Darkening Sea (24 page)

Avery watched Bolitho clamber lightly up the
74
's weathered side. He asked quietly so that only Yovell should hear, “In all the years, has Sir Richard changed much?”

Yovell picked up his satchel. “In a few ways, sir.” He looked at him curiously. “But mostly, he changed all of us!”

Allday grinned. “I think you are wanted on deck, sir!”

He watched the lieutenant almost fall as he hurried to catch up with his superior.

Yovell said, “I'm not too sure about him, John.”

“An' I'm not too certain about
you,
matey!”

They chuckled like conspirators and the lieutenant in charge of the gig stared after them without understanding what he saw.

His Britannic Majesty's brig
Larne
of fourteen guns pitched and swayed in a steep swell, her slack sails and clattering rigging clear evidence of her becalmed state.

A few figures moved about her deck, some staggering like drunks as the sturdy hull dipped and slithered into yet another trough. Somewhere to larboard but visible only occasionally to the masthead lookout was the African mainland, Molembo, where many a slaver had been run to ground by vessels like
Larne.

Most countries had outlawed slavery and the traffic that had cost so many lives, but it still went on where the price was right.

In the brig's cabin Commander James Tyacke tried to concentrate on his chart, and was cursing the perverse wind that had failed him after such a speedy departure from Freetown after the receipt of Sir Richard Bolitho's orders. It would be good to see him again. Tyacke was still surprised that he could think so when he had always had very little respect for senior officers. Bolitho had changed all that when the Good Hope campaign had been mounting. He had even endured the crowded discomfort of the little schooner
Miranda,
which Tyacke had then commanded, and when she had been destroyed by an enemy frigate Bolitho had given him the
Larne.

The seclusion and the independence of the anti-slavery patrols had suited Tyacke very well. Most of his company were prime seamen who shared his need to get away from the greater authority of the fleet. Few sailors cared much about the slave-trade; it was something that happened, or had done until the new laws were approved. But to be free from a flag officer's demands, with the prospect of prize-money, was to every man's taste.

Tyacke leaned back and frowned as he listened to his little ship rolling and groaning in the arms of the South Atlantic. He often thought of how he had searched for Bolitho and his lady after
Golden Plover
's loss on the Hundred-Mile Reef. His dis-belief had changed to prayer, which was rare for him, when he had confirmed who had survived in that sun-blistered longboat.

He thought of the gown he had kept in a chest in this cabin, the one he had bought in Lisbon for the girl who had promised to be his wife. He had given it to Lady Somervell to cover herself from the sailors' stares. Later, after Keen's marriage, which Tyacke had sat in deep shadow to watch, she had returned it to him, beautifully cleaned and packed in a lined box.

She had written in a little note, “For you, James Tyacke, and for a girl who shall deserve it.”

Tyacke stood up and steadied himself against the motion by gripping a deckhead beam. The cabin was very small, like that of a miniature frigate, but after a schooner it had seemed like a palace.

He made himself look at his reflection in the hanging mirror. A face which could have been handsome, caring and strong until that day at the Battle of the Nile, as it was now called. The left side of his face was unmarked; the other side was not human. How the eye had survived was a miracle: it seemed to glare out above the melted flesh like an angry, defiant light. Everyone around that gun had died, and Tyacke could remember nothing about it.

For a girl who shall deserve it.

Tyacke turned away, the old bitterness returning. What woman could be expected to live with that? To wake up and see that terrible, mutilated face beside her?

He listened to the sea. Here was the only escape. Where he had won the respect of his men and of the man he was sailing to meet.

He shook himself and decided to go on deck. Most of his men could look at him now without showing pity or horror. He was lucky in that, he thought. He had three lieutenants and more experienced hands than most frigates.
Larne
even carried a dedicated surgeon, one who used his interest in tropical medicine and the various fevers that plagued these coasts to compile a mass of notes that might one day take him to the College of Surgeons in London.

The sea air was abrasive, like hot sand off a desert. He squinted in the hard glare and glanced at the watch around him: men he had come to know better and more intimately than he would have believed possible. Ozanne, the first lieutenant, a Channel Islander who had once been a merchant sailor. He had come up the hard way and was five years older than his commander. Pitcairn, the sailing-master, was another veteran who shunned the ways and the manners of a big man-of-war although his skills would have taken him anywhere. Livett, the surgeon, was sketching by one of the swivel-guns. He had a youthful appearance until he removed his hat, when his head was like a brown egg.

Tyacke walked to the taffrail and peered astern. The vessel was lifting and dropping into every trough, inert, making no way at all.

Tyacke knew he should accept it, but he had an impatient nature and hated to feel his command failing to respond to sail or rudder.

The sailing-master judged his mood before saying, “Can't hold, sir. Visibility's so bad to the east'rd I think there may be a storm blowing up.”

Tyacke took a telescope and wedged his buttocks against the compass box. Pitcairn was not very often wrong. The glass swept over the writhing sea mist to where the land should lie.

Ozanne said, “Rain too, I shouldn't wonder, sir.”

Tyacke grunted. “We could do with it. The timbers are like kindling.”

The glass moved on, over the swells and troughs and across a group of drifting gulls. They seemed held together, like a pale wreath cast down by someone as a memorial.

Ozanne watched him and his emotions. A handsome man who would turn any lass's head, he thought. Once. There had been times when it had been hard for Ozanne to accept the horrible disfigurement and find the man beneath. The one the Arab slavers feared most of all.
The devil with half a face.
A fine seaman, and a just one to his small company. The two did not always make good bedfellows in the King's navy.

Tyacke felt the sweat running down his face and wiped the skin with his fingers, hating what he felt. Who was it who had told him that it could have been worse?

“I don't see that at all.” With a start he realised he had spoken aloud, but managed to grin as Ozanne asked, “Sir?”

Tyacke was about to return the glass to its rack when something made him stiffen. As if he had heard something, or some awful memory had sent a shiver up his spine.

The deck quivered slightly, and when he looked up he saw the trailing masthead pendant flick out like a whip. Loose gear rattled and groaned, and the watch on deck seemed to come alive again from their sun-dulled torpor.

“Stand to, hands to the braces!”

The brig swung slightly and the two helmsmen who had been standing motionless, their arms resting on the wheel, gripped the spokes as the rudder gave in to a sudden pressure.

Tyacke looked at the sailing-master. “You were right about a storm, Mr Pitcairn! Well, we're ready for any help we can get!”

He realised that none of them had moved, and cursed suddenly as he heard again the sound he had taken for thunder. His hearing had never been the same since the explosion.

Ozanne said, “Gunfire!”

The deck tilted more steeply and the big forecourse filled iron-hard with a mind of its own.

“Turn up the watch below! I want all the sail she can carry! Bring her back on course, Mr Manley!”

Tyacke watched the sudden rush of men as the call shrilled between decks. The topmen were already clambering out along the upper yards, and others were loosening halliards and braces ready for the next order. A few found time to stare aft at their formidable captain, questioning, uncertain, but trusting him completely.

Ozanne said, “A fair size by the sound of it, sir.” He did not even flinch as
Larne
was sheeted home on the starboard tack.

The helmsman yelled, “South by east, sir! Steady she goes!”

Tyacke rubbed his chin but did not see the others exchange glances. He did not even realise that it was something he always did in the face of danger.

Too heavy for another anti-slavery vessel: Ozanne was right about that. He saw the spray burst over the beak-head and soak the seamen there. In the angry glare it looked almost gold.

Two frigates then? He glanced at each sail in turn.
Larne
was beginning to lean forward into every line of troughs, the sea pattering inboard and swilling into the scuppers. One of their own then, perhaps outgunned or outnumbered?

He snapped, “Clear for action as the mood takes you, Mr Ozanne.” He looked around and beckoned to a seaman. “Cabin, Thomas—fetch my sword and lively so!”

As suddenly as the returning wind it began to rain, a downpour which advanced across the water so heavily and thickly that it was like being hemmed in by a giant fence. As it reached the ship the men were held breathless and gasping where they stood, some using it to wash themselves, others just standing amidst the onslaught and spluttering with pleasure. There were more heavy crashes through the rain. The same sound, as if only the one vessel was firing.

Then there was one great explosion which seemed to go on for minutes. Tyacke could even feel it against the
Larne
's hull like something out of the deep.

Then the distant gunfire ceased and only the sound of the deluge continued. The rain was moving away, and the sun came through as if it had been in hiding. Sails, decks and taut rigging were steaming, and seamen looked for one another as if after a battle.

But the wind was holding, laying bare the distant coastline and the movement of the current.

The lookout yelled, “Deck there! Sail to the south-east! Hull down!”

As the wind continued to drive away the mist Tyacke realised that much of it was smoke. The other ship or ships were already far away if only the lookout could see them. The assassins.

Some of his men were standing away from their guns or caught in their various attitudes of working ship and trimming the sails. They were staring at something.

It could have been a reef, except that out here there were none. It might have been some old and forgotten hulk left to the mercy of the ocean. But it was not. It was the capsized hull of a vessel about the size of this one, his
Larne.
There were huge obscene bubbles exploding from the opposite side, probably from that one great explosion. In a moment she would be gone.

Tyacke said harshly, “Heave-to, Mr Ozanne! Bosun, clear away the boats!”

Men ran to the tackles and braces as
Larne
wallowed heavily into the wind, her sails all in confusion.

Tyacke had never seen the boats get away so quickly. The experience gained at boarding suspected slavers was proving itself. Not that these men, his men, would need any incentive.

Tyacke levelled his telescope and stared at the pathetic little figures struggling to pull themselves to safety, others limp and trapped in the trailing weed of rigging alongside.

Not strangers this time. It was like looking at themselves. An officer dressed in the same uniform as Ozanne and the others, seamen in checkered shirts like some of those beside him. There was blood in the water too, clinging to the upended bilge as if the vessel herself were being bled to death.

The boats were hurling themselves across the water, and Tyacke saw the third lieutenant, Robyns, pointing to something for his coxswain to identify.

Without looking Tyacke knew the surgeon and his mate were already down on deck to help the first survivors. There could not be many of them.

More big bubbles were bursting and Tyacke had to look away as a figure obviously blinded by the explosion appeared, arms outstretched, his mouth opened in unheard cries.

Tyacke clenched his fists.
It could be me.

He looked away and saw a young seaman crossing himself, another sobbing quietly, heedless of his companions.

Ozanne lowered his telescope. “She's going, sir. I just saw her name. She's the
Thruster.
” He seemed to stare around with dis-belief. “Just like us!”

Tyacke turned again to watch the boats standing as near as they dared, oars and lines flung out for anyone who could swim.

The brig began to dip under the sea, a few figures still trying to get away even as she took her last dive.