Dead Reckoning (29 page)

“I confess, sir, that I have some sympathy with a crew which mutinied against Captain Railton. He could have driven them to it,” said Northmore. “From all I hear of him, he could make a ship a hell on earth.”

“If there was a mutiny caused by ill treatment,” replied Delancey, “the court martial will make every allowance for provocation and will reduce the men's sentences accordingly. We cannot try and acquit the men over the dinner table. Whatever the fate of the
Falcon
has been, my hope is that we can execute our orders quickly and sail at an early date for Europe. We have all been on this station quite long enough.”

Delancey had said what it was his duty to say but he thought afterwards that he had been talking nonsense. Nothing could
justify mutiny, he knew that, but how would he himself have fared under Railton's command? He hated to see men flogged and hated still more to be responsible for it, but what was it like to be the victim? And what would it be like to serve under a captain who might order anyone to be flogged at any time, perhaps for the smallest mistake, perhaps for nothing at all? He knew how that midshipman had felt and guessed that his own remedy would have been the same. He had also talked glibly about the justice to be expected from a court martial. But were courts martial as just as all that? And were they really merciful? The very word “mutiny” aroused a number of emotions including resentment and including fear.

In the last resort a court martial is not concerned with justice but with discipline. Confronted with members of a mutinous crew, the court assembled at Port Louis would wish, above all, to prevent their example having a bad effect on the squadron as a whole. Seamen must not be allowed to think that mutiny offered a neat solution to their present discontents. They must rather be shown that mutiny must always end with a noose at the yard-arm. There would be room for mercy, to be sure. Some men might be thought relatively innocent, having been misled by the ringleaders. For them there would be no death sentence but merely an award of five dozen lashes; an act of leniency for which they should be grateful. From Lord Neville's description he knew exactly what these men must have had to endure. Was he now to be the hangman at the end of the story?

Delancey might not enjoy the role of hangman but what was the alternative? If he failed to locate the
Falcon,
her crew would either turn to piracy or would starve to death. There was no future for them in the Seychelles. Nor would they survive long as pirates for the British squadron, however diminished, would
now have leisure to deal with them. Was there any way in which he could spare these men? And how, anyway, could that be done without the knowledge of his crew? If they were to know the true story (whatever it was) how could they be prevented from talking about it? And if it were known he would be lucky, he knew, to escape with a mere dismissal from the service. Nor, incidentally, did he like the idea of combing the islands for the missing sloop. These waters had never been charted and his frigate might easily end as a total loss, wrecked on some reef of which nobody had ever heard. He could, in theory, take a local pilot but was there one he could trust? The one known fact about the white population of Mahé was that they had mostly been convicts. He had learnt, however, not to worry too much about any problem which had not actually arisen. He might after all, find no trace of the
Falcon,
which could by now have sunk with all hands. He would deal with the situation when he knew what it was.

The only immediate decision he took was to enter the roadstead at Mahé under French colours. The
Minerve
was recognizably French, after all, even to the spelling of her name, which Delancey had not allowed Northmore to change. He could himself pass as a Frenchman and could hope, in that guise, to gain information which would be denied to a British officer. There should be no reason why French criminals should particularly want to conceal the whereabouts of a British sloop.

On a sultry morning, ten days later, the
Minerva
drifted rather than sailed into the anchorage off Mahé. There was scarcely a breath of wind and the frigate dropped anchor in water as still as a pond. Looking back from the boat in which he was being rowed ashore, Delancey could see his ship completely mirrored, even to the tricolour hanging limply at the mizen-peak. The
frigate lay at anchor in a roadstead protected by islands.

Mahé was nearly everywhere covered by coconut trees and tamarisks down to the water's edge. Inland there were forest-covered mountains rising to a peak of some considerable height. It was very hot and humid and quite silent except for the rhythmic splash of the dipping oar blades. A few bystanders stood listlessly near the landing place but more had preferred to lounge in the shade of the casuarina trees behind where the tricolour was hoisted over a hut rather larger than the others in sight. On the far side of the hut stood a saluting cannon, freshly painted black with the tompion fitted and a lead apron covering the touch-hole. There was a rudimentary boat pier made from lumps of coral and the cutter was brought alongside it. Followed by his only French-speaking seaman, a man called Jean-Pierre Cunat, Delancey stepped ashore and was greeted by a bearded islander called Hudelet who introduced himself as the resident magistrate and then presented his clerk, a half-caste called Larue. Delancey had not been able to improvise a French uniform but the heat of the day sufficiently accounted for him coming ashore in white shirt and trousers. His boat's crew, as informally clad, did not come ashore, the boat pulling out for some distance and dropping a grapnel. The seamen were seen to be fishing, which seemed to explain this manoeuvre. Further out a school of dolphins could be seen and flying fish, pursued by seabirds. Delancey was led to the palm-thatched hut under the flag, where he was politely offered bananas, jack fruit, and a glass of palm brandy. He and Hudelet talked at first about the weather which was, as they agreed, excessively fatiguing. Both were fluent in French but neither could be said to have a Parisian accent.

“It would not surprise me, Captain, if there were to be a hurricane.
This is the time of year for it and there is often, as they say, a calm before the storm.”

“Are hurricanes frequent, then?”

“No, they happen very rarely. Nor are we ever in the actual track of the hurricane. It is the fringe which we experience but that, believe me, is enough. You are fortunate to be in an anchorage that is fairly safe.”

“Now tell me the local news.”

“Nothing ever happens here, Captain. We have more geography than history. We hear news, however, of the Ile de France, news of the British being defeated in a naval battle. The Emperor will be very pleased!”

“Yes. I have just come from there. The British will talk less now about their plans to conquer the island. They have had a setback, there can be no doubt about that. We may even recover Bourbon from them. Tell me, however, you are often visited here by British ships; have you seen any lately?”

“No, Captain, not for many months.”

“To be quite frank, Monsieur Hudelet, we have heard of a British sloop being sighted near here and have been sent to look for her. Has she not been seen?”

“No, monsieur.”

“A pity. It may be, however, that you can help us in another way. I wonder whether you have here a trader of some enterprise, one who has been to sea, a man whose business extends to the other islands in the group, a man who makes money and might aspire perhaps to have a ship of his own?”

“I know the man you mean! Henri Flacourt! I am not surprised that you have heard of him. He is an active trader, known even in Port Louis. He has had his losses, you know, but so do
we all. Yes, he is ready to take risks, is Henri. He is here now but on the other side of the island at L'Esperance. He could be here tomorrow if you particularly wish to see him.”

“Well, yes, I could put some business in his way. I could do with fresh vegetables, chickens, eggs, and fruit.”

“All those I can supply myself, Captain.”

“Of course. But I should also like to meet Henri Flacourt. I should be most grateful if you would send for him.”

“Certainly, Captain, and with pleasure. Heaven knows, I do not seek to preserve a monopoly. Ask anyone and you will find that I am strictly fair and never use my official position to gain any mean advantage.”

“Your reputation is well known, monsieur,” replied Delancey with a slight bow, knowing that what he said was strictly true. “I look forward to seeing Monsieur Flacourt tomorrow.”

Taking his leave, Delancey did not suppose for a moment that any message would go to Flacourt. So he told his attendant seaman, Cunat, to send the same message by another route, giving the bearer a quite generous reward.

On the following day, which was equally hot and windless, Delancey had another interview with Hudelet, who was profuse in his apologies. His messenger had failed to find Monsieur Flacourt, who must be on one of the other islands—as indeed he often was. Flacourt, a short and stout man from St Malo with a Breton accent, appeared before Hudelet's explanation was even complete, and Delancey soon took him aside for a private conversation.

“I have been told, monsieur, that you know the Seychelles very well and are fully aware of all that happens anywhere in the group. Will you have patience if I put to you a purely imaginary case? Supposing—I say, supposing—that a British corvette
had put in, not at this island but at another island, her crew might well be short of food and as short again of money. Having spent what money they had, they would offer what else they have of value; a few muskets perhaps, a barrel of powder, even a six-pounder gun with the cipher on it of King George III. They might in the end have to sell the ship herself. All this would depend, however, on the British remaining ignorant of the ship's whereabouts. If her presence became known to the French, on the other hand, such a sloop would be compelled to surrender and her crew would all become prisoners-of-war. The profitable trade in cordage and cannon balls would be brought to an end. Do you follow me, Monsieur Flacourt?”

“Perfectly, Captain. If there were such a ship, her crew might well do as you say, and the arrival of a French frigate would be as inconvenient as you suggest.”

“Just so. Now it so happens that a French frigate
has
arrived, altering the whole situation. Now let us suppose that you monsieur, were a merchant who had done business with these poor seamen—we are still discussing a purely imaginary situation, remember, a mere fable from a storybook—you would be able to visit that sloop again and tell these men that they will have to surrender.”

“Were I such a merchant who had traded in that way I should indeed know where the sloop is and could deliver a message of that kind.”

“In that unlikely event, you would also know what end to the story would be happiest from your point of view. The last act of the drama should see the crew removed and the ship left where she is or at least wrecked in a position where she would not sink. All that might remain would belong, in effect, to you. You could become a rich man, Monsieur Flacourt.”

“You make me begin to wish that your fairy story were true. But it seems to me that a corvette such as you describe would already be damaged, unfit for sea and incapable of repair outside a dockyard.”

They had been pacing slowly in the shade of the tamarisk trees but Delancey paused at this moment and looked directly at Flacourt:

“I think we should begin to speak plainly, monsieur.”

“And why not? When Hudelet insisted on placing that gun near the flagstaff, all secrecy was at an end.”

“Do the British seamen realize that.”

“They are simple men and believe what I tell them. They imagine that they are outnumbered. Nor do they grasp that their presence here is known not merely to me but to every one on the island.”

“Will you take me to this corvette and allow me to speak with them?”

“Only after we have reached agreement about the corvette and her contents.”

There followed a long period of negotiation, interrupted only for dinner and ended only when the light began to fail. There were consultations among the islanders after that and they agreed, as Delancey afterwards learnt, that they would rather be rid of the
Falcon
's crew. Their presence was a danger in itself and a strain on the island's food supply. When Delancey came ashore next day Flacourt offered at once to take him to the
Falcon,
which was, he learnt, at Mamelle Island, a mere ten miles away.

“I see, Captain,” said Hudelet, “that you have sent down topmasts and have dropped a second anchor.”

“Yes, I feel, as you do, that this may be the calm before the
storm. I don't like the feel of the atmosphere. But this anchorage will be a good place in which to ride it out.”

“Yes, we have shelter here. Mamelle Island is a great deal more exposed. Flacourt tells me that he is going to take you there. I think we should be able to come to some arrangement.”

“A pity that there is no wind to take us there.”

“Flacourt's slaves will row you there in two hours.”

They took a little longer than that, the Negroes keeping time with a dismal African song and the beating of a small drum. It was a flat calm and the forested shores of Mahé slid by to port. Then Mamelle was sighted and near by a single lower mast showed where the
Falcon
had ended her last voyage. She was not beached on the island but aground on a reef some three hundred yards from the shore. It seemed that the ship was on an almost even keel and that the crew were still aboard. There was no sign of any camp on the island and a wisp of smoke suggested that the ship's galley fire was alight. Clothes lines strung across the waist and fishing lines festooned the forecastle. Little notice was taken of Flacourt's boat, which must have become a familiar sight. Delancey studied the ship's position and told Flacourt that it looked precarious.