Signal, Close Action!

by Alexander Kent

  Herrick looked at the deck. ‘I find that hard to believe, sir.’ He faced him again, his features more determined than they had been since the ship had left Gibraltar. ‘But if I discover a truth in it, he will know it.’ His eyes were like a stranger’s. ‘And pay.’

  Bolitho smiled gravely. ‘Easy now. Perhaps I am speaking hastily.’ He moved to the door and heard the marine sentry drawing his boots together. ‘But we had best concentrate on the immediate future. Otherwise we will all be made to pay for it!’

  *

  Allday thrust the hair from his eyes and said hoarsely, ‘It seems we have arrived, Mr. Pascoe.’ His lips were so dry from thirst that he could barely speak, and the sun across his head and shoulders burned as mercilessly as it had all day, and the one before that.

  Pascoe nodded and lurched against him. Behind them the five gasping seamen staggered like drunkards, staring without comprehension at the lip of the hill track, the hard, glittering horizon beyond. The sea once again.

  The forced march had been a nightmare, and while the mounted troopers had made a show of drinking as much as they pleased, they had made certain their prisoners were given hardly anything. When two wrinkled peasant women had offered some water by the roadside the horsemen had ridden at them threateningly, driving them away, laughing when one had gone sprawling in the dust like an untidy bundle.

  They had lost one more of their number. A seaman called Stokes. He had sat watching the troopers on the previous evening as they had prepared to make camp for the night. He had been unable to drag his eyes from the great skin of coarse red wine which was being handed round amongst the troopers, his raging thirst, the pain of his lacerated feet making him a picture of misery and despair.

  After a muttered conversation the troopers had beckoned him over, and to the other prisoners’ astonishment and envy had offered him the skin of wine, gesturing and grinning at him to take his fill.

  When they had finally realised what was happening it was already too late. As Stokes drank and drank to his capacity, his face and chest soaking in spilled wine, the soldiers urged him on, and then supporting him bodily, while others poured more into his gaping mouth.

  Starved, sun-dried and already terrified as to what his fate might be, Stokes had changed in that instant into a raving madman. Capering and reeling, vomiting and falling in all directions, he was pitiful to watch. And whenever he had dropped choking on the ground they had begun all over again.

  This morning, as the prisoners had been freed from their ropes and herded on to the rough track, they had seen Stokes still lying where he had last fallen, his body surrounded in a great red stain of dried wine, like blood, his face a mask of flies.

  When Pascoe had tried to reach him he had been kicked back to the others. None of the troopers even went to see if Stokes was still breathing. It was as if they had tired of a game and wished only to get on towards their destination.

  Allday shaded his eyes and studied the blue sea beyond the hill rise. What a barren place it was. Mountains inland, and this part all ups and downs in stony gullies. His torn feet told him he had walked every inch of it.

  A whip cracked, and once more they started to shuffle forward. As they panted up the last slope Allday said breathlessly, ‘Ships, by God!’

  Pascoe nodded. ‘Three of them!’ He seized Allday’s arm. ‘Look at all those people!’

  The track which led down to the foreshore and joined another, better-made road was alive with tiny moving figures. Like ants, which at a distance appear to move without purpose or direction, it was evident as they drew nearer that the activity was well ordered. Dotted about were armed soldiers and civilian supervisors who stood like rocks amidst the tide of human movement.

  Pascoe said, ‘Prisoners.’

  ‘Slaves, more like.’

  Allday saw the whips in the hands of the guards, the fearful way the ragged prisoners moved around each vigilant figure.

  He turned his head towards the ships. Two brigs and one larger vessel, a transport. All three anchored close inshore, and the water between them and a newly constructed pier was an endless coming and going of oared boats and lighters. There were lines of neat tents by the hillside, and across the bay, scored out of the grass and gorse of a low headland, was what appeared to be a battery, the flag of Spain lifting and curling high above it.

  Pascoe murmured, ‘The ships look well laden.’

  They fell silent as the senior horseman cantered towards them, his whip trailing down his leg and along the road. He pointed at the seamen and barked an order. Two troopers dismounted and gestured with drawn sabres towards the first line of tents. The whip swung round, separating Pascoe and Allday from the others and at the same time pointing to another, smaller line of tents.

  Outside one Allday saw an officer watching them, shading his eyes with his arm as the horseman urged them towards him. Allday silently thanked God. The officer might be a Spaniard, but he was far better than their captors.

  The horseman dismounted and reported to the officer, who after a slight hesitation walked towards them. He was very slim and wore a white tunic and scarlet breeches. As he drew closer Allday noticed that his smart uniform and gleaming cavalry boots were less so, and like the man himself, showed signs of having been out here in this terrible place for some while.

  He walked around them very slowly, his dark features thoughtful, but without any sign of emotion.

  He stopped in front of them again and said in careful English, ‘I am Capitan Don Camilo San Martin, of His Most Catholic Majesty’s Dragoon Guards.’ He had a sensitive face, marred by a thin, even cruel mouth. ‘I would be obliged if you would honour me with your er, titles?’ He held up one neat hand. ‘But before you begin, I must warn against lies. That fool of a man told me how his patrol discovered you and your sailors. How after a great fight he was able to overpower you and bring you to me.’ He seemed to draw himself up in stature. ‘I am in command of this er, enterprise at the moment.’

  Allday breathed out slowly as Pascoe replied, ‘I am Lieutenant Adam Pascoe of His Britannic Majesty’s Navy.’

  The Spaniard’s sad eyes moved to Allday. ‘And this? I understand he, too, is an officer.’ His mouth lifted slightly. ‘Of some lesser value perhaps?’

  ‘Yes.’ Pascoe swayed but kept his voice level. ‘A warrant officer.’

  Allday found time to marvel at Pascoe’s quick thinking after what he had just endured. The Spaniard seemed content with the lie. If they were to be separated now, there was no chance of escape, if chance there was.

  ‘Good.’ Capitan San Martin smiled. ‘You are very young, Teniente. I am right therefore to suppose that you were not alone? That you are from an English ship, eh?’ He held up his hand in the same tired gesture. ‘I know. You are an officer and bound to your oath. That I respect. In any case, the question must have an obvious answer.’

  Pascoe said hoarsely, ‘My men, Capitan. Could you order your soldiers to take care of them.’

  The Spaniard seemed to consider it. ‘In good time. But for the moment you and I have matters to discuss.’ He pointed to his tent. ‘Within. The sun is cursed hot today.’

  Inside it was cool, and as Allday’s eyes grew accustomed to the shaded interior he realised he was walking on a thick carpet. After the rough road it was like a gentle balm for his torn and blistered feet.

  San Martin remarked, ‘I see from your back that you had some rough handling on your way.’ He shrugged. ‘They are ignorant savages. But good fighters. My grandfather used to hunt them for sport.’ It seemed to amuse him. ‘But we must change with the times.’

  An orderly brought some goblets and began to fill them with wine.

  San Martin nodded. ‘Sit down, if you wish. You are now prisoners of war. I suggest you make the most of my hospitality.’ He smiled again. ‘I was once a captive of the English, and exchanged a year back. I learned to improve my understanding of your people, as well as the language.’

  Pascoe began, ‘
I must insist, sir –’

  He got no further. San Martin stared up at the roof of the tent and shouted, ‘Do not insist with me, Teniente!’ The sudden effort brought a rash of sweat across his features. ‘I have but to say the word and I can make you vanish! How do you enjoy that’ eh? Those animals you saw out there working on the road and defences are criminals, who but for the urgency of this task would be in their rightful places, chained to the oars of a galley or rotting on gibbets. I could have you flung amongst them, Teniente! How would you like to eke out your life chained to a great sweep, sitting in your own filth and living hour by hour to the beat of a drum, the lash of a whip, eh?’ He was almost beside himself. ‘You would have very little time to insist, that I promise you!’

  Allday saw the soldier with the wine bottle shaking badly. He was obviously used to his master’s violent outbursts.

  He continued more calmly, ‘Your ship, or ships perhaps, are in our waters to do us some harm.’ He gave a slow smile. ‘Your commander, do I know of him?’

  He did not wait for answer but strode from the tent.

  Pascoe whispered quickly, ‘He does not know about the schooner.’

  ‘To hell with the schooner, Mr. Pascoe. What will you tell him?’

  Before he could reply the Spanish captain was back again. With great care he laid a loop of stout cord on the table and stood back to examine it.

  ‘You will see that it is joined at both ends.’ He sounded matter of fact. ‘There are two large knots in it, here and here.’ He tapped it with his finger. ‘A circle of pain. Our inquisitors found it of some use for obtaining confessions of guilt in the Americas, I believe.’ He looked hard at Pascoe. ‘If I had this placed around your head, each of the knots would fit against an eye. By twisting the cord from behind, tighter and tighter, I am assured the agony is unbearable.’ He picked up the cord and threw it to the orderly. ‘And of course, the climax comes when both eyes are forced from their sockets.’ He snapped an order to his orderly who almost ran from the tent. ‘Like grapes.’

  Allday exclaimed hoarsely, ‘You’ll not let those devils use it on our lads!’

  ‘I have told you!’ San Martin’s face was working with emotion. ‘You are prisoners of war. You will be treated as such while you are under my guard.’ He sat down, his chest working painfully. ‘Now drink your wine.’

  Allday dropped his goblet as a terrible shriek echoed round the tent. As Pascoe made for the entrance two pistols appeared in San Martin’s hands as if by magic.

  ‘Stand! It is not one of your wretched sailors! It is only a prisoner. The effect will be the same after they have watched his pain!’

  San Martin’s eyes remained as still as the two pistols as he studied Pascoe’s horrified face. The terrible screams continued for what seemed like an hour, but when they ceased the sound remained in the tent like a curse from hell.

  San Martin replaced the pistols in his belt and said, ‘Sailors talk a great deal. I will go now. Do not try to leave the tent or I will have you killed.’ He picked up his hat and banged dust from its yellow plume. ‘When I have spoken to the sailors I will know about your ships, and probably much more as well.’

  The tent seemed very silent after he had gone.

  Pascoe sank down on to the carpet and retched uncomfortably. ‘He’s right.’

  Allday watched his despair, the quiver of his blistered shoulders as he tried to control himself.

  ‘No one but a fool would stay voiceless after being made to watch that torture.’

  The Spanish captain, true to his promise, was back within an hour. He seated himself on one corner of a brass-bound chest and said calmly, ‘One of your men was very willing to speak with me.’ He smiled sadly. ‘Do not look so troubled, Teniente. Mine would sell my very soul if they were in the same position.’ He became formal. ‘Your ships have been in these waters for over a week, yes? You are sailing to spy upon the French, our ally. Such matters are not my concern. My orders are to command over these dogs until the bay is properly defended.’ He tapped his chin with the rim of a wine goblet. ‘I did discover one piece of news which may be of use to those better placed to use it. Your ships took a Spanish vessel.’ His mouth twisted with sudden fury. ‘Those fools who brought you here were so drunk with their victory they allowed a ship to be stolen from under their noses!’

  Allday thought of the knotted cord and could almost feel pity for the senior horseman with the whip.

  As if to confirm his thoughts, San Martin snapped, ‘It will not happen again!’

  He calmed himself with an effort. ‘No matter. Your war is over. I will have you transported to more er, secure quarters where you can be held in accordance with your station.’ He eyed them dully. ‘I will send for some food.’

  He was obviously disinterested in matters relating to any ship, friend or foe, now that he had attended to his prisoners.

  Two armed soldiers escorted them to a nearby tent, and a short time later the same orderly brought a basket of bread and fruit and a large earthenware jug of coarse wine.

  Pascoe said bitterly, ‘Then it’s over, Allday. We’ll not see England for a long while.’ He looked away. ‘If ever.’

  Allday stood by the tent flap, careful not to show himself to the sentry outside.

  He replied, ‘Nothing’s over yet.’ He added grimly, ‘Be thankful for one thing. That gibbering seaman who spoke with the Don was one of Cap’n Javal’s men. They all were in our party.’

  Pascoe looked up at him. ‘What difference does it make?’

  Allday walked from the flap and poured a mug of wine.

  ‘Any Lysander would have known you to be the commodore’s nephew.’ He saw the shot go home. ‘Think what the Don would have made of that, eh? They’d have used you as something to bargain with maybe.’

  Pascoe stared at him. ‘I am sorry. I did not think.’

  ‘Not that our Dick’d –’ He broke off and grinned. ‘Beg pardon, I was forgetting my place.’

  ‘Go on. Please.’

  Allday shrugged. ‘I’ve sailed with your uncle for a long time.’ His voice was far away. ‘We’ve seen and done a lot together. I’ve watched him ache for the brave lads who’ve fallen at his bidding. Seen him walk about a deck as if in a dream, while the planks have spouted splinters from sharpshooters trying to mark him down.’ He shook himself, ashamed at betraying a deeply guarded confidence. ‘He would not risk his people even for you.’

  Pascoe scrambled to his feet and crossed to his side. ‘For us, you mean.’

  Allday smiled. ‘Ah well, it’s good of you to put it like that. But cox’ns are easier to get than blood relations!’

  Pascoe sighed. ‘I wish I could do something for him.’

  A shouted challenge made Allday peer through the flap again.

  ‘There’s a rider dashing into the camp as if the goblins of Exmoor were at his tail!’

  Pascoe said, ‘Let me look.’

  Together they watched San Martin as he stood outside his tent, his dark head lowered as he squinted at a mounted trooper who was gasping for breath and shouting his message from the track below the tents.

  Allday muttered, ‘Something’s afoot.’

  Pascoe gripped his arm. ‘I understand a little Spanish.’

  Something in his tone made Allday forget the scene by the tents.

  Pascoe added quietly, ‘A fisherman has sighted a ship, a big ship.’

  They stared at each other for several seconds.

  Then Allday said thickly, ‘If it’s one ship on her own, we know which one she’ll be, don’t we, Mr. Pascoe?’

  They turned back to the sunlight as San Martin yelled a stream of orders which were terminated by the urgent blare of a trumpet.

  Allday thought of the headland battery, the one bitter turn of luck which had let a Spanish fisherman send a warning.

  ‘You just said you wished you could do something?’ He saw Pascoe nod with slow understanding. ‘So be it then. For if Lysander, or any other
King’s ship pokes her beakhead into the bay now, it’ll be the last damn thing she does on this earth’ an’ that’s no error!’

  San Martin’s voice was suddenly very close, and Pascoe said quickly, ‘We’ll have some wine.’ He thrust a full mug into Allday’s fist. ‘Say something!’

  Allday gulped on the wine and nearly choked. ‘I can remember as if it was yesterday, when I was in the old Hyperion and–’

  San Martin threw open the tent flap and strode into the shade.

  ‘Good.’ He looked at the wine and the bread. ‘Good.’

  Pascoe asked, ‘The trumpet, sir. Does it mean danger?’

  San Martin studied him searchingly. ‘Of no importance. To you.’ He moved round the tent like a trapped animal. ‘I was going to have you put aboard a ship today. But I will have to wait until tomorrow. I am sending you to Toulon. The French admiral has more time than I to deal with such matters.’

  Allday said gravely, ‘It is war, sir.’

  San Martin regarded him for a long moment. ‘Riding a fine mount into battle is war. Commanding this miserable rabble is not.’

  He paused by the entrance. ‘I will probably not see you again.’

  They waited until his footsteps had receded and then Allday said, ‘Thank God for that!’

  Pascoe ran his fingers through his hair, combing out grit and sand.

  ‘He is keeping the ships here until tomorrow.’ He was thinking aloud. ‘So our ship must be very near.’

  Allday watched the side of the tent as it pressed inwards with the hot wind.

  ‘If the wind holds as it stands now, Mr. Pascoe, Lysander will be standing inshore right enough.’

  ‘You’re sure it will be Lysander?’ The youth watched him gravely.

  ‘And aren’t you?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then it will be tonight or first light, I reckon.’ Allday swallowed another mouthful of wine. ‘So we’d best put our heads together and think of some way to warn her off.’

  He remembered what Pascoe had said earlier. We’ll not see England again for a long while. If ever. Whatever they could do to warn the ship, and whatever the result of their sacrifice might be, one thing was certain. They would both pay for it dearly.