by Hunter, Seth
For the best part of an hour they ran on, the flash of the guns brighter now against the darkening sky, the swirling smoke splintered by the blood-red light of the setting sun so that at times Nathan had the impression he was watching demons stoking the fires of Hell. Sometimes a round would come straight through the gun ports, screaming off the metal surface, taking off a head or an arm or a leg, but it was the great jagged splinters that did the most damage, flying from the battered timbers and exploding onto the crowded decks. Both ships were firing double-shotted, mostly into the hulls, though the French had a few guns loaded with chain still in the hope of crippling them aloft. And with some success. First the Unicorn’s mizzen topmast went and then their gaff, and then they lost the use of the mainsail when both leech-ropes were shot away.
Twice the Virginie steered towards them in the hope of boarding but each time Nathan saw her coming through the smoke and veered off. But with the damage the Unicorn had suffered aloft, he could not back his mizzen to slow down that headlong rush and cross her stern for one killer raking blow. Still, he could see the blows they had dealt her, the gaping wounds in her side where two or more gun ports had been knocked into one, the shattered lengths of rail and the blood running from her scuppers. Her mizzen too had gone by the board and a little after half past five her main topmast fell, instantly followed by the fore topgallant. The sudden loss of power allowed the Unicorn to shoot ahead of her and the wreckage dragged her round to starboard so that Nathan feared she would rake them. He leaped to the helm and mimed the act of pulling it hard over and the two ships drew apart and for the first time in over an hour the guns fell silent.
Nathan sent the topmen aloft to reeve new braces so he could work back to windward but before they could finish, the Virginie had cut loose the wreckage and was moving downwind again, firing at their stern as she passed them; but a ragged broadside it was, at a range of four or five hundred yards, with no more than five or six guns of her twenty in action and not a single hit. Nathan wondered at this for she could not have lost that many guns or men, even after the pounding she had taken. Was she short of powder then or shot? It had been a long time since she had left Brest and he doubted there was much of either available to them in Saint-Domingue with the war that was raging there.
He ran up to the maintop while he had the chance, ranged his glass along her decks and saw the carnage that was there and then up to her quarterdeck and saw a single officer standing at the con with the two helmsmen. Even as he watched they began to spin the helm and she came round to the west, leaning hard over as she took the wind on her beam. By God, they were running! Running to the west. He felt a momentary exhilaration, instantly dashed for they were running straight into the setting sun, the dull orange orb visibly sinking below the horizon. With night falling as swiftly as it did in the tropics she had a fair chance of escaping them. He burned his hands sliding down the stay to the quarterdeck but hardly noticed the pain, he was so anxious not to lose her. By the time they came about she was a mere shadow against what little light remained in the western sky. And by God she was cracking on—for the wind had freshened and she must be making four or five knots even with her reduced canvas. Nathan looked to his own sails, wondering if he could get more out of them by falling off the wind, for he was no longer afraid of ceding the weather gauge and if he could only range alongside her he might cut her capers yet.
He leaped down to the deck looking for Mr. Baker but instead here was a madman yelling up at him, white eyes staring out of a smoke-blackened face. After a moment he recognised him as Mr. Godfrey, the pilot; he had quite forgotten him—where had he been the while? Nathan shook his head and cupped his hand to his ear for the fellow’s convenience and managed to comprehend that there was a very great danger that they were about to run upon an object called the Pissing Cay.
“What? What did you call it?” As if it mattered.
“Pissinoe—that is one of the Sirens.”
“Pissinoe,” he repeated wonderingly and in fear. “The one that plays the lyre.” Just as the mad philosopher had warned him. He heard the distant drone from his schooldays, when they had read by rote, stumbling over the translation.
Draw near illustrious Odysseus, flower of the Achaean chivalry and bring your ship to rest that you may hear our voices.
But where was she? He could not see her. The sea was clear for …
And then he did—and was astonished that he could have run so close to her all unaware. A long, low spit of land off his starboard bow, just beyond the Virginie: a reef by any other name. And the sluggish waters folding lazily over leaving the merest smear of white like the telltale cream on a cat’s whiskers. Nathan shouted out a string of orders that brought the Unicorn up into the wind, heeling hard over to larboard. Shot a swift glance at the Virginie and saw her running on. Had they not seen it? Ah, now they had. He saw her cleave to the wind as she put her helm hard over and for a moment he thought she would make it and with fifty yards to spare but there must have been an outcrop of rock just below the surface for suddenly she struck, struck with shocking violence, her foremast crashing forward with a mighty crack and the main course shredding, blowing like rags in the Siren-singing wind.
CHAPTER 24
The Place of Horror
T HE UNICORN CAME AS CLOSE to the wind as she could, the top sails feathering and the main course cracking like a gun and flapping back against the mast. They were less than a cable’s length to windward of the stricken vessel and when Nathan looked over the side he could see the rocks below their own hull, so close he was in a cold sweat until they clawed their way into deeper water.
He counter-braced the yards about five hundred yards off and they dropped anchor on a spring cable with the guns still run out and looked back at the Virginie perched and listing upon the rocks. The tricolour still flew from her stern but there could be no question of her fighting on: they already had the ship’s boats lowered and were passing down the wounded. It was almost night and they had the great lantern lit at her stern and more in the boats at her side, the lights dancing in the water. Wisps of smoke curled from her guns, as from the nostrils of a great wounded dragon, stretched out upon the rocks. Nathan looked at his watch. Twenty past six o’clock. A little more than two hours since the Virginie had opened fire with her bowchasers. It seemed much longer. He stared around at his bloodied decks, took in the blackened faces of the gun crews, some more truly black than others for the Africans seemed to have colonised the quarterdeck carronades. They grinned as they met his eye and he smiled wanly back. His ears were deafened, his brain numbed.
“My compliments to Mr. Maxwell,” he instructed Lamb, still dogging his heels, “and ask him if he would step up to the quarterdeck.”
But Lamb came back with Tully.
“Lieutenant Maxwell has been taken below,” he said, “to have his wounds attended to.”
“Is he badly hurt?”
“Bad enough by the report I heard but he would not leave his station until it was ended.” He looked towards their crippled rival. “I wish you joy of your victory.”
Victory. But there was no joy in it, only a terrible weariness. And so much still to do.
“Take command here, Martin, if you will. I am going aboard the Virginie.”
She was listing hard to starboard when he came alongside in his barge with McGregor and Whiteley and a score or so of their marines. Her decks were shocking, even in the subdued glow of the lanterns: a shambles of blood and debris, worse than the Unicorn even after the battle off Ship Island. He found someone who looked like an officer.
“Where is your captain?”
A blank stare though he had spoken in French.
“Your captain or your commodore?”
“Dead. Both dead.” He was practically a boy, his face white and blooded, close to tears. Nathan took Lamb and two of the marines and went below to the stern cabin. It was a foot deep in water but there was a lantern hanging from the beams and by its light th
ey saw Imlay sitting at the captain’s table reading some papers. He looked up with a smile when he saw Nathan and said, “There you are. I wish you joy of your victory.”
Nathan was at a loss for words. But this was never a problem for Imlay.
“I was just going through their papers to see if any were of use to us,” calmly folding one of them and making to put it into his jacket.
Nathan drew a pistol from his belt and cocked the hammer. “Get out from there,” he told him, “or I’ll blow your head off.”
Imlay looked surprised and a little hurt. “My dear fellow, you cannot think … My God, I believe you do.” He gave a hard, harsh laugh. “But I have been a prisoner of the French these past three months or more.” He waved a hand at the papers scattered around him. Nathan saw that more were floating in the water, screwed up like little paper boats. “I was looking to save what I could before she went down.”
Which would not be long judging from the sounds she made and the water that was in her already. Once she slid off her uneasy perch she would turn turtle and take them all down with her. Nathan felt her shift and lean even further to starboard, her timbers groaning in protest or surrender.
“Take him up on deck,” he instructed the two marines, “and do not take your eyes off him for an instant.”
When Imlay had gone, still mouthing protests of innocence and indignation, Nathan scooped up the papers from the table and those that were floating on the floor and crammed them into the bag he had brought for this purpose. There were several mailbags in one corner and he told Lamb to bring two men down from the deck to carry them into the boats. Then he took the lantern and went into the adjoining cabin. A dead man here, face down in the water, wearing civilian clothing. The political adviser Delarge? Had he come here after they hit the rocks—for his confidential orders? Had Imlay killed him? Nathan would not have put it past him.
There was a writing desk by the wall. Nathan yanked at the drawers and stuffed his bag with more papers. Found one that was locked. Blew it open with his pistol. Here was the code book and the signals book and … He stared at the bundle of letters in disbelief.
Captain Nathaniel Peake, Unicorn, care of His Excellency the Lieutenant Governor of Jamaica. With the Admiralty seal.
How?
But of course. They must have caught up with the Greyhound and this had been among her mail.
Another groan from the dying ship; the water was up to his thighs now. He stuffed the bundle into his jacket and struggled back into the other cabin where he found Lamb and a couple of the hands groping about in the darkness for the mailbags. A last look around and then he followed them up on deck: a deck now canting at an angle of thirty degrees or more with the blood running down into the scuppers, a dark crimson in the lantern light. But all the people seemed to be in the boats or at least those that were still alive. He looked round again, strangely reluctant to leave. Lamb was at the stern cutting down the tricolour and wrapping it up into a clumsy bundle.
Nathan waited for him to finish and then climbed after him into the barge.
They had barely pulled away from her when she gave another great groan and slid off the rocks. She turned turtle at once and sank by the bow, her stern poking up above the foaming waters like the arse of a great dabbling duck. Nathan took his hat off and stared back at her as they pulled for the Unicorn.
When he came on deck the French prisoners were being herded below and the wounded conveyed more gently to McLeish’s crowded cockpit. The master-at-arms, Mr. Brown, was waiting for him to ask what he wanted done with Mr. Imlay.
“Put him in chains until I have time to deal with him,” Nathan ordered curtly.
“And Quinn?”
“Quinn?” Nathan frowned. Who in God’s name was Quinn?
“Which he was one of the mutineers, sir. The only one to survive.”
“I see. Well, let him be for the time being. I don’t think he will trouble us, do you?”
He glanced around his battered ship. Baker already had men up in the damaged rigging making what repairs they could in the dark and Tully seemed to have everything under control on deck.
“I am going below, Martin,” Nathan told him. “If you have a moment, see if you can compile a list of our casualties.”
Gabriel had the lanterns lit in his cabin and a dry pair of trousers laid out for him. Nathan could have sworn he smelled toasted cheese.
“I thought you could eat a little supper,” he said.
Nathan could always eat a little supper.
The galley fires were out but Gabriel had a little spirit stove of his own in the adjoining cabin.
“Bring a bottle with it,” Nathan told him. “The best red you can find.”
He pulled out the packet of letters from his jacket and studied them in the lantern light. One from the Admiralty, two in his father’s hand and one in his mother’s. Not yet opened.
The Admiralty first. He ran his eyes down the brief missive in the elegant hand of the Second Secretary. He was hereby requested and required to return in the Unicorn with all possible despatch and present himself to the First Lord of the Admiralty in London.
For good or ill.
Nathan held it in his hands and stared at it for a long moment, seeing his disgrace in it. And yet it was too soon for Admiral Ford’s reprimand to have reached their lordships. Why then, did they want him home, and without waiting for news of the Virginie?
Gabriel came back with the toasted cheese and a bottle of Burgundy.
“Thank you, Gilbert.” Nathan made rare use of his first name and was rewarded with a gap-toothed grin.
“Your father would have been proud of you this day, sir. And will be when he hears of it.”
“ Well, it is better news than I thought to bring him.” And I may have worse yet, he thought. He stuffed himself with toast and cheese and knocked back the late captain’s best Burgundy as if it were small ale. Gilbert watched him approvingly.
“ Damned good,” Nathan assured him. “Would you have a glass with me?”
“Not at present, thankee, sir, but I will in a while.”
“Then be so good as to give my compliments to Mr. Tully and I would be glad to speak with him when he has a moment.”
Tully came down almost immediately.
“Martin, grab yourself a glass and join me.”
“Thank you, sir, a quick one if I may, for there is a deal of clearing up to be done. And I have brought you the butcher’s bill.” He passed over the sheet of paper with the names of the dead. Seventeen of them with Pym’s at the top.
“And we have our orders from the Admiralty,” Nathan told him. “Courtesy of the Greyhound packet by way of the Virginie. We are to go home.”
Tully gazed at him blankly, as if it was a concept that was entirely alien to him.
“Home, Martin,” Nathan dinned it in to him. “And to that sweetheart of yours in Hastings. So, as soon as you have finished your wine, you may set the men to raising the anchor and tell Mr. Baker to set a course for the Windward Passage.”
A smile lit up Tully’s face as he finally took it in. He threw down the wine as if he could not bear to waste an unnecessary moment. “Then with your permission sir …”
When he had gone Nathan poured himself another glass and ran his eyes over the casualty list again. Shaw of course and Mr. Midshipman Meadows and others he had never got to know and now never would. Then he saw the name of Kerr. The captain’s servant, who had chosen to stay with the ship and serve under the purser. And there was Declan Keane at the very end. Nathan thought for a moment and then he found pen and ink and wrote the name of Dermot Quinn at the bottom of the list.
Then he picked up the letter from his mother. It was thicker than she usually wrote. She was not a great one for writing letters and he wondered if it would contain news of the divorce—but she had enclosed another letter with it and he saw with a shock that it was from Mary Wollstonecraft. It was addressed to his mother but he saw after reading
the first page why she had sent it to him.
I pray that your son Nathan may still be alive and in good health and then when you next see him, or write to him, you will give him my good wishes and inform him that I have received a letter purporting to be from his dear friend and mine, Sara, Countess of Turenne, who was believed to have died upon the guillotine.
The letter was sent from the Vendée several months since and reached me in Le Havre by a most circuitous route, the region being plunged into the most violent conflict between royalist rebels and troops loyal to the Republic. It is, as far as I can tell, in Sara’s hand—though I do not know it well and have no papers with which to compare it. However, it contains details of her escape from the Plaice du Trône where she was to be executed among the last of those condemned in the time of the Terror.
According to this account she and another prisoner, also a woman, managed to free their hands and jump from the cart as it approached the square. Her companion was apprehended by the guards but Sara escaped with the aid of some among the crowd who smuggled her from Paris that same night. Believing herself still to be in the greatest peril she made her way by degrees to the Vendée where she felt herself to be safe from pursuit. However, the situation there is extremely volatile and the region is under martial law which is why she has been unable to communicate news of her escape to her friends and most especially to her young son whom she still believes to be in Paris. It also makes it impossible for me to verify this account or to write back.
However, I am assured that Nathan will wish to know of this news as soon as possible and that she sends him her love and her hope that they will meet again.
That is all I know for the present and all I have time to write but I hope shortly to be in England when I will hope to bring you more news from
Your very dear friend,