Almost a Scandal (25 page)

“Make your case to Mr. Charlton directly, Mr. Gamage. You’ll find him in the gunroom at this time of day.”

“Aye, sir.” Gamage did as Col bid, but still the man kept up that infernal glancing between Kent and Col, as if he had unanswered suspicions. Or maybe Gamage was the one who was jealous.

Col had no further time to contemplate such an unsettling notion, because young Worth clambered through the door. “Compliments of the deck, Mr. Colyear. If you please, you and Mr. Kent are wanted in the captain’s cabin as soon as may be.”

Col was thankful for the reprieve from his unsettled, inarticulate feelings, and doubly thankful that the summons would afford him more time in her company. “Thank you, Mr. Worth. Come along, Mr. Kent, and get your hat. It’s never good to keep your captain waiting.”

They parted company with Gamage at the gun deck, and found themselves not more than four minutes later seated in the captain’s dining cabin with Captain McAlden and Mr. Charlton, enjoying a dinner of ragout of pork with three removes of good vegetables, pureed potatoes, and cheeses. It was only after the plum duff and the loyal toast that Captain McAlden came to the business at hand.

“Mr. Colyear. I do believe the time has come for your shore sortie.”

“My sortie, sir?” Col felt he could hardly think for having been so extravagantly fed.

“I do acknowledge that it is not customary for the first lieutenant to leave the ship, but for what I have in mind, I need a man completely capable of making his own judgments and decisions—of acting independently. And that man, Mr. Colyear, would be you. It only remains for you to inure yourself to the idea of going ashore.”

Col had no trouble hearing the amusement in his captain’s voice. Captain McAlden knew Col had steadfastly avoided so much as setting a toe ashore since the last time he had landed at Gibraltar, nearly two years earlier. On that occasion, Col had found it so difficult to make his way upon the land without falling that an officer of the constabulary had proclaimed him drunk and clapped him in irons. Col had enjoyed neither the unsettling physical experience, nor the ignominy of being plagued with his supposed misdeeds ever since.

“Perhaps there is someone better suited than I. Mr. Horner—”

“—is young and capable,” the captain finished for him, “but I have another role in mind for him. Let me explain my motive, Mr. Colyear. You have done an admirable job as first lieutenant. Most commendable.
Audacious
has taken many prizes, in great part due to your skill managing the men.”

“Here, here,” said Mr. Charlton.

“But our very success is too much of a deterrent. With the French holed up like mice, safe in their ports, we have no chance to go at them with strength. Therefore, we must use cunning. We shall have to draw them out, by convincing them that their harbor is not the safe haven they have thought it. Blockade duty doesn’t give a man very many chances for advancement. However, if we—if you—can occasion the destruction of any number of ships in Brest’s harbor, well, that, Mr. Colyear, would be just the sort of thing their Lordships of the Admiralty like to have on a man’s record when they see about promotions and giving him a ship of his own.”

A ship of his own. Already the words were echoing and magnifying in his head. To have a ship to order as he pleased, to crew and staff with anyone he pleased … Col could hardly refuse such inducement, or such an assignment. To do so would be cowardly, as well as ungrateful. “You know I am completely at your disposal, sir, but Brest is nearly impregnable. From my memory, the approach through Le Goulet is exceedingly narrow, and subject to fire from shore. The roadstead is filled with enemy vessels. And the Fortress Brest itself is huge, heavily manned, and more heavily armed. You will forgive me, sir, for saying that to take
Audacious
in such waters would subject her to intolerable risk.”

“I salute your memory and your prudence, Mr. Colyear. You may rest easy. What I have in mind is nothing like the trickery employed by Captain Smith’s attempt to cozen the French. Nothing so foolhardy or overt. What I have in mind is vastly more subtle.”

“You intrigue me, sir.”

“Good.” The captain favored him with one of his tight, cool smiles. “I hoped I might.” He began to unroll the chart of the coast of Finistère handed to him by his clerk, Pike. “What I have in mind is a two-pronged attack. The secondary targets will be two or possibly three of these signal towers and batteries dotting the coast. The area to the northwest of Brest”—he pointed on the map—“is best.”

The coast of Britanny was dangerous—rocky and littered with ship-wrecking shoals. The thought of taking a frigate close enough to the coast to effect a landing made Col break out in a cold sweat. “These islands southeast of Ushant are dangerous, sir. Riddled with rocky shallows.”

“Yes, I know it of old. I sailed this coast with Captain Smith in ’95, and learned it well. The prevailing wind is from the southwest and will push us upon the shore if we are not careful. But we will be careful. We will cruise the approaches to Brest for a few days and make sure we have the feel of it before we attempt to land boats.”

Mr. Charlton was nodding along in sage agreement, but it was Kent who already had her fingers upon the chart, already poring over it, as if she were engraving the lines of the map upon her memory.

“I should like to maraud up and down this coast, making surprise attacks on as many of the coastal batteries as possible with landing parties, keeping the French engaged and drawing off troops and materiel, as well as attention, from Brest. Which will all be a diversion for you, Mr. Colyear, whom I will send on to Brest to make what mischief you can there.”

“Alone, sir?”

“Take one other man. Anything more and you risk detection. I should like Mr. Horner and Mr. Lawrence to lead the attacks on the batteries, so take a junior warrant officer, or one of the midshipmen.”

Col’s mind leapt at the chance. To have her alone … His heart rattled against the cage of his ribs, pounding his pulse into his ears.

There could only be one choice, but he spoke slowly, as if he were still reckoning it out. “Kent will do, sir. He speaks French. Do you not?” He turned to her.

“
Oui
, Monsieur Colyear,” she answered with the appropriate gravity. She didn’t show the slightest sign of being affected by runaway emotion. Unlike him.

“Excellent.” Captain McAlden confirmed the decision. “Mr. Kent it shall be. Let us assemble the others. Pike, pass the word for Lieutenants Horner and Lawrence, and Mr. Davies as well.”

The clerk went to the door to pass the word, while the captain called their attention back to the charts upon the table. “There are two batteries, here and here. As they keep a sharp lookout to sea, I should like to let off boats under cover of darkness, between these islands, and then make our way down the coast. If the ship is noticed at all it will be seen to be continuing down the coast. I should like there to be three parties. First, a party under Lieutenant Horner, and one of the gunner’s mates—whom do you suggest, Mr. Colyear?”

“Moffatt, sir. Reliable man. Steady.”

“Moffatt then—Mr. Pike, will you also pass word for the gunner’s mate Moffatt?—with Mr. Horner, will go to the more northerly tower and destroy, or at least attempt to destroy, it at the same time the party under Mr. Lawrence and Mr. Davies does the same to the southern tower. Both groups will escape back out to sea in boats, and rendezvous on the offshore side of this group of islands known as Les Mulots, here off Beniguet. We will repeat this on successive evenings, sailing up and down the coast and heading inshore only after nightfall, so the French will not know where we mean to strike next.”

“And me, sir?”

“You, Mr. Kent, will accompany Mr. Colyear. You will land with the others and then split off, and proceed directly into Brest. When the batteries on the coast are attacked, with luck, the French will be drawn out of the garrison at Brest, either by sea or across land—preferably both. And while they are drawn off, we will engage any that come by sea, while you will create some great mischief, to the port or the arsenal, or a ship—whatever seems best and most expedient. Anything that will disrupt their commerce and hinder their abilities. Any matériel we destroy cannot be put to use for invading England.”

“Any, sir?”

“You are to use your own judgment in the matter of how to best effect such disruption and destruction. The arsenal at Brest lies under the cliffs along the Penfeld River, extending for several miles upstream from the fortress. There are a number of possible targets. Take whatever opportunity best presents itself, but I want the port of Brest disrupted so there is the possibility they will be induced to put their fleet out.”

Col took a long time to look at the maps to impress the layout of the town and the location of the strong points that were sure to be guarded or fortified. Kent was looking, too, and when he met her eye, a full understanding of the magnitude of the task was reflected in her face. She looked, for the first time since she had come aboard, completely daunted.

It was going to be one hell of a job. “What about the fort itself?”

“I would caution against it. However impressive it might be, such a plan is not practical. Not to mention suicidal. The navy and I have need of all our best officers, Mr. Colyear, and I intend for this to be mischief only, to rattle the French into believing the supposedly impregnable harbor is not so safe, and they had perhaps better take their chances upon the open sea. But the fort itself is too well defended for two men to attack.”

“What about the Préfecture de Marine?” It was Kent, with her finger on a spot on the map of the city. “Is not the Préfecture de Marine for all of Finistère in Brest city?”

“How do you come by this information, Mr. Kent?”

“Pinky, sir. Angus Pinkerton, the cockpit servant, was on the
Danae,
wasn’t he? When the ship mutinied and was taken into Brest in the year 1800. And the loyal men were put up in the prison at the castle there. He knows the layout of the town.”

“Pinkerton is too old for a shore sortie,” Mr. Charlton opined.

“Undoubtedly, but the idea has merit. Mr. Kent, consult with Pinkerton, and get every ounce of useful information out of him before you go ashore.”

“Aye, sir.”

Captain McAlden sat back from the table. “Are we decided? Good. Let us set sail south to Brest.”

Three days of cruising as close inshore as possible, of habituating the islanders to their presence, and navigating the rocky coast and its hazards of small islands and tidal streams, left Captain McAlden confident of his intelligence. The batteries could be taken.

Three days of knowing soon, at any moment, the captain would give the order, and he would be put ashore with Kent. Three days of knowing she would be at his side, his to command, away from all oversight and censure. By that third day, Col thought the vein pounding in his temple would burst, and kill him dead upon the deck where he stood, waiting.

But finally, the night came. The captain chose a beach to the north of the village of Le Conquet because
Audacious
could hove to outside one of the small rocky islands offshore and put off the boats without having them seen from the shore.

Captain McAlden held the deck while the boats were lowered away on the offshore side of the Isle of Quéménès, so even if
Audacious’
s presence was noted, she might show the shore a clean pair of heels before darkness covered the boats’ approach. While the presence of an English ship off the coast would not arouse suspicion, for the blockade of France’s harbors had continued without interruption for several years now, longboats full of English sailors were sure to be met with both alarm and resistance.

The captain shook Col’s hand. “Godspeed, Mr. Colyear. Do your worst for the French and your best for England, and I shall be very well satisfied.”

And they were away.

It would be a long pull of over four miles into shore, threading their way through the rocky islands, staying in the lee of the Isle of Béniguet, until the tide ran high and could help push them the final two miles across to the mainland. They had decided upon three boats. The smallest one could be abandoned if necessary, or hidden along the shore and left as a fail-safe should any of the parties get separated and fail to make their rendezvous.

But he and Kent would be without any other support. It would be too far to come the ten miles back from Brest—a full day’s march back overland. As it was, Col was dreading marching so little as one mile. He had not made it one hundred feet off the quay in Gibraltar before the land had started to act strange and unwieldy underfoot. Their best escape would be by sea from the harbor of Brest. If he made it that far. He would have to trust in Providence to see him through.

The night was overcast, and the moonlight shone intermittently on the water. In the inky darkness, the boats moved as stealthily as gulls, winging their silent way across the water toward the low shore on muffled oars. For their landing, Col had chosen a remote promontory north of the village of Le Conquet where a small cove with a quiet sandy beach was hidden from the town by the low-cliffed headland.

Under Col’s authority, each of the lieutenants commanded a boat and held the stern tiller steering the boats shoreward. He had positioned Kent in the bow of his own boat, silently swinging the lead line, sounding the depth and searching the water ahead for obstacles. The prevailing winds held steady from the southwest and in a few hours’ time of silent exertion—there was never the least chatter from the boat crew as they bent themselves to the arduous task at hand—they made their way through the islands, around the promontory, and onto the beach.

Kent rolled over the gunwale and into the shallow surf like a seal pup, silent, intent, and eager. Any doubt he might have had at putting her name forward vanished as he watched her guide the boat in, hauling it silently upon the shore and into the scrub as if she did it every day.

And thank God. Thank God Kent was as bloody useful as a well-honed pocketknife, sharp and quick. No one else saw things with the same acuity as Kent. And spoke French. He needed her with him, because he wanted to succeed.