CHAPTER FIVE

 

 

THE SEA THREW itself against the shore, breakers rearing up as they smashed into the pristine white sand and smooth rocks. The coast looked as if it had never been disturbed by the intrusion of civilised humans. Struggling to climb out of the jolly boat with a modicum of dignity intact, Hague readjusted the long sword at his belt and hopped into the sea, another incoming wave immediately soaking him up to the chest. As he staggered to the shore, he kept an eye on the rest of the crew dragging the jolly boat in, alert for any mishaps that might drag them under but they seemed quite accustomed to the conditions. Hague had occasionally seen sea rise up like this on the tip of Cornwall and had to remind himself that nothing separated him from the raw strength of the Atlantic Ocean on the beaches of this land.

Two other boats had already been dragged up onto the shore and he saw Lieutenant Corbin organise various parties, mixing marines in among sailors where he thought prudent, but giving enough latitude to those he felt worthy of trust. He was surprised to see him assign one man to a party of sailors who were going inland alone, a sailor he thought Corbin had been partly responsible for disciplining earlier on this voyage. Perhaps the Lieutenant thought the others would be a stabilising influence or perhaps he just did not much care for what happened to the man while they spent time here. The last sentiment might not have been one worthy of an officer in the King’s Navy, but it was one that Hague could readily identify with. Some men were beyond reach, shrugging off the harshest discipline like water from a duck’s back.

As Hague stomped up the beach, leading his rowing party, he listened to the tail end of Corbin’s orders as the Lieutenant pointed at his men and then directed them into their groups.

“Do not stray too far and always make sure you are within five minutes’ run of the shore,” said Corbin. “The wildlife round here may not be used to men and many creatures will bite before asking questions. If you see any interesting insects or snakes, believe me, you are better off leaving them alone. If you see any large predators, back away from them carefully. If you meet any natives you will show them all respect. Remember, this is their land and they know it better than you do. Party leaders, you have instructions and you know which direction I want you to head in. Mr Hague, you are with me – I believe you have some experience in dealing with the natives of Africa?”

Hague was caught a little off guard. “Eh? Ah, yes, Mr Corbin,” he said, recovering quickly. “But that was some time ago and nowhere near this place.” In truth, he had spent part of his childhood in South Africa while his father had run a merchant’s agency there and while he had picked up some of the native tongue, he was well aware that the speech varied from tribe to tribe.

“You are the best we have, Mr Hague, and if we encounter any natives we may save a great deal of time if we trade with them.”

“Right you are, Sir.”

Corbin stared hard at the assembled parties. “Remember what I said about the natives. They may prove to be of great benefit to us. However, keep in mind the only experience they may have had with white men could be with the slave ships of the Americas. So, mind your manners as they may appear less than receptive. Only respond in kind if they prove outwardly hostile. Any questions?”

A few sailors shook their heads, which Corbin took to mean that at least a few of his warnings had hit home. He was on a strict timetable from Captain Havelock, who had remained on the Whirlwind to oversee the repairs. Having been given a list of requirements – ranging from a good stock of wood, replenishing that used for repairing the hull, to necessities such as fresh water, food and appropriate wood to be used for brushes – Corbin had split the men on the beach into three separate parties, tasking each with searching for just one of these goods. He was to lead a fourth group with Hague, in the hope of encountering natives and trading with them. With any luck, a little diplomacy would reap more rewards than the entire crew scouring for supplies.

“Very well, then. Off you go and good luck!”

Striking off in four different directions, the landing crew of the Whirlwind entered the tree line running along the shore and disappeared from sight.

 

 

LEADING THE WAY for his party of six, including two marines, Bryant hacked at all plant life within reach of his broad knife as he struggled to get past a particularly thick knot of branches. He had only been leading his group for little more than twenty minutes and already he felt exhausted. Wiping his brow with the back of his arm, he glanced around.

Though they had seen no wildlife, strange calls that may have come from birds or something else best not imagined, constantly rang out. The shrubs and trees were nothing like he had seen before and he noticed their leaves tended to be thick and rubbery to the touch, though here and there a very exotically coloured flower poked its elaborate petals out of the verdant mass as it strained for just a portion of the sunlight trickling through the canopy. The very air lent an ominous feel to the area, especially for men used to serving on board a ship that, while retaining its own specific odours, at least felt the breeze once in a while. Here, it felt as if the wind never penetrated the trees, and as a result, the air was thick, cloying and very damp.

“This ain’t no work for a sailor,” said Murphy, and though he wished the small man would stop griping, Bryant could not help but agree. He had never imagined anything like this when he had signed up.

“Be just our bleedin’ luck to run into damn natives,” said Jessop. “Bad move from the Cap’n, not issuin’ us with guns. What are we goin’ to beat an attack off with? Sticks?” he asked, twirling a particularly heavy branch that Bryant had cut down earlier.

“I doubt he was wild about the idea of giving you a firearm, Jessop,” replied Bryant, without breaking his stride.

“You’ll be glad of a decent gun if we get ambushed,” said Jessop, his eyes beginning to scout out the surrounding shrubs.

“You’re beginnin’ to worry me now,” said Murphy nervously and his eyes too began to dart from left to right as he watched the vegetation. “Anyway, them marines ’ave got guns. If they see any... I saw somethin’ move!” he suddenly exclaimed.

As one, they froze, casting anxious looks about them. Bryant was the first to stir from the spell and shook his head. “You’re just jumpy, Murphy, calm down. There’s nothing here but us.”

“Probably just a pig or something, Murphy,” said Brooks, not entirely convinced by his own words.

“Pig?” Jessop asked, his attention caught by the prospect of fresh meat.

“There ain’t no pigs in Africa,” said Bryant wearily. “Only where civilised folk settle. They have other animals here – buffalo, I think.”

“What’s a buffalo?” Brooks asked.

“Like a cow. But bigger. I think Hague would know.”

“Yeah, an’ of course, Corbin takes the one man who knows somethin’ about the area for ’imself,” said Jessop.

“Officer’s privilege.” If Bryant had the time or strength to shrug, he would have. He stopped and turned round to face his party. “Look, we ain’t going to get attacked, there are no natives here and no pigs. Let’s just find clean water, as we were told by the nice Lieutenant, and then we can be out of here. Agreed?”

Even Jessop nodded at the wisdom of this. By now they were all wet through, hot and feeling miserable, each longing for the familiar comforts of the Whirlwind.

“Right,” said Bryant with some finality. “We’ll go a little further and then you’ll have to take over here, Jessop.”

“Why me?” an irritated Jessop said.

“Because I am getting tired, and for all your faults, you are as strong as anyone else here.”

Jessop grunted, perhaps unsure of whether he should carry on complaining or accept Bryant’s words as a compliment. As one, they started walking again but stopped almost immediately when a low, base growl echoed among the nearby trees. Murphy began to ask what the sound was but Bryant urgently waved him to keep quiet. None of them moved as they began to look around once more. It was Brooks that spotted it first.

“Up there,” he said in a whisper, pointing to a spot among the branches of a tree just a few yards ahead of them. Bryant cocked his head and squinted as he tried to peer through the leaves and saw a flash of dull yellow. Moving very slowly, he moved a nearby branch aside and looked into a pair of blinking golden eyes, narrowing as they considered the new arrivals. Stretched languidly along a thick branch just a few yards off the ground was a lithe-looking cat, its fur dappled with dozens of dark coloured spots. They watched its powerful hind muscles tense as it bared two inch-long fangs and spat at them. It was clearly at least as large as a sizeable dog and seemed a lot more powerful.

“Gods, it’s a lion!” Murphy said, beginning to shake in fear.

“Ain’t a lion,” said Bryant. “They live on plains.”

“So what is it?” Brooks asked. “Is it dangerous?”

Bryant was at something of a loss. “Some kind of cat. Probably won’t attack if we just go round it.”

“I can eat cat,” said Jessop with confidence as he strode past Bryant, brandishing his stick. Ignoring the warnings of the other members of the party, he jabbed upwards at the animal, trying to dislodge it from its perch.

At first, the cat simply tried to swat his stick away but it began to hiss violently when Jessop connected hard with its flank. It sprang to its feet and leered down at him, teeth bared just a yard away from his head. Thinking that perhaps there might not have been as much meat on the cat as he had first thought, Jessop turned and skipped back to the safety in numbers of the rest of the party.

Tensing for a split second, the cat launched itself with amazing speed at the man’s back. Acting purely out of instinct, Bryant lashed out with his knife but only drew a thin line of blood down the cat’s ribs.

Moving with a surprising agility for his size, Jessop had already retreated behind the marines, who now found themselves staring into the piercing eyes of the large cat as it crouched, tensing itself for a leap. The nearest marine struggled to unlimber his musket, fiddling at his belt for the ammunition pouch. With a ripple of honed muscles, the cat threw itself forwards, claws digging into the man’s shoulders as fangs sunk into the side of his face and neck. The man screamed at an unbelievably high pitch and fell backwards, pinned under the weight of the animal. Screams turned to a gargle as the cat tightened its grip on his neck and rear claws started raking at his stomach, tearing apart the red uniform to stain it with a darker flow of blood.

The second marine, hesitating only a second as he watched the demise of his squad-mate, dismissed any thought of firing his musket and instead reversed it, swinging the butt of the weapon against the shoulder of the cat. It was a weak and hurried blow, which skittered off the creature’s hide with no appreciable effect.

By this time, Bryant had recovered enough to step forward and slash with his knife across the cat’s haunches, leaving a deep, bleeding cut. The cat released the dead marine and spun around, spitting as it bared its fangs once again. Bryant locked eyes with the animal and saw that it was gauging him carefully, looking for an opening through which to spring and take him down. Shuddering, Bryant crouched, ready to try beating the cat’s reflexes by rolling to one side when it leapt.

He was spared the attack by the marine who, yelling with a primal fury he had managed to find deep within, set about the cat with the butt of his musket. The cat shrunk downwards, trying to escape the blows as he swung and jabbed with the weapon. Seeing the animal otherwise distracted, Jessop jumped back into the fight, hammering away with his heavy stick about the cat’s head, knocking it insensible almost immediately. As soon as the animal began to move sluggishly under the repeated attacks, Bryant built up the nerve to approach it once more, burying his knife into the cat’s neck. He was rewarded with a brief spray of blood, then the cat fell limply across the legs of the dead marine.

Brooks and Murphy crept back from where they had retreated, staring curiously at the animal, its fur now matted with both its own blood and that of the marine. Bryant, Jessop and the remaining marine looked at one another in some relief, the latter two at first beginning to smile and then laughing nervously.

For his part, Bryant was just angry. “You satisfied now, Jessop?” he demanded. “Is the filling of your belly worth the life of a man?”

Jessop started to shrug but then turned to face the last marine. “Hey, sorry ’bout your mate an’ all.”

The marine cast a glance at his fallen squad mate. “He knew the risks. Anyway, I won’t miss ’im.”

Glancing back at Bryant, Jessop had something of a look of triumph. “You see?” he said. “Could ’ave ’appened to any of us. An’ now we ’ave what we came for – fresh meat!”

Opening his mouth to argue further, Bryant thought better of it, realising that there was no way to get through to the man. He sighed.

“Have it your way. Let’s get this animal strung up to a branch. Jessop, you’ll help Brooks carry it back.”

Frowning, Jessop looked as if he were about to argue the point but the look in Bryant’s eyes made him think that here, alone with Bryant’s friends, might not be the safest place to complain. Shrugging dismissively, he began looking for a suitable branch from which the cat could be hung and carried.

 

 

EVEN THOUGH FOUR marines and twice as many sailors surrounded him, Corbin still felt distinctly uncomfortable as he watched the dark-skinned natives gather in the clearing. It soon became clear they outnumbered his party by at least four to one and though he might have the advantage of swords and firearms on his side, Corbin did not fancy taking chances with this many armed natives who were, literally, just a spear’s throw away.

Whereas the other parties had been sent at oblique angles from the beach into the tree line, Corbin had led his party directly through it and they had chanced upon a trail within minutes. Deciding that it was created by natives rather than animals, Corbin had given orders for them to follow the path. It had not been long before they realised that they were not alone among the thick vegetation as they saw shadows flitting from tree to tree beyond the trail, and, having arrived at the clearing, Hague suggested they wait where they were for the arrival of their hidden escort.

The arrival of the first black face at the edge of the clearing had set all their pulses racing but a slow feeling of dread began to spread throughout the party as more and more dark figures stepped out of the trees. Each brandished a primitive looking spear and was clothed only in a short loincloth with a variety of bones and beads hanging from their necks or woven into their black hair. Corbin was left in no doubt that these people would prove to be utterly lethal if provoked and he could not decide if their expressions were a reflection of mere curiosity or... hunger?

Later on, Corbin would reflect on how well Hague had handled himself during the encounter. Showing no outward sign of fear, the Lieutenant had stepped forward and raised his arms in greeting. He began speaking in a strange tongue that seemed impossibly fast to Corbin.

One by one, the natives overcame any hesitation they had, though they did not relax their grip on their weapons. Three started talking to Hague and the conversation became increasingly animated. After a short time, Hague stopped talking, apparently considering what to say next. After he felt the silence had persisted just a little too long, Corbin slowly stepped up to Hague’s side.

“Well, you certainly seem to have mastered the tongue, Mr Hague,” he said.

“Ah, yes Sir. Unfortunately, we are talking two different languages,” he admitted. “Let me try again.”

Turning back to the natives he restarted his negotiations, though Corbin could not help but notice that far fewer words were being used, replaced instead by a lot of gesturing and finger pointing. After a while, it seemed as though some progress had been made, especially when the hand movements pointed to various items the party was carrying and Hague had made motions that indicated eating and drinking. The three natives directly opposite them suddenly seemed to get quite excited and kept gesturing towards the marines that accompanied the sailors. It took Hague a few seconds to work out what it was they were after. Reluctantly, he turned back to Corbin.

“Ah, it seems they want guns.”

“Guns? They know what guns are?” Corbin was a little confused. “They know how to use them?”

“These people may have a simpler way of life, Mr Corbin, but they have seen the white man before and are well aware of what guns can do. What do I say?”

Corbin thought for a moment. “Well, what do we get in return?” he asked.

Looking a little apologetic, Hague grimaced slightly. “I am not entirely sure, Sir. I’ve tried explaining what we need and where we want the goods brought. I think we’ll get what we are after and it will be brought to the beach. Frankly, I would rather start haggling within sight of the ship than in this clearing.”

“That is a very fair point,” Corbin conceded. He sighed. “Well, we can spare the guns, and if they get us what we need, I can’t say that we will make landfall here again. Might even give those damned slavers something to think twice about.”

“My thoughts exactly, Sir,” said Hague, smiling with some satisfaction.

“Very well. Make the arrangements, Mr Hague, then we can leave this place.”

Becoming anxious to leave the clearing, and the natives, far behind, Corbin watched Hague conclude his business with some impatience. A small commotion from the men behind him made Corbin turn around to see what the disturbance was, keen not to have anything alarm the natives now they were closing a deal. He saw a marine, not part of his detail and clearly out of breath, being interrogated by a few of the sailors.

Taking care not to make any sudden movements that could over-excite their hosts, Corbin nodded to the natives and walked back through his own men to see what the commotion was about. One of his sailors, sensing the presence of an officer, turned round and raised a curled finger to his forehead in salute.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Sir,” he said. “This marine’s just come from the brush party. Says they found somethin’ you really need to see. Won’t say what.”

Corbin looked expectantly at the marine who had begun to recover his breath, though not his composure. “Well?” he asked.

“Complements of Mr Kennedy, Sir,” said the marine. “He told me to find you and to not mention what he had seen.” The man did not seem apologetic at all in his evasiveness and he cast a meaningful glance at the sailors in Corbin’s party. The Lieutenant quickly picked up on his meaning but was puzzled.

“Okay, stand easy man.” Corbin said. “We’ll make sure Lieutenant Hague has finished here and is making his way back to the beach. Then I will join Mr Kennedy.”

 

 

THE STENCH FILLED the air around the trail, a powerful, sickly smell that overpowered that of the vegetation or the sweat of the men present. On the rough soil lay five bloody patches, ripped clothing and raw flesh scattered around them, the odd bone poking up to gleam white among the sodden mess. A discarded musket and tattered red uniform identified one of the patches as having once belonged to one of the ship’s marines.

Kennedy rubbed his short beard as he took in the scene. “Bad business, this.”

“Who else has seen this?” Corbin asked .

“As soon as my men came across it, I told ’em to get back to the beach. I then sent the marine to find you.”

Corbin found himself at something of a loss. “What happened here?” he said, finally.

“Never seen anythin’ like it, Sir,” said Kennedy. “It’s like they’ve just been ripped apart. Some kind of animal, it must be.” He shook his head, unable to imagine what kind of beast could do this. “I’ve ’eard of attacks by creatures in Africa before, Sir, but nothin’ like this. Nothin’.”

“Can you arrange for them to be buried?” Corbin asked.

Kennedy replied at first with a bitter laugh. “Well, I can cover what’s left, Sir. Not much to be done beyond that.”

“Okay, Mr Kennedy. Do your best.”

A sharp crack marked the arrival of something large passing through the vegetation, causing them all to spin round. His nerves on edge, the single marine cocked his musket and brought it to bear down the trail.

“Whoa,” said Murphy, holding up a hand and smiling. “We’re friendly!” His eyes then tracked down to the bloody patches and stinking flesh on the trail in front of him, opening wide as he began to realise what they probably were. Corbin noticed four other men behind him, carrying heavy loads. He hurried to stand in front of them but was too late, for they were soon all gawking at their dead shipmates.

“Did we set up a signal fire?” Corbin asked as he flashed a grimace back to Kennedy. He had hoped to keep this scene quiet. Now, it was unavoidable that rumours would sweep through the ship.

“Sorry, Sir,” said Murphy. “We was on our way back to the beach when we ’eard voices.”

Bryant stepped forward, trying to avoid staring at the blood and gore as he adjusted the weight of his dead party member across his shoulder. “Lost a marine, Lieutenant,” he reported to Corbin. “To that,” indicating the dead cat now suspended from a pole.

Corbin shook his head. The death toll of this little expedition was beginning to rise beyond all reason. “We’ll talk about it later,” he said. “Get back to the beach.”

Seeming as if he wanted to say something else, Bryant instead took one more look at the raw flesh before them and then instructed the rest of the party to follow him as they left the trail.

After watching them trudge away to disappear into the trees and shrubbery, Kennedy spoke up. “You think this was caused by one of them beasts, Sir?”

Corbin eyed the dead sailors out of the corner of his eye before facing the Bosun. “I don’t see how, Mr Kennedy. Seems too small and it did nothing like this to the dead marine that group was carrying. Do what you can here and then make sure everyone gets back to the beach. We should leave as quickly as possible.”

“No arguments from me, Sir.”

The midday sun beat down hard on the Whirlwind, blinding any man foolish enough to look upwards for more than a few seconds. However, the constant breeze coming from the sea was a blessed relief to everyone working above deck or on the side of the hull. Within the bowels of the ship, anyone unlucky enough to be working just cursed and sweated.

Appearing to be everywhere at once, Havelock moved from prow to stern, monitoring all aspects of the repairs, occasionally making a suggestion to the work teams and, once, rolling up his sleeves to help move a large wooden splint to the foremast before it was hauled up into the sky.

Lieutenant Hague had briefly appeared back on board, asking permission to trade firearms with a native tribe he had managed to locate, though he had also been vague about what they were receiving in return. In the end, Havelock had reluctantly agreed to the exchange, though it went against his grain to trade advanced weaponry with primitives. On balance, however, he had much preferred to win his race to repair the Whirlwind and locate the Elita once more before the French frigate could make good its own damage. This did not stop him from keeping an eye trained on the beach when the natives emerged with their offerings. He did not have much experience in dealing with such people and had heard of many trades turning rotten in the closing moments. He was glad to have Hague on his crew, who seemed to have at least some affinity with the tribe.

Once the beached jolly boats had been filled with supplies from the natives, as well as wood, food and water from the parties that had been dispatched, they were turned around into the sea by their crews and then oars were plunged into the churning waves as they struggled to fight the initial current and head back to the Whirlwind. Havelock waited on the quarterdeck for Corbin to climb up the side of the ship and make his report, though he had already seen through the telescope that less men were coming back than had been originally dispatched.

Corbin was only faintly apologetic in his tone but he gave a full and frank account of the landing as he had seen it, which Havelock appreciated. He regretted the loss of life but paid close attention to Corbin’s report of the supplies that had been gained.

“We have some fresh water, as I said, Captain,” he stated. “But far more milk, from the natives. Seems that is what they usually drink, not sure what it is from though.”

“Best not to ask, I imagine,” Havelock said.

“Aye, Sir. The natives were also able to supply us with some kind of cloth and wood, though it will need working by the carpenter,” Corbin said. “And they gave us all the nuts, roots and fruit we could carry – that should keep the men happy for a few days. Some fresh meat was brought in by our parties, though I doubt it is enough to go round.”

“Officers and crew from the landing parties first,” said Havelock. “Anything left can be dished out by the Bosun as reward for hard work.”

“As you say, Sir.”

“You have no idea what caused the deaths on shore?”

“None, Sir,” Corbin said. “I don’t know what could have done that. One party lost a marine to some kind of wild cat. We buried him on the beach while waiting for the natives.”

“Good. I’ll mark the other deaths in the log as victims of an animal attack as well.”

“Sir, with respect, I am not sure...” Corbin started.

“Yes?”

“Nothing, Sir. How go the repairs?”

“Well enough, though she’ll never be truly right until we can pull into a proper dock,” Havelock said, a little wistfully. “The foremast is being supported by a tight splint and we daren’t risk a topsail on it.”

“That will only drop our speed and mobility a little, Sir,” said Corbin.

“I would have preferred not to lose anything when in a fight with a ship like the Elita. The odds are close enough as it is. Still, we must play the cards we are dealt. The repairs to the hull and gun ports, at least, have proceeded apace. We have even started on the fittings, fixing the non-essential things. It all goes towards...”

“Sail to starboard!” The lookout cried far above them, breaking Havelock’s train of thought.

“Damn!” He muttered and drew up his telescope with lightning reflexes as he stared out to sea, slightly northwards.

“What is it, Sir?” Corbin asked.

“She’s back again,” said Havelock quietly to himself, before handing the telescope to Corbin and pointing to where he should look.

“This is the third time,” Havelock said. “She keeps appearing, in the same place every time. Stays a few minutes and then appears to retreat. Never gets close enough for identification. The best I can do is tell she is a three-master. Can you see anything else?”

Corbin squinted hard but a combination of distance and haze foiled his efforts. “Sorry, Sir, no. Could it be the Elita?”

“I don’t see how. Repair her masts and sails, then get here so soon? Then again, if it were a British ship, why would she not approach? It’s damned peculiar.”

“Could it be a companion ship to the Elita? Maybe a replacement?” Corbin said.

“That might explain a few things,” Havelock said. “I think we have to assume she is indeed hostile, until we know better. I have a bad feeling in my bones about that ship and I am damned if I know why.”

“What are your orders, Captain?”

Havelock took the telescope from Corbin and raised it to view the distant sails once again.

“She is already retreating back north,” he said. Then, to himself, he muttered. “What is it you want?”

Dropping the telescope, Havelock made a decision. “I don’t like this. Prepare to set sail, Mr Corbin, set our course due west until I give the word. The crew can carry on with the repairs as we travel. We’ll try to sweep round and approach from behind. If she turns out to be friendly, we’ll discover soon enough why they have been playing silly beggars. If she is a French ship, we’ll have the windward advantage once again.”

“Right you are, Sir,” said Corbin as he turned to the main deck to begin relaying orders. “All hands ready! Prepare to weigh anchor!”

 

 

THEY DID NOT see the mysterious ship again after they set sail, though Havelock posted a double watch among the lookouts and constantly scanned the horizon himself through the telescope. He had ordered the Whirlwind to sail due west with all speed until late afternoon, then changed course to sail north for nearly three hours before sweeping back east and then south to run past the coast. Hoping that he had plotted the manoeuvre accurately, Havelock moved to the prow of the ship where his telescope was never far from hand. If he had done this properly, they would now be behind the ship, assuming it had not spotted them at some point and simply fled the area. As the sun began to dip ever lower in the west, with shadows lengthening on deck, he began to fear that this was exactly what had happened.

From time to time, he shouted up at the lookouts among the masts, as much to see if they remained awake and alert as hoping a query from him might suddenly cause the ship to materialise in front of them. Still no vessel showed itself and Havelock’s hopes began to fall. Corbin made regular reports as the crew continued to work on repairing the Whirlwind but Havelock knew the ship was already fit for battle. What remained was of a superficial nature only.

Twilight was descending when one of the lookouts gave the cry Havelock had been waiting for.

“Sail to starboard!”

Grabbing his telescope and quickly extending it, Havelock glanced up at the lookout to see where the man was pointing and then followed suit himself. Focussing the glasses, he soon picked out a three-masted ship, sailing west away from them, into the setting sun. He could not have asked for a better position.

“Mr Corbin!” he called, summoning the Lieutenant from the main deck. “Change course to follow her! And order the men to beat to quarters!”

Corbin complied as Havelock returned to his place on the quarterdeck. Around him, the crew of the Whirlwind rushed to their positions, manning sail, rope and gun as they prepared to go into battle once again. Orders relayed, Corbin climbed the stairs to the quarterdeck and announced that all crew were ready for action.

“This is perfect, Mr Corbin,” said Havelock excitedly. “You might find yourself in a position like this just once in your career!”

“Sir?”

“We are cloaked by the night sky, Mr Corbin,” Havelock said in explanation. “While she is silhouetted against the fading sun. Thus, we can approach unseen while maintaining an eye on her at all times. Her captain will never know we are here until it is too late.”

“A credit to your navigation, Captain,” said Corbin, not without a hint of reverence as he realised the position of superiority in which Havelock had managed to place them.

“Now we can see just who she is,” said Havelock. “Lieutenant, run up the colours but order the crew not to light any lanterns. We must not give our position away. Let them chat among themselves for the next hour as we make our approach but when we get close, I don’t want to hear a single sound from this ship.”

For two hours, the Whirlwind closed the distance with the other ship, gratifying Havelock that his was still the faster vessel, even with a damaged foremast. Night was now completely wrapped around the frigate, causing crew moving across the main deck to take a great deal more care when traversing ropes and fittings. Though the western sky was quickly darkening, it was still pale enough for everyone on deck to see the ship before them, growing steadily larger. The entire crew, having at first been disquieted with the news from shore of a few deaths, now held their breath in excited anticipation. Having had the order to beat to quarters, there were not many who did not automatically presume they chased an enemy. The veterans among them knew the position of advantage they had been placed in and appreciated the seamanship of the Captain, their words of praise serving to steady the nerves of younger sailors who still remembered their first battle with the Elita.

Havelock and Corbin were once again at the prow, this time seeking to penetrate the growing darkness in an effort to identify the ship they chased. Corbin had already remarked on its large size.

“Aye,” said Havelock. “That is a ship of the line, and no mistake. Third-rater at the very least. Perhaps seventy guns. Maybe more. This does indeed explain a great deal.”

“The list of missing merchant ships?”

“Indeed. I always wondered whether the Elita was operating alone and now, it seems, we have our answer. This is as much part of our mission as capturing that damned oversized frigate.”

“Are we wise to pursue such a ship thus, Captain?”

“We are in no danger at this moment, Mr Corbin,” Havelock reminded him. “If she did see us, we are fast enough to sail away before she could make a decent move. That’s if she proves hostile. If that is a British ship, we may have found a valuable ally in our mission. If not, it is our duty to do what we can to disable or sink her.”

“A daring idea, Sir,” Corbin said diplomatically.

“We have complete surprise, and are approaching unseen from the stern. Few of their crew will be alert and we should get several volleys in before any reprisal is possible. We will then make the decision to fight or run, depending on how badly damaged she appears.”

“A frigate conquering a ship of the line always makes for a fine tale, Sir!”

Havelock handed his telescope to Corbin. “Now you are thinking like an officer of the King’s Navy! Here, see if you can make out any markings. There is a flag flying at the stern but I can’t make it out. Can younger eyes do better?”

“I’ll try, Sir,” said Corbin, holding the telescope aloft and squinting as he tried to focus on the tiny fluttering cloth trailing the ship. He spent over a minute trying to gain a steady glimpse. When he did, he dropped the telescope straight down to his side, clearly excited. “It’s French, Sir!”

He looked back at Havelock who now wore a wolfish smile. “Time to make some history, Mr Corbin,” said the Captain. “We’ll retire to the quarterdeck – but do so down the larboard side of the ship, reminding each man that he must keep deathly quiet for the next few minutes. I’ll do the same starboard.”

Pacing carefully down the main deck, Havelock stopped every few feet to remind one sailor then another to keep his spirits up but also to keep his mouth shut. Everything depended on silence now, as one errant noise could spark the interest of a lookout on the French warship. While the Whirlwind would be difficult to see, its huge white sails made sure that it was not impossible.

With both ships travelling in the same direction, it took nearly twenty minutes for the Whirlwind to close range, and still Havelock wanted to get even closer, intending to sail within point blank range of its stern and then heave hard to larboard, sending a volley of cannon fire directly into the rear of the ship, just as he had done with the Elita. While his small guns would have a limited effect on the huge ship of war, they would be at their most effective at this point.

During this interminable wait, the crew sweated with apprehension and excitement. They knew the advantage was theirs but, being forced to silence lest they be discovered too soon, each man was locked in his own private thoughts of what might happen in the next few minutes.

Guiding the Whirlwind slightly off the French ship’s beam in order to avoid his sails cutting the wind from its own masts, Havelock forced himself to relax, not wanting to appear too eager in front of his crew. Quietly, he gave Corbin the order to fly the colours, run out the starboard guns and wait his signal to open fire, imagining the enemy captain to perhaps be sitting down to a fine meal in his cabin, maybe with his officers. They would soon be rudely interrupted as the full weight of metal from the Whirlwind’s guns came crashing through the huge glass windows.

Yard by yard, the distance between the two vessels shrank, the French ship of the line now beginning to tower somewhat over the British frigate, its three layers of gun decks making the Whirlwind seem almost puny by comparison. Yard by yard, Havelock counted down the seconds until he judged the time to be right. He waved to get his Lieutenant’s attention.

“Now, Mr Corbin,” he said, in barely more than a whisper. “Make the turn, hard to larboard.”