Turning the Stones (29 page)

Captain McDonagh has been partly obliging, but I see he is not sorry to put me off. My presence has been an inconvenience at best, requiring him to go on with his unlawful business under the nose of a stranger. Still, I wonder if he has managed to form enough sympathy for my plight to stretch out the help he has already given me. I am summoning up my courage to ask him a favour. I regard it as my last hope.

‘Captain McDonagh, may I speak with you?’

He glances at me without saying anything.

‘Sir, as you know, my aim has always been to reach France. I will tell you frankly that I am in danger of coming under arrest, and Galway—’

The captain takes a step towards me with such suddenness
I flinch. He leans to my ear and says forcefully, ‘A word of advice, Miss Smith. Don’t ever volunteer information that can be used against you. Only a fool does such a thing.’

‘Mayn’t I trust you?’

‘I know what you are after. You see that I engage in a little trade with France and it occurs to you that the
Seal
must be headed that way sooner or later. Why, you wonder, don’t I let you stay on board until we reach French waters.’

‘That is exactly it.’

‘I must disappoint you.’

‘You are unkind! How can you leave me behind to face mortal danger?’

‘Because you would have me grapple with your sentiments and in one way or another pay attention to you.’ He sees that I am about to protest and he cuts me off. ‘What am I doing now but contending with you? I have a ship to run and business to attend to. Any additional element endangers my very simple objective, which is to stay alive and to earn my coin. Yes, your fate is uncertain – but so is the fate of every man on the
Seal
. You are right, Miss Smith. I am unkind. I do not want to have to think about you.’

I am crushed by his blunt refusal.

‘Captain!’ The cry comes aloft from the masthead. ‘Sails astern!’

*

No wonder Terry Madden betrayed me. Doubtless he learned at his captain’s knee how to harden his heart. What an idiot I was to think that Captain McDonagh might be a decent man, even a rugged gallant.

I gaze with despair into the dingy evening light.

And gradually my eyes begin to pick out a vessel off our stern. It lies about a third of a league away. At that distance it looks as flimsy as a leaf blowing across a pond, but the sight of it spurs Captain McDonagh to action. He shouts at Mr Guttery to tack away at once to the west.

My pulse races with fear. I will never see anything come up behind us without thinking that it means to pounce on me.

The
Seal
trembles as she is brought across the wind. She leans into her new course with urgency and I find myself willing her on as if she were in need of self-belief. I grip again the mahogany binnacle for support. Upon my soul, this binnacle and I have forged a close connection, you must have noticed. I am reassured by its undulant yet dependable shape and by the firm base on which it rests. It does not mind to be imposed upon.

My eye swivels towards the vessel behind, heavily canvassed like the
Seal
 – and a cutter, surely, given its quick lines. Captain McDonagh orders a jib to be set at the masthead and the
Seal
’s hands spring to the complicated business of controlling the topsail’s lines. ‘Sheet it as hard as you can, Dubois,’ the captain roars. ‘Put some beef into it!’

In spite of her heavy cargo, the
Seal
fizzes along, pointing an eager bow high into the wind. But the cutter astern piles on the sail, too, and I see by the bulge of the mainsail that it has caught a favourable breeze. In fact, it seems to be gaining on us. Is that possible? We ought to have the advantage still. The
Seal
’s high jib is scooping wind out of the sky. And yet, we do not leap as sprightly as before. Our pursuer, on the other hand, is rushing at us with such speed it is not long before I am able to catch a glimpse of the crew.

They are specks of scarlet moving around on deck. I know what that means. I have seen those red shirts and the blue breeches that go with them on seamen at Parkgate. It is the livery of His Majesty’s revenue service.

I will the
Seal
to bear away. Away, away from the chasing men. But something ails the boat. Despite a large press of canvas, her tail drags in the water and we cannot get on. Captain McDonagh has already detected the lag, of course, and has called for the bilge man. Has the pump failed? There are men working it hard, but the way the
Seal
is flopping in the swell I fear the revenue cutter must overpower us.

The captain sends the bilge man below with a mechanic and then lifts his spy-glass once more. ‘Damn his eyes,’ he growls.

‘An old friend of ours, is it, Captain?’ Mr Guttery, who is at the helm, glances over his shoulder with a show of unconcern.

‘It’s the shape of the
Vindicator
, Mr Guttery, if I am not mistaken.’

Captain McDonagh lowers the glass and narrows his gaze at the western sky. Scowling clouds have assembled on the horizon around the embers of the day and the wind has grown blustery. There is a sharp, salty smell in the air. The captain shouts up at the masthead man to loosen the foresail and shake out the reefs.

The chasing cutter draws ever nearer.

All at once a derisory little noise like a fan being cracked open sounds from her port side and a puff of smoke blooms like the head of a dandelion. Something whistles overhead and clatters among our rigging. We are under fire.

‘Take cover below,’ Captain McDonagh shouts at me, ‘unless you want to be killed!’

A second volley whines across our foredeck and tears holes in the jib that Dubois is busy reefing.

I skitter down the companionway, more wary of the captain’s wrath than I am of the
Vindicator
’s iron shot, and crouch between the stove and the coal bunker. I sense the
Seal
continuing to double and tack. Every so often her timbers shudder at the impact of the
Vindicator
’s guns. She still feels sluggish, not at all like her usual racy self, and I can hear the gasping action of the valves in the bilge pump amid the tumult above. Jim is not at his post. He has gone aft where the mechanics are at work at the foot of a bulkhead.

A shot lands directly overhead, showering my head with dust and splinters. I scramble away from the debris, squeezing past the barrels and bales in the hold towards the forepeak, although there is no reason why it should be any safer there. In fact the movement of the boat is more tumultuous in the bows. I tip up and down as if on a rocking horse as the
Seal
shakes with each strike of the big waves and seems to reel.

By God, I believe she is listing. And what is that seeping across the floor?

‘Jim!’ I cry, retreating from the dark stain at my feet. ‘We are taking on water!’

‘A stop-water has rotted,’ he shouts. ‘It has let water in the hull and we cannot repair it on the run like this.’

‘Will the cutter take us? They are revenue men.’

‘So they are.’ Jim shrugs.

It had not occurred to me that Captain McDonagh might not carry the day. Am I to fall now with such ease into the
hands of the law? Damnation, but this life of mine is a cross-grained one!

Jim says, ‘Our master and the
Vindicator
have a history, they do. You can be sure that Captain McDonagh will parley to give himself up afore he loses the
Seal
 – and the
Vindicator
will be pleased enough to clap him in irons, in particular if it cause no risk to themselves. Lieutenant Blake may run a quick vessel but he don’t have the stomach for a stoush, not with the McDonagh, he don’t.’

Making an effort to suspend my anxiety, I hoist myself through the hatch. The decking has been peppered by shot – and the black-hulled
Vindicator
is standing off to starboard of the wallowing
Seal
.

Captain McDonagh salutes the revenue commander, who has struck a triumphant pose on his foredeck in a tight-wrapped blue coat. The revenue boat has lit its lanterns in the gloaming, which adds to its aura of celebration. Fearful of being seen, I observe from the shadows.

Captain McDonagh calls across the strait between the two vessels, ‘My compliments, Lieutenant. You see our vessel is in disorder.’ He makes a flourish with his hat. I notice then that the
Seal
’s crew are at their battle stations. Each of the swivels is manned and Mr Guttery and Mr Robinson have their pistols crooked in their arms. Jim was right. The captain is offering to surrender himself to the
Vindicator
’s commander in lieu of a fight. ‘Think on it,’ Captain McDonagh booms. ‘You may take the
Seal
, but not before we’ve blasted a good few holes in your vessel and your crew. Or I will come across now in my tender.’

The lieutenant shouts something in reply, but his words are
blown away by the wind and Captain McDonagh responds with a showy open-palmed shrug. Now the lieutenant confers with his first mate and they crane their heads at the sky. A great crowd of bleating seagulls is flying overhead, making for the coast, and the furious clouds have formed a thunderhead.

All at once, Captain McDonagh pulls me forward.

My alarm at being touched by him is confused with some other undefined feeling, that makes me grow turbulent – and I try to shake myself free. But he grips my arm more fiercely, and shouts, ‘Let me sweeten my offer with this little runaway! She has been up to no good, I warrant, and it will reflect well on you to bring her to justice!’

I gasp in amazement at this cruel and utterly unexpected betrayal.

‘What are you saying?’ I cry. It must be a ploy, surely. He of all people would not hand me to the custody of the preventives. But without a glance at me, although he holds me fast, the captain orders the
Seal
’s tender to be lowered. He bows in the direction of the
Vindicator
’s commander to acknowledge that the deal has de facto been struck.

‘The devil take you, you dog!’ I gasp, struggling violently, kicking and flailing, to get away. But his hand circles my wrist like an iron manacle.

Captain McDonagh lowers his head to mine and says in a hoarse voice, ‘I told you, I have not escaped the noose all these years by being a man of sentiment. I will do what I must to win through.’

‘Rot in hell, McDonagh!’ I shout.

Suddenly sheet lightning blanches the sky. Gulls shriek in panic and whirl in confused circles. The darkened air fills with
a ticking sound. It builds, tick-tick-tick, and erupts in a boneshaking crash of thunder.

Captain McDonagh turns to Mr Guttery, who has been watching us with his impassive stare, and says, ‘With luck on your side, you will manage to reach Inishmore, man. The preventives will want to run for shelter and will not send a prize-master after you.’

Then he chivvies me towards the rope ladder that has been hung from the gunwale.

I quail at the prospect of capture, yet where is there to go but down. I climb the rail and find a handhold on the swaying ladder and descend, my feet groping for a hold on the rungs, my silks waving madly in the gusts as if trying, uselessly, to signal for help. Below, the rowboat bounces up and down on its tether.

Captain McDonagh arrives close on my heels, and as he leans forward to set the oars in the rowlocks he looks into my face with a strange, frank expression and says, ‘Have no illusions. This is the villain I am.’

‘Yes,’ I hiss in anger, ‘I see who you are.’

The captain lays into the oars with a short, hard action, and away we go. I am angry, but more than that I feel forsaken. I watch the
Seal
begin to limp away and with it the possibility of some kind of freedom. I know myself at this moment to be completely alone in the world.

The
Vindicator
is near. Its lieutenant stands at the rail of the foredeck with a pistol in his hand, although the deteriorating weather, full of misty spray and imminent rain, must be a deterrent to his powder and to the ammunition of the guns trained on us.

We rise up and crash down uncomfortably in the choppy sea, but Captain McDonagh has a way of varying his stroke to get over the waves. Through a combination of pull and drift he brings us alongside the
Vindicator
. He ships the oars, and deckhands reach down with their grappling hooks and push our bow in against the hull. The lieutenant leans over to get a look at us. He has a screwed-up face and the darting ogle of a nervy man. As the rope ladder drops down from the cutter, he aims his pistol at Captain McDonagh – or alternately at the captain and at me, since the sea is tossing us around and the distance between the crests is becoming shorter. The wind clamours and complains, and the lieutenant twitches at the frequent streaks of lightning. As I begin my ascent, an almighty clap of thunder makes my ears ring. My skirts are fluttering so hard they sound as though they are beating a tattoo against the air, and I find it an effort to progress up the ladder. I tighten my grip on the ropes for fear of being thrown off into the sea, while thunder rolls in the sky and blue lightning flashes with fury.

Good God, what was
that
? The most awful crack of light and sound as though the gods had tossed a grenade at us from behind their black bastion of clouds. Has the boat been struck by lightning? Something has caused consternation on the deck of the
Vindicator
. Difficult to make out anything with my hair flying in my eyes and my petticoat threatening to tear itself to pieces in the gusts. I almost wonder if I might slide down the ladder and plead with the captain to take our chances in the rowboat. The thought is accompanied by a quick glance below. What is that shape in the gloom? It almost looks as though the captain has cast off. I twist around to get a better
look. Yes, he has! There is the tender on a crest, all whipped by spray and mist, and now it has sunk out of sight into a trough.

What a rotten deluder. What a cowardly cheat he is to leave me stuck on this punishment vessel. Damn him, by God!