He could feel the sailing-master’s eyes on his back. The wind was getting stronger by the hour, but holding steady from the southeast. The glass had dropped, and the sea, although almost unbroken, had been building into long swells, stretching away from horizon to horizon.
He lowered the glass and wiped his eye with his sleeve. Main and mizzen courses had been taken in, forecourse and topsails reefed. He glanced at the big double wheel; he had put three helmsmen there to match the power of the rudder.
The sailing-master was talking with his senior mate, who would be going across to the schooner with a boarding party, all experienced hands, with the two new midshipmen to assist and run errands. If the schooner proved to be a slaver, she would be held as a prize. No wonder the master’s mate could grin about it. His own command, with a lion’s share of slave bounty and prize-money for good measure.
He ran his eye along the tilting deck to the boat-handling party, and the men who would be going over to the other vessel.
Audacity’s first patrol on the station. It would make some of the other captains sit up and take notice of this old newcomer.
He said, “Close enough. Fire the signal.”
The gun captain must have been watching and waiting. The dull bang of the shot was carried away by the wind.
He walked to the quarterdeck rail and said, “No risks, Mr Mowbray. Keep under our lee until you have everything in hand.”
“She’s shortenin’ sail, sir!”
Munro looked at the sailing-master. “Worried?”
He rubbed his chin. “If there’s a bad storm on the make, we should be able to work clear of it, or run ahead of a real blow. Lucky we hadn’t entered the Windward Passage—less room to spread our wings there!”
Munro looked up at the clouds. Here and there he could still see a patch of blue, clear sky. Now or never.
“Heave-to, if you please! Stand by to lower boats!”
Cutter and jolly-boat, up and over the gangway and then as if by some miracle rising and plunging alongside, seamen scrambling down, the dull glare reflecting from cutlasses and muskets. Munro watched closely, remembering. He had been in boarding parties as a lieutenant, even as midshipman. The moment you left the ship was always the worst. Refuge, home, life itself. Afterwards, it was only the cut-and-thrust of combat you heard mentioned.
Someone breathed loudly, “Oars out, sir! Both boats away!”
Canvas cracked and banged momentarily overhead as Audacity drifted out of command.
“Get the ship underway again! Man the braces! Resume course, nor’ nor’ west!”
When he looked again the two boats seemed already lost against the heaving water, like leaves on a mill race.
He walked to the compass box. The worst part.
Mowbray, master’s mate, leaned back in the jolly-boat’s stern-sheets and stared beyond the oarsmen and their steady, seemingly unhurried stroke. The boat felt heavy and cumbersome, with extra hands and weapons and the uncomfortable motion. Like running up a steep slope and down the other side, every man soaked in spray, trying not to peer astern at Audacity’s topsails.
He twisted round to look for the cutter, running almost abeam, with a boatswain’s mate in charge. They had worked together before, and had enjoyed runs ashore in one port or another. They were professional, trusted sailors, who would always be back on board after a night they usually regretted.
Mowbray glanced at the two midshipmen huddled below the tiller. Officers one day, when they could make a Jack’s life hell if the mood directed. When they walked their own quarterdecks, did they ever remember times like these, and the real sailors who had taught them?
He stared up at the schooner’s poop. Close enough to see the scars and rough repairs. A hard-used vessel. Even the sails looked like patchwork.
The younger midshipman asked, “Is she a slaver, Mr Mowbray?”
Mowbray considered it, and wondered how or where this midshipman, Napier, had started off in life. But he never took his eyes from the other vessel, and a handful of figures clinging to the shrouds as if watching the two boats.
“Soon know. If we was lyin’ downwind of ’er we’d already be able to smell ’er. I’ve seen a few in me time, when it was all nice an’ legal!”
The other midshipman muttered, “All the great empires were built on slavery . . .” He could not continue; his face looked green.
Mowbray snapped, “Over the side. Don’t spew in th’ boat, damn you!”
He was too late.
The stroke oarsman lay back on his loom and rolled his eyes toward the clouds. “Jesus.”
David Napier swallowed and tried not to hear Boyce retching and vomiting over the gunwale.
The vessel loomed right over them now, so that the other sounds seemed muffled. Somewhere else. He knew without looking that the bowman had hurled his grapnel over the bulwark, and that somehow the oars were all suddenly inboard. Weapons had appeared, and he saw a seaman unwrapping the lock of his musket. The man’s face was devoid of expression. As if it were a drill.
He felt for the dirk under his coat, remembering the fire and smoke of Algiers, Jago taking charge of a boat’s crew for boarding one of the enemy ships. Voice flat and calm, eyes everywhere. And that other time when he had been on deck with the captain. Keep by me, David.
The crash of the shot was so close that he imagined for a second that one of the seamen’s muskets had exploded prematurely.
Someone shouted, “Cast off ! Now, for God’s sake!”
Napier stared round, his heart pumping wildly. Boyce had been shot. He could still hear his scream.
He stared down at the hand fastened around his wrist, and at Mowbray’s face. His eyes, which seemed to steady him. It was then that he saw the blood on Mowbray’s thigh and running across the bottom boards.
Mowbray spoke slowly and carefully, his grip never weakening, his gaze quite steady.
“I will be all right in a minute.” Somewhere in the background, another world, men were yelling and cursing. The cutter must have grappled alongside.
Mowbray stared at him as if making sure of something. Then he said, “Lead them, Mister Napier. Lead them!”
Napier felt the boat riding against the hull on the swell. Somehow he was on his feet, the fine new dirk drawn and held above his head.
There was a voice, too. “To me, Audacity! To me, lads!”
The rest was drowned by an animal roar as the seamen sprang up the side, one of them pausing only to give his hand to the midshipman who had rallied them.
Napier clung to a halliard and stared around the unfamiliar deck. Men were being herded into groups, weapons kicked aside. Audacity’s boatswain’s mate shouted, “Put ’im down, Lacy, you’ve already scuppered the bugger!”
Napier looked over the side and saw Mowbray being helped into a sitting position. He was alive, and as he peered over the seaman’s shoulder he saw him, and very slowly gave a mock salute.
Napier had to make three attempts to sheathe his dirk, and yet he was not aware of his hand shaking. Someone hurried past, but paused long enough to slap him on the shoulder.
Mowbray was being hoisted up and over the bulwark in a makeshift boatswain’s chair, his face creased with pain.
He saw Napier and grinned weakly. “To me, Audacity!” Then he fainted.
A burly seaman, with a bared cutlass thrust through his belt and wielding a boarding axe, yelled something to a group of the schooner’s crew and glared wildly around at Napier. “That showed ’em, by God!” He turned to hurry after the boatswain’s mate, but halted as Napier said, “Can you help Mr Boyce? He’s wounded!”
He remembered the unknown seaman’s face for a long time afterwards. Boyce had somehow followed the others aboard and was squatting on a crate below the bulwark, one arm wrapped inside his coat, head bowed. Unable to move.
Abruptly, the seaman said, “Don’t you worry about the likes of ’im, sir, not after what you just done. ’E’s not got a mark on ’im.” The
boarding axe lifted a few inches. “Not yet, anyways!” Then he was gone, with men he knew and trusted, faces he saw every time the hands were piped.
They were bundling a man in a blue coat away from the poop. Bearded, and contemptuous of those who held him. The ship’s master.
The boatswain’s mate said harshly, “Won’t say a word, Mr Napier!” He saw Mowbray and exclaimed, “So you’re with us again, Tom?” and grinned, with obvious relief that his friend had survived.
Mowbray breathed out heavily. “Open the hatches. Man those swivels. Shoot any man who resists.” He was on his feet, using a musket like a crutch as he staggered with the ship’s uneasy motion.
Napier saw the hatches being hauled away, recalling Mowbray’s words when they had been pulling toward this schooner. It was still only partly real, everything blurred and out of focus. Then he caught the stench as the hatches fell aside, and the sound, like a solitary, wordless voice. A groan, more unreal still, and terrible.
Mowbray had his other arm around Napier’s shoulders.
“Take a look, and remember what you see.” His grip tightened. “I was proud of you back there, young Napier. Real proud. So were the lads.” He looked up suddenly and stared at the ship’s master.
“Hear me. One word from you, one word, and you go below to join the ‘passengers!’”
Napier stared into the first hold. There were about thirty slaves. From the discarded manacles and the filth, there had obviously been many more. Crammed together, with food being thrown down through the bars as if to animals.
He felt his fingers tighten around the dirk. They were women. At a guess, all were young, some very young.
A seaman touched his sleeve. “No closer, Mr Napier. They’d rip you to shreds.”
Napier felt a mug in his free hand. It must have come from somewhere . . .
He nearly choked, and someone called, “Drop o’ Nelson’s blood! Do yer good!” They could even laugh about it.
He wanted to tell them. To share it. That he had been rendered senseless with tots of rum that day on Unrivalled’s orlop deck, when he had nearly lost his leg. But no voice came out.
There were more people now, and Napier heard profane greetings and wild laughter as another boat from Audacity surged alongside. It was the second master’s mate; Napier could not recall his name, as if he had no control over his mind. Men swarming to halliards and braces, orders being yelled and obeyed by British Jack and slaver alike.
Mowbray was protesting as he was hoisted out over the side to be put in one of the boats, while his replacement was shouting and grinning down at him. “Never fear, matey, I’ll see you get yer share of the bounty money!” He pointed at Napier. “Or Mister Napier ’ere will want to know why!”
It was only then that Napier realized he was being sent back to Audacity.
It was a choppy crossing, and the clouds warned of the coming storm. It was hard to think it through; and it was not the rum.
It seemed to take only half the time for the return journey. They said it always did . . . for the lucky ones.
The surgeon was waiting for Mowbray, and a seaman who had broken his wrist when he had fallen from the slaver’s shrouds while in pursuit of one of her sailors. Napier saw Midshipman Boyce, wild-eyed and sweating, being taken to the orlop, and heard him protesting, “It’s nothing! I was merely doing my duty!”
It only made it worse.
While Audacity heeled over and steadied on a fresh tack to weather the following storm, Captain Munro sent for him. Napier was not sure why, but, looking back, it was as if he wanted to discover something, perhaps to put in his report.
Instead he said, “Mr Mowbray speaks very well of you.” He waited while his cabin steward poured a big mug of ginger beer. He even smiled when he saw Napier’s slight frown as he watched the drink being poured. Like part of a memory.
Munro was called away, but said, “Stay here and enjoy your ginger beer.” Then he turned to look back from the door, and added quietly, “He’ll be proud of you.”
The true reward.
Many of Athena’s ship’s company had never been at sea in a real hurricane before, and those who had swore afterwards that it was their worst. At anchor, even in a safe harbour, the sudden shift of the wind’s force and direction could drive a ship aground to become a total wreck even in the most experienced hands.
Adam Bolitho followed the rule and held Athena running ahead of the storm’s path, with the wind and sea pounding across the starboard quarter, sails trimmed and reefs to a minimum. To most on board it was a world of chaos, rearing seas crashing against the hull with such strength that it felt as if she had indeed run ashore. Topmen fought their way aloft to obey the constant orders yelled from the quarterdeck; even Stirling had been seen to use a speaking-trumpet. They were blinded by spray, senses dulled by the endless battle with swollen cordage snared in blocks, or tearing apart under pressure with all the power and pain of a coachman’s whip.
A smaller vessel would have run far ahead of the storm, or gone under. Athena seemed to brace herself and fight.
Helmsmen, four at a time, were lashed to the wheel, and no seaman ventured along the lee side of the main deck without a lifeline, or a trusted companion to share the risks.
Even the heavy guns seemed determined to break free. It was not unknown, and in one hurricane, a twenty-four-pounder had snapped its breeching and run amok on the ship’s lower deck, maiming anybody who got into its way.
Old Sam Petch the gunner had been ready. From ponderous carronade to lively nine-pounder, nothing broke adrift. When someone had praised him for his preparations he had answered scornfully, “What did you expect, matey?”
On the fifth morning the sea was calmer, although still lively.
The sky was blue again, the last clouds speeding away like torn banners after a battle.
The galley fire was alight, and the air heavy with the smells of pitch and tar, new cordage, and rum.
Hammers and mallets were soon busy, and spare canvas was laid out to dry in the first sunlight, which some sailors had never expected to see again.
The storm was gone, probably curving northward by the Bahamas and out into the Atlantic.
Adam stood by the quarterdeck rail and sipped a scalding mug of coffee, which Bowles had somehow managed to make in the chaos of the cabin, his domain. He had remained aft throughout the storm, putting lashings on furniture and sending flasks of something lukewarm but strong by way of a messenger.
He had remarked on one occasion, “In a sea fight I ’elps to look after the wounded. In a storm, I looks after meself !”
He saw Jago with a boatswain’s mate climbing over the boat tier. All were firmly lashed in place and overflowing with sea water. In an hour or so they would be steaming in the heat.
Several of the hands had been injured, in falls, or having been hurled against guns by incoming waves.
If Daniel Yovell had been aboard he would have offered a prayer.
Adam rubbed his face with his palm. He could not remember when he had last had a shave.
He walked to the compass box and peered at the card. West by north. Only two men on the wheel now. He caught the eye of the first helmsman. The man licked his cracked lips and said, “Glad we’ve got rid of that lot, sir!” Before, he would have said nothing, or averted his eyes.
Maybe that was as good as any prayer.
There was a strong plume of greasy smoke from the galley funnel now, and he felt his stomach contract. He should be starving, but the thought of food only sickened him.
He saw some seamen pause in their splicing and grin at each other. Jack could eat anything, any time. It was likely the cook’s solid standby, skillygolee, oatmeal gruel with crushed and toasted ship’s biscuit and great chunks of boiled meat. And another measure of rum. The purser would be anxiously watching every issue.
“Captain, sir?”
It was Tolan, freshly shaved and as smart as any marine, his eyes on the horizon.
“Sir Graham’s compliments, sir, an’ would you attend the cabin when you can.”
Adam felt the muscles of his back relax, for the first time in hours.
“Which means immediately, right?”
Tolan looked at him directly. “I reckon so, sir.”
He followed him to the companion; a man you would never know, he thought.
A Royal Marine sentry brought his heels together and the first screen door opened soundlessly. There had been a sentry on guard in the vice-admiral’s quarters throughout the storm. Would he have remained here if the ship had foundered? He shook himself free of the thoughts. He was more tired than he had believed.
It was the first time he had ever seen Bethune so disturbed and ill at ease. He took in the loose neckcloth, and a stain of what looked like wine on one sleeve, like dried blood.
Bethune stared at him. “Nothing to report?” Characteristically, he did not wait for an answer. “Good, but I’m not a mind reader, you know!”
Adam realized for the first time that Troubridge also was present, on his knees beside one of Bethune’s beautiful leather trunks. He did not look up.
Adam said quietly, “Most of the running repairs are in hand, Sir Graham. I am sending both watches to breakfast. They’ve done well, very well.”
Bethune studied him, as if he were looking for another explanation.
He said, “I’ve been like a caged animal down here! By God, I almost envied you working the ship, holding the people together!” He gave a short, humourless laugh. “Never thought I’d hear myself say that. But when you’re cooped up like this, well, you begin to believe anything!”
Adam’s eyes moved around the main cabin. Furniture secured, the expensive desk covered with oilskin in case a heavy sea had smashed open a gunport.
Bethune did not know, or perhaps care, that other cabins and half of the wardroom had been removed during the long refit, when Athena had been transformed into a flagship and the space was required for her first admiral. He was hardly “cooped up.”
Man of War Page 25