Sloop of War

by Alexander Kent

  He doffed his hat to the shrill calls and shining bayonets and clambered down to the gig. He said nothing as the boat pulled lustily across the anchorage, and Stockdale for once seemed content to leave him in peace.

  He was in his cabin with Lock studying the latest return of ship’s stores when Graves entered to announce the arrival of another hoy carrying fresh water.

  As the purser scuttled away to watch over the casks before they were lowered into the hold, Bolitho said, “I was meaning to have a word with you, Mr. Graves.” He saw the lieutenant stiffen, the way his fingers locked into his coat. Poor Graves. He looked like an old man, and even his tan could not hide the shadows under his eyes, the pinched lines at each side of his mouth. How did you begin to ask an officer if he was a coward? He added, “Are you troubled about something?”

  Graves swallowed hard. “My father is dead, sir. Some weeks back. I just received a letter.”

  “I am sorry to hear that, Mr. Graves.” Bolitho watched his face with sudden compassion. “It is harder to bear when you are out of reach, as we are.”

  “Yes.” Graves did not even blink. “He had been, er, ill for some while.”

  The door swung open and Tyrrell limped noisily into the cabin. He did not appear to see Graves as he exclaimed, “By God, Cap’n! I’ve had news!” He leaned on the table, all his excitement and pleasure welling out of him in an uncontrollable flood. “My sister. She’s safe an’ well! I met a man who was a trapper in th’ county. He said she’s living with our uncle. That’s about twenty mile to th’ north of our old farmstead.” He grinned widely. “Safe! I still can’t believe I’m awake.” He turned and saw Graves for the first time. “Oh hell! I’m sorry. I forgot myself with th’ fair excitement of it all.”

  Graves was staring at him glassily, and his fingers had screwed his coat into two tight balls.

  Tyrrell asked, “What’s wrong? You sick or something?”

  Graves muttered, “I must go. If you’ll excuse me, sir.” He almost ran from the cabin.

  Bolitho stood up. “It was good news, Jethro.” He looked at the open door. “I am afraid Graves just brought some of a sadder note. His father.”

  Tyrrell sighed. “I’m sorry. I thought maybe it was something I said . . .”

  “In what way?”

  Tyrrell shrugged. “No matter. He was once in hopes of courting my sister.” He smiled at some secret memory. “It all seems a long way back now.”

  Bolitho tried not to think about Graves’s stunned expression.

  “One day you’ll be able to join your sister again. I am very glad for you.”

  Tyrrell nodded, his eyes dreamy. “Aye. One day.” He nodded more firmly. “I don’t feel quite so lost any more.”

  Midshipman Fowler stepped neatly over the coaming and removed his hat. “The lighterman brought you a letter, sir.” His lisp was very pronounced. “He insisted I give it to you myself.”

  “Thank you.”

  Bolitho held it in his fingers. Like the other one which he had locked in his strong-box. Her own hand.

  He opened it quickly and then said, “I’ll be ashore for an hour. Maybe longer. Call away my gig.”

  Fowler ran from the cabin, his sharp voice calling for the boat’s crew.

  Tyrrell asked quietly, “Is it wise, sir?”

  “What the hell do you mean by that?” Bolitho swung towards him, caught off guard by his question.

  Tyrrell frowned. “I met several people when I was ordering some new cordage, sir. It’s well known all over New York what you’ve done. Most are laughing fit to burst that your action has unmasked these bloody scabs and traitors. But some think you’ll be in real danger while you’re here. There’ll be plenty more quaking in their beds. Wondering what you discovered, an’ when th’ soldiers are going to bang on their door.”

  Bolitho dropped his eyes. “I’m sorry about my anger. But have no fear. I’ve no intention of parading my back for the benefit of that sort.”

  Tyrrell watched him as he snatched up his hat and fretted impatiently for Fitch to adjust his swordbelt.

  Then he said, “I’ll rest easier when we’re at sea again.”

  Bolitho hurried past him. “And that will be tonight, my cautious friend. So stir yourself and watch over the provisions!” He smiled at Tyrrell’s concern. “But beware. There may be an assassin hiding in the salt beef!”

  Tyrrell saw him over the side but remained by the rail for a long while, despite the sun and the pain in his thigh.

  There was a small carriage waiting for Bolitho at the end of the jetty. It was a shabby affair and not in the least like the one which had carried him to the general’s residence. But the driver was the same Negro, and as soon as Bolitho was inside he cracked his whip and urged the horses into a brisk trot.

  They rattled through several narrow streets and then out into a quiet road which was lined by sturdy houses, most of which seemed to be occupied by some of the city’s refugees. The buildings had lost their facade of well-being, and where there had been gardens there were piles of discarded boxes and sorry-looking vehicles. At many of the windows he saw women and children staring out at the road below. They had the lost look of uprooted people with little to do but wait and hope.

  The coach wheeled through a pair of sagging gates and towards another such house. Except that this one was empty, its windows bare in the sunlight like blind eyes.

  For an instant he recalled Tyrrell’s warning, but as the coach slid to a halt he saw the girl beside the house, her gown reflected in a partly overgrown pond.

  He hurried towards her, his heart pounding in time with his shoes.

  “I came as fast as I could!” He took her hands in his and studied her warmly. “But why must we meet here?”

  She tossed her head, throwing the hair from her shoulder in the way he had remembered in the weeks he had been away.

  “It is better so. I cannot bear the watching eyes. The sneers behind my back.” There was little emotion in her voice. “But we will go inside now. I must speak with you.”

  Their shoes rang hollowly on the bare boards. It had been a fine house, but now the plaster was flaking and the walls were heavy with cobwebs.

  She walked to a window and said, “My uncle is in serious trouble, but I expect you know. He was perhaps foolish, but no more than many here.”

  Bolitho slipped his hand beneath her arm. “I do not want you to be involved, Susannah.”

  His insistence, or the use of her name, made her turn and face him.

  “But I am involved, as you put it.”

  “No. The smuggling and other offences could have had nothing to do with you. Nobody would ever believe it.”

  She stared at him calmly. “Nor does it matter. But one hint of treason would ruin my uncle and all connected with him.” She gripped his arm. “That man, Crozier, have you spoken of his presence at our house? Please, I must know. For if you remain silent, all may yet be well.”

  Bolitho turned away. “Believe me, I can save you from that. Your uncle will be sent to England. There is no reason why you cannot remain here.”

  “Here?” She stood back from him. “What use is that?”

  “I—I thought, given time you might see your way to becoming my wife.” In the empty room his words seemed to come back to mock him.

  “Marry you?” She brushed her hair from her forehead. “Is that what you thought?”

  “Yes. I had cause to hope.” He watched her despairingly. “You hinted that . . .”

  She replied sharply, “I hinted no such proposal, Captain! If things had gone as I had planned, well then maybe . . .”

  He tried again. “But nothing need change for us.”

  She continued as if he had not spoken. “I did think that with some help from my friends you might one day amount to something. A position in London, perhaps even a seat in Parliament. All is possible if the will is there.” She lifted her eyes to his face again. “Did you really expect me to marry a sea-office
r? Live from day to day waiting for one ship after the other to drop anchor? There are other lives beyond your miserable Service, Captain!”

  “It is my life.” He felt the walls closing in on him. The air forced from his lungs as if he was drowning.

  “The path of duty.” She walked to the window and looked down at the carriage. “You were a fool to think of my sharing such an existence. An even bigger one if you continue to do so!” She turned easily, her eyes flashing. “There’s more to living than catching some poor smuggler in the King’s name!”

  Bolitho said, “I did not tell of Crozier being with your uncle. But it is certain to come out when the authorities have finished their inquiries.” He added bitterly, “Rats always turn on one another when the pickings are few.”

  She breathed out slowly, one hand resting lightly below her heart. “Stay a few minutes while I go to my carriage. I have no wish to be seen here.”

  Bolitho reached out his arms and then let them drop to his sides. He was defeated. Had been so for longer than he had understood.

  Yet in the dusty sunlight, as she stood watching him, her violet eyes holding him at a distance, he knew that if there was anything he could do or say to keep her he would use it.

  She moved to the door. “You are a strange man. But I can see no future for you.” Then she was gone, her shoes fading on the staircase until he was quite alone.

  He did not remember how long he stood in that empty room. Minutes? An hour? When at last he walked down the stairs and into the overgrown garden he realised that even the shabby carriage had gone. He crossed to the pond and stared at his own reflection.

  If she had been angry, or frightened, anything he could have recognised, he might still have known what to do. There had not even been contempt. She had dismissed him with no more thought than if she had been rejecting a useless servant.

  A foot scraped on stone and he swung round, seeing in those seconds four dark figures lined against the ragged bushes.

  “Easy, Cap’n!” One of them had a drawn sword, and he saw the others were also well armed. “There’s no sense in strugglin’!”

  Bolitho backed up to the pond, his fingers on his hanger.

  Another of the men chuckled. “Aye, that’s right, Cap’n. Somewhere for us’n to hide yer corpse when we’ve done with you. Most considerate, eh, lads?”

  Bolitho remained quite still. He knew it was useless to bargain with any of them. They had the looks of professional criminals, men who worked for a fee, no matter what the final cost might be to them. He was suddenly very calm, as if their arrival had driven away his other despair like a cold wind.

  “Then I’ll take a couple with me!”

  He snatched out his hanger and waited for them to attack. Two carried pistols, but there were probably military patrols nearby and a shot might bring them running.

  Steel clashed with steel, and he saw the leader’s grin fade to an intent frown as they locked blades together. He ducked as one man struck at his neck, twisted his hanger and slashed him across the face, hearing him scream as he tumbled back into the bushes.

  “Damn you, you bloody bastard!” Another dived forward, his sword sweeping under Bolitho’s guard. But it glanced from his belt buckle and he was able to thrust him aside with the hilt, catching him on the jaw with such force it almost tore the hanger from his grip.

  The garden swam in a mist of pain as something struck him savagely on the forehead, and he realised that one of them had hurled a stone. He hit out with the hanger but felt it pass through air. Someone laughed, and another called hoarsely, “Now, ’Arry! In the guts!”

  Feet pounded through the shrubs, and Bolitho was pushed aside by someone in a blue coat who shouted, “At ’em, lads! Cut ’em down!”

  Swords grated and sparked, and a body rolled thrashing into the pond, the blood staining the surface like red weed.

  Bolitho lurched to his feet, realising that Heyward and Tyrrell were driving the two attackers against the house, while Dalkeith stood watchfully nearby, his beautiful pistols shining in the sunlight.

  Heyward brought his man to his knees and jumped back to let him roll silently on to his face and stay there.

  The sole survivor threw down his heavy sword and yelled, “Quarter! Quarter!”

  Tyrrell swayed awkwardly on his crippled leg and said harshly, “Quarter be damned!”

  The sword took him in the chest, holding him to the wall for an endless moment before allowing him to slide beside his companion.

  Tyrrell sheathed his blade and limped to Bolitho’s side.

  “All well, Cap’n?” He reached out to steady him. “Just in time, it seems.”

  Heyward stepped over one of the corpses. “Someone wanted you dead, sir.”

  Bolitho looked from one to the next, the emotion rising to mingle with his understanding.

  Tyrrell grinned. “You see, I was right.”

  Bolitho nodded heavily. Someone wanted you dead. But the worst part was knowing that she had realised his peril, and had done nothing. He glanced at the corpse sprawled in the pond.

  “What can I say? How can I find words?”

  Dalkeith murmured, “Let’s say it was for Rupert Majendie, too.”

  Tyrrell slipped his arm over Heyward’s slim shoulder for support.

  “Aye, that’ll do.” He glanced at Bolitho and held his gaze. “You’ve done plenty for us. An’ in Sparrow we look after our own!”

  Then together they walked out to the road and towards the sea.

  17 MISTAKEN IDENTITY

  BOLITHO leaned back in his chair and stared wearily at the open log. He was stripped to the waist, but could feel no benefit in the overheated cabin. He touched his mouth with the pen, wondering what he should write, when there was nothing to report. Around and above him the ship swayed and dipped in a gentle south-easterly breeze, and he pitied the watch on deck, sweating out another day of relentless glare and fierce sunlight. Even the Sparrow seemed to be voicing her protest. The timbers groaned and trembled to the motion, dried out by salt and heat, and through the open windows he saw the carved scrollwork by the sill splitting open, the paint flaking away to reveal bare wood.

  Once on station north of the Little Bahama Bank he had anticipated being recalled to more active duty within a matter of weeks. But like most of his men, he had long since given up hope. Week followed week, with Sparrow and her attendant sloop, Heron, dragging their wearying patrol through July, each dawn bringing an empty horizon, and every hour tightening its grip on their small, isolated existence.

  And now it was August. Perhaps Christie had insisted on three months’ supplies because he had had no intention of recalling Sparrow until the end of that time. Maybe they had all been forgotten, or the war was over. It was as if the whole patrol area had been drained of movement. Unlike their last visit to the Bahama Banks, when they had taken prizes or had gossiped with lawful merchantmen, they had seen nothing. Their routine varied little. Usually they kept Heron’s topsails just within sight below the horizon, and on a parallel tack swept back and forth well clear of reefs and shoals. With the masthead lookouts of both sloops able to see one another, it was possible to sweep an area some sixty miles wide, unless the weather changed against them. Even a real storm would be welcome. But the agonising discomfort was getting everyone down, not least himself.

  There was a tap at the door and Dalkeith entered, his round face shining with sweat. The forenoon watch had half run its course, and Bolitho had found it necessary to meet the surgeon at this time every day when he had completed his inspection of the sick.

  He gestured to a chair. “Well?”

  Dalkeith groaned and shifted his bulk carefully to avoid the glare from the open skylight.

  “Two more down today, sir. I’ve got them below. A few days’ rest might revive ’em for a while.”

  Bolitho nodded. It was getting serious. Too much heat and not enough fresh food or fruit. Lock had already opened the last barrel of lemons. After that
. . .

  Dalkeith had been carrying a glass of water which he now stood on the table. It was the colour of tobacco juice. Without comment he took a flat bottle from his pocket and looked at Bolitho for permission to pour himself a stiff glass of rum.

  Again, it was one of their little routines. Although how the plump surgeon could stomach rum in this heat was beyond Bolitho.

  Dalkeith smacked his lips. “Better’n this water.” He frowned. “If we can’t get a fresh supply of drinking water I’ll not answer for the consequences, sir.”

  “I’ll do what I can. Maybe we can close with some small island and find a stream. But I am not too hopeful hereabouts. Was that all?”

  Dalkeith hesitated. “I’m supposed to hold my peace, but friendship and duty rarely go hand in hand. It’s the first lieutenant.”

  “Mr. Tyrrell?” Bolitho tensed. “What about him?”

  “His leg. He tries to pretend it’s all right, but I’m not happy about it.” He dropped his eyes. “Worse, I’m getting anxious.”

  “I see.” He had noticed Tyrrell’s limp getting more pronounced, but whenever he had mentioned it he had replied, “It’ll pass. Nothin’ to bite on!”

  “What d’you advise?”

  Dalkeith sighed. “I can probe for more splinters. But if that fails . . .” He took another swallow of neat rum. “I might have to cut it off.”

  “Oh God.”

  Bolitho walked to the windows and leaned out over the transom. Below, the sea looked very clear, and he could see small darting fish in the rudder’s frothing wake.

  Behind him he heard Dalkeith add firmly, “I could do it, of course. But it would have to be while he is still strong. Before the pain and this damn heat gets him down like some of the others.”

  Bolitho turned, feeling the sun across his bared back.

  “I was not doubting your ability. You’ve proved that more than enough.”