Great heavy drops of rain, sporadic at first and then hissing across the water like metal bars to hammer the boat and occupants without mercy.
Browne groaned. “I’ll never complain about fish again! The men who catch it earn every penny!”
Slowly and reluctantly the feeble daylight pushed through the clouds and heavy rain. More boats took shape and personality, and as one sighted another they fanned out into casual formations in readiness to begin their work.
Searle ordered, “Steer due east. Steady as you go.” To Browne he added, “That will give us the wind-gage. It will also take us nearer to the mainland.” He was staring at Browne through the rain. “Not far from where Ganymede found you.”
“Yes.”
Browne blinked the rain from his eyes. He still could not bring himself to talk about it, except to Bolitho. It was something terrible, and yet very special, between them.
He squinted up at the mainmast with its frayed rigging which looked as old as time itself.
“Feel like a climb, Mr Stirling?”
The midshipman tightened his belt. “Aye, sir. What am I to do?”
Searle leaned over and tapped Browne’s shoulder. “Good idea. Get aloft, my lad, and pretend to be doing some running repairs. Take a palm and needle with you, though I doubt if any of the Frenchies carries a telescope.”
Stirling swarmed up the quivering rigging like a monkey and was soon outwardly engrossed in his work.
Corporal Coote, one of the four marines who was enduring the stench and violent motion of the hold, raised his head above the coaming and surveyed the two lieutenants hopefully.
Browne asked, “Well, Corporal?”
“We just found some wine in an old box down ’ere, sir.” His face was a picture of innocence. “When we’m on these jobs our own officers usually let us take a wet when there’s some lying handy.”
Browne nodded. “I suppose that would be all right.”
The master’s mate’s voice exploded between them like a charge of canister. “How does it feel to be a damn liar, Coote? I see rightly enough how it looks!”
The corporal sank slowly from view as Hoblin muttered, “Bloody bullocks, beggin’ your pardon, gentlemen, but they’d take the wooden leg off a cripple to kindle a fire!”
Browne looked at Searle and grinned. “I could manage a drink myself!”
Searle turned aside. Browne was his superior, but obviously had not been trained in the ways of the lower deck, or the barracks either for that matter. He loosened his hanger at his side. It would certainly be a sharp end to their mission if they arrived amongst the enemy with half of the crew dead-drunk.
He said, “Bring her up another point.” He mopped his streaming face with his sleeve. “Sharp lookout, everyone!”
There were about thirty fishing vessels, as far as Browne could see. By skilful use of helm and wind, the master’s mate held the boat clear of the others, while on the cluttered deck the sailors dragged tackle and floats about as if they had been fishermen all their lives.
“Don’t see any soldiers. Not on deck anyway.” Searle banged his hands together. “If only I dared to use a glass on them!”
Above the deck, swinging from his shaking perch, Midshipman Stirling peered at the other vessels and allowed his legs to dangle in the rain. Like most fourteen-year-old midshipmen, Stirling was untroubled by heights. The fishing boat’s mainmast was like a pike after Benbow’s dizzy topgallant yards. What a story he would have to tell the others when he returned to Benbow. Like the moment when the commodore had allowed him to take down and hold Bolitho’s sword. Even if his fellow midshipmen had not altogether believed a word of it, it was still one of the greatest things which had happened in his young life.
He watched the rain passing away from the hull and across the nearest boat which was sailing a cable’s length to starboard. He continued with the pretence of stitching although he had lost the sailmaker’s needle within minutes of climbing from the deck.
Below him the boat yawed unsteadily in a trough, and Stirling heard the squeak of a block as he was swung against the mast like a bread sack.
And there they were, shining in the grey light, their rigging and crossed yards glistening from the downpour.
He called, “Larboard bow, sir! Five, no six sail of the line!” He was almost incoherent with excitement. “All at anchor!”
On deck the lieutenants and Hoblin exchanged questioning glances. The master’s mate said, “They wasn’t there two days back, sir! Must have slipped out of Lorient. They’d have been seen else.”
Browne looked up at the dangling figure. “Any more?”
“Can’t tell, sir. I think it’s raining again over there! But there are some small ships at anchor, I-I’m certain of it!”
Browne looked at Searle and exclaimed, “Remond’s flying squadron, it must be.” He clapped his new friend on the arm. “It’s strange. We came to discover something, but now that we’ve found it, the shock is almost greater.”
“What now?”
Browne stared across the spray. Stirling had good eyes, he thought. As far as he could see there was just the cruising ranks of white crests with a blurred image of land far beyond.
“We must rejoin the squadron. The French are out, and RearAdmiral Bolitho will need to know it.”
“Steady, sir!”
A seaman jabbed a tarred thumb towards the other boats. One which they had not previously noticed was on a converging tack, and as the rain moved clear Browne saw two uniforms, and worse, a swivel gun mounted above the stem.
Searle called hoarsely, “Pass the word! Take no notice!”
Browne saw the immediate change. Even Stirling had wrapped one arm around the mast as if to protect himself.
“Let her fall off two points.”
Hoblin murmured, “No use. The bugger’s seen us.”
“Damn!” Searle looked at Browne. “What do you want me to do?”
Hoblin said, “They can head us off. We’ve no chance.”
Browne stared at the other vessel. Two more uniforms had appeared. There had after all been four soldiers originally in this boat.
“No chance to run, but we can fight.”
Searle nodded. “If we board her and put her out of action before they range that swivel on us, we might be able to run for it.” He shivered. “Anyway, I’m not being taken prisoner like this!”
Hoblin grimaced as a beam of pale sunlight touched the sails as if to betray them to the enemy.
“When we need the sun we get rain! Now it’s t’other way round, blast it!”
Searle licked his lips. “They’ll be in hailing distance soon.” Without looking up he said, “Mr Stirling! When I give the word get down from there on the double! Corporal Coote! Marksmen ready!”
Boots scraped in the hold, and Browne heard the clatter of equipment as the marines prepared themselves. It was what they knew best, no matter what the odds might be.
Browne called, “You can have all the wine you can drink after this, Corporal!”
Somebody actually managed a laugh.
“They’re shortening sail, sir.”
Browne saw the men on the other boat taking in the sails, and one of the soldiers making his way forward to the gun. The soldier appeared quite relaxed, and one of his companions was smoking a pipe while he watched the fishermen fisting the rough canvas into submission.
“They’re calling us alongside!” Hoblin sounded as if he was speaking through his teeth. “Ready, sir?”
Searle glanced at Browne and then barked, “Stand by, lads!”
He watched the other boat’s shadow writhing across the crested water, the sudden uncertainty as they drew nearer and nearer, an arrowhead of water trapped between them like something solid.
“Now! Helm a-lee!”
