Sloop of War

by Alexander Kent

  He walked to the nettings and kicked a shadowy figure who was sleeping soundly on the bare planks.

  “Up, boy! Tell Mr. Glass to call the hands. Jump to it!”

  Bolitho went quickly to his cabin and concentrated for several minutes on his chart. Recalling what Tyrrell had told him, and adding the information to what he knew already, he settled on his plan of action. Beyond the cabin he could hear the tramp of feet at the capstan, the regular clink of a pawl as the cable came inboard.

  He put on his coat and adjusted his swordbelt. How strange the cabin looked in the solitary lantern’s light. Cleared for action like the rest of his ship, the guns creaking gently behind their sealed ports, powder and shot, rammers and sponges, all within easy reach. But no one stood near them, for like the remainder of the gun deck, every hand would be needed to raise anchor and man the long sweeps. The latter had got them out of trouble before. This time they might do the same for Tyrrell and his men.

  He left the cabin and ran swiftly up the ladder.

  It was lighter. There could be no doubt about it. A sort of greyness above Cape Henry, and he could see the swirl of currents well clear of the hull.

  He saw the long sweeps swaying above the water on either beam, the men hunched around them, chattering quietly while they awaited an order from aft.

  Heyward touched his hat. “Anchor’s hove short, sir.” He sounded tense and very alert.

  Bolitho strode from side to side, watching the ship’s swing towards the shore, the ripple of water below the gangways.

  “How does it feel? From midshipman to first lieutenant with barely a pause?”

  He did not hear Heyward’s reply, and knew he had only asked the question to cover his own anxiety. If the men lost control of the sweeps he would have to anchor immediately. Even then he might be driven too close inshore for comfort.

  From forward he heard Bethune’s cry, “Anchor’s aweigh, sir!” The patter of feet as men ran from the capstan bars to add their weight on the sweeps.

  Then Glass’s voice, “Steady! Stand by!”

  Bolitho gripped his hands together until the fingers almost cracked. Why the hell was he leaving it so late? In a moment the ship would be aground.

  “Give way all!”

  The sweeps swayed forward, dipped and then came steadily aft.

  Behind him Bolitho heard the wheel easing gently, and Buckle’s quiet cursing as he endured the tension in his own style. He tried to relax his muscles. Glass had been right to make sure of that first stroke. But it was one thing to know it, another to remain aloof in the face of danger to his ship.

  Up and down, forward to aft, the sweeps creaked busily but without undue haste, until Buckle called, “Steerage way, sir!”

  “Good. Hold her due north, if you please.”

  Heyward removed his coat. “I’ll go and lend a hand, sir.”

  “Yes. Make sure we have every available man working. Those redcoats as well, if they have the strength.” He checked him as he ran for the ladder. “There is no need to tell the soldiers we are heading towards the enemy, Mr. Heyward!” He saw him grin. “They’ll find out soon enough.”

  Buckle and a solitary seaman stood at the wheel, and Bolitho walked right aft to the taffrail without speaking. He saw the nearest cape more clearly now, the pattern of white-caps at its base to mark some small cove. An empty place. When daylight came, and Heron was seen to be gone, his men might question his action, and rightly. But if their presence was to be of any use to the admiral, then they must learn everything possible. The released soldiers had told them much. But a lot could have changed since they had been taken. He smiled grimly. He was deluding himself. But for Tyrrell and the others, would he really have remained here in the bay?

  He heard shouts on deck and someone speaking in French. Heyward was more than a good companion, he was proving to be an excellent officer. Without further consultation, and at the risk of his captain’s displeasure, he had released the French prisoners and put them to work. All strong, beefy soldiers who had led a fairly comfortable life guarding prisoners, they would make a small but significant difference to the heavy sweeps.

  Some gulls rose screaming angrily from the water where they had been sleeping as the Sparrow moved amongst them at a slow but steady crawl. Time dragged by, and Bolitho saw that the soldiers’ coats were red again instead of black as they had appeared in the darkness. Faces regained personality, and he was able to see those who were standing the strain and others who were being relieved at more frequent intervals to regain their breath.

  A blacker shadow loomed and held firm across the starboard bow. That must be the inner side of Cape Charles, he decided, with Tyrell’s middle-ground some distance below it.

  “Bring her up a point, Mr. Buckle.” He heard the helm squeak. “We must pass the cape with the mainland to larboard. There’ll not be too much water in the channel, so hold her steady.”

  “Aye, sir. Nor’ by east it is!”

  The ship was heading almost directly into the wind, and he could feel it on his face, smell the land and its freshness in the dawn air. But it was more sheltered, and he was relieved to see the sweeps were still moving in unison, although the actual progress was probably less than a knot.

  He sought out the young ensign and called him aft. He arrived panting on the quarterdeck, and Bolitho said, “Look abeam. How near are your outposts?”

  The soldier peered across the larboard nettings and raised one arm.

  “That bit of land, sir. That’ll he the turning point. A lot of sand there. We lost some barges a few weeks back when they ran ashore. A mile or so further and you’ll be able to see the mouth of York River just beyond a pair of small islands.”

  Bolitho smiled. “I expect you’re surprised we’re heading this way.”

  The ensign shrugged. “I am past surprise, sir.” He stiffened. “I heard a bugle. That’ll be our lads.” He tapped the rail with his fingers, his face engrossed. Then there was a long-drawn-out trumpet call, which sent a cloud of gulls flapping and squeaking from the land. He said, “The Frogs. Always a minute behind our reveille.”

  Bolitho tried to break him from his mood. “What of the Americans?”

  The ensign sighed. “They have artillery over the river. They’ll start firing at first light. More effective than any damn bugle!”

  Bolitho turned towards Buckle. “We will keep on this course as long as our people have strength for it. The wind will favour us when we finally go about, but I want to get as far above York River as I can.”

  He looked aloft and saw the masthead pendant for the first time. It was flapping gently astern, but showed no warning of a strengthening wind. If it got up now, his men would be unable to hold the stroke. Even with Tyrrell’s boat crews it would have been hard. Without them, impossible.

  When he glanced abeam he saw the overhanging spur of Cape Charles, and far beyond it, like a thin gold thread, the horizon. Showing its face to the sun which was easing into view, parting sea from sky, night from day.

  There was a muffled bang, and seconds later he saw the telltale white fin of spray to mark where a ball had ploughed into the bay.

  The ensign remarked indifferently, “They’ll never reach you at this range. You’ve a good half a mile to play with.”

  “Where is the battery?”

  The soldier studied him curiously. “Everywhere, sir. There are guns right round this sector. Yorktown and its approaches are hemmed in a ring of iron. Our army has the sea at its back.” He suddenly looked very young and vulnerable. “Only the fleet can bring relief.”

  Bolitho pictured Farr’s Heron making all haste towards New York. Even there he might find Hood gone, perhaps further still to Newport to contain de Barras.

  He thought, too, of Odell’s solitary vigil in his Lucifer . If the French did come by way of the little-used Bahama Channel, he would need no encouragement to make sail and run.

  He blinked as a shaft of sunlight played across the distant c
ape and coloured the yards and stays like honey. He pulled out his watch. Tyrrell should have made his contact with Cornwallis’s pickets and be on his way back to Lynnhaven by now. By weighing and putting the men to the sweeps, their meeting should have been brought forward by an hour at least.

  Glass ran up the ladder, his chest heaving from exertion.

  “Can’t hold ’em much longer, sir!” He peered down at the sweeps, at their sluggish rise and fall. “Shall I put the rope’s end to ’em, sir?”

  “You will not.” Bolitho looked away. There was no malice in Glass, nor was he prone to unnecessary force. It was just that he did not know what else to do. “Tell them. Another half hour. Then we make sail, or anchor.”

  Glass shifted awkwardly. “It’d be better from you, sir.”

  Bolitho walked to the rail and called, “One more turn of the glass, lads!” He heard groans, the mingled curses and gasps from those still hidden in shadow. “It’s that or leave our people out there to fend for themselves! Remember, it might have been you!”

  He turned away, not knowing if his words had achieved anything but resentment.

  Glass watched critically and then spat on his hands. “That done it, sir! Better already!”

  Bolitho sighed. The stroke looked as weary as before, but if the boatswain was satisfied, then . . .

  He swung round as a voice called, “Boat, sir! Fine on the lar-board bow!”

  Bolitho gripped the rail. “Just the one?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Bring her round two points to larboard.”

  Bolitho tried not to think about the missing boat. He felt the hull yaw, the stroke failing as the helm went over.

  The soldier said quietly, “No closer, I pray you. You’ll be in cannon-shot before long.”

  Bolitho ignored him. “Pull, lads! Come on, do your damndest!”

  One man fell exhausted from a loom and was dragged away by Dalkeith.

  The lookout yelled, “It’s the second cutter, sir! Mr. Graves!”

  Dalkeith heaved himself up the ladder and stood at the rail.

  “I know what you’re thinking, sir.” He did not flinch under Bolitho’s cold stare. “He’d not leave you. Not for anything.”

  Bolitho looked past his shoulder at a patch of land. In the strengthening light he saw tall trees and a round hill beyond. They were motionless. The sweeps were only keeping Sparrow steady against wind and current. In a minute she would start to pay-off and drift inshore. They had done their best. It was not enough.

  He snapped, “Damn your eyes, Mr. Dalkeith! I’ll not be lectured by you!”

  He leaned over the rail. “Mr. Heyward! Stand by to let go the anchor!”

  Bolitho waited while men ran to the call and Glass sent others to bear down on the flagging sweeps where exhausted sailors had fallen to the deck. He heard a bang and saw a ball ricochet across the water to throw up a plume of spray very close to the approaching cutter. The boat was moving rapidly towards him, and he could see Graves by the tiller, his hat awry as he beat out the time to his oarsmen.

  “Ready, sir!”

  He chopped with his arm. “Let go!”

  Even as the anchor took grip and the bull swung carelessly to the cable, he yelled, “Withdraw sweeps! Mr. Glass, get those men on their feet!”

  Dalkeith stood his ground. “You can’t blame yourself, sir.” He met Bolitho’s gaze stubbornly. “Curse me if you will, but I’ll not stand by and see you torment yourself.”

  The cutter was hooking on to the main chains, and he heard Graves shouting at the men on deck to make fast his lines.

  He said quietly, “Thank you for your concern. But there is no one else to blame.”

  He made himself wait by the rail until Graves had scrabbled aboard, and then called sharply, “Lay aft, if you please! The boatswain can deal with the cutter.”

  Graves hurried towards him, his face twitching violently.

  Bolitho asked, “Where are the others?” He kept his voice very calm, but was conscious of his whole being screaming at Graves’s stricken face.

  “We grounded in some shallows, sir. Both boats separated. It was the first lieutenant’s idea. A patrol of soldiers had signalled where we should secure the boats, but there was some shooting. Enemy marksmen, I believe.”

  “And then?” He could feel others standing nearby, see Heyward’s frozen expression as he listened to Graves’s quick, erratic account.

  “In the darkness we were all trying to take cover. I lost a man, and Tyrrell sent word for us to stay hidden in a creek.” He shook his head vaguely. “The balls were flying everywhere. Tyrrell was going to meet one of the officers. They knew we were coming, apparently. Their scouts had seen us.” His mouth jerked uncontrollably. “We stayed there waiting, and then there was more firing, and I heard men charging through the brush, there must have been a platoon or more!”

  “Did you not think of going to assist Mr. Tyrrell?”

  Graves stared at him, his eyes blank. “We were in mortal danger! I sent Fowler to find the others, but . . .”

  “You did what?” Bolitho reached out and gripped his coat. “You sent that boy on his own?”

  “He—he volunteered, sir.” Graves looked down at Bolitho’s hand on his coat. “When he failed to return I decided to”—he raised his eyes, suddenly composed— “to obey your orders and withdraw to the ship.”

  Bolitho released his hold and turned away. He felt sick and appalled with what Graves had done. The lieutenant’s pathetic defiance made it worse, if that were possible. He had obeyed orders. So his crime was acceptable.

  A puff of smoke rose above the nearest spit of land, and he saw the ball drop within half a cable of the ship. Even now, some officer might be ordering up a heavier gun. One which would make short work of so promising a target.

  He heard himself say, “Tell Mr. Yule to run out the larboard bow-chaser and lay it on that gunsmoke. He will fire with grape until I order otherwise. It might cool their eagerness.”

  He walked past Graves without a glance.

  “Have the cutter manned at once.” He looked down at the silent seamen on the gun deck. “I want volunteers for . . .” He swallowed as the assembled men moved towards the side as if drawn by wires. “Thank you. But just a boat’s crew. Mr. Glass, see to it at once!”

  To Heyward he added, “You will remain here.” He did not look at Graves. “If I fall, you will assist the master in getting the ship under way, understood?”

  Heyward nodded, his eyes filling his face.

  Dalkeith touched his arm. “Look, sir!”

  It was the other cutter, or what was left of it. Even in the poor light it was possible to see the splintered gunwale, the few remaining oars which moved it so very slowly on the uneasy water.

  There was a bang and another waterspout shot skyward just beyond it. The hidden gun had shifted to a smaller but closer target.

  Bolitho flinched as Yule’s crew fired their first shot from forward, saw the trees quiver as if in a freak gust as the packed grape scythed towards the drifting smoke.

  “A glass!”

  He hardly dared to raise it to his eye. Then he saw the cutter, the scars in its side left by musket balls, the lolling corpses still propped between the remaining oarsmen. Then he saw Tyrrell. He was sitting on the gunwale right aft, someone draped across his knees as he steered the boat past the white patch left by the enemy’s ball.

  He said quietly, “Thank God.”

  The bow-chaser hurled itself inboard again, dragging him from his thoughts, his overwhelming relief.

  He shouted, “Mr. Bethune, take the cutter and assist Mr. Tyrrell!” He looked for Buckle. “Get the hands aloft and prepare to loose tops’ls!”

  All exhaustion and dread at Graves’s report seemed to be fading as men tore to their stations. The cutter was pulling from the side, Bethune standing upright as he urged his crew to greater efforts.

  Dalkeith said, “Well, sir . . .” He got no further.

>   One of the topmen who had reached the uppermost yard before his companions yelled, “Deck there! Sail comin’ around th’ ’eadland!”

  Bolitho snatched a glass and trained it above the nettings. She was standing well out from the bay, but was already tacking frantically towards Cape Henry. It was the Lucifer .

  Odell would be shocked to find no fleet, nor even Heron at anchor. He tensed. There was damage to the schooner’s mizzen, and she was handling sluggishly as she tried to beat closer to the entrance. She must have been caught unprepared by another ship, perhaps under cover of darkness. There was no mistaking the flapping rents in her great foresail, the uneven spread of rigging.

  He saw flags breaking to the wind, and held the glass motionless while his lips spelled out the brief signal.

  He turned to Buckle. “Enemy in sight.”

  “God A’mighty.”

  “Mr. Heyward!” He saw him swing round from the capstan.

  “Stand by to cut the cable! We will not recover the boats, but make sail as soon as our people are aboard!”

  He heard a chorus of shouts, and when he turned aft he saw Lucifer folding her great sails like the wings of a dying bird. She must have risked everything to reach him with her news, even to make that one vital signal. She had driven too close and had struck the shoals which Tyrrell had described so vividly.

  He made himself walk to the rail and look for the boats. Tyrrell’s cutter was almost awash, but Bethune was there, and he saw the wounded being hauled across, a patch of scarlet to mark at least one soldier in the party.

  Several more guns were firing now, and balls threw up tall splashes in the pale sunlight like a line of leaping dolphins.

  Some of the topmen gave a ragged cheer as Bethune cast the waterlogged cutter adrift and headed back towards Sparrow .

  Bolitho turned towards Graves who was standing much as before. “Take charge of your guns.” He kept his voice formal without understanding why or how. He could picture Lucifer’s frail hull breaking up on the rocks and Tyrrell’s shattered boat trying to reach Sparrow . He could even see young Fowler, a mere child, running through some unknown woods while shots shrieked all about him. “Do your duty. That is all I ask of you.” He looked away. “All I will ever ask of you again.”