The Scent of Betrayal (3 page)

‘After you, friend.’

Harry hoped he didn’t look as bad as Nathan Caufield. The American’s lips were like scarlet slashes on his chalk-white face. The eyes, under his pale lashes, had a distant quality, seeming not to focus on anything.

‘I won’t ask you how you feel.’

‘Death can’t be worse.’

‘It could be that you’re about to find out,’ said Harry, standing upright and pointing towards the entrance.
Marianne
’s upper masts were clearly visible now, with the Tricolour flag streaming back from the mizzen. Caufield blinked once or twice, his fuddled brain trying to make sense of what he saw. ‘I’ve no time for the finer details of our predicament. What I need to know is the soundings around the eastern arm of the harbour.’

‘Deep water right up to twenty feet off the shore,’ he replied, without hesitation. ‘I’ve bumped the odd rock as I drifted but never sustained damage.’

‘Do you feel up to conning the ship?’

Caufield nodded towards the French battle-flag. ‘Do I have a choice?’

‘You do. Both you and your son, being Americans, have nothing to fear from the French. You may take any boat you wish and row ashore.’

Caufield didn’t reply. He merely turned away and headed to join his son. Relieved of the need to steer, Harry gave orders to
break out more canvas then went forward to direct the men in the bows. The cook, Willerby, his wooden leg tapping on the planking, came striding up to him with a steaming pewter tankard in his hand. As he reached his Captain he thrust it forward.

‘Fire’s a-lit, your honour, but it’ll be an age before my coppers get hot. I did this over a spirit stove.’

‘What is it?’ asked Harry, taking the tankard. The smell that emanated from the top produced a renewed feeling of nausea in his stomach.

‘There’s two things as regards that there mixture, Capt’n,’ said the cook, looking him straight in the eye. ‘One is that knowing what’s in it will do you no good, while sticking it down your hatch in one go will.’

Harry tried to give it back to him, looking aloft to see how the men were faring. But Willerby wasn’t to be put off by authority or procrastination. He pushed the tankard hard towards his Captain.

‘I’ve been at sea since before you was breached, your honour. An’ that is a brew that was given to me by the greatest man with the bottle I ever knew. An’ he had more sense than to argue with a cook when his head was sore.’

Harry looked at him as hard as he could, but he was not to be deflected. He just pushed the tankard against Harry’s chest. There was no time to argue: Willerby was in what every member of the crew would have recognised as his paternal state. So he did as he was ordered. Whatever the old man had put in the tankard was foul, and halfway down he gagged, nearly spewing it back onto the deck. But somehow he managed to swallow it, his face reddening from the effort.

‘Damn it, Willerby, what was in there? Not even Macbeth’s witches could come up with something as bad as that.’

Willerby took the tankard as he turned to stomp away. ‘As I say, your honour, best you don’t know. Though I will own there’s a lot of neat rum. Nothing like the dog’s breath to cure a sore head.’

THE SITUATION
at the mouth was deteriorating rapidly as
Bucephalas
crawled across the harbour. All the efforts at disentangling produced more chaos rather than less. Merchant ships lacked the men to cut the skein of tangled cordage as well as push against the run of the tide and their fellows, to be far enough away for their sails to draw. Beyond that mass of hulls, masts, and ropes, Harry saw that one ship’s master who’d reached the exit first had got clear and was heading south. He called aloft to ask if he was being pursued, only to be answered with a resounding no. That momentary pleasure was soon dashed as the lookout informed him two small brigs, both showing French colours, were approaching from the east. Despite everything which needed to be organised on deck, that called for his undivided attention. He was halfway up the shrouds before he realised that his stomach had settled and his head had cleared. Whatever Willerby had put in that drink was doing the trick. A glance over his shoulder showed the cook, belligerently pushing forward on his wooden leg, forcing another tankard into Captain Caufield’s chest. It was received with similar reluctance, making Harry laugh out loud and adding vigour to his climb. Unbeknown to him his reaction aided his crew. If their Captain was laughing now, instead of being glum like he had since coming aboard, then things might not be as serious as they’d supposed.

Once aloft and settled, it was immediately obvious that exactly the opposite was true. Very likely the two brigs coming in from the east had not met their proper rendezvous. Surely they should have been off the harbour mouth, ready to enforce a blockade at
first light, so ensuring that no ship could escape? It was small comfort that they’d failed, since their presence complicated Harry’s slim hope of evading capture: they sat right across the course he’d intended to adopt. Fully armed he might have brushed them aside, the mere threat of his cannons enough to cause them to sheer off; without anything but a pair of signal guns he was toothless. But pressing as that problem was, it would have to wait. Looking down into the clear blue water beneath the keel he could see, by the change of colour, how rapidly the bottom was shelving. Ahead Pender was casting the lead, calling off the soundings in a loud hail. Four men manned the oars, while the remainder sat amidships, muskets at the ready.

He called out suddenly for them to open fire. They couldn’t see from their waterline position, but as Harry had feared, the crew of the nearest merchantman finally untangling their rigging, were poling off from the others. He could still get through the narrowing gap, but if they spun their yards to take the wind they would certainly foul his own. At the crash of the barge crew’s muskets the armed men in the bows did likewise, and their fire, aimed from their higher elevation, had a greater effect. But it was the swivel gun that really made the merchant sailors desist. Loaded with grape, a gun of that calibre posed little serious threat, but the small balls, whistling over their heads, must have sounded like mortal danger. The Captain, who’d been directing their operations, and who’d turned to shake a fist at the fusillade of muskets, threw himself to the deck, cowering behind the wheel. His men dropped their poles and headed for the nearest companionway. The ship, freed from the pressure of their efforts, began to drift back into contact with her neighbour.
Bucephalas
, steadily gaining speed, was now committed to the space that left. Pender realised that given her pace the time for soundings was past. In fact he was in some danger of being overhauled and driven under. He dropped his leadline and ordered the firing party to put aside their muskets and join the remainder in rowing. In dead calm water, sheltered by the nearby shore, the barge shot forward and was swiftly out of danger.

The water beneath
Bucephalas
was no longer even pale blue. The colour of the sandy bottom had turned it to something approaching milk. Fronds of weed bent and twisted in the current, occasionally revealing the black jagged shape of a rock. Others, even larger where the undersea vegetation was thicker, would remain hidden from view. Whatever Caufield said about deep soundings, this was going to require a degree of good fortune. A ship drifting sedately into this part of the harbour stood in little danger of damage, but that did not apply to one running at speed.
Bucephalas
was barely making three knots, but that was enough to rip her bottom out if she made contact.

The bowsprit inched over a particularly dense patch of greenery. Harry, counting off the seconds till the deepest part of his keel made contact, was suddenly aware that he was holding his breath. It seemed like an eternity as all other sounds around him faded. His heart nearly stopped as the topmast swayed forward, until he realised that it was merely the effect of the thick weed slowing the ship, something barely noticeable on deck but very exaggerated aloft. Lifting his eyes he saw another patch dead ahead, and for reasons that added up to nothing but guesswork, called down to Caufield to change course slightly to avoid it. This took him too close to the other vessels and forced the men below to haul the yards round so that they lay nearly fore and aft. The pressure of the wind pushed
Bucephalas
over and she juddered as her bulwarks grazed into the side planking of a merchantman.

Here the fenders proved their worth, even if they were ripped off by the pressure of the rough wood as his men fought to pole their way past. On the merchantman’s deck every member of the crew was shouting imprecations and abuse in a language he couldn’t understand. He would have paid them no heed even if they’d cursed him in English. All his attention was directed to those using the capstan bars, calling orders to pole hard and create a thin strip of blue water between the ships so he could trim his sails to take a bit of wind. That and the efforts of the men fending them along the merchantman’s side finally pushed them past its high forecastle. The sight of the empty outer roadstead spurred them to
even greater efforts.
Bucephalas
rose, then dipped forward as she breasted the first gentle wave, telling Harry that they’d cleared their first hurdle. The sandy bottom receded and now the bowsprit swayed over a mass of deep blue water. Within half a minute they were clear and Harry turned his attention to the next problem.

There was no time for a leisurely examination. He’d never stay out of range of Villemin’s guns with what he had aloft, so thirty seconds were allotted to an impression of the two brigs’ sailing qualities. A sudden deep thud made him look down in alarm, but it was only Pender, who’d brought the barge alongside. Hooked onto the chains, he’d allowed the sea to swing his boat into the ship, yelling all the while to those on deck. Lines were thrown over the side, one to lash the boat, others to provide an escape for the barge crew. Once the men were clear it was eased towards the stern till it spun into position just ahead of the other boats. All this took place while Harry slid to the deck. He landed, this time steadily, on the piled canvas that had been fetched out of the hold, some of it already being bent onto the lines that would carry it aloft. His brother’s head appeared just above the companionway and he shouted to tell him that all the guns were in slings, ready to be hauled up when he needed them. Harry waved in reply, with a pleasure that was pure fiction. He still needed all the pulling power at his disposal to get his sails aloft. There would be none to spare for guns.

As soon as he approached Caufield surrendered the wheel. Pender, back aboard, took station behind him. The feel of the ship in his hands, the way she responded to every move he made, a sensation he’d not had in weeks, restored some measure of confidence. But it was short lived as the myriad difficulties reasserted their dominance on his thinking. He must bear up into the wind. But there was little point in doing that without the canvas that would carry him out of danger. Sailing large he could set it with greater ease, but such a course took him straight towards the guns of the
Marianne
. Having spent so long ashore, his crew were not as sharp as they’d been when continuously at sea, which meant
an added risk in the loss of valuable seconds. The Frenchmen could not be used as extra hands: on this unfamiliar deck, working alongside men whom they could neither understand nor blend with, they were a liability. They would only be a help if it came to hand-to-hand combat. Suddenly he turned to look at Pender. The sight of his servant made him smile, a gesture which was returned in full measure. It was partly Harry’s natural optimism, partly the continuing effects of Willerby’s potion, that kept his spirits buoyed. But it was also necessary to look confident, to reassure his men that all was well. He knew in his heart that they were in desperate straits, but he also felt that if any vessel, and any crew, had the sailing qualities to get him out of it, he had them under his direct control.

‘Pender, get round the men. Tell them we’ll be taken if one of them fails to perform to the very best of his ability. Ask my brother to put his Frenchmen as extra hands on the upper deck capstan to get the topgallant yards aloft.’ Willerby’s observation about the beneficial effects of the dog’s breath came into his mind and he added, ‘And if you think a tot of rum will help either party, then dish it up.’

Pender needed no second bidding. With a proper sense of priorities he went straight below to fetch a barrel of rum. He knew the men didn’t need encouragement. A drink would do them much more good, with the same probably true of the bearer himself. Not that Harry intended leaving them much time to consume it. Hungover they might be, but these men knew their place in the scheme of things and they concentrated hard on the tasks they had to perform. Not one raised so much as an eye to look at the frigate ahead, now swinging round to present her broadside. Harry wondered what would be going through Villemin’s mind. No doubt, seeing the nature of the trap his enemy was heading into, he’d be a happy man, finally in a position to exact the full price for his previous failures. As an added bonus, this would occur in full view of the rest of his countrymen.

Hugues’s fleet at least represented no danger. The close order
had been abandoned, but none had made enough headway to interpose itself into the coming engagement, and with his men now fully occupied, Harry had a few moments of relative peace to seek some way of confounding the Frenchman. He couldn’t manoeuvre, nor could he reply to any cannon fire. Villemin would have a telescope to his eye, and would, at least, be well aware of part of Harry’s predicament: the need to get canvas aloft with maximum speed. There was little doubt that he expected to trade broadsides. He’d already swung round, so that he could bring all his guns to bear on
Bucephalas
. Yet that was only one side of the damnable equation. Even if Harry could escape that trap, there were those two brigs waiting across his path, their sole task being to slow him down. Even if they achieved only partial success the
Marianne
would have all the time in the world to come up in his wake and close the trap. Once Villemin was within close range nothing could stop him from taking the ship and its crew as a prize.

His eyes, ranging along the deck, took in Matthew Caufield and his father, standing by the bulwarks, their eyes fixed on the rapidly approaching frigate. But they also took in the fixed carriages which normally held his carronades in place. Bolted to the deck, they had runners that allowed the guns to recoil, rather than the normal breechings. Carronades, short-barrelled cannon that fired a huge ball, were called smashers because of the effect they had on an enemy hull, but they were useless at long range. The relative positions of the French ships barred his preferred method of confounding the enemy, by doing the unexpected, and heading right into the arc of Villemin’s fire he knew that something must be done about guns, even if the sight of them being rigged only served to cheer his men. A glance aloft showed him that though rapid progress was being made, he could not escape one or two broadsides. But assuming nothing vital was wounded he should then be able to bear up into the wind and use his superior sailing ability to put some distance between them.

That would very quickly bring him into contact with the two
brigs, an altogether different problem. They couldn’t know he was unarmed, and that alone, if he manoeuvred aggressively, would induce caution, especially if they’d exchanged any information with the Mariannes. They must have discussed the previous battle with either Villemin or his officers, giving them a very clear idea of the accuracy, and power, of their opponent’s gunnery.
Marianne
had felt the effect of the carronades when Harry had removed great chunks of Villemin’s bulwarks in mid-Atlantic, and aimed at the hull of a smaller ship they would do correspondingly more damage. Yet time was against him still. There was not enough of it to arm more than one side of the ship. Even that might prove impossible and it certainly wasn’t a task he could entrust to his brother.

Pender was back on deck, dishing out his tots, and Harry called for him, as well as both the Caufields, to join him by the wheel. Once they’d assembled, he explained what he wanted.

‘Do you really think that will do any good?’ asked Matthew, glumly.

‘All I know is that it will do no harm,’ replied Harry sharply. ‘If it makes just one of them sheer off a trifle …’

The boom of the
Marianne
’s guns killed the rest of his sentence. Great founts of water shot up, well forward of the starboard fore-chains, which seemed to indicate that the enemy had fired at too great a range.

‘That was a wasted shot,’ said Matthew, aiming a rude gesture in the Frenchmen’s direction.

‘Don’t underestimate him. That was deliberate, a mere warning, an invitation to strike.’

‘Guess he would rather take us in one piece if he can,’ added Matthew’s father.

Caufield senior gave Harry a look that said, quite plainly, that if no one else on deck had the sense to see how bad things were, he certainly did. But whatever thoughts he had he kept to himself. The calls from aloft, telling the Captain that his sails were ready, began to float down, first from the foremast, then from the
main. Looking up to check Harry saw the pennant which identified him as a British letter of marque.