Bolitho tried to clear the dryness from his throat. With stark clarity he saw the fury and hatred of battle as if it had been yesterday. The Sparrow’s seamen being cut down and driven from Bonaventure’s decks. And the privateer’s captain, standing like some detached onlooker, calling on him to strike and surrender.
He snapped, “Put the ship about! Hands aloft and set t’gallants!”
To Majendie he added softly, “Thanks to you, I think we may solve a mystery today.”
The instant Sparrow showed her intentions, and even as the fore topgallant sail bellied from its yard, the brigantine also increased her canvas and headed away.
“Clear for action, sir?”
“No.”
He watched the jib-boom edging round until it fastened on the brigantine’s starboard quarter like a bridge. In fact she was two cables clear and showed no sign of losing her lead.
“It must be quickly done. We will go alongside and grapple. Tell Mr. Graves to loose off a ball from the larboard bowchaser. Lively now!”
Buckle said grimly, “We’re overhauling him, sir.”
Bolitho nodded. Tyrrell understood what was happening, but so far nobody else had even hinted surprise at his actions. To all intents he was chasing a government vessel with which, minutes earlier, he had been exchanging pleasantries.
Bang. The bow-chaser’s black muzzle lurched inboard on its tackles, and Bolitho saw the waterspout shoot upwards within a boat’s length of the brigantine’s side.
“She’s shortening sail now!” Buckle sounded satisfied.
“Pass the word for Mr. Graves to muster a boarding party!” Bolitho watched narrowly as the other ship began to yaw heavily in a procession of troughs. “Mr. Heyward, take charge of the gun deck! Mr. Bethune, accompany the second lieutenant!”
Men scampered to the larboard gangway, cutlasses bared, and some carrying muskets above their heads to avoid misfiring into their companions.
“Steady, Mr. Buckle!” Bolitho held out his hand and looked up at the yards. Sails were vanishing briskly, and as the forecourse rose booming and writhing to its yard he saw the brigantine slipping under the larboard bow, as if both ships were being drawn together by hawsers. “Steady!”
Along the gangway picked seamen swung their grapnels, while others scurried forward to fend off the first contact.
Across the shortening range Bolitho heard, “Stand away there! I command you to keep clear! I will have the law on your head!”
Bolitho felt his tension easing. If he had harboured doubts they were gone now. There was no mistaking that voice. Too many of Sparrow’s seamen had died that day aboard Bonaventure for him ever to forget.
He raised the trumpet. “Take in your sails and bring to instantly!”
He heard the grumble of chocks and guessed the brigantine’s crew were well able to see the big thirty-two-pounder as it was run out again.
Warily, and with great skill, both vessels slowly edged round, their progress through the choppy water falling almost to nothing, their seamen taking in canvas and trimming yards in harmony with the change of rudder. It was perfectly done, and with little more than a shudder Sparrow nudged against the brigantine’s hull and ground forward before coming to rest with her bowspirit level with the other’s foremast. Grapnels flew from the gangway, and Bolitho saw Graves waving his men forward, and Bethune swinging out on the fore shrouds, his dirk seeming too small for so heavy a midshipman.
Tyrrell rested his hands on the rail and said, “She carries a deck cargo as well.” He pointed to a large canvas hump below the forecastle. “Booty for th’ master, no doubt!”
Even as he finished speaking, and as the first seaman jumped out and down on to the brigantine’s bulwark, the deck cargo revealed itself. Hands tore the canvas away to uncover a sturdy twelve-pounder which was rigged in the centre of the deck, its bulk controlled by tackles and ringbolts.
The crash of its explosion was matched only by the shriek of grapeshot as it burst with terrifying impact along Sparrow’s gang-way. Men and pieces of flesh flew in bloody profusion, and through the rolling bank of brown smoke Bolitho saw some of them smashed to the opposite side of the deck.
Then came the shouting, and from the brigantine’s poop and main hatch he saw some fifty men charging to the attack.
He groped for his hanger, but realised he had forgotten to bring it from the cabin. Everywhere men were shouting and screaming and above it all came an increasing rasp of steel, the bang and whine of musket fire.
A seaman fell bodily from the nettings and knocked Tyrrell against the rail. His leg doubled under him and his face contorted with pain.
Bolitho yelled, “Take charge, Mr. Buckle!”
He snatched a cutlass from the dead seaman’s belt and ran to the gangway. His eyes smarted in smoke, and he felt several balls fan past him, one severing a netting like an invisible knife.
The brigantine stood no chance against Sparrow’s cannon. But, grappled together like this, the fight could easily turn against them. He had done this very thing himself and knew the odds.
He vaulted wildly on to the main shrouds and then saw with astonishment that Graves was still below him on the gun deck. He was yelling at his men, but seemed unable to follow them. Of Bethune there was no sign, and he realised that Heyward had gone forward to meet a rush of boarders who were trying to climb across the beakhead.
He slipped and almost dropped between the hulls, and then with a gasp he was on the brigantine’s deck. A pistol exploded beside his face, nearly blinding him, but he slashed out with the heavy cutlass, felt a brief impact and heard someone scream.
“The poop!” He thrust his way between some of his men and saw Bethune using a musket like a club, his hair blowing wildly as he tried to rally what remained of his boarding party. “Take the poop, lads!”
Somebody raised a cracked cheer, and with fresh heart the seamen lunged aft. Feet and legs kicked and swayed above groaning wounded and corpses alike. There was no time to reload muskets, and it was blade to blade at close quarters.
Through the struggling, interlocked figures Bolitho saw the ship’s wheel, a master’s mate standing alone beside it, while others lay in various attitudes of death around him to show that aboard Sparrow someone had mustered a few sharpshooters in the maintop.
Then, all at once, they were face to face. Bolitho, with his shirt torn almost to his waist, his hair plastered across his forehead and the cutlass outstretched towards his enemy.
The other captain stood quite motionless, his sword held easily and angled across his front. Close to, his face was even more terrible, but there was no doubting his agility as he suddenly darted forward.
The blades came together with a sharp clang. Sparks flew as they ground inwards until both hilts locked and each man tested the weight of his adversary’s arm.
Bolitho looked into the unwinking eye, felt the heat of his breath, the quivering tension in his shoulder as with a curse he thrust Bolitho back against the wheel, withdrawing his sword and striking forward in two swift movements. Again and again, strike, parry, guard. The cutlass felt like a lead weight, and each movement became an agony. Bolitho saw the other man’s mouth set in a grim smile. He knew he was winning.
Beyond the rail the fighting continued as before, but above it he heard Tyrrell yell from the quarterdeck, “Help th’ cap’n! For Christ’s sake, help him!”
As they circled each other like jungle cats, Bolitho saw Stockdale slashing and hacking to try to reach him. But he was fighting at least three men, and his bellows were those of an anguished bull.
Bolitho lifted his cutlass and levelled it at the other man’s waist. He could raise it no further. His muscles seemed to be cracking. If only he could change hands. But he would die if he attempted it.
The sword flicked out, its point cutting through his sleeve and touching his skin like a white-hot iron. He could feel blood running down his arm, saw the man’s single eye gleaming through a mist of pain like some glo
wing stone.
The brigantine’s captain shouted, “Now, Cap’n! This is the moment! For you!”
He moved so quickly that Bolitho hardly saw the blade coming. It caught the cutlass within inches of the hilt, turned it from his fingers like something plucked from a child, and sent it flying over the rail.
There was a loud crack, and Bolitho felt the ball pass his shoulder, the heat so fierce it must have missed him by an inch. It struck the other man in the throat, hurling him aside even as the sword made its final lunge. For a moment longer he kicked and convulsed in his blood and then lay still.
Bolitho saw Dalkeith throw one leg over the bulwark and climb up beside him, a pistol smoking in his hand.
Throughout the two ships there was stricken silence, and the brigantine’s crew stood or lay to await quarter from their attackers.
Bolitho said, “Thank you. That was close.”
Dalkeith did not seem to hear him. He said brokenly, “They killed Majendie. Shot him down like a dog as he tried to save a wounded man.”
Bolitho felt the surgeon’s fingers on his arm as he ripped his shirt into a deft bandage.
Majendie gone, and so many others, too. He looked down at the dead man by the bulwark. If he had kept his head he might have got away with the deception. But for Majendie he certainly would have done. Perhaps, like himself, he had never forgotten that day aboard the privateer, and once more fate had decided to end the memory in its own way.
He turned to survey the two vessels. There was much to be done, a lot to be discovered before they reached Sandy Hook.
Some of his men gave a hoarse cheer as he walked to the bulwark, but most were too spent even to move.
Anger, disgust, as well as a sense of loss, flooded through him as he walked amongst his gasping seamen. To think men had died because of treachery and to gain riches for others who remained aloof from blame.
“But not this time!” He spoke aloud without realising it. “Somebody will pay dearly for today’s grief!”
Then he thought of the girl in New York and wondered how he could protect her when the truth became known.
16 ONE MAN’S LOSS . . .
REAR-ADMIRAL Sir Evelyn Christie rose from behind a table crammed with documents and leaned forward to offer his hand.
“Welcome.” He gestured to a chair. “Good to meet you again.”
Bolitho sat down and watched the admiral as he moved towards the stern gallery. It was stiflingly hot, and even though there was a regular breeze across Sandy Hook, the air in the flagship’s great cabin was lifeless.
Christie added abruptly, “I am sorry to have kept you so long. But the politics of high command are no area for a young captain.” He smiled. “Your courage is beyond doubt, but here in New York they would eat you alive.”
Bolitho tried to relax. For three days after dropping anchor he had been to all intents confined to his ship. Once his report had been spirited to the flagship and his wounded landed for care ashore, he had been left in little doubt as to his own position. No actual command had been issued, but the Officer-of-the-Guard had told him that his presence aboard would be in everyone’s best interests until word from the admiral.
He began, “If I have done wrong, sir, then . . .”
Christie looked at him sternly. “Wrong? Quite the reverse. But you have certainly set a fox amongst the geese this time.” He shrugged. “But you did not come aboard to hear what you already know. Your action in capturing the brigantine Five Sisters, the seizure of certain documents before her master could dispose of them, far outweigh individual discomfort elsewhere.”
“Thank you, sir.” He was still uncertain where Christie’s comments were leading.
“It now seems evident that the brigantine’s master, one Matthew Crozier, intended to pass information either to an enemy vessel or to some spy along the coast. That would explain his being so far off course, his excuse of avoiding a Spanish frigate. But there can be no doubt as to his main mission. Whilst on passage for Jamaica he was to deliver a message for the Compte de Grasse at Martinique. My people have examined the despatch most thoroughly.” He eyed Bolitho steadily. “In it they found full details of our defences and all available ships-of-war. Deployments, both sea and military, even to the extent of our strength under Cornwallis.” He picked up a document and studied it for several seconds. “One way or t’other, this will be a year to remember.”
Bolitho shifted in his chair. “How could a privateersman like
Crozier obtain a warrant to work for the British?”
Christie smiled wryly. “He owned the brigantine. It was no doubt purchased by his own side. The crew were hand-picked. The sweepings of a dozen ports and almost as many countries. With small vessels in such demand his deception was not so very difficult. Even on his official voyages he was apparently smuggling.” He turned away, his shoulders suddenly rigid. “Mostly for those in power in New York!”
“May I ask if they are to be punished?”
Christie turned and shrugged. “If you mean General Blundell, then you may be assured he will be leaving America very soon. After that I am equally certain he will be saved by influence and powerful friends at home. Distance and time are great healers where the guilty are concerned. But others will certainly go to the wall, and I have been told that the Military Command intends to use your discovery to rid itself, in part at least, of the parasites who have lived too long off its back.”
He smiled at Bolitho’s grave features. “Pour some madeira. It will do us both good.” He continued in the same unruffled tone, “Admiral Graves is well pleased with you. He has sent the schooner Lucifer to Antigua to inform Admiral Rodney of the situation here. Patrols have been ordered to Newport to watch de Barras’s squadron, although, as you well know, it is hard to see what is happening there. In fact, everything is being done with the forces available to watch over local waters to see which way the tiger will pounce.”
He took a glass from Bolitho’s hand and asked, “Sparrow, is she in good repair?”
Bolitho nodded. It was still difficult to keep pace with the small admiral. “My carpenter has almost completed repairs to the gangway and . . .”
Christie nodded briskly. “In any case, that can be finished at sea. I want you to take on full supplies, for three months at least. My flag captain has it in hand. He might even find you some seamen to replace those lost in battle. I have sent Heron to the south’rd again, but my other inshore patrols are too well spread for comfort. I need every available ship, especially yours.” He smiled. “And you.”
“Thank you, sir.” He put down the glass. “Newport again?”
The admiral shook his head. “You will join Farr and his Heron.”
Bolitho stared at him. “But, sir, I thought you needed ships to watch de Barras?”
Christie picked up the decanter and examined it thoughtfully. “I may do so later. But for the present I want you out of Sandy Hook. Away from those who will try to bring you down. You have made enemies by your actions. As I said just now, you are no match for the devious ways of politics.”
“I am prepared to take that risk, sir.”
“I am not!” Christie’s voice was hard. Like it had been at the court martial in this very cabin. “To you, your ship and her affairs are paramount. But I must think on a wider scope, and my superiors wider still. If it is thought best for you to lead my whole squadron against de Barras, then that is how it will be. And if your ship must be sacrificed like a tethered animal in a snare, then that, too, will be ordered!” He relented. “Forgive me. That was unpardonable.” He waved one hand above his charts. “The enemy is powerful, but not so that he can attack everywhere at once. He can strike against New York, for deprived of it we have no pretence at government in America. Or he can turn his iron on General Cornwallis’s army in the field, for without that we are just as pointless. Either way there will be a battle, and I believe that a sea fight will decide our course and that of history for years to come.”
Feet pounded overhead and Bolitho heard the bark of commands, the scrape of tackles and blocks. Even the old Parthian was preparing to sail, to show her readiness for whatever the enemy intended.
Bolitho stood up. “When can I expect my orders, sir?”
“Before sunset. I would advise you to contain your, er, other interests, until some later date.” He proffered his hand. “The heart is a fine thing, but I would prefer you to rest your judgements on the brain.”
Bolitho walked out to the sunlight, his mind buzzing with all Christie had said and the greater part which he had left unspoken. It was all so unfair. A sailor stood to his gun in battle until told otherwise. Or he struggled aloft in a shrieking gale, frozen with icy spray, and scared half to death. But he obeyed. It was the way of things, or had been in Bolitho’s experience. Until now.
Yet Blundell’s kind ignored such distinctions, could and did use their personal authority for gain, even when the country was fighting for its life. No wonder those like Crozier could prosper and achieve more results than an army of paid spies. Crozier had been doing his duty in the only way he knew. By ignoring the dangers, Blundell had committed little better than treason.
He stopped by the entry port and stared at the waiting gig with sudden anxiety. So why had he not told Christie of Crozier’s presence in Blundell’s house? There would have been no hiding from conspiracy had that piece of news been released. He swore under his breath and signalled to Stockdale.
Fool, fool! Perhaps he should have told her first. To allow her time to disassociate herself from her uncle’s affairs.
The flag captain joined him by the port. “I have had the water hoys sent over to Sparrow . Another lighter will be alongside within the hour. If your people turn to with a will, you should have all the stores aboard before dusk.”
Bolitho eyed him curiously. Such calm assurance, yet this captain had not only his own ship and the whims of an admiral to consider, he must concern himself with the needs of every officer and man in the squadron. He was jolted by his discovery. It was like seeing Christie’s charts on the cabin table. To all but himself, Sparrow and her company were just a tiny part of the whole.
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