Touch and Go (27 page)

“The
Merlin?
But I thought you were Captain Dundas?”

“He commands another sloop, the
Calpé.”

“Dear me! And you are . . . ?

“I am Richard Delancey.”

“Good gracious!” (The name obviously meant nothing to her.) “How very droll! Shall we go in? Mama will be wondering where we are.”

He escorted her back to Mrs Saumarez, who had heard of her mistake from another source since Colonel Saumarez had later met Captain Dundas himself. There was a sudden change in the atmosphere, not simply the result of mistaken identity. Mrs Saumarez had been talking, he guessed, with Mrs Hardwick and perhaps with Mr Slater. There was a story going round, he realised, and he must feature in it as the purchaser of a slave girl. Had he rescued her, sword in hand, the story might have been told to his advantage, but the mere mention of the slave market must be fatal. If he had ever had a chance of marrying Julia that chance was gone for good.

Having said good-bye and expressed his thanks to host and hostess, Delancey was on the point of leaving when he met Lord Cochrane in the entrance hall.

“Ah, Delancey, this war, it seems, is going to end too soon for either of us. There'll be no promotion now, least of all for an officer on parole, pending exchange.”

“Nor will an officer fare any better who served in the flagship as a volunteer and whose presence in action will not be mentioned in the dispatch.”

“I hope that you were luckier with prize-money. I can't complain after that last cruise in the
Speedy.”

“I was not as fortunate as your lordship.”

“But you may have shown greater skill in investment, as for example in Tetuan! Now don't take offence, man, no one thinks the worse of you—saving, perhaps, some old women of both sexes. A pity, however, that the
Santa Catarina
was in ballast. Her hull is not terribly valuable, I should suppose, and her sails and cordage look nearly worn out.”

“I may yet have a stroke of luck, my lord. The
Merlin
is ordered home, the war is not over and I might capture a prize or two at the last moment.”

“I have considered that possibility too. One might intercept a merchantman on the French coast, sailing without convoy in the belief that the war is already over. Or one might discover that war had indeed ended the day before, leaving one to face a costly action for damages.”

“Just so, my lord. For the next month or two we shall be cruising at our own risk. We might be lucky and then again we might be damned unfortunate.”

Back in his cabin aboard the
Merlin,
Delancey handed his cloak and sword to the faithful Teesdale, who asked whether the ball had been a success.

“Yes, there was something to celebrate. A pleasanter occasion than when you and I were running over the rooftops at Tetuan!”

“I often think of that night, sir, and say to myself that we were lucky to get away with it.”

“The story has been told on the lower deck?”

“Well, sir, it couldn't be secret, like.”

“No. So there is talk about Souraya?”

“Yes, sir, but the way the story goes she was a heathen princess, not the poor unwashed child I had the care of. Do you hear, sir, how she has fared?”

“Yes, Teesdale. She is nurserymaid to Mrs Hardwick, is happy and well liked and becoming a Christian.”

“I'm glad to hear that, sir. With respect, sir, may I say that no one thinks the worse of you for saving the girl?”

“Thank you, Teesdale. I still don't know what else I could have done. Turn in now. I shall be on deck for a while.”

Delancey paced the quarterdeck for ten minutes and then paused, leaning on the gunwale and staring up at the Rock of Gibraltar. There were few lights now to be seen ashore or round the harbour but the night was starlit and he could just see the sentinel pacing the quayside. Two men on harbour watch were talking to each other quietly in the waist of the ship. The water lapped against the ship's side and a dog barked somewhere in the distance. How unlucky he had been over Julia . . . and yet he had been foolish to dream impossible dreams about a girl he had only just met. How could he have been so stupid, knowing that he had nothing to offer? There had been a perfection about her—that was it, and he had never met it before. He was awake now and the dream was over. There were the first signs of daybreak, a faint lightening of the sky, a first breath of wind from the sea. He realised, with wonder, that he would never see Julia again and that, whatever happened later, he would never forget her.

W
ITH AN unusual sense of being on holiday, Delancey went shopping during what would probably be his last week in Gibraltar. Stirling was with him and Topley, each buying for his respective mess, and Teesdale came to carry what was bought for the captain's table. With the battle over and peace in prospect, the narrow streets of Gibraltar were crowded and business was brisk. There were colourful shops and market stalls with bargains in plenty offered by dark-faced old women in black dresses. People chanted or screeched the news of what they had to offer and customers flatly refused to believe that such outrageous prices could be asked for such inferior stuff.

Among the local people of mixed origin the British seamen moved in twos and threes, some the worse for liquor, others gaping at the monkeys and parrots which were offered for sale. It was a question whether an officer's uniform should be seen in the shopping street and Delancey, having bought what he needed, was about to send Teesdale back to the
Merlin
when he suddenly decided, very much on impulse, to send a present to Souraya, a parting gift to show that he was as much her friend as a gossiping world would allow. But what should it be? Cloth for a dress seemed the obvious answer and Delancey plunged into all the difficulties of texture and pattern, length and price.

It was a dark shop he had entered despite the dazzling sun outside and he was fairly surrounded by rolls and rolls of muslin and linen, cotton and silk. The scene was further complicated by the fact that he was not the only customer in the shop, with a babel of sound coming from the far side of a stack of merchandise. As a bachelor, his ideas were unusually vague and he failed to distinguish between stuff for curtains and stuff for clothing. At last, however, he saw what he regarded as the perfect material but buried, unluckily, under a pile of other goods.

Teesdale came to his rescue but with excessive vigour, the result being to overturn the whole display. Bolts of cloth rained on an unseen customer who called out “Stand from under! The mast's been shot away and we're buried under the mizen staysail! Give us a hand, mate!” Something in the tone of voice was vaguely familiar and Delancey, making a short circuit, was quick to offer his apologies. From among the tumbled goods there emerged, of all people, Sam Carter, his smuggler friend; the man to whom he owed his escape from Spain back in 1796.

“Sam, you old rascal!” he exclaimed, “what brings you to Gibraltar, and since when did you do business in satin and velvet?”

“Richard! Give me your hand! What a surprise to meet with you again after all these years!”

Sam Carter did not seem to have changed at all, being the same polite and cunning character, a good shipmate but as lawless as ever.

“Sam,” said Richard, “I want a dress length for a girl—we'll call her a niece—aged twelve or fifteen. Tell me what to buy!” Sam Carter glanced round, chose some sprigged muslin and said, “Buy five yards of that!” Ten minutes later the bargain had been struck, the stuff measured and paid for, and Teesdale given directions to call at Mrs Hardwick's on his way back to the harbour. Stirling went on to other shops, with Topley for company, and Delancey steered Sam into a tavern where they could talk over a glass of wine.

“Now,” said Delancey, “tell me the news. Where, to begin with, have you hidden the
Dove?
She is not in the harbour. I hope she isn't lost?”

“No, the
Dove
is at Tangier but almost unmanned. Most of my men were impressed by one of your frigates. I came over here by ferry, having a little business to do.”

“But how will you reach home again, Sam?”

“Oh, I shall find some sort of crew. They'll not be real seamen, though, not fit to go aloft in a gale of wind.”

“But fit for a passage to Guernsey?”

“It's not as simple as that, Richard. I must make the voyage pay. I shall have to visit the French coast.”

“And what is the cargo to be?”

“Brandy, I reckon. The better brands come from Bordeaux, La Rochelle, Orleans or Nantes but the best of all is cognac, distilled at a town of that name in the Charente. It comes down the river in boats.”

“To be shipped at Rochefort?”

“Yes, for regular shipment. But not all of it reaches Rochefort. Some boats unload at a point higher up and the barrels are shipped at places further south.”

“Behind the Ile d'Oleron in fact?”

“There or thereabouts, at places less public.”

“But why the secrecy, Sam? It doesn't matter to the French where the cognac is sold.”

“Nor it does, at that. But they can't allow a British craft into Rochefort, not in time of war; no, not even the
Dove.”

“I suppose not. So you are familiar with that part of the coast?”

“I have been there and have friends there. But all those shifting sandbanks make it difficult and I would rather not attempt it with the crew I shall have. But I've no choice, d'ye see? I must have a cargo and cognac is best of any.”

“Could you discover, from hearsay, what men-of-war the French have at Rochefort?”

“Reckon I might. Does it matter now—with the war so nearly finished?”

“I don't know that it does. But your gaining some intelligence would give me the excuse to escort you.”

“Don't put temptation in my way, Richard. You mean it kindly, I know that and I thank you. But it won't do. You can't sail from Gibraltar in company with a known smuggler and I daren't appear on the French coast in company with a British sloop. That way would get us both into trouble and that's for sure. No, Richard, I'll do this on my own, pray for good weather and trust to luck.”

“Tell me, Sam, where do you go here for supper? Where do the masters of merchantmen meet?”

“At the General Elliott—you must have seen it.”

“I know the place. Could you join me there for supper this evening?”

“Gladly, Richard—or how would you word it among your service friends—'With pleasure, sir'?”

A time was arranged and Delancey, going on board the
Merlin,
changed presently into civilian clothes, an old brown coat with buff waistcoat, breeches and beaver hat. When he went ashore again he looked like a respectable tradesman, passably dressed for an evening at the tavern. He felt for the moment as if he had turned his back on more fashionable society and was master again of a revenue cutter or privateer. Sam was well known among the regular customers at the rather shabby inn and introduced Delancey to the others as his friend “Dick Delancey, of Guernsey.” Then they supped together, faring quite well, and talked of old times.

“Whatever you do, Richard, even though you live to command in battle, you will always be remembered in St Peter Port as the man who captured the
Bonne Citoyenne!”

“Those were the days, Sam! I made money, too, which is more than I have done recently. Yes, the
Bonne Citoyenne
out of Rochefort, laden with brandy and I forget what else . . . she had a sister ship, come to think of it—the
Liberation,
later called the
Bonaparte.
Does she still make the same voyage, Rochefort to Cherbourg and back again in ballast?”

“I reckon so. Are you interested?”

“I should like to know her date of sailing from Rochefort.”

“That shouldn't be too difficult. But remember that she is heavily armed and you can't repeat the tactics you used against the
Bonne Citoyenne.”

“True enough, Sam. But you forget that I command a King's ship now. I don't have to account to my owners for the damage!”

“And that's the truth! I had forgot for a moment that you had quit privateering. Yes, that makes all the difference between profit and loss. With the King to pay for the damage and three-eighths of the value going to you—yes, that would be worth your trouble! I'll ask around when ashore in France.”

The evening passed pleasantly and Delancey promised to look out for the
Dove
on the French coast. He would sail a day or two later than Sam and tell his men to watch out for the lugger. With a weak crew and on a treacherous coast, she might need help. He and Sam parted that night with great warmth, the smuggler promising to obtain news of the
Bonaparte
and Delancey promising to rescue the
Dove
if the need arose. Sam would signal for assistance if need be, a white flag by day or a blue flare at night. Whether they would actually meet on the French coast seemed doubtful but Sam had explained his plans in detail and Delancey at least knew where to look.

Three or four days later Delancey called at the Admiral's office for his final orders.

“Here they are,” said the flag-lieutenant. “You go to Plymouth, sir, and I wish I were sailing with you. There was some idea of your visiting Guernsey but Sir James seems to have changed his mind about that.”

All this was said chattily, the flag-lieutenant unaware of the blow this would be to Delancey, who showed no sign of emotion. “It has been decided instead that you should give passage to some convalescent men from the hospital—fifteen petty officers and seamen and twenty-two soldiers. These are men fit to walk, you'll understand, but not fit for active duty. They will be supernumeraries and the seamen will be due for discharge at Plymouth. There are some separate orders for the soldiers, but where the hell are they? My clerk will know. Maxwell!”