The Hawk (27 page)

And Rennie turned away, trembling from head to foot, and
flung out of the door of the parlour, thrust, pushed, strode
headlong through the crowded taproom, spilling ale,
knocking aside chairs, shouldering away larger and stronger
men, who fell back from this raging madman and let him
whirl away out of the great oak door into the night.

Sir Robert stood silent in the parlour, rooted to the spot a
moment, staring at the open door. At last he gathered
himself, and:

'That is the consequence of allowing a fool free rein. I will
not allow it again.'

Sir Robert put the letter away in his coat, took up his hat,
and presently slipped away through the taproom
unremarked.

When the storm began to blow up Lieutenant Hayter quickly
decided to run for shelter, and declared his intention to Mr
Hope, who had come on deck.

'I shall run into Weymouth and ride out this weather in the
bay.'

'Run?' Over the rising wind.

'It makes little sense to risk
Hawk
now, when
Lark
ain't in
these waters.'

'It is out of the question, out of the question.' Mr Hope
shook his head vexedly, clapped on to a stay as a frothing sea
surged over the deck, and continued: 'This is just the kind of
weather
Lark
has waited for, to make her dash. This will be
your best opportunity to take her, Mr Hayter, when the
energies of her people are wholly occupied in keeping her
from broaching to.'

'Energies of –' James looked at him to make sure that he
was not being facetious, saw that he was not, and shook his
own head. 'Mr Hope, I must consider the energies of my own
people, and Commander Carr's. Aye, and their lives, too. I
will not like to risk them riding out a fierce Channel storm on
the open sea.'

'Pish pish, an ordinary merchant cutter will not have nearly
the same number of men in her as a naval cutter. We have
forty men, the
Lark
has half that number, and she is a bigger
vessel, and therefore harder to handle.'

'Twenty men? To fight all that number of guns? Ho, I
think not. I think she will have the same number of men as – '

'I will not argue with you, Mr Hayter.' His voice rising
with the wind. 'We will continue the chase.'

'Chase! What bloody chase? We have never seen the
Lark
yet, this cruise!'

'Did not y'hear me, sir!'

'I cannot chase a vessel ain't to be seen!'

'You defy me, sir? Knowing who I am?'

James shook his head again, drew breath, opened his
mouth, but before he could speak:

'Knowing what I am capable of, in the question of your
future activity in the Royal Navy? Hey? You oblige me to be
blunt, sir. Very blunt. We'll continue the chase, Lieutenant
Hayter, or by God I'll chase your arse so far inland ye'll never
sight the sea again, sir, so long as you live!'

James's blood boiled in his heart, surged searing through
his veins, and threatened to flush all self-protective reasoning
out of his head. He became aware that the helmsman was
looking at him with an astonished expression, which disappeared
as soon as James looked directly at the man. But James
had seen that expression, and had realized at that moment
how intemperate this quarrel had become, how loud and
public a dispute, recklessly embarked upon on the quarterdeck
of one of His Majesty's fighting ships.

'Mr Abey!'

Richard Abey came from the binnacle, where he had
retreated in embarrassed consternation.

'Sir?'

'Starboard tack, heading east-south-east, and a point east!'
Cupping his hand as the wind gusted in a stay-whistling howl,
and the cutter heeled. 'We will further reduce the mainsail by
another reef. Make tight those hanks, Mr Abey.'

'Aye, sir. East-sou'-east, and a point east. Third reef in the
mains'l.'

'Mr Hope.'

'I am here.'

'Kindly go below, sir, if you please.'

Mr Hope glanced with grim approval across the deck and
briefly aloft as
Hawk
began to run large away from
Weymouth, and safety. The chase would continue on the
open sea, according to his wishes. He nodded once, did as he
was asked, and went below.

When
Hawk
had settled on her new heading, James again
summoned Richard Abey.

'Make to
Pipistrel
that she is to come about and hold station
astern of me.'

'Aye, sir.'

'And Richard . . .'

'Yes, sir?'

'Foul-weather jackets on deck. We are all going to get very
wet and cold, this day.'

'Very good, sir.'

'And lifelines. We will rig lifelines, fore and aft.'

The wind increased in strength through the afternoon watch,
and at seven bells, when
Hawk
would soon be obliged to go
about and beat into the teeth of the gale, else be driven in on
the shore of France, at Dieppe, Lieutenant Hayter was again
on deck. The wind was now fierce, bringing with it squalls of
rain and a heavy, surging swell. Spray whipped off the waves
and smashed across the deck like a hail of canister shot.
Hawk
scudded across the sea, with
Pipistrel
half a mile astern of her.

'Mr Abey!'

'Sir?' Attending, hunched down into his jacket against the
scattering spray and rain.

'We must beat into this storm of wind now, on the return
leg. Make to
Pipistrel
that we will go about and head west.'

'Aye, sir. Stand by to go about!'

Further shouted orders, the boatswain's call, and seamen
ran aloft in the shrouds to shake out the reefs in the topsail.
Flags on the signal halyard, snapping and streaming. A boy
being sick over the lee rail as
Hawk
pitched, plunged, rolled
round on the new heading, and the sea swirled about the
boy's feet and legs as he clung there, racked and saturated.

'God damn and blast this miserable cruise,' muttered
James to himself. He brought his flask from inside his jacket,
and took a pull of burning, lifting, unwatered rum.

By the end of the first dog watch the storm had become so
violent that even Mr Hope was obliged to concede that no
chase was now possible, and that to seek shelter was perhaps
the wisest course. He went up the little companionway ladder
and on deck, to seek out Lieutenant Hayter. He found that
James had anticipated him, and was about to give the order.
He would attempt to head north to St Helen's Road, and seek
shelter there in the lee of the Isle of Wight, beyond the
Foreland.

'Would it not be wiser to run east, and go into the Downs?'
Mr Hope, shouting over the wind.

'I will not like to sail east, sir. There is too great a risk of
going aground at Beachy Head, or Dungeness. I must
attempt northing, and shelter at St Helen's.'

An immense sea – freakishly steep and wide – came
running at
Hawk
from the west, and just as it reached the
cutter she dipped her head, and pitched her flat-steeved
bowsprit deep into the wave. Lifelines had been rigged fore
and aft, but Mr Hope had not clapped on, and as the heavy
surge of water rode along the deck, burying everything under
it in a green massy seething, Mr Hope was lifted bodily and
flung against the tackle block of the mainsail sheet. His head
smacked against the block with a nasty thud, he tumbled
slackly away under the great boom, was washed against the
lee rail, and sucked face down forrard as the sea retreated.

'Christ Jesu!' James clung to the lifeline, kept his head
above the wave, found his feet and lurched across the deck to
where Mr Hope lay senseless, one hand caught under him,
the other flung half across the rail, water sluicing in a sluggish
swirl away.

'Bring her head up! Keep your luff!' Bellowed at the
helmsman, himself half-drowned.

James knelt, heaved, got Mr Hope into a half-sitting
position, and with great effort got his shoulder beneath one
of his arms, and lifted him up. The movement caused Mr
Hope to spew a great gush of water over James, and to cough
and gasp. His head lolled, he groaned, but was still a dead
weight. A further sea – lesser than the first, but still
considerable – now flooded aft, and water poured down the
companion hatch. The wind roared mad in the rigging, and
buffeted the deck.

Mr Abey emerged from the companion and fought his way
on deck, streaming and hatless, and at once saw his commander's
need. Together they got Mr Hope below, where
everything was very wet. Dr Wing was summoned, and in the
cramped, lurching, confined space attended to their guest.
James again went on deck, accompanied by Midshipman
Abey. Michael Wallace, the junior mid already on duty, was
very green about the nose and mouth, but was on his legs.

'Mr Wallace!' James, shouting over the wind.

'Sir?' Bravely lifting up his head.

'Make to
Pipistrel
that she is to form up close astern.'

'If you please, sir, I cannot see
Pipistrel
.' Over the wind.

'What?' Looking at him, then away astern.

'She is not there, sir.'

James braced himself at the tafferel, and stared hard astern
on the rise of the sea. The boy was right. There was no sign
of
Pipistrel
. He waited, and the following rise looked again for
the Excise cutter, briefly bringing up his glass to sweep. He
found nothing but the heaving, rolling sea.
Pipistrel
, plainly in
sight not half a glass since, had vanished.

'By God, it was that tremendous sea . . .' Muttered to
himself. 'Unless he has run east.' James jumped forrard and
into the shrouds, hooked an arm through and swept with his
glass. There was no sign of
Pipistrel
away to the east, neither,
only the tumbling, spray-billowing wilderness of the storm.

'She has foundered.'

He descended to the deck. In these conditions there was no
hope of picking up survivors. There would be no survivors.
The only hope now was that
Hawk
herself could be saved.

'Stand by to tack ship!'

Rennie had walked for several miles in and about Portsmouth
after storming out of the Drawbridge Inn, striding along,
head bent, oblivious of streets, fortifications, towers, the
Dockyard; of people, time, circumstances. In his head and
breast were turmoil and rage, and a dark, desperate
melancholy that burgeoned and swelled until it subsumed all
else of his mood, and became his humour entire.

'What is my life?' repeated again and again as he tramped
heedlessly over cobble and stone and chaff-strewn flint. And
answered himself again and again – unconsciously aloud,
believing it was all in his head:

'My life is all a waste. It is nothing. I have lost everything a
man might value, everything he might esteem, and love.

What is my life? I lost my one chance of happiness when my
dear wife was took from me. I lost my ship. I lost my career.
I will never get back these things. My life itself is lost, except
in animate activity – and that is nothing, it is only mechanical.
My life is nothing, a hollow, dismal list of nothings and
nothingness, a purser's book of nothings, by God. – What is
my
life
?
Nothing!
'

'Are you quite well, sir?'

'What?' Startled.

'Are you quite yourself?' A constable, peering at him,
lantern raised.

'What?'

Rennie had paused at the corner of a narrow alley and a
larger street. He had no idea where he was.

'You was speaking quite loud, sir. Only I did not see your
companion, like.'

'Companion? I am alone.'

'Yes, sir. Yes.' Nodding. 'I see that, now.' A discreet sniff.
'Took drink tonight, sir, has you?'

'Drink? What?' Stepping back from the lantern. 'I am
alone, walking alone, and perfectly sober. What d'y'want of
me? Hey?'

The constable heard the tone of authority in these retorts,
and knew that he was dealing with an officer.

'Nay, sir, I do not want nothing at all. Only – please to talk
less ve-hement, if you will be so good, eh?'

'What? I am sober, and silent.'

'Yes, sir. Only this is the Cambridge Road, very peaceful at
night. Was you seeking a partic'lar place? A partic'lar
address?'

'Cambridge Road? Is it? Ah. Well well, in fact I was. I am
seeking an address. I am going to number – number fiftyfour.'
Recalling Mrs Townend's address.

'Very good, sir.' Turning and pointing. 'You will need to
turn to your right, and pro-ceed a little way along. You will
endeavour to be quiet as you go, will not you, sir?'

'In course I will, in course I will, good heaven.'

'Thank you, sir. I will say goodnight.'

'Goodnight to you.' Rennie nodded, grimaced politely as
the constable held up the lantern to light his way, and turned
right into the Cambridge Road.

Presently he found number fifty-four, an end-of-terrace
house, not very wide but three storeys high. A glimmer of
light at one of the windows. Should he knock at the door?
What o'clock was it? He took his watch from his pocket and
peered at it in the darkness, but could not properly see the
face. The bell of a church clock answered his question. Nine
o'clock.

'Nine o'clock? Nine o'clock at night? Nay, that is too late
to call. I cannot call on a lady, uninvited, at such an hour.'

And he knocked. There was no answer. He waited, and
then knocked again, and now a servant girl answered the
door. She held up the stub of a candle in its holder, just as a
voice called from within:

'Who is it, Aggy?'

Rennie recognized the voice of Mrs Townend's sister, Mrs
Rodgers.

'Yes, sir?' The maid, very timid, holding the candle and
staring at him askance.

'I am – will you say to Mrs Townend, if she is at home,
that Captain Rennie would very much like to speak to
her? Say to her that I am aware of the lateness of the hour,
and – and so forth – but that it is a matter of great
importance.'