“Deck there!” Another maddening wait and then Raven yelled down, “It’s her right enough! The Bonaventure!”
Something like a growl came from the watching seamen.
One man shouted, “The bloody Bonaventure, is it? Us’ll give that bugger a quiltin’ today an’ that’s for sure!”
Several others cheered, and even Bethune called excitedly, “Huzza, lads!”
Bolitho turned to look at them again, his heart suddenly heavy, the promise of the morning sour and spoiled.
“Get the t’gallants on her, Mr. Tyrrell. The royals, too, if the wind stays friendly.”
He saw Tyrrell’s eyes, worried, even sad, and snapped, “We have orders. To carry despatches to our admiral.” He gestured angrily towards the taffrail. “Do you want to match guns with her?” He turned away, adding vehemently, “By God, I’d like nothing better than to see her strike!”
Tyrrell took his trumpet and shouted, “Call th’ hands! All hands make sail!”
He glanced quickly at Bolitho who was staring astern. The privateer was not visible from anywhere but the masthead. Nor would she be now. But Bolitho was staring fixedly, as if he could see every gun, each gaping muzzle, like the day she had swept Miranda’s defences aside like so much rubbish.
Graves moved to his side, his eyes on the seamen as they hurried to their various stations, some still puzzled by their orders.
Tyrrell said quietly, “It ain’t easy to run before an enemy.”
Graves shrugged. “How about you? I’d have thought you should be somewhat comforted by the fact.” He fell back before Tyrrell’s cold stare but added smoothly, “It would have been less easy for you to fight a Yankee, eh?” Then he hurried down the ladder towards his men at the foremast.
Tyrrell followed him with his eyes. “Bastard.” He spoke only to himself and was surprised to find he was so calm. “Bastard.”
When he turned his head he saw Bolitho had left the deck.
Buckle dipped his thumb to the skylight. “He’s not laughing now, Mr. Tyrrell.” He sounded grim. “I’d not have his rank for all the whores in Plymouth!”
Tyrrell tapped the half-hour glass and said nothing.
How different from Captain Ransome, he thought. He would have shared neither hopes nor fears with any of them. And these same seamen who were already swarming up the ratlines on either beam would have shown no surprise if he made a similar decision as Bolitho. It was because they seemed to think Bolitho could lead them anywhere, and with all odds against them, that they were puzzled by his action. The sudden realisation troubled him. Partly because Bolitho did not understand, but mainly because he should have been the one to make Bolitho realise how they all felt for him.
Ransome had always used and never led them. Instead of example he had laid down rules. Whereas he . . . Tyrrell glanced at the cabin skylight now shut, and imagined he could hear a girl’s voice again.
Graves strode aft and touched his hat, his tone formal in front of the watching eyes.
“Permission to dismiss the watch below, sir?”
“Aye. Carry on, Mr. Graves.” They held each other’s gaze then Tyrrell turned his back.
He walked to the rail and stared up at the freshly trimmed sails, the seamen on the upper yards, their skins brown in the sunlight.
The privateer would never catch them now, even if she so intended. It would be another ship, a fat merchantman, or some unsuspecting trader from the Bahamas.
He saw the captain’s coxswain beside the nettings and asked, “How is he, Stockdale?”
Stockdale regarded him warily, like a watchdog examining a possible intruder.
Then he relaxed slightly, his big hands loose at his sides. “’E’s in irons at th’ moment, sir.” He stared angrily at the blue water. “But we’ve come through worse afore. A whole lot worse.”
Tyrrell nodded, seeing the certainty in Stockdale’s eyes like something written.
“He has a good friend in you, Stockdale.”
The coxswain turned his broken face away. “Aye. I could tell you things I seen ’im do that’d make some of these Jacks run to their mothers and pray.”
Tyrrell kept quiet and very still, watching the man’s profile as he relived some memory, an incident so vivid it was like yesterday.
Stockdale said in his wheezing voice, “I’ve carried ’im like a child, seen ’im so beside hisself with anger there’s not a man-jack’d draw near. Other times I’ve seen ’im ’old a man in ’is arms until ’e died, even though there was nought anyone could do for th’ poor bugger.” He swung round, his eyes fierce. “I ain’t got the words for it, else I’d make ’em all listen.”
Tyrrell reached out and touched his massive arm.
“You’re wrong. You’ve got th’ words right enough. And thanks for telling me.”
Stockdale grunted and walked heavily towards the hatch. He had never spoken like that before, but somehow he trusted Tyrrell.
Like Bolitho, he was a man, not just an officer, and for him that was more than enough.
All that day the Sparrow ran freely towards an empty horizon. The watches changed, drills were carried out, and one man was flogged for drawing his knife against a messmate after an argument. But there were no contests on deck, and when Heyward appeared with his swords to begin another period of instruction he found no takers, nor did Dalkeith leave his sickbay for a pistol shoot.
In his cabin Bolitho remained with his thoughts, wondering why a simple action was so hard to bear, merely because he had been the one to dictate it. Command, leadership, authority, they were mere words. At no time could they explain his true feelings, or wipe away inner misgivings.
As Rear-Admiral Christie had said, the right way was not always the most popular, or the easiest to accept.
When the bell chimed out for the first dog watch he heard another cry from the masthead.
“Deck there! Sail on the lee bow!”
He made himself remain seated at the table until Midshipman Bethune came down to report that the sail was barely moving and was perhaps hove-to.
Even then he delayed before going on deck. Another disappointment, a fresh need to take avoiding action from one more enemy, only time and distance would tell him these things.
Graves, who had the watch, said, “If it’s one of our frigates we could turn and close with the Bonaventure, sir.”
Heyward added, “Maybe we could take her as a prize.”
Bolitho faced them coldly. “And if she’s a French frigate, what then?” He saw them stiffen under his stare. “I suggest you hold your suppositions until later.”
But it was neither privateer nor patrolling ship-of-war. As Sparrow sped down towards her Bolitho watched the stranger through his glass, seeing the gap in her outline where her main topmast had been torn away like a branch from a tree, and the huge scars along her tumblehome to show the battering she had received from sea and wind.
Buckle said quietly, “By God, she must have taken the storm full on herself. She’s in a poor way, I’m thinking.”
Tyrrell, who had climbed to the main topmast yard, shinned down a backstay and reported, “I know her sir. She’s th’ Royal Anne, West Indiaman.”
Buckle agreed. “Aye, that’s so. She set sail from Sandy Hook three days afore us. Bound for Bristol, I heard.”
“Run up the colours.”
Bolitho shifted the glass carefully, watching the tiny figures swarming along the other ship’s decks, the broken gangway where a great sea had thundered inboard like a failing cliff. She made a pitiful sight. Spars missing, sails in ribbons. She must have ridden out the same storm which they had skirted just a night ago.
Bethune exclaimed, “I have her here in my book, sir. She is under warrant to the Commander-in-Chief.”
But Bolitho barely heard him. He saw the figures along the vessel’s upper deck pausing to stare at the approaching sloop, while here and there a man was waving, perhaps cheering to see a friendly flag.
He sti
ffened and then said, “There are women aboard that ship.” He lowered the glass and looked at Tyrrell questioningly. “Under warrant, is she?”
Tyrrell nodded slowly. “Indiamen do take a government charter when it suits, sir.” He glanced away. “Th’ Royal Anne ’ll be carrying folk from New York to England. And away from th’ war, no doubt.”
Bolitho raised the glass again, his mind working on Tyrrell’s words.
He said, “We will close her now, Mr. Tyrrell, and keep her under our lee. Have the starboard cutter cleared for lowering. The surgeon will accompany me on board.” He glanced at Bethune. “Signal her to that effect. If she fails to understand, then hail her when we draw nearer.”
He walked away from the rail as the flags soared aloft on their halliards.
Tyrrell followed him and said gravely, “She’ll not be able to outsail th’ Bonaventure, sir. Even if she was without damage.”
Bolitho faced him. “I know.”
He tried to sound composed even though his mind was screaming. Turn after all and face the big privateer. The facts had not altered. Sparrow would still be outgunned and sunk without too much difficulty. The Royal Anne was so badly damaged that a respite brought about by sacrificing this ship and all her company would make no difference. But to run once more. Leave her helpless and allow the enemy to take her at leisure was too cruel even to contemplate.
He must contemplate it. It was his decision. His .
Buckle called, “She’s standing by, sir! We’d best take the way off us.”
“Very well.” Bolitho walked slowly along the side. “Get the royals and t’gallants off her, Mr. Tyrrell. We will heave-to directly.”
He saw Stockdale hurrying towards him with his coat and sword. It would be dark in five hours. If they were to do anything, they would need haste and luck. Especially the latter.
He slipped into his coat and said, “Mr. Tyrrell, you will come with me.”
Then as the boat was hoisted over the gangway and lowered alongside he looked astern, almost expecting to see a sliver of sail, or hear the masthead’s call.
“Cutter alongside, sir!”
He nodded and strode towards the gangway. “Let us be about it then.” And without a glance at the others he followed Tyrrell down into the boat.
9 “BOARDERS AWAY!”
AS HE pulled himself up a dangling rope ladder to the Royal Anne’s thick bulwark Bolitho was conscious of the tension which awaited him. There were many people on the upper and poop decks, passengers and sailors, singly and in large groups, but all joined together in some way as they stared at him, then at the seamen who followed him up from the cutter.
Bolitho paused to collect his thoughts, and while he adjusted the sword on his hip and Tyrrell mustered the boarding party into line, he took a slow appraisal of the ship around him. Fallen rigging and broken spars, whole strips of torn canvas and cordage littered the decks in profusion, and he could tell by the heavy motion that she had taken a good deal of water in the bilges.
A tall, gangling man in a blue coat stepped forward and touched his forehead.
“I’m Jennis, sir.” He swallowed hard. “Mate and senior officer.”
“Where is the Master?”
Jennis gestured wearily towards the rail. “He went overboard in the storm. Him and twenty more besides.”
Boots thudded on a companion ladder and Bolitho stiffened as a familiar figure thrust the others aside and strode towards him. It was General Blundell, impeccable as ever, but with two pistols at his belt.
Bolitho touched his hat. “I am surprised to see you, Sir James.” He tried to mask his dislike. “You appear to be in some trouble.”
The general glared around him then across at the Sparrow as she swayed easily in the swell, her sails flapping loosely as if resting.
He barked, “And about time, too! This damn ship should never have been allowed out of harbour!” He pointed at the mate. “That fool cannot even keep order!”
Bolitho looked at Tyrrell. “Take your men and examine the hull and other damage. Quick as you can.” He glanced narrowly at a group of sailors lolling by the forward hatch, noticing how they swayed out of time with the deck, their eyes devoid of interest in his arrival or the disorder which lay on every hand.
The mate explained hurriedly, “We’ve had to use pistols sir. Some men ran wild when the storm broke. We’ve a full cargo of rum and other spirits, as well as molasses and coffee. While the rest of us were working the ship they and a few passengers broached holds and began drinking.” He shuddered. “What with women crying an’ screaming, the ship failing about us, an’ Cap’n Harper lost overboard, I was hard put to watch everything at once.”
Blundell snapped, “You’re bloody useless! I’d have you shot for your incompetence!”
As the first of Sparrow’s seamen approached the fore hatch the drunken figures seemed to come to life. With jeers and taunts they blocked the way across the deck, and from right forward an unseen hand hurled a bottle which shattered against a ring bolt, bringing bright droplets of blood down a sailor’s chest.
Bolitho said sharply, “Carry on, Mr. Tyrrell!”
The lieutenant nodded. “Party! Draw cutlasses!” He took his pistol and pointed it at the line of swaying figures. “Kill anyone who interferes! Bosun’s mate, take ’em below and put ’em on the pumps!”
One made as if to run amongst the small party, but fell senseless as the boatswain’s mate brought the flat of his blade hard down on the side of his head.
Bolitho said, “There is much to do. Mr. Jennis, turn the hands to and replace your fores’l. Have all this clutter cut adrift so that the injured may be laid on deck where my surgeon can attend them.” He waited until the mate had shouted his instructions before adding, “How are you armed?”
Jennis waved vaguely around him. “Not much, sir. Twenty-six-pounders and some swivels. We aim to steer clear of trouble. These guns are all we need for fighting off the boucanier or would-be pirate.” He looked up, startled. “Why do you ask?”
General Blundell interrupted, “Hell’s teeth, must I stand here while you people discuss the fittings of this wretched ship? I have had all I can tolerate and . . .”
Bolitho said abruptly, “Sir James, there is an enemy privateer to the north. She is probably still following us. The fittings, as you call them, will be very useful if that enemy comes our way.”
He turned, cocking his head, as the clank of pumps told him Tyrrell had the mutinous seamen in hand.
To Stockdale he said, “Go aft, see what you can discover.”
Blundell sounded less confident. “Privateer? Attack us?”
Bolitho replied, “The Sparrow is very small, sir. The enemy more than twice our strength.”
The general grunted. “Well, better than nothing. If fight you must, it will be for the finest reasons.”
Bolitho ignored him as Tyrrell came on deck again.
“I have sounded th’ well. Th’ hull is taking water steadily, but th’ pumps seem to be containing it. It’s all hell below. Cabins broken open, drunks, and two dead from knife wounds.” He frowned towards the mate who was urging his men to clear away fallen spars. “He must have been mad with worry.” He saw Bolitho’s expression. “What’ll we do?”
Blundell said, “Your captain will do his duty. If we are attacked he will defend this ship and passengers. Do you need telling, man?”
Tyrrell eyed him coolly. “Not by you, General.”
Bolitho snapped, “How many women are there?” He was watching Stockdale ushering them from the poop, his voice barely audible as he tried to placate them.
There were children, too. More than he had realised.
“For God’s sake, how much longer are you going to stand like this?” The general was shouting, his face almost as red as his tunic. “What does it matter how many this or that we have on board, or what colour their eyes are?” He got no further.
Tyrrell stepped between them, his head lowered so t
hat their faces were nearly touching.
“Look here, General, what th’ cap’n says is right. Th’ enemy can outshoot anything we have to offer, an’ this Indiaman is a damn sight worse off.”
“Not my concern, and I’ll tell you once more to mind your manners!”
“Warn me, General?” Tyrrell laughed silently. “But for you meddling with us at Sandy Hook th’ Sparrow would have completed repairs an’ been away at sea a month back. So but for that you would be alone out here, sitting like a fat duck waiting to be shot for th’ pot.” His tone hardened. “So mind your damn manners, sir!”
Bolitho was standing apart from them, only half listening to their hushed anger. Once again Blundell’s interference was to put him and the ship in real jeopardy. But the facts were unchanged. He turned to conceal his despair. All he had was the hope that Bonaventure would not find them. That he could set sail on the battered Indiaman and leave the area with all possible haste.
The mate, Jennis, came aft again. “I’ve got the hands bending on a new fores’l, sir. Apart from that we’ve little spare canvas aboard, not made up that is. This is a Company ship, and we were expecting to have a complete overhaul once we reached Bristol. That’s why we sailed short-handed and one officer under strength.” He wiped his hand across his lined face. “If you hadn’t found us I think more of the men might have gone mad and mutinied. We’ve a fair sprinkling of rogues amongst the passengers as well as honest ones.”
Bolitho looked up as a block swayed and clattered against the mizzen topmast. He saw the torn sails stirring like ragged banners, the sudden movement in the bright Company flag. He frowned. The wind was freshening. Very slightly, but it made things harder if he was to face the decision which had to be made.
And yet, there was still a chance he might be wrong. If so, all this would do nothing but harm and cause more suffering to the passengers.
He pulled out his watch and flipped open the cover. Less than four hours of visibility left.
“Mr. Tyrrell, have the Royal Anne’s boats lowered at once. Send a message to Graves and tell him I want our boats and fifty seamen here without delay. We must work like the devil if we are to get this ship fit to make sail again.” He waited until Tyrrell and the Indiaman’s mate had hurried away before saying, “Well, Sir James, I must see what needs to be done.”
Sloop of War Page 16
