In Gallant Company (29 page)

On the quarterdeck, unaware or indifferent to his second lieutenant's fancies, Pears paced back and forth across the damp planking.

Cairns watched him, and aft on the raised poop D'Esterre stood with his arms crossed, thinking of Fort Exeter, of Bolitho, and of his dead marines.

A door opened and slammed, and voices floated around the quarterdeck to announce the admiral's arrival. He was followed by his aide, Ackerman, and even in the poor light looked alert and wide awake.

He paused near the wheel and spoke to Bunce, then with a nod to Cairns said, ‘'Morning, Captain. Is everything ready?'

Cairns winced. Where Pears was concerned, things were always
ready
.

But Pears sounded unruffled. ‘Aye, sir. Cleared for action, but guns not loaded,' the slightest hint of dryness, ‘or run out.'

Coutts glanced at him. ‘I can see that.' He turned away. ‘
Spite
must be in position now. I suggest you set more sail, Captain. The time for guessing is done.'

Cairns relayed the order and seconds later, with the topmen rushing out along the upper yards and the wet canvas falling and then billowing sluggishly to the wind,
Trojan
tilted more steeply to the extra pressure.

‘I've been looking at the chart again.' Coutts was half watching the activity above the deck. ‘There seems to be no other anchorage. Deep water to the south'rd and a shoal or two against the shore. Cunningham put his landing party to the south'rd. A clever move. He thinks things out, that one.'

Pears dragged his eyes from the lithe topmen as they slithered down to the deck again.

He said, ‘It was the
only
place, I'd have thought, sir.'

‘Really?'

Coutts moved away with his flag lieutenant, the cut well and truly driven home.

A few gulls dipped out of the darkness and circled the ship like pieces of spindrift. They seemed to tell of the land's nearness, and their almost disinterested attitude implied they had other sources of food close by.

From his dizzy perch Bolitho watched the birds as they floated past him. They reminded him of all those other times, different landfalls, but mostly of Falmouth. The little fishing villages which nestled in rocky clefts along the Cornish coast, the boats coming home, the gulls screaming and mewing above them.

He came out of his thoughts as Buller said, ‘'Ell, zur,
Spite
's well off station!' He showed some excitement for the first time. ‘There'll be the devil to pay now!'

Bolitho found time to marvel that the seaman should care and be so accurate in his opinions. Coutts would be furious, and it might take
Trojan
a whole day to beat back to her original station and allow Cunningham a second chance.

‘I'd better get down and tell the captain.' He was thinking aloud.

Why had he mentioned it? Even thought of it? Had it been to stop another wave of frustration throughout the ship, or merely to protect Coutts' credibility?

Buller grunted. ‘She probably lost a man over the side.'

Bolitho did not answer. He hoped Cunningham was the kind of man who would waste valuable time to look for a man overboard. But that was as far as it went. He swung the telescope over his arm and pressed his shoulders against the shivering mast.

‘I'll leave this with you, Buller. When I go down, give us a hail as soon as you can make out what she's up to.'

He tried not to think of the drop to the deck, how long it would take if the ship gave a lurch before he could use both hands to hold on again.

It was like looking through a dark bottle. A few hints of whitecaps, a glassiness on the sea's face to show that dawn was nearby. Then he saw the pale squares of canvas, barely clear as yet, but rising from the darkness like a broken iceberg.

Spite
must have changed tack considerably, he thought. She was standing in well towards the hidden anchorage, but she should have been miles nearer by now. Buller was right, but there would be more than the devil to pay after this. There would be . . . he stiffened, momentarily forgetting his precarious position.

‘Wot is it, zur?' Buller had sensed something.

Bolitho did not know what to say. He was wrong of course. Had to be.

He held the swaying blur of sails in his lens and then, straining every nerve until the wound on his forehead began to throb in time with his heart-beats, he lowered the glass just a fraction.

Still deep in shadow, but it was there right enough. He wanted it to be a dream, a fault in the telescope. But instead of
Spite
's rakish single deck there was something more solid, deep and hard like a double reflection.

He thrust the glass at the seaman and then cupped his hands to his mouth.

‘Deck there! Sail on the starboard bow!' He hesitated a few moments longer, imagining the sudden tension and astonishment below him. Then, ‘
Ship of the line!
'

Buller exclaimed slowly, ‘You done it proper now, zur!'

Bolitho was already slithering downwards, groping for a backstay, his eyes still holding that menacing outline.

Coutts was waiting for him, his head thrust forward as he asked, ‘Are you certain?'

Pears strode past them, his eyes everywhere as he prepared himself for the next vital hours.

Only once did he glance at Bolitho. Then to Coutts he snapped, ‘He's
certain
, sir.'

Cairns said quietly, ‘Now here's a fine thing, Dick. She'll not be one of ours.'

The admiral heard him and said curtly, ‘I don't care what she is, Mr Cairns. If she stands against us, then damn your eyes, she's an enemy in my book!' He peered after the captain and raised his voice. ‘Have the guns loaded, if you please!' He seemed to sense Pears' arguments from the opposite side of the deck. ‘And let me see what this ship of yours can do today!'

Along either side of the upper gundeck the crews threw themselves on their tackles and handspikes and manhandled their heavy cannon up to the closed ports.

Bolitho stood by the boat tier, straining his eyes through the gloom as he watched one gun captain after another raise his fist to signify he was loaded and ready.

Midshipman Huss peered over the main hatch and yelled, ‘Lower gundeck
ready
, sir!'

Bolitho pictured Dalyell down there with thirty great thirty-two-pounders. Like everyone else in the wardroom, he had risen in rank, but his experience had altered little. Bolitho knew that if and when
Trojan
was required to give battle it would test everyone to the limit.

Quinn crossed from the opposite side and asked, ‘What
is
going on, Dick?' He was almost knocked from his feet as some ship's boys hurried aft with carriers of shot for the quarterdeck nine-pounders.

Bolitho looked up at the mainmast, through the shaking rigging and spread canvas, recalling his feelings such a short while back when he had watched the other ship through the telescope. It had been fifteen minutes ago, but the daylight
seemed reluctant to reveal the newcomer, and only the look-outs, and perhaps the marines in the tops, could see the ship properly.

He replied, ‘Maybe that ship is here on passage for another port in the Caribbean.'

As he said it he knew he was deluding himself, or perhaps trying to ease Quinn's anxiety. The ship was no English man-of-war. Every large vessel was being held within a squadron, just in case France openly joined in the fight. Unlikely to be a Spaniard either. They usually used their larger men-of-war to escort the rich treasure ships from the Main, through the pirate-infested waters and all the way to Santa Cruz and safety. No, it had to be a Frenchman.

Bolitho chilled with excitement. He had seen French ships in plenty. Well designed and built, they were said to be equally well manned.

He looked around the tiered boats and saw Coutts, hands behind his back, speaking with Pears and old Bunce. They all appeared calm enough, although with Pears you could never be sure. It was strange to see the quarterdeck so busy in the first light. Crouching gun crews on either side, and further aft, standing against the hammock nettings, D'Esterre's depleted ranks of marines. Near one battery of nine-pounders he could see Libby, one-time signals midshipman, now acting fifth lieutenant. What must he be thinking, Bolitho wondered? Seventeen years old, and yet if a blast of canister and grape raked the quarterdeck with its bloody furrows he might find himself in temporary command until someone else could reach him. Frowd was there, too. From master's mate to acting sixth lieutenant. It was mad when you considered it, he was even older than Cairns by a year or two. He was standing quite near Sambell, the other master's mate. But that was all. Before Sparke had been killed and Probyn captured it had been Jack and Arthur. Now it was sir and Mr Sambell.

He heard Cairns call, ‘Let her fall off a point!'

Then later the helmsman's cry, ‘Steady as she goes, sir! Sou'-east by sou'!'

The braces were manned, the yards trimmed for the slight alteration of course. Apart from the rustle and grumble of the sails, the ship's own private sounds, there was silence.

Bolitho pictured the chart, and beyond the bows the island as it must appear to those who could see. A headland sliding out towards the starboard bow, around which lay the entrance to the anchorage. Where
Spite
, presumably, was on station after all. God, she would get a surprise when the newcomer showed herself around the shoulder of land. Cunningham's look-outs would probably mistake her for the
Trojan
.

‘Deck there!' Buller's hoarse voice. ‘T'other ship's shortenin' sail, zur!'

Someone said, ‘She's sighted
Spite
, 'tis my guess.'

The larboard battery dipped over slightly to the pressure of wind in the sails, and Bolitho saw the tethered guns glint suddenly as the daylight lanced through the shrouds and halliards.

Colour was returning to familiar things. Faces emerged as people, features became expressions again. Here and there a man moved, to adjust a gun tackle, or push loose equipment away from a carriage or breech, to brush hair from eyes, to make sure a cutlass or boarding axe was within reach.

The petty officers and midshipmen stood out at intervals, little blue and white markers in the chain of command.

Far above the deck, at the highest point, the long masthead pendant licked out ahead like a scarlet serpent. Wind was holding steady, Bolitho thought. Even so, there was no chance of heading off the other ship.

Quinn whispered, ‘What will the admiral do? What can he do? We're not at war with France.'

Midshipman Forbes scurried along the deck, skipping over tackles and flaked halliards like a rabbit.

He touched his hat and said breathlessly, ‘Captain's compliments, sir, and would you bring the French lieutenant aft?'

Bolitho nodded. ‘Very well.'

Forbes was really enjoying himself. Aft with the mighty, too excited and too young to see the teeth of danger.

Quinn said, ‘I'll fetch him.'

Bolitho shook his head, smiling at the absurdity of it. He had to bring the French officer because Cairns was busy on the quarterdeck and everyone else was too junior. Etiquette would be observed even at the gates of hell, he thought.

He found the Frenchman on the orlop deck, sitting with the surgeon outside the sickbay while Thorndike's assistants laid out the makeshift table with his instruments.

Thorndike asked irritably, ‘What the hell are we doing now?' He glared at his helpers. ‘Wasting time and dirtying my things. They must be short of work to do!'

Bolitho said to Contenay, ‘The captain wishes to see you.'

Together they climbed up through the lower gundeck, a place in almost complete darkness with every port shut and only the slow-matches glowing slightly in the tubs by each division of cannon.

Contenay said, ‘There is trouble, my friend?'

‘A ship. One of yours.'

It was strange, Bolitho thought, it was easier to speak with the Frenchman than the surgeon.

‘
Mon Dieu
.' Contenay nodded to a marine sentry at the next hatchway and added, ‘I will have to watch my words, I think.'

On deck it was much brighter. It seemed impossible that it had changed so much in the time to go to the orlop and back again.

On the quarterdeck Bolitho announced, ‘
M'sieu
Contenay, sir.'

Pears glared at him. ‘Over here.' He strode across to the nettings where Coutts and the flag lieutenant were training telescopes towards the other ship.

Bolitho stole a quick glance at her. He had not been mistaken. She made a proud sight, leaning over, close-hauled on the starboard tack, her topgallant sails and maincourse already brailed up to the yards, her bilge clearly visible as she tacked towards the entrance.

‘The prisoner, sir.' Pears too was looking at the other vessel.

Coutts lowered his glass and regarded the Frenchman calmly. ‘Ah yes. The ship yonder,
m'sieu
, do you know her?'

Contenay's mouth turned down, as if he was about to refuse an answer. Then he shrugged and replied, ‘She is the
Argonaute
.'

Ackerman nodded. ‘Thought as much, sir. I saw her once off Guadeloupe. A seventy-four. Fine looking ship.'

Pears said heavily, ‘She too wears a rear-admiral's flag.' He glanced questioningly at Contenay.

He said, ‘It is true.
Contre-Amiral
André Lemercier.'

Coutts eyed him searchingly. ‘You were one of his officers, am I right?'

‘I
am
one of his officers,
m'sieu
.' He looked towards the other two-decker. ‘It is all I am prepared or required to say.'

Pears exploded, ‘You mind your manners, sir! We don't need to be told more. You were aiding the King's enemies, abetting an unlawful rebellion, and now you expect to be treated as an innocent bystander!'