Balleine hurried aft and asked, ‘Shall I cut the boats adrift, sir? We might gain half a knot without them.’
Another ball slammed down almost alongside, hurling spray clean over the poop like tropical rain.
A seaman yelled in disbelief, ‘The Yankee’s goin’ about, sir!’
Sparke permitted himself a small smile of satisfaction. With the fog retreating rapidly through her towering masts and rigging like ghostly gunsmoke, the Trojan loomed to meet them, her exposed broadside already run out in twin lines of black muzzles.
Sparke said, ‘Bless me, Mr Bolitho! They’ll have us if we’re not careful!’
Midshipman Libby ran aft like a rabbit, and seconds later the British ensign broke from the gaff, bright scarlet to match the one above Trojan’s gilded poop.
Below, in the tiny cabin, Stockdale wiped Quinn’s forehead with a wet rag and looked at the skylight.
Quinn moved his lips very slowly. ‘What was that sound?’
Stockdale watched him sadly. ‘Cheering, sir. Must’ve sighted the old Trojan.’
He saw Quinn swoon away again on a tide of pain and the brandy which he had been forcing into him. If he lived he might never be the same again. Then he thought of the splashes alongside as the corpses, friends and enemies alike, had been buried at sea. Even so, he’d be better off than them.
4
Rendezvous
BOLITHO STRODE AFT and paused beneath the Trojan’s poop, conscious of the many watching eyes which followed him along the deck, just as they had greeted his return on board. He was aware too of his dirty and bedraggled appearance, the tear in his coat sleeve, and smears of dried blood across his breeches.
He looked over his shoulder and saw the prize, more graceful than ever at a distance, riding comfortably beneath Trojan’s lee. It was hard to picture what had happened aboard her during the night, let alone accept he had managed to survive it.
Sparke had come across to the Trojan immediately they had made signal contact, and had left Bolitho to attend to the transfer of wounded and the burial of the man whose musket had exploded in his face.
Before reporting to the captain, Bolitho had hurried down to the orlop, almost dreading what he would find. Responsible, that was what Sparke had said. It was how it had felt as he had looked at the spread-eagled body on the surgeon’s table, shining like a corpse in the swaying deckhead lanterns. Quinn had been stripped naked, and as Thorndike had slit away the last of the matted bandage, Bolitho had seen the gash for the first time. From the point of Quinn’s left shoulder, diagonally across his breast, it opened like an obscene mouth.
Quinn was unconscious, and Thorndike had said curtly, ‘Not too bad. But another day,’ he shrugged, ‘different story.’
Bolitho had asked, ‘Can you save him?’
Thorndike had faced him, displaying his bloody apron, as he had snapped, ‘I’ll do what I can. I have already taken off a man’s leg, and another has a splinter in his eye.’
Bolitho had said awkwardly, ‘I am sorry. I’ll not delay you further.’
Now, as he made his way towards the stern cabin where a scarlet-coated marine stood stiffly on guard, he felt the same dull ache of failure and despair. They had taken a prize, but the cost had been too great.
The marine stamped his boots together, and then Foley, as neat as ever, opened the outer door, his eyes widening as he took in Bolitho’s crumpled appearance with obvious disapproval.
In the stern cabin Captain Pears was at his desk, some papers strewn across it, a tall goblet of wine in one hand.
Bolitho stared at Sparke. He was smartly dressed, shaved, and looked as if he had never left the ship.
Pears ordered, ‘Wine for the fourth lieutenant.’
He watched Bolitho as he took the goblet from his servant, saw the strain, the dragging weariness of the night’s work.
‘Mr Sparke has been telling me of your impressive deeds, Mr Bolitho.’ Pears’ face was devoid of expression. ‘The schooner is a good catch.’
Bolitho let the wine warm his stomach, soothe the ache in his mind. Sparke had come straight to the ship, had changed and cleaned himself before presenting his report to the captain. How much had he told him about the first part? The startling crash of the musket which had added so much to the bill.
Pears asked, ‘How is Mr Quinn, by the way?’
‘The surgeon is hopeful, sir.’
Pears eyed him strangely. ‘Good. And I understand both the midshipmen behaved well, too.’
He turned his attention to the littered papers, the rest apparently put aside. Finished.
Pears said, ‘These papers were found by Mr Sparke in the Faithful’s cabin. They are of even greater value than the prize herself.’ He looked at them grimly. ‘They give details of the schooner’s mission after she had taken on any captured powder and weapons from the convoy. The escorts would have been hard put to protect the whole convoy and keep it intact after the sort of weather we have been experiencing. And I have no doubt it was even worse coming out of Halifax. As it is, the brig will have to manage without her, although I would expect there to be other wolves trailing such rich cargoes even now.’
Bolitho asked, ‘When will you expect to sight the ships, sir?’
‘Mr Bunce and I believe tomorrow.’ He spoke as if it no longer mattered. ‘But there is something else which must be done without delay. The Faithful was to rendezvous with the enemy near the mouth of Delaware Bay. Our Army in Philadelphia is hard put to force supplies upriver to the garrison. There are patrols and skirmishers every mile of the way to fire on our boats and barges. Just think how much worse it will get if the enemy can lay hands on more arms and powder.’
Bolitho nodded and took another goblet from Foley, his mind seeing it exactly.
Delaware Bay was some four hundred miles south of where he was standing. A fast, lively craft could reach the rendezvous in three days if the weather favoured her.
They had been that confident, he thought. The red patch on the mainsail. The signal to the watchers on the shore. It was just the right place for it, too. Very shallow and treacherous at low tide, where no prowling frigate would dare give chase for fear of tearing out her keel.
He said, ‘You will send the Faithful, sir?’
‘Yes. There will be some risk of course. The passage might take longer than we plan for. The enemy know that Faithful has been seized, and will use every ruse to pass the word south without losing a moment. Signals, fast horsemen, it can be done.’ He permitted himself a wintry smile. ‘Mr Revere has established that point beyond question.’
Sparke drew himself up very stiffly and looked at Bolitho. ‘I have been given the honour of commanding this mission.’
Pears said calmly, ‘If you wish, Mr Bolitho, you may go with the second lieutenant as before. The choice is yours, this time.’
Bolitho nodded, marvelling that he did not even hesitate. ‘Aye, sir. I’d like to go.’
‘That is settled then.’ Pears dragged out his gold watch. ‘I will have your orders written at once, but Mr Sparke already knows the bones of the matter.’
Cairns entered the cabin, his hat tucked under his arm.
‘I have sent some hands across to the schooner, sir. The gunner is attending to the armament.’ He paused, his eyes on Bolitho. ‘Mr Quinn is still unconscious, but the surgeon says his heart and breathing are fair.’
Pears nodded. ‘Tell my clerk to come aft at once.’
Cairns hesitated by the door. ‘I have brought the prisoners aboard, sir. Shall I swear them in?’
Pears shook his head. ‘No. Volunteers I will accept, but this war has taken too firm a hold to expect a change of loyalties as a matter of course. They would be like bad apples in a barrel, and I’ll not risk discontent in my ship. We’ll hand them to the authorities in New York when we return there.’
Cairns left, and Pears said, ‘The written orders will not protect you from the cannon of our patrols in the area. So show them a clean pair
of heels. If there are spies about, it will make your guise even more acceptable.’
Teakle, the captain’s clerk, scurried into the cabin, and Pears dismissed them. ‘Go and prepare yourselves, gentlemen. I want you to keep that rendezvous, and destroy what you discover there. It will be worth a great deal, and may put heart into our troops at Philadelphia.’
The two lieutenants left the cabin, and Sparke said, ‘We will be taking some marines this time.’ He sounded as if he disliked the idea of sharing his new role. ‘But speed is the thing. So go and hurry our people to ferry the rest of the stores and weapons across to the schooner.’
Bolitho touched his hat and replied, ‘Aye, sir.’
‘And replace Midshipman Couzens with Mr Weston. This is no work for children.’
Bolitho walked out into the chilling air and watched the boats plying back and forth between the unmatched vessels like water-beetles.
Weston was the signals midshipman and, like Libby, who had been in Sparke’s boat, would be the next on the list for examination for lieutenant. If Quinn died, the promotion of one of them would be immediate.
He saw Couzens watching from the lee gangway as Trojan rolled and complained while she lay hove to for the transfer of men and equipment.
Couzens has obviously already been told of the change, and said breathlessly, ‘I’d like to come with you, sir.’
Bolitho eyed him gravely. Couzens at thirteen would be worth two of Weston. He was an overweight, ginger-haired youth of seventeen, and something of a bully when he could get away with it.
He replied, ‘Next time, maybe.’ He looked away. ‘We shall see.’
It was odd that he rarely thought of being replaced himself, of being just another name marked D.D. Discharged Dead.
To be killed was one thing. To be replaced by someone he actually knew at this moment brought it home like a dash of ice water.
He saw Stockdale, arms folded, on the schooner’s little poop as she rolled sickeningly on a procession of troughs. Waiting. Knowing with his inner sense that Bolitho would be going across at any moment to join him.
The marines were climbing down into the boats now, pursued by all the usual insults from the watching seamen.
Captain D’Esterre, accompanied by his sergeant, joined Bolitho on the gangway.
‘Thanks to you, Dick, my lads will get some exercise, I trust.’ He waved to his lieutenant who was remaining aboard with the rest of the marines. ‘Take care! I’ll outlive you yet!’
The marine lieutenant grinned and touched his hat. ‘At least I may have a chance of winning a hand of cards while you’re away, sir!’
Then the captain and his sergeant followed the others into the nearest boat.
Bolitho saw Sparke speaking with Cairns and the master, and said impetuously, ‘Visit Mr Quinn whenever you can. Will you do that for me?’
Couzens nodded with sudden gravity. It was a special task. Something just for him alone.
‘Aye, sir.’ He stood back as Sparke came hurrying from the quarterdeck and added quickly, ‘I will pray for you, sir.’
Bolitho stared at him with surprise. But he was moved, too. ‘Thank you. That was well said.’
Then, touching his hat to the quarterdeck and nodding to the faces along the gangway, he hurried into the boat.
Sparke thumped down beside him, his written orders bulging from an inner pocket. As the boat shoved off Bolitho saw the seamen hurrying along the Trojan’s decks and yards getting ready to make sail again once she had retrieved her boats.
Sparke said, ‘At last. Something to make them all sit up and take notice.’
D’Esterre was looking at the dizzily swaying schooner with sudden apprehension.
‘How the deuce will we all get settled into her, in heaven’s name?’
Sparke bared his teeth. ‘It will not be for long. Sailors are used to such small hardships.’
Bolitho let his mind drift away, seeing his own hand as he continued with the last letter to his father, as if he were actually writing it at this moment.
Today I had the chance to stay with the ship, but I chose to return to the prize. He watched the masts and booms rising above the labouring oarsmen. Perhaps I am wrong, but I believe that Sparke is so full of hope for the future he can see nothing else.
The boat hooked on and the last of the marines clambered and clattered over the bulwark, swaying on the deck like toy soldiers in an unsteady box.
Shears, their sergeant, soon took charge, and within minutes there was not a red coat to be seen as one by one they climbed down into the vessel’s main hold.
One of Trojan’s nine-pounders had been ferried across, and was now firmly lashed on the deck, with tackles skilfully fitted to the schooner’s available ring-bolts and cleats. How William Chimmo, Trojan’s gunner, had managed to get it ferried over, remounted and set in its present position was evidence of a real expert, a professional warrant officer. He had sent one of his mates, a taciturn man called Rowhurst, to tend the nine-pounder’s needs, and he was looking at the gun, rubbing it with a rag, and probably wondering what would happen to the schooner’s deck planking when he had to lay and fire it.
By the time they had sorted out the hands, the new ones and those of the original party who were still aboard, and put them to work, Trojan was already standing downwind, with more and more canvas ballooning from her yards. One boat was still being lowered inboard on to the tier, Pears was so eager to make up for lost time.
Bolitho watched her for some minutes, seeing her from a distance, as Quinn had once seen the great ships heading down the Thames. Things of power and beauty, while within their hulls they carried as much hope and pain as any landlocked town. Now Quinn was lying on the orlop. Or perhaps already dead.
Mr Frowd touched his hat. ‘Ready to get under way, sir.’ He glanced meaningly at Sparke who was peering at his written orders, entirely absorbed.
Bolitho called, ‘We are ready, sir.’
Sparke scowled, irritated at the interruption. ‘Then please be so good as to turn the hands to.’
Frowd rubbed his hands as he looked at the big boomed sails and the waiting seamen.
‘She’ll fly, this one.’ He became formal again. ‘I suggest we take account of the present wind, sir, and steer sou’-east. That’ll take us well clear of the bay and prepare us for old Nantucket again.’
Bolitho nodded. ‘Very well. Bring her about and lay her on the starboard tack.’
Sparke came out of his trance and crossed the deck as the man ran to bring the schooner under command.
‘It is a good plan.’ He stuck out his narrow chin. ‘The late and unlamented Captain Tracy wrote almost everything about the rendezvous except the colour of his countrymen’s eyes!’
He gripped a stay as the wheel went over and the two great booms swung above the gurgling water alongside and each sail filled until it looked iron-hard.
Bolitho noticed that even the hole in the foresail made by the brig’s cannon had been deftly patched during the last few hours. The dexterity of the British sailor when he put his mind to something was beyond measure, he thought.
The Faithful was responding well, in spite of her changed ownership. With spray leaping over her stem and sluicing into small rivers along her lee scuppers, she came about like a thoroughbred, the sails filling again and thundering to the wind.
Eventually, leaning over stiffly to take full advantage of the new tack, Frowd was satisfied. After serving under Bunce, he had learned to take nothing for granted.
Sparke watched, unblinking, from right aft by the taffrail.
He said, ‘Dismiss the watch below, Mr Bolitho.’
He turned and shaded his eyes to seek out the Trojan, but she was hidden in a rain squall, little more than a shadow, or a smudge on an imperfect painting.
Sparke lurched unsteadily to the cabin hatch.
‘I will be below if you need me.’
Bolitho breathed out slowly. Sparke was no longer a lieutenant.
He had become a captain.
‘Mr Bolitho, sir!’
Bolitho rolled over in the unfamiliar bunk and blinked at a shaded lantern. It was Midshipman Weston, leaning over him, his shadow looming across the cabin like a spectre.
‘What is it?’
Bolitho dragged his mind reluctantly from the precious sleep. He sat up, massaging his eyes, his throat sore from the stench of the sealed cabin, the damp, and foul air.
Weston watched him. ‘The second lieutenant’s compliments, sir, and would you join him on deck.’
Bolitho threw his legs over the bunk and tested the schooner’s motion. It must be nearly dawn, he thought, and Sparke was already about. That was strange, to say the least, as he usually left the matters of watchkeeping and routine alterations of tack and course to Bolitho or Frowd.
Weston said nothing, and Bolitho was disinclined to ask what was happening. It would show doubt and uncertainty to the midshipman, who had enough of his own already.
He scrambled through the companion hatch and winced to the greeting of needle-sharp spray and wind. The sky was much as he had last seen it. Low scudding clouds, and with no sign of a star.
He listened to the boom of canvas, the creak of spars as the schooner plunged drunkenly across a deep trough with such violence it almost flung him to the deck.
It had been like this for three days. The wind had become their enemy more often than not, and they had been made to change tack again and again, beating back and forth for miles to make an advance of just a few cables, or indeed for a complete loss of progress.
Sparke had been almost desperate as day by day they had driven south and then south-west towards the land and the mouth of the Delaware.
Even the most disciplined seaman aboard had become sullen and resentful at Sparke’s attitude. He was intolerant of everyone, and seemed totally obsessed by the task entrusted to him, and now the possibility of failure.
Bolitho crossed the slippery planking and shouted above the wind, ‘You sent for me, sir?’
Sparke swung round, retaining his grip on the weather shrouds, his usually immaculate hair streaming in the wind as he replied angrily, ‘Of course, damn it! You have taken long enough!’
In Gallant Company Page 7