Larcum Mudge (Alexander Clay Series Book 8)

by Philip K Allan

  ‘He be caught as to what to do, I reckon,’ said Sedgwick. ‘Andrews says that Peregrine be there, right enough, but what he can’t fathom be how we shall come at her.’

  ‘Pointy Point be a proper tough place to enter, I hear,’ said Trevan. ‘No end of cannon, and a right tricky entrance. I hope all that walking about in the sun ain’t giving Pipe the notion to try.’

  ‘How come you know so much about it, Adam?’ asked Mudge.

  The Cornishman pointed across the lower deck with his clasp knife, and picked out a wiry-looking sailor on another table. ‘Abbott were here back in ninety-four, on the old Vanguard, when we took the place from the Frogs. Course, it didn’t last any. Some bugger from Paris showed up with an army and freed the slaves, who fought like tigers for him. He reckons the place is tight as a clam.’

  ‘If it were that tough to crack, how did it come to change hands at all?’ asked Evans.

  ‘They landed an army down the coast and walked in,’ explained the Cornishman. ‘It’s as easy as kiss my hand to seize from the landward side, if you has the soldiers, that is. Not sure our forty Lobster will answer.’

  ‘It’s worse than that, lads,’ said Sedgwick. ‘Andrews told me there be a Frog two-decker moored in the place, and a proper big bastard at that.’

  ‘A two-decker!’ exclaimed O’Malley. ‘We should be leaving that fecker well alone! Ain’t no call for pulling that bugger’s tail, I’m after thinking.’

  ‘So, why be it taking Pipe so bleeding long to make up his mind?’ queried Mudge. ‘He can’t be thinking of sailing in against them odds, can he?’

  ‘Proper deep one is Pipe,’ observed Trevan. ‘If there be a way to come at that Peregrine, he’ll find it, though he has to pace the deck till Doomsday.’

  ‘Maybe he’s thinking of cutting the bugger out, with boats, like we did that Frog slaver a couple of years back,’ suggested Evans.

  ‘And maybe his orders don’t give him no choice but to try,’ added Sedgwick.

  The sailors pondered this for a moment, and then looked up towards the main deck overhead. With a slow creaking from the frames around them, the frigate started to swing through the water. The wallowing eased, and the gurgle of passing sea began to tremble through the oak wall beside them.

  ‘Oh, that do feel better,’ said Evans.

  ‘Not sure as I likes the sound of that,’ said Trevan. ‘I reckon we be heading back towards Pointy Point.’

  Sedgwick held out his hand and touched the ship’s side. ‘For good or ill, he’s gone an’ made up his mind, lads.’

  *****

  The following night, after the molten sun had dropped below the horizon in a fiery blaze, it quickly grew dark. The sky was covered with occasional puffs of cloud, the clear patches between them alive with stars. Down on the surface of the sea, the big frigate went about and started to close with the shore, pulling a line of ship’s boats behind her like a mallard with her ducklings.

  For once the Griffin was almost completely dark. No navigation lamps winked out from high on her mastheads. No amber lanterns shone on her main deck, where her crew were quietly gathering. Only by her wheel was there the light from the binnacle, illuminating the large figure of Jacob Armstrong as he stood quietly conning the ship. The chart produced by the Daring’s sailing master fluttered in his hand as he angled it towards the faint glow.

  There is more light outside the ship than within, thought Clay to himself, as he stood by the rail, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dark. Where her hull swept through the water beneath him, it left faint tendrils of phosphorescence curling in the sea. What starlight there was caressed the tops of the lapping wave crests. The dark bulk of the island lay all about them as they entered the bay, dotted with a net of yellow points from homes and farms on shore. And over all was the volcano, spitting out a dust of tiny vermillion sparks high up above them.

  Clay extended out his night glass and focused on the cluster of lights that was Pointe-à-Pitre. There was the fortress on the cliff, a dark block with only a few orange points showing. The dark bar of the Isle of Pigs stretched across the entrance, its battery invisible and a gentle line of silver beach showing below it. He turned his attention to the island’s western end, with its reefs and sand bars, linking it to the land. Somewhere behind were the Peregrine and the ship of the line. What the hell are you thinking of? he asked himself again, just as he had been doing for hours. Attacking this place against such odds? Surely the discovery of that huge warship had changed everything? No one would blame you for turning back.

  He closed his telescope with a snap; breathing in the warm tropical air, he forced himself to be calm again. Have a little faith, he told himself. The judgement you reached on the quarterdeck earlier was sound. Once you had discounted everything that was impossible to achieve, what was left was the bones of something promising. The men all know what they need to do. It will work. He turned away from the rail and walked back across to the group of officers by the wheel.

  ‘Have we much farther to go, Mr Armstrong?’ he asked.

  ‘Another few cables, sir,’ said the American. ‘That volcano off the larboard quarter makes for a useful mark.’ Clay went to nod, and then realised how useless the gesture was in the dark.

  ‘Very good,’ he said, and went forward to look down onto the main deck. He could sense more than see the groups of heavily armed men who were forming up, under the hissed instructions of their officers.

  ‘To me, launch crew,’ said the voice of Preston, from close under the forecastle.

  ‘Blue cutter over here,’ said Midshipman Russell. ‘Have those packages the gunner gave you ready for inspection.’

  Just below where Clay stood was an oasis of calm among all the movement. There could be no mistaking the carefully arranged block of men, perfectly aligned with each other, even if he couldn’t see their red coats and cross belts. From almost directly beneath his feet came Macpherson’s voice.

  ‘Corporal Edwards, have you checked that every man’s piece is uncocked?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ came the reply. ‘Private Conway had his on half-cock, so I’ve stopped his grog for a week to learn him.’

  ‘And you have the shuttered lantern?’

  ‘I got it here, for when you should have need of it, sir.’

  ‘Good man,’ said the marine. ‘Should we encounter any sentries posted on the beach, cold steel only, lads. The man who fires before I give the word will taste a dozen at the grating in the morn.’

  ‘Bring her up into the wind, helmsman,’ ordered Armstrong at the wheel, and the frigate started to turn. ‘Mr Sweeny, my compliments to Mr Hutchinson, and tell him he can get in sail and let go the anchor.’

  The youngster scampered off along the gangway, almost colliding with his captain in the dark.

  ‘Steady there, Mr Sweeny,’ Clay said. ‘No need for such unseemly haste. Remember you are a king’s officer and the eyes of the men are on you.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the chastened midshipman, before disappearing into the night.

  ‘Are you ready to depart, Mr Macpherson?’ Clay called down.

  ‘Aye, sir,’ replied the Scot.

  ‘Very well, we shall await your signal. The best of luck to you.’

  The first of the frigate’s two cutters had drawn up alongside and the marines made their clumping way down into it. With a few hissed instructions, and a clatter of oars, it pulled away, a nucleus of black against the starlit water for a moment before it vanished altogether. Clay watched it go, and then turned as someone appeared beside him.

  ‘Ship is at anchor, and showing no sail, sir,’ said the first lieutenant.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Taylor,’ said his captain, returning his attention to the island. He was willing for a sign, and dreading that it might be the sudden prickle of musket fire.

  ‘Tom knows what he is about, sir,’ said Taylor, ‘and he has a few men skilled in moving in the dark without rousing suspicion.’

  �
�Yes, former poachers, for the most part. But I am sure it is proceeding satisfactorily,’ said Clay, with a forced calm he didn’t entirely feel. ‘Is all in hand down on the main deck?’

  ‘All is as it should be, sir,’ said the first lieutenant. ‘Mr Preston and Mr Blake have their men in hand, and I made young Mr Russell repeat his orders to me, one last time.’

  They resumed their vigil of the island, waiting for the signal. Time stretched out for the watchers as the night filled with sound. The groan of the anchor cable against the hawse hole. The chink of equipment and the occasional cough from the men stood waiting down on the main deck. The lap of water against the hull beneath them.

  Now Clay’s head began to run with all the details that he would have liked to have checked over with Taylor, knowing that he shouldn’t ask. The older man was much too good an officer not to have attended to them all, and might be offended by the implied lack of confidence in him. Clay sighed to himself, remembering when he had been a first lieutenant. Back then he had dreamed of being a patrician captain, freed from worrying about all the mundane detail behind an attack like tonight’s. Yet now that he had reached that position, he was busy fretting over being excluded. His natural good humour came back to save him, and he chuckled to himself. Then an orange light appeared at the western end of the Isle of Pigs, and started to wink. Three flashes, a pause, and then two more.

  ‘That is the correct signal, sir,’ said Taylor. ‘Shall I give the word?’

  ‘Yes. It’s time.’

  *****

  The last boat to leave the frigate’s side was the cutter commanded by Midshipman Russell. It was the smallest of the frigate’s four boats, a fact that became apparent as the larger members of the storming party made their way to their places.

  ‘Shift yer great fecking arse there, Sam Evans,’ hissed O’Malley, as he tried to give himself enough room to pull on his oar.

  ‘Not so bleeding easy, with Larcum hard by on t’other side,’ complained the big Londoner. ‘How about if I take your cutlass and pistol, and shift up into the bow?’ The night filled with clanking and muffled oaths, and the cutter was set rocking.

  ‘What is going on there?’ demanded the voice of the midshipman from the stern of the boat.

  ‘Just finding me place, Mr Russell,’ said Evans.

  ‘There be no room here, Sam,’ protested Trevan, who was occupying the bow seat. ‘And I’ve got these crowbars to mind an’ all.’ More shifting followed as the big man returned to his original place and sat down heavily.

  ‘Settle down, Evans,’ growled Sedgwick. ‘None of us fancy a swim this night.’

  ‘Easy for Able to bleeding say, taking his ease with the Grunters,’ muttered Evans. ‘And how comes that Andrews bloke gets to sit with them?’

  ‘He’s to be our fecking guide,’ replied O’Malley. ‘Knows that barky we’re after like the back of his hand.’

  ‘Silence in the boat!’ ordered Russell. ‘Get us underway, if you please, Sedgwick.’

  They pushed off and rowed gently away from the frigate, each dip of the oars accompanied by brief rings of phosphorescence. The cliff-like side of the Griffin rose up behind them, her lofty masts and rigging a net for the stars. Two dark shapes grew from out of the water on either side.

  ‘Easy all,’ ordered Sedgwick, and the cutter ran on a little before slowing to a halt.

  ‘Mr Preston, are you ready?’ came the voice of Blake from the stern sheets of the longboat.

  ‘Yes sir,’ replied the launch.

  ‘Mr Russell?’

  ‘Cutter’s ready, sir,’ replied the midshipman.

  ‘Absolute silence, gentlemen, if you please,’ urged Blake. ‘Follow my lead.’

  In line ahead, the three boats turned towards the shore. The dark water of the bay was dappled by starlight, swirling in silver pools where the sea broke over the coral reefs and sandbanks that lay all around them. Ahead was the port, and the island spread across the entrance, a bar of dark shade against the faint lights of the town beyond, growing ever larger as they came near. A fluke in the wind brought the mouldering smell of dank vegetation, just as the first sound of waves lapping against the shore reached them.

  ‘Western end of the island, Sedgwick,’ muttered Russell. ‘As far from that damned battery as can be achieved.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ whispered the coxswain. ‘I reckon I can see where Mr Blake has beached.’ He pointed at a dark shape against the white sand with a cluster of figures around it. The launch ahead was turning off to one side of it, so Sedgwick pulled the tiller across and headed the other way.

  ‘Backs into it lads!’ he hissed. The boat surged into a gentle wave, the bow lifting at first and then tilting forward to surf down the far side.

  ‘Easy all!’ said Sedgwick as the boat rushed forward amid a welter of foaming water. The bottom caught for a moment, ran free, and then grated to a halt.

  ‘Over the side, lads,’ urged Russell. ‘But keep those packages dry!’ He stepped out of the boat, braced for cold water soaking into his shoes and stockings. The sea was warm as milk, a surprise that was remarked on with chattering pleasure by the barefooted crew of the cutter.

  ‘Silence!’ he ordered. ‘Sedgwick, take charge while I go and find Mr Blake. Keep the men together, and above all quiet.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Russell stumbled across the sand towards the sound of gentle voices ahead. They had landed at the extreme western end of the Isle of Pigs. The beach was narrow here, backed by the curved trunks of palm trees, the dark forest beyond. Off to the east, towards the gun battery, the sandy shore vanished into a mass of mangroves, their serpentine roots black against the white surf as they curled like claws and dipped into the sea. On the other side of him the beach turned around the end of the island. Stretching between here and the coast was a mass of disturbed water, with banks of white sand proud of the sea in places. The sound of the wash and ebb competed with the hum of insects and the shifting of night creatures among the trees.

  ‘Cutter arrived, sir,’ he reported to the figure of Blake.

  ‘Splendid to hear that, Mr Russell,’ said the lieutenant. ‘What was less good was the sound of your men skylarking as they landed. Kindly keep them in hand. Once we get into the harbour proper, such levity will cost us dear.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  ‘Very well. Tom, what have you to report?’

  ‘That my men have secured this end of the island,’ said Macpherson. ‘There is a path that leads through the woods in the direction of the battery. I have placed pickets to guard it. Also, we have had the leisure to look at possible ways to bring the boats through these shallows and into the port. Corporal Edwards here has found a promising-looking wee channel that runs close alongside the beach.’

  ‘It’s shallow, mind, sir,’ reported the marine. ‘No deeper than me knees in places, but only fifty yards long at best. With a deal of hauling, I daresay the boats will squeeze through.’

  ‘What sort of bottom?’ asked Preston.

  ‘Sand for the most part, some rock towards the far end, sir,’ said Edwards.

  ‘Any sign of the enemy?’ asked Blake.

  ‘Aye, but taken care of,’ said Macpherson, indicating a pair of dark shapes beneath the palm trees. Russell realised that he had seen them when he landed, but had dismissed them as rocks. ‘Mind, they will be missed presently, when their watch is over, so I suggest you gentlemen make a start with getting the boats through. My lads will hold this part of the island until your return.’

  They started with the empty cutter. The channel that Corporal Edwards had found proved easy to follow, even in the dark. It swirled with water, moving between the beach on one side and a smooth dome of sand that rose proud of the sea on the other. The crew of the cutter were able to run their boat through, with it only grounding lightly in two places. Next came the bigger launch, which proved more troublesome. That needed the combined manpower of two boat crews to drag her across the shal
lowest parts. At times the men were straining and slipping among the churning water, hauling the heavy boat forward a foot at a time. Which left the much larger longboat to come.

  ‘We can lighten her by taking out the gratings and oars, and carrying them along via the beach,’ suggested Preston, rubbing at the stump of his left arm.

  ‘I can get some my lads to porter them,’ offered Macpherson.

  ‘I daresay we can get her through, with a deal of effort,’ said Blake. ‘My worry is the return trip, with the enemy alerted, and perhaps pressing us hard. That ship of the line could put twice our numbers into her boats, not to mention any relief coming from the shore.’ The officers stood on the beach, imagining the chaos that would follow them trying to pull the stubborn longboat through, under attack from swarms of Frenchmen.

  ‘Not an attractive prospect,’ said Preston.

  ‘I think I have it!’ exclaimed Macpherson. ‘Leave the longboat where she lies, on the outer side of this wee piggy island, for me and my marines to use when the time comes to return to the Griffin. In her stead, use the cutter that brought my men across.’

  ‘It will leave us short for the attack on the Peregrine,’ mused Blake.

  ‘Aye, but what you do is to be but a diversion,’ urged the marine. ‘It is Mr Russell here who is will land the telling blow.’

  Blake looked up to the starlit sky for a moment, and then made his decision. ‘Very well, let us make it so,’ he said. ‘Get the other cutter pulled through, and let us start this night’s work in earnest.’

  *****

  Protected by the Isle of Pigs and all the shallows, the harbour beyond was a calm pool. On its broad surface was faithfully mirrored every light in Pointe-à-Pitre on the far side of the inlet. Only where the deep-water channel ran beneath the black walls of the fortress was the sea disturbed, setting the reflected lights to flash and wink. Midshipman Russell looked across at the wharfs and buildings of the sleeping town. Faint noises drifted on the night air. The call and reply of the watch as they patrolled the quayside. A burst of sound from an unseen party of revellers. The single bell-stroke from the clock in the church tower.