Pears said in his harsh voice, ‘Do your duty.’
Balleine’s thick arm came back, over and down, the lash swishing across the man’s naked shoulders with a dull crack. Bolitho heard the man gasp as the air was knocked from his lungs.
‘One,’ counted the master-at-arms.
Nearby, the surgeon and his mates waited to attend the man should he faint.
Bolitho made himself watch the ritual of punishment, his heart like lead. It was unreal. The grey light, the stark clarity of the sailmaker’s patches on the heavily flapping main-course. The lash rose and fell, and the scars across the Swede’s skin soon changed to overflowing red droplets, which altered into a bloody mess of torn flesh as the flogging continued. Some of the blood had spattered across the man’s flaxen hair, the rest eddied and faded in the drizzle across the deck planking.
‘Twenty-one!’
Bolitho heard a midshipman sobbing quietly, and saw Forbes, the youngest one aboard, gripping his companion’s arm to control himself.
Carlsson had not cried out once, but as the final stroke cracked over his mutilated back he broke, and started to weep.
‘Cut him down.’
Bolitho looked from the captain’s profile to the watching company. Two dozen lashes was nothing to what some captains awarded. But in this case it might destroy the man. Bolitho doubted if Carlsson had understood more than a few words of what had been said to him.
The surgeon’s assistants moved in to carry the sobbing man below. Two seamen started to swab up the blood, and others hurried to obey Tolcher’s order to unrig the grating and replace it.
The marines trooped down either poop ladder, and Captain D’Esterre sheathed his bright sword as the company broke up and continued about its affairs.
Sparke said to Bolitho, ‘We had best go over the raid again, so that we know each other’s thinking.’
Bolitho shrugged. ‘Aye, sir.’
Maybe Sparke’s attitude was the right one. Bolitho liked Carlsson, what he knew of him. Obedient, cheerful and hard-working. But suppose it had been one of the ship’s real troublemakers who had been caught sleeping on watch. Would he still have felt the same dismay?
Sparke leaned his hands on the quarterdeck rail and peered down at the two cutters which had already been manhandled away from the other boats on the tier in readiness for swaying out.
He said, ‘I am not too hopeful.’ He gestured at the vibrating shrouds and halliards. ‘Mr Bunce is usually right, but this time –’
A seaman yelled from the maintop, ‘Deck there! T’ other vessel’s fallin’ off, sir!’
Dalyell, who was officer of the watch, snatched a glass and climbed into the weather shrouds.
He exclaimed, ‘Right, by God! The schooner’s falling downwind. Not much, but she’ll be visible to all hands by the time they’ve had their spirit ration!’ He laughed at Bolitho’s face. ‘Damme, Dick, that bugger is a saucy one!’
Bolitho shaded his eyes against the strange light and saw a brief blur across the tumbling water. Perhaps the schooner’s master believed the same as Bunce and was drawing nearer so as not to lose his large quarry. Or maybe he was merely trying to provoke the captain into doing something foolish. Bolitho pictured Pears’ face as he had read from the Articles of War. There was no chance of the latter.
Sparke was saying, ‘It will have to be very fast. They might have boarding nets, but I doubt it. It would hamper her people more than ours.’
He was thinking aloud, seeing his name and citation in the Gazette, Bolitho guessed. It was clear in his eyes, like fever, or lust.
‘I will go and see the master.’ Sparke hurried away, his chin thrusting forward like a galley prow.
Stockdale emerged from somewhere and knuckled his forehead.
‘I’ve seen to the weapons, sir. I’ve put all the cutlasses and boarding axes to the grindstone.’ He wheezed painfully. ‘We still going, sir?’
Bolitho crossed to the side and took a telescope from the midshipman of the watch.
‘I hope so.’
Then he saw that the midshipman was Forbes, the one who had been holding on to his friend during the flogging.
‘Are you well, Mr Forbes?’
The boy nodded wretchedly and sniffed. ‘Aye, sir.’
‘Good.’ He trained the glass across the nettings. ‘It comes hard to see a man punished. So we must always be on the look-out to remove the cause in the first place.’
He held his breath as the other vessel’s topmasts flitted above the heaving water, as if the rest of her were totally submerged. She had a red square stitched against the throat of her mainsail. A makeshift patch, he wondered, or some special form of recognition? He shivered, feeling the rain trickling over his collar, plastering his hair to his forehead. It was uncanny to see the disembodied masts, to know nothing of the vessel and crew.
He turned to speak with Stockdale, but he had vanished as silently as he had appeared.
Dalycll lurched up the sloping deck and said hoarsely, ‘It looks as if you’ll be staying with us, Dick.’ He grinned unfeelingly. ‘I’m not sorry. I’ve no wish to do George Probyn’s work when he’s in his cups!’
Bolitho grimaced. ‘I’m coming round to everyone else’s view, Simon. I’ll go below now.’ He looked up at the flapping masthead pendant. ‘It seems I shall have the afternoon watch after all.’
But it appeared that the captain had other ideas and still retained some powerful faith in his sailing master. Bolitho was relieved from his watchkeeping duties, and spent most of the time compiling a letter to his father. He merely added to the same long letter whenever he found the opportunity, and ended it just as abruptly whenever they spoke with a homebound packet. It would be a link with his father. The reverse would also be true as Bolitho described daily events, the sighting of ships and islands, the life which was no more for Captain James.
He sat on his sea chest, squinting his eyes as he tried to think of something new to put in his letter.
A chill seemed to run up his spine. As if a ghost had suddenly entered his tiny cabin. He looked up, startled, and saw the deckhead lantern flickering as before. But was it? He stared, and then peered round at the small hanging space where his other clothing had been swaying and creaking just moments earlier.
Bolitho stood up, but remembered to duck his head as he rushed out and aft into the wardroom. The stern windows were dull grey, streaked with spindrift and caked salt.
He pressed his face against them and exclaimed. ‘My God! The Sage was right!’
He hurried up to the quarterdeck, instantly aware of the motionless figures all around him, their eyes peering across the quarter or up at the sails which were lifting and then drooping, shaking against the pressures of rigging and spars.
Cairns had the watch, and looked at him gravely. ‘The fog, Dick.’ He pointed across the nettings. ‘It is coming now.’
Bolitho watched the slow progress, the way it seemed to smooth the turbulence from the waves and flatten the crests as it approached.
‘Deck there! Oi’ve lost sight o’ th’ schooner, zur!’
Pears’ voice cut across the speculation and gossip. ‘Bring her up two points, Mr Cairns!’ He watched the sudden bustle, the shrill calls between decks.
‘Man the braces there!’
Pears said to the deck at large, ‘We’ll gain a cable or so.’
He looked up as the wheel squeaked and the yards began to swing in response to the braces. With her great spread of canvas still holding the dying wind, Trojan heeled obediently and pointed her jib boom further to windward. Flapping canvas, chattering blocks and the yells of petty officers did not cover his voice as he said to the tall sailing master, ‘That was well done, Mr Bunce.’
Bunce dragged his gaze from the helmsmen and the swaying compass card. In the dull light his eyes and brows stood out from all else.
He replied humbly, ‘It is His will, sir.’
Pears turned away as if to hide a smile. He ba
rked, ‘Mr Sparke, lay aft. Mr Bolitho, attend the cutters and have them swayed out presently.’
Steel clashed between decks, and more men swarmed up to the boat tier, their arms filled with cutlasses, pikes and muskets.
Bolitho was on the gundeck, watching the second cutter’s black painted hull rising on its tackles. Then he turned to look aft and saw that the upper poop and the taffrail were already misty and without substance.
He said, ‘Lively, lads, or we’ll not find our way over the bulwark!’ It brought a few laughs.
Pears heard them and said soberly to Sparke, ‘Tend well what the master tells you about the set of the current hereabouts. It will save a mile of unnecessary boat pulling, and not see you arriving on your prize with no breath to lift a blade.’ He watched Sparke’s eyes as they took it all in. ‘And take care. If you cannot board, then stand off and wait for the fog to clear. We’ll not drift that much apart.’
He cupped his hands. ‘Shorten sail, Mr Cairns! Bring her about and lie to!’
More shouted commands, and moments later as the courses and topsails were brailed up to the yards the two boats detached themselves from the shadowy gundeck and swung up and over the gangway.
Bolitho came aft and touched his hat. ‘The people are mustered and armed, sir.’
Sparke handed him a scribbled note. ‘Estimated course to steer. Mr Bunce has allowed for the schooner’s drift and the strength of the current.’ He looked at the captain. ‘I’ll be away, sir.’
Pears said, ‘Carry on, Mr Sparke.’ He was going to add good luck, but set against Sparke’s severe features it seemed superfluous.
He did say to Bolitho, however, ‘Do not get lost, sir. I’ll not hunt around Massachusetts Bay for a year!’
Bolitho smiled. ‘I will do my best, sir.’
As he ran down to the entry port, Pears said to Cairns, ‘Young rascal.’
But Cairns was watching the pitching boats alongside, already filled with men and waiting for Sparke and Bolitho to take them clear of their ship. His heart was with them. It did him no good to realize that the captain’s decision had probably been the right one.
Pears watched the black hulls turning end on, the confused splash and thud of oars suddenly picking up the stroke and taking them deeper into the wet, enveloping mist.
‘Double the watch on deck, Mr Cairns. Have swivels loaded and set to withstand any boarding attempt on ourselves.’
‘What will you do now, sir?’
Pears looked up at his ship’s strength. Each sail was either furled or motionless, and Trojan herself was paying off to the current, rolling deeply on a steady swell.
‘Do?’ He yawned. ‘I am going to eat.’
Bolitho stood up in the sternsheets and gripped Stockdale’s shoulder while he found his balance. Through the man’s checkered shirt his muscles felt like warm timber.
The mist swirled into the boat, clinging to their arms and face, making their hair glisten as if with frost.
Bolitho listened to the steady, unhurried pull of the oars. No sense in urgency. Save the strength for later.
He said, ‘Hold her nor’-west, Stockdale, I am assured that is the best course to take.’
He thought of Bunce’s wild eyes. Could there be any other course indeed!
Then, leaving Stockdale at the tiller, crouching over the boat’s compass, Bolitho groped his way slowly towards the bows, climbing over thwarts and grunting seamen, treading on weapons and the feet of the extra passengers.
The twenty-eight-foot cutter had a crew of eight and a coxswain in normal times. Now she held them and an additional party which in total amounted to eighteen officers and men.
He found Balleine, the boatswain’s mate, crouching above the stem like a figurehead, peering into the wet mist, a hand cupped around his ear to pick up the slightest sound which might be a ship, or another boat.
Bolitho said quietly, ‘I cannot see the second lieutenant’s cutter, so we must assume we are dependent on our own resources.’
‘Aye, sir.’ The reply was blunt.
Bolitho thought Balleine might be brooding over the flogging, or merely resentful in being given a look-out’s job while Stockdale took the tiller.
Bolitho said, ‘I am depending on your experience today.’ He saw the man nod and knew he had found the right spot. ‘I fear we are somewhat short of it otherwise.’
The boatswain’s mate grinned. ‘Mr Quinn and Mr Couzens, sir. I’ll see ’em fair.’
‘I knew it.’
He touched the man’s arm and began to make his way aft again. He picked out individual faces and shapes. Dunwoody, a miller’s son from Kent. A dark-skinned Arab named Kutbi who had enlisted in Bristol, although nobody knew much about him even now. Rabbett, a tough little man from the Liverpool waterfront, and Varlo, who had been crossed in love, and had been picked up by the press-gang while he had been drowning his sorrows at his local inn. These and many more he had grown to know. Some he knew very well. Others stayed away, keeping the rigid barrier between forecastle and quarterdeck.
He reached the sternsheets and sat down between Quinn and Couzens. Their three ages added together only came to fifty-two. The ridiculous thought made him chuckle, and he felt the others turning towards him.
They think me already unhinged. I have lost sight of Sparke, and am probably steering in quite the wrong direction.
He explained, ‘I am sorry. It was just a thought.’ He took a deep breath of the wet salt air. ‘But getting away from the ship is reward enough.’ He spread his arms and saw Stockdale give his lopsided grin. ‘Freedom to do what we want. Right or wrong.’
Quinn nodded. ‘I think I understand.’
Bolitho said, ‘Your father will be proud of you after this.’ If we live that long.
Cairns had explained to Bolitho what Quinn had meant about his family being in the leather trade. Bolitho had imagined it to be a tanyard of the kind they had in Falmouth. Bridles and saddles, shoes and straps. Cairns had almost laughed. ‘Man, his father belongs to an all-powerful city company. He has contracts with the Army, and influence everywhere else! When I look at young Quinn I sometimes marvel at his audacity to refuse all that power and all that money! He must be either brave or mad to exchange it for this!’
A large fish broke surface nearby and flopped back into the water again, making Couzens and some of the others gasp with alarm.
‘Easy all!’ Bolitho held up his arm to still the oars.
Again he was very conscious of the sea, of their isolation, as the oars rose dripping and motionless along the gunwales. He heard the gurgle of water around the rudder as the boat idled forward into the swell. The splash of another fish, the heavy breathing of the oarsmen.
Then Quinn said in a whisper, ‘I hear the other cutter, sir!’
Bolitho nodded, turning his face to starboard, picking up the muffled creak of oars. Sparke was keeping about the same pace and distance. He said, ‘Give way all!’
Beside him Couzens gave a nervous cough and asked, ‘H-how many of the enemy will there be, sir?’
‘Depends. If they’ve already taken a prize or two, they’ll be short of hands. If not, we may be facing twice our number or more.’
‘I see, sir.’
Bolitho turned away. Couzens did not see, but he was able to discuss it in a manner which would do justice to a veteran.
He felt the fog against his cheek like a cold breath. Was it moving faster than before? He had a picture of the wind rising and driving the fog away, laying them bare beneath the schooner’s guns. Even a swivel could rip his party to shreds before he could get to grips.
He looked slowly along the straining oarsmen and the others waiting to take their turn. How many would change sides if that happened? It had occurred often enough already, when British seamen had been taken by privateers. It was common practice in the Navy, too. Trojan had several hands in her company caught or seized in the past two years from both sea and land. It was thought better to fight alongsi
de their old enemy rather than risk disease and possible death in a prison hulk. While there was life there was always hope.
Bolitho reached up and touched his scar, it was throbbing again, and seemed to probe right through his skull.
Stockdale opened the shutter of his lantern very slightly and examined his compass.
He said, ‘Steady as she goes, sir.’ It seemed to amuse him.
On and on, changing the men at the oars, listening for Sparke’s cutter, watching for even a hint of danger.
Bolitho thought that the schooner’s master, being a local man, may have made more sail and outpaced the fog, might already be miles away, laughing while they pulled slowly and painfully towards some part of New England.
He allowed his mind to explore what was fast becoming a real possibility.
They might get ashore undetected and try to steal a small vessel and escape under sail. Then what?
Balleine called hoarsely, ‘There’s a glow of sorts, sir!’
Bolitho stumbled forward again, everything else forgotten.
‘There, sir.’
Bolitho strained his eyes through the darkness. A glow, that described it exactly, like the window of an alehouse through a waterfront fog. No shape, no centre.
‘A lantern.’ Balleine licked his lips. ‘Hung very high. So there’ll be another bugger nearby.’
Bunce had been very accurate. But for his careful calculations they might have passed the other vessel without seeing her or the light. She was standing about a mile away, maybe less.
Bolitho said, ‘Easy all!’ When he returned to the sternsheets he said, ‘She’s up ahead, lads. From our drift I’d say she’ll be bows on or stern on. We’ll take what comes.’
Quinn said in a husky voice, ‘Mr Sparke is coming, sir.’
They heard Sparke call, ‘Are you ready, Mr Bolitho?’ He sounded impatient, even querulous, his earlier doubts forgotten.
‘Aye, sir.’
‘We will take her from either end.’ Sparke’s boat loomed through the fog, the lieutenant’s white shirt and breeches adding to the ghostlike appearance. ‘That way we can divide their people.’
In Gallant Company Page 5
