A Sea Unto Itself Read online

  Charles stumbled onto the dry ground. The two remaining cavalrymen wheeled their mounts thirty yards beyond and drew sabers. “Whose muskets are still loaded?” he snapped. Three men raised their weapons. “Shoulder them; wait; steady. Aim, Goddamnit.” The riders charged. Charles pulled his second pistol. “Fire!”

  One Frenchman fell, the second came on, his sword high. Charles sighted along the hand gun’s barrel at the man’s chest and prayed it didn’t misfire. The pistol kicked in a puff of smoke, the rider jerked back, the horse raced past. He took a deep breath and looked at the carnage around him—six or eight dead in the small level space; a horse thrashing feebly half in the water, tinting the surf red.

  “Come, hurry, come!” Constance pulled on his arm, her eyes wild. “This way; he’s injured.”

  Charles tried to take stock. He could see the marines forming into a line on the track a hundred yards away. The second troop of cavalry could not be long in coming. He could already hear the growing rumble of onrushing hooves. “Sykes,” he shouted. The boy turned toward him. “Run as fast as you can down to Lieutenant Ayres and tell him to clear out. I’m ordering him back to the ship now. Run!” Sykes ran, his coattails flying.

  “You three—Jenkins, Wilson, Giles. Collect the stretchers and follow me. Hurry up about it.” Charles looked at Constance. “Where are they?”

  She scrambled toward a pile of boulders. Charles followed. Behind the stones he saw Jones lying on the ground, his head propped on a bundle of cloth. The front of his shirt was brown with dried blood, flies swarming over it. “Is he dead?” he asked.

  Constance shook her head. “Shot. Lost blood,” she managed.

  “Where’s the other, er, Mrs. Jones?”

  “Euthellia is killed. They were waiting.”

  “Who is, they?” Charles began, then forgot the question. His seamen arrived with the litter. “Hurry,” he ordered. “Get him into the boat.” To Constance: “Go.” He heard the thunder of horses, growing rapidly more urgent, then musket fire. He hoped Ayres was firing at them from the launch. “All of you, into the cutter,” he shouted. Jones’s litter was on board, Constance being pulled in. He saw an unending line of cavalry on the track pounding toward him, the noise deafening. “Shove off!” he screamed.

  “Come, Cap’n,” Augustus’s voice said from beside him. Charles looked around. Everyone was in the cutter except for themselves. Beechum yelled something at him. The craft bobbed five yards off shore, oars extended. Augustus pulled; Charles ran. Thigh-deep in the surf, a horse and rider splashed after them, saber pointed forward like a spear. A bang came from the boat as Beechum’s pistol fired. Waist-deep in the sea, a milling, shouting melee of cavalry, two pushing their mounts into the surf. Charles stumbled on something on the seabed and fell, the water closing over his head. Powerful arms grabbed him around the middle, thrusting him upward, out of the water into a clutch of outstretched hands, which dragged him over the cutter’s stern boards.

  “Away all!” Beechum screeched.

  “Wait!” Charles snapped. He brought himself to his knees and reached out to grab Augustus’s jacket to keep him afloat. “Malvern, give me a hand. “ The two men took firm hold. “Away all!” he shouted at the boat’s crew and heaved Augustus bodily on board. Still on his knees, Charles looked back. To his surprise, they were well off the shore, a half-cable or more. The mass of French milled aimlessly in the space he had so recently occupied. To starboard he saw Winchester’s launch making steadily back to the ship. At least most of the red coats seemed to be present.

  Charles climbed up Cassandra's side first, immensely pleased to be back in own world. “Rig a whip to sway Jones on board,” he said to Bevan. “He’s in a bad way. Have him taken directly below decks to the surgeon.” He pulled off his sodden jacket. “I am going to my cabin to change. Have Lieutenant Ayres call on me as he is available. After that I will see the second Mrs. Jones. You may start south as soon as the boats are secured; we will look into Koessir again as we pass. You needn’t be secret about it; a few miles out should do.” Before Bevan could answer, he turned and left.

  In his cabin, Charles threw his sodden coat across a chair, then leaned against the bulkhead to collect himself. He was still on edge, almost giddy from the flurry of excitement on shore. After a moment he unbuckled his sword belt and hung it on its peg. He was pulling off his shirt when Augustus entered the cabin in his own dripping clothing.

  “Do you require help, Cap’n?” he asked.

  “No,” Charles said with a grin. “Go find yourself some dry clothes. You’ve done more than enough for a day’s work.”

  Augustus smiled. “It wasn’t nothing.”

  “I owe my life, or at least my freedom, to you. You may be assured I will report as much to Miss Viola.” Augustus had no answer for this. He put Charles’ coat on a hanger to dry and then departed.

  “Lieutenant Ayres for you, sir,” the sentry announced after knocking at the door and sticking his head inside.

  Charles had already donned fresh breeches and was buttoning up a dry shirt. “Have him come in.”

  “Are you whole?” Ayres said.

  “Yes, thanks to you and your efforts. How many did you lose?”

  “I had to leave eight behind. Some wounded, some dead; I don’t know how many of which.”

  “I appreciate all that your men have done,” Charles said. “It was a devilish close thing. I’ll authorize an extra measure of spirits with their supper.”

  “I’m sure they will appreciate it after what they’ve been through, sir. French cavalry have a way of focusing one’s attentions.”

  “Missus Jones, sir,” the sentry announced.

  “Invite her in as you leave, will you?” Charles said, stuffing his shirt tails into his pants. “Again, my sincere thanks for your efforts.”

  Constance entered as Ayres departed. She looked around her. “Where are my things?” were her first words.

  “I had them stored below,” Charles said. “I’ll send someone for them. Please be seated. May I offer you some refreshment?”

  Her hair was disheveled; her face pinched and stained, the black dress filthy. “Tea would be lovely,” she said. “Why are you in my cabin?”

  “It’s not your cabin anymore,” Charles said. “I’ll arrange someplace else for you. Mr. Jones will remain with the surgeon for the time being. Please sit.” He’d dismissed Augustus; how was he going to arrange tea? “Pass the word for Midshipman Hitch,” he shouted at the door. Constance seated herself at the table. “Tell me what happened,” Charles said, sitting opposite her.

  Constance wiped a hand across her forehead and attempted to pull her fingers through the tangles of her hair without success. “I need to bathe.”

  “Soon,” Charles said. “I promise. What did Mr. Jones learn?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t present at these discussions. From Zafarana we traveled to Cairo and then Alexandria. Adolphus has acquaintances there. He does not confide in anyone what he uncovers. I know he was concerned though, I could see it.”

  Hitch arrived. “A pot of tea, if you please,” Charles ordered. “Also a cup and saucer, sugar, you know what to do.”

  “Me, sir?” Hitch protested. “No, I don’t know. Tea just comes ready to drink.”

  Charles sighed. “The fixings are in my larder. The cook will know how to prepare it.”

  “I like Ceylonese tea,” Constance said. “From Ceylon.”

  “How interesting,” Charles said. He had no idea what kind of tea he had, he rarely drank the stuff. “Hurry, if you please,” he said to Hitch. “So you don’t know anything about French intentions to go down the sea?” he said as soon as the boy had left.

  “But, I do. I’m not a flower in a vase, you know. I have my own resources.”

  “You do? What do you know?”

  “I have entertained two French officers. Separately, you understand. Men are too easy. They feel obligated to talk.”

  “I see,” Charles s
aid. “And what did they talk about?”

  “There is another place, not Koessir. Transports are at this moment gathering there. They know the British are asleep at Mocha. One said there is a surprise for them.”

  “What place?”

  Constance fell silent as Hitch entered noisily into the cabin with a tray and a large tin teapot. He placed it on the table and laid out the saucer and sugar and a container of goat’s milk. “What place?” Charles repeated.

  She blew across her cup and sipped carefully. “I don’t know, neither man could say. How many such places can there be?”

  Suddenly, Charles knew where the place was, he was sure of it. There were only two that would be suitable, and Blankett was anchored in one of them. Everything made sense when one looked at it that way. Constance took a second sip, and a third. She drained the cup. Charles refilled it. “Help yourself,” he said. “What happened on your return to the rendezvous?”

  She was silent for a moment, stirring the sugar and milk into her drink. “We were betrayed by someone,” she said softly. “They were already searching for us.”

  Charles also knew, or at least could make a very good guess, as to who had provided the information about the rendezvous. Indirectly, it was himself to Teresa, who must have gotten word to Underwood. He remembered Bevan saying something about a horseman galloping north along the coast from Massawa. “Mr. Gladfridus Underwood,” he said. “Men can be loosened up just at the thought of sex, I’ve recently discovered. He received that information from me by way of an intermediary. I’m sorry.”

  Constance’s eyes met his. The corners of her mouth tilted upwards. “Thank you,” she said. “That explains everything. I’ll cut his balls off, first just one, and then the other. Then I’ll kill him.” She reached inside the folds of her dress, came out with her dagger and nonchalantly laid it on the table. “Now I need to pee,” she added.

  “The quarter gallery,” Charles said, which was his own personal toilet. “You know where it is.” As she rose, a knock sounded at the door. “Come,” he said.

  Beechum entered in a state of some excitement. “Lieutenant Bevan’s respects, sir.” He stopped. “I apologize for intruding.”

  “It’s all right. Do you remember Mrs. Jones?”

  “Oh, yes, sir.” He removed his hat. “I am pleased that you are well, ma’am.”

  “Thank you kind sir,” Constance replied, batting her lashes. “No small thanks are due to you.”

  Beechum blushed to his toes. “Oh, no. It was . . .”

  “And, what of Mr. Bevan’s respects?” Charles asked to regain the lieutenant’s attention.

  “Oh, yes. We’re within sight of Koessir, sir. From the masthead, that is. The seventy-four is not in the harbor. She’s nowhere to be seen.”

  .

  *****.

  .

  “There’s three, sir,” Sykes reported, having just returned from the foremast tops. “Two frigates and a brig, from their masts. They’ve altered course to intercept us.”

  Charles was relieved that it was not Raisonnable, which had been his first thought since they were only one day south of Koessir. “Have you any guess as to their nationality?” he asked.

  “Tate, he’s the lookout, he thinks they’re ours,” Sykes offered. “The brig and one of the frigates he claims he remembers from Mocha.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sykes,” Charles said. “You might have the colors and our recognition number close to hand.” If he was relieved that it was not the French battleship, he was less sanguine about an encounter with any officers sent north to find him by Admiral Blankett.

  Within the hour all three vessels were within easy sight from the deck—the northbound squadron braced tight and beating into the wind, Cassandra sailing large with it on her stern quarter. They were indeed two frigates and a brig-sloop, all with the blue ensign run up their mizzens indicating they were under Rear Admiral Blankett’s command. Charles had ordered the union flag run up his own mainmast to assert that he was under Admiralty orders. Just below flew his recognition signal. He recognized the thirty-two-gun Fox and the sloop Hellebore. The second frigate was a new thirty-six-gun eighteen-pounder. Her recognition signal translated to Hotspur, Captain George Bland, with seventeen years seniority. A second string of flags ran up her halyards. Charles could read them.

  “Heave to to windward for boarding, it says, sir,” Sykes reported dutifully. “Why do they want to board?”

  “Her captain wishes a word with me. If you would hoist the acknowledge. Also, inform Lieutenant Ayres that I would appreciate his presence.”

  “Sir,” Ayres said, coming to a halt in front of him a little more smartly than usual.

  He knows why we are about to be boarded. The more usual would have been for Charles to have been called to report on board Hotspur. “I am about to be visited by a superior officer,” he said to the marine lieutenant. “I would like all the men you have to be turned out in respect.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. I see,” said Ayres, not seeing yet.

  “It is possible that I am going to refuse orders, Mr. Ayres. If that occurs, you are under no obligation out of honor to my person or rank. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Ayres said. Charles guessed that it wasn’t quite clear, but he knew it soon would be.

  Cassandra turned her beam to the wind and backed her foresail to lie still in the water fifty yards upwind of Hotspur. The larger frigate smartly hove to herself and lowered a cutter over the side. Charles watched from his quarterdeck as the boat’s crew-four marines, a naval lieutenant, and last her captain-climbed down. The boat spread her oars in perfect unison.

  Charles decided to greet his visitors on his quarterdeck, just abaft the mainmast, with Ayres’s now twenty-four marines smartly aligned along the lee rail. Winchester and Beechum stood beside him. Bevan went to the entry port to escort the party aft. Hotspur’s marines came onto the deck first. To the shrill of the boatswain’s call, Captain Bland in his full dress uniform coat and hat followed. Charles watched as he and Bevan exchanged greetings. The party started toward him.

  “Sir,” Captain Bland said. “You are Captain Edgemont of His Majesty’s Frigate Cassandra?”

  “At your service, sir,” said Charles with a small bow. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” He knew.

  Bland, a short, lean man, wore an unhappy expression. “I have orders for your arrest, sir, from Admiral Blankett.” He took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and held it out.

  Charles did not take it. “On what charge?”

  “On the charge of willful disobedience to orders, as stipulated under Article Eleven of the Articles of War, as passed by Parliament in the year 1757. I am to take you into custody on board my own ship for transport to Mocha as soon as our other business is complete.”

  “Captain Bland, I am not under Admiral Blankett’s orders. Until I return to Mocha, I sail at the direction of the Admiralty. Therefore, I cannot have broken any lawful orders.”

  Bland frowned. “I have been forewarned of this argument and it does not hold. Your obligations to the Admiralty have been satisfied. It does not answer in any event; my own orders still apply. A court martial will decide the right of it. I must ask for the surrender of your sword and person, sir.”

  Charles looked at Bland and his four marines, then at Lieutenant Ayres with his own redcoats behind him, and finally at Bevan who met his eyes. “My apologies to the admiral and to yourself, sir,” he said slowly. “Circumstances are such that I cannot comply. May I acquaint you with the latest intelligence regarding French operations?”

  “No, you may not,” Bland blustered. “If you refuse to come willingly, I am prepared to use force.” He turned to his marines.

  Bevan nodded to Ayres. “Present arms!” the lieutenant of the marines shouted loudly. Charles was also surprised to see Winchester and Beechum move forward, their hands on their sword hilts. Bevan leaned casually against the base of the mainmast, his hand also resting
on his weapon.

  “This is beyond an Article Eleven,” Bland sputtered, his lips quivering with fury. “You’ll hang for this.”

  “Sir,” Charles said. “I am doing what I must for the good of the country and the conduct of the war. May I please tell you what information I possess? It will surely influence your own actions.”

  “No. I will not listen to any excuses until you submit as ordered.” Bland steamed with anger, his face red.

  “Aside from arresting me, may I ask the reason for your squadron’s presence so far from Mocha?” It didn’t take two frigates and a brig-sloop to collect a single captain.

  Bland produced a strained smile. “I am sure our purpose will answer your so-called intelligence. We are to destroy the port of Koessir, and all the shipping there. That will settle any possibility of French transport to India once and for all. Cassandra is to follow and participate in the action.” He paused. “I will offer you a compromise. You may remain in command for the time being, sail with me to Koessir, then return to Mocha. Admiral Blankett will deal with you himself as he sees fit.”

  Charles thought he saw Underwood’s influence behind this rather pointless exercise. It might mean that time was running short. “I cannot accept your offer. There will be a French expedition to India, but not from Koessir. A flotilla is now assembling at the port of Massawa, farther south. In addition, the seventy-four-gun French ship of the line Raisonnable will lead. That is where you are needed, and urgently so. I will happily accompany you there.”

  “Blankett said you had some fixation about an imaginary seventy-four. As for this Massawa, I’ve never even heard of it.” The captain drew himself up as best he could. “No,” he said strongly. “Orders are orders. I, sir, will obey mine. I demand that you do the same.”

  “I won’t,” Charles said. “Daniel, we will resume our course southward with all speed, if you please. Captain Bland and his company are to remain as our guests until we are past the squadron. If Hotspur’s cutter cannot keep up, you may come alongside Hellebore to put them off.” He turned back to Bland. “May I offer you some refreshment, sir? I hope not to detain you long.” It occurred to him that Mocha and the exit to the sea would now be guarded by only one, or at most two, relatively small warships.