9,59 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Serie: Privateersman
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
The fourth voyage into print for Harry and James Ludlow. Captain Toner illegally forces Harry's crew to work on his own frigate. Vowing revenge and determined to retrieve his crew, Harry pursues Toner to the West Indies where he is thrown into a maelstrom of piracy, lies, murder and corruption.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Seitenzahl: 760
Ähnliche
An Element of Chance
DAVID DONACHIE
To the memory of my brother JOHN DONACHIE
Contents
AUTHOR’S NOTE
THOUGH this is a work of fiction, if you care to read The Social History of the Navy, you will find that it is, actually, based in part on a series of events which did take place.
PROLOGUE
SHORT OF gunners, the artillery salvoes were too weak to halt the French advance. Worse still, the smoke from the guns, billowing over the attacking infantry, obscured their movements as they approached the opposite bank of the Rivière Salée. Harassed by their officers, the redcoats, under continuous fire from skirmishers, tried to form up at the water’s edge. Forced out of its prepared position, the state of the Guadeloupe garrison was now fully exposed. More men had dropped from sickness or fatigue brought on by the West Indian climate than fell to musketry. Behind them their comrades lay in serried rows, some dead, others dying, with those who would survive now useless as combatants. An army that had been numerically superior was now outnumbered two to one. Hence this advance to the river-bank. If the enemy could be kept in the water, hampered in their movements by the tug of the current, then perhaps the situation might be saved. Fresh from Europe, the Frenchmen suffered none of the handicaps that fell on the more exposed British troops, a difficulty which had been compounded by their commander’s decision to bivouac them, prior to the battle, next to a fetid swamp.
By the command tent, the staff officers looked towards General Trethgowan, each mentally composing the letter that would exonerate them and place the blame for any possible defeat firmly at the door of the man responsible. Advised to intercept the French invaders on the beach, he’d chosen instead to draw them into a set-piece battle. Any hint that the armies of Revolutionary France would not abide by the standard rules of warfare fell on deaf ears. Indeed, he’d scoffed at their being led by a typical example of the scum thrown up by the Revolution, an ex-baker called Victor Hugues, and promised his subordinates an easy victory over what could only be a poorly led rabble.
Captain Elliot Haldane, liaison officer with the local militia, spoke very forcibly, in a tone that very nearly breached the bounds of military discipline, pleading that his men be allowed to attack the enemy.
‘They are the only troops we have, sir, who are not affected by the climate. I repeat my request that they be allowed to—’
‘Damn you, sir!’ shouted Trethgowan, his red face colouring an even deeper hue at such insubordination. ‘I have told you before, they are Frenchmen, and not to be trusted. Don’t be fooled by those white Bourbon uniforms and that damned Bourbon flag. As soon as they cross the river, they’ll turn coat and join our enemies.’
‘They despise the Revolution as much as any Englishman, sir. And being planters whose families reside on Guadeloupe, they have a great deal more to lose than us. These are the very same men who helped Admiral Jervis take the island in the first place.’
‘You have your orders, Captain. They are to stay on the defensive. And please ensure that they do not break and run at the first hint of danger.’
‘Where would they run to, General?’ said Haldane sadly. ‘This is their home.’
The Frenchmen knew by the look on Haldane’s face that his efforts had failed. Being a local force, their discipline was not that of any regular army. So, for all the regard in which he was personally held, he was forced to suffer an abundance of abuse regarding the qualities of Trethgowan and the troops he led. He took it all silently, seeing little point in any attempt to defend his fellow countrymen to these colonists. Most odium was heaped on the general, who’d pointedly ignored any advice they’d offered. Deep down, for all their insults, they knew that the redcoats, better led and healthy, were a match for the men across the river.
‘I must ask you formally, Messieurs, to take up the position allotted to you, and defend this bank of the Rivière Salée to the best of your ability.’
‘Regardez!’ One of the colonists, who being on the seaward edge of the position had a clear view of the bay, was pointing out to sea. The joyous nature of his response was echoed by others, as they gesticulated wildly. Haldane pushed his way through the throng, his heart pounding at the sight of the man-o’-war’s billowing sails. Before the wind, she was a magnificent sight, with an admiral’s red flag streaming forward.
‘Monsieur de la Mery,’ cried Haldane, addressing one of the white-coated officers, ‘you are a sailor by profession. What help can we expect from that ship?’
The captain knew by the glum look on the Frenchman’s face that the reply was not a cheering one. ‘They may arrive too late to land a force to help us.’
‘What about the cannon? Can they not play on the enemy flank?’
‘There are shoals by the river mouth that will keep them well out to sea. Unless they carry larger cannon than any frigate I know, they will lack the range.’
The sudden rattle of the drums, coming through the smoke, alerted the defenders to the imminent assault. Haldane fought to inject a positive note into his voice. ‘I doubt our enemies know that, Monsieur. I suspect the mere sight has led them to launch a pre-emptive strike. I urge you, Messieurs, to take up your posts.’
For all the individual nature of their enrolment, they were an efficient body of men. Emboldened by the sight of a British warship, they ran to the river-bank with a heartening degree of élan. Haldane was set to follow when de la Mery restrained him.
‘Captain Haldane. My men and I did not enlist to end up as prisoners. And Guadeloupe is not our home.’
‘I know, Monsieur,’ replied Haldane. He’d heard from more than one source how this man and his contingent of sailors had been forced to flee St Domingue after the slave rebellion. Trethgowan had provided an added insult when he refused these sailors leave to patrol the coastal waters.
‘What do you anticipate will happen if your general realises that the battle is lost?’
Haldane was tempted to lie to him, to say that all would be well. But the look in the Frenchman’s dark, penetrating eyes precluded such a course. Both men knew the state of the army, knew that Victor Hugues had outmanoeuvred Trethgowan at every turn. If the ex-baker didn’t triumph today, he would tomorrow.
‘He will ask for terms.’
‘For his entire force?’
‘Of course.’
‘His entire force of soldiers?’ said the Frenchman, with heavy emphasis on the last word.
Their eyes stayed locked together for a few seconds before Haldane replied. ‘Whatever you do, Monsieur, provided it is commensurate with your own honour, will surely satisfy me and my countrymen.’
The squeak from de la Mery’s coat pocket, as his pet mongoose poked out its narrow little head, broke the stare. That was immediately followed by a fusillade of musketry as the French started to wade into the river. They ran to their allotted places, and joined the unbroken line of white-coated colonists. The smoke and noise of battle seemed to increase the heat. Soon every man on the river-bank who’d survived the fusillade was engaged in a personal contest. Bayonets jabbed forward, to be met and parried by pikes and swords. The cries of the wounded and dying lifted themselves above the clash of metal, only being drowned out by the thundering cannon as Hugues and Trethgowan aimed their field-pieces over the combatants’ heads.
The great cheer from the inland flank, plus the merest hint of surging blue, was enough to tell Haldane that the weak and debilitated redcoats had failed to hold. The pressure on the colonists’ front decreased as Hugues withdrew those opposite to exploit the breakthrough. Forewarned by de la Mery, Haldane and his men immediately fell back. With a wave of his sword towards the gallant British officer, the Frenchman led his contingent away towards the town of Pointe-à-Pitre.
The drums beat a steady rhythmic tattoo that wafted across the bay towards the anchored frigate. Ashore the act of surrender was being carried out with strict military precision, even if the surviving British redcoats could barely stand. In front of General Trethgowan stood the author of this singular defeat, the corpulent figure of the man who’d been sent from Paris to recapture the French sugar islands. At two cables’ distance, even through a telescope, his face was a blur. But his uniform said everything. Victor Hugues was dressed in black, unlike his gorgeously attired military advisers. Round his waist he wore a thick tricolour sash. His tall black hat was set off with a huge cockade: red, white, and blue, the colours of Jacobin Republicanism. Behind him, in neat ranks, his small army, preceded by the company of artillery, crossed the pontoon bridge which straddled the Rivière Salée. A substantial body of troops remained behind, guarding a large rectangular object shrouded by a tarpaulin. This piece of equipment aroused a great deal of curiosity. Under the awning, the officers gathered on the quarterdeck of Diomede speculated openly about what it might be. Bessborough stood rock still, as if by his immobility he might mitigate this blow to his country’s esteem. He didn’t react to the sudden activity behind him, keeping his telescope trained on the events unfolding ashore. To turn and enquire would be beneath his dignity as a vice-admiral of the red. Not that such a thing was necessary. The midshipman delivering the message to Captain Marcus Sandford had a clear voice and a penetrating delivery.
‘There’s a water hoy full of Frenchmen come out from Pointe-à-Pitre harbour, sir. Their leader says that they are sailors, not soldiers, therefore they are spared the obligation to surrender.’
‘How many?’ asked Sandford.
‘Forty in all, sir. Must have been hanging off the sides.’
‘Do you think they were observed from the shore?’
The voice that answered, in heavily accented English, finally gave Bessborough cause to turn around. The party had come aboard without waiting to be invited, their leader stepping forward with his hat in his hand. The admiral saw before him a tall young man in a white frock coat, dark-skinned and handsome, with deep brown eyes and a steady gaze. His attention was then taken by a sudden movement and a mongoose, obviously the man’s pet, poked its head out of his coat pocket, jerking left and right as it gazed around the deck.
‘We were not seen by the canaille on the beach, Captain.’
‘General Trethgowan made the terms of surrender, Monsieur,’ said Sandford. ‘They quite specifically included all the Frenchmen who’d fought on the British side.’
‘To be exact, all the French soldiers, Captain.’
Sandford looked pointedly at the uniform coat, which was of the same cut and colour as those of his fellow countrymen lined up behind the redcoats on shore.
‘Time did not allow us the luxury of an identity separate.’
‘Dillon?’ said Bessborough, as Sandford looked to him for a decision. The admiral’s political assistant gave a slight cough before replying. He was a tall man, thin and wiry with narrow features and slightly protruding blue eyes. His fine ginger hair was carefully arranged to cover encroaching baldness and his voice was soft, southern Irish.
‘It seems to me, sir, that the soldiers have given enough away for one day. I think General Trethgowan should have held out a bit longer. At least until Monsieur Hugues agreed to allow the Royalists to depart with our men. He can only wish to retain them for the purposes of humiliation, which is not something we should be a party to.’
Bessborough didn’t give a toss for French humiliation. His mind was concentrated on the way that Trethgowan, and the army, had let him down. ‘Well, he didn’t, Dillon, which has landed all of us in a fine mess. God only knows what their lordships will make of this fiasco.’
Trethgowan was most certainly finished as a soldier. The Horse Guards would never forgive him for such a defeat. But it was more than just a disaster for the army. As the naval commander on the spot, he wouldn’t escape without a blemish. Questions would be asked: like how a man with a force of two frigates, a brig, and five transports could have been allowed to sail unmolested all the way from France to the West Indies and, once there, land troops without any interference from the Royal Navy. There were circumstances that would mitigate the strictures of the Admiralty: Admiral Lord Howe, with his hatred of close blockade, had contrived to let this fellow escape from Brest; Hugues had arrived at the beginning of the hurricane season, a most unusual thing for a Frenchman to do, thus taking everyone in the region by surprise, then on landing he announced that all the slaves were to be free, in line with the tenets of the Revolution, a pronouncement that caused no end of unrest.
But most of all, his troops were fresh from Europe, and everything Trethgowan had done only reinforced that telling advantage. Using the Rivière Salée as his main bastion he’d secured his right flank against the marshes and his left flank by the sea. It was too late now to tell the bonehead that in this part of the world to bivouac right next to a swamp was an elementary tactical error. By the time Hugues attacked, the August heat and the foul air from the marshes had left Trethgowan barely able to muster one tenth of his available strength. The troops Bessborough’d raised in English Harbour were still over the horizon, too far away to save the redcoats ashore, while the shallows of the river delta precluded the idea of using the frigate as a floating battery to harass the French. He needed the 32-pounder cannon of a 74-gun ship to achieve anything in that line. That too was some way off, escorting the lumbering troopships. It only added insult to injury that there was no sign of the two French frigates. The only vessels in the bay were Hugues’s transports and they were covered by Trethgowan’s truce.
As the drums beat out a final hurried tattoo everyone faced the shore, just in time to see the regimental colours dip in surrender towards the pale white sand. At the rear of the line, the fleur-de-lis of Royal France dipped too, this before the ranks of white-coated soldiers. Trethgowan presented Hugues with his sword, which the Frenchman accepted. But when the commander of the Royalists proffered his in a like manner, the Jacobin declined to take it. This was a bitter moment. There wasn’t an officer aboard Diomede who didn’t think that Britain had a duty to those Frenchmen. But General Trethgowan, more concerned for the health of his own men, and faced with the intransigence of Hugues, had agreed to leave them behind with a promise from the new governor of Guadeloupe that they would be well treated.
‘You would imagine it couldn’t be worse,’ said Dillon, as the troops marched down to the edge of the beach, their pace set by the regimental fifes and drums. ‘But Trethgowan has even asked the sod for the use of his transports. Could he not have waited for us to gather some?’
Bessborough scowled. The act of surrender had made his desire to sink those very ships impossible. ‘His sole aim, I imagine, is to get as far away from Guadeloupe, and as quickly as possible. After all, this fellow is allowing him to depart with his weapons and colours intact.’
‘It’s a neat ploy,’ said Captain Sandford, gloomily. ‘We can hardly go after his frigates while our troops are in their transports.’
‘Best send your barge ashore, Sandford. Trethgowan will expect us to take him and his staff aboard.’
This didn’t please either man. Sandford had already given up his cabin to the admiral. With senior army officers aboard he’d likely have to shift again. Bessborough had no desire to spend a second with a man who, to his mind, deserved to swim to English Harbour. The sailors watched for an age as the troops, some walking, more carried, waded out into the surf and shuffled aboard the French transports.
‘Sail ho,’ came the cry from the mast-head. ‘Redoubtable, sir.’
‘Thank God,’ said Bessborough. ‘Sandford, hoist the following signal. Flag to Redoubtable. Depart from convoy and join flag with all despatch. I’ll shift into her as soon as she arrives. You can have the pleasure of Trethgowan’s company tonight.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ the captain replied, making no attempt to disguise the irony in his tone.
‘And on no account, Sandford, are you to surrender your cabin to him. That is a direct order. Make the general and his staff sling hammocks in the bilges if you so desire.’
As if in agreement, the mongoose in the Frenchman’s pocket added a loud and penetrating squeak.
An hour passed, with Bessborough pacing up and down the quarterdeck, only the occasional soft curse breaking through from his troubled thoughts. Redoubtable was still a mile away when the last of the French transports ran up a signal to say it was fully loaded. Any hope he’d harboured that he might avoid coming face-to-face with the soldiers faded away. He stopped pacing when he heard the whistles, set to welcome the general aboard with a salute that accorded with his rank. That, and the sight of the transports weighing anchor and beating out of the bay, deepened his frown. The same black look returned when the army commander finally came on deck. The first thing to take Trethgowan’s eye was the knot of French soldiers. Their white uniforms made them somewhat conspicuous.
‘What the devil are these fellows doing here?’ he demanded, his high red colour increasing with anger.
It was Sandford who replied. ‘They came aboard from the port, sir, having rowed out in a wider arc. No one saw them.’
‘That is neither here nor there, sir,’ boomed Trethgowan, his blue eyes popping out of a face the colour of his tightly buttoned red coat. ‘I undertook to surrender all the Bourbon troops to Monsieur Hugues. I will not countenance the breaking of my solemn word.’
Dillon cut in. ‘Pray, General, what difference would it make if he’s short of a couple of dozen?’
‘Why, damn you, sir! You’re a civilian. You would do well to remain silent. This is a matter of military honour.’
Bessborough exploded. ‘That word in your mouth, sir, on this day, is an abomination! How can you prate about military honour when you’ve just been soundly trounced by a tradesman?’
‘Oh God! I was right,’ said Dillon, sharply, his soft Irish voice loud enough, for once, to attract everyone’s attention. ‘It is a guillotine.’
That dreaded word silenced Trethgowan’s response. All eyes turned to the shore. The tarpaulin had been removed from that squat rectangular mass. The angled blade, at the top of the twin struts, shone dully in the sunlight. The soldiers who’d attended to its transportation were lowering uprights to hold the whole assembly steady.
‘Look, sir,’ said Sandford, his arm pointing towards the lines of Royalist troops, now hatless and disarmed. Hugues’s soldiers had hemmed them in, their muskets lowered threateningly. The new governor of Guadeloupe stood outside the circle as, one by one, a dozen men were dragged out, their hands tied, before being hustled towards the guillotine.
‘What’s he about?’ demanded Trethgowan.
Dillon’s words were no less effective for being delivered in his normal quiet way. ‘I think your man is about to show you, General Trethgowan, that he too is a civilian.’
The first victim was pushed up the steps. Their companions, who’d come aboard earlier, pushed their way through the throng of British officers to witness this barbarity. No one spoke as the man was forced to his knees, his head thrust down to lie on the bottom of the infernal machine. Hugues stood, his cockaded hat raised in the air. As he dropped his hand the blade was released. Every man aboard had imagined that sound, the music of the French terror. But they were hearing Madame Guillotine’s true voice for the first time. Nothing had prepared them for the reality. They gasped as the heavy blade swished down the wooden channels. The thud as it hit the bottom affected them all, as did the sight of the severed head dropping into the basket. A great fount of blood shot out from the trunk as the blade was raised, a grisly accompaniment to the cheer that followed his death. Two men grabbed the legs and dragged the headless body away as another victim was hustled up the steps to meet his fate.
‘He gave me his word,’ said Trethgowan.
‘You’re a horse’s arse, sir,’ said Bessborough, the only man senior enough to level such a vulgar accusation. That he’d used such a common expression only served to demonstrate the depths of his feelings. He was much taller than the soldier, a fact made more apparent as the admiral moved closer, to a point where they were practically touching. ‘You were an idiot to let him get ashore uncontested, a buffoon to wait for him to attack, a fool to fight him where you did, and a poltroon for accepting his word. This ex-baker from Marseilles has put you in the oven, Trethgowan, and baked your reputation to perfection.’
‘I will not be addressed so,’ he spluttered as another cheer came floating across from the shore.
‘Ahoy, Diomede,’ called Captain Vandegut from the deck of the Redoubtable, which had sailed close without anyone noticing. ‘Why in hell’s name are we letting their transports go?’
Bessborough spun away from the choleric soldier and grabbed a speaking trumpet from a midshipman. ‘Sandford, up anchor and get us out of harm’s way.’
‘Harm, sir?’
Bessborough raised the trumpet. ‘Vandegut. You, sir, will mind your manners when you address a flag-officer. Now run out your lower-deck guns. I want you to shape a course across the bay. Get in as close as you dare and destroy that guillotine. If in the process you can dismember that swine in the cockaded hat, so much the better.’
Trethgowan protested as he was shuffled aside, the frigate’s deck now full of running men. ‘Admiral Bessborough. Might I remind you that my soldiers are in those French transports? Do you want to see them murdered, sir?’
Bessborough turned to yell at him, his whole frame full of the air he’d sucked in for the purpose. But nothing emerged and slowly his body deflated. When he did speak it was quietly.
‘Sandford. Request Captain Vandegut to belay. And strike my flag. I’m shifting to Redoubtable.’
Another cheer rent the air. Dillon approached the admiral and whispered in his ear. The older man nodded slowly then walked across to the knot of Frenchmen, taking the one he’d already spoken to by the elbow. He felt the cold nose of the pet mongoose touch the back of his hand.
‘What’s your name, boy?’
The young man spun round and pulled himself to attention, making no attempt to wipe the tears from his eyes. ‘Lieutenant de Vaisseu Antoine de la Mery.’
‘And these men?’
‘Colonists turned common seamen, Monsieur. Artisans and bondsmen from St Domingue. We came to Guadeloupe after the blacks took over our island.’ Another cheer, another victim, as the young man nodded. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the mongoose, stroking its enquiring head. ‘One day, petit ami, we will get our revenge.’
The cheering still echoed as the admiral shifted to Redoubtable. Those aboard the 74 were as appalled as the men of the frigate. But Hugues hadn’t ceased to shock. Obviously too impatient for the guillotine to do its bloody work, he’d lined up the Royalists before the trenches they’d intended to defend. Then with another wave of his cockaded hat a fusillade was fired into the backs of the defenceless soldiers. Those struck by a ball pitched headlong into the trenches. It was only then that the watchers realised the men had been roped together. Those untouched by musket fire were dragged down by the wounded or the dead. The next line of wretches faced the void. They were shot down in turn, to fall upon the bodies already there. Some would die from the wounds, others from suffocation, but it was clear they were all doomed. Victor Hugues had arrived in Guadeloupe, and he had signalled his intentions from the very first day. The full rigour of the revolutionary terror had come, at last, to cast its shadow over the West Indies.
CHAPTER ONE
THE POUNDING rain washed across the forecastle, acting like a curtain to cut out all trace of the French ship, labouring a mere two cables ahead, just inshore of the Bucephalas. A true white squall, a downpour so heavy that it could deaden the waves on the sea itself. Harry Ludlow, holding the wheel, bowing under the weight of the water that lashed his oilskins, sought to do no more than hold his course, for this was a dangerous shore. It was harder for the men aloft, their feet precariously balanced on the slippery wet ropes, the horses, slung below the wooden yards. They had to fight this teeming cascade, and the howling wind, to reef the topsails. If they failed their captain would struggle to keep his ship under proper control. The shifting, variable gale that accompanied such squalls ensured that anything less than perfection would mean their blowing right out of their robbands.
‘How long for this one, Captain?’ shouted Pender from under his sou’wester.
This was not the first such tempest they’d faced that day. And when the rain cleared away those with little experience of such conditions would be amazed, yet again, at the drop in the wind and the calm of the sea. Older hands, who’d served with their captain before and were accustomed to the Bay of Biscay, would merely shake their heads once more at the tricks the weather could play.
‘Just hope it clears before he sights the Goulet.’ As Harry answered his servant, he lifted his head and allowed some of the rainwater to wash the salt off his face, ignoring the amount that made its way down the inside of his coat. ‘In these conditions I wouldn’t chase him into that stretch of water if he was a Spanish plate galleon.’
‘It would be a pity to lose him after all this time.’
‘We shan’t lose him, Pender, never fear.’
Harry Ludlow sounded a lot more confident than he really felt, for this was a pursuit that should have ended hours ago. He’d been a canny opponent, this merchant captain, with a crew that had served him admirably. Even in his new ship, the Bucephalas, which was a flyer, fresh off the stocks at Blackwall Reach, the chase had managed to elude him. The Frenchman had used every trick in the sailing manual, and each fluke in the changing weather, to evade capture. He was clearly a mariner at home in these waters, perhaps a local seaman making for his home port.
They had sighted him well to the south, just as he opened the great bight of Douarnenez, sailing large on a north-west wind, with his bowsprit set towards the Pointe du Raz, possibly making for the mouth of the Loire and the port of Nantes. The deep-laden merchantman, probably a West Indian trader, on sighting the Bucephalas across his path had not waited to discover if he was friend or foe. He’d put up his helm and worn right into the wind, tacking and wearing till he cleared the head of the bay. The shoreline, as the day wore on, changed from long golden beaches backed by low, grassy dunes to grey jagged cliffs, with needle rocks poking out of the tumultuous off-shore spume. If the Frenchman knew anything about the perils of the coast of Brittany, it didn’t affect his actions. He disdained safety and stayed close inshore, either oblivious, or prepared to accept the danger he was courting. Taking him on would be no easy matter, which was very different from the way it had looked that morning.
‘We shall have him before dinner, James.’
Harry had passed this remark to his brother when the sun shone in a flawless sky, at a time when the chase was still fresh enough to be exciting. The younger of the two Ludlow brothers sat in his shirtsleeves in a captain’s chair near the skylight, enjoying the fine autumn weather. Even so dressed, James Ludlow managed to look slightly out of place, very like a man who was too refined for life aboard a ship. He smiled in response, wishing to underline the fact that he had great faith in Harry’s seamanship.
‘I think we need a flag, James. I wouldn’t want our quarry to doubt that we’re British.’
There was nothing hurried in his brother’s response, which caused Harry to smile himself. Aboard the Bucephalas, when the captain issued an order men rushed to obey, the pounding of their bare feet thudding out an urgent tattoo on the spotless planking of the ship’s deck. But haste was anathema to James Ludlow. He carried out his self-imposed task as keeper of the flag-locker in a naturally elegant manner that was deeply incongruous aboard a privateer, a ship designed solely for war.
‘Let us hope that he carries a decent cargo, brother, one that will serve to line all our pockets with gold.’
The remark, deliberately loud, was greeted with a grim smile from the crew. They’d seen precious little of that commodity since they’d set sail from the Downs in July. Each man had signed on with Harry as a volunteer; paid a wage, but really aboard for a share of the privateer’s booty. Many, not least the naval officers with whom they stood in direct competition, considered their trade mere piracy. But Harry Ludlow carried letters of marque, bearing the royal seal of their sovereign, King George III. These documents permitted such men to pursue the ships of his enemies, to take them and destroy them if they wished, or to sell any captures, with their cargo, for a profit.
The mood on deck stayed buoyant as the morning wore on. Every man aboard knew that their vessel was a fine sailer on a bowline. Bucephalas, beating up into the wind on a closer heading than their quarry, was narrowing the gap at a steady pace. Harry, watching the Frenchman closely, and observing the action that would bring him round on another course for the tenth time, was mentally counting off the number of tacks he’d have to complete before he could put a shot across the Frenchman’s bows. But then the chase surprised him by declining to tack, instead holding his course and running inshore towards the grey, threatening rocks.
‘Damn it, Pender, I don’t think very highly of this manoeuvre. If he doesn’t bear away from the shore, he’ll rip out his bottom on some reef. It might be wise to clear away the boats in case, otherwise we’ll have to stand off and watch his crew drown.’
Harry addressed these remarks to the man who stood beside him, holding the wheel. Small, compact, with a dark complexion and a ready smile, Pious Pender was happy to be titled Harry Ludlow’s servant, though he was a great deal more than that— something known to every member of the crew. He’d come into his service by accident while serving aboard a man-o’-war, a course he’d adopted to evade the long arm of the law. Few men aboard the ship knew Pender had been a thief, and a good one, who’d only fallen foul of the authorities through the jealousy of others. Since first meeting with the Ludlow brothers he’d rendered invaluable service, even to the point of saving Harry’s life. Thus there existed a bond between the three men that transcended the normal relationship of master and servant. He was also their friend and confidant, as well as the man the captain of the Bucephalas trusted to command his boarding parties.
The crew, appraised by Pender of the new orders, wondered at their need. Nevertheless, they rushed to do their captain’s bidding, while at the same time keeping a weather eye on the Frenchman. Each hand was certain that their quarry would see sense, haul off the shore, and put himself out of the rocky frying pan into the range of their deadly fire.
Yet it soon became clear that the merchant captain knew his business. He’d calculated, expertly, the rise of the tide as he edged inshore. Now, having peaked in the last half-hour, it was falling. This set up a leeway that, time and again, kept him out of harm’s reach. And as the day wore on, matters steadily took a turn for the worse. It was as if by some sixth sense he’d anticipated the wind shifting into the west, had foreseen that the weather would change from brilliant sunshine to a grey overcast sky filled with sudden downpours, squalls of such intensity that they drove James Ludlow, and anyone else unemployed, below decks. For all Harry’s seamanship, which was of the highest order, the Frenchman had taken advantage of every one of them to fox the pursuit. Obviously the man knew the waters of this jagged coastline like the back of his hand. And it wasn’t all mere evasion. He was forever trying to lure the Bucephalas into striking on unseen rocks, the fate that Harry had earlier assigned to his opponent.
Bucephalas had been forced to haul off three times now, as Harry’d been set to pin the chase, the lookout’s sharp eyes and his own nose for danger spotting the hidden hazards of submerged reefs and rocks just in time. Frustration was mingled with admiration. The Frenchman’s skill was awesome. If anyone doubted that it was skill and was tempted to term it luck, they only had to recall one fact: that this ship had already sailed through the entire blockading squadron of the Royal Navy, set to guard the approaches to the main French naval base of Brest. Now, having turned back towards them, he was approaching the Goulet, that treacherous passage that led into the port, dragging the Bucephalas, and Harry Ludlow, in his wake. The crew glanced at him occasionally, wondering what action he would take. But their captain was not one to discuss matters on his own quarterdeck. Only Pender, standing beside his captain, was close enough to be privy to his intentions.
‘I’m praying that he will haul himself off when the tide has fallen. It’s not a passage any sane man would risk at slack water. I wouldn’t enter the Goulet without something under my keel, even if I knew the place as well as an inshore shrimp netter.’
Harry had no need to explain to his servant that this was truly an iron-bound coast. In the past three months Pender had seen enough of the rocky shore, and been regaled with enough tales of disaster, to know that it ranked as a ships’ graveyard. But Pender also knew how much Harry Ludlow needed this capture. For a privateer who’d enjoyed unbounded success at the outbreak of the Revolutionary War, the pickings, in this third year of conflict, had been slim indeed.
But then, two years earlier, he’d arrived off this coast before most of the incoming ships knew that England was once again at war with France; that the Jacobin despots in Paris had chopped off the heads of their king and queen, and were now extending such a fate to an increasing number of their titled fellow countrymen. Two years earlier, with several captures already sent in, and given the competence of his quarry, he might have let this fellow go.
He was, of course, operating in a narrower band of water now, avoiding the Royal Navy ships cruising off Brest and La Rochelle. Beating a hasty retreat every time he spied their topsails wasn’t merely a ploy to evade their disapproval. Every man-o’-war afloat was short of trained hands. Harry Ludlow carried written exemptions, a legal document barring his men from being taken up by the press, but he was loath to put such a legality to the test in open water, far away from any other authority than the muzzles of a warship’s broadside.
His crew had with good cause rated him lucky at the start of the voyage. Now, after three months of fruitless cruising, most were beginning to wonder if Lady Fortune hadn’t deserted their captain. Some even suggested this new ship carried some kind of curse. How could they lack success when it had everything a privateer captain could want? Bucephalas was like a cut-down frigate, smaller in everything but the height of her masts. She had speed for the chase and guns to call any sensible fellow, save a naval ship, to spill his wind.
The men, labouring under this latest downpour, were as keyed up as Harry Ludlow, their eyes fixed on the point at which they’d last seen the chase, hungry for the weather to clear so that they could get a proper sight of their potential victim. The sky grew a little lighter to larboard, taking on a silver sheen, a sure sign that the rain was easing. Harry, in anticipation, put his helm down a touch. He wanted to come out of this squall much closer to his enemy, alongside if humanly possible. It seemed his wish would be granted quicker than he thought. The speed with which the first sail appeared out of the rain shocked him to the marrow.
‘Let fly the sheets!’ he yelled, as he spun the wheel to bring his ship into the wind.
He didn’t have the means, in speed or wind-power, to come right round on to a larboard tack, a fact that made him curse himself under his breath. The Frenchman had obviously decided to ram him, a potential hazard that he should have foreseen. But he hadn’t. So he adopted the safest course to ensure that such a manoeuvre failed. Yet, even with a well-trained crew, his response seemed painfully slow to take effect. Time seemed to stand still as the ship they were pursuing loomed large, a monster in his imagination.
‘Man the starboard braces and haul away.’
The yards, first loosed to spill the wind, were hauled round and bowsed tight so that he could pull away from the shore on a starboard tack. The ghostly shape of the merchant ship seemed to tower above him, close enough to scrape the paint off his side. Then the first gun spoke out. Only when he heard that familiar sound did he realise that, whatever this ship was, it was far too big a vessel to be his quarry.
It was as though the boom of the guns was a signal for the weather to clear. Suddenly the sky was visible, as the rain fell off to a steady drizzle, moving away towards the rocky shore and exposing the first of the three ships that occupied the small area of spume-flecked inshore water. It gave Harry no pleasure to see the flag at the main that identified the third ship as a frigate of the Royal Navy. It pleased him even less to see that the gunports were open and that the ship’s cannon were aimed in his direction.
CHAPTER TWO
THE GUNS went off again, but not on the side facing Bucephalas. Smoke billowed up and flew on the wind towards the merchantman. With eighteen-pounders a man-o’-war could threaten the Frenchman in a way denied to him. His twelve-pounders lacked the range, and his carronades, set amidships, were smashers, only useful at close quarters. But the ball from an eighteen-pounder could travel half a mile and still cleave its way through six inches of solid oak. The Frenchman knew that as well as anyone afloat. He put down his helm, aiming for calmer waters. Then he struck his flag, well before the shots from the frigate churned up the waters around his ship.
Harry observed, absent-mindedly, that the gunnery was very poor. His attention was concentrated elsewhere. He searched the sky anxiously, hoping to see evidence of another impending squall, which would hide his departure. The Frenchman was no good to him now. He could not dispute the prize with a frigate. The crew of the Bucephalas would get nothing out of the capture, which would be claimed by the Royal Navy. For all that such an outcome galled them, it was clear from their worried expressions that, exemptions or no, they were as eager to be off as their captain. Most had served at one time or another aboard a man-o’-war. It was clearly not an experience they wished to repeat. Failure to get away might end with them trading the comfort of a privateer for the hell of a king’s ship, with flogging a daily occurrence and food to eat that had been so long in the cask that it was foul before war even broke out.
Whoever was in command on the frigate’s quarterdeck must have guessed his intention, for the voice boomed out through the speaking trumpet, so loud that it stopped James, emerging from the companion-way, dead in his tracks.
‘Keep station under our guns, sir, and stand by to receive a boarding party.’
‘Harry?’ said James, but his brother’s upheld hand stopped his questions. Pender, ever alert, pressed Harry’s own speaking trumpet into his free hand, then quietly ordered the crew to man the yards.
‘We are the Bucephalas, sir. Letter of marque, out of Deal, cruising these waters with the permission of the king himself. We do not require a boarding party.’
‘Damn you, sir,’ replied the gruff voice, the Hibernian accent very evident. ‘It’s not for you to decide the actions of a king’s officer.’
‘Sounds like a Scotchman,’ said James acidly. It was a race he had little time for, a nation that had rebelled twice since the Union and been so comprehensively forgiven that, in James’s jaundiced view, they practically ran the entire country. Having a brother-in-law of that persuasion whom he disliked had fuelled his prejudice. Given the rude way they were now being addressed, it looked as if such feelings were about to be vindicated.
Harry raised the speaking trumpet once more. ‘I carry exemptions for all of my crew, sir, properly signed by the Secretary of War himself.’
‘If you was a gentleman, sir, I might take credence. But seeing you’re a damned privateer, no commissioned officer could accept your word.’
‘Can I borrow the speaking trumpet?’ asked James, his normally calm face suffused with anger.
‘No, James, you cannot.’
‘Get your crew away from those braces, laddie, or I’ll put a ball in your hull.’
Harry fought to keep his voice calm. He was as angry as James. But no good would come of trading insults with a naval officer. They generally hated privateers, whom they saw as dedicated to taking what little profit existed out of their profession while disdaining the risks they had to run in fighting a well-armed enemy.
‘You are welcome to come aboard, that is, if you are the captain.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about my rank, laddie. You shall be served out in the proper manner.’
‘I don’t like the sound of that, Harry. What does he mean by served out?’
Harry didn’t reply, turning instead to address his next words to Pender. ‘Fetch the papers from my cabin, and line up the hands to be listed off by name.’
Then he turned to look down the deck, at the anxious faces of his crew. ‘No violence or harsh words, d’ye hear? Our papers are in order and he, for all his manner, is duty bound to respect them. But if one of us so much as raises a hand to any of his men, then he’ll call that an offence and clap the miscreant in irons.’
‘Boat putting off, Captain,’ said Patcham, one of the men Harry had elevated to a position of authority. He’d come down from the tops, where he’d been set to watch out for danger. Obviously he’d been so intent on the French merchantman, and the hazards of the inshore waters, that he’d missed sight of the frigate in the offing. It was the occasion for a severe rebuke, but that would have to wait till they’d seen off the approaching threat.
‘Cutter and barge,’ added Patcham. ‘With a party of armed marines aboard each one.’
‘Should we arm ourselves, brother?’
‘No, James. That is the very last thing we should do.’
He could see the figure at the rear of the barge, wrapped in a boat-cloak, which was a necessary precaution given the sloppy, uncoordinated rowing of the boat crews; his hat, worn fore and aft, had the gold lace that marked him out as an officer. He took the telescope from Patcham and trained it on the passenger. As the barge came closer, the features came into focus. A scowling face, dark skinned, with heavy black eyebrows that seemed to join in the middle. This over angry eyes and the kind of blue-black jowls that denoted a troublesome growth of beard. The lips moved soundlessly, but the words were emphatic. Harry was enough of a lip reader to work out that the captain was cursing his inept crewman, a well-deserved tongue lashing that was being received in stoic silence.
James had taken another telescope from the rack and followed suit. Being a portrait painter of some repute, a man to whom the human form was the subject of professional scrutiny, the face conveyed more information to him than it did to his elder brother.
‘He’s in a fine lather, Harry. And by the miserable cast of his features, it would appear to be his natural state.’
That supposition was borne out as the captain came aboard, followed by a spotty midshipman and his file of marines. He eschewed any courtesies, not even touching the rim of his hat, and he glared at everything with that same black look. Most sailors coming aboard a well-run ship, regardless of their purpose, managed a compliment of sorts. Not this fellow.
‘Toner,’ he barked. ‘Captain of the Endymion, 32 guns, fifth-rate.’
The unfriendly cast of his square-jawed face when silent was enhanced by his upper teeth. Slightly too large for his mouth, but regular and even in size, they assumed an unnatural prominence in speech, then seemed to grind on his lower molars when he wasn’t talking. The bloodless lips were stretched in what looked like a permanent grimace.
‘Harry Ludlow, owner and captain of the Bucephalas.’
The black eyes narrowed under that single heavy eyebrow, making him look like some Hogarthian demon. ‘Ludlow!’
‘This is my brother, and my partner in this enterprise, James Ludlow.’
The eyes flicked towards James, then back to Harry as if noticing the likeness between them. The teeth ground against each other audibly, and their owner emitted a low, angry growl.
‘Upon my soul, Captain Toner,’ said James, in a soft, languid voice, ‘you seem to have an exceedingly bilious countenance. No doubt it befits the nature of your occupation, where terrorising innocents is a daily occurrence. But please remember that, as a guest aboard our ship, we expect better manners.’
James’s barb had no effect. It was impossible for Toner to look any angrier than he did already. He spat out his next question.
‘Y’re never Thomas Ludlow’s brats, are ye?’
‘This is intolerable!’ snapped James, stung out of his elegant air by the evident displeasure in Toner’s remark.
Harry held up a restraining hand. ‘Please, brother. Can you not see that it pleases the captain to anger you? It would be better not to oblige him.’
James recovered himself, forcing his voice back towards the languid tone he could use to such devastating effect. ‘Of course, Harry. Silly of me. I’d forgotten how hard it is, in these troubled times, for the navy to man its ships with proper gentlemen. Such a want of manners is only to be expected when you elevate barearsed crofters to senior rank.’
Toner’s teeth ground so hard that Harry wondered how they stayed in one piece. But his true bile was directed at James, and the look in his eye demanded that this brother desist with his insults.
‘You asked a question, Captain?’ Harry said, holding out the letters of marque. ‘Albeit in a most offensive way. We are indeed the late admiral’s sons.’
Toner barely gave the parchment scroll a glance, his eyes flicking once more between the two brothers. ‘I dinna ken what old Foulweather Tom Ludlow would say to find his bairns engaged in this game. He’d spin in his grave, I’ll wager.’
It was a long time since Harry had heard anyone use his father’s nickname. And usually when they did, this allusion to the late admiral’s fondness for rough weather had a quality of affection in it. Toner managed to make it sound like a fault. So much so that Harry’s voice, in response, sounded a great deal less accommodating.
‘Our father’s opinions about us are none of your concern, Captain Toner. It is intrusive to even allude to such a thing. If you wish to inspect our papers please do so. There’s little to be gained from wallowing about here.’
That produced a smile. The bloodless lips stretched out even further. ‘Oh, I think there’s gain to be had, for those wi’ the luck to warrant it. Yon prize is a fine catch, would you no’ say?’
‘Unless you intend to share its value, Captain Toner, it is of no concern to me.’
‘Share, damn you!’ he barked, pushing his face forward.
He grabbed the papers from Harry’s hands and read them quickly. The red ribbon, set in the great royal seal at the bottom, flapped in the increasing breeze. Harry glanced out to sea. The squall he’d needed earlier was coming now, racing down upon them from the grey horizon, a great sheet of teeming rain.
‘So y’re a letter o’ marque, right enough,’ said Toner. He looked down the deck at the numerous crew, before turning back to look at Harry. ‘And well manned, an’ all. Trouble is, laddie, that I have a king’s ship that’s short on its complement. So it will be necessary to relieve you of a few of yer crew.’
‘I’m sorry I’m unable to oblige,’ Harry replied coldly.
The teeth flashed as the lips stretched again, in what passed for a smile. ‘Are ye now? Well so am I, laddie. But the king’s needs come first.’
‘Every man aboard this ship is exempt from impressment, sir. And, I might add, my ship does not require a naval boarding party to prove its function.’
‘Exempt,’ snapped Toner, thrusting the authority that allowed Harry to sail as a privateer back into his hands.
Harry pointed to Pender, standing in the bows beside the very first man lined up along the deck for inspection. ‘My servant has them. He will read them off to you.’
Toner glared at him for a full ten seconds, then spun on his heel and walked noisily across the deck. He had a stride that relied on a great quantity of heel, which, thudding off the spotless planking, only added to his angry comportment. He snatched the papers out of Pender’s hands just as Harry’s servant read out the first name.
‘Benjamin Flowers of—’
‘Forgeries!’ barked Toner, waving the list furiously. He turned to shout up the deck at Harry. ‘Do you expect me to faw for such crude stuff as this, laddie?’
‘If you look at the bottom of the list, sir, you will observe the name of a fellow countryman of yours. You may have heard of him, for it is the signature of Henry Dundas.’
‘Do you rate me gleckit, sir?’
It was James who replied to that, the words clipped, precise, and potent.
‘If you would care to translate that Celtic barbarism into plain English, sir, we will provide you with an answer. But if the word, as I suspect, refers to a want of intelligence, then I fear the answer may displease you.’
Toner, without thinking, had opened his mouth to explain. James’s well-aimed riposte snapped it shut again. But in turning to face the younger Ludlow he’d seen what Harry had observed moments before. The approaching squall.
‘Forgeries, sir. I stake ma name on it.’ The voice rose to a shout and he called to the spotty midshipman. ‘Hemmings, caw the boats alongside. Marines, every second man’s a volunteer.’
‘Belay!’ yelled Harry, in such a commanding tone that the redcoats hesitated. ‘You do not have the right.’
‘Don’t I, man? I’m short o’ hands to fight a war. And here you have all these skulking scullies hiding behind this.’ The list was raised in the air, then Toner took it in both his hands and ripped it in half. ‘Well, that’s how I rate yer damned exemptions, sir. They dinna any longer exist.’
For all the marines had hesitated at Harry’s command, they had lowered their muskets, threatening every man aboard. To fight them, unarmed, would be folly. They could claim duty as an excuse if they caused any casualties. But any injury to a serving man at sea could result in a criminal charge that would be decided in an Admiralty court. Harry had no faith that justice would issue from such a source. Toner noticed the hesitation. His hand, with its thick mat of black hair, shot out, taking Pender unawares. He had him by the jacket and had thrown him across the deck before anyone could intervene.
‘We can start with this one.’
Harry might have counselled caution but he was not immune to sudden fits of temper. Renowned for the care he took with his crew, he couldn’t stand by to watch a man he considered a friend so roughly manhandled. Reacting with instinct rather than reason, he ran down the deck, grabbing a marlinspike as he went. It was raised in the air as he careered towards Toner. The naval officer stood his ground, letting his boat-cloak fall open to reveal his pistol. Harry might be furious, but thankfully, he wasn’t completely out of control. To strike an armed man at such close quarters would be madness. He stopped in front of the captain. Toner pushed the pistol forward into his stomach. The words, coming out through the clenched teeth, sounded as though they were being wrenched from his throat.
‘Your father was a greedy bugger, just like you. The likes of me could have starved for aw he cared. Nothing would please me more than to air the guts of his son, with the power o’ the law on my side.’
‘That is my own servant. You have no right to a single man aboard this ship, least of all him.’
The first spot of rain bounced off Toner’s hat as he replied. ‘He’s been pampered, then, just as they aw have. Time they served aboard a proper ship. I’ll only press half your men, laddie. The law disna permit me to leave you short-handed. You’ll have enough to sail your pretty wee boat back to Deal.’
Harry had to shout, for the rain engulfed them both. ‘I’ll see you court-martialled for this!’
Toner shouted back, his bright red tongue spitting saliva.
‘Dinna threaten me, Ludlow, or I’ll put you ashore on the coast of France, then sink this damned barky as if it were a Frenchie!’
CHAPTER THREE
THE MARINES had fixed bayonets before the rain fell. That, coupled with the speed at which Toner’s sailors came aboard from the boats, established, to Harry’s way of thinking, that his actions were premeditated. He wanted hands and he was going to take them whatever proof was presented. Harry Ludlow was outnumbered, unarmed, and still very close to those eighteen-pounders. The desire to strike Toner, regardless of the consequences, was unbearable, and it was Pender, back on his feet, an observer of this exchange, who provided the balm that eased his rage.
‘Easy, Captain.’ The west-country burr added to the soothing effect of the words. What followed was delivered as much to Toner as to his own captain. ‘There’s an admiral hard by to sort this out.’
Toner looked at him with a stony glance. He saw a small compact man, in oilskins, with lively intelligent eyes. The defiant grin that Pender added was like pouring fuel on an already violent blaze.
‘Hemmings!’ he shouted.
The midshipman’s ‘Aye aye, sir’ was muted by the rain thudding on the deck.
‘Take this man’s name. Addressing an officer without permission is the charge.’ Toner pushed past Harry and made for the entry port. ‘And Hemmings, if anyone offers resistance, or tries to save his fellows, he’s to be bound tight. He’ll be flogged for insubordination as soon as he’s fetched aboard.’
‘I would challenge you to do that to me, sir!’ shouted James, stepping forward to intercept him. ‘Not even a villain like you, a Celtic oaf, would stoop to pressing a gentleman.’
‘I wouldna have you, laddie. You’re a Ludlow, which is as good as to say useless.’
James slapped him hard, with enough force to jerk his head back. The pistol came up under his chin and Toner pulled the trigger. The click of the striking hammer was audible, even in the thunderous downpour.
‘Thank your lord God my powder is damp,’ hissed Toner. ‘If you ever do such a thing again, I’ll take yer heid off wi’ ma bare hands.’
He was through the gangway before James reopened his eyes, as surprised as anyone to find that he was still alive. Men from the Bucephalas were already being hustled into the boats, with the others, including their captain, standing uselessly in the face of the marine bayonets. The rain suddenly eased off again, settling to a steady drizzle. The red-coated lobsters departed last, with one contingent standing off in the cutter, muskets raised to cover the withdrawal of the remainder. As soon as the last man left the ship Harry shouted out: ‘Stand by to get under way.’
