The thought that someone like Oliver Pollock, to whom he’d bared his soul so comprehensively, had deserted him at such a time induced a wave of depression that did nothing for his overall well-being. His hangover, which he’d temporarily forgotten, suddenly returned with a vengeance.
CHAPTER TWO
AT THE GOVERNOR’S mansion, people were still milling about in panic. The signal guns kept up a steady rate of fire, which added to the air of confusion that gripped the whole town. As soon as he reached the crosstrees Harry was overtaken by a wave of nausea. It needed a tight grip on a stay to avoid falling and several deep breaths to bring back some form of normality, allowing him to concentrate on the difficult task he faced. From this elevated position, he could see with the naked eye why some ships had got under way. The French, clearly identifiable by their tricolour battle flags, were some distance away. The ‘fleet,’ with one exception, was a collection of small brigs and barques. But that exception was significant. A proper warship, a frigate he recognised immediately as the Marianne, survivor of the pair he’d fought off Guadeloupe. Certainly enough to subdue St Croix, this small armada was not enough to beat off any serious attack at sea. This lack of strength was very likely the reason they’d chosen to approach from the west.
The trade winds coming in from the east would almost certainly have made the descent on the island a complete surprise, but such a course would have taken them through a zone regularly patrolled by Royal Navy warships. The second option, the direct route from their base on Guadeloupe, was just as hazardous. Shaving St Kitts and Nevis, as well as the Spanish-held island of Santa Cruz, would have provided his intended victims with an early indication of his intentions, if not a clear idea of his actual destination. Small boats plied continuously between the various settlements in the Virgin group, all able to outsail a fleet that needed to stay in close order for mutual protection. But the French, once ashore, would be relatively safe. It would be months before the Danish government, with scant resources to respond, would even know they’d landed. The British, if they saw these actions as a threat to their security, would need to undertake a properly mounted invasion to dislodge them once they’d garrisoned and fortified the island.
Obviously, if it was Hugues, he’d come in a wide arc. Detected en route, it would appear that he intended to take his ships up through the Mona Passage. This ran between Hispaniola and San Juan and was the route for a possible descent on St Domingue. Once in sight of the mountain tops behind Ponce, he’d simply turn due east to gain the element of surprise. While his approach made tactical sense, it forced his ships to beat up into the wind, difficult when he was obliged to proceed at the speed of his slowest. But full daylight, the sight of his objective, and a clear unthreatening sea released him from that constraint. Captain Villemin, in command of the Marianne, had separated and was doing everything in his power to come up, tack upon tack, his aim to close the gap and seal the harbour mouth.
Having engaged the man twice Harry Ludlow knew certain things about him. Villemin was no great shakes in the sailing line and was indecisive at critical moments. More important still, he knew his ship was no match for Bucephalas on a bowline. So if Harry could clear the harbour he had, sailing into the wind, a fair chance of getting clean away. Set against that, Villemin knew just as much about his opponent. They’d first skirmished in mid-Atlantic, with Harry, by some deft manoeuvring, foxing his opponent. Off Guadeloupe they’d participated in a proper battle. Villemin had seen his superior officer forced to strike to a British frigate, in the main due to Harry’s actions. What would go through his mind if he saw the outline of an enemy who’d bested him twice? Would that induce caution, or such a strong desire for vengeance that he would outdo himself?
The solution would have to wait. The signal guns were sending shock waves across the harbour that made his head ache. At the crash of falling, breaking timber he looked down, just in time to see most of the elaborate scaffold of the shipwrights’ staging tumble into the sea. That reinforced the pain in his temples, and he rested for a moment against the rough wood of the topmast. Quickly the images in his mind changed from solid thoughts to disjointed dreams. His head, falling forward, jerked him awake, and he took a more secure grip on the mast. For probably the first time in his life, Harry Ludlow didn’t relish the thought of being so high in the air. Nor did he want to look down to the deck below.
But like it or not, he knew he must. He had a clear view of progress on deck and he forced himself to consider in a logical sequence what he would need to do in the next half-hour. Most of the objects interfering with his ability to sail the ship had been cleared away and his boats, left in the water so their seams stayed sealed in the heat, could be used if required. There was enough wind, even in this sheltered part of the harbour, to allow his topsails to draw, and once out into the bay he might be able to let fall the main course. So he could try the entrance, but he could only clear it if Villemin was too far away to try a broadside. With his own guns still below, he had nothing with which to oppose the Frenchman if he got within range.
Some of his men were already aloft, preparing the yards to take the canvas being hauled out of the sail room. It wasn’t as swift as he would have liked, the sharp edge of a crew who’d been continuously at sea was missing, but they were working with a will that would not be improved by shouts from a sore-headed commander. A glance towards the point where the quay met the beach showed James approaching fast with his party of Frenchmen – the heavy brass-bound chest with their combined wealth needed four men to carry it. They represented another conundrum altogether, not least because they were going to be forced to abandon their ship. Taking a firm grip and several deep breaths he slid down a backstay to the deck, landing heavily. Pender, having seen him begin his descent, was there to help. His Captain favoured him with a wan smile, gave the orders to set sail, sent a lookout to the cross-trees to keep an eye on Marianne, and turned to him.
‘Get a pair of swivel guns and some grapeshot onto the quarterdeck. I want you and a strong party, with muskets, in the barge. Stay just ahead of us as we cross the harbour. If anyone disputes our passage fire a volley over the head of the man conning the ship. I’ll follow up with a dose of grape.’
Pender, seemingly quite recovered from his own drinking bout, grinned at the mention of muskets. His white teeth stood out sharply in a face that already dark skinned and weather beaten had received a spell of West Indian sunshine. The deep brown eyes, still bloodshot, fixed on Harry’s grey face.
‘I put the cook to lighting the galley fire, Capt’n. He’s a useless sod on deck in any case and I reckon that you’re not alone in needing somethin’ hot to keep you going.’
‘The Marianne’s out there, Pender. If we don’t shift Villemin’ll be across the harbour mouth and we’ll get something much too hot for our welfare.’
The grin stayed there. ‘After what we’ve done to him in the last bout, your honour, I reckon he’ll take one look at us an’ turn tail.’
‘Not if he realises that our guns are down in the hold.’
Even that couldn’t dent his faith in his Captain. James, hurrying aboard as Pender went off to collect the barge crew, adopted the same tone, one which regardless of the difficulties always assumed that his older brother had a solution. This was based more than anything on Harry’s own sanguine temperament, plus a not inconsiderable ability to give a sudden piece of inspiration the air of a deep-laid plan. Ordinarily he would have played up to this image, but tired and burdened with the effect of the previous night’s debauch he wasn’t his normal self. He couldn’t begin to appear positive. Even his voice lacked the usual confident note.
‘Have you explained things to our Frenchmen, James?’
‘As much as I can, Harry. But even with the possibility of Hugues in the offing they’re worried about losing their ship.’
‘First things first, brother. They must realise that if he gets his hands on them he’ll lop off their heads. I’d be oblige
d if you’ll ask them to go below and prepare the guns. I can’t haul them up while we’re setting sail but I want to as soon as possible. If they’ve already been shifted into position with slings on, it will save a lot of time.’
‘What in the name of God is the French for slings?’
‘Damned if I know, brother,’ Harry replied, wearily, ‘but they’ve all served aboard ship, so they should respond if shown what to do. Take Dreaver with you if you wish.’
Aloft, order was emerging out of near chaos, with his topsails bent on and ready to let fall. A shout to the lookout told him that Marianne only needed two more tacks before her broadside would seal the harbour mouth. What he had rigged wasn’t perfect, but enough to give Bucephalas steerage-way; Pender, efficient as ever, had his party armed and in the barge. On his command those on deck ran to man the braces, and he turned to order the shore party to cast off when a hail distracted him. Emerging from the crowd milling around by the last of the warehouses, half-carrying his father, he saw Matthew Caufield. He sent two sailors and after an interminable delay they were bustled aboard. Nathan Caufield collapsed in a heap by the bulwarks. Matthew, gasping for breath, didn’t have the wind to apologise. But the glare from Harry Ludlow gave him enough energy to assist in hauling in the gangplank.
The cables were cast off and men used capstan bars to push them free. Pender had dropped a cable out of the hawse-hole to the barge and Harry could hear him shouting at his crew to bring the ship’s head round, allowing the sails to take the wind. Their efforts paid off handsomely and with the bows no more than ten feet from the quay, Bucephalas had life. Harry took the wheel himself to con her through the mass of shipping still anchored in the bay, surrounded by boats as those masters who knew they couldn’t get clear worked furiously to remove anything of value. Then, with an unimpeded view of the harbour mouth, his heart sank. The whole narrow exit was blocked by a tangle of merchant vessels. Men were stabbing at each other with poles and pikes, trying to fend off so that they could get to the open sea, some of the ships had run aground on the sandy western shore, with boats over the side struggling to tow them off, and all the time the signal guns boomed out from the Governor’s lawn.
‘Matthew, get your father below. There should be a chart of the harbour on my plotting table. Fetch that, then come and take charge of these swivel guns. I want them loaded with grapeshot.’
Harry was racking his tired brain, trying to remember if he’d left the chart where he said, and more importantly what it told him about the soundings. Most Caribbean islands were extinct volcanoes, with the natural harbours formed by the sea’s incursion into the dead core. This often meant that deep water ran right up to the very edge, where the shoreline shelved sharply even where it turned to white sandy beach. The tide entering the harbour mouth, aided by the wind, was pushing the tangled mass of shipping to the western edge of the entrance, leaving a slight gap by the eastern shore. That appeared to be his only chance of making an escape, but everything depended on having enough water beneath his keel.
‘There’s no sign of any chart, Captain Ludlow,’ said Matthew, coming back onto the deck. ‘The plotting table is covered with shipwrights’ drawings.’
‘Damn!’
Harry dropped his head forward, again overcome by a wave of nausea. Matthew’s voice, asking if he needed help, brought him back to life, and he called for a man to assist him at the wheel. The boy’s father, who’d spent his life in the West Indian trade, had probably sailed out of St Croix dozens of times. He must know it well. Distracted momentarily by the need to set more sail, he returned to the thought once the main course and outer jib had been sheeted home. Matthew, by then, had loaded one of the swivel guns that nestled in its mount on the gunwale.
‘Do you think your father is in a fit state to tell me anything about the soundings by the eastern shore?’
‘I’d say not,’ replied Matthew sadly. ‘What the deuce did he have last night? I ain’t never seen him in that condition.’
Harry felt his stomach heave at the thought. Bile filled his throat and he rushed to the side, sending a fount of vomit into the greasy waters of the harbour. He felt the acid from his guts burning his throat as he replied to the young American’s question.
‘Whatever it was, it has affected me as badly. Be so good as to replace me at the wheel. Hold the present course and keep the bowsprit pointed towards the small gap by the eastern shore.’
Matthew’s eyebrows shot up as he looked towards the blocked entrance. ‘Are we going through there?’
Harry positively snapped his reply. ‘Unless you can provide us with wings, Matthew, I’d be very grateful if you’d just do as I ask!’
Making his way forward he saw that the cable attached to the barge had been cast off. Using a speaking trumpet he called to Pender, requesting that he come alongside. As he did so Harry dropped a leaded line into the boat, then pointed straight ahead.
‘We’re going for that gap and I don’t know if we’ve got the depth of keel to get through. I want you right ahead of me catching the line. The rest of your men to play their muskets on that pile of fools who’ve got themselves in such a mess. Make sure they stay out of our way. And Pender, remember this. If it is Hugues, and he takes them, they risk losing their cargoes. If he takes us we’ll end up on his guillotine. Should they show any sign of disputing our passage, you are to shoot to kill.’
The faint voice from the masthead was just what was needed to emphasise his point. ‘Marianne’s come about on another tack, Capt’n. She’ll have her guns athwart the entrance in no more’n twenty minutes.’
Harry was still not his usual self, but that recent evacuation had made him feel slightly better. There was a mass of things to be done and no time to do them. He must get fenders over the side so that if he did run into another ship he would suffer no damage; he needed some crew in the bows with capstan bars to fend off; more men with muskets to frighten those merchantmen if they got that close. Once he’d cleared the entrance he’d need different sails aloft to get the best out of his ship as she sailed into the wind, canvas that was not yet out of the sail room. It was a time for clear, sharp thinking. Instead every decision had to be dragged from what seemed like a deep, dark well. He shook his head violently, but that only produced pain. At the water-butt by the binnacle he ducked his head right under. As he lifted it out, eyes still closed, he heard the quiet voice by his side.
‘After you, friend.’
Harry hoped he didn’t look as bad as Nathan Caufield. The American’s lips were like scarlet slashes on his chalk-white face. The eyes, under his pale lashes, had a distant quality, seeming not to focus on anything.
‘I won’t ask you how you feel.’
‘Death can’t be worse.’
‘It could be that you’re about to find out,’ said Harry, standing upright and pointing towards the entrance. Marianne’s upper masts were clearly visible now, with the Tricolour flag streaming back from the mizzen. Caufield blinked once or twice, his fuddled brain trying to make sense of what he saw. ‘I’ve no time for the finer details of our predicament. What I need to know is the soundings around the eastern arm of the harbour.’
‘Deep water right up to twenty feet off the shore,’ he replied, without hesitation. ‘I’ve bumped the odd rock as I drifted but never sustained damage.’
‘Do you feel up to conning the ship?’
Caufield nodded towards the French battle-flag. ‘Do I have a choice?’
‘You do. Both you and your son, being Americans, have nothing to fear from the French. You may take any boat you wish and row ashore.’
Caufield didn’t reply. He merely turned away and headed to join his son. Relieved of the need to steer, Harry gave orders to break out more canvas then went forward to direct the men in the bows. The cook, Willerby, his wooden leg tapping on the planking, came striding up to him with a steaming pewter tankard in his hand. As he reached his Captain he thrust it forward.
‘Fire’s a-lit,
your honour, but it’ll be an age before my coppers get hot. I did this over a spirit stove.’
‘What is it?’ asked Harry, taking the tankard. The smell that emanated from the top produced a renewed feeling of nausea in his stomach.
‘There’s two things as regards that there mixture, Capt’n,’ said the cook, looking him straight in the eye. ‘One is that knowing what’s in it will do you no good, while sticking it down your hatch in one go will.’
Harry tried to give it back to him, looking aloft to see how the men were faring. But Willerby wasn’t to be put off by authority or procrastination. He pushed the tankard hard towards his Captain.
‘I’ve been at sea since before you was breached, your honour. An’ that is a brew that was given to me by the greatest man with the bottle I ever knew. An’ he had more sense than to argue with a cook when his head was sore.’
Harry looked at him as hard as he could, but he was not to be deflected. He just pushed the tankard against Harry’s chest. There was no time to argue: Willerby was in what every member of the crew would have recognised as his paternal state. So he did as he was ordered. Whatever the old man had put in the tankard was foul, and halfway down he gagged, nearly spewing it back onto the deck. But somehow he managed to swallow it, his face reddening from the effort.
The Scent of Betrayal Page 2