Beyond the Reef

by Alexander Kent

  Nancy came up beside her and put her arm around her waist. Afterwards Catherine thought it could have been the act of a sister.

  ‘So they will all be together again?’

  Catherine said, ‘I knew in my heart it would happen. We both believe in fate. How else could we have lost each other and then come together again? It was fate.’ She turned her head and smiled at her. ‘You must be glad that your man has his feet on dry land.’

  Nancy looked at her very directly. Her eyes, Catherine thought, were the colour of lavender, opened to the sun, and they did not blink as she said quietly, ‘I once thought to become a sailor’s wife.’ Then she threw her arms around her. ‘I am so selfish –’

  ‘That you are not.’ She followed her into the adjoining room and picked up the old cloak she sometimes wore when riding; Richard had once taken it to sea with him, in that other world.

  Ferguson, muffled against the weather, was talking with the grooms and helped Nancy into the carriage, noting the tears and the brightness of her eyes as he did so.

  As the horses thudded across the packed snow Catherine said, ‘Do you wish to see me?’

  Ferguson followed her through the doors. ‘I wondered if there was anything I could do, my lady?’

  ‘Take a glass of something with me.’ He looked uneasily at his filthy boots but she waved him down. ‘Be seated. I need to talk.’

  He watched her as she took two glasses from a cabinet, her hair shining like glass in the firelight. He still could not picture her in a boat with only some ragged survivors for company.

  He stiffened as she said over her shoulder, ‘You heard about young Miles Vincent, I daresay.’

  Did she know of his visit to Roxby? Was that what the squire’s wife had been here about?

  ‘Yes, I did hear something. I didn’t want to trouble you.’ He took the glass gratefully. ‘He was put aboard the Ipswich, according to one of the coastguards. She was off to the Caribbean soon afterwards, it seems. But never fear, m’lady, I am sure her captain will deal fairly with the matter.’ He hoped it sounded convincing.

  Catherine barely heard him. ‘The West Indies, you say? It seems everyone is going there, except us. I heard from Captain Adam, you see – he is probably out there off the Lizard at this very moment.’

  For the first time Ferguson realised he was drinking brandy. He tried to smile. ‘Well, here’s to Sir Richard, m’lady, and all our brave fellows!’

  She let the cognac run across her tongue like fire.

  The French are out. How many times had they heard that? She looked up the staircase where the candlelight flickered on the stern faces of those who had gone from here before, to meet that same challenge. The French are out.

  ‘Oh, dear God, that I was with him now!’

  It was, as Ferguson later said to his wife, a cry torn from her heart.

  ‘Land ho!’

  Captain Adam Bolitho pressed his hands on the chart and stared at the neat calculations that marked their progress. Beyond the tiny chart-room he knew there would be excitement as the call came from the masthead. Beside him Josiah Partridge, Anemone’s bluff sailing-master, watched his young captain’s face, noting the pride he obviously felt for his command and at the fast passage they had almost completed. In mid-Atlantic they had met with fierce winds, but the frigate seemed to have a charmed life, and once into the sun they had lost no time in sending down the heavy-duty canvas and replacing it with the lighter sails that seemed to make Anemone fly.

  Adam said, ‘You’ve done well, Mr Partridge! I never thought we’d do it. Four thousand miles in seventeen days – what say you about that?’

  Old Partridge, as he was called behind his back, beamed at him. Adam Bolitho could be very demanding, perhaps because of his illustrious uncle, but he never spared himself like some. Day and night he had been on deck, more often than not with both watches turned-to while the wind had screamed around them, matched only by the insane chorus of straining rigging and banging canvas.

  Then into the friendly north-east trade winds, with the final run across the Western Atlantic where the sunshine had greeted them like heroes. It had been wild and often dangerous, but Anemone’s company had come to trust their youthful captain. Only a fool would try to deceive him.

  Adam tapped his brass dividers on a small group of islands to the south of Anguilla. French, Spanish and Dutch, often visited by ships sailing alone, but rarely fought over. Those nations, like the English, had far more important islands to protect in order to keep their sea-lanes open, their trade prospering.

  ‘What about this one, Mr Partridge? It is as close to the passage we must take as makes no difference.’

  The sailing-master bent over the table, his purple nose barely inches away; Adam could smell the rum but would overlook it. Partridge was the best sailing-master he had ever known. He had served in the navy in two wars, and in between had made his way around the world in everything from a collier brig to a convict ship. If there was to be foul weather he would inevitably inform his captain even before the glass gave any hint of change. Uncharted shallows, reefs which were larger than previous navigators had estimated, it was all part of his sailor’s lore. He rarely hesitated, and he did not disappoint Adam now.

  ‘That ’un, zur? That be Bird Island. It’s got some fancy dago name, but to me it’s always been Bird Island.’ His round Devonian accent sounded homely here, and reminded Adam of Yovell.

  ‘Lay off a course. I shall inform the first lieutenant. Lord Sutcliffe will not be expecting us anyway, and I doubt if his lordship would think we could make such a speedy passage even if he were!’

  Partridge watched him leave and sighed. What it was to be young. And Captain Bolitho certainly looked that, his black hair all anyhow, a none-too-clean shirt open to the waist – more like someone playing the part of a pirate than a skilled frigate captain.

  On the quarterdeck, Adam paused to stare up at the great pyramid of sails, so fresh and bright after the dull skies and patched canvas of the Western Ocean.

  Many of the men on deck probably thought they were carrying secret despatches of the greatest importance to the Commander-in-Chief, that he should drive his ship so hard. At one time the great mainyard had been bending like a bow under the wind’s powerful thrust, so that even Old Partridge had expected to lose a spar if not the entire mast.

  In the whole ship, nobody knew the devil that drove him. Whenever he had snatched time to sleep or bolt down some food, the torment had returned. It was never far away, even now. In his sleep it was worse. Her naked body writhing and slipping from his grip, her eyes angry and accusing as she had pulled away. The dreams left him gasping in his wildly swinging cot, and once, the marine sentry at the screen door had burst in to his assistance.

  He strode up the tilting deck and stared across the glistening water, like ten million mirrors, he thought. The gulls were already quitting their islands to investigate the frigate.

  Perhaps it was because he had known, really known that somehow his uncle would survive; not only that, but would save anyone who had depended on him. Maybe she believed that he had been as disappointed to learn that her husband lived, as he was overjoyed to hear the news of his uncle’s safety.

  And knowing all these things he had taken her, had loved her and compelled her to love him until they had both been exhausted. Now she might see that act as a betrayal, his plea of love nothing but a cruel lie to seize the advantage when she was most vulnerable.

  He clenched his fingers into a tight fist. I do love you, Zenoria. I never wanted to dishonour you by forcing myself upon you …

  He turned sharply as Peter Sargeant, his first lieutenant, who had ridden all the way from Plymouth to the church in Falmouth to bring him the news of the rescue, came up to join him.

  ‘Bird Island, sir?’

  A close-run thing. He could feel the shirt clinging to his skin, and not merely because of the sun.

  ‘Yes. A whim perhaps. But vessels call there fo
r water sometimes … Lord Sutcliffe can wait a while longer, and we might get him some news.’ He smiled. ‘And there is always the possibility of a prize or two.’ He glanced up at the streaming masthead pendant. ‘We will alter course directly, and steer south-west-by-west. We should be up to the islands before noon with this wind under our coat-tails!’

  They grinned at each other. Young men, with the world and the ocean theirs for the asking.

  ‘Deck there!’ They stared up at the bright, washed-out sky. ‘Sail on th’ starboard bow!’

  Several telescopes were seized and trained, and then Lieutenant Sargeant said, ‘Big schooner, sir.’

  Adam levelled his telescope and waited for Anemone to lift her beakhead over a long glassy roller.

  ‘A Guinea-man, I’ll wager.’ He snapped the glass shut, his mind already busy with compass and distance. ‘Full of slaves too, maybe. This new slavery act will come in useful!’

  Sargeant cupped his hands. ‘Both watches, Mr Bond! Stand by on the quarterdeck!’

  The sailing-master watched the far-off sliver of sail, clearly etched now against an overlapping backdrop of small islands.

  ‘We’ll lose that ’un, zur, if us lets ’em slip amongst they dunghills!’

  Adam showed his teeth. ‘I admire your turn of phrase, Mr Partridge. And no, we shall not lose him.’ He turned aside. ‘Get the royals on her! Then send the gunner aft to me!’

  Even though the other vessel had also made more sail, and had changed tack slightly away from her pursuer, she was no match for Anemone. Within an hour she could be clearly seen by everyone on deck who had the time to look. In two hours she was within range of Anemone’s bow-chasers. The gunner laid one of them himself, one hard thumb raised and moved this way or that to direct the crew to use their handspikes and adjust the long nine-pounder until he was satisfied.

  Adam called, ‘As you will, Mr Ayres! Close as you dare!’

  Several of the seamen who were near enough to hear grinned at one another. Adam saw the exchanges and was moved. They had become a better ship’s company than he had dared to hope for. Few were volunteers, and many had been transferred from other ships when Anemone had first commissioned without even being allowed to go ashore and visit their homes. And yet, over the months, they had become a self-dependent unit of the fleet. A new ship and her first captain, just as Anemone was Adam’s first frigate. He had always dreamed and hoped for this, to follow in the footsteps of his uncle. He asked a lot of himself, and expected the support of his officers and men. Somehow, the magic had worked.

  Just before they had left Spithead to beat down-Channel in a rising gale, they had discovered twelve seamen from a merchant vessel pulling ashore, probably without permission, for a night in the taverns. Adam had sent his third lieutenant and a party ashore and pressed those unfortunate revellers before they had realised what had happened. It had not been strictly legal but, he argued, they should have remained on board until officially paid-off by their captain. Twelve trained hands were a real find, instead of the usual dockside scum and jailbait most captains had to train and contend with. He could see one of them now, not only reconciled to his situation but actually showing a young landman how to use a marlin spike on some cordage. It was the way of sailors.

  A bow-chaser roared out, the pale smoke fanning away through the staysail and jib.

  There were several shouts of approval as the ball slammed down hard alongside the other vessel, flinging a tall waterspout high over the deck.

  Adam took a speaking-trumpet, ‘Close, I said, Mr Ayres! I think you must have parted his hair!’

  ‘He’s heaving-to, sir!’

  ‘Very well. Run down on him and send a party across. And no nonsense.’

  Old Partridge lowered a glass and remarked, ‘Looks like a slaver, zur.’ He sounded doubtful.

  ‘Spit it out, man. I’m no mind-reader.’

  ‘Too many ships-o’-war hereabouts, zur. Most Guinea-men give these parts a wide berth. From my experience they runs further to the west’rd to that damned hole Haiti or down to the Main where the Dons always find use for more slaves.’ He was quite unperturbed by his young captain’s manner; he knew many would have considered it beneath their dignity even to consult a lowly warrant officer.

  Adam watched the other vessel floundering about in a crosswind, her sails in disarray.

  ‘That makes good sense, Mr Partridge. Well said.’

  Partridge rubbed his chin to conceal a grin. Despite all his fire and impatience you could not help but like Captain Adam Bolitho.

  ‘Ready, sir!’

  ‘Go yourself, Mr Sargeant.’ He gave him a searching look. ‘No risks.’

  Moments later the cutter pulled away from the frigate’s swaying shadow, the boarding-party crowded amongst the oarsmen and a swivel-gun mounted above the stem.

  Adam watched Anemone’s sails filling and banging as she was caught in a powerful undertow from the island.

  He glanced at the masthead pendant. ‘Back the main tops’l, Mr Martin!’

  The second lieutenant dragged his eyes from the cutter as it bounced and pitched over the blue water towards the schooner.

  To the sailing-master Adam said, ‘Plenty of sea-room, eh?’

  ‘Aye, plenty, zur. An’ no bottom neither.’ He pointed vaguely at the land. ‘Shallows there though.’

  Adam took a glass and relaxed slightly. It was always a risk so close to land. Too much depth to anchor, not enough time to weigh if things went wrong. He trained it on the schooner. A few figures on deck but little sign of excitement. If she was a slaver, her master obviously had nothing to hide. But there might be evidence of his trade, or at least enough to question him. They had stopped and searched so many vessels, and had rarely come away empty-handed. Intelligence, the casual mention of some enemy shipping movements. He smiled. Best of all, they might take the ship herself as a prize. He knew he had been lucky; so did his men.

  During the last overhaul Adam had arranged to have all the ship’s stern carvings and beakhead, the ‘gingerbread’ as it was nicknamed, painted with real gilt, and not merely dockyard yellow paint: a mark of success for a captain who was skilful enough to gain himself and his company the allotted share of prize-money.

  Someone said, ‘Almost there!’ Lieutenant Sargeant could be seen standing in the sternsheets, a speaking-trumpet to his mouth as he shouted to the men on the schooner’s deck. A good officer who had become a friend, or as close to one as Adam could ever accept.

  He glanced along the deck. Anemone was a ship any young officer would kill for. Twenty-eight eighteen-pounders and ten nine-pounders, two of which were chasers. He turned away, and saw Partridge watching him from beside the compass box.

  ‘What is it, zur?’

  Adam plucked at his shirt, suddenly cold in spite of the glaring heat. Like fever.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  Partridge rubbed his chin. He had never heard the captain reveal such uncertainty before. Right or wrong, he was always ready with an answer.

  The second lieutenant called, ‘The cutter’s turning to go alongside, sir!’

  Adam said sharply, ‘Recall the boat, Mr Martin! Now!’ To the startled Partridge he added, ‘Prepare to get under way!’

  The sailing-master stared at him. ‘But – but we can rake that bugger, zur!’

  Men were already dropping from the shrouds and gangways from where they had been enjoying the spectacle across the water.

  The cutter had seen the recall signal, and Lieutenant Sargeant probably felt much the same as Old Partridge. Too much sun.

  ‘He’s standing away, sir!’

  There were some ironic cheers from the gundeck, to cover a sense of disappointment. The cutter was almost bows-on now, the oars moving quickly. Sargeant probably thought the lookouts had sighted another vessel further out to sea, which appeared more promising.

  ‘Deck there! Smoke on th’ ’eadland!’

  Adam hurried to the opposite side and trained h
is glass on the misty green slope.

  He heard a man say, ‘A camp o’ some kind, I reckon.’

  Adam shouted, ‘Hands aloft, Mr Martin! Loose tops’ls! Pipe the hands to the braces!’

  Partridge glanced at the shore as the topmen dashed to the shrouds and scampered up the ratlines. To his helmsmen he growled, ‘Be ready, my lads! We’ll be all aback else!’ He had been at sea a long time, and was the oldest man in the ship. He knew that what some simpleton had mistaken for a camp fire was the smoke of an oven, an oven which had just been flung open when the cutter had begun to come about and return to Anemone.

  ‘Break out the main-course!’

  There were cries of alarm and surprise as a gun banged out, and seconds later a ball slapped through the foretopsail even as it was released to the wind. Adam tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry. Where the ball had punched its hole through the sail was a blackened circle, the mark of heated shot. If it ploughed into the hull the whole ship could become a pyre in minutes. With tarred rigging, sun-dried canvas and a hull filled with powder, paint, spirits and cordage, fire was the dread of every sailor, more than any storm. The worst enemy.

  Discipline reasserted itself as men charged to the gangways with water buckets and even sponges from the guns.

  Another shot, and the ball skimmed across the sea’s face like something alive.

  Adam shouted, ‘Bring her about! Weather the headland if need be, but I’ll not lose Peter Sargeant!’

  Under command again, her forecourse and topsails filling to the hot wind, Anemone showed her copper as she heeled over in the bright sunshine.

  The men in the cutter seemed to realise what their captain was doing, and when the boat crashed and ground against the frigate’s side, they flung themselves on to the lines and rope ladders the boatswain had made ready for them. One man slipped and fell, and by the time his head broke surface Anemone had already left him astern.

  Adam grasped the nettings until the tarred ropework cut his skin.

  I nearly lost her. It kept repeating itself in his aching mind. I nearly lost her.