THE COLUMN of boats was ascending the Kapuas River under cover of darkness. Ahead of the rest went a native canoe with Tedong as guide, bearing a white flag just visible to the next boat, in which Delancey had embarked together with Lieutenant Sevendale of the Royal Marines, Midshipmen Forrest and Ledingham (the former as A.D.C.), the master-at-arms, the boat’s crew, the sergeant, and twenty marines. Behind this boat was towed another native canoe with the other Dyak, Sochon, on board. Next came the cutter, with Mr Woodley, Mr Burnet, and twenty-four seamen—the party detailed to make the feint attack on the left. Then came the launch, commanded by Mr Fitzgerald with Mr Topley and Mr Stock and manned by thirty-eight men in all. Last of all came the other cutter with twenty-six seamen led by Mr Greenwell. Mr Northmore had been left with over seventy men in the Laura but of that total twenty or more were sick. Complete silence had been ordered and all that could be heard was the dipping of the oars.
After a few minutes Delancey went forward again but more slowly, keeping to midstream and with stringent orders about avoiding noise. The sky ahead was now appreciably lighter with silver now tinged with pink. After what seemed an age there was a single musket shot on the left, followed later by the lighting of a flare. This was the signal for Fitzgerald’s boat to draw level with Delancey who pointed right and whispered “Good luck!” Five minutes after the launch had gone in, Delancey told the last boat to follow. Then he told his oarsmen to resume rowing and his coxswain to hold course down the centre of the river, at the same time detaching Sochon, whose canoe headed into the shore on the right. So far all had gone according to plan with a growing sound of cannon and musketry on either bank, later punctuated by the harsher bang of the bursting grenades. Delancey thought to himself that he had gained at least a measure of surprise.
It was growing lighter every minute and the stockades were clearly visible on either side with the boom still in position across the river. The rattle of musketry continued but he could see no activity at the right-hand end of the boom. Adjusting his telescope, he could see the windlass to which the main cable was led but no attempt had been made to cut it. When Tedong returned from his mission on the left, Delancey turned to Midshipman Ledingham, and told him that the main attack was seemingly at a standstill. “I don’t know what has happened,” he went on calmly, “but I think it possible that Mr Greenwell has been wounded and that his party is hanging back, leaderless. I want you to go ashore in Tedong’s canoe, take command of that group, move up to the stockade—which Mr Fitzgerald’s men should have cleared—and cut the boom at that end. Off you go and—good luck!”
Good luck was what the boy would need and Delancey knew all too little about his capabilities. He could spare nobody else, however, and played almost the only card he had. He had thought wildly for a moment of leading Greenwell’s party himself but he remembered in time that his target was not the stockade but the privateer. He must be ready to lead through in person when the boom had gone. Meanwhile, however, the sound of musketry had begun to slacken and he had the dismal impression that the momentum of the attack had been lost. Outwardly impassive, he thought unhappily of all the things which might have gone wrong. Had there been a second stockade behind the first or had the first one been guarded by a ditch lined with sharp bamboo points? Had Fitzgerald been killed or had his men lost their sense of direction? What could be happening and why did nobody think to tell him what the position was?
He would have liked to recall Mr Woodley from his feint attack on the left but he doubted whether this were possible. But then he had another idea. Could the feint attack become a real one? He wished now that he had another twenty men in hand. He could then have reinforced Woodley and so regained the initiative. All he could do now was to provide Woodley with new orders, which became possible now with the return of Tedong in his canoe.
“Mr Forrest,” he said, “I want you to go ashore with Tedong here and find Mr Woodley. The attack on the right has not so far succeeded. The boom is still in position. So I want Mr Woodley to attack the boom at his end, on the left. He is not equipped for cutting the cable so you will take an axe with you—here it is—and give Mr Woodley what help you can. Off with you!”
After Forrest had gone, Delancey could only wait and curse himself for keeping so small a reserve. Firing had largely died away, with silence on the left and only a few scattered shots on the right. Delancey began to suspect that the whole operation had failed, his men having been launched against a stronger force in a well-fortified position which he had failed properly to reconnoitre. His temptation was to lead his marines against the boom but he resisted it. With the boom still there his boat would be brought to a standstill and would come under fire from either bank. That way lay certain defeat. Or was he defeated already? To the strain of worry was added the further strain of appearing confident and unconcerned.
The day was growing hotter as the sun rose above the treetops. He turned to make conversation with his dour marine officer, Mr Sevendale:
“The cool of the day is over.”
“Aye, sir, and the heat of the battle is still to come.”
“Very true. We have so far been fighting the Malays. I have left the French to you.”
“I doubt if they will stand up to us. Privateersmen fight for money if they fight at all. There is no future for these men and they must know it.”
“I hope we can soon come to grips with them.”
“We have to be patient, sir. In a land campaign half our time is spent in doing nothing. One has to grow used to it.”
“I suspect, however, that the French have been active. They will by now have warped the Subtile athwart the river and mounted half her guns ashore.”
“No doubt of it, sir. Might I be allowed to make a suggestion? If her broadside covers the river I think we should land at a point which is almost out of range, attack on the left and capture the guns that are mounted there. She will then be under an enfilade fire and will have to strike her colours.”
“Why attack on the left?”
“You told us, sir, that the buildings and kampong are on the right.”
“Yes, that was what Ellis said. I think your suggestion is a good one and I like your idea of turning their own plan against them. We shall follow your advice. What shall we do, however, if the Subtile is seen to starboard, bows-on, with her broadside brought to bear on the opposite bank of the river?”
“Our plan in that event should be to land well below her on the right and capture the guns placed on that side. She will then be under an enfilade fire but at even closer range.”
“Agreed. Where should we be without the Royal Marines?”
They discussed the alternative plan in greater detail, allocating specific tasks to individual men. By the time each man knew what he had to do some ten minutes had passed. Then the battle quite suddenly revived on the right with heavy fire and the sound of cheering. Watching through his telescope, Delancey saw, at last, a hand-to-hand conflict at the end of the boom. Cutlasses flashed, pistols were fired, and bodies fell into the water. A minute later he could see the rise and fall of an axe. Men cheered again as the last strands parted and the boom swung down-stream, hinged on the other bank. On Delancey’s order the oarsmen began to row and the coxswain steered a course midstream, passing just clear of the boom as it drifted past.
The last phase of the action had begun and all depended now on the good direction and sustained momentum of Delancey’s attack. From the right flank came the sound of desultory firing, as if Fitzgerald were exploiting his success. From the left flank by contrast there came no sound at all. Ahead, the shining river was empty, curving, gradually to the left. As the oars plunged in rhythm Sevendale ordered his marines to fix bayonets. Five minutes later the river curved to the right and there, ahead of them, was the Subtile, unrigged and moored across the river. The privateersmen sighted the boat at the same time and opened fire at long range. Delancey told the coxswain to steer into the shore on their left. Within a matter of minutes he drew his sword and led his party ashore. There was no jungle at this point, nearly opposite the village, but a succession of small fields, some planted with padi and others grazed by goats.
Leaving two older seamen with the boat, Delancey ordered six others to act as scouts, he following them at the head of the marines. He came across startled Malays who scuttled away in panic but there was no sort of resistance to his march. After ten minutes, however, he was surprised to hear the French cannon open fire again and wondered what their target could be. Cannon boomed repeatedly and he could smell the powder as the advance continued. At one moment he was blundering through a hen-run, at another he was all but falling over a solitary pig. In such close country it was impossible to see more than a few yards ahead but it was easy to keep parallel with the river and as easy to guess from the gunfire how far they had still to go.
When the sound was deafeningly close the seamen ahead of him fell back a little and Delancey halted the marines. “Rest for three minutes,” he said and the men sat down, checked their priming, and regained their breath. Going forward cautiously, Delancey peered round a tree and saw the enemy’s position. There was the Subtile with her broadside wreathed in smoke, firing down the river (but at what, for heaven’s sake?).
Nearer at hand were three cannon in position on a low headland, so placed as to cross the fire of four more cannon on the opposite side of the river. These were not in action but all were manned by Frenchmen and a young officer was busy with a telescope. Delancey went back to the marines, deployed now at regular intervals. “Fifty yards to your front,” he said to Seven-dale. “When you are ready—attack!”
“Advance!” said the marine officer and led his men forward at a steady pace. Delancey followed with his armed seamen three on either side of him. Two minutes later Sevendale shouted “Charge!” At that instant Delancey burst through some bushes and saw the marines already among the French seamen, who had been taken by surprise, few of them even armed.
While the French were killed or captured, Delancey’s men manned the nearest cannon and aimed it at the privateer’s stern, some twenty yards distant. To miss at that range was impossible and the first shot went through the Subtile from stern to forecastle. By then the marines had the other two guns swung round in turn, one aimed at the Subtile and the other at the guns on the far bank of the river. The remaining marines engaged the privateer with their muskets and stopped the French rallying to her defence. It was at this moment that Delancey had his first glimpse of Chatelard, a small dark man who seemed to be everywhere at once. Of his energy and courage there could be no doubt at all but his men were plainly dispirited. Rallying men from the main deck, he attempted to mount a couple of stern-chasers but nothing came of it. He tried to bring small-arms men to the stern of the ship but they mostly ran forward or below. Sword in hand he drove a few of them aft but Delancey turned to Sevendale and pointing, said, “Shoot him!” Grabbing a musket from a wounded man, Sevendale loaded the weapon, aimed it carefully, and fired. Seeing that Chatelard had been hit, Delancey called on his men to make a final effort. In another few minutes the privateer’s colours were hauled down and her guns fell silent. Her own boats were used to take possession of her.
With the Subtile taken, Delancey prepared to launch a new attack on the village and shore installations but this proved needless. Fitzgerald appeared on the beach and his men could be seen clearing the storage sheds and magazines. Malay resistance had evidently crumbled after the breaking of the boom. Spared the necessity for further battle, Delancey looked for Chatelard and found him at the break of the quarter-deck, lying dead in a pool of blood. Some twenty-three other dead bodies were visible with fourteen wounded and seventeen prisoners. One of the prisoners, a petty officer, said that there had been sixty-three privateersmen (after many lost by sickness), which would leave eight missing. Having made this calculation and seen what damage the privateer had sustained, Delancey heard a bump alongside and found that the two seamen he had left with the boat had impressed some Chinese as oarsmen and so brought the boat up the river.
“Well done,” said Delancey. “But tell me what the French cannon were firing at?”
“At us, sir,” explained the elder seaman. “We made the boat look fully manned and rowed out into the river, dodging back when their shot came too close. We thought it would give them something to think about.”
“It certainly did that. But how did you man the boat?”
“We persuaded these Chinese to row and we added some clothes and hats hoisted on bits of bamboo.”
“There will be extra grog for both of you when we reach the Laura, and thank you for your good service this day.”
Manning the boat in more regular fashion, Delancey put the Chinese ashore and then landed on the other side of the river, where Fitzgerald greeted him.
“Well done, first lieutenant. Tell me what happened.”
“Well, sir, the Malays were on that stockade in force, armed with muskets and a lot of brass swivel guns, the sort you see in their war prahus. The stockade itself was higher than we expected and loopholed for musketry. We suffered heavily before we had our scaling ladders in position. The grenades, however, drove the Malays back and we looked back expecting to see Mr Green-well’s party but there was no sign of it. We were not really equipped for cutting the boom so I sent a petty officer back to serve as guide or, failing that, to bring us a couple of axes. He did not return and has since told me that he lost his way. For the time being I held the line of the stockade and was planning how to reach the boom but then we were attacked by the Malays in force. We beat them off with great difficulty. When they fell back again, Midshipman Ledingham appeared from nowhere at the head of Mr Greenwell’s party, sealed the stockade, and made straight for the boom. We kept up a rapid fire while he cut the cable. After that the Malays rather collapsed, withdrawing in disorder and leaving their dead behind. We pushed on against dwindling resistance and reached this village without further loss. We have lost twenty-nine men in all, many of them killed.”
“And Mr Greenwell?”
“I have been told that he was wounded but have not seen him since.”
There was something constrained about this last statement. Fitzgerald was not telling all he knew. Delancey let it go at that, however, deciding that the time had come to rest.
“With the exception of four sentinels, all seamen and marines have half an hour in which to rest and have a meal from the provisions they carry. After that, we all have work to do.”
Delancey sat down in the shade and Teesdale brought him something to eat. He was not hungry, however, nor very talkative, having a great deal to think about. When half an hour had passed he issued his further orders to Mr Fitzgerald: “You will hold this village and the prisoners with twenty men, assisted by Mr Sevendale and twenty marines. You will send Mr Topley back with the launch and ten men to collect the wounded on this side of the river and take them on board the Laura, returning with the launch tomorrow after this has been done. Mr Stock, with eight men, will bury the dead, listing them and collecting their weapons and packs, reporting back to you here when this task has been completed. Tell Mr Ledingham to report to me here with two seamen. Now, Master-at-Arms, you will take six men in the cutter, go back along the far side of the river, and find Mr Woodley and his party. I cannot tell you where they are but their orders were to make a feint attack on the stockade. I suspect that they may be in that area still. They must join me here as soon as possible.”
Had he remembered everything? Almost certainly not. Nor could he be certain that Fitzgerald would think of what he had forgotten. There were, however, some questions he had to ask, with Ledingham as his first witness. When the youngster reported to him, with two armed seamen at heel, he congratulated him at once on the part he had played. But for his efforts the boom might still be in position.
“Thank you, sir. I think we were lucky, though. Earlier in the action the Malays were fighting like tigers. They even counterattacked the stockade after it had fallen. Then they collapsed and I had my chance to reach the boom. I can’t think why they should have lost heart when they did but it was fortunate for us. Two of my men were slightly wounded in that skirmish by the boom and those were our only casualties.”
“You did very well for all that. I am now going to walk back over the battlefield and I want you to tell me what happened. There are one or two things I should like to know.”
Leading the way, the midshipman walked through an area of cultivated land broken up by ditches. Crossing the last of these, they came across their first dead Malay, lying face upwards and deprived of his knees (taken no doubt as a souvenir). There was no sign of a wound but his face was that of a man in extreme pain. On an impulse, Delancey turned the body over and saw, between the shoulder blades, the protruding end of a Dyak dart.
“Poisoned . . .” he muttered. “It must take some time to take effect.”
“Was he shot, sir, with a blowpipe?”
“He and, I suspect, many others. That is why they suddenly lost heart.”
Bodies became more numerous as they came nearer to the stockade, some of them clearly killed by musket shot but others by the blowpipe, all these from behind. Ledingham then showed Delancey where the boom had been cut, where three bodies still lay, all slashed or stabbed with the cutlass but one, face downwards, with a dart in his neck. Going round the end of the stockade, they inspected it from the attacker’s point of view. It was still formidable and the scaling ladders were not really long enough. In the middle where Ledingham had gone through, two ladders had been lashed together with spunyarn. The others had shown less initiative and had probably spent their efforts in firing through the loopholes. The Malays would have been fifty yards further back, shooting from behind trees; and that, he thought, was where the Dyaks found them. The British casualties had nearly all occurred in the approach to the stockade, where five bodies still lay and two wounded men unlikely to live. He had hardly examined these before young Stock came to remove them.
“Now, Mr Ledingham, I want to see the position from which Mr Fitzgerald’s musket men brought covering fire.”
“It must have been somewhere to the right, sir. I never saw it myself.”
They walked over in that direction and found the place without difficulty, a dead Malay lying just beyond. He differed from the others, however, in that his head had gone, neatly sliced off. The actual cause of death was a bullet hole through his chest but the Dyaks had been there since.
“Good god, sir!”
“The Dyaks are head-hunters, Mr Ledingham. Now show me the line of your advance.”
The midshipman led Delancey back to a hollow opposite the centre of the stockade, screened by bushes and marked by one or two items of equipment.
“This is where I found Mr Greenwell, sir. He lay over there and told me that he was wounded and that Mr Hubbard had been killed.”
“Were his men in action?”
“Two of them had been sent forward a few paces. They were about here, sir, behind trees, and just able to see the stockade.”
“Were they firing?”
“I rather doubt it, sir. Their fire would have been masked by our own men.”
“I see. And what was the nature of Mr Greenwell’s wound?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
Retracing Ledingham’s route back to the river bank, they came across the body of Midshipman Hubbard. He had been killed by a long-distance shot fired at some other target and had died clutching his dirk. Telling his two seamen to bring the body, he walked slowly back to the stockade. Ledingham now asked him the obvious question:
“If the Dyaks were so active on our side, sir, why don’t we see them?”
“They have gone in pursuit of the Malays. They are headhunters, remember.” The midshipman was sick at this point. Delancey laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“It happens later. I mean, they have been killed first.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry about that.”
“It’s partly the smell. We’ll go back to the village now.”
Adding his two seamen to Topley’s party, Delancey began to inspect what had been the Subtile’s base. There were still some naval stores in the riverside godowns and these were, very properly, guarded by a sentry. Four other marines were posted outside the hut in which the French prisoners were confined. In the most substantial hut Fitzgerald was making a list of the booty taken, which included the specie out of which the privateers-men were paid.
Walking past all these riverside buildings, with Ledingham still at heel, Delancey came across a smaller hut which would seem to have been used as a prison, being strongly made with barred windows. Here and there some prisoner had scratched his name on the timber uprights.
Looking idly at these marks, Delancey came across the name JO WAYLAND and knew what he had suspected, that his master’s mate had not been killed in the skirmish but had been taken prisoner. What had happened to him after that? Where was he now? To this question he resolved to find the answer but he went on to visit some adjacent buildings. These had been designed and furnished for comfort and with ample servants’ quarters behind them. One of them had clearly belonged to Chatelard, who would have slept ashore while the Subtile was in port. Many of his personal possessions were there and it could be assumed that he had been there the previous night. Another house could have been shared by his officers, who would probably have taken it in turns to sleep on board the privateer. The third and last house presented more of a problem. Its biggest room was furnished like an office with a long table, a desk, and a number of cupboards, all securely locked. On the walls were charts of the Indian Ocean and of the Straits of Malacca, with maps of India, Arabia, and Persia. There was a bedroom but no sign of recent use. When the cupboards were broken open they were found to contain the logs of captured merchantmen, piles of newspapers published in Bombay, Madras, and Calcutta, and sheafs of correspondence found in various prizes. It had been somebody’s task to collect intelligence and plan the Subtile’s campaigns. This was where he had lived and worked but the contents of the drawers of the desk gave no clue to his identity. It was clear that he meant to return or had handed over his duties to someone else. It remained to see what the prisoners would reveal when interrogated.
When back in the village Delancey found that Bartlett, the master-at-arms, had returned.
“I’m sorry to have to report, sir, that Mr Woodley and his party were all killed but two and they badly wounded. I turned those two seamen over to Mr Topley and I have told Mr Stock about the others. It looked to me, sir, as if Mr Woodley attacked the stockade but was himself attacked by Malays who worked round his flank and surrounded him. Mr Burnet and Mr Forrest were also killed, sir. They must have been greatly outnumbered.”
“But there are no Malays there now?”
“Dead ones, sir, about a dozen. The rest must have run away after the boom was cut. I followed back the way they must have come but could find no trace of them.”
So, much, Delancey thought, for my feint attack, led by a warrant-officer for lack of anyone better. It had served its purpose at a cost of nineteen men killed, including a midshipman, and two men badly wounded. It was clear now that the Dyaks had all kept to the one side of the river. That was why Wood-ley’s party had fared so ill. Without having totalled the losses, he knew now that they were appalling. Nor was the list complete for his men were still ashore, many of them, and might fall sick before they could embark again. Turning from this disheartening thought, Delancey asked Fitzgerald whether he had extracted any useful information from the prisoners.
“Not much, sir. There are seventeen apart from the wounded but three of them are Portuguese from Goa who have answered questions put to them through one of our Goanese who also knows English.”
“Good. Now question those three on two points. John Wayland was taken prisoner. What happened to him? There was a man in charge here when Chatelard was at sea. Who was he and where did he go?”
“Aye, aye, sir. What about the Subtile?”
“I want you to remove from her everything that would be of use to us—canvas, cordage, powder, stores of every kind. What is not removed will be burnt with the ship tomorrow.”
“Couldn’t we bring her away, sir?”
“We could but we shan’t and that for two reasons. First, my orders were to destroy her. Second, we shall lose more men from sickness every day we remain here. No, she will burn tomorrow and then we quit this place for good.”
That evening Fitzgerald reported some further success in his interrogation of the Portuguese. “They say that an English seaman—almost certainly Wayland, from their description—was questioned for days in the prison hut but evidently without much success. Chatelard was very angry and handed him over to the Malays for execution.”
“To the Malays?”
“Yes, sir. That seems to have been a regular practice. Before Chatelard came poor Wayland must have been held prisoner by this other man you were asking about. These Portuguese never knew his real name but heard him called Fabius and they agree that he sailed in a ship for the Ile de France.”
“So he did, did he? I should like some day to meet him.”
“What are we to do with the French prisoners, sir?”
“We shall leave them here, whether wounded or not.”
“For the Dyaks to finish off?”
“Or for the Malays to take care of. They will have an easier death than they planned for Wayland.”
Next morning the Subtile was set on fire and so were all the buildings except one isolated storehouse in which Delancey had told his men to collect everything which might be of use to the Dyaks. Naval stores, by contrast, were sent down to the river in the privateer’s launch, Delancey now having boats to spare. While directing this operation, he was approached by a petty officer who said that a European wished to see him. It could only be Michael, who looked completely exhausted and carried a French-pattern musket. With him were Kanyan and Tedong, each with a blowpipe. Delancey hastened to thank them for their support but Michael interrupted him at once:
“You’ve had help from them. Now they want help from you!”
“In what way, Michael?”
“We have pursued the Malays to a place about eight miles up the river. They have taken refuge in a small island which they have done something to fortify. They still have muskets and ammunition and the Dyaks can do nothing against them.”
“I see. My best plan will be to supply the Dyaks with small-arms.”
“They won’t use them, Richard. They are frightened of the recoil.”
“Then we had best give them cutlasses, enough for the purposes of a night attack.”
“They need your help, Richard. They need you to give them confidence. They will have no security here while those pirates are alive.”
“Look, Michael, my orders were to destroy the Subtile, which I have now done. I was never ordered to interfere in a war between Dyaks and Malays. My task here is finished and we shall be at sea again tonight.”
“But you owe your success to the Dyaks—you must know that.”
“I do know it. But they also owe their success to me. They have what they wanted—heads!”
“What they really want is the Kapuas River.”
“They will never keep it unless they are prepared to fight for it. I can provide them with the weapons. You must provide them with the leadership.”
“I hate the whole system, Richard, of which you have become a part. I came here to escape from it. Then I thought for a moment that you would be a friend to the Dyaks and help them to regain their lost country. But I was wrong. You are no friend to them or to anyone. You are merely part of the system.”
“Have I denied it? But tell Kanyan and Tedon that they’ll have their share of all that was taken from the pirates and from the French. Tell them to come and see what they have fairly earned.”
Faced with the storehouse, Kanyan and Tedong were more grateful than Michael wanted them to be. They could certainly find a use for all that they had been given. Nor did it appear that they had relied upon further help against the Malays. Given a cutlass apiece, they seemed confident enough in their ability to finish the campaign.
“I’ll help them and advise them,” said Michael, “but I’ll die very soon. And as for you, Richard, I hope that you rot in hell!”
Delancey’s final glimpse of Michael was that of a scarecrow figure outside the storehouse from which a procession of laden Dyaks headed back into the jungle. He never saw Michael again and hardly supposed that he could live for long or that he even wished to survive. From their first meeting in the longhouse it was apparent that Michael had reached the end of the road.
In the last boat to leave the scene of destruction, Delancey knew that a final and unpleasant task awaited him. Greenwell’s conduct had presented him with a problem to which there was only one solution. He had known instances in which certain incidents had been overlooked but what was the use? The officer concerned had no authority left. No, he had to act at once. He no sooner reached the Laura than he sent for the surgeon. “How many men have you under your care, Mr Mackenzie and how many more shall we lose?”
The surgeon presented a list, making a detailed report on those who were still in danger. Having made a rough total, Delancey laid down his pen.
“And how is Mr Greenwell?”
“He has a wound on his right leg, a little below the knee. No major artery was severed but he may have lost some blood before he was bandaged. He is in no danger and is able to walk.”
“Was the wound caused by a bullet?”
“No, sir. It is a clean cut, caused by a blade.”
“On the inside or outside of the leg?”
“On the outside.”
“It was not inflicted, however, during a hand-to-hand conflict.”
“No, sir? Then it could have been due to an accident—a seaman tripping over some obstacle while carrying a drawn cutlass. It could, in the same way, have been the result of Mr Greenwell tripping over his own sword.” Mackenzie’s face was expressionless and his words carefully chosen.
“You did not ask him what happened?”
“No, sir. I did not.”
When alone again, Delancey stared for a minute or two at the inkstand. Then he deliberately took a pistol from where it hung on the bulkhead, saw that it was loaded, checked the priming, cocked it, and placed the weapon on his desk. Then he called out “Pass the word for Mr Greenwell,” and waited thoughtfully until there was a knock on the door. Invited to come in, Greenwell limped forward, white-faced and trembling, and stood at attention.
“Sit down, Mr Greenwell,” said Delancey. “You know why I have sent for you.” It was a statement, not a question. Green-well was staring at the pistol, his forehead shining with sweat, his hands fiddling with a handkerchief.
“Yes, sir.”
“There are questions I could ask but what is the point? I should not believe your answer.”
“No, sir.”
“So it only remains for me to do what I must, Mr Greenwell. I am placing you under close arrest. When a court martial can assemble you will be charged with cowardice.”
“I suppose so.” The words were whispered.
“I need hardly add that I deeply regret having to take this action. Had the circumstances been different, had a pistol gone off while you were cleaning it—” he glanced at the pistol on the desk—“I should have reported you killed in battle. But I have no alternative. You can see that.”
“Yes, sir. I tried, I did my utmost. I couldn’t describe the sleepless nights . . .”
“I know. I have always known. But what could I do? You must presently go to your cabin but you had best wait here a little and recover. I need to see Mr Fitzgerald about appointing Mr Northmore as your escort and Mr Topley as acting lieutenant. We sail tonight for Prince of Wales Island. Were we there and were you going ashore, I should have to say—good-bye.” Delancey went on deck and gave out his preparatory orders. There was much to do, his crew requiring a great deal of reorganization. While in conclave with Fitzgerald he half expected to hear the sound of a pistol shot. Or did he? Thinking more carefully he realized that no shot would be fired. Greenwell was not that sort of man. He should never, in fact, have been promoted.
“Ready to sail, sir,” Fitzgerald reported.
“Very good. Man the capstan. And leave Mr Topley in charge of the deck.”
As he went to his cabin Delancey could hear Topley’s young voice calling “Heave taut!” The pistol, now uncocked, lay on his desk and he put it back on its hook. Then he sat down to study and absorb the full extent of his losses.
The wounded fell into three categories: those likely to recover, twenty-one; those likely to be invalided, eight; and those likely to die, twelve. He might soon have a crew of about 110 men, a little over half his establishment. And what proportion of these would fall sick as a result of being ashore among the mangrove swamps? Twenty, thirty, or more? His frigate was no longer fit to do battle. In destroying the Subtile he had all but lost the Laura.
The arithmetic done, Delancey took a sealed letter from a drawer, marked “To be opened after the destruction of the Subtile.” Slitting it open he read:
H.M. Ship Albion
April 19th 1806
Sir—Having accomplished your mission you are hereby required and directed to proceed to Prince of Wales Island where you are to carry out necessary repairs and ship provisions for six months. When ready for sea you will proceed to the Cape of Good Hope and place yourself under the command of the flag-officer commanding there.
I have the honour to remain . . . etc.
Enclosed with this official order was a private note:
April 19th 1806
Dear Delancey—I congratulate you on having destroyed the Subtile. I knew that you would do it and I knew that the cost would be heavy. All this I sincerely regret. I should have liked to send you home but I have at least sent you in the right direction. When the admiral at the Cape (whoever he may be) realizes that the Laura is worn out, I have no doubt that he will decide to spare you. I thank you in advance for your good services. You will have heard that I am quitting this station and will probably not be in India when you receive this. Should you ever serve again under my flag you will find that I shall always have a high opinion of the man who finally rid me of the Subtile. I thank you for all you have done, bless you.
With every good wish . . . etc.
Ed. Pellew
The Laura was back at Prince of Wales Island in October 1806 but required docking, part of her stern-post having decayed. She was docked at Bombay, coming back to Prince of Wales Island in May 1807. The following letter from there was the last which Delancey wrote before he sailed for the Cape:
June 11th 1807
My dearest Fiona—My letters from Bombay will have told you about the Laura’s time in dock. She now has a teak stern-post and many new knee-timbers and is in very much better state. It is not so easy to make good the losses in men. We had heavy casualties last year and my only recruits have been Goanese, Lascars, Sepoys, and Chinese. As for officers, I told you that poor Greenwell was tried here by court martial and dismissed the service. He is a tradesman now in Georgetown and I met him ashore two days ago. Apart from Fitzgerald, my lieutenants are promoted midshipmen, Northmore and Topley. With those two commissioned and three others killed in Borneo, I have only two left, Stock (now master’s mate) and Ledingham, and have no idea where I can find any more. I have men enough to work the ship but would rather not meet with the enemy. I dare say, however, that they are as ill-manned as we are, or anyway I must devoutly hope so. If I gained the good opinion of Admiral Pellew that does me no good because he is going home and has not offered to take me with him! I am now ordered to the Cape from which station my letters will reach you the sooner. From what I hear the ships on that station spend their time blockading Mauritius (or the Ile de France), an occupation which may not end until we capture the island. Our failure to do so is mainly the result, I suppose, of the place being so confoundedly remote. This letter must be brief, going as it does by a ship that is to sail in the morning. My next may well be dated from Capetown. In the meanwhile I mean to climb the Hill here tomorrow and attempt to make a sketch from the top. Before ending this letter I must ask you to take great care of yourself and believe me still
Your most affectionate husband,
Richard Delancey
Postscript. Since writing the above we have suffered disaster. Fitzgerald, my first lieutenant, seems to have had a quarrel with the surgeon of the regiment in garrison here. They met at daybreak and Fitzgerald was fatally wounded, dying before the ball could be extracted. He was quick-tempered, I know, and may well have been at fault, his opponent, I am told, being slow to take offence but a dead shot with a pistol. Fitzgerald was unmarried but had devoted parents in Wicklow who will be heartbroken over this tragic event. I must feel for their loss but cannot refrain from lamenting my own. Northmore, who must be my first lieutenant, is far too young, and Stock, now to be acting lieutenant, is a mere boy. Or do they all seem children to me because I am becoming middle-aged and cantankerous? They are lucky in their promotion. Had there been a flag-officer here my lieutenant’s vacancy would have been filled by a midshipman from the flagship, someone on the Admiralty list, or else a relative of the Admiral himself. I am far from being the senior naval officer here but the other men-of-war are as shorthanded as I am and anxious to retain the men they have. Northmore will have to grow up quickly and I think very well of young Ledingham who behaved gallantly in Borneo.
Surrounded by much younger men I have the feeling that I am needed, that things could go very wrong if I were ill. Having no time to be sick, I remain well! I must admit, however, that I took full advantage of our stay at Bombay, having nearly eight luxurious weeks in harbour and being free to sleep all night. Blockading Mauritius will be more arduous but I tell myself, hopefully, that I should be home in 1808 or at latest in 1809. When I reach home, moreover, I may well decide to stay there!