To Glory We Steer (23 page)

Captain Rennie sauntered across the quarterdeck and remarked quietly, “Congratulations, Herrick. I hope you do well tonight. I wish I could come with you, but marines are hardly suitable for falling about in boats!”

Herrick smiled. “Thank you.”

Rennie gestured towards Okes. “It would seem that our commanding officer knows more than we thought, eh? He will not trust this attack to a man who is as weak as water!”

Herrick glanced quickly at the open skylight. “Keep your voice down! Your remarks might be taken seriously!”

Rennie shrugged but dropped his voice. “I feel past caring. Like a man walking on ice. It can only take so much!”

He walked away, and Herrick stood watching the seamen shinning down from the work aloft. If only Bolitho were here to inspire and carry them all, he thought heavily. He could imagine the
Phalarope
sailing into Antigua with Vibart expanding with pleasure as cheers and congratulations marked their return to the fleet and to glory. It would make victory all the more bitter, he thought. But for Bolitho the
Phalarope
would never have got this far, and if Vibart retained his command the future was bleak indeed.

Tobias Ellice rolled aft and mounted the quarterdeck ladder, touching his shabby hat and belching simultaneously. “Kirk's dead,” he grunted abruptly. “I'm having him sewn up nice an' neat like!”

Herrick replied, “Very well. I'll put it in the log.” He could smell the rum on the surgeon's breath and wondered how the man was able to perform his duties.

Ellice said, “You can also put in the log that I'm sick of this ship and the whole bloody lot of you!” He swayed tipsily and would have fallen but for Herrick's arm. He muttered, “Treat 'em like dogs!” He shook his head vaguely. “No, not dogs, they live like kings by comparison.”

Herrick regarded him wearily. “Have you finished?”

Ellice took a giant red handkerchief from the tail of his coat and blew his nose loudly. “You can sneer, Mr Herrick! You're off to gain glory tonight and to test your steel against the enemy.” He bared his teeth and tried to focus Herrick in his rheumy eyes. “But you'll change yer tune when you're down below waiting for the saw to lop off your pretty arm or take away a leg or two!”

“Only two?” Herrick eyed him with sad amusement.

Ellice became suddenly serious as his rum-sodden mind grappled with Herrick's question. “You can live without 'em, boy! I've seen it many a time.” He dropped his voice. “But watch out for your wedding-tackle! A woman'll forgive much, but lose that lot and you might as well be food for the fish!”

Herrick watched him go and then strode aft to the taffrail. Another man dead. Whose turn would it be next?

Bryan Ferguson took another cutlass from the deep chest and handed it to old Ben Strachan. The latter peered quickly along the heavy blade and then bent over the grindstone and began to run the cutlass back and forth across the spinning stone, his eyes gleaming brightly in the flying sparks.

Ferguson looked at the berth deck and at the leaping shadows cast by the madly swinging lanterns as the ship rolled and staggered beneath his feet. It was strange how he was now able to retain his balance, and even his stomach seemed able to resist the lurking agony of seasickness.

The low-beamed berth deck was strangely deserted by comparison with its usual appearance of crowded humanity, he thought. Apart from the men selected for the boarding parties, all other available hands were on deck preparing the ship for action. As he watched Strachan concentrating on his sharpening he could hear the menacing rumble of gun trucks as the main armament was carefully loaded and then lashed once more behind sealed ports. The decks were already sanded, and he could hear Mr Brock, the gunner, yelling some last-minute instructions to his magazine party.

A strong smell of neat rum pervaded the berth deck, and he turned to stare at the huddled groups of seamen who remained below enjoying a small moment of rest before taking to the boats.

He said quietly to Strachan, “What will happen, do you think?”

Strachan tested the blade and laid it carefully on the pile beside him. “Hard to tell, mate. I've been on a few cuttin' out raids meself. Sometimes it was all over with a few prayers and a few ‘Oh my Gods' an' afore you knew what 'ad 'appened you was back aboard none the worse! An' other times you was shocked to be still alive!”

Ferguson nodded, unable to picture the nerve-wrenching horror of a raid in total darkness. His new duties as clerk kept him away from that sort of danger and had somehow thrown him further apart from his companions.

It was all he could do to stay clear of trouble with the first lieutenant. Vibart read every order and account at least twice, and he never failed to follow up a complaint with a threat of punishment.

Ferguson thought back to the floggings and the last one in particular. He had wanted to hide his face, yet was stricken and mesmerised by the relentless punishment so that he had watched it to the end. Kirk had died in the sickbay, but his sobbing cries still seemed to hover in the space which had once been his home.

Strachan remarked, “It's gettin' pretty rough up top. I wouldn't like to be takin' part!” He shook his grey head. “It was as black as a pig's belly when I last took a look!”

Onslow, the big seaman from the
Cassius,
sauntered across and stared thoughtfully at Ferguson for several seconds. In his checked shirt and tight canvas trousers he looked even taller and more formidable than usual, and his thick hair was tied to the nape of his neck with a piece of red ribbon.

He said, “You'll be staying aboard then?” He smiled. “And quite right, too.” He rested his hand on Ferguson's thin shoulder. “You save your energy, my lad. I'll want to be knowing what is happening down aft in the cabin.”

Ferguson stared at him. “I—I don't understand?”

Onslow yawned and spread his arms. “It's always just as well to know what the officers are planning next, y'see. That's what stops men like us staying rabble. With knowledge,” he tapped his forehead meaningly, “we are equal to them, and
ready!
”

Lugg, a gunner's mate, ran down a ladder and squinted through the gloom. “Right, you lot! On deck and lively about it! Each man take a cutlass and muster aft!”

Onslow eyed him calmly. “What, no pistols?”

Lugg replied coldly, “I'll pistol you if you don't learn some manners!”

There was a rasp of steel as each hurrying figure took a cutlass, and once or twice Ferguson spoke to a passing familiar face, but each time he received no answer.

Strachan wiped his hands and muttered, “Save, yer breath, mate. They're thinkin' of what lies ahead. There'll be talk enough later, I shouldn't wonder!”

John Allday hung back to the last. Then he picked up a cutlass and swung it slowly in the lamplight. Quietly he said, “Be careful of Onslow, Bryan. He is a born troublemaker. I don't trust him an inch!”

Ferguson studied his friend with surprise and something like guilt. Since his unexpected change of jobs to captain's clerk he had seemingly drifted away from Allday's quiet protection, and whenever he had returned to the berth deck it had always been Onslow or his friend Pook who had dragged him into a tight circle of chatter and speculation.

Allday saw the uncertainty on Ferguson's face and added, “You saw the flogging, Bryan. Be warned!”

“But Onslow is on our side, surely?” Ferguson wanted to understand. “You heard him talking today. He was as sickened as the rest of us!”

“I heard him.” Allday's mouth twisted in a grim smile. “But he only talks. He is never the one who goes to the gratings!”

Old Strachan mumbled, “I seen a lad like 'im in the old
Gorgon.
Stirred up the men till they never knew which way ter jump. They 'anged 'im in the end!”

“And they'll hang all of us if he keeps up this mutinous talk!” Allday's eyes flashed. “We are here, and we must make the best of it!”

Lugg peered down the ladder and bellowed, “Come up on deck, you idle bugger! You're the last as usual!” But there was no real anger in his voice. He was as tense and jumpy as everyone else aboard.

Ferguson called, “Good luck!” but Allday was already running on deck, his eyes momentarily blinded in the darkness which enclosed the pitching hull like a cloak.

Overhead there were few stars, and then only occasionally visible between the low scudding clouds.

Petty officers were bawling names, and slipping and cursing the seamen pushed into separate parties near the boats which were already clear of their chocks and ready to be swayed outboard.

Allday saw the white lapels of Lieutenant Herrick's coat gleaming faintly against the dark sky and was strangely glad he was going with his boat. Midshipman Maynard seemed a likeable enough youngster, but he lacked both experience and confidence. He could see him now whispering furtively to his small friend Neale below the quarterdeck.

Herrick said sharply, “Now listen to me, lads! I will lead in the launch. The cutter will follow close astern and then the pinnace. Mr Parker will stay last in the jolly-boat.” He had to shout above the moaning wind, and Allday glanced uneasily at the creaming water alongside and the rising spectres of blown spray. It would be a hard pull, he thought, and automatically spat on his hands.

He pricked up his ears as Parker, the master's mate, reported, “All present, Mr Herrick. Sixty-six men all told!”

“Very good. I will inform the . . .” He faltered and added harshly, “I will tell Mr Vibart!”

Allday bit his lip. There was no love lost between Herrick and the new captain, he thought.

He saw Onslow leaning negligently against a pike rack and remembered Ferguson's uneasiness. It was odd how eager Onslow had been to see Ferguson appointed as clerk, he decided. And how convenient it had been that Mathias, Bolitho's original clerk, had died in the hold.

“Sway out the cutter!” Mr Quintal groped his way towards the tackle. “Hoist away there!”

Allday faltered, his mind suddenly filled with one, stark picture. He had been masthead lookout the morning Mathias had fallen to his death. It was strange how he had not thought of the connection before. He had seen the clerk climbing through the small inspection hatch shortly before he had been found unconscious and dying. But there had already been someone else in the hold
before
that! He looked quickly at Onslow, remembering the exact moment and the fact that it had been Onslow who had reported the clerk's fall.

He felt Quintal's hard hand on his shoulder and threw his weight against the tackle with the others. All at once the sea seemed to become rougher and the
Phalarope
seemed to shrink by comparison.

Through his racing thoughts he heard Onslow say casually, “We'll give the buggers a taste of steel!”

But who did he mean? Allday wondered.

11 FORTUNE OF
W
AR

T
HE
P
HALAROPE
'
S
heavy launch, packed as she was with additional men for the cutting-out raid, began to ship water within minutes of leaving the security of the frigate's side.

Herrick wedged himself in one corner of the stern and peered over the heads of the straining oarsmen, his vision hampered by both darkness and a continuous stream of bursting spray. He tried to concentrate on the set plan of attack, but as time dragged by and the boat's swooping motion became more pronounced he found that half of his mind dwelt on the realisation that things were already moving against him. The wind had gained in force, and he didn't need to consult his small compass to know that it had also veered more to the east, so that what cover there might have been from the island was lost in an angry welter of tossing whitecaps and great swirling patterns of backwash from partially hidden rocks.

Every so often he looked astern and was thankful to see the cutter riding in his wake, her banks of oars slashing one moment at wave crests and then buried to the rowlocks as the boat dropped into another sickening trough.

Ryan, a seasoned quartermaster, swung the tiller bar and yelled, “She'm takin' it poorly, sir! The lads are all but wore out!”

Herrick nodded but did not reply. It was obvious from the slow, laboured stroke that the men were already exhausted and in no shape for carrying out any sort of attack. More and more Herrick was nagged by the thought that Vibart had dropped the boats too soon. Nevis Island was still only a darker patch in the night's angry backcloth, and there was no sign at all of the chosen landmarks.

He felt a surge of anger when he remembered Vibart's brusqueness when he had last seen him. All he had wanted was to get the boats away. No second plan, no arrangements for possible discovery had even been discussed.

The
Andiron
was supposed to be anchored below Dogwood Point, but even allowing for better shelter inshore, it was still likely that her captain had called extra hands to watch for possible dangers in the rising wind. Herrick had a sudden picture of his exhausted boats' crews arriving at the ship's side to be met with a murderous fire from the awakened and eager gunners.

Ryan was shouting again. “There's a strong drift, y'see! It'll carry us clear of the 'eadland, sir!” He sounded bitter. “It'll be a long pull to clear the point at this rate.”

As if to back his words there was an anonymous rumble of voices from the darkened boat. Someone muttered, “We should turn back. There's no chance now!”

Herrick glared down the boat. “Silence! Do you want the whole island to hear us?”

Ryan whispered, “Could we not lie beneath the point, sir?” He sounded slightly ashamed. “We could rest the men a bit an' then try again.”

Herrick nodded, another plan forming in his brain. “Good idea. Signal the cutter, Ryan.” He took the tiller as the quartermaster opened the shutter of his lantern and blinked it twice astern. To the oarsmen he snapped, “Keep the stroke!
Together,
now!” There was no muttering, but he could sense them all watching him in the darkness. He added, “The rest of you keep baling, and watch the oars. I want 'em muffled at every pull!”

Ryan said, “Cutter's turning, sir. I can see the pinnace back there, too.”

“Well, thank God for that!” Herrick forgot the grumbling seamen as the skyline hardened into a jagged overhanging cliff. It was Dogwood Point well enough, but they had drifted further than he had feared. They were not below it, but on the wrong side altogether. As he stared wretchedly at the land's hostile outline he felt the boat's motion begin to ease and heard the oars pick up a steadier time as the launch thrust into more sheltered water.

He said quietly, “Oars! Easy with those blades now! You sound like a lot of damn cattle!”

The boat rode uneasily in the inshore swell while the weary sailors fell across their oars and sucked gratefully at the damp air. The pinnace moved out of the gloom and lay close by, and then the cutter crossed to the other side and paddled nearer so that Midshipman Maynard could make himself heard.

“What shall we do, Mr Herrick?”

“Lie here for a bit!” Herrick spoke slowly to give himself time to sort out his hazy ideas. He wished Maynard would not sound so lost and bewildered in front of his men. Things were already bad enough. He added, “Where is Mr Parker and the jolly-boat?”

Maynard shrugged, and Packwood, the boatswain's mate, called quickly from the pinnace, “We've lost sight of him long since, Mr Herrick!”

Herrick controlled his reply with an effort. “Maybe he turned back!”

A seaman murmured, “Sunk more likely!”

Herrick made up his mind. “Come alongside! But get some fenders out!”

He waited, holding his breath as the two boats sidled against the launch. At each creak and thud he expected to hear shouts from ashore, or the ominous rattle of musket fire. But only the wind and the hissing spray interrupted his words as Maynard and Packwood craned to hear him.

“If we pull around the point we shall be too late to make an attack.”

Maynard muttered petulantly, “We were given too far to row in my opinion. It was impossible from the start!”

Herrick snarled, “No one is asking for your opinion, so just listen to me will you?” Herrick was surprised at the savagery in his own voice but hurried on, “There should be a bit of foreshore below the point, so we'll head for it now. Mr Packwood will wait with half a crew per boat and lie as close as possible to the rocks.” He waited, feeling the tension dragging at his patience. “Understand?”

They nodded doubtfully and he continued, “Mr Maynard will accompany me ashore with thirty men. If we scale the point we should be able to see down the other side. If the
Andiron
is still there we might try an attack even now, especially if she looks peaceful enough and is close to the headland. Otherwise we will head back to the picking-up area.” He had a brief picture of Vibart's scorn and rage when he returned to announce the failure of the attack. He again felt the same unreasonable anger at the mission. The admiral should have sent a heavier force. Even the
Cassius
would have helped just by adding her strength and availability for the final withdrawal.

Perhaps it was his own fault after all. If he had not trusted Vibart's complacency and had checked the distance from the shore more carefully. If only he had allowed for the change of wind and the savage offshore drift. He shook himself angrily. It was too late now. The present was all that counted.

But he still found time to imagine Bolitho in these circumstances. The mental picture of that impassive face helped to steady him and he said in a level voice, “Bear off and head for the rocks. But not a sound,
any
of you!”

One by one the boats moved inshore, and when almost hemmed in by dark-fanged rocks the first men leapt slipping and cursing into shallow water.

There was no point in trying to split the party into groups now, Herrick decided. It would take too long, and they had taken enough chances already. He watched the three boats move clear and then snapped, “Mr Maynard, come with me. McIntosh will take charge down here.” He groped through his mind to remember the carefully listed names. “Allday and Martin follow me!”

Allday seemed a capable man, and Martin, who'd once earned a rare living as a Dorset poacher, was as nimble and quiet as a rabbit.

As they climbed in silence up the steeply sloping cliff Herrick again thought of Bolitho and his dashing attack on Mola Island. There he had had to deal with every sort of danger, yet he had succeeded at the cost of his own life. Compared with Mola Island this escapade was nothing, he thought grimly.

And why had he made a point of suggesting an alternative to the attack? Was he perhaps already preparing to slip away to the waiting
Phalarope
without even attempting to complete the mission?

He stumbled and almost fell to the rocks below, but a hand seized his wrist and he heard Allday say, “You must watch this sort of cliff, sir! It feels secure, but the stones are only caked in soil. There's no real grip in them.”

Herrick stared at him. Of course, Allday had been a shepherd as well as a sailor. After Cornwall's rocky cliffs and hills this was probably child's play to him.

As if reading his thoughts Allday murmured, “Many's the time I've been down this sort of thing after a wandering lamb.”

They both froze into silence as Martin hissed, “Sir! There's a sentry up yonder!”

Herrick stared. “Where? Are you sure, man?”

Martin nodded vehemently. “Thirty yards or so over there! I heard his boots.
There!
” His eyes gleamed excitedly. “Did you hear 'em?”

“Yes, I did.” Herrick sank down on a ledge of wet grass. A sentry up here. What was the point of it? No man could see much beyond the edge of the cliff at night-time. He said, “We'll crawl closer and take a look!”

Holding their weapons clear of the treacherous stones they wriggled across the side of the headland, their eyes smarting from straining and watching.

Herrick said at length, “Martin, get away to the left. Allday, take the seaward side.” He watched them crawl away. “We'll push on up this slope, Mr Maynard. I feel that something is not quite right here.”

Allday came back first, his body bent double as he ran quickly from bush to bush. “The
Andiron
's there right enough, sir! She's just on the other side of the point. She's in complete darkness. Not a light or a sound from her!”

Maynard muttered, “They must be damn confident!”

Allday said, “The crew could be ashore, sir.”

“Unlikely.” Herrick tried to find the cause of his uncertainty. “Their anchorage must be a good one.” He stiffened and then relaxed as Martin slithered down the slope on his scrawny buttocks.

Martin waited to regain his breath. “Them's soldiers up there, sir!”

“What are they doing?” Herrick forced himself to remain calm.

“Sleepin' by the looks of it, sir!” Martin picked a thorn from his bare foot. “They'm got a sentry at each end, but the rest is just lyin' about.” He shrugged. “Sleepin' like I said!” He sounded scornful.

Herrick asked sharply, “What did you mean, Martin, ‘at each end'?”

“Oh, I forgot, sir.” Martin grinned. “They've got six pieces of artillery along the side of the cliff.”

Herrick felt strangely relaxed. Not knowing the odds was always worse than actually facing them. Almost to himself he said, “Just two sentries, you say?”

Martin nodded. “Aye, sir. An' about thirty men lyin' beside the guns.” He chuckled. “I could'a cut their throats easily!”

Herrick said, “You may have to.” Suddenly it was quite clear what he had to do. The
Andiron
slept at anchor because she was well protected by firmly mounted field pieces. No doubt each gun was already loaded and ranged to cover the whole anchorage. It was not an uncommon arrangement where no proper harbour was available.

He felt suddenly cold at the thought of what would have happened if his boats had made their planned attack. The casualties and the noise would have killed any chance of success.

He said flatly, “Get to the beach, Mr Maynard. Send every available man up here as fast as you can. Anchor the boats and let the remaining men swim ashore. Tell McIntosh and the others that I intend to rush the guns and put 'em out of action. Then we'll take to the boats and go for the
Andiron
as planned!”

They all watched him in silence. Maynard said, “And you, sir?”

Herrick patted Martin's shoulder. “Our poacher is going to earn his keep tonight, Mr Maynard!”

Martin pulled a knife from his belt and handed his heavy cutlass to Allday. He said cheerfully, “Easy, sir! It don't seem fair, do it?”

When Martin and Maynard had slithered back into the darkness Herrick said quietly, “Those soldiers must be silenced as they sleep. Killed or clubbed, I don't care. But they must be kept from raising the alarm!”

Allday winced as Maynard's dirk clattered on a rock below and then said, “It's them or us, isn't it, sir?”

“How is your arm, Mr Belsey?” Bolitho heard the master's mate move somewhere in the pitch darkness and knew he had asked the question merely to break the nerve-jarring silence. With Belsey and Farquhar he had been hustled below and locked unceremoniously in a tiny unused storeroom somewhere beneath the
Andiron
's forecastle, and after a short attempt at conversation each man had lapsed into silence and the apprehension of his own thoughts.

Belsey said, “Fair enough, sir. But this motion is makin' me sweat!”

The ship's uneasy movement had certainly increased even during the last hour. The storeroom was below the
Andiron
's water-line, and the savage jarring of the anchored hull was all the more apparent. The crew had already paid out more hawse to compensate for the sudden change of wind which now swept across the once protected anchorage with mounting ferocity.