The Darkening Sea

by Alexander Kent

  ‘They’re heaving-to! Repel boarders, sir?’

  Williams shouted at Herrick, ‘What shall I do?’

  Herrick watched the boat being cast off, the rough-looking oarsmen already pulling lustily towards the convict transport. As the brigantine pitched up and down, her sails aback, he saw the guns, their crews already sponging out in readiness for another attack.

  He said, ‘Heave-to, Captain. You made your point, but men have died for it.’

  The captain’s hand was on his pistol. ‘They’ll not take me, God damn them!’

  Herrick saw a white flag being held up by one of the boat’s crew. He could even see the other vessel’s name in gold letters on her counter, Tridente.

  He said, ‘Stay your hand, Captain. Do as they ask and I think they’ll not harm you.’

  The boat hooked on, and after a few seconds some ragged figures swarmed up the side and on to the deck. They were armed to the teeth and could have been of any nationality.

  Herrick watched impassively and heard someone call, ‘All ready, lieutenant!’ An American or colonial accent.

  But the one man in uniform who came last on to the Prince Henry’s deck was as French as anyone could be.

  He nodded curtly to Williams, then strode straight to Herrick. Long afterwards Williams remembered that Herrick had already been unclipping his sword, as if he had been expecting this.

  The lieutenant touched his hat. ‘M’sieur Herrick?’ He studied him gravely. ‘The misfortune of war. You are my prisoner.’

  The brigantine was already making sail even as the boat went alongside. It seemed to have taken just minutes, and it was only when Williams saw his dead mate and the whimpering men near the wheel that he understood.

  ‘Call Mr Prior. He can take his place!’ He looked at the pistol, still in his belt. Most naval officers would have ordered him to fight to the finish and to hell with the consequences. But for Herrick he knew he would have done just that. He said heavily, ‘We’ll put about for Cape Town.’

  Herrick had even made a point of putting on full uniform, he thought. When he looked again the Tridente, or whatever her real name was, was already standing away, her big fore-and-aft sail already making her show her copper.

  Even the prisoners were quiet, as if they knew how close it had been.

  He seemed to hear Herrick’s last words. I think they’ll not harm you.

  It was like an epitaph.

  * * *

  11

  The Cutlass

  * * *

  THE HOUSE NOW employed as army headquarters for the growing military strength at Cape Town had once been the property of a wealthy Dutch trader. It nestled below the uncompromising barrier of Table Mountain and drew what breeze it could from the bay where the ships, like the soldiers, waited for orders.

  Fans swung back and forth in the biggest room, which overlooked the sea, moved by hidden servants so that they should not disturb anyone. There were blinds at the long windows, but even so the reflected light from the sea was blinding, the sky salmon-pink like an early sunset. In fact it was noon, and Bolitho shifted in a cane chair while the general finished reading the report an orderly had just presented to him.

  Major-General Sir Patrick Drummond was tall and solidly built, with a face almost as red as his coat. A successful officer in the early part of the Peninsular War and in many lesser campaigns, he had the reputation of being a ‘soldier’s soldier’: prepared to listen, equally ready to discipline anyone who failed to meet his standards.

  Bolitho had already seen some of the military Drummond was expected to mould into a team capable enough to land on enemy islands and take them, no matter what it cost. It was not an enviable task.

  Drummond himself was in a half-lying position with his feet on a small table. Bolitho noted that his boots were like black glass, and the splendid spurs that adorned them could have been the work of a famous silversmith.

  Drummond looked up as a servant padded into the room and began to pour wine for the general and his visitor.

  Bolitho said, ‘As you know, I have all my ships at sea, and I am expecting the arrival of two brigs.’

  The general waited for the servant to move the goblet so that he could reach it without any effort, and said, ‘I am only afraid that we may be in danger of over-reacting.’ He scratched one of his long grey sideburns and added, ‘You are a famous and successful sea-officer, Sir Richard. It is something to get such praise from a soldier, eh? But one so notable surprises me. I would have thought a senior captain, a commodore even, could perform this work. It is like hiring ten porters to carry a musket!’

  Bolitho sipped the wine. It was perfect, and seemed to spark off another memory: the cellars in St James’s Street, and Catherine seeking assurances that the wine she was buying for him was as good as the shop claimed.

  He said, ‘I do not think this campaign will proceed easily if we cannot dispose of the enemy’s sea forces. They have to be based in Mauritius, and we must be prepared for other bases in the smaller islands. We could have failed at Martinique had the enemy been able to grapple with our military transports.’

  Drummond gave a wry smile. ‘Thanks to you, I gather, the enemy got a bloody nose instead!’

  ‘We were ready, Sir Patrick. Today we are not.’

  Drummond thought about it, frowning slightly as his world intruded into this long, shadowed room. Marching feet and the clatter of horses and harness, sergeants bellowing orders, probably half-blinded by sweat as they drilled in the relentless glare.

  He said, ‘I should like to enjoy Christmas here. After that, we’ll have to see.’

  Bolitho thought of England. It would be cold, perhaps with snow, although they did not get much in Cornwall. The sea off Pendennis Point would be angry and grey with surf along that line of well-remembered rocks. And Catherine … would she be missing London? Missing me?

  Drummond said, ‘If you had more ships …’

  Bolitho smiled. ‘It is always so, Sir Patrick. A squadron should be on its way here by now, with more soldiers and supplies.’

  He wondered at Keen’s feelings when he had been parted from Zenoria. Flying his own broad pendant as commodore would seem easy to him after his years of command and having been Bolitho’s flag captain.

  How different from Trevenen. He was out on the ocean in his powerful Valkyrie, the other frigates sailing on either beam to offer their lookouts the maximum range in their search for any vessel of ill-intent. Patriot or pirate, it made little difference to a ponderous merchantman.

  Drummond rang a small bell and waited for the servant to reappear and fill the goblets. He looked past him to the door and barked, ‘Come in, Rupert! Don’t stand there hovering about!’

  Rupert was a major whom Bolitho had already met. He seemed to be Drummond’s right hand, a mixture of Keen and Avery rolled into one.

  ‘What is it?’ Drummond gestured to the servant. ‘Another bottle, man! Jump about!’

  The major glanced at Bolitho and gave a brief smile. ‘The lookout station has reported another vessel, sir.’

  Drummond paused with his goblet in mid-air. ‘Well? Spit it out! I’m not a mind-reader, and Sir Richard here is no enemy spy!’

  Bolitho contained a grin. Drummond could not be an easy man to serve.

  ‘She is the Prince Henry, sir.’

  Drummond stared. ‘That damned convict transport? She is not expected in Cape Town. I would have been informed.’

  Bolitho said quietly, ‘I was in Freetown when she weighed anchor. She should be well on her way across the Indian Ocean by now.’

  The others looked at him uncertainly. Bolitho said, ‘Please ask my flag lieutenant to investigate and report to me. This wine is too good to leave.’ He hoped that his casual comment would conceal his sudden anxiety. What could be wrong? The transports never wasted any time. Packed with people being deported for one crime or another, no master could be certain of anything.

  Drummond stood up and unrolled s
ome charts on his table. ‘I can pass the time by showing you what we intend to do in Mauritius. But I must have some good foot soldiers – most of my men are barely trained. The Iron Duke makes sure he has the pick of the regiments on the Peninsula, blast his eyes!’ But there was admiration there too.

  It was close to an hour before Avery and the hard-pressed major came to report.

  Avery said, ‘She’s the Prince Henry right enough, Sir Richard. She has made a signal requesting medical assistance.’

  The major added, ‘I have informed the field-surgeon, sir.’

  Avery looked at Bolitho. ‘The captain-in-charge has also been told, and the guardboats are already under way.’

  His face was quite calm but Bolitho could guess what he was thinking. Medical assistance might mean that some terrible fever or plague had broken out. It was not unknown. If it reached the overcrowded army garrison and camps it would run through them like a forest fire.

  The general walked to the window and dragged away the blind as he groped for a brass telescope nearby.

  He said, ‘She’s coming about. The officer-of-the-guard has ordered her to anchor.’ He extended the telescope very carefully. ‘She’s been raked, by the look of her!’

  He handed it to Bolitho and said sharply, ‘Get down there, Rupert, at the double. Use my horse if you like. Send out some men if there’s any trouble.’

  As the door closed Drummond said angrily, ‘I’ve got the Fifty-Eighth Regiment of Foot here, but the rest? Yeomanry and the York Fusiliers, so your convoy had better make haste!’

  When he looked from the window Bolitho saw that the transport had anchored and was already hemmed in by guardboats and water lighters, while other harbour craft idled about at a safe distance.

  Why would any privateer or man-of-war interfere with an old transport and a cargo of convicts? It would be like putting your hand into a ferret’s lair.

  He touched his eye as the savage glare probed at it like a hot ember.

  It was late afternoon by the time Avery returned to the headquarters building.

  He placed the leather telescope case on the table and said, ‘This was found in the cabin, Sir Richard.’

  Bolitho picked it up and thought of Herrick’s dying wife, and Catherine, who had nursed her.

  Avery watched him. ‘The master of the Prince Henry was boarded by armed men under the command of a French lieutenant. They took Rear-Admiral Herrick prisoner, then allowed the ship to proceed. Captain Williams decided to turn back, so that we should know what happened. His mate was killed and some of his men badly injured.’

  The room was quite silent, as if not even the distant soldiers wanted to intrude on Bolitho’s thoughts. Afterwards Avery realised that Bolitho had already guessed what had happened, had known the reason for the attack.

  Bolitho opened the leather case and found the piece of paper inside. He held it to the sunlight and saw Herrick’s familiar sloping handwriting. She is the Tridente, brigantine, under Brazilian colours. But she is an American privateer. I have seen her before. Herrick had not signed it or made any other comment. He must have known, too, that they were coming for him. Baratte’s hand again: to make the conflict as personal as it was deadly.

  Drummond asked, ‘What will you do?’

  ‘There is little enough I can do until my ships discover something that might lead us to the enemy.’

  Drummond said, ‘Rear-Admiral Herrick was once a friend of yours, I believe.’

  ‘Baratte obviously believes it too.’ He smiled, and his face seemed suddenly more grave because of it. ‘He is my friend, Sir Patrick.’

  Drummond glared at his charts. ‘It means they know more of our intentions than I would have wished.’

  Bolitho recalled Adam’s information concerning the big American frigate Unity. A coincidence? Unlikely. Involvement then? If so, it could erupt into open war at a time when the French needed more than anything for England’s blockade to be broken, and her victorious armies divided by an unexpected ally.

  Bolitho looked up, his mind suddenly clear.

  ‘Find Yovell and direct him to be ready to draft some orders for me.’ He was seeing it in his mind like a chart. ‘I want Valkyrie and Laertes to return here at once, and Anemone to remain on patrol and search duties. I shall order one of the schooners to find Trevenen with all haste. Jenour’s Orcadia and the other brig are due any day now.’ He looked around the room as though he felt trapped. ‘I must get to sea.’ He paused as if surprised by something, perhaps himself. ‘We will send word to Freetown by the first available packet. I want James Tyacke with me. And as someone observed recently, I am the senior naval officer here.’ He looked into the shadows as if he expected to see all those other lost faces watching him. ‘We may no longer be a band of brothers, or We Happy Few, but we’ll show Baratte something this time, and there will be no exchange at the end of it!’

  After Bolitho and his flag lieutenant had departed the major-general thought of what he had just witnessed.

  He was a soldier, and a good one, not only in his own opinion. He had never had many dealings with the King’s navy, and when he had he had usually found them to be unsatisfactory. There was no better thing than the army’s tradition and discipline, no matter what scum you were expected to train and lead for the honour of the regiment.

  He had heard of Bolitho’s behaviour in England where his blatant affair with the Somervell woman had turned society against him. He had heard too of that lady’s courage when the Golden Plover had been lost on the reef.

  The charisma had been here in this room and he had seen and felt it for himself. Watched the fire in the man, the anguish over his friend, who had perhaps been one of his happy few.

  Later that day when Yovell had at last laid down his pen, and Avery had been allowed to carry the orders to the schooner, and Ozzard could be heard humming quietly as he laid the table for supper, Bolitho considered his course of action. Impetuous, yes. Dangerous, probably. But there was no other option. He looked around. Gleaming brightly in the candlelight, Herrick’s telescope lay near the window of his borrowed quarters as a reminder, if one were needed.

  Aloud he said, ‘Do not fret, Thomas. I shall find you, and there will be no bad blood between us.’

  Close-hauled under topsails and jib His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Anemone appeared to drift easily on the deep blue water, her reflection hardly marred by the long ocean swells.

  In his cabin, Captain Adam Bolitho had spread a chart on his table beside the litter of a late midday meal, and as he studied it his ear was following the muted shipboard noises.

  It had been just a week since the courier schooner from Cape Town and the other frigates Valkyrie and Laertes had parted company with him. It seemed much longer, and Adam had pondered several times on the reason for his uncle’s brief letter, written in his own hand and attached to the orders separating Anemone from the others. Perhaps he did not trust Trevenen. Adam’s face stiffened with dislike. Whenever his ship had sailed in close company with the senior frigate there had always been a stream of signals, and even when within earshot it had been all he could do to hold his temper as Trevenen had bellowed across the clear water through his speaking trumpet. Dissatisfaction about a lack of reports and sightings, complaints about his station-keeping: almost anything. The schooner’s arrival had seemed like a blessing. Then.

  He stared hard at the chart. To the north lay the great island of Madagascar, and to the north-east the French islands of Mauritius and Bourbon. They were certainly well-placed to prey on the busy trade-routes. And nobody knew how many ships the enemy was using, let alone where they were based.

  He heard shouts on deck and knew the watch was preparing to lay the ship on her next tack. And so it had been since their arrival in this area: each day the same, with nothing to break the monotony but drills and more drills. But no floggings. That had been the only reward for the patience his officers had shown.

  Unlike Trevenen’s command, he thought
. In retrospect it seemed that each time the ships had moved closer together he had seen somebody being punished at the gratings. Without Bolitho aboard it was as if Trevenen was making up for lost opportunities.

  He thought about Herrick’s capture by the enemy privateer, as related in his uncle’s message. Letters of marque meant very little in these waters. Mercenaries were only a short step from pirates.

  He was surprised that he had few feelings about what had happened. He had always respected Herrick but they had never been close, and Adam could never forgive him for his treatment of Bolitho, although he could imagine what anguish his uncle was still suffering for the sake of one who had once been his friend.

  His thoughts strayed back to the courier schooner, although he had tried to put it from his mind. He had done wrong, very wrong, and no good could come of it. But I did do it. The words seemed to mock him. He had written the letter much earlier, as Anemone had left the African mainland astern and the oceans had changed from one to another.

  It had been like talking to her, or so he had thought at the time. Reliving the moment when they had loved one another despite the grief and despair of what had happened. Even her anger, her hatred perhaps, had not deterred him in any way. With thousands of miles between them, and the very real possibility that he would never see her again, the memory of their last hostile encounter had softened. When the schooner’s commander had asked for any letters to be passed across, he had sent the letter over. He could not accept that such passion as they had shared could end as it had.

  It had been madness; and night after night in the humid darkness of his quarters he had been tortured by what his impetuous action might do to her and to the happiness she shared with Keen.

  He reached for the coffee, but it was without taste.

  Where would it end? What should he do?

  Perhaps she would destroy the letter when it eventually reached her. Surely she would not keep it, even to show to her husband …

  There was a tap at the door and his first lieutenant looked in at him warily. Martin had proved to be far better at his duties than Adam had dared to hope. With Christmas drawing near he had managed to arouse interest even among some of the hard men. In the cool of the evening watches he had organised all kinds of contests from wrestling, which he surprisingly seemed to know a lot about, to races between the various divisions at sail and boat drill. With extra tots of rum as an inducement there had been hornpipes, watched by the majority of the company and eventually cheered when the winners had been decided.