Authors: Alexander Kent
Queely yelled impatiently, “What is she?” His foot tapped on the wet planking. “I'm waiting, man!”
Kempthorne called hoarsely, “Aâa brigantine, I think, sir!”
Bolitho said, “It must be difficult to see, even from that height.”
Queely turned. “You think I'm too hard on him, sir?” He shrugged. “It may save his life and a few others before long!”
Bolitho moved to the narrow poop and clung to a dripping swivel gun. A brigantine. It seemed likely. They and schooners were most favoured in the Trade, and Tanner had probably selected this one as soon as Marcuard had taken him into his confidence. He thought of the grand house in Whitehall, the servants, the quiet luxury of day-to-day life in the capital. This was a far cry from Marcuard's careful planning, but Bolitho had no doubts as to where the blame would be laid if Tanner and the treasure disappeared.
The master said to nobody in particular, “A spot o' sunshine afore the glass is turned.”
Queely glared at him, but knew him well enough to say nothing.
Kempthorne, his voice almost gone from shouting above the wind and sea, called, “Brigantine she is, sir! Holding same tack!”
Bolitho grasped his sword beneath his cloak. It felt like a piece of ice.
“I suggest you prepare, Mr Queely.”
Queely watched him, his features more hawklike than ever. “The people know what to do, sir. If we are wrong, they might lose confidence.”
“Not in you. You can blame it all on the mad captain from Falmouth!”
Surprisingly they were both able to laugh.
Then Queely shouted, “Pipe all hands! Clear for action!”
It was still strange for Bolitho to see the preparations for battle completed without drums, the rising urgency of a ship beating to quarters. Here, it was almost by word of mouth, with only the watch below summoned by the squeal of calls.
“Cast off the breechings!”
The master let out a sigh.
“Told you.”
A shaft of watery sunlight plunged down through the spray and sea-mist, giving the water depth and colour, personality to the faces and figures working around the guns.
From his dizzy perch Lieutenant Francis Kempthorne wrapped one arm around a stay until he felt it was being torn from his body. As the sturdy hull lifted and dipped beneath him, the mast itself reached out and across the surging crests far below, and he saw the mainsail's shadow on the water, as if it were rising to snatch him down. The motion was sickening although the lookout at his side seemed indifferent to it.
He gulped and tried again, counting the seconds while he levelled the heavy telescope, not even daring to think what Queely would say if he dropped it. The bows lifted streaming from a jagged breaker and Kempthorne held his breath. The brigantine must have risen at exactly the same moment. He saw her fore-course and topsail, the big driver braced hard round as she steered on the same tack as her pursuer.
Just for those few seconds he saw her name across the counter, the gilt paint suddenly sharp and bright in the feeble glare.
He shouted, “
La Revanche,
sir!” He was almost sobbing with relief, as if it would have been his fault had she been another vessel entirely.
The lookout watched him and shook his head. Kempthorne was popular with most of the hands, and never took it out of offenders like some. The seaman had been in the navy for twelve years but could still not fathom the minds of officers.
Kempthorne was glad, pleased that he had sighted the other vessel. Yet within hours he might be dead.
Of course there might easily be prize money if things went well . . .
Down on the streaming deck Queely stared at Bolitho and exclaimed, “We've found her, sir!” His eyes flashed with excitement, Kempthorne's part in it already forgotten.
Bolitho levelled his glass, but from the deck the sea still appeared empty.
“And now, we'll
take
him!”
Kempthorne shouted, “She's shaken out another reef, sir! Making more sail!”
Queely strode to the compass box and back to Bolitho's side. “They're wasting their time,” he said confidently. “We've got the bugger by the heels.” He cupped his hands. “Be ready to run out the stuns'ls if she opens the range!”
Bolitho trained his glass again. Now in the growing light he could see the brigantine's forecourse and topsail, her driver filled to full capacity and making the vessel's two masts lean over towards the cruising white horses.
Even in this short interval, since Kempthorne had read her name, the distance between them had fallen away considerably. It was true what they said about topsail cutters. They could outrun almost anything.
“Run up the Colours, if you please.” Queely looked at Bolitho. “He may not have recognised us, sir.”
Bolitho nodded. “I agree. Let's see what he does next. Have the four Dutchmen brought on deck.”
The Dutchmen stood swaying below the mast, staring from Bolitho to the brigantine, wondering what was about to happen to them.
Bolitho lowered the glass. If he could see the other vessel's poop, then they, and most likely Tanner himself, would be able to recognise his erstwhile partners. He would know then that this was not some casual encounter, a time when he might risk turning towards the French coast to avoid capture. He would know it was Bolitho. It was personal. It was now.
“Fire a gun, Mr Queely!”
The six-pounder recoiled on its tackles, the thin whiff of smoke gone before the crew had time to check the motion with handspikes.
Queely watched the ball splash into the broken crests some half-a-cable from the brigantine's quarter.
He said, “She does not seem to be pierced for any large artillery.” He glanced admiringly at Bolitho. “You reasoned to perfection, sir.”
A man yelled, “Somethin's 'appenin' on 'er deck, sir!”
Bolitho raised his glass in unison with Queely, and tensed as he saw the little scene right aft by her taffrail. He did not recognise the others, but in the centre of the small group he saw Brennier's white hair blowing in the wind, his arms pinioned so that he was forced to face the cutter as she continued to overhaul
La Revanche.
Queely said savagely, “What is his game? Why does he play for time? We'll be up to him in a momentâif he kills that old man it will be the worse for him!”
Bolitho said, “Rig four halters to the mainyard.” He saw Queely look at him with surprise. “Tanner will understand. A life for a life. So too will his men.”
Queely yelled, “Come down, Mr Kempthorne! You are needed
here!
” He beckoned to his boatswain and passed Bolitho's instructions. Within minutes, or so it seemed, four ropes, each with a noose at one end, flew out from the mainyard like creeper, as if they were enjoying a macabre dance.
Bolitho said, “Keep him to lee'rd of you. Run down on his quarter.” He was thinking aloud. But all the time, Queely's question intruded.
Why does he play for time?
The game must surely be played out.
The truth touched his heart like steel.
He wants me dead. Even in the face of defeat he sees only that.
He raised the glass again. Brennier's face loomed into the small silent picture, his eyes wide as if he was choking.
Bolitho said, “I intend to board. Prepare the jolly-boat.” He silenced Queely's protest by adding, “If you try to drive alongside in this wind, you'll likely dismast
Wakeful.
We'd lose Tanner, the treasure, everything.”
Queely shouted to the boat-handling party, then said stubbornly, “If they fire on you before you board, what then? We have no other boat. Why not risk the damage, I say, and damn the consequences!” He shrugged; he had seen the fight lost before it had begun. “Mr Kempthorne! Full boarding party!” He turned his back on the men by the tiller. “And ifâ”
Bolitho touched his elbow. “
If?
Then you may act as you please. Disable her, but make certain they understand they will go down with the ship if they resist further!”
He watched the jolly-boat rising and dipping like a snared shark as the seamen warped it slowly aft to the quarter.
He took a last glance at the brigantine's poop as
Wakeful
bore down on her. The figures had gone. The threat of instant retribution which they had seen in the four halters run up to the yard might have carried the moment. The sight of
Wakeful'
s carronades and run-out six-pounders would demonstrate that there was no quarter this time, no room to bargain.
Allday dropped into the boat and watched the oarsmen as they fended off the cutter's hull, and prepared to fight their way over the water which surged between the two vessels.
Bolitho clambered down with Kempthorne and as the bowman shoved off, and the oars fell noisily into their rowlock, Allday shouted, “Give way all!”
Kempthorne stared at
La Revanche,
his eyes filled with wonder. “They're shortening sail, sir!”
Bolitho replied grimly, “Don't drop your guard, my lad, not for a second.”
Faces appeared along the brigantine's bulwark, and Bolitho raised his borrowed speaking trumpet and shouted, “Do not resist! In the King's name, I order you to surrender!”
He could ignore the sweating oarsmen, Allday crouching over his tiller bar, Kempthorne and the other boarders jammed like herrings into the sternsheets and amongst the boat's crew.
At any second they might open fire. It only needed one. Bolitho wanted to look round for
Wakeful
and gauge her position, how long it might take Queely to attack if the worst happened.
Allday said between his teeth, “One of 'em's got a musket, Cap'n.”
Bolitho shouted again, his heart pumping against his ribs as his whole body tensed for a shot.
“Stand by to receive boarders!”
Allday breathed out slowly as the raised musket disappeared. “Bowman!
Grapnel!
”
They smashed hard into the brigantine's side, lifted over her wale and almost capsized as another trough yawned beneath the keel.
Bolitho seized a handrope and hauled himself up to the entry port, with Kempthorne and some of the seamen scrabbling up beside him. Allday stared helplessly while the boat plunged down into another trough, leaving him and the rest of the crew momentarily cut off from the boarding party. Bolitho flung himself over the bulwark and in the next few seconds saw the scene like a badly executed painting. Men gaping at him when they should have been attacking or yelling defiance; Brennier beside the wheel, his hands apparently tied behind him, a sailor with a cutlass held close to his throat.
And in the centre stood Tanner, his handsome features very calm as he faced Bolitho across the open deck.
The jolly-boat ground alongside again and broken oars spilled out into the sea. But Allday was here, with three more armed men, their eyes wild, ready to fightâno, wanting to kill now that the moment had arrived.
Tanner said, “You are making another mistake, Bolitho!”
Bolitho glanced at Brennier and nodded. He was safe now. The man who was guarding him jammed his cutlass into the deck and stood away.
Bolitho said, “Well, Sir James, you once invited me to enter your world.” He gestured toward the horizon. “This is mine. On the high seas you will find no bribed judges or lying witnesses to save your skin. If you or one of your men raises his hand against us, I will see him deadâhere, todayâbe certain of that.” He was astonished that he could speak so calmly. “Mr Kempthorne, attend the admiral.”
As the lieutenant made to cross the deck, Tanner moved. “I shall see you in
hell,
Bolitho!”
He must have had a pistol, a long-barrelled, duellist's weapon, concealed beneath his coat. Too late Bolitho saw his arm swing up and take aim. He heard shouts, a grunt of fury from Allday, then even as a shadow passed across his vision came the sharp crack of the shot. Lieutenant Kempthorne swung round and stared at Bolitho, his eyes wide with disbelief. The ball had penetrated his throat directly below his chin, and as he fell forwards the blood welled from his mouth and he was dead.
In the immediate silence the sea's sounds intruded like an audience, and only the man at the wheel seemed able to move, his eyes on the compass and the straining driver. What he was trained to do, no matter what.
He wants me dead.
There was a faint splash as Tanner flung the pistol over the side. He watched Bolitho's expression and said softly,
“Next time.”
Bolitho walked towards him, men falling back to let him through. It was then that he saw
Wakeful,
creeping along the side, near enough to fire directly at individual targets, but still keeping her distance to avoid collision.