The Patriot's Fate (24 page)

“It is a clear night for observations, Sir Richard,” she said, stroking the cat and peering out towards the invisible shore.

Banks nodded politely. “I am hopeful they will return before long.” He considered checking his watch, but that might convey anxiety; besides, he was well aware of the time. Once again the damnable signs of awkwardness were starting to appear, and Banks began to think of ways to end the conversation.

 
“I used to sail about here with the fishing fleet. That was when Mr O’Malley’s father was in charge, and I was but a child. It is really very beautiful in the daytime.”

“If you have knowledge of the waters, ma’am, it might have been prudent to mention it before.”

She smiled, ignoring the stiffness in his tone. “No, that was many, many years ago; I have not been welcome for some time. We live very different lives hereabouts; there is little socialising between Irish and English.”

“So I have been led to believe.” This really was impossible, he must think of an excuse to leave before he made an utter fool of himself.

“Where is your home, Sir Richard?”

The question took him by surprise, and it was with an effort that he formed an answer.

“I – we, my family have a London house,” he said at last. “And another in the country.”

“Whereabouts?”

“ Lombard Street.”

“And that in the country?”

“Berkshire.” He knew his answers were clipped, stilted and unhelpful; surely she would take pity and let him be?

“I have never been there, nor indeed to London. My brother has a house in Hailsham; I believe rope is made for the Navy there?”

“So I understand.” He opened his mouth, searching for something more to say, but the words would not come; eventually he was forced to foolishly repeat the phrase. His skin tightened, and he hoped the evening light would be hiding his blush.

“Would you mind holding Sophie, captain?” He almost visibly jumped; the girl was offering up the damned cat for him to take. “If you would be so kind; I must attend to something.”

He took the creature in his hands, being careful not to crush the tender body. The thing was warm and vibrating, and quickly made itself comfortable against the broadcloth of his uniform whilst the girl fumbled at a pocket in her dress. Banks instinctively made a soft reassuring sound; he supposed he must have held a cat before, but could not remember an exact instance, and knew that he was doing so now rather clumsily. The cat, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at ease, and was soon purring softly against his chest. It was an oddly soothing sensation.

Then the girl sneezed; it was quite loud and most unladylike. Thankfully her handkerchief was ready, and they both laughed, although Banks noted that the cat had stopped purring and dug its claws into his jacket.

“I am so sorry,” she said, after blowing her nose. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“That’s quite all right, ma’am.” It would be time to hand the cat back, although the woman was apparently in no hurry to take it.

“Please, Sir Richard. You must call me Sarah,” she said, replacing her handkerchief. “That is, if it does not offend any protocol?”

“Indeed not,” he was a little easier now. “And I am Richard.”

She acknowledged him as if they had just been introduced, although Banks felt as if he had known her far longer. The cat was purring again, and he found himself stroking the head in a tentative manner that was clearly appreciated.

“Would you take the cat back?” he asked.

“No,” she replied, and her eyes flashed wickedly. “I think you should hold her; she likes you.”

“Oh, I prefer dogs,” he said, scratching the thing under its chin. “And then mainly for hunting.”

“There is no reason why you should not like both.” He noticed that she was smiling at him, almost laughing in fact, and it was with a great effort that he did not join her. “And the cat,” she said, “has a name: she is Sophie.”

* * *

On board the
Hoche
they had been busy. The main topmast had a crack midway along its length that was not possible to fish or, as the French would have it, to
jumelle
with any degree of certainty
.
They carried very few spare spars and the only one in any way suitable was shorter and, in Crowley’s estimation at least, far too light for the task. Nevertheless it had been set in place; the battleship’s main now boasted a reefed topsail, and could even set a small mizzen royal if called upon. Their speed was significantly slower, however, forcing the frigates to be called back to protect them, although the damage had also proved helpful in a strange and unexpected quarter.

Bompart now showed no further desire to keep up the pretence, and as soon as they were under way again, steered to the northwest, a direct course that would take them to Ireland with the least possible trouble. The shadowing British duly followed, but one had also lost a topmast, and the French were actually extending their lead when further dark clouds appeared as evening was about to fall.

“Aye, we’re on for another,” Doyle said as they took the night time air. “Let’s hope it is a little more kindly this time.”

Crowley could only agree. In helping to rig the replacement topmast the Irish had already revealed themselves as competent sailors, something that was almost as rare in the French fleet as spare spars. Consequently they were no longer required to stay cramped on the orlop deck, and could roam the ship pretty much as they wished. The downside to this freedom was regular sail drill and other work aloft alongside their French colleagues, most of whom lacked both their skill and experience. And all were very well aware that the Irish would be kept extremely busy if the storm proved anything other than a minor squall.

Walsh sauntered over. Although no seaman, he had benefited from his friends’ improved status and was self-consciously wearing a French military coat that was slightly too large for his scrawny body.
 

“Well look at what the cat dragged in,” MacArthur said as he approached. “Found yourself a decent piece of cloth did you, Liam? Why don’t you have it cut into a coat?”

“The cold was starting to get to me, so they’ve given me this a touch early.” Walsh informed them, pulling the garment into place and smoothing the fabric about him. “They’ll be handing out the uniforms to one an’ all tomorrow morning. And there’ll be cutlass and pike drill straight after.”

“No muskets?” MacArthur asked.

“No,” he said a little stiffly. “I find we are not to be trusted with muskets.”

“How’s that then?” Doherty and Doyle said almost in unison.

“It would seem there’s been trouble in the past allowing untrained men firearms. They get their charges stuck halfway down, then bash the barrels on the ground and bend them to buggery.”

“Give us a decent drill, and it shouldn’t be a problem,” MacArthur said, somewhat aggrieved.

“I’m only tellin’ you like it is,” Walsh replied. “Pikes and cutlasses, first thing in the forenoon watch.”
 

“That’s if the storm doesn’t break first?” Doyle said sagely.

“Storm? Is there another due?”

“I’d say so,” Crowley this time. “So why don’t we all go and kit oursel’s out now? That way we might not catch our deaths afore we get there.”

“I think we’re going to have a swearin’ first.” Walsh said in a quieter tone. “That will be at first light, afore breakfast.”

“Swearing?” Crowley was mildly alarmed.

“It’s for anyone who has not taken the oath of brotherhood. Takes no longer than a couple of minutes, an’ they’ll be more likely to trust you with a warm coat afterwards.”

“I don’t hold with swearing,” Crowley said defiantly. “I’m not taking no oaths, not for no country, nor no cause. I never have, an’ I’m never going to.”

Walsh regarded him with a look that was remarkably close to contempt. “I think you’ll find you will,” he said.

* * *

“Object in sight off the starboard beam.”

Banks jerked himself back to the real world with a start. He and the girl had been talking by the taffrail for what must be almost an hour, and had quite forgotten about Fraiser and Chilton out in potentially enemy territory.

“What do you see there?” he asked, moving forward along the quarterdeck.

“Looks like our cutter, sir,” the lookout replied. “They’re under sail and makin’ for us. I thinks I can see Mr Fraiser and Mr Chilton: yes, sure of it.”

Banks had reached as far as the binnacle before he realised he was still holding the cat. “Here, take this,” he said hastily passing it to Rose, the midshipman of the watch.

“Boat ahoy!” They must be travelling at speed, if they were already being hailed. The answer came back: there were officers aboard, and Banks made his way to the entry port to meet them.

Before long the boat was bumping against the frigate’s hull, with Chilton and Fraiser standing in the sternsheets. The lieutenant was up first. As officially the senior officer it was consequently his privilege, even if it were doubtful as to who held the greater importance to the ship.

“What did you find?” Banks asked rather briskly as he helped him aboard.

“No sign of the French, sir.” Chilton replied. “A complete lack of shipping in fact, apart from a few fishermen; very little evidence of life at all. Certainly no bivouac fires, or even excessive smoke from the cottages. We went as far as the village, but all was as silent as the grave.”

Fraiser was up next, clutching a rolled up sheet of paper. “I’ve taken soundings, and would be happy to conn the ship into the bay, sir. There looks to be plenty of deep water, and a stable bottom.”

Banks paused for a second. No enemy to fight and none apparently landed; it was the one option he had hardly considered. “Very good,” he said hurriedly, moving to one side to allow the rest of the men to clamber on board. “You’ve all done very well, I am sure you can use a hot drink.” He looked towards the duty midshipman who was still holding that darned cat. “See that the boat crew have something warm, Mr Rose.”
 

The lad touched his hat a little awkwardly, then passed the animal into the waiting arms of Sarah, who had joined them.

Banks found himself smiling, both at the woman and the memory of their conversation. “It seems your visitors have fled,” he said.

“Yes, I heard. It is good news.”

He supposed it was, although he would have to continue to hunt them until they were found and brought to battle. “I should gather it will mean that you will wish us home,” she continued.

That was another thought that had not occurred, and Banks gave this one as much consideration. Yes, in theory there would be nothing to keep the family in
Scylla
; they could return and see what was left of their home. Any trouble they might encounter with the local population would be a problem for the local militia, and certainly not his concern. In fact, he would probably never meet with any of them ever again. And then it came to him, quite suddenly, that it really wasn’t very good news at all.

Chapter Eleven
 

“In the awful presence of God I, Patrick Chapman Doyle,”

“Do voluntarily declare that I will persevere in endeavouring to form…” Walsh prompted.

“Do voluntarily declare that I will persevere in endeavouring to form,”

“A brotherhood of affection amongst Irishmen of every religious persuasion…”

Doyle’s voice droned on, repeating Walsh’s words that all in the waist had already heard at least a dozen times that morning. The sun was hardly up, they had yet to eat breakfast, and most of the assembled men were fidgeting restlessly with little other than the next meal on their minds. But Crowley’s thoughts were far more centred. He knew his long held aversion to formal swearing was both odd, and had been allowed to become far too important. He had no stated faith, rarely prayed, certainly did not consider himself a Christian. And he could cuss and curse with the best of them. But he still maintained a childlike belief in God, and felt physically unable to reconcile himself with any holy allegiance, especially one which he considered nothing more than a wild ideal cooked up by a fanatic.