The Patriot's Fate

by Alaric Bond

  “That’s quite all right, ma’am.” It would be time to hand the cat back, although the woman was apparently in no hurry to take it.

  “Please, Sir Richard. You must call me Sarah,” she said, replacing her handkerchief. “That is, if it does not offend any protocol?”

  “Indeed not,” he was a little easier now. “And I am Richard.”

  She acknowledged him as if they had just been introduced, although Banks felt as if he had known her far longer. The cat was purring again, and he found himself stroking the head in a tentative manner that was clearly appreciated.

  “Would you take the cat back?” he asked.

  “No,” she replied, and her eyes flashed wickedly. “I think you should hold her; she likes you.”

  “Oh, I prefer dogs,” he said, scratching the thing under its chin. “And then mainly for hunting.”

  “There is no reason why you should not like both.” He noticed that she was smiling at him, almost laughing in fact, and it was with a great effort that he did not join her. “And the cat,” she said, “has a name: she is Sophie.”

  * * *

  On board the Hoche they had been busy. The main topmast had a crack midway along its length that was not possible to fish or, as the French would have it, to jumelle with any degree of certainty. They carried very few spare spars and the only one in any way suitable was shorter and, in Crowley’s estimation at least, far too light for the task. Nevertheless it had been set in place; the battleship’s main now boasted a reefed topsail, and could even set a small mizzen royal if called upon. Their speed was significantly slower, however, forcing the frigates to be called back to protect them, although the damage had also proved helpful in a strange and unexpected quarter.

  Bompart now showed no further desire to keep up the pretence, and as soon as they were under way again, steered to the northwest, a direct course that would take them to Ireland with the least possible trouble. The shadowing British duly followed, but one had also lost a topmast, and the French were actually extending their lead when further dark clouds appeared as evening was about to fall.

  “Aye, we’re on for another,” Doyle said as they took the night time air. “Let’s hope it is a little more kindly this time.”

  Crowley could only agree. In helping to rig the replacement topmast the Irish had already revealed themselves as competent sailors, something that was almost as rare in the French fleet as spare spars. Consequently they were no longer required to stay cramped on the orlop deck, and could roam the ship pretty much as they wished. The downside to this freedom was regular sail drill and other work aloft alongside their French colleagues, most of whom lacked both their skill and experience. And all were very well aware that the Irish would be kept extremely busy if the storm proved anything other than a minor squall.

  Walsh sauntered over. Although no seaman, he had benefited from his friends’ improved status and was self-consciously wearing a French military coat that was slightly too large for his scrawny body.

  “Well look at what the cat dragged in,” MacArthur said as he approached. “Found yourself a decent piece of cloth did you, Liam? Why don’t you have it cut into a coat?”

  “The cold was starting to get to me, so they’ve given me this a touch early.” Walsh informed them, pulling the garment into place and smoothing the fabric about him. “They’ll be handing out the uniforms to one an’ all tomorrow morning. And there’ll be cutlass and pike drill straight after.”

  “No muskets?” MacArthur asked.

  “No,” he said a little stiffly. “I find we are not to be trusted with muskets.”

  “How’s that then?” Doherty and Doyle said almost in unison.

  “It would seem there’s been trouble in the past allowing untrained men firearms. They get their charges stuck halfway down, then bash the barrels on the ground and bend them to buggery.”

  “Give us a decent drill, and it shouldn’t be a problem,” MacArthur said, somewhat aggrieved.

  “I’m only tellin’ you like it is,” Walsh replied. “Pikes and cutlasses, first thing in the forenoon watch.”

  “That’s if the storm doesn’t break first?” Doyle said sagely.

  “Storm? Is there another due?”

  “I’d say so,” Crowley this time. “So why don’t we all go and kit oursel’s out now? That way we might not catch our deaths afore we get there.”

  “I think we’re going to have a swearin’ first.” Walsh said in a quieter tone. “That will be at first light, afore breakfast.”

  “Swearing?” Crowley was mildly alarmed.

  “It’s for anyone who has not taken the oath of brotherhood. Takes no longer than a couple of minutes, an’ they’ll be more likely to trust you with a warm coat afterwards.”

  “I don’t hold with swearing,” Crowley said defiantly. “I’m not taking no oaths, not for no country, nor no cause. I never have, an’ I’m never going to.”

  Walsh regarded him with a look that was remarkably close to contempt. “I think you’ll find you will,” he said.

  * * *

  “Object in sight off the starboard beam.”

  Banks jerked himself back to the real world with a start. He and the girl had been talking by the taffrail for what must be almost an hour, and had quite forgotten about Fraiser and Chilton out in potentially enemy territory.

  “What do you see there?” he asked, moving forward along the quarterdeck.

  “Looks like our cutter, sir,” the lookout replied. “They’re under sail and makin’ for us. I thinks I can see Mr Fraiser and Mr Chilton: yes, sure of it.”

  Banks had reached as far as the binnacle before he realised he was still holding the cat. “Here, take this,” he said hastily passing it to Rose, the midshipman of the watch.

  “Boat ahoy!” They must be travelling at speed, if they were already being hailed. The answer came back: there were officers aboard, and Banks made his way to the entry port to meet them.

  Before long the boat was bumping against the frigate’s hull, with Chilton and Fraiser standing in the sternsheets. The lieutenant was up first. As officially the senior officer it was consequently his privilege, even if it were doubtful as to who held the greater importance to the ship.

  “What did you find?” Banks asked rather briskly as he helped him aboard.

  “No sign of the French, sir.” Chilton replied. “A complete lack of shipping in fact, apart from a few fishermen; very little evidence of life at all. Certainly no bivouac fires, or even excessive smoke from the cottages. We went as far as the village, but all was as silent as the grave.”

  Fraiser was up next, clutching a rolled up sheet of paper. “I’ve taken soundings, and would be happy to conn the ship into the bay, sir. There looks to be plenty of deep water, and a stable bottom.”

  Banks paused for a second. No enemy to fight and none apparently landed; it was the one option he had hardly considered. “Very good,” he said hurriedly, moving to one side to allow the rest of the men to clamber on board. “You’ve all done very well, I am sure you can use a hot drink.” He looked towards the duty midshipman who was still holding that darned cat. “See that the boat crew have something warm, Mr Rose.”

  The lad touched his hat a little awkwardly, then passed the animal into the waiting arms of Sarah, who had joined them.

  Banks found himself smiling, both at the woman and the memory of their conversation. “It seems your visitors have fled,” he said.

  “Yes, I heard. It is good news.”

  He supposed it was, although he would have to continue to hunt them until they were found and brought to battle. “I should gather it will mean that you will wish us home,” she continued.

  That was another thought that had not occurred, and Banks gave this one as much consideration. Yes, in theory there would be nothing to keep the family in Scylla; they could return and see what was left of their home. Any trouble they might encounter with the local population would be a problem for the local militia, an
d certainly not his concern. In fact, he would probably never meet with any of them ever again. And then it came to him, quite suddenly, that it really wasn’t very good news at all.

  Chapter Eleven

  “In the awful presence of God I, Patrick Chapman Doyle,”

  “Do voluntarily declare that I will persevere in endeavouring to form…” Walsh prompted.

  “Do voluntarily declare that I will persevere in endeavouring to form,”

  “A brotherhood of affection amongst Irishmen of every religious persuasion…”

  Doyle’s voice droned on, repeating Walsh’s words that all in the waist had already heard at least a dozen times that morning. The sun was hardly up, they had yet to eat breakfast, and most of the assembled men were fidgeting restlessly with little other than the next meal on their minds. But Crowley’s thoughts were far more centred. He knew his long held aversion to formal swearing was both odd, and had been allowed to become far too important. He had no stated faith, rarely prayed, certainly did not consider himself a Christian. And he could cuss and curse with the best of them. But he still maintained a childlike belief in God, and felt physically unable to reconcile himself with any holy allegiance, especially one which he considered nothing more than a wild ideal cooked up by a fanatic.

  The only time he could remember making a statement that entailed even a degree of commitment was at his first communion. That had been well over ten years ago when he was hardly at an age to make a reasoned choice. But this was a different story; the oath they were standing in line to swear was fundamental and far reaching. In a few carefully chosen sentences it totally revoked any loyalty he might have to his British friends, and allied him to a cause that he was not completely in favour of. More than that; despite any soft words to the contrary, Crowley knew he would be under a holy pledge to fight for that cause to the death. And it was a death that seemed increasingly likely in the current circumstances.

  Doyle had finished now. He handed his groat to Walsh – another part of the proceedings that Crowley was unhappy about – and shuffled off to join the men waiting for breakfast. Tone was there, watching quietly from under the larboard gangway with one of the French military officers by his side. It would soon be over; Crowley had engineered himself the last place and was well aware that only MacArthur stood ahead of him, as Doherty began to say his piece. He looked about, eager for some distraction or emergency that might provide deliverance at the final moment, while wondering vaguely if the introduction of a false middle name, or even a subtle changing of the words would go unnoticed. But it was futile. He was too well known to his friends, and the lines had already been spoken so many times that the rote would have been ingrained on every man present. Doherty was coming to a close now, and in only a matter of minutes it would be his turn.

  “Or give evidence against, any member or members of this or similar societies…”

  The old fool was obediently repeating the phrases in a solid monotone that was tiresome to listen to. He reached the end, and felt in his pocket for the money, then there would only be MacArthur. Crowley waited, trying to resign himself to what was to come, when MacArthur failed to step forward.

  There was a brief moment of confusion before Walsh lost his expression of bored compliance, and glared over in their direction.

  “You’re next,” he grumbled, as keen to see his breakfast as any man present, but MacArthur simply shook his head.

  “I will not swear,” he said, in a soft voice that might just as easily have been declining a second portion of plum duff. “I’ll serve, and I’ll fight, but I have a conscience and a faith. More than that, I have read my Bible and know that what you do is wrong.”

  Tone immediately drew away from the Frenchman; this was a private problem, and only of concern to the Irish.

  “Your oaths are not for me,” MacArthur clarified. “I have already made all the commitment necessary by being here.”

  “This is to bind us together,” Walsh said. “To unite us all in one common brotherhood.”

  “And you need an oath for that? We are Irish: it ought to be enough.” There was a smattering of laughter, and Walsh looked uncomfortably to Tone. “We are here, in another nation’s warship,” MacArthur continued, speaking up and to the crowd. “Sailing to fight against the English who have taken our land. There is no way out for us, no quick retreat; it isn’t as if we can get out and walk.”

  Now the laughter was fuller and more general, and several small conversations had struck up, clearly in support of MacArthur.

  “You speak of bonding together men of different faiths; well, my faith tells me that swearing and oaths are forbidden. In the book of Matthew, our Lord said ‘swear not at all’. His word is good enough for me, and if you mistrust us so much, it is a wonder we have been brought so far.”

  There was silence now, and the atmosphere had grown tense. All looked to Tone, who actually appeared momentarily at a loss. Despite the call for toleration of religion, he was known to have a poor view of Papists, and was even suspected by some of having no faith at all. Then Tone moved forward and gave a grin that Crowley found frighteningly casual.

  “If I may speak for a moment as a lawyer,” he said, stepping into the centre of the deck. “And I can assure you that my opinion here will not cost a penny…” There was polite, but expectant, laughter: every man present was waiting to hear what he had to say.

  “What you are taking now is not an oath at all, but an affirmation.” MacArthur looked at him doubtfully and Tone continued, addressing the entire company as much as any one man. “It may have been called an oath, and God is certainly mentioned, but that is just for simple folk. Clever men, like MacArthur here, know the difference, though it is strange that he has not listened to the words carefully to have realised; Lord knows we have all heard them often enough.”

  Now the humour was more on his side, and he rode the wave with ease.

  “Any one of you can take this vow, knowing in full it will not contradict your beliefs, religious or otherwise. Indeed, when I drew up the pledge, that was very much on my mind. And I would like to state yet again that the union of affection does not seek to discriminate, or disconcert any man or his faith.” He turned back to MacArthur. “So now that you know; now that I have explained, will you affirm?” he asked.

  “I will indeed,” MacArthur said. “I should have no problem with that at all, now why would I?”

  Tone nodded at Walsh who began to read once more. Crowley breathed a deep sigh of relief, conscious and eternally grateful for the last minute reprieve. An affirmation was totally different from a holy oath and, as far as he was concerned, did not contain any obligation that a man might worry about breaking. MacArthur was repeating the words obediently enough, having no trouble with any of the commitments or obligations they contained. And neither, Crowley decided, would he.

  * * *

  “No bottom, no bottom with this line.”

  Fraiser had been right, the sound had an excellent depth and would provide a first rate anchorage. They were considerably past Arranmore Island, and could shelter in its lee, whilst being close enough to both it and the mainland for a landing. The current also ran helpfully against them: Scylla was barely creeping forward under topsails alone, and could be halted at any moment.

  “By the mark, fifteen.”

  That was more like it. The ship nosed forward a little further as the leadsman began to spin the line for another cast.

  “By the deep, twelve.”

  Now it was starting to shallow; there seemed little point in delaying.

  “Anchor, if you please, Mr Caulfield.”

  The first lieutenant gave the order: sheets were released, the stopper let go, and Scylla‘s bower dropped into the placid waters of the sound.

  “We shall remain at a single anchor,” the captain announced. Mooring the ship at two might be more secure, but it was a relatively safe spot, and Banks still suspected that they might need to move off in a hurry. Fra
iser was starting to take bearings while Caulfield backed the mizzen to increase the pull on the cable. Banks walked forward to the break of the quarterdeck and looked down at the assembled marines in the waist.

  “Captain, you may begin to disembark your men.”

  Westwood gave a smart salute, while Adshead bellowed orders in a sharp and unpleasant nasal voice which Sergeant Rice quietly translated into commands the men could understand. The marines would provide the military might to secure a suitable landing point, then it would be a question of going ashore and seeing what was about. Banks singled out a midshipman.

  “Pass the word for Mr Monroe; tell him we will be leaving presently.”

  The lad was off, and soon came back with Monroe, who was looking as cantankerous as ever. The magistrate carried with him the faint scent of brandy, and Banks guessed that he was not relishing the prospect of returning to his home soil. Both women were staying in the ship at the captain’s orders. Sarah had done so without the least objection, and was now playing cards with young Parfrey in the gunroom. Mrs Monroe was not to be seen, and Banks found he cared little what had become of her.