In Gallant Company (10 page)

The boat hooked on and the last of the marines clambered and clattered over the bulwark, swaying on the deck like toy soldiers in an unsteady box.

Shears, their sergeant, soon took charge, and within minutes there was not a red coat to be seen as one by one they climbed down into the vessel's main hold.

One of
Trojan
's nine-pounders had been ferried across, and was now firmly lashed on the deck, with tackles skilfully fitted to the schooner's available ring-bolts and cleats. How William Chimmo,
Trojan
's gunner, had managed to get it ferried over, remounted and set in its present position was evidence of a real expert, a professional warrant officer. He had sent one of his mates, a taciturn man called Rowhurst, to tend the nine-pounder's needs, and he was looking at the gun, rubbing it with a rag, and probably wondering what would happen to the schooner's deck planking when he had to lay and fire it.

By the time they had sorted out the hands, the new ones and those of the original party who were still aboard, and put them to work,
Trojan
was already standing downwind, with more and more canvas ballooning from her yards. One boat was still
being lowered inboard on to the tier, Pears was so eager to make up for lost time.

Bolitho watched her for some minutes, seeing her from a distance, as Quinn had once seen the great ships heading down the Thames. Things of power and beauty, while within their hulls they carried as much hope and pain as any landlocked town. Now Quinn was lying on the orlop. Or perhaps already dead.

Mr Frowd touched his hat. ‘Ready to get under way, sir.' He glanced meaningly at Sparke who was peering at his written orders, entirely absorbed.

Bolitho called, ‘We are ready, sir.'

Sparke scowled, irritated at the interruption. ‘Then please be so good as to turn the hands to.'

Frowd rubbed his hands as he looked at the big boomed sails and the waiting seamen.

‘She'll fly, this one.' He became formal again. ‘I suggest we take account of the present wind, sir, and steer sou'-east. That'll take us well clear of the bay and prepare us for old Nantucket again.'

Bolitho nodded. ‘Very well. Bring her about and lay her on the starboard tack.'

Sparke came out of his trance and crossed the deck as the man ran to bring the schooner under command.

‘It is a good plan.' He stuck out his narrow chin. ‘The late and unlamented Captain Tracy wrote almost everything about the rendezvous except the colour of his countrymen's eyes!'

He gripped a stay as the wheel went over and the two great booms swung above the gurgling water alongside and each sail filled until it looked iron-hard.

Bolitho noticed that even the hole in the foresail made by the brig's cannon had been deftly patched during the last few hours. The dexterity of the British sailor when he put his mind to something was beyond measure, he thought.

The
Faithful
was responding well, in spite of her changed ownership. With spray leaping over her stem and sluicing into small rivers along her lee scuppers, she came about like a thoroughbred, the sails filling again and thundering to the wind.

Eventually, leaning over stiffly to take full advantage of the
new tack, Frowd was satisfied. After serving under Bunce, he had learned to take nothing for granted.

Sparke watched, unblinking, from right aft by the taffrail.

He said, ‘Dismiss the watch below, Mr Bolitho.'

He turned and shaded his eyes to seek out the
Trojan
, but she was hidden in a rain squall, little more than a shadow, or a smudge on an imperfect painting.

Sparke lurched unsteadily to the cabin hatch.

‘I will be below if you need me.'

Bolitho breathed out slowly. Sparke was no longer a lieutenant. He had become a captain.

‘Mr Bolitho, sir!'

Bolitho rolled over in the unfamiliar bunk and blinked at a shaded lantern. It was Midshipman Weston, leaning over him, his shadow looming across the cabin like a spectre.

‘What is it?'

Bolitho dragged his mind reluctantly from the precious sleep. He sat up, massaging his eyes, his throat sore from the stench of the sealed cabin, the damp, and foul air.

Weston watched him. ‘The second lieutenant's compliments, sir, and would you join him on deck.'

Bolitho threw his legs over the bunk and tested the schooner's motion. It must be nearly dawn, he thought, and Sparke was already about. That was strange, to say the least, as he usually left the matters of watchkeeping and routine alterations of tack and course to Bolitho or Frowd.

Weston said nothing, and Bolitho was disinclined to ask what was happening. It would show doubt and uncertainty to the midshipman, who had enough of his own already.

He scrambled through the companion hatch and winced to the greeting of needle-sharp spray and wind. The sky was much as he had last seen it. Low scudding clouds, and with no sign of a star.

He listened to the boom of canvas, the creak of spars as the schooner plunged drunkenly across a deep trough with such violence it almost flung him to the deck.

It had been like this for three days. The wind had become
their enemy more often than not, and they had been made to change tack again and again, beating back and forth for miles to make an advance of just a few cables, or indeed for a complete loss of progress.

Sparke had been almost desperate as day by day they had driven south and then south-west towards the land and the mouth of the Delaware.

Even the most disciplined seaman aboard had become sullen and resentful at Sparke's attitude. He was intolerant of everyone, and seemed totally obsessed by the task entrusted to him, and now the possibility of failure.

Bolitho crossed the slippery planking and shouted above the wind, ‘You sent for me, sir?'

Sparke swung round, retaining his grip on the weather shrouds, his usually immaculate hair streaming in the wind as he replied angrily, ‘Of course, damn it! You have taken long enough!'

Bolitho controlled his sudden anger, knowing that Sparke's shouted rebuke must have been heard by most of the men on deck. He waited, sensing the lieutenant's mood, his all-consuming need to drive the ship with every stitch she would carry.

Sparke said abruptly, ‘The master's mate has suggested we stay on this tack until noon.'

Bolitho forced his mind to grapple with it, to picture their wavering progress on the chart.

He answered without hesitation, ‘Mr Frowd means we are less likely to run foul of local shipping, or worse, one of our own patrols.'

‘Mr Frowd is an
idiot!
' He was yelling again. ‘And if you agree with him, you are equally so, damn your eyes!'

Bolitho swallowed hard, counting seconds as he would for a fall of shot.

‘I have to agree with him, sir. He is a man of much experience.'

‘And I am not, I suppose!' He held up his free hand. ‘Do not bother to argue with me. My mind is settled on it. We will change tack in one hour and head directly for the rendezvous. It will cut the time considerably. On
this
tack we could be another full day!'

Bolitho tried again. ‘The enemy will not know our exact time of arrival, sir, or indeed if we are coming at all. War leaves no room for such planning.'

Sparke had not heard him. ‘By the living God, I'll not let them get away now. I've waited long enough, watching others being handed gilt-edged commands because they
know
somebody at the Admiralty or in Court. Well, Mr Bolitho, not me. I've worked all the way. Earned each step up the ladder!'

He seemed to realize what he had said, that he had laid himself wide open before his subordinate, and added, ‘Now, call the hands! Tell Mr Frowd to prepare his chart.' He eyed him fixedly, his face very pale in the gloom. ‘I'll have no arguments. Tell him that also!'

‘Have you discussed it with Captain D'Esterre, sir?'

Sparke laughed. ‘Certainly not. He is a marine. A
soldier
as far as I am concerned!'

In the cupboard-like space adjoining the master's cabin which was the
Faithful
's chart room, Bolitho joined Frowd and peered at the calculations and compass directions which had become their daily fare since leaving
Trojan
's company.

Frowd said quietly, ‘It will get us there more quickly, sir. But . . .'

Bolitho was bent low to avoid the deckhead, conscious of the vessel's violent motion, the nearness of the sea through the side.

‘Aye, Mr Frowd, there are always the
buts
. We will just have to hope for some luck.'

Frowd grinned bitterly. ‘I've no wish to be killed by my own countrymen, by mistake or otherwise, sir.'

An hour later, with all hands employed on deck,
Faithful
clawed around to starboard, pointing her bowsprit towards the invisible land, a single reef in main and foresail, all that Sparke would tolerate. She was leaning right over to leeward, the sea creaming up and over the bulwark, or sluicing across the tethered nine-pounder like surf around a rock.

It was still extremely cold, and what food the cook managed to produce was soon without warmth, and soggy with spray after its perilous passage along the upper deck.

As the light strengthened, Sparke sent an extra look-out
aloft, with orders to report anything he saw. ‘
Even if it is a floating log
.'

Bolitho watched Sparke's anxiety mount all through the forenoon as the schooner pushed steadily westward. Only once did the look-out sight another sail, but it was lost in spray and distance before he could give either a description or the course she was steering.

Stockdale was rarely out of Bolitho's sight, and was using his strength to great advantage as the seamen were ordered from one mast to the other, or made to climb aloft to repair and splice fraying rigging.

The cry from the masthead when it came was like an unexpected shot.

‘Land ho!'

Men temporarily forgot their discomfort as they squinted through the curtain of rain and spray, searching for the landfall.

Sparke hung on to the shrouds with his telescope, all dignity forgotten as he waited for the schooner to leap on a steep crest and he found the mark he had been hoping for.

He jumped down to the deck and glared triumphantly at Frowd.

‘Let her fall off a point. That is Cape Henlopen yonder to the nor'-west of us!' He could not contain himself. ‘Now, Mr Frowd, how about your caution, eh?'

The helmsman called, ‘West by north, sir! Full an' bye!'

Frowd replied grimly, ‘The wind's shifted, sir. Not much as yet, but we're heading for shallows to the south'rd of Delaware Bay.'

Sparke grimaced. ‘
More
caution!'

‘It is my duty to warn you on these matters, sir.' He stood his ground.

Bolitho said, ‘Mr Frowd is largely responsible for this final landfall, sir.'

‘That I will acknowledge at the right time, provided –'

He stared up the mast as a look-out yelled, ‘Deck there! Sail on th' larboard quarter!'

‘
God damn!
' Sparke stared up until his eyes brimmed over with water. ‘Ask the fool what she is!'

Midshipman Libby was already swarming up the weather shrouds, his feet moving like paddles in his efforts to reach the look-out.

Then he shouted, ‘Too small for a frigate, sir! But I think she's sighted us!'

Bolitho watched the tossing grey water. They would all be able to see the newcomer soon. Too small for a frigate, Libby had said. But
like
one in appearance. Three masts, square-rigged. A sloop-of-war.
Faithful
's slender hull would be no match for a sloop's sixteen or eighteen cannon.

‘We had better come about, sir, and hoist our recognition signal.' He saw the uncertainty on Sparke's narrow features, the scar very bright on his cheek, like a red penny.

The other look-out called excitedly, ‘Two small craft to loo'rd, sir! Standin' inshore.'

Bolitho bit his lip. Probably local coasting craft, in company for mutual protection, and steering for the bay.

Their presence ruled out the possibility of parleying with the patrolling sloop. If they were nearby, so too might other, less friendly eyes.

Frowd suggested helpfully, ‘If we come about now, sir, we can outsail her, even to wind'rd. I've been in schooners afore, and I know what they can do.'

Sparke's voice rose almost to a scream. ‘How dare you question my judgement! I'll have you disrated if you speak like that to me again! Come about, wait and see, run away. God damn it, you're more like an old woman than a master's mate!'

Frowd looked away, angry and hurt.

Bolitho broke in, ‘I know what he was trying to say, sir.' He watched Sparke's eyes swivel towards him but did not drop his gaze. ‘We can stand off and wait a better chance. If we continue, even with the darkness soon upon us, that sloop-of-war has only to bide her time, to hold us in the shallows until we go aground, or admit defeat. The people we are supposed to meet and capture will not wait to share the same fate, I think.'

When Sparke spoke again he was very composed, even calm. ‘I will overlook your anxiety on Mr Frowd's behalf, for I have observed your tendency to become involved in petty matters.' He nodded to Frowd. ‘Carry on. Hold this tack as long as the
wind favours it. In half an hour send a good leadsman to the chains.' He smiled wryly. ‘Will that satisfy you?'

Frowd knuckled his forehead. ‘Aye, aye, sir.'

When the half-hour glass was turned beside the compass the other vessel's topgallant sails were in sight from the deck.

D'Esterre, very pale from the hold's discomfort, came up to Bolitho and said hoarsely, ‘God, I am so sick, I would wish to die.' He peered at the sloop's straining sails and added, ‘Will she catch us?'

‘I think not. She's bound to go about soon.' He pointed to the creaming wash alongside. ‘There's barely eight fathom under our keel, and it'll soon be half as much.'