occur to me, sir, as how maybe the cap’n is looking to this, dost you see? If John Smuggler do fire on us, even kill a man or two, why then who’s to say reprisals ain’t in order? He could come ashore and shoot the shit from out the whole damn lot on ’em.’
One of the boat’s crew fired a musket at the advancing islanders, without an order. But the others merely grunted.
‘Leave off, Johnny, you’re wasting powder. Let’s have a vote on it, eh lads? It’s a flogging from old Maxwell or a scythe blade up the jacksie. Which one does us fancy?’
More shots rang out. The Scilly men were running, spreading across the grass. Raven felt a heavy weight descend.
‘We are sailors, men,’ he said decisively. ‘So let’s set sail.’
They turned back for the Pointer beach and ran.
Chapter Nine
The new plans for invasion of the islands were laid out by the captain in his cabin over port. Lookouts had been posted in the rigging for any signs of Raven and his crew, but no one had much idea what could be expected. It was a matter of concern to some of them.
‘You don’t intend to hang him really?’ asked the master, Mr Collins. ‘The midshipman, I mean. For Simpson there can be no reprieve.’
‘I will hang him if I have to, and with pleasure,’ Maxwell replied. ‘But I hope he’ll not come back alive. I’ve called him coward so many times the fool might just decide to try and prove it otherwise.’
‘Give a man enough rope and he’ll hang himself,’ said Lieutenant Swift, smiling at the brass-bold cynicism. ‘I take it, sir, that’s what you have in mind?’
The captain nodded.
‘Note that, Mr Collins,’ he said. ‘That’s how a commissioned man might think, so mark and learn. But Craven is just a little biting fly. I have spoke with Mr Bullen alongside us in the Frenchman. He agrees with me that we must sail for England post-haste.’
This took them unawares.
‘What for?’ blurted Midshipman Ross. Swift tutted, but the captain let it go.
‘Two things, Mr Ross, three things or maybe more. I will not ask you to guess at them because it seems good guessing is beyond you. Firstly, our people have been shot at both at anchor in this bay here, and while rowing gigs to France.
‘Secondly, these island men will attack again, for certainty. Indeed, it�
��s possible they’re preparing for it now.’
The first lieutenant, Stewart, nodded gravely.
‘I have reports from the highest lookouts, sir, that shooting may have taken place already. Gunfire, possibly, heard at the furthest distance of our best man’s ears. We have seven men ashore, and the smugglers are violent under fire, as we know. I feel it might be time to send in reinforcements. Mr Raven—’
‘Mr Raven,’ said Maxwell, harshly, ‘can stand upon his own two feet. And thirdly, Mr Ross, our superiors need to be informed about our prize. Especially as the French officer killed by Lieutenant Swift in the melée was an aristocrat, and immensely rich. Now, sirs, can you think of anything I have forgotten?’
Midshipman Ross, like all the others round the table, had nothing more to say, but much to think on. Stewart and the master exchanged grim glances.
After a silent moment, Hector Maxwell made a steeple of his fingers.
‘These islands, gentlemen, are in a state of revolt. That is the nub of it, and that is what their Lordships must be told. It is possible that bloodletting has commenced already, and our duty must be to nip it in the bud. My quandary is this. To go to Falmouth, which is nearest, or head for Portsmouth and top brass. In Portsmouth, I will find crushing force.’
‘This Frenchman we have captured, sir,’ said the first lieutenant, ‘is she well armed? If those of us who stayed with her came under fire from the island men, could we fight them off? And her stores? Has she powder and shot? We would need boats, as well, to take the fight ashore. We need marines.’
‘Nonsense! She has a stack of muskets as big as Portsdown Hill, and the marines exist to keep the Pointer tars crushed down. The As de Pique – she has a name, sir, try to use it now she is part of His Majesty’s navy – the As de Pique, with two or three good officers, could hold a whole marauding army back.’
It fell to Ross, his poor head full of port, to ask the question.
‘Arse de what, beg pardon, sir, for asking? Does that mean—?’