The East Indiaman

by The East Indiaman (retail) (epub)

  He paced the Spitfire’s deck, his deductions falling into place with a logic that was convincing. Nisha had confirmed her husband had trafficked in silver and, after a lifetime in trade, Kite could detect sharp-practice. There was little doubt in his own mind that he had, at last, teased out the true resolution of Hooker’s part in a complex monetary transaction. Then something irregular caught his eye and brought him to a standstill: there something odd about that sampan to larboard, he thought casually. She had a sail hoisted, but it was not like the sails of the others, most of which were, in any case, lying to their nets and lines, busy about the day’s fishing. Besides, was not that a man waving?

  ‘Mr McClusky, the deck glass, if you please!’

  Keeping his eyes on the distant craft, Kite took the proffered glass and peered through the lenses. Adjusting them he exclaimed, ‘why, ’tis a ship’s boat!’ Lowering the glass he handed it back and pointed the craft out to McClusky. ‘There, what d’you make of her?’

  McClusky, whose experience in these matters remained limited was very much flattered to be asked for his opinion. After a moment he said, ‘it does look like a ship’s boat. Exactly like one from a big ship, sir.’

  ‘I take it you mean an Indiaman or a Country-vessel?’

  ‘I think so, sir.’

  ‘Then what the devil is she doing out here with her sails up and her hands waving as though they’re in distress? Put the helm over and let’s run down to her.’

  And so fate threw them a bone by way consolation.

  ‘You are fortunate gentlemen, to have fallen in with us.’

  ‘Indeed sir, we are.’

  Kite looked at the two young officers who obviously thought themselves in heaven, ministered to by Nisha and Sarah as they tucked into the last of the duck pickled after the fowling party on Hainan. He had left the men to themselves, for they were clearly much in want of food and water before he could press themselves for an account of their misfortune and, in any case, they had had the boat to secure astern on a towline.

  ‘I have no doubt that you have been informed by my wife here that this is the privateer schooner Spitfire of Liverpool and that my name is Kite…’

  ‘We already knew your name, Captain.’

  ‘They are from the Carnatic, William,’ Sarah said, looking at him, ‘Captain Grindley’s ship.’

  ‘God bless my soul! Then what has become of Captain Grindley and his vessel?’

  ‘She was taken by a French frigate..’

  ‘Named Alcmene,’ Kite completed the sentence.

  ‘How did you know, sir?’

  ‘Intuition, Mr, er, I am sorry, I have not yet…’

  ‘Davidson, sir, fourth officer of the Carnatic.’ The young man rose and shook hands. ‘And this is Cook, the second purser.’

  ‘Mr Davidson, Mr Cook, you are very welcome. Tell me about your ordeal.’

  ‘Well sir, to be frank it is a mite embarrassing. Captain Grindley, d’you see took this Alcmene for a British cruiser.’

  ‘He was a man who ever knew his own mind, would you not say, Mr Davidson?’ Kite asked wryly.

  ‘Indeed, Captain Kite. He was not one to be contradicted on his own quarterdeck, certainly.’ Davidson paused, then added, ‘but ironically sir, that offered us a glimmer of hope.’

  ‘How so, Mr Davidson?’

  ‘The whole affair was over in a quarter of an hour and we were the prisoners of a French prize crew. They were not very numerous, but they seemed confident of holding us all below decks. We had a large crew of lascars and kelassies and these were left to work the ship, not, I think, being considered a threat to the French boarding party. We, of course, were made prisoners and bound by a parole sworn by Captain Grindley. It was his assertion that he would give his parole for all the officers. Regrettably Cook and I did not consider another man’s word was binding. When the ship was anchored we managed, without much trouble, to escape in a boat which the prize-master had injudiciously left on her painter under the quarter. I presume he thought the coast so hostile that there was nowhere where we could take refuge.’

  ‘And you thought that of you could get away to sea, you might intercept a homeward bound Indiaman…’

  ‘Or a country-wallah. We did not expect a privateer like yourself, sir, but we are damned glad to see you.’

  ‘Very happy to oblige, I’m sure, but where is the Alcmene now, have you any idea?’ Kite asked.

  ‘I have no idea beyond speculating that, like us, she is hopeful of picking up a homeward-bound and laden ship. On account of our late departure from Bombay we fell into his hands, but he would far rather intercept a laden, homeward-bounder…’ Davidson, relieved to have been picked up was euphoric and his tongue was running away with him. Kite however, was concerned that the Alcmene was lurking somewhere ahead of the Spitfire and that she would fall into the trap. The little schooner was no spicier a prize than the Carnatic, though she had an unsold cargo of the best Malwa opium on board. He swore silently to himself and then an idea struck him.

  ‘Do you know where your ship lay at anchor?’

  ‘You mean where was she taken?’

  ‘Exactly so, Mr Davidson.’

  ‘Yes, I know where she is now lying, in a deep bay to the east of the Lamma Islands. If you have a chart, I can show you.’

  ‘Very well,’ Kite went to his desk and removed one of Huddart’s charts and handed it to Davidson. ‘Then tell me, Mr Davidson, why was the Carnatic sent in to the China coast and not despatched directly back to Île de France? Have you any idea?’

  Davidson shrugged. ‘I can only conjecture, sir,’ he said unrolling the chart, ‘that we were an encumbrance. Frankly there were insufficient men to work the Carnatic back to Île de France, even with a compliant crowd of lascars. I think we were left to one side, as it were, in anticipation of better prizes out of the Pearl River. If we were worth picking up at the end of the cruise, well so be it, if not we could be burnt.’

  Kite nodded. ‘That is logical, certainly…’ He paused, considering matters as Davidson pointed to the China coast delineated on the chart.

  ‘How big was the prize-crew?’ Sarah asked as Kite studied the chart.

  Davidson turned to his beautiful interlocutor. ‘Well Ma’am, perhaps twenty men, why do you ask?’

  ‘Because my husband is thinking of taking her.’

  Kite turned to Cook. ‘And have you anything to add to Mr Davidson’s account, Mr Cook?’

  The junior purser shook his head. ‘No sir. Davidson’s account is accurate and I could add nothing more.’

  ‘Very well.’ Kite let the chart roll up and smiled at his wife. ‘My wife reads my mind.’

  ‘Are there any questions?’ Kite asked, looking round the company assembled in the cabin. Harper and McClusky shook their heads.

  Davidson raised a hand. ‘Cook and I wish to serve as volunteers, sir.’

  ‘And your offer is gratefully received, Mr Davidson.’ Kite turned to the two women and raised his eyebrows. Sarah made a negative gesture with her hand and Nisha lowered her eyes. Neither of the women wished to stick their heads in a hornet’s nest, Nisha least of all, for she felt her presence increasingly on sufferance since the revelations in the Pearl River. Nor could Harper dislodge this from her mind and, feeling an estrangement from Nisha, he now sought the catharsis of action.

  ‘Very well, then this is what we shall do,’ Kite said, gathering the men about him as he bent over the chart.

  The Carnatic’s boat left the schooner at two o’clock in the morning. It was commanded by Harper, with Davidson and Cook in support, and a crew of twelve men. Kite watched the dark, close hauled quadrilateral of her lugsail disappear in the gloom. There was scarcely a breath of wind now to move the heavy schooner, though the boat was manageable and, if the wind failed utterly, her crew had had previous experience at pulling inshore with oars muffled.

  They had raised the coast that afternoon and edged offshore under only a single sail, so that if they
were detected, their rig was unidentifiable. Finally, shortly before sunset, they put about again. From Spitfire’s main crosstrees Kite had observed the masts, spars and furled sails of the Carnatic gleaming in the last rays of the setting sun over a spit of land at the head of the bay. As soon as it grew dark the Spitfire ghosted inshore, following after her boat as the wind dropped all along the coast.

  Kite’s plan relied upon the wind being strong enough to allow them to stand into the bay under sail but, as the hours passed, it was clear that it would not oblige them. By midnight therefore, he had ordered the sweeps up out of the hold and the men toiled at dragging Spitfire through the water while Kite sought to harness the tidal stream. For Harper to attack unsupported by the schooner courted disaster and Kite paced the deck in increasing irritation, berating Rahman, who had assured him a breeze would spring up. But when the first flush of dawn began to lighten the horizon to the south east, even the zephyrs had disappeared.

  ‘It will come, Kite Sahib, it will come…’

  ‘We cannot wait an instant longer and the noise of those damned sweeps would wake the dead!’

  All along the deck the crew walked back and forth between the guns while aft Sarah, dressed in shirt, breeches and hessian boots, waited with McClusky.

  ‘God damn it, the men will be tired out before we ask them to load a gun…’ Kite muttered. He was in a lather of frustration, furious at being cheated of his last, miserable chance. If he could only…

  ‘Kite Sahib!’

  But Kite had felt it, smelling the dry scent of the land in its embrace. Overhead the mainsail slatted, then filled. He leapt to the helm and peered into the binnacle at the compass card.

  ‘Steady her full and bye!’ he hissed at the helmsman and then, straightening up, called, ‘get those sweeps inboard. Get your heads down for an hour, we’ll call you when we want you.’

  With a series of dull thumps the long loomed sweeps were drawn laboriously inboard and squared off along the deck to the bosun’s satisfaction. Kite watched Jack Bow pass some light lashings round them. The tired men flopped down on the deck, tucking themselves out of the way and, curling their arms, rested their heads. They were soon asleep.

  ‘The true seaman can sleep on a razor’s edge,’ Kite remarked, his mood lifting by the second. Spitfire was racing through the water and it was almost impossible to imagine that only a few minutes earlier she had been becalmed. As the daylight grew, so did the breeze, and as the sun rose the prospect before them was glorious.

  The large bay into which they swooped was surrounded by rising ground and a low range of mountains spread across its head. Several walled villages could be seen, their eastern ramparts catching the low rays of the rising sun, while nearer, just beyond the bulk of the Carnatic, stood the exotic pillar of a pagoda.

  Kite lowered his glass and called for McClusky. ‘Take Jack Bow, Mr McClusky, and see that all the guns are primed afresh.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ McClusky went forward and Kite summoned Rahman.

  ‘Go round the deck and shake each man individually. Tell them to make ready and take their stations.’ Rahman did as he was bid and Kite stared again at his quarry.

  Against the backdrop of grey-green hills the Carnatic looked splendid. The sunlight caught every detail of her hull, while her masts rose against the unblemished blue of the sky. She wore the white flag of France at her stern and as it rippled out in the morning light he could see its reflection clear in the dark water under her double tiers of galleries. Along her painted strakes the dew sparkled on her blocks and the light caught her furled sails on their yards.

  Suddenly he saw a puff of smoke and the sound of the warning gun rumbled over the water towards them. Spitfire’s approach against the rising sun would have rendered her a dark silhouette, her own ensign a black speck, her intention sinister but unconfirmed. As her company readied themselves, Kite wanted only the distance between the two vessels closed as rapidly as possible.

  He turned and walked aft. Sarah straightened up. She stood with Maggie at the taffrail. ‘Are you sure you wish to remain on deck?’ he asked Maggie.

  The little maid nodded. ‘I’ll load for the mistress, Cap’n,’ she said.

  ‘Then you’re staying, I suppose?’ he asked Sarah.

  She too inclined her head but remained silent and, after he had taken off his coat, she handed him his sword on its belt. Then, as he buckled this on, she passed him a pair of pistols. ‘Take care of yourself, William. I never loved any other but you.’

  Without a word he took the pistols and shoved them into his belt. Then he bent and kissed her, holding her face in his right hand for a moment before turning and walking forward, to take his post beside the tiller.

  ‘Mister Rahman!’ he called, his voice rasping.

  ‘Kite Sahib?’

  ‘Man the guns! Maximum elevation and stand-by!’

  ‘Maximum elevation and standing by, sir!’

  ‘Mr McClusky!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Muster your boarders!’

  ‘All mustered and arms checked.’

  ‘Very well. Bosun!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Stand by forrard! Let fly the head sheets the minute I say!’

  Kite took the helm. ‘Go and stand-by the main sheet,’ he ordered the helmsman. ‘Take the turns off and be ready to let it run.’

  ‘Aye, aye,sir.’

  The man ambled off and Kite, leaning on the helm and peering at the rapidly diminishing gap between the two vessels, drew his hanger. The deck was so quiet that the sword’s blade rasped against the scabbard ring.

  ‘Good fortune attend our endeavours!’ he called out as, without faltering in her pace Spitfire raced towards the large anchored ship whose sides began to rise above her deck as the schooner’s own shadow ascended the Carnatic’s starboard side.

  Another puff of smoke was followed immediately by the strange buzzing noise of a ball flying overhead to thwack through the mainsail with a rent that threw a bright patch of sunlight on the Carnatic’s open gunports. At the same instant the boom of the gun thundered out almost overhead as Kite leaned his body on the helm and turned Spitfire a second before she drove bodily into the Carnatic’s hull.

  ‘Let fly all sheets and spit fire!’

  The sails began to shake, the deck levelled and the two four-pounders to larboard fired ineffectively into the Carnatic’s side, more for their numbing effect on the defenders than to inflict damage on the stout teak whales, but mainly to let Harper know they were alongside and about to board the Carnatic. Then there was a jarring crash, something parted forward and a grinding and splintering was accompanied by a roll to starboard. With a whoop McClusky led the Spitfire’s boarding party as it clambered upwards, over the main chains and up the gun-port lids, brandishing their cutlasses and boarding axes. Above them the French defenders poked muskets over the side, their long bayonets glistening in the strong sun, and fired down onto the Spitfire’s deck. Behind Kite came the spat of a discharged pistol and one of the French musketeers flew backwards. Then above him and to the left a movement caught his eye. An officer had poked a musket out through a quarter gallery window and, enfilading the deck, sought a suitable target.

  Kite drew a pistol but was distracted as the Spitfire’s bow swung in towards the Carnatic.

  ‘Catch a turn there,’ he bawled at the helmsman, waving at the end of the mainsheet. Perceiving the problem the seaman, an experienced hand, caught the end of the mainsheet round an iron rod staying the Carnatic’s starboard main chain-whale. But as the Spitfire’s stern swung out, Sarah was exposed to the clear view of the marksman in the quarter-gallery. Intent on covering the boarders, Sarah had not seen the marksman, but her energetic movements frustrated her would-be killer as he tried to follow her with the muzzle of his musket. Looking round, Kite caught a sight of the man and shot out the window above his head. The marksman flinched and the musket was realigned, the ball singing past Kite’s ear an instant later.
Kite sent a second ball into the quarter gallery, howling a warning to Sarah, who swung round and, taking another loaded pistol from Maggie, laid it in wait for another appearance of the marksman.

  ‘William!’ The sharp female voice made Kite turn forward. In the opening of the companionway, standing at the top of the steps swathed in green silk stood Nisha. Reaching over the coaming she skidded first one, then a second loaded pistol at him. He threw her his discharged weapons, picked up the loaded brace and threw her a quick grimace of gratitude. Then he made for the side of the Carnatic, intent on joining the fight on deck.

  He was almost too late for, just as he clambered over the rail, the last of Harper’s men climbed over the larboard bow. Harper, Davidson, Cook and the dozen men of the boat’s crew swept along the waist and caught the defenders in the rear. Entirely preoccupied by the schooner lying alongside their starboard side, whose approach they had been watching for some time, the French prize-crew had no inkling of a second attack over the opposite side of the ship.

  ‘Á moi!’ an officer was shouting in an attempt to rally his men and make a last stand about the foot of the mizen mast, ‘Á moi, mes enfants!’

  In the waist an outnumbered body of the prize-crew had been surrounded and several had already thrown their weapons down in disgust, spitting on the planking as they did so.

  ‘Secure those prisoners, McClusky.’ Kite ordered, turning aft, his hanger as yet unblooded.

  He confronted the French officer who was flanked by three men, one of whom, also an officer, was dressed in a nightshirt, his hair awry and half tied in a queue. He was wounded and bleeding profusely.