The boat hooked on, and after a few seconds some ragged figures swarmed up the side and on to the deck. They were armed to the teeth and could have been of any nationality.
Herrick watched impassively and heard someone call, "All ready, lieutenant! " An American or colonial accent.
But the one man in uniform who came last on to the Prince Henry's deck was as French as anyone could be.
He nodded curtly to Williams, then strode straight to Herrick. Long afterwards Williams remembered that Herrick had already been unclipping his sword, as if he had been expecting this.
The lieutenant touched his hat. "M'sieur Herrick?" He studied him gravely. The misfortune of war. You are my prisoner."
The brigantine was already making sail even as the boat went alongside. It seemed to have taken just minutes, and it was only when Williams saw his dead mate and the whimpering men near the wheel that he understood.
"Call Mr. Prior. He can take his place! " He looked at the pistol, still in his belt. Most naval officers would have ordered him to fight to the finish and to hell with the consequences.
But for Herrick he knew he would have done just that. He said heavily, "We'll put about for Cape Town."
Herrick had even made a point of putting on full uniform, he thought. When he looked again the Tridente, or whatever her real name was, was already standing away, her big fore-and-aft sail already making her show her copper.
Even the prisoners were quiet, as if they knew how close it had been.
He seemed to hear Herrick's last words. I think they'll not harm you.
It was like an epitaph.
11. The Cutlass
The house now employed as army headquarters for the growing military strength at Cape Town had once been the property of a wealthy Dutch trader. It nestled below the uncompromising barrier of Table Mountain and drew what breeze it could from the bay where the ships, like the soldiers, waited for orders.
Fans swung back and forth in the biggest room, which overlooked the sea, moved by hidden servants so that they should not disturb anyone. There were blinds at the long windows, but even so the reflected light from the sea was blinding, the sky salmon-pink like an early sunset. In fact it was noon, and Bolitho shifted in a cane chair while the general finished reading the report an orderly had just presented to him.
Major-General Sir Patrick Drummond was tall and solidly built, with a face almost as red as his coat. A successful officer in the early part of the Peninsular War and in many lesser campaigns, he had the reputation of being a 'soldier's soldier': prepared to listen, equally ready to discipline anyone who failed to meet his standards.
Bolitho had already seen some of the military Drummond was expected to mould into a team capable enough to land on enemy islands and take them, no matter what it cost. It was not an enviable task.
Drummond himself was in a half-lying position with his feet on a small table. Bolitho noted that his boots were like black glass, and the splendid spurs that adorned them could have been the work of a famous silversmith.
Drummond looked up as a servant padded into the room and began to pour wine for the general and his visitor.
Bolitho said, "As you know, I have all my ships at sea, and I am expecting the arrival of two brigs."
The general waited for the servant to move the goblet so that he could reach it without any effort, and said, "I am only afraid that we may be in danger of over-reacting." He scratched one of his long grey sideburns and added, "You are a famous and successful sea-officer, Sir Richard. It is something to get such praise from a soldier, eh? But one so notable surprises me. I would have thought a senior captain, a commodore even, could perform this work. It is like hiring ten porters to carry a musket! "
Bolitho sipped the wine. It was perfect, and seemed to spark off another memory: the cellars in St. James's Street, and Catherine seeking assurances that the wine she was buying for him was as good as the shop claimed.
He said, "I do not think this campaign will proceed easily if we cannot dispose of the enemy's sea forces. They have to be based in Mauritius, and we must be prepared for other bases in the smaller islands. We could have failed at Martinique had the enemy been able to grapple with our military transports."
Drummond gave a wry smile. "Thanks to you, I gather, the enemy got a bloody nose instead! "
"We were ready, Sir Patrick. Today we are not."
Drummond thought about it, frowning slightly as his world intruded into this long, shadowed room. Marching feet and the clatter of horses and harness, sergeants bellowing orders, probably half-blinded by sweat as they drilled in the relentless glare.
He said, "I should like to enjoy Christmas here. After that, we'll have to see."
Bolitho thought of England. It would be cold, perhaps with snow, although they did not get much in Cornwall. The sea off Pendennis Point would be angry and grey with surf along that line of well-remembered rocks. And Catherine… would she be missing London? Missing me?
Drummond said, "If you had more ships…"
Bolitho smiled. "It is always so, Sir Patrick. A squadron should be on its way here by now, with more soldiers and supplies."
He wondered at Keen's feelings when he had been parted from Zenoria. Flying his own broad pendant as commodore would seem easy to him after his years of command and having been Bolitho's flag captain.
How different from Trevenen. He was out on the ocean in his powerful Valkyrie, the other frigates sailing on either beam to offer their lookouts the maximum range in their search for any vessel of ill-intent. Patriot or pirate, it made little difference to a ponderous merchantman.
Drummond rang a small bell and waited for the servant to reappear and fill the goblets. He looked past him to the door and barked, "Come in, Rupert! Don't stand there hovering about! "
Rupert was a major whom Bolitho had already met. He seemed to be Drummond's right hand, a mixture of Keen and Avery rolled into one.
"What is it?" Drummond gestured to the servant. "Another bottle, man! Jump about! "
The major glanced at Bolitho and gave a brief smile. "The lookout station has reported another vessel, sir."
Drummond paused with his goblet in mid-air. "Well? Spit it out! I'm
not a mind-reader, and Sir Richard here is no enemy spy! "
Bolitho contained a grin. Drummond could not be an easy man to serve.
"She is the Prince Henry, sir."
Drummond stared. "That damned convict transport? She is not expected in Cape Town. I would have been informed."
Bolitho said quietly, "I was in Freetown when she weighed anchor. She should be well on her way across the Indian Ocean by now."
The others looked at him uncertainly. Bolitho said, "Please ask my flag lieutenant to investigate and report to me. This wine is too good to leave." He hoped that his casual comment would conceal his sudden anxiety. What could be wrong? The transports never wasted any time. Packed with people being deported for one crime or another, no master could be certain of anything.
Drummond stood up and unrolled some charts on his table. "I can pass the time by showing you what we intend to do in Mauritius. But I must have some good foot soldiers most of my men are barely trained. The Iron Duke makes sure he has the pick of the regiments on the Peninsula, blast his eyes! " But there was admiration there too.
It was close to an hour before Avery and the hard-pressed major came to report.
Avery said, "She's the Prince Henry right enough, Sir Richard. She has made a signal requesting medical assistance."
The major added, "I have informed the field-surgeon, sir."
Avery looked at Bolitho. "The captain-in-charge has also been told, and the guard boats are already under way."
His face was quite calm but Bolitho could guess what he was thinking. Medical assistance might mean that some terrible fever or plague had broken out. It was not unknown. If it reached the overcrowded army garrison and camps it would run through them like a forest fire.