A Man of No Country Page 4

  *****

  The true master of the trading brig proved to be a large, florid man in a pea green jacket, who grasped Clay’s hand enthusiastically when he was shown into the cabin.

  ‘Thank you most kindly for my release, sir,’ he said in his strong Bristol accent. ‘I am Seth Benjamin, master and owner of the Charlotte.’

  ‘Good to make your acquaintance, Mr Benjamin,’ said Clay. ‘I am delighted to have been in a position to affect a rescue. Can I offer you some refreshment after you ordeal? Hart, a glass of wine for the captain, if you please.’

  ‘Thank you kindly,’ said the ship’s owner as he accepted the drink. He drained his glass thirstily and held it back towards the steward. ‘We contrived to make as much noise as we were able, but what with our being confined to the hold, and the wind set in the wrong direction, I wasn’t sure as you would hear us, sir.’

  ‘In truth we only just managed to perceive your cries, although our suspicions had already been aroused,’ said Clay. ‘But tell me, I had expected to find a French or Spanish prize crew onboard, but the men we have captured seem to be neither.’

  ‘No, that’s right,’ said the merchant captain. ‘They have all manners of strange folk amongst them, but for the most part they are Russian. I wasn’t aware we were at war with Russia, which is how they managed to surprise me so easily.’

  ‘Nor are we,’ said Clay. ‘God knows we are not short of enemies, but Russia is not numbered amongst them. And even if war has been declared in the two weeks since I left Plymouth, word could hardly have arrived here off the coast of Portugal any quicker than my ship. Could you explain what happened to you, Mr Benjamin?’

  ‘We left Oporto yesterday morning with the tide, sir,’ he began. ‘Soon as we was clear of land and was heading for home, up comes this ship-rigged sloop flying Russian colours. She must have been waiting in the offing for just such an opportunity. Well, we reckoned as how she was just heading into the port herself, so we thought nothing of it. Before you could blink, she had fired a six-pounder across our bow and ranged up alongside. Full of men she was, all armed to the teeth. The whole attack was over as soon as it began.’

  ‘This was yesterday you say, just off Oporto?’ asked Clay. ‘Could you describe this ship?’

  ‘She was ship rigged, as I said. Not big at all, probably no more than three or four hundred ton, I should say,’ said Benjamin. ‘Her hull was painted dark blue, but had seen better days, and her sails were right heavily patched. No more than six guns per side, so she would be no match for a proper man-of-war like this.’

  ‘What do you think, Mr Taylor?’ said Clay, to his lieutenant.

  ‘The Russians had a good deal of privateers operating a few years back when they were at war with the Turks, sir,’ he replied. ‘I would imagine that this ship may have been one of them. It could be the usual story. The crew get such a taste for the buccaneering way of life that when the war ended, they continued.’

  ‘A privateer that has turned into a pirate?’ said Clay. ‘They would not be the first. But now they have tried their hand upon British commerce, they have become our responsibility. Can you show us where you were captured on the chart, Mr Benjamin? If they struck lucky there only yesterday, there is a fair chance they will continue to cruise the same waters in the hope of further prey.’

  *****

  ‘Wake up, sir,’ urged Samuel Yates. He rocked his captain’s cot with one hand while he held aloft a horn lantern in the other. Clay opened his eyes and focused with difficulty on the face of his young servant. Then he frowned.

  ‘What is that deuced noise?’ he asked. He could hear a steady thunder on the deck over his head.

  ‘That’ll be the rain, sir,’ said Yates. ‘Fair pelting down, it is. Noah’s forty days ain’t in it. Five bells in the morning watch has just struck. There is hot water fresh up from the galley in your washstand, and I will go and get your clothes ready. You’ll need your oil skins, unless this downpour blows over, sir.’

  The ship was still in the centre of the rain squall when Clay came on deck. The planking beneath his sea boots was slick with water, and it filled the night with its hissing roar. He glanced over the side onto the surface of a black sea that seethed and foamed like the yeasty brew of a witch. He struggled across to join the other sou’wester-clad figures, grouped around the glow of light coming from the binnacle.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he shouted, as he attempted to make himself heard. ‘Although good may be over egging our pudding. We shall have little hope of finding anything in this. What is our position?’

  ‘We have circled around north in the night as you ordered, sir,’ yelled Armstrong. ‘We shall cross the spot where the Charlotte was captured around dawn. You may find it difficult to credit, but this rain is actually a little less intense than earlier.’

  ‘It will still serve to cloak that Russian ship, sir,’ grumbled Preston, who was officer of the watch.

  By tiny increments the light of dawn crept upon the ship. The black world around them divided between dark sea and slate-grey sky. The web of ropes and shrouds inked themselves in, and the shape of the frigate resolved itself from out of the gloom. Then the squall of rain swept away to one side and the ship emerged into clear sea at last. On the eastern horizon Clay could see a faint sliver of coral pink, as the first light of dawn stole into the world. He tilted his head up towards the foremast to watch the lookout perched high up on the royal yard, just as the sailor turned his face down towards his captain, cupped a hand next to his mouth and hailed.

  ‘Deck there! Sail ho! Sail on the starboard beam!’

  ‘Mr Russell,’ said Clay to the midshipman of the watch. ‘Get yourself aloft with a glass and tell me what you make of her.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied the youth running to the main chains and scampering aloft.

  ‘I do hope it may prove to be our quarry,’ said Taylor.

  ‘Deck there!’ yelled Russell from the top of the main mast. ‘She’s ship rigged alright, sir. Looks like a small sloop. I cannot make out any colours. She is standing towards us.’

  ‘That sounds promising, sir,’ said Armstrong. ‘It would be passing strange if two such similar craft proved to be in the same vicinity.’

  ‘It is also a good sign that she is making so bold as to come towards us, sir,’ added Preston. ‘A merchantman would be much shyer of a strange sail. Perhaps she thinks we might be another victim?’

  ‘Deck there! She has hauled her wind now and is going about,’ called Russell.

  ‘She cannot like the look of us and has realised her mistake,’ said Clay. ‘Put the ship on the other tack and get the topgallants on her, Mr Preston. You can trial the royals too, if she will bear them. We have new copper and spars. Let us see if we cannot run her to ground.’

  ‘All hands!’ cried the boatswain’s mates. ‘All hands to make sail!’

  Clay picked up one of the telescopes and strode forward along the starboard gangway with Taylor at his heels as the men poured up from the lower deck. The top men paused to knuckle their foreheads in respect to the captain and first lieutenant, before spinning round to fly up the shrouds. Clay paused for a moment to watch them go, higher and higher, up the masts before they spread out along the yardarms to release the furled sails.

  ‘We have a well drilled crew Mr Taylor,’ he commented. ‘I thought that four months ashore would have made them slow, but they seem just as quick as before. Look at Trevan up there, running out along that yard as if it were the path to his door.’

  ‘They are still a little more cumbersome than they were, sir,’ said Taylor. ‘But I live in hope that a few more weeks of sail drill will sweat the last of the drink from their hides.’

  Once they reached the bow of the ship, the effect of all the extra canvas that had been set was starting to be felt. Looking down, Clay could see the frigate’s sharp bow as it sliced through the water and the creamy wave that was climbing higher and higher up the ship’s side as thei
r speed increased. A polished grey shape arched out of the water before it plunged back into the sea close to the hull, followed by two more.

  ‘We have dolphins, Mr Taylor,’ said Clay, pointing. ‘A good sign, I believe. I have been told that they only favour the swiftest of ships.’

  ‘Let us see if the creatures have judged correctly, sir,’ said the first lieutenant. He pulled out his telescope and focused it in the direction of the sighting. He paused for a moment and then back-tracked a little. ‘Ah, there she is, sir. I can see her mizzen royal lifting above the horizon. If you direct your gaze a shade to starboard of the bowsprit you should have her.’

  Clay tracked his telescope to the spot that Taylor had indicated. So soon after dawn the sea was a dark pool that filled the bottom half of the image in his eye piece, but the sky in the top half was growing clearer all the time. He tracked slowly round till he found the little white square of something more solid.

  ‘I have her, Mr Taylor,’ he said. ‘And is that not a little of her topgallants appearing just below? I believe we are gaining on her quickly.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said the lieutenant. ‘It might also be a wave, sir.’

  ‘Too permanent for that,’ said Clay. ‘No, we are certainly the swifter ship, but it will be a few hours before we are up with her. Are you hungry, George?’

  ‘Very much so, sir.’

  ‘Good, will you join me for breakfast?’

  *****

  When the two officers returned to the quarterdeck later it was full morning. The rain had gone altogether and in the clearer air they could see the distant mountains of Portugal as a purple line away to one side. The watch had been changed, and Lieutenant Blake had replaced Preston. The ship continued to race onwards through the water, sending sheets of spray that flew away downwind. Every fibre of the rigging seemed to hum in the air all around them with the strain of so much sail. Clay glanced across an expanse of green sea to the Russian sloop, now well over the horizon and getting closer all the time.

  ‘She is trying her hardest to escape, sir, but it will not answer,’ reported Blake with satisfaction. ‘By the look of her she would have been a swift ship in her day, but those sails of hers are very old. I doubt if they hold the wind much better than a net would.’

  Clay focussed on the little sloop ahead. Her sails were brown and streaked with age, with squares of newer canvas to mark where they had been mended. She was close enough now for him to see the detail of her hull. Blake was right; it was sleek and long, capable of a fair turn of speed once. It was also painted blue, just as Seth Benjamin had described.

  ‘Sails so in want of repair speaks to me of a long period away from her home port, sir,’ added Taylor. ‘In which case her hull will be foul with weed.’

  ‘Doubtless you are correct, but they will still do all they can to evade capture,’ said Clay. ‘They must realise that as pirates we shall hang them out of hand.’

  ‘They are changing direction!’ warned several of the watching officers at once. The silhouette of the ship altered as her other two masts emerged from behind her mizzen. She swung round and settled on her new course.

  ‘Due east, sir,’ said Blake, standing over the compass rose to take the bearing. ‘Where can she be bound? Surely only the coast of Portugal lies in that quarter. She will be trapped between our guns and the shore.’

  ‘She is up to something,’ mused Clay, still watching her. ‘Kindly follow her around, Mr Blake. And have one of the bow chasers manned. We may be able to slow her up by throwing a few shot in amongst her rigging presently.’

  Clay put his telescope to his eye again. The sloop filled his disc of vision now. He could see some of the detail of her battered rigging. One of her yards had been fished together from two broken pieces. He could even make out individual crewmen, ant-like figures amongst her sails. He refocused on the land beyond the ship. With the greater magnification, the purple smear on the horizon changed into green wooded hills backed by blue mountains farther inland. Where the hills met the sea, he could just make out a faint line of cream that formed and went as successive Atlantic rollers broke on the sand of a distant beach.

  ‘I am not entirely sure, but has she sprung a leak, sir?’ asked Taylor. ‘Off on her larboard side, do you see?’ Clay returned his attention to the ship. From the side a pulsing line of silver shot out to cascade into the waves beside her.

  ‘I think not, George,’ said Clay. ‘I believe they are starting their fresh water. They mean to pump her dry to see if that won’t answer to coax a bit more speed from her.’

  ‘A few tons of water will not achieve much, sir,’ scoffed the first lieutenant. ‘We are almost in range now. I wonder what they will try — Oh, sir! Did you see that huge splash?’

  ‘I did, Mr Taylor,’ said Clay. ‘That was a gun being thrown by the board, for sure.’ Splashes followed at regular intervals as the ship cast anything heavy over the side, and still the gap between them shrank.

  ‘How do you suppose they mean to evade us, sir?’ asked Blake. The coast of Portugal was much closer now.

  ‘It makes no sense to me, sir,’ said Armstrong. ‘I have studied the chart and I can see nothing to occasion any alarm. All that lies ahead is a bay with no exit save that we shall use to enter it. The longer they proceed on this course, the more certain will be their capture.’

  ‘And they can hardly mean to fight with us,’ added Taylor. ‘Even if they had the pluck for it, they have now cast all their great guns away.’

  ‘Let us see what unfolds, gentlemen,’ said Clay. ‘In the meantime we must prepare for all eventualities. There is nothing to gain from clearing the ship for action, Mr Blake, but turn up the watch below and let us have the guns manned. Mr Taylor, please see that the launch crew are ready in case we have need of them, and warn Mr Hutchinson that we may wish to drop anchor.’ He picked up his speaking trumpet and called towards the forecastle. ‘Mr Russell! You may try a shot with the bow chaser. I am sure we must be in range.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ came the distant reply. The bang of a cannon rang out, and a puff of dirty white smoke drifted away on the wind.

  A buzz of anticipation ran through the ship as they prepared for action. Lieutenant Thomas Macpherson appeared on the quarterdeck accompanied by his sergeant. He pulled his scarlet jacket straight and settled his sword by his side before he approached his captain.

  ‘What do you require of my men, sir?’ he asked. ‘I would normally post them as sharpshooters for a single ship action, but yonder wee sloop doesn’t seem to warrant such attention.’

  ‘No, I doubt if they intend to fight us at all,’ said Clay. ‘In truth, Tom, I have no notion as to what they are about. All they seem bent on is to drive themselves onto the shore.’ The marine stroked one of his bristling black sideburns with a gloved hand as he looked at the Russian ship.

  ‘With your permission, I will have the men formed up on the quarterdeck and hold them in readiness till matters become a little clearer. Ah, I believe the bow chaser may have hit them!’

  Clay lifted up his telescope and focused on the Russian ship. Clear in his field of vision he could see the battered stern of the sloop. The paintwork of the hull was mottled, with squares of lighter and darker blue that showed where the woodwork had been patched and repaired. Above the hull was a run of window lights across her stern. Some of the individual panes were cracked, others replaced with squares of wood. Higher still he could see faces that stared back at him over her stern rail. The bow chaser fired again and a tall splash reared up. The shot was in line with the target but had fallen a little short. He lowered his telescope and looked around. On either side of him, long arms of land reached out to form the sides of the bay, and still their quarry rushed on.

  ‘Mr Blake, let us reduce sail,’ he ordered. ‘We have her trapped now, and I have no desire to hit some sand bar not represented on Mr Armstrong’s chart at this speed. Topsails only, if you please.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied the offic
er of the watch. ‘All hands! All hands to take in sail.’ Clay returned his attention to the Russian ship as she sailed closer and closer to the shore. No sign of her taking in any sail, he thought. What are they trying to do? A puff of smoke appeared in his view from the bow chaser and this time he saw splinters fly as the ball crashed home, leaving a jagged hole in the counter.

  ‘Surely she must turn or slow down,’ said Taylor at his elbow. ‘We have her beat for certain, but she will run aground on that course. Look, she is almost in the surf already.’

  ‘I don’t believe she will turn,’ exclaimed Clay. ‘I believe she means to beach herself and escape from us on foot! See, now she has let go her sheets.’

  Even with all of her sails flapping in the wind, the sloop still had enough momentum to drive her bow deep up the beach with a crunching roar. The impact was too much for her worn out rigging. As the hull ploughed to a halt the three masts continued forward, crashing down together in a welter of destruction. Beneath a canopy of tattered sails and broken spars the hull of the ship lay over on one side, with gentle waves stirring the wreckage that lay all about her.

  ‘Mr Blake! Bring the ship up into the wind if you please and drop anchor,’ ordered Clay. ‘Send the launch to take possession of what is left of that privateer.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir!’

  ‘There they go, sir!’ shouted Taylor. Clay followed where he pointed. From the bow of the ship he could see little figures as they clambered down into the shallow water with their bundles of possessions and waded towards the beach.

  ‘Mr Macpherson!’ he called. ‘I’ll trouble you for a landing party of your marines to see if you can capture any of the crew. Mr Taylor, kindly get the pinnace and cutter in the water to ferry them ashore. You had best accompany the marines, too.’

  Clay watched the launch as it rowed quickly towards the stricken wreck of the sloop. The boat had covered no more than half the distance before wisps of smoke began to drift up from the privateer.