Suddenly the world lit up in brilliant blue-white light, and Harry saw Kit’s hair stand on end, knowing that his own was doing the same thing. He felt a wave of heat wash past him and stumbled as if someone had pushed him. In the flash, he caught a glimpse of something very unusual, a huge and very strange ship suspended in a sea of total darkness. He had the distinct impression that he was given a glimpse into the future, but the thought was as fleeting as the near-miss lightning strike.
He turned and saw the Lieutenant and the parson staring at the blackened stump of a tree immediately to their right. The stench of burnt tin filled Harry’s nose as they sprinted the last few yards to the house.
“Phew,” gasped the Lieutenant. “That was far too close for my comfort.”
“Or mine,” panted the parson. “Divine the lightning may not be, though some, at least, would argue it is, but the effect upon us all just prior to the strike was remarkable. Did you not note it, sir? Your own hair was standing away from your head in a most amazing manner.” He recovered his breath and watched the storm as it gathered fury. “I think I shall write to the Royal Society with my observations on the phenomenon.”
The Lieutenant glanced around the group as they gathered under the shelter of the wide veranda. “Where is Mister Barclay? Was he struck? Petersen, did he fall?”
“I don’t think so, sir,” replied Dick Peterson, as he cast his eyes about the lawn, peering doubtfully through the curtain of rain. “I think he ran for the house, sir.”
“You think?” The Lieutenant looked back along the track from the veranda. Lightning flashed overhead, and the roar of thunder was almost continuous. “Did anyone else see what became of him?”
“Yes, sir,” Kit replied carefully. “He ran for the house as soon as it struck.”
THE LIGHTNING BOLT WAS A SALUTARY REMINDER of the violence of nature. That it had so narrowly missed striking them was not lost on Harry or Kit, but the effect on Eamon Barclay was remarkable. He had bolted indoors and refused to emerge at all from his bedchamber where he had taken refuge. Tom Bowles found him there, shaking with fright.
“What ails you, man?” demanded Lieutenant Rae. “It did not strike us, though it came damnably close, no closer than a French cannonball, in fact.”
Barclay looked abashed. “Sorry, sir…it made me remember a tale of my grandfather; he was struck while riding in a storm at home and was left paralysed.” He did not add that in the blaze of light he’d also seen Harry transformed into something else. He wasn’t at all sure what he’d seen, but his fellow midshipman had taken on a very strange appearance in a manner of dress completely alien to the norm. He’d also appeared older and clearly in command of something. It frightened Barclay that he’d seen it in such detail, and the thought of Heron perhaps rising above his own abilities made him angry.
“It won’t happen again, sir,” Barclay added.
“I expect not.” The Lieutenant paused, about to add some further comment, but changed his mind, saying instead, “Very well, see you are ready first thing for our departure.”
Following their breakfast, Lieutenant Rae assembled the party on the veranda where the Mahouts and their charges were already waiting.
“Come, we must commence our return before the afternoon storms begin,” said the Lieutenant. Turning to the parson, he added, “Ready, Mister Bentley? Then let us depart.”
Chapter 38
Sea Fight
After the lightning strike, there was a notable change in the gunroom. Harry, hitherto the junior, always the target of Barclay and his cronies, had become an adult, though still in years a youth. His bearing, his attitude and his abilities had grown by leaps and bounds, and while he had grown in stature and personality as well, it seemed that the reverse had been happening to his adversary.
“I note that Mister Barclay seems to be amending his attitude toward Mister Heron,” the Captain remarked to the first Lieutenant. “He seems wary of provoking him. Has some exchange passed between them—one that undermines the authority of the senior midshipman?”
“Nothing I am aware of, sir,” replied the Lieutenant. “Mister Beasley has remarked on it as well, though he is adopting a less direct approach in his attempts to undermine his juniors. Heron has gained in confidence despite Barclay’s attempts to provoke him, and he has shown himself better able to control his temper and to overcome the provocation. Perhaps that is what is holding Barclay in check.” Frowning, he considered. “There is something else, sir. I overheard Mister Petersen confiding that Mister Barclay shared some confidence with him concerning Heron—something he claims to have seen during the storm in the Vihara hills.”
“Did he indeed? I wonder what he saw then—his nemesis, perhaps. He seems to be less assertive in all of his duties, not just those pertaining to Mister Heron. He’s still aggressive toward his people, but is less sure of himself now.” The Captain mused thoughtfully. “I have a report from Mister Rae that he has had to reprimand Barclay several times for failure to ensure that work is done correctly. Perhaps a word from you might encourage him to greater diligence.”
“I shall do so directly, but perhaps a change of duties or station for Mister Barclay might be productive. I shall discuss it with the other officers, sir. Perhaps his demeanour will improve if I move him to a new station where I will have him under my eye. It may encourage him to renewed diligence.” Hesitating, the Lieutenant frowned. “Mister Bentley noted that the lightning strike did produce some strange images, as he calls them, though it was so brief he couldn’t be specific. As he said, the mind plays strange tricks in such circumstances.”
HARRY WATCHED AS THE SWALLOW CROWDED ON SAIL as she beat her way to the station assigned to her ahead of the ponderous seventy-four. He acknowledged the report from the that all was stowed and ready, and returned to his thoughts with one eye and one ear on the Captain as he stood talking to the first Lieutenant.
Astern, the sleek country-built frigate Rajasthan settled into the larger ship’s wake. Harry had been twelve when he joined this ship after six months in HMS Bellerophon. Now, his fifteenth birthday recently behind him, he was a seasoned sailor, trusted by his officers as a promising leader. He had enjoyed this voyage and felt very privileged to have been able to see and do so much. Now he was looking forward to seeing his home again, in the soft and cooler climate of County Down. With luck, he reflected, they would be home in a little over six months.
He stood with the large signal telescope resting in the crook of his elbow as his signal party folded and stowed the signal flags that had just been hauled down. He considered how varied and challenging his life aboard this ship had been. This voyage had proved far more interesting and adventurous than he had ever thought possible. The expedition to the hills and the fabulously carved caves had certainly been a highlight, and so had their brief glimpse of a tiger, that most magnificent of beasts. But there were the memories too, of the Sultan of Oman and his visit to this very ship. The fascinating exploration of Botany Bay and the great estuary to its north, Pieterzoon and the storms of the Great Southern Ocean—all had a place in his memory and filled his journal. These more than compensated for the punishments meted out by Eamon Barclay in his constant attempts to bully, and the animosity that sometimes almost provoked Harry into losing his temper and engaging in a brawl.
Upon reflection, he realised that Barclay’s provocations had lately subsided somewhat. He still lost no opportunity to browbeat Harry and the other juniors, but this seemed to have lost its venom. Even some of his former cronies no longer supported his antics, which they had once found humorous, and their eagerness to join him in his bullying tactics appeared to have waned. Harry wondered if this had stemmed from the incident in Colombo; certainly, Barclay’s demeanour had changed dramatically following the visit to the Vihara and the subsequent storm.
He put all this from his mind when he was joined by Kit. Ahead lay more adventures he was sure. He had no time to spare for musing ab
out Barclay and his mercurial temperament.
His eye fell on a group working beneath the gangways, Ferghal among them, who glanced up and smiled briefly. Beside him, Cormac Murphy said something to his companions, and the boy Danny Gunn nodded in response to a remark from Ferghal. Harry returned Ferghal’s smile and moved to his station again. They had to traverse the Indian Ocean and round the Cape. It was in Dutch hands, which meant that through their alliance with France, it was closed to Spartan and her squadron. Beyond that were the South and North Atlantic Oceans to navigate as they made their way home to a nation once more at war.
The French were again engaged in their attempts to destroy British trade, and Ile d’France lay on their route home. Perhaps an opportunity to gain some prize money lay in wait for them as well. Though a midshipman’s share was paltry, it would certainly make a promising start to Harry’s independence. To Kit he said, “They make a fine sight, do they not? And what adventures we have had since leaving the Billy Ruffian.”
“Aye….” Kit was staring into the distance. “What think you? Will we encounter any of the French? We pass Ile d’France on our route; think of the glory we could win if we fell in with a Frenchman and captured him.”
“There is most certainly a chance,” Harry replied. “They keep some frigates and sloops there. It would be strange indeed if they did not make some appearance.”
Lost in their own thoughts, the pair fell silent.
Ever since the lightning strike, Harry’s sleep had been troubled by some very strange dreams, some of which he committed to his journal in a cryptic form. After each dream, he’d awoken sweating and filled with foreboding. It was usually the same sequence—an engagement with a French man o’ war, a brilliant flash of light, the sensation of falling, then a glimpse of the interior of some vast hall before awakening shivering and bathed in sweat.
A flash on the distant lee horizon shook him out of his reverie as the masthead lookout hailed, “Deck thar! Gunfire on t’ larboard bow.”
“Mister Heron! Inform the Captain.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Hurrying beneath the break of the poop, Harry greeted the Marine sentry as he thumped his musket butt on the deck. He waited until he heard the Captain’s invitation before opening the door and stepping into the lamp-lit great cabin.
“Mister Beasley’s compliments, sir. The lookout reports gunfire off our larboard bow. It is very distant, sir; just the flash of the guns visible at present.”
“Very good, Mister Heron, rouse the first Lieutenant.” Captain Blackwood was on his feet. “I shall be on deck forthwith.”
The Spartan thrust her lee bow deep into the swell, sending a shower of spray across the fo’c’sle. The first light of dawn tinged the eastern horizon and painted the tips of the royal masts with a faint golden sheen.
“Deck thar! Three ships. Two frigates an’ an Indieman! T’ Indieman’s struck ’is colours!”
“Beat to quarters, Mister Bell. Mister Ramsey, signal Rajasthan to make more sail and to follow; then signal to Swallow. Order her to make for the Indiaman. Damned French—must have a squadron at Isle d’ France or the Cape already.”
The rattle of the drum began almost immediately, suggesting the drummer was already on deck. The ship came alive with screens being struck down and stowed, furniture cleared from the great cabin and the wardroom, nettings rigged above the upper deck, and hammocks stowed in the nettings along the bulwarks.
Very quickly, the apparent chaos resolved itself into order as the business of clearing the ship for action was completed and the gun crews prepared their charges. Danny Gunn, the boy Harry had witnessed being volunteered, worked behind and between the men in Harry’s division, diligently spreading sand on the deck to give the gun crews a better grip with their bare feet on the planking.
As he watched the activity, Harry had a moment of deja vu—the scene was exactly that of his dream. He glanced at Ferghal, who was checking the tools needed for loading the big thirty-two pounder, one of the sixteen men (now reduced to twelve due to deaths and injuries during the voyage) needed to handle the massive gun. He smiled as his friend acknowledged his nod. The French would not expect this heavy a battery.
Most seventy-fours carried eighteen and twenty-four pounders. Spartan had thirty-twos instead of the usual twenty-fours, and at close range could deliver a devastating barrage.
He checked his division again, then called out to the Lieutenant, “For’ard guns ready, sir.”
“Very good. Wait for the order to run out. We will engage to larboard.”
Acknowledging the order, Harry moved close to where Ferghal stood, the small powder monkey at his side clutching the two large cartridge cases with their fresh charges ready. As soon as the gun ports could be raised, he would be able to see the enemy and gauge the moment to give the order to fire.
The noise of the sea, the groan of the timbers, the shouted orders from the upper deck penetrated his thoughts as once again and gave the scene a surreal quality.
“Our first engagement against a ship of comparable force, my friend,” he said to Ferghal. Louder he added, “Let us hope his gunners are all seasick and her commander a landsman.”
The gun crew laughed, breaking the tension. “They’ll not be expectin’ our weight, sor.”
“No, indeed, Hanson! I rely on you and the rest to make him regret his boldness.”
“Open ports!”
The waiting man complied, and a burst of spray accompanied the light as the heavy port lid swung upward.
“Run out!”
Harry took a quick glance through the Number Seven gun port as the crew heaved their heavy charge into place. The enemy ship’s hull reared into view as the Spartan rolled at the top of the swell. “She’s a big ’un—a forty at least.”
“Silence on the gun,” Harry snapped. “Gun Captains, use your levers; we’re head reaching on him. Train aft and make every shot count!”
The enemy ship erupted smoke and flame in a ragged broadside. Thuds and screams from the decks above told a tale of at least some hits. The gun Captain remarked, “Bloody Frenchies—aimin’ for t’ riggin’.”
For a terrifying moment, as the ship lifted again, Harry recognised the scene as being the same one in his dream. “Ready to fire, sir!”
“As you bear! On the up roll!”
The gun deck filled with smoke as the after guns began their bellows of rage and spite. On either side of him, the crouched gun Captains peered along their guns, the flintlock lanyards taut as they waited for the enemy to be squarely in their sights.
A high-pitched scream penetrated his ears and made Harry screw his eyes shut in pain as it drowned out the rolling thunder of the guns. A flash, at least as intense as the lightning that had so nearly struck him in India, penetrated his eyelids. Then he was falling, tumbling into darkness.
CAPTAIN BLACKWOOD STARED AT THE GAPING HOLE in the ship’s side where one of the ship’s thirty-two pounders had stood only hours before. A send, forward of the hole, lay overturned, pinioning one of its crew.
“You say there was an explosion as Mister Heron was about to order his guns to fire?” He stared about him. “Where is the gun?”
“That is the puzzle, sir. When the smoke cleared, the gun, Mister Heron, a seaman and the powder monkey were gone.” The Lieutenant gestured helplessly. “There was a fiendish screeching sound, a brilliant flash, and the explosion.”
“I see.” Frowning, the Captain considered. “We witnessed a similar explosion on the Frenchman. It tore out half his hull—that is what sank him.” Hesitating a moment longer, he ordered, “Get the men to work. Fother it and get the carpenter to repair or patch it. I’ve no wish to suffer the same fate as L’ Revolution.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Mister Heron must have gone over with the gun. How many did it kill beside him?”
“Four at Number seven, sir, and three at Number eight plus O’Connor and the powder monkey. We
have no trace of either of them, sir. Like Mister Heron, they may be beneath it.”
“Very well, see to the repairs. I’ll have the boats search our track. Men cannot simply vanish into thin air.”
Chapter 39
Letters from the Admiralty
T
he messenger allowed his horse to canter gently as the ground levelled out above the village of Dundonald, and he was able to make his way between the fields on either side, scattering the occasional straying sheep as he followed the road toward the landmark of the crown of Scrabo. Had it not been raining, he would have been able to look down upon the rolling countryside toward the towns of Comber and Newtownards and the long waters of Strangford Lough, a difficult and dangerous haven for any but the most accomplished seaman.
The rain sent rivulets down the gaps in his oilskin coat, and despite his broad brimmed hat and neckerchief, it trickled down his neck and formed a wet patch between his shoulder blades. Eventually the rain ceased, and he caught a glimpse of the low stone house crouched next to the road. Its old-fashioned arrangement with the stables and barns forming a compact square behind the house spoke of its age as much as the tidy and well-kept hedges and enclosing walls spoke of the care and good husbandry of the family who owned it.
From the vantage point of the house, the countryside rolled away behind it to the south, the vista of Strangford unhindered by the low range of stables and barns that formed the southern boundary of the enclosed yard.
The horseman urged his horse on, anticipating a welcome from the cook and a chance to dry out in front of the kitchen fire with a warm drink in his hand before he must continue his ride to Mount Stewart. With luck, he would be able to return to Newtownards and thence to Downpatrick where he could expect a bed in the barracks.
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