“Hands aloft! Loose tops’ls!”
“Man the braces! Move yerselves!”
They both hurried aft along the gangway, the sea surging alongside. But Huxley’s words stayed with him. He had become used to the brutal and often lurid humour of the lower deck. At first he had been shocked by it, as was intended. This was not the same.
What is it like?
He saw the captain by the rail, speaking to Maddock the gunner, shaping something with his hands, listening, and then nodding in agreement. He turned to watch the sails as the quartermaster shouted a new compass course, and only for an instant their eyes met. The Captain…Napier had seen him in every sort of mood. Angry, resentful, depressed, or at peace, with that rare, transforming smile. He was smiling now, but some one else was already calling to him.
Napier thought of him with her. Together.
What is it like?
The gunner’s mate beckoned with his fist. “First lieutenant says you should arm yourselves, gentlemen!” He showed his missing teeth in a broad grin. “Just in case, eh?”
Napier picked up a well-worn hanger. Not intended for display, or receiving an admiral on board. The curved blade had been crudely sharpened on the ship’s grindstone. It was like a razor.
He hurried after his friend. Once he paused and looked for the drifting dhow. Tomorrow they might still be struggling to complete their repairs. But they would be alive, and free. He tightened his grip on the hanger, his troubled spirit calmed. Accepting it.
It was too soon to think of tomorrow.
Lieutenant Vincent leaned forward on the thwart and stared beyond the measured rise and fall of oars. Despite the muffled looms and thickly greased rowlocks, each stroke seemed to invite disaster. He knew it was only in his imagination, but the sound seemed louder now, closer to the shore. He could even hear the stroke oarsman’s steady breathing, see his eyes as he lay back to take another pull, the blade slicing the water, timing every stroke.
No moon, but the sky was paved with stars, giving enough light to mark the contours of the land, which now seemed much more elevated than it appeared on the chart. So close you could smell it. Feel it.
Beside him at the tiller he could sense the coxswain, watching his crew, not merely dark shapes to him but names and personalities. And now a team.
A long, slow pull; the boat was heavier than usual. Full, even carrying four marines, marksmen. One was up in the bows with the musketoon, which was mounted on its own swivel. Like an old blunderbuss, loaded with musket balls, it would be their only defense if they were taken by surprise. To reload would be almost impossible in the dark. But at least it would act as a warning to the other cutter following astern. If it’s still there. He did not turn on the thwart to look; it would be pointless.
Onward had anchored. It was too shallow to move closer inshore. The ship comes first.
He peered abeam. Uncanny: it seemed so quiet after the tension of casting off from the ship’s side. He released his grip on the scabbard pressed against his leg. Strain, unease. This was not the time to display either.
Squire was in charge of the other cutter. A good man, experienced, but still a stranger in so many ways. Maybe because he wanted it so.
Fitzgerald, the coxswain, muttered, “Now, sorr?”
Vincent saw the darker wedge of land moving out and down toward the bow, and thought he could hear the surf above the creak of oars and the rudder’s occasional murmur. He lifted his hand. No commands. Fitzgerald had trained his crew well. The blades were still, drops splashing alongside to mark their passage through the dark water.
He exhaled slowly, overwhelmed by a sense of utter loneliness. Onward seemed a thousand miles away. It had all been like part of a dream. The captain speaking to the boat crews, and the other volunteers. And to me.
“I believe this is important. Otherwise…” He had held Vincent’s arm and the dark eyes had burned into his face. “I shall be waiting for you. No heroics.”
It seemed clearer now, perhaps because of the silence. The stillness. The captain had wanted to be here himself.
How could he leave the ship?
He gripped Fitzgerald’s arm. Like a piece of timber. In Ireland he had been a bare-knuckle fighter, or so Vincent had heard.
“Listen! The others are still astern!”
Fitzgerald grinned. “Music to my ears!” He crossed himself with his free hand.
Vincent signalled again and the stroke oarsman leaned toward him. Like a curtain shifting slowly to one side, the brilliant stars reflected on smoother water now, with hardly a breath of sultry wind as the boat thrust ahead. He stood up unhurriedly. A sudden move might wreck any chance of surprise, let alone success. But he knew this was vital.
“Be ready, lads. Stand together!” He saw them leaning on the oars, or squeezing between the thwarts to hear him better. They needed more time to recover from the long pull. But there was no time. “No quarter!”
He sat down and unclipped his belt. Suppose the schooner had slipped away, even as they were idling with the dhow? How would Bolitho excuse that to the commodore? Or to himself?
There was a splash and a piercing shriek, then a violent flurry of wings close, even under the bow itself.
Vincent saw the oars sliding to a halt, men heaving them inboard as if in response to a spoken order.
The anchored schooner lifted out of the darkness as if to run them down. Habit, drill, discipline…The tiller was hard over, a grapnel clattered across the schooner’s bulwark, while another fell close by in the water. There were shouts, even as the vessel’s bowsprit swept over their heads and both hulls ground together.
Vincent had the hanger in his hand, and could feel some one pushing him from behind as he reached for the schooner’s bulwark.
Something screamed and slithered against his legs as a cutlass slashed past him, and there were more shouts, mingled with curses, as they fought and stumbled across the deck. A pistol flashed, and Vincent felt the ball thud into the planking by his feet.
More blades, and figures swarming up through a hatch by the foremast.
The hanger crossed with a heavier sword, sliding hilt to hilt; he was falling back under his attacker’s strength and determination. He felt his breath, the beard rasping against his skin, the great blade forcing him back and down. His foot slipped, perhaps on blood, and he knew his life was over. Like a door slamming.
He tried to twist the hanger, but he was falling.
“At ’em, Onwards!” More shouts, feet thundering as men climbed up from the second cutter and charged across the deck.
Vincent was on his feet again, a sailor offering him his hanger, eyes wild, staring around for another enemy.
Squire picked up the broad-bladed sword and hefted it thoughtfully. “Hmm. Scimitar. Can take a man’s head off.” He leaned toward him. “Near thing. Are you all right now?”
Vincent was still breathing harshly, haunted by the strength behind the heavy blade. “Thanks to you, James.”
Men were shouting, waving cutlasses or boarding axes, a few kneeling by injured companions, and some who might never move again.
Squire glanced up as a hurrying seaman paused to jab his thumb up before running aft where others were guarding prisoners. “We’ve taken her. Thank God!”
Vincent repeated, “Thanks to you, James!”
Fitzgerald strode toward them, dragging a bearded prisoner, with a boarding axe poised above his head by way of persuasion. “Caught this bastard tryin’ to ditch a box over the side, sorr!” He took a deep, rasping breath and shook the axe. “Sure, an’ I wonder if it’s what we came lookin’ for!”
“You may be right.” He looked down at the dead man by the bulwark. Teeth still bared in a grin of triumph when Squire had cut him down. He asked, “What’s the bill?”
Squire walked to the side to look down into the cutter. “Two.” One of the seamen signalled to him. “Now it’s three. And a few cuts and bruises. The leech can put those right when we g
et them back to the ship.”
Vincent felt his mind clearing, as if in response to some command. “We’ll cut the cable and warp her into deeper water. Two boats’ crews should be able to move her far enough.” He looked at the huddled prisoners. The same men who had fired on unarmed traders and left them to die. “I’m sure we can rely on their help?” He wanted to smile, to break the tension, but his jaw felt locked, and his hand was clenched and trembling with reaction. “If it can’t be done, we’ll sink the bloody thing where she can do no more harm.”
One of the marines was calling to him, “We can mount the old murderer over ’ere, sir!”
Some one had lifted the musketoon from the cutter and mounted it on an improvised swivel by the main hatchway.
“That was quick thinking.” He could not remember the marine’s name. “Cover the prisoners. And if you have to, use it!”
Squire was already organizing men to pass out a hawser, for towing the vessel once the cable was cut. One of Onward’s seamen was shrouding the three corpses with scraps of canvas. Unhurriedly, as if he were beyond emotion.
Vincent looked toward the dark edge of land and the faint gleam of water marking their escape to the sea. The stars seemed so much paler now, although it had taken no time to board and seize the schooner. Men had died, obeying orders. No questions asked. The old Jacks always insisted, never volunteer. But they were usually the first to step forward when the call came.
He tried to clear his throat; his mouth was as dry as dust.
A seaman padded past, wrist wrapped in a crude bandage. The blood looked black in the feeble starlight. “We’ll get some prize money for this, eh, sir?” He could even chuckle about it.
They would never know how close it had been. If that startled seabird had raised the alarm two minutes sooner, or some lookout had been posted…I would not be standing here.
“Boats ready, sir!”
Vincent waved to the man standing by the cable. “An extra tot if you can do it in three!” He saw him grin and lift his axe.
The boats had cast off, the towing hawser already trailing in the water.
“Give way!”
There was a thud and he heard the man yell, “In one, sir! Does I get a double tot?”
Vincent felt the deck quiver, and heard the splash of oars as the two cutters took the strain. Once in open water they might find it harder, but at least there was less weight in each boat now. Some of the men on deck were waving and shouting encouragement, until a voice silenced them with a few well-used threats.
The cutters were pulling away on either bow, and he could hear Squire calling across to the other boat, where Fitzgerald would still be standing at the tiller like a rock. A snail’s pace, but at least they were moving…
He felt the seaman beside him almost jumping with relief and excitement. “We did it, sir! We showed the buggers!”
The big scimitar was still lying where Squire had dropped it. But for his swift and brave action, there would be nothing. Vincent would be lying with those three pathetic bundles awaiting burial.
He turned and grasped the seaman’s shoulder. It could have been any one of them; it no longer mattered. He said, “Yes, we did it, and we did it together!”
He stared up at the foremast, sharper now against the paling sky. The fore-and-aft rig would make it simpler to spread some sail when they had enough sea-room. He had been given a second chance. He would not allow himself to forget. “Stand by to cast off!” And he was ready.
16 OUT OF THE SHADOWS
“THERE’S A SIGHT TO TOUCH YOUR HEART!” Captain Adam Bolitho lowered the telescope and rubbed his eye with the back of his hand. He trained the glass again, he had lost count of the times, and waited for the image to steady.
“I prayed for this.” He heard Julyan the master clear his throat, and realized he must have spoken aloud, his guard down, and unable to hide his true feelings.
He moved the glass very slowly: figures, even faces coming alive, working at sheets and halliards, the big sails fighting back as the schooner butted too close to the wind. The two cutters were towing close astern, and he had already seen the uniforms, aft by the schooner’s tiller. Vincent was safe, and so was Squire. He had closed his mind to the harsh possibility that accompanied every raid or cutting-out attempt. But it was always harder to accept if you were waiting, and not personally at risk. The canvas-covered shapes by the bulwark had been visible when the schooner rolled to the wind. It was wrong to feel thankful, but, like the flag they had hoisted above the captured vessel, he was conscious only of his pride in them.
He walked across the deck and trained the telescope over the opposite quarter. Merlin’s topsails were bright against the hard horizon, holding the first hint of sunlight.
Francis Troubridge was on time for his rendezvous…Now there was something for him to pass on to the commodore.
He closed the telescope. It might be more than he had bargained for.
“I shan’t tell you again. Now do it!”
Monteith, losing his patience and his temper. He had been on deck without a break since the ship had dropped anchor, in sole charge. In fairness, he had shown no sign of flagging.
Adam thought of the drifting dhow which had begun the whole chain of events, and the surgeon’s description when he had returned aboard after his precarious visit. Four killed and two slightly injured, by canister shot, as expected. Murray had done what he could, but the dhow’s crew had been eager to make their way without further interference, and to bury their dead when the time was right. Murray seemed to take it in his stride; he was used to pain and death in every guise. He had even served at Trafalgar.
Where was the dhow now, he wondered. Perhaps sheltering in one of the countless coves that pockmarked this coast, hiding places for trader and pirate alike.
They had no choice. Today’s enemy might be the law of the land tomorrow.
Julyan had joined him, frowning pensively. “The schooner’s got no anchor, sir. If that wind comes back, they’ll have to stay under way.”
Adam looked toward Merlin, but without the glass she was a blur between sea and sky.
“I’m sending the schooner to Gibraltar. If they need more proof, she should be enough.” He did not mention the commodore by name. “She’ll need a prize crew.” He saw the question in Julyan’s eyes. “Merlin will supply it.” He looked across the heaving water again, patches of sunshine now like drifting sand on the current. “We shall need all our people before you know it.”
“They’re manning one of th’ cutters, sir.” That was Jago. Always there, like a shadow.
Adam shaded his eye: Vincent was climbing down into the boat, unlike the last time, with only a minimum of hands at the oars.
He thought of the cabin, still in darkness below his feet. Just to sit for a few moments in the old chair. Or at the little desk, with her last letter…
He pushed away the temptation with great effort, and said quietly, “When you go below, Luke,” and sensed him moving closer, “fetch my prayer book, will you?”
Jago nodded. He knew who the other passengers would be in the cutter, and was surprised that it could still matter. Count for something. He had seen so many go over the side, good, bad, friend and enemy. But it did.
He waited long enough to see the cutter come alongside and the first lieutenant climb up the ladder which had been lowered for him. They were swinging out a net on block and tackle for the three dead men.
He saw Vincent hesitate as the captain met him by the gangway and reached out to grip both his hands.
“I am so proud of you, Mark. That was bravely done!”
He heard Vincent answer, “It was Lieutenant Squire, sir. I would have died, but for him.”
The grip remained as the captain responded, “And that was bravely said!”
Jago went below, and nodded casually to the marine sentry as he pushed his way into the great cabin.
Morgan had been standing by the stern windows, and came
to greet him. It was never too early or too late for him to be about and busy. He said cheerfully, “You look scuppered, Luke, boyo. I’ve got just the something to liven you up!” He paused in the pantry door. “I see that they’re back. It was a long night.” He waited, testing the moment. “Have you heard anything, old friend?”
Jago faced him squarely, no longer surprised that they had become so close.
“I think we’re goin’ to fight,” he said.
Commander Francis Troubridge stared across the water at the schooner.
“Yes, I can muster a prize crew for the run to Gibraltar. I have a master’s mate who served in a schooner in ‘the bad old days,’ as he calls them.” He turned to look at his own command, a searching gaze which Adam understood and remembered. Like his own first ship, all that time ago. He had been even younger than Troubridge.
He was saying, “I’ll have to see the commodore.” Again, the youthful smile Adam had come to know so well when he had been Bethune’s hard-worked flag lieutenant. Only a few months ago…The smile widened to a grin. “If he’s still in command, of course!”
Adam said, “I have a report you must deliver to him. I doubt if it will surprise him. But he will not be pleased.”
Troubridge walked with him to the quarterdeck rail. He did not need to be told that this was a matter of urgency. Intelligence and intuition had served him well as a flag lieutenant, and he had needed both under Bethune. Do this, Flags, or Why wasn’t I told, Flags? And Adam Bolitho he would never forget. On deck, under fire, men dying around them. And his face when the smoke had cleared, compassionate and self-critical, always questioning his own performance.
He had seen that Onward’s capstan bars were shipped, with extra hands already mustered to weigh anchor yet again. There was always tension and excitement in preparing to sail. Now he was feeling it more intensely himself, in command of his own ship.
And the familiar sight of corpses sewn in hammocks, awaiting burial. Not like that other time, when they had buried Catherine Somervell at sea, but Adam Bolitho would be recalling it when he did his duty by these three victims of battle.
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