The deck quivered slightly, and when he looked up he saw the trailing masthead pendant flick out like a whip. Loose gear rattled and groaned, and the watch on deck seemed to come alive again from their sun-dulled torpor.
'Stand to, hands to the braces! '
The brig swung slightly and the two helmsmen who had been standing motionless, their arms resting on the wheel, gripped the spokes as the rudder gave in to a sudden pressure.
Tyacke looked at the sailing master. 'You were right about a storm, Mr. Pitcairn! Well, we're ready for any help we can get! '
He realised that none of them had moved, and cursed suddenly as he heard again the sound he had taken for thunder. His hearing had never been the same since the explosion.
Ozanne said, 'Gunfire! '
The deck tilted more steeply and the big fore course filled iron-hard with a mind of its own.
Turn up the watch below! I want all the sail she can carry! Bring her back on course, Mr. Manley! '
Tyacke watched the sudden rush of men as the call shrilled between decks. The top men were already clambering out along the upper yards, and others were loosening halliards and braces ready for the next order. A few found time to stare aft at their formidable captain, questioning, uncertain, but trusting him completely.
Ozanne said, 'A fair size by the sound of it, sir.' He did not even flinch as Lame was sheeted home on the starboard tack.
The helmsman yelled, 'South by east, sir! Steady she goes! '
Tyacke rubbed his chin but did not see the others exchange glances. He did not even realise that it was something he always did in the face of danger.
Too heavy for another anti-slavery vessel: Ozanne was right about that. He saw the spray burst over the beak head and soak the seamen there. In the angry glare it looked almost gold.
Two frigates then? He glanced at each sail in turn. Lame was beginning to lean forward into every line of troughs, the sea pattering inboard and swilling into the scuppers. One of their own then, perhaps outgunned or outnumbered?
He snapped, 'Clear for action as the mood takes you, Mr. Ozanne.' He looked around and beckoned to a seaman. 'Cabin, Thomas fetch my sword and lively so! '
As suddenly as the returning wind it began to rain, a downpour which advanced across the water so heavily and thickly that it was like being hemmed in by a giant fence. As it reached the ship the men were held breathless and gasping where they stood, some using it to wash themselves, others just standing amidst the onslaught and spluttering with pleasure. There were more heavy crashes through the rain. The same sound, as if only the one vessel was firing.
Then there was one great explosion which seemed to go on for minutes. Tyacke could even feel it against the Lame's hull like something out of the deep.
Then the distant gunfire ceased and only the sound of the deluge continued. The rain was moving away, and the sun came through as if it had been in hiding. Sails, decks and taut rigging were steaming, and seamen looked for one another as if after a battle.
But the wind was holding, laying bare the distant coastline and the movement of the current.
The lookout yelled, 'Deck there! Sail to the south-east! Hull down! '
As the wind continued to drive away the mist Tyacke realised that much of it was smoke. The other ship or ships were already far away if only the lookout could see them. The assassins.
Some of his men were standing away from their guns or caught in their various attitudes of working ship and trimming the sails. They were staring at something.
It could have been a reef, except that out here there were none. It might have been some old and forgotten hulk left to the mercy of the ocean. But it was not. It was the capsized hull of a vessel about the size of this one, his Lame. There were huge obscene bubbles exploding from the opposite side, probably from that one great explosion. In a moment she would be gone.
Tyacke said harshly, 'Heave-to, Mr. Ozanne! Bosun, clear away the boats! '
Men ran to the tackles and braces as Lame wallowed heavily into the wind, her sails all in confusion.
Tyacke had never seen the boats get away so quickly. The experience gained at boarding suspected slavers was proving itself. Not that these men, his men, would need any incentive.
Tyacke levelled his telescope and stared at the pathetic little figures struggling to pull themselves to safety, others limp and trapped in the trailing weed of rigging alongside.
Not strangers this time. It was like looking at themselves.
An officer dressed in the same uniform as Ozanne and the others, seamen in checkered shirts like some of those beside him. There was blood in the water too, clinging to the upended bilge as if the vessel herself were being bled to death.
The boats were hurling themselves across the water, and Tyacke saw the third lieutenant, Robyns, pointing to something for his coxswain to identify.
Without looking Tyacke knew the surgeon and his mate were already down on deck to help the first survivors. There could not be many of them.
More big bubbles were bursting and Tyacke had to look away as a figure obviously blinded by the explosion appeared, arms outstretched, his mouth opened in unheard cries.
Tyacke clenched his fists. It could be me.
He looked away and saw a young seaman crossing himself, another sobbing quietly, heedless of his companions.
Ozanne lowered his telescope. 'She's going, sir. I just saw her name. She's the Thruster.' He seemed to stare around with disbelief. 'Just like us! '
Tyacke turned again to watch the boats standing as near as they dared, oars and lines flung out for anyone who could swim.
The brig began to dip under the sea, a few figures still trying to get away even as she took her last dive.
For a long time, or so it seemed, the boats pitched and rolled in the whirlpool that remained until corpses, rigging, and burned sailcloth were sucked down.
Tyacke said, 'One of Sir Richard's ships, Paul.' He thought of the lieutenant's outrage. Just like us. And the blinded man who cried for help when there was none.
Pitcairn the master asked huskily, 'What does it mean?'
Tyacke walked away to greet the few who had been plucked from death. But he paused with one foot on the ladder, his terrible scars laid bare in the sunshine.
'It means war, my friends. Without mercy and without quarter until it is finally settled.'
Someone cried out in agony and Tyacke turned away.
Nobody spoke. Perhaps they had all watched themselves die.
14. Catherine
Sir Paul Sillitoe sat at a small table by one of his bedroom windows, and frowned as another gust of wind made the rain dash against the glass like hail. Breakfast, a frugal but leisurely affair, was mainly a time for him to prepare himself for the day. Newsheets and papers were arranged in their special order by his valet Guthrie, who then left his master to prop them one by one on a little wooden stand which had once been used for music.
He glanced at the river Thames that curved directly past the house, which was built on this elegant part of Chiswick Reach. It was higher, and might well flood before the day was out.
He returned his attention to a page on foreign affairs, the small paragraph about the proposed military campaigns in the Indian Ocean. They could not wait another year to begin. Napoleon might still hold his de fences so that Wellington would have to withstand another year of conflict. It would not do at all. He reached for a biscuit which Guthrie had already spread with treacle, a childish fancy of his.
Then there was the Prince of Wales. Eager to rule in his father's place, but still in need of assurances from those in power who might see the King's insanity more as a protection than a threat to themselves.
