Bolitho was about to go off watch when he was unexpectedly summoned aft to the great cabin.
But it was not a conference, and he found the captain alone at his desk. His coat was hanging across his chairback, and he had loosened his neckcloth and shirt.
Bolitho waited. The captain looked very calm, so it seemed unlikely there was to be a reprimand for something he had done, or not done.
Pears glanced up at him. ‘The master, and now the first lieutenant, know the extent of my orders. You may think it strange for me to confide in you before the rest of my officers, but under the circumstances I think it is fair.’ He bobbed his head. ‘Do sit down.’
Bolitho sat, sensing the sudden irritation which was never far from Pears’ manner.
‘There was some trouble at New York. You played no small part in it.’ Pears smiled wryly. ‘Which did not surprise me, of course.’
Bolitho pricked up his ears. Somehow he had known that the matter of the dead girl would come up again. Even that it might be connected in some small way with the squadron’s unexpected departure from Sandy Hook.
‘I will not go into full detail, but the girl you discovered in that brothel was the daughter of a New York government official, a very important one to boot. It could not have come at a worse time. Sir George Helpman is out from England under the direct instructions of both Parliament and Admiralty to discover what is being done to pursue the war, to prevent the whole campaign being bogged down in stalemate. If, or rather when, the French come into the open to fight in strength, we will be hard put to hold what we have, let alone make any gains.’
‘I thought we were doing all we could, sir.’
Pears looked at him pityingly. ‘When you are more experienced, Bolitho . . .’ He looked away, frowning angrily. ‘Helpman will see it for himself. The corrupt officials, the dandies of the military government who dance and drink while our soldiers in the field pay the price. And now this. An important official’s daughter is discovered to be working hand-in-glove with the rebels. She has been leaving her home in a carriage and changing into boy’s clothes just so that she can meet one of Washington’s agents and pass him any titbit of secret information she could lay her hands on.’
Bolitho could well imagine the fury and consternation it must have caused. He could find pity for the blowzy whore who had tried to spit in his face. With so much at stake, and with important heads on the block, her interrogators would have few scruples in the manner of gaining information.
Pears said, ‘Due to her treachery, the Tracy brothers were able to plot our every move, and but for our taking the Faithful, and Mr Bunce’s liaison with the Almighty on matters concerning the weather, we might never have known anything. Links in a chain. And now we have one more scrap to play with. That damned whore had her ear to the keyhole more often than not. The Colonials have a new stronghold, constructed with the express purpose of receiving and transporting powder and weapons to their ships and soldiers.’
Bolitho licked his lips. ‘And we are heading there now, sir?’
‘That’s the strength of it, yes. Fort Exeter, in South Carolina, about thirty miles north of Charles Town.’
Bolitho nodded, remembering clearly what happened near there about a year ago, at another rebel fort, only that had been to the south of Charles Town. A large squadron, with troops as well as marines embarked, had sailed to seize the fort which commanded the inshore waters, and would thus interdict all trade and privateer traffic to and from Charles Town, the busiest port south of Philadelphia. Instead of victory, it had ended in humiliating defeat. Some of the ships had gone aground because of wrongly marked charts, while elsewhere the water had been too deep for the soldiers to wade ashore as had been intended. And all the time the Colonials, snug behind their fortress walls, had kept up a steady bombardment on the largest British vessels, until Commodore Parker, whose flagship had taken the worst of it, had ordered a complete withdrawal. Trojan had been on her way to offer support when she had met the returning ships.
In the Navy, unused to either defeat or failure, it had seemed like an overwhelming disaster.
Pears had been watching his face. ‘I see you have not forgotten either, Bolitho. I only hope we all live to remember this new venture.’
With a start Bolitho realized the interview was over. As he made to leave, Pears said quietly, ‘I told you all this because of your part in it. But for your actions, we might not have found out about that girl. But for her, Sir George Helpman would not be raising hell in New York.’ He leaned back and smiled. ‘And but for him, our admiral would not now be trying to prove he can do what others cannot. Links in a chain, Bolitho, as I said earlier. Think about it.’
Bolitho walked out and cannoned into Captain D’Esterre.
The marine said, ‘Why, Dick, you look as if you have seen a ghost!’
Bolitho forced a smile. ‘I have. Mine.’
When the time came for Lieutenant Cairns to share Pears’ orders with the lieutenants and warrant officers, even the most unimaginative one present could not fail to marvel at their admiral’s impudence.
While out of sight of land, and with the frigate patrolling to ensure they were left undisturbed, the sloop Spite was to embark all of the flagship’s and Trojan’s marines, and with boats under tow would head inshore under cover of darkness. The two-deckers, in company with Vanquisher, would then continue along the coast towards the same fort which had routed Commodore Parker’s squadron the previous year.
To any watchers along the coast, and to the officers of the fort and the Charles Town garrison, it would not seem an unlikely thing for the British to attempt. Hurt pride, and the fact that the fort was still performing a useful protection for privateers and the landing of stores and powder, were two very good reasons for a second attempt.
Fort Exeter, on the other hand, was easier to defend to seaward, and would feel quite safe when the small squadron had sailed past in full view of the Colonial pickets.
Bolitho, when he had listened to Cairns’ level, unemotional voice as he explained the extent of their orders, had imagined he could detect Rear-Admiral Coutts speaking directly to him.
Spite would land the marines, a party of seamen and all the necessary tackle and ladders for scaling walls, and then stand out to sea again before dawn. The rest, an attack from inland towards the rear of the fort, would be left to the discretion of the senior officer. In this case he was Major Samuel Paget, commanding officer of the flagship’s marines.
D’Esterre had said of him in confidence, ‘A very hard man. Once he has made up his mind nothing will shift him, and no argument is tolerated.’
Bolitho could well believe it. He had seen Paget a few times. Very erect and conscious of the figure he made in his scarlet coat and matching sash, impeccable white lapels and collar, he was nevertheless having difficulty in concealing his growing corpulence. His face had once been handsome, but now, in his middle thirties, the major had all the signs of a heavy drinker, and one who enjoyed a good table.
D’Esterre had also said, ‘This little jaunt might take some of the fat off him.’
But he had not smiled, and Bolitho had guessed that he had wished he and not the major was to command.
Once their mission was out in the open the ship’s company got down to work and preparation with the usual mixture of attitudes. Grim resignation for those who would be taking part, cheerful optimism from those who would not.
At the chosen time the work of ferrying the marines and seamen to the little sloop-of-war was begun without delay. After the blazing heat of a July day the evening brought little respite, and the gruelling, irksome work soon roused tempers and on-the-spot justice from fist and rope’s end.
Bolitho was counting the last group of seamen and making sure they were all armed, as well as being equipped with flasks of water and not hoarded rum, when Cairns strode up to him and snapped, ‘There has been another change.’
‘How so?’
Bolitho wai
ted, expecting to hear that the raid was being delayed.
Cairns said bitterly, ‘I am remaining aboard.’ He looked away, hiding his hurt. ‘Again.’
Bolitho did not know what to say. Cairns had obviously set his heart on going with the attack as senior lieutenant. Having missed the chance of being a prize-master, or even of taking part in the Faithful’s capture, he must have seen the landing as his rightful reward, although by going he stood as much chance of being killed as anyone else.
‘Someone from the flagship, sir?’
Cairns faced him. ‘No. Probyn is to lead, God help you!’
Bolitho examined his feelings. ‘And young James Quinn is to go with us also.’
Quinn had said nothing when he had been told, but he had looked as if someone had struck him.
Cairns seemed to read his thoughts. ‘Aye, Dick. So it may fall to you to look after our people.’
‘But why not the flagship? Surely they have a lieutenant and more to spare?’
Cairns regarded him curiously. ‘You don’t understand admirals, Dick. They never let go of their own. They must always show a perfect front, a well ordered world of officers and men. Coutts will be no exception. He’ll want perfection, not a rabble of old men and boys like we are fast becoming.’
He could have said more, Bolitho thought. That Quinn was being sent to prove that his wound had not destroyed his resolution and courage, and Probyn because he would not be missed. He thought of his own position and almost smiled. Pears was only doing what the admiral had done. Keeping the best for himself. Anyone below Cairns in rank and quality would be sacrificed first.
Cairns said, ‘I am glad you can still discover humour in this affair, Dick. For myself, I find it intolerable.’
Midshipman Couzens, hung about with telescope, dirk, pistols and a bulging sack of food, called breathlessly, ‘Spite has signalled, sir! Last party to go across now.’
Bolitho nodded. ‘Very well. Man your boats.’
He watched a second midshipman, a serious-faced sixteen-year-old named Huyghue, climbing down into the cutter to sit beside the coxswain, who was probably twice his age.
‘I see you are ready, Mr Bolitho.’
Probyn’s thick voice made him turn towards the quarterdeck. The second lieutenant could only just have been told of Pears’ change of plans, but he looked remarkably unworried. He was very flushed, but that was quite usual, and as he leaned on the quarterdeck rail to peer at the boats alongside he seemed calm to the point of indifference.
Cairns straightened his back as the captain’s heavy tread came across the deck. ‘Good luck. Both of you.’ He glanced at the dizzily swaying sloop. ‘By God, I wish I was coming with you.’
Probyn said nothing but touched his hat to the quarterdeck before following the others down into a crowded boat.
Bolitho saw Stockdale in one of the other boats and nodded to him. If for some reason he had not been taking part, it would have been like an ill-omen, something final. Seeing him there, big and quiet-faced, made up for many of the other, nagging doubts.
Probyn said, ‘Shove off, cox’n. I don’t want to fry in this damn heat!’
As they drew closer to the sloop, her commanding officer hurried to the side and cupped his hands. ‘Move yourselves, damn you! This is a King’s ship, not a bloody lobster boat!’
Only then did Probyn show some mettle. ‘Hear that? Impudent young chicken! God, how command changes a man!’
Bolitho shot him a quick glance. In just those few angry words Probyn had revealed a lot. Bolitho knew he had been beached on half-pay before the war. Whether it was because of his drinking, or he had simply become a hardened drinker because of his ill-luck, he was not sure. But he had certainly been passed over for promotion, and to be shouted at by the Spite’s youthful commander would not make it any easier.
As they clambered up on to the sloop’s busy deck, he wondered where all the marines had gone. As in the Faithful, they had been swallowed up within minutes of boarding. Aft by the taffrail he saw Major Paget speaking with D’Esterre and the two marine lieutenants.
The sloop’s commander walked across to meet the last arrivals.
He nodded curtly and then shouted, ‘Mr Walker! Get the ship under way, if you please!’
To Bolitho he added, ‘I suggest you go below. My people have enough to contend with at present, without being faced by unknown officers from every hand!’
Bolitho touched his hat. Unlike Probyn, he could understand the young man’s sharpness. He was very conscious of his command and the mission suddenly thrust upon him. Close by, two ships of the line, his admiral and some senior post captains would be watching, waiting to find fault, to compare his efficiency with others.
The commander swung on his heel. ‘I understand that you were the officer involved with my ship two weeks back, eh?’
He had a sharp, incisive tone, and Bolitho guessed he would be a difficult man to get on with. Twenty-four years old. What had Probyn said? How command changes a man.
‘Well?’
‘Aye, sir. I was second-in-command of the raid. My senior was killed.’
‘I see.’ He nodded. ‘My gunner nearly did that to you earlier.’ He walked away.
Bolitho made his way aft, pushing through the bustling seamen as they ran to braces and halliards, oblivious to everyone but their own officers.
The pulling boats were already falling obediently astern on their lines, and almost before Bolitho’s head had passed into the shadow of the companionway the Spite was heeling over to the wind and presenting her counter to the big two-deckers.
The wardroom was crowded with officers, and Spite’s purser soon produced bottles and glasses for all the additional guests.
When it came to Probyn he shook his head and said abruptly, ‘Not for me, but thankee. Later maybe.’
Bolitho looked away, unable to bear the sight of the man’s battle. Probyn had never refused a drink before. And it had cost him a great deal to do it now.
He thought of Probyn’s bitterness about the sloop’s commander and what lay ahead of them tomorrow.
It was of paramount importance to Probyn that he should succeed, and for that he would give up a lot more than brandy.
During the night and through the following day, Spite tacked back and forth, biding her time while she continued a slow approach towards the land.
Fort Exeter stood on a sandy four-mile-long island which was shaped rather like an axe-head. At low water it was connected to the mainland by an unreliable causeway of sand and shingle, and the entrance to a lagoon-like anchorage was easily protected by the fort’s carefully sited artillery.
As soon as the landing party was ashore, Spite would withdraw and be out of sight of land by the following dawn. If the wind died, the attack would be postponed until it returned. Whatever happened, it would not be abandoned unless the enemy were ready and waiting.
When Bolitho thought of Major Samuel Paget, the man who would be leading the attack, he doubted if it would be cancelled even then.
8
Fort Exeter
THE LANDING, WHICH took place at one in the morning, was carried out with unexpected ease. A favourable wind carried the sloop close inshore, where she dropped anchor and started to ferry the marines ashore as if it were part of a peacetime manoeuvre.
Major Samuel Paget went with the first boat, and when Bolitho eventually stepped on to glistening wet sand and squelched after a hurrying file of marines, he found time to admire the man’s sense of planning. He had brought two Canadians with him, and had explained they were better at scouting ‘than any damn dogs’. They were both fierce-looking men with beards and rough trapper’s clothing, and a smell to match any pelt.
One, a sad-eyed Scot named Macdonald, had originally lived for some years in South Carolina, and had been driven from his land when the main Loyalist force in the area had been beaten in a pitched battle by the Patriot militia. His hate reminded Bolitho of the resourceful Moffitt.
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Paget greeted Bolitho with his usual abruptness. ‘All quiet. I want our men positioned before first light. We’ll issue rations and water.’ He scanned the starry sky and grunted, ‘Too bloody hot for my liking.’
Stockdale said hoarsely, ‘Mr Couzens is comin’ with the last lot, sir.’
‘Very well.’ Bolitho watched as Probyn blundered out of some dark scrub, sniffing around him like a fox. ‘Everyone’s ashore, sir.’
Probyn watched the marines plodding past, their weapons and equipment carefully muffled, like silent ghosts from some forgotten battle.
‘God, it makes you think. Here we are, bloody miles from anywhere, marching into heaven knows what, and to what purpose, eh?’
Bolitho smiled. He had been thinking much the same. The marines seemed quite at home on land as they did at sea, but he could sense the wary caution of the seamen, the way they tended to bunch together, no matter what they were threatened with.
D’Esterre appeared from somewhere and showed his teeth. ‘Come along, Dick, join the marines and see the world!’ He went off to find his lieutenant, swinging his sword like a cane.
Bolitho looked at the beach, shining faintly in the darkness. The boats had already gone, and he imagined he could hear the sounds of sails being shaken out above the murmur of breakers. Then it really hit home. They were to all intents and purposes abandoned on this unknown shore, with just the skill of two Canadian scouts whom Paget had ‘borrowed from the Army’.
Suppose that even now they were being trailed, their stumbling progress marked as they approached some terrible ambush. The night was still but for the wind in the trees and the occasional cry of a startled bird. Even the wind sounded different here, which was not surprising, Bolitho thought, as he peered at the strange palms which ran almost to the water’s edge. They gave the land a tropical touch, something alien.
Lieutenant Raye of Trojan’s marines marched out of the darkness and exclaimed cheerfully, ‘Ah, here you are. The major says you are to follow with the rearguard, Mr Bolitho. Make certain the men do not crash into each other with their ladders and suchlike.’ He touched his hat to Probyn. ‘He sends his compliments, sir, and would you join him with the main party.’
In Gallant Company Page 13
