‘Any sign of those ships?’ asked his captain.
‘Not ships, sir, but I can see some bleeding breakers ahoy!’ he cried. ‘We must be at the edge of the reef. Pull hard, Mr Croft!’
The sound of waves crashing against the hard coral shelf was loud in the night. Now that his attention was called to the sound, Sutton realised he must have been hearing the roar for some time, but a combination of fatigue and the lulling tropical night had meant that he had missed the significance of the growing noise. Now they could all see the thick line of silver in the darkness, lying like a wall across the ocean. Sutton stood up in the boat to gauge the state of the surf as it broke ahead of them.
‘The waves seem lower ahead than to either side,’ he said, pointing. ‘Up your helm a touch, Mr Croft, and then paddle like fury. You and I too, Chapman. Let’s get as much weigh on the boat as we can, and keep her straight!’ Croft redoubled his effort, and both of the other men leant out of the boat to paddle with their hands. The surf grew closer as the tide sucked them towards it, the noise becoming louder all the time. It filled the night with spray and sound. Dark hills reared up to either side of the little boat, flecked with foam, and the bow lifted sluggishly to a wave.
‘Keep paddling,’ yelled Sutton, as the hull scrapped to a halt on the coral and water flooded in over the bow. The next moment a wave lifted them, the boat heaved up and corkscrewed, first one way and then the other, almost pitching them out. And then, suddenly, they were through. Croft managed a few more strokes and then collapsed over the handle of his paddle.
‘Chapman, take over with the oar,’ said Sutton. ‘Get us clear of this coral. I will see about bailing us dry.’
Now that they were beyond the edge of the reef, the nature of the sea was transformed. They were in open water, and long waves swooped out of the night, to first lift them up and then let them sink down again. Water sloshed freely around the interior, making the little boat heavy and inert, but gradually Sutton with the bailer and Croft with his hands managed to get most of it out. Chapman lay down the paddle and got to his feet, carefully balancing against the roll of the boat. He swept the night with the telescope, turning in the boat as he did so.
‘Any sign of the Titan?’ asked Sutton.
‘Can’t say as there is anything certain, sir,’ replied the lookout. ‘There could be something in the night away over yonder, another few miles out to sea.’ Sutton considered the situation. None of them had eaten for almost twenty hours now. His limbs trembled with fatigue as he sat in the boat, and he felt weary to his bones. They were all almost spent from a day of running and hiding, even before they had reached the boats. It was only the adrenaline rush of their escape that had kept them going through all the hours of paddling, and now that had drained away. In the dark he could tell that his two companions were in a similar, exhausted state.
‘Two miles or twenty miles, it’s too far for us this night,’ he decided. ‘Let’s settle down and get some sleep. I am sure all we need is a little honest daylight to be found by our friends in the morning.’
‘Aye, aye, sir,’ said the sailor. He lay the paddle down on the floor of the boat with a clatter. ‘Should we set watches?’
‘Not tonight, Chapman,’ said Sutton. ‘Poor Mr Croft seems to be asleep on his bench already. Let us take our places in the bottom of the boat, and trust to Old Father Neptune to look after us.’
Sutton helped the youngster down onto the floor of the boat, and they squeezed in either side of him. The wood was damp, but they were past caring, and exhaustion did the rest. Even the alarming way that the boat rode the big ocean rollers, with the bow pointing to the sky as they climbed a wave, before tipping down the back of it, did little to disturb their sleep. The closeness of the squeeze at least meant that their shared body warmth compensated for the remaining trickle of water that flowed over the bottom of the boat. Croft fell asleep in an instant and Chapman and Sutton were not long to follow.
It was some time after dawn when the men awoke. The sun had risen a few hours ago, but it was only when it cleared the gunwale to shine down onto Sutton’s face that he opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was Chapman’s gaping mouth as he snored contentedly on his captain’s chest. He shook the others awake and pulled himself upright. He had to steady himself on their shoulders, for the boat still rushed up and down with each roller that swept under them. He pointed the little telescope outwards and followed the blue horizon with care. Reunion was still in sight, but only just. The island was a small green hump on the far horizon with towering white clouds above it. It took Sutton no more than a moment to realise that it was now impossibly distant for their little boat with its single paddle, even if wind and the current were not still pulling them ever farther out to sea. He swept around in a circle again as he checked the lonely ocean once more.
‘Any sign of the squadron, sir?’ asked Croft.
‘I am afraid not,’ said Sutton quietly. He closed the telescope and sat back down again on the bench. Chapman licked at his lips.
‘Has anyone got something to drink?’
Chapter 11 Lost
‘Come in,’ said Sir George Montague, in response to the knock on the door. He looked up from the slim leather volume in his hand and peered over his reading glasses at the midshipman who came through into the poorly lit cabin.
‘Mr Pella’s respects sir, and we have just heard from the Titan,’ he said. ‘They have secured their prize and are proceeding out to sea as ordered.’
‘Have they, by Jove?’ said the commodore. ‘That is excellent news.’ The words were right for the occasion, but there was something missing in the tone. Montague looked out of the stern windows into the black night beyond, but he could see nothing save the orange glow from the cabin’s single lamp, multiplied in all the individual panes of glass. ‘Is there any sign of the other enemy frigates putting out of St Paul?’ he asked.
‘No, sir, all quiet as quiet. It was just the one ship that came out,’ said the midshipman, his voice growing in enthusiasm. ‘They say it was the one that did for the Rush. She fell right into Captain Clay’s trap. It was the first action I have seen, sir, and I never imagined such noise and fury! Why, the cannon fire lit up half the night! And the good old Titan gave the Frogs what for in very short order. That will learn them.’
‘Hmmm,’ said the commodore. He looked at the young man’s glowing face. ‘A night action can be mighty prodigious. This is all highly satisfactory, of course.’ He continued to stare at the midshipman for a while, drumming his fingers on the back cover of his book. Then he came to a decision. He marked his page with a slip of paper and put the book down on the table beside him. Then he removed his glasses and put them into the inner pocket of his coat. Finally he addressed the teenager. ‘Kindly send an acknowledgment to the Titan, together with my congratulations, and tell them that the rest of the squadron shall follow them out to sea directly. In the meantime, send a night signal to the Echo. Commodore to Echo, captain to repair on board, if you please.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’ The midshipman saluted and left the room. Montague let his eyes drift around his cabin, as if inspiration might be found amongst its many dark shadows and black corners.
‘What the bloody hell do I do now?’ he asked the dimly lit space. After a while he got up and began to pace up and down, groping for inspiration, but nothing came. From outside his cabin he heard the shrill sound of boatswain’s pipes and the stamp of marines saluting. A little while later his guest was shown in.
‘Brandy, Nicholas?’ he asked, not looking around from the decanter. ‘I know that I bloody well need one.’
‘Yes, please, Sir George,’ replied Windham. ‘Are we toasting the Titan’s success?’
‘That would be a right and proper thing to do, would it not?’ said the commodore, still busy with the drinks. ‘From a strategic point of view Captain Clay has undoubtedly made up for the unfortunate loss of the Rush. But I am surprised that you should want to drink to his tri
umph, given its possible implications.’
‘Please be cautious in what you say, Sir George,’ said Windham, his eyes darting around the cabin.
‘Calm yourself. I have dispensed with my steward tonight,’ said his host, as he came over with the glasses. ‘Rest assured that we are quite alone and can speak openly with one another. Do please be seated.’ Montague sat down behind his desk and contemplated his guest for a moment. ‘Before we begin, may I proffer a word of advice?’
‘By all means, Sir George.’
‘When arriving onboard ship at four bells in the mid watch, it is normal to come by the larboard side with none of the usual naval ceremony. Your decision to insist on the boatswains calls, the marines’ salute and side boys, although it is undoubtedly your right, will have roused the whole ship’s company, including the watch asleep below decks.’
‘Sorry, Sir George,’ said Windham. ‘I have been rather fatigued of late. Perhaps I was not thinking straight.’
His host slammed down his drink on his desk in anger. ‘And ain’t that the whole bloody problem, Nicholas?’ he demanded. ‘You have not been thinking straight this whole commission. I have absolutely no idea how I shall extract you from this hole that you have made for yourself.’
‘What has brought this on, Sir George?’
‘Do you truly not comprehend the danger you are now in?’ said the commodore, raising his eyes to the ceiling. ‘As a result of the Titan’s little victory tonight?’
‘Surely it is good for us, Sir George,’ he replied. ‘It is as you said. It will serve to redress the balance back in our favour. Perhaps it will mean that we can now lay to one side the loss of the Rush.’
‘Lay to one side!’ Montague was incredulous. ‘Good God, man, do you truly see nothing to alarm you? Have you given no consideration to the signals that Clay received from the shore? The fact that they have now proved to be wholly accurate, for example, rather than some low French trick, as I had hoped?’
‘Yessss,’ said Windham, his face still blank. ‘And what are the implications of that?’
‘Think, Nicholas, for once try to think,’ urged the commodore. ‘If the signals were accurate, they can only have come from officers of the Rush. Who else would be at liberty to send such a message? Which means that there must be survivors of your ridiculous battle, yes? And they are at large on Reunion, right now. Like Lieutenant Wise or Mr Appleby? Even Captain Sutton, perhaps? In any event, they will be gentlemen and fellow officers, not just sailors whose views might be discounted. Credible witnesses, Nicholas, to what truly happened when you and the Rush fought the Prudence?’
Windham’s face went pale at the thought.
‘But...but...they are still prisoners of the French,’ he stuttered.
‘For now they are, but we have just captured one of their frigates!’ exclaimed the commodore. ‘Full of officers and men who are now our prisoners, whom we can exchange for the return of our own. The French might send out a launch under a flag of truce tomorrow to arrange the parole, and the survivors of the Rush could be back with us within days. Will they all agree with your version of events, or will they come back demanding justice from the man who betrayed them?’ Windham buried his head in his hands but said nothing. After a pause the commodore carried on.
‘Can I take it from your evident distress that I should expect them to denounce you? Oh great God, man, what have you done?’
‘I thought I would—’
‘No Nicholas,’ interrupted Montague. ‘Thinking is precisely what you have not been about. What do you suppose happens when the navy loses a ship, eh? Do you think that the Admiralty will say, “Tis no grave matter, we have another”? If Captain Sutton has survived, and his first action on his return is not to call you out and put a bullet between your eyes, he will face a court martial for the loss of the Rush. What do you imagine his defense will be? And even if he is indeed dead, there will still be a Board of Enquiry into the loss of his ship.’
‘Oh God,’ wailed Windham. ‘What have I done?’
‘A dreadful, dreadful act,’ said the commodore. ‘Not only have you destroyed a fine ship, but what of all those who were killed or injured, to no good purpose? I can see no influence of mine that will suffice to save you. You have blood on your hands, Nicholas.’ Windham gulped at his brandy and then coughed and spluttered.
‘When will matters come to a head, Sir George?’ he asked, when the choking fit had passed.
‘Perhaps not immediately, to be sure. I have now ordered the squadron out to sea. I want us to be patrolling over the horizon by tomorrow; in the hope that we may lure the French into coming out seeking revenge, so there will be no prospect of a rapid exchange of prisoners.’
The commander of the Echo raised his head, a little hope in his eyes. ‘And we still do not know that this mystery signaller is Sutton,’ he said. ‘It might be one who was not privy to the intended plan of attack.’
‘So you admit there was an arrangement that you disregarded?’ said Montague.
‘Yes, there was,’ said Windham. ‘But it was only Sutton, his lieutenant and I that were present when it was agreed. This man who signalled might be another officer altogether. If he is junior, say a midshipman, confused doubtless by the battle, who can truly say what he saw? It would still be my word against his.’
‘Perhaps, but what of all the other crew who were on board the Rush, or on the Echo for that matter? What will they say when questioned?’ said the commodore. Windham was dismissive.
‘What of them, Sir George? Their view of the action was through a deal of smoke and confusion. Their account will never stand against that of a gentleman. No, so long as Sutton is dead, all shall be well, and Uncle Percy can rest easy in his grave at long last.’
*****
The boat rose up and down, up and down, in an endless rhythm as each wave swept past them. And with each motion they were nudged a little farther out to sea. The mound of Reunion faded to a tiny speck of distant grey before it vanished altogether. Now the horizon was a pure, uninterrupted line of deep blue sea below an empty sky. Above them the sun beat down, heavy and hot. It drew the moisture from the three men as they tried to shelter from it at one end of the tiny hull.
Chapman had fashioned a scrap of shade for them. He had lashed the paddle upright to the seat in the stern with their belts, and they had all donated their jackets to supply the cloth for the canopy. He had showed surprising skill in its construction, with little more than his clasp knife to help him. He had opened the seams on the garments, parting their linings from the broadcloth, and lain the pieces out into a rough tent shape. Then he had joined the various panels by first marrying the buttons on one jacket with the holes on another, and then using splinters of wood cut from the hull to pin the remaining cloth together. The final touch had been to prise nails loose from the thwarts of the boat to catch and hold the bell of material into place against the side of the boat. The sun’s rays still shone through the cover in places, and with three of them huddled underneath it was hot and stuffy, but it was better than lying out in the full heat of the sun.
Sutton awoke from his fitful doze in the shade to find that Croft was watching him. The teenagers face was badly sun burnt, raw and pink in places, flaking skin in others. He tried to smile reassuringly at him, but stopped when he felt his dry lips crack with the effort.
‘Time?’ he asked, his tongue swollen and clumsy in his mouth.
‘After...noon...sir,’ answered Croft. He squinted towards the sun with an outstretched arm, then indicated how far it was above the horizon.
‘Forget...sir,’ replied Sutton, wagging a finger at the boy. As he did so he noticed the back of his hand was red and burnt, and he pushed it into the shade. ‘You...sleep?’
‘Little...then...pain,’ muttered the midshipman. He pointed towards his belly. Sutton nodded. He too had been tormented by stomach cramps earlier that day. He looked across at Chapman, and saw that the sailor was awake too. ‘You?’ he a
sked, pointing towards his belly.
‘Bad,’ whispered the seaman, barely able to speak. He pulled himself out of the shelter. ‘Going...die...sir.’ Sutton was unsure if Chapman had meant it as a question or a statement. He chose a question and shook his head.
‘No,’ he said. Then with a further effort, ‘Rescue...soon.’ He pulled himself slowly up and clung onto Croft’s shoulder while he settled his balance. What is wrong with me, he pondered, feeling much less stable than the motion of the boat might account for. He pulled out the telescope and searched the empty horizon. Then he sat down again.
‘Rescue?’ muttered Chapman. Sutton shook his head.
‘Soon,’ he croaked again.
‘Soon,’ whispered Chapman, disbelief evident in his face. ‘Or...die.’ A strange animal sound came from farther down the boat. Sutton turned and saw that Croft’s shoulders were heaving. His face was torn in pain, and a low moan came from his mouth as he tearlessly wept.
‘Not...die,’ he wheezed, his voice barely audible. ‘Not...fair!’
‘No!’ croaked Sutton, putting an arm around the teenager and pulling him close. He glared at Chapman ‘Not...here. Rescue!’ His eyes met with those of the seaman, who stared back at him. ‘Not...die!’ he repeated.
‘Fff…k...ing...miracle,’ muttered Chapman, rolling back under the shelter.
*****
The Distant Ocean Page 18
