Tide of Fortune (9 page)

‘Walk, Billy,’ Nick warned. ‘I don’t want you tripping over.’

The boy nodded, his teeth chattering with nervous excitement.

The privateer was slowly shortening the distance between them. Through his glass, Nick could see scores of man crowding her deck. They were cramming on more sail and running out the guns. How long before they tried a ranging shot?

He glanced at Maggot, who had braced himself, legs apart, his hands light on the spokes as
Kestrel
hurtled toward the dark dot of land on the starboard bow. Plunging through broken, foaming crests, the packet’s sharp bow sent spray flying skyward in glistening, rainbow-hued veils.

The rising tide was both ally and enemy. It might, if luck was on their side, rid them of their pursuer. But the sea was growing increasingly turbulent as a battle developed between wind, tide and current. Nick looked back at the lugger. Lying hard over, she was throwing up clouds of spray as she crashed through the steep waves.

Minutes ticked by. As the bell was struck, marking the half-hour, the Frenchman fired a ranging shot. The
crack
and
boom
thundered across the water. His muscles tensed against the lacerating impact of flying metal, Nick raised the glass, and was relieved to see it fall short and wide. The sound of a ragged cheer made him look round.

Dressed in his best uniform, Samuel Penrose emerged from the companionway and stood, pale as death, gripping the hatch to steady himself. He looked forward at the watching crew, then up at the sails, and started aft.

Nick’s protest died unspoken as he saw the burning glitter in his uncle’s eyes. Had it taken this, the threat of attack, to rouse him from the paralysis of fear and rekindle his pride, his spirit? He opened his mouth, but Sam spoke first.

‘You are heading in the wrong direction. Put her about. At once, if you please.’

Time stopped as Nick stared at his uncle in disbelief. Sam Penrose had never
officially
relinquished command. If Nick disobeyed a direct order from the captain he would be guilty of gross insubordination: an act that would have to be entered in the log, and would destroy his treasured hopes of one day commanding his own packet-ship. Yet to do what his uncle demanded would condemn the schooner and all on board to certain death.

‘Jump to it,’ Samuel Penrose snapped. ‘You’re wasting valuable time.’

‘Captain,’ Nick strode forward. ‘A word, if you please?’ Standing close, he lowered his voice. ‘Sir, you – we can’t –’

‘
Can’t
?’ Sam glowered. ‘Have a care, boy.
Morwenna
is under
my
command, and don’t you forget it. Mr Laity!’ he roared past Nick. ‘Stand by to wear ship!’

Morwenna?
Nausea flooded Nick’s mouth with sour saliva, and he swallowed hard.
Morwenna
was the ship Sam had lost.

‘Wear ship it is, sir!’ Laity yelled back after an instant’s hesitation.

‘Captain, please –’

‘Not now, boy,’ Sam rapped. ‘About your business.’

Both watches leapt to the halyards.
Kestrel
began to turn away, her stern to the wind, pitching and rolling in the buffeting waves as her speed fell off.

Samuel Penrose ground the knuckles of one trembling hand into the palm of the other. ‘I’ve been waiting for this. Run from Javert and his murdering crew? Let them escape after what they did? Never! I’m going to blast their evil hides –’

Blocks squealed as the two huge booms swung across. The yards were braced, the sails filled and were sheeted home, and
Kestrel
surged forward on her new course, plunging into the spume-streaked waves.

Appalled, realising the glitter in his uncle’s eyes was the delirium of fever, Nick gripped Sam’s arm. ‘Listen to me. That’s not
Hirondelle.’

Sam shook him off, backing toward the starboard rail. ‘Don’t try to fox me, damn your eyes! Of course it’s
Hirondelle.
Javert must have heard of my escape. But he won’t to get me this time. I’ll see him in hell first.’

‘Look at her!’ Gripping his uncle’s arm again, Nick pointed toward the lugger, fighting the urge to shout. ‘Look at her hull, her sails. That’s no schooner. It’s not
Hirondelle.
’

Sam stared at him. ‘What’s wrong, boy? Afraid?’ Turning his back on their pursuer, he pulled Nick close, his eyes betraying torment as he dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. ‘Better to die than be afraid, boy. Fear eats away your soul.’

Hearing the crew’s shouts of raucous challenge, Nick recognised the brave, hopeless defiance of men staring death in the face. He glanced forward. As Nick glimpsed the puff of smoke from the lugger’s bow-chaser, Maggot spun the wheel. It was a courageous desperate move.

The
boom
was still reverberating across the water when the ball, at the limit of its range, ploughed along
Kestrel’s
starboard rail then fell into the sea. Stiffening, Sam Penrose jerked forward against his nephew, his eyes widening in surprise. With a guttural sound that was half groan, half whimper, he crumpled and started to fall, one leg of his breeches already crimson.

Nick grabbed him, yelling for the bosun. ‘Laity! Two men to carry the captain below! Ask Miss Vyvyan for bandages.’ He looked down at the closed eyes and lips that were blue-white and compressed against pain. As the men carried their unconscious burden toward the companionway, Nick tore his eyes from the bloody trail. The ship must come first. That was the price of command.

Surprised by
Kestrel’s
abrupt turnabout, the lugger had also altered course, using her bow-chaser to try and turn
Kestrel
off, intending to rake her with a broadside. But Nick had no intention of obliging.

‘Stand by to come about again, Mr Laity.’ This was a risky manoeuvre given the state of wind and sea. But Nick knew it would convince the lugger’s captain he had the packet on the run and within his grasp.

Men sprang to the halyards with even greater alacrity this time. Maggot put the helm down, and
Kestrel
turned, her canvas flapping and snapping for an instant before the sails filled once more. The schooner leapt forward. Nick looked back at their pursuer. The lugger was gaining on them, but she was carrying so much canvas that the wind had laid her right over and her windward guns pointed skyward.

Nick watched as they left the island of Farilhoes to starboard, and Maggot guided
Kestrel
diagonally across the channel toward Berlenga. He knew Maggot would be feeling both tide and current through the pressure of the schooner’s rudder and her response to his demands. They were committed now. With the lugger behind and invisible death lying in wait ahead, their survival depended on the Tanjawi’s exceptional knowledge of the coastline. Of his nerve Nick had no doubt.

He swallowed at a sudden vivid image of razor-edged rocks like sharp, black teeth lying just below the surface of the dimpled blue water, ready to rip open the ship and devour everyone on board.
Kerenza.
Thrusting fear away, he looked over his shoulder at the lugger, closer now, rearing and diving, throwing up clouds of spray as it shouldered the seas aside with brute force.

Another
boom
reverberated and, just ahead, the water erupted. Now the Frenchman had their range he would be loading grape and chain-shot, aiming for the masts and rigging, preferring to disable rather than sink. He wanted money and any cargo. A ship sunk offered no pickings.

Despite the freshness of the breeze, beneath his coat Nick’s shirt clung to his back and he felt a bead of sweat tickled as it slid down his temple. He wiped his forehead on his sleeve, smelled the brandy, and wrenched his thoughts from distractions he could not afford. Looking sternward, he saw the French captain piling on more canvas, intent on his prize, oblivious to the danger.

A long, harsh grating sound from deep in the ship stopped Nick’s heart and his breath. But
Kestrel
flew on. Licking dry lips, he looked back and began silently counting. It was taking too long. Maggot had misjudged the line.

Then, with a tremendous grinding and tearing, the lugger stopped dead in the water, shivering like a mirage from the force of the jolt. Deafening cracks like gunfire were followed by shrieking groans as the three masts toppled forward; ripping the heavy canvas as if it were paper, snapping stays and halyards like strands of cotton. They smashed onto the deck, crushing everything in their path.

The weight and force of the triple blow burst the lugger apart like a squashed fruit. Wild water rushed in through the splintered planking and quickly finished what the clawing rocks had begun. Within moments the privateer and her crew were pulped wreckage, strewn over the tossing waves.

Chapter Eight

Seated at the table in the saloon with her back to the door, Kerenza had ripped her spare bed sheet into four pieces and begun tearing one of them into long strips. Also on the table, alongside the pile of soft white linen, was her box of remedies. Opposite her, Judith swayed with the motion of the ship, head bent over the baby shirt she was embroidering.

Her gaze drawn to the tiny garment, Kerenza thought of all the joy, love, and hope it signified, and looked away quickly. She had few fond memories of her own family. Only since living with her grandmother had she felt secure in someone’s affection.

Meeting Nick, having him seek her out, reading in his eyes the admiration, warmth, and stronger emotions that had made her quiver inside, she had begun to believe she was worthy of love, deserving of happiness. She had even dared to dream of a shared future: of marriage and children: children who would be loved as she had never been. Blinking to clear her blurred vision, she tore off another length. The ripping sound resonated inside her.

‘Well, I’m appalled,’ Betsy said from her usual place against the ship’s side. Kerenza smothered a sigh as she made another small cut in the sheet’s top edge. ‘It was my understanding that in time of war packet-ships, as well as naval vessels, are supposed to carry a doctor. I suppose I should not be surprised that
this
ship carries no doctor. It is, after all, under the command of an invisible captain. But to learn there is not even a bottle of paregoric aboard.’ She rolled her eyes in disapproval. ‘It is as well I had the foresight to bring my own. As for being expected to give up one’s bed linen for bandages, well –’

‘No one expects such sacrifice from you, Mrs Woodrow,’ Judith soothed, glancing up.

‘No, indeed,’ Kerenza added quickly. ‘I’m sure there is more than enough here. Hopefully it will not be needed.’

‘Then you will have destroyed an excellent sheet to no good purpose,’ Betsy retorted. ‘Where are you going, Donald?’ she demanded as her husband stood up and began edging between seat and table toward Kerenza.

‘It will soon be dinnertime.’ He flashed his anxious smile at Kerenza. ‘I thought I might attempt to persuade Mr Vyvyan to join us today.’

Betsy snorted.

Recalling her father’s response when she had tried to see him, Kerenza grew tense. ‘Oh, I don’t think –’

‘You mentioned that your father had been ill, Miss Vyvyan,’ Donald said. ‘I daresay in his weakened state even the smallest task requires great effort. While he would not wish
you
, or indeed any of the ladies aboard, to see him at a disadvantage, he may be more willing to consider an offer of aid from me. After all, are we not, to coin an apt phrase, all in the same boat?’

Forcing a smile to show she appreciated his attempted humour, Kerenza sought desperately for words to dissuade him. She did not want to offend. But nor did she want to reveal the real reason for her father’s absence.

‘We paid extra for the services of a steward,’ Betsy reminded severely. ‘Surely such tasks are
his
job? I see no reason for
you
to –’

‘Mr Broad is preparing our dinner, my dear. I will not be away long. Indeed, if Mr Vyvyan –’

The rolling
boom
of a cannon made them all jump. Kerenza caught Judith’s eye as they both looked up. Shadows flitted to and fro across the skylight. Above the ever-present creak of the ship’s timbers and rush of water past the hull, they heard shouts and running feet.

As Donald staggered out into the passage, the ship suddenly changed direction again. Kerenza braced herself against the seat with one hand, holding the table edge with the other, and saw Judith drop her needlework to do the same.

Betsy was thrown forward against the edge of the table, grunting as the air was forced out of her lungs. She fell back, red-faced and gasping for breath, angrily adjusting her cap and her kerchief. Reminded of a thoroughly ruffled chicken, Kerenza bit her lip. Laughter bubbled in her chest as nervous tension sought escape. She did not dare look at Judith.

‘What are they doing up there?’ Betsy demanded ‘Why can they not settle upon a direction? All this turning about is extremely uncomfortable.’ She looked past Kerenza. ‘Back already? Did Mr Vyvyan not welcome your offer? I suppose we must assume –’

‘I did not see him.’ Something in Donald Woodrow’s voice made Kerenza look round. He clung to the doorframe, pale-faced and clearly shaken. ‘The captain –’ He swallowed. ‘Two seamen were carrying him into his cabin. Miss Vyvyan, Mr Penrose told them to ask you for bandages. I said I would convey the request. There was a great deal of blood. I fear the wound may be serious.’

Kerenza’s stomach turned over. Meeting Judith’s glance, she stood up quickly gathered a bundle of strips, two of the large pieces and her scissors.

‘I will come with you,’ Judith said, trying to lever herself out from behind the table.

‘No.’ Kerenza shook her head, though she would have derived great comfort from Judith’s calm presence and common sense. ‘You must not, please. Your condition – It would not be good for you. Besides, the captain’s servant will be there. I’m sure he’ll know what to do.’

Hoping she was right, she scooped up the wooden box. Though if the captain’s wound really was serious, of what possible use would a selection of remedies for seasickness be? Then she recalled the sedatives. They might help if nothing else was available.

‘Well, I cannot like it,’ Betsy announced. ‘It is neither seemly nor, in my opinion, necessary. Lady Russell, surely
you
cannot condone a young unmarried woman –’

‘Extraordinary situations call for extraordinary measures.. Were it not for my circumstances –’ Judith laid a hand over her swollen belly ‘ –I would go in her place.’

‘A noble sentiment, Lady Russell.’ Betsy gushed.

‘Nonsense.’

‘I would not wish you to think me lacking in charity,’ Betsy adjusted a fold of her kerchief. ‘Naturally, had I any knowledge of medical matters I would offer to go myself. But I fear my limited experience would render me of little use.’

Kerenza stared at her. What experience of battle injuries did the minister’s wife imagine
she
had?

‘Rest assured, Mrs Woodrow,’ Judith said, ‘in no way is my opinion of you altered.’ Turning her head, she smiled warmly at Kerenza. ‘I have every confidence that Miss Vyvyan will prove equal to whatever is required of her.’

Though relieved to be spared Betsy Woodrow’s critical company, and touched by Judith’s compliment, Kerenza’s apprehension increased. Hurrying along the passage, she saw two sailors emerge from the captain’s cabin. They were sombre-faced, their bare legs and feet splattered with blood that still dripped through the brass stair-treads and left a glistening trail of garnet splashes.

Moistening dry lips, trying to prepare for what lay inside, she suddenly remembered Lizzie Gendall, who had learnt her skills as a herbalist and midwife from her mother and grandmother. It was Lizzie who delivered the village’s babies and laid out those who had passed on. When Aurelia Danby had fallen ill, she had ignored suggestions that she call the doctor and had sent for Lizzie instead. Short and plump, Lizzie’s brusque manner hid a kind heart. Kerenza overheard her grandmother telling Maude Tregenna it was as well that Lizzie kept a close tongue considering the secrets she must know. Kerenza had asked Lizzie once which remedy she found most effective.

‘Clean water: hot to wash, cold to drink. Keep clean inside and out, and let nature do the healing.’

Kerenza had wondered if the reply was a gentle tease. But the fact remained that most of the people Lizzie Gendall treated got better, which was why everyone trusted her.

Kerenza took a breath. ‘Has Mr Toy asked for water?’

The men looked at one another. ‘No, miss.’

‘Then would you ask Billy to bring two jugs, one of boiling water and one of cold, as quickly as possible?’

The seaman tugged his forelock, clearly relieved to be given an order. ‘Yes, miss.’ They both disappeared up the stairs.

As a courtesy, and to warn of her arrival, Kerenza rapped on the door and entered, closing it behind her. She paused for an instant to get her bearings.

Sunshine poured in through the barred skylight in the deckhead. A lamp for the night hours hung from a nail in one thick crossbeam. Wood panelling lined the cabin with recessed finger-holds that indicated sliding doors. A railed shelf crammed with sea junk was set back above a padded bench seat that followed the curve of the stern and enclosed a table hidden beneath a clutter of charts, books, and instruments.

She had looked down through that skylight, seen Nick bent over a chart unaware he was observed, and felt yearning pierce the agony and bewilderment of his rejection. Once she had been so sure that he loved her. And she, fool, loved him still. But those few minutes with him on deck, his questions, his disbelief, proved she had been wrong.

Shaking her head to dislodge memories too painful to revisit, she moved past a squat stove standing on an iron plate toward what appeared to be another small cabin. The grubby canvas curtain that normally screened the doorway had been fastened back with a short piece of even grubbier rope. She heard groans, harsh breathing, and glimpsed movement.

‘Mr Toy?’

The captain’s servant appeared, clutching a blood-soaked towel. His hands were scarlet, the edges of his coat-sleeves wet and dark. Shock and fear were vivid on his furrowed face. Spotting the bundle of linen in her arms, he beckoned her forward.

‘Quick, miss. He’s bleeding some bad.’

Fighting a surge of nausea, Kerenza hurried across the cabin. The sickly smell of fresh blood was overpowering in the small space. Heavy and cloying, it overlay other, fouler smells. She breathed through her mouth, shallow inhalations, willing herself not to retch as she dumped her armful onto the flat top of the trunk at the foot of the cot. ‘I’ve asked for hot water to be brought.’

Urgently dabbing and wiping with one hand, Toy held up what looked like a canvas belt with a small brass plate threaded onto it. ‘This should stop the bleeding, but –’

‘Can I help?’ Kerenza asked, swiftly winding strips of torn sheet into a thick wad. ‘If I hold the pad you could –’

‘No, ’tisn’t that. I can’t put it on because there’s something in his leg.’ The steward probed carefully. ‘But I can’t
see
 –’ His breath caught on a gasp as Sam Penrose, cried out, flinching violently. Toy jerked back.

‘What? What is it?’

‘A knife.’ He glanced round, frantic. ‘I need a knife, his breeches is in the way.’

‘Here,’ Kerenza snatched up the scissors and offered them with trembling fingers. But, after a moment’s fumbling, Toy groaned with frustration and thrust them back at her.

‘You do it. You’ll have to,’ His voice rose, insistent, as she recoiled. ‘My fingers is too big. Hurry, we got to stop him bleeding. Here, I’ll hold that, you cut – there, down from the rip.’

Kerenza worked the scissors; her hands growing wet and slippery as Toy dropped one saturated wad of cotton and snatched up another, frantically trying to stem the relentless welling.

The material was thick, the scissors small, and within seconds her fingers were cramped, the ache in them agonising. Clenching her teeth, she kept cutting. Beside her, Toy talked softly and continuously to his captain.

‘Come on now, cap’n, you hang on. We been through bad times before but we survived, and we come home safe and sound. Come on, cap’n, sir. They bleddy Frenchies won’t get the better of us. You just hang on.’

Almost crying from pain, Kerenza shook the scissors off and pulled the material aside. Her gorge rose as she saw the ragged sliver of wood, as thick as her forefinger, sticking out of the captain’s inner thigh. Swallowing the bitter taste of bile, she looked in panic at Toy.

‘Oh Jesus,’ he whispered. ‘Oh sweet Jesus. What should us do?’

‘I don’t – I can’t –’ She shook her head. If they left it, they could not apply the tourniquet. But if they tried to remove it – She couldn’t make the decision. She didn’t have the right. Nor did she want the responsibility. Clumsy because her hands were trembling so badly, she tried to fashion another pad.

From somewhere deep in the ship came a strange grating sound. A vibration shivered through her feet right up her spine and into her skull. She and Toy looked at each other. Suddenly, the captain convulsed with a brief, hoarse cry. As blood spouted from the wound, Kerenza screamed and shied backwards.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ she whispered, ashamed of her reaction. ‘I didn’t mean to –’

‘Oh my God! Quick, give me more rags. Hurry!’

But as Kerenza stuffed them into Toy’s hand and he pleaded desperately with his captain not to give up, promising all would be well, Samuel Penrose released a slow, rattling breath.

Even in the dim light she could see the change in his face. Grooves dug by stress and agony were smoothing out. Relief that he was no longer in pain was swiftly followed by fear. Samuel Penrose was not fighting death; he was embracing it, welcoming escape from a life that had become unbearable.

‘No!’ Toy’s raging plea tore at her heart, and tears spilled down her cheeks, scalding, unstoppable. ‘Come on, cap’n, fight, dammit. You can’t let the bastards win.’

Glancing from Sam’s oddly waxen face to the wound, Kerenza saw that the pulsing had stopped.

‘Captain,’ Toy begged.

Kerenza lay her bloody hand gently on his. ‘It’s over. He’s gone.’ She had to force the words from a stiff, aching throat. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘No,’ Toy whispered, and Kerenza knew it was not denial, but unwillingness to face dreadful loss. She had never witnessed death before. A few weeks ago she had wanted to die. But she had not understood the terrible finality. She knew now that despite the pain she had suffered, and felt still, life was a gift. Its very fragility made it infinitely precious.

A rapping on the door made her jump. ‘I’ll go.’ She pressed Toy’s shoulder and felt it shaking beneath her fingers. ‘You will want a few minutes alone –’ Unable to go on, she straightened up. Pausing only to grab a scrap of linen to wipe her eyes and nose, she walked stiffly across the day cabin.