Harry edged closer and closer, his guns firing without hindrance. He could see Chittenden, standing by his wheel, issuing instructions to the man at the helm. The forward carronade went off again, and they were quite simply no more. There was no wheel, no helmsman, and no ship’s captain. The Mercury, with no one to steer her, and no pressure on the rudder, simply spun round broadside onto the wind. There was panic aboard, as the hands, now leaderless, rushed in all directions. Harry took the way off the Principessa and glided alongside, his every gun now aimed at his opponent. One of the men, with perhaps more sense than the others, took an axe and cut away the ship’s Genoese colours.
Harry grabbed the speaking trumpet and shouted for all the hands to go below. His men were throwing grappling irons to bring the two ships together. Dispirited, outnumbered, and out-gunned, they were only too happy to oblige, and they headed for the companionways. Lubeck and a party of men jumped aboard as soon as they touched, muskets at the ready, willing to shoot anyone who’d had a change of heart. More men were hauling a cable up from the bowels of the Principessa and a line was passed over the shattered bulwarks of the Mercury and led forward. The line was nipped onto the cable, and that was passed over to be attached to the Mercury’s bows.
Harry looked anxiously over his shoulder, but the four ships were a mile away. He gave the orders and the Principessa got under way again, pulling the Mercury’s bows round and heading due south. Lubeck organised some of his prisoners to man relieving tackles so that the ship could steer, and it wasn’t long before Harry cast off his tow. Now under their own sails, both ships opened the distance between Bartholomew and the others. Their pursuit, which had been half-hearted anyway, soon petered out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
HARRY sat in the Mercury’s sleeping cabin, studying the charts he’d found in Chittenden’s sea-chest. The main cabin was wrecked, with the sternlights in tatters and great gashes in the bulkhead where his carronades had smashed through. He also had a list of courses and he was busy figuring out Bartholomew’s destination. He was truly surprised to find that it was just a couple of landfalls. The first one was an island off Southern Dalmatia, the other on the coast of Asia Minor. He’d expected their rendezvous to be somewhere out at sea, on one of the trading routes from the east. The kind of profit they enjoyed could only be achieved if they took a large convoy. He was at a loss to know how they made any money where they were going.
Questioning the hands produced nothing. Harry didn’t expect them to know any details, for Chittenden would not have bothered to tell them their destination. But he was not prepared for their total silence. They clammed up to a man, behaving as if he was a king’s officer intent on hauling them into a man-of-war. He had never encountered such a surly bunch anyway. They were less communicative than any sailors he’d ever known. And now he had to decide what to do with them. He could give Lubeck the Mercury to command, but could he rely on these men if they got into a fight with their late compatriots? They could just take over the ship again and either surrender or attack him. He could mix the crews, but he was loath to do that, since his men had performed well, and were likely to become the kind of working unit that every captain dreamed of. Harry didn’t think it was worth the risk, and he called Lubeck in from the quarterdeck.
‘We’ll continue south, Lubeck. At the first suitable inlet, preferably one with some rocks close inshore, we’ll run this ship aground and burn her.’
‘The men?’ asked Lubeck.
‘Can walk ashore. Where they go from there is not my business.’
The German nodded and followed Harry out into the dawn. Harry went over the side and was rowed back to the Principessa. Halfway across the water he could hear Fairbairn’s screaming. His agony seemed to come in waves, receding for several hours, then coming back worse than before, like a woman in labour. Harry had no idea how long this would go on, but he was determined to rescue the man from himself, and at least give him the chance of leading a full and satisfying life again.
Daylight found them off a suitable cove, with a reef near the sandy beach, and a small fishing village behind. Harry raided the Mercury to replace his powder, then ordered Lubeck to proceed. The German set his sails, and ran the Mercury into the bay at full speed. As she struck the reef, her main and mizzen masts toppled over the forepeak, taking all the ship’s rigging down with them. Chittenden’s hands were hustled into the water, forced to wade ashore chest high. Smoke appeared from the hatches, and by the time Lubeck was pulling back to the Principessa, the ship was ablaze from bows to stern.
Harry was still troubled by the references on those charts, so he sailed north looking for Bartholomew. By noon he knew that he’d missed him. The man had changed course to avoid contact. It didn’t matter, for he knew his destination, and there was no reason to suppose that he wasn’t still making for it. He couldn’t know that Chittenden had been killed before he had a chance to dispose of his charts. So Harry put the Principessa about and headed south again. With luck he’d fall in with them before they got there. But it would need to be luck. Bartholomew, having changed course once, could do so again. The chances of two ships meeting in the vast expanse of the open sea were remote.
The weather going south was blissful, warm and dry with steady winds that rarely troubled them. Harry had time to relax and time to reflect on the events of the last four or five days. A chance to talk to the men he’d taken command of about matters other than sailing and fighting the ship, though they exercised the guns and their sail drill daily and nursing Fairbairn was an on-going duty. But he realised that chasing Bartholomew had diverted him from his initial intention. That French ship would still be sitting in the harbour at Genoa, free to murder whoever they wished while he was sailing without exemptions. If he came across an English warship now, in circumstances that precluded flight, he’d lose every man jack aboard. Bartholomew first, but as soon as he’d dealt with him, Harry would need to return to Genoa and cut out that sloop.
Having weathered the Straits of Otranto and entered the Adriatic they had a few periods when the wind turned foul, requiring them to beat up into it, tack upon tack. Delay was compensated for by the pleasure Harry took in the increasing competence of his crew, with the operations gradually improved to the point where Lubeck’s speaking trumpet became an accessory, rather than a necessity. Despite this, it was more like a cruise for pleasure than anything else, attended by fine weather, with the exception of one day when the slate-coloured sky, with the choppy vicious cross-sea, was more reminiscent of the English Channel than the Mediterranean. The sun shone, the wind was fair, and they reeled off the miles at a pleasing rate, leaving Harry plenty of time to quiz the hands.
His enquiries served a dual purpose, for he became acquainted with his men as well, turning them from mere faces into individual personalities. Pender was quick to sort out those who might be able to help, the kind of men that kept a sharp eye out for everything going on around them, as distinct from the mass of the crew, who knew nothing and cared less, content to fight or sail, as long as they were fed. Harry was interested to begin with, but by the time he had questioned the crew he was wildly curious. It was plain that Broadbridge’s moods had veered from fear to euphoria around the time of Howlett’s murder. And the more he heard about Broadbridge the less he liked the sound of him.
He had terrible trouble with Lubeck, who got confused between the names Bartholomew and Broadbridge with dizzying regularity. He’d had high words with both Bartholomew and Broadbridge that day. The former, taxed to provide better food for the crew of the Dido, had told Lubeck to save his strictures for his captain. Broadbridge had blustered as best he could, then assured the big German that he was going ashore to sort the matter out this very second, that their needs would be met by King George himself, and food would be plentiful from now on.
‘King George?’ asked Harry, wondering if Lubeck had made an error in the language again.
Lubeck thumped the desk again, this time to pr
ove he knew what he had said. ‘King George feed us, and no mistake. Those words he used.’
Harry was at a loss to see where this led him, so he changed the direction of his questions. Lubeck knew all about the murder of Captain Howlett, which had been the talk of all those who could speak even a modicum of English in the harbour. And it did appear that Broadbridge might have seen something that night. He’d come aboard in the morning smelling of more than drink, with his eyes full of fear as well as the pain of a hangover. Broadbridge had brushed aside Lubeck’s questions about victuals. But he’d then asked the German to tell anyone who enquired that he’d come aboard hours ago.
Harry questioned the other men closely to confirm this, particularly those he’d put in positions of authority, since they were the ones with the sharpest eyes. Their stories tallied, for Broadbridge, desperate to communicate with Lubeck, had been forced to repeat himself several times, and in his anxiety, had forgotten to keep his voice down. Sutton had been ashore too but had returned well before Broadbridge, stone-cold sober and in a foul temper. The captain, coming back just before dawn, had the odour about him of a man who’d lost control of his bowels. Yes, he’d had a look of fear in his eyes and had, in the following days, reacted angrily to any mention of Howlett’s body swinging on a gibbet. The whole of that day and the next had been spent skulking in his little cabin, with a warning that he was at home to no one.
He’d gone ashore on the third day, answering an instruction to attend upon Bartholomew and the other captains and explain himself, again taking Sutton with him. They’d been gone all day and half the night. On his return Broadbridge exuded a new air of confidence, assuring all about him that their troubles were over, and that sailing with Captain Broadbridge would be as good a berth as Fiddler’s Green itself. Sutton, pressed by the others to tell what had caused this change of mood, declined to let on.
‘Fiddler’s Green,’ scoffed Pender, having heard the name for the umpteenth time. ‘There ain’t no such place.’
‘Allow a sailor his vision of a personal heaven, Pender. I for one will not have a word said against it. A land of milk and honey, where a tar is never short of money, rum, or female companions, is just the thing to sustain him when things are looking bad.’
‘Life is better looked straight in the eye, Captain. You knows that as well as I do.’
‘Time to look Sutton straight in the eye, I think,’ said Harry. Pender nodded and went off to fetch the man. Sutton had avoided Harry Ludlow like the plague, no small feat in a compact ship. If he couldn’t quite duck Harry’s physical presence, he’d certainly seen to it that their eyes never met. Harry had let him be until he’d finished questioning the others. Sutton knew a great deal about Broadbridge, certainly more than the others aboard. But did he know anything about Howlett and the naval captain’s death?
‘The night Captain Howlett was murdered, Sutton. Where were you?’
‘Howlett?’ said Sutton. ‘Who’s he?’
Harry looked at the man before him, slouched in the chair with an insolent air. ‘You must be the only man aboard that doesn’t know that name.’
‘Perhaps my nose is a mite shorter than most. I don’t go poking it where it’s none of my business.’
‘Why did you murder Captain Howlett?’
That made him sit up. ‘Who says I did?’
Harry was no tipstaff or magistrate, but he was sharp enough to see an opening when it presented itself. ‘You’re not well liked, that is obvious. Mind, I’m not sure I believe everything that I’ve been told about you.’
‘That bastard Lubeck …’
Harry smiled. ‘There’s not a man aboard that hasn’t put you ashore on the night of Captain Howlett’s murder.’
‘What does that prove? I never went near the poor bastard.’
‘A moment ago, you didn’t even know the poor bastard’s name.’
Sutton leant forward, fear in his eyes. ‘You couldn’t avoid his name. He was the talk of the port.’
Instinct made Harry change the subject, the feeling that Sutton needed time to gnaw on the accusation of murder. ‘Lubeck did say something that made me curious.’
‘Don’t know how, since he can’t speak the tongue!’
‘It was to the effect that King George would provide food for the hands.’
‘News to me,’ said Sutton.
‘I just wondered if Broadbridge had arranged to hand all the deserters back to the navy, as a way of saving himself from the need to feed them.’
‘He’d never have done that,’ snapped Sutton. ‘An’ if he’d even hinted at it, you’d have found him swinging from a hoist instead of Howlett.’
It was said with such conviction that Harry believed him. Sutton would know that a man set on betraying the crew of the Dido would not stop to save one sailor. He adopted a knowing air. ‘It would explain why Captain Broadbridge went to see Howlett.’
Sutton shook his head, missing the trap. ‘He didn’t go to see Howlett.’
Harry leant forward quickly. ‘Then who did he go to see, and why?’
Sutton realised his error. But he had dealt with the law all his life, and he was still alive. ‘How should I know?’
‘Because you went with him, Sutton. Hard to believe that you had no idea who you were going to see.’
‘Happen the captain didn’t see fit to inform me.’
‘I don’t think he’d have had to. You’re the sort who would know without being told.’
‘Well I didn’t, so that’s that,’ Sutton snapped.
‘The Genoese reckon that Howlett was killed by English deserters. How would it be if I handed them you, with the information that you were ashore that night?’
‘So were a lot of folk.’
‘I dare say those folk would be happy to say what they were about. Just as I imagine that the Genoese have some novel methods of extracting the same information from you.’ Sutton blanched, afraid to ask the obvious question. ‘And I shall hand you over to them, just as soon as we return.’
Sutton was scared now. A flogging round the fleet was preferable to the methods of Italian interrogation. ‘What’s Howlett’s death to you?’
‘I’m curious, Sutton. And it’s to my advantage to disprove the theory that he was murdered by Englishmen. Pity that you will have to suffer to establish that I’m correct.’
‘I had nothing to do with it.’
‘I believe that you’re telling the truth. Something our Genoese friends may, or may not, find out eventually. But if you will not tell me what you were really about, I’ll be left to conclude that you’re lying.’
‘If I tell you?’
‘Then you have nothing to fear.’
He paused for several seconds, weighing up the odds. Sutton shook his head slowly when he finally spoke, acknowledging that he was taking the lesser of two distinct evils. ‘We went ashore to see a fellow called Gallagher.’
Harry frowned, for he had heard the name, but he couldn’t place it.
‘He was the Crown victualling agent in Genoa.’
‘That fellow.’
‘He and Broadbridge had done some business before. The captain had arranged to meet him to get some more money.’
‘More money?’
‘You asked me what I was about, Captain Ludlow, an’ I’ve told you. I’ll say nowt else. Gallagher didn’t show. We went round to his place, but it was all locked and barred, so we went back to Ma Thomas’s place. The captain sat there pouring rum down his throat, gettin’ angrier by the minute. All he afforded me was a tankard of ale, and I had no mind to sit there and watch him gettin’ drunk while I had an empty cup so I came back aboard the Dido. What Broadbridge did after that was none of my affair.’
‘One more question, Sutton. Could Broadbridge have murdered Captain Howlett?’
For the first time since he’d entered the cabin, Sutton laughed. ‘Broadbridge! By the time I left him he could barely stand.’
‘Everyone said he was a frightene
d man when he came back aboard. And he hid in his cabin for two days. Could he perhaps have seen something?’
Sutton shrugged. ‘He might, I suppose. Don’t see that it makes much odds now.’
‘Oh, it does, Sutton. Remember, Captain Broadbridge was murdered too.’
Sutton’s face suddenly went blank and the eyes that he aimed at Harry were deliberately out of focus.
‘Land ho!’ The voice from the masthead was faint in the cabin, but Harry was on his feet immediately, making his way out of the cabin. ‘Go back to your duties, Sutton. Perhaps we will talk further.’
Harry was out of the door, so he didn’t hear Sutton’s soft reply. ‘Not if I can help it, we won’t …’
Harry stood on the quarterdeck, his glass trained on the distant island. Half his mind was still on his recent conversation. There was much he still did not understand, but being in no position to improve his knowledge he dismissed it, concentrating instead on that before him: the island off the coast of Southern Dalmatia which had been Bartholomew’s first landfall.
Not one to avoid a chance of playing a trick, Harry hoisted Genoese colours as soon as he’d raised the island. He sailed through a narrow entrance into a broad, and empty, horseshoe-shaped bay. A small walled town, seemingly deserted, sat at the centre, surrounded by steep hills rising step upon step. A difficult place to get to, and by the look of the soil and the terrain, not one to support much life.
Fairbairn, whose periods of health seemed to be more stable, was on deck with Harry. Good, plain, and plentiful food had filled him out a bit, and he’d begun to shave regularly. Not one to take the sun, his face was still red. But at least it was the red of a healthy man.
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