“Right, lads! Belay there!” He cocked his head as if to listen to the chorus of shrouds and vibrating halliards. “She’s loving it.”
Bolitho walked up to the weather side and felt the cold spray across his face. Tyrrell had come and gone through these capes many times in his father’s schooner. Perhaps that memory, and the realisation that his sister was now safe and close at hand, made him forget the purpose of their mission, the chance of danger with each passing minute.
“Breakers on the weather bow!” The lookout sounded nervous.
But Tyrrell called, “Breakers be damned! That’ll be th’ middle-ground.” His teeth gleamed in the darkness. “True as a bloody arrow, if I do say so myself!”
Bolitho smiled at his excitement. Breakers be damned! He had used much the same phrase and tone when he had driven his sword through the man who had almost killed him beside the pond.
The massive, looming shoulder of Cape Henry hardened from the darkness on the larboard beam, and for a brief instant Bolitho imagined they were too close, that the wind had thrust them further downwind than Tyrrell had allowed.
He dragged his eyes to the opposite side, and through the spray and across the deep inshore swell he saw a revolving patch of white. The middle-ground was clearly marked by the swirl of broken water, but if Tyrrell had misjudged his approach it would have been too late to avoid it.
Tyrrell shouted, “Once saw a damn fine Dutchman aground there! She broke her back!”
Buckle muttered, “That’s bloody encouraging!”
Bolitho peered astern. “I hope Heron’s seen our entrance.” “She’ll be fine.” Tyrrell hurried to the side and studied the darker wedge of land. “She draws less and is better to handle close-hauled.” He patted the rail. “But Sparrow ’ll do for me!”
“Take in the forecourse, if you please.” Bolitho pitched his ear to the sea’s changing sounds. The hollow boom of surf against rocks, the deeper note of water exploring a cave or some narrow gully below the headland. “Then the spanker.”
Under topsails and jib Sparrow crept deeper into the bay, her stem rising and plunging across tiderace and swell alike, her helmsmen tensed at the wheel, fingers sensing her will almost as soon as she did.
Minutes dragged by, then an half-hour. With eyes straining into the darkness, and other men poised at gunport tackles and braces, the sloop tacked delicately below the cape.
Then Tyrrell said, “No ships here, sir, Lynnhaven lies abeam now. Any squadron at anchor, ours or th’ Frogs, would be showing some sort of light. To deter an enemy, if for no other reason.”
“That makes good sense.”
Bolitho walked away to hide his disappointment. Odell had been right to ask for written orders, for if Bolitho had misjudged Hood’s whereabouts this badly he could be equally at fault for quitting his proper station in the south. A series of dull explosions echoed across the water, and one bright stab of flame, as if some powder had been accidentally fired.
He ran his fingers through his hair, wondering what he should do next. Sail on for New York? It seemed the only solution.
Tyrrell said quietly, “If we are to beat clear of th’ cape, then I suggest we wear ship now.” He paused. “Or anchor.” Bolitho joined him by the compass. “Then we anchor. We must make contact with the army. They at least should know what is happening.”
Tyrrell sighed. “It’s hard to think that there’s a damn great army out there across our bows. Poor bastards. If they are in Yorktown as Odell was led to believe, then they are well placed. But it’ll be no comfort if they come under siege.”
“Let’s waste no more time.” Bolitho beckoned to Fowler. “Show the lantern again. Captain Farr will anchor when he sees the signal.”
The topsails stirred noisily as Sparrow turned obediently into the wind, her anchor throwing up a sheet of spray like some disturbed water-spirit.
Buckle called, “Easy with that light, Mr. Fowler! Enough!”
Tyrrell dropped his voice. “No matter. We’ll have been sighted from th’ moment we weathered th’ cape.”
Bolitho looked at him. It was not difficult to picture some scurrying messenger or a mounted man riding through the darkness to warn of their arrival. He felt much as he had done in Delaware Bay. Cut off and restricted, with only the vaguest idea of what was happening.
Tyrrell said, “I can take a boat, sir. If th’ army is encamped in th’ town, then they’ll be well shielded around th’ next spit of land along York River.” He sounded suddenly on edge. “God, this quiet disturbs me more’n gunfire! My grandfather was a soldier. Used to make my flesh creep with his yarns of night fighting.”
Bolitho watched the topmen sliding down to the deck, seemingly indifferent to the closeness of land or a possible enemy.
“Rig boarding nets and have half the twelve-pounders loaded with grape.”
Tyrrell nodded. “Aye. An’ I’ll put some good hands on th’ swivels, too. No sense in being rushed by some crazy boat attack.” He waited and then asked, “Shall I go?”
“Very well. Take both cutters. Mr. Graves can command the second one. Mr. Fowler will go with you in case we need any signals made.”
A voice called, “Heron’s anchored, sir!”
But when Bolitho looked across the nettings he could see nothing. The lookout must have caught a brief glimpse of her reefed topsails as she edged around the cape, or the splash of her anchor when she let go.
Tackles creaked and jerked as both cutters were swayed over the gangways before the decks were sealed off in a web of nets. That could be left safely to the boatswain. Not too taut to afford a grip to some daring boarder, just slack enough to confuse him, to allow a pike or bayonet to catch him before he could slip free.
Men shuffled across the deck, and he heard an occasional clink of steel, the thud of oars being released from their lashings.
Graves came aft, his breeches white in the darkness.
“You know what to do?” Bolitho looked at each in turn. “Mr. Tyrrell will lead. Muffle your oars, and watch out for enemy pickets.”
Graves sounded breathless. “How will we recognise our own soldiers?”
Bolitho could imagine his mouth jerking uncontrollably and was tempted to keep him on board. But Tyrrell was all important. He knew the lay of the land like his own cabin. It needed an experienced officer to back him if things went wrong.
He heard Tyrrell reply calmly, “Easy. Th’ Frogs speak French!” Graves swung round and then controlled himself with an effort.
“I—I didn’t ask for your sarcasm! It’s all right for you. This is your country.”
“That will do!” Bolitho stepped closer. “Remember, our people are depending on you. So let’s have none of this bickering.”
Tyrrell eased his sword in its sheath. “I’m sorry, sir. It was my fault.” He rested his hand on Graves’s shoulder. “Forget I spoke, eh?”
Fowler’s voice came up from the boats. “All ready, sir!”
Bolitho walked to the gangway. “Be back by dawn.” He touched Tyrrell’s arm. “How is the pain now?”
“Hardly feel a thing, sir.” Tyrrell stood back to allow his men to clamber into the cutters. “A bit of exercise will do me good.”
The boats shoved off and pulled steadily into the darkness. Within minutes they had vanished, and a watchful silence settled over those who stood at the loaded guns on either beam.
Bolitho sought out Stockdale and said, “Have the gig lowered. I may want word carried to Heron.” He saw Bethune’s plump outline by the rail and added, “You take the gig and pull round the ship. I will signal if I need a message passed.”
Bethune hesitated. “I would have willingly gone with the first lieutenant, sir.”
“I know that.” It was hard to believe that in the midst of all this confusion Bethune had managed to see his choice of Fowler as a personal slur. “He is very young. I need all the men I can get to manage the ship.” It was a lame explanation, but it seemed to suffice.
> It was cool under the stars, and after the heat of the day, a gentle relief. Bolitho kept the seamen in short watches, so that those not on lookout or standing at the guns might snatch a few moments’ rest.
Likewise, the officers stood watch and watch, and when he was relieved by Heyward, Bolitho squatted against the mainmast trunk and rested his head in his hands.
He felt someone gripping his wrist and knew he must have fallen asleep.
Heyward was crouching beside him, his voice a fierce whisper. “Boat approaching, sir, maybe two.”
Bolitho scrambled to his feet, his mind grappling with Heyward’s words. Surely they were not returning already. They could not even have reached the first part of their destination.
Heyward said, “It’s not the gig. She’s away on the starboard quarter.”
Bolitho cupped his hands round his ears. Above the slap of water alongside he heard oars and the squeak of a tiller.
A boatswain’s mate asked, “Shall I call a challenge, sir?”
“No.” Why had he said that? “Not yet.”
He strained his eyes and tried to pick out the splash of oars amidst the lapping cat’s-paws of the bay. It had to be Tyrrell returning for he was coming straight for the ship without caution or hesitation.
A thin shaft of moonlight had made a small rippling pattern across the water, and as he watched a longboat glided into it, the oars moving unhurriedly.
Before it slid once more into shadows Bolitho saw the gleam of crossbelts, some soldiers wearing shakos crowded in the sternsheets.
Heyward gasped hoarsely, “Holy God, they’re French!”
The boatswain’s mate whispered, “There’s another one astern of ’er!”
Thoughts and wild ideas flooded through Bolitho’s mind as he watched the boats’ slow approach. Tyrrell and his men captured and being returned for parley. The French coming to announce that Yorktown was theirs and to demand Sparrow’s surrender.
He moved quickly to the gangway and cupped his hands. “Ohé! du canot! Qui val la?”
There was a babble of voices from the boat and he heard someone laughing.
To Heyward he snapped, “Quick, recall the gig! We’ll catch these beauties with any luck!”
The first boat was already grinding alongside, and Bolitho held his breath, half expecting one of his own men to fire.
From a corner of his eye he saw a cream of spray, and thanked God that the gig’s crew had kept their wits. It was sweeping around the stern, and he could imagine Stockdale willing his men to pull with all their strength.
Heyward came back, the signal lantern still in his hand.
Bolitho shouted, “Now!”
Even as the first men appeared on the chains and clung uncertainly to the nets, a line of armed seamen leapt on to the gangway with levelled muskets, while Glass, the boatswain, swung a swivel gun and trained it threateningly.
There was a chorus of shouts and a musket stabbed fire through the night. The ball slammed into the rail and brought a savage fusilade of shots from Heyward’s marksmen.
Glass depressed the swivel and jerked the lanyard, changing the crowded boat into a screaming, bloody shambles.
It was more than enough for the second boat. The crash of musket fire, the devastating hail of canister from Glass’s swivel were sufficient to render the oars motionless. Hardly a man moved as the gig tore alongside and made fast, and across the choppy water Stockdale bawled, “Got ’er, sir!” A pause and he called again, “There’s a dozen English prisoners in this ’un!”
Bolitho turned away, feeling sick. He saw Dalkeith and his mates climbing down to the boat alongside and pictured the whimpering carnage he would find there. It could just as easily have been the second boat, and the canister would have carved its bloody path amongst their own people.
He said harshly, “Get those men aboard, Mr. Heyward. Then send the gig to Heron . Farr will be wondering what the hell we are about.”
He waited beside the entry port, as with boarding nets lifted the first dazed men were pushed or hauled aboard. The second boatload, French and English alike, came with obvious relief. The French glad to have been spared their companions’ slaughter. The English redcoats had different reasons, but their stunned disbelief was pitiful to watch.
Bedraggled and filthy, they were more like scarecrows than trained soldiers.
Bolitho said, “Take the prisoners below, Mr. Glass.” To the redcoats he added, “Have no fear. This is a King’s ship.”
One, a young ensign, stepped forward and exclaimed, “I thank you, Captain. We all do.”
Bolitho gripped his hand. “You will get all the rest and help I can offer. But first I must know what is happening here.”
The officer rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. “We were taken several days back. It was a skirmish with one of their patrols. Most of my men were killed.” He rocked on his feet. “I still cannot believe we are saved . . .”
Bolitho persisted, “Is General Cornwallis holding Yorktown?”
“Yes. But as I expect you know, sir, Washington and the French general, Rochambeau, crossed the Hudson some weeks back to the head of Chesapeake Bay. They have a great army massed around Yorktown. A musket behind every tree. But when we heard that an English squadron had looked into the bay we thought we were relieved. I understand a little French and heard the guards speaking of their arrival.”
Heyward said, “Hood’s ships.”
Bolitho nodded. “When was this?”
The ensign shrugged. “Three days back. I have lost count of time.”
Bolitho tried to shut out the pitiful cries alongside. He knew little French. Little more than he had used to deceive the boat, but sufficient to recognise pleading. A man being held while Dalkeith got busy with his knife.
Three days back. That fitted what Odell had reported. Hood must have taken a quick look into the bay, and finding no sign of de Grasse had pushed on for New York.
The ensign added weakly, “The French are expecting their own fleet. That was why, when someone hailed them in their own language, they . . .”
“What?” Bolitho seized his arm, his voice harsh despite the man’s condition. “Expecting their own fleet?”
The ensign stared at him. “But I thought I imagined our ships had gone to fight them off, sir!”
“No.” He released his arm. “I fear that when they reach New York and discover their mistake it will be too late.”
“Then the army is done for, sir.” The ensign walked unsteadily to the rail. “All this.” He shouted across the dark water. “All for bloody nothing!”
Dalkeith appeared on deck and with a brief nod took the officer’s arm.
Bolitho said, “Take care of them for me.”
He turned away. They would be prisoners again very soon unless he could decide what to do.
Buckle was watching him anxiously. “What about Mr. Tyrrell, sir?”
“D’you imagine I’ve not thought about him?” He saw Buckle recoil. “We will pass the word to Heron immediately. If she can work clear tonight Farr must carry the news to Admiral Graves. There might still be time.” He saw the purser hovering by the hatch. “Fetch some paper and I will write a note for Farr.”
To Buckle he added, “I’m sorry I abused you. It was a fair question.”
He looked towards the land. “We will weigh at first light and move closer inshore. Have the sweeps ready in case the wind loses us. I’ll not throw Tyrrell and his men away without a fight.” He remembered the lieutenant’s words in that far off garden. In Sparrow we look after our own. He added quietly, “We’ve all come too far together for that.”
Dalkeith crossed the deck as Bolitho walked to the taffrail. To Buckle he whispered, “What’s the captain going to do?”
Buckle shrugged. “Something crazy, I expect.”
The surgeon wiped his hands on a piece of waste. “But you approve, nonetheless?”
Buckle grinned. “Don’t make much difference what I think, doe
s it? But I s’pect he’ll think of something.” He added vehemently, “I bloody well hope so, for all our sakes!”
18 ONLY THE BRAVE
STOCKDALE padded across the quarterdeck and held out a pewter mug.
“ ’Ere, sir. Some coffee.”
Bolitho took it and held it to his lips. It was barely hot, but cleared the dryness from his throat.
Stockdale added thickly, “The galley fire was doused, so I ’ad to warm it on a lantern in the shot locker.”
Bolitho looked at him. Was it imagination, or were Stockdale’s features growing more distinct in the gloom? He shivered. More likely he had been too long on deck, waiting and wondering. Yet he could do no good by pacing the deck and going over his ideas again and again.
“It was a kind thought.” He handed him the mug. “I feel awake now.”
He peered up at the rigging and furled sails. The stars were still there, but paler. That was no illusion.
“Where is the wind?”
Stockdale considered the question. “As afore, sir. Nor’ nor’-east, if I’m not mistook.”
Bolitho bit his lip. He had already decided it was so. Stockdale was usually right, but his confirmation did little to help.
He said, “Rouse the master. He is by the hatchway.”
Buckle sprang to his feet, wide awake at Stockdale’s first touch.
“What is it? An attack?”
“Easy, Mr. Buckle.” Bolitho beckoned him to the rail. “The wind has dropped, but still too far north’rd to help us.”
The master said nothing and waited to see what the captain had in mind.
“If we are to be of any use, we must drive higher into the bay. It would take hours of tacking back and forth, with little to show for our pains. But if we stay here at anchor we can help neither the first lieutenant nor ourselves if an enemy arrives.”
Buckle yawned. “That’s true enough.”
“So call all hands and run out the sweeps. We will get under way and not wait for the dawn.”
Buckle pulled out his watch and held it against the compass light.
“Hmm. It’ll be a hard pull, sir. But the current will not be too much against us.”
Sloop of War Page 32