The Patriot's Fate (21 page)

“Boat hooks, there!” Lewis, the master’s mate, had joined him and was assessing the situation. “You, Crouch, ready when they come past; we don’t want to do this twice.”

A party of men were now hanging from
Scylla’
s fore and main chains, boat hooks extended, while further hands were ready with lengths of line. The boat was approaching quickly, and should actually collide with the frigate’s hull. As soon as it did there would be about two or three seconds in which to secure the craft before the current and wind rushed it past. Banks watched as the small vessel drew closer. The men at her stern were in heavy oilskins and neither made any attempt to move forward to receive a line at their bow.

“Ready lads,” Lewis was holding his hand up, gauging the moment to the second. The boat passed out of Banks’s field of vision, and the master’s mate cried out in the darkness. Those at the falls threw their lines while the seamen with boat hooks leaned down, almost out of sight. There was a brief moment of confusion, then someone gave a solid cheer and Lewis looked back at his captain.

“We have them, sir.”

“Very good, have the passengers brought on board as fast as you can; the boat you may abandon.” He had no intention of risking men’s lives and slowing their passage further by attempting to take a heavily laden vessel in tow.

Lewis was bareheaded, but touched his forehead, and bent to bellow at the working party. Banks retreated to the binnacle. Hauling passengers aboard in the teeth of a gale was yet another task that was better left to someone else.

* * *

The storm had also reached the
Hoche
and she was making heavy weather of it. Even from his cramped hammock Crowley had the feel of the ship, and knew things were not right. He moved, nudging Doyle with his shoulder and hardly hearing his friend curse in his sleep. They had been below for at least eight hours; the storm had blown up in that time and Crowley sensed that it would stay with them a good while longer. He had no way of knowing what conditions were like on deck, but the ship had been badly managed from the start, and he didn’t expect the recent change in the weather to have improved things. He swung his legs out and jumped down from his hammock. This time both Doyle and Doherty swore, but he had no ears for either. Making his way along the crowded orlop he could hear the pumps in action and knew that the ship’s timbers must be straining painfully. A party of men were seated by the main hatchway that led to the deck above. There was a strong smell of wine in the air, and one was talking in an especially loud and high-pitched voice. Crowley supposed that fear was likely to effect people in different ways, and pushed his way through.

At the top of the steps a soldier was sitting with his back braced against a wooden post, clearly attempting to maintain some form of equilibrium in a vertiginous world. He noticed Crowley with surprise, shouted out a challenge and made as if to rise. The Irishman could not be bothered with the language, and roughly pushed him back down onto the deck. The private struggled up and caught hold of his arm. Suddenly all of the tensions and doubts of the last few weeks welled up inside, and Crowley glared pure venom at the man. “Leave me alone, you bloody frog,” he hissed. His glance alone was enough to turn milk, and the soldier drew back. Crowley roughly shook the man’s grip from his sleeve and continued.

There was no guard posted at the next hatchway and soon Crowley was on deck. He was lacking both coat and hat, and the spray stung his skin, but strangely the Irishman did not feel in the least cold. He looked about. Men were sheltering under the gangways, and there were four hanging grimly to the wheel. The
Hoche
was showing topsails without reefs: it was far too much canvas for such conditions, and the spars and shrouds were under great strain. He approached the quarterdeck steps and climbed half way up. Apart from the men at the wheel only one other was near to the binnacle. He was crouched down, seeking what shelter he could from the lee of the mizzen mast, and so soundly wrapped in oilskins as to be unrecognisable. Crowley waved his hand, but the man ignored him. Swearing softly he made his way up and lurched across the deck in a series of short but carefully timed bursts.

“You must take in the sail,” he yelled, his face inches from the man’s covered face. “Take in the sail” he repeated. “
Descendez la voile!
”

There was no sign of recognition in the eyes; disgusted, Crowley moved on and was about to start back for the waist when another oilskin encased body emerged from the officer’s companionway. Crowley waved, and he drew closer.

“Too much sail!” Crowley shouted, and this time the man responded. Staring up at the tophamper he brought a metal call to his lips and blew a long blast. Soon men were appearing from the waist and forecastle and stood waiting for instructions. The ship gave a sudden lurch, and there was an ominous crack from higher up on the mainmast. There was very little time, and without further thought Crowley made for the windward gangway.

He had reached the weather mainmast shrouds, swung himself out, and was starting the climb to the maintop before he even realised others were following. The shrouds were iron tight, but each ratline hung loose beneath his bare feet. It was several months before that Crowley had last climbed aloft and probably years since he had done so during a storm. His muscles ached and he knew that he was not in practice. Still, as he reached the futtock shrouds, his instincts kept him safe. He swiftly transferred himself to the topmast shrouds and was making reasonable progress when the mast gave another loud crack. Then the sail in front of him grew slack, and a line whipped passed his head. For a moment he considered descending to the maintop. He glanced down, but there were men behind: he must continue.
 

A shout came from the quarterdeck; the ship was heaving to, but Crowley knew they had to make the yard and get that sail in. Then he was at the crosstrees, and the topsail yard was immediately within reach. Reaching up he pulled himself onto the wooden beam, his feet finding purchase on the footrope. Another man was following, and there were several after that.
 

The ship was still lurching violently in the storm, with every movement amplified by the height of the yard. He made his way along, resting after every third or fourth foot. His belly protested at the unexpected exertion, but soon he was in position, and there appeared to be enough with him to handle the sail. Leaning forward he grabbed at the canvas. It was wet and heavy, and several of his nails broke as he brought it up. But he made progress, and there were others next to him being as successful. For a moment he drew breath, the call had been close, but it looked like they had acted in the nick of time. And it was then that it happened.

The ship had turned slightly, but a freak gust of wind caught them at just the wrong angle. The main topsail suddenly snatched itself from the grip of the topmen and billowed out to leeward. Crowley felt himself tugged sideways, and grabbed at the yard for support. Another loud crack, and more lines parted. Then the entire topmast began to fall.

He had known he was going even before the spar started to tilt. Beneath him was the torrid sea, and next to that an unforgiving deck. The water might at least cushion his fall, but once down he could expect no rescue, and would be drowned for certain. The mast slipped further, and he felt himself slide down the smooth wood of the topsail yard. The man to his left let out one desperate cry before disappearing into the gloom and Crowley knew that their time was all but spent. A line passed him by and instinctively he made a grab for it, winding the rope about his forearm. It felt like standing rigging and snaked down from the foremast: probably the topgallant mast stay. Without thinking he released his grip on the spar and felt it fall away from beneath him. His weight was now entirely on the stay, and he dropped and swung violently towards the foremast. The wind caught him: for a moment he was floating in the rain filled air, then he felt himself pushed against the foremast shrouds. Crowley snatched at them; he was on the leeward side and they were dangerously slack, but still offered support. Releasing the line, he clambered onto the shrouds, his feet gratefully resting on the ratlines. To his right the main topmast was now hanging at a crazy angle, but he had found safety at least, and slowly began to climb down to the deck.

“Well that was quite a sight, Michael.” It was Doyle, last seen snug and warm in his hammock ten, maybe fifteen minutes before. “Few of us can say they climbed the main, only to come down the fore.” There were further men on deck now, and the broken topmast was being lowered in a tangle of line and canvas. Whistles screamed and there were shouts and calls, but Crowley took no notice. He reached the deadeyes and swung himself inboard, landing with a stagger on the heaving deck. His friend caught him, and they both laughed for a second, then Doyle’s eyes grew serious.

“What is it with you?” he said. “You’re shivering fit to raise the devil.”

Crowley went to speak but somehow the words would not come.

“Go aloft in just a shirt, Michael? Man, you’re lucky not to catch your death.”

* * *

As soon as she heard there were women amongst the rescued Betsy Clarkson claimed them as her own.

“You poor dears, let me take you below, and get you warm.” The older of the two women readily took her arm and both were guided through the dark decks, past the interested gaze of the watch below, and into the sick bay where Betsy closed the door, adjusted the lantern, and began to bustle with a small spirit stove.

“There,” she said when it was finally alight. “Let’s have those dreadful wet clothes off and get you properly dry. We will have no men hereabouts, apart from maybe my husband and Mr Manning,” she said, considering for a moment. “But they’re both surgeons so don’t count.”
 

The women, one considerably older than the other, peeled off their sodden dresses and undergarments and gratefully rubbed themselves dry with the coarse woollen towels that Betsy provided.

“I can’t do much for you until this wretched storm abates,” she said, heaving up a bundle of clothing from a nearby locker. “But you may have the surgeon’s watchcoats for now, and these will keep you decent.”

“Pray do not trouble yourself,” the older one announced as she regarded the seamen’s duck trousers and cotton tops that Mrs Clarkson began laying out with disdain. “I have plenty of dry clothing in our boat.”

“Oh I am certain something more suitable can be found by and by,” Betsy reassured her. “Mrs Porter, the boatswain’s wife, is about your size,” she said. Then, regarding the younger woman, “And I about yours.”

She was indeed very similar to Betsy Clarkson, both in age and height, though her damp hair looked far darker, almost black, in fact. She smiled readily, slipped a vastly oversized watchcoat over her bare shoulders, and picked up the seamen’s clothes with obvious interest.

“I shall not mind wearing these for a spell, mama,” she said, holding them at arms’ length and smiling appreciatively. “Quite like the night suits uncle brought back from his last trip to the East.”

The older woman sniffed, and draped a watchcoat about her as if fearful of allowing the rough fabric to touch any part of her skin. “Well, you won’t find me wearing trousers; get my things from the boat, young lady.”

Betsy looked concerned. “I’m afraid I do not have them, and rather think your boat has been abandoned.”

“Abandoned?” The woman was clearly astounded. “But it held all we have in the world. All that we could rescue from those murderous thieves, that is.”

“I will check to be sure, but we are in rather a severe storm at present.”

As if in support
Scylla
gave a particularly heavy lurch to one side. Clearly she was back on the wind, and not faring too well. The women sensed this and looked about in alarm; the ship started to heel almost immediately, and a trickle of water ran down one of the bulkheads.

“You needn’t worry over that,” Betsy chuckled. “The old girl always weeps a bit in bad weather.”

“Well, I must say this is preposterous,” the woman snarled. “We have been plucked from the sea, separated from all our possessions, and now find ourselves on a leaking boat. I demand to speak with the captain forthwith.” She stopped, realising her current state of undress, and added, “That is, just as soon as you have found me something more suitable to wear.”
 

* * *

“That boat contained nearly everything that I value,” the man told him crossly. He was holding a steaming cup and wearing one of Banks’s own dressing gowns. His damp hair was clogged with old powder and hung in clumps that swung about with each movement, taking much of the sting from his apparent anger. “Damned near everything I owned; all else is left behind. I trust you have good reason for your action, captain?”