Secrets of the Fearless

by Elizabeth Laird

  John, who had come up on deck to see what was going on, caught sight of Kit, who, in a rare moment of freedom, had ventured up from the sickbay to breathe some fresh air.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she said, looking with astonishment at the white sails crowding the sea, which were still just visible in the evening light.

  ‘We’ll know soon. Someone’s come on board from that frigate over there. He’s with the captain now. He must be bringing orders.’

  She shivered.

  ‘It looks like an invasion fleet. It must be heading for Spain. There’ll be action soon.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ He grinned at the thought. ‘I hope we’re part of it. If we have to stay here much longer, doing nothing, the ship’s company will go up like a volcano.’

  She shook her head at his obvious excitement, but smiled back at him.

  ‘What are you looking so pleased about?’ he said.

  ‘It’s my birthday.’

  ‘Your birthday? Today?’

  He was taken aback. He had lost count of the days.

  ‘Yes. I’m fourteen. I’ve done it, John! I’ve kept myself hidden all this time, and I’m free of them now. I’m out of their power. I don’t have to hide any longer.

  ‘What do you mean? What are you going to do?’

  ‘You know what I have to do!’ She looked up at him earnestly. ‘I must find a way to get back ashore. I must go back to Bordeaux, to Jalignac, and claim my rights. They need me there, John.’

  ‘You can’t leave the ship,’ he said roughly. ‘How would you get ashore?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think there’ll be any difficulty with that. Captain Bannerman is longing to see me go. He’s tolerated me all this time, but he glowers whenever he catches sight of me. I was planning to try to see him this morning, to ask if he could have me rowed ashore as soon as possible, but now, with all this happening, I can’t get near him.’

  ‘You were hoping to go as soon as possible? I suppose you’d planned to say goodbye.’

  His voice was stiff with hurt.

  She took hold of his hand, then pulled hers away and looked round to check that no one had seen.

  ‘I haven’t seen you all this week, John. I’ve tried and tried to slip away, but Mr Catskill watches me all the time. He’s like a cat with a mouse. I hate that man. If you knew what he was like . . .’

  ‘What do you mean? He hasn’t . . . touched you?’

  ‘He comes too close to me all the time. And he’s a bad surgeon. He doesn’t care about the sick men at all. You don’t know what it’s like.’ He had never before seen her look so miserable, all her usual liveliness crushed. He didn’t know what to say. ‘It’s been . . . I’ve been . . . I’d have gone mad if I hadn’t been able to see you sometimes.’

  He knew he was blushing, and felt embarrassed.

  ‘It’s the same for me. If only I could tell you! I know you’ll have to go home, sooner or later, but, Kit, when you do . . .’

  ‘Letters for Simon Snelling! Michael Flynn! Pasco Penhaligon! John Barr!’

  John had hardly been aware of the lieutenant nearby, waving a bundle of letters and calling out names, but the sound of his own name made him spin round.

  ‘A letter for me?’

  The lieutenant tossed a small envelope to him, and John, catching it, cried out in astonishment as he recognized his father’s spidery, elegant handwriting.

  ‘Franked in Scotland,’ he said, his heart leaping for joy. ‘He’s alive! Safe! No longer at sea! He’s gone home!’

  The memory of his terrifying last night in Edinburgh, the murder of Mr Sweeney and the hue and cry that had sent him and his father fleeing to Leith came back to him with awful clarity.

  But perhaps he’s in prison, he thought. Perhaps he’s stood trial for murder. He could have been executed already.

  He looked up for Kit, but she had already slipped away. With trembling fingers he tore open the envelope.

  My beloved son John, (he read)

  This message wings its way to you bearing the profoundest love of a parent grown half distracted with anxiety, who scarce dares hope that it will reach its destination. My poor child, I know not whether you be alive or dead, lost at sea, maimed in some frightful battle or stranded on a distant shore. No longing could be greater in any man’s breast than mine, to gaze upon you once more and clasp you in my arms.

  Since last we met, on that woeful day when we were torn from each other in such horrid circumstances, I have been through many a sad trial and faced discomforts and humiliations too many to enumerate. Suffice it to say that my service on the Splendid, being not greatly appreciated by her ill-educated captain, ended in my being sent ignominiously ashore two months ago, at Yarmouth, where I was informed that I was no longer required. Insulting remarks about my person, my good sense and my abilities as a clerk were flung at my head in a way which – but on that I shall maintain a dignified silence.

  You will be pleased to hear, my dear boy (if, indeed, you ever receive this letter), that the fortunes of our sadly depleted family have taken a turn for the better. The vile Nasmyth is no more. Inflamed with strong drink, as he so often was, he indulged in one brawl too many. His assailant left him with a broken head in the very wynd where our poor Mr Sweeney was so ignobly slain. Mr Nasmyth never recovered from the attack.

  After his death, numerous facts relating to his life, his knavery, foul dealings, trickery and general wickedness came to light. As a result, all charges against me were dropped. His friend Creech, and their dastardly legal accomplice, Mr Halkett, had disappeared from Edinburgh, having not been seen there for many months, and so were unable to throw the wool over the eyes of the righteous. In short, dishonesty has been discovered, villainy has been overcome and Luckstone has been restored to us.

  It is, indeed, from our beloved home that I now write to you, sitting in the parlour, with a great fire burning in the hearth.

  My joy, however, is set at naught by the loss of you, my dearest boy. Oh, where are you? Do you yet live? Have you forgotten one who loves you above all other?

  If this small missive should reach you, send a line – a word! – to relieve the anxiety of he who holds you dearer than life itself,

  Your loving,

  Father

  While John had been reading, the Fearless had faded away from his consciousness. Instead of the deck rising and falling on the sea’s swell under his feet, he was standing once more on the green grassy bank above Luckstone, smelling the wood smoke that curled from the old tower’s chimney, his father’s voice in his ear, while a profound joy took hold of him.

  He came to with a start at the shrill sound of the bosun’s whistle and then a sharp shouted command.

  ‘All hands ahoy! Full sail ahoy!’

  Chapter Thirty-six

  During the following days John had no further chance to speak to Kit. The Fearless, so long on her own, was now part of a vast fleet, which was speeding with all sails crowded to the north-west tip of Spain, and he was fully occupied with his duties.

  ‘The port of Corunna, that’s where we’re bound for,’ Mr Erskine had told the assembled midshipmen. ‘We’re on the greatest rescue mission ever mounted. Pray God we reach the place in time.’

  The British army, he had explained, had been fighting with their Spanish allies to drive the French out of Spain. They had failed, and the British soldiers were now in a pitiful state. Napoleon’s troops had pursued them further and further north. In the cold of winter, short of food, their clothes in tatters, beset by injury and sickness, the British army was now retreating through the harsh countryside of northern Spain towards Corunna, with the French hard on their heels.

  ‘If we fail to get them on board the ships in time,’ Mr Erskine told the silent midshipmen, ‘our poor brave soldiers will be cut to pieces. Get to your duties now, and send those damned mutinous rascals up aloft to let out the topsail reefs, which should have been done half an hour ago.’

  The atmosphere on
board the Fearless had changed. The deadly boredom of blockade duty had given way to the thrill of competition as the great warship strove to outstrip the rest of the fleet and be the first to reach the coast of Spain. Murmurings and discontent were all forgotten, and everyone worked with a will.

  John, standing in the bows, felt his heart swell with pride as the Fearless, her sails billowing, surged at last into Corunna harbour. She was among the first ten vessels. Her prow cleaved cleanly through the water and her pennants streamed out bravely in the wind.

  It was evening, and the light of the short, cold winter day was already fading. John screwed up his eyes as he looked towards the shore. The bay made a perfect curve, the fort of Corunna at one side, with the town rising steeply towards it and more houses stretching round behind the beach.

  Even from this distance, a good mile away, John could see that the whole place was seething with movement. There was a turmoil of men and horses covering the beach, while on the ridges of the low hills rising behind the town he could make out what could only be a vast mass of soldiers and clutter of gear. As the Fearless closed in towards the town, the last rays of the sun winked on the metal of guns and wagon wheels and lit up the pale faces of the men on the shore, who were looking with anxious longing towards the ships. He could hear their ragged cheers go up as each new sail appeared round the headland.

  The Fearless had hardly furled her sails and cast her anchor when the first ships’ boats were lowered. Before they had even scraped on to the sand, eager soldiers were wading out towards them, carrying wounded men on their backs. They lowered their comrades gently down on the boards and splashed back ashore to fetch others.

  A lieutenant hurried up to John.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he panted, out of breath.

  ‘Am I to take a boat ashore, sir?’ John asked, eager to be of use.

  ‘No. Captain wants you now, in his cabin.’

  The usual mixture of nervousness and anticipation sent the hairs rising on John’s head as he hurried up to the quarterdeck and presented himself at the door of the great cabin.

  ‘Ah, come in, my boy. Come in!’ Captain Bannerman said jovially, looking up at him from his chair by the table, at which Mr Erskine was seated too. John’s pulses quickened at the sight of Kit, standing beside the table, her bare toes curling into the rug on the floor.

  ‘Excellent, excellent,’ began the captain, puffing out his cheeks. ‘Now then. Little time to spare. Lengthy explanations unnecessary. Special mission required. Vital to national interest. Volunteers needed. Some risk involved. Do I make myself clear?’

  Kit and John exchanged mystified looks.

  ‘Not entirely, sir,’ said John.

  ‘Could you be more precise, sir?’ said Kit.

  ‘If I may explain, captain?’ Mr Erskine interposed smoothly.

  ‘Do so, do so, my dear fellow, but make it short. Devil of a lot to do. We have twenty thousand men to embark, and if the French bring up their guns before they’re all aboard, they could blow the whole lot of them – and us – to blazes.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll be brief. Now, Kit, and you, John, listen. We are proposing to send you on a special mission. You are not obliged to undertake it, but if you do you will be performing a great and important service for His Majesty’s government and the British nation.’

  ‘Yes, yes, Erskine, they know all that. Cut to the point,’ blustered Captain Bannerman.

  ‘Of course, sir. The point is that the Fearless has received fresh orders. As soon as the evacuation of the army is complete, and we have shipped our quota of men to Portsmouth, we are to undertake the escort of a convoy of British ships. These ships are carrying an exceptionally valuable cargo of gold and other supplies, which they are to transport from Jamaica to Portsmouth. The Fearless is to accompany that cargo to protect it from enemy action.’

  ‘I see, sir. May I ask . . . ?’ began John.

  ‘What has this to do with you?’ interrupted Mr Erskine. ‘Be patient. We have reason to believe that the French have received information about this particular convoy and its precious contents, and that those of their ships still operating in the Atlantic are very likely to attack us. Our navy is stretched beyond its capability. The admiral has informed us that he cannot send any other vessel to guard this important convoy and that the Fearless will be guarding it alone.’

  Kit coughed. Mr Erskine, thinking she was about to speak, held up his hand.

  ‘Our best chance of getting through safely, without being attacked by the French, is to plant false information which will lead them off the trail and send their ships hunting for us in the wrong direction. If our enemies are led to believe that this huge prize is being sent, not from Jamaica to Portsmouth, but from Jamaica to Bombay, around the Cape of Africa, they will sail south to intercept it in the Bay of Biscay, leaving us free to cross the Atlantic unmolested.’

  ‘The code book again,’ said John, light dawning. ‘If we can write a false message in code, and get it to the French . . .’

  Mr Erskine shook his head.

  ‘We have considered that option, John, but ruled it out. Think for a moment. Who would the message be from, and to whom would it be addressed? We don’t know. We have no information about the chain of the French command. Only a few of their people are privy to the secret code. If they receive a message in it, from an unknown source, they will suspect at once that it’s false, and will also suspect that their code is in our hands. They will change the code, and our great advantage will be lost.’

  A loud rumbling sound signalled Captain Bannerman was about to speak.

  ‘I do not give away any vital secrets,’ he boomed, ‘if I tell you that my latest despatch from London informs me that the knowledge of the French code has already been extremely useful to our people. Several vastly important messages passing between Paris and Madrid . . .’

  ‘Quite so, sir,’ broke in Mr Erskine with a warning frown. ‘The details may be left to the imagination, I believe.’

  ‘But, sir,’ said Kit, wrinkling her forehead, ‘if you are not to pass a message in code, how are you to convey it?’

  ‘There is only one possible way, my dear, and that is by special messenger, who can supply the French with false information in person.’

  John, watching him, could not read the expression on his scarred face.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Kit. ‘Why should the French believe a messenger sent from us?’

  ‘They must not, of course, believe that he does come from us,’ said Mr Erskine. ‘The messenger, who must be able to speak perfect French himself, must be able to persuade the French that he has genuine information from a credible source. He must be able to make himself heard by the highest commanding officers and make them believe that he knows for a certainty the real destination of the convoy and that the information he brings them is true.’

  There was a short silence. Kit was looking steadily back at him, and John was alarmed to see the familiar daring smile lift the corners of her mouth.

  ‘Why do you say “he”, Mr Erskine?’ She was speaking much more boldly to the first lieutenant than any normal seaman would have dared. ‘Surely you are suggesting that this is a mission for me, that I am to be the messenger. You wish me to go ashore, to reach the French army, talk my way into seeing the top generals and convey your message for you.’

  Mr Erskine said nothing, but bowed his head.

  ‘But, sir!’ burst out John. ‘It surely isn’t possible! It’s too much to ask of Kit! He . . . she would be in the greatest danger, even from the men of our own army! Let me go, sir. I could slip through the lines. I could—’

  ‘Never said the thing wasn’t dangerous,’ growled the captain, ignoring John and frowning at Kit. ‘The question is, do you have the stomach for it, miss? By so doing, you must remember, you will greatly reduce the risk to every man on board the Fearless.’

  Kit was thinking hard, frowning with concentration.

  ‘If
I was dressed as a girl – as a lady of quality – and accompanied through the British lines by one of our own, and . . . and . . . if I had the good fortune to meet up with a respectable French officer on the other side, yes, I believe I could do it. It would even be safer for a woman than a boy. A boy would be stopped by all the pickets, and easily disposed of. And it would be much easier for a woman to gain admittance to the generals. I know just how I would play it.’ She seemed to be thinking aloud, talking to herself. ‘Like Mme de Montsegard. Yes, I would model myself on Mme de Montsegard.’ She looked up at Mr Erskine. ‘But how would the French be persuaded to take me seriously? How would I account for the fact that I had this important information?’

  ‘We have thought of a convincing reason for your presence on board a British warship,’ Mr Erskine said. ‘You were last seen cutting a considerable dash in Bordeaux, in the presence of the empress herself, from which city you dramatically disappeared. People must have wondered what became of you and where you have been since then. I would suggest, my dear, that you had the great misfortune, after your flight from the ball, to fall into the hands of a gang of desperate smugglers (who, as we know, are common in Bordeaux). They took you prisoner, hoping at some future date to claim a ransom for you. Their small craft was, luckily for you, taken up by a British man-o’-war, the Fearless. You were honourably treated by His Majesty’s navy, which has no quarrel with the women of France. While a guest on board the Fearless, you overheard a conversation, not meant for your ears, which informed you that the Fearless was shortly to sail for India, escorting a convoy of great value. In all the bustle and chaos in the port of Corunna, you seized your opportunity to escape from the Fearless, and, desperate to return to France, you made your way through the British lines. You realized that you had accidentally overheard important information, and felt honour bound to pass it immediately to the French authorities.’