In their embrace his roving fingers had not found her left hand, clenched tightly around her knotted sodden kerchief. Inside he would have found the small figurine on its torn leather lace, snatched from the neck of the man who had fallen into the sea, victim, like St Jude, of another lost cause. When she was clear of all eyes, she burst into tears, her sobs almost suffocating.
Along the passage on the stairs above, hiding in the darkness, Jules-Yves Derrien watched her as she moved below, weeping, his only thought: Mine.
* * *
The heat of the day had transformed the Maltese shoreline into a molten griddle of burning stones. Wayland could feel them through the soles of his boots as he and Pettifer sloshed through the shallow surf.
They had been gone for some time, skirting the French patrols in Sliema, heading out to the point and the inlet where they had left the boat from the Volpone. An evening sun streaked the sky.
‘Rondyvoo…’ Wayland mumbled absently, ‘Rdv. Repondyvoo. Rsvp. TS. Toot sweet. Always abbreviating things, the French… or us. Bloody lazy, dammit.’ He stopped and pulled the wineskin off his shoulder for a swig of water.
‘Not yet, sir,’ said Pettifer. ‘Nearly there. All the sweeter when we are.’
Wayland held the skin poised. With a sigh he lowered it and closed his eyes. He saw the Frenchman’s face again, the eyes wide and burning in the blast from his pistol. His hand felt sticky again, the blood, the bits of scalp, get it away.
‘Sorry, sir.’
Wayland slung the wineskin over his shoulder, untouched, and they carried on, picking their way through the pebbles. Their landmark was a thorn bush with a dead limb leaning out over the shallow water. After another half mile of relative silence they spotted it up ahead. Pettifer stopped. Wayland detected woodsmoke.
Pettifer put a finger to his lips. Wayland drew his pistol, fully alert. They moved further along the beach and approached the thorn. Using the muzzle of his musket Pettifer parted the bushes gently and peered through. Wayland looked over Pettifer’s shoulder.
A hunched figure in dirty old robes and turban squatted in front of a flickering fire heating a small black pot hanging from three crossed sticks. They could smell coffee. The Volpone’s boat was beached on the far side of the rocky cove ten yards on, partially covered in brush. It was certainly where they had landed those days earlier, to witness the invasion of Malta.
Pettifer quietly clicked back the lock on his weapon and jabbed a finger at the surf to Wayland’s right, making a circling movement with his hand. He then pointed to himself and made a circling movement in the opposite direction, from the landward side of the bush. Wayland nodded. He headed back to the shallows.
Wayland headed to the surf and went in up to his knees, the seawater filling his boot and stinging his wounded calf. He winced with the burning pain, and nearly stumbled on the stones, one eye on Pettifer as he disappeared into the bushes.
The Maltese at the fire had not moved, possibly asleep. Pettifer stepped out, the musket levelled. Wayland waited, hidden by the thorn at the water’s edge.
‘Stand and deliver,’ said Pettifer.
‘Bloody took you long enough,’ said Kite, looking up from the fireside.
The adjoining hedgerow moved and the others appeared, muskets ready, and Pettifer swore, lowering his weapon. Underhill walked straight past him, a mug in hand. ‘Sounded like a herd o’battalion mules, laddie.’
Pettifer sighed. ‘Gon’ to get you buggers one day.’
‘Got me doubts on that…’ said Kite, before a gentle cough caused him to jerk round. Wayland stood quietly, his red coat slung over his shoulder, pistol hanging at his side. ‘Blimey, sir, I did not see you proper.’ His face split into his winning grin. ‘Pardon me saying but you’re a right sneak, sir.’
‘And you are a terrible liar, Private Kite,’ said Wayland. They were all there – Kite, Napier, Warnock, Porter, Hesse, Cochrane and De Lisle, Underhill, but of course no Cook. He took a breath, his tone oddly dull. ‘Report, please, Sar’nt Underhill.’
‘Sir. When Lieutenant Alfonso had no word of his captain he vowed they would not leave till they did find his body, may he rest in peace.’ He pointed at the landward thicket of brush with resignation. ‘Couldn’t stop ’em, sir. They went in search some two days gone, and the Volpone frigate moved off in support.’
‘Returning when?’
‘Unknown, sir.’
None of them seemed particularly perturbed. They drank their coffee. But it was another burden for Wayland.
‘So we are to find Nelson, alone, in our rowboat. Superb.’
Cochrane glowered into his coffee cup, as if at tealeaves. ‘And so did Jonah seek the whale…’
‘Aye, sir,’ said Underhill, ‘But there is also this, sir. Knock-knock.’
Warnock was busily eating a large orange and spat a mouthful of pips to the ground as he got to his feet. He ducked into the bushes and dragged out a French soldier, red-faced, gagged and bound hand and foot, and threw him down where he rolled, fighting to right himself, guttural cries muffled by the gagging kerchief. His hands had been tied behind his back and then to his ankles, so that he was forced to sit with his knees up or kneel. He could certainly not stand, run or walk. He stopped trying to call out, his wide eyes flicking from Wayland to Warnock and the others.
Wayland looked at him as if seeing a ghost. He had the same uniform as the column they had encountered. He had the same moustaches. The same equipment. Perhaps they were all the same, Wayland thought, all from the same place, born at the same time. ‘Where did you get him?’
‘Skirmish, sir,’ said Warnock, not looking up from his orange.
‘I found him, sir,’ said Napier with pride. ‘Nosin’ round a farmyard, sir, while we were gettin’… well, gettin’ uz dinners.’ The boxer looked to Underhill for guidance. Warnock swore quietly.
‘Were you looting, Private Napier?’ asked Wayland.
‘Foraging off the land, sir,’ declared Underhill. ‘Lad’s a bit thick, sir.’
Wayland had not the interest to pursue it. ‘What has he told us, Sar’nt?’
Again Cochrane mumbled, ‘That we be bound for the land of Pharaoh and lotus-eaters…’
Wayland lost his temper. ‘Oh for God’s sake, if you have nothing to say, shut up.’
The group stood still. Cochrane stared into his coffee.
‘Sir,’ continued Underhill as if nothing had happened, ‘Cocky is most correct, sir. That the fleet is headed to Egypt. That their officer commanding, General Bonypart, announced it afore they weighed anchor, he says, and that they garrison the island with four and a half thousand men, wounded being sent back to Toulon.’
Wayland had not moved, his pistol still hanging from his right hand. He felt no elation that everything had been proven true, only a greater sense of defeat, that even this dread event had come to pass.
If the French had headed for Gibraltar instead, he knew Admiral St Vincent and the Mediterranean Fleet would blast it and bloody Bonaparte to Kingdom Come. But out here, there was no St Vincent, no Mediterranean Fleet. Not even Nelson or Hazzard. There was only himself. He looked down at the remains of his shirt and waistcoat. They stank, as did he. He pulled on his red Marine coat.
‘You were right, Corporal…’ he said to Pettifer, doing up his jacket buttons. ‘The major has been taken by the French,’ he announced, ‘aboard their flagship, the Orient. According to Corporal Pettifer, Sar’nt Cook has gone aboard after him in pursuit. Presumably stowing away in the holds.’
‘Hard to say otherwise, sir,’ said Underhill, without a flicker of reaction to the news.
‘Thank you, Sergeant.’
‘Just saying, sir.’
‘Well don’t.’
‘Sir.’
They fell into silence, watching Wayland, exchanging glances.
‘If you pardon me, sir,’ said Pettifer, ‘but reckon 9 Company is yours now, sir.’
Wayland nodded. Another burden. ‘Then cle
ar the landing site. All provisions into the boat, and prepare to get underway to find Admiral Nelson’s squadron.’
‘How’s that, sir?’ asked Underhill.
‘We head out to sea, Sergeant, and damned well look for him or swim to bloody Egypt. Is that clear?’
‘Clear aye, sir.’
‘What of him then, sir?’ asked Warnock. He jerked the tip of his knife at the French soldier, then bit into another segment of orange.
Wayland did not like his insolence. He sounded pleased with himself, as if he had something still to reveal. This was it.
‘I mean, we can’t leave him here, can we, sir?’ said Warnock, as if it were sudden ingenious realisation. The others stayed very still, waiting.
‘Beg pardon, sir,’ said Underhill, slinging a pack into the small boat, ‘but he would tell tales of a party of disciplined foreign soldiers dressed like Malts, sir, speaking the King’s English. One of ’em in scarlet. I know I would, if I were he.’
‘But whatever should we do, Sarge?’ asked Warnock, still mocking. He reached forward and stuck his knife into a bit of driftwood, then spat out more orange pips.
‘You bastard, Knocky,’ muttered De Lisle.
‘What? I’m just askin’, ain’t I?’
Wayland could feel their eyes upon him.
Porter looked at Warnock. ‘Leave him be, for the Lord’s sake—’
‘You murderin’ sod,’ said Kite.
‘You know, Kitey,’ said Warnock, eating more orange, ‘always wondered this about you. I ’eard you took eight Frogs prisoner at Cape St Vinno, makin’ ’em stick their ’ands up and everything. Old pals or no, that’s a difference ’tween you an’ me, mate,’ he said confidentially, ‘when they sticks their ’ands up, I reckon it’s a best time to drill ’em one.’
‘Private bloody Warnock,’ said Pettifer, ‘I’ll be warnin’ of you—’
Warnock spread his hands out in mock self-defence. ‘What, Corp? These are the requirements of actions in the field,’ said Warnock officiously. ‘Says so in the KRs. Even our Mad Billy Jack says so.’
‘Do wot?’ said Kite.
Warnock spat, angry. ‘You ’eard ’is bloody sword lesson, Mickey! You was there! Disarm ’im, and then you bloody kill ’im.’
‘Bugger you an’ your King’s Regs…’ De Lisle drew his knife. ‘S’all right, sir, I’ll take care of him.’
Hesse had said little so far, absently twirling the points of his moustache. The Austrian got to his feet. ‘No, it should be me.’ He put his heels together for Wayland. ‘Herr Leutnant, I shall be quickest.’
Wayland knew they could not release the man nor keep him. He looked down at the ground, his neck burning from the heat of the day. He was so very tired, the dead man’s face again bright, this time in flames. The two were so alike, the dead man and this live one.
‘Five thousand four hundred and twenty-six paces…’ he said, his eye on Warnock. ‘Would you not say, Corporal Pettifer? From our last shelter?’
Pettifer took a moment to understand. ‘Sir? Oh. Yes, sir, about a mile and a bit, sir…’
‘That is what I said.’
Someone whispered, He counted the ruddy paces…
Underhill drew a pistol. The Frenchman started to cry out and scrabble across the sand and stone, his face a deep purple as he tipped over, trying to crawl and writhe away.
‘Sir – wait.’ It was Porter. ‘The Valerian…’
Underhill put up his pistol. ‘What?’
‘I gave it the major for sleep,’ he said hopefully. ‘I can dose him, knock him cold for over a day…’
The Frenchman had stopped moving, his eyes switching to Porter, aware of some development.
‘That’ll never work, boy,’ murmured Underhill.
‘Yes, it will,’ insisted Porter. ‘If it can put a man down for a surgeon as I’ve done, it can put a man down while we get out…’
Underhill sighed. ‘He’s just a Frog. A poor bloody footsoldier like us.’
‘…and we can souse him in rum, down his throat so he reeks of it…’
Warnock looked baffled. ‘What daft bloody rot.’
‘I don’t get it,’ said Kite.
Porter moved fast. ‘Give us a tick o’the clock, sir, just a tick, I beg. This chap’s going to have a kip for at least a day and a night, and when he wakes he’ll have a splitter of a head and smell like Gin Alley.’
‘You joking?’ said De Lisle.
‘No, it is of great sense,’ said Hesse. ‘He will be like a drunk, and no one will listen to his word…’
‘Bollocks, ’Essy,’ argued Warnock on his feet, shoving Porter. ‘I never heard such a lot o’bloody cock and wind in all my—’
There was a loud report and Warnock cried out and fell backward, tripping over the Frenchman’s bound feet, De Lisle spinning away, ‘Jaysus shite!’
They turned to look at Underhill. But it was Wayland who had fired, straight past Warnock, hitting the French soldier squarely in the centre of his forehead. The man lay still, his arms locked behind his arched back.
Wayland lowered the pistol and closed his eyes with relief. ‘Clear the site and ready the boat.’
He sat down on a stone, unslung his wineskin and pulled out the cork. The dead Frenchman’s burning face was gone. He paused with the wineskin, seeing Hazzard on the Esperanza in the light of a swinging lamp, raging at him as he thrust his sword into the hanging sack. But he knew it had not been Hazzard who had forced his hand. He drank. The memory faded, and he cared no more. The others cleared the site without another word, in no doubt, at last, who was in command. It was all so wonderfully quiet.
* * *
Seagulls. Screeching overhead. Blinding sunlight.
Stench of rotting fish, the wind from their wings, flapping close, vultures of the sea, spotting the two dead things floating in the water.
Wake up wake up—
Hazzard struck out blindly and tipped back under the surface, the water going up his nose making him cough and splutter and he swung his arms and hit one, a shrill screeching, the flash of a yellow beak. ‘Get off get off!’
He had opened one of the casks and found dried goat meat, judging from its spice, and dried fish. It had made them thirsty, made the gulls descend.
He had misjudged the speed and current. That was obvious. They were too far from the right spot, he knew that now. Soon they would drink the sea saying, ‘Lo, haha, deep down ’tis not so salty after all,’ like too many seamen before them, and begin to die moment by moment.
There were cries from the other gulls and another, very close. The sun burning.
Wake up wake up!
He had faded again, slept, too bright. His legs had sunk somewhat, dragging him down, and he lifted them back to the kegs on the surface, his head going back, his chest rising, and breathed more deeply. Light dazzling on the water, hypnotic. Then he thought about the gulls – a port, and he heard the other cries more clearly. Not birds.
‘J’ry…’
Cannot speak. Lips swollen, salty, hard. Like the dried fish.
There was a splash in the water not far off, sound travels on the water, could be miles. Must be. He heard the hollow knocks of boathooks and floats against gunwales and excited shouts in Italian and the tug of the net round his shoulders and feet, they’ve caught us…
‘Inglese, inglese…!’
Hazzard turned his neck stiffly to check on Cook. He was lying back, his ears submerged, his eyes closed, one hand on his chest. Y’auld oak. Behind him the rippling edges of a fisherman’s net, a silver flash of scales close by as they were drawn in towards the boat.
‘S’r’nt…’
‘Ess…’
He saw the bearded, nut-brown faces looking down, gesticulating for a hook to pull them in.
Sicilians. The fishing fleet from Ragusa.
Cygnus transit 15o.
Course and speed not misjudged after all.
* * *
Two days later, off Cap
e Passaro, a fishing boat drew alongside the others that had emerged from a small Sicilian harbour to meet the British men of war resting at anchor. They passed first a sloop, the sleek Mutine, and moved into the shadows of larger ships looming overhead, Orion, Goliath, Swiftsure, Audacious, Zealous, Leander, Bellerophon, Majestic.
At length one of the crew pointed, calling excitedly: Vanguard. A line was thrown and caught and Vanguard called down to ask what stores they offered.
Captain Berry appeared at the quarterdeck rail and shouted down. ‘You want what, sir? Dash it, I don’t speak Italian… What did he say?’
The answer came back, the fishermen pointing to their bulging net on a boom, ready to swing out for lading.
Berry called back, ‘I fail to understand you!’
Lt Hardy, captain of the Mutine, joined him at the rail of Vanguard and looked down. ‘Fish, I believe, sir, for the brave English, he says. Rather jolly of him.’
‘But we don’t want for any dratted fish, Hardy. The men can’t stand the stuff. We’ve replenished our stores already…’ He called down again, ‘Fresh aqua, signori, but no damn fish!’
But to the protests of the bo’sun and the mates, the boom swung out from the fishing boat, barely clearing the midships rail of Vanguard’s upper gundeck and narrowly missing the mainmast shrouds. The Sicilians began to bicker, hands raised to each other, gesticulating madly as to where the hatch for the hold was, and the net dropped and swung sharply, nearly fouling the stays, banging into the mainmast. Berry was livid.
‘Not on my deck, I said! Get it outboard at once, Mr Currie!’
Under the shouts of the young midshipman of the watch, the deckhands of the Vanguard tried to fend off the swinging net but it dropped to the main gundeck, bulged, and disgorged much of its flashing silver bounty in all directions. Furious, Berry hurried down the steps from the quarterdeck. ‘Mr Currie! Set the hands to clear this at once—’
But he stopped short when he saw two wet figures clamber out of the hanging net from the midst of the flapping fish, and fall exhausted to the deck. A cry went up with a rattle of musket locks, ‘Hold hard! Who goes there?’
Lords of the Nile Page 10
