‘Looks like it,’ Cash agreed. ‘So we can –’
He stopped in mid-sentence. Clearly through the chilly air came the dead, flat concussion of a ship’s gun.
*
‘Bloody hell,’ Reilly said. ‘What’ll we do, sorr?’
‘Give her a run for her money, that’s what we’ll do.’
Pike was busy calculating angles, checking the wind, watching Pluto’s course. He saw the patrol boat’s sails draw taut as she heeled, trying to cover the fairway.
Rocks beneath the surface extended for several hundred yards offshore on both sides of the inlet. Unless he were willing to run Centaur aground there was only one course open to him. Dead ahead, towards Pluto. Into the guns.
Perhaps he could edge up just a little. ‘One point to port,’ he ordered.
‘One point to port,’ the helmsman repeated. The wheel moved under his hands.
‘Steady!’
Pike looked astern. The new course would bring them perilously close to the rocks but, if he got away with it, they might have a chance. He had one trick up his sleeve. Not a good one, but it was all he had.
A furious flapping of sails made him curse savagely and turn on the helmsman. ‘Watch your helm, damn you!’
‘Still on the same course, sir‚’ the man told him in an aggrieved voice.
Pike stared at the binnacle. The sailor was right. Centaur was on the given course. In which case …
He looked up, mouth suddenly dry, and saw the sails sag and collapse as the wind left them. Their speed fell away.
‘God damn it all to hell!’
He looked ahead. Now less than a mile of tossing sea separated the two vessels. Pluto still had the wind but it was dying on her, too, her sails backing and flapping, her speed dropping inexorably.
He saw a jet of smoke from Pluto’s side and a moment later heard the boom of the gun. Somewhere, a long way ahead, he caught sight of the cannonball as it flitted momentarily between the lurching waves and vanished.
‘Firing across our bows, by God!’ he swore. ‘I’ll heave to when I’m ready, not when some poxy East Indiaman orders me to!’
His eyes sharpened, looking beyond Pluto’s hull at the storm that was closing on them with the speed of a racing horse, bringing with it a wall of grey mist and boiling sea.
‘Reef main! Strike tops’ls!’
Reilly turned, surprised by Pike’s sudden order, and saw the approaching front.
‘Reef main! Strike tops’ls!’
His bellow sent the crew swarming aloft, working frantically to reduce sail before the squall struck, bringing a wind change. From now on the wind would be coming at them from the sea, putting both vessels on a lee shore. More importantly, it would place Pluto upwind and so give her the advantage.
Pike cursed again, big fists clenched, and watched anxiously as the last shreds of canvas were sheeted home. The foaming wall of the line squall came rapidly nearer, flattening the seas with the force of its winds. The last man dropped from the rigging to the deck and raced forward.
Pluto was on the move again, her sails reefed, too. Pike took his eyes off the weather to look astern at the rocks baring their fangs above the white-topped breakers. Without the wind, he could hear the seas rumbling like cannon fire on the rocky coast.
Half a mile, Pike thought. Too close. To say nothing of the rocks we can’t see. Nothing to be done about it, though, until the storm strikes. Maybe not then, either. Just have to hang on and do the best we can.
He moved to the rail and leant against it in an attitude of casual indifference, knowing that the eyes of the crew were on him.
He had planned to keep on the same course until almost in range of Pluto’s guns, then take advantage of the weather gauge to turn and cross beneath her stern, using his greater speed to get away before she could turn and bring her broadside to bear. Now, with the wind backed to the east and pinning him to the shore, that was impossible.
He had a hollow in his stomach, a taste of brass in his mouth as he waited for the weather to strike.
He could hear the squall, now – the hiss of water, the pent-up winds growling like thunder. Flickers of lightning stitched the edges of the cloud. Pluto disappeared from view as the squall buried her. In place of the trim hull, the gaping gun ports, Pike could see only a wall of driving spray.
Centaur’s hull shuddered and lifted to a lurching wave as though preparing herself for what was to come. Roaring, the storm struck. The world was engulfed in a maelstrom of noise, of howling wind, of spray driven with the force of demons to lash them all with its icy blast and drench them to the skin within seconds. It was impossible to keep eyes open against it, impossible to see or hear, impossible to think. The atmosphere was more water than air, even breathing itself was a problem.
Centaur lurched and heeled until her yards were almost in the water. Reefed sails backed, he felt the storm pushing the unresisting hull towards the waiting rocks. Pike almost fell, somehow recovered and ran to help the helmsman who was struggling at the wheel, trying to bring the ship’s head up. Together they fought the deadly embrace of the storm. Slowly, muscles cracking, they wrestled her up into the wind. The drift shoreward eased but did not stop; looking up through the driving spray, Pike saw the sails were still backed: they were sailing backwards towards ruin.
Faced with disaster whatever he did, Pike took the greatest gamble of his life.
‘Hard a-starboard,’ he yelled in the helmsman’s ear. ‘Bring her round.’
The sailor looked at him, round-eyed, but the discipline of a lifetime held. He spun the wheel, the hull, still moving astern, turned to bring its bows around so that the gale now smote them from the port side. The gamble was huge. Broadside to the storm and with little or no way on her, Centaur was more at the mercy of the weather than ever, the drift shorewards faster. Pike was gambling that the force of the wind in the reefed sails would be enough to counteract that, that he would be able to sail her away by heading more or less parallel to the cliffs that now lay not more than half a cable from his starboard side.
If the masts and rigging held. If the sails did not blow out. If their hull did not find any of the sharp-fanged rocks that littered their path. To strike here, in this weather, meant death.
He forced himself to think no more of that. His eyes on the sails, he willed them to fill, to draw Centaur off this deadly coast. He wondered momentarily how Pluto was faring, then put that thought away from him, too. The storm was an enemy far more deadly than the East Indiaman would ever be. Owen had his own problems; he would have no time to worry about Centaur or her cargo. The storm offered them their best chance of escape. If they survived.
The sails cracked violently as the gale filled them. Centaur heeled again and Pike hung on, watching the bulging canvas, praying that everything – masts, sails, rigging – would hold. Lose one, they would lose the lot but slowly she began to move, gathering speed as at last the backwards drift of the hull was reversed. With agonising slowness, she inched her way towards the open sea and safety.
A cry came faintly from the bow where the look-outs were at their station.
‘Shoals ahead!’
Pike flung himself at the rail and looked forward, eyes almost shut against the driving spray. Sure enough, a line of rocks cut off their course. No telling how far the reef extended under the water. The logical move was to pinch up further into the wind and try to pass on the seaward side of the danger but this would bring the bow dangerously close to the wind. He hated the idea of once again losing control of the vessel in these dangerous waters. Besides, he had no way of knowing if the passage to seaward was any safer than that on the landward side.
He made up his mind. ‘Two points to starboard!’
They would try to pass inside the shoal.
If the helmsman had any doubts about what must have seemed a suicidal order, he did not show them. Stolidly, he swung the wheel. Centaur settled on her new course.
The ship’s spee
d increased. The shoals were two hundred yards ahead, one hundred, fifty … Pike steeled himself to remain expressionless, to stand by the wheel as, deep below the surface of the water, the hull clove its way towards – what? He took out a cheroot and put it in his mouth. It was the last thing in the world he felt like doing, there was no chance of lighting it, but once again it was a means of showing leadership, of demonstrating his lack of concern to the eyes watching him from the lower deck.
With measured steps, cheroot clamped firmly in his jaws, he walked to the rail and looked out at the churning water. There was a flicker of darkness against the yeasty swirl of foam, then another. Rocks. Every muscle in his body clamped tight, he waited for the keel to strike. The shoal was abeam, now. Waiting seemed to last forever. He watched the rocks, the swirl of water sucking greedily around them, as they moved slowly astern.
It was minutes before he allowed himself to believe that they really were clear.
‘What’s ahead?’ he asked Reilly.
Within seconds the message was back. ‘All clear ahead.’
He felt a huge surge of relief.
‘Tell ’em to keep their eyes skinned, all the same.’
They were by no means out of danger, yet. The wind still howled about them, the driving spray reduced visibility to a few yards, they were still far too close to the shore. At least they were alive. At least they were clear of the broken ground, if only for the moment, and with every minute that passed, with every yard of ground gained, the chances of survival improved.
Pike hung on the rail, watching the weather, the sea, the rigging, as Centaur clawed her way free from the fatal coast.
Two hours later, the wind moderating to a stiff easterly breeze and not another vessel in sight, Centaur shook out the last of her reefs and headed into the Pacific on the first leg of her long voyage to England.
At last Pike could surrender the deck. He was exhausted, drained by the tensions of the last hours, but there remained one thing to be done before he could rest.
He turned to Reilly. ‘Let’s go below,’ he said.
‘I can take her a little longer,’ Reilly protested.
Pike did not intend to argue. ‘Below,’ he repeated and led the way.
They left the deck under the command of the junior officer whose watch it was and headed for Pike’s cabin.
Pike stood back to let Reilly precede him, then went in behind him and shut and locked the door.
The two men looked at each other.
‘Now,’ Pike said.
Terror flickered in the mate’s eyes but he pretended he didn’t understand.
‘What’s going on, Mr Pike?’ Even his voice quavered.
‘I ask myself the same question,’ Pike said.
A knife appeared like magic in Pike’s right hand. Reilly backed away across the cabin, hands out-thrust imploringly.
‘For God’s sake, Mr Pike …’
Pike stalked him across the cabin.
‘You talked, Cormac, didn’t you?’
‘Talked?’ The Irishman squealed as the shining blade slashed air before his face. ‘I never –’
‘You told someone about that place.’
‘Not me, Mr Pike.’
Again the pleading hands, out-thrust. A cry as the tip of the knife scored a bloody streak down the back of one of them.
‘You told someone where the inlet was and when we were loading cargo!’
Pike picked up the tempo of the chase, hounding Reilly remorselessly. The knife blade flashed again. The mate howled. The arm, this time.
‘You betrayed me, Cormac!’
‘Before God I did no such thing!’
The knife blade was dulled with blood. Reilly feinted around the table, trying to throw it into Pike’s path, but the legs were secured to the deck and did not move.
He made a rush for the door but Pike was faster and got there first. Reilly fled from the blade, his breath harsh and frantic in the small room. Pike followed, the knife drawing patterns in the air before Reilly’s terrified eyes.
‘I spoke to no one!’
‘You lie.’ Slash. ‘How did Pluto know where to find us?’ Slash.
‘Someone else must have tipped them the word.’
‘No one else knew.’
Pike feinted; Reilly, tiring, followed, Pike moved inside the mate’s outflung arm and seized him by the collar. The tip of the knife rested on his eyelid.
‘Who was it you told, Cormac?’
Reilly gulped, eyes wide and round with terror. ‘Please, Mr Pike … For God’s sake …’
The knife jabbed. Blood flowed. Reilly screamed. Convulsively, he tried to jerk his head away but the knife found its mark again and he drew still, trembling.
‘Was it blackmail, Cormac?’ Softly.
‘I never …’ The protest died as Reilly felt the blade. Instead, he sobbed.
‘Blackmail?’ Softly. ‘Who did you tell, Cormac?’
Broken, Reilly whispered, ‘Duggan …’
The name meant nothing. ‘Who?’
‘Duggan. Works for that ex-con feller.’
‘Ira Thornton?’ It was Pike’s turn to whisper.
‘Yes.’
‘You told my plans to Ira Thornton?’ His voice was ugly with rage.
Reilly was weeping openly now. ‘Before God, I never meant to, Mr Pike. They made me.’
‘Women and liquor, was it?’
Reilly nodded and gulped, trying to hold his head rigidly away from the tormenting blade.
‘You’re a dead man, Cormac.’
Reilly’s teeth were chattering convulsively in his head. Groping, he tried to seize the knife as it came up. More blood ran from lacerated fingers. Almost effortlessly, Pike broke his grip, brought the knife back and with one quick savage thrust drove it into Reilly’s heart.
TWENTY-FOUR
Two days after the storm had blown itself out, a cutter with salt-stained sails entered Port Jackson harbour. It was evening and the light was dying at the end of a long day of placid sunshine.
Cash looked at the ships in the cove as his own anchor went down. Pluto was back but of Centaur there was no sign. Perhaps she had got away, then. Pray God she hadn’t sunk.
He was conscious of glasses trained on the cutter as he paid off the men and sent them ashore to blow their pay in the bars and brothels that every day seemed to grow in numbers along the foreshore.
‘Thanks, lads,’ he said. There was no need for more – each man knew how lucky they had been to get back at all.
When the storm struck, the surge had come roaring into the inlet and raised the level of the water by several feet. At one point it looked as though the cutter itself would not survive. They had secured it as tightly as they could but the storm had lifted it and swept it into an opening between two boulders where it had settled in an upright position in two feet of water.
It had been something of a miracle. If the hull had struck either boulder, it would almost certainly have been shattered beyond repair. They could not expect to escape so lightly a second time, so they had abandoned the boat and retreated to the cliffs. Somehow they had clambered to a narrow crevice twenty feet above the water where they spent a miserable night huddled together while the wind screamed overhead and the rain pelted down. Towards dawn the weather cleared. Daylight showed the cutter, undamaged apart from a few scratches on its paintwork, high and dry in its perch ten feet above the level of the inlet. It had taken them the best part of a day to lever the hull back into the water but there had been few complaints. They knew only too well how lucky they had been to survive.
They had been lucky in other ways. The tidal wave had smashed the storage huts into driftwood. If it had happened any earlier all the cargo would have been lost. The huts themselves did not matter: they would not be using the inlet again now that Pluto had discovered it.
Cash sent one of the crew scrambling up the slippery rocks to a point where he could see the sea; he came back to report the ocean clear
to the horizon. Centaur and Pluto had gone. They had put out in a light breeze that had persisted all the way home.
We were lucky, Cash thought. By heavens we were. He waved jauntily at the glasses watching him from Pluto’s quarterdeck and prepared to go ashore. What he needed now was a hot bath, plenty of good food and drink and, best of all, a long, uninterrupted sleep. No doubt there would be questions to answer but they could wait.
A small boat put out from the jetty and headed in his direction. He focused his glass on the man in the stern sheets and frowned: Benjamin Vowles, the rat-faced Commissary-General. What could he want?
He looked down as the skiff came alongside. ‘Good evening, Mr Vowles.’
The pinched face, sour as a lemon, looked up at him. ‘Message from the governor, Mr Tremain …’
He remembered his father saying that Vowles acted as Crabbe’s unofficial secretary and his heart sank. ‘What can I do for His Excellency?’
‘He wants you to report to Government House. Right now.’
‘What’s it about, Mr Vowles?’
‘I have no idea.’
But he did – his smug satisfaction at being the bearer of bad news was unmistakable.
‘I’ll have to smarten up first.’
‘No time for that. His Excellency is not pleased,’ he said with relish. ‘I’d get there sharpish, if I were you.’
His father’s words came back to him. Best keep on the right side of him. He managed a smile. ‘Please tell the governor I’ll be with him directly.’
*
Crabbe received him in his richly-appointed business room at Government House. The furniture was the best; there was a new Turkey carpet on the floor and paintings in gilt frames on the walls. This opulence was reflected in the splendour of the two men waiting for him – both the governor and Captain Owen were in full uniform. By contrast, Cash was wearing sea-going clothes, shabby and salt-stained. He was angry that he had allowed Vowles to put him at a disadvantage but did what he could to make a virtue out of necessity.
‘Forgive my appearance, sir.’ He smiled deferentially at Crabbe, ignoring Owen. ‘Mr Vowles said the matter was urgent so I came at once. What can I do for you?’
Claim the Kingdom Page 34