Bolitho 19 - Beyond the Reef (38 page)

Perhaps it was because he had known, really known that somehow his uncle would survive; not only that, but would save anyone who had depended on him. Maybe she believed that he had been as disappointed to learn that her husband lived, as he was overjoyed to hear the news of his uncle’s safety.

And knowing all these things he had taken her, had loved her and compelled her to love him until they had both been exhausted. Now she might see that act as a betrayal, his plea of love nothing but a cruel lie to seize the advantage when she was most vulnerable.

He clenched his fingers into a tight fist. I do love you, Zenoria. I never wanted to dishonour you by forcing myself upon you …

He turned sharply as Peter Sargeant, his first lieutenant who had ridden all the way from Plymouth to the church in Falmouth to bring him the news of the rescue, came up to join him.

“Bird Island, sir?”

A close-run thing. He could feel the shirt clinging to his skin, and not merely because of the sun.

“Yes. A whim perhaps. But vessels call there for water sometimes … Lord Sutcliffe can wait a while longer, and we might get him some news.” He smiled. “And there is always the possibility of a prize or two.” He glanced up at the streaming masthead pendant. “We will alter course directly, and steer south-west-by-west. We should be up to the islands before noon with this wind under our coat-tails!”

They grinned at each other. Young men, with the world and the ocean theirs for the asking.

“Deck there!” They stared up at the bright, washed-out sky. “Sail on th’ starboard bow!”

Several telescopes were seized and trained, and then Lieutenant Sargeant said, “Big schooner, sir.”

Adam levelled his telescope and waited for Anemone to lift her beak-head over a long glassy roller.

“A Guinea-man, I’ll wager.” He snapped the glass shut, his mind already busy with compass and distance. “Full of slaves too, maybe. This new slavery act will come in useful!”

Sargeant cupped his hands. “Both watches, Mr Bond! Stand by on the quarterdeck!”

The sailing-master watched the far-off sliver of sail, clearly etched now against an overlapping backdrop of small islands.

“We’ll lose that ‘un, zur, if us lets ‘em slip amongst they dunghills!”

Adam showed his teeth. “I admire your turn of phrase, Mr Partridge. And no, we shall not lose him.” He turned aside. “Get the royals on her! Then send the gunner aft to me!”

Even though the other vessel had also made more sail, and had changed tack slightly away from her pursuer, she was no match for Anemone. Within an hour she could be clearly seen by everyone on deck who had the time to look. In two hours she was within range of Anemone’s bow-chasers. The gunner laid one of them himself, one hard thumb raised and moved this way or that to direct the crew to use their handspikes and adjust the long nine-pounder until he was satisfied.

Adam called, “As you will, Mr Ayres! Close as you dare!”

Several of the seamen who were near enough to hear grinned at one another. Adam saw the exchanges and was moved. They had become a better ship’s company than he had dared to hope for. Few were volunteers, and many had been transferred from other ships when Anemone had first commissioned without even being allowed to go ashore and visit their homes. And yet, over the months, they had become a self-dependent unit of the fleet. A new ship and her first captain, just as Anemone was Adam’s first frigate. He had always dreamed and hoped for this, to follow in the footsteps of his uncle. He asked a lot of himself, and expected the support of his officers and men. Somehow, the magic had worked.

Just before they had left Spithead to beat down-Channel in a rising gale, they had discovered twelve seamen from a merchant vessel pulling ashore, probably without permission, for a night in the taverns. Adam had sent his third lieutenant and a party ashore and pressed those unfortunate revellers before they had realised what had happened. It had not been strictly legal but, he argued, they should have remained on board until officially paid-off by their captain. Twelve trained hands were a real find, instead of the usual dockside scum and jail-bait most captains had to train and contend with. He could see one of them now, not only reconciled to his situation but actually showing a young landman how to use a marlin spike on some cordage. It was the way of sailors.

A bow-chaser roared out, the pale smoke fanning away through the staysail and jib.

There were several shouts of approval as the ball slammed down hard alongside the other vessel, flinging a tall waterspout high over the deck.

Adam took a speaking-trumpet, “Close, I said, Mr Ayres! I think you must have parted his hair!”

“He’s heaving-to, sir!”

“Very well. Run down on him and send a party across. And no nonsense.”

Old Partridge lowered a glass and remarked, “Looks like a slaver, zur.” He sounded doubtful.

“Spit it out, man. I’m no mind-reader.”

“Too many ships-o’-war hereabouts, zur. Most Guinea-men give these parts a wide berth. From my experience they runs further to the west’rd to that damned hole Haiti or down to the Main where the Dons always find use for more slaves.” He was quite unperturbed by his young captain’s manner; he knew many would have considered it beneath their dignity even to consult a lowly warrant officer.

Adam watched the other vessel floundering about in a cross-wind, her sails in disarray.

“That makes good sense, Mr Partridge. Well said.”

Partridge rubbed his chin to conceal a grin. Despite all his fire and impatience, you could not help but like Captain Adam Bolitho.

“Ready, sir!”

“Go yourself, Mr Sargeant.” He gave him a searching look. “No risks.”

Moments later the cutter pulled away from the frigate’s swaying shadow, the boarding-party crowded amongst the oarsmen and a swivel-gun mounted above the stem.

Adam watched Anemone’s sails filling and banging as she was caught in a powerful undertow from the island.

He glanced at the masthead pendant. “Back the maintops’l, Mr Martin!”

The second lieutenant dragged his eyes from the cutter as it bounced and pitched over the blue water towards the schooner.

To the sailing-master Adam said, “Plenty of sea room, eh?”

“Aye, plenty, zur. An’ no bottom neither.” He pointed vaguely at the land. “Shallows there though.”

Adam took a glass and relaxed slightly. It was always a risk so close to land. Too much depth to anchor, not enough time to weigh if things went wrong. He trained it on the schooner. A few figures on deck but little sign of excitement. If she was a slaver, her master obviously had nothing to hide. But there might be evidence of his trade, or at least enough to question him. They had stopped and searched so many vessels, and had rarely come away empty-handed. Intelligence, the casual mention of some enemy shipping movements. He smiled. Best of all, they might take the ship herself as a prize. He knew he had been lucky; so did his men.

During the last overhaul Adam had arranged to have all the ship’s stern carvings and beak-head, the “gingerbread” as it was nicknamed, painted with real gilt, and not merely dockyard yellow paint: a mark of success for a captain who was skilful enough to gain himself and his company the allotted share of prize-money.

Someone said, “Almost there!” Lieutenant Sargeant could be seen standing in the sternsheets, a speaking-trumpet to his mouth as he shouted to the men on the schooner’s deck. A good officer who had become a friend, or as close to one as Adam could ever accept.

He glanced along the deck. Anemone was a ship any young officer would kill for. Twenty-eight 18-pounders and ten 9-pounders, two of which were chasers. He turned away, and saw Partridge watching him from beside the compass box.

“What is it, zur?”

Adam plucked at his shirt, suddenly cold in spite of the glaring heat. Like fever.

“I’m not sure.”

Partridge rubbed his chin. He had never heard the captain reveal such uncertainty before. Right or wrong, he was always ready with an answer.

The second lieutenant called, “The cutter’s turning to go alongside, sir!”

Adam said sharply, “Recall the boat, Mr Martin! Now!” To the startled Partridge he added, “Prepare to get under way!”

The sailing-master stared at him. “But—but we can rake that bugger, zur!”

Men were already dropping from the shrouds and gangways from where they had been enjoying the spectacle across the water.

The cutter had seen the recall signal, and Lieutenant Sargeant probably felt much the same as Old Partridge. Too much sun.

“He’s standing away, sir!”

There were some ironic cheers from the gun deck, to cover a sense of disappointment. The cutter was almost bows-on now, the oars moving quickly. Sargeant probably thought the lookouts had sighted another vessel further out to sea, which appeared more promising.

“Deck there! Smoke on t’ ‘eadland!”

Adam hurried to the opposite side and trained his glass on the misty green slope.

He heard a man say, “A camp o’ some kind, I reckon.”

Adam shouted, “Hands aloft, Mr Martin! Loose tops’ls! Pipe the hands to the braces!”

Partridge glanced at the shore as the topmen dashed to the shrouds and scampered up the ratlines. To his helmsmen he growled, “Be ready, my lads! We’ll be all aback else!” He had been at sea a long time, and was the oldest man in the ship. He knew that what some simpleton had mistaken for a camp fire was the smoke of an oven, an oven which had just been flung open when the cutter had begun to come about and return to Anemone.

“Break out the main course!”

There were cries of alarm and surprise as a gun banged out, and seconds later a ball slapped through the fore-topsail even as it was released to the wind. Adam tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry. Where the ball had punched its hole through the sail was a blackened circle, the mark of heated shot. If it ploughed into the hull the whole ship could become a pyre in minutes. With tarred rigging, sun-dried canvas and a hull filled with powder, paint, spirits and cordage, fire was the dread of every sailor, more than any storm. The worst enemy.

Discipline reasserted itself as men charged to the gangways with water buckets and even sponges from the guns.

Another shot, and the ball skimmed across the sea’s face like something alive.

Adam shouted, “Bring her about! Weather the headland if need be, but I’ll not lose Peter Sargeant!”

Under command again, her forecourse and topsails filling to the hot wind, Anemone showed her copper as she heeled over in the bright sunshine.

The men in the cutter seemed to realise what their captain was doing, and when the boat crashed and ground against the frigate’s side, they flung themselves on to the lines and rope ladders the boatswain had made ready for them. One man slipped and fell, and by the time his head broke surface Anemone had already left him astern.

Adam grasped the nettings until the tarred ropework cut his skin.

I nearly lost her. It kept repeating itself in his aching mind. I nearly lost her.

“Ready about, sir!”

Lieutenant Sargeant hurried aft and turned to stare at the abandoned cutter and the drowning seaman, who was still thrashing helplessly in the water.

“What happened, sir?”

Adam looked at him but barely saw him. “Bait, Peter. That’s what they were.” He turned and looked towards the land as another shot echoed across the placid water. Another few minutes and his ship, his precious Anemone, would have been either hit by some of those white-hot balls or forced into the shallows like a stranded whale. He felt the anger surge through him. He could scarcely believe he could feel like this. Like madness.

“Clear the larboard battery, Mr Martin! Load and run out, double-shotted, if you please!” He ignored the startled expressions, the relief of some of the cutter’s crew obvious as they grinned and shook hands with their comrades.

Sargeant said, “Course to steer, sir?” He must have known, and even beneath his sunburn his face looked pale.

“I want to pass her at half-a-cable!”

Gun captains were racing each other as the larboard battery of long eighteen-pounders were loaded, their wads tamped home, before they were run squealing to the open ports.

Adam raised his glass as each gun captain faced aft. He saw the earlier disinterest aboard the schooner already giving way to panic as the frigate changed tack and bore down on her, her broadside catching the sun like a line of black teeth.

“The hull, Mr Sargeant, not her rigging this time.”

Adam watched intently. A group of men were trying to hoist out a boat, and now there were uniforms clambering on deck from hatchways and holds. French soldiers, some armed, others in obvious terror as they ran about the drifting schooner like blind things.

“Go forrard, Peter.” Adam did not look at him. “If need be, lay each gun yourself. I want every ball to strike true.”

Sargeant ran along the gangway, pausing only to call down to each gun captain.

A midshipman exclaimed, “Some of them are jumping overboard!” Nobody answered; they were either staring at the schooner or at their own captain.