Sloop of War

by Alexander Kent

  “Land ho! Fine on the weather bow!”

  Bolitho tried not to show his satisfaction and relief. With the dull visibility and blustery wind you could not be too secure with mere calculations. He looked up at the masthead pendant. The wind had backed slightly. He stared at the pendant until his eyes watered. There was no doubt about it. Good for a steady approach. Not so comforting if they had to turn and run. “Bring her up a point, Mr. Buckle.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Buckle dabbed his face with a handkerchief before passing his orders. He would be well aware of the difficulties, Bolitho thought. There was no sanity in worrying him further.

  To Majendie he said, “I hope you are getting it all down. You will make your fortune when you return to England.”

  Buckle yelled, “Nor’ nor’-east, sir! Full an’ bye!”

  “Very good. Hold her so.”

  Bolitho walked a couple of paces and thought of the girl in New York. What would she think of him now? Crumpled and soaked to the skin, his shirt more patches than original cloth. He smiled to himself, not seeing Majendie’s pencil as it recorded his mood.

  Tyrrell limped up the deck and joined him by the nettings.

  “I reckon that Newport is ’bout five miles off th’ starboard bow, sir.” He looked up with surprise as a shaft of watery sunlight played across the bucking hull like a lantern beam. “Hell, you can never tell in these waters.”

  “Deck thar! Ships at anchor to the nor’-east!”

  Tyrrell rubbed his hands. “Frogs may be assembling a convoy. Our inshore squadron’ll catch ’em if we carry th’ word fast enough.”

  The lookout yelled again. “Six, no, eight sail-o’-the-line, sir!”

  Graves staggered from the rail as Sparrow lurched sickeningly into a deep trough.

  “The man’s mad!” He spluttered as spray burst above the nettings and cascaded over him like hail. “A couple of frigates at most, if you ask me!”

  Bolitho tried to ignore the buzz of speculation and doubt around him. De Grasse had a powerful fleet in the West Indies, that was well known. His subordinate, de Barras, who commanded at Newport, had no such strength. His usefulness was placed in frigates and smaller craft and in quick forays against British coastal trade. De Barras had made one attempt to challenge the New York forces off Cape Henry earlier in the year, but the action had been desultory and ineffective. He had retired to his defences and had remained there.

  He said, “Aloft with you, Mr. Graves. Tell me what you see.”

  Graves hurried to the shrouds muttering, “That fool. Can’t be ships-of-the-line. Can’t be.”

  Bolitho stared after him. Graves was acting very strangely. It was as if he dreaded what he might discover. Afraid? No. That seemed unlikely. He had been aboard long enough to know the risks and rewards of the game.

  “Deck there!” It was another seaman clinging high above the mizzen yard. “Sail on the larboard quarter!”

  “Damn!” Tyrrell snatched a telescope and hurried with it to the taffrail.

  Mist and spray, the distance made worse by Sparrow’s drunken motion, it took time to find the newcomer.

  Tyrrell snapped, “Frigate. No doubt, sir.”

  Bolitho nodded. The other ship was clawing close inshore, coming around the jutting headland with every available sail set to the wind.

  Buckle cupped his hands. “Stand by to come about!”

  “Belay that!” Bolitho’s voice held the master motionless. “We have got this far. Let us see what there is to see and then run.”

  Graves came lurching from the gangway, his shirt torn from his rapid descent.

  He gasped, “He was right, sir. Eight of the line. Maybe two frigates, and a whole clutter of supply ships anchored closer in.”

  Bolitho thought of his talk with Farr at Sandy Hook, his own reaction at seeing the British two-deckers nearby. Waiting, he had thought, but for what? And were these Frenchmen doing likewise?

  Tyrrell said, “Can’t be none of de Grasse’s ships, sir. Our patrols, even blind ones, would’ve seen ’em!”

  Bolitho met his stare. “I agree. It’s a gathering for something. We must inform the admiral directly.”

  Buckle shouted, “Frigate closing fast, sir. Less than three miles, by my reckoning.”

  Bolitho nodded. “Very well, run up French colours, and prepare to come about.”

  The flag rose swiftly to the gaff, to be greeted by an immediate blast of cannon from the frigate’s forecastle.

  Bolitho smiled grimly. “He is not deceived. So hoist our own, if you please.”

  Buckle crossed to Bolitho’s side, his features screwed tight with worry.

  “I think maybe we would wear ship, sir. That Frenchman’ll be up to us afore we knows it otherwise.”

  Bolitho shook his head. “We would lose too much time. The frigate might chase us all the way to Nantucket or run us aground.” He swung on Graves. “Clear away the bowchasers. Load but do not run out.” He clapped him on the forearm, seeing him start with alarm. “Lively, man! Or Mr. Frenchman’ll be aboard for grog!”

  Men scampered wildly to their stations, some pausing only to peer over the hammock nettings at the other ship which was driving purposefully towards the larboard quarter. She was much nearer, but in the bursting spray her hull was almost lost to view. Only her bulging courses and topsails displayed her captain’s eagerness to do battle.

  “Ready about!” Bolitho had his hands on his hips as he peered aloft at the slashing pendant. “Stand by on the quarterdeck!”

  “Put the helm down!” He felt the deck stagger, and wondered how Sparrow would appear to the enemy. Running? Preparing to fight?

  He almost fell as the ship heeled and tilted still further to the thrust of sail and rudder.

  “Helm a’lee, sir!” Buckle added his own weight to the wheel.

  Headsails flailing about like mad things, yards bending to the contest between braces and booming canvas, it was a picture of confusion as Sparrow heeled sickeningly round into the wind. The sea surged up and over the beakhead, and men fell cursing and sprawling, some being washed into the gun deck scuppers like corpses.

  Majendie clung to the nettings, his pad already sodden with spray as he stared transfixed at the sloop’s wild turn across the wind.

  Tyrrell’s voice rose above the pandemonium like a trumpet. “Braces there! Heave, my lads! Bosun, drive ’em hard today!”

  Bolitho tried not to watch his ship’s torment, but concentrated instead on the frigate. As Sparrow swung and plunged round on to her new tack, the wet sails thrusting her over until the lee gangway was awash, he saw the enemy’s topmasts appear suddenly above the starboard bow. Barely a mile between them, but the violent turn had had the desired effect. Instead of closing comfortably on Sparrow’s larboard quarter, she now lay across the opposite bow and on a dangerously converging tack.

  “Starboard chaser!” Bolitho had to repeat the order before young Fowler heard him and scurried forward to find Graves.

  He yelled at Tyrrell, “He must be made to think we are going to fight!”

  Faintly from forward he heard the squeal of chocks as the gun crew hauled the thirty-two-pounder to its port. It would not be easy for them. With the ship lying hard over it would be like dragging it uphill.

  “Fire!”

  The smoke whipped inboard above the forecastle as the bowchaser roared its challenge at the enemy.

  Nobody reported a fall of shot, and at such an angle it was likely the ball had passed clean above the other ship.

  Bolitho felt his jaw tighten into a grin. The enemy’s forecourse was being brailed up, her topgallants disappearing as if by remote hand as they shortened sail to fight the impudent Sparrow .

  “Fire!”

  Again the gun hurled its heavy ball into the murky confusion of sea and drifting spume.

  Bolitho looked at Buckle. “Stand by!” He strode to the rail and touched Tyrrell’s arm. “Get the forecourse on her! Hands aloft and
loose t’gallants! ’Tis time for a little prudence!”

  As the great foresail billowed and then hardened to the wind Bolitho felt the hull steady and hold firm to its thrust. Right above the deck the topmen were busy releasing the topgallant sails, so that as he peered aloft the mainmast seemed to be bending forward like a tree in a storm.

  When he turned towards the French frigate again he saw that his plan had worked well. She was trying to reset her foresail, but the momentary pause to present her broadside had cost her dearly. She was plunging past the Sparrow’s quarter a full three cables clear.

  By the time she had regained her control of wind and tack she would be well astern. Also, Sparrow’s sudden manoeuvre had now given her the wind-gage.

  A ripple of flashes spouted from the frigate’s side. Balls plunged into the sea nearby, although with so many white-horses on each beam it was hard to tell shot from spray.

  Overhead a ball whined between the masts, and a seaman fell from the mainyard, hitting the sea alongside without surfacing until he was far astern.

  Majendie said hoarsely, “The poor fellow! God rest his soul!”

  Bolitho nodded. “Aye. That was bad luck.”

  He stared along the gun deck where his men worked like demons to retrim the yards and secure halliards which were swollen with damp. Hardly one of them had looked up as the man had fallen. Later perhaps they would mourn. But maybe, like himself, they were thanking God that Sparrow had answered their call, had not scorned their efforts to drag her into the wind and risk demasting or crippling her to lie an easy prize under the enemy’s guns.

  “Steer due south, Mr. Buckle. We will gain some room before we attempt to wear.”

  Buckle gazed astern. The frigate was going about, the heart gone from her original challenge. “There he goes, God rot him!” Buckle grinned at his helmsmen. “Thought we were going to surrender without a fight, did he?”

  Majendie watched Bolitho’s strained face. “Many would have done, Captain. Even I, a landsman, know you were badly matched.”

  Bolitho forced a smile. “But we did not fight, my friend.” He glanced briefly astern. “Not this time.”

  He shut the picture of the failing topman from his mind. It was to be hoped he died instantly. To see his ship sailing on without him would make his last moments on earth worse than death itself.

  “Now, fetch Mr. Graves and the lookouts. We will put all our information together.” He caught Majendie’s arm as a deep plunge all but threw him down the quarterdeck ladder. “Steady there! I may want you to make some sketches for the admiral. It seems the fashionable thing to do these days.”

  When at last he was satisfied with Sparrow’s course and trim he walked aft and looked for the land. But it was lost from view, and he guessed that rain covered the headland and the frigate which had so nearly caught them in a trap.

  He stripped off his shirt and mopped his neck and chest with it. Majendie watched him and then peered glumly at his sodden pad. That, he decided, would have been the best sketch of all.

  Bolitho read carefully through his prepared report and then thrust it into an envelope. Stockdale stood beside the table, a candle and wax ready to seal it, now that it seemed there was nothing more to add.

  Bolitho leaned back and stretched his arms. For two whole days they had fought their way south-west, losing sight of land and intent only on gaining advantage over the wind. Tacking back and forth for hours at a time to record but a few miles in actual progress. It had been hard work for everyone, but now that the wind had decided to back still further Sparrow had at last been able to turn towards the mainland. With luck they would anchor at Sandy Hook tomorrow. He glanced at the open log book and smiled. It was sobering to realise that in the time it had taken to reach Newport, fight the adverse weather and return to Sandy Hook by this frustrating and delaying method, he could have sailed his ship clear across the Atlantic to Falmouth with days to spare.

  “Will I seal it now, sir?” Stockdale watched him patiently.

  “I think so.”

  He closed his eyes, memorising the statements he had obtained from Graves and the lookouts. They differed in small details, but one thing was clear. It seemed more than likely to expect a combined Franco–American attack on New York, and soon. He found some satisfaction in the fact that if the weather had delayed his swift return, then it would equally hamper the enemy.

  “Deck there! Sail on th’ weather bow!”

  Bolitho pushed Stockdale’s candle aside. “Later.” Then he hurried from the cabin.

  Because of the Sparrow’s need to gain advantage from the wind they had driven far to the south-west. Now, having at last found the wind’s favour, the compass pointed north-west by north, with Sandy Hook some ninety miles ahead. The afternoon was hot but clear, and even from the deck it was possible to see the small pyramid of canvas to show that the other vessel was standing on a converging tack.

  “Bring her up a point. Steer nor’-west.”

  He took a glass from Bethune and steadied it above the nettings.

  The masthead called, “Brigantine, sir!”

  He looked at Tyrrell. “Ours probably.”

  It was the only sail they had sighted since narrowly avoiding action with the French frigate. It was always good to meet a friendly ship, and he would pass some of his news across to her, in case she was making for the north and might pass too close to the enemy’s squadron at Newport.

  With the wind blowing keenly it did not take long for both ships to draw near one another.

  “He intends to pass to lee’rd.” Bolitho raised the glass again.

  Brigantines were untidy looking ships. Square-rigged on the foremast, and with a schooner’s fore-and-aft sail on the main, they appeared ill-designed, but were known capable of outdistancing even a frigate under good conditions.

  Bolitho said, “Signal her to heave to. I will speak with her master.”

  Tyrrell said, “Anyway, she’s English. No doubt about that.”

  Flags soared up the newcomer’s yards and broke to the wind.

  Bethune shouted, “She’s the Five Sisters, sir!” He fumbled with his book while Fowler stood a little apart, his mouth set in an expression of disdain. “Shown here as under warrant to the Governor at New York.”

  “Thought as much.” Tyrrell frowned. “Law unto themselves, and crewed by some real rascals, I can tell you.” He sighed. “Still, a warrant keeps ’em safe from th’ press and risking their precious necks.”

  The brigantine had crossed Sparrow’s bows and was moving steadily on the starboard tack. Bolitho could see the red and gold flag at her fore, the trim semblance of order usually found in a government sponsored vessel. She was drawing closer, and would eventually pass less than half a cable clear.

  Bolitho saw Majendie and Dalkeith by the nettings. The former scribbling frantically, the surgeon peering over his shoulder with obvious interest.

  “She’s heaving to, sir.”

  The brigantine was coming up into the wind, her canvas aback and the big mainsail diminishing steadily as the seamen took charge of it.

  Bolitho nodded approvingly. It had been well executed.

  “Luff, Mr. Tyrrell. I will hail her while she rides under our lee.”

  The crash and boom of flapping canvas made any sort of conversation difficult, for as Sparrow turned closer into the wind and her way was reduced to a crawl, every sail and shroud seemed intent on drowning Bolitho’s voice.

  He held the speaking trumpet in both hands and shouted, “Where are you bound?”

  Across the short wave-crests he heard the reply.

  “Montego Bay! Jamaica!”

  Tyrrell remarked, “Bit off course, I’d say.”

  The voice came again. “We were chased by a Spanish frigate yesterday. Gave him the slip during the night, but you might report him for me.”

  The brigantine was falling downwind and her yards were moving restlessly to show her master was eager to be on his way.

/>   Bolitho lowered the trumpet. There was no point in detaining her longer. And he would get precious little thanks for so doing by the New York authorities. It was odd to realise that she probably came under the control of men like Blundell, who knew nothing and cared less for the sea.

  He heard Dalkeith murmur, “By God, that captain’s face! I’ve never seen such cruel burns and know a man to live!”

  Bolitho snapped, “Give me that glass!” He snatched it from the astonished surgeon and levelled it on the other ship’s poop.

  Through the black rigging and loosely flapping sails he saw him. His coat collar was turned up to his ears despite the heat, and his hat was drawn firmly almost to eye-level. Bolitho realised that the brigantine’s captain had not only lost half his face, but an eye as well, and he was holding his head at a stiff, unnatural angle as he trained the remaining one on the sloop.

  So the brigantine had something to do with Blundell. He could picture them murmuring together in the study, the scarred face half hidden in shadow.

  Buckle called worriedly, “Permission to get the ship under way, sir? We’re riding a bit close.”

  “Very well.”

  Bolitho waved to the men on the brigantine’s deck and turned to watch Majendie again. He was hanging on the nettings, scribbling and shading, smoothing out and adding detail even as the Five Sisters reset her foresail and began to gather way downwind.

  Dalkeith grinned. “Not bad, Rupert! I daresay some of our naval companions will assist you with detail of rigging, eh?”

  Tyrrell limped over to him and peered across his narrow shoulder. He seized the pad and exclaimed, “Holy God! If I didn’t know for sure . . .”

  Bolitho strode to his side. The picture was of the brigantine’s poop, with officers and seamen caught in realistic attitudes, even if, as Dalkeith had hinted, the details of rigging were imperfect.

  He felt himself go cold as he saw Majendie’s drawing of the ship’s captain. Distance and scale had wiped away the terrible scars, so that he stood out like a figure from the past. He looked at Tyrrell, who was still watching his face.

  Tyrrell said quietly, “You remember, sir? You were too busy fighting and guarding me from attack.” He turned to stare at the other ship. “But after I took that ball in my thigh I had plenty of time to watch that bugger.”