"A private revenge" - читать интересную книгу автора (Вудмен Ричард)

CHAPTER 6 The Concerns of a Convoy

'Well, gentlemen, that concludes matters ...'

Drinkwater looked round at the faces of the dozen men gathered in his cabin. Most wore plain cloth coats, some sported brass buttons or a strip of gold leaf about their cuffs, but two wore the brass-bound uniform of the East India Company's livery.

'If there are no more questions I wish you all good-night and would be obliged if you would heave a-peak the instant you see my signal at daylight. We will make the best of our way beyond the Bogue and I will signal a boat from each of you before forming the order of sailing.' In this way Drinkwater could allow for any idiosyncrasies he noticed in the passage downstream.

There was a chorus of 'good-nights' and mutual exchanges between these masters of the convoy who all knew each other. An undercurrent of relief had permeated their gathering for Drinkwater's briefing: he knew that indecision had sent the Select Committee into a catalepsy and that these men, at least, were fortunate to have completed their cargoes and be homeward bound.

Drinkwater nodded dismissal to Ballantyne who, attired in the more-or-less regulation dress of a warrant officer, had cleared away the copies of Huddart's charts that had been his passport to Patrician’s wardroom. Fraser, too, was about to leave the cabin, but Drinkwater stepped forward and restrained him with his hand.

'Captain Callan,' Drinkwater called, and one of the East India commanders turned in the doorway. 'Might I have a word, sir?'

'Of course, Captain ...' Callan, a tall, slightly red-faced man with bushy eyebrows above deep-set eyes, was commander of the Indiaman Guilford, and senior of the two John Company men.

'I will be blunt with you, sir,' began Drinkwater, 'I am short of men.'

Callan nodded. 'I wondered when you would turn poacher.' He nodded at Fraser. 'We acceded to your first lieutenant's requests for spars from our stores in the bankshalls on Danes Island in the pious hope that we might assuage the Navy's rapacious appetite. It seems that, having plundered our stores, you now want our men.'

'It seems that you do not quite understand ...' replied Drinkwater coolly.

'Oh, I quite understand, Captain Drinkwater. In fact I understand very well and that is why we, the masters in the convoy, have agreed a confederation united to oppose you if you send any men on board our ships with the intention of removing our people. Just attempt it, sir, just attempt it, by God!'

Drinkwater raised an eyebrow. 'You know my rights in the matter, Captain Callan ...'

'Aye,' Callan retorted swiftly, 'such as they are this far from home and with the sworn affidavits of my colleagues to counter you. Besides, many of my men hold exemptions and it is a matter of record that we too are under-manned.'

'Captain, I do not submit to intimidation. Perhaps you need not threaten me if I assure you that I have no intention of pressing your men. I will give you my word of honour upon the point, if it pleases you.'

'Then, why ... ?'

'But', Drinkwater pressed on, 'might I ask you how you feel about the boot being on the other foot?'

Callan's mouth was still open and it was clear that Drinkwater's remark had caught him at a disadvantage.

'If I am not to poach from you, sir, you should not poach from me.'

'You heard?' frowned Callan.

'Three prime topmen. I guessed.'

A reluctantly appreciative smile hovered about the corners of Callan's mouth. Drinkwater wondered if Callan knew to what degree he had been bluffing. The commanders of Indiamen were no fools. A fortune of #163;20,000 was nothing to them, trading as they did on their own account. They were often part-owners of their ships, for the Honourable Company chartered rather than owned the great argosies, expecting them to make four or five voyages before they were worn out. The thought amused Drinkwater, making him smile in return. By Company standards Patrician was a hulk!

'I will return them in the morning, Captain Drinkwater.'

'No. Oblige me by holding them until I send for them. I do not want my own people disturbed by a flogging until we are out of soundings.'

'Very well.'

'A glass to warm the temperature of our meeting?'

'Obliged.'

'Pray sit down ... Fraser, will you join us?'

'Thank you, sir.'

'My first lieutenant has done wonders to repair the damage wrought by the typhoon, Captain Callan, the least we can offer him is a drink ...'

Fraser blushed and mumbled something as Drinkwater served from the decanter.

'I see you have taken on the younger Ballantyne, Captain Drinkwater,' remarked Callan conversationally.

'Yes. I lost my own master in action. You know him?'

Callan nodded. 'He's illegitimate, of course, Ballantyne has a wife in Lambeth. Rather a colourful fellow, the son ...'

'He seems competent enough. I do not know that a little colour hurt a man of its own accord.'

'I meant in terms of manner, rather than blood, Captain, though there are those who would dispute the matter.'

'Well, I am not versed in these contentions. Let him serve until he proves himself one way or another.'

'Or a ball carries off his head.'

'You think that likely?'

Callan shrugged. 'You heard the opinion aired here tonight that the protection of the trade is inadequate. Pellew has a few frigates on station, but these are too well-known now and the Dutch and French have both got formidable ships in these seas.'

'You havena mentioned pirates, sir,' prompted Fraser, relaxing with his glass.

'Don't be a doubting Thomas, Lieutenant. The Ladrones will not touch us, but the Sea-Dyaks of Borneo are a different matter. They have taken four Country ships this last quarter, and all were richly laden, almost as if they knew ... I tell you it's been a damned bad year for our trade, without this farce between the Selectmen, the Viceroy and our dear friend Admiral Drury.'

You refer to the failure to extract the specie?' asked Drinkwater, refilling the glasses.

'Aye. The Chinese merchants of the Hong are a damnable tricky lot. The Viceroy wants the trade, the Hoppo of the Imperial Customs wants the trade and the European merchants want the trade, but if they can get it for nothing by hiding behind the Emperor's proscription they will, that's why we're so damned anxious to get our ships out of the river.'

'Captain Callan,' said Drinkwater, rising and walking round behind his writing-table to produce the mysterious letter he had received from Canton, 'what d'you make of this?'

He watched Callan frown over the thing, holding it to the candelabra to read it. He shook his head and looked up.

'I don't recognise the hand. Have you heard further from this Friend?'

'No ... I made it clear that we would sail at dawn on the second, but we have heard nothing since his messenger departed.'

Drinkwater thought briefly of the boy and the dream, but dismissed the silly obsession.

'Did you mention it to your admiral?'

Drinkwater shook his head. 'No, he had already rejoined the Russell beyond the outer bar. Besides, if the thing had happened I could have sent word that we had got the specie via the Phaeton; she is due to drop down river with us tomorrow.'

Callan shrugged and appeared to dismiss the matter. 'I heard you took a Russian seventy-four, Captain,' he said, rising and holding out his hand.

Drinkwater nodded. 'We've a few of her people to prove it.'

'Here's my hand, Captain. I confess your escort is providential. Before your arrival the best we could hope for was Pellew's whipper-snapper Fleetwood. Perhaps we can dine during the passage, Captain, and with you, Lieutenant ...'

Fraser saw Callan over the side and into his waiting boat. It was quite dark and Drinkwater stared out over the leaden surface of the great river. The mysterious letter seemed to signify nothing beyond some poor European thwarted in his efforts to get out of the beleaguered factories. Whatever its source it was beyond his power to do anything about it.

But thought of the letter worried Drinkwater now that he sat alone in his cabin. It resurrected the image of the tongueless child and the hideous dream. He knew the dream of old. With infinite variations the spectre and the sensation of drowning had accompanied him since the days when he had endured the tyranny of the sodomite bully of the frigate Cyclops. He had been an impressionable midshipman then, thirty years earlier, but the dream had come to mean more than the random nocturnal insecurities of his psyche; it had become an agent of premonition.

The thought stirred his imagination. He stopped staring out of the window, turned and picked up the candelabra. The halo of its light fell on the portrait of Elizabeth. Almost unconsciously his hand touched the carmine paint that formed the curve of her lips.

Had the premonition served warning of the deserters? Or potential trouble with the Russian prisoners? Somehow neither seemed important enough to warrant the appearance of the spectre. Was the nightmare significant of anything corporeal?

He stood for several minutes willing his head to clear of these foolish megrims, cursing his loneliness and isolation, aware of the half-empty bottle on the table behind him.

That was too easy. He placed the candelabra beside it, paused, then resolutely took his cloak from its peg by the door and made for the blessed sweetness of fresh air.

Pacing up and down the deck he lost track of the time, though the watch, conscious of his presence among them, struck the half-hours punctiliously on the bell, while the sentries' assiduous calls were echoed by the guard boat rowing round the ship. It was not long before his mind was diverted, preoccupied by anxieties about the forthcoming convoy duty.

Below him the ship stirred slowly into life, prompted in part by the rhythms of her routine, in part by his own orders in preparation for departure. The first symptom of the coming day was the rousing of the 'idlers', those men whose duties lay outside the watch-bill. They included Drinkwater's personal staff, his steward, clerk and coxswain. This trio enjoyed the privilege of brewing what passed for coffee in the sanctum of the captain's pantry, a ritual that reduced itself to a formality of grunts and mutual acceptance as they went on to perform the tasks that bound them not to the ship, but to the person of Captain Drinkwater.

The Quaker Derrick had the lightest duties, clearing the captain's desk and ruling the ledgers and log-book. Tregembo, the old Cornish coxswain who had been with Drinkwater since the captain had been a midshipman aboard Cyclops, attended to Drinkwater's personal kit, to his razor, sword and pistols. It was to Mullender that fell the lot of the menial. The captain's steward was a self-effacing man who possessed no private life of his own, nor any personality to awaken him to the deprivation. He had been born to servitude and never questioned his lot, content with the tiny privileges that accrued to his rating.

The trio was dominated by Tregembo, for Tregembo was a man of forthright stamp, whose wife Susan was cook to the Drinkwater menage in distant Hampshire. Long service and Cornish cunning had ensured Tregembo exercised influence, even in the wardroom, and his protection of his master was legendary throughout the ship. It was Tregembo who first sensed danger.

'What means this 'ere?' he asked Derrick, holding out the letter from Canton that Drinkwater had left upon his desk.

'Thou should'st not read the captain's correspondence ...'

'Thou knows I can't read, that's why I'm asking thee!' snapped Tregembo at the Quaker, 'tis what that boy brought ...'

'Yes ... 'tis only a request for a passage,' said Derrick dismissively, taking the sheet of paper and slipping it into the ship's letter book.

'I didn't like the cut o' that boy ...' ruminated Tregembo, 'he put me in mind o' something ...'

'Thou seest knots in a bullrush, Friend,' muttered Derrick, and Tregembo, staring through the stern windows at the emerging grey of the Pearl River, growled uncharitably.

'He put me in mind of a boy who used to be a whatsit to Captain Allen o' the Rattler.'

'And what does that signify?' asked Derrick.

'Nothing,' said Tregembo, 'but that Captain Allen was hanged for buggery.'

Lieutenant Quilhampton was called with the news that the captain was already on deck. James Quilhampton had suffered the agonies of sexual temptation while Patrician had swung to her anchor. He was near despair, for it was months earlier that he had received a letter already half a year old, that Catriona MacEwan would not repulse his advances if he pressed his suit. To the thin, one-handed young man, such a prospect offered a happiness that he had once despaired of, and the Captain's announcement that they were homeward bound only made their present tardiness the more reprehensible. He was suddenly, expectantly awake on this dawn of departure, eager to get the anchor atrip and loose off the gun that, with a shaking topsail, would signal the convoy to weigh. Waving aside the offered coffee he pulled on shirt and breeches, rasped his cheeks and wound a none-too-clean stock about his neck. Kicking his feet into pinchbeck-buckled shoes he strapped his wooden forearm in place, pulled on coat and hat, and hurried on deck.

His arrival coincided with the midships sentry's challenge.

'Boat 'hoy!'

In a frenzy of efficiency he hurried to the entry and peered over the side. 'It's only a junk, man,' he snapped at the marine, waving at the score or so of batwinged sails that moved slowly over the almost windless river.

'Aye, sir, but she's been standing towards us since she came through the Indymen ...'

'She does appear to be approaching us, Mr Q,' remarked Drinkwater, coming up.

'Morning, sir.'

'Mornin', replied Drinkwater, turning to the marine. 'Give her another hail.' Drinkwater raised his glass and levelled it at the junk. Quilhampton spotted activity about the mast, one of the three sails beginning to collapse, flattening the row of battens one on top of the other as the halliard was let go.

'Boat, 'hoy!' bellowed the marine.

'Ah, I thought so ...' Drinkwater lowered his glass and Quilhampton could himself see the flash of colour in the grey dawn, like the blue of a jay's wing, where the gaily coloured figure of the little Indian boy stood at the junk's ungainly bow.

'I think we have a passenger or two, Mr Q, and a whip at the main yardarm might prove useful.'

Aye, aye, sir.' Quilhampton turned away just as the bosun's pipes began squealing at the hatchways to turn up Patrician's company. It did not seem to matter that they had thirteen or fourteen thousand miles of ocean to cross before a sight of the English coast would greet them: there was nothing so exciting as the final moment of homeward departure!

Behind him, watched by the marine and Captain Drinkwater, the junk rounded to under the Patrician's quarter and dropped alongside.

Tregembo watched the junk from the starboard quarter-gallery. Something in the appearance of that boy and the mention of sodomy had brought back unpleasant memories of the berth-deck of His Britannic Majesty's frigate Cyclops and the unpleasant coterie that had held sway under the leadership of a certain Midshipman Morris. Morris had been the evil genius who had presided over the cockpit and whose authority the young Drinkwater had challenged. Tregembo too had been mixed up in the dark and unacknowledged doings of the lower deck that had ended the tyranny by the quiet murder of one of Morris's confederates. Not that Tregembo possessed a conscience over the matter, rather that the disturbing influence had dominated an unhappy period of his hard life and the unbidden memory had made him introspective, in the manner of all elderly men. That is why for several moments he could not believe his eyes and thought himself victim of a trick of the light.

'It be impossible,' he muttered, for the figure was too gross, too robed in fantastical costume and too given to fat to be anything other than someone else. But just for a moment, as the mandarin hoisted himself up Patrician's tumblehome by way of the man-ropes, Tregembo fell victim to the fanciful notion that he was the man Morris.

It was Quilhampton who first recognised the stranger stepping down on to Patrician's deck. Quilhampton had known Morris when that officer had briefly commanded the brig Hellebore and Drinkwater had served as his first lieutenant. Unlike Tregembo he knew little of the man's history or his appearance as a younger man. Quilhampton recalled him already running to seed, though not as gross or disguised as he now appeared. Quilhampton had half forgotten the sick commander they had left in hospital at the Cape of Good Hope, forgotten the rumours that the ship's surgeon had been poisoning him, forgotten even the few facts from his own past that Captain Drinkwater had let slip. To Quilhampton recognition came most easily, though he too was surprised at the extravagant appearance of this quondam naval officer.

Drinkwater, his mind ranging from the forthcoming details of ordering his charges under weigh to the potential securing of the specie he anticipated off the junk's deck, saw only a large, obese man in the yellow silk robe of a mandarin. Recognition of the man as a European was incidental to the sudden flurry of activity about the deck. Fraser was alongside him, as was Ballantyne, and Acting Lieutenant Frey had his yeoman of signals bending flags on to halliards.

Reports flooded aft: the capstans were manned and the nippers in place, below in the cable tiers the Russians prepared to coil the huge, wet and heavy cable. Mr Comley had his fo'c's'le men at their stations and the topsail sheets and halliards were manned. On the quarterdeck a party of marines were tailing on to the main topsail halliards and a quarter-gunner, lanyard in hand, had a carronade charged and ready to fire as the signal for the convoy to weigh.

Gradually a calm settled over Patrician. Men stood expectantly at their stations; Fraser told off the acknowledged reports as they came in; Ballantyne stood by the wheel. Only Quilhampton seemed party to the drama at the embarkation point.

'Are you the gentleman from Canton?' asked Drinkwater, giving the newcomer his full attention now. 'D'you have that specie ready to heave aboard?'

The Indian boy stood beside his master, contrasting his bulk.

'I am he, Captain Drinkwater, and the specie wants only a tackle to secure it.'

It was the voice, the voice and the malignant and venomous inflection of hatred laid upon his own name that awoke Drinkwater to the stranger's identity. Suddenly the nightmare's premonition came to him.

And recognition slid beneath Drinkwater's rib-cage with the white-hot agony of a sword-thrust.