Authors: Alexander Kent
“Helm a-lee!”
Bolitho gripped a stanchion and watched the sails flapping like insane banners as the rudder was heaved over, the helmsmen backed up by two more hands as the ship fought against sea and wind. Then all at once they were round, and running with the breakers, the spray bursting beneath the stem so that they seemed to be flying.
Paice mopped his face and shouted above the thunder of more canvas as the topsail filled and hardened from its yard like a breastplate. “'Nother minute and the bugger would have slipped across our stern!” He saw Bolitho's expression and said, “Her master is Henry Delaval, a known smuggler, but he's never been taken with any evidence, God rot him! His vessel's a brig, well found and armed,” Here was the bitterness again. “That's no crime either,
they
say!”
“There she is, sir, larboard bow!” It was Lieutenant Triscott, who had been preparing to take over the watch, and had run on deck with some butter and crumbs sticking to his lapel.
Paice thrust his big hands behind him. His eyes spoke volumes, but all he said was,
“Got you!”
Bolitho wedged his hip against the companion hatch in an attempt to keep steady enough to train a telescope on the other vessel.
Above the leaping wave crests, broken here and there into ragged spectres by stronger gusts of wind, he saw the brig's top-sails, now copper-coloured against the evening sky. Her hull was still hidden and he guessed that Paice had recognised her only after climbing aloft. Never before had he seen Paice show so much emotion, hatred even, and he guessed that the memory of his young wife was linked in some way with the man Delaval.
Hawkins bellowed, “She's settin' 'er forecourse, sir!”
Bolitho nodded, oblivious to the spray which was soaking him from head to toe. The brig was using the wind to full advantage and was already standing away, her two masts seeming to draw closer together above the tumbling water.
Paice glanced at him, his eyes in shadow. “Sir?” He could barely conceal his eagerness.
Bolitho lowered the glass. “Aye, give chase.” He was about to add that the brig's master might have taken
Telemachus
for a French privateer, and was heading away to safety. But seeing Paice's intent expression killed the thought instantly. Paice knew this man, so Delaval would know him and his cutter equally well.
“Alter course, Mr Chesshyre! Let her bear up two points and steer South-West by West!”
As the men ran to braces to haul the long boom further out above the water, Dench the master's mate was already crouching by the compass box, his hair plastered to his forehead while the rudder went over.
One helmsman lost his footing on the tilting deck, but another took his place at the long tiller bar, his bare toes digging for a grip.
“Steady she goes, sir! Sou'-West by West!”
“Damn his eyes, he's making a run for it, Cap'n.” Allday seemed the calmest one on the deck as he watched the other vessel's blurred topsails with apparently little more than professional interest.
Bolitho knew him too well to be deceived.
Like me, perhaps?
Holding it all inside, showing just a mask to others who looked to you for hope or fear.
Paice heard Allday's comment and snapped, “God, I'll not lose the bastard now.”
Bolitho said, “Put a ball across her, Mr Paice.”
Paice looked at him, unused to anyone's methods but his own.
“We're supposed to fire well clear, sir, as a signal.”
Bolitho smiled briefly. “As close as your gunner can arrange it. In a long chase we might lose her when the night finds us, eh?” From the corner of his eye he saw one of the seamen grinning and nudging his companion. Was it because they thought him mad, or because they were beginning to discover their true role as a man-of-war, albeit a small one?
George Davy the gunner supervised the foremost six-pounder personally, one horny hand on the gun-captain's shoulder while the crew worked with their handspikes and tackles until he seemed satisfied.
Paice cupped his hands. “Load the larboard smasher as well, Mr Davy.”
Bolitho balled his hands into fists to discipline his shivering limbs. Paice was thinking for himself. If the brig was prepared to fight, even if she tried merely to cripple
Telemachus'
s rigging and sails, it was sensible to have the deadly carronade loaded and ready to rake her poop.
“Fire!”
Bolitho had been too long away from the sea, longer still from the harsh roar of a frigate's broadside; the crack of a six-pounder was sharp enough to bring pain to his ears.
Allday muttered, “Bloody little popgun!”
Bolitho saw the boy Matthew Corker kneeling near the aftermost gun, his hands gripping a bucket of sand as he stared at the scene on deck where the six-pounder's crew were already tamping home another ball, each man very aware of the post-captain beside Paice.
Bolitho snapped, “Keep down, boy!”
The youth peered up at him. No trace of fear. But it was because he knew nothing. Nor would he, Bolitho decided grimly.
There was far too much spray to see the fall of shot, but the angle of the
Loyal Chieftain'
s masts and topsails was unchanged, and she was moving fast with the soldier's wind right under her coat-tails.
Paice looked at Bolitho. “Into her this time, if you please.”
The six-pounder hurled itself inboard on its tackles and as Bolitho lifted his glass he was in time to see the brig's main top-sail jerk, then split from head to foot. The wind greedily explored the ball's puncture and reduced the whole sail to wildly flapping ribbons.
Someone gave a derisive cheer then Hawkins shouted, “She's puttin' about, sir!”
Paice retorted, “Even if she is heaving-to, Mr Triscott, I want her under our lee, do you understand?” Urgency had set an edge to his voice.
Bolitho stood aside as Paice strode this way and that, his tall frame moving with remarkable ease amongst his men and the litter of cordage and tackles.
“Load the larboard battery, Mr Triscott, but do not run out!” He pivoted round. “Shorten sail, Mr Hawkins! Take in the fores'l!” His eyes moved across Bolitho and he exclaimed, “If that suits, sir?”
The brig had taken in her forecourse, and under topsail and jib only was floundering round into the wind. She was much closer now, less than a cable away, her masts and rigging glowing warmly in the copper light.
There were not many hands on her yards, or indeed working about the deck. But she was under control, and as
Telemachus'
s gun-captains faced aft and held up their fists, Bolitho knew that the brig could be swept with grape and canister before she could hit back.
Paice loosened the hanger at his side and said, “Lower the jolly-boat. Your best oarsmen, Mr Hawkins. It'll be a hard pull in this sea!”
Bolitho said, “I would like to come with you.” Their eyes met and held. “You
are
going yourself, I take it?”
Paice nodded. “The first lieutenant can manage, sir.”
“It is not what I asked.”
Paice shrugged. “It is my right, sir.”
“Very well.” He could feel the lieutenant's strength like something physical, barely controlled. He added, “It were better I am present. For both our sakes, eh?”
The calmness of his tone seemed to stay Paice's emotion, although Bolitho felt anything but calm. He knew that if this man Delaval was caught on board the brig with contraband Paice would likely kill him. Equally, as senior officer, he would be seen as having condoned a murder by a subordinate.
Bolitho watched the boat being swayed up and over the side. The brig's people might attack the boarders as soon as they climbed aboard and still make off in escape.
Bolitho said, “Mr Triscott, if they attempt to make sail, fire into them.” His voice hardened. “No matter what you may see.”
Triscott stared from him to his commander. He looked suddenly very young and vulnerable.
He stammered, “Aye, aye, sir, if you so order.”
Paice said sharply, “He does, and I am in agreement!”
The jolly-boat was manhandled alongside and once again Bolitho was impressed by the quality of the seamanship, the scarcity of spoken orders, let alone the use of a rope's end. He found himself wondering if all cutters were like this one. He glanced quickly at Paice as he scrambled down beside him in the sternsheets. Or was it just because of this impassive, haunted lieutenant?
“Out oars! Give way all!”
The sound of Allday's resonant voice brought a few stares from the boat's crew. But Allday had no intention of being left behind as a helpless onlooker. He was doing what he knew best. Nor would Bolitho deny him after all he had gone through.
The boat lifted and plunged wildly until Allday had steered her clear of the choppy water around the cutter's quarter. Bolitho saw the White Ensign streaming out from the gaff above his head and thought suddenly of Hugh, his dead brother. What a waste, and for no purpose. He turned to watch the brig's tapering top-gallant masts spiralling against the sky and found that he was gripping the old sword closely against his thigh. Hugh had lost his chance to wear it, and now, perhaps within minutes, there would be no one left to carry it with pride. There were faces along the bulwark now, strangely silent, with no sign of defiance or fear.
Paice lifted a speaking trumpet. “We are boarding! Do not resist!”
Allday said beneath his breath, “It'll be now or never. They could make a bloody gruel of us with one whiff of canister, an' that's no error!” He pushed it from his thoughts and shouted, “Bowman! Lively there! Stand by!” He eased the tiller bar and saw the bowman's grapnel soar into the brig's main chains, clatter down and hook on.
“Boat your oars!” Allday supported Bolitho's arm as he crouched ready to leave the pitching boat. He hissed, “Right with you, Cap'n!” He gave a throaty chuckle. “Old times!”
Then they were taking their turn to leap from the boat and scramble their way through the small entry port.
Bolitho glanced quickly around. He saw the vessel's master, a short, neat figure in a fine blue coat standing almost indifferently by the wheel. He knew it was Delaval even before Paice opened his mouth.
Paice had his hanger drawn and strode aft, his voice carrying easily above the slap of canvas and the sea's protests beyond the bulwarks. “Stand where you are!”
Delaval retorted, “So it's you. By what
right
â”
Paice gestured to a seaman by the wheel and the cutlass he had seen in his belt clattered to the deck.
“In the King's name, so hold your noise.” He nodded his head to the petty officer who had accompanied the boat and the man hurried away, calling names, ignoring the brig's sailors as if they were not there.
Paice said, “I intend to search this vessel. After thatâ”
“You are wasting your time. More important, you are wasting mine.” His dark eyes moved suddenly to Bolitho, taking in the plain blue coat, the outdated sword which was still sheathed at Bolitho's side. Delaval said, “I will make the strongest protest. I was going about my lawful business.”
Bolitho asked, “What cargo?”
Delaval's eyes flashed. There could have been triumph there. “None. I am in ballast, as your worthy boarding party will soon discover.” He did not attempt to hide the sneer in his voice. “I intended to sail for Amsterdam. You will see from the log that I have regular transactions with agents there.”
Bolitho could sense Paice's anger and impatience. He asked quietly, “And you changed your mind?”
“The weather, news of more trouble in France, several things.”
The petty officer returned but stood so that Delaval could not see his face. He swallowed hard. “Nuthin', sir. In full ballast.” He seemed almost afraid of his discovery.
Delaval said, “I told you.” He lifted his chin and stared it Paice. “You will pay for this.” His arm shot out and he pointed to an inert shape covered by a piece of canvas. He continued, his voice almost caressing, “You fired on my shipâ”
Paice snapped, “You tried to run, you refused to heave-to! Don't pretend with me, damn you!”
A seaman pulled the canvas aside and Bolitho saw it was a man in sailor's clothing. Beside him lay a heavy block, its sheaves sticky with blood and hair. The man's forehead and skull had been crushed. Only the features were unmarked.
“I did not try to run away. But as you see, my vessel is shorthanded, some of my men are working another. It took twice as long to bring her round and heave-to.” He nodded several times. “I shall be certain to mention all this in my complaint to the proper authority!”
Bolitho gripped his sword to his leg again. It was bad luck. The ball must have severed some rigging and allowed the block to fall and kill the man. It happened often enough in any ship, but this could not have occurred at a worse time.