Devil to Pay (28 page)

“Are you sure of that, David?”

“Once they have a cargo aboard they'll want to steer for home.”

“More's the pity then—they can't.”

The next few days were spent in shipping the cargo. Relations with the French merchants ashore were excellent and there was no trouble with the customs or police. All were perfectly aware of the
Dove's
business but some were anxious to hurry her sailing. As one old sea captain explained: “There are naval officers who don't understand business. If a national ship were to come in, we might have trouble.” All was well, however, until the day of the
Dove
's departure. After a last round of drinks and good wishes Sam Carter gave the order to cast off and the
Dove
made sail. It was a foggy day, the wind was faint and the lugger was moving slowly out of the harbour, when a larger ship suddenly loomed out of the mist. There was no real risk of collision but the other ship was rather close and easily identifiable as a French corvette. An officer hailed the
Dove,
probably ordering her to heave to. Carter ignored this but heard the sounds of a boat being lowered and manned. Losing sight of the corvette he became aware of the boat overtaking him. In a minute or two the boat was alongside and he was boarded by two French officers, a lieutenant and an “aspirant” or midshipman. He was ordered to drop anchor so that his vessel could be searched. Carter decided to play dumb, all the time hoping for a slant of wind. It came at last while the argument still raged and a seaman gently unhooked the boat from the mizen chains. It drifted astern as the lugsails filled and was lost to view in about two minutes. There was some distant shouting after that and the firing of a musket shot. Then the lugger was heading seaward and two Frenchmen were being disarmed and then hustled below to the forepeak. Without the least intending to do so, Sam Carter had taken two prisoners of war.

“Well, Mr Evans,” said Sam, “I'll give you a course for Cape Finisterre—or, better, we'll keep away from the coast, close-hauled on a course farther to the north.”

“The hands are not going to like that, Captain,” said Evans, too softly for the helmsman to hear. “And they'll like it still less when we steer for Cadiz. There are dangers a-plenty on the enemy's coast and it will mean going far from the places they know.”

“I don't pretend to like it myself, Mr Evans, but what can I do? I can't desert Delancey. Our task is to rescue him and that is what I mean to do.”

“I know that, sir, but we must look out for squalls after rounding Finisterre. The men want to see St Peter Port—not Cadiz.”

“How many of them are reliable?”

“I wish I knew. Then there are the prisoners, who might inspire the mutiny. I wish to God we could put them ashore.”

“And have them tell the story of their capture?”

“Oh—I know we have to keep them. The trouble is, however, that we have lost three men by desertion, two by sickness, and are reduced to nine: you and I, the boatswain, the cook and five deck hands, many of them smugglers by trade but French by descent. If the two prisoners are released the odds might be heavily against us.”

“Is the cook to be trusted?”

“I doubt it, sir.”

“And young Bennett?”

“I don't know. If he isn't, there could be eight against three; with the prisoners, ten against three. These are long odds, sir.”

“We must go armed at all times.”

“I am, sir, and so is Tom Yates.”

The
Dove
was soon under way on a north-westerly course, the wind being south-west and the sky brightening as they drew away from the coast. Their course was fair for Ushant or sufficiently so to keep the men content. At some point during the following night the
Dove
would have to tack, making the first leg of the southward passage and that would be the danger point. Sam Carter decided to talk to the doubtful men individually and then, when the time came, he would address them all. His own feelings at this stage were all too mixed. On the one hand he was a smuggler by trade, not involved in the war and intent on bringing his cargo safely into port. He knew exactly how the Guernseymen felt for his own instincts were the same as theirs. As against that, Delancey, his old opponent, was ashore and in danger and had asked for help. There was an awful compulsion in the trust which Delancey had placed in a smuggler's loyalty; or was it merely in the loyalty of a friend? Had it been any other officer Sam Carter would promptly have steered for home. Friendship apart, however, Sam could see that Delancey's intelligence could be important. The smuggling business, like any other, depended upon Britain's command of the sea. Who could smuggle anything if these revolutionaries ruled over Britain as well as France? What would happen to the special privileges of the Channel Islands? Victory at sea was needed by George III but it was just as essential to the free-traders of Guernsey and Alderney Delancey's journey through Spain was a desperate business and could end in disaster but Sam was a part of it and unable to withdraw. He must keep faith or despise himself for the rest of his life. He could not turn back, not even in the face of mutiny.

Next day, the wind from the same quarter was blowing half a gale. The
Dove
held her course with heavy seas breaking over her forecastle and the pumps kept going to free her hold from the water that had entered through the opening deck seams. Seeing Luke Bennett on forecastle watch Sam Carter went forward and asked him whether there was much water entering at the hawse-holes. Luke thought there was not. The lugger was pitching wildly and both had to shout to make themselves heard above the noise of the wind and sea. The circumstances were not ideal for conversation but Dick gained the impression that Luke, despite his name, was very much of a Guernseyman. He spoke English with a strong accent and was sometimes at a loss for a word, perhaps because he thought in the local patois of his island. The only fact of importance to emerge was that Luke was an adherent of the late Mr John Wesley, by whose preaching (he said) his father had been saved. He gathered that Henri Nicolle was of the same persuasion, though possibly belonging to a different sect. He had a word later with Nicolle, whose galley fire was extinguished, and gained confirmation about his religious views. The other men were Protestant, he gathered, but were rarely seen in church. There had never been a Guernsey party interested in “Liberty, Equality and Fraternity” (although there had been in Jersey) and it would have been still more difficult to find any Channel Island admirers of Robespierre. Treason was out of the question, the boatswain assured him, and all the men wanted was to run their cargo back to St Peter Port. Sam ended his tour of the lugger by visiting the prisoners, who were in the forepeak, sitting disconsolately on a spare staysail. They refused to give their parole, saying “Vive La France!” and complaining bitterly about the food. Sam Carter locked them in again and returned to the quarterdeck. The gale was now moderating and died away towards evening, giving place to a moderate breeze from the south with occasional rain showers.

Just before sunset Sam Carter called the crew together at the changing of the watch. For the first time he told them the whole story as known to himself. “A naval officer called Delancey, a Guernseyman like others here and well known to us all as the commander of the
Nemesis,
is ashore in Spain and trying to discover what the French and Spanish are planning to do. When he has found out he will try to embark at the port of Léon, used by us and by other free-traders. He has asked me to meet him there and bring him away and that I have decided to do. He should now be on the road to Cadiz. As Spain is still at peace he should have no difficulty in passing through that country. When he reaches Cadiz we shall then be ready to rescue him at a point just south of there. That done, we can steer for Guernsey and Poole, having saved a brave man, done good business, and played our part in frustrating the enemy.”

Sam paused while the English-speaking seamen (Nicolle and Bennett) explained his little speech to the others in French. Then he went on but now on a note of persuasion: “I know that you would rather head for home and safety now. So should I! But I can't desert Captain Delancey, a fine seaman and a brave man. He was running a terrible risk in France for he would have been shot as a spy if they had caught him. Our risk is nothing by comparison. If captured by the French we should be treated as smugglers or, at worst, as merchant seamen, to be held until we are exchanged. You may wonder, however, why I concern myself with the affairs of George III. You may even think that a smuggler should stick to his trade. That is some day what I mean to do. But where will our trade be if France should win? What if England should be conquered? What if the customs duties were abolished between England and France? How should we make a living? We believe in Free Trade and we mean to have it even if we have to kill every Frenchman in France!”

There was a laugh at that, followed by another laugh after the joke had been translated. Sam Carter decided to end on that note. “Very well then. We shall change course tonight and you will all know why. Port watch and idlers can go below.”

Sam was pleasantly surprised by the men's behaviour. There had been no grumbling or muttering, no signs of hostility, not even a question. Perhaps his eloquence had won them over? On this point the boatswain was less optimistic.

“I'd rather have heard grumbling, sir. But these men are slow and will take time to weigh up the situation. The pity of it is that the wind is fair for Ushant.” This was the painful truth but the change of course took place without protest and the
Dove
was then close-hauled on her way to the south. Sam never left the deck all night.

The first leg of the southward course took the lugger far into the Atlantic where no other sail was to be seen. Southerly winds continued all that day but veered westerly during the following evening. With this encouragement Sam was able to tack again and steer a better course for Cadiz. Feeling happier over the progress they were making, he finally turned in, handing over to Mr Evans. Dog-tired, he fell asleep instantly and several hours passed before he awoke, suddenly alert. Something had disturbed him—footsteps perhaps or the creak of the cabin door. Before he could make a move in the darkness he felt cold iron on his forehead and heard a voice saying, “Keep still, mister, or I shoot.” He followed this advice and lay motionless, listening to the intruder's heavy breathing. Then there were more footsteps and the door opened, admitting the light of a lantern. Sam was now able to recognize Elisha Domaille, who held the pistol, and Gilbert Le Page, who stood at the door.

“Stop this nonsense!” said Sam. “You'll go to the gallows for this, you fools, and you could have made money by doing your duty.” Neither seaman replied and neither may even have understood. There were more footsteps, however, and voices, and presently Evans was brought into the cabin, followed by Yates. There was a careful search for weapons and Sam's pistols were removed. Then Henri Nicolle told the prisoners that they need fear nothing. “I am now master of the ship,” he explained, “and will take her to Guernsey. You will remain here quietly until we reach port.”

“Where you'll be hanged for mutiny!” said Sam.

“For mutiny on a smuggling craft?” asked Nicolle with real interest. “It may be possible but it would certainly be something new.”

“There would be nothing new about a man being hanged for treason. Think again, Nicolle, you are making a big mistake!”

There was no further argument and the three officers were left to themselves, locked in the one cabin.

“I should have stood by you, sir, if it had come to a fight,” said the boatswain, “but I'm not too sorry about this mutiny and that's a fact. The voyage down to Cadiz would have been a wild goose chase, as likely as not. How do we know that Delancey will be there? How do we know that he's not in a prison cell at San Sebastian? And what could be more of a risk than lurking round Cadiz and the enemy fleet? You had to keep faith with Mr Delancey—I see that, sir, and would be the last to deny it—and you did your best. But the men have mutinied and there's nothing more you can do. Maybe it's to this mutiny we shall owe our lives, and who will blame us?”

“My thoughts were going the same way,” Evans admitted, “and my conclusion is the same. We're well out of that Cadiz affair if you ask me.”

“And so we leave Captain Delancey to his fate?” asked Sam. “I could never have done that. In some odd fashion he and I have become friends. There's little I can do for him now but one thing I'll ask of you, Mr Evans. Don't offer to navigate!”

“Very well, sir. There is no one among them who knows where we are or what course we should steer.”

“So they may come back to me for help.”

That was not, however, what the mutineers did. They preferred to release the French prisoners, one of whom could navigate. All Sam Carter knew, however, was that the lugger was now before the wind and probably heading for the French coast. At dinner time the captive officers were brought their meal by young Bennett, followed by the surly Michel Vaudin with a pair of pistols.

“Who is navigating?” asked Sam and Bennett answered—”The Frenchie.” To this Sam replied, “He will steer you into a French naval base.”

“Enough of that!” snapped Vaudin, pushing Bennett out of the cabin. Sam thought it useful to have planted a doubt in someone's mind. When Bennett came to fetch the dirty plates, this time with Le Page as escort, Sam expressed surprise that the men should put their trust in a Catholic navigator. Methodists could not expect good treatment in a French prison, it stood to reason. The result of these remarks was that Sam's next visitor was Henri Nicolle in person, who asked him whether he would give his parole.

“What do you mean?” asked Sam cautiously.