Secrets of the Fearless

by Elizabeth Laird

  ‘I hope it’s important, Mr Tawse. The captain and I have matters to attend to.’

  ‘I believe it is, Mr Erskine. John, show Mr Erskine the book.’

  John fetched the booklet out from the inner pocket of his jacket.

  ‘It’s like this, sir,’ he said, ‘I’ve had this since I came on board, though I didn’t know it, and it’s already caused me some trouble, and I didn’t know what it was, but I think I do now, sir. I think it’s a code. It’s partly in French, Kit says.’

  The first lieutenant had been frowning as he tried to follow this muddled speech, but when he’d looked through the booklet he raised his eyebrows in amazement.

  ‘How did you get hold of this?’ he said.

  ‘I . . . It’s a long story, sir.’

  Mr Erskine carefully shut the booklet and gave it back to John.

  ‘The captain needs to hear about this immediately. You’d better come in and tell him about it yourself.’

  Brilliant light from the setting sun flooded into the captain’s cabin through the long rows of windows which stretched across the entire end of the room. It sparkled on the crystal glasses, the silver spoons and the polished surface of the great mahogany table, dazzling John and Kit and making them blink.

  Captain Bannerman was standing at the table staring down at a chart.

  ‘What is this?’ he snapped, his ferocious jaw working.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir,’ said Mr Tawse, a note of humility in his voice which the boys had never heard before. ‘The lads ’ere ’as something to show you.’

  ‘To show me? What?’

  John felt a prod in his back as Mr Tawse pushed him forwards.

  ‘It’s this, sir,’ he said, putting the booklet into the captain’s hands.

  Captain Bannerman flicked through it impatiently, then, his attention caught, he held it closer and his brows snapped together.

  ‘A cipher, by God. It’s a damned French cipher. How, in heaven’s name, did this come to be in the possession of a pair of scrubby ship’s boys, and why haven’t I been informed before?’

  ‘Tell the captain, John,’ Mr Tawse said, looking a little anxious himself, ‘and mind you tell ’im proper.’

  Hesitant at first, but growing in confidence as he spoke, John told his story again. Silence lay on the great cabin as he related the scene in the lawyer’s office, and the captain’s eyes under their mighty brows never left his face.

  ‘And it’s my belief,’ John finished off, ‘that my father gathered up this book when he picked up the papers from the floor where the wind had blown them, and accidentally put it with his own in the satchel.’

  ‘Quite possible. Very possible,’ rumbled the captain. ‘Halkett’s the fellow’s name, eh? Scurvy Edinburgh lawyers. Trick an honest seaman out of the coat on his back if they could.’

  John’s voice faltered as he recounted Mr Higgins’s attempts to get the satchel, and he dropped his eyes in the face of the gathering wrath in the captain’s expression.

  ‘What’s this? My own bosun’s mate? In some secret business with a French spy book? Mind what you’re saying, boy. Is this the truth? Mr Tawse, is the boy telling the truth?’

  ‘Aye, sir. I believe he is.’

  The captain seemed about to explode into speech, but he drew a deep breath, tightened his lips and said, ‘Mr Tawse, take these two boys out on to the quarterdeck while I confer with Mr Erskine. Not a word of this business is to pass to anyone else on board this ship, do you understand? Not a word, lads, or I’ll have you in irons on bread and water for a week.’

  A moment later, Mr Tawse and the two boys were out once more on the deck, the curious eyes of the marine guards boring into their backs.

  ‘Mr Higgins isn’t really a French spy, is he, Mr Tawse?’ asked John. ‘I don’t see how he can be.’

  The idea seemed incredible to him. French spies, he’d always supposed, wore masks and long black cloaks, carried daggers in their hands and looked like Spanish bandits.

  ‘’Ow should I know,’ answered Mr Tawse. ‘Besides, it ain’t your business to think ill of your betters until the captain ’isself gives you leave.’ But he spoilt the effect of this crushing speech by adding, ‘I never did like the man. Never trust a fellow who ill-treats ’is servants, that’s my motto. I’m right sorry that I gave Nat Claypole over to ’im whenever I see the misery in that poor boy’s face.’

  The sun had set by the time they were summoned back into the great cabin and the lantern had been lit above the table. John looked around the room, marvelling at its spaciousness, the portraits on the walls, the elegant tables and chairs and the colourful rug on the floor. The cramped, noisy quarters of the seamen on the gun deck just below the floorboards seemed to belong to another world.

  ‘Mr Tawse, and you boys, John – is it? – and Kit.’ The captain was addressing them from the chair at the head of the table. ‘This is a delicate matter of high importance to the war, the safety of Britain, her king, her soldiers and her seamen.’

  The solemnity in his voice brought goose pimples out on John’s arms. He was listening with every nerve.

  ‘You have done well so far,’ the captain went on. ‘You will be called upon to do even more in future. You understand, I take it, the importance of this little book?’

  ‘We thought it might be a French code for writing in secret, sir,’ said Kit, speaking for the first time.

  Captain Bannerman’s eyes rested on him.

  ‘Good. You are the boy, are you not, who recognized that this book was written in French? How do you come to know that language?’

  Beside him, John felt Kit stiffen.

  ‘My . . . my father was French, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Then your name is not, in fact, Smith, as Mr Erskine informed me?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Kit’s hands were clenched tightly by his sides. ‘I was obliged, for certain reasons, to assume a name that . . .’

  ‘Your real name?’ rapped out the captain.

  Kit lifted his chin.

  ‘Christophe de Jalignac. My father was the Marquis de Vaumas. He was guillotined by the revolutionaries before I was born. But my mother was English. She was the daughter of Mr Stapleton of Farnhurst Park in Surrey.’

  John shot a sideways look at Kit, amazed at this revelation. Mr Tawse’s mouth had fallen open with surprise, but Mr Erskine was looking at Kit with a puzzled expression, as if he was struggling to recall a memory.

  ‘And how is it,’ the captain said, ‘that such a well-born young gentleman is a common ship’s servant, not acting with the officers as a midshipman?’

  Kit was looking more and more uncomfortable.

  ‘My relatives are all dead, sir. I have no money, and no one to take an interest in me. I am content, sir, to be where I am. There are reasons – I don’t wish any notice to be taken of me, sir!’

  The captain shot him one more curious glance, then nodded his head and turned to John.

  ‘You have realized, John, that a certain member of the ship’s crew, Mr Higgins, the bosun’s mate, in fact, has behaved in a manner to arouse our suspicions. It is highly improper for a boy to be privy to doubts about his superior, but in this case it is unavoidable. Lads, you are going to set a trap for our bosun’s mate.’

  ‘A trap, sir?’ John’s voice came out as a squeak.

  ‘Mr Erskine, explain,’ the captain said, with a wave of his hand.

  Mr Erskine leaned forward, a smile lighting up the good side of his face.

  ‘I believe you will enjoy this, boys. You will leave the booklet with me tonight, and I will make a copy of it. When I have returned it to you, you will remove from the satchel any papers you wish to keep and put the booklet back in it. You are to let Mr Higgins’s young servant – what was his name? Ah yes, Nat – find it and steal it.’

  ‘Steal it? But surely . . .’ John blurted out.

  Mr Erskine held up his hand.

  ‘Listen, John. If the French believe that their code has fall
en into our hands, they will change it, and issue new code books to all their people. Our advantage will be lost. They must believe that they have recovered the code book, and that its identity remains unknown. They’ll go on writing messages in this code, and if any fall into the hands of the British, our secret service will be able to read them. Think what this means – the movement of the French armies, the secret orders of Napoleon, the positions of their ships at sea – what a gift that will be to our country! Now do you understand?’

  John was grinning with excitement.

  ‘Yes, sir, but how will Mr Higgins be able to return the book to the French, once he has it in his possession?’

  ‘The boy Nat has told you already that Mr Higgins has some kind of signalling system in operation,’ growled the captain. ‘We must wait and see. If the rascal is working for the French, as we suspect, he’ll make a move. And once he shows his hand . . .’

  The scowl on his face was terrifying.

  ‘Precisely,’ nodded Mr Erskine. ‘And in the meantime, we’ll send the copy off on the next British frigate that comes this way, so that our secret service can make use of it at once.’

  The scowl had suddenly vanished from the captain’s brow and a rumble of laughter was shaking the front of his white silk waistcoat.

  ‘An adventure, boys, eh? But secrecy is vital. Mr Tawse, how many of your people know of this matter?’

  Mr Tawse frowned.

  ‘My mate, Jabez Barton, but ’e’s a good man. Keeps ’is mouth corked up tight as a bottle when ’e ’as a mind to it. Tom Todd, he’s a rattle but ’e weren’t there when this came out. Davey, though . . .’

  ‘Davey doesn’t know,’ said Kit. ‘He was busy with Horace while we were talking. He can’t have heard what we were saying.’

  ‘Horace? Who the devil is Horace?’ said the captain.

  ‘Mr Barton’s parrot, sir,’ answered the master gunner tartly, ‘and a plaguy bird ’e is too. Beak on him like a blacksmith’s pincers.’

  The captain threw his head back and let out a roar of laughter.

  ‘A parrot! I think we must trust the parrot. I will leave it to you, Mr Erskine, to ensure the silence of the marines at my door who will have seen and heard more than is good for them. Now, Mr Tawse, there will be speculation as to why you have made this visit to the quarterdeck, which will arouse Mr Higgins’s suspicions when he hears of it. You must give the reason that . . . um, ah . . . Mr Erskine! A good reason, if you please.’

  ‘The boys found a jewelled cravat pin that you have been missing, sir. It had fallen into the scuppers, and Mr Tawse brought them to return it to you in person,’ Mr Erskine said smoothly.

  ‘It will do. I suppose it will do,’ said the captain, nodding. ‘Now, Mr Tawse, that is all. I wish to know as soon as the booklet is in Mr Higgins’s possession. Take these boys down. Oh, and, Mr Tawse, instruct the cook to make a sugared plum duff for them, and tell him to be lavish with the raisins.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was Mr Erskine’s custom to visit and inspect every part of the ship on alternate days, so it was no surprise to anyone when he arrived the following evening. The boys were eating their supper at one table and Mr Tawse and his team of seamen were at the other.

  Everyone scrambled to their feet and pulled their forelocks respectfully as the first lieutenant entered.

  ‘Captain’s compliments, Mr Tawse, and would you report to him after supper. He has some instructions concerning tomorrow’s gun drill.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Mr Tawse, his face blank.

  John suppressed the desire to dig Kit in the ribs.

  ‘What are you gapin’ at, you perchful of gannets?’ Mr Tawse barked across at the boys. ‘Sit down and finish your porridge before I tips it overboard for the sharks.’

  He disappeared soon after. When he came back, supper was over. Tom and John, tired out after their day’s work, were yawning over a game of draughts. Kit was reading in a corner and Davey, with clumsy fingers, was trying to mend a rent in his jacket.

  Mr Tawse paused by the table.

  ‘Tom,’ he said, ‘have you worked out those calculations I set you yesterday?’

  Tom jumped to his feet.

  ‘No, sir. I’m sorry. I . . . I forgot, sir.’

  ‘You forgot?’

  ‘Aye, I did, sir.’

  Mr Tawse swept the draughts pieces off the board.

  ‘If,’ he said, with an awful frown, ‘you show yourself unfit to learn the noble arts pertainin’ to good seamanship, I shall be obliged to set you as a servant to an officer, as I did to Nat Claypole. Nat would happily give up ’is position to you, I make no doubt of it at all.’

  Tom’s face paled under his freckles. He darted across to his chest and began to fumble about in it. John watched him, but turned as he felt a slight pressure on his shoulder. Mr Tawse was already moving back away from the table, but the booklet could now be seen half hidden under the draughts board. Casually, John picked it up and tucked it inside his jacket. He put the draughts pieces away in the box and took them across to Tom.

  ‘Best put these away now, then,’ he said.

  Tom was anxiously scanning the pages he had withdrawn from his chest.

  ‘Mathematics! It’s all Greek to me,’ he said with disgust. ‘How’s a body supposed to fathom the likes of this?’

  He held out a blotched and crumpled scrawl.

  ‘It’s not so difficult,’ said John. ‘I’ll help you with it, if you like.’

  He went across to the stack of cutlass cases and retrieved the satchel from its hiding place behind them. Then he returned to Kit’s chest from which he took out his own neat mathematical workings. He slid his mother’s letter out of the satchel, stowed it safely in Kit’s chest and slipped the sheets of calculations and the booklet into the satchel, which he carried across and laid openly on the table. Tom’s head was already bent anxiously over his work.

  ‘It’s like this,’ John said, leaning over to look at Tom’s page. ‘You have to calculate the angle of the gun’s elevation and the distance to the target. Do you see?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Tom said.

  Patiently, John explained again, but his inner voice was saying, Come on, Nat. Come now.

  Nearly an hour had passed. Soon the bell would sound and the order to fetch down the hammocks would be piped round the ship. John had almost given up hope of Nat, when Tom, whose mind had been flagging, looked up and crowed, ‘Why, it’s Ratty! What are you after this time, Ratface?’

  Nat slid in through the canvas screen.

  ‘Just came down for a bit, didn’t I, to get away from ’im,’ he began. Then he saw the satchel lying on the table. A flash of excitement, quickly suppressed, sparked in his eyes.

  John stood up, deliberately turned his back on the table and went over to the bulkhead where Kit was still reading. Tom scooped up his workings with relief and took them across to his chest.

  From the corner of his eye, John saw Nat hesitate. Desire and fear chased across his face.

  Go on, John urged him silently. Take it.

  But Nat didn’t. He stood wringing his hands, then he coughed nervously.

  ‘That’s the satchel, ain’t it, John? – the one Mr ’Iggins is lookin’ for,’ he said at last.

  His openness took John by surprise.

  ‘Yes. What about it?’

  ‘John, I’m askin’ you, I’m beggin’ you, let me ’ave it.’ Nat’s words came tumbling out in a rush. ‘Mr ’Iggins, ’e’s on at me day and night. Won’t give me no peace, ’e’s that set on it. I could ’ave stole it from you, but I ain’t no thief, whatever some people says. If you knew what ’e was like, if you could see what ’e does to me . . .’

  He stopped, his voice thick with tears.

  John pretended to hesitate.

  ‘Why don’t you just let him have it, John?’ came Kit’s voice from the shadows. ‘You said yourself, there’s nothing in it.’

  ‘I’ll make it up to y
ou. I don’t know how, but I will. I promise.’

  John shrugged.

  ‘I don’t want that old thing, anyway,’ he said, trying to sound reluctant. ‘I just wish I understood what it was all about. What can Mr Higgins possibly want it for?’

  ‘’E thinks there’s something in it,’ Nat said, his narrow face relaxing into a rare smile. ‘Something as is going to make ’im rich.’

  John laughed.

  ‘He must be crazy. If there were riches in it, what would I be doing on board this ship?’

  ‘’E is crazy! That’s what I keep telling you,’ insisted Nat. He sidled up to the table, grabbed the satchel and clutched it to his chest. ‘You don’t know ’ow much this means to me, John. I won’t forget. Saved my life, you ’ave.’

  A moment later, he had gone.

  As John turned to hide his smile of triumph, he saw that Mr Tawse was watching him. The master gunner dropped one eyelid in a solemn wink, then got up and left.

  The bell sounded, the shrill whistle of command blew and the crew hurried above to fetch down their hammocks.

  ‘That was masterly, John,’ whispered Kit, his face alive with a mischievous grin as they hooked up their hammocks to the beams. ‘I never knew you could act.’

  ‘You’re not the only one,’ began John. He wanted to say more, but found that something odd had happened to his voice, which had come out with a deep grating sound it had never had before.

  ‘It’s broken,’ he thought, with a mixture of pride and embarrassment. ‘My voice has broken.’

  After the long weary winter months of blockade duty, as the Fearless tacked backwards and forwards across the mouth of the Gironde in all the filthy weather that the Bay of Biscay could throw at her, only the relentless discipline of the ship and the rigid timetable of watches, maintenance and gun drills had kept the huge body of men from growing mutinous with boredom.

  News from home, letters from families and accounts of the progress of the war, came only seldom, when a British frigate appeared with news and renewed orders from the admiral. John and Kit had never taken much notice of the comings and goings of other ships, but they now began to scan the horizon for signs of a mast.