The Darkening Sea

by Alexander Kent

  Ozanne said, ‘Rain too, I shouldn’t wonder, sir.’

  Tyacke grunted. ‘We could do with it. The timbers are like kindling.’

  The glass moved on, over the swells and troughs and across a group of drifting gulls. They seemed held together, like a pale wreath cast down by someone as a memorial.

  Ozanne watched him and his emotions. A handsome man who would turn any lass’s head, he thought. Once. There had been times when it had been hard for Ozanne to accept the horrible disfigurement and find the man beneath. The one the Arab slavers feared most of all. The devil with half a face. A fine seaman, and a just one to his small company. The two did not always make good bedfellows in the King’s navy.

  Tyacke felt the sweat running down his face and wiped the skin with his fingers, hating what he felt. Who was it who had told him that it could have been worse?

  ‘I don’t see that at all.’ With a start he realised he had spoken aloud, but managed to grin as Ozanne asked, ‘Sir?’

  Tyacke was about to return the glass to its rack when something made him stiffen. As if he had heard something, or some awful memory had sent a shiver up his spine.

  The deck quivered slightly, and when he looked up he saw the trailing masthead pendant flick out like a whip. Loose gear rattled and groaned, and the watch on deck seemed to come alive again from their sun-dulled torpor.

  ‘Stand to, hands to the braces!’

  The brig swung slightly and the two helmsmen who had been standing motionless, their arms resting on the wheel, gripped the spokes as the rudder gave in to a sudden pressure.

  Tyacke looked at the sailing master. ‘You were right about a storm, Mr Pitcairn! Well, we’re ready for any help we can get!’

  He realised that none of them had moved, and cursed suddenly as he heard again the sound he had taken for thunder. His hearing had never been the same since the explosion.

  Ozanne said, ‘Gunfire!’

  The deck tilted more steeply and the big forecourse filled iron-hard with a mind of its own.

  ‘Turn up the watch below! I want all the sail she can carry! Bring her back on course, Mr Manley!’

  Tyacke watched the sudden rush of men as the call shrilled between decks. The topmen were already clambering out along the upper yards, and others were loosening halliards and braces ready for the next order. A few found time to stare aft at their formidable captain, questioning, uncertain, but trusting him completely.

  Ozanne said, ‘A fair size by the sound of it, sir.’ He did not even flinch as Larne was sheeted home on the starboard tack.

  The helmsman yelled, ‘South by east, sir! Steady she goes!’

  Tyacke rubbed his chin but did not see the others exchange glances. He did not even realise that it was something he always did in the face of danger.

  Too heavy for another anti-slavery vessel: Ozanne was right about that. He saw the spray burst over the beakhead and soak the seamen there. In the angry glare it looked almost gold.

  Two frigates then? He glanced at each sail in turn. Larne was beginning to lean forward into every line of troughs, the sea pattering inboard and swilling into the scuppers. One of their own then, perhaps outgunned or outnumbered?

  He snapped, ‘Clear for action as the mood takes you, Mr Ozanne.’ He looked around and beckoned to a seaman. ‘Cabin, Thomas – fetch my sword and lively so!’

  As suddenly as the returning wind it began to rain, a downpour which advanced across the water so heavily and thickly that it was like being hemmed in by a giant fence. As it reached the ship the men were held breathless and gasping where they stood, some using it to wash themselves, others just standing amidst the onslaught and spluttering with pleasure. There were more heavy crashes through the rain. The same sound, as if only the one vessel was firing.

  Then there was one great explosion which seemed to go on for minutes. Tyacke could even feel it against the Larne’s hull like something out of the deep.

  Then the distant gunfire ceased and only the sound of the deluge continued. The rain was moving away, and the sun came through as if it had been in hiding. Sails, decks and taut rigging were steaming, and seamen looked for one another as if after a battle.

  But the wind was holding, laying bare the distant coastline and the movement of the current.

  The lookout yelled, ‘Deck there! Sail to the south-east! Hull down!’

  As the wind continued to drive away the mist Tyacke realised that much of it was smoke. The other ship or ships were already far away if only the lookout could see them. The assassins.

  Some of his men were standing away from their guns or caught in their various attitudes of working ship and trimming the sails. They were staring at something.

  It could have been a reef, except that out here there were none. It might have been some old and forgotten hulk left to the mercy of the ocean. But it was not. It was the capsized hull of a vessel about the size of this one, his Larne. There were huge obscene bubbles exploding from the opposite side, probably from that one great explosion. In a moment she would be gone.

  Tyacke said harshly, ‘Heave-to, Mr Ozanne! Bosun, clear away the boats!’

  Men ran to the tackles and braces as Larne wallowed heavily into the wind, her sails all in confusion.

  Tyacke had never seen the boats get away so quickly. The experience gained at boarding suspected slavers was proving itself. Not that these men, his men, would need any incentive.

  Tyacke levelled his telescope and stared at the pathetic little figures struggling to pull themselves to safety, others limp and trapped in the trailing weed of rigging alongside.

  Not strangers this time. It was like looking at themselves. An officer dressed in the same uniform as Ozanne and the others, seamen in checkered shirts like some of those beside him. There was blood in the water too, clinging to the upended bilge as if the vessel herself were being bled to death.

  The boats were hurling themselves across the water, and Tyacke saw the third lieutenant, Robyns, pointing to something for his coxswain to identify.

  Without looking Tyacke knew the surgeon and his mate were already down on deck to help the first survivors. There could not be many of them.

  More big bubbles were bursting and Tyacke had to look away as a figure obviously blinded by the explosion appeared, arms outstretched, his mouth opened in unheard cries.

  Tyacke clenched his fists. It could be me.

  He looked away and saw a young seaman crossing himself, another sobbing quietly, heedless of his companions.

  Ozanne lowered his telescope. ‘She’s going, sir. I just saw her name. She’s the Thruster.’ He seemed to stare around with disbelief. ‘Just like us!’

  Tyacke turned again to watch the boats standing as near as they dared, oars and lines flung out for anyone who could swim.

  The brig began to dip under the sea, a few figures still trying to get away even as she took her last dive.

  For a long time, or so it seemed, the boats pitched and rolled in the whirlpool that remained until corpses, rigging, and burned sailcloth were sucked down.

  Tyacke said, ‘One of Sir Richard’s ships, Paul.’ He thought of the lieutenant’s outrage. Just like us. And the blinded man who cried for help when there was none.

  Pitcairn the master asked huskily, ‘What does it mean?’

  Tyacke walked away to greet the few who had been plucked from death. But he paused with one foot on the ladder, his terrible scars laid bare in the sunshine.

  ‘It means war, my friends. Without mercy and without quarter until it is finally settled.’

  Someone cried out in agony and Tyacke turned away.

  Nobody spoke. Perhaps they had all watched themselves die.

  * * *

  14

  Catherine

  * * *

  SIR PAUL SILLITOE sat at a small table by one of his bedroom windows, and frowned as another gust of wind made the rain dash against the glass like hail. Breakfast, a frugal but leisurely affair, was mainly a time
for him to prepare himself for the day. Newsheets and papers were arranged in their special order by his valet Guthrie, who then left his master to prop them one by one on a little wooden stand which had once been used for music.

  He glanced at the river Thames that curved directly past the house, which was built on this elegant part of Chiswick Reach. It was higher, and might well flood before the day was out.

  He returned his attention to a page on foreign affairs, the small paragraph about the proposed military campaigns in the Indian Ocean. They could not wait another year to begin. Napoleon might still hold his defences so that Wellington would have to withstand another year of conflict. It would not do at all. He reached for a biscuit which Guthrie had already spread with treacle, a childish fancy of his.

  Then there was the Prince of Wales. Eager to rule in his father’s place, but still in need of assurances from those in power who might see the King’s insanity more as a protection than a threat to themselves.

  Sillitoe wiped his fingers and poured some fresh coffee. This was the best part of the day. Alone, able to think and plan.

  He looked up from the paper with irritation as he heard carriage wheels in his drive. Nobody who knew him well would dare to interrupt this sacred hour. He rang a small bell and instantly one of his burly footmen appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Send him away, whoever it is!’

  The man nodded and strode from the room.

  Sillitoe resumed reading, and wondered briefly how Richard Bolitho was dealing with the military. How could any man give his very life to the sea? Like poor Collingwood, who had been employed on the demanding Mediterranean station without a break since 1803. Why did the King dislike him enough to deny him the chance to come home? He had even prevented Collingwood’s promotion to full admiral, although he was ten years older than his friend and commander, Horatio Nelson. It was said that he was dying. No reward for all those years.

  The footman reappeared.

  Sillitoe said abruptly, ‘I did not hear the carriage leave!’ It sounded like an accusation.

  The man watched him impassively, used to his master’s tongue, which could be merciless if the occasion suited.

  The footman cleared his throat. ‘It is a lady, Sir Paul. She insists that you will see her.’

  Sillitoe pushed the papers away. The morning was spoiled. ‘Does she indeed? We shall see about that!’

  ‘It is Lady Somervell, Sir Paul.’ It was the first time he had seen his master completely taken aback.

  Sillitoe held out his arms as his valet hurried forward with his coat, his mind still grappling with the news. ‘Show her to a room with a good fire. My respects to her ladyship, and tell her I shall be down without delay.’

  It made no sense. She had never given him the slightest encouragement, something which had aroused him more than ever. It must be trouble of some kind. It was nothing to do with Bolitho, he was sure of that: someone would have suffered for it if he had not been informed first.

  He glanced at himself in a mirror and tried to be calm. She was here. She wanted to see him. Needed to see him. He watched himself smile. A delusion.

  She was sitting near a newly-lighted fire in one of the rooms that adjoined Sillitoe’s considerable library.

  In seconds Sillitoe took it all in. She wore a long green cloak, a fur-lined hood thrown back on her shoulders, her piled hair shining in the firelight as she held out one hand to the flames.

  ‘My dear Lady Catherine!’ He took her hand and held it to his lips. It was like ice. ‘I thought you to be in Cornwall, but you honour me greatly by calling.’

  She faced him, her dark eyes seeking something. ‘I came to London. For some things from my Chelsea house.’

  Sillitoe waited. He had often thought of her in that house. It was just around the next great bend in the river towards Westminster and Southwark.

  It might have been ten thousand miles. Until now.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ He turned to hide a frown as a maidservant pattered into the room with fresh coffee, which she placed beside the woman in green.

  ‘You once said I could come to you if I needed help.’

  He waited, almost holding his breath. ‘My lady, I would be honoured.’

  ‘You see, there was a letter for me in Chelsea. Nobody had thought to send it on. It was a week old, probably too late.’ She looked at him very directly. ‘I have to go to Whitechapel … I had no one else to ask.’

  He nodded gravely. A secret then. ‘That is hardly the place for a lady to wander unescorted, not in these hard times. Must you go?’ All the time his mind was reaching out in every direction. Parts of Whitechapel were very respectable. The rest did not bear thinking about.

  ‘When do you wish to go?’ He expected a protest as he added, ‘I shall come with you, of course …’

  He glared at the door as a small, round-faced man in spectacles, his arms loaded with papers in long canvas envelopes, peered in at them.

  ‘Not now, Marlow. I am going out!’

  His secretary began to protest and remind Sillitoe about his appointments. He might as well have said nothing.

  He said, ‘Tell Guthrie to get two good men.’ He looked at the secretary calmly. ‘He will know what I mean.’

  When they were alone again, he said, ‘We may leave at any time you wish.’ His eyes moved over her, missing nothing.

  Guthrie was well-trained, and had summoned two of Sillitoe’s men who wore the same gilt-buttoned livery. They looked more like prize-fighters than footmen. They both stared at the tall woman with the dark hair and high cheekbones. They might even have guessed who she was.

  A plain carriage came around from the mews and Sillitoe said, ‘Less noticeable than yours, I think.’

  Young Matthew, who was standing by the Bolitho carriage, looked apprehensive. ‘Will you be all right, m’lady?’ His strong Cornish accent sounded so alien here.

  ‘I will.’ She walked to the horses and patted them. ‘This will be between us, Matthew. Yes?’

  He removed his hat and fumbled with it. ‘To th’ grave if so ordered, m’lady!’

  He was so serious that she almost smiled. What had she begun? Where might it end?

  She heard a savage panting and saw one of the men pushing a broad-shouldered mastiff up onto the box with the coachman.

  He said, ‘Don’t you jump too much, Ben, ’e’ll ’ave your leg off else!’

  She handed the address on a card to the coachman and saw his eyebrows rise slightly.

  Sillitoe said, ‘Come, my dear, before the rain gets heavier.’ He glanced over his shoulder to the other carriage with the crest on its door. ‘Wait at Chelsea, ah, Matthew. I shall ensure her ladyship’s safety until then.’

  She leaned back against the damp leather cushions and pretended to watch the scenery as the carriage moved briskly along the river road. She was very conscious of his nearness and of his obvious determination not to provoke her.

  Sillitoe spoke only occasionally, usually questions about her life at Falmouth. He mentioned the collier brig Maria José which was now being refitted, but he never disclosed his sources of information.

  Only once did he touch on Bolitho, when he had mentioned his nephew George Avery.

  ‘I think he must be doing well as Sir Richard’s flag lieutenant. He has a way with people, lame ducks most of all.’

  She turned and looked at him, her eyes in shadow as the carriage rolled past a line of bedraggled trees. ‘How long will it be before …?’

  ‘Before Sir Richard comes home?’ He seemed to consider it. ‘You must know the ways and the prevarications of Admiralty, my dear. It will be a difficult campaign, and now of course the Americans seem intent on interfering. It is very hard to say at this stage.’

  ‘I need him so …’ She did not go on.

  As the carriage swayed through rain-filled ruts and over fallen branches, Sillitoe could feel the pressure of her body against his own. What would she do, right at this moment when fo
r some reason she needed his aid, if he took her in his arms and forced her into submission? Who would she turn to? Who would believe her? Perhaps only Bolitho, and he might not come home for years. And when he did, would she tell him? He wiped his forehead with his hand. He felt as if he had a fever.

  The coachman called down, ‘Not far now, Sir Paul.’

  He glanced at her, one hand clinging to the strap as the wheel grated onto cobbles and small houses appeared on either side. A few shapeless figures huddled over against the rain, a carrier’s cart or two, and to his surprise a smart carriage with grooms who looked very much like his own.

  She said almost to herself, ‘I can scarcely remember it. It was so long ago.’

  Sillitoe dragged his mind from the carriage. A brothel perhaps, where respectable but none-too-rich clients could lose themselves. He thought of his own, safe house. Money could buy you anything and anyone.

  He tried to keep his mind clear. Why was she here in this awful place?

  She dragged at the window. ‘There it is!’ She was agitated, distressed.

  The carriage rolled to a halt and the driver called, ‘Can’t get through there, Sir Paul! Too narrer!’

  She climbed down and heard the savage-looking mastiff give a warning snarl. Sillitoe followed her, and read a decaying sign which said Quaker’s Passage. Despite her own uncertainty she seemed to sense his confusion and turned towards him, heedless of the rain that ran from her hair and on to her cloak.

  ‘It was not always like this!’ It was as if she were speaking to the whole street. ‘There were children here.’ She gripped an iron railing. ‘We played here!’

  Sillitoe licked his lips. ‘What number do we seek?’

  ‘Three.’ Only a word, but it was torn from her.

  Sillitoe said, ‘Jakes, stay with the coach and driver.’ Then to the one with the dog, ‘You keep with us.’ He put one hand into his coat and felt the pistol. I must be mad to be here.

  The door of the house was ajar and there was rubbish strewn about the path. Even before they reached it someone screamed, ‘It’s them bailiffs again! The bloody bastards!’