‘She’s named the Thrush, I see.’ His professional eye confirmed Bolitho’s opinion. ‘Dutch built. Handy craft, and well able to beat to wind’rd, better even than this one.’
Midshipman Weston hovered nearby, his face as red as his hair. He had shouted a lot during the brief engagement, but had hung back when the Colonials had made their impossible gesture.
Frowd was saying, ‘I’d hoped that sloop might have joined us.’ He sounded anxious. ‘Mr Sparke’s got the name of the cove where they beached the brigantine. I know it, but not well.’
‘How did he discover that?’
Frowd walked to the rail and spat into the water. ‘Money, sir. There’s always a traitor in every group. If the price is right.’
Bolitho made himself relax. He could forget Frowd’s bitterness. He had been afraid that Sparke, in his desperate eagerness to complete his victory, would use harsher methods of obtaining his information. His face as he had killed Elias Haskett had been almost inhuman.
How many more Sparkes were there still to discover? he pondered.
In a steady wind, both vessels eventually got under way and started to work clear of the sandbars and shoals, the smoke from the burned-out cutter following them like an evil memory.
Charred remains and gaping corpses parted to allow them through, when with all sails set both vessels started the first leg of their long tack to seaward.
Sparke came on deck during the proceedings. He peered through a telescope to see how Midshipman Libby, ably assisted by the boatswain’s mate, Balleine, and a handful of seamen, were managing aboard the Thrush. Then he sniffed at the air and snapped, ‘Run up our proper colours, Mr Bolitho, and see that Mr Libby follows our example.’
Later, with both vessels in close company, heeling steeply on the starboard tack, Bolitho felt the stronger upthrust of deeper water, and not for the first time was glad to be rid of the land.
From the rendezvous point where they had won such a bloody victory, to the next objective, a cove just north of Cape Charles which marked the entrance to Chesapeake Bay, it was approximately one hundred miles.
Sparke had hoped for a change of wind, but on the contrary, it soon became worse and more set against them. Both vessels were able to keep company, but each tack took longer, each mile gained could be quadrupled by the distance sailed to achieve it.
Every time that Sparke went on deck he showed no sign of apprehension or dismay. He usually examined the Thrush through his glass and then looked up at his own flag. Bolitho had heard one of the marines whispering to his friend that Sparke had made himself an admiral of his own squadron.
The weather and the constant demands of working the schooner to windward had cleared most of the tension and bitterness from Bolitho’s thoughts. On the face of it, it had been a success. A vessel seized, another destroyed, and many of the enemy killed or routed. If the plan had misfired, and the trap laid in reverse, he doubted if the enemy would have showed them any mercy either. Once aboard the schooner, the combined numbers of both cutters would have swamped Sparke’s resistance before the nine-pounder could have levelled the balance.
It took three days to reach the place where the brig was supposedly hidden. The rugged coastline which pointed south towards the entrance of Chesapeake Bay was treacherous, even more than that which they had left astern. Many a coasting vessel, and larger ships as well, had come to grief as they had battered through foul weather to find the narrow entrance to the bay. Once within it there was room for a fleet, and then some. But to get there was something else entirely, as Bunce had remarked often enough.
Once again, the sad-faced Moffitt was the one to step forward and offer to go ashore alone and spy out the land.
The Faithful’s boat had taken him in, while close to the nearest land both vessels had anchored and mounted guard to ward off any attack.
Bolitho had half expected Moffitt not to return. He had done enough, and might be pining to rejoin his family.
But five hours after being dropped on a tiny beach, while the long-boat laid off to wait for his return, Moffitt appeared, wading through the surf in his eagerness to bring his news.
It was no rumour. The ordnance vessel, a brigantine, was beached inside the cove, exactly as Sparke’s informer had described. Moffitt had even discovered her name, the Minstrel, and thought her too badly damaged even to be moved by expert salvage parties.
He had seen some lanterns nearby, and had almost trodden on a sleeping sentry.
Sparke said, ‘I will see that you are rewarded for this work, Moffitt.’ He was almost emotional as he added, ‘This is the quality of courage which will always sustain us.’
Ordering that Moffitt be given a large tot of brandy or rum, both if he wished, Sparke gathered his officers and senior rates together. There was barely room to draw breath in the schooner’s cabin, but they soon forgot their discomfort when Sparke said bluntly, ‘Dawn attack. We will use our own and Thrush’s boat. Surprise attack at first light, right?’ He eyed them searchingly. ‘Captain D’Esterre, you will land with your contingent under cover of darkness, and find some cover above the cove. Stay there to mark our flank, and our withdrawal if things go wrong.’
Sparke looked at the rough map which Moffitt had helped to make.
‘I will of course take the leading boat. Mr Libby will follow in the other.’ He looked at Bolitho. ‘You will assume command of Thrush and bring her into the cove for the transfer of cargo once I have smashed whatever opposition which may still be near the brigantine. The marines will then move down and support us from the beach.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Well?’
D’Esterre said, ‘I’d like to leave now, if I may, sir.’
‘Yes. I shall need the boats very soon.’ He looked at Bolitho. ‘You were about to say something?’
‘A hundred miles in three days, sir. Another half day by dawn. I doubt very much if we will surprise them.’
‘You’re not getting like Mr Frowd, surely? A real Jeremiah indeed.’
Bolitho shut his mouth tightly. It was pointless to argue, and anyway, with the marines in position to cover them they could fall back if it was a trap.
Sparke said, ‘It is settled then. Good. Mr Frowd will take charge here in our absence, and the nine-pounder will be more than a match for any foolhardy attacker, eh?’
Midshipman Weston licked his lips. His face was glistening with sweat. ‘What shall I do, sir?’
Sparke smiled thinly. ‘You will be with the fourth lieutenant. Do what he says and you might learn something. Do not do what he says and you may well be dead before you fill yourself with more disgusting food!’
They trooped up on deck, where a few pale stars had appeared to greet them.
Moffitt reported to Captain D’Esterre, ‘I’m ready, sir. I’ll show you the way.’
The marine nodded. ‘You are a glutton for punishment, but lead on, with my blessing.’
The two boats were already filling with marines and would now be in continuous use. That left only the captured dory. It was as well somebody had kept it secured during the fighting.
Stockdale was by the taffrail, his white trousers flapping like miniature sails.
He wheezed, ‘Glad you’re not going this time, sir.’
Bolitho stiffened. ‘Why did you say that?’
‘Feeling, sir. Just a feeling. I’ll be happier when we’re out of here. Back with the real Navy again.’
Bolitho watched the boats pulling clear, the marines’ cross-belts stark against the black water.
The trouble with Stockdale was that his ‘feelings’, as he called them, were too often transformed into actual deeds.
Bolitho moved restlessly around the Thrush’s tiller, very conscious of the stillness, the air of expectancy which hung over the two vessels.
The wind was from the same direction but was dropping with each passing minute, allowing the warmth to replace the night’s chill, the sun to penetrate the full-bellied clouds.
&nbs
p; He trained his telescope towards the nearest hillside and saw two tiny scarlet figures just showing above the strange, tangled gorse. D’Esterre’s marines were in position, pickets out. They would have a good view of the little cove, although from the Thrush’s deck there was nothing to see but fallen, rotting trees by the entrance and the swirl of a cross-current by some scattered rocks.
He heard Midshipman Weston with some seamen sorting out the good sweeps from those broken by the swivels’ canister. He could also hear him retching as he found some gruesome fragment which Libby’s men had overlooked.
Stockdale joined him by the rail, his face black with stubble and grime.
‘Should be there by now, sir. Not heard a shot nor nothin’.’
Bolitho nodded. It was uppermost in his mind. The wind was dropping, and that made movement difficult if urgently required. He would need to move the Thrush under sweeps, and the longer it took the more chance of an ambush there was.
He cursed Sparke’s eagerness, his blind determination to take all the rewards for himself. At any time of day a frigate might pass nearby and they could depend on support by the boatload, even at the expense of sharing the victory.
He said, ‘Get in the dory. I’m going to that little beach yonder.’ He pointed to the two scarlet shapes on the hillside. ‘I’ll be safe enough.’
Midshipman Weston panted along the deck, his ungainly feet catching and jarring on splinters from the raked planking.
Bolitho said, ‘You take charge here.’ He could almost smell his fear. ‘I’ll be in view the whole time.’
He saw Stockdale and two seamen climbing down to the dory, eager to be doing something to break the strain of waiting. Or maybe to get away from the scene of such carnage.
When Bolitho stepped on to the firm beach, which was not much bigger than the boat itself, it felt good. To smell the different scents, to hear birds and the vague rustling of small creatures nearby was like a balm.
Then one of the seamen exclaimed, ‘There, sir! ’Tis Mr Libby’s boat!’
Bolitho saw the midshipman’s head and shoulders even before he heard the swish of oars.
‘Over here!’
Libby waved his hat and grinned. Relief, and more, was plain on his tanned face.
He shouted, ‘The second lieutenant says to bring the cutter, sir! There’s no sign of anyone ashore, and Mr Sparke thinks they must have run when they saw the boats!’
Bolitho asked, ‘What is he doing now?’
‘He is about to board the brigantine, sir. She is a fine little vessel, but is badly holed.’
Sparke probably wanted to make quite sure there was no chance of adding her, as well as her cargo, to his little squadron.
Feet slithered on the hillside, and Bolitho swung round to see Moffitt, followed by a marine, stumbling and falling towards him.
‘What is it, Moffitt?’ He saw the anguish on his face.
‘Sir!’ He could barely get the words out. ‘We tried to signal, but Mr Sparke did not see us!’ He gestured wildly. ‘Them devils have laid a fuse, I can see the smoke! They’re going to blow up the brigantine! They must’ve been waiting!’
Libby looked appalled. ‘Man your oars! We’ll go back!’
Bolitho ran into the water to stop him, but even as he spoke the earth and sky seemed to burst apart in one tremendous explosion.
The men in the boat ducked and gasped, while around and across them pieces of splintered wood and rigging rained down, covering the water with leaping feathers of spray.
Then they saw the smoke, lifting and spreading above the cove’s shoulder until the sunlight was completely hidden.
Bolitho groped his way to the dory, his ears and mind cringing from the deafening explosion.
Marines blundered down the slope and waited until Libby’s oarsmen had recovered sufficiently to bring their boat towards the tiny beach.
But all Bolitho could see was Sparke’s face as he had outlined his last plan. The quality of courage. It had not sustained him.
Bolitho pulled himself together as D’Esterre with his sergeant and two skirmishers walked towards him.
Again he seemed to hear Sparke’s crisp voice. Speaking as he had aboard the schooner when the shocked aftermath of battle had begun to take charge.
‘They’ll be looking to us. So we’ll save our regrets for later.’
It could have been his epitaph.
Bolitho said huskily, ‘Get the marines ferried over as quickly as you can.’ He turned away from the stench of burning wood and tar. ‘We’ll get under way directly.’
D’Esterre eyed him strangely. ‘Another few minutes and it could have been Libby’s boat. Or yours.’
Bolitho met his gaze and replied, ‘There may not be much time. So let’s be about it, shall we?’
D’Esterre watched the last squad of marines lining up to await the boat’s return. He saw Bolitho and Stockdale climb from the dory to the Faithful’s deck, Frowd hurrying across to meet them.
D’Esterre had been in too many fights of one sort or another to be affected for long. But this time had been different. He thought of Bolitho’s face, suddenly so pale beneath the black hair with its unruly lock above one eye. Determined, using every ounce of strength to contain his feelings.
Junior he might be in rank, but D’Esterre had felt in those few moments that he was in the presence of his superior.
6
A Lieutenant’s Lot
LIEUTENANT NEIL CAIRNS looked up from the small bulkhead desk in response to a knock on his cabin door.
‘Come!’
Bolitho stepped inside, his hat beneath his arm, his features tired.
Cairns gestured to the only other chair. ‘Take those books off there and sit yourself down, man.’ He groped amongst piles of papers, lists and scribbled messages and added, ‘There should be some glasses here, too. You look as if you need a drink. I am certain I do. If anyone advises you to take on the role of first lieutenant, I suggest you tell him to go to hell!’
Bolitho sat and loosened his neckcloth. There was the hint of a cool breeze in the cabin, and after hours of walking around New York, and the long pull across the harbour in Trojan’s launch he was feeling sweaty and weary. He had been sent ashore to try to get some new hands to replace those killed or injured aboard the Faithful and later when Sparke’s cutter and his men had been blasted to fragments. It all seemed like a vague, distorted dream now. Three months ago, and already it was hard to put the order of things together properly. Even the weather made it more obscure. Then it had been miserably cold and bleak, with fierce running seas and the fog which had then seemed like a miracle. Now it was bright sunshine and long periods without any wind at all. The Trojan’s hull creaked with dryness and her deck seams shone moistly in the glare, clinging to the shoes and to the seamen’s bare feet.
Cairns watched him thoughtfully. Bolitho had changed a great deal, he decided. He had returned to New York with the two prizes a different man. More mature, and lacking the youthful optimism which had marked him out from the others.
The events which had changed him, Sparke’s terrible death in particular, had even been noticed by the captain.
Cairns said, ‘Red wine, Dick. Warm, but better than anything else to hand. I bought it from a trader ashore.’
He saw Bolitho tilt back his head, the lock of hair clinging to his forehead and hiding the cruel scar. Despite his service in these waters, Bolitho looked pale, and his grey eyes were like the winter they had long since left behind.
Bolitho knew he was being watched, but he had become used to it. If he had changed, so too had his world. With Sparke dead, the officers had taken another step on promotion’s ladder. Bolitho was now the third lieutenant, and the most junior post, then left vacant, had been taken by Midshipman Libby. He was now Trojan’s acting sixth lieutenant, whether he was able to take his proper examination or not. The age difference between the captain and his lieutenants was startling. Bolitho would not be twenty-one un
til October, and his juniors were aged from twenty to Libby’s mere seventeen years.
It was a well-used system in the larger ships, but Bolitho could find little comfort in his promotion, even though his new duties had kept him busy enough to hold most of the worst memories to the back of his mind.
Cairns said suddenly, ‘The captain wants you to accompany him to the flagship this evening. The admiral is “holding court”, and captains will be expected to produce a likely aide or two.’ He refilled the glasses, his features impassive. ‘I have work to do with the damned victualling yard, so I’ll not be able to go. Not that I care much for empty conversation when the whole world is falling apart.’
He said it with such bitterness that Bolitho was moved to ask, ‘Is something troubling you?’
Cairns gave a rare smile. ‘Just everything. I am heartily sick of inactivity. Of writing down lists of stores, begging for new cordage and spars, when all those rogues ashore want is for you to pass them a few pieces of gold, damn their eyes!’
Bolitho thought of the two prizes he had brought back to New York. They had been whisked away to the prize court, sold and recommissioned into the King’s service almost before the new ensigns had been hoisted.
Not one man of the Trojan’s company had been appointed to them, and the lieutenant given command of the Faithful had barely been out from England more than a few weeks. It was unfair, to say the least, and it was obviously a sore point with Cairns. In about eighteen months he would be thirty. The war could be over, and he might be thrown on the beach as a half-pay lieutenant. It was not a very enjoyable prospect for a man without means beyond his naval pay.
‘Anyway,’ Cairns leaned back and looked at him, ‘the captain has made it plain he’d rather have you with him in his admiral’s presence than our tippling second lieutenant!’
Bolitho smiled. It was amazing how Probyn survived. He was fortunate perhaps that after Trojan’s return from escorting the convoy from Halifax the ship had barely been to sea at all. Two short patrols in support of the Army and a gunnery exercise with the flagship well within sight of New York was the extent of her efforts. A few more storms and Probyn’s weakness might have put an end to him.
In Gallant Company Page 10
