Odell clambered up the side and doffed his hat to the quarter-deck. He was a quick, darting young man, and was said to be slightly mad. But he seemed calm enough, and when he reached the cabin handed Bolitho his bulky envelope before saying, “I have just come from Captain Colquhoun.” He took a glass of wine from Fitch and stared at it. “He is much excited.”
Bolitho slit open the envelope and ran his eyes quickly over the scrawling hand of Colquhoun’s personal clerk.
Tyrrell stood just inside the door, and Bolitho was well aware of Buckle’s shadow across the skylight above the table. Not actually eavesdropping, but if he happened to hear anything, well . . .
He looked up and said, “Captain Colquhoun took a fishing boat and questioned the crew.” He flattened the damp paper on the table. “That was a week ago.”
Odell held the empty glass in front of him and waited until Fitch had refilled it before saying dryly, “Actually, I caught the boat, sir,” he shrugged disdainfully, “but the good Captain Colquhoun seemed to take it over, as it were.”
Bolitho eyed him gravely. “It also states here that the crew provided valuable information about the Frenchman.” He beckoned to Tyrrell and pushed the unfinished letter from his chart. “The flute was sighted here, close inshore,” his finger rested on the western end of Grand Bahama Island, “right amongst the islets. She was carrying out repairs, according to the fishermen.”
Tyrrell nodded slowly. “It sounds likely. If th’ Frenchman knew a hunt was mounted, he would take th’ most hazardous passage amongst th’ islands to throw us off. It don’t signify he’s still there of course.”
Bolitho nodded. “A week back. Allow another few days before that for the fishing boat to reach the place where Lucifer sighted her.” He snatched up his dividers and bent over the chart. “Thirty leagues from our present position. We could be off the island by noon tomorrow if the wind holds.”
Odell said wearily, “But I understand that Captain Colquhoun wishes you to flush her out and nothing more, sir?” He smiled. “Or did I not comprehend the good captain’s desires?”
Bolitho sat down and opened the despatches again. “Bacchante is to approach by the North West Providence Channel, while we remain to north’rd and harry the Frenchman if he tries to run for it.”
Odell nodded, satisfied. “Bacchante can be barely twenty miles from her attacking position by now, sir. I am to find her again and report that I have met you and that you understand the instructions.”
Bolitho glanced at him quickly. “Thank you. I do understand.”
The lieutenant stood up and reached for his hat. “Then I will return to my ship. I have no wish to be caught in these waters after dark.”
Together they watched the lieutenant being rowed back to his schooner.
Then Tyrrell said heavily, “Seems clear enough to me. Cap’n Colquhoun is set on taking th’ Frog as a prize, all to himself, while we just act as beaters.”
“There is something which bothers me far more.” Bolitho rubbed his chin. “The fishing boat was a small one, according to the despatches. Too frail to be out in deep water where she might expect to find Bacchante or some other frigate. It was a mere fluke that she met with Lucifer, for as we know, Jethro, schooners in the King’s service are rare out here.”
Tyrrell’s eyes glistened in the dying sunlight. “You mean that th’ fishermen were looking for another ship?”
Bolitho met his gaze. “Aye.”
“But there’s only us an’ the Fawn between here an’ th’ inshore squadron, an’ their nearest patrol must be four hundred miles away.”
“Exactly.” Bolitho stared astern at the other sloop, her topsails already painted in deepening shadows. “And who would know that better than some island fisherman, eh?”
Tyrrell breathed out slowly. “Hell, you’re saying we was meant to get the information, but once Colquhoun got his hands on ’em they acted for their own safety.”
“I don’t know.” Bolitho walked to the nettings and back to the compass, seeing neither. “But Fawn’s captain said something to me a while ago. That our exploits were getting well known, which is another way of saying they have been hurting the enemy.”
Tyrrell nodded. “A trap. Is it likely?” He waved one band towards the sea. “Surely we’re not that important!”
“It depends what the enemy intends.”
Bolitho turned away, feeling a chill on his spine. It was a new sensation, uncanny. To think that someone might be discussing him, planning and scheming like runners after a wanted criminal.
But it was certainly how it appeared, how he must anticipate it if he was to prepare himself. Fleets and valuable convoys stayed to the east or west of the Bahama Islands, so it was much more likely that the enemy was out after one particular prize.
He said, “We will show a stern lantern for Fawn’s benefit tonight. At dawn I will tell Commander Maulby what I think.” He grinned, suddenly amused by his unusual caution. “Or maybe by that time I will have driven my ghosts away.”
Tyrrell watched him doubtfully. “To our enemy, th’ Frogs in particular, you’re like a thorn.” He frowned. “There’s only one way to deal with thorns, you tear ’em out and stamp on ’em!”
Bolitho nodded. “I agree. We will continue with our new course, but be prepared to treat every event as a trick and a ruse until proved otherwise.”
He looked abeam for the Lucifer, but she was little more than a blur in the damp evening haze. He cursed Colquhoun for not supplying more information about the fishing boat, where it came from, or the reliability of its crew. Yet he could almost feel sorry for him. He was obviously beset with anxiety about his own future, and now there was the chance of catching a rich prize, and probably military information as well, he could think of little else.
He went below to his cabin and stared at the chart beneath a gently spiralling lantern. Between his hands the islands, the countless tentacles of reefs and shallows were like the neck of some gigantic bag, around which Colquhoun’s flotilla, accidentally or otherwise, were converging to close with the finality of a noose.
Bolitho sighed and turned to lean from one of the windows. In the shaded stern lantern’s beam the small frothing wake glowed like blue wool, and beyond it the horizon had faded to mingle with the first pale stars.
Then he touched the scar beneath the lock of hair, noting that it was hurting, throbbing in time with his heart. He knew he was uneasy, more so because he could not find a proper reason for it.
Overhead he heard Graves murmuring as he took over the watch, and Tyrrell’s limping step as he walked towards the companion ladder. Normal, regular sounds which usually gave him a sense of pleasure. Now, perhaps because they represented people he had come to know, and not merely extensions of the ship’s efficiency, he was suddenly afraid. Not of an enemy or the ever-present shadow of death, but of his responsibility which their trust had given him.
11 STRATEGY AND SPITE
BOLITHO was hastily tying his neckcloth when Tyrrell thrust his head through the cabin skylight and called, “Bacchante’s just signalled, sir! Capn’s to repair aboard!”
“I will come up directly.”
He threw on his coat and took a quick glance round the cabin. He did not see Colquhoun very often, but he had learned it best to forget nothing.
On deck he found the gig being swayed over the gangway, and when he glanced abeam he saw Fawn’s boat already in the water and Maulby hurrying down into it with his usual agility.
It was early afternoon and the deck burning hot through his shoes. All night, with Fawn keeping as close as safety allowed, they had driven south, with the sprawling barrier of sandbars and shallows some ten miles off the larboard beam. But it had taken longer than he had hoped to find Colquhoun’s Bacchante, and almost as soon as the masthead had sighted her topsails the wind had fallen away to a mere breath, allowing the sun to tighten its grip over them like a furnace.
As he waited for the gig’s crew to man the
ir boat he turned to stare across the opposite beam, towards the distorted hump of blue and purple which he knew to be the western tip of Grand Bahama. Colquhoun was taking no chances. He was standing well clear of the land, either to give himself sea-room, or to prevent the enemy from seeing his intentions.
“Ready, sir.”
He ran down to the entry port and said to Tyrrell, “Keep a sharp lookout for inquisitive craft of any kind. Send a cutter after ’em if they draw near. Don’t wait for my orders.”
Then he was in the gig and settling himself on a hot thwart as Stockdale swung the tiller and sent the boat dipping and swaying towards the frigate. Bacchante was hove-to, her sails flapping loosely, showing her copper as she rolled unsteadily in the swell. She was a fine ship, he thought. Clean-cut and designed by a craftsman. Thirty-six guns and the ability to live off her own resources for many months, she was, or should be, every young captain’s ambition. It did not seem to fit Colquhoun at all.
Stockdale was muttering under his breath, and Bolitho knew he was cursing his opposite number in Fawn, who always seemed to manage to get his boat anywhere just that bit faster. The gig turned swiftly, oars backing in close unison, the bowman hooking on to the frigate’s main chains as Bacchante’s shadow gave them brief respite from the glare.
Bolitho clambered up the side, doffing his hat and regaining his composure while the calls shrilled in salute and a squad of red-coated marines slapped their muskets to the present.
The first lieutenant, a gaunt, harassed-looking man, bobbed his head in welcome.
“The captain is aft, sir. He is preparing his strategy, otherwise . . .”
Maulby stepped from the shade of the gangway and took his arm. “Otherwise, my friend, he would have had the good grace to meet us at the entry port, eh?” He laughed at the lieutenant’s embarrassment. “You, sir, deserve rich recognition for your penance aboard this ship.”
Together they strode beneath the poop, automatically ducking their heads despite the ample room above.
A marine stamped his boots together and threw open the cabin door, his eyes never blinking or shifting until both officers had stepped over the coaming.
Colquhoun was standing by the stern windows, studying his watch with obvious impatience.
“So you have arrived, gentlemen.” He sat down at his table. “Eventually.”
Bolitho relaxed slightly. So it was to be this way.
He replied, “We had adverse winds overnight, sir.”
Maulby added calmly, “And I thought you might be closer inshore, sir. We seem to be somewhat, er, out of touch with affairs at present.” He glanced towards his own ship as she rolled uneasily about a cable from Bacchante’s quarter. “But I expect you have a reason for that, sir.”
Colquhoun stared at him fixedly, as if to seek out the truth of his words. Fortunately he seemed quite oblivious to Maulby’s sarcasm.
He snapped, “Look at my chart.” They gathered round and he tapped it with some brass dividers. “The Frenchman is here. I sent a cutter under sail before dawn to investigate.” He looked up, his eyes triumphant. “So there’s an end to speculation.”
Bolitho leaned closer. What a formidable place. From the western tip of the main island the chain of reefs and bars ran northward for about forty miles to link with the notorious Matanilla Shoal. The latter then turned eastward, enclosing the great span of open water known as the Little Bahama Bank like one monstrous snare. In places the water was only feet deep, and the fathoms were few and far between.
According to Colquhoun’s marks on the chart, the French ship had passed through or around one of the cays to rest up on the other side of the island. It was perfect for anyone trying to avoid a skirmish. For on this side and elsewhere in the channel the sea bottom was over two hundred fathoms, and any hope of a close attack was foiled by the steepness of the island’s face. Whereas on the other side, within the Little Bahama Bank, the water was very shallow and sandy, ideal for a master who wished to careen his ship and carry out temporary repairs.
“Was your cutter seen, sir?” Maulby did not look up.
“Of course not!” Colquhoun seemed angry even at the simple suggestion. “My first lieutenant was in charge. He knows what would happen to him if he allowed such carelessness.” He calmed himself with an effort. “He saw many lights on the water. The cutter pulled through the surf and between two sandbars and watched the enemy at work. She’s big, probably a forty-gun frigate with some armament removed. Must have touched bottom and sustained damage sometime after entering the islands.”
Bolitho glanced at his profile. Colquhoun was very excited, there was no doubt about it, despite his efforts to conceal his true emotions. There was a strong smell of brandy, and he guessed he had been celebrating privately the victory already in his pocket.
He asked quietly, “What do you intend, sir?”
Colquhoun looked at him searchingly. “I am working on the assumption that the enemy is near finished repairs. Now, he will either continue on passage, or make for Martinique again if he is badly holed and needing greater help. Either way, we must act at once and avoid another chase.”
“I would suggest a boat action, sir. We would cross the bar from two directions and cut her out before they know what is happening. With men and boats from all three ships we can swamp her defences with darkness on our side.”
Colquhoun said mildly, “With you in overall command of the boats, no doubt?”
Bolitho flushed angrily. “Your frigate is too large by half to be of use in those confined waters, sir! If the Frenchman makes a run for it, or decides to show fight, you will be needed to present your ship to him and without delay.”
“Easy, Bolitho.” Colquhoun was smiling gently. “You rise quickly to my words. Such haste to speak tends to show guilt more than conviction.”
He turned swiftly before Bolitho could reply. “You, Maulby, will take Fawn across the bar tonight, under sweeps if required, but I want you in position at dawn tomorrow.” He leaned over the chart again. “If the enemy is repaired enough to make sail he will no doubt hope for one of three possible channels. To the north his passage could be adversely affected by wind and tide. South is more likely, in which case Bacchante will be well placed to take him as he tacks around the point. But if he is still laid up or careened, you will be able to rake him there and then. He will see no use in firing back at you. Just a few more holes will be sufficient to render him immovable, or long enough for us to present more drastic measures.” He wagged one finger. “But I know these Frogs. They’ll not fight if the odds are so well laid.”
Across his bowed shoulders Maulby looked at Bolitho and shrugged.
Bolitho said nothing, knowing Colquhoun was waiting for him to protest. Sparrow was better suited to the task as defined by Colquhoun. Her armament was heavier, and her thirty-two pounders were far more accurate and deadly than Fawn’s lesser battery of nine-pounders. He knew that any such suggestion, however, would only bear out Colquhoun’s earlier hint that he was greedy for more success and fame, or that he was a better man than Maulby for the mission.
Maulby asked slowly, “Will you send men overland, sir?”
Colquhoun still did not look at them. “God in heaven! Where is all this stuff of combat I have been reading in the Gazette? I am beginning to wonder at its substance!”
Bolitho said, “It is a sensible suggestion, sir. I would prefer a boat action by night, but in daylight a force of men, including your marines, would be able to . . .” He got no further.
Colquhoun straightened like a steel spring. “Enough of this! My plan leaves no room for nervous fumbling about the rocks like a lot of damn lizards! That Frenchman is as good as taken, and I intend to sail her into port intact and with her cargo or whatever ready for closer inspection!”
He walked from the table and stared at a half-filled decanter on his desk. As he reached out for it Bolitho saw his hand was shaking with anger or agitation. His voice was equally unsteady as he c
ontinued, “And you, Bolitho, will close from the north. Stay out of sight until the time of attack and then make contact with me for further orders.” His fingers closed around the decanter like claws. “That is all. My clerk will give you written details of attack as you leave.”
They left the cabin and walked in silence to the quarterdeck.
Maulby spoke first. “It should be your doing, Dick. I agree with you about trying to cut the enemy out, but either way, it is your right to lead if Colquhoun intends to stand offshore.”
Bolitho touched his shoulder. “I wish you all success, but you know that. You are more than due for promotion, and I hope this will bring it for you.”
Maulby grimaced. “I’ll not deny that I’d relish the chance. But I would wish it done with less bitterness.” He glanced aft. “That man will be the death of me with his bloody moods.”
Bolitho bit his lip, trying to find the right words.
“Look, John, take good care. I know Colquhoun is desperate for this victory, but I do not share his scorn for Frenchmen. They fight well, they fight with courage. They are not given to empty gestures, even in the cannon’s mouth.”
Maulby nodded, his eyes grave. “Have no fear. If that Frenchman decides to match gun for gun with me I will haul off and await support.”
Bolitho forced a smile. Maulby was lying to ease his troubled mind. Lying as he would probably do under similar conditions. Before and after a fight at sea there was always room for recrimi-nations and counter-proposals, but once joined in battle there was usually only one thought. To fight, to keep on firing until the enemy broke or the tide turned against you.
“Boats alongside!” The first lieutenant greeted them with a tired smile. “Is it done, sir?”
Maulby held up his written orders. “Aye. Done.”
The lieutenant sighed. “I have made a small sketch which may be of some help for you, sir. The tide-race is bad there, and the surf no better. But if the French could enter, then you should have less hardship.”
The two gigs were hooked on to the chains, and Bolitho said with sudden urgency, “I will be making sail directly if I am to take station by dawn.” He held out his hand. “I wish I was coming with you.”
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