Winds of Folly (18 page)

‘I am going aloft, Mr Duncan,' he told the first lieutenant.

He tucked his glass under his arm and began the laborious ascent. There was a time he could have run up the rigging without the slightest concern, even in a sea like this, but he was out of practice. He would dearly have liked to go through the lubbers' hole but he could not be shamed before the whole crew. He began to climb outwards along the futtock shrouds, hanging almost upside down as the mast went through its terrible pendulum swing. Sixty feet above the sea, with the rain lashing at his face, staring up at that menacing sky. Why? Would it make him a better leader of men? The mast reached the end of its trajectory and began its long swoop to leeward. He scuttled up and over into the blessed sanctuary of the maintop. Was he high enough? One glance assured him that he was not. He would have to climb to the next level, as Mr Lamb had done.

With a grim fatalism he began to scale the narrow shrouds of the foremast. This was pure madness, to be up here in this; to even consider a chase in this weather. But then as he looked out over the monstrous seas, he saw her. A scrap of sail through the driving rain. He hooked his arm through the shrouds and brought the glass to his eye. Yes, now he had her, and he forgot what was happening to the mast or even what any of the crew thought of him as he concentrated on keeping her in view. Lamb was right. She was ship-rigged but not quite as big as a frigate. Heeled right over like the
Unicorn
, so he could see her copper sheeting, even in this light. Her gunports, too. He counted ten of them, two more than
Sardine
. So that was it –
she was almost certainly French, and in the same class as
Unité
.

He considered sliding down the backstay as Mr Lamb had done but thought better of it and climbed, considerably more sedately, down the ratlines.

‘You were right, Mr Lamb,' he told him when he reached the quarterdeck. ‘And she is not one of ours, so we will have to beat to quarters, Mr Duncan, and clear for action. And signal
Bonne Aventure
to follow us.'

‘And the guns, sir?'

Nathan peered down the heaving gundeck and decided to leave them as they were for the time being, for it would be some time before they were in a position to fire them. He made an exception for the two long nines in the bows, however, which might chance a shot if they drew any closer. If they could shoot away a spar or even part a halyard in this weather they could run down on her in a jiffy. But for some reason the process of unshipping the two bow chasers appeared to be causing more problems than it should have, even in this sea. There were about a dozen hands engaged in the task under the supervision of Mr Bailey, the officer who had been transferred from the flagship. He was, as Nathan had surmised, an elderly master's mate now made up to acting lieutenant, and he had a considerably higher opinion of himself than was shared by his fellows, or was tolerable in the confined quarters of a frigate. With this went a tendency to express himself a good deal more forcibly than was necessary in Nathan's view, and on this occasion the object of his choler appeared to be George Banjo.

The big African was inclined to offer his advice on a number of matters that were not his proper concern, and despite the friendliness of his manner this had been known to arouse resentment at times, especially among his seniors. On this
occasion he had more justification to become involved than not, for even when Mr Clyde was alive he had considered the bow chasers to be his particular charge. Nathan was about to send for Mr Bailey to come aft and report what was amiss when he was distracted by a shout from Tully.

‘You can see her from the deck now, sir.'

Nathan joined him at the lee rail, and as they rose on the next crest he caught sight of her through the rain. When they rose again, he had his glass ready. It confirmed his first impression.

‘She has fallen off at least two points,' he said to Tully. ‘And unless I am much mistook, crammed on more sail.'

If he did not follow her she would widen the gap between them, but it would bring them almost stern on to the wind and he knew his ship well enough to know she would not like that one bit. Nor would Mr Perry.

Nonetheless he gave the order to the quartermaster and waited in some concern for the ship's response. It was not long in coming. He felt the stern lift high under the following sea, and as it travelled under her keel the foresail drove the bows deep down into the trough. He almost heard the timbers groan under the weight of water but up she came like the thoroughbred she was, throwing the spray back from her mane. And at once the next wave began to lift her stern. They were in for a rough ride, but he could deal with that: his concern was for something else. He staggered over to the larboard rail, which still just about favoured the weather, and peered forward. As he had feared, on this new course the foresail was taking the wind from the foretop staysail and even the jib was beginning to flap wildly.

‘I think we had better clew up on the weather side, Mr Perry,' he instructed the sailing master, who nodded urgently and lurched forward with his speaking trumpet. This eased
things a little so far as the sails were concerned, but the next time Nathan saw the chase he felt the distance between them had increased. He looked to the sky with its scudding clouds. The light was fading fast and there had been little enough to start with. It would be dark in an hour or so.

He was aware of a presence at his shoulder.

‘Yes, Mr Bailey?'

‘Beg pardon, sir,' said the officer, touching his hat, ‘but I think we can reach her with the bow chasers.'

Do you indeed, Nathan thought. And if we could, do you not think I would have had them firing by now? He curbed the inclination to utter this rebuke, however, and looked forward along the gun deck. He supposed that technically speaking it was true, certainly when they rose on the crests, but the likelihood of hitting anything at this range was minimal. And with the amount of sea coming over the bows he doubted they could keep the powder dry enough to get a shot off.

‘What does Mr Banjo think?' he asked.

He was not sure why he said this. It was partly because he had thoughts of making the African up to ship's gunner in place of Mr Clyde, but it was possible that he wanted to put Bailey in his place. He instantly regretted the remark, but it was out now and he could only wait with a set expression for the officer's response.

‘Banjo, sir? What does it …' But then he thought better of it. ‘I am afraid I have not thought to consult him, sir.' The level of irony was just on the side of acceptable.

‘Well, Mr Bailey, I appreciate your zeal, but I think we will wait until we close with her.'

But they never did close with her. With the wind directly astern of her the corvette was a better sailor, and certainly a faster one than the
Unicorn
, and within the hour, with darkness falling, Nathan conceded defeat.

‘Bring her back on course, if you will,' he instructed the quartermaster with a reluctance that was almost entirely feigned, for he had had enough of this. He was very much intrigued, however, to know what a French ship-of-war, and a national ship in all probability, was doing so far down the coast of Italy. It might be that she was making for Naples or even heading round into the Adriatic. Or she might be bound for the southern shores of the Mediterranean to play havoc with the Levant trade. Either way, Nathan had a strange feeling he would see her again.

‘And might I furl the fore course, sir?' Perry put in quickly, doing his best to hide his satisfaction, for the prospect of prize money was never enough to reconcile Mr Perry to the ruin of his precious sails.

‘As you wish, Mr Perry.'

And so they ran to the south-east under storm staysails for most of the night until the Tramontana burned itself out in the early hours of the morning. Dawn found them in an empty sea: empty, that is, of anything more interesting than the
Bonne Aventure
, limping a mile or so behind with her foretopsail blown to pieces and her mainyard sprung. But the wind stayed fresh enough for them to continue at a goodly pace towards the Bay of Naples, and at six bells in the forenoon watch they sighted the twin peaks of the volcano to the south-east, with a long plume of cloud trailing away to windward.

‘A fine landing, Mr Perry,' Nathan congratulated the sailing master; and to the officer of the watch, he said: ‘Break out the ensign, Mr Holroyd, and let us have the Jack at the bow.'

And let us hope we are still welcome, he said to himself, as he stared out from the quarter rail at the smoking volcano off their larboard bow.

N
athan watched from the quarterdeck as the city emerged from the haze to the south-east. Naples, the largest city in Italy. It sprawled almost voluptuously in the early afternoon sun, curving in a wide crescent along the shores of the bay that bore its name, flanked by the mountains of Vesuvius and Posillipo to north and south.

It was the first of these that naturally occupied Nathan's attention on their approach from the north, for though it was not the first volcano he had seen, it was by far the most active. The cloud they had observed from far out to sea was now revealed as a thick pyre of smoke, and he could see the smouldering ashes it had dumped along the rim and several small fires they had started in the sparse brush among the rocks and scree. The last eruption, only a few years before, had blown the top right off the mountain, leaving a distinctive crater between the two peaks, but there were few signs now of the devastation it must have wrought. The summit rose out
of dense forest, and its lower slopes were clothed in the most abundant crops and vegetation: fields of golden wheat interspersed with olive and citrus groves and the more vibrant green of vineyards and other crops he could not name. And there were several very pretty villages close to the shore.

His concentration then shifted to Naples itself, and he thought it the most handsome city he had ever seen, at least from the sea. Every building appeared to have been painted a different colour, as if a demented artist had exhausted every variation of his palette in a bid to rival the extravagance of his surroundings. The classical shades of Antiquity were the most prevalent, but along with the Venetian reds and Egyptian blues, the saffrons and ochres and indigos, were more delicate hues: of pink and cream and lilac, like shells littered upon the shore. And presiding over this display, in all its majesty, the formidable ramparts and towers of Castel Sant'Elmo on the heights above, compensating for its grey solemnity with a great array of flags and banners bearing the arms and gules of the House of Bourbon.

But there was something disturbingly unreal about it all, something
wrong
. It took a moment or two for Nathan to realise what it was. It was the second largest city on mainland Europe, its population only a little less than that of Paris, but from the sea it appeared strangely deserted. Nothing moved, either on the shoreline or on the heights above. It seemed, indeed, as if the entire populace had been overwhelmed by an invisible gas released by the volcano on its northern shoulder.

He transferred his gaze to the harbour and its projecting mole where a fair amount of shipping could be seen. Studying it through his glass, Nathan made out the gunports of several ships-of-war – a two-decker and three – no, four – frigates, presumably of the Neapolitan Navy – but he could espy no movement either aloft or alow. If there were people aboard,
they were afflicted by the same fatal torpor that had overwhelmed the city itself.

But even a city of the dead – if not actively engaged in hostilities with His Britannic Majesty – had to be accorded the customary respects, and in this case a 21-gun salute was in order for King Ferdinando of the Two Sicilies. Nathan considered sending one of his officers ashore to certify that the courtesy would be returned, for it would be a grave insult if it were not, but this would involve a long delay, so with some trepidation he decided to take a chance. To his relief, after the seventh cannon had been discharged in the general direction of Vesuvius, an answering salute issued from the quaintly named Castel d'Uovo, the Castle of the Egg, guarding the entrance to the harbour, and shortly after a launch could be seen leaving the two-decker and proceeding across the bay towards them.