The Patriot's Fate (18 page)

“Deck there, she’s tacking.” The officers on the quarterdeck waited while the lookout concentrated. Clearly the strange sighting had now seen and identified
Scylla,
and the fact that the she was turning towards them almost confirmed her nationality beyond doubt. “Yes, now on the larboard tack, and Miller here thinks ‘e knows her.”

“She’s the
Sylph
, we was with ‘er last commission,” the second lookout called down.

“Commander Chambers White, sir,” Chilton said. “Something of a rising star, in these parts.” Banks looked at him and the lieutenant continued. “Captured several privateers in the last few years, and destroyed a French frigate when she had been run ashore.”

“Indeed?” The captain said, staring forward where the sighting should appear at any moment. “Well, let us hope that he is bringing us good news.”

* * *

“What fever, sir?”
 

The two vessels were less than half a cable apart. Banks had kept the brig to windward and ordered the fever flag hoisted once more.

“The mumps,” Chilton bellowed in reply. The brig’s crew gave a chorus of ribald laughter, which was answered by a couple of indignant shouts from the
Scylla
‘s lower deck.

“Then I’ll thank you to stay to leeward of me, sir!” Clearly
Sylph
‘s captain found the situation just as amusing. For a moment Banks was annoyed, and decided that White was probably a young commander and clearly not insisting on correct discipline aboard his vessel. Then he remembered that it was hardly three years ago that he himself had been in a similar position, and collected the speaking trumpet in a slightly more tolerant frame of mind.

“Do you have news, for me, Captain?” Banks bellowed.

“Aye, sir, the French are out.” The tone was more serious, as was the message. “We caught them off Brest and have been following for several days. My Lord Bridport will be aware b’now.”

Banks pursed his lips. He disliked discussing news of this importance in front of the entire crew, but time, and the damned mumps, gave little option. “How many are they?”

“Nine frigates and a liner,” White replied. “Some might be armed
en-flute
, but still a sizeable number.”

The two ships were starting to drift apart; someone in the brig gave an order and she closed again, although they were clearly intending to keep a fair distance off.

“Who is following them?” Banks asked.

“Captain Countess in
Ethalion
, along with
Amelia. Anson
joined a day back; that is when we were despatched.”

Banks knew George Countess: a sound man and, more importantly, ahead of him in the captain’s list. And
Anson,
if he was not mistaken, was a heavy frigate, a
razee
, cut down from a sixty-four. It was a reasonable force, but not sufficient to deal with ten Frenchmen.

“Where is the enemy now?” There was a hesitation; it was clearly not a question easily answered: with British ships shadowing, the French were probably leading a merry dance. White had been out of touch for a day or more, and whatever he said would be more of an indication, a basis for the start of speculation.

“Last seen they were approximately fifty north, eleven west, and apparently heading for Ireland.

Banks nodded, it was the obvious conclusion. “And your orders, Captain White?”

“I am to head for Cork with the news, sir. Advise any ships met on the way, and then attempt to meet up with Sir John Warren.”

“Warren?”

“He has been given a squadron, sir, liners and frigates, and should be in the vicinity.”

That sounded a little more positive. Warren was another good man, and clearly had been equipped with a force powerful enough to deal with the French.

“Very good, Captain; I shall detain you no longer,”

“What are your intentions, sir?”

“I shall make to join Captain Countess, though will obviously be on the watch for Sir John as well; you may say that should you find him first.”

“Very good, sir,”

Orders were shouted on board the brig, and the yards came round almost immediately. It was an example worth following, and
Scylla
was soon back on the wind and heading away. Hands aboard both ships waved and exchanged shouted messages, and it was just as the two were almost out of hailing distance that someone on
Sylph’
s lower deck delivered the
coup de grâce
:

“An if you can’t fight the frogs, at least you can pox ‘em!”

Chapter Eight
 

The weather stayed bright for the next few days, although the wind was not exactly in their favour and carried an edge that warned the true seamen amongst the crew of an impending storm. Once past Cape Clear
Scylla
had altered course and was keeping the coast of Ireland just in sight off her starboard beam to aid accurate navigation. Finding two small fleets in a wide expanse of ocean must be more a question of luck than judgement, although having some idea of the enemy’s destination was a considerable help. There were bays and inlets a plenty on Ireland’s western coast. Many would make an excellent landing point, and it made sense to keep such places under observation whilst they steadily headed northwards.
 

But so far they had found little other than fishing vessels and coastal traders. The few of any size they did encounter turned out to be neutral merchants: inspecting them wasted valuable time and proved fruitless, and Banks was just starting to wonder if Sir John Warren would actually meet the French and see action before
Scylla
made contact with either of them. The shout and clump of a musket from the marine sentry followed by tap at his cabin door brought him back to the present, and he called for the messenger to enter.
 

“There are two fishing boats in sight, sir.” It was Parfrey, the volunteer. “And Mr King says he doesn’t like the look of the weather.”

“Very good, my compliments to Mr King and would he alter course to intercept. I shall be on deck presently.” Fishermen remained a potential source of local knowledge even if he had learned very little from those he had already met. The lad touched his hat and was about to dash from the room when Banks called him back.

“Mr Parfrey, I assume you are now fully recovered?”

“Oh yes, sir; thank you, sir.” The lad’s chin and neck had certainly returned to normal, and his face actually looked quite ruddy with health.

“I am glad of it. There have been good reports from your divisional lieutenant which have also pleased me; continue with your studies and you shall have a bright future within this ship.”

Parfrey left in a blur of smiles and thanks and Banks sat back in his chair. A lot had happened during the last few days and his mind was still something of a whirl. The interview at Dublin Castle had been inconclusive, although his talk with St John was almost worth the diversion on its own. As it was, with the Viceroy many miles away, he had spent a barely half hour with a deputy minister who added little to the briefing he had received in the carriage. The man could hardly have been less interested in a member of His Majesty’s Navy, and closed the meeting promptly at one, presumably the time for his luncheon. It proved to be a meal to which Banks was not invited.
 

He thought about his brief visit to Ireland’s capital city once more. The very castle itself seemed to stand as a metaphor for the military attitude to the Irish situation. On the outside strong, forbidding and considered, but beneath the stone façade there were just corridors of dusty, ill kept offices that had seemingly been added on a random basis without any thought for order or purpose.

The attitude of the staff was also at odds with a country currently striving to hold the safe ground between civil war and all out rebellion. On the way in he noticed two locksmiths who, according to his guide, were employed on pretty much a permanent basis. Apparently security was universally accepted as lax, with keys to the government offices frequently being lost or stolen.

Banks remembered St John’s final words. Despite the official line that the rebellion was all but over, he expected further trouble; indeed, he appeared to sense it as a dog might game. But even one with such an agile mind and in an informed position was in the dark as to exactly where the fight may lie.
 

If it were at sea, against enemy shipping, then Banks had every confidence.
Scylla
was a fine ship, one that had already found a place in his affections, and her crew were loyal and ready for command. In straight combat with an identifiable enemy he had few doubts about how she would perform. But with the Irish situation as it was they were just as likely to be involved in a land based campaign, one where enemy might as easily pass as friend, and any action was bound to be horribly expensive in human lives. The idea did not appeal; but if the rumoured invasion force turned out to be real, and should they be given the chance to land in any one of a hundred likely places, there seemed little alternative.
 

His thoughts were broken for a second time by the rumble of feet upon the deck above. King was manoeuvring the ship, which meant the fishermen were close by, and he could waste no more time on idle speculation. He rose from his chair; previous interviews had brought little news, and he didn’t expect this one to be any different. But the French may have been spotted; even now, as he made his way to the quarterdeck, they could be anchoring in some sheltered inlet, ready to disgorge their troops and start the whole murderous procedure off once more. He clambered up the short companionway and touched his hat as he approached the group of officers next to the binnacle.
Scylla
had backed her mizzen and was starting to wallow in the gentle swell. He glanced round; there were two small boats about half a cable to leeward, but what really drew his attention was the shadow off the larboard bow. The horizon was shielded by a dark fog and the very air felt heavy and torpid.

“Hail the fishermen, if you please, Mr King.” Banks said, his eyes still fixed on the impending weather. “But I do not intend to waste any time; I fear there may be other matters to take our attention.”

* * *

The ship’s bell rang: he had half an hour left in the fresh air. The wind was also rising and Crowley wondered if this might be the last time he would be able to exercise on deck for some while. He eased himself up gently and stood, stretching each leg in turn and wriggling his toes to encourage the circulation. In an effort to shake off the pursuing British they had spent the last day and a half heading away from their destination. Crowley was hardly in a hurry to reach Ireland and certainly had no desire to start fighting; nevertheless he knew that, if the voyage lasted very much longer, most of the proud invasion force would be fit for nothing other that eating and sleeping. Those were the tasks that currently occupied their waking hours, and the routine would be hard to break. A movement from behind caught his attention, and he looked round to see a familiar face.
 

Wolfe Tone was often present during Crowley’s exercise period. They sometimes exchanged nods, but that had always been the extent of their intercourse. Today however, he was clearly keen for conversation.

“I’ve noticed before you like to keep an eye on our friends.” Tone was wearing a dark blue coat that was rather ostentatiously decorated with lace and ribbon, and he dug his hands deep into the pockets as he regarded the British ship.

Crowley snorted. “There is little else to do.”

“They watch us, and we watch them,” he said. “It is a strange arrangement, but one we can tolerate for as long as we must.”

“Do you think they will give up?” Crowley knew the answer, but wanted to hear Tone’s reply.
 

“No, we can play our little games; go this way and go that, but the British will stick with us for as long as it remains physically possible. We may be lucky: the captain says there is storm in the air. Or they may be lucky and run in with a force large enough to deal with us. But wherever fortune falls they will not go away of their own accord, of that you may be certain.”

“I hears you have met with them before,” Crowley chanced.
 

Tone kept his eyes fixed on the British frigate. “Aye, I have that, though we have yet to come to blows, more’s the pity. But I certainly do not know them as well as you.”