Then it was done, and Bolitho found himself being led down ladders and beneath low-beamed deckheads to the world he knew so well.
The motion between decks was violent, and he could feel the ship jerking at her cable, eager to get away from the surrounding rocks and seek open water.
As they descended another ladder to the orlop deck, Bolitho heard the clink of a capstan, orders carried away by the wind as the seamen prepared to make sail.
Stooping figures passed through the shadows, and Bolitho saw dark stains on the deck which could only be blood. Not all that recent, but too deep to be scrubbed away. Like any other orlop, he thought grimly. Where the surgeons managed as best they could while the guns thundered overhead and their screaming victims were pinioned to a table for the saw or knife.
He saw Neale in a cot by one of the great frames, and Allday rising to meet him as if their reunion was all that mattered in the world.
Allday said quickly, “She’s the Ceres, thirty-two, sir.” He led the way to some old sea chests which he had covered with canvas and fashioned into seating for them. He added, “She was in a fight with one of our patrols a while back. The cook told me.” He grinned. “He’s Irish. Anyways, sir, she’s on passage to Lorient.” He cocked his head as the wind roared against the side. “Shorthanded they are too. Hope they runs aground, damn them!”
“How’s Captain Neale?”
Allday became serious again. “Sometimes he thinks he’s back in Styx. Keeps giving orders. Other times he’s quiet, no trouble.”
More far-off cries and then the deck tilted violently. Bolitho sat on a chest, his back pressed against the timbers, as the anchor broke from the ground and the Ceres began her fight to beat clear. He noticed that Allday had piled some old canvas in a corner, but enough to hide the manacles and leg irons which in turn were attached to chains and ring-bolts. One more reminder that they were prisoners and would be treated harshly if there was any sort of trouble.
Allday looked at the deckhead, his eyes and ears working like a cat in the dark.
“They’re aweigh, sir. Close-hauled by now, I reckon.” As an afterthought he said, “They have plenty to drink, sir. But no real ale.” He wrinkled his nose with disgust. “Still, what can you expect?”
Bolitho looked at Neale and then at Browne. Both were asleep, each trapped in his own thoughts and so momentarily secure.
Around them the ship groaned and plunged, every timber straining, while the wind endeavoured to break the hold of helm and seamanship. Again and again Bolitho heard the sea thunder against the side, and could imagine it leaping over the gangways and sweeping unwary and tired men in its path like leaves.
He thought of Belinda, of the house beneath Pendennis Castle, of Adam, and his friend Thomas Herrick. He was still trying to determine their faces when he too fell into an exhausted sleep.
When next he opened his eyes he was instantly aware that things had changed. As his mind grappled with his surroundings, he realized he must have been asleep for hours, for he could see creeping fingers of grey light playing down one of the companion ladders.
Allday was sitting bolt upright on his canvas, and Browne too was rubbing his eyes and yawning, as if he thought he was still dreaming.
Bolitho leaned forward and felt the ship moving unsteadily beneath his feet. What had awakened him?
He said, “Go to that ladder, Oliver. Tell me if you can hear anything.”
Allday asked uneasily, “Can’t be there already, can we?”
“No. Offshore gale, and in these waters, it will double the passage.”
He saw Browne cling to the ladder as a voice echoed from the deck above.
“En haut les gabiers! En haut pour ferler les huniers!”
Browne hurried over, his body steeply angled to the deck like a man on a hillside.
“They’re reefing topsails, sir.”
Bolitho heard the stumbling feet overhead as the watch off duty ran to obey the last order. It made no sense. Shorthanded, Allday had said, so why wear out men further by reefing now? If only he could see what was happening.
A lantern cast a yellow glow down the ladder, and Bolitho saw a lieutenant and two armed petty officers hurrying towards him.
The lieutenant was young and looked worried. The two old hands wasted no time in snapping the manacles over Bolitho’s wrists and ankles, and then did the same to Browne. As they moved towards Allday, the lieutenant shook his head and gestured towards Neale. Allday, it seemed, was being kept free to continue looking after the injured captain.
Bolitho looked at the iron manacles and said, “I do not understand.”
The ship leaned further to one side, whilst overhead voices yelled back and forth and blocks squealed like pigs at a slaughter. The captain was trying to change tack, but from the violent motion, Bolitho doubted if he had succeeded. Without topsails he… Bolitho sat bolt upright until restrained by the chain.
The French captain had wanted to remain unseen, and had taken in his upper sails to help conceal his ship against the tossing backcloth of waves.
Like an echo to his own thoughts he heard a voice shout, “Tout le monde a son poste! Branle-bas de combat!”
Browne stared, wide-eyed. “They’re clearing for action, sir!”
Bolitho listened to the increasing jumble of sounds as the frigate’s company began to remove screens and hammocks, and the rumble of gun trucks being man?uvred in readiness for the order to load.
They looked at one another as if unable to believe what was happening.
Then Allday said fervently, “It’s one of ours, sir! By God, it must be!”
Shadowy figures bustled past, heads bowed beneath the beams. Lanterns were lit and hung in a spiralling circle, and more chests were dragged to the centre of the deck and quickly secured with lashings. Light gleamed briefly on long aprons and across the glittering array of instruments as the surgeon’s mates laid out the tools of their trade.
Nobody paid any attention to the three men in the shadows or the swaying cot beside them.
Bolitho tugged at the manacles again. So it was not over after all. It would be a cruel ending to go to the bottom in these manacles after being in battle with a King’s ship.
The deck steadied slightly, and one of the surgeon’s mates laughed. But the sound was without humour. Even he would know that the steadier motion meant that their captain had set more sail, that the ruse to conceal his ship had failed. He was going to fight, and soon these same men would be too busy to care for mere prisoners.
Neale opened his eyes and called in a surprisingly clear voice, “Sentry! Fetch the master-at-arms!” But nobody turned to stare or wonder.
Bolitho leaned back and tried to adjust his mind. “Allday!”
“Sir?”
“Be ready.”
Allday looked at the lighted door of the sickbay, the absence of any sort of axe or weapon.
But he said hoarsely, “I’ll be ready, sir. Don’t you fret on it.”
The waiting got worse, and some of the surgeon’s assistants prowled inside the circle of swinging lanterns as if performing some strange ritual.
“Chargez toutes les pieces!”
It was the order to load, and as if he was responding to a prearranged signal, the surgeon left his sickbay and walked slowly towards the lights.
Bolitho licked his lips and wished he had something to drink.
Once again others had decided what the next hours would bring.
9. Price of Freedom
HERRICK clung to Benbow’s quarterdeck rail, his teeth bared as he peered into the stinging force of wind and
