The Patriot's Fate (6 page)

“Will they give us any trouble?” MacArthur asked from amidships. Collins shook his head.

“Probably not. They’ll take us for fishermen and leave be, unless the cook fancies serving lobster for supper.”

But the brig was clearly determined, and even shook out a reef in a topsail as her wind finally began to fail.

Crowley noticed the manoeuvre with unease. The very nature of a blockading squadron was to keep watch over the enemy. For that patience was the key, speed and any risky manoeuvring usually being unnecessary. Yet this brig was placing herself in danger in order to draw close to them: not even a strong tide, impending nightfall and the lack of wind was enough to keep her off.

“She seems set on speaking with us,” he said, then instantly regretted the statement as Walsh raised himself from his stupor and looked about.

“Is that the British?” he asked.
 

“Aye,” Crowley murmured, “and a little nearer than we would like.”

They watched in silence as the brig crept further forward, her sails now flapping impotently. Then, with the very last of her way, she swung round and presented her larboard beam.

Crowley braced himself, and sure enough a pinprick of fire shot out from her hull, followed by a slight splash half a cable ahead of the lugger. The dull boom of the shot reached them as the men released a collective sigh, and MacArthur crossed himself.

“They’re serious,” Collins said, then stirred into action. “Out sweeps, boys; there’s no point in dilly-dallying. King George clearly wants a word, and I am not in the mood for conversation.”

The boat tipped as the four long oars were rousted out and set into the rowlocks. Crowley took up position at the larboard stern, with Doyle next to him to starboard. By mutual consent Walsh was not involved, but with MacArthur and Doherty at the other two stations they had enough experienced men to power the small craft. Crowley began to pull, setting a fast but steady pace. Manning the sweeps was a clear indication that they were on some clandestine mission, and the British were bound to take action. There was a small headland to negotiate before they could turn and make the final run into the main harbour. That would mean closing slightly with the waiting brig, and Crowley knew the Royal Navy would not stand idly by and watch them escape.

“There’s movement on the bigger ship.” Walsh was pointing back at the frigate, which was now almost invisible in the gloom. Despite the rigours of rowing, Crowley could just make out preparations for launching a boat. He dug his oar deeper into the water. The lugger was moving steadily, but nothing like as fast as a light naval cutter with a ten man crew. If the British were serious about catching them, the chances were strong that they would.

The sound of another shot reached them as they worked; the splash of it erupted off their bow.

“Starboard your helm; take her to larboard, Jack,” the captain ordered. Douglas brought them round until they were heading straight for the nearby French coast.

“Are you to beach her?” Crowley asked. He could see that a boat, somewhat larger than a cutter, had been swayed from the frigate, and knew it would soon be setting after them.

“No, she’ll ground long before we are in safe reach of land,” Collins said glumly. “We’ll hold this course for a spell, then take her back to aim for Le Conquet.” Jack, at the tiller, helpfully pointed over the starboard bow, although none of the rowers could turn as far as to see.
 

“There’s a small harbour there,” Collins continued. “We should be able to find shelter until King George decides to leave us be.”

Another shot came from the brig, this time falling alongside. The smaller warship had turned slightly; either the current had brought her round, or she had anchored and attached a spring. The vessel was all but in darkness now, but the time for warning shots was over and the men could imagine the main armament being run out. They were at extreme range for her popgun broadside, but even one hit from a light ship’s cannon could be enough to account for the lugger. Doyle was muttering on his left, while Crowley closed his mind to everything bar the job in hand.
 

The sudden ripple of light from the brig’s hull blinded them all for a brief moment. Crowley instinctively ducked, even though there was no sound of shot passing overhead. A body moved in the darkness; it was Walsh. He was seated next to Jack at the tiller and had stood up to face the broadside as it came down on him.

“Way off,” he said with grim satisfaction.

“Maybe so,” Collins clambered back past the rowers and also took up position at the stern. “But we’re going to have to change course now, lest we want to stay here permanently. Take her across, Jack.”

The boat turned again; the British were now almost totally invisible, and Crowley hoped in his heart that they had missed the manoeuvre. Then another single flash of light, smaller and further away from the direction of the brig, made them all look round.

“It’s the boat from the frigate!” Collins shouted. “The bastards must have crept up on us.”

Crowley gritted his teeth. The British would have to be going a fair pace to have covered such a distance; it was probably a longboat, with as many as twelve men rowing. They alone would be enough to swamp the lugger with her tiny crew, except that she would also be carrying marines, and obviously had a small cannon mounted in her bow.

“Come on, put your backs into it!” Collins’s voice had risen and Crowley knew instinctively that they were very near to being taken. He leant back, raising the pace and feeling the others follow his lead. The lugger moved quickly enough but was heavily laden; the British boat was certain to be the faster. Another flash of light from the brig, but no fall of shot. It was even possible they had pulled out of her range. Crowley was considering this, and the state of his arms and back, which were starting to complain, when the cannon in the boat fired again.

Now that was very much closer. No one could say where the shot went, but the sound of the discharge followed almost immediately – probably no more than a cable separated the two vessels. Fortunately there was no moon; the Irishmen could see nothing from where the flash had come from, and could only hope that they were just as invisible to the British.

Walsh went to speak, but was quickly hushed by the rest of the crew. The sound of the oars groaning in the rowlocks was bad enough; anything louder and they would be revealed for certain. Crowley’s face was running with sweat. A foolish thought occurred: after the many dousings with water he had experienced over the last two days, he was probably the cleanest he had ever been. He felt the urge to laugh out loud rear up unexpectedly and tried to think of other things: of what had brought him to this sorry position, of his time and friends aboard
Pandora.
Then his mind naturally ran on to King and how he would react to hearing of him being arrested as a suspected rebel. He cursed to himself; he really should have waited for
Vernon
. Why, at that moment he might be safely ashore in England: safe, warm, dry and in bed. But then an inner voice told him that all was not lost; besides,
Vernon
would not be ready this year or more, and hadn’t King’s lodgings been empty, with the man nowhere to be seen?

Another stab of light, this time closer still; they must surely have them by now. His eyes were recovering from the flash but still he noticed movement out there in the dark. Yes, the British were closing on them. He could hear the splash of oars and the shout of someone calling the time.
 

He sighed, still straining at his sweep. This was it: he was old and wise enough to know when a fight was over; there was no point in resisting a boat full of British seamen and marines. He and the others could make any manner of excuses, but their very presence would implicate them well enough. Walsh was probably a known member of the brotherhood. The boat would be searched, their stores discovered, and there remained the small matter that the British had obviously been waiting for them, and in all likelihood already knew what they were about. But even then, Crowley could not feel downhearted. When the French frigate he had been in was taken by
Pandora
, things had appeared bad, and yet it was by that very avenue that he first met with King and the other Englishmen.
 

A brief lightening in the sky made him wonder for a second, then there was the sound of shot passing high overhead, and a series of splashes in the water to their stern. Crowley went to twist round on his thwart, but stopped when MacArthur from behind cried out in alarm. The man was right, he must keep the pace going, however much he might wish to turn and see.

“It’s the fortress,” Collins grunted in a half whisper. “Over on the headland, near the entrance to Le Conquet. And they have their eyes open for once.”

A French shore battery certainly altered the equation considerably. Heavy cannon mounted on a stable platform, their shot would be devastating against any size of vessel and should carry a considerable distance. Even the brig was dangerously close, and must pull back or risk being wrecked. A flash of light followed; the boat’s cannon was speaking again, but already it was farther off, and once more they could not detect the fall.

Crowley felt the breath ooze from his body and he gripped the oar more firmly as his hands began to shake. He continued to row, but knew the pace to be slower, and that the tight order they had maintained until now was beginning to relax. There was no further sound from the British boat; even if the Irishmen were not rowing quite so hard, they must certainly be growing closer to the harbour entrance.

“Nearly home, lads,” Collins murmured as if to confirm his thoughts. The man’s voice was once more fully controlled, and even a little jubilant. The French battery fired again, an uneven series of shots, one of which passed dangerously close, but the British boat must have been in greater danger, and a ragged, ribald cheer went up from the men around him.
 

“Shall we carry on to Brest?” Walsh asked from the stern.

“I’d say not,” Collins told him. “Our friends may have beaten the bastards back, but they knows we are about, and it won’t take much to send another after us. We’ll take her in to Le Conquet. There we can shelter for a spell and choose the night we finish the trip. What say you, lads?”

Another tired cheer, and Crowley leaned back on his oar, raising the pace once more for the last leg of the journey. Le Conquet or Brest, it all made very little difference to him; he was just glad to be clear and looking forward to being back on land.

Chapter Three

“HMS
Scylla
, if you please
.
”

The wherryman collected Rose’s sea chest, sweeping it up and onto his shoulder in one swift and easy movement. The midshipman went to follow him down to his boat when a voice came from behind.

“Hey, belay that!”

They both looked round to see another midshipman standing on the quay.

“Appears we are bound for the same ship. There’s a victualling lighter about to set off,” the lad told Rose. “I’m taking that; you may as well join me.”

Rose looked uncertainly at the man, still holding his chest. “Do you mind?” he asked, cautiously. The wherryman rolled his eyes, but dropped the chest back down gently enough and sauntered away.

“Otherwise, you could have sent a signal to the ship,” the lad informed him as Rose lifted his belongings, far less expertly, to his own shoulder. “But this way will probably be quicker.”

“What about your chest?” Rose asked him.
 

The lad grinned. “Already aboard,” he said.

The lighter was indeed ready to go; Rose just had time to swing the chest on, then jump after it, before they were leaving the quayside. The lads moved aside as the boat’s hands set sail, then perched themselves more or less comfortably on the low bulwark.

“Name’s Barrow,” the second midshipman said, when they were settled.

Rose gave his name, and wondered for a moment about offering his hand. But then Barrow, a fresh-faced lad who looked a few years older, didn’t behave as one to stand on ceremony. “I’d chance you are new to the ship,” he said.

“First posting for several months,” Rose agreed. “Was in
Pandora
, with the same captain. She paid off in the fall of last year. There’s been nothing since. By the time Sir Richard sent for me I was all in hock and about to set a course for home.”