The Flood-Tide (37 page)

‘They're aiming high, sir,' said Wallis, at his elbow. ‘They're trying to—’

He stopped in mid-sentence, and Thomas turned to look at him. He was staring in what looked like surprise, straight ahead of him; then he crumpled gently to the deck, shot through the heart. Thomas had forgotten the French snipers in the crosstrees. William had crouched down to examine him, and Thomas snapped his fingers to two of the starboard-side guns crews, standing ready while their guns were not in use.

‘You two men, take Mr Wallis below. Quartermaster, let her pay off a point. Mr Morland, my compliments to Mr Harris, and will he step up here in Mr Wallis's place.’

William dashed away on his errand. It was growing dark - or no, perhaps not. It was just the great pall of smoke drifting up and across them from the battling ships. The din was huge and continuous, so that it ceased to be a noise at all. Before and behind Thomas ships were engaged, firing broadsides into each other, dealing out death and destruction. He saw the
Minotaur
drift past him, her foremast down, severed six feet above the deck and trailing a mess of wreckage over the side, while men tried to clear it away with axes. Here came Harris, his face blackened with powder so that his teeth gleamed strangely white.

And then, chaos. Out of the pall of smoke on his disengaged side another broadside was delivered; one of the French ships from further back in the line had come up on the other side of him. A crash, a hideous groaning creak, and the mizzenmast swayed and then fell, bringing the main topmast with it. It was like the heavens falling in, noise, confusion, screaming. Thomas saw a man fall past him out of the rigging into the sea. And then as the mass of the wreckage turned the
Daring
as if she were on a pivot the
Achille
fired again, into
Daring's
bow, aiming upwards. Ashot from one of her maindeck guns came through the taffrail, spraying splinters outward in every direction, but Thomas had only time to receive a vague impression of something black flying at him, very fast. It struck him in the chest, killing him instantly, smashing his body backwards, taking one of the quartermasters and part of the wheel with it, and ended its flight by crashing into the raised poop.

William, about to step back onto the quarterdeck, saw it happen, and yet could not take it in. With her wheel gone and the mizzenmast trailing over the side, the
Daring
was out of control. Her bow collided with the
Achille's,
snapping off both bowsprits, and she drifted on down to leeward, out of range of the guns, out of the battle and the bitter smoke, until, with the ceasing of her own guns' fire, it became quiet enough to hear the screams and groans of the wounded.

‘Axemen, here! Mr Dunmow, fetch a party of axemen to cut away this rigging. Secure the guns. Mr MacArthur, get the carpenter up here as fast as you can, see what can be done about repairing this wheel. Mr Morland, take a party up the mainmast and clear away that fallen topmast.’

This was Mr Harris, taking command as was his duty, giving sharp orders for getting the ship under control again. William shook his head to clear it, and turned away automatically to obey, taking his eyes at last from the unrecognizable red mess under the poop at which he had been staring. Everything around him seemed clear but far away, as if seen through the wrong end of the telescope; a sense of unreality pervaded him, and it was better to allow it to have its way, to let himself think this was all a strange, mad, horrible dream. Later would be time enough for acknowledging reality.

*

All day the battle raged, and from the top of Cape Charles, Charles and his neighbour watched in fascinated horror. At sunset, when the sea and sky seemed dyed with blood, the firing grew scattered, and ceased, and the two battered fleets drew apart again, drifted slowly out of range, and hove to, to lick their wounds. Both fleets were badly mauled. No ship had sunk, no colour had struck, no side had won or lost. The two men returned to their pinnace in absolute silence, all their excitement gone. There seemed nothing to say. They got her under sail, and came around the point to see if there were any survivors to be picked up, for there had certainly been men in the water at various points of the battle. They found only one, a seaman who had managed to swim to the shore but had been unable to haul himself out of the water, for the shore was high and rocky. He was hanging wearily, almost unconscious with fatigue and cold, to a ledge just round the point.

It was impossible to get the pinnace close enough in to pick him up, and Charles in the end had to strip off his outer clothes and go in. It took some doing to prise the man away from his handhold, and swim him back to the pinnace, where ready hands hauled them both back on board and rubbed them down and hung coats about them. The rescued man relapsed into unconsciousness, and Charles, after swallowing a large amount of brandy, dozed fitfully under the thwarts as Tomkin sailed him homewards.

‘Well, that's that,' he heard Tomkin say. 'The British won't try that again, and without the navy to back them up, the army won't have a hope of holding Yorktown. I reckon we might have seen the end of the war out there today.’

They might learn some more from the sailor they had picked up, Charles thought, if he ever regained consciousness. He wondered if Thomas had been out there today, if he had taken part in the battle, if he had been wounded. But he mustn't think of that. America was no longer a part of Britain, and he was no longer a part of the Morland Family. He must make up his mind to it, and make the best of the situation, and learn to stand alone, just as America would have to, from now on.

For three days the battered fleets lay within sight of each other while they cleared away wreckage, fitted jury-rigging, plugged shotholes, tended the wounded, and buried the dead. So many dead, a long, long line of them on every deck, to be sewed into the hammocks and slipped overboard. And on the fourth day sails appeared on the horizon and the Rhode Island fleet came into sight, arriving at last to reinforce the French. At the sight of the new ships, Graves gave the signal to withdraw. The French fleet retired into the shelter of the Bay to refit properly, and the British fleet limped away northwards to the safety of loyal New York harbour.

The
Daring
took her place in the line, carrying sail gingerly on a spare mainyard, fished to the stump of the mizzenmast, with Lieutenant Harris temporarily in command. In New York she was docked for repairs, but supplies were in such short order, and such high demand, that she was still far from refitted when the news arrived that on 19 October General Cornwallis, having suffered heavy losses in the siege of Yorktown, had been forced to surrender, four years after the surrender at Saratoga. Coming on top of the disaster of the naval battle, it seemed like the final blow. William, writing a difficult letter home, to tell of Thomas's death, added, 'We all feel that this must be the end. It is impossible to win a war under these conditions. Unless we make peace, there can only be further loss, and God knows we have lost enough.’

William felt his lip tremble as he wrote those words, and he laid down his pen for a moment, and put his face in his hands. He had been sleeping badly since the battle, for every time he closed his eyes the image was waiting there for him of Thomas, smashed to a red smear by the flying cannonball. If there was peace, he would probably be sent home again. He would like to see his home again. He thought of Morland Place, and could bring no image of it to his mind, but a general sense of greenness and quietness. He thought he would sleep better, with the silence of fields around him.

He picked up his pen again to write a little more, and to express his desire of going home, and seeing his mother and father again. Yet in the back of his mind, too deep to need acknowledging, was the awareness that when the green fields had healed him he would want to go back to sea again. He was a sailor, first, last, and always.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

 It was Jemima who met the stagecoach that brought Flora back from London at the beginning of November. It was a raw, dark day, drizzling rain, and clouds so low that they hung like wet rags about the tops of the tallest trees, and Jemima was glad to stay inside the Hare and Heather by the parlour fire until she heard the horn. Then she pulled her cloak about her and hurried outside to watch the six white horses approaching at a brisk trot. Childish though it was, she never quite lost the thrill of excitement at seeing the heavily-laden coach come into sight, hinting of travel and adventure and news from foreign parts. When she was a little child, her brothers had sometimes taken her down to the road to see the coach from London - though in those days the roads were so bad that the horses never went out of a walk. Well, now she was nearly fifty and had more grey hairs than she liked to count, and had seen all she wanted of foreign places, but still she clasped her hands inside her muff and felt her lips curve into a smile as the cumbersome, swaying vehicle drew into the inn yard.

It was a smile she banished hastily as Abel ran forward to let down the step, and helped out the small figure in heavy mourning. Flora seemed somehow frail in her burden of black, and she seemed to totter a little in the thick mizzle as Abel released her arm. Her maid Joan had scrambled out after her and was pointing out the boxes to the coachman as Jemima hastened forward to claim her.

‘Flora, my dear child! My poor dear, you must be perished.’

She held out both hands and Flora's, in black kid, rested in them. Her veil was up, and Jemima observed the white, strained face and the blank stare of the eyes, and the back of her mind registered a small relief that Flora was so properly distressed at the news of her husband's death.

‘Jemima - I didn't - I wondered if anyone would meet me,' Flora said vaguely. Jemima drew Flora's arm through hers and led her towards the waiting chaise to the side of the yard.

‘But of course. Allen wanted to come, but he is suffering from really such a dreadful rheum that I had positively to forbid him to stir from the fire. So I came myself. Here is the carriage, waiting - we shall soon be home. My poor darling, you must have had a dreadful time of it. Such a long journey, too, by stagecoach! I really wonder that you did not come post. I am sure the Chelmsfords—'

‘Yes,' Flora said abruptly. 'They offered to send me post but - I would not.’

Jemima drew breath to ask why, and then let it out again in silence. Flora would speak in her own time. She was obviously not inclined for speech now. Jemima settled her in the coach, saw that the boxes were being brought, and got in herself, with Joan following. In a few moments the coachman cracked his whip, the carriage lurched and then rolled smoothly forward as the two horses broke into a restrained trot. Flora gave a long, exhausted sigh and sank back into the corner of the seat.

‘Oh, I am tired to death,' she said, and spoke no more on the journey home. Morland Place looked to Jemima extra-specially welcoming on such a grey, unpleasant day, with the beacon light in the barbican already lit and yellowly glowing, and a flag of smoke rising from the chimneys, promising glorious crackling fires, warmth and food and comfort. She leaned her face to the cold side-glass to watch it approaching, feeling her love for it swell inside her as it always did, even when she had been away only a few hours. It was home, with all that that lovely word implied, but more than that it was her kingdom, her heritage, her pride. She had served it and protected it and belonged to it for so many years, had so nearly lost it, and now was come to the golden harvest years when everything was being repaid. There was her husband, whom she loved, whose love and trust and confidence made them as close as two human souls can be, and her children growing up around her, and her happy household, and the estate growing fruitful and properous; it was hard to remember not to smile, sad to see the contrast between her own contented state and that of the poor bewildered creature beside her.

Oxhey opened the great door as soon as the carriage came into the yard, and Esther was waiting in the hall to help Joan take off the ladies' cloaks, and here was Allen, coming through from the drawing room to meet them, and gesturing back the others who were following, realizing that Flora would not want to have a crowd about her. Now here was something to give Jemima a twinge of anxiety, when she saw how white-faced her husband was, and heard how little voice he had left. His rheum had gone to his throat and chest, and he had lost his voice and gained an exhausting cough, and he should have been in bed these two days past, but he was always so stubborn about it, saying he had too much to do to lie abed.

‘Flora, my dear,' he said - or rather croaked - 'welcome home. You know that you have our deepest sympathy.' He took her hands and kissed her on both cheeks, and continued, 'There is a good fire made up in the West Bedroom, and Joan shall take you up straight away, so that you can rest and compose yourself. Is there anything in your luggage you need immediately?'

‘No - thank you. I have what I need in my bag,' Flora said with an obvious effort.

‘Very well then. We shall see you at supper, I hope.’

He took Jemima's hand and pressed it warningly as Flora turned away, and when she had disappeared upstairs, he said, 'I thought she would not want to be amongst us at first. It must be a difficult moment for her, coming home.'

‘I was going to take her to the fire to warm herself,' Jemima said, and he shook his head.