'They're away,' said McLeod the gunner, looking at his linstock as if it was diseased. 'We'll not take them now.'
'Then look there, you daft fool.' Arbuckle had a telescope levelled. 'The aft squadron is turning back. By Christ, 'tis Hood. He's caught the wind.'
Like the other gunners, Matt scrambled into the lower rigging to watch, as every eye on board the ship was turned north. For Arbuckle was right. Hood's squadron of the red, having, like the rest of the fleet, drifted with the current throughout the night and early morning, had at last emerged into the open water, where the wind was fresh; they could see the distant whitecaps even from the
Formidable.
Thus carried forward, and separated from the main body, with Admiral Drake's squadron of the blue still more miles astern, the twelve battleships of the vanguard were isolated, temporarily cut off from any assistance. As de Grasse had noticed, and now a squadron of French ships had put about to run down with the wind at their sterns.
'Tis de Vaudreuil,' Arbuckle grumbled. 'They say he is the best seaman in the froggie fleet.'
Orders were issuing from the poop, and there was a rustle from the main peak as the red battle flag broke out. The men broke into a cheer, and in that instant the rumble of distant gunfire came rippling across the bright morning. Matt discovered himself in a rash of sweat, suddenly afraid that they would indeed miss the conflict, his brain a torment of conflicting thoughts and emotions, ranging from a wonder at how Sue felt, trapped below the waterline, waiting for the wounded to be brought down to the cockpit, to what the Caribs must be thinking, as they lined their forested cliffs and watched the white man at play with all the mighty achievements of his gifted civilization.
How slowly the ship seemed to move, and all those around it, while the cannon continued to boom, coming closer and closer, but yet too far off. Arbuckle kept them informed. 'Typical froggie tactics,' he said. 'They'll not close. Not even de Vaudreuil. He's pounding at long range. Sammy Hood will stand that without flinching.'
'Run out your guns,' came the order from the quarterdeck, where Mr. Hill paced to and fro, sword slapping his thigh, cocked hat placed at an angle. The great ports were clewed up and in that instant the
Formidable
heeled to its first puff of wind.
'Aye,' Arbuckle said. 'Won't be long now, lads.'
Dominica was beginning to drop astern, and in front of them the ocean was lost beneath the mass of white sails, and the rolling black smoke which arose from those nearest. It was impossible to decide whether or not any of the British fleet were damaged; none had dropped out of line.
‘Load your pieces,' came the order, and the ball was taken up from the waiting mound, passed to Matt. He held it in both arms, for it weighed twenty-four pounds, hugged it against his belly, and was assisted by his mate, Davis, as they forced it into the breech, while McLeod busied himself with the filter tube which they had been told would give them twice the speed and twice the reliability of the French gunners, who still poured powder down an open touchhole.
Now the noise was very loud, the crashing of the guns mingling with the continuous swish of the water around the bows and the thrumming of the rigging as the wind freshened ever minute. The order was given, 'Wear ship', and the seamen were scrambling aloft to trim the yards. The
Formidable
heeled even more as she turned into her station in the line, and the command came, 'Give fire.'
The entire battleship seemed to leap out of the waves. The noise left Matt senseless for a moment, and he could not see much less breathe as he was enveloped in a cloud of acrid black smoke. The thud of the rope's end across his shoulders seemed no more than natural in these suddenly hellish surroundings.
'Load, you scum. Load, you bastards,' screamed Arbuckle. Another twenty-four-pound ball was pressed into Matt's arms, and passed by him and Davis into the breech.
'Quickly now.' Lieutenant Hill walked behind them, hands clasped behind his back. 'We'll not lag behind the others. Quickly now.'
Once again the ship exploded and the decks heaved. Matt shook his head to clear the smoke and the ringing in his ears, and discovered himself on the deck. Holding another cannon-ball in his arms. A blood-wet cannon-ball? He stared down at the features of Mr. Hill, so suddenly arrested in mid-sentence, mouth still open, cocked hat incredibly still in place and only now slipping to one side, eyes staring at the heaven he was already entering, blood draining from the empty neck, flowing down Matt's trousers. He seemed isolated in time and space, by a tremendous noise which obliterated thought, and by streaming blood which was filling his mouth, his eyes, his nose, his ears. He wanted to vomit, but never knew whether he did or not. He discovered hands lifting him from the deck, and saw faces, tight with fear and tension. The head had been taken from his arms.
The brilliant sunlight disappeared, and he decided he was below deck. Was the ship sinking? It still heaved, but he could again identify sound and the tremendous ringing in his ears began to dwindle. He struck something hard, and found himself on the deck, staring at the beams only a few feet above his head, at the swinging lanterns, and at the faces, female faces now, anxiously staring. And at Sue.
Her lips were moving, and she was pillowing him in her arms, forgetting the blood which drenched her gown. 'Matt?
Matt? Oh, Christ almighty, what has happened to him?' Her face disappeared, and Dr. Blane was there instead, frowning, pulling and tugging. And now Matt could feel the fingers, and the singing gradually died. 'Easy, now,' Blane said. 'Easy. Sit up there. You're a lucky young man, Mr. Hilton. 'Tis well said you are the devil's brood, and with all the devil's good fortune. Fetch him a tot of rum. Ten minutes, Mr. Hilton, and you'll be back on deck. I've more urgent matters to attend.'
He turned away, and Sue knelt beside him again, holding the mug to his lips. 'Oh, Matt,' she whispered.
He drank, and coughed. 'What happened to me?'
'The gun port next to yours was struck, and you were knocked over by the blast.'
'Mr. Hill ...'
"They say his head was taken right off. Oh, Matt, I'm so afraid.'
And then she smiled, to belie her words. 'And so happy, to be here with you.'
He finished the rum, sat up. ‘I must be on deck.'
'Ten minutes, Dr. Blane said.' Still she held his shoulders. 'Oh, Matt, my darling Matt. When I saw you brought in, all covered in blood ... I did not know then it was the lieutenant's. And then, when I saw your back ... what did they do to you, dearest?'
'I was flogged for insubordination. Oh, several weeks ago. But Sue, to have you here, to understand ...'
'I came for you, Matt. Do you imagine I could ever sleep easy in my bed again, not knowing where you were, not knowing if you were alive or dead? It was simply a matter of obtaining Robert's help. You saw the admiral's reaction. Not even he will consider going against the Hiltons.'
'But ...' Matt listened to the sudden silence, as the guns fell silent. 'What has happened?'
One of the women had crept up the ladder to the lower gun deck to ascertain the reason for the ceasefire. Now she came back into the noisome gloom of the cockpit. 'The froggies have borne away,' she said. 'Not a ship taken or sunk. The whole lot is in full chase northwards.'
'Then Rodney has failed,' Sue said.
'I doubt that, Mistress Huys,' Dr. Blane said. 'Sir George has a task to perform, and he will catch de Grasse if he must chase him halfway around the world. We'll be to action again soon enough.'
'Soon enough,' she whispered. And once again hugged Matt close. 'Oh, Matt, Matt. Promise me you will not be killed.'
He smiled into her ear, and stroked her hair. 'I'd be that unlucky, would you not say, to be brought down twice in the same battle. But should you not take care, my sweet? The doctor is looking at you with a great deal of interest. Perhaps your affections are somewhat more than to be expected from a cousin.'
'Then let him look his fill,' she said. 'How do you suppose I left Statia?' 'How? But...'
'Dirk refused me permission. So I stowed away on a sloop for Port Antonio.' She smiled at him in turn, and kissed him on the nose. 'I did not tell Robert, of course, pretended that Dirk and I were as one on the necessity of regaining you from this infamous place. But he will know by now. The whole world will know by now. I must be your woman now, darling Matt. For be sure I can belong to no one else, having deserted my husband.'
CHAPTER NINE
THE GUEST
' 'Tis demented he is.' Gunner McLeod leaned on the barrel of his cannon and stared at the blackness. ' 'Tis too old, you see, Mr. Arbuckle, sixty-four years, to command a fleet at sea. He's not stood the strain.'
'And then there is the gout, Mr. Arbuckle,' Davis put in. 'Ah, 'tis a crippling illness, the gout. Affects the mind it does.'
'God blast the pair of you for mutinous dogs,' Arbuckle growled. 'You talk as if you understand strategy. As if you understand ships. As if you understand men. You understand that gun, McLeod. That lifeless lump of metal is your talent. You'd best leave the command of a fleet at sea to them that's been trained to it.'
'Then you tell us why we've turned away,' McLeod insisted. 'Six hours, and we've beat into this wind, and on the port tack. You watch, by dawn we'll be on the wrong side of Dominica, all over again.'
'I've no knowledge of the admiral's mind,' Arbuckle said. 'But I'll tell you this. Rodney has never been beat. And he'll not be beat this time, either. You may reckon on that.'
Matt wished they would stop talking. Yet it was strange. For two days after the action off Dominica they had clung on the heels of the French, watching them slowly draw away to the north, suggesting their bottoms were a sight cleaner than the British ships. For two days the admiral had sat on the quarterdeck - he was unable even to mount the ladder to the poop, his leg was that swollen with the gout - as indeed he had been on deck since the fleet had left Gros Islets Bay.
And for two days his face had grown longer and longer as the prospects of a decisive battle had dwindled.
And then yesterday two of the French rearguard had been in collision. When the news had been reported to the flagship, Rodney had snapped his fingers with happiness. The crippled ships had drifted, slowly pushed to the west by the brisk north-easterly wind. And the orders had been given for the entire British fleet to alter course to cut them out. There was a gamble. To forgo even the slightest chance of defeating de Grasse, and the Jamaica expedition, for the sake of picking up two already crippled vessels, would involve the admiral in a court martial. But Rodney apparently knew his man. The honour of the French fleet was at stake; de Grasse would not abandon his two lame ducks. And so they had watched, breathlessly, as the whole French fleet had put about, and come bearing majestically down on the British; great, yellow varnished hulls, magnificently dotted with the still closed red gunports, plunging into the swell, topped by the utterly beautiful spreads of white canvas billowing in the breeze. Theirs was still the advantage; the wind was behind them - they had the magic weather gauge which would decide whether or not they accepted battle, and should they decide to accept it, what form it would take. But they were coming. And at dusk they had still been drawing closer, ever closer.
Then the wind, as usual, had dropped, and while the great ships had wallowed slowly onwards, the boats had been swung out, and the captains had been rowed across to assemble on the flagship's quarterdeck, and listen to the admiral's plans. And no sooner had they regained their ships than had come the whispered commands, douse all lights, and trim your yards. The Royal Navy was putting about. As the French swept out of the north-east, the British made off on the port tack, south-east, into the empty night. It was incredible, but it was happening. Rodney had declined battle and was standing away.
And so the gun crews whispered amongst themselves in incredulous dismay. Whereas he should be singing for joy, Matt thought, and pondering his own problems. No battle meant no risk of death or mutilation. And Rodney would doubtless be court-martialled in any event. And their destination would remain Jamaica.
And what then? It was still difficult for Matt to grasp what had happened. Sue had left Dirk, had left her home and her husband, had left her respectability and indeed her honour, to chase behind him. What had she said, that first rainswept afternoon, more than a year ago? That she was not for an idle hour, but forever? And she had meant every word of it. What a remarkable woman. But what a remarkable responsibility had she thrust upon his shoulders. He was slowly realizing, as he crouched beside his gun and thought of her, perhaps sleeping, but surely dreaming of him, three decks away, that all his fife
he
had done no more than dream, of fine actions and fine achievements, certainly, but still dreams, of one day being a second Beldham, the finest batsman in England, of one day equalling the skill and prowess of Jack Broughton, knowing in his heart that he could never be either of those, but because of his small skill at both, cricket and boxing, pretending to himself that he
might,
were he prepared to devote his life to it. And then Gislane. He had dreamed, of defying the world, his world, with her at his side, and felt ten feet tall for the dream. But had it not always been a dream, never to be exposed to the bright light of day? Had he not fallen at the very first hurdle, and, for all his feeble efforts, been afraid to get back to his feet?
But now the dreams were rolled up into a ball and thrown over the side. Sue had forced him into reality, for the first time. She was here, and she had deserted all, for him. He could no longer say, to himself or to her, let us ponder and plan, and decide what is to be done. It had happened, and the course on which she had embarked, and on which he must necessarily escort her, would not be checked or altered until they reached their graves.