One shot, the first Unrivalled had fired in anger.
Adam had watched the splash, the succession of jagged fins of spray as the ball had skipped across the water no more than a boat’s length from her bows. He had touched the gunner’s shoulder; it had felt like iron itself. No words were needed. It was a perfect shot, and the brigantine, now seen to be named Rosario, had hove-to, her sails in confusion in the wind which had changed everything.
He heard the quill scratching across the paper and realised he had been describing it. He looked again and saw the brigantine’s outline, more like a blurred shadow than reality. Unrivalled had put down two boats, and they had done well, he thought, with the lively sea, and their movements hampered by their weapons. Jago had been with him. Amused, but deadly when one of Rosario ’s crew had raised a pistol as the boarders had flung their grapnels and swarmed aboard. He had not even seen Jago move, his blade rising and falling with the speed of light. Then the scream, and the severed hand like a glove on the deck.
Lieutenant Wynter had been in the second boat, and with his own party had put the crew under guard. After Jago’s example there was no further resistance.
Rosario was Portuguese but had been chartered repeatedly, at one time by the English squadron at Gibraltar. The master, a dirty, unshaven little man, seemed to speak no English, although he produced some charts to prove his lawful occasions. The charts, like Rosario, were almost too filthy to examine. As Cristie later remarked, “By guess an’ by God, that’s how these heathen navigate!”
A sense of failure then; he had sensed it in the restlessness of the boarding party, the apparent confidence of Rosario ’s master.
Until Wynter, perhaps the least experienced officer in the ship, had commented on the brigantine’s armament, six swivel-guns mounted aft and near the hold. And the smell…
Adam had ordered the hatches to be broached. Only one cargo had a stench like that, and they found the chains and the manacles where slaves could be packed out of sight, to exist, if they could, in terror and their own filth until they were shipped to a suitable market. There had been blood on one set of irons, and Adam guessed that the wretched prisoner had been pitched overboard.
He had seen Wynter’s eyes widening with shocked surprise when he had said coldly, “A slaver then. Worthless to me. Fetch a halter and run this bugger up to the main-yard, as an example to others!”
Wynter’s expression had changed to admiring comprehension when the vessel’s master had thrown himself at Adam’s feet, pleading and sobbing in rough but completely adequate English.
“I thought he might remember!”
Confident and less gentle, they had continued their search. There was a safe, and the gibbering master was even able to produce a key.
Adam turned now as Avery opened the satchel.
“ Rosario had no papers as such. That alone makes her a prize.” He smiled faintly. “For the moment.”
Avery laid out the contents of the satchel. A bill of lading, Spanish. A delivery of oil to some garrison, Portuguese. A log book, crudely marked with dates and what could be estimated positions. Some shadowed Unrivalled.
Bouverie said abruptly, “Many such men are paid to spy and inform their masters of ship movements, theirs and ours.” He gave the characteristic nod. “But I’ll give you this, Bolitho. You did not imagine it!”
Adam felt the sudden surge of excitement. The first time since… He said, “And there is a letter. I do not speak French, but I recognise it well enough.”
Avery was holding it. “For the captain of the frigate La Fortune.” He gave a grave smile. “I learned my French the hard way. As their prisoner.”
Bouverie rubbed his chin. “So she is in Algiers. Under a great battery, you say.”
Adam said, “The bait in the trap, sir. They will not expect us to ignore it.”
It was as if some invisible bonds had been cut. Bouverie almost sprang out of the chair.
“Out of the question! Even if we hold Rosamund-”
Avery heard himself correcting gently, “Rosario, sir,” and cursed himself. Always the good flag lieutenant…
Adam persisted, “No, sir, we use her. To spring the trap. They know we are trailing our cloaks, and they will be expecting the brigantine. I am sure she is a regular visitor there.”
He was aware of the tawny eyes on him, Avery watching but not seeing him. As if he were somewhere else… He was suddenly deeply moved. With my uncle.
“ Rosario appears to be an agile vessel, sir. It would seem only fair if we were to ‘chase’ her into Algiers?”
Bouverie swallowed. “A cutting-out expedition? I’m not at all certain-” Then he nodded again, vigorously. “It might work, it’s daring enough. Foolhardy, some will say.”
Adam returned to the stern windows. One of the Rosario ’s crew had told him that they had often carried female slaves, some very young girls. The master had delighted in abusing them.
He thought of Zenoria, her back laid open by a whip. Keen had rescued her, and she had married him. Not out of love. Out of gratitude.
The mark of Satan, she had called it.
He heard himself say, “Time is short, sir. We cannot delay.”
“The authority for such an act, which might provoke another outbreak of war…”
“Is yours, sir.”
Why should it matter? Bouverie would not be the first or the last officer to await a decision from a higher authority. But it did matter. It had to.
He said, “I can take Rosario. I am short-handed, but we could share the burden between us. Then so would the laurels be equally divided.”
He saw the shot go home. Like one of old Stranace’s.
“We’ll do it. I’ll send you some good hands within the hour.” Bouverie was thinking fast, like a flood-gate bursting open. “Will you take the Rosario ’s master with you, in case?…”
Adam picked up his hat and saw blood on his sleeve. Jago’s cutlass.
“I shall take him. Later, I shall see him hang.” He looked at Avery. “By the authority vested in me!”
Adam Bolitho lowered his telescope and moved into the shadow of the brigantine’s foresail. There would be hundreds of eyes watching from the shore. One mistake would be enough to betray them.
Bang.
He saw a waterspout burst from the sea. Close. But was it near enough to deceive their audience?
He had seen Matchless leaning over as she had changed tack for her final approach, and he had seen the citadel, all and more than Avery had described. It looked as if it had been there for centuries, since time began. Avery had told him about a secret, cave-like entrance to which they had been taken in a large galley. You could lose an army trying to storm such a place. Or a fleet.
He glanced at the Rosario ’s master. Once aboard and in command of his own vessel again, he seemed to have grown in stature, as if all the pathetic pleading and whimpering for his life had been forgotten. Slumped by the bulwark, Jago sat with both legs out-thrust, his eyes never leaving the man’s face.
Nothing was certain. The master had intended to hoist some sort of recognition signal as they had tacked closer to the protective headland. Adam had said, “No. They will know Rosario. They will not expect a signal when she is being chased by an enemy!”
Somebody had even laughed.
He turned to look at the swivel-guns, all loaded and primed. And the hatch covers. He could imagine the extra seamen and marines crammed in the holds, listening to the occasional bang of Matchless’s bow-chaser, sweating it out. Captain Bosanquet was down there with them, apparently more concerned with the state of his uniform in the filthy hold than the prospect of being dead within the next hour.
He stepped into the shadow again and held his breath, and carefully raised his glass and trained it on the citadel, and the main wall which Avery had remembered so clearly. A movement. He watched, hardly daring to blink. Guns, an entire line of them, thrusting their muzzles through the embrasures, the menace undiminished by distance. He could almost hear their iron trucks squeaking over the worn stone.