Command a King's Ship (14 page)

Fowlar hissed, “Stand to, lads! Someone's a'comin'!”

Muskets moved blindly in the gloom, and a few men started to draw their cutlasses.

Soames snapped, “A scout!” He strode towards the shadow. “By God, Hodges, that was quickly done.”

The man stepped into the small clearing and looked at Bolitho.

“I found the ship, sir. She be about 'alf a mile away.” He stretched out one arm. “If we veers a piece we should be able to reach 'er within the hour.”

“What else?”

Hodges shrugged. He was a lean man, and Bolitho could well picture him as a wildfowler, creeping about in the Norfolk marshes.

He said, “I didn't stray too near, you'll understand, sir. But they're anchored close in. There's more of 'em ashore in a clearing. I 'eard someone,” he faltered, “sort of moanin'.” He shuddered. “It made me flesh tingle, I can tell you, sir.”

Soames said harshly, “As I thought. Bloody slavers. They'll have a camp ashore. They collect the poor devils and sort 'em into groups. Girls in one party, men in t'other. They weigh 'em, then decide who will last the voyage to wherever the cargo is bound.”

Fowlar spat on the dead leaves and nodded. “The rest they leave behind. Cut their throats to save powder and shot.”

Bolitho looked at the scout, trying to shut Fowlar's blunt comment from his thoughts. Everyone knew it happened. Nobody seemed to know how to deal with it. Especially when many influ- ential persons reaped a rich profit from the trade.

“Are there guards about?”

“I saw two, sir. But they seem well content. The ship 'as two guns run out.”

Soames grunted. “No doubt. A bellyful of grape or canister if anyone tries to free those bastards!”

The Spanish lieutenant moved amongst them. Despite the rough passage through the trees he managed to remain very el- egant in his ruffled shirt and wide cuffs.

“Per'aps we should continue towards the shore,
Capitan.
” He shrugged eloquently. “There is no sense in arousing this ship if she is a mere slaver, yes?”

Soames turned away, saying nothing. But Bolitho guessed that like most sailors he was disgusted that Rojart could accept slavery as a natural state of affairs.

“We go forward,
Teniente.
In any case, our boats will not come for us until tomorrow.”

He looked at Soames. “Take charge. I am going to see for myself.” He beckoned to Midshipman Keen. “You, too.” As he felt his way out of the clearing he added, “The rest of you, be ready to follow. No talking, and hold on to each other if you fear getting separated. Any man who fires a musket by whatever means or ac- cident will feel my anger!”

Hodges pushed ahead saying, “My mate, Billy Norris, is keepin' a weather eye on 'em, sir. Follow close. I've marked the way.”

Bolitho took his word, although he could see no marks any- where.

It was amazing how near they had been. It seemed no time at all before Hodges was tapping his arm and gesturing for him to take cover amidst some sharp-toothed scrub, and here, opening up like a theatre, was the inlet. And how much lighter it seemed, the sunlight still lingering on the trees, and painting the sluggishly moving water with rippling reflections.

He eased himself forward, trying to ignore the painful jabs in his hands and chest. Then he froze, forgetting all the discomfort and uncertainty as he saw the ship for the first time.

Behind him he heard Allday voicing his thoughts.

“By God, Captain, it's the one which lured the Dons on to that reef!”

Bolitho nodded. The brigantine appeared larger in the con- fined inlet, but there was no mistaking her. He knew he would not forget her for many a year to come.

He heard the same pitiful moaning Hodges had described, and then the sharp clatter of steel on the far side of the inlet.

Allday whispered, “Putting manacles on the wretches.”

“Yes.”

He wriggled forward again, seeing the brigantine's anchor cable, a boat alongside, the glow of light from her poop. As before, no flag. But there was no doubting her watchfulness. Two guns already run out, muzzles depressed to rake any attacker.

A boat glided from the shore, very slowly, and Bolitho tensed as a woman cried out, the sound dragging at his nerves as it echoed around the trees.

“Taking slaves aboard.” Allday ground his teeth. “They'll be off shortly. That's my guess.”

Bolitho agreed.

To Keen he said, “Fetch the others. Tell them to take care.” He sought out the crouching shape of the second scout. “You go with him.”

To Allday he said quietly, “If we can seize her, we'll know for sure who was behind
Nervion
's destruction.”

Allday had his cutlass in both hands. “I'm for that, Captain!”

More thuds and sounds from alongside the brigantine, and another shrill cry rising to a scream until it was swiftly silenced by a blow.

Bolitho tried to estimate how far this point was from the sea. The slaver's master would need to be able to slip away as quietly as he had entered. He would require stealth. As little noise as possible until he was clear. It seemed incredible to be watching this same vessel. While
Undine
had waited to search for
Nervion
's survivors, and had then taken wide detours to avoid land and other ships, the slaver had pushed on with his own affairs. As if nothing had hap- pened. It took iron-hard nerves for that. There were more sharp cries. Like animals at slaughter. Slavers had no nerves. No pity.

He heard furtive noises behind him and Soames's voice, flat, unemotional.

“Young Keen was right then. It is the same vessel.” He squinted at the tree-tops beyond the brigantine. “Not much time left, sir. It'll be as black as a boot in an hour. Maybe less.”

“What I believe, too.” Bolitho looked at the clearing where the slaves were being gathered. A few wisps of smoke from fires. Prob- ably for a blacksmith to work on the manacles. But it was the weakest point. “Take twenty men and move around the camp. At the first sign of alarm you open fire with everything you have. Create panic if nothing else.”

“Aye. Makes sense.”

Bolitho nodded, his mind chilling with excitement. A kind of madness which always came at such moments.

“I'll want ten men who can swim. If we can board her while the slaves are being loaded, we might be able to hold the poop until you rush the boats and join us.”

He heard Soames rubbing his chin.

“A wild plan, sir, but it's now or never, it seems to me.”

“It's settled then. Tell Rojart to keep a few hands here to pro- tect our flank. For this is the way we must go if all fails.”

Soames started to crawl away, hissing his orders into the forest until he appeared satisfied.

Other figures rustled and grunted nearby, and Keen said, “Our party is ready, sir.”

“
Our
party?”

Keen's teeth looked very white in the fading light. “I am an excellent swimmer, sir.”

Allday muttered anxiously, “I hope there are none of those damned serpents in the water.”

Bolitho looked around at their faces. How well he had got to know most of them. He saw it all in these last moments. Fear, anxi- ety, wildness to match his own. Even brutal eagerness.

He said shortly, “We will slide into the water below the bushes. Leave your shoes and everything else but your weapons.” He sought out Allday. “See that the pistols are well wrapped. It should keep them dry for a while.”

He studied the sky. It was darkening swiftly, and only the tree- tops still held the gentle glow of sunlight. In the inlet and around the anchored brigantine the water was dull. Like liquid mud.

“Now!”

He caught his breath as the water came up to his waist and then his neck. It was very warm. He waited a few more seconds, expecting to hear a shout or the sound of a musket. But the muffled cries from the camp told him he had chosen the time well. They were too busy to watch everywhere at once.

The others were in the water behind him, their weapons held high as they paddled slowly away from the bank.

Keen was overtaking him, his arms moving smoothly. He whispered, “I'll make for the cable, sir.” He was actually grinning.

Further, and further still, until they had passed the halfway, and Bolitho knew if they were discovered now they would be lost. The masts and yards stood high overhead, the furled sails sharp against the sky, the lantern light shining more brightly in the de- scending gloom. Feet thudded on deck and a man laughed wildly. A drunkard's laugh. Perhaps you needed extra rum for such work, he thought.

And then, as if by magic, they were all together, clawing the rounded hull below the starboard cathead, the current dragging at their legs, folding them against the rough timbers as they fought to stay concealed.

Allday gasped, “The boats'll never see us here. We're safe for a bit.”

At that very instant a terrible cry floated across the water and for a moment Bolitho imagined someone had been killed.

But the seaman at his side was floundering and pointing to- wards the bank which they had just left.

Even in the dying light it was easy to recognise Rojart's ruffled shirt. He was standing in the open, his arms held out as if to seize the inlet and everything it contained. He yelled again and again, waving his fists, stamping his feet, as if he had gone raving mad.

Rojart's sudden appearance had brought a complete hush to the brigantine's deck, but now as voices babbled and shouted and more feet thudded along the planking, Bolitho knew any hope of surprise was gone.

Keen had been clinging to the bobstay below the bowsprit, but now allowed himself to drift down towards him.

He gasped wretchedly, “Nobody told Rojart it was the ship which sank
Nervion
. He must have just discovered—”

The sound of the shot was deafening and seemed to come from almost overhead. The smoke gushed and eddied across the swirling water, making more than one man duck his face to avoid a fit of coughing.

Before it hid the bank Bolitho saw Rojart hurled away by a full charge of canister. A bloody rag. Not a man at all.

He clung to the line which Allday had bent on to the bobstay and tried to clear his mind. The unexpected and unforeseen.

He winced as another shot crashed out from further aft, the hull shivering under his fingers as if alive. A ball this time, he heard it smashing through the trees and then fading away com- pletely.

And it was then, from beyond the hidden camp, that Soames's men opened fire.

7
HERRICK
'
S
D
ECISION

T
HE
SPORADIC
bang of musket fire was almost drowned by the mingled cries and screams from the terrified slaves. Bolitho heard men tumbling into a boat on the opposite side of the brigantine, and confused yells which were probably to encourage their com- panions in the camp.

He gestured to Allday. “Now! Over the bows!”

His limbs were like lead as he hauled himself up and across the small beakhead, his heart pounding his ribs, hearing the gasps and frantic whispers from the men below him.

As they climbed on to the forecastle he saw groups of manacled natives, their naked bodies crowded together while they watched what was happening on the land. Two armed seamen stood beside a swivel gun, but as the boat pulled away from the side they were unable to fire without hitting their comrades.

Allday bellowed, “At 'em, lads!” Then he was flying along the deck, his heavy cutlass taking a man across the neck and felling him without even a cry.

The second guard dropped on one knee and aimed a musket as more and more of Bolitho's party scrambled aboard. Faces lit up in the flash, and Bolitho felt the ball whine past, the sickening sound as it smashed into flesh and bone.

More of the brigantine's crew were dashing wildly from the poop, firing as they came, regardless of the screaming slaves who fell dying in their path.

A naked girl, her body shining with sweat, was trying to reach one of the fallen slaves, her arms pinioned by a length of chain. Husband? Brother? Bolitho had no time even to guess as one of the crew hacked her down with his cutlass in order to bar the way aft.

Bolitho felt his sword jerk in his hand as he crossed blades with the girl's killer. He saw the hatred on the man's bearded face, the madness in his eyes as they pressed forward and apart, feet sliding in someone's blood, bodies balanced to withstand each parry.

All round the deck others were fighting and slashing in the shadows with only an occasional pistol shot to throw light on friend and enemy.

Bolitho pushed the man against the main mast, forcing him backwards over the spider-band while their hilts stayed locked below his throat. He could feel the other man's anger giving way to fear, saw the sudden anguish as he jerked the hilt free and struck him hard across the mouth with it. As he fell away, gasping for breath, Bolitho turned and thrust. The man gave one shriek, lifting an arm as the blade drove under his shoulder and deeper still.

Allday dashed to his side and gasped, “Well done, Captain!” He rolled the man away with his foot. Then he snarled, “And another, by God!”

The seaman had jumped from the shrouds. To take them by surprise from above, to escape the unexpected attack, Bolitho did not know. All he heard was Allday's quick breathing, the swish of his blade as he slashed the man down and then finished him with one more terrible blow.

“Two boats comin', sir!”

Bolitho ran to the bulwark, and then ducked as a ball slammed hard into the rail by his fingers.

He yelled, “Train that swivel on them!”

Someone scuttled past him firing a pistol as he fled from Allday's cutlass. Bolitho spun round, sobbing as the pain lanced into his thigh. But when he felt his leg and the jagged tear in his breeches there was no blood, no agonising splinter of broken bone.

The man who had fired had inadvertently run too close to the yelling slaves. Chains swung like serpents, and he vanished be- neath a struggling heap of screaming, shining bodies.

Allday threw his arm around Bolitho's waist. “Where are you hit, Captain?” His anxiety was clear even amidst the din of shout- ing and screaming.

Bolitho pushed him aside, gasping between his teeth, “Hit my watch, damn his eyes!”

Allday grinned and ducked after him. “I think
his
time has stopped, too!”

Bolitho only glanced at the thing which had rolled away from the panting slaves. They had literally torn him to pieces.

He dragged Allday clear. “Stray too close and you will follow him!”

“Ungrateful dogs!”

Bolitho reached the abandoned swivel and swung it towards the nearest long boat.

“Probably think we are a different lot of slavers.”

He jerked the lanyard, feeling the hot breath from the muzzle as the canister exploded across the crowded boat. Screams and curses, bodies splashing in the water, and others still firing from the sternsheets.

He twisted round, trying to see where Soames had reached on the shore. But it was impossible to be certain. Shots stabbed and whimpered over the inlet, and once he thought he heard, steel on steel.

Then he turned and looked inboard. “How many?” He caught Keen's wrist as he lurched past, a dirk gleaming in one hand, an empty pistol held like a club in the other.

Keen stared at him dazedly. “We seem to have lost five of our people, sir. But the slavers have either been killed or have jumped overboard.”

Bolitho strained his ears for the sounds of more oars, the one thing which would tell him Soames was coming to his aid.

There was a loud thud from aft, and he guessed that another boat was grappling in readiness for boarding. He peered at his little party. Five dead, one obviously wounded. It was not enough.

Allday shouted hoarsely, “We can manhandle one of the guns to the hold and put a ball through her bottom! If we can hold 'em on the poop while—”

Bolitho shook his head, pointing at the slaves. “They are held by more than one chain. They would go down with the ship.”

He could feel the fight dying in his surviving men, like fire under heavy rain. Most of them were staring aft, each unwilling to be the first to challenge this new attack.

They did not have long to wait. The poop doors burst open and a group of men charged along the littered deck, their voices yelling wildly in what seemed like a dozen different languages.

Bolitho balanced himself on the balls of his feet, the sword angled across his body.

“Cut the cable! We'll let her drift ashore in the shallows!”

A ball shrieked above his head, and he turned to see one of his men sprawled headlong, blood gushing from his throat. He had been struck by a marksman somewhere in the shrouds.

Allday yelled, “Stand fast, you bastards!”

But it was useless, the remaining seamen were clambering forward again, dropping their weapons in their frantic haste to get away.

Only Keen remained between him and the beakhead, his arms at his sides, his young body swaying with exhaustion.

Allday said, “Come
on,
Captain! It's no use!” He fired a pistol into the advancing shadows, and grunted with satisfaction as a man screamed in agony.

The next seconds were too blurred to understand. One mo- ment Bolitho was astride the bowsprit, and the next he was swimming towards the black wall of trees. He could not remember diving or regaining the surface, although his lungs were raw from shouting, from keeping alive.

Feathers of spray spurted nearby, and he heard feet stampeding along the brigantine's deck as more men climbed from boats or swam out from the shore. Shots whimpered above his head, and there was one short cry as a seaman was hit and disappeared be- neath the surface.

“Keep together!”

It was all he could do to speak, and the foul-tasting water was slopping again and again into his mouth.

He saw a white figure splashing down the beach, and when he groped for his sword he stumbled headlong, his feet stubbing against sand and stone beneath him.

But it was Soames, his chest heaving from exertion, his hair wild as he pulled Bolitho to dry land.

Bolitho gasped at the air. They had failed. They had lost sev- eral good men. For nothing.

Allday was hauling Keen from the water, and two more figures lay on the sand like corpses, only their fierce breathing telling oth- erwise. There were no others.

A gun banged out from the brigantine, but the ball went wide, splintering through the trees to a chorus of shrieks from birds and slaves alike.

Soames said harshly, “I could only capture one boat, sir. The slaver had a large party ashore.” He sounded angry. Despairing. “When they fired at that damn Spaniard my lads started to attack. It was too soon. I'm sorry, sir.”

“Not your fault.” Bolitho walked heavily along the water's edge, searching for one more swimmer. “How many did you lose?”

Soames replied indifferently, “Seven or eight.” He gestured to several dark shapes along the beach. “But we took a dozen of the others!” He added with sudden fury, “We could have taken that damn ship! I
know
we could!”

“Yes.” Bolitho gave up his search. “Muster our people and lead me to the boat. We must pick up Mr. Fowlar and his party while it's dark. The slaver will be ready for us by dawn, I'm thinking.”

It was not much of a boat, and leaked badly from a couple of stray musket balls.

One by one the weary seamen clambered into it, hardly looking at each other, or even caring where they were. If they were called on to fight now they would fail completely.

Bolitho watched them anxiously. Vaguely he recalled Herrick's words all those weeks back.
Different in peacetime.
Perhaps they were.

The wounded men were sobbing quietly, and he pushed Keen towards them. “See to them.” He saw the youth draw back, knew that he, too, was close to breaking. He reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “Hold on, Mr. Keen.”

To Soames he said quietly, “Mr. Fowlar's party can take the oars. They'll be in better shape.”

He turned as a new sound intruded from the trees. Like one huge beast stamping its feet, while a combined chorus of yells ech- oed and re-echoed around the inlet.

Allday muttered, “What in the name of God is that?”

“The slaves at the camp.” Soames was standing beside Bolitho as the boat edged away from the land. “They know some- thing we don't.”

Bolitho swayed as the overloaded craft rocked dangerously in the current. The slaves must realise that, despite the brigantine's presence, and the power of her guns, they would not now be taken as captives to the other side of the world. Not this time any- way. He thought of the native craft Herrick had sighted. They might be here already.

He snapped, “Easy there! I can see Mr. Fowlar!”

The master's mate peered into the boat with obvious dismay.

“I'll never get my party in, too, sir!”

Soames jerked his thumb towards the trees.

“You will if you wish to stay alive!”

Allday took the tiller and checked each man as he climbed into the boat. Somehow they all got in, barely leaving the oarsmen room to pull, and with the hull so low in the water there was hardly six inches of freeboard.

“Shove off!”

He winced as a gun banged out, the long orange flame of fire darting from the vessel's side like a vicious tongue. The ball hissed astern of the boat and pounded into the sand.

Bolitho called, “Easy now! Watch the stroke, lads!”

Too many splashes and the gunners would have an aiming mark.

Keen whispered, “One of them has just died, sir.” He added hoarsely, “Hodges.”

“Heave him over the side. Watch the trim, lads. Keep her steady.”

Poor Hodges. He would not walk in the marshes again. Never feel the North Sea on his face, or see the ducks in flight. He shook himself angrily. What was the matter with him?

The corpse drifted clear, and another man shifted along the thwart.

Soames observed, “They've ceased firing. Probably licking their wounds, like us.”

“Most likely.”

Bolitho felt the bitterness rising again. The slaver had lost several men, but had still enough captives to make his visit profit- able whether he retrieved the rest from the camp or not. Whereas . . . He tried not to face the fact that they had failed. His men had fallen back, probably because they had lost whatever faith they had held in him.

Nervion
's attacker was as much a mystery as before. A slaver's crew was usually made up from the sweepings of many ports and many tongues. Perhaps Davy had been right after all, and he should never have attempted to capture the brigantine.

His head was aching to match the bruise on his thigh. He was barely able to think any more.

Fowlar said, “Mr. Mudge has explained it to me, sir. The ship will have to stand well out tomorrow because of the shoals hereabouts. The slaver's master doubtless knows a better passage, but . . .” He left the rest unsaid.

“Very well.” Bolitho saw an overhanging clump of trees reaching out across the water like a partly demolished bridge. “We will make fast here. Rest the men, and share out the last of our water and rations.”

Nobody replied, and some of them appeared to be sleeping where they sat or crouched like so many bundles.