To Glory We Steer (15 page)

Bolitho's wide cabin seemed almost cold after the furnace heat of the quarterdeck, and he had to force himself to stand quite still by the stern windows to steady his racing thoughts and plan the next move. With real effort he closed his ears to the muffled shipboard noises and distant shouts as a boat was dropped alongside to take a boarding party to the lugger, which now rode uneasily under the frigate's lee. It had been all Bolitho could do to remain outwardly unruffled as his orders were passed and carried out, so that in the end he could no longer face the watchful glances of his officers or avoid the buzzing speculation of the upper-deck idlers.

His casual guess about the coming of a wind had seemed like a miracle, and when the lookout had reported the lugger in the haze he had felt his pent up emotions churning around like raw alcohol. The waiting and petty irritations were momentarily put to one side, even the shame he felt for the admiral's attitude to
Phalarope
could be overlooked, if not forgotten.

There was a tap at the door, and he swung round, caught off guard. “Enter!”

He stared for a few seconds at the pale-faced seaman who hovered uncertainly in the doorway. He wrenched his mind away from the lugger and nodded towards the desk by the bulkhead.

“You must be Ferguson? You will be working here when I require you.” His tone was terse, his thoughts still following the invisible boarding party.

Ferguson stared round the cabin and blinked. “Yes, sir. I mean —aye, aye, sir.” He seemed confused and nervous.

Bolitho studied him kindly. “I will tell you more of your duties later. At the moment I am rather busy.” He looked round with a jerk as little Neale panted up to the door.

“Captain, sir!” He fought for breath. “Mr Okes has taken the lugger!”

“So I should hope!” Bolitho added dryly, “Her skipper has a whole broadside staring down his throat.”

Neale considered the point. “Er, yes, sir.” He stared up at Bolitho's calm face, obviously wondering how the captain could bear to leave the upper-deck when something was at last happening. He added, “The boat is returning now, sir.”

“That was what I wanted to hear, Mr Neale.” Bolitho looked through the stern windows towards the empty sea, its surface still ruffled by a small but steady breeze. “When the boat comes alongside tell Captain Rennie with my compliments to keep the lugger's officers apart until I can question them. Mr Okes can carry on with his search of the lugger and report when he finds anything.”

“The lugger's
officers,
sir?” Neale's eyes were like saucers.

“They may be dressed in rags, boy, but they are still officers!” Bolitho watched the midshipman patiently. “And make no mistake, they will know these waters like their own faces.”

The midshipman nodded and scurried away. Bolitho paced restlessly around the cabin and then paused by his table where his personal chart of the Caribbean lay in readiness. The complex mass of islands and soundings, the vague surveys and doubtful descriptions were like the clues of a giant puzzle. He frowned and tugged at his chin. Somewhere amongst the tangle of scattered islands lay the key to the whole campaign. The first to find it would win the day. The loser would be driven from the Caribbean for ever.

With the points of his brass dividers he traced the
Phalarope
's course and halted at the small pencilled cross. Out here he was doing no good. Fifty miles away St Kitts might still be fighting a siege, whilst just over the horizon Count de Grasse's great fleet could be mustering for a final attack on the scattered British naval units. With the British driven from these islands, the French and their allies would unroll the South Americas like a chart. Would command the North and South Atlantic and reach for the rich rewards of Africa and beyond.

He pushed the apprehension from his mind as he heard the clatter of feet above and the thuds of muskets on the deck planks.

Vibart appeared in the doorway. “Prisoners aboard, sir.” He glared at Ferguson who seemed to be trying to curl into a ball beside the desk. “The lugger is Spanish well enough. Twenty men aboard all told, but no resistance. I have the master and two mates under guard outside, sir.”

“Good.” Bolitho stared at the chart. “Twenty men, you say? That is a large crew for such a small craft. The Spaniards are usually more sparing when they man a vessel of any kind!”

Vibart shrugged. “Mr Farquhar says that the lugger has been used for coastal trading. Not much use for us.”

“I'll see the master first. You can go on deck and keep an eye on Mr Okes's progress in the lugger. Let me know if he has found anything.”

The lugger's skipper was small and swarthy, dressed in a tattered shirt and wide canvas trousers. Two gold earrings bobbed from beneath his lank hair, and his dirty, bare feet completed the picture of neglect and poverty.

Beside him, Midshipman Farquhar seemed elegant and unreal.

Bolitho kept his eyes on the chart, conscious of the Spaniard's uneven breathing and the shuffling movements of his bare feet on the deck. He said at length, “Does he speak English?”

“No, sir.” Farquhar sounded impatient. “He just gabbles.”

Still Bolitho kept his eyes on the chart. Almost offhandedly he said, “Then take him on deck and tell the master-at-arms to run a halter up to the main-yard.”

Farquhar fell back startled. “Halter, sir? Do you mean to hang him?”

“Of course I do!” Bolitho put a rasp in his tone. “He is no further use to me!”

The Spaniard's legs buckled and he pitched forward at Bolitho's feet. Sobbing and weeping he pulled at Bolitho's legs, the words flooding from his lips in a wild torrent.

“Please, Captain! No hang,
please!
I am a good man, sir, I have wife and many poor children!” His cheeks were running with tears. “Please, sir, no
hang!
” The last word was almost a shriek.

Bolitho stepped from the man's grasp and said calmly. “I had an idea that your knowledge of English might return.” To Farquhar he added crisply, “You may try that ruse on the two mates. See what you can find out!” He turned back to the whimpering man on the deck. “Now stand up and answer my questions, or indeed I
will
hang you!”

He waited a few more moments, his mind half dwelling on what might have happened if the Spaniard really had been unable to speak English. Then he asked, “Where were you heading and with what cargo?”

The man stood swaying from side to side, his grubby hands clasped as if in prayer. “I go to Puerto Rico, Captain. I take small cargo of timber, a little sugar.” He wrung his hands. “But you can take it all, excellency! Just spare my life!”

“Hold your tongue!” Bolitho peered at the chart. The story was possible. These small trading boats were as common as fleas in the Caribbean. He added sharply, “From where did you come?”

The man smiled ingratiatingly. “I go all around, Captain.” He waved his hands vaguely. “I carry only small cargoes. I reap a living where I can. It is a hard, hard life, excellency!”

“I will ask you once more!” Bolitho fixed him with a hard stare.

The man shifted wretchedly. “Martinique, Captain. I has small work there. But I
hate
the French, you understand?”

Bolitho dropped his eyes to hide the excitement he now felt. Martinique, the headquarters of all French naval operations, the most heavily protected fortress in the whole Caribbean.

“You hate the French? Your gallant allies?” Bolitho's sarcasm was not lost on the Spaniard. “Well, never mind that. Just tell me how many ships were there in the anchorage.” He saw the man's eyes glitter with fright and guessed he understood which anchorage he meant.

“Many ships, excellency!” He rolled his eyes. “Many
big
ships!”

“And who commands these many big ships?” Bolitho could hardly keep the anxiety from his voice now.

“The French admiral, excellency!” The Spaniard puffed out his cheeks as if to spit on the deck, but caught sight of the marine sentry watching from the doorway and swallowed noisily. “He is a French pig, that one!”

“The Count de Grasse?”

The man nodded violently. “But you know everything, Captain! You are blessed by the Almighty!”

Bolitho looked up as Farquhar entered the cabin. “Well?”

“Only a little English between them, sir.” He seemed angry with himself. “But I gather they were heading for Puerto Rico.”

Bolitho gestured at the sentry. “Take this prisoner out and keep him closely guarded.” Then he said absently, “He was lying. He sailed from Martinique. The French would never allow him to carry on trading when they too might be under siege at any time!” He tapped the chart. “No, Mr Farquhar, he was at Martinique well enough, but his destination is elsewhere!”

Vibart entered and bowed his head beneath the deck beams. “Mr Okes reports that the cargo is much as you already know, sir. But there are new ship's spars and casks of salt meat stowed beneath the main load.” He sounded doubtful. “There is also a great deal of spare canvas and cordage.”

“As I thought!” Bolitho felt strangely relieved. “The lugger was taking supplies from Martinique”—his finger moved along the charted islands—“to where?” He looked from Vibart's brooding face to Farquhar's baffled one. “Get that Spanish skipper back here at once!”

Bolitho walked slowly to the stern windows and leaned out over the water as if to clear his brain. The Spaniard had seemed pleased to tell him about the French ships at Martinique, when he must have known that patrolling British ships would already know this information. He must have imagined that Bolitho had missed the main item.

He swung round as the man was pushed through the door. “Now listen to me!” His voice was still controlled, but the harshness made the lugger's master start to quiver uncontrollably. “You lied to me! I warned you what would happen, did I not?” He dropped his voice still further. “Now just once more. Where were you bound?”

The man swayed. “Please, excellency! They kill me if they know!”

“And I will kill you if you keep me waiting!” He saw Herrick's face watching him from the doorway with fixed fascination.

“We sail for Mola Island, Captain.” The man seemed to have shrunk in size. “The cargo was for ship there!”

Herrick and Farquhar exchanged mystified glances.

Bolitho bent over his chart. “Mola Island is Dutch.” He measured the distance with his dividers. “Thirty miles to the nor'-east of our present position.” He looked up, his eyes hard and devoid of pity. “How many such voyages have you made?”

“Many, excellency.” The Spaniard looked as if he wanted to be sick. “There are soldiers there. French soldiers. They come from the north. They have ships also.”

Bolitho breathed out slowly. “Of course! De Grasse would never attempt to move his ships against Jamaica or anywhere else unless he could be sure of a diversion elsewhere and full support from the military!” He stared at the others. “Our fleet watches Martinique to the south and waits for the French to move, and all the time they are filtering down from the American mainland, gathering for a big, final assault!”

Vibart said bleakly, “We must inform the
Cassius,
sir.”

Herrick spoke from the doorway, his voice eager. “We could send the lugger to find the flagship, sir, and stay here in readiness!”

Bolitho did not seem to hear them. “Sentry, take this prisoner and lock him up with the others. My compliments to the boatswain, and tell him to select any of the lugger's crew he thinks could be sworn into our company. I would imagine that even the
Phalarope
would seem better than a prison hulk!”

The marine grinned. “Aye, aye, sir!” He jabbed the Spaniard with his musket and hustled the man away.

“It will be two days before we meet up with the
Cassius
again.” Bolitho was thinking aloud. “By then it may be too late. That Spaniard has told us a good deal, but he cannot know the whole truth. If the French have been gathering a force of men and ships in this small island they must be expecting to move, and soon. I consider it our duty to investigate, and do our utmost to stop them.”