As Philippe had hoped at Concarneau, the corsair was proving to be a veritable greyhound of the oceans, taking advantage of the blustery south-westerlies to race past the hostile coast of Ireland at speeds that astonished her captain and brought smiles to the oldest loups de mer in the crew. She sailed best with the wind a little off the quarter, but she was easy and nimble in any breeze. They had not yet encountered any heavy weather worthy of the name, but by the time autumn gales prevailed in the Atlantic the corsair would probably be in the more sheltered waters of the Baltic, in the anchorage off The Helder in Holland with a clutch of lucrative prizes, or else back home in Brittany. Philippe had just completed a letter to Antoine Heinrich, the first of a numbered sequence that would be sent home on any French or neutral vessel they encountered that was bound for a French port, or else delivered in due course as part of a batch left with Heinrich’s agent in the Batavian Republic for onward dispatch. This letter, at least, was complete. He had started several to Leonore, but the tone was never right and they had all ended as discarded balls of paper.
Philippe put down his pen and walked to his stern window, navigating a course past Augustin Heinrich, who lay on a sea-bed hard against the larboard hull planking in the cabin that Philippe was compelled to share with him. The young man was asleep, a thankful relief from his condition when awake, which alternated between moaning loudly and retching into the bucket positioned alongside the bed.
Under a grey sky and scudding cloud, the horizon astern was clear. Most shipping, certainly all the trades passing through La Manche and the Irish Sea, sailed well to the south, and one of the oddities of the orders from the Swiss armateur was Heinrich’s insistence that La Verité should follow this much longer course northabout around Ireland and the north of Scotland, rather than the more direct passage. French ships, certainly French corsairs out of Dunkirk and Saint-Malo, passed through the Straits of Dover and the southern North Sea all the time, despite the proximity of England’s shore. A fatal proximity that had bound the two countries’ histories to each other for centuries, making it too easy for each country’s rulers to gaze on the opposite shore and imagine taking that small step across such a narrow stretch of water. Philippe himself had followed the course through La Manche earlier in the war, albeit in reverse, aboard the ship that brought him back to France from Russia, the corsair Quatorze Juliette. But Antoine Heinrich had displayed what Philippe regarded as uncharacteristic timidity by insisting that his ship took the longer passage and avoided the straits, saying that he considered the risk from the Royal Navy in the Narrow Seas to be too great. Philippe, though, suspected that Heinrich’s insistence on the northabout course also had not a little to do with a revelation Heinrich père had shared only after Philippe had agreed to take the command. There were secret sealed orders, held in safekeeping by Heinrich fils, that were only to be opened when the corsair reached the fifty-fifth degree of latitude. These, both Heinrichs assured him, did not impact to the slightest degree on the ship’s broader mission, nor on the ability of all aboard her to obtain the prodigious sums of prize money that had been promised, nor necessitate any significant diversion from her course. Despite his misgivings, Philippe accepted the arrangement. The timely arrival of a letter offering him a command from the minister of Marine would undoubtedly have changed matters, but as it was, he could see no alternative to agreeing to Antoine Heinrich’s terms.
His thoughts were interrupted by a furious hammering on the cabin door, followed by the entrance of a breathless young matelot whom he recognised as Coiffic, one of the many crew members who hailed from the notorious corsair den of Saint-Malo.
‘Captain! Lieutenant Ugarte asks that you come on deck at once!’
There were few situations that Juan Ugarte could not handle himself, so Philippe moved straight away. As he did so, a waking Augustin Heinrich groaned from his sea-bed.
It took only a few strides for Philippe to reach the upper deck of La Verité, where he encountered an extraordinary scene. Men were staring and pointing at the main topyard where two of their fellows were engaged in a knife fight, both of them edging to and fro on the foot ropes, one hand grasping the yard while the other stabbed and swung at their opponent. The movement of the ship, the state of the sea and the strength of the wind were not excessive, but the slightest false move would see one or both of them plunging to their death either into the unforgiving ocean or onto the even less lenient deck far below. Several of the ship’s petty officers were bellowing at them to stop, but the loudest voice of all, replete with a succession of oaths and curses in Basque, Breton, French and, for good measure, English, came from the giant figure of Juan Ugarte, who was stamping on the quarterdeck with rage. If that did not rouse Augustin Heinrich, thought Philippe, then nothing would.
He recognised one of the two men as the Scot Marcus Drever. The other was a Breton named Marhallac’h who until that moment he had thought a quiet, inoffensive fellow.
‘What is this madness?’ Philippe demanded of Ugarte.
The Basque shook his head.
‘God knows, Captain.’ God was out of favour in republican France, but Juan Ugarte lived largely by his own laws. ‘But whatever the cause, they’re both oblivious to commands.’
Philippe heard Ugarte’s words, but knew he had to try. The authority of a captain was almost mystical, even aboard a corsair.
‘Marhallac’h! Drever! Cease this lunacy! Come down! Come down now!’
But neither man paused, nor seemed even to have heard their captain’s order. Drever stabbed again at the Breton, but Marhallac’h swung back and avoided the thrust. A sudden pitch of the hull made both men lose their grip on the yard, but with extraordinary speed they immediately shifted their weight and regained their hold.
Without a word to Ugarte, and without any sort of conscious decision, Philippe went to the starboard main shrouds, swung himself outboard and began to climb. There were times when madness could only be countered with an even greater measure of madness, and he heard the astonished gasps and chatter as the Vicomte de Saint-Victor hauled himself up the ropes as nimbly as any topman. In truth he had not climbed to a masthead since he was a youngster serving the State of Virginia and then the Continental Congress of the United States, but the return of the old sense of exhilaration at the staggering height, the unrivalled view and the freshness of the air was outweighed by the prospect before him of two men with blades, each seemingly intent on killing the other.
He reached the yard, took hold of it and swung himself onto the footrope. He was nearer to Drever, but the Scot, focused solely on Marhallac’h’s knife, did not turn or acknowledge him in any way.
‘You, men!’ shouted Philippe, trying to ensure he was heard above the moaning and whistling of the wind. ‘Marcus Drever! Cease now! Desist! I order it as your captain!’
Marhallac’h, further from the mast, was staring directly at him, realisation finally dawning. But Drever, seemingly oblivious to Philippe’s order, stabbed again at his opponent, then turned and waved his knife at his captain. Philippe saw the redness of the Scot’s face, saw the unreasoning rage in Drever’s eyes, and for a moment he thought the renegade Orcadian was about to lunge at him. He raised his free hand, palm open in the universal gesture of peace.
‘Enough,’ he yelled to make himself heard above the wind. ‘We go down now, all three of us, and resolve the issue between you. We talk as rational men. I do not flog for the mere sake of it, and I will hear you both out before I decide on punishment. You have my word on that.’
Drever’s eyes were still furious, but there seemed now to be a slight hesitancy about him. Marhallac’h was already starting to edge his way toward the mast and the shrouds. After another few moments of indecision, Marcus Drever followed him. Philippe breathed heavily, then allowed himself one look at the deck far below and another at the empty ocean all around the corsair before he, too, began his descent.
The disciplinary code aboard La Verité was based on that of the Marine Nationale, with a few minor variations and a generous dose of that eternally useful catchall, the time-honoured laws and conventions of the sea. No properly constituted naval court would normally include a civilian, but few corsairs could ever have set sail with the son of the principal owner and armateur aboard, so Augustin Heinrich sat alongside Philippe and Ugarte as the third judge. Although he was properly clothed and sitting upright on a chair rather than lying sprawled on the sea-bed in a nightshirt, Heinrich’s complexion was still ghastly and he held a kerchief very near his mouth as if he expected to vomit at any moment. The door of the cabin was guarded by the corsair’s bosun, a surly but capable Morbihannais named Madec.
Standing in front of the three judges were the two defendants, Marhallac’h and Drever. Both were silent and sullen, but Drever seemed no longer to be lost in some inner frenzy of rage.
‘There is one question only,’ said Philippe, opening the inquiry. ‘What caused the quarrel between you?’
Neither man said anything immediately, although Marhallac’h took a deep breath and looked around the cabin as though he was seeking the right words. Drever, the more confident and articulate of the two, spoke instead.
‘I do my duty,’ he mumbled. ‘Some have taken agin me, though. Yon Marhallac’h has been the worst.’
‘Taken against you?’ queried Philippe. ‘In what way?’
‘They hate me. Call me an enemy of France. A renegade. A spy. Other names.’
Ugarte was incredulous.
‘You pull a knife on a man, and on the maintop yard at that, because he has called you names?’
‘Not just names. Other things too.’
‘You’ve been at sea many years,’ continued Ugarte, ‘yet you’re still offended by what men call you?’
‘I didna pull a blade first,’ said Drever. ‘That was him.’
Philippe glanced at Ugarte, then addressed Marhallac’h.
‘Several men who witnessed your confrontation confirm that,’ he said. ‘So, Marhallac’h, what—’
‘Then it is quite clear, Captain,’ interrupted Augustin Heinrich, suddenly animated but still as pale as a winding sheet. ‘This man, this Marhallac’h, is the sole guilty party here, and Drever was simply acting in self-defence.’
‘We must still hear from Marhallac’h, Citizen Heinrich,’ said Philippe as patiently as he could. Heinrich took the rebuff with bad grace, gagged as though he was about to vomit, but somehow kept it down.
Philippe turned again to Marhallac’h.
‘Well, man? That you attacked Drever is beyond doubt. What do you say in your defence?’
Marhallac’h shuffled on his soles as though the deck of the captain’s cabin had suddenly become a bed of hot coals. He was known even to his ship’s captain to be a slow and frankly stupid man, the sort of seaman who needed clear orders and simple repetitive tasks. But when Marhallac’h spoke, he did so with unexpected passion. It was as if the words had been bottled up inside him, awaiting their moment.
‘It’s true no man aboard likes him,’ he said of Drever. ‘I’m not alone in that, your excellencies. He’s a Scot so he’s an enemy of France, no matter what he says. But what he says ain’t true, Captain. He swears he’s a true Jacobin, but he ain’t that.’
Marhallac’h seemed about to say more, but then he looked over to Drever and fell silent.
‘So what is he?’ demanded Ugarte.
‘I don’t believe this, mind, but a lot of the boys, a lot of us Breton boys anyhow…’
‘Yes, Marhallac’h?’ said Philippe. ‘What do they believe?’
‘They think he’s the Devil, your excellencies.’
Ugarte snorted. Heinrich simply gawped. Only Philippe broke the astonished silence that followed Marhallac’h’s incredible statement.
‘The Devil?’
‘Like I say, I don’t think that myself, Captain. But some sort of a witch, something of that kind, and as well as that—’
Drever snorted.
‘Captain,’ said an exasperated Augustin Heinrich, ‘this is the very height of absurdity. We live in a time of reason. We are citizens of a republic dedicated to it. Yet a man stands before us accused of being the Devil, or else a necromancer. A patent absurdity, Captain Kermorvant. This Breton declares himself guilty out of his own mouth, sir. I urge that we move to judgement on him at once.’
‘In due time, Citizen. But Matelot Marhallac’h, I wish to hear your reasons for thinking this way about Matelot Drever.’
‘Captain—’ Heinrich protested.
‘Remember we form a court of equal judges, Citizen Heinrich. Being the son of our armateur entitles you to a place here but it gives your vote no greater weight. So if Lieutenant Ugarte agrees with me, we continue the questioning of Marhallac’h.’
‘I so agree,’ said Ugarte, who had made his disdain for Augustin Heinrich obvious since the days of fitting out the ship at Concarneau and would oppose anything the young man proposed on principle.
Again with bad grace, Heinrich gave a barely perceptible nod.
‘Continue, Matelot Marhallac’h,’ said Philippe.
Marhallac’h began to shuffle his feet again and looked at the deck, not at the three judges nor Drever.
‘Up there on the yard he laid a curse on me, Captain. I’ll swear an oath on that. That’s when I pulled my knife on him, your excellencies. But I’m not the only one who’s had a fill of him. He’d been full of strange talk since you formed the crew at Concarneau, saying how mermaids and sea-beasts called kelpies were real and that he’d seen them. Once we sailed, he reckoned that the ship was doomed because we’d left Concarneau on a Friday. All his talk unsettled the men, Captain. He would mutter strange oaths and curses—’
Drever smiled, and Ugarte looked up in amazement.
‘Oaths and curses? Oaths and curses, Matelot? Damnation, man, if all the sailors in the world who’d ever uttered oaths and curses were put to the blade, none would be left. No ship would ever leave harbour again.’
Marhallac’h looked away.
‘Ask any man in the crew. There’s not many he hasn’t cursed or fallen out with or given the evil eye. Plenty of the men say he’s some sort of demon.’
‘This is absurd!’ Augustin Heinrich protested. ‘Captain, surely the case is quite clear! This man attacked Drever with no justification. There is no substance to any of this. Drever is innocent—’
Marhallac’h, increasingly agitated, stepped forward toward Philippe, his hands clasped in supplication.
‘Sirs, honoured citizens – hear me out! There’s one thing more.’
‘Speak it,’ said Philippe, ‘but if it is of no consequence, I see no reason not to concur with the opinion voiced by Citizen Heinrich.’
‘It was like this, Captain,’ said Marhallac’h heavily, ‘four years ago, just before war was declared, I went on the pêche à la baleine, the whaling, out of Saint-Malo. We spent weeks on the coast of Labrador. There were a few other Breton boats, some Basque—’ he glanced at Ugarte—‘and some Scots. Some from this Orkney, anyway. The weather was bad, so we spent many nights in the same bays. We drank together as matelots do. The Basques and the Scots questioned us about the revolution in France, and there was little talk of anything else. But I remember the Orkney crews telling a story of something that had recently happened in their land. Three children had been killed, they said. Brutally murdered in ways too horrible to relate. But I remember the name of the man they said had done it, who had then fled the country. It was such a simple but unusual name that it stuck in the memory, your honours. The killer’s name was Drever.’
Augustin Heinrich rose abruptly from his chair, picked up the chamber pot that he kept to hand at the side of his sea-bed, and retched into it. Ugarte shook his head slowly, as if he had never heard such a preposterous tale. Philippe, though, kept his eyes fixed on Marcus Drever. The Scot, previously so voluble in denying all the accusations levelled at him by Marhallac’h, was silent, his expression venomous, staring hard at the Breton’s back. When he spoke, his voice was quieter and more measured than it had been.
‘Drever’s a common name in my land,’ he said. ‘But all this is a mere tale, Captain. It’s invention, naught else. There’s nae proof of any of it. Aye, up there on the yard he accused me of being that other Drever, the child murderer, so I cursed him as any falsely accused innocent would. Then he drew the knife on me, sirs, an’ that’s honest truth.’
Philippe had heard enough. He held a whispered conference with Ugarte, then with Heinrich when the young man finally returned to his place. When he delivered the verdict, it was categorical.
‘There is one fact here,’ he said, ‘and one alone. A blade was first drawn by Matelot Marhallac’h, and it was he who first attacked Matelot Drever. This one fact was witnessed by many men, including Lieutenant Ugarte, here. All the rest is hearsay and wild rumour. Nothing more than the jealous dislike of an outsider. That being so, we concur that you, Marhallac’h, should receive fifty lashes. Consider yourself fortunate, Matelot, for in the Marine Nationale you would likely have been sentenced to death. Had you killed Drever, that would most certainly have been your fate on this ship too, corsair or no.’
The Breton flinched. Fifty lashes was not an excessive punishment by naval standards, but many men had died from fewer.
‘Marcus Drever,’ Philippe continued, ‘you were the victim of this man’s attack. All the rest of Marhallac’h’s accusations against you carry no weight.’
The Scot smirked.
‘But I stand witness to the fact that you disobeyed your captain’s order to desist from your fight with Marhallac’h, and even threatened me with your knife. This, too, was witnessed by Lieutenant Ugarte and several dozen of the crew from the deck. This cannot be disregarded without detriment to the good discipline of the ship. That being so, Matelot Drever, we sentence you to ten lashes.’