Apart from a few tiny islands far away on the starboard bow, the sea was empty. An endless deep blue desert, with long cruising rollers and white crests to display the power of the wind.
Bolitho waited on the larboard gangway, the taste of strong coffee warming his stomach, while he prepared to take over the afternoon watch in fifteen minutes’ time. With so many new faces and names to grapple with, the constant efforts to discover the skilled hands from the clumsy ones, all of whom seemed to have five thumbs on each fist, Bolitho had been kept very busy. But he could sense the atmosphere in the ship all the same. Confused acceptance by the lower deck and an air of bitterness from aft.
Trojan was ordered to Jamaica, her lower decks crammed with a contingent of marines which the admiral was sending to enforce law and order at the governor’s urgent request. Bad weather had wrecked many of Jamaica’s local trading vessels, and to make matters worse there had been news of another slave uprising on two of the larger plantations. Rebellion seemed to be in the air everywhere. If Britain was to hold on to her Caribbean possessions she must act now and not wait for the French and possibly the Spanish to blockade and occupy some of the many islands there.
But Bolitho guessed that Pears saw his role through different eyes. While the fleet was preparing for the inevitable spread of war, when every ship of the line would be desperately needed, he was being ordered to Jamaica. His Trojan had taken on the task of transport and little more.
Even the admiral’s explanation, that Trojan needed no escort, and was therefore releasing other vessels for work elsewhere, had had no effect. Daily Pears walked his quarterdeck, still watchful for his ship and the routine which ran her, but alone and quite removed from everyone else.
It could not be helping him now, Bolitho thought, to realize that hidden just below the horizon was the south-eastern shore of Puerto Rico, so near to where Coutts had committed all of them to a hopeless battle. In some ways it would have been better if the Argonaute had not broken off the fight. At least there would be a total victory to hold on to. Maybe the French had used their captain as a scapegoat, too?
But, as Cairns had said, it was better to be at sea and be kept busy than to swing at anchor, moping over what might have happened.
He looked down at the gundeck, at the milling scarlet uniforms and piled weapons as D’Esterre and the captain in charge of the marine contingent inspected and checked everything for the hundredth time.
‘Deck there!’
Bolitho looked up, the sun searing his face like sand.
‘Sail, sir! On the starboard bow!’
Dalyell had the watch, and it was at moments such as this that his inexperience showed through.
‘What? Where?’ He snatched a telescope from Midshipman Pullen and rushed to the starboard shrouds.
The look-out’s voice was drifting with the wind. ‘Small sail, sir! Fisherman, mebbee!’
Sambell, who was master’s mate of the watch, remarked sourly, ‘Lucky Admiral Coutts ain’t here. He’d have us chasin’ the bugger!’
Dalyell glared at him. ‘Get aloft, Mr Sambell. Tell me what you see.’ He saw Bolitho and smiled awkwardly. ‘So long without sighting anything, I was off guard.’
‘So it would appear, sir.’ Pears strode on to the quarterdeck, his shoes squeaking on the seams. He glanced at the set of the sails and then moved to the compass. ‘Hmm.’
Dalyell peered up at the master’s mate, who seemed to be taking an age to make the long climb.
Pears walked to the rail and watched the marines. ‘Fisherman. Maybe so. There are plenty of small islets there. Good places for water and firewood. Not too dangerous if you keep one eye open.’
He frowned as Sambell yelled, ‘She’s sheered off! Makin’ for one of the islands!’
Dalyell licked his lips and watched the captain. ‘Sighted us, d’you suppose, sir?’
Pears shrugged. ‘Unlikely. Our masthead has a far greater vision than some low-lying hull.’
He rubbed his chin, and Bolitho thought he saw a sudden gleam in his eyes.
Then Pears said harshly, ‘Hands to the braces, Mr Dalyell. We will alter course three points. Steer nor’-west by north.’ He banged his big hands together. ‘Well, jump to it, sir! ‘Pon my soul, you’ll have to do better than this!’
The shrill of calls and the immediate rush of seamen brought Cairns on deck, his eyes everywhere as he looked for a ship.
Pears said, ‘Vessel on starboard bow, Mr Cairns. Could be a fisherman, but unlikely. They usually keep in company in these hard times.’
‘Another privateer, sir?’
Cairns was speaking very carefully, and Bolitho guessed he had taken much from Pears’ tongue in the past few weeks.
‘Possibly.’
Pears beckoned to D’Esterre, who was being pushed and jostled by the extra marines as they sought to avoid the seamen at the braces and halliards.
‘Captain D’Esterre!’ Pears peered aloft as the yards squeaked round and the deck heeled over to the change of course. ‘How d’you propose to land your men at Jamaica if there has been a further uprising?’
D’Esterre replied, ‘In boats, sir. Land by sections above the port and take the high ground before seeking the local commander.’
Pears almost smiled. ‘I agree.’ He pointed at the boat tier. ‘We will exercise landing the contingent at dusk.’ He ignored D’Esterre’s astonished stare. ‘On one of those islands yonder.’
Bolitho heard him say to Cairns, ‘If there is some damned pirate there, we will swamp him with marines. Anyway, it will be good practice for them. If Trojan is to act as a troop transport, then she will do it well. No, better than well.’
Cairns smiled, grateful to see a return of Pears’ old enthusiasm. ‘Aye, sir.’
The helmsman shouted, ‘Nor’-west be north, zur!’
‘Steady as you go, man.’ Cairns waited impatiently for Bolitho’s watch to relieve Dalyell and then said, ‘I wish to God we could catch one of them again. Just to show Rear-Admiral bloody Coutts a thing or two!’
Pears heard him and murmured, ‘Now, now, Mr Cairns. That will do.’ But that was all he said.
Bolitho watched his men settling down to their duties while the rest went below to eat. He still believed that what Coutts had tried to do had been right. But his reasons were less certain.
Why was Pears taking the trouble to land marines for so trivial a sighting? Hurt pride, or did he expect to face an eventual court martial at Coutts’ instigation over the Argonaute encounter?
He heard Pears say to Bunce, ‘I intend to stand off as soon as we have landed the marines. I know these waters very well. I’ve an idea or two of my own.’
Bunce gave a rough chuckle. ‘That you do know ’em, Cap’n. I think it may be God’s will that we be here today.’
Pears grimaced. ‘Most probably, Mr Bunce. We shall have to see.’ He turned away. ‘And pray.’
Bolitho looked at Cairns. ‘What does he mean?’
Cairns shrugged. ‘He certainly knows this part of the world, as much as the Sage, I would think. I have studied the chart, but apart from reefs and currents, I see no cause for excitement.’
They both faced Pears as he strode across the quarterdeck.
He said, ‘I am going aft to take lunch. This afternoon we will muster all hands and prepare the boats. Swivels in the bows of cutters and launches. Only hand-picked men will go.’ He glanced at Bolitho. ‘You can supervise the landing arrangements, and will take Mr Frowd as your second. Captain D’Esterre will command the land force.’ He nodded and strode aft, hands behind his back.
Cairns said softly, ‘I’m glad for him. But I’m not so sure he is acting wisely.’
Bunce muttered, ‘My mother used to ’ave a saying, zur, about too wise ’eads on too young shoulders. Not good for ’em, she’d say.’ He went to the chart room chuckling to himself.
Cairns shook his head. ‘Didn’t know the old bugger ever had a mother!’
Trojan cl
osed to within a mile of the nearest island and then lay hove to while the business of lowering boats and filling them with marines was begun.
Most of the marines had been in Antigua for a long time and had only heard about the war in America from visiting ships. Although few of them knew why they were being sent across to the island, and those who did regarded it as something of a joke, they carried out their part willingly and in good humour.
The cheerful atmosphere made Seargeant Shears exclaim angrily, ‘My Gawd, sir, you’d think it was a bloody ’oliday, an’ no mistake!’
The sea was still very choppy and lively, and it took more time than calculated to get the boats fully loaded and headed for the shore. It was growing dark, and the sunset painted the wave crests amber and dull gold.
Bolitho stood in the sternsheets of the leading cutter, one hand on Stockdale’s shoulder as he controlled the tiller-bar. It was difficult to see the cove where they were supposed to land, although it had looked clear enough on the chart. The grim truth was that nobody really knew the exact position of every reef and sand-bar. Already they had seen several jagged rocks, shining in the strange light and bringing a few anxious remarks from the crowded marines. In their heavy boots and hung about with weapons and pouches, they would go to the bottom before anything else if the boats were capsized.
D’Esterre was saying, ‘Fact is, Dick, we may have been sighted already. They’ll not stop to fight all these marines, but we’ll not find them either!’
Another seething rock passed down the starboard oar blades, and Bolitho signalled with a white flag to the boat astern, and so on down the line. Trojan was only a blurred shadow now, and she had been making more sail even as the boats had pulled clear. She would use the prevailing wind to ride in the island’s lee for some sign of results.
‘Land ahead, sir!’
That was Buller in the bows. A good hand, as he had shown, his wood splinters apparently forgotten. He was lucky to be able to forget so easily, Bolitho thought.
Like darkly hooded monks some tall rocks rose on either side of the boat, while directly across the bows and the loaded swivel gun lay a bright strip of sand.
‘Easy all! Boat yer oars!’
Seamen were already leaping and splashing into the surf on either beam to steady the boat as she drove ashore.
D’Esterre was out, waist-deep in water and calling his sergeant to lead the first pickets to the higher ground.
It was a tiny island, no more than a mile long. Most of the others were even smaller. But there were rock pools for gathering fresh water and shellfish, and wood to burn for any small and self-sufficient vessel.
Bolitho waded ashore, thinking suddenly of Quinn. He had heard him asking, pleading with Cairns to be allowed to come with the landing party.
Cairns had been coldly formal, almost brutal. ‘We want experienced, picked men, Mr Quinn.’ The last part had been like a slap in the face. ‘Reliable, too.’
Midshipman Couzens was arriving with the next cutter, and the Trojan’s red-painted barge was following her. Bolitho smiled tightly. Frowd and the other marine captain were in her. Being held back in case the first boats had fallen under a deluge of shot and fire.
‘Take your positions! Boat-handling parties stand fast!’
Stockdale strode from the shallows, his cutlass across one shoulder like a broadsword.
From tumbling confusion and whispered threats from the sergeants and corporals, the marines formed into neat little sections. At a further command they moved up the slope, boots squelching on sand and then on rough, sun-hardened earth.
An hour later it was dark and the air was heavy with damp smells, of rotten vegetation and seabird droppings.
While the marine skirmishers hurried away on either side, Bolitho and D’Esterre stood on a narrow ridge-backed hill, the sea ahead and behind them, invisible but for an occasional gleam of surf.
It seemed deserted. Dead. The unknown vessel had gone to another island, or had sailed north-west towards the Bahamas. If Sambell had not seen her for himself, Bolitho might have thought the look-out mistaken by a trick of light and haze.
‘This is no Fort Exeter, Dick.’ D’Esterre was leaning on his sword, his head cocked to listen to the hiss of wind through fronds and bushes.
‘I wish we had those Canadian scouts with us.’ Bolitho saw some seamen lying on their backs, staring at the sky. They were quite content to leave it to others. They merely had to obey. To die if need be.
They heard a nervous challenge and then Shears strode up the hill towards them. He carried a clump of grass or creeper to cover his uniform, which was why the sentry had been so startled. It reminded Bolitho of Major Paget’s little cape.
‘Well?’ D’Esterre leaned forward.
Shears sucked in gulps of air. ‘She’s there, right enough, sir. Anchored close in. Small vessel, yawl by the looks of ’er.’
D’Esterre asked, ‘Any signs of life?’
‘There’s a watch on deck, an’ no lights, sir. Up to no good, if you ask me.’ He saw D’Esterre’s smile and added firmly, ‘One of the marines from Antigua says they’d have lights lit and lines down right now, sir. There’s a special sort of fish they goes after. No real fisherman would lie an’ sleep!’
D’Esterre nodded. ‘That was well said, Sergeant Shears. I’ll see that the man has a guinea when we get back aboard. And you, too. You must have something about you to inspire an unknown marine to offer his confidences!’ He became crisp and formal. ‘Fetch Mr Frowd. We will decide what to do. Pass the word to watch out for anyone coming ashore from the yawl.’
Shears said cheerfully, ‘They got no boats in the water, sir.’
‘Well, watch anyway.’
As the sergeant hurried away D’Esterre said, ‘Well, Dick, are you thinking as I am? A surprise attack on them?’
‘Aye.’ He tried to picture the anchored vessel. ‘The sight of all your marines should do it. But two armed cutters would be safer. In case they are unimpressed by your little army.’
‘I agree. You and Mr Frowd take the cutters. I’ll keep the midshipman with me and send him with a message if things go wrong. So work your way round. No risks, mind. Not for a damned yawl!’
Bolitho waited for Frowd to join him, thinking back to Pears’ casual reference to these small islands. It had all been clear to him. If the vessel was an enemy, or up to no good, she would run at the first hint of trouble. Towards the land and the marines, or more likely use the prevailing wind and put to sea again or hide amongst the islands. Either way she would find Trojan lying there, using the offshore current and wind. Waiting like a great beast to overwhelm her in a matter of minutes.
At sea, in open waters, there was hardly a vessel afloat which could not outsail the slow-moving Trojan. But in confined space, where one false turn of the helm could mean a grounding at best, Trojan’s massive artillery would make escape impossible.
Frowd remarked dourly, ‘Boat action then.’
Bolitho watched him curiously. Frowd could probably think of nothing but his next appointment, getting away from the ship where so many had been his equals and were now expected to knuckle their foreheads to him.
‘Yes. Pick your men, and let’s be about it.’
He noticed the sharpness in his own voice, too. Why was that? Did he see Frowd’s attitude as a challenge, as Rowhurst had once vied with Quinn?
With muffled oars the two cutters pulled away from the other moored boats and turned east towards the far end of the island, the wind making each stroke of the oars harder and more tiring.
But Bolitho knew his men by now. They would rally when the time came. They had done it before. It was strange to be pushing through the choppy water without doubts of these silent, straining men. He hoped they held some trust in him also.
It would be funny, if after all this stealth, they found only terrified traders or fishermen rising to the marines’ rough awakening. It would not seem so amusing when they had to tell the captain
about it.
‘Somebody must be comin’, sir!’
Bolitho scrambled through the cutter to join the look-out in the bows. He could see the two seamen he had put ashore, framed against the sky, one moving his arm above his head very slowly.
How loud everything sounded. The water sluicing around the two moored boats, the distant boom of surf and the hissing roar as it receded from some hidden beach.
They had reached this tiny inlet several hours ago and had made fast to get as much rest as possible. Most of the seamen appeared to have no trouble. They could sleep anywhere, indifferent to the rocking boats, the spray which occasionally spattered across their already damp clothing.
Frowd, in the boat alongside, said, ‘It’s gone wrong, I expect.’
Bolitho waited, realizing that the men on the shore were easier to see, more sharply defined against the dull sky. It would be dawn soon.
Stockdale said feelingly, ‘It’s Mr Couzens, not the enemy!’
Couzens came slithering down the slope and then waded and floundered towards the cutters.
He saw Bolitho and gasped, ‘Captain D’Esterre says to start the attack in half an hour.’
He sounded so relieved that Bolitho guessed he had got lost on his way here.
‘Very well.’ Attack. That sounded definite enough. ‘What is the signal?’
Stockdale hoisted the midshipman unceremoniously over the gunwale.
‘One pistol shot, sir.’ Couzens sank down on a thwart, his legs dripping on the bottom boards.
‘Good. Recall those men.’ Bolitho made his way aft again and held his watch against a shaded horn lantern. There was not much time. ‘Rouse the hands. Make ready to cast off.’
Men stirred and coughed, groping around to get their bearings.
From the set of the current Bolitho could picture how the yawl would be swinging to her cable. He thought suddenly of Sparke, deciding on his attack. Pushing sentiment aside after the bloody fighting was over.
‘Load your pistols. Take your time.’
If he hurried them, or shared his own anxiety over the brightening sky, somebody was bound to get muddled and loose off a ball. It only took one.
In Gallant Company Page 26
