Touch and Go (14 page)

Looking astern through his telescope, Delancey could see that the brig was fairly alight and that her crew and soldiers had taken to the boats. They had made little effort, seemingly, to put the fire out.

“Mr Mather!”

“Sir?”

“Ask your prisoners about the brig's cargo.”

There was some difficulty, but Mather managed to put the question in Spanish and returned with the answer.

“Like the
San-Felipe,
sir—oil.”

“Thank you, Mr Mather.”

Inwardly, Delancey cursed himself. He should have guessed what her cargo would be. Of course, it would be oil! She would blaze for hours, sending up a column of smoke which would be visible for thirty miles in every direction—no, further still to leeward. This would attract the attention of cruisers on either side, the last thing he wanted. Had he been on his own, he could have made all sail to leave the scene of his minor exploit but he was hampered and delayed by the
Venturer.
The barks he might have scuttled but he could not avoid responsibility for the ship he was escorting. He had the uneasy feeling that he had made a mistake.

Back on board his own ship, he set a course to the southeast and signalled the
Venturer
to take station in his wake. It took Gosling half an hour to get under way and Delancey used the time to send their gear to the prize-masters, Langford, Northmore and Topley, together with a rendezvous in case of separation. By the time he could pause for breath he found Dr Rathbone at his elbow.

“Congratulations, Captain! You took what you could and burnt what you couldn't.”

“Thank you, sir. You will observe that we had no killed or wounded on this occasion.”

“I fear that I may forget that when I come to tell the story in the fellows' parlour at Edmund Hall. I may even be tempted to give myself a conspicuous role, as perhaps in tossing overboard a mortar bomb with fuse alight.”

“And indeed, I recall the incident,” said Delancey, smiling. “What better witness can you have?”

At that instant, the look-out hailed from the mast-head, reporting a sail which was seen at the same instant from the deck. The ship was rounding the northern headland and was already within signalling distance. She was a British man-of-war and an exchange of numbers revealed that she was the 14-gun sloop
Speedy,
commanded, as Delancey knew, by Lord Cochrane.

Her arrival was unwanted and he regretted still more the column of smoke which had probably attracted Cochrane's attention and might well attract the enemy as well. His only consolation lay in the fact that Cochrane was a few months junior to him in the Commander's list. The young man had a great reputation as the officer whose 14-gun brig sloop had actually taken a Spanish frigate of thirty-two guns. No one could doubt that he would have a brilliant career but the fact remained that he came at this moment under Delancey's orders.

Through the telescope the
Speedy
looked a queer craft, originally, he guessed, no more than a merchant brig. She had done good service under the command of Captain Brenton, that much he knew, but there was something odd about her rig. She seemed to be overmasted with too big a spread of canvas for her tonnage. This perhaps accounted for her endless list of prizes but it would require superb seamanship to handle her. That Cochrane was exceptionally able was undoubtedly true but Delancey knew that he was unpopular in some quarters. With his little squadron hove to, Delancey waited for the
Speedy
and finally signalled her captain to come aboard.

Lord Cochrane turned out to be a tall, handsome, red-haired man in his middle twenties. He had a Scots accent, an aristocratic manner and no particular love for officers who might be senior to him.

“Thomas Cochrane, sir,” he introduced himself, “at your service. I saw the smoke and sailed to investigate. It is evident that I am too late to be of any assistance. Perhaps I could interest you, sir, in another enterprise?”

“I am glad to make your lordship's acquaintance. If you will step into my cabin I might be permitted to offer your lordship a glass of wine.” Delancey had no aristocratic friends and found it difficult to strike a balance between the claims of seniority and social position. He apologised for the austere furnishing of his day-cabin, assuming that his guest was accustomed to something better.

“I assure you, captain,” said Cochrane, with disarming frankness, “that you are better accommodated than I am. I don't even have headroom in the
Speedy
and am confoundedly short of money. All my inheritance consists of is a ruined castle and a heap of debts. There is nobody so poor as a man with a title and without a fortune. Much is expected of him and he has nothing to give.”

“You have my sympathy, Lord Cochrane,” said Delancey rather coldly, “but I should rather suppose that you have good prospects of promotion.” He thought inwardly that he would not be Cochrane's senior for long.

“I could wish that you were right!” Cochrane continued in a very open manner. “I have some influential friends and relatives, to be sure, but this can tell against me. If too many people approach the First Lord on my behalf, he may well resent it and say ‘No.'”

Not entirely convinced, Delancey asked him about the project he had mentioned.

“Well, sir, I have long had my eye on a French privateer called
L'Espoir
and presently based on Cagliari in Sardinia. She is not valuable in herself but would be fit for purchase into the service as a sloop. She is too fast for me and needs to be trapped between two pursuers. I observe, sir, that you have an English merchantman in company?”

“Yes, the
Venturer
of Whitehaven.”

“I would suggest using her as bait with this ship, disguised, in company. Then I would place the
Speedy
between the privateer and her base.”

“I am sorry to disappoint your lordship, but the
Venturer
is bound for Gibraltar, carrying the mails.”

“But of course! This would be only a minor detour, hardly out of her way. Her master could have no reasonable objection.”

“I regret that the first objection comes from me. I am bound in the opposite direction.” Delancey spoke rather stiffly, perhaps in a chillier tone than he had intended. He was having to resist Cochrane's social position and undeniable charm.

“No doubt of it, sir. But an officer must be allowed to use his initiative. I have intelligence, moreover, that the French are at sea. I learn—and this from a reliable source—that Admiral Linois has sailed, or is about to sail, from Toulon, bound for Cadiz with a squadron destined to co-operate with the Spanish fleet. He may be already between us and the coast of Spain. A detour southward, therefore, and a passage along the African shore would be justified on grounds of caution.”

“So it would, my lord, but the same could not be said of a preliminary detour eastwards. I thank you for your suggestion and I sincerely hope that you capture
L'Espoir,
but my answer to you is ‘No.'”

“I must confess, sir, that I am disappointed. You have a reputation for activity and I had counted on your co-operation.”

“It is with infinite regret that I decide against sailing with you.” Delancey knew where his duty lay and felt that his decision was inevitable. But Cochrane's powers of persuasion were considerable and Delancey had no love for the part he was playing. Was he unimaginative and dull, pleading prior orders and behaving like a prig? He had made his choice, however, and Cochrane had risen, plainly showing his resentment and contempt.

“You will allow me, sir, to take my leave?” he said coldly. “I must make some other plan for the capture of
L'Espoir.”

“I am confident that your lordship's abilities are more than equal to making the capture without such help as I could offer.”

The two captains parted coldly and Delancey wondered afterwards whether he had been unwise to antagonise Lord Cochrane. He would have been wrong to go against the orders he had received but could he not have found a better way of saying ‘No'? He would have handled the situation better if the other man had not been a lord. He called himself a fool and returned to his work. He and his group of vessels kept close to the wind and the
Speedy
was soon hull down to the north.

At dinner that afternoon Dr Rathbone was Delancey's guest, with Mather and Northmore to complete the party. It was a better meal than average, with a piglet from Minorca, with plenty of fruit and some Maltese wine.

“Thank you, sir, thank you,” said Dr Rathbone as his glass was filled, “I was agog, I own, to see the celebrated Lord Cochrane, the hero of so many exploits. He makes a striking figure, to be sure. I should suppose that we shall hear of him again, perhaps some day as an admiral.”

“What did you make of him, sir?” asked Mather, looking to his commanding officer.

“I was impressed, Mr Mather, I must admit. He is undoubtedly an outstanding seaman and officer. It seems to me, however, that he is too much the partisan, too eager to distinguish himself and too keen to make money. The one thing he fails to capture is the good opinion of the flag-officers under whom he is placed.”

“I am interested, captain, in your verdict,” said Dr Rathbone, “but I should have thought that his success would be enough, in itself, to gain their approval. They have their share of the credit and also, I believe, of the money. Is that not enough for them? What more can they ask of him?”

“What they ask,” replied Delancey, “is that he should do as he is told. We all have to decide, at one time or another, whether we are fighting our own war or whether we are serving the King. It so happens that I have done both in my time. I have been tempted—and shall no doubt be tempted again—to ignore my orders and go after prize-money. My conclusion is, however, that it is wrong and that it does not even pay in the end. Our duty is laid down for us in orders and we neglect them at our peril. As for Lord Cochrane, my belief is that he will play his tricks once too often.”

“He is not much in favour, sir, with the Admiral's staff at Malta.” Northmore's comment was echoed by Mather who added that Cochrane seemed to do as he pleased.

“It sometimes looks like that,” Delancey admitted, “but these things are remembered. Should there be a court martial, its members may start with an impression of an officer's character based on past events.”

“Had Lord Cochrane any news of the French, sir?” asked Mather.

“He repeated what we had already heard—that the French are planning to send a squadron to Cadiz. His intelligence went a little further, however, suggesting that Linois may have sailed already. I should suppose that this could be true and I am setting our course accordingly.”

“So we are heading south and will be sailing close to the African coast?” asked Dr Rathbone hopefully.

“With your interest in mind, my good sir,” said Delancey. “We hope to increase our knowledge of classical antiquity.”

“What astonishes me,” said Mather, “is the evidence on the African coast of a former and prosperous civilisation. To judge from its present state, as we read about it, there is hardly more arable land than will support a few villages. Can the climate have changed?”

“I have been told,” said Northmore, “that it is the Arabs who have done the damage, their camels and goats having destroyed the trees.”

“I too have heard that,” Delancey replied, “and they will have destroyed the vineyards on principle.”

“What, sir, has history to teach us?” the tactful Mather addressed Dr Rathbone directly.

“We know all too little about it, gentlemen. I believe myself that the camels and goats must take part of the blame. The fact is, however, that the fertility of the land declined under the Roman Empire during its later years. I incline to suppose that the land had been overcropped.”

“You would maintain, sir, would you not,” asked Delancey, “that the population of North Africa must once have been considerable?”

“There is no doubt about that, captain,” Rathbone replied. “I have examined the ruins in the vicinity of Tunis. Quite apart, however, from these traces of antiquity, who has not heard of Carthage, a power sufficiently strong to have sent its army to attack Rome by crossing the Alps? Who has not heard of Hannibal? No campaign of that sort could have been based on a few square miles of desert.”

“Hannibal is certainly a name that has never been forgotten,” Mather admitted. “We have a ship of the line called
Hannibal—
a 74-gun ship built just after the last war, a sister ship to the
Thunderer.”

“We might drink a toast presently to Hannibal's memory,” said Delancey, “but I shall first propose a toast to our guest, Dr Rathbone, hero of the Battle of Pollensa. I need hardly remind you, gentlemen, that he saved my life while we fought the enemy hand-to-hand.”

“Boarding the
Santa Catarina
of a hundred guns,” cried Northmore, “it was he who cut down the Spanish Admiral with his cutlass.”

“It was to him that Don Whiskerandos, their Vice-Admiral, finally surrendered his sword!”

“A health, gentlemen, to our own Don!”

Dr Rathbone took the joke in good part, finally asking Delancey whether the skirmish had served its purpose. He did not see that the captured vessels could be of much value and the only laden coaster had been destroyed.

“A good question, sir. The purpose of the raid was to teach my young officers. Each of them had to steer a boat under fire, boarding an enemy merchantman. Mr Northmore here had the task of burning that brig. Each is now in sole command of his own prize, responsible for keeping station. Tomorrow I shall have the chance to exercise the squadron, giving these young men more to think about. They all did well, they are all gaining confidence and they can all learn from my mistake.”