The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series) (33 page)

B
y the beginning of the second dog watch the dark had indeed arrived, and they were no more the wiser. In the brief time before sunset Banks had altered course twice, once to the east, and again as much as they could to the south, but the French frigate would not be found, and all his efforts had achieved was to shake off the corvette. On several occasions they had also lost sight of the packet, but that was only temporary, and caused by Lewis using his vessel to the fullest extent, dipping over the horizon in an attempt to locate the enemy, before hurrying back with nothing to report. Now the two vessels lay within a few cables of the other, Banks not wishing to risk his consort being snapped up in the absolute night that had descended upon them. There was little point in remaining on deck, and he had gone below to the expanse of space that had been the great cabin, where he and Caulfield now stood peering over a chart that showed their estimated location and, for want of a suitable table, was laid over the barrel of an eighteen pounder.

“I should say they will not wish to stray too far from the island, if only to verify their position,” Banks said, and the first lieutenant nodded in agreement. They had already decided that the two enemy ships were not likely to be in company. It would have been hard for them to meet up, or even closed to within signalling distance before nightfall without one of the British vessels detecting them. Since then a particularly dark night had descended, with thick, rain- filled cloud that effectively cloaked the ocean. Despite the India packet being close by, a feeling of isolation hung about
Scylla
, and any long distance observation was quite impossible. Only exceptional luck could have brought the two French ships together in such conditions, and Banks could not deny the feeling that, if the enemy were to benefit from such good fortune, there seemed no point in his pursuing the matter further.

“So, do we stay hove to, in what we hope will be to windward of them?” Banks continued, finally asking the question that both had been trying to avoid. “Or venture north, and attempt to seek them out?”

“Finding even two ships in such weather will be no easy task,” Caulfield grunted. “And at least we are relatively certain to be between them and the island.”

“Or so we think,” Banks reminded him. “It would have taken very little to have passed us a few hours back. They might have turned to the west, and be seeking out the homebound convoy, or headed east and be standing off Jamestown as we speak.”

“We might attempt to raise the island and enquire,” Caulfield mused. “Though at night any signal would betray our own position and be of little benefit unless the enemy were in sight.”

“Indeed, that is the crux of it,” Banks grudgingly agreed. “Sight is what we need, and sight is something we do not have.”

* * *

S
ight was also a commodity that Stiles apparently lacked. He had reported the problem to Middleton, his divisional midshipman, who immediately removed his name from those detailed to masthead duties. He had also been sent to the surgeon, but there was nothing that could be done. Mr Manning had peered at his eyes, and shone lanterns with various coloured lenses, but apart from muttering a few nonsense words and making Stiles feel mildly sick, no conclusion was reached. And now, at a time when he should have been comfortable and aloof in his lofty perch, he was sheltering under the starboard gangway next to one of the guns that had been allocated to him. Stiles was happy enough as a gunner, and actually enjoyed his first drill with Flint's team, where he had handled Mitchell's rammer as if he were born to the task. Yet, even though the men were pleasant enough, he would still have preferred to be alone, and at the masthead.

“Getting used to having your feet on the deck are you?” Jameson asked.

Stiles snorted, but said nothing. It was all very well for him. Even though he was officially gun crew, the lad was still rated topman, and could be aloft at any time, were there the need.

“Wouldn't make much difference if you was up there now,” Flint added philosophically. “No one can see in this weather – we might put a blind man on watch, and not notice the difference.”

“I ain't blind!” Stiles snapped. “I can see perfectly well – it's just a passing thing – the sawbones said so.”

“The surgeon stood you down,” Flint reminded him more firmly. “An' said you were to have nothing to do with lookout duty.”

“Said you were a danger to us all as well, I don't doubt,” Dixon added. “So he sent you down here to be a gunner, where you couldn't do no harm.”

The rest of the men laughed good-naturedly, but Stiles stood up and stomped off towards the forecastle ladder in disgust.

If he were honest, the knowledge that he was losing his sight had been with him for some while. It was not a pleasant companion, and he had kept it to himself, hoping that the condition might somehow resolve itself. At the moment it was worse during the day – at night he still felt he had remarkably good vision, in certain areas. But, accepting that it would deteriorate further, Stiles could only predict a bleak future. Today he had been stood down from lookout duties, in a month he might not see much at all, and be unable to even earn his place as a gunner.
Scylla
was due for a refit; within a few months they could be at peace, with all paid off and no one needing a blind sailor. By this time next year he could be begging on the streets: it was not a pleasant prospect.

“It may pass.” Flint's voice startled him slightly, and he turned as the man appeared from out of the gloom and continued. “Maybe a rest is all you need?”

“There is nothing wrong at night,” Stiles insisted rather pathetically, his voice and tone now low. “Just sometimes, in bright lights...” He looked across to where the packet was hove to and wallowing in the broad Atlantic swell. “There is Lewis next to the helm,” he said. “Can you see him?”

Flint peered through the blackness and rain. With negligible moon it was hard enough to make out the packet in any great detail, and actually spotting individuals on her deck a total impossibility.

“You mean you can?” he asked, surprised.

“Not when I looks direct,” Stiles confessed. “But if I catch him to the side of my eye, he comes through clear as day. They got a small patch of light near the forecastle – like someone hasn't blacked out below correctly, can you see that?”

Flint shook his head, impressed despite a measure of doubt. To him the packet's prow merged into the gloom, but then for all he knew Stiles was talking humbug, and could see nothing at all.

“And beyond her, to for'ard – there is somethin' else,” the seaman continued, his voice now rising slightly and gaining urgency. “Something's out there in the dark.”

Flint raised his head and peered forward, but could see nothing. “Where away?” he asked.

“There!” Stiles voice was far louder now, and he stabbed his finger out over their starboard bow insistently. “It's another ship, and she is also hove to, but drifting more to leeward – I can see her jib!”

Flint looked again, then shook his head. “There's nothing to be seen, matey,” he said sadly.

“Yes there is!” Stiles all but shouted. “It's the French!”

He turned from the forecastle and began to run along the gangway to the quarterdeck. King was at the conn, and looked surprised and almost annoyed as the seaman rushed up to him.

“I can see the Frenchie!” Stiles spluttered. “She's about half a mile off our starboard bow, but fadin' fast!”

King moved across to the starboard bulwark and peered forward, but all he could make out was the vast blackness of ocean and sky, with no discernible division between. “Send for the captain!” he snapped, and heard the duty midshipman scurry off. King made for the binnacle and brought out the night glass. He focused and swept the brass tube about for more than a minute before lowering it once more. “Take a look,” he said, handing the telescope to Stiles. “There's nothing to be seen.”

The seaman brushed the glass aside in contempt. “Never could use them things, and surely can't now. But I could see a ship clear enough, and she'll be gone in no time lest we do somethin' about it.”

––––––––

B
anks arrived almost simultaneously with Robert Manning, who King had decided would also be needed. The latter was still dressed in his nightshirt and seemed somewhat bemused, but answered readily enough when the captain interrogated him.

“Stiles, yes I examined the man this morning. A prominent mydriatic dilation of the pupils, combined with an inability to compensate for strong light: the two are closely linked, sir,” he said. “No sign of tumour or infection; the first can be an indicant of cranial haemorrhage, but there are no supporting symptoms.”

“And your prognosis?” Banks demanded.

“I'm no physician, sir.” Manning shrugged; as a surgeon he could pop cataracts or remove a splinter but there any expertise regarding eyes pretty much ended. In fact the information he had given was actually the product of private study. “It may pass off, or could be an early signal of something more sinister. I would not care to speculate.”

The captain turned away, and stared out into the darkness once more. “There was nothing from the masthead?” he snapped.

“Nothing, sir,” King confirmed.

“You are certain?” Banks was centring on Stiles, who lowered himself slightly under the great man's inspection.

“I'm as certain as I can be, sir,” he mumbled. “It sure looked like a ship to me.”

“But you cannot see it now?”

“No, sir,” Stiles confessed miserably. “That I cannot.”

Banks was starting to fume; the ghost of a sighting was far worse than none at all. They might move to investigate, but that meant abandoning their valuable position to windward. And, even if the French were out there, on such a night no one could guarantee they would be found. He glared about, hoping for something that might give him inspiration, and naturally his gaze fell on the officer of the watch.

“What do you know of this man?” he demanded of King. “Has he proven reliable in the past?”

The lieutenant hesitated. “He was in error before, sir. During the crossing ceremony.”

Banks swung around and directed his full attention back at Stiles, who was now looking particularly wretched.

“Yes, it was you; I remember,” the captain said. “Let them close unreported as I recall.”

“It might have been a mistake, sir,” the seamen muttered. He was certain as ever of the sighting but had been addressed by his captain in such a manner once before and felt no need for a reminder.

“You there, Middleton,” Banks barked at the nearest midshipman. “Take a glass to the masthead and tell me what you see. If there is a ship, do not call out; use a backstay.”

The lad was off, eager to be free of the confrontation as anything, and they waited while he skimmed up the shrouds. For more than a minute he was out of sight then, with the sound like that of rushing water, a body was finally seen flowing down the taught line, and the midshipman bounced nimbly back onto the deck.

“Well?” Banks demanded. They all held their breaths, but the lad shook his head.

“Nothing I can see, sir. And Piper is at the masthead; he is certain no ship passed him by.”

“Piper couldn't spot the nose in front of his face,” Stiles murmured, then stopped suddenly as he remembered where he was, and who could hear.

“And you can do better?” Banks demanded. “You who was too distracted to see an enemy squadron in broad daylight, and only today reported problems with your own eyesight?”

Stiles lowered his head further but said nothing while Banks all but stamped his foot on the deck in frustration.

“Is it possible, medically, I mean?” he asked Manning.

“The pupils are constantly dilated,” the surgeon replied. “So in theory his night vision is unaffected and may even be improved. Yet such a condition would undoubtedly present problems during the day, or in bright lights. As to the cause, sir, I could not hazard a guess.”

Banks cared little for the reason, but what Manning said made a modicum of sense. And as Stiles was trained for such duty, his eyesight should normally be of the highest order.

“Call all hands and bring her to the wind – topsails and forecourse,” Banks snapped, suddenly coming to a decision. “Make no signal to the packet, if she follows, so much the better. But I will not have unnecessary lights, with luck we will find her once more at dawn.”

The watch on deck seemed to shatter into fragments of silent activity as they attended the sails, while those who had been below for little more than two hours came tumbling up, rosy and steaming, from their hammocks. Stiles gratefully retreated from the quarterdeck and went to find his gun, where Flint and his mates were bound to be waiting for him. When rated as lookout he was used to starting a deal of action, but never before had there been such a situation, and never before was he so unsure of himself. But then what did he have to lose? If his eyesight really was failing he had no future as a seaman, and may as well go down causing a stir as not. He was still stubbornly convinced of what he had seen; the enemy were definitely out there, although finding them was going to be an entirely different matter.

“Blimey, Stiles – you really are in the suds this time,” Dixon told him, with more than a hint of respect. “You certain you saw that Frenchie, are you?”

Stiles rubbed at his eyes, which had now caused him far more trouble than they were worth.

“Reckon I am,” he said.

* * *

T
he ship herself awoke with the minimum of fuss, and began to creep forward, only the groaning of timbers and an occasional squeal from her tackle betraying the fact that she was once more a living creature. The gunners, now divided between both batteries, squatted patiently next to their allotted pieces, while most of the midshipmen were assembled on the forecastle, the foretop and the main crosstrees, each eager to be the first to spot a hidden enemy. The rain was now falling heavily, and all were thoroughly soaked, although it was doubtful if any noticed, so tense had the atmosphere become. Everyone was silent, as they had been ordered to be but Banks, standing by the binnacle, was especially so and felt as if he had been cast from stone. His body was rigid and his eyes set forward, apparently unblinking, despite the atrocious weather. Sense and reason told him that this was a waste of time; the man, Stiles, had already proven himself to be unreliable; they were simply giving up their hard won advantage on the whim of a fool. Yet there was another inner feeling that said otherwise, something in the seaman's hauteur and the fact that he bothered to alert his betters and then stick to his story until only universal doubt and intimidation finally wore him down. Such a stance might carry the blame for a thousand other similar ventures: armies being raised by what came down to the intuition of one sentry, a ship changing course because the officer of the watch sensed an uncharted rock, or a lad that thought he saw the flash of breakers. There was every reason to believe the enemy did lie ahead of course, but in a crew of nearly three hundred the fact that only one had eyes sharp enough to see them was a wild enough conjecture to begin with, without including the man's medical condition and past history of unreliability. Still, Banks felt in his bones that Stiles was right, and was already steeling himself to act when news of the enemy's position came through.