Philippe studied the towering sea cliffs of the islands now troublingly close to the east. Rain was stinging his eyes, but he could see the waves, high and angry, breaking onto the sea-stacks and the cliffs, implacable red-grey walls of rock. Philippe cursed the Heinrichs for their duplicity in bringing him and the ship to this bleak and infernal destination. They should not be here at all, pursuing a personal obsession of Antoine Heinrich when they should be in open water, sweeping up prizes for their own profit and the benefit of France. As the corsair drew ever nearer to the shore, Philippe knew for sure that he should have returned a different answer to Antoine Heinrich when the question was posed that day at Rennes. This was not a hospitable shore, and the strong rain-bearing westerly driving La Verité could easily become a ship-killing wind forcing them onto the unforgiving rocks and to their deaths. In that event, no amount of money would have been worth the consequence. The sails of the corsair were reefed, the one exception being the fore topsail, but for the moment La Verité had ample sea-room. But even if they were spared the rocks, it remained inescapable that this, the cliffs and islands before them, formed an integral part of Britain. This was the enemy’s shore, and they were about to sail into the very heart of an enemy harbour.
For the hundredth time since the revelation at the fifty-fifth degree of latitude, Philippe silently cursed himself for saying oui to Antoine Heinrich that day at Rennes.
Ugarte was off watch and asleep below, Augustin Heinrich once again confined to his sea-bed with an unsurprising recurrence of serious mal de mer, and Philippe shared the sodden quarterdeck with the universally detested native of these islands, Marcus Drever, now finally fulfilling his role as pilot to guide the ship on the evening flood tide into the broad, placid harbour that both the charts and the Scot’s assurances insisted lay somewhere behind the formidable cliffs and away from the violent waves breaking on the rocks of Orkney.
‘Hoy,’ said Drever, gesturing toward the brooding cliff-girt island on the starboard quarter, ‘and the peedie isle in the Flow’s mouth is called Graemsay. We’ll make our course sooth o’ that, Captain, by way of Burra Sound. Reckon we should anchor just off Graemsay Kirk, just opposite Moaness where there’s a break in the foul ground, an’ wait for when it’s darkest. No exciseman’ll come oot Stromness the night, an’ tomorrow’s the Sabbath, so no folk aboot then. We won’t get any attention ‘til Monday, an’ by then we’ll be lang gan oot the Flow.’
Philippe followed perhaps one word in three of Drever’s discourse, but the meaning was clear enough. He had noted the small town of Stromness on the chart, lying on the north side of the western channel that led into the broad expanse of Scapa Flow. It was said to be a place frequented by the ships of the company that traded to the north of Canada, sometimes a harbour of refuge for ships seeking respite from Atlantic storms, but never a harbour that saw the warships of King George’s navy, whose concerns were all far to the south where all of England’s enemies were located. Philippe could only hope that this intelligence, and the confidence of the renegade Drever, did not prove false.
‘You’re certain there’s no battery on either shore?’ Philippe asked.
Since the incidents of the prize crew and the knife fight with Marhallac’h, Philippe found it wholly impossible to trust Marcus Drever. The suspicion aired by the Breton, that Drever might be not just a traitor to his country but a child murderer, was now common knowledge throughout the crew. It clung to the man and could not be shaken, with only the knowledge that he was directly employed by the Heinrichs saving the Scot from the multitude of ways in which a crew could quietly dispose of a hated shipmate. Drever had never been popular among the rest of the crew, but for the last few days he had been brutally ostracised by his shipmates. While ordinary matelots would always clutch at even thinner pretexts to christen a man a Jonah, a curse on the ship, its crew and its voyage, even Philippe felt uncomfortable dealing with the rogue Orcadian. Now, though, in his native waters Drever had come into his own as the de facto pilot of the corsair, yet Philippe could not rid himself his doubts about the man and the nature of his relationship with Augustin Heinrich.
‘Battery?’ scoffed Drever. ‘Why’d any man think to have batteries on the Flow? An’ our colours’ll no concern any braw laddie on Hoy or Mainland. Always been Yanks coming in for refuge or to take on water, before an’ since yon rebellion they had.’
The privateer was flying her false colours, the Stars and Stripes of the infant United States of America, the land of Philippe’s birth and upbringing. A newborn land for which he had served in his first ships and fought his first battles. So he found the deceit in which he was now engaged uncomfortable, and he knew his old childhood friend Sam Arbon, now a member of the American House of Representatives, and his other old comrades-in-arms would have chided him vehemently for such disrespect to the flag under which they had fought. But although both Drever and Augustin Heinrich assured him that these remote northern isles had no defences to speak of, La Verité could hardly sail into what the charts showed to be a vast natural harbour in British waters under her own colours, the republican Tricolore.
At Drever’s suggestion La Verité’s course was a little north of north-north-east, keeping her well away from the implacable shore of the substantial and forbidding island that the Scot named as Hoy. When Drever signalled for a change of course, Philippe gave the orders to come due easterly, then, shortly afterwards, east-south-east and finally south-south-east to come into the mouth of the channel shown on the charts and named by Drever as Burra Sound. The leadsman’s call revealed ample water below the corsair’s keel at every stage of their passage, the safe channel having a sandy bottom but even the shelving rock on either side giving more than enough clearance. As Drever had indicated, there were no signs of any defensive batteries or of any other vessels.
Between the two substantial islands to the north and south, the ones named by Drever as Mainland and Hoy, lay a far more modest, flatter island upon which stood a few hovels, a nondescript church and a large herd of long-haired cows grazing on grass that seemed remarkably green and lush for such a northerly latitude. Like all the land in sight on the larger islands, no trees were visible anywhere, their absence due, said Drever, to the prevalence of strong winds that made it impossible for anything higher than a bush to flourish.
At Drever’s behest, Philippe ordered another course change to come more easterly, keeping close to the shore of the low island that Drever named as Graemsay.
‘Sept toises… six toises… cinq toises… quatre toises…’
The leadsman’s regular calls provided reassurance that ample water still lay beneath the corsair’s keel. The seabed now was of rock, the ground firm, and La Verité came to an anchor within easy hailing distance of an austere rectangular building of dull grey stone that Drever proclaimed to be Graemsay kirk, this being, it seemed, the Scottish word for a church. The stark, unadorned rectangular structure suggested a faith far more austere than the Catholicism in which Philippe had been raised by his devout mother and which the revolution in France had decisively overthrown.
It was now well into the evening, although there was yet little sign of impending darkness. The sky remained as grey and ugly as it had all day, threatening a storm but never managing to deliver it other than in brief, intermittent squalls of rain. Philippe studied the island of Graemsay, alert to any sign of hostile intent. He could make out a few figures on the shore and further inland – there an old man staring curiously at the incoming ship, there a mother and child throwing pebbles into the water who gave the corsair barely a second glance – but no sign of any who might be taken for sentries or lookouts of some sort. No sign of a military presence of any kind. The war seemed so remote as to be utterly unknown to these ancient, windswept islands and the inhabitants who made up the sparse population.
Tonight, that would change.
Ugarte came on deck, inspected the scene around him, then sniffed loudly.
‘Not much of a place,’ he said. ‘Not much of a prison for this Señora Heinrich.’
‘Not our concern, Lieutenant, although if it proves to be so then so much the better.’
Rescue the damned woman, get out of enemy waters as quickly as possible, rid themselves of Marcus Drever once and for all, land Augustin Heinrich and his stepmother at The Helder, satisfy Heinrich père by doing so, resume their real business of cruising the sea and taking prizes, garner the profits…
Philippe had mapped it out in his mind. It should all be so very simple.
The corsair swung at single anchor for several hours. As Drever had predicted, no functionary came out from the town of Stromness, which lay out of sight behind the island in the mouth of the capacious anchorage called the Flow. The few inhabitants of the island of Graemsay seemingly accepted that the ship was there but that its presence was of no concern to them, the American colours attracting no curiosity but seemingly sufficient to reassure the inhabitants that the strange ship presented no threat. Men who could speak English tolerably well were stationed as lookouts, able to respond to any questions from curious inhabitants without arousing suspicion. One of the carpenter’s crew, a bright youth called Gorrec, had spent several years working in a shipyard in Boston and was able to assume a passable accent to field the one shouted query from a young fisherman, informing him that the ship at anchor off his island was the Secretary Hamilton out of Providence, Rhode Island. The fisherman went away, seemingly satisfied with the response. Meanwhile Philippe and Ugarte went for’ard and aft, down to the cramped messes and along the upper deck, selecting and arming the men who would be needed for the landing party. The German, Teschow, would be one, Drever another, for he alone knew the precise geography and nature of the islands. He assured Philippe that a force of no more than twenty should be ample for the mission. Their destination, on an island even smaller than this Graemsay, would be unsuspecting and undefended apart from a handful of servants and farmhands, Drever said.
On their return to the quarterdeck Philippe found that Augustin Heinrich had finally risen from his bed and come on deck. He was very pale but dressed, upright, and not retching.
‘Your condition is improved, Citizen?’ asked Philippe.
Heinrich attempted a complacent smile of reassurance.
‘This anchorage is kinder to my health, Captain. And the goal is so close now. How can I languish below when winning back Anne-Catherine, freeing her from the intolerable slavery she has endured, is within my grasp?’
There was something about Heinrich’s response that perplexed Philippe.
‘You are close to your stepmother, Citizen?’
Heinrich fils seemed to consider the question an impertinence. He flushed and mumbled a response.
‘I have the greatest respect for her, Captain. She and I – she is only a little older than me – my father made a good choice of a second wife.’
‘Your father’s love for her must be powerful.’
Heinrich looked at Philippe sharply.
‘Your meaning, Captain?’ he snapped.
The vehemence of the young man’s response startled Philippe.
‘It is no small thing, Citizen, to fit out a ship and engage a crew. No small expense. No small risk to send that ship into the very heart of an enemy harbour. The prize must be very precious.’
The tension and hostility faded from Heinrich’s features.
‘No small thing at all, sir, although, of course, this is merely a brief diversion from your greater mission. From your greater profit, Captain. But as for risk, look about you. There are no ships in this place. No soldiers to oppose us. Hardly any people at all. Drever told us all of this when we employed him, and he was right.’
Heinrich, clearly impatient to be under way again, remained on deck for the next few hours. The hours of midnight, one and two passed. Although still grey and threatening, the sky remained stubbornly light, a phenomenon of northern summers that Philippe remembered from his time in Russia. At three, with Drever back on the quarterdeck to act as pilot, Philippe gave the order to weigh anchor and loose the topsails. With the wind still south-westerly and strengthening, La Verité made headway once more, Drever ordering occasional slight course changes as the ship moved slowly south-east toward the low-lying black masses of several more islands, barely distinguishable in the gloomy half-light of the summer night. Philippe knew from his chart that the nearest of them, the smallest, was named Cava, and the largest, furthest away, Flotta. Neither of them concerned him unless they sheltered a British warship or contained a garrison, and there was no sign of either. All of Philippe’s concern, as well as that of Augustin Heinrich, was on the middle island, the one named on the chart as Fara. That was where Thorfinn Rendall, the abductor of Madame Anne-Catherine Heinrich, had his lairdly seat. That was where Augustin Heinrich’s stepmother would be found.