6
No Quarter
The deck seemed unusually crowded, all
thought of rest and food forgotten. Some men were in the bows,
peering or gesturing ahead, calling to one another, voices
distorted by the wind. Others had climbed into the shrouds, but the
sea was still dark and empty. And there was no more gunfire.
Verling said, ‘Due
south of us.’ His eye lit up as he gazed into the compass. ‘Dead
ahead, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘At least we can
outsail ’em, sir.’ That was Tinker.
Egmont snapped,
‘We’re not at war, man!’
Verling glanced at
him. ‘We take no chances, Mr. Egmont. Today’s handshake can easily
become tomorrow’s broadside.’
Dancer murmured,
‘What do you think, Dick? Heavy guns?’
Bolitho shook his
head. ‘Big enough. There was no return fire.’ Ships meeting by
accident, a case of mistaken identity in the darkness and foul
weather. These were busy trade routes where almost any flag might
be sighted. And the possibility of war was never forgotten.
Shoot first, was often the first
rule.
Smugglers,
privateers, or local pirates, every deepwater sailor had to take
his chance.
Bolitho looked over
toward Verling and tried to see it as he would. Facing an unknown
threat, considering his own responsibility. The officer in
charge . . . He had heard it said all too
frequently. Do wrong and you carried the blame. Do right, and if
you were too junior, others reaped the praise.
Deliver Hotspur to her new
command, and return to Plymouth without unnecessary delay.
The orders were plain enough. Maybe Verling was weighing the
choices that might lie ahead. Fight or run, as Tinker had
suggested. Hotspur carried two small
bow-chasers, six-pounders, quite enough to deal with trouble in
home waters. But no shot had yet been brought aboard. And her four
swivel guns would be useless in any serious
engagement.
Verling had made up
his mind.
‘Stand by to shorten
sail. Reef tops’ls and take in the gaff tops’l.’ Another glance at
the compass. Bolitho could see his face now without the aid of the
lamp. The sky was clearing, the clouds purple toward the horizon,
when it was visible.
He heard Egmont ask,
‘Shall we fight, sir?’
Verling was gesturing
to Dancer. ‘Fetch my logbook, then stand by me.’ He seemed to
recall the question. ‘We’ve no marines to support us this time.
Break open the arms chest.’ He did not even raise his
voice.
He looked at Bolitho.
‘Up you go. Sweep to the sou’ east. Take your time. Remember what
you saw on the chart.’
Afterwards, Bolitho
recalled how each point was allowed to settle in his mind, take
shape. So calmly said when Verling’s entire being must have wanted
to ram his meaning home, or even to snatch up the glass and claw
his way aloft himself. In case he was mistaken. When Bolitho and
the other midshipmen had gathered around Gorgon’s sailing master, old Turnbull, for their
regular instruction in navigation and pilotage, or when they were
struggling with the mysteries of the sextant, they had often been
warned about the first sight of land. Turnbull had reminded his
youthful audience, ‘An error in judgment is no excuse at the
court-martial table!’
He reached the
foremast shrouds as Verling shouted, ‘Shorten sail!’
Men were already at
their stations, handling lines and tackles as if they had been
serving Hotspur for months, not
days.
Bolitho climbed
steadily but slowly, making sure each ratline was underfoot before
he took his weight with his arms, Verling’s heavy telescope
thumping across his spine. He heard Tinker call after him, ‘Don’t
drop that, me son, or the sky’ll fall
on you!’
How he could find
time to joke about it was a marvel. Tinker was everywhere, and at
once. Ready to help or threaten without hesitation. He should have
been promoted to warrant rank; there was not a strand of rope or
strip of sail he could not control. But in twenty-five years at
sea, he had never learned to read or write.
Bolitho reached the
upper yard, and could feel his heart banging against his ribs.
Too long in harbour. Getting
soft. . . .
The lookout already
curled in position, his arm around a stay, turned and peered at
him.
‘Mornin’, sir!’ He
jerked his thumb. ‘Land, larboard bow!’
Bolitho swallowed and
forced himself to look. Sea and haze, an endless expanse of choppy
white crests. But no land.
The lookout was one
of Gorgon’s foretopmen; more to the
point, he had been chosen by Tinker for the passage
crew.
He gasped, ‘Tell
them, Keveth! No breath!’
He swung the
telescope carefully around and beneath his arm, even as the lookout
yelled to the small figures below. With a name like that, he must
be a fellow Cornishman. Two wreckers up here
together. . . .
He opened the
telescope with great care, waiting for each roll and shudder
running through his perch, causing Hotspur to vibrate from truck to keel.
Land, sure enough.
Another careful breath, gauging the moment. The sea breaking; he
could feel the power and height of the waves, but when he lowered
the glass to clear his vision there was nothing there. But it was there. The blunt outline of land,
sloping to a point which defied the waves. Like the little sketch
in Verling’s log.
Jerbourg Point. Who
or what was ‘Jerbourg’, he wondered.
He made his way down
to the deck and hurried aft, slipped and almost fell, lightheaded,
as if drunk or in fever.
Verling listened as
he blurted out everything he had seen. He was conscious of his
eyes, his patience, as he described the landfall.
All he said was,
‘Well done.’
Egmont said loudly,
‘I’ll note it in the log, sir.’
Bolitho said, ‘The
lookout, Keveth. He sighted it first,
sir. Without a glass!’
Verling glanced at
both of them, as usual missing nothing.
‘A good hand, that
one. A fair shot, too, when given the chance.’ The hint of a smile.
‘And should be. He was a poacher before he signed up with a
recruiting party. One jump ahead of the hangman, I shouldn’t
wonder.’
‘Deck there!’ It was the masthead again. The
poacher. ‘Wreckage ahead, larboard
bow!’
Verling did not
hesitate. As if he had been expecting it; as if he
knew.
‘Stand by to lower a
boat. Two leadsmen in the chains.’ His hand shot out. ‘Good ones,
Tinker. This is no coastline for chances.’
Egmont asked, ‘You
know Guernsey, sir?’
‘I’ve sailed close by
before.’ He was looking toward the land, which was still invisible.
‘It was enough.’
He walked to the
hatch. ‘Wreckage. Wind and tide make their own landfalls, for
us, eh?’
Dancer commented
softly, ‘My God, he keeps a cool head!’ He clasped Bolitho’s arm.
‘Like another ancient mariner not a cable’s length
away!’
It seemed to take an
age for the drifting fragments of wreckage to become clearly
visible, more scattered, and reaching out on either bow. There was
absolute silence now, the seamen very aware of their kinship with
these pathetic remnants which had once been a living
vessel.
Verling was on deck
again, and stood with his arms folded, watching the sea, and the
strengthening blur of land which had almost been
forgotten.
Hotspur had shortened sail once more, so that her
shipboard sounds in the silence added to the atmosphere of
uneasiness, with the creak and clatter of loose rigging, and the
groan of the rudder and yoke-lines as the helmsmen fought to
maintain steerage way.
Verling said, ‘I
think both boats will be necessary. It will save time. Not that
there is much to see.’ He was thinking aloud, as if questioning
each thought as it came to him.
Even Tinker’s voice
seemed subdued as he watched the first boat being hoisted and swung
above and over the gunwale.
Verling said, ‘You
leave now, Mr. Egmont. See what you can discover. Small craft, I’d
say.’
Egmont leaned over
the side as some larger fragments of timber bumped against
Hotspur’s side.
Bolitho felt a chill
run through him. It was, or had been, a cutter as far as he could
tell. Like Avenger . . .
There was part of a mast now, and torn sail dragging
half-submerged, like a shroud.
The first boat was
pulling away, with Egmont in the bows, leaning over to signal his
intentions to his coxswain.
Verling called, ‘Now
you, Bolitho.’ He had his glass up to his eye again, but trained on
the spur of land, not the splintered remains drifting below him.
‘Take Sewell with you. Stay up to wind’rd if you can.’
He felt as if he were
being cut off, abandoned, once the boat was in the water and the
headrope cast off.
‘Easy, lads, keep it
steady!’ He had taken the tiller himself and waited for the oars to
pick up the stroke, each man feeling the mood of the sea, trying
not to watch the schooner as she fell further and further
astern.
At least the wind had
eased. Bolitho felt the salt spray on his mouth and soaking into
his shoulders. Sewell was crouched down beside him, his back half
turned; impossible to see or know what he was thinking. Hard to
believe that the confrontation in the cabin had ever happened. Only
this was real.
He winced as the boat
dipped steeply and more spray burst from the oars. This was no
cutter or gig built for the open sea.
‘There!’ Sewell’s arm shot out. ‘Oh, God, it’s one
of them!’
Bolitho stood up,
holding fast to the tiller-bar to keep his balance.
‘Bowman! Use your
hook!’
The seaman had boated
his oar and was poised in the blunt bows like a harpoonist as more
wreckage surged above a trough.
‘Oars! Fend off, lads!’
It was as if a
complete section of the wreck had risen suddenly and violently from
the depths, like some act of retribution or spite.
An oar blade
splintered and the seaman pitched across his thwart, the broken
loom still grasped in his fists. Surprisingly, nobody shouted or
showed any sign of fear. It was too swift, too stark. Not just one
corpse, but five or six, tangled together in a mesh of torn canvas
and broken planking.
It lasted only a few
seconds, before the corpses and their tangled prison rolled over
and dipped beneath the sea.
Only seconds, but as
they fought to bring the boat under command again, the grim picture
remained. Staring eyes, bared teeth, gaping wounds, black in the
hard light. And the stench of gunpowder. Like the splinters and the
burns: they had been fired upon at point-blank range.
Bolitho tugged at the
tiller-bar. ‘Back water, starboard!’ He felt the sea sluicing
around his legs, as if the boat had been swamped and was going
down.
He heard Sewell yell,
‘More wreckage!’ He was clambering over the struggling oarsmen,
thrusting his legs over the side to fend off another piece of
broken timber. Then he must have lost his footing, and slithered
bodily over the gunwale, his face contorted with pain.
The seaman who had
been in the bows flung himself over the thwart and seized his arm,
just as Bolitho managed to bring the boat under
control.
Nobody spoke; nothing
mattered but the slow, steady splash of oars as they regained the
stroke and gave all their strength to the fight. Only then did they
turn and peer at each other, more gasps than grins, but with the
recognition that, this time, they had won.
Bolitho eased the
tiller very slowly, feeling the effort of each stroke, knowing they
were in control.
Sewell lay in the
sternsheets, the trapped water surging across his legs, his lip
bleeding where he had bitten through it. Bolitho reached down and
wrenched open his coat. His breeches were torn; it must have
happened when he had used both legs to kick off that last piece of
wreckage. But for his prompt action, the boat might have
foundered.
There was blood, too,
a lot of it. He could feel the torn skin, the muscle under his
fingers clenched against the pain.
He exclaimed, ‘You
mad little bugger!’
Pain, shock, and the
bitter cold; Sewell was barely able to form the words.
‘I was
drowning . . . I couldn’t h-hold on. My
fault. . . .’
He cried out as
Bolitho knotted a piece of wet rag around his leg, the blood
strangely vivid in the grey light.
Bolitho pulled some
canvas across his body and shouted, ‘You saved the boat! Did you
think we’d just leave you?’ He was
gripping his shoulder now, as if to force him to
understand.
‘I just wanted
to. . . .’ He fainted.
Bolitho swung the
tiller-bar against his ribs until the impact steadied
him.
‘Enough, lads! Give
way, together!’
The boat lifted and
swayed as the blades brought her under command again. Bolitho clung
to Sewell’s sodden coat to ease the shock of each sudden
plunge.
He heard himself
gasp, ‘I know what you wanted! I’ll
remind you when we get back on board!’
Someone yelled,
‘’Ere’s ’Otspur, sir! Larboard
beam!’
Bolitho wiped his
streaming face with his wrist, his eyes raw with salt. A blurred
shape, like a sketch on a slate. Unreal. He tugged at Sewell’s coat
and gasped, ‘See? We found her!’
The rest was a
confused daze, the schooner’s shining side rising over them like a
breakwater, muffled shouts, and figures leaping down to take the
strain and fasten the tackles for hoisting the boat into what
suddenly seemed a stable and secure haven. He felt a fist thumping
his shoulder, heard Tinker’s familiar, harsh voice.
‘Well done, me boy!’
Another thump. ‘Bloody well done!’
Then, almost choking
over a swallow of raw spirit. Rum, cognac; it could have been
anything. But it was working. He could feel every scrape and
bruise, but his mind was clearing, like a mist lifting from the
sea.
And Verling. Calm,
level, a little less patient now.
‘What did you
find?’
It was all suddenly
very sharp. Brutal . . . Like the end of a
nightmare. Even the sounds of sea and wind seemed muffled. The ship
holding her breath.
‘They were all dead,
sir. Killed. Point-blank range.’ Like listening to somebody else,
the voice flat and contained. ‘No chance. Taken by surprise, you
see.’ He could see their faces, the savage wounds and staring eyes.
Not a drawn blade or weapon in sight. Cut
down. ‘Grape and canister.’ He broke off, coughing, and a
hand held a cloth to his mouth. Only a piece of rag, but it seemed
strangely warm. Safe.
He knew it was
Dancer.
Verling again.
‘Anything more?’
Bolitho licked his
raw lips. He said, ‘There were two officers. I saw their clothes.’
The image was fading. ‘Their buttons. Officers.’
Verling said, ‘Take
him below.’ His hand touched Bolitho’s arm briefly. ‘You behaved
well. Anything else that comes back to
you. . . .’
He was already
turning away, his mind grappling with other questions. Bolitho
struggled to sit up.
‘Sewell saved the
boat, sir. He might have been killed.’
Verling had stopped
and was staring down at him, his face in shadow against the
fast-moving clouds. ‘You did nothing,
of course.’ Somebody even laughed.
Bolitho was on his
feet now. He could feel the deck. Alive again. He should be
shivering. Holding on. He was neither.
Dancer was saying,
‘When I saw the boat, I thought. . . .’ He did not
continue. Could not.
Bolitho held on to a
backstay and looked at the sea. A deep swell, unbroken now but for
a few white horses. No wreckage; not even a splinter to betray what
had happened.
And the dark wedge of
land, no nearer, or so it seemed. And yet it reached out on either
bow, lifting and falling against Hotspur’s standing and running rigging, as if it,
and not the schooner, was moving.
Dancer said, ‘Young
Sewell seems to be holding out well. I heard the lads say you saved
his skin, or most of it. He’ll never forget this day, I’ll wager!’
He added bitterly, ‘Of course, Egmont’s boat found
nothing!’
They were standing in
the cabin space, although Bolitho could not recall descending the
ladder. Here the ship noises were louder, closer. Creaks and
rattles, the sigh of the sea against the hull.
Bolitho turned and
stared at his friend, seeing him as if for the first time since he
had been hauled aboard.
‘We might never have
known, but for the gunfire. It was the merest chance.’ He held up
his arm and saw that the sleeve was torn from wrist to elbow. He
had felt nothing. ‘We can’t simply sail past and forget it, as if
nothing has happened!’
Dancer shook his
head. ‘It’s up to the first lieutenant, Dick. I was watching him
just now. He’ll not turn his back on it.’ He regarded him grimly.
‘He can’t. Even if he wanted to.’
Someone called his
name, and he said, ‘We’ll soon know. I’m just thankful you’re still
in one piece.’ He was trying to smile, but it eluded him. Instead,
he lightly punched the torn sleeve. ‘Young Andy Sewell has you to
look up to now!’
He swung away to find
out who had called him. ‘That makes two of us!’
Bolitho stood by the
cabin door, and tried to calm his thoughts, put them in order.
Fear, anger, relief. And something else. It was pride.
‘Ah, here you are,
sir!’ It was Tinker, almost filling the
space. He had a cutlass under one arm, and was holding out a
slim-bladed hanger with his other hand. ‘More to your fancy, I
thought.’ He was grinning, although watching him keenly. ‘Mister
Verling’s orders. Seems we’re goin’ after the
bastards!’
Who? Where? With
what? It had never been in doubt.
Feet thumped overhead
and Bolitho heard the impatient squeal of blocks, the flap and bang
of canvas free in the wind. Hotspur was
under way once more.
Verling’s decision,
right or wrong. For him, there was no choice.
Tinker nodded slowly,
as if reading his thoughts. ‘Are ye ready?’
Bolitho could hear
Verling’s voice, Egmont’s too. But he was thinking of the staring,
dead faces in the water.
He fastened the belt
at the waist and allowed the hanger to fall against his
thigh.
Tomorrow’s enemy. He said, ‘Aye. So be
it.’