Monsoon

by Wilbur Smith

  In the middle of the day Tom and Luke lay on their bellies in the warm sand and ate a meal of bread, ham and hard-boiled eggs that Luke produced from his sack, and they passed between them the flask of beer. Tom tried not to become despondent, but there seemed little here for them.

  As the sun dipped towards the horizon he was left with a choice of two out of the dozens of vessels he had scrutinized. Then one of these hoisted her mainsail and tacked out to sea, by default leaving him with no option but a nondescript old drab of a cutter, which had seen better days and fairer times.

  ‘She will have to do,’ he decided unhappily, and they gathered up their pistols and equipment ready to retreat down to the beach as soon as it was dark. Suddenly Tom seized Luke’s arm and pointed back towards the north. ‘There she is!’ he exulted. ‘That’s her!’

  Greyhound lean and swift, a sloop came flying round the headland, then tacked neatly into the fairway and shot into the harbour. ‘Look at her! She’s heavily laden, you can see that from her waterline, but still she could turn fifteen knots on a virgin’s fart,’ Luke whispered, in awe of her beauty. She was flush-decked, no poop or forecastle. Her single mast was elegantly raked and proportioned to the length of her hull. Tom estimated that she was fifty foot overall.

  ‘Ten guns!’ Tom counted through his lens. ‘Enough to frighten off any Arab dhow.’

  She flew a gaff mainsail with a boom, from her square yard a large topsail, and from her bowsprit two jibs. In the fading light she had a ghostly, ethereal appearance, a thing of wind and wave spume and sea fret.

  ‘I love her already, and I don’t even know her name.’

  ‘We will choose a new name for her,’ Tom promised him.

  The sloop rounded up to the hard. Down came her canvas, and was whisked away like a wizard’s trick. They strained their eyes to watch her tie up. Tom counted her crew, and made it nine, but he guessed she could accommodate thirty fighting seamen on a long voyage, although they might have to alter her lower deck to take so many.

  ‘Mark her well, Luke,’ Tom said, without taking the telescope from his eye. ‘You must find her again in the dark.’

  ‘She is burned into my eye,’ Luke assured him.

  In the last of the light they saw six men leave the ship and make their way down the wharf to where the lanterns in the windows of the taverns were being lit. ‘You can smell their thirst from here. They’ll not be back before dawn,’ Tom whispered. ‘That leaves only three men aboard.’

  As the last of the light faded, they hurried back down the dunes to the beach. Luke dug out the other sack from under the wreck, and lit the lantern it contained with flint and steel. He pointed it out towards the sea and lifted the shutter, flashing three times. He waited a while then flashed again. On the fourth attempt his signal was answered with three short flashes out on the dark sea.

  They waded out until the low surf was breaking into their faces, and when they heard the creak of oars out in the night Luke whistled sharply. Minutes later the Raven loomed over them. They reached up and pulled themselves on board.

  Still dripping sea-water, Luke took the helm and they backed off from the shelving beach. As soon as he had sufficient water under her he set the mainsail and jib. Tom stripped naked and dried his body on the rough cloth Aboli handed him, then pulled on dry clothes. A league off-shore Luke hove the Raven to, and they squatted in a circle around a shaded lantern on the open deck.

  ‘We have found a ship,’ Tom told his men. Their faces were wolfish in the lantern light. ‘But it’s not going to be light winds and fair weather to take her out under the noses of the French.’ He did not want them to become over-confident. ‘We will wait until the middle watch, when they are tucked into their hammocks. Master Luke will take us into the harbour and lay us alongside the sloop. If we’re challenged, Luke will answer for us, the rest of you hold your tongues.’ He frowned at them to impress on them the need for silence.

  ‘As we come alongside, I will give the word and lead the boarding-party. Aboli and Alf Wilson will help me clear the deck of the enemy. Most are ashore and look to be there all night. We should have no more than three men to deal with. No pistols, only clubs and fists. Use your blades only as a last resort. Silence is our main concern and a man with steel in his belly will squeal like a sow giving birth. Fred will throw off the head lines and Reggie the stern. Cut and run, lads, so have your jack-knives handy.’

  Then Tom spoke to each man in turn, making him repeat his orders so that there would be no confusion in the dark. With Luke and his crew of three, there were fifteen of them; the rest were old salts from the Seraph whom Alf and Aboli had been able to gather at such short notice. More than enough to do the job.

  ‘The wind is easterly, and Luke reckons it will strengthen before midnight. I didn’t see them put gaskets on the main, so it should come free at a pull on the halyard.’ Tom looked at Ned Tyler, his gnarled features highlighted by the yellow glow of the lantern. ‘Mr Tyler, you will go to the helm, don’t get into the fighting. Luke will lead us out in the Raven, he will show a shaded light over his stern.’ When every man knew what Tom wanted of him, Tom checked their weapons and made sure every one had a club and knife. Tom would be the only man to carry a long blade. He strapped the Neptune sword around his waist.

  He had made certain before they sailed that each of them was dressed in dark-coloured clothing, and now he passed the lantern round the circle, and they smeared the soot from the chimney on their faces and hands. There were the usual jokes about Aboli not needing this addition to his natural pigmentation, and then they settled down below the gunwales wrapped in their sea cloaks to eat some bread and cold meat, before trying to snatch a few hours’ sleep.

  At the end of the first watch Luke started to ease the Raven closer in-shore. With the off-shore breeze they could hear the sounds from the land quite clearly, and a church clock in the town struck twelve so loudly that they could count each stroke. Tom passed the word and they shook the sleepers awake – there were few of them: most were already tense and nervous.

  They had to beat into the harbour against the breeze, but this was a price Tom was pleased to pay in exchange for a straight run out. Soon they were among the French fleet, passing so close to one tall three-decker that they could hear the anchor watch on her main deck talking drowsily. No one challenged them and Luke threaded the Raven quietly towards the stone wharf where they had last seen the sloop. Tom crouched in the bows, peering ahead for the first glimpse of the French vessel. There was always a chance that she had sailed or moved away from the wharf, but Tom prayed that most of her crew were still swilling ale in the taverns and that her captain intended waiting until morning to offload her cargo.

  Slowly the Raven closed with the dark wharf, weaving her way between two anchored ships. Tom strained his eyes, cupping his hands to cut out reflected light from the lamps of the houses along the waterfront. Now he could hear laughter and singing from the alehouses, but the rest of the fleet was silent, showing only their riding lamps at the mastheads.

  ‘She is gone!’ Tom’s spirits plummeted as they drew within half a pistol shot of where he had last seen the sloop, and there was still no sight of her. He cursed himself for not having taken the precaution of picking out a secondary target for just such an eventuality. He was about to call to Luke at the helm for him to sheer off, when his heart leaped and thudded against his ribcage. He had seen her bare main mast outlined against the dull glow of lamplight from the town, and he realized that with the low tide the sloop’s hull had dropped below the level of the wharf so that it did not show up against the stonework.

  ‘Still there, waiting for us!’ He glanced back to make sure his men were ready. They were crouched, like him, below the gunwales. With blackened faces, they looked like untidily stacked cargo along the deck. Only Luke stood tall at the wheel. Now he spun it to full lock, and his mate at the halyard, without waiting for an order, let the mainsail come down with a soft rush. The Raven slowed
and drifted in until she touched the side of the moored French vessel. The deck of the sloop was six feet higher than the Raven’s and Tom steadied himself to leap up onto her.

  At the jolt of the two hulls coming together a sleepy French voice exclaimed, ‘Nom de Dieu!’

  ‘I have a message for Marcel,’ Luke answered, in the same language.

  ‘There is no Marcel here,’ the Frenchman protested irritably. ‘You’re spoiling my paintwork with your dung-boat.’

  ‘I have the fifty francs that Jacques owes him,’ Luke insisted. ‘I will send one of my crew to bring it to you.’

  The mention of such a large sum stilled any further protest, and the Frenchman’s tone became cunning and ingratiating. ‘Tre`s bien. Give it to me. I will see that Marcel gets it.’

  Tom sprang over the Raven’s side and hauled himself lithely up onto the sloop’s deck. The Frenchman was leaning over the rail, a woollen cap on his head and a clay pipe clenched between his teeth. He straightened and removed the pipe from his mouth. ‘Give it to me.’

  As he came across the deck, with hand outstretched, Tom saw he had a magnificent pair of twirling moustaches. ‘Certainly,’ he said and tapped the man above the left ear with a controlled swing of the club. Without a sound he went down in a heap. In the next second Aboli came over the side and landed like a panther on silent bare feet. Tom saw that one of the hatches in the bows was open, and that faint lamplight was reflected from below. He dropped down the companionway with Aboli close behind him. A lantern swung from gimbals in the deck overhead, and by its light Tom saw that three hammocks were slung across the far end of the cabin. He realized that he had miscounted the numbers of the French crew. As he crossed the cabin, a man sat bolt upright suddenly in the nearest hammock. ‘Qui est la` ?’ he asked.

  By way of reply Tom hit him with a full swing. The man fell back, but another shouted with alarm in the next hammock. Aboli swung it upside down and dumped him on the deck. Before he could shout again Tom swung his club and he collapsed. A third Frenchman leaped from the last hammock and tried to run for the companionway, but Tom seized his bare ankle and hauled him back. Aboli bunched one huge fist, slammed it into the side of the man’s head, and he went down.

  ‘Any more?’ Tom looked around swiftly.

  ‘That’s the last.’ Aboli raced up the ladder and Tom followed him up onto the deck. Fred and Reggie had cut the mooring ropes and the sloop was already drifting away from the wharf. The Frenchman’s shout in the cabin must have been muffled and had not raised the alarm. The harbour seemed as quiet and somnolent as before.

  ‘Ned?’ Tom whispered, and the reply came instantly from the stern.

  ‘Aye, Captain.’ Even in the heat of that moment it gave Tom a thrill to hear the term of address. He had a ship and he was a captain once more.

  ‘Well done. Where is the Raven?’

  ‘Dead ahead. She’s already under sail.’

  There was some delay among the men at the halyards of the sloop’s main mast. In the dark and on a strange, foreign ship, they were having difficulty sorting out the lines: the French used a different system of rigging. Tom ran to them and they set about the unravelling.

  But the sloop was gathering stern way and drifting down rapidly on one of the anchored ships. Tom saw that they would crash into it with sufficient force to do damage. A Frenchman aboard the other ship shouted.

  ‘Have a care, you stupid oafs. You’re going to ram us.’

  ‘Stand by to fend off!’ one of Tom’s crew said, in English.

  There was an immediate shout from the other vessel. ‘Merde! Ils sont Anglais!’

  Tom snatched the main halyard out of the tangle of lines. ‘Smartly now! Heave!’

  The mainsail soared up the mast, the sloop checked her sideways drift and picked up the breeze. She began to sail, but she still had weigh on her, and struck the anchored ship, dragged lightly along her side.

  By now other voices were shouting, ‘English! The English are attacking.’

  A sentry on the wharf, rudely wakened from sleep, fired his musket and immediately there was uproar through the entire anchorage. But Ned had the sloop sailing, picking up speed sweetly. When Tom looked ahead he saw the Raven, her stern lantern glimmering, heading down the fairway towards the open sea.

  ‘Jib sheets!’ Tom snapped, and led a rush of bare feet down the deck towards the bows. They were getting the hang of her sails now, and the jibs went up with only scant delay. Immediately the sloop heeled and leaped forward, the water rustled under her forefoot, and they began to overhaul the Raven. But the French fleet was coming awake, there were shouts from ship to ship, and on some battle lanterns were lit and running up the masts.

  Inspired by the mounting turmoil, Tom ran to one of the sloop’s guns. It was a toy compared to the huge armaments of the ships-of-the-line anchored all around them. He could only hope that it was loaded.

  ‘Help me!’ he called to Aboli, and between them they swung open the lid of the gunport and ran out the cannon. Tom looked up and saw that they were passing half a pistol shot from one of the ships-of-the-line, a mountainous seventy-four, that blotted out half the night sky above them. He did not even have to aim the little cannon, but merely fired as she lay. The lock sparked but there was a long moment as the weapon hung fire. Then, abruptly, it bellowed and leaped back against its tackle.

  Tom heard the ball strike into the heavy planking of the warship with a crash. Wild yells of anger pursued them, but the sloop was running on. She was so low against the water that she was swiftly lost in the dark.

  Somewhere further down the line another gun fired and Tom saw from the long flash of flame that it was aimed nowhere near them. He never knew where the shot struck. There were more shouts and then a stuttering of cannon-fire built up into a deafening fusillade as the big ships fired at the imaginary English fleet attacking them. Powder smoke drifted in a dense fog over the two smaller ships. They were almost obscured from each other, and Tom had to stare hard into the smoke to pick out the faint light of the Raven’s guiding lantern.

  Swiftly the shouting and gunfire fell behind them and they sailed out of the smoke into a sweet clear night. He heard faint voices on the breeze, English voices, and he realized that the tiny crew of the Raven were cheering them. His own crew paused at their work with the sheets and cheered back. It was unwise to give any French pursuit a lead, but Tom did not try to stop them. He saw Aboli’s teeth gleaming white in the darkness and he grinned back. ‘Where are the Frenchmen?’ he demanded, and the three bedraggled figures were dragged up from the cabin to join their captain in the stern.

  ‘There’s a skiff in the bows,’ Tom said. ‘We’ll heave to, and put them into it. Send them home, with our best compliments.’

  They bundled the four men into the little boat and cast them off. When he realized what was happening the French captain stood in the bows of the tiny craft, his moustaches bristling with fury, shaking both fists at them, and saw them off with a string of vituperation.

  ‘Your mother was a cow, and she slipped you from the wrong hole, you lumps of wet turd. I piss in your mother’s milk. I stamp on your father’s testicles.’

  ‘Speak English!’ Luke shouted back. ‘The beauty of your poetry is wasted on the night air.’ And the captain’s outrage faded swiftly into the darkness behind them.

  Aboli helped Tom trim the mainsail and when it was drawing tight and hard, he said, ‘She is yours now, Klebe. What will you call her?’

  ‘What did the French christen her?’ Alf Wilson leaned far out over the stern and craned down to read the name on her transom in the light of the stern lamp.

  ‘Hirondelle. What does that mean?’

  ‘The Swallow,’ Luke translated.

  ‘It’s a good name,’ they all agreed at once. ‘God knows, she flies like a bird.’

  ‘But not in that God-forsaken language,’ Tom demurred. ‘In sweet Mother English. The Swallow! We will drink her health when we tie up in the river.
’ And they gave her a cheer.

  When the sun came up they were off Sheerness, and although she had all sail set the Raven was far astern, unable to keep up with the Swallow. The sloop was on a broad reach, ripping white bursts of spray off the tops of the pewter-grey waves as she tore through them.

  ‘She loves to run free,’ Ned rejoiced, his face creased into a hundred wrinkles of delight. ‘You would have to hang a drogue over her stern to hold her back.’

  In the sparkling morning light she was as pretty as a maiden in her wedding dress, her canvas so new and bright that it gleamed like mother-of-pearl. Her paintwork was so fresh Tom could whiff the turpentine, and her decks had been holystoned until they were white as a snowfield.

  Tom turned his thoughts to the cargo they were carrying in the Swallow’s hold. He beckoned to Aboli and sent him to investigate. They lifted the hatches and Aboli and Alf Wilson went down with lighted lanterns into the dark holds. Half an hour later they emerged again, looking delighted with their discovery.

  ‘She’s stuffed to the gills with canvas cloth. The finest quality. Enough to clothe a squadron of ships-of-the-line.’

  Tom’s face lit as happily. He knew what prices that commodity would fetch in the Company’s auction rooms. ‘The sinews of war,’ he declared. ‘Good as gold!’

  They offloaded the cargo of canvas at the Company’s wharf, then Tom sent a note to Lord Childs and took the Swallow upriver to Luke’s mooring at Eel Pie Island. He stayed long enough with his men to get them started on the work of altering the sloop’s ’tween decks to accommodate a larger crew, and installing tiny cabins for the master and the three officers. These would be not much larger than cubbyholes, comprising a bunk, a sea-chest, the lid of which could be used as a writing-desk or chart table, and not much else. The headroom under the deck beams would force the occupant to bend almost double when entering and leaving.