Bezant had grinned. ‘He’s a good seaman. But even he’s only been in the Plover for six months!’
Perhaps by the time the sturdy barquentine had reached Good Hope Bezant would have led or bullied his mixed collection of sailors into one team, as much a part of the vessel he so obviously loved as the canvas and cordage that drove her.
Bolitho saw a splash as some unknown fish fell back into the sea again, probably trying to escape from hidden predators.
Since leaving Gibraltar there had certainly been a run of misfortunes. A topman had fallen from aloft during a heavy squall and his body had smashed onto the lee bulwark, killing him instantly. He had been buried at sea the following day. Bolitho had never known the man, but as a sailor himself he had felt the same sense of loss as Bezant had rumbled slowly through his well-thumbed prayer book. We commit his body to the deep …
There had only been one sighting of the strange ship’s topmasts, the day after they had weighed anchor in the Rock’s shadow. After that they had seen nothing; and only on rare occasions, usually just after dawn, had they seen the hint of land. A group of islands, like low clouds on the horizon, and another time a solitary islet like a broken tooth, which Bezant had described as an evil place where no man could survive and would in any case go mad with loneliness. Pirates had been known to maroon their prisoners there. Bezant had remarked, ‘It would have been kinder to cut their throats!’
And all the while there remained the great presence of the African coastline. Invisible out of necessity; and yet each one of them was very aware of it.
Catherine glanced across the girl’s reddened shoulder and saw his expression. Separate incidents stood out clearly as she gently massaged the ointment into Sophie’s skin, and she wondered if he were sharing them.
The seaman who had fallen from an upper yard during the squall. And that other time when they had been sitting here, everyone unwilling to make the first move to turn in for the night, to be tormented again by the fierce, humid air between decks.
It had been very quiet and quite late, during the middle watch, Jenour had recalled.
They had all heard the sound of dragging feet on the poop overhead and then, it seemed an age later, the frantic cry of ‘man overboard!’ The master’s door had banged open and Bezant had been heard bawling out orders. Back the foretops’l! Stand by to come about! Man the quarter-boat! Catherine had accompanied Bolitho on deck, astonished by the eerie quality which a full moon had given to the taut canvas and quivering shrouds. The sea, too, had been like molten silver, unending and unreal.
Needless to say, the boat had returned empty-handed. The crew had been more frightened of losing their ship in that strange, glacial glow than of leaving someone to drown alone.
The mate, Lincoln, had been on watch. He explained to the master that he had been told one of the military prisoners was having some kind of fit, to the despair and anxiety of his companions.
Lincoln had described the scene, how out of pity for the prisoner and the need to quieten the others he had had the man brought on deck, thinking it would calm him. What had happened next was not clear. Without even a cry, the prisoner had broken from his escort and hurled himself over the bulwark. He had still been wearing manacles on his wrists, although this had not been reported until after the quarter-boat had been sent on its fruitless search.
Catherine watched Bolitho’s hand resting on his thigh. The hand that knew her so intimately, that could tease her to the height of passion until neither could wait.
Then there had been the incident of the flogging, a rare occurrence, she had guessed, aboard the Golden Plover. A seaman had been found drunk on watch, and had set about Britton, the boatswain, who had discovered him sprawled in the forecastle when he should have been at his station.
She had seen Keen’s face, like a mask as the sound of the lash had penetrated this sealed cabin. Imagining Zenoria as she must have been, enduring the bestiality of the transport’s captain and the excitement of many of the prisoners who had swarmed to watch her punishment, the whip laid across her naked back.
She said, ‘There you are, my girl.’ She smiled as Sophie modestly refastened her clothing. ‘Now be off with you and help Ozzard prepare some food.’
Alone with Bolitho Catherine said, ‘I love to watch you.’
‘Are you bored, Kate?’
‘Being with you? Never.’
Bolitho pointed abeam. ‘In a few days, if the wind is kind, we shall pass the Cape Verde Islands to starboard, and the coast of Senegal over yonder.’ He smiled. ‘I doubt if we shall see either!’
‘You have memories of these parts, Richard?’
He looked at the blue water astern. ‘A few. I was a midshipman at the time in the Gorgon, an old seventy-four like Hyperion.’
‘What age were you?’
She saw the sudden pain in his grey eyes. ‘Oh, about sixteen, I think.’
‘You were with your friend then?’
He faced her. ‘Aye. Martyn Dancer.’ He tried to shake it off. ‘We were chasing slavers even then. I expect that damnable fortress is still there to this day. Different flag, but the same foul trade.’
The door opened slightly and Ozzard peered in at them. He saw Catherine and was about to withdraw when Bolitho asked, ‘What is it? Please speak freely.’
Ozzard tiptoed into the cabin and carefully shut the screen door behind him.
Catherine placed her hands on the sill of the stern window and stared out at the empty ocean. ‘I shall not listen, Ozzard.’
Ozzard looked at her body, framed against the sparkling water. Her long dark hair was piled on her head, held in place by a large Spanish comb, ‘brailed up’ as Allday had called it. He watched her partly-bared shoulder, the fine arch of her neck. It was like being bewitched. Constantly reminded and tortured by that other hideous memory.
He said abruptly, ‘I’ve been in the after hold, Sir Richard. I was getting some of that hock her ladyship brought from London. It stays cool there.’
Bolitho said, ‘We shall look forward to it.’ He felt the little man’s desperation: it was something almost visible. ‘And what happened?’
‘I heard voices. I found a vent and listened. It was those prisoners. One said, “With that gutless fool out of the way, we can stand together, eh, lads?”’ He was reliving his discovery, his face screwed up as if afraid of missing something. ‘Then the other man said, “You’ll not be sorry. I’ll see to that!”’
Catherine did not turn from the ocean but asked gently, ‘Who was it? You know, don’t you?’
Ozzard nodded wretchedly. ‘It was the mate, Mr Lincoln, Sir Richard.’
‘Go and find Captain Keen, if you please.’ He held out one hand. ‘Walk, Ozzard. We do not want to rouse suspicion, eh?’
As the door closed she moved across the deck and sat by him. ‘Did you know, Richard?’
‘No. But I did notice that all the incidents happened during either Lincoln’s watch or Tasker’s.’ He was the new mate who had come aboard at Gibraltar.
She felt his hands tighten around her body, pressing the damp skin beneath her gown. She said, ‘Have no fear for me, Richard. We have been in peril before.’
Bolitho looked over her shoulder, his mind racing from one possibility to the next. Whichever way you considered it, at best it was mutiny, at worst piracy. Neither crime would permit the survival of witnesses. And there was Catherine.
She said very calmly, ‘It is because of me that you are here and not in some King’s ship with all the power to do your bidding. Tell me what to expect, but never think of defeat for my sake. I am by your side.’ She held the flashing ring to the sunlight. ‘Remember what this means? Then so be it.’
When Keen entered he saw nothing untoward until Bolitho said, ‘We must talk, Val. I believe there will be an attempt to seize this vessel and then make a rendezvous with our “shadow”, which I am convinced is still somewhere close by.’
Keen glanced at Catherine, trying
to put her possible fate out of his mind.
‘I am ready, sir.’ Whatever lay ahead he was surprised to discover that he was unmoved by it.
The following day passed without incident until late in the afternoon. Another hard, cloudless sky, with the sea and the vivid horizon too bright to look at. Bolitho stood with Keen abaft the wheel and watched the slow-moving activity of the watch on deck.
Bezant had taken sun-sights with his sextant and now seemed satisfied with his vessel’s progress. The warm north-westerly wind filled every sail, and was strong enough to throw white pellets of spray high over the bowsprit.
‘Will you tell him, sir?’
Bolitho glanced toward Catherine and her maid sitting on a makeshift seat beneath a canvas canopy. Sophie knew nothing of their suspicions, and it was better so. And what of Bezant? He had seemed genuinely surprised to discover the status of his passengers when Jenour had gone ahead to inform him at Falmouth. Usually he carried minor officials, garrison officers and sometimes their wives. The vice-admiral and his lady could hardly be classed as ordinary.
‘Tell him?’ He watched the fish leaping astern. ‘When you tell your best friend a secret, Val, it is no longer a secret. And Bezant, capable though he must be, is no friend.’
Keen said evenly, ‘Ozzard might have made a mistake. Or perhaps the mate was genuinely trying to calm the prisoners after what had happened.’
Bolitho smiled and saw Catherine look away. ‘But you do not think so, eh?’
Keen tried not to stare as a seaman paused near them. Every move seemed suspicious. Who was friend or possible enemy?
Bolitho saw Jenour appear from the companionway, his sketching book in his hand.
He crossed the slanting deck and joined them.
‘What did you discover, Stephen?’
Jenour shaded his eyes as if to search for some new subject for his collection.
‘This vessel was originally pierced for some four-pounders. There is a gunport directly beneath the mizzen chains. Allday found it. He says he can force it open if need be. It’s only sealed with tar.’
Keen frowned. ‘I do not see the point.’
Bolitho turned aside. They should separate soon. They must not appear to be forewarned conspirators.
‘There is a swivel-gun mounted on the starboard bulwark, Val. It is always loaded. Not uncommon in small merchantmen sailing alone. It could be trained inboard as well as out.’
Jenour made a few scratches in his book. ‘Allday says it would need someone thinner than himself to get through.’ He gave an uncertain smile. ‘It seems I am exactly the right size!’
More pictures flashed through Bolitho’s mind. In his frigate Phalarope, where there had once been a mutiny, he could recall a small midshipman named John Neale; Bolitho and some others had covered his naked body with grease to force him through a vent to raise the alarm. John Neale’s face changed in the next picture. A young frigate captain, as Adam was now, but dying of his wounds when he and Bolitho had been taken prisoner in France. We Happy Few. It seemed to strike back and mock him.
Bolitho said abruptly, ‘It may prove to be smoke without fire this time. By tomorrow …’ With the others he peered up as the masthead lookout yelled, ‘Deck there! Sail to th’ north!’
Bezant strode over to join them. ‘That damned rascal is back with us again!’
‘What are your usual duties, Captain?’
He saw Bezant’s mind grappling with this new complication. ‘Duties, Sir Richard?’ He rubbed his chin noisily. ‘Gibraltar, then sometimes to Malta with stores and despatches for the fleet there. In better times we used to enter the Baltic, get work from Swedish ports – anything that paid.’
‘Could it be that this strange ship waited off Gibraltar to make certain you were not continuing to Malta?’
Bezant stared at him without comprehension. ‘For what purpose? I can outsail that bugger once we’re clear of Cape Blanco. There’s the reef, y’see.’
Bolitho nodded, his eyes slitted against the glare, the injured one already sore and pricking, ‘Yes, Captain, the reef. It runs a hundred miles out from Cape Blanco and has torn the guts out of many a fine ship.’
Bezant answered stiffly, ‘I am well aware of it, Sir Richard. I intend to change tack and run for the shore once we have weathered the reef.’
Bolitho glanced past him at Keen’s intent features. As Bezant stamped resentfully away to examine his chart, he said gently, ‘I can tell him nothing.’ He heard Catherine laugh, the sound churning through him like pain. ‘We must take no chances, Val. There would be none of us left to tell the tale.’ He gazed at Catherine so that their eyes seemed to lock across the sun-bleached planking. ‘My guess is that Lincoln, and that new mate we took aboard at the Rock – what is his name?’
Keen smiled despite the tension. The admiral asking his flag-captain for information again.
‘Tasker, sir.’
‘Well, I believe he was already known by Mister Lincoln.’
Keen ran his fingers through his fair hair. ‘They have probably never carried so much coin and gold before, and they may never be ordered to do so again.’ He made up his mind. ‘It will be tomorrow then. For if Lincoln intends to turn thief and worse, he will need the support of that damned brig to wind’rd of us.’
Jenour wandered away with his book. Like the rest of them, he was unarmed, in his shirt and breeches alone. Any sign of a weapon would cause instant bloodshed.
‘Perhaps the people will remain loyal to their master?’
Bolitho clapped his arm so that several faces turned to watched their outwardly casual exchange.
‘With the promise of a share of the spoils, Val? Greed is the master here!’
As the sun began to dip over the western horizon the wind became stronger, and reefs were set in the forecourse and topsail. The sea’s face broke into long advancing ranks of white horses but as the sun continued to go down, they, too, were painted like molten metal, like the cargo Golden Plover carried in her hold.
In the cabin they tried to do everything as usual. Any sign that something was wrong would be like a spark in a gunner’s store.
In a dark corner Catherine was pushing some things into two bags, watched with alarm by Sophie.
Catherine had told her quietly, ‘There may be trouble, Sophie, but you will be safe. So stay with me until it is over.’
Keen sat at the table playing cards with Yovell. It could not be an easy game. But anyone on watch could see them through the cabin skylight.
Bolitho found Allday breathing heavily in the spare cabin, which was being used for sea-chests and unwanted belongings.
‘Here, Sir Richard!’ He hauled on a line and Bolitho felt the salt air sweep into the musty space as the disused gunport opened a few inches. He could see moonlight on the tumbling water, hear the creak and clatter of rigging, an occasional call from the helmsman.
A ship already doomed. Bolitho felt a surge of sudden anger. Keen was right. It was tomorrow or not at all. Even Bezant would quickly recognise any further attempts to slow the Golden Plover’s progress, and after that it would be too late.
Allday’s breathing sounded very loud and unsteady. He said, ‘Old Tojohns is castin’ a weather eye on the companion ladder, Sir Richard.’ He signed and added wistfully, ‘I wonder what Jonas Polin’s little widow is called? In the heat of things I clean forgot to ask.’ He shook his head, ‘I am gettin’ old, an’ that’s no error!’
Bolitho reached out in the darkness and seized his massive arm. He could find no words, but each understood the other.
There had been no unusual sound, and he never knew what had roused him to a state of instant readiness. One second he had been dozing in a chair beside Catherine’s swinging cot and the next he was wide awake, his ears groping for some clue to the reason.
He moved softly to the door and stared aft through the open screen. The first light of dawn was showing through the stern windows, the blurred horizon like an unending
silk thread.
He saw Keen, who had been keeping watch with Tojohns, on his feet; and although his features were lost in shadow Bolitho could sense the presence of danger like some evil spirit right here amongst them.
A pale shape moved from a corner and almost collided with him. He seized her quickly, one hand across her mouth as he said in a sharp whisper, ‘Rouse your mistress, Sophie, but not a word!’
Keen took a few paces towards him, keeping well clear of the skylight’s pale rectangle. ‘What is it, sir?’
‘Not sure.’ It was hot and clammy in the cabin but the shirt against his spine felt as if it had been drawn across ice.
It was as if the ship had already been abandoned. At some time during the night watches that same evil presence had removed every other living soul, so that the vessel was sailing on with only a phantom to guide her.
The loose flap of canvas and the occasional crack of halliards certainly gave the impression that little heed was being paid to the trim and handling of Golden Plover’s progress.
Bolitho felt her come into the cabin, her perfume touching his face as she brushed against him.
She was fully dressed and had replaced the Spanish comb in her hair. He could see it glinting slightly as the light strengthened through the skylight overhead.
Bolitho took her arm as the deck rolled sluggishly in the swell. He had faced the risk of death and the dread of a surgeon’s knife too often not to recognise the lurking fear that attended it. Two men-of-war approaching one another on a converging tack, the sea otherwise empty. Or other vessels scattered in disarray like yeomen on the field of battle, who pause in the bloody business of war to watch their lords and masters kill each other in single combat.
The waiting: always the waiting. That was the worst part. Like now. The madness would follow, if only to keep that same mortal fear at bay.
He heard Allday’s breathing outside the screen door, where he and Keen’s coxswain Tojohns would be watching the companion ladder, waiting perhaps for the stab of a pistol shot, or the stealthy approach of men with blades.
When it came it was both startling and terrible. It was unreal, out of place in this morning watch off the coast of Africa.
Beyond the Reef Page 13
