There was a light tap at the screen door and Keen entered, his eyes moving quickly to the untouched plate on Bolitho’s table.
“The American frigates are shortening their cables, sir.”
Bolitho nodded. “Yes. Only the French will be here now.”
Keen said, “In my opinion, sir, we should have another vessel attached to us for communications.”
“You’ve been thinking about Duncan’s Sparrowhawk too?”
Keen shrugged. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact. Without even a brig in company we are deaf and dumb to everything beyond the harbour limits.”
Yovell, the clerk, hovered in the doorway. “Beg pardon, zur, there are some papers for yew to sign.”
Bolitho thought suddenly of his nephew. Adam had asked permission to escort Chase’s niece to her home in Newburyport. He could envy him his freedom from the endless waiting and the uncertainty. Bolitho knew he had been poor company and he had even exploded over one of Allday’s comments. He had immediately relented. It was not Allday’s fault. It was not anybody’s.
Bolitho read swiftly through Yovell’s handwriting and then put his signature at the bottom. No wonder they said the Admiralty was crammed with written reports. Did anyone ever read them? he wondered.
He said abruptly, “I shall try once more to discuss the matter of San Felipe with the Americans, after that I shall be pleased to sail for the island, Sparrowhawk or not. You might send word privately to Antigua if you can discover a ship’s master for the task. The admiral at English Harbour should be told what we are about. If I add a line to your despatch we might even worm a brig out of his command, eh?”
Ozzard entered and removed the tray with nothing but a reproachful glance to reveal what he thought about it.
Keen said, “You don’t think the Americans would interfere with our affairs, sir?”
“Those frigates, you mean?” Bolitho shook his head. “It would be unwise. They may voice their displeasure, but they’re more likely to remain on the fence as spectators.”
The first lieutenant appeared at the screen door, his head stooped beneath the deckhead beams.
“Your pardon, sir, but Mr Chase’s launch is approaching. He has the other gentleman with him.”
Bolitho and Keen exchanged glances.
Bolitho said quietly, “Fane, the President’s emissary, at long last. Now perhaps we can settle the matter.”
Keen picked up his hat and grinned. “Full guard of honour, Mr Quantock. If there is to be a squall, it will not be of our making!”
Allday padded from the adjoining cabin and glanced at the sword rack, then with a slight hesitation he took down the brightly gilded presentation blade which had been given to Bolitho after the Battle of the Nile.
He gave the old sword a pat and murmured, “You rest easy.”
Bolitho allowed him to clip the glittering presentation sword to his belt.
The old family sword was for fighting. This was a time for diplomacy.
Some twelve hundred miles south of where Bolitho contained his impatience and waited to receive Mr Samuel Fane, His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Sparrowhawk of twenty-six guns was becalmed in blinding sunlight. Two of her boats moved sluggishly on tow-lines ahead of their parent ship, more to give her steerageway than with any hope of finding a wind.
It had been like this for three whole days since the frigate had weighed anchor in San Felipe, her mission there only partially completed.
In his cabin Captain James Duncan sat at a table, his face set in a frown, as he added another paragraph to an already lengthy letter. It was to his wife and, like most married sea officers, Duncan continued each letter with the same regularity as a personal log. He did not know when the letter would be completed, even less when he would be able to pass it to some home-bound vessel so that his wife would eventually read it in their Dorset home.
Duncan, for all his bluff ways, was very soft where his wife was concerned. They had been married for only two years, and he had been with her in that time for less than a month. He had no regrets, it was part of the sacrifice you had to make if you intended the Navy as a career. Duncan was a post-captain and had only just passed his twenty-seventh birthday. If he held this command under Bolitho there would be no stopping him, even in a time of uneasy peace.
Like many of his contemporaries, Duncan had little faith in a lasting peace. He had distinguished himself in three major battles and had been extremely successful in other ship-to-ship engagements where the cut and thrust of every good frigate captain showed its worth.
He admired Bolitho tremendously, not merely for his courage and skill—that Duncan could take for granted—but for his true interest in those who served him. Although he would never admit it, Duncan tried to model himself on Bolitho.
That was the main reason for his frown. His visit to San Felipe had not been a success. The governor, Sir Humphrey Rivers, had treated him more as a stupid subordinate than the captain of a King’s ship and Bolitho’s own representative.
Duncan knew all about ships and the sea, but he had no knowledge at all of men like Rivers.
Rivers had lost his temper at their first meeting. In his impressive house which nestled comfortably amidst a great plantation, Rivers had shouted, “There’s a graveyard by the harbour, Captain! Full of good men who have fought for this island. I’ll not betray their trust by handing over everything to the French. Damn your eyes if I shall!”
Duncan secretly agreed with him, but he was used to obeying orders. In any case, he did not like the man, and thought him an arrogant pig.
Bolitho would not thank him for bringing him such empty news. If Rivers refused to comply with the agreed terms he might find himself charged with treason, or an act of mutiny, or whatever governors were disciplined by. Duncan frowned more deeply and put his pen to paper again.
The deck gave a shudder and a pair of brass dividers clattered from another table.
Duncan lurched to his feet as the ship slowly came to life beneath him.
He hurried on deck and found his first lieutenant and sailing-master staring up at the limp canvas as very gently a breeze pushed against the rigging.
Duncan dashed the sweat from his eyes. It was not much, but . . .
“Mr Palmer! Recall those boats and hoist ’em inboard. Pipe all hands.” He clapped the lieutenant on the shoulder and added, “God damn it, Mr Palmer, maybe we’ve seen the last of this place, eh?”
He crossed to the side and grasped the sun-heated rail with his powerful hands. He saw the first boat cast off the tow and pull gratefully towards the ship, its sunburned oarsmen almost too weary to make the effort.
Duncan wondered how the other ship was faring. They had sighted her just before both vessels had been becalmed in the stifling heat.
The first lieutenant returned as the hands swarmed up to man halliards and braces.
He said, “The masthead reported that our shy companion was still with us at eight bells, sir.”
To confirm it the lookout’s voice made several of the seamen look up at his lofty perch.
“Deck thar! Ship on th’ weather-bow! She’s settin’ ’er t’gan’s’ls!”
Duncan grunted and turned to watch his own ship lean slightly to the mounting pressure. The second boat was being swayed up and over the gangway. His Sparrowhawk was moving again.
The sailing-master said, “She’ll be on a converging tack with us, sir.”
“Put a good man to watch her.”
Duncan pushed the sudden anxiety from his thoughts. For a small moment he had thought it might be Achates, Bolitho coming to look for him, to discover the meaning of the delay.
Blocks clattered and lines snaked through the sheaves as slowly, and then more confidently, Sparrowhawk responded to the pressure in her sails.
“North by west, sir! Full an’ bye!”
Duncan rubbed his reddened face and waited for the sails to fill again. It was not much, but enough to make her thrust through the wate
r. The tiny island which had shown itself on the horizon had dipped over the sea’s rim before the master had identified it. Probably one of the islets of the Bahama chain, Duncan thought.
There were some little ones off San Felipe too. One even had a strange mission church on it, and he had been told that some monks existed there, entirely cut off from everything.
San Felipe had originally been Spanish, so it seemed likely that the monks were the last survivors of that occupation.
Duncan felt in better spirits. He had, after all, done what he had been ordered to do. Bolitho would know how to interpret what he had seen and heard.
“I’m going below, Mr Palmer. I’ve a letter to finish. Who knows, I may be able to send it off sooner than I thought!”
Palmer smiled. When the captain was in good humour the ship was always a better place.
As the wind continued to fill the sails, and froth gurgled around the bows, the other ship grew larger while she continued purposefully on a converging tack.
Too large for a frigate, Palmer thought, as he clung to the weather shrouds and trained his telescope on her. She was shining in the bright glare, her chequered gunports almost awash as she found the wind which had not yet reached Sparrowhawk.
West Indiaman probably, he decided. They were as smart as paint these days. It was said that a grocery captain could earn as much on one passage as would take ten years in the Navy.
“She’s hoisted a signal, sir!”
“I can see that, dammit!” Palmer was tired from standing so long in the heat, praying for a wind. It put an edge to his voice which was unusual for him.
The signals midshipman swallowed hard and levelled his big glass on the other vessel, his face screwed up with concentration as he held the lens on the brightly coloured flags at her yard.
“She wishes to speak with us, sir!”
The first lieutenant swore under his breath. It was probably of no importance at all, and to heave to while they exchanged useless information might mean losing the wind again.
He snapped, “Acknowledge the signal, Mr Clements.” He beckoned to the midshipman-of-the-watch. “My respects to the captain, Mr Evans. Tell him we shall have to heave to.”
Palmer swung away. The captain’s good mood would vanish now.
James Duncan, his shirt open to his waist, strode from the companion-way and eyed the other vessel without comment. She could have important news which had a bearing on their mission. Her master might just as easily be eager to exchange gossip. Two ships meeting far from home were all that was required.
“Shorten sail, Mr Palmer. Stand by to come about.”
He clasped his hands behind him and watched his men scamper to their stations.
“Put the helm down!”
Duncan beckoned to the midshipman. “Glass, Mr Evans.”
He took the telescope from the boy’s hand and glanced at him as he did so. Midshipman Evans was thirteen, the youngest in Sparrowhawk’s gunroom. A likeable youth, who had been mastheaded more than once since leaving England for his practical jokes.
Duncan levelled the glass and braced his legs as the ship heeled violently in a trough and the men up forward loosed the headsail sheets to allow Sparrowhawk to swing through the eye of the wind. To a landsman the ship would appear in confusion, with rippling sails and clattering rigging, but in a moment or so she would come round on the opposite tack and reduce sail even more.
Duncan smiled grimly. He liked his ship to be handled firmly, like a strong-willed horse.
He stiffened as the other ship swam hugely into the lens. Her yards were swinging, her sails filling like metal breastplates as she changed tack, not into the wind, but to starboard, and as her fore-course thundered out from its yard she seemed to lean forward as she swept down across the frigate’s stern.
Duncan yelled, “Belay that order, Mr Palmer! Bring her about again!”
Men tumbled in confusion and braces and halliards squealed through the blocks and more hands threw themselves among their companions to try and haul the yards round.
Duncan reeled as his ship tried to respond, but she was nearly aback, the sails billowing and cracking against the masts and shrouds.
“Beat to quarters!”
Duncan stared wildly at the other ship, his skin like ice despite the sun’s heat. He should have seen it. Now it was already too late, and even as he stared he saw the other vessel’s gunports open, the black muzzles poking out into the sunlight, while his own startled marine drummers started the staccato beat which brought more men pouring up from between decks, some still unaware of the danger.
Duncan made himself face the regular flashes along the other vessel’s side, the darting orange tongues and rolling bank of smoke. Then in seconds a torrent of iron smashed into the frigate’s hull and above the deck, tearing down rigging and spars, punching holes in the flapping canvas, and worse, ploughing through the stern to turn the crowded gun-deck into a bloody shambles.
Duncan clung to the nettings, bellowing like a wounded bull as a ball slammed into one of the quarterdeck guns and flung splinters across the planking, cutting down men and daubing scarlet patterns to mark where they fell.
He felt a blow in his side like a blade of an ax, and when he looked he saw blood pumping down his leg, and when the pain came he could hear himself moaning with agony.
A great shadow swept over him, and with a thundering roar the mizzen-mast and rigging crashed over the side carrying seamen and marines with them.
More violent shocks battered at the hull like iron rams, and Duncan had to hold on to the nettings to prevent himself from falling. Their attacker was following them round, her sails rising above the smoke like the wings of hell itself. She was firing without a break, and still not one of Sparrowhawk’s guns had been loaded. Men lay dead and dying everywhere, and when he peered at the helm Duncan saw that the wheel was in fragments, the master and his helmsmen scattered by the fury of the bombardment.
“Mr Palmer!”
His cry was less than a croak. But the first lieutenant was on his knees by the rail, his mouth like a black hole as he screamed silently at his hands which lay before him like torn gloves.
Duncan fell down as more great crashes rocked the hull. He could hear the balls slamming through the deck below and saw smoke rising from an open hatch. She was on fire.
He tried to stand, his rage and his despair making him terrible to see. He had fallen in his own blood, and he could feel the strength running away to match the terrible patterns on the deck around him.
“Let me help, sir!”
Duncan thrust his arm around the boy’s shoulders. It was little Evans, and the realization helped to steady him.
He gasped, “Done for, boy. See to the others.” He felt the midshipman shudder and saw the bright fear in his eyes. He gripped him more tightly with his bloody arm. “Stand to, boy, you’re a King’s officer today. Get them—” Then he fell and this time he did not rise.
A few seamen and marines ran aft and would have flung themselves into the sea astern but for the thirteen-year-old midshipman.
He shouted, “Quarter-boat! Bosun’s mate, take charge there!”
When one tried to knock him aside he snatched a pistol and fired it above their heads. For a moment longer they stared at each other like madmen, then, obedient to their training, they tossed their weapons aside and ran to haul the quarter-boat alongside.
A few shots were still hitting the hull, but Sparrowhawk had no fight left in her. She was settling down, the sea exploring the orlop and reaching up further still so that there was a glint of water below the companion.
Evans ran to aid his friend, the signals midshipman, but he was already dead, a hole in his chest big enough for a man’s fist.
Evans stood up very carefully, his feet sliding in blood as the stern began to go under.
He thought he heard one of the other boats nearby, the third lieutenant trying to restore order and rally the survivors.
; He looked at his dead captain, a man he had feared and admired. Now he was nothing, and Evans felt unnerved by it, cheated.
A burly marine, one of his comrades over his shoulder like a sack, paused and gasped, “Come along, sir. Nothin’ ’ere now.”
The wounded man groaned and the one who was carrying him peered round, looking for a boat. But something in Evans’ face held him there like a shouted command on the square. The marine had been at St Vincent and the Nile, and had seen many of his friends die like this.
He said roughly, “You’ve done yer best, so come along, eh?”
The hull gave a great shiver. She was going.
The midshipman walked with the marine and did not even blink as the foremast thundered down like a falling cliff.
“I’m ready, thank you.” It seemed little enough comment for such a terrible moment.
As guns tore themselves loose from their lashings and crashed along the deck among the corpses and whimpering wounded, Sparrowhawk lifted her bows and dived steeply. The whirlpool of swirling wreckage, men and pieces of men remained for a long time, long enough for their attacker to make more sail and alter course to the westward.
There were two boats and a roughly lashed raft left as evidence of what had happened, with survivors floundering in search of a handhold or a place in one of them.
A week later, the American brig Baltimore Lady, on passage from Guadeloupe to New York, sighted one drifting boat and hove to to investigate. The boat was filled with sun-blackened men, some dead, apparently from wounds or burns, others barely able to speak. Deep score marks on the boat’s planking showed where sharks had torn others from their handholds alongside. There was an officer of sorts in charge of the boat. The brig’s mate later described him as “less’n a boy.”
Midshipman Evans had obeyed Duncan’s order, “See to the others.”
It was something he would remember for the rest of his life.
Samuel Fane regarded Bolitho without emotion as he said, “I have spoken with the President and have also discussed the matter of San Felipe with the French admiral.”
Bolitho watched him calmly. There was no point in attacking Fane for going behind his back and speaking with the French flag-officer. He had every right to, if Boston was to be a neutral ground for the discussions.
Success to the Brave Page 7
