'But ...' Matt listened to the sudden silence, as the guns fell silent. 'What has happened?'
One of the women had crept up the ladder to the lower gun deck to ascertain the reason for the ceasefire. Now she came back into the noisome gloom of the cockpit. 'The froggies have borne away,' she said. 'Not a ship taken or sunk. The whole lot is in full chase northwards.'
'Then Rodney has failed,' Sue said.
'I doubt that, Mistress Huys,' Dr. Blane said. 'Sir George has a task to perform, and he will catch de Grasse if he must chase him halfway around the world. We'll be to action again soon enough.'
'Soon enough,' she whispered. And once again hugged Matt close. 'Oh, Matt, Matt. Promise me you will not be killed.'
He smiled into her ear, and stroked her hair. 'I'd be that unlucky, would you not say, to be brought down twice in the same battle. But should you not take care, my sweet? The doctor is looking at you with a great deal of interest. Perhaps your affections are somewhat more than to be expected from a cousin.'
'Then let him look his fill,' she said. 'How do you suppose I left Statia?' 'How? But...'
'Dirk refused me permission. So I stowed away on a sloop for Port Antonio.' She smiled at him in turn, and kissed him on the nose. 'I did not tell Robert, of course, pretended that Dirk and I were as one on the necessity of regaining you from this infamous place. But he will know by now. The whole world will know by now. I must be your woman now, darling Matt. For be sure I can belong to no one else, having deserted my husband.'
CHAPTER NINE
THE GUEST
' 'Tis demented he is.' Gunner McLeod leaned on the barrel of his cannon and stared at the blackness. ' 'Tis too old, you see, Mr. Arbuckle, sixty-four years, to command a fleet at sea. He's not stood the strain.'
'And then there is the gout, Mr. Arbuckle,' Davis put in. 'Ah, 'tis a crippling illness, the gout. Affects the mind it does.'
'God blast the pair of you for mutinous dogs,' Arbuckle growled. 'You talk as if you understand strategy. As if you understand ships. As if you understand men. You understand that gun, McLeod. That lifeless lump of metal is your talent. You'd best leave the command of a fleet at sea to them that's been trained to it.'
'Then you tell us why we've turned away,' McLeod insisted. 'Six hours, and we've beat into this wind, and on the port tack. You watch, by dawn we'll be on the wrong side of Dominica, all over again.'
'I've no knowledge of the admiral's mind,' Arbuckle said. 'But I'll tell you this. Rodney has never been beat. And he'll not be beat this time, either. You may reckon on that.'
Matt wished they would stop talking. Yet it was strange. For two days after the action off Dominica they had clung on the heels of the French, watching them slowly draw away to the north, suggesting their bottoms were a sight cleaner than the British ships. For two days the admiral had sat on the quarterdeck - he was unable even to mount the ladder to the poop, his leg was that swollen with the gout - as indeed he had been on deck since the fleet had left Gros Islets Bay.
And for two days his face had grown longer and longer as the prospects of a decisive battle had dwindled.
And then yesterday two of the French rearguard had been in collision. When the news had been reported to the flagship, Rodney had snapped his fingers with happiness. The crippled ships had drifted, slowly pushed to the west by the brisk north-easterly wind. And the orders had been given for the entire British fleet to alter course to cut them out. There was a gamble. To forgo even the slightest chance of defeating de Grasse, and the Jamaica expedition, for the sake of picking up two already crippled vessels, would involve the admiral in a court martial. But Rodney apparently knew his man. The honour of the French fleet was at stake; de Grasse would not abandon his two lame ducks. And so they had watched, breathlessly, as the whole French fleet had put about, and come bearing majestically down on the British; great, yellow varnished hulls, magnificently dotted with the still closed red gunports, plunging into the swell, topped by the utterly beautiful spreads of white canvas billowing in the breeze. Theirs was still the advantage; the wind was behind them - they had the magic weather gauge which would decide whether or not they accepted battle, and should they decide to accept it, what form it would take. But they were coming. And at dusk they had still been drawing closer, ever closer.
Then the wind, as usual, had dropped, and while the great ships had wallowed slowly onwards, the boats had been swung out, and the captains had been rowed across to assemble on the flagship's quarterdeck, and listen to the admiral's plans. And no sooner had they regained their ships than had come the whispered commands, douse all lights, and trim your yards. The Royal Navy was putting about. As the French swept out of the north-east, the British made off on the port tack, south-east, into the empty night. It was incredible, but it was happening. Rodney had declined battle and was standing away.
And so the gun crews whispered amongst themselves in incredulous dismay. Whereas he should be singing for joy, Matt thought, and pondering his own problems. No battle meant no risk of death or mutilation. And Rodney would doubtless be court-martialled in any event. And their destination would remain Jamaica.
And what then? It was still difficult for Matt to grasp what had happened. Sue had left Dirk, had left her home and her husband, had left her respectability and indeed her honour, to chase behind him. What had she said, that first rainswept afternoon, more than a year ago? That she was not for an idle hour, but forever? And she had meant every word of it. What a remarkable woman. But what a remarkable responsibility had she thrust upon his shoulders. He was slowly realizing, as he crouched beside his gun and thought of her, perhaps sleeping, but surely dreaming of him, three decks away, that all his fife he had done no more than dream, of fine actions and fine achievements, certainly, but still dreams, of one day being a second Beldham, the finest batsman in England, of one day equalling the skill and prowess of Jack Broughton, knowing in his heart that he could never be either of those, but because of his small skill at both, cricket and boxing, pretending to himself that he might, were he prepared to devote his life to it. And then Gislane. He had dreamed, of defying the world, his world, with her at his side, and felt ten feet tall for the dream. But had it not always been a dream, never to be exposed to the bright light of day? Had he not fallen at the very first hurdle, and, for all his feeble efforts, been afraid to get back to his feet?
But now the dreams were rolled up into a ball and thrown over the side. Sue had forced him into reality, for the first time. She was here, and she had deserted all, for him. He could no longer say, to himself or to her, let us ponder and plan, and decide what is to be done. It had happened, and the course on which she had embarked, and on which he must necessarily escort her, would not be checked or altered until they reached their graves.
He did not know whether to shout for joy or weep with apprehension.
Men, all around him, were scurrying about their tasks. Orders were being whispered: 'Wear ship.'
The yards were being backed, and the Formidable was coming about. If Matt could see nothing but the white splashes where the bluff bows cut the waves, he could feel the wind, no longer on the left side of his face, but on the right.
Arbuckle was consulting his watch. 'Two o'clock,' he said. 'Oh, aye, lads. The admiral knows what he's about.'
'By Christ,' McLeod muttered. 'By Christ, but he's a cool one.'
Even Matt was suddenly lost in admiration for the moral courage of a man who could take such a decision. For now it became clear. As the English lights had been doused, and the night was moonless, the French, not knowing where they were, would either heave to, plunge on into the darkness, or come about to beat back to the north-east. Either way, they would have been confident that the English must remain south-west of them, and downwind, only able to follow, not to dictate. But by standing away close-hauled on the port tack for six hours, and now coming about on the starboard tack, Rodney would hope to place himself upwind of the French during the darkness, and b
etween them and the cloud of transports still making north. Tomorrow morning de Grasse must either fight, on Rodney's terms, or abandon his army and run south-west.
Suddenly he was caught by the excitement, by the confidence which seemed to be spreading through the entire ship. Their admiral was once again proving himself the boldest, and the best, fighting seaman afloat. Eagerly they peered into the darkness, dimly making out the canvas of the other vessels around them, all having altered course at precisely the same moment, as had obviously been decided during that conference yesterday evening. What would the dawn reveal, he wondered? What would the dawn bring, in fact? But half an hour ago he had been congratulating himself that there was going to be no battle. Now ... he could not say for sure what he wanted.
The light came suddenly; there was no twilight in the West Indies. One moment it was dark as pitch, the next clear enough to see twenty miles, and the glowing red ball of the sun was already peeping above the empty Atlantic to the east. But how surprising was the scene, too unexpected for Matt to grasp it, for the moment. No spray ever reached the quarterdeck, but last night it had been breaking fairly steadily on the bow as the ship had beat into the north easterly. Now the Formidable, and all the British fleet, once again steered north east, but there was no breaking water. Waves, certainly, and whitecaps, but running with them.
'By Christ,' McLeod whispered. 'By Christ. Can you beat that for luck. The wind's veered.'
Matt looked up, at the canvas ballooning as the wind filled it, just as the French canvas had billowed the previous afternoon. Fortune favours the brave, he thought.
Lord Cranstoun, the Scottish volunteer nobleman who had taken the place of Lieutenant Hill in charge of the guns, and who was alone on deck, the admiral and his staff having gone below to breakfast, had also observed the change in the wind direction. He ran to the companion ladder, and encountered the flag captain, Sir Charles Douglas, coming up. 'Sir Charles,' he shouted. 'Sir Charles. The wind has veered. It is fair, man. Fair.'
Douglas gave a hasty glance aloft, and then at the sea. 'God fights for us, my Lord,' he remarked, and turned back down the ladder.
Or perhaps he merely wants a battle, Matt thought, seizing the salt pork and biscuit which was being brought round by the cook's mate, chewing without tasting, staring forward. It truly was, he supposed, the most beautiful sight he would ever see. The sun was now clear of the horizon, and like the breeze, directing its light immediately down the wide passage between Dominica and Guadeloupe - some twenty miles of water. Fifteen miles away, dead ahead of the British fleet, were the scattered islets of the Saintes; and beyond even them was the blue-grey cloud of Guadeloupe, while to the south Dominica was etched on the clear morning sky. Closer yet to the north, from eight to twelve miles off, straggling somewhat and certainly lacking any close formation, was the French fleet, still steering south of west, and exactly broadside on to the British. The sun reflected from their topsides, even winked from the open gunports as the heavy brass was run out, and sparkled too from the breaking white horses which surrounded them.
And bearing down on them in line ahead were the thirty seven battleships of the British navy; in the van, as the whole fleet had gone about at two o'clock, was Admiral Drake's squadron of the blue. The white squadron was in the centre, and Hood's red squadron now brought up the rear. They ran onwards, propelled by the fresh fair wind, gunports open, pennants and flags streaming in the breeze, hurrying for the exact centre of the French fleet. And this was to be a big ship battle only; the frigates, having done their job of shadowing the enemy until contact would be assured, had hauled away, knowing that a single broadside from one of these seventy-four-gun monsters would send them to the bottom.
There came a rumble of fire from in front of them, travelling slowly towards the wind, reaching the English fleet long after the black smoke had clouded upwards into the morning air. Then there was more and more black smoke, and the white horses doubled in number as the cannon-balls plunged into the waves. But the French fire was inaccurate, and the British did not respond. There was something peculiarly menacing about the manner in which the huge ships kept silently on their way, awaiting the command to wheel into line parallel with the French, and then to return fire. The midshipman with the signal pad in his hand stood beside the admiral. But Rodney was watching the French through his telescope, as was Douglas.
'By heaven,' said the flag captain. 'By heaven.'
'Aye,' Rodney said, snapping his fingers with indecision.
Matt peered over the gunwale to see what was exciting them; the French fleet, already become disorganized during the night, had insensibly coagulated into two halves, separated by several miles of open water.
' 'Tis the way to do it, Sir George,' Douglas said.
Rodney bit his lip. It was also the way to that court-martial he feared, should he discard conventional naval tactics and then be defeated.
'The fleet waits for orders, Sir George,' Douglas said. 'It must be now, or never.'
Rodney looked through his telescope once again, then snapped it shut. 'We'll stand on, Charles. Signal no ship to wear, and no ship to give fire, until my command. We'll break their line, by God.'
The leading ship of the blue squadron, the Marlborough seventy-four, was already right up to the French line, and receiving shot from some four of the enemy, but still there was no answering fire. For the admiral had not given the signal. He sat in his chair, his telescope again to his eye, staring forward, while every man on board the Formidable, and surely every signal and gunnery officer in the entire fleet, watched him. Matt felt his palms become wet with sweat; the balls were plunging into the sea on every side, and he could remember as if it had been only a few seconds previously the explosion of three days ago.
The rhythm of the bells rang out; four couplets. It was eight o'clock in the morning, and the entire day was a cataclysm of sound. As the last stroke died away Rodney nodded his head to Captain Symonds, and the seaman who had been standing by the halliard gave it a little jerk and sent the red bunting streaming upwards.
'Fire, you hounds of hell,' shouted Lord Cranstoun. 'Fire you devils from the pit.'
The guns were already double-shotted. No doubt every gun in the fleet was double-shotted, and waiting. The noise was unlike any Matt had ever heard before. He turned his head as he seemed to leave the deck, as the ship seemed to leave the sea, and saw a vessel close by on the starboard beam, glimpsed the fleur-de-lis streaming from her masthead, and then lost her in the tremendous cloud of smoke which seemed to isolate him in time and space. But already Davis was pressing another ball into his arms, and he was feeding it into the smoking breech, and McLeod was pouring powder into his tube, and the breech was slamming to and the cannon was exploding again, all in a matter of seconds. Time seemed to cease, or to hasten onwards. Nothing mattered, save the sweat-wet ball and the smoking breech. He heard noise, nothing but noise, now and then interspersed by a shriek or a hoarse yell. He trod in blood and kicked his foot clear. He felt, rather than saw, a spar come crashing to the deck beside him. He blinked into the gloom and saw nothing but smoke. He scrabbled for the next ball and realized that it was no longer Davis. He took it, crammed it into the breech, turned back for the next, gazed in horror at the powder-blackened face, the powder-scorched yellow hair trailing free, the powder-encrusted white shift which was all she wore, the red blood which stained her fingers and her toes. He crammed that ball too into the breech, swung back as the day yet again exploded, watched her lips move, could not understand what was being said for a moment, stared past her at the admiral himself, leaning on his stick, his hat gone and his wig tinged with black.
'What? What?' he shouted. 'What means this, woman?'
'I could not stay below,' Sue insisted. 'In that darkness? That stench? Matt is here. I belong beside him.'
Rodney almost smiled. 'Proof enough, madam. Proof enough. Now get back to your place as a woman, or I'll set a marine to you.'
'Please,' Matt
begged.
She gazed at him for a moment, and her tongue came out to circle her lips, and then she turned and disappeared into the gloom. Impossibly, a trace of musk hung on the air for just a moment.
'God damn,' Rodney said. 'You Hiltons. You Hiltons.'
She seemed to take the battle with her. A bugle rang out, and the guns fell silent. It took some moments for the smoke to clear, and even then for some minutes it was difficult to decide what had happened, what was still happening. There was still firing on every side, although most of it was distant. Closer at hand there was endless heart-rending sound, the crashing of timbers, the screams of tormented men. For the smoke was at last lifting, to reveal that the French line had been split in three places, whether by accident or design Matt could not tell. The ships were scattered, several were sinking, others were on fire, drifting helplessly while the wind carried the contending fleets apart. The Formidable had herself suffered, and parties of marines were taking wounded men below, but no British ship had experienced anything like the beating received by the French.
' 'Tis the speed of our firing,' Arbuckle said, his voice hoarse. 'Why lads, we sent off three to every one we took.'
'Aye,' McLeod said sombrely. 'Or we'd be taking the fate of those poor lads.'
Matt looked down at the sea, and nearly retched with horror. The Formidable was perhaps half a mile from the nearest French ship, which was clearly sinking. She had lost her foremast and even as he watched her mainmast went overboard, and her foredeck was already running water. Her boats being as shattered as her bulwarks, her crew were taking to the sea. But what a sea. "Wherever he looked there were black fins, carving the tortured waves, almost seeming to shout their joy at the feast which had been granted them. The men already in the water were shrieking their terror at the fate which was about to overtake them, and the very blue was turning red as the sharks started their attack.
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