Authors: Alexander Kent
Palliser handed Bolitho the glass. “See for yourself.” He walked over to speak with the brig's master and Slade by the compass box.
Bolitho held his breath and steadied the glass on the nearest schooner. She was weather-worn and ill-used, and he could see the many men who were staring across at the defiant, mastless brig. Some were waving their weapons, their jeers and threats lost only in distance.
He thought of the girl in the cabin, what they would do to her, and gripped his hanger so tightly that it hurt his palm.
He heard the brig's master say, “I can't argue with a King's officer to be sure, but I'll not answer for what may happen!”
And Slade said urgently, “We'll never hold 'em, sir, and it's not right to put it to the test!”
Palliser's voice was flat and uncompromising. “What do you suggest? Wait for a miracle perhaps? Pray that
Destiny
will rise from the deep and save all our wretched souls?” He did not conceal his sarcasm or his contempt. “God damn your eyes, Slade, I'd have expected better from you!”
He turned and saw Bolitho watching the tense little group. “In about fifteen minutes that cut-throat will try to grapple us. If we drive him off he will stand clear and the both of them will rake us for a while. Then they will try again. And again.” He waved his arm slowly towards the torn decks and weary, red-eyed seamen. “Do you see these people holding out?”
Bolitho shook his head. “No, sir.”
Palliser turned away. “Good.”
But Bolitho had seen the expression on his face. Relief perhaps, or surprise that someone was agreeing with him in spite of the terrible odds.
Then Palliser said, “I am going below. I must speak with the prisoners we took from
Heloise.
”
Little said quietly to his friend the boatswain's mate, “Them stupid clods won't know wot side they be on, eh, Ellis?” They both guffawed as if it was some huge joke.
Jury asked, “What will we do next?”
Ingrave suggested shakily, “Parley, sir?”
Bolitho watched the approaching schooner, the expert way her mainsail was being reset to give her a perfect heading for the last half cable.
“We shall meet them as they attempt to board.”
He saw his words moving along the littered deck, the way the seamen gripped their cutlasses and axes and flexed their muscles as if they were already in combat. The brig's men were only hired hands, not professional and disciplined like
Destiny
's people. But the latter were tired, and there were too few of them when set against the threatening mob aboard the schooner. He could hear them now, yelling and jeering, their combined shouts like an animal roar.
If there had been only one vessel they might have managed. Perhaps it would have been better to die with the
Heloise
rather than prolong the agony.
Palliser returned and said, “Little, stand by the forrard guns. When I so order, fire at will, but make quite certain the shots do no real damage.” He ignored Little's disbelief. “Next, load the remainder with a double charge of grape and canister. At the moment of coming alongside I want those bastards raked!” He let his words drive home. “If you lose every man in doing it, I need those guns to fire!”
Little knuckled his forehead, his heavy features grim with understanding at last. The brig's bulwark offered little protection, and with the other vessel grinding alongside to grapple them together, the gun crews could be cut down like reeds.
Palliser unclipped his scabbard and tossed it aside. He sliced his sword through the air and watched the bright sunlight run along the blade like gold.
“It will be warm work today.”
Bolitho swallowed, his mouth horribly dry. He too drew his hanger and removed the leather scabbard as he had seen Palliser do. To lose a fight was bad enough, to die because you had tripped over your scabbard was unthinkable.
Muskets banged across the narrowing strip of water between the two hulls, and several men ducked as the balls struck the timbers or whined menacingly overhead.
Palliser sliced down an imaginary foe with his sword and then said sharply,
“Fire!”
The leading guns hurled themselves inboard on their tackles, the smoke billowing back through the ports as their crews did their best to follow Little's orders.
A hole appeared in the schooner's big fore-sail, but the other shots went wide, throwing up spindly waterspouts nearer to the other vessel than the one which was bearing down on them.
There were wild cheers and more shots, and Bolitho bit his lip as a seaman was hurled back from the bulwark, his jaw smashed away by a musket ball.
Palliser called, “Stand by to repel boarders!”
All at once the long schooner was right there opposite them, and Bolitho could even see his own shadow on her side with those of his companions.
Musket shots whipped past him and he heard another man cry out, the sound of the ball smashing into his flesh making Ingrave cover his face as if to save himself from a similar fate.
The sails were falling away, and as the tide of men surged across the schooner's deck, grapnels soared above them to clatter and then grip the
Rosario
's hull like iron teeth.
But someone aboard the schooner must have anticipated a last trick from men who could fight like this. Several shots swept through the crouching gun crews and two men fell kicking and screaming, their blood marking their agony until they lay still.
Bolitho glanced quickly at Jury. He was holding his dirk in one hand, a pistol in the other.
Between his teeth Bolitho said, “Keep with me. Don't lose your footing. Do what you told me to do.” He saw the wildness in Jury's eyes and added,
“Hold on!”
There was a great lurch as with a shuddering crash the schooner came hard downwind and continued to drive alongside until the grapnel lines took the strain and held her fast.
“Now!”
Palliser pointed with his sword.
“Fire!”
A gun belched flame and smoke and the full charge exploded in the exact centre of the massed boarders. Blood and limbs flew about in grisly array, and the momentary terror changed to a wild roar of fury as the attackers formed up again and hurled themselves over the side and on to the brig's hull.
Steel scraped on steel, and while a few men tried to fire and reload their muskets, others thrust wildly with pikes, flinging shrieking boarders between the two hulls to be ground there like bloody fenders.
Palliser yelled,
“Another!”
But Little and his men were cut off on the forecastle, a wedge of slashing, yelling figures already on the deck between them and the remaining unfired cannon. Its crew lay sprawled nearby, either dead or dying Bolitho did not know. But without that final burst of grape and canister they were already beaten.
A seaman crawled towards the gun, a slow-match gripped in one fist, but he fell face down as an attacker vaulted over the bulwark and hacked him across the neck with a boarding axe. But the force of the blow threw him off balance and he slipped helplessly in his victim's blood. Dutchy Vorbink shouldered Jury aside and charged forward, his jaws wide in a soundless oath as he struck the scrambling figure on the head with his cutlass. The blade glanced from his skull, and Bolitho saw an ear lying on the deck even as Vorbink finished the job with a carefully measured thrust.
When he looked again, Bolitho saw Stockdale by the abandoned gun, his shoulder bleeding from a deep cut, but apparently oblivious to it as he swept up the slow-match and jabbed it to the gun.
The explosion was so violent that Bolitho imagined it must have split the barrel. A whole section of the schooner's bulwark had vanished, and amidst the charred woodwork and cut rigging the men who had been waiting their chance to leap across were entwined in a writhing heap.
Palliser yelled,
“At 'em, lads!”
He cut down a running figure and fired his pistol into the press of boarders as the thin line of defenders surged to meet it.
Bolitho was carried forward with the rest, his hanger rasping against a cutlass, the breath burning in his lungs as he parried the blade clear and slashed a wild-eyed man across his chest. A pistol exploded almost in his ear, and he heard Jury cry out to someone to watch his back as two kicking, yelling boarders cut their way through the exhausted seamen.
A pike slid past Bolitho's hip and pinioned a man who had been trying to follow his comrades through the breach. He was still screaming and dragging at the pike with his bloodied fingers as Stockdale loomed out of the throng and killed him with his cutlass.
Midshipman Ingrave was down, holding his head with both hands as the fight-maddened figures lurched over him in a tide of hatred.
Above it all Bolitho heard Palliser's voice. “To me, my lads!” It was followed by a burst of cheering and wild cries, and with amazement he saw a tightly packed crowd of men surge through the companionway and forward hatch to join Palliser amidships, their bared blades already clashing with the surprised boarders.
“Drive 'em back!” Palliser pushed through his men, and this seemed to inflame them to greater efforts.
Bolitho saw a shadow waver towards him and struck out with all his strength. The man coughed as the hanger's blade took him right across the stomach and fell to his knees, his fingers knitted across the terrible wound as the cheering sailors blundered over him.
It could not be happening, but it was. Certain defeat had changed to a renewed attack, and the enemy were already falling back in a broken rout as the wave of men charged into them.
Bolitho understood that they must be the prisoners, the
Heloise
's original crew, which Palliser had released and had put to his own use. But it was all confused in his mind as he cut and thrust with the rest, his shoulder knotted in pain, his sword-arm like solid lead. Palliser must have offered them something, as Dumaresq had done for their master, in exchange for their aid. Several had already fallen, but their sudden arrival had put back the heart into the
Destiny
's men.
He realized too that some of the pirates had gone over the side, and when he lowered his guard for the first time he saw that the lines had been severed and the schooner was already drifting clear.
Bolitho let his arm fall to his side and stared at the other vessel spreading her sails and using the wind to stand away from the mastless, blood-stained but victorious brig.
Men were cheering and slapping each other on the back. Others ran to help their wounded companions, or called the names of friends who would never be able to answer.
One of the pirates who had been feigning death ran for the bulwark when he finally realized his own vessel was breaking off the battle. It was Olsson's moment. With great care he drew a knife from his belt and threw it. It was like a streak of light, and Bolitho saw the running man spin round, his eyes wide with astonishment as the heft quivered between his shoulders.
Little jerked out the knife and tossed it to the pale-eyed Swede. “Catch!” Then he picked up the corpse and pitched it over the bulwark.
Palliser walked the length of the deck, his sword over his shoulder where it made a red stain on his coat.
Bolitho met his gaze and said huskily, “We did it, sir. I never thought it would work.”
Palliser watched the released prisoners handing back their weapons and staring at each other as if stunned by what they had done.
“Nor I, as a matter of fact.”
Bolitho turned and saw Jury tying a bandage round Ingrave's head. They had survived.
He asked, “D'you think they'll attack again?”
Palliser smiled. “We have no masts. But they have, with the masthead lookouts who can see far further than we. I have no doubt we owe our victory to more than a momentary and unorthodox ruse.”
Palliser, as always, was right. Within the hour
Destiny
's familiar pyramid of sails was etched against the horizon in bright sunshine. They were no longer alone.
9
N
O CHILDISH DESIRE
THE
Destiny
's stern cabin seemed unnaturally large and remote after the embattled brig.
In spite of what he had endured, Bolitho felt wide awake, and wondered what had given him this renewal of energy.
All day the frigate had been hove to with the mastless
Rosario
wallowing in her lee. While the rest of Palliser's party and the wounded had been ferried across to
Destiny,
other boats had been busy carrying men and material to help the brig's company set up a jury-rig and complete minimum repairs to take them into port.
Dumaresq sat at his table, a litter of papers and charts scattered before him, all of which Palliser had brought from the
Rosario.
He was without his coat, and, sitting in his shirt, his neckcloth loosely tied, he looked anything but a frigate captain.
He said, “You did well, Mr Palliser.” He looked up, his widely spaced eyes turning on Bolitho. “You also.”
Bolitho thought of that other time when he and Palliser had been demolished by Dumaresq's scathing attack.
Dumaresq pushed the papers aside and leaned back in the chair. “Too many dead men.
Heloise
gone, too.” He brushed the thought aside. “But you did the
right
thing, Mr Palliser, and it was bravely done.” He gave a grin. “I will send
Heloise
's people with the
Rosario.
From what we have discovered, it would seem that their part in all this was of no importance. They were hired or bribed aboard the brigantine, and by the time they realized they were not going on some short coastal passage they were well out to sea. Their master, Triscott, and his mates, took care to ensure they remained in ignorance. So we'll release them into
Rosario
's care.” He wagged a finger at his first lieutenant. “
After
you have selected and sworn in any good hands you can use to replace those lost. A spell in the King's service will make a lively change for them.”
Palliser reached out and took a glass of wine as Dumaresq's servant hovered discreetly beside his chair.
“What of Egmont, sir?”
Dumaresq sighed. “I have ordered that he and his wife be brought across before nightfall. Lieutenant Colpoys has them in his charge. But I wanted Egmont to remain to the last moment so that he could see what his greed and treachery has cost the brig's company as well as my own.” He looked at Bolitho. “Our plump surgeon has already told me about the vessel you both saw leaving Rio with such stealth. Egmont was safe while he lay hidden, but whoever gave the order for the
Rosario
to be waylaid and seized
wanted him dead.
According to the brig's charts, her final destination was St Christopher's. Egmont was prepared to pay the master anything to take him there, even to avoid his other ports of call in order that he should reach St Christopher's without delay.” He gave a slow smile. “So that is where Sir Piers Garrick will be.” He nodded as if to emphasize his confidence. “The hunt is almost over. With Egmont's sworn evidence, and he has no choice left now, we shall run that damn pirate to earth once and for all.” He saw Bolitho's open curiosity and added, “The Caribbean has seen the making of much wealth. Pirates, honest traders, slavers and soldiers of fortune, they are all there. And where better for
old enemies
to simmer undisturbed?”
He became business-like again. “Complete this coming and going without too much delay, Mr Palliser. I have advised
Rosario
to return to Rio. Her master will be able to relate his tale to the Viceroy, whereas I was unable to tell mine. He will know that a guise of neutrality must not be so one-sided in future.” As Palliser and Bolitho stood up he said, “I am afraid we are short of fresh water because of my hasty departure. Mr Codd was able to get all the yams, greens and meat he could desire, but water will have to be found elsewhere.”
Outside the cabin Palliser said, “You are temporarily relieved of your duties. Even extreme youth has a limit. Go to your quarters and rest while you can.” He saw Bolitho's uncertainty. “Well?”
“IâI was wondering. What will become of Egmont?” He tried to keep his voice unconcerned. “And his wife?”
“Egmont was a fool. By remaining quiet he aided Garrick. Garrick was trying to help the French at Martinique against us, and that makes Egmont's silence all the more serious. However, if he has any sense he will tell the captain all he knows. But for us he'd be dead. He'll be thinking of that just now.”
He turned to leave, his movements showing little of the strain he had been under. He was still wearing his old sea-going coat which now had the additional distinction of a blood-stain on one shoulder where he had rested his sword.
Bolitho said, “I should like to put Stockdale's name forward for advancement sir.”
Palliser came back and lowered his head to peer at Bolitho beneath a deck-beam.
“Would you indeed?”
Bolitho sighed. It sounded rather like the old Palliser again.
But Palliser said, “I've already done that. Really, Mr Bolitho, you'll have to think more quickly than that.”
Bolitho smiled, despite the ache in his limbs and the confusion in his thoughts which the girl named Aurora had roused with a kiss.
He entered the wardroom, his body swaying to the frigate's heavier motion.
Poad greeted him like a warrior.
“Sit you down, sir! I'll fetch something to eat and drink.” He stood back and beamed at him. “Right glad we are to see you again, sir, an' that's the truth!”
Bolitho lay back in a chair and allowed the drowsiness to flow over him. Above and around him the ship was alive with bustling feet and the clatter of tackle.
A job had to be done, and the seamen and marines were used to obeying orders and holding their private thoughts to themselves. Across the darkening water the brig was also busy with working sailors. Tomorrow the
Rosario
would make her way towards safety, where her story would be retold a thousand times. And they would speak of the quiet Englishman with the beautiful young wife who had lived amongst them for years, keeping to themselves and outwardly content with their self-imposed exile. And of the frigate with her grotesque captain which had come to Rio and had slunk away in the night like an assassin.
Bolitho stared up at the deck head, listening to the ship's noises and the sound of the ocean against her hull. He was privileged. He was right in the midst of it, of the conspiracy and the treachery, and very soon now
she
would be here, too.
When Poad returned with a plate of fresh meat and a jug of madeira he found the lieutenant fast asleep. His legs were out-thrust, the breeches and stockings torn and stained with what appeared to be blood. His hair was plastered across his forehead and there was a bruise on his hand, the one which had been gripping his hanger at the start of the day.
Asleep, the third lieutenant looked even younger, Poad thought. Young, and for these rare moments of peace, defenceless.
Bolitho walked slowly up and down the quarterdeck, avoiding flaked lines and the mizzen bitts without conscious effort. It was sunset and a full day since they had parted company with the battered
Rosario
to leave her far astern. She had looked forlorn and as mis-shapen as any cripple with her crude jury-rig and such a sparse display of sails it would take her several days to reach port.
Bolitho glanced aft at the poop skylight and saw the glow of lanterns reflecting on the driver-boom above it. He tried to picture the dining cabin with her there and the captain sharing his table with his two guests. How would she feel now? How much had she known from the beginning, he wondered?
Bolitho had seen her only briefly when she had been brought across from the brig with her husband and a small mountain of luggage. She had seen him watching from the gangway and had made to raise one gloved hand, but the gesture had changed to less than a shrug. A mark of submission, even despair.
He looked up at the braced yards, the topsails growing darker against the pale fleecy clouds which had been with them for most of the day. They were steering north-northeast and standing well out from the land to avoid prying eyes or another would-be follower.
The watch on deck were doing their usual rounds to inspect the trim of the yards and the tautness of running and standing rigging alike. From below he heard the plaintive scrape of the shantyman's fiddle, the occasional murmur of voices as the hands waited for their evening meal.
Bolitho paused in his restless pacing and grasped the nettings to steady himself against the ship's measured roll and plunge. The sea was already much darker to larboard, the swell in half shadow as it cruised slowly towards their quarter to lift
Destiny
's stern and then roll beneath her keel in endless procession.
He looked along the upper deck at the regularly spaced guns lashed firmly behind the sealed ports, through the black shrouds and other rigging to the figurehead's pale shoulder. He shivered, imagining it to be Aurora reaching out like that, but for him and not the horizon.
Somewhere a man laughed, and he heard Midshipman Lovelace reprimanding one of the watch who was probably old enough to be his father. It sounded even funnier in his high-pitched voice, Bolitho thought. Lovelace had been awarded extra duties by Palliser for skylarking during the dog-watches when he should have been pondering on his navigational problems.
Bolitho recalled his own early efforts to study, to keep awake and learn the hard-won lessons laid down by his sailing master. It all seemed so long ago. The darkness of the smelly orlop and the midshipman's berth, trying to read the figures and calculations by the flickering light of a glim set in an old oyster shell.
And yet it was no time at all. He studied the vibrating canvas and marvelled at the short period it had taken to make so great a step. Once he had stood almost frozen with fear at the prospect of being left alone in charge of a watch. Now he felt confident enough, but knew if the time came he would and must call the captain. But no one else. He could not turn any more to seek out his lieutenant or some stalwart master's mate for aid or advice. Those days were gone, unless or until he committed some terrible error which would strip him of all he had gained.
Bolitho found himself examining his feelings more closely. He had been afraid when he had believed he was going to go down, trapped below decks in the
Heloise
. Perhaps the closest to terror he had ever been. And yet he had seen action before, plenty of times, even as a twelve-year-old midshipman in his first ship he had gritted his teeth against the thunder of the old
Manxman
's massive broadside.
In his cot, with the flimsy screen door of his cabin shut to the rest of the world, he had thought about it, wondered how his companions saw and judged him.
They never seemed to worry beyond the moment. Colpoys, bored and disdainful, Palliser, unbreakable and ever-watchful over the ship's affairs. Rhodes appeared carefree enough, so perhaps his own ordeal in the
Heloise
and then aboard the brig had made a deeper impression than he had thought.
He had killed or wounded several men, and had watched others hack down their enemies with apparent relish. But surely you could never get used to it? The smell of a man's breath against your own, the feel of his body heat as he tried to break your guard. His triumph when he thought you were falling, his horror as you drove your blade into muscle and bone.
One of the two helmsmen said, “Steady as she goes, sir. Nor'-nor'-east.”
He turned in time to see the captain's thickset shadow emerging from the companionway.
Dumaresq was a heavy man but had the stealth of a cat.
“All quiet, Mr Bolitho?”
“Aye, sir.” He could smell the brandy and guessed the captain had just finished his dinner.
“A long haul yet.” Dumaresq tilted on his heels to study the sails and the first faint stars. He changed the subject and asked, “Are you recovered from your little battle?”
Bolitho felt stripped naked. It was as if Dumaresq had been reading into his very thoughts.
“I think so, sir.”
Dumaresq persisted. “Frightened, were you?”
“Part of the time.” He nodded, remembering the weight across his back, the roar of water through the deck below where he had been trapped.
“A good sign.” Dumaresq nodded. “Never become too hard. Like cheap steel, you'll snap if you do.”
Bolitho asked carefully, “Will we be carrying the passengers all the way, sir?”
“To St Christopher's at least. There I intend to enlist the governor's aid and have word sent to our senior officer there or at Antigua.”
“The treasure, sir. Is there still a chance of recovering it?”
“Some of it. But I suspect we may recognize it in a very different form from that originally intended. There is a smell of rebellion in the air. It has been growing and smouldering since the end of the war. Sooner or later our old enemies will strike at us again.” He turned and stared at Bolitho as if trying to make up his mind. “I read something of your brother's recent success when I was at Plymouth. Against another of Garrick's breed, I believe? He caught and destroyed a man who was fleeing to America, a man once respected but who proved to be as rotten as any common felon.”