The Distant Ocean Read online

  ‘Thank you, Mr Taylor,’ said Clay, and he turned towards Preston. He felt for and gripped the lieutenant’s hand. ‘Off with you now, and see you make it touch and go. If there is no sign of them at the house, come back directly in good time for the fight.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the lieutenant. ‘I shall not let you down.’

  Preston went to the main deck, past the curious glances and knuckled salutes of the gun crews, and out through the entry port. He dropped down into the stern sheets of the barge and paused as he realised an extra figure was seated there.

  ‘Tom?’ he said. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Aye, it is,’ replied the marine. ‘I thought I might come along to stretch my legs. Captain Sutton is my friend too, and besides, these men I have chosen for you are not wholly to be trusted. They would steal the pearls from St Peter’s gate if they thought he wasn’t attending.’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ Preston said. He found it was comforting to have the solid presence of the Scot in the party, with his long claymore and his outward calm. ‘Give way, Sedgwick.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the coxswain. ‘Shove off in the bow there! Pull starboard side! All together, handsomely now.’ The boat turned away from the looming presence of the frigate and was soon alone in the night. Preston looked at the crew of the barge, but could make out little more than eyes.

  ‘What is wrong with the barge crew, Sedgwick?’ he asked.

  ‘I had them blacken their faces and arms with soot from the galley, sir,’ explained the coxswain. ‘Well, all except Abdul and me, of course. I saw Mr Macpherson’s men was doing it, and thought we should do likewise. What with muffled oars, we should be nigh on impossible to spot.’

  Preston sat back and reflected how lucky the ship was to have such an able and intelligent man. After a few more strokes he felt Sedgwick point ahead of them.

  ‘I mark that dark block there as the Frog battery, sir, meaning the place we saw the signal from would be about there. Ain’t no light as I can see, mind.’ Preston leant across to follow the line of his arm.

  ‘That’s the spot, right enough,’ he mused. ‘But as you say, no light is showing.’

  ‘Oh, speaking of lights, do be careful of the shuttered lantern down by your feet,’ said Macpherson. ‘I brought it just in case.’ Preston felt around with his hand till he came across the warm metal cylinder.

  ‘I have it, Tom’ he said.

  They were close to the beach now, gliding along, each dip of the oars leaving a splash of light briefly in the water. From ahead they could hear the gentle crash and hiss of waves as they folded onto sand.

  ‘Easy there,’ hissed Sedgwick. ‘Hold her fast.’ The rowers stopped together, cradling their oar handles against their chests, the blades flat on the water.

  ‘What have you seen?’ whispered Macpherson from Preston’s other side.

  ‘Frog patrol,’ murmured the coxswain. Preston looked down the beach and saw an orange light that appeared to be dancing through the air. As it approached, other sounds drifted towards them, the crunch of boots on sand, the gentle chatter of the men. In the disc of illuminated sand they could see the gaitered legs of the soldiers. They grew nearer, till they were barely thirty yards from where the boat rested on the water. Preston held his breath as one of the men seemed to pause and look their way, but evidently he could not see the motionless boat as it waited on the dark sea. He turned to rejoin the others, and the disc of light moved away.

  ‘Carry on, Sedgwick,’ he ordered, after a few minutes.

  ‘Give way all,’ said the coxswain, and the boat surged forward once more till it slid to a halt in the shallows.

  Macpherson jumped out, summoning his men to join him. He sent a picket in each direction along the beach to warn of any approach. When they were in place, the other three men vanished into the dark ahead to scout the way to the house where the signal had originated. While they waited for them to report back, Sedgwick had his crew turn the barge around. He ordered half the oars kept manned, ready for an instant departure.

  ‘What do you suppose they shall find?’ asked Macpherson as the two officers waited in the dark, the shuttered lantern at their feet.

  ‘I imagine the French will have confined the crew somewhere in St Paul, along with the wounded. Doubtless the Rush’s surgeon, if he survived, will have stayed with them, so I am supposing this house to be the abode of the commissioned officers. I only saw three figures signalling, but which of the officers they were I cannot say. Mr Sutton may not even be amongst—’ He broke off as the marine held up his hand in warning.

  ‘Who goes there?’ he growled. One hand strayed to the hilt of his sword.

  ‘Titan,’ came the reply, and a dark shape appeared from out of the gloom.

  ‘What have you found, Baker?’ asked Macpherson.

  ‘The house is there, right enough, but it looks proper deserted, sir,’ replied the marine. ‘Door’s been left open, one of the windows is smashed, an’ the furniture cast about. Ain’t no Frogs there, leastways not now.’

  ‘That does not sound encouraging, but we have come this far,’ said Preston. ‘Lead us to the place, Baker.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir. Follow me, then.’

  Macpherson picked up the lamp, and they disappeared together towards the dark of the land. Preston stumbled along in the wake of the others. They came to a sandy path that wound up a shallow slope away from the beach. Leaves brushed past them as they went. After a hundred yards Baker stopped, his body tense, and gently whistled like a bird. Two answering calls came out of the darkness and he waved the officers forward.

  ‘House is off to the right, by that big tree, sir,’ he said. ‘Watch out for the table by the door, it’s been turned over.’

  The officers approached the shadowy building beneath the tree. It was visible as no more than a block of grey in the gloom. Preston heard Macpherson stumble on something and breathe a curse. Then a line of amber appeared in the night as the Scotsman inched the shutter on the lantern open and held it towards the house. Square windows, black as pitch, stared back at them from the whitewashed walls. There was a step up to a wooden veranda, and an open door behind. The marine officer slid out his sword, the edge a line of reflected gold from the lamp, and advanced towards the door. Preston drew out his own blade and followed. They skirted around the overturned table on the veranda, then the two went inside.

  Once they were in the house, Macpherson opened the lantern a little more. There were only a few pieces of furniture, but what was there had been thoroughly searched. A chair lay on its side, with clothes strewn across it. A fan of papers lay in another corner with boot marks on them. Beside that were shards of broken crockery, while a thin ribbon of breeze flowed in through the hole in a broken window.

  ‘Look at this, Edward,’ said Macpherson. ‘We have certainly come to the right house.’ With the tip of his sword he hooked up a length of rope from the floor. At regular intervals along it was a line of crude looking flags.

  ‘Indeed we have,’ agreed Preston. He held up the remains of a yellow dress and pushed his hand through one of the large square panels cut out of the skirt.

  Macpherson had moved over to look at an abandoned sea chest. The top had been flung open and its contents pulled out. Linen, a leather shaving roll, opened and then discarded on the floor, and what was obviously a Royal Navy coat. Gilt buttons glinted on the dark cloth, every one bearing the Admiralty’s fouled anchor. He pulled closed the lid and held the lamp so that the light shone on the polished wood. Preston came over to his side and Macpherson pointed with the tip of his claymore. Cut into the surface and then blacked with ink was a name: J R P Sutton.

  Chapter 10 Flame and Smoke

  Eight hours before Preston and Macpherson discovered the sea chest of their friend, Captain Hector Sybord of the Garrison Artillery stood on the parapet of his battery and looked out to sea. He liked this particular spot on the ramparts. It was at one end of the battery, close to where a palm tr
ee grew. The trunk was just beyond the end of the stone wall, and it bent upwards in a graceful arc over his head. The thick mass of feathery leaves at its crown shaded him from the fierce noonday sun. He knew that he should have ordered some of the men to chop it down long ago. In theory it could provide cover for an attacker, but on the other hand his battery had never been attacked, and it would be a shame to lose its shade. He decided that the palm tree would survive another day, and turned to the ample figure of Sergeant DuPont who stood beside him. Both men had been watching the steady approach of the Titan as she sailed along the coast just out of long cannon shot.

  ‘Are they in range yet?’ asked Captain Sybord. It was the third time he had posed the question, as if he were a child reluctant to accept that a journey was not about to end. The grey-haired sergeant shook his head once more.

  ‘If you wish, I can try a ranging shot, mon capitaine, but they are certainly at least a hundred yards too far away,’ he said. The captain stared at him in silence, a frown of disapproval on his face. After a moment Sergeant DuPont realised his error.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ he apologised. ‘I of course meant to say they are eighty meters out of range.’

  ‘Better,’ said Sybord. ‘Paris is very strict about the use of Royalist measurements, DuPont. How can we expect the men to use the new ones if we do not?’

  ‘And yet our guns are still twenty-four-pounders, sir,’ said the sergeant, indicating the line of huge cannon. ‘I wonder what that would be in kilograms?’

  The captain looked down at his eight guns with pride. Each was loaded and run up ready to fire. They had been trained around as far as the embrasures would allow, and the wedge-shaped quoins had been removed so that the barrels poked up at maximum elevation. Every gun captain had his linstock alight and their lines of smoke rose into the hot, humid air. He turned his head a little farther around to confirm that the collection of bare-footed slaves in their ragged trousers were squatting in the shade, ready to bring up fresh charges and balls for the guns. All was well, he concluded, except that they still did not have a target to fire at.

  He returned his attention to the British frigate and sighed. She drifted along under easy sail, flaunting her country’s naval ensign just outside the reach of his guns. He had to admit she was a beautiful sight, her black and yellow hull contrasting with the pale blue water all about her. She was almost side on to him now, a long sleek hull topped with towering masts. As he looked, he noticed some movement on her quarterdeck. He pulled out his telescope and focused on the ship. There were several officers, one taller than the others, all with telescopes of their own focused towards the shore. At first he felt a flutter or excitement, thinking that they were looking at his battery. Perhaps they will close in to bombard me from the sea, he thought, but then he decided that it was something else that had caught their attention. A single fag soared up to the top of the mizzen mast and broke out in the breeze, and then came down again.

  ‘Curious,’ said Sybord. He chewed at the lower fridge of his moustache as he continued to watch. After a pause, the same flag rose back up and down the mast once more. ‘What do you suppose that the ship is doing, sergeant? Did you see the flag just then? They might almost be trying to signal to someone.’

  ‘It is a mystery why the navy do half of the things they do, sir,’ replied DuPont, with a shrug. ‘Doubtless he is in contact with the other ships.’ Sybord turned his attention to the second, more distant British frigate, positioned opposite the harbour mouth.

  ‘No, I do not think so,’ he said. ‘That other one flies no signals, and besides, they would have to show their flag on the far side of their ship if they wanted it to be seen from over there,’ he said. He returned his attention to the group of officers on the quarterdeck. ‘It is almost as if they want to attract someone’s attention on shore. Who on earth would they be communicating with? See, now they have hoisted a lot of flags at once.’

  ‘Perhaps it has something to do with the prisoners,’ suggested the sergeant. Sybord lowered his telescope.

  ‘Prisoners? What prisoners?’ he asked. His deputy pointed over his shoulder with a jerk of his thumb towards the low hill behind him.

  ‘There are some English naval officers living in the Venner’s old place. Up on top of the hill, by the lane. One of them walks past here each morning at dawn and heads along the beach.’ Sybord swung his telescope in the direction that his sergeant had pointed and the little white house swam into view. He re-focused, and the crisp image of a gangly young man with sandy hair appeared. He stood looking out to sea through a small telescope, his mouth working as if he was speaking to someone else. The artillery captain panned around a little farther and saw two older men. They were busy un-pegging squares of coloured cloth from a length of rope that hung down from the tree beside them.

  ‘Merde!’ he roared. ‘Aux armes! Call out the guard! The enemy is amongst us!’

  *****

  ‘It’s a very long signal, sir,’ said Midshipman Croft as he peered out to sea. ‘Titan to Rush. Then the interrogative flag, so what follows will be a question.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Chapman as he looked up from the signal line. ‘Can you hear something? Like a deal of shouting, maybe?’ Sutton stopped un-pegging the flags and put his head on one side. Over the sound of the surf and the rush of the sea breeze through the palm trees, he heard faint but raised voices.

  ‘It starts with “is”,’ continued the teenager, still focused on the frigate. ‘I can’t recall what the next flag group is without a signal book, but after that they are spelling out something.’

  ‘It does sound a little like shouting,’ said the captain to his steward. ‘Is it coming from the beach?’

  ‘S...U...T...T...O...I think it’s your name, sir,’ said the midshipman, the telescope still glued to his eye. The roar of a drum echoed through the trees from down by the shore.

  ‘Shit!’ said Chapman. ‘I reckon we’ve been rumbled, sir.’

  ‘Pull these rags down and hide them in the house,’ ordered Sutton. ‘Quickly, man!’ The sailor rushed off with the bundle of flags in his arms. He leaped onto the veranda and through the door, knocking the table over in his haste.

  ‘Mr Croft! Direct your gaze towards the shore battery. Tell me what you can see.’ The teenager swung his telescope towards the beach.

  ‘Oh, sir!’ he exclaimed. ‘There’s an officer with a big moustache leading some soldiers this way. He appears to be rather angry.’

  ‘Chapman!’ roared Sutton towards the house. ‘Come now! We must depart, unless you wish to be hanged for a spy.’

  The three men dashed around to the back of the building and cut across to the track. They were out of sight from the beach, on the down slope of the little hill, but the noise of the approaching soldiers was growing louder all the time.

  ‘Follow me,’ ordered Sutton, and they set off at a run down the lane with little more than the clothes on their backs. The only exception was Croft, who still carried the telescope. The sandy track merged into one of beaten red earth, with small, well tended fields on either side. Ahead of them the way skirted around a grove of tall, lush banana plants. Sutton led the way into the plantation, crashing through the thick rubbery leaves, and in an instant they were out of sight. From behind them came the sound of shouted orders and smashing as their little house was ransacked.

  ‘Come on,’ said their captain, pushing his way between the trees. ‘Let us try and place some distance between us and any pursuit.’ The big leaves clung to their clothes as they forced their way forwards, but they also sprung back behind when they passed, concealing them from prying eyes. After a few hundred yards the grove of trees came to an end. Beyond was another red earth track. It ran across their direction of travel with a ditch of gurgling, dirty water alongside it. Sutton peered out through the last of the banana plants, checked both ways, and then waved his companions on. They jumped across the ditch and dashed over the road and back into cover. This time they had plunged i
nto a field of dense rows of lofty sugarcane that trembled in the wind. The stalks rose high above their heads, and their motion concealed, at least partially, the signs of their passage.

  ‘Why do you suppose that there are so few people about, sir?’ asked Croft as they made their way forward. ‘Normally these fields are thick with farm labourers.’

  ‘Because it is Sunday today,’ replied his captain. ‘A day of rest, even for slaves, it would seem.’

  ‘That’s a bleeding stroke of luck, sir,’ said Chapman, wiping his forehead on his shirt sleeve. ‘Otherwise I reckon we’d have been collared pretty sharp. Do you suppose we’ve outpaced them flat-footed gunners?’

  ‘For now, perhaps,’ said Sutton. ‘But they will soon raise the alarm. We had best keep moving, before they can arrange a proper pursuit.’

  At first all went well for the fugitives. They worked their way deeper and deeper inland, always trying to stay in cover, and giving a wide berth to the occasional plantation building they saw amid the dense fields of sugarcane. At one stage the crops proved too thick for them to go cross-country and they were forced to risk a stage along a sheltered track. Their luck held for perhaps a half mile, before the sound of approaching hooves trotting briskly forced them to dive back into cover. The noise of the horse was soon joined by the jingling of a harness, and the fugitives cowered down, sure that a cavalry patrol was on their trail. Sutton peered out from between the fronds, to see a pony trap rattling by with a family out in their Sunday finest.

  ‘Probably on their way back from church, sir,’ said Croft, as Sutton brushed himself down.

  ‘Doubtless,’ said his captain, puffing out his cheeks with relief. ‘Still, it was a timely warning for us against using the roads. Let us return to the fields.’

  A little later they found that they had walked too close to a dwelling and were being plagued by a farm dog. Despite their best efforts to either befriend him or drive him away, the animal followed them across several fields, barking all the time. They had just concluded that they would have to lure him close enough to kill him, and had armed themselves with heavy branches for the purpose, when the first dart of lightning shot across the sky. The rumble of thunder that followed made the dog slink off with a howl. They watched it race away under a sky of boiling cloud, and large, heavy drops began to patter all around them.