The Devil's Own Luck Page 2

  Harry was as lost in a drawing-room as his brother was on a quarterdeck. Even his sister, Anne, who adored both her brothers, would blush for shame at some of Harry’s more blatant gaucheries. But home was in the country, and Harry compensated for the occasional faux pas with his daredevil attitudes. He rode harder to hounds than any of their neighbours, played effective, if unstylish, cricket, and always entered for the more physical competitions at the local fair.

  Both had sadly neglected the duties that fell upon them as heirs to a great deal of land, wealth, and influence, leaving that task, after their father’s death, to their sister Anne’s husband. Arthur, Lord Drumdryan was a man with a title, but no money of his own. Their brother-in-law had happily taken it upon himself to ensure that neither their wealth nor their influence were in any way diminished by their frequent absence. He appointed the two members who sat for the parliamentary seats that Harry controlled, and corresponded regularly and fluently with whoever was in power. For this Arthur was rewarded with a life of luxury that he could otherwise never have attained. It was one of the few points of friction that existed between Harry and James. Affable Harry liked Arthur well enough. James, seeing instead a stiff pedant, couldn’t abide him.

  Harry reflected that, given the gossip that was current in town, James had chosen to accompany him on his voyage as the lesser of two evils. That he had to leave London was plain. The thought of facing their brother-in-law in such a situation would, for James, be intolerable. And in this respect Arthur was just as much at fault. For a man who prided himself on the quality of his manners, he showed a singular lack of restraint when it came to what he saw as James’s failings.

  Country or sea air, it seemed to have had a positive effect. James had been drinking to excess just a few weeks before, seeking to drown his sorrows. Now he was, again, the rational, urbane man that Harry remembered. The cause had never been mentioned. James might have had the words to eloquently describe his difficulties, but his brother certainly lacked the verbal skills to effect a cure. And given his own chequered past, Harry was not humbug enough to remonstrate with James.

  Arthur would not have been able to contain himself, which would have led to another family row, another demand from James that their brother-in-law took too much upon himself.

  Yet where would Harry be without him. Certainly not here, in the Bay of Biscay. It was Arthur, who, hounding the Admiralty, had arranged Harry’s Letters of Marque, permitting him to sail as a privateer, plus the exemptions needed to crew the Medusa in time of war, when the nation was chronically short of proper sailors.

  “You still haven’t told me what you intend. I’m beginning to suspect that you don’t know yourself.”

  That had been true when James had first asked, but now Harry, as usual thinking while he was talking, had ordered his thoughts, putting aside the nagging suspicion that he was behaving impetuously.

  “If she’s come out looking for us, then giving her the slip won’t stop her. In fact, it will tell her more about us than I’d want her to know. If we stay in these waters we are bound to run into her again. First she would try to catch us out, like being upwind of us at first light and close enough to get off a couple of broadsides before we could get out of range.”

  “And if that fails?”

  “There are lots of other possibilities. But if we continued to evade her, it would only be a matter of time before she came after us with a couple of consorts.”

  “Can the French muster three frigates just to chase us?”

  “They wouldn’t have to be frigates, James. Even a couple of ships smaller than the Medusa would answer. As long as they could slow us down enough for her to come up and finish us. Right now, what she needs to know is how fast we sail, and how the Medusa handles.”

  “Can she really learn that much from this distance?”

  “Why yes! You can tell a great deal from just observing the way a ship sails. About her crew, and her captain.”

  “That explains her actions, Harry, not ours.”

  “So we turn the tables on her. I want to draw her on, into exactly the kind of situation that I suspect she would be forced to use on us. With this wind it’s the best chance we’ve got. Somewhere over the horizon are the frigates of the squadron blockading Brest. We must interest one of them in the Verite.”

  “But won’t she turn and run if she spies a British warship?”

  “I expect so. But then it will be our job to slow her down, and let our ship come up to engage. A neat reversal, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Harry. You’re mad.”

  “Am I, James?” Again that nagging suspicion that his brother might be right. “If I am going to have to fight this fellow, I would rather fight her in company than alone. And I think I can keep us out of harm’s way for long enough to make that happen.”

  “And in this fine calculation of chances, how long have you allowed?”

  “Till nightfall. If we haven’t come across one of our warships by then, we’ll slip the kedge and outrun her in the dark. That way she will not see our rate of sailing.”

  James pulled a gold hunter from his waistcoat pocket.

  “We have about ten hours,” said Harry.

  “The whole plan is ingenious.” There was a twinkle in James’s eye.

  “I think so,” said Harry.

  “Especially considering you have only just thought it up.”

  Harry tried to look stern and uncomprehending, but the smile forced its way through.

  “I have to have some pleasure in life, brother, and besides, as you have often remarked, I have the devil’s own luck.”

  They sailed on through the morning, the Verite slowly gaining on the Medusa. Harry kept a strict naval routine on the ship, echoing the Navy in the way he split the watches and messed the men. The Medusa, fully manned, was a crowded ship, again just like a man-of-war. Fast, and armed with twelve nine-pounders, her job was to capture merchantmen, not destroy them. For that she needed men to form boarding parties and to provide prize crews after a successful action. That they could also handle the guns with speed and accuracy was a commendable bonus, one that Harry had insisted on. Most of his fellow privateersmen would not have bothered to expend the money on powder and shot necessary to make their crew proficient in that area. Harry, perhaps more prescient, knew that if he stayed at sea long enough he was bound to encounter an enemy warship. Good gunnery could mean the difference between escape or capture.

  The lookout in the tops gave the cry of “sail ho” at about two o’clock, just as the watch was changing. Everyone stayed on deck as the sail was identified as a British 74-gun ship.

  “I’d have preferred a frigate,” said Harry, raising his glass to his eye. “Though with this fellow, it may not make a great deal of difference.” He indicated the Frenchman.

  “Let me know the minute you make her number,” he shouted to the lookout. Harry reached into a locker and came out with an official naval signal book.

  “As part of your nautical education, James, I shall give you the honour of supervising the raising of the signals.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” said James, touching his forelock and assuming a gruff lower-deck voice. “Would ye care to be a-telling me which one?”

  “I think we could start with ‘Enemy in sight.’ He should deduce from that we are being chased. Then our name, letter by letter, and the signal for a Letter of Marque. He should be able to tell from that who we are.”

  “Might he not also deduce that he is being tricked?” James was already leafing through the signal book, looking for the flags required.

  “He’ll come and have a look. Once he’s seen the Verite he’ll give chase. Even together we represent no threat to a seventyfour.”

  “How can you be so sure of all this?”

  Again Harry looked mildly surprised.

  “I mean, how can you assume that this fellow will understand your intentions. Can you be sure that he will try to attack the enemy?”
r />   “He won’t be in command long if he fails to! They shot Admiral Byng for failure in that quarter.”

  “All right, but how can you then be so sure that he will do what you want him to?”

  “He doesn’t have to do what I want him to. He just has to do the right thing.” Harry said this so emphatically that further questioning seemed superfluous. Yet James was as aware as anyone of the gap that existed between an officer’s duty and his actions.

  “What we have to hope is that she is not one of the Forty Thieves, because if she is, we might as well abandon the whole thing.”

  Harry was referring to a class of ship, seventy-four gunners, that, in an age noted for its corruption, were notorious for the poor quality of their build. They were slow, slab-sided tubs made of green timber that leaked in any kind of sea. It was one of the great burdens of the Navy that, being so numerous, they formed the backbone of the fleet. That they were also known as “widow makers” testified to the number that had been lost in storms.

  “Will that make it difficult?”

  “It will probably make it impossible. I can only seriously delay that Frenchman for so long without endangering our ship. Eventually we are bound to sustain some damage. And if he does manage to get a clear shot at us . . .” Harry shrugged his shoulders, but the meaning was plain.

  “I don’t suppose that anyone will persuade you to drop the whole idea?” Harry looked sharply at his brother. “And it is not fear that makes me say that.”

  “I can’t stand the suspense,” said Harry, glancing aloft. “I shall have to go and have a look myself.” They both knew he was ducking the question.

  Harry tucked his telescope into his belt, and headed for the shrouds. These ran, like an ever-decreasing rope ladder, from the side of the ship up into the top. Harry climbed up the mainmast shrouds, then on to the topmast shrouds. He climbed up to the crosstrees, slinging his leg over the topmast yard and allowing his body to roll with the action of the ship. He nodded to the lookout, and raised his glass to his eye.

  The seventy-four, just a sail on the horizon to the naked eye, leapt into plain view. His heart gave a little flip as he recognized the Magnanime. He had sailed in her as a lad when his father was captain. He knew her to be a flyer despite her age. She had been captured from the French by Anson. Many ships since built by British yards had been broken up, but the Magnanime sailed on. Built from timber cut on the site, put together under cover instead of being allowed to rot in the open, she was visible proof of the ability of the French to design and build better ships than the British.

  If her bottom was clean and her timbers still sound she could manage twelve knots in this wind. That might explain her position, out here on the edge of the area patrolled by the blockading squadrons, a role normally reserved for the frigates. He watched her for a while, noting the way she was sailing and remembering his days aboard her as a young, and mischievous, midshipman. Captain Ludlow had seen his eldest son stretched across a gun many times, stoically receiving a beating for some escapade or other.

  Harry turned his glass back to look at the Verite. The way she was being handled, the Magnanime might even have the legs of her. It all depended on the seventy-four’s captain. He didn’t know who had her now, but from the mere knowledge that it was such a fine, fast sailing ship, he could finalize the details of his plan.

  Handing his glass to the lookout, he slid down a backstay to the deck and snapped out the orders to stand by. Orders that would cast off the kedge, trim the sails, and man the guns. James tried to stay out of the way as this operation was carried out. The deck was suddenly still, everyone in their place, ready for the moment when the Verite sighted the Magnanime.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE CRY of “sail ho” did not interrupt the punishment taking place on the deck of the Magnanime. Very few of the crew, brought aft to witness the punishment, turned their heads from the bloody scene before them. The grating was rigged, and the bos’n, sweating freely, was finishing his two dozen with the cat. The man had long since passed the point where he could feel any pain. He hung limp, the ropes binding him to the grating cutting into his wrists, the blood running freely down his torn back and staining his grimy duck trousers at the waistband. He was the third member of the crew to receive a flogging on this occasion, and the deck leading from the grating to the stairwell was already liberally spotted with dark red stains. The canvas at the man’s feet, laid down to catch the blood, was swimming with the rapidly blackening gore, as it mixed with the sea water which had been thrown over the gaping wounds of the previous “offenders.”

  As soon as the punishments ended, hands would be set to swabbing and holystoning the deck. More flogging would follow if it was not returned to its previous snow-white condition. No one would speak out at this, for it only took a malignant officer to imagine that he overheard any dissent to make a case which could have a man hanging from the yard-arm for mutiny. Thus men whose daily lot was back-breaking work, on a diet of poor food and often foul water, with constant exposure to disease, death, and injury, said nothing, refusing even to glance at their commander, lest he see the look of hate in their eyes.

  Oliver Carter, himself looking at the deck, did not even raise his eyes to the lacerated back as the cry came, and since he did not move, neither did anyone else. They were not entirely still. Bentley, the first lieutenant, his eyes fixed steadily on the man hanging limp on the grating, was swaying perceptibly, an action which had little to do with the motion of the ship.

  The other officers stood in various poses, seemingly indifferent to the scene. They had observed much of this in their life, too much on this commission, and it would never do to be seen to be moved by it. The marines, lined up on the poop, muskets in their hands, looked out over everyone’s head towards the bows. Only their officer, Mr Turnbull, evinced any interest in the scene taking place beneath their noses. The parson, Mr Crevitt, stood Bible in hand, silently mouthing a prayer. He too gazed at the victim’s back, but he seemed to do it from a sense of duty, a feeling that he could not offer comfort if he had not observed the pain. The bucket of salt water was thrown over the man’s back as the bos’n put the blood-stained cat back into its red baize sack.

  Outhwaite, the surgeon, ran forward as they cut him down. He examined the man quickly, and ordered the waiting seamen to take their messmate below. He stood, looking at his captain, who seemed to be in some kind of trance. Carter suddenly realized that Outhwaite was looking at him. It seemed to bring him back to the present. Bentley, too, seemed to awake from his dreamlike state.

  “Punishment completed, sir,” he said, looking around, as if unsure that what he said was correct.

  Carter stood beside Bentley, with the look of a man waiting for something on his face. The other officers deliberately turned their heads away, wishing neither to assist their first lieutenant, nor to risk the wrath of their unpredictable commander by acknowledging that the second-in-command had failed to behave correctly. Bentley was rescued by the lookout, who chose to complete the message.

  “Schooner fine on the weather bow.”

  “Permission to dismiss the men, sir,” said Bentley.

  “Carry on, Mr Bentley,” said Carter coldly. Even in the lofty tone normally used by a captain when issuing orders, his lack of regard for Bentley was manifest.

  The orders were given. The men dispersed slowly, their feelings for what they had just witnessed plain in their gait. At this point the captain would normally have left the deck, but he stayed, waiting to hear details of the other ship.

  “Sail has hoisted a signal,” cried the lookout.

  “Get the hands about their duties, Mr Craddock,” snapped Bentley, turning to the second lieutenant, an elderly red-faced man. Aware that Carter was staring at him, Bentley pulled himself erect and sent a midshipman aloft with a telescope. The midshipman called down the number of the flags. Another young gentleman leafed through the signal book.

  “The sail is signalling ‘Enem
y in sight’ sir.”

  Silence followed this shout. Bentley was shaking his head, as if to clear it.

  “Ask her to make her number, Mr Bentley,” said Carter, plainly angry.

  “She hoisted a fresh signal, sir,” said the voice from above. Shout followed shout as the signal midshipman on the quarterdeck deciphered the message.

  “She’s the Medusa, sir,” said the young man finally. Then after a pause to read the last few flags, “Privateer.”

  “Privateer,” shouted Carter, his face going red. “What the devil is a privateer doing flying naval signals?”

  “Why, I imagine he is trying to tell us something, sir.” Bentley made no attempt to mitigate the sarcastic tone in his voice. Though accustomed to Bentley’s insolent air with the captain, the other officers registered embarrassment. Carter flushed bright red.

  “He has no right to tell us anything in that manner, Mr Bent-ley. And neither have you.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” said Bentley quickly, but there was a trace of a smile on his lips. He walked up to his captain and spoke quietly in his ear.

  “If I’m not mistaken the Medusa is owned by Harry Ludlow.”

  Carter said nothing, but the look of anger turned to one of shock.

  “Another sail, same bearing,” cried the midshipman that Bent-ley had sent aloft.

  “He’s giving me orders, damn him,” snapped Carter.

  “She’s flying French colours, sir.” Then almost without a pause: “She’s let fly her sheets. Medusa has worn. She’s signalling, sir. ‘General chase.’”

  Bentley, coming to life, started to rap out a series of orders that would bring all hands on deck and send men up into the tops to set more sail.

  “Mr Bentley,” screamed Carter. “Belay!”

  Everyone stopped where they were. Was this the long-awaited confrontation? No one knew why such a hard horse captain allowed Bentley such liberties. They had waited a long time for the moment when Carter would haul him up with a round turn.