The general called after him, “And if as you fear the enemy appears, do you intend to steal away and leave us?” He sounded hoarse with suppressed anger. “Will written orders save your disgrace after taking such a course?”
Bolitho stopped and faced him again. “No, Sir James, to both questions. If we are allowed time I will transfer all Royal Anne’s passengers and additional hands to my own ship.”
The general’s eyes were bulging. “What? Leave the cargo and sail away without it?” He seemed stunned in disbelief.
Bolitho shifted his gaze outboard, watching the boats alongside, the slow return of order as his own men took control.
Of course, he should have realised. The general’s booty was on board, too. Surprisingly, the thought helped to steady him. He could even smile as he said, “You can appreciate the need for haste, sir. For both our reasons!”
Tyrrell fell in step beside him. “That took th’ wind from his sails!”
Bolitho said, “It is no joke. If we can get under way in company at dawn we will have a fair chance. It may be that the Bonaventure changed tack altogether when we lost her. She could be many leagues away by now.”
Tyrrell glanced at him. “But you don’t think so?”
“No.” He stepped aside as broken rigging was dragged like black snakes from an upended boat. “It is the when rather than the if which troubles me.”
Tyrrell pointed across the bulwark. “Graves is sending th’ first of th’ men over.” He grimaced. “It’ll leave him shorthanded in Sparrow . Barely enough to work ship.”
Bolitho shrugged. “If the company was halved by fever the rest would have to manage.”
He added, “Now let us meet the ladies. They will be more worried than the general, I should imagine.”
There were about fifty of them. Crowded together below the high poop, but separated by their rank and station in that other world outside the ship. Old and young, plain and beautiful, they watched Bolitho in silence, as if he had risen from the sea like a messenger from Neptune.
“Ladies.” He licked his lips as a strikingly beautiful girl in a gown of yellow silk smiled at him. He tried again. “I must regret the inconvenience, but there is much to do before we can see you safely on your voyage.” She was still smiling. Direct. Amused. Just the way which always reduced him to confusion. “If anyone is injured my surgeon will do his best for her. A meal is being prepared, and my own men will stand guard over your quarters.”
The girl asked, “Do you think the enemy will come, Captain?” She had a cool, confident voice which spoke of education and breeding.
He hesitated. “It is always possible.”
She showed her even teeth. “There now. What profound words from so young a King’s officer!” Several of the others smiled. Some even laughed aloud.
Bolitho said stiffly, “If you will excuse me, ladies.” He shot the girl a fierce stare. “I have work to do.”
Tyrrell hid a smile as he strode past him, recalling Stockdale’s words. So angry that not a man-jack would draw near. He was angry now. Blazing. It was good, Tyrrell concluded. It might take his mind off the real danger.
A servant girl touched his arm. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but there’s a lady below in a poor way. Very feverish.”
Bolitho stopped and looked at them. “Fetch the surgeon.”
He tensed as the other girl came towards him, her face suddenly grave.
“I am sorry I made you angry, Captain. It was unforgivable.”
“Angry?” Bolitho plucked at his swordbelt. “I do not recollect . . .”
She touched his hand. “Now that is beneath you, Captain. Unsure maybe, but never pompous. I see you quite differently.”
“When you have quite finished . . .”
Again she stopped him without even raising her voice. “The other women were close on hysteria, Captain. One minute the storm was throwing us about like rag dolls, the very next instant there is the cry of mutiny and riot. Men fighting each other, for the drink and for what they might take from us when they were too crazed to know otherwise.” She dropped her eyes. “It was horrible. Terrifying.” The eyes came up again and levelled on his face. They were the colour of violets. “Then all at once there was a shout. Someone called, ‘A ship! A King’s ship!’ and we ran on deck despite the dangers.”
She turned to look across the bulwark. “And there you were. Little Sparrow . It was almost too much for most of us. Had I not made that jest at your expense, I think some might have broken down.”
Bolitho’s defences wavered. “Er, yes. Quite so.” He toyed with his sword-hilt, seeing Dalkeith hurry past and giving him a curious glance as he went. “You thought quickly, ma’am.”
“I know about some things, Captain. I saw your eyes when you spoke to your lieutenant and Sir James. There is worse to come, is there not?”
Bolitho shrugged. “In truth I do not know.”
He heard the general shouting angrily at a seaman and said, “That man is bad enough for me!”
She gave a mock curtsy, smiling again. “Sir James? He can be difficult, I agree.”
“You know him?”
She moved back towards the other women. “My uncle, Captain.” She laughed. “Really you must try to hide your emotions better! Or else you will never be an admiral!”
Tyrrell came on deck and said, “That woman in th’ cabin is ill. But Dalkeith is managing well enough.” He frowned. “Are you all right, sir?”
Bolitho rasped, “In God’s name stop asking stupid questions!”
“Aye, sir.” He grinned, seeing the girl by the rail and far more beside. “I understand, sir.”
There was a dull bang, and as they all turned Bolitho saw a puff of smoke drifting from one of Sparrow’s larboard batteries.
The general came panting up a ladder and shouted, “What was that?”
Bolitho replied quietly, “The signal, sir. My lookout has sighted the enemy.”
He ignored the general and those near him as his mind accepted the one important fact. In a way it was almost a relief to meet it. Recognise what must be done.
“Mr. Tyrrell, Bonaventure will take several hours to show her intentions. By then it will be too dark for her captain to attack. Why should he? He merely has to await the dawn and then pounce.”
Tyrrell watched him, fascinated by his even tone.
Bolitho continued, “If the wind does not act against us, we will be able to transfer the passengers to Sparrow . I want every boat working, and all who are neither sick nor injured to take fairly to their tasks.”
“I understand.” Tyrrell studied him impassively. “There’s nothing else you could do. Many would leave ’em to their own devices.”
Bolitho shook his head. “You have not understood. I am not going to abandon the Royal Anne or scuttle her to avoid capture as a prize.” He saw Tyrrell’s jaw tighten, the quick anxiety in his eyes. “I intend to stay in her with sixty volunteers. What happens later will depend very much on Bonaventure’s captain.”
He had not noticed that the others had crowded round him, but turned as the general exclaimed, “You cannot! You dare not risk this ship and cargo! I’ll see you damned first!”
Silk rustled against Bolitho’s arm and he heard the girl say calmly, “Be still, Uncle. The captain intends to do more than dare.” She did not turn her face. “He intends to die for us. Is that not enough, even for you?”
Bolitho nodded curtly and strode aft, hearing Stockdale’s voice as he hurried to cover his retreat. He had to think. Plan every last moment until the actual second of death. He paused and leaned against the ornate taffrail. Death. Was it so soon upon him?
He turned angrily and said, “Pass the word for those boats to begin loading immediately! Women and children, then the injured.” He glanced past the ship’s mate and saw the girl staring after him. “And no arguments from anyone!”
He walked to the opposite side and looked at his own command. How beautiful she was as she edged c
arefully across the
Indiaman’s quarter. Soon now he would be able to see the enemy’s sails on the horizon. Closing, like the hunter, for his kill. There was so much to do. Orders for Sparrow to carry to Antigua. Perhaps even a quick letter to his father. But not just yet. He must stand quite still a little longer to watch his ship. Hold her in his memory before she was taken from him.
Bolitho was still staring across the water when Tyrrell came aft to report that all available boats were working, carrying the passengers and Indiaman’s company over to the waiting sloop.
He added, “She’ll be a mite more crowded than when we rescued th’ redcoats.” He hesitated and then said, “I’d like to stay with you, sir.”
Bolitho did not look at him. “You realise what you are saying? There is more at stake than your life.”
Tyrrell tried to grin. “Hector Graves will make a better commander, sir.”
Bolitho faced him. “You will be called on to fight some of your own people.”
Tyrrell smiled. “I knew that was what you were thinking.” He gestured towards some of Sparrow’s seamen as they carried an elderly woman towards the boat tackles. “These are my people. Then can I stay?”
Bolitho nodded. “Gladly.” He removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “Now I’ll go and write Graves’s orders.”
“Deck there! Sail on th’ larboard quarter!”
They looked at each other and then Bolitho said quickly, “Hurry our people along. I do not want the enemy to see what we are about.”
As he strode away Tyrrell stared after him and then murmured, “So be it, Cap’n.”
He heard a sudden cry and saw the girl who had made Bolitho angry struggling to push her way through a cordon of seamen.
A boatswain’s mate bellowed, “She don’t want to go, sir!”
The girl punched the sailor’s arm but he did not seem to feel it.
Then she shouted at Tyrrell, “Let me stay! I want to be here!”
He grinned down at her and then pointed at the boat alongside. Kicking and protesting she was picked up bodily and carried to the rail, where with little ceremony she was passed down the side like a bright silk parcel.
The sky was much darker when Bolitho came on deck with a sealed envelope for the boat still hooked on to the chains. All other boats were hoisted, and the ship around him seemed very quiet and empty.
He raised a telescope and trained it over the quarter. The Bonaventure was visible now, some six miles distant. But she had already shortened sail, waiting, as he had expected, for the new day.
Tyrrell touched his hat. “Our men are aboard, sir.” He gestured to the main deck where Midshipman Heyward was speaking to a petty officer. “I picked ’em myself, but you could have had volunteers a’plenty.”
Bolitho handed the envelope to a seaman. “Pass this to the boat.” To Tyrrell he added slowly, “Go and take some rest. I shall think awhile.”
Later as Tyrrell lay in an abandoned cabin, the deck of which was littered with open chests and discarded clothing, he heard Bolitho’s shoes on the planking overhead. Back and forth, up and down. Thinking. Eventually the sound of his pacing made his eyelids droop, and he fell into a dreamless sleep.
Bolitho stood straddle-legged on the Royal Anne’s poop, seeing his own shadow for the first time across the traffrail. How long the night had been, but at the hint of dawn everything seemed to begin at once, like the start of some ill-rehearsed drama. Away on the larboard quarter he saw the hardening pyramid of sails where the big privateer moved purposefully before the wind. Strangely, her hull was still lost in shadow, with only a bone of white around her stem to reveal her growing speed. About three miles distant. He turned his glass to the opposite quarter to the little sloop. Sparrow was much closer, yet in spite of this seemed even smaller.
Tyrrell joined him and said, “Th’ wind seems steady enough, sir. Nor’-west by north, by my reckoning.” He was speaking in a hushed voice, as if afraid to disturb the ships and their deliberate preparations to fight.
Bolitho nodded. “We will steer sou’-east. It is what the enemy will expect.”
He tore his eyes from the privateer and turned to look along the Indiaman’s deck. The new foresail was drawing well, as were spanker and jib. The rest were little better than shreds, and to try to tack more than a point or so would be a waste of time.
Tyrrell sighed. “I’ve checked th’ guns myself. Loaded as ordered.” He scratched his stomach. “Some of ’em look so old they’d split if we double-shotted ’em.”
Bolitho faced aft again to watch the other ships. Raising his glass he moved it slowly over Sparrow’s deck, seeing the figures on the gangways, a solitary seaman at her mainmast crosstrees. Then aft, as a freak gust lifted the foot of the maincourse like a miller’s apron, he saw Graves. He was standing beside the wheel, arms folded, looking every inch a captain. Bolitho breathed out very slowly. So much depended on Graves. If he lost his head, or mis-interpreted his carefully worded instructions, the enemy would still catch two for the price of one. But Graves had got the first part right. He was wearing Bolitho’s new uniform, the gold lace showing clearly in spite of the feeble light. The enemy captain would be wary, watchful. Nothing must go wrong at the beginning. Heaven alone knew how all the extra passengers had been crammed below and out of sight. It would be like a sealed tomb, a nightmare for the women and children once the gunfire began.
Midshipman Heyward came to the poop and said, “All our boarding party are ready, sir.” Like Bolitho and Tyrrell he had discarded his uniform and looked even younger in his open shirt and breeches.
“Thank you.” Bolitho noticed that instead of a midshipman’s dirk Heyward had thought fit to wear one of his precious swords.
There was a bang, and he saw a ball ricocheting across the lively wave crests before throwing up a quill of spray between him and the Sparrow’s bows. A sighting shot, a declaration of intent, probably both, he thought grimly.
Over the water, and audible above the rustle of torn canvas, he heard the staccato beat of drums, and pictured the scene aboard Sparrow as her men ran to quarters. Phase two. He saw the patch of scarlet as the ensign broke jauntily from her gaff, felt a catch in his throat as the ports opened to reveal her line of guns. With less than half a company available, Graves must have pressed some of the Indiaman’s crew into service to get the guns out so smartly. But it had to look exactly right. As if the sloop was preparing to show defiance and trying to defend her heavy consort.
Another bang, and the ball ploughed into the sea about a cable clear of Sparrow’s stem.
Bolitho clenched his jaw. Graves was cutting it fine. If the wind chose this moment to veer he would be unable to go about, would be in irons if he tried to fall back and try again.
Tyrrell said hoarsely, “There she goes!”
The sloop’s yards were swinging and as her lee gangway dipped heavily into the swell she began to tack closehauled to larboard, crossing Royal Anne’s stern like a small protective terrier. Flags broke from her yards, and Bolitho imagined Bethune yelling at his party to make haste and hoist the meaningless signal. The enemy would think Sparrow was preparing to fight to the death and was ordering the Indiaman to make a run for it.
Cannon fire ripped along the Bonaventure’s foremost battery and more splashes leapt closer to the heeling sloop. Graves was shortening sail, clearing away the hampering canvas from his guns, even though it was unlikely he had more than a quarter of them manned.
Tyrrell spoke between his teeth. “That’s close enough, Hector! For God’s sake don’t make a meal of it!”
One heavy bang rolled across the shark-blue water, and even though the flash was hidden by Sparrow’s hull, Bolitho knew it was one of her bow-chasers. He saw the ball slap hard into the spray by the other ship’s forecastle, the immediate spurt of orange tongues as she fired back in earnest.
The Sparrow’s foretopgallant mast quivered and then seemed to curtsy downwards into the swirling
brown smoke, the furled sail marking its progress as it caught and swung in the criss-cross of rigging before plunging into the sea alongside. Holes appeared in several of her sails, and Bolitho caught his breath as the hammock nettings below the quarterdeck bucked and burst apart from a direct hit.
The enemy was much nearer now, her foretopsail bulging as she stood before the wind, charging down on the sloop which was now less than two cables from her starboard bow.
Tyrrell exclaimed, “He’s done it! Blast th’ man, he’s going about!”
The Sparrow was wearing, her masts swinging upright as she came round violently, the growing light making her sails shine as they flapped and puckered to the strain.
The gunfire had stopped, for with her stern towards the enemy Sparrow presented no target at all. Her forecourse was already being unleashed, and as she gathered way through the water Bolitho saw the topmen running out along the yards like black insects until more and still more canvas bellied to the wind. He could see Buckle by the quarterdeck rail, too intent on his work even to watch the labouring Indiaman as she surged past. Sparrow was abeam, and then in minutes was well beyond the Indiaman’s bows, heading towards the first rays of sunlight from the placid horizon.
Bolitho felt suddenly dry, his limbs very loose, as if belonging to someone else. He watched the Bonaventure’s forecourse being brailed up to reveal her great span of poop, the men on her gang-ways who were waving and gesturing after the retreating sloop. Jeering no doubt. All the madness of intended battle now lost in the confused actions of an unfought victory.
Bolitho walked to the rail and said quietly, “Remember, Mr. Tyrrell, and remember it well. We have to cripple her if we can. Then if a patrolling frigate finds her she can finish what we started.” He gripped his wrist. “But make sure our people play their parts. If Bonaventure hauls off now, she can pound us to pieces without losing a breath!”
Sloop of War Page 17