Dead Reckoning (21 page)

“What I can't understand,” said Topley, “is how that confounded schooner came adrift.”

“She didn't,” replied Northmore. “Her prize-master, a midshipman called Millington, was trying to shift her berth.”

“What, in the dark? In a crowded anchorage? He must be out of his mind!”

“He is not as popular as he was,” Northmore agreed. “He has been sent back to the
Sirius,
where his first lieutenant wants a word with him. But what's the use? His stupid blundering has left us crippled.”

“I'm afraid, sir,” said Stock to Delancey, “that we have lost our chance of taking part in the capture of Mauritius.”

“We had no chance, anyway, Mr Stock,” answered Delancey. “We were to remain here, in any case, after the squadron has sailed. But this mishap clinches the matter. It will take us weeks to repair the damage, some of it below the waterline. It is not as if this damned island had a dockyard.”

“Was the prize much damaged, sir?” asked Topley.

“Her foremast was over the side.”

“I wonder,” said Northmore, “whether we could make a new bowsprit out of her foremast?”

“I dare say we can but it will still take weeks. The task, Mr Northmore, will fall on you. I shall have work to do ashore.”

After a further conference with the Commodore, Delancey landed at Port Denis with Mr Sevendale, a sergeant, bugler, and twelve marines, armed and supplied for a week. With them came Delancey's coxswain and steward, both armed. Delancey and Sevendale found accommodation at the Hotel Joinville, on the Place du Gouvernement, and the marines, with their sergeant and bugler, were given beds in the infantry barracks.

Delancey then reported to Mr Farquhar, the governor, and to Lt. Colonel Keating, the commandant. His mission, he explained, was to gain intelligence about Mauritius from local inhabitants who might be familiar with that island. Farquhar was only mildly encouraging, Keating rather hostile, but they allowed him to go on his way and promised him two packhorses (if he needed them) from among those found at the French barracks.

His inquiries began in St Denis, however, and were directed, in the first place, towards discovering what had happened to the British prisoners-of-war. There must had been numbers of these captured in various ships and there had been several men missing after the raid on Bourbon in 1809. It finially transpired that these prisoners had been committed to the care of Captain St Michel, who had been commandant of the town of St Denis. When questioned, St Michel admitted that he had been in charge of prisoners. They had been kept, he explained, in a disused chapel at the end of the Rue de L'Eglise. Delancey asked to be shown the place, which turned out to be little more than a barn with some adjacent buildings used as kitchen and guardroom. “Not very luxurious,” St Michel admitted with some embarrassment,
“but prisoners were seldom here for long. Officers were usually released on parole and the others were exchanged after a month or two.”

“Just so,” said Delancey, “and was it your role to interrogate the prisoners?”

“Never, sir.”

“But they were interrogated, I suppose?”

“No doubt.”

“By whom, then?”

“Well, sir—” St Michel seemed to hesitate. “There was an intelligence branch here, headed by a civilian agent.”

“And what was his name?”

“I cannot recall.”

“You could verify his name from documents in your possession.”

“All those papers have been taken from me.”

“This agent had served previously in the East Indies, I think. He was once in Borneo, was he not?”

“He might have been. I don't know.”

“Is he still on the island?”

“He is not in St Denis.”

“But he is still at large. Tell me, did any of your prisoners misbehave, riot, fight, or try to escape?”

“Well, sir, you know what sailors are.”

“So you had punishment cells?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Show me.”

Captain St Michel was middle-aged, running to fat, and constantly mopped his forehead in the heat. With evident reluctance, he showed Delancey some cells opening on a back yard, roughly built and plastered, with small barred windows and strongly
made doors. In tropical heat any prisoner shut in such a cell would almost stifle.

“Seldom in use, sir,” the Frenchman babbled with evident confusion, “hardly ever occupied. These cells were of value as a threat, you will understand. It was enough, you see, for prisoners to know that these cells existed.”

Looking around him, Delancey noticed a black-painted door in the yard wall, leading to a detached cottage. Trying the handle, he found the door locked.

“What lies beyond this door?” he asked.

“A private house, no part of the prison.”

“Used for interrogation perhaps?”

“Oh, no, certainly not.”

“Where, then, were prisoners interrogated?”

“At the headquarters, I suppose, of the intelligence branch.”

“And where was that?”

“I can't remember.”

“But you must have sent prisoners there.”

“No. They sent for them.”

“And brought them back, no doubt?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Yes . . . of course. Well, Captain St Michel, I have to thank you for being so frank with me. You will want to return to your office and I, too, have other work to do. Good-bye for the present. I think and hope that we shall meet again.”

Early next day, Delancey and Sevendale came back to the prisoner-of-war barracks, this time in civilian clothes and accompanied by Tanner, Teesdale, and a Negro servant from the infantry barracks. There was nobody around at that hour and Delancey now made a more careful study of the place. The cells, he could see, had been recently given a hurried and thin coat of
whitewash. The Negro, called André, who had come provided with bucket and scrubber, was told to wash it off carefully. He had also brought an axe and crowbar, with which Tanner broke open the black door. It led, as Delancey guessed, into what had certainly been the headquarters of the intelligence branch. It was almost a replica of that other building he had seen in Borneo. There were cupboards, shelves, and a big table. Papers had been burnt in a bonfire which had been lit in the yard, only a few scraps remaining. A central post in an inner room still had chains attached, with an iron brazier near by and some dull red stains on the floor. After noting these sickening hints of what was meant by interrogation, Delancey went back to the cells to see what marks the whitewash had been meant to hide. Pencil inscriptions were already coming to light. One of them read as follows:

Timothy Wood of ship Coromandel prisoner here 1807, starving, sufcated and some mates nere to daeth God help us†.

Another, lower down and scratched with a nail on the plaster:

Thomas Pendle, Q'master, Prisr 1806 have hurd cries of fellow cuntrymn under torchure to tel all but refused and now silence. It is FABIUS asks the questions.

A third, further to the right and in pencil read:

To hell with Bonypart

BRITONS STRIKE HOME

Leaving André to his work, and telling the others to search again, Delancey next visited the other houses in the street. There was, however, a conspiracy of silence. No one had seen or heard anything to suggest that prisoners had been ill treated. Only one neighbour, a hairdresser, had so much as heard of the
intelligence branch and he hotly denied that its members had anything to do with interrogation. There had been such a branch of the government, he admitted, but it was solely concerned with signals. What signals, Delancey asked, from where and to whom and about what? The hairdresser could not answer these questions and was pressed to explain why he thought that intelligence meant signals. He finally produced a sheet of paper which he had found, he said, after the secret agents had left; something which had accidentally escaped the bonfire. On this paper were shown arrangements of flag signals with, opposite each, a special meaning. One signal shown meant “The enemy are off Coin de Mire,” another that “The enemy are off Grand Port,” a third that “There is no enemy ship in sight.” It was instantly obvious that the signals related to Mauritius (not to Bourbon) and that they were to be used from shore to ship. French vessels sighting Port Louis were to be informed about the state of the blockade. Once Mauritius had fallen, these signals might be very useful indeed.

The paper after being copied was sent, therefore, to Commodore Rowley. But how did they concern these intelligence men at St Denis? They might, of course, have devised them. Apart from that, however, they might have been more generally concerned with signals. Brought back to the scene—this time under arrest—Captain St Michel finally agreed that the intelligence branch had been concerned (and might still be concerned) with a signal system which connected Bourbon with Mauritius. They had been busy, he had been told, at Salazie. More than that he firmly refused to divulge.

Delancey went to see Lt.-Colonel Keating, who was frankly incredulous about the possibility of signals between Bourbon and
Mauritius. Red-faced, short, and perspiring, he took Delancey to the window of his office and pointed inland:

“Look, Captain, the high peaks are almost perpetually hidden by cloud. Mauritius is theoretically visible from these mountains but is not, in fact, seen on more than one day in twenty. What is the use of that to someone with an urgent message? And, anyway, how could flags be seen at a distance of eighty miles?” Delancey could see that the high mountains were hidden by a trailing canopy of cloud and could not remember having seen them any more clearly. He turned away from the window with a puzzled frown.

“Impossible, Colonel, I must confess. Any signal system would have to depend upon light; indeed, upon a good-sized bonfire.”

“But what does it matter, anyway? We shall have both islands in a matter of weeks.”

“The signals don't matter but there is reason to believe that the island contains a dangerous French agent. He and his men were concerned in the interrogation and torture of British prisoners-of-war. I am convinced that he is here.”

“Ah, yes. I heard something about that. Where is he lurking, do you think?”

“At or near Salazie.”

“Somewhere near the foot of Le Piton des Neiges . . . You think he should be tracked down?”

“I don't like to think he is still at large.”

“But he may have gone to Mauritius?”

“He might at that.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Add to your kindness over the two packhorses by lending
me a third horse laden with a mortar, a fourth with mortar bombs, two artillerymen, and two grooms.”

“Why?”

“Because the men I am hunting may be in one of the caves above Salazie. I may have to flush them out.”

“I see. But you had best take four artillerymen, one of them a bombardier. They will know as much about horses as any groom and are more generally useful. Provisioned for how long?”

“For a week.”

“And you have a dozen men of your own?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, then, I agree to your plan and will add two chargers, one for you and one for your marine officer.” Keating stood to the door and called “Mr Redding!” His adjutant appeared at once and was given the necessary orders. “And now, sir, I'll wish you good fortune. When do you march?”

“At daybreak, sir. And many thanks for your help.”

As the little column left the town of St Denis in the cool of the morning, Delancey had the odd feeling of being on holiday. His horse had a comfortable pace and gave him no trouble and he had been at sea for so long that there was acute pleasure in merely smelling the scent of the wild flowers. On the left could be heard at first the roar of the breakers on the coral reef, from the right came the rustling of the sugar-cane. They crossed dry ravines by wooden bridges, passed the village of St Marie, and paused to eat by the roadside.

Delancey had obtained a guide for the mountains, a silent man called Jean, recommended by the proprietor of his hotel, who looked gloomy but certainly appeared to know the way. Going through St Suzanne, they took the turning to the right at St André and pushed on through the fields, the road rising at
first and then descending into a broad valley beyond which lay the mouth of the ravine for which they were heading. This was L'Escalier, as Delancey knew, and the valley grew narrower as the mountains on either side rose higher. Rounding a corner, they suddenly came in sight of the wooden bridge which crosses the foaming torrent of La Rivière du Mat. There was a thatched hut near the bridge and here they camped for the night, lulled to sleep by the sound of a cascade which fell from a height of fifteen hundred feet and dissolved into vapour before it reached the ground.

From L'Escalier next day a march of fourteen miles brought them along the river-gorge to the plateau of Salazie, their destination. The road had long since dwindled to a mere track and, beyond Salazie, disappeared altogether. It was the wildest place Delancey had ever seen, desolate and silent, without birdsong or any other sign of life. There was no village at Salazie but only a couple of empty thatched huts, offering shelter and nothing else, surrounded by huge boulders which had evidently been washed down the mountainside. High mountains surrounded this place, which centred upon a mineral spring of which he had heard. Somewhere beyond, he knew, was the Caverne Mussard, the resort during the last century of a band of runaway slaves who were all killed or captured by a French officer called Mussard.

It was evening by the time they came to this place, very exhausted, and Delancey told his men to make a fire in the hut, which had a fireplace, and show no light outside it. After a meal, he and Sevendale strolled outside and gazed at the mountains in the moonlight. It was bitterly cold and they wore their cloaks, moving briskly to keep warm.