Stand Into Danger (29 page)

16 INTO
B
ATTLE

OVERNIGHT Fougeaux Island seemed to have shrunk in size, so that when the first faint light filtered down from the horizon it looked little more than a sand-bar across
Destiny
's starboard bow.

Bolitho lowered his telescope and allowed the island to fall back into the shadows. Within an hour it would be bright sunlight. He turned his back and paced slowly up and down the quarterdeck. The business of preparing the ship for battle had been unreal, an almost leisurely affair carried out watch by watch during the night.

The seamen knew their way around the masts and hull so well that they had little left to do which required daylight. Dumaresq had thought that out with the same meticulous care he planned everything he did. He wanted his men to accept the inevitability of a fight, the fact that some if not all of them would never make another voyage in
Destiny.
There was only one alternative passage, and it was marked on the master's chart. Two thousand fathoms, straight down.

Also, Dumaresq intended his people to be as rested as possible, without the usual nerve-wrenching stampede of clearing for action when an enemy showed himself.

Palliser appeared on the quarterdeck, and after a cursory glance at the compass and each sail in turn he said, “I trust the watch below is completing breakfast?”

Bolitho replied, “Aye, sir. I have ordered the cooks to douse the galley fire as soon as they are done.”

Palliser took a glass from Midshipman Henderson, who had been assisting with the morning-watch.

Midshipman Cowdroy had been similarly employed during the night. As next in line for promotion, they might find themselves as acting-lieutenants before
Destiny
's cooks relit their fires.

Palliser scrutinized the island carefully. “Terrible place.” He returned the glass to Henderson and said, “Aloft with you. I want to be told the moment Garrick tries to leave the lagoon.”

Bolitho watched the midshipman swarming up the ratlines. It was getting lighter rapidly. He could even see the boatswain's top-chains which he had slung on each yard, the additional tackles and lines hauled up to the fighting-tops for urgent repairs when needed.

He asked, “You believe it is today, sir?”

Palliser smiled grimly. “The captain is certain. That's enough for me. And Garrick will know it is his only chance. To fight and win, to get away before the squadron sends support.”

Vague figures moved about the upper deck and between the guns. Those black muzzles, now damp with spray and a night mist, would soon be too hot to touch.

Petty officers were already discussing last-moment changes to crews, to replace those who had died or were on their way to safety aboard the captured schooner.

Lieutenant Colpoys was right aft by the taffrail with his sergeant as seamen trooped along the gangways to pack the hammocks tightly in the nettings as protection for those who shared the quarterdeck in times like these. An exposed, dangerous place, vital to any ship, an aiming-point for marksmen and the deadly swivel-guns.

Midshipman Jury took a message at the quarterdeck ladder and reported, “Galley fires doused, sir.”

He looked very young and clean, Bolitho thought, as if he had taken great care over his dress and bearing.

He smiled. “A fine day for it.”

Jury looked up at the masthead, searching for Henderson. “We have the agility if nothing else, sir.”

Bolitho glanced at him, but saw himself just a year or so back. “That's very true.” It was pointless to add that the wind was only a breeze. To tack and wear with speed you required the sails drawing well. Wind and canvas were the stuff of a frigate.

Rhodes climbed up to the quarterdeck and glanced curiously at the smudge of land beyond the bowsprit. He was wearing his best sword, one which had belonged to his father. Bolitho thought of the old sword which his father wore. It appeared in most of the portraits of the Bolitho family at Falmouth. It was destined to be Hugh's one day, very soon now if his father was coming home for good. He turned away from Jury and Rhodes. Somehow, he did not have the feeling he would live to see it again. He was alarmed to discover he could accept it.

Palliser came back and said sharply, “Tell Mr Timbrell to rig a halter from the main-yard, Mr Bolitho.” He met their combined stares. “Well?”

Rhodes shrugged awkwardly. “Sorry, sir. I just thought that at a time like this. . . .”

Palliser snapped, “At a time like this, as you put it, one more corpse will hardly make much difference!”

Bolitho sent Jury for the boatswain and thought about Spillane and what he had done. He had had plenty of opportunity to steal information and pass it ashore in Rio or Basseterre. Like the captain's coxswain, the clerk was more free than most to move as he pleased.

Garrick must have had agents and spies everywhere, maybe even at the Admiralty where one of them had followed every move towards putting
Destiny
to sea. When the ship had made ready to sail from Plymouth, Spillane had been there. It would have been easy for him to discover the whereabouts of Dumaresq's recruiting parties. He had only to read the posters.

Now, like lines on a chart, they had all been drawn here to this place. A cross on Gulliver's calculations and bearings. Something destined rather than planned.

Most of the men on deck looked up as the boatswain's party lowered a hangman's noose from the main-yard to the gangway. Like Rhodes, they would have little stomach for a summary execution. It was outside their code of battle, their understanding of justice.

Bolitho heard one of the helmsmen mutter, “Cap'n's comin' up, sir.”

Bolitho turned to face the companionway as Dumaresq, wearing a freshly laundered shirt, with his gold-laced hat set firmly on his head, strode on to the quarterdeck.

He nodded to each of his officers and the men on watch, while to Colpoys, who was attempting to draw himself to attention, he said curtly, “Save your strength, you obstinate redcoat!”

Gulliver touched his hat. “Nor' by east, sir. Wind's still light though.”

Dumaresq eyed him impassively. “I can see that.”

He turned to Bolitho. “Have the hands lay aft at six bells to witness punishment. Inform the master-at-arms and the surgeon, if you please.” He waited, watching Bolitho's emotions and his efforts to conceal them. “You've still not learned deceit, it seems?” One of his feet tapped on the deck. “What is it, the execution?”

“Yes, sir. It's like an omen. A superstition. I—I'm not sure what I mean.”

“Evidently.” Dumaresq walked to the rail and looked along the upper deck. “That man tried to betray us, just as he attempted to destroy Murray and all he believed in. Murray was a good man, whereas—” He broke off to watch some marines beginning a slow climb to the fore and maintops.

“I'd like to have seen Murray before he left, sir.”

Dumaresq asked sharply, “Why?”

Bolitho was surprised at Dumaresq's reaction. “I wanted to thank him.”

“Oh. That.”

Midshipman Henderson made all of them look up. “Deck there! Ship standing out from the island, sir!”

Dumaresq dug his chin into his neckcloth. “At last.”

He saw Midshipman Merrett by the mizzen. “Go and fetch the Articles of War from my servant. We'll get this matter over with and then clear for action.”

He patted his scarlet waistcoat and gave a soft belch. “That was a nice piece of pork. And the wine will help to start the day.” He saw Bolitho's uncertainty. “Bring up the prisoner. I'd like him to see his master's ship before he swings, God rot him!”

Sergeant Barmouth placed a line of marines across the poop, and as the pipe for all hands to lay aft and witness punishment echoed between decks, Spillane, escorted by the master-at-arms and Corporal Dyer, appeared from the forecastle.

The seamen, already stripped to their trousers and ready for the drums to beat to quarters, parted to allow the little group through.

Beneath the quarterdeck rail they halted, and Poynter reported harshly, “The prisoner, sir!”

Bolitho made himself look at Spillane's upturned face. If anything, it was completely empty, as if the neat and usually composed man was unable to accept what had happened.

Bolitho recalled how Spillane had come to his cabin with the message from Aurora, and wondered how much he had passed on to Garrick.

Dumaresq waited for his officers to remove their hats and then said in his resonant voice, “You know why you are here, Spillane. Had you been a pressed man, or one forced into the King's service against your will it might have been different. You, however, volunteered, knowing you were intending to betray your oath and where possible bring disaster to your ship and your companions. Yours was a conspiracy to commit murder on a grand scale. Look yonder, man.”

When Spillane remained stricken and staring at him, Dumaresq snapped, “Master-at-arms!”

Poynter gripped the prisoner's chin and swung him round towards the bows.

“That ship is commanded by your master, Piers Garrick. Take a long look, and ask yourself now if the price of treachery was worthwhile!”

But Spillane's eyes were fixed on the swaying halter. It was doubtful if he saw anything else.

“Deck there!” Henderson's normally powerful voice sounded unsteady, as if he was afraid of breaking into the drama below him.

Dumaresq glared up at him. “Speak, man!”

“The
San Augustin
has corpses hanging from her yards, sir!”

Dumaresq swarmed into the shrouds, snatching a telescope from Jury as he passed.

Then he climbed down to the deck very slowly and said, “They are the ship's Spanish officers.” He darted a quick glance at Bolitho. “Hung there as a warning, no doubt.”

But Bolitho had seen something else in Dumaresq's eyes. Just briefly, it had been relief, but why? What had he expected to see?

Dumaresq returned to the quarterdeck rail and replaced his hat. Then he said, “Remove that halter from the main-yard, Mr Timbrell. Master-at-arms, put the prisoner down. He will await judgement with the others.”

Spillane's legs seemed to collapse under him. He clasped his hands together and said brokenly, “Thank you, sir! The Lord bless you for your kindness!”

“Stand up, you bloody hound!” Dumaresq looked at him with disgust. “To think that men like Garrick can corrupt others so easily. By hanging you, I would have been no better than he. But hear me. You will be able to listen to our progress today, and I suspect that will be an even greater punishment!”

As Spillane was hustled away, Palliser said bitterly, “If we sink, that bugger will reach the bottom first!”

Dumaresq clapped him on the shoulder. “Very true!

Now, beat to quarters, if you will, and try to knock two minutes off your time!”

“Ship cleared for action, sir!” Palliser touched his hat, his eyes gleaming. “Eight minutes exactly.”

Dumaresq lowered his telescope and glanced at him. “Shorthanded we may be, but each man-jack is working the harder for it.”

Bolitho stood below the quarterdeck watching his gun-crews by their tackles, seemingly relaxed, although the waiting was far from over.

The distant ship had spread more sail to stand well clear of the island, but as
Destiny
lifted and fell gently in the swell, the
San Augustin
appeared to be motionless. Would she turn and run for it? There was always a chance her stern-chasers might cripple the pursuing frigate with a lucky shot.

Midshipman Henderson, isolated from the preparations far below his perch, had reported that two other sail had cleared the lagoon. One was the topsail schooner, and Bolitho wondered how Dumaresq could be so sure Garrick was in the big man-of-war and not in the schooner. Perhaps he and Dumaresq were too much alike after all. Neither wishing to be a spectator, each eager to inflict a quick and undeniable victory.

Little walked slowly behind the starboard battery of twelve-pounders, stooping occasionally to check a tackle or to ensure that the ship's boys had sanded the decks sufficiently to prevent the crews from slipping when the pace grew warm.

Stockdale was at his own gun, his men dwarfed by his great bulk as he cradled a twelve-pound ball in his hands before replacing it in the shot-garland and selecting another. In a manner born, Bolitho thought. He had often seen old gun-captains do it. To make certain the first shots would be perfect. After the opening broadsides it was usually each crew to itself and devil take the hind-most.

He heard Gulliver say, “We have the wind-gage, sir. We can always shorten sail if the enemy comes about.”

He was probably speaking merely to release his own anxieties or to await a suggestion from the captain. But Dumaresq remained silent, watching his adversary, glancing occasionally at the masthead pendant or the sluggish wave curling back from
Destiny
's bows.