The Patriot's Fate (26 page)

“I see.” That was also good. He regarded the man; English by the sound of him, and yet clearly comfortable and respected in the town, and still carrying out a responsible position of authority, whereas Monroe had needed to flee in fear of his life. Perhaps if there had been more Fosters and less Monroes they might not be in such a situation.

“Very well, Mr Foster; I can only thank you and, if there is nothing we can do to assist, we shall also be on our way.”

“I’m glad to see that you at least will be in a different state to friend Napper Tandy, captain.”

“How is that, sir?”

“He had need to be carried to his ship. Drunk as a lord, he was,” Foster caught the eye of Monroe and his expression deepened. “Or should I say, drunk as a judge?”

* * *

The promised storm lasted all of three days but was less severe than the one that had taken their topmast. It also delivered a rare piece of good luck, something the French fleet had barely encountered on their mission so far. At dawn on the first peaceful morning, Crowley, Doyle and MacArthur were aloft inspecting the jury rig when the French lookout reported a clear horizon, and realisation slowly dawned on them all that the British had actually gone.

MacArthur shook his head and continued to scan the empty horizon, unable to believe what his eyes told him, while below the news was received with excited chattering by the rest of the men. But Crowley was silent; his attention remained totally set on the topmast fixings and he showed no visible sign of any emotion. The shadowing force might have left, and they were certainly free to continue for Ireland without hindrance, but strangely the good news came as no great surprise to him.
 

For most of his life Crowley had harboured the feeling that his path was somehow destined. No matter what the difficulty, he always seemed to be saved at the last moment. When the frigate he had been travelling in was taken on the last expedition it had looked like disaster, yet that was how he first met with King, and the others from
Pandora
. During both Camperdown and St Vincent he had remained safe while so many fell beside him. And in small matters, like his release from the press, and escaping the British when entering Brest; even with the recent incident of the falling topmast: he always managed to survive pretty much unharmed. In fact, good fortune had been such a close companion he was beginning to accept it with quiet grace. Were he a religious man he might even consider the possibility of a guardian angel, but Crowley was always quick to deny such superstitious nonsense and would never have lowered himself sufficiently to admit so much as a latent belief in any higher being.

Still the thought stayed with him, and actually gave a degree of reassurance in the present circumstances. It may even have helped him draw near to a decision that had been slowly forming for some time. In fact he was considering the matter at that moment, quietly contemplating the possible options while his two friends celebrated the current news with rather more volume.

“It would have been the second day,” Doyle said, still staring out and grinning wildly. “We saw that frigate lose her rig.”

“Aye,” MacArthur agreed. “Belike the others stayed to assist, and we’ve outrun them all!”

It was certainly a viable theory, but Crowley did not feel the need to speculate further.

“That means we have them at our stern,” Doyle clearly lacked any of Crowley’s reticence. “And there is nothing between us and
Hibernia
.”
 

“Nothing between us and Ireland,” MacArthur said a little more more firmly; he for one wanted no confusion as to their destination.

“The British are gone!” Doyle said, almost to himself. “We’ll be landing before we knows it!”

Crowley supposed they would. Certainly without the shadowing frigates the chances of meeting up with a superior force were very much smaller. And with so many ships stuffed to the brim with soldiers, they would be delivering an army that must surely set the whole of Ireland ablaze. But Crowley could gather no great enthusiasm for the news; he was forming plans of his own, and ironically the incident of the affirmation had been the final spur.
 

It had not been anything as binding as an oath; that was a step he would never have taken. But even the declaration he had made, a statement given without any true commitment and backed by nothing more than the breath in his lungs, even that had been too much. He had publicly allied himself to a cause that he was steadily losing any regard for, and he knew that his involvement must come to an end without delay.
 

The whole escapade had been a mistake from the start, he could see that now. There was no blame to be placed: he was quite sure that, if faced with any of the individual steps once more, he would take them just as readily. The fact remained, however, that this was not where he wanted to be, and he felt he owed it to himself, and his previous good fortune, to get away as soon as a chance presented.

It must be during the landing. He had a rudimentary knowledge of the country, and would be a poor sort of seaman if he weren’t able to slip off during the confusion that was bound to accompany so many ships disembarking troops. Once free, once he had set a good few miles between himself and the invaders, he should find little difficulty in blending into the surrounding area. If he didn’t immediately find a home or employment, he was resourceful enough to live off the land, and it would only be a matter of time before peace, or stability of some variety, was restored. Then, if he chose, he could find his way back to England. England and even the new ship
Vernon
, and his friends, if he so wished. Or, he was philosophical enough to realise, he may find a life worthwhile where he was, and decide to stay; maybe that was his true destiny, and his association with the British had merely been just another rung on the ladder.
 

But of one thing he was absolutely certain; there was no place for him in an invasion army, and he was determined to see himself free of it at the first opportunity.

* * *

They had wasted enough time; Napper Tandy was said to be heading north: the Belfast squadron could be trusted to deal with him. That meant Banks could turn westwards and continue in his search for the French without further delay. The wind was light and in the northwest, and
Scylla
was close-hauled under topsails, royals, staysails and jibs as she butted her way through the Atlantic swell. Once again there was the scent of storm in the air, which combined with a feeling of expectation that filled the entire ship to make the atmosphere almost brittle with tension.
 

It was ten o’clock in the morning. King had passed the watch to Chilton some two hours ago and had just come back on deck after his breakfast nap when they heard the call. It came from the mainmast lookout, and was quickly confirmed and repeated by the man at the fore. Chilton sent Rose to advise the captain and rolled his eyes at King as they waited by the binnacle.

A small squadron: it could mean so many things. French warships, crammed full with soldiers and about to bear down on the nearby coast, or Warren’s fleet, desperately groping about in search of them. Or it might just be part of a homebound India convoy, or even a bunch of deep sea fishermen, and the lookouts were being a touch too spirited.

Banks appeared, bringing with him his customary air of calm and competence. “Where away, Mr Chilton?” he asked, checking the deck log to refresh himself on the ship’s movements.

“Off our starboard bow, sir.” Chilton replied. “West-nor-west. They have the wind.”

“Very good.” He glanced across at the midshipman. “Oblige me by joining the maintop lookout with the deck glass, Mr Rose.”

The lad touched his hat and was off for the starboard shrouds with one of
Scylla
‘s Dollonds slung over his shoulder. Banks turned back to Chilton. “How many ships?”

“Five, sir. Five sighted.”

“And heading eastwards?”

“Yes, sir.”

Banks thought for a spell, then opened his mouth to say more when he was interrupted by a call from the maintop.

“I can see topsails, and what looks like a further two, maybe three behind.”

“Colours?” Chilton asked.

“No, sir. No colours. They’re the right size for John Company, but the sails are far too white. An’ one looks to be a little larger an’ jury rigged.”

“Yes, she’s lost a topmast.” Rose’s voice rang out clear as a bell; he had done well to make the maintop in the time and was not in the least out of breath.

“Are you certain, Mr Rose?” Banks asked.

“Yes sir,” the lad replied. “Her main topmast is lower than her fore. She’s showing a heavily reefed topsail, and I’d say she were definitely bigger than the rest.”

“A line-of-battle ship?” Banks asked.

There was a moment’s delay; then Rose’s voice again, but this time a little less certain. “I cannot tell, sir.”
 

“Very good, Mr Rose; keep her in view.”
 

It would be incredibly difficult to be sure with the sighting still hull down and only her spars to judge by. And always better to be positive, rather than make a guess that was subsequently proved wrong. The mystery ships were sailing on what was near enough a converging course; they would know for certain in no time. The tension steadily mounted while they waited, and then dissolved entirely as Sarah came up on deck.

 
It was unusual for any of the passengers to appear quite that early, and even then they customarily used the quarterdeck steps, rather than the companionway next to the captain’s quarters. Chilton almost jumped at the sight and King was so surprised that he thrust his hands into his pockets, only to remove them again when he realised he had committed such a heinous crime. Banks touched his hat to her but made no further comment, although it was obvious to all that she had been alerted by the sighting, and had probably been taking morning coffee, or even a late breakfast in the great cabin when the word was received.
 

With the French landing having failed, and no sign of further dissent in the area, there was little need for the Monroes to stay in
Scylla,
and
everyone had expected them to be set ashore with no further ado. The magistrate was clearly an unpopular man in the town and feared for both his life and property, but the militia stationed nearby should have been sufficient to protect a local official, and his welfare was not exactly the concern of the Royal Navy. Consequently it came as a surprise, a shock almost, when only the two fishermen disembarked, and
Scylla
sailed out of the sound and passed Arranmore Island with the family still aboard.

Of course there was gossip and speculation on every level. Their evening conversations could never have gone unnoticed and even small instances like the gunroom cat being found in the great cabin had fuelled the scuttlebutt tremendously. In a wooden warship rumours could spread as easily as fire, and few were in any doubt that Sir Richard Banks had finally found himself a piece of soft. But even if they grinned and whispered there were none who blamed him. Sarah Monroe was certainly a prey worth the hunting; besides, the captain had been far more equable since they had met.

“Eight ships in sight now, sir.” Rose’s voice cut through, and all looked up to the masthead. “The jury rigged ship seems like a liner, an’ I’m pretty sure the first two are frigates. Their forecourses have a deep roach to them, an’ they are sitting right for a warship. Though I suppose they still could be Indiamen,” he added lamely.

Rose was not to be blamed. From a distance there was little to tell between a ship of the Honourable East India Company and a heavy frigate. Hull length and mast heights would be almost identical, and some merchants even took to disguising themselves with fake gunports and Royal Naval embellishments to make identification even more difficult. But a collection of John Company ships in convoy with a single ship-of-the-line was an unlikely combination. Warren’s squadron contained three line-of-battle ships, which would have been obvious by now, and it seemed increasingly likely that they were facing the French invasion force.

The ship’s bell rang: the forenoon watch was three quarters of the way through; it would be less than an hour before the hands took their midday grog, followed by the main meal of the day.

“Nine ships in sight now, sir.” Rose’s voice rang out again. “The last are single-deckers as well, I’d say eight frigates and a liner. There might be something beyond, and possibly a schooner or a brig, I cannot say.”

The French for certain. Banks looked about and caught King’s eye, as Caulfield appeared at the quarterdeck steps. “Gentlemen, we will keep them in sight for this watch. Take in the royals and allow them to gain on us; I intend to turn and take up their course when they are within six miles.” The assembled lieutenants absorbed his words with serious expressions. Their need to find Warren’s ships had grown considerably, although now they were effectively tied to the French. If necessary Banks would have to shadow their progress all the way to Ireland, unless of course he chose to abandon them in favour of raising the alarm on shore.