Darkening Sea (19 page)

Close-hauled under topsails and jib His Britannic Majesty's frigate
Anemone
appeared to drift easily on the deep blue water, her reflection hardly marred by the long ocean swells.

In his cabin, Captain Adam Bolitho had spread a chart on his table beside the litter of a late midday meal, and as he studied it his ear was following the muted shipboard noises.

It had been just a week since the courier schooner from Cape Town and the other frigates
Valkyrie
and
Laertes
had parted company with him. It seemed much longer, and Adam had pondered several times on the reason for his uncle's brief letter, written in his own hand and attached to the orders separating
Anemone
from the others. Perhaps he did not trust Trevenen. Adam's face stiffened with dislike. Whenever his ship had sailed in close company with the senior frigate there had always been a stream of signals, and even when within earshot it had been all he could do to hold his temper as Trevenen had bellowed across the clear water through his speaking-trumpet. Dissatisfaction about a lack of reports and sightings, complaints about his station-keeping: almost anything. The schooner's arrival had seemed like a blessing.
Then.

He stared hard at the chart. To the north lay the great island of Madagascar, and to the north-east the French islands of Mauritius and Bourbon. They were certainly well-placed to prey on the busy trade-routes. And nobody knew how many ships the enemy was using, let alone where they were based.

He heard shouts on deck and knew the watch was preparing to lay the ship on her next tack. And so it had been since their arrival in this area: each day the same, with nothing to break the monotony but drills and more drills. But no floggings. That had been the only reward for the patience his officers had shown.

Unlike Trevenen's command, he thought. In retrospect it seemed that each time the ships had moved closer together he had seen somebody being punished at the gratings. Without Bolitho aboard it was as if Trevenen was making up for lost opportunities.

He thought about Herrick's capture by the enemy privateer as related in his uncle's message. Letters of marque meant very little in these waters. Mercenaries were only a short step from pirates.

He was surprised that he had few feelings about what had happened. He had always respected Herrick but they had never been close, and Adam could never forgive him for his treatment of Bolitho, although he could imagine what anguish his uncle was still suffering for the sake of one who had once been his friend.

His thoughts strayed back to the courier schooner, although he had tried to put it from his mind. He had done wrong, very wrong, and no good could come of it.
But I did do it.
The words seemed to mock him. He had written the letter much earlier, as
Anemone
had left the African mainland astern and the oceans had changed from one to another.

It had been like talking to her, or so he had thought at the time. Reliving the moment when they had loved one another despite the grief and despair of what had happened. Even her anger, her hatred perhaps, had not deterred him in any way. With thousands of miles between them, and the very real possibility that he would never see her again, the memory of their last hostile encounter had softened. When the schooner's commander had asked for any letters to be passed across, he had sent the letter over. He could not accept that such passion as they had shared could end as it had.

It had been madness; and night after night in the humid darkness of his quarters he had been tortured by what his impetuous action might do to her and to the happiness she shared with Keen.

He reached for the coffee, but it was without taste.

Where would it end? What should he do?

Perhaps she would destroy the letter when it eventually reached her. Surely she would not keep it, even to show to her husband . . .

There was a tap at the door and his first lieutenant looked in at him warily. Martin had proved to be far better at his duties than Adam had dared to hope. With Christmas drawing near he had managed to arouse interest even among some of the hard men. In the cool of the evening watches he had organised all kinds of contests from wrestling, which he surprisingly seemed to know a lot about, to races between the various divisions at sail and boat drill. With extra tots of rum as an inducement there had been hornpipes, watched by the majority of the company and eventually cheered when the winners had been decided.

Adam always avoided over-confidence with a cautiousness he had learned from his uncle, but he had seen pressed and rebellious men slowly being welded into a team, a part of the ship he loved.

“What is it, Aubrey?”

The lieutenant relaxed slightly. The use of his first name told him more than anything of his young captain's mood. He had seen him being tormented by something ever since leaving England. Trevenen's goading, the lack of the trained men he had lost to other ships, the endless ocean itself perhaps, all had played their part.

The captain had often been sharp with him, embarrassingly so, but in his heart Martin knew he wanted to serve no other.

“Masthead reports a sail, sir. He thinks.” He saw Adam's eyes flash and added hastily, “Bad sea mist to the north, sir.”

Surprisingly Adam smiled. “Thank you.” It was not the vague report that had brought the frown to his face but the fact that he had not heard the lookout's cry through the open cabin skylight. A year ago he would not have believed such a thing possible.

“How goes the wind?”

“Much as before, sir. South-by-west. A fair breeze, it seems.” Adam returned to his chart and cradled the islands between his fingers as he had seen his uncle do many times.

“What could a ship be doing out here?”

“Mr Partridge thinks she may be a trader.”

Adam rubbed his chin. “Bound for where, I wonder?” He pointed at the chart with his brass dividers. “She has a choice. Mauritius or Bourbon—the other islands are nothing of interest. Unless . . .” He looked at the lieutenant, his eyes suddenly very alive.

“Call all hands, Aubrey. Set the courses and get the t'gallants on her! Let's take a look at this
stranger!
”

Martin thought of the quick changes of mood and said cautiously, “It may be nothing, sir.”

Adam grinned at him. “On the other hand, you old misery, she might make a nice Christmas present for my uncle, have you thought of that?”

He went on deck and watched the men already spread out on the yards, the released sails booming and cracking as they filled to the wind across the quarter.

He watched from the quarterdeck rail as sail after sail was sheeted home and the deck tilted to the pressure. Spray dashed over the figurehead, and through the rigging and hurrying bare-backed seamen he saw the nymph's gold shoulders glistening as if she had been roused by their thrust through the water.

“Lookout reported that she has two masts, sir.”

That was Dunwoody, the signals midshipman. “But the mist is bad despite the wind.”

Partridge the grizzled sailing-master looked at him scornfully.

“Proper little Cap'n Cook you are!”

Adam walked a few paces this way and that, his feet so used to the ringbolts and gun tackles in his path that he avoided them without effort.

A two-masted vessel. Could she be the unknown
Tridente
Herrick had described in his hidden message? His heart quickened at the thought. It seemed quite likely. Sailing alone with every sighting a probable enemy.

“Another pull on the weather forebrace, there!” Dacre, the second lieutenant, was striding about the main deck, his eyes uplifted as the sails emptied and filled again with the sound of musket fire.

“Deck there!” A forgotten lookout's voice was almost lost in the surge of the sea into the scuppers and the whine of stays and shrouds. The conditions which
Anemone
used to full advantage.

The lookout tried again. “Brig, sir!”

Adam looked at the horizon. So it was not
Tridente.

Several telescopes were trained on the mist-shrouded division between sky and ocean as they waited to see what the masthead had reported.

“Deck, sir! She's spreadin' more sail an' standin' away to the nor'-east!”

Adam clapped his hands together. “The fool's made a mistake. This soldier's wind can't help him now!” He punched the first lieutenant's arm. “Get the royals on her, Mr Martin, and alter course two points to starboard! We'll be up to that rascal within the hour!”

Martin glanced at him only briefly before he started to shout his orders to the waiting seamen and marines. It was like seeing someone else emerging from a mask.

“Mr Gwynne, more hands aloft! Lively there!”

The new third lieutenant Lewis said casually, “A bit of prize-money, eh?” He flinched as the captain's eyes passed over him. He need not have worried. Adam had not even heard him.

Adam wedged himself against the rail and levelled his telescope. Like a great pink curtain the mist was already rolling away. The brig, and it surely was not a brigantine, was almost stern-on, her mainsail standing out above the sea on either beam, the foam thrown up from her rudder clearly visible as she took the wind under her coat-tails.

“She flies no colours, sir.”

Adam moistened his lips and tasted the salt. “Soon she will. Of one sort or another.”

He looked sharply at Martin. “They'll be able to see who we are soon, Aubrey.”

The lieutenant almost held his breath under his stare.

Then Adam said, “You are about my build, eh?” He smiled as if it was all a great joke. “We will change coats. You shall be captain for a while.”

Mystified, Martin slipped into the proffered coat with its pair of sea-tarnished epaulettes.

Adam took the lieutenant's coat with its white lapels and grinned.

“Very good.”

Around them the men at the wheel and standing to the mizzen braces paused to watch.

Adam touched his sleeve. “I trust you, Aubrey, but I need to get amongst them, to see for myself.” He became formal again, even curt. “I intend to board her. Detail a good party, some marines amongst them. Sergeant Deacon will be useful.” He turned as his coxswain George Starr padded across the deck with his short fighting sword. “I'll take this with me.” He glanced at Starr's impassive features. Not an Allday, but he was good.

Later, as they bore down on the brig, Adam said, “Hoist the signal for her to heave-to, Mr Dunwoody. She will do no such thing, so pass my compliments to the gunner and tell him to lay a bow-chaser with his own hands!”

Martin was back again, his young face screwed up with worry.

“But suppose they try to repel boarders, sir?”

“Then you will fire on them, sir!”

“With you on board, sir?” He was shocked.

Adam watched him seriously and then patted one of the epaulettes on his shoulder. “Then who knows? You may become a real captain earlier than expected!”

“No acknowledgement, sir!”

“Let her fall off a point, Mr Partridge.” Adam watched the other vessel as she appeared to edge into the criss-cross of rigging when the helm went over. It would give the bow-chaser a clearer shot. Even so, it would be a difficult one. He saw sunlight flashing on the brig's stern windows, and from trained telescopes above the creaming water. A fast little ship. He smiled.
Not fast enough.

“As you bear!” Ayres, the grey-haired master gunner, could not hear him from the forecastle, but he had seen his young captain's hand slice down.

The bang of the long eighteen-pounder made the frames quiver like a body-blow.

Ayres got up with some difficulty from the smoking cannon and shaded his eyes as the ball slapped through the brig's driver, leaving a round charred hole. He was too old for this sort of work, but not even his officers would dare to tell him.

There was a muffled cheer and Adam watched as a flag broke out stiffly from the other vessel's gaff.

One of the lieutenants gave a groan. “Damned Yankee! Of all the luck!”

“She's shortening sail an' coming about, sir!”

Adam said coolly, “Wouldn't you?”

He gestured with his fist. “Heave-to, if you please, and call away the cutter.” He looked at Martin meaningly. “You know what to do. Just watch everything with a glass.” He beckoned to the signals midshipman. “You come with me.” He did not see the youth's surprise and pleasure as he touched his hat to the
“
captain,
”
and the frigate began to labour round into the wind, her yards alive with men as they shortened sail, as fast and as cleanly as any company could. Adam recalled the
Unity
's captain's comments about the slowness he had watched in
Anemone
's half-trained company. He would not say it again if they should meet.