His Majesty's Ship (22 page)

      
“You're wantin' to come back to the mess?” Flint asked him.

      
“If you'll have me.”

      
Membership of the mess depended on the agreement of all. Crehan might as easily be cast out, forced to mess alone, or with the “pariah-dogs”, others who had been rejected by their peers.

      
“I'd take a vote,” Flint turned to Matthew. “But I think it really depends on one.”

      
Now all were looking at him, although the boy's eyes stayed fixed on the table in front of him.

      
“I'll do you no harm, lad.” Crehan said, “An' I'm sorry, truly, for the trouble.”

      
Matthew nodded briefly, and was relieved when it was taken as a signal.

      
Crehan went to lower himself on to one of the mess benches when a raised finger stopped him. He looked into Flint's eyes and saw real meaning.

      
“You will do him no harm.” Flint said, his words low but clear. ‘Cause you'll have us all watchin', day an' night.”

      
“'sright.” Jenkins this time, his stare strangely harsh, even in the murky gloom of the gundeck. “Lay a finger on the boy, an' I'll take yon 'part, piece by piece.”

      
Crehan looked along the row of faces. Lewis was nodding, and looking no less firm. “Goes for me 'nall.”

      
“Goes for every man'n this ship.” O'Conner this time, wearing an expression devoid of warmth or camaraderie. “I'll finish you me self, an' they'll be others to do it if I don’t.”

      
Crehan nodded again, and sat down on the bench. From behind the next gun a voice broke out in a soft rendering of
Spanish Ladies
, one of the songs Jake the carpenter had taught Matthew a hundred years ago. Other voices joined, until the entire deck was together in song. Matthew felt a warm glow inside. His eyes grew hot and he knew that unreasonable tears were close by. The air was thick with the smell of beer and strong men as, cautiously at first, he opened his mouth and began to join in the song.

PART THREE

IN ACTION

CHAPTER TWELVE

      
They sighted the enemy ships at first light, a yell from the masthead being the signal that their lives were to change beyond all measure. Initially Shepherd and the rest of his officers assumed them to be British, a small squadron despatched from the Channel Fleet or maybe some of Smith's ships that kept guard over Northern France. The former was the more likely, as the topgallants appeared to be those of large vessels, although even then Shepherd was concerned, and a prickling feeling down the back of his neck began to grow with his suspicions.

      
The wind was light and from the North East, blowing offshore from the Brest peninsula a hundred and twenty miles over the horizon. It gave the strange ships the windward advantage and added importance to the hope that they would turn out to be British. One or two might have slipped out of the Brest blockade during the recent storm; four was unlikely, although by no means impossible. But then Admiral Howe did not enforce the tight blockade that Shepherd, and other younger men, advocated. Shepherd had been with Howe as a lieutenant in America, and later served under him when he commanded his first frigate. He knew him to be a capable, indeed, an exceptional officer although there was no doubt that, at nigh on seventy, he was getting old for his post.

      
It was two bells in the forenoon watch: nine o'clock, when the sails could first be seen from the deck. Shepherd and his officers studied them through their glasses. The topgallants and topsails were barely distinguished through the haze, although the unspoken impression was that they appeared white. Most British ships on active service would have been at sea for some while, the canvas of their sails being dulled to a dirty grey brown. The French however, had endured almost two years of blockade, with the majority of their ships not at sea one day in a hundred. Consequently their sails and rigging were normally fresh from the dockyard, and four ships with white sails was as clear an indication of nationality as any ensign. The small cluster of officers that gathered on the weather side of the poop exchanged knowing looks. Judging by the speed of the convoy, those ships should overhaul them by mid afternoon; there would be little chance of slipping silently away with darkness.

      
“What do you see there?” Shepherd's voice carried up to the masthead lookout perched high on the main topgallant yard.

      
“No change, sir. Keepin' the same course.”

      
“What size are they?” The entire ship was silent with expectation.

      
“Difficult to say for sure. Two look to be frigates, and two liners, one of them might be somethin' bigger. Wait—I can see colours!

      
It was torture.

      
“Them's French, sir. Sure of it!”

      
Vigilant
was keeping station two miles to the rear of the convoy. Immediately Shepherd roared out orders that sent men skimming up the ratlines to let out more sail. Adding topgallants, jibs and staysails to the forecourse and topsails would increase her speed considerably; they would be up to the convoy within the hour. He looked across to the merchantmen, who were showing a mixture of sails as would be expected when different ships keep speed with one another. None were closer than three cables from their neighbour; they sailed in two rough columns that straggled over a square mile of ocean. Shepherd surveyed them with a mild disdain; it was as tight a formation as they had managed since the voyage began; heaven only knew what would happen once they realised there was an enemy bearing down on them.

      
“Signal to
Badger
, repeat to
Taymar
; Enemy squadron in sight to windward.”

      
King scratched out the signal in his note book, and called for one of the signal midshipman, conscious that this was the first time since being promoted that he had been under real pressure. A minute later the flags soared up the halyards, being acknowledged by the sloop that kept station on the larboard side of the convoy. The message was repeated to the invisible frigate, and within seven minutes all escorts were aware of the danger. Shepherd took a turn back and forward along the quarterdeck, pausing as a quartermaster and master's mate returned from the poop with a dripping log line.

      
“What speed?” he asked, as the master's mate began to chalk on to the traverse board.

      
“Five and a touch, sir.”

      
Five knots; they could maintain that only until they caught up with the convoy. Then they would have to slow to three, while the French bore down on them unhindered.

      
Scattering the convoy may even be the better option. With the wind holding as it was, some of the copper bottomed merchants would make six, even seven knots. At that rate and handled smartly they should reach safety, as the French would find it hard to take them all. The flagship was potentially fast, although her efforts to date had not been impressive. But spurred on by the threat of capture,
Vigilant
, and the other warships, might lead her and her precious human cargo to safety. Some of the others might also avoid capture, and there would be the added bonus of knowing that a powerful squadron was loose on the Atlantic. He could even meet up with one of the blockading squadrons and alert them to the menace.

      
However, to do that inevitably meant leaving the slower merchants behind without support. They would be consigned to certain disaster and as senior captain Shepherd was aware that his actions must be justified to all, not just his superiors. The owners would naturally complain, and it was not inconceivable that public opinion would rise up against him. With the habit of victory established early in the war, the mob would not look happily on one who ran from his responsibilities, and that was ignoring what the Admiralty made of it. The intelligent few would see his action as the sensible solution, but they were likely to be outnumbered by those who thought him a coward. Even if he kept his command, there was little chance he would ever be given charge of a convoy again.

      
Or he could keep the merchants together, and with the frigate and the sloop, try to scare the French away. He would have considerably less than a third of their fire power, and some ships would be lost before they were even close enough to use their light guns. It was a shame he had none of the bigger Indiamen amongst his charges; some had a passable resemblance to line-of-battle ships and, boldly commanded, the French might even be frightened away without a shot being fired.

      
The thoughts raced about his mind as he paced the deck. Sending
Taymar
and
Badger
with the flagship and the other, faster, ships would leave them a measure of protection, and there was a good chance the French would continue after the slower, safer, target even if there was a minor line ship to contend with. He would also have the chance to engage the squadron, delaying it to ensure their escape and possibly causing damage to the degree that capture by others became inevitable, albeit at the sacrifice of his own ship. His actions would allow the flagship, and her diplomats, to go free, and also reduce the area which the French might expect to be found, and make their eventual capture that much more likely. He glanced again at the convoy, sailing in innocence, unaware that they were waiting for one man, him, to make up his mind.

      
He finally turned to Tait, the officer of the watch, who was standing by the binnacle.

      
“Mr Tait, have the cutter cleared away and made ready to launch. I want to send a message to the commodore.”

      
“Aye, sir,” Tait touched his hat, and was shouting out the orders as Shepherd stepped back to his quarters under the poop.

      
“Pass the word for my clerk,” he said to the marine standing sentry at his door.

      
His cabin was spacious and tidy, although the furniture could only be described as functional. Shepherd saw no reason in spending money on items that would have a limited life. Even if they saw no action, conditions at sea were not the best for fine furniture. The heavy wooden articles the carpenter had produced did their duty as well as fine Hepplewhite or Sheraton and would probably last longer. Especially if, as Shepherd predicted, they would be roughly stashed in the hold before long as the ship cleared for action.

      
Lindsay, his clerk, slipped into the cabin unobtrusively, and seated himself at the desk where so very recently his captain had been writing letters home.

      
“To Sir Thomas Davies, Commodore commanding the Honourable East India Company ship,
Pegasus
. Sir,” Shepherd paused while he framed the words that would divide the convoy, sending some to safety and leaving others, including himself, to likely ruin. Lindsay waited, his nib parked just above the ink pot.

      
“I regret to inform you that a powerful French squadron has been sighted to windward...”
 

*****

      
On deck the spring sunshine was showing its first real hint of warmth as Tait stood with Gregory.

      
“What do you think he'll do?” Tait was third lieutenant, after Rogers and Dyson, although he had long grown used to asking his supposed junior for opinions and advice. The experience stored up in Gregory's stocky, almost stout, frame was well worth tapping.

      
Gregory stuck out his chin. “Not many choices, the obvious is to scatter, that way some'll make it through and we get to report the squadron. Otherwise, head inshore. Make as much of a chase as we can and hope to sight some of Black Dick's ships. The captain might have other ideas, mind; he's a one for surprises.”

      
Tait stroked his top lip as he gazed at the enemy sails that held a morbid fascination for him. The topsails were still only just visible; clearly the increase in speed had kept the French at roughly the same distance, although whenever a lucky wave lifted
Vigilant
, he caught a glimpse of their courses.

      
“We'll be up with the convoy 'fore long.” Gregory broke into his thoughts with a gentle hint. As officer of the watch it was Tait's duty to inform the captain of any notable occurrence. The flagship was well within striking distance now; it was time to shorten sail, unless they intended to pass through the untidy fleet of merchantmen. Tait hesitated; Shepherd was aware of the situation, and would be bound to return to the deck shortly. The cutter hung ready from its davits, and next to it stood the crew. With the wind as it was there would be no trouble in sailing the small boat down to
Pegasus
, and picking it up afterwards would be just as easy.

      
Then he heard the captain approach.