Sloop of War

by Alexander Kent

  Dalkeith said grimly, “I was at a fine hospital in London before I left England.” He grimaced. “We practised on the poor and worked for the wealthy. It was a hard training ground, but very useful.”

  “Will you return when the war is over?” He tried not to think of Tyrrell being held on a table, the saw poised above his leg.

  Dalkeith shook his head. “No. I’ll settle out here somewhere. Maybe in America, who can tell?” He gave a wry smile. “I am afraid that I had to leave England in somewhat of a hurry. A matter of honour over a lady.”

  “I have wondered these three years where you found your skill with pistols.”

  Dalkeith nodded. “Unfortunately, I shot the wrong man. His death was considered a greater loss than mine, so I caught the packet from Dover, and eventually, two years later, I arrived in the Indies.”

  “Thank you for telling me.” Bolitho massaged his stomach with the palm of one hand. “I will see what I can do to obtain a berth in another ship, if and when we are ordered home.”

  The surgeon lurched to his feet. “I would appreciate that.” He watched Bolitho doubtfully. “And Tyrrell?”

  “I’ll speak with him.” He turned away. “In God’s name, what do I say? How would I feel if it were me?”

  Dalkeith rested his hand on the bulkhead until Sparrow had completed a slow uproll.

  “I can’t answer. I’m just a surgeon.”

  “Aye.” Bolitho looked at him gravely. “And I’m just a captain.”

  Midshipman Bethune clattered through the wardroom and paused outside the cabin.

  “Mr. Graves’s respects, sir. Heron has signalled she has sighted an unknown sail to the east’rd.”

  “Very well. I’ll come up.”

  Dalkeith waited for Bethune to go. “Recall to New York, sir? If so, I could take Tyrrell to a hospital. They have facilities, proper care.”

  Bolitho shook his head. “I fear not. That sail will be from the south’rd to be on such a bearing. Friend or foe, we have yet to see.”

  He heard Dalkeith sigh as he left him and hurried up the ladder to the quarterdeck.

  He glanced quickly at the helmsman who called hoarsely, “Nor’ nor’-west, sir!” His lips were cracked in the heat.

  Graves reported, “Our masthead has not sighted her yet, sir.” His mouth jerked at one corner and he added quickly, “Could be anything.”

  It was an empty comment, but Bolitho knew it was merely to cover his embarrassment. He had seen the growing strain on Graves perhaps worst of all. Now the twitch in his jaw laid bare his inner torment like the mark of some disease.

  “Very well. Call the hands and prepare to run down on Heron. Get the t’gallants on her and lay her on the starboard tack.” He saw Buckle climbing wearily through the hatchway and called, “A sail, Mr. Buckle! Maybe it’ll bring us luck today!”

  The master pouted. “’Bout time, sir.”

  Bolitho heard the familiar limping step and turned to see Tyrrell walking from the larboard gangway.

  Tyrrell grinned. “A sail, did I hear, sir?” He shaded his eyes as he watched the men mustering at their stations. “Now there’s a thing indeed!”

  Bolitho bit his lip. It made it more painful to see Tyrrell’s new contentment. To know what must be done. That was if Dalkeith knew his trade. And he did.

  On the horizon he could see Heron’s sails glinting brightly, and knew Farr would wait for him to join him. To break the monotony if nothing else.

  Within the hour the stranger had identified herself. It was the Lucifer, her great schooner sails spread like wings as she ran before the wind, the spray bursting above her jib-boom in a lively silver pattern.

  Fowler was in the lee shrouds with a telescope, his small, piggy face glowing with heat.

  “From Lucifer. Have despatches on board.” He looked down at the quarterdeck as if proud of his revelation.

  “Heave to, Mr. Tyrrell.”

  Bolitho watched the mad dash aboard Lucifer to shorten sail and put her about before running down beneath Sparrow’s lee. A fine little vessel. Had she been his instead of Sparrow, he wondered if his life would have been changed to the same extent.

  He saw the haste with which the schooner’s boat was being hoisted out above the water. Something acted like a small warning in his mind, and he said, “Signal Heron . Captain repair on board.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!” Fowler snapped his fingers and continued to do so until the flags had broken from Sparrow’s yard.

  Farr’s gig hooked on the chains within minutes of Lucifer’s jolly boat.

  Odell had come aboard in person, and as he removed his hat to the quarterdeck and darted a sharp glance at Bolitho’s bare torso, Farr climbed up beside him and said cheerfully, “By God, what brings you here, man? Were you pining for us in Antigua?”

  Odell walked a few paces clear and then faced them.

  “The French are out, sir.”

  For a moment nobody spoke. Bolitho held the words in his mind, yet was also aware of those about him. Stockdale by the hatchway, slightly stooped as if to hear better. Buckle and Tyrrell, their faces showing astonishment and more. Relief perhaps that the guessing was over.

  “Come below.”

  Bolitho led them to his cabin, the heat and the drudgery of patrol forgotten.

  Odell sat on the edge of a chair, his features giving little hint of strain at driving his command all those miles from Antigua.

  Bolitho said quietly, “Now, tell us.”

  “I carried the despatches to the fleet as ordered.”

  Odell had a quick, erratic manner of speaking, nodding his head in time with his words. It was not hard to see how he got his reputation for being slightly mad. A man on a knife-edge, Bolitho suspected. But there was no doubting the accuracy of his report.

  “Admiral Rodney despatched a fleet of fourteen ships-ofthe-line to assist our forces at New York.”

  Farr muttered, “By God, that’s more like it. I’ve no stomach for our Admiral Graves.”

  Odell’s eyes flashed dangerously at the interruption.

  He snapped, “Rodney has sailed for England. He is a sick man. Hood commands the reinforcements.”

  Farr was unabashed. “Ah well, even better, I’ve served Admiral Hood and respect him.”

  Bolitho said, “Let us hear all of it. I suspect there is more.”

  Odell nodded. “The Compte de Grasse set sail with some twenty sail-of-the-line. The patrols reported that he was escorting the season’s convoy clear of the islands.”

  Bolitho said, “That is quite usual, I believe.”

  “Yes. But de Grasse has not been seen since.” The words fell into the cabin like round-shot.

  Farr exclaimed, “A whole fleet! Disappeared? It’s bloody impossible!”

  “But fact.” Odell glared at him. “Admiral Hood’s ships must have passed this area well to the east’rd. And there are several frigates searching elsewhere.” He spread his hands. “But of de Grasse there is no sign.”

  “God!” Farr looked at Bolitho. “What d’you make of that?”

  Odell said testily, “I could relish a glass, sir. I am as dry as a pauper’s loaf.”

  Bolitho opened his cupboard and handed him a decanter.

  He said, “Hood will join with Graves at Sandy Hook. They will still be outnumbered, but can give good account if de Grasse chooses to head their way.”

  Farr said less firmly, “And Hood will show the damn Frogs, eh?”

  Bolitho replied, “His fleet is larger than Admiral Graves’s. But Graves is senior now that Rodney has gone home.” He looked at Farr’s anxious face. “I am afraid Graves will lead our forces if and when the time comes.”

  He turned to Odell, who was drinking his second glass of wine.

  “Do you know anything else?”

  He shrugged. “I understood that Admiral Hood will examine Chesapeake Bay while on passage to New York. Some believe the French may strike at Cornwallis’s army from the sea. If not, then New Yor
k is to be the melting pot.”

  Bolitho made himself sit down. It was strange to be so moved by Odell’s information. For months, even years, they had expected some great confrontation at sea. There had been skirmishes and bitter ship-to-ship actions in plenty. But this was what they had all known would happen sooner or later. Who commanded the waters around America controlled the Destiny of those who fought within its boundaries.

  He said, “One thing is certain, we are doing no good here.”

  Farr asked, “Are you saying we should join the fleet?”

  “Something like that.”

  He tried to clear his mind, put Odell’s brief facts into perspective. De Grasse could be anywhere, but it was ridiculous to imagine he had sailed back to France, his mission left incomplete. Without his presence in the Indies, the British would be able to throw every ship and man into the fight for America, and de Grasse was astute enough to know his own value.

  He moved to the table and pulled a chart from its rack. It was close on seven hundred miles to Cape Henry at the mouth of Chesapeake Bay. With the wind remaining friendly they could make landfall in five days. If Admiral Hood’s ships were lying there he could request further orders. Sloops would be more than useful for searching close inshore or relaying signals in a fleet action.

  Bolitho said slowly, “I intend to head north. To the Chesapeake.”

  Farr stood up and exclaimed, “Good! I’m with you.”

  Odell asked, “Are you taking full responsibility, sir!” His eyes were opaque.

  “Yes. I would wish you to remain here in case any ships come this way. If they do, you can come after us with all haste.”

  “Very well, sir.” Odell added calmly, “I would like it in writing.”

  “Damn your eyes, you impudent puppy!” Farr thumped the table with his fist. “Where’s your bloody trust?”

  Odell shrugged. “I trust Captain Bolitho, have no doubts, sir.” He gave a quick smile. “But if he and you are both killed, who is to say I only obeyed orders?”

  Bolitho nodded. “That is fair. I will do it directly.” He saw the two men watching each other with open hostility. “Easy now. Right or wrong, it will be good to move again. So let’s not start with disharmony, eh?”

  Odell showed his teeth. “I meant no offence, sir.”

  Farr swallowed hard. “In that case, I suppose.” He grinned broadly. “But by God, Odell, you push me to the limit!”

  “A glass together.”

  Bolitho wanted to go on deck, to share his news with Tyrrell and the others. But he knew this moment was equally vital. Just a few seconds, which each would remember when the other ships were mere silhouettes.

  He raised his glass. “What shall it be, my friends?”

  Farr met his eye and smiled. He at least understood. “To us, Dick. That will do fine for me.”

  Bolitho placed his empty glass on the table. A simple toast. But, King, Cause, even Country were too remote, the future too uncertain. They had only each other and their three little ships to sustain them.

  With legs braced against Sparrow’s uncomfortable, cork-screwing motion, Bolitho levelled a telescope across the nettings and waited for the shoreline to settle in the lens. It was close on sunset, and as the dull orange glow withdrew beyond the nearest shoulder of land he forced himself to concentrate on what he saw, rather than what he had anticipated from his charts. Around him other glasses were also trained, and he heard Tyrrell’s heavy breathing at his side, the squeak of a pencil on Buckle’s slate by the wheel.

  Within a few miles of Cape Henry, the southernmost cape at the entrance of Chesapeake Bay, the wind had backed sharply, and backed again. A full day had been added to their previously fast passage, and as they had clawed desperately from a lee shore, had fought to obtain sea room, Bolitho had watched the bay fading across the quarter with something like anger. And now, after their long beat back towards the entrance, he was faced by a new decision. To lie offshore until dawn, or take his chance and thrust between Cape Henry and the northern headland in what would certainly be total darkness.

  Tyrrell lowered his glass. “I know this entrance well. There’s a great middle-ground which reaches into th’ bay. With care you can pass either side, but with th’ wind under our coattails I’d suggest trying th’ southern channel. If you stay to lee’rd of th’ middle-ground you can hold mebbe three miles clear of Cape Henry.” He rubbed his chin. “If you misjudge and tack too far to south’rd, you’ll have to move lively. There are shoals off th’ cape, an’ bad ones at that.”

  Bolitho shifted the telescope to watch some dancing red flashes far inland.

  Tyrrell remarked, “Cannon. Good way off.”

  Bolitho nodded. If Tyrrell was feeling the strain of drawing so near to his home territory he did not show it.

  Tyrrell continued, “Up beyond York River, I reckon. Heavy artillery, by th’ looks of it.”

  Heyward, who was standing nearby, said, “No sign of any ships, sir.”

  “There wouldn’t be.” Tyrrell was watching Bolitho. “Just around Cape Henry lies Lynnhaven Bay. Good shelter where big ships anchor sometimes when there’s foul weather around. No, you’d not even see a fleet from out here.” He paused. “You’d have to go inside th’ old Chesapeake.”

  Bolitho handed the glass to Fowler. “I agree. If we wait longer the wind might veer. We’d be on a lee shore again and lose more time fighting clear from it.”

  He turned to look for Heron . Her reefed topsails were still holding the fast fading sunlight, but beyond her the sea was in deep shadow.

  “Show the signal lantern to Heron . Captain Farr knows what to do.”

  He turned to Tyrrell. “The place is badly charted.”

  Tyrrell grinned, his eyes glowing in the dull light. “Unless things have changed, I reckon I can take us through.”

  Fowler called, “Signal passed, sir!”

  Bolitho made up his mind. “Alter course two points to starboard.” To Tyrrell he added slowly, “I hate entering any bay like this one. I feel more secure in open sea.”

  The lieutenant sighed. “Aye. Th’ Chesapeake is a brute in many ways. North to south it measures close on a hundred an’ forty miles. You can sail a fair-sized craft right up to Baltimore without too much hardship. But it measures less’n thirty across, an’ that’s only where the Patowmack flows into it.”

  Buckle called, “Course sou’-west, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  Bolitho watched the nearest headland of Cape Charles losing its bronze crest as the sun finally dipped behind a line of hills.

  “You may clear for action, Mr. Tyrrell. Better safe than sorry.”

  He wondered briefly what Farr was thinking as he tacked to follow Sparrow’s shadow towards the dark mass of land. Doubt, regret, even mistrust. You could hardly blame him. It was like groping for coal in a shuttered cellar.

  Under his shoes he felt the planks quiver to the hurrying seamen, the thud of screens being torn down and mess tables dragged clear of tackles and guns. That was another difference he had found in Sparrow . Even clearing for action had a sort of intimacy which was lacking in a ship-of-the-line. In Trojan the hands had scurried to quarters, urged on by the drums’ staccato beat and the blare of a marine’s bugle. Sometimes you never knew men who did not serve in your own watch or division. But here it was entirely different. Men nodded to each other as they dashed to their stations, a grin here, a brief touch of hands there. In many ways it made death harder to accept, a man’s cries too personal to ignore.

  “Cleared for action, sir.”

  “Good.” Bolitho gripped the nettings and watched the tiny feathers of surf far abeam, “Alter course another point.”

  “Aye, sir.” Buckle was muttering to his helmsmen. Then, “Sou’-west by south, sir.”

  “Hold her steady.”

  He moved restlessly below the great spanker, seeing a faint glow on the boom from the compass bowl.

  There were already plenty of st
ars in the velvet sky, and there would be a moon on the water in a few hours. But by then he must be inside the bay.

  Tyrrell joined him by the wheel. “It’s a strange feeling. My sister’ll be no more than fifty miles from where I’m standing. I can still remember it clearly. Th’ York River, th’ place in th’ woods where we used to get together as kids . . .” He turned and said sharply, “Let her fall off a point. Mr. Buckle! Mr. Bethune, take some men forrard and trim the foreyard again!” He waited until he was satisfied with the ship’s head and the bearing of the nearest cape and continued, “It’s a funny business all round.”

  Bolitho agreed. After the first few weeks he had not thought much about Susannah Hardwicke. Now, as he pictured an unknown girl out there in the darkness beyond the occasional flash of gunfire, he realised how their lives had become merged. Tyrrell’s sister, and Graves’s secret longings for her. Dalkeith’s affair of honour which had cost him his career and almost his life. And himself? He was surprised he could still not examine her memory without regret and a sense of loss.

  When he looked again he realised that Cape Charles had merged with the shadows. A quick glance at Tyrrell reassured him. He seemed relaxed, even cheerful, as he stood where he could watch the compass and the set of the spanker overhead. But for the treacherous span of middle-ground, they could have sailed boldly between the capes with a comfortable four miles or more on either beam.

  Tyrrell said, “We will alter course again, with your permission, sir.”

  “She’s in your hands.”

  Tyrrell grinned. “Aye, aye, sir.” To Buckle he called, “Steer-west by north, full an’ bye!”

  Then he cupped his hands and yelled, “Pipe th’ hands to th’ braces!”

  With the helm down and the seamen hauling at the braces, Sparrow turned her bows towards the land. Voices called in the gloom, and above the decks the paler shapes of arms and legs moved busily about the yards.

  “West by north, sir!” Buckle peered at the flapping sails as the ship heeled still further, close-hauled on the starboard tack.

  Tyrrell limped from side to side, his arm darting out to catch a man’s attention, or his voice sending another to pass his orders right forward where Graves was equally busy.