Heyward came from the gun deck and waited to resume his duty.
Tyrrell said, “Dismiss th’ watch below. Then have th’ petty officers lay aft for instructions.”
Heyward asked glumly, “Will this go badly for me?”
Tyrrell clapped him on the arm. “God, boy, no!” He laughed at his astonishment. “You did th’ cap’n a favour! If you had called him earlier he’d have been forced to change tack. Your mistake allowed him to take another course of action.” He strolled away whistling to himself, his bare feet slapping on the spray-drenched planking.
Heyward walked up the tilting deck and joined Buckle by the wheel.
“I don’t think I understand.”
Buckle studied him dubiously. “Well, don’t you try, that’s my advice.” He shuffled towards the hatch and added, “An’ next time you feels like playing God with my ship, I’d be obliged if you’d pass the word first.”
Heyward glanced at the compass and crossed to the weather side. There was more to being lieutenant of the watch than holding a commission, he decided wearily. He looked at the taut mainsail and grimaced. It had been a near thing, and at one time he had felt stricken by the swift change of events, so that he had imagined the ship was running wild, carrying him and all aboard like some uncontrollable juggernaut. Now, in these last moments, he had learned something. If it all happened again he would know what to do. Of that he was quite certain.
Stockdale was waiting in the cabin with Bolitho’s shirt, and after handing him a towel asked, “Did you really fall asleep on watch, sir?”
Bolitho rubbed his chest and arms, feeling the salt drying on his lips like another skin.
“Almost.” Was nothing secret from Stockdale? “But we have to embroider things a little sometimes.”
He stepped out of his sodden breeches and threw them across the cabin. As he continued to towel his naked body he listened to Heyward’s measured tread across the deck above.
Then he added quietly, “I once knew of a lieutenant who beat a man for giving a false report from the masthead. After that the seaman was too frightened to say anything, and when there was danger he held his tongue for fear he would get another beating. As a result, the ship was driven ashore and the lieutenant drowned.”
Stockdale watched him warily. “Serve ’im right.”
Bolitho sighed. Moralising was wasted on Stockdale.
The big coxswain shook out a clean pair of breeches and handed them across. For another minute or so he did not speak, but his forehead was wrinkled in thought.
Then he asked, “An’ wot ’appened to the seaman, sir?”
Bolitho stared at him. “I am afraid he was flogged for neglect of duty.”
Stockdale’s battered face lit up in a broad grin.
“Proves me point then, don’t it, sir? There ain’t no justice in th’ world for any of us!”
Bolitho sat down, one leg still tangled in the breeches. As was often the case, Stockdale had had the last word.
12 A TWIST OF FATE
LIEUTENANT Tyrrell gripped the quarterdeck rail and peered fixedly along the starboard gangway.
“God damn this mist!” He leaned across the rail, straining his eyes forward in an effort to see beyond the forecastle. “And God damn our luck!”
Bolitho said nothing but moved to the opposite side of the deck. Since before dawn, when with leads going and every ear and eye pitched to the shouted depths, the sounds of distant surf and the occasional feather of warning spray in the darkness, he had been aware of the thickening sea mist. It was not unusual in these waters at the time of year, but he had expected it to pass quickly, to clear with the first hint of morning sunlight.
Now, as he stared abeam, he knew it was thicker than ever. Moving steadily with the wind, it wreathed between the shrouds and seemed to cling to the rigging like pale weed. Above the top-sail yards he could see nothing, and apart from a clear patch of water below the quarterdeck, the sea was equally hidden. Keeping pace with the ship’s cautious progress, the mist cut away all impression of movement, so that it felt as if Sparrow was suspended in cloud like some phantom vessel.
A voice below the quarterdeck called, “By th’ mark five!”
The seaman’s call was hushed as the sounding was passed from mouth to mouth from the leadsmen in the forechains. Once over the bar, Bolitho had ordered the ship to be cleared for action, and with the enfolding mist shutting out both sight and sound, it was necessary to take every precaution.
He glanced at the maintopsail again. It was drawing quite well, taking the sloop steadily across the shallows, the flapping canvas shining with moisture in the grey light to show that somewhere above the mist there was a sun and maybe a sight of land, too.
“Deep four!”
Bolitho walked aft to the wheel where Buckle stood with his men, the mist moving through his splayed legs and making him appear like a spectre.
He stiffened as Bolitho approached and reported, “She’s holding well, sir. Sou’ by east as afore.”
From the gun deck came a scrape of wood, and when he turned Bolitho saw one of the long sweeps swaying above the water before coming into line with the rest. He had ordered the sweeps to be run out an hour earlier, for if the wind dropped or they came upon some unexpected shoal, they would be the only means of working clear.
“Deck there!” The masthead’s voice seemed to come from the mist itself. “Ship on th’ starboard quarter!”
Bolitho stared upwards, aware for the first time that the mist was tinged yellow like a North Sea fog. Sunlight at last. Far above the deck, isolated by a layer of mist, the lookout had sighted another vessel.
He saw Tyrrell and the others watching him, caught in their various attitudes by the lookout’s sharp call.
Bolitho said, “I shall go aloft, Mr. Tyrrell.” He unbuckled his sword and handed it to Stockdale. “Keep good watch and ensure that the anchor can be dropped instantly if need be.”
He hurried to the gangway, his mind torn between the unexpected sighting of a strange ship and his rising nausea at the prospect of a climb to the lookout.
Then he swung himself out on to the main shrouds and gripped the gently quivering ratlines with as much force as if the ship had been in a full gale. Through the ratlines he saw Graves below on the gun deck, shoulders hunched, his eyes looking neither right nor left.
Bethune was close by him, one hand resting on a twelve-pounder, the other shading his eyes as he peered up at the mist. All along the ship men stood like crude statuary, bare backs shining with moisture, which dripped ceaselessly from the sails and rigging, so that they appeared to be sweating, as if they had just been in battle.
Here and there a checked shirt, or the darker blue and white of a gunner’s mate, stood out from the rest, as if the artist had found more time to complete their postures before passing on to some other part of the picture.
“By th’ mark five.” The chant came aft from the forecastle like a dirge.
In his mind Bolitho pictured the chart. The tide was on the turn now. Soon even the so-called safe channels between the shoals and sandbars would be drawn closer together, like great jaws closing around a capture.
He gritted his teeth and started to climb. When he paused to draw breath the ship had lost her outline in the mist. Only the guns and oblong hatchways stood out with any clarity, and aft by the taffrail Buckle and the others seemed to be cut in halves by the following tendrils of haze.
Up and up. At the maintop he swarmed quickly through the lubber’s hole rather than tackle the additional agony of hanging by fingers and toes from the futtock shrouds. A seaman gaped at him as he passed and was still staring as Bolitho increased his rate of climb until he, too, was lost from view.
A few moments later Bolitho stared up at the main topgallant yard with something like awe. For there, above it, clean and empty of cloud, the sky was bright blue, and as he started up the last ratlines he saw the taut stays and shrouds shining like copper in the early sun
light.
The lookout, legs swinging carelessly from the crosstrees, moved over to allow his captain to climb up beside him.
Bolitho gripped a stay with one hand and tried to control his rapid breathing.
“Ah, Taylor, you have a good perch up here.”
The maintopman gave a slow grin. “Aye, sir.” He had a soft North Country burr, and his homely voice did more than he would have dreamed possible to steady Bolitho’s sickness.
He raised a bronzed arm. “There she be, sir!”
Bolitho twisted round, trying not to look at the vibrating mast as it vanished below into the mist. For a moment longer he could see nothing. Then, as the sluggish wind stirred the mist into movement he saw the raked topmasts and flapping pendant of a frigate some three miles away on the starboard quarter.
He forgot his precarious position, the nausea of the dizzy climb, everything in fact but the other ship.
The lookout said, “There be breakers yonder, too, sir. I reckon that frigate’s on t’other side o’ the bar.”
Bolitho looked at him gravely. “You know her, don’t you?”
The man nodded. “Aye, sir. She’s Bacchante, Cap’n Colquhoun’s command flag is at the fore.” He watched Bolitho’s impassive face. “Anyway, I was in ’er once, two years back.”
Bolitho nodded. He had known it was Bacchante, too. Perhaps he had been hoping he was mistaken, that the mist and light were playing tricks.
But there was no doubting Taylor’s conviction. It was typical of such seamen as he. Once they had served with or aboard a ship they seemed to know her under any condition. Taylor had only seen the frigate’s upper yards, but he had recognised her instantly.
Bolitho touched his arm. “Keep a good watch on her, Taylor.” He slung his leg over the edge. “You’ve done well.”
Then he was climbing and slipping downwards, his mind grappling with this new encounter. Once, when he peered over his shoulder he thought he saw hazed sunlight on the water, further away from the hull. So the mist was thinning after all. But it was too late now, if things went wrong.
Tyrrell was waiting for him by the quarterdeck rail, his eyes anxious as Bolitho jumped down from the shrouds and hurried towards him.
“It’s Bacchante!”
Bolitho stared past him at the upturned faces on the gun deck, the faint leap of spray as the leadsman made yet another cast.
“Quarter less five!”
He turned to Tyrrell. “Colquhoun must have stood well clear of land during the night. When the wind backed it caught him out, as it did us. He must have been driven miles along the Channel.” He turned away, his voice suddenly bitter. “The damn fool should have stayed closer inshore! Now he’s useless out there beyond the shoals! It’d take him near half a day to beat back into an attacking position!”
Tyrrell’s hand rasped over his chin. “What’ll we do? With the tide on th’ turn we’ll have to look sharp if we’re to close with th’ Frogs.” He glanced at Buckle. “My guess is we should stand away and try again later.”
Buckle nodded slowly. “Mine, too. If Cap’n Colquhoun’s plan has gone off at half-cock then we can’t be expected to do better.”
Bolitho ignored him. “Pass the word, Mr. Tyrrell. Withdraw sweeps and have the guns loaded and run out. Gun by gun, if you please, with as little noise as possible.” He studied Buckle’s dubious expression and added quietly, “I know the risk. So brail up the courses and have the bosun prepare a stream anchor in case we have to take the way off her directly.” He thrust his hands behind his back. “You can think me mad, Mr. Buckle.” He heard the sweeps thumping inboard on to their racks and the slow rumble of trucks as the first cannon were hauled towards the open ports. “And maybe I am. But somewhere out there is a British sloop like ourselves. Thanks to others she is quite alone now, and God knows, if I am not mad then Fawn is going to need every bit of help she can get!”
The big main course rose billowing and protesting to its yard as men worked busily to bring it under control and lay bare the decks from bow to quarterdeck.
A gunner’s mate called huskily, “Loaded an’ run out, sir!”
Tyrrell strode aft, his speaking trumpet jammed beneath his arm.
Bolitho met his gaze and smiled briefly. “You were faster this time.”
Then together, with their backs to the helmsmen and an apprehensive Buckle, they leaned on the rail and stared directly ahead. The mist was still all around them, but thinner, and as he watched Bolitho knew it was at last outpacing the ship, moving stealthily through the shrouds and away across the lee bow. There was sunlight, too. Not much, but he saw it reflecting faintly from the ship’s bell and playing on a black twelve-pounder ball which one gun captain had removed from a shot garland and was changing from hand to hand, testing its perfection or otherwise.
Bolitho asked softly, “How far now, in your opinion?”
Tyrrell raised his injured leg and winced. “Th’ wind stays regular from th’ nor’-east. Our course is sou’ by east.” He was thinking aloud. “Th’ soundings have found no lie in th’ chart.” He made up his mind. “I reckon we’re about six mile from th’ place where Fawn crossed through th’ shoals.” He turned and added firmly, “You’ll have to put about soon, sir. You’ll be hard aground if you keep on this tack much longer.”
The chant seemed to float aft to mock him. “By th’ mark three!”
Lieutenant Heyward, who was standing very still by the quarterdeck ladder, murmured, “Holy God!”
Bolitho said, “If the Frenchman is still there, then there must be ample room for him to work clear.”
Tyrrell eyed him sadly. “Aye. But by th’ time we reach that far we’ll be in no position to go about. Th’ Frog can thumb his nose at us.”
Bolitho pictured the disembodied masts and yards of Colquhoun’s frigate and gripped his hands together to steady his nerves and restrain his rising anger. That fool Colquhoun. So eager to keep the spoils to himself he had failed to anticipate a change of wind. So keen to keep Sparrow out of the victory that he had now left the gate open for the enemy to run free if he so desired. Fawn could not bring her to battle even if she could catch her.
“An’ a quarter less three!”
He grasped the nettings and tried not to imagine the sea’s bottom rising slowly and steadily towards the keel.
It was no use. He swung away from the nettings, his sudden movement making Midshipman Fowler start back in alarm. He was risking the ship and the life of everyone aboard. Fawn was probably anchored, or had already found the enemy gone. His apprehensions, his personal doubts would cut little cloth with the relatives of those drowned by his risking Sparrow for a whim.
He said harshly, “We will wear ship. I intend to cross the bar and rejoin Bacchante as soon as the mist clears.” He saw Buckle nod with relief and Tyrrell watching him with grave understanding. “Convey my compliments to Mr. Graves and have the guns . . .” He swung round as several voices shouted at once.
Tyrrell said tersely, “Gunfire, by God!”
Bolitho froze, listening intently to the intermittent cracks and the heavier crash of larger weapons.
“Belay that last order, Mr. Tyrrell!” He watched as a shaft of sunlight ran down the trunk of the mainmast like molten gold. “We will not be blind for long!”
More minutes dragged by, with every man aboard listening to the distant gunfire.
Bolitho found that he could see beyond the tapering jib-boom, and when he glanced abeam he saw a writhing necklace of surf to mark the nearest prongs of reef. Perhaps it was the mist, or back echoes from the hidden land, but the gunfire did not sound right. He could pick out the sharper bark of Fawn’s nine-pounders from the enemy’s heavier artillery, but there were other explosions from varying bearings which seemed to tally at odds with the circumstances.
Sunlight swept down across the damp planking and raised more haze from the dripping shrouds and hammock nettings, and then, like some fantastic curtain, the mist was drawn asid
e, laying bare the drama with each detail sharp in the morning light.
There was the tip of the island, hard blue against an empty sky, and the intermingled patterns of surf and swirling currents to show the nearness of the bar. And dead ahead of Sparrow’s slow approach, her hull seemingly pinioned on the jib-boom, was Maulby’s Fawn .
Further away, with masts and furled sails still shrouded in departing mist, lay the Frenchman, half hidden in shadow, the outline blurred into the landmass beyond. She was firing rapidly, her battery flashing long orange tongues, her flag clearly visible above the gunsmoke.
It was only then Bolitho realised that Fawn was still anchored. Sickened, he watched the sharp waterspouts bursting all around her, the occasional fountain of spray as a ball smashed hard alongside.
Buckle called hoarsely, “He’s cut his cable, sir!”
Maulby’s men were already running out the long sweeps to try to work clear of the murderous barrage, while from her own deck the guns maintained a brisk fire towards the enemy.
Bolitho gripped the rail as Fawn’s foretopmast staggered and then reeled down in a great welter of spray and smoke. He heard Tyrrell’s voice as if in a dream, saw him pointing wildly, as more flashes sparkled, not from the Frenchman but from the headland and low down as well, probably on some small beach.
What a perfect trap. Maulby must have been caught by the mist, and after making sure the enemy was still apparently moored close inshore, had anchored to await Colquhoun’s support. No wonder Bacchante’s first lieutenant had reported so much activity. The French captain had taken time to land artillery so that any attacker would be caught in one devastating arc of fire from which there was small chance of escape.
The sweeps were out now, rising and falling like wings, bringing the little sloop round until she was pointing away from the enemy and towards the bar and the open sea.
A chorus of cries and groans came from the gun deck as the larboard bank of sweeps flew in wild confusion, the splintered blades whirling high into the air before splashing around the ship in fragments.
Sloop of War Page 22
