Darkening Sea (18 page)

Williams looked thoughtful. “Well, she can't be a slaver out here. Nowhere for her to go.”

The mate hesitated. “Suppose she be a pirate?”

Williams grinned hugely and clapped him on the shoulder. “Even a pirate wouldn't be fool enough to want two hundred extra bellies to fill, an' we've precious little else.”

Herrick said, “If she is an enemy you can still drive her off.”

Williams looked worried again. “It's not that, sir. It's the prisoners. If they ran wild we'd never be able to hold them.” He looked at his mate. “Fetch the gunner and tell him to stand by. We've six
12
-pounders, but they've never had to fight since I took command.”

The mate said unhelpfully, “Nor before that neither, by the looks of 'em!”

A seaman who was splicing near the companion-way stood up and pointed astern. “There she be, sir!”

Herrick took a telescope from the rack by the compass-box and walked aft with it in both hands.

The other vessel was overhauling them fast. With the extended telescope he soon found her bulging forecourse and jibs, her top-sails completely hiding the other mast from view. End on, making full use of the same wind which was helpless to move the
Prince Henry
fast enough to maintain her distance away.

“She wears Brazilian colours, sir!”

Herrick grunted. Flags meant very little. His professional eye built up a picture in the telescope's lens. Fast and handy, a maid for all work. But Brazilian, out here? It seemed unlikely.

Spry asked, “Will we fight if she tries her chances, sir?”

Williams licked his dry lips. “Maybe they want stores, water even.” Then he said, “We've barely enough for ourselves.” He made up his mind. “All prisoners below. Tell the gunner to open the weapons chest, then arm yourselves.” He turned to speak to the sea officer with the greying hair, but Herrick had gone.

A seaman said, “She's a smart 'un!” A sailor's respect for a well-handled vessel, hostile or not.

In his cabin Herrick stood by one of his sea-chests, and after some hesitation opened it, so that his rear-admiral's dress coat shone in the reflected sunshine as if it were coming to life. He pulled out the metal box that contained his best epaulettes, the ones Dulcie had loved to see him wear. He grimaced. The same ones he had worn at his court martial. He threw his plain black coat and breeches aside and dressed slowly and methodically, the pursuing brigantine still fixed in his mind. He thought of having another shave, but his sense of discipline and what was right made him reject the idea. The water ration was the same for everyone in this pitiful relic, from captain to the lowest felon, even the one who by now might have reached the end of his journey to the seabed.

He sat down and wrote a few words in a letter and sealed it, and then he placed it carefully inside the long leather telescope case. His hand touched it, and the gold-stamped address in London of the people who had made it. He glanced at himself in the mirror, at the undreamed-of epaulettes, each with its silver star. He even smiled without bitterness. A surprising journey it had been for the son of a poor clerk in Kent.

Something moved in the thick glass windows and he saw the other vessel flying up into the wind, the manoeuvre perfectly timed even as she shortened sail.

He heard shouts on deck as the green Brazilian flag was hauled down from the peak, and replaced instantly by the Tricolour.

Herrick picked up his sword and slipped it into his belt. Unhurriedly he took a last glance around the cabin and then made his way to the companion ladder.

“She's a Frenchie!”

Williams's jaw dropped as he stared at Herrick, so calm in his uniform.

“I know.”

Williams was suddenly enraged. “Give the bastards a ball, Mr Gunner!”

The crash of a twelve-pounder brought shouts of alarm from between decks and screams from the women.

Herrick snapped, “Belay that!”

Two flashes spurted from the brigantine's low hull and a mixture of grape and cannister exploded into the poop, bringing down the two helmsmen. Spry the first mate was on his knees, staring with disbelief at the blood pumping out of his stomach even as he fell over and died.

“They're heaving-to! Repel boarders, sir?”

Williams shouted at Herrick, “What shall I do?”

Herrick watched the boat being cast off, the rough-looking oarsmen already pulling lustily towards the convict transport. As the brigantine pitched up and down, her sails aback, he saw the guns, their crews already sponging out in readiness for another attack.

He said, “Heave to, Captain. You made your point, but men have died for it.”

The captain's hand was on his pistol. “They'll not take me, God damn them!”

Herrick saw a white flag being held up by one of the boat's crew. He could even see the other vessel's name in gold letters on her counter,
Tridente.

He said, “Stay your hand, Captain. Do as they ask and I think they'll not harm you.”

The boat hooked on, and after a few seconds some ragged figures swarmed up the side and on to the deck. They were armed to the teeth and could have been of any nationality.

Herrick watched impassively and heard someone call, “All ready, lieutenant!” An American or colonial accent.

But the one man in uniform who came last on to the
Prince Henry
's deck was as French as anyone could be.

He nodded curtly to Williams, then strode straight to Her-rick. Long afterwards Williams remembered that Herrick had already been unclipping his sword, as if he had been expecting this.

The lieutenant touched his hat. “M'sieur Herrick?” He studied him gravely. “The misfortune of war. You are my prisoner.”

The brigantine was already making sail even as the boat went alongside. It seemed to have taken just minutes, and it was only when Williams saw his dead mate and the whimpering men near the wheel that he understood.

“Call Mr Prior. He can take his place!” He looked at the pistol, still in his belt. Most naval officers would have ordered him to fight to the finish and to hell with the consequences. But for Herrick he knew he would have done just that. He said heavily, “We'll put about for Cape Town.”

Herrick had even made a point of putting on full uniform, he thought. When he looked again the
Tridente,
or whatever her real name was, was already standing away, her big fore-and-aft sail already making her show her copper.

Even the prisoners were quiet, as if they knew how close it had been.

He seemed to hear Herrick's last words.
I think they'll not harm you.

It was like an epitaph.

11
T
HE CUTLASS

T
HE HOUSE
now employed as army headquarters for the growing military strength at Cape Town had once been the property of a wealthy Dutch trader. It nestled below the uncompromising barrier of Table Mountain and drew what breeze it could from the bay where the ships, like the soldiers, waited for orders.

Fans swung back and forth in the biggest room, which overlooked the sea, moved by hidden servants so that they should not disturb anyone. There were blinds at the long windows, but even so the reflected light from the sea was blinding, the sky salmon-pink like an early sunset. In fact it was noon, and Bolitho shifted in a cane chair while the general finished reading the report an orderly had just presented to him.

Major-General Sir Patrick Drummond was tall and solidly built, with a face almost as red as his coat. A successful officer in the early part of the Peninsular War and in many lesser campaigns, Drummond had the reputation of being a “soldier's soldier:” prepared to listen, equally ready to discipline anyone who failed to meet his standards.

Bolitho had already seen some of the military Drummond was expected to mould into a team capable enough to land on enemy islands and take them, no matter what it cost. It was not an enviable task.

Drummond himself was in a half-lying position with his feet on a small table. Bolitho noted that his boots were like black glass, and the splendid spurs that adorned them could have been the work of a famous silversmith.

Drummond looked up as a servant padded into the room and began to pour wine for the general and his visitor.

Bolitho said, “As you know, I have all my ships at sea, and I am expecting the arrival of two brigs.”

The general waited for the servant to move the goblet so that he could reach it without any effort, and said, “I am only afraid that we may be in danger of over-reacting.” He scratched one of his long grey sideburns and added, “You are a famous and successful sea officer, Sir Richard. It is something to get such praise from a soldier, eh? But one so notable surprises me. I would have thought a senior captain, a commodore even, could perform this work. It is like hiring ten porters to carry a musket!”

Bolitho sipped the wine. It was perfect, and seemed to spark off another memory: the cellars in St James's Street, and Catherine seeking assurances that the wine she was buying for him was as good as the shop claimed.

He said, “I do not think this campaign will proceed easily if we cannot dispose of the enemy's sea forces. They have to be based in Mauritius, and we must be prepared for other bases in the smaller islands. We could have failed at Martinique had the enemy been able to grapple with our military transports.”

Drummond gave a wry smile. “Thanks to you, I gather, the enemy got a bloody nose instead!”

“We were ready, Sir Patrick. Today we are not.”

Drummond thought about it, frowning slightly as his world intruded into this long, shadowed room. Marching feet and the clatter of horses and harness, sergeants bellowing orders, probably half-blinded by sweat as they drilled in the relentless glare.

He said, “I should like to enjoy Christmas here. After that, we'll have to see.”

Bolitho thought of England. It would be cold, perhaps with snow, although they did not get much in Cornwall. The sea off Pendennis Point would be angry and grey with surf along that line of well-remembered rocks. And Catherine . . . would she be missing London?
Missing me?

Drummond said, “If you had more ships . . .”

Bolitho smiled. “It is always so, Sir Patrick. A squadron should be on its way here by now, with more soldiers and supplies.”

He wondered at Keen's feelings when he had been parted from Zenoria. Flying his own broad-pendant as commodore would seem easy to him after his years of command and having been Bolitho's flag captain.

How different from Trevenen. He was out on the ocean in his powerful
Valkyrie,
the other frigates sailing on either beam to offer their lookouts the maximum range in their search for any vessel of ill-intent. Patriot or pirate, it made little difference to a ponderous merchantman.

Drummond rang a small bell and waited for the servant to reappear and fill the goblets. He looked past him to the door and barked, “Come
in,
Rupert! Don't stand there hovering about!”

Rupert was a major whom Bolitho had already met. He seemed to be Drummond's right hand, a mixture of Keen and Avery rolled into one.

“What is it?” Drummond gestured to the servant. “Another bottle, man! Jump about!”

The major glanced at Bolitho and gave a brief smile. “The lookout station has reported another vessel, sir.”

Drummond paused with his goblet in mid-air. “Well? Spit it out! I'm not a mind-reader, and Sir Richard here is no enemy spy!”

Bolitho contained a grin. Drummond could not be an easy man to serve.

“She is the
Prince Henry,
sir.”

Drummond stared. “That damned convict transport? She is not expected in Cape Town. I would have been informed.”

Bolitho said quietly, “I was in Freetown when she weighed anchor. She should be well on her way across the Indian Ocean by now.”

The others looked at him uncertainly. Bolitho said, “Please ask my flag lieutenant to investigate and report to me. This wine is too good to leave.” He hoped that his casual comment would conceal his sudden anxiety. What could be wrong? The transports never wasted any time. Packed with people being deported for one crime or another, no master could be certain of anything.

Drummond stood up and unrolled some charts on his table. “I can pass the time by showing you what we intend to do in Mauritius. But I must have some good foot soldiers—most of my men are barely trained. The Iron Duke makes sure he has the pick of the regiments on the Peninsula, blast his eyes!” But there was admiration there too.

It was close to an hour before Avery and the hard-pressed major came to report.

Avery said, “She's the
Prince Henry
right enough, Sir Richard. She has made a signal requesting medical assistance.”

The major added, “I have informed the field-surgeon, sir.”

Avery looked at Bolitho. “The captain-in-charge has also been told, and the guard-boats are already under way.”

His face was quite calm but Bolitho could guess what he was thinking. Medical assistance might mean that some terrible fever or plague had broken out. It was not unknown. If it reached the overcrowded army garrison and camps it would run through them like a forest fire.

The general walked to the window and dragged away the blind as he groped for a brass telescope nearby.

He said, “She's coming about. The officer-of-the-guard has ordered her to anchor.” He extended the telescope very carefully. “She's been raked, by the look of her!”

He handed it to Bolitho and said sharply, “Get down there, Rupert, at the double. Use my horse if you like. Send out some men if there's any trouble.”

As the door closed Drummond said angrily, “I've got the Fifty-Eighth Regiment of Foot here, but the rest? Yeomanry and the York Fusiliers, so your convoy had better make haste!”

When he looked from the window Bolitho saw that the transport had anchored and was already hemmed in by guard-boats and water lighters, while other harbour craft idled about at a safe distance.

Why would any privateer or man-of-war interfere with an old transport and a cargo of convicts? It would be like putting your hand into a ferret's lair.

He touched his eye as the savage glare probed at it like a hot ember.

It was late afternoon by the time Avery returned to the headquarters building.

He placed the leather telescope case on the table and said, “This was found in the cabin, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho picked it up and thought of Herrick's dying wife, and Catherine, who had nursed her.

Avery watched him. “The master of the
Prince Henry
was boarded by armed men under the command of a French lieutenant. They took Rear-Admiral Herrick prisoner, then allowed the ship to proceed. Captain Williams decided to turn back, so that we should know what happened. His mate was killed and some of his men badly injured.”

The room was quite silent, as if not even the distant soldiers wanted to intrude on Bolitho's thoughts. Afterwards Avery realised that Bolitho had already guessed what had happened, had known the reason for the attack.

Bolitho opened the leather case and found the piece of paper inside. He held it to the sunlight and saw Herrick's familiar sloping handwriting.
She is the
Tridente,
brigantine . . . under Brazilian colours. But she is an American privateer. I have seen her before.
Her-rick had not signed it or made any other comment. He must have known, too, that they were coming for him. Baratte's hand again: to make the conflict as personal as it was deadly.

Drummond asked, “What will you do?”

“There is little enough I can do until my ships discover something that might lead us to the enemy.”

Drummond said, “Rear-Admiral Herrick was once a friend of yours, I believe.”

“Baratte obviously believes it too.” He smiled, and his face seemed suddenly more grave because of it. “He
is
my friend, Sir Patrick.”

Drummond glared at his charts. “It means they know more of our intentions than I would have wished.”

Bolitho recalled Adam's information concerning the big American frigate
Unity.
A coincidence? Unlikely. Involvement then? If so, it could erupt into open war at a time when the French needed more than anything for England's blockade to be broken, and her victorious armies divided by an unexpected ally.

Bolitho looked up, his mind suddenly clear.

“Find Yovell and direct him to be ready to draft some orders for me.” He was seeing it in his mind like a chart. “I want
Valkyrie
and
Laertes
to return here at once, and
Anemone
to remain on patrol and search duties. I shall order one of the schooners to find Trevenen with all haste. Jenour's
Orcadia
and the other brig are due any day now.” He looked around the room as though he felt trapped. “I must get to sea.” He paused as if surprised by something, perhaps himself. “We will send word to Freetown by the first available packet. I want James Tyacke with me. And as someone observed recently, I
am
the senior naval officer here.” He looked into the shadows as if he expected to see all those other lost faces watching him. “We may no longer be a band of brothers, or
We Happy Few,
but we'll show Baratte something this time, and there will be no exchange at the end of it!”

After Bolitho and his flag lieutenant had departed the major-general thought of what he had just witnessed.

He was a soldier, and a good one, not only in his own opinion. He had never had many dealings with the King's navy, and when he had he had usually found them to be unsatisfactory. There was no better thing than the army's tradition and discipline, no matter what scum you were expected to train and lead for the honour of the regiment.

He had heard of Bolitho's behaviour in England where his blatant affair with the Somervell woman had turned society against him. He had heard too of that lady's courage when the
Golden Plover
had been lost on the reef.

The charisma had been here in this room and he had seen and felt it for himself. Watched the fire in the man, the anguish over his friend, who had perhaps been one of his
happy few.

Later that day when Yovell had at last laid down his pen, and Avery had been allowed to carry the orders to the schooner, and Ozzard could be heard humming quietly as he laid the table for supper, Bolitho considered his course of action. Impetuous, yes. Dangerous, probably. But there was no other option. He looked around. Gleaming brightly in the candlelight, Herrick's telescope lay near the window of his borrowed quarters as a reminder, if one were needed.

Aloud he said, “Do not fret, Thomas. I shall find you, and there will be no bad blood between us.”