Midshipman Bolitho and the Avenger

10. 'On the Uproll!'

Bolitho and Dancer trained their telescopes on the jetty and watched the sudden activity amongst the jolly boat's crew which had been waiting there for over an hour.

`We shall soon know, Dick.' Dancer sounded anxious.

Bolitho lowered the telescope and wiped his face free of rain. He was soaking wet, but like Dancer and most of the Avenger's company had been unable to relax, to be'' patient while he awaited his brother's return.

That first horror of finding the man who had been left to die, the excitement of knowing Dancer had been right about Vyvyan's implications, had already gone sour. Colonel de Crespigny himself and a troop of dragoons had ridden hard to Vyvyan Manor, only to be told that Sir Henry had left on an important mission, and no, they did not know where, or when he might return. Sensing the colonel's uncertainty, the steward had added coldly that Sir Henry was unused to having his movements queried by the military.

So there was no evidence after all. Apart from that last, desperate accusation of a dying man, they had nothing. No stolen cargo, no muskets, brandy or anything else. There were plenty of signs that people had been there. Hoof-marks, wheel-tracks and traces of casks and loads being hauled about in a great hurry. But what remained would soon be washed away in the continuous downpour. In any case it was not evidence.

Dancer said quietly, `It will be Christmas Day tomorrow, Dick. It may not be a happy one.'

Bolitho looked at him warmly. Dancer was the one who would be spared all enquiry but the briefest statement. His position, to say nothing of his father's importance in the City of London, would see to that. And yet he felt just as vulnerable as the Bolitho family which had got him involved in the first place.

The boatswain's mate of the watch called, 'Cap'n's boat 'as just shoved off, sir!'

`Very well. Call the side party. Stand by to receive him.'

It might well be the last time Hugh Bolitho was received aboard in command, here or anywhere else, he thought. Hugh Bolitho clambered over the side and touched his hat to the side party.

`Call the hands and hoist the boats inboard.' He squinted up at the flapping masthead pendant. `We will get under way within the hour.' He looked at the midshipmen for the first time and added bitterly, `I'll be glad to be rid of this place, home or not!'

Bolitho tensed. So there was no last minute hope, no reprieve.

As Dancer and the boatswain's mate hurried forward, Hugh Bolitho said in a calmer tone, `I am required to make passage to Plymouth forthwith. The members of my company I put aboard a prize are assembled there, so your appointment 'as my senior will no longer be needed.'

`Did you hear anything about Sir Henry Vyvyan?'

He saw his brother give a shrug as he answered, `De Crespigny was duped like the rest of us. You remember that bullion which the dragoons were suddenly and mysteriously required to escort at Bodmin? Well, we have now learned that it was Vyvyan's property. So while the revenue men and our people were being set upon by his ruffians, and cut to pieces, Vyvyan's booty was coolly being put aboard a vessel at Looe, after being escorted by the very soldiers who have since been searching for him!' He turned and looked at him, his face strained and seemingly older. `So as he slips away to France, probably to negotiate for more weapons for his private wars, I will have to face the consequences. I thought I could run before I could walk. But I was outwitted, and beaten without knowing it!'

`And Sir Henry is known to be aboard this vessel?' He could picture the man even as he spoke.

It would be a triumph for Vyvyan, who had led a dangerous but rewarding life before coming to Cornwall. And when it had all quietened down he would come back. It was unlikely he would be challenged by the authorities again.

Hugh Bolitho nodded. `Aye. The vessel is the Virago, a new and handy ketch-rigged sloop. Vyvyan has apparently owned her for a year or so.' He swung away, the rain pouring unheeded down his features. `She might be anywhere by now. My orders from the port admiral suggest that a King's ship may be required to investigate, but nothing more than that.' He slapped his hands together, despairing, final. `But Virago is fast, and will outsail anything in this weather.'

Gloag came clumping on deck, his jaw working on some salt beef.

`Sir?'

`We are getting under way, Mr Gloag. Plymouth.'

No wonder Hugh wished to be rid of the place. Danger from an enemy, or across the marks of a duelling pitch he could take with ease. Scorn and contempt he could not.

Bolitho watched the dripping boats being swayed inboard, the seamen's bodies shining like metal in the heavy rain.

To Plymouth, and a court of enquiry. It was not much of a way to end a year.

He thought of the nearness of success, the callous way Vyvyan had directed the deaths and the plunder of wrecked ships. He thought too of Dancer's face as the troopers had aided him into the house, the livid bruises on his shoulders. How his captors had threatened to put out his eyes. All the time they had been on the fringe of things. Now it was over, and they were as much in the dark as ever.

His brother said, `I'm going below. Inform me when the anchor is hove short.'

His head was almost at deck level when Bolitho stopped him.

`What is it?'

Bolitho said quietly, `I was thinking of what we did achieve, what we do know.' He saw his brother's features soften slightly and hurried on, `No, I'm not saying it to sugar the pill. Suppose the others are wrong, de Crespigny, the port admiral, all of them?'

Hugh Bolitho climbed up the companion ladder very slowly, his eyes fixed on him.

`Go on.'

`Perhaps we have over-estimated Sir Henry's confidence. Or maybe he was intending to quit England anyway?' He saw the understanding on his brother's face and added quickly, `He would certainly not be sailing to France!'

Hugh Bolitho stepped over the coaming and stared across the darkened harbour, at the choppy white crests, and the town's glittering lights beyond.

`To America?' He gripped his brother's shoulder until he winced. `By God, you may be right. The Virago could be standing down-channel at this very instant, with nothing between her and the Atlantic but -' he looked along his broad-beamed command, `- my Avenger.'

Bolitho was almost sorry for what he had said and done. Another false hope perhaps? One more barb to anger the admiral and hasten a court martial.

Gloag was watching him anxiously. `It will be rough outside, sir. Misty too, if th' rain eases.'

`What are you saying, Mr Gloag? That I give in now? Admit to failure?'

Gloag beamed. He had made his point and was content.

`I says go after 'im, sir, take the devil back for the 'angman.'

As if to put doubt over the side the cry came from the bows, `Anchor's hove short, sir!'

Hugh Bolitho bit his lip, measuring the chances as he looked from the tense helmsmen to the hands at the braces and halliards, from his grey-eyed brother to Gloag, Pyke and the rest.

Then he nodded. `Carry on, Mr Gloag. Get the vessel under way and lay a-course to weather the headland as close as you dare.'

Dancer looked at Bolitho and gave a reckless grin. Christmas had become just part of a dream.

Bolitho waited for the Avenger to complete another staggering lunge and then crossed the deck to peer at the compass. The motion was sickening, with the sturdy hull lifting across each rearing wave crest before sliding heavily again into a waiting trough. And it had been going on for nearly twelve hours, although it felt much longer.

One of the helmsmen said wearily, `West by north, sir.' Like the rest of them he sounded tired and dispirited.

Seven bells chimed out from the forecastle, and Bolitho made. his way to the weather rail, seeking a handhold before the cutter began another one of her dizzy plunges. In half -an hour it would be noon, Christmas Day. But it meant a lot more than that to his brother, perhaps to them all. Maybe it had been a foolish gesture after all, a last desperate attempt to settle the score. They had sighted nothing, not even an over-zealous fisherman. Which was hardly surprising on this of all days, Bolitho thought bitterly.

He squinted through the rain, his stomach queasy as it rebelled against the liberal ration of rum which had been sent round the vessel. Trimming sails, reeling from one tack to another, left little chance for lighting the galley fire and getting something hot for all hands. Bolitho had decided he would never drink rum again if he could help it.

Gloag had been right about the weather too, as he always seemed to be. The rain was still falling steadily, cutting the face and hands like icy needles. But it had lessened in strength, and with the slight easing had come a strange mist which had joined sea to sky in one blurred grey curtain.

Bolitho thought of his mother, picturing the preparations for the Christmas fare. The usual visitors from surrounding _ farms and estates. Vyvyan's absence would be noticed. They would all be watching Harriet Bolitho, wondering, questioning.

He stiffened as he heard his brother coming on deck again. He had barely been absent for more than one half-hour at a time since leaving Falmouth.

Bolitho touched his salt-stained hat. `Wind's holding steady, sir. Still southerly.'

It had backed during the night and was pounding into the Avenger's great mainsail from almost hard abeam, thrusting her over until the lee scuppers were awash.

Gloag's untidy shape detached itself from the opposite side and muttered, `If it rises again or veers, sir, we'll 'ave to be thinkin' about changin' tack.' He pouted doubtfully, unwilling, to add to his commander's worries, but knowing his responsibility was for them all.

Bolitho watched the uncertainty and the stubbornness fighting one another on his brother's windreddened face. The cutter was about ten miles due south of the feared Lizard, and as Gloag had said, with a rising gale they could find themselves on a lee shore when they eventually went about, if they did not take care.

Hugh Bolitho crossed to the weather side and stared fixedly into the stinging rain.

Partly to himself he said, `Damn them. They've done for me this time.'

The deck lifted and slithered away again, men falling in sodden bundles, cursing despite fierce looks from their petty officers. Soon now. They were late already in responding to the admiral's summons. If Hugh Bolitho delayed much longer the wind might decide to play a last cruel trick on him and shift direction altogether.

He looked at his younger brother and gave a bleak smile. `You are thinking too hard again, Richard. It shows.'

Bolitho tried to shrug it off. `It was my suggestion to make this search. I merely thought

'Don't blame yourself. It is almost over. On the noon bell we'll bring her about. And it was a good idea of yours. Any other day the channel would be dense with shipping and it would have been like a

needle in a haystack. But Christmas Day?' He sighed. `If the fates had been kinder, and we could see, who knows?'

He added, `We had better see to our extra canvas, in case the weather worsens presently.' It was his duty to attend to the vessel's needs, but his voice showed that his thoughts were elsewhere, still seeking his enemy. `Get aloft to the yard and check the stuns'l booms, _and tell Mr Pyke we'll need to take in a reef shortly.' He peered up at the wind-hardened topsail, the angry jerking of shrouds and braces as his command met the challenge of-sea and tiller.

Dancer had also come on deck, looking pale and dishevelled.

`I'll go, sir.'

Hugh Bolitho gave a tired smile. `Still no head for heights, Richard?'

The brothers looked at each other, and Dancer, who knew only one of them, could sense they were closer than they had been for a long time.

As Dancer clambered into the weather shrouds, Bolitho said, `I'm glad you asked me to join Avenger.'

He looked away, embarrassed that it was so hard to speak like this.

– Hugh Bolitho nodded slowly. `Aboard the old Gorgon I expect they're envying you at ease beside a full table. If they only knew…

He looked up, showing his anxiety, as Dancer yelled, `Deck there! Sail on the weather bow.'

Even as his cry faded, eight bells chimed out from the forecastle. They had been following the other

vessel all this time without being able to see her. She could only be the Virago. Had to be. Another few minutes and Avenger would have come about, allowing her prey to slip away once and for all.

Pyke and Truscott, the gunner, came hurrying aft, their hair ragged with spray, their bodies so steeply angled to the deck they looked like drunken sailors with three sheets to the wind.

Pyke shouted, `I'll go aloft to be sure, sir!' His teeth were bared, as if this was too personal to be shared.

Hugh Bolitho handed his hat to a seaman and snapped, `No. I will go myself.'

They all watched in silence. If Dancer had not gone aloft they would have sailed to Plymouth in ignorance. Hugh Bolitho, his coat tails flapping around his white breeches like twin pendants, paused merely briefly beside the midshipman before continuing up and further still until his shape was blurred in mist and rain. When he reached the topsail yard he stopped, and with his arms wrapped around the madly vibrating mast peered ahead.

In two minutes he returned to the deck, his face expressionless as he said, `She's Virago. No doubt about it. Two masts, ketch-rigged, carrying a lot of canvas.' Only his eyes were alive, bright like little fires as he thought it out. `She has the wind-gage of course, but no matter.' He took a few paces to the compass and then eyed each sail in turn. `Set the jib, Mr Pyke, and then send the hands aloft and run out the booms from the yard. With stuns'ls she'll even outpace that sloop.' His eyes flashed as he added sharply, `Or someone will answer to me!'

Dancer was called down to the deck, and an experienced seaman sent aloft to take his place. As he arrived, breathless and soaked in rain and spray, he exclaimed, `A change of luck, sir!'

Hugh Bolitho tightened his jaw. `We need skill today, Mr Dancer, but I'll grant you I'll not send any luck away!'

Straining and pitching, her sails booming under the pressure, Avenger responded to their combined efforts. Like huge ears, the studding sails were run out on either beam, so that with the yards braced round she presented a tremendous pyramid of canvas before the wind.

It was a strange sensation, and sometimes frightening, Bolitho thought, as the cutter battered her way through crests and troughs alike, the spray bursting over the weather bulwark in solid sheets. There was still no sign of the Virago, and from what Dancer had described, there was little to see, even from the yards. Her hull was lost in sea mist, while like disembodied fins her sails towered above it, an easy task for the keen-eyed lookout.

Bolitho thought it unlikely that Vyvyan's sailing master was bothered at the possibility of a sea chase. Not at this stage. Vyvyan probably knew more about local ship movements even than the Admiralty, and would imagine Avenger snug in harbour, or tail between legs on her way back to face the admiral's wrath.

They were probably celebrating, somewhere up ahead. Christmas, victory over the King's authority, and a booty Bolitho could not even begin to imagine.

And why not? Vyvyan had won all the tricks. And now he was safely around the Lizard and would be well clear of the Scillies when he eventually broke into the vast desert of the Atlantic.

He heard Truscott ask, `What pieces will she be carryin', sir?'

Hugh Bolitho sounded preoccupied as he scanned the sails again, searching for some possible danger or weakness.

`Much as ourselves normally. My guess is that Sir Henry Vyvyan will have a few extra surprises however, so be vigilant, Mr Truscott. I want no haphazard shooting today.' His tone hardened. `This is not a mere fight. It is a matter of honour.'

Bolitho heard him. He sounded as if it was another duel. Something to be settled in the only way he knew. Perhaps this time, he was right.

Gloag called, `Rain's movin' off, sir!'

It was hard to tell the difference, Bolitho thought. There was more spray coming inboard than rain, and the pumps were going busily all the time, so that he guessed a good portion of sea-water had found its way below.

There was a different light, not anything like the sun, and yet the tossing wave crests were brighter, their deep troughs less grey.

The helmsman cried, `Steady she goes, sir! West sou'-west!'

Bolitho held his breath. Incredible. In spite of the powerful wind, Gloag had brought her three full points into it, with every sail and spar cracking and booming like a miniature battle.

Hugh Bolitho saw his expression and gave a quick nod. `I told you, Richard. She handles well!'

A yell from the lookout put an end to speculation. `Deck there! Ship on the lee bow!'

Peploe, the sailmaker, bustling past with his mates to prepare for the first exploding piece of canvas, looked at the acting-master and grinned. `Got 'im! We'm to wind'rd of th' bugger now!'

The lookout shouted, `She's sighted us!'

They stared, fascinated, as the other vessel seemed to expand out of the receding rain like a spectre. She was moving well, the sea creaming back from her fore-foot.in an unbroken white moustache.

Someone gasped as smoke belched from her quarter, and before the smoke had been thrust aside a ball slammed through Avenger's sails and rigging, ripping holes in the starboard studding sail and main alike.

`By God, the old fox is still alert!' Hugh Bolitho turned to watch the ball pounding across the waves. He strode to the lee side and trained his telescope on his adversary. `Load and run out, if you please. I see no need for a challenge. That has already been offered!' He left the Avenger's small broadside to Truscott and said in a quieter tone, `That was a powerful piece. A nine-pounder at least. Probably put aboard with this in mind.'

Another bang, and a ball whimpered past the tafF rail before throwing up a waterspout well off the larboard quarter.

Hugh Bolitho said angrily, `Run up the colours.'

He watched as the gunner signalled from the foredeck that the guns were all loaded and run out. With the hull at such an angle it had been easy to thrust the six-pounders tightly against their ports, but less easy to fire with any accuracy. The sea was barely inches below each port, and the crews drenched with each savage plunge.

`On the uproll!'

Five tarred hands were raised along the bulwark, five slow-matches poised, hissing, above each touchhole.

Then, `Fire!'

The sharp explosions were closely joined, jarring the deck, probing the ears, as shouting and cheering the crews hauled in their guns to swab out and reload with a minimum of delay.

Above the swaying hull men swarmed like monkeys to repair severed cordage, to take in the studding sail, which because of the wind's strength had torn itself to shreds. And it had taken only one shot to do it.

Crash.

The cutter shook violently, and Bolitho knew that a ball had at last hit the hull, and possibly close to the water-line.

Bolitho steadied a glass on the other vessel. Instantly her masts and yards sprang alive in the lens, and he saw tiny figures moving around the deck, or working at braces and halliards like the Avenger's men.

He winced as the next puny broadside banged out from the starboard battery. He saw the balls splashing around the Virago's handsome counter, or falling well astern of her. The guns would not bear, but to give the crews a chance Hugh would have to sail even closer to the wind, and so lose time and lengthen the range. He saw a brief, stabbing flash from the other vessel's quarter, imagined he saw a black blur before the iron ball ripped through the bulwark and tore along the deck like a saw. Men yelled and ducked, but one of the helmsmen was almost cut in half before the ball smashed its way through the opposite side.

Voices bellowed orders, feet slithered in spray and blood as more men ran to tend the wounded, to take control of the tiller.

Virago was drawing away now, and as Bolitho moved his glass still further he saw a patch of green on her poop and guessed it was Vyvyan in the long coat he often wore for riding.

Gloag shouted, "S'no use, sir! Much more o' this an' we'll lose every spar!'

As he spoke another ball hissed through the shrouds and brought down the other studding sail complete with boom, cordage and a trailing tangle of canvas. Men dashed with axes to hack it free, as like a seaanchor it floundered alongside, hampering their progress.

Hugh Bolitho had drawn his sword. He said calmly, `Make this signal, Mr Dancer. Enemy in sight.'

Dancer, used to the instant discipline of a ship of the line, was running to the halliards with his signal party before he properly understood. There was nobody to signal to, but Vyvyan might not realize it.

Even as the signal jerked up to the yard and broke to the wind Virago's master would be advising Vyvyan to change tack, to beat further south for fear of being caught in a trap and driven into Mounts Bay by two instead of one pursuer.

`It's working!' Dancer stared at Bolitho with amazement.

The Virago's sails were in disarray as she, edged closer to the wind, her yards braced so tightly round they were almost fore and aft. But more flashes spat from her side, and several lengths of rigging and some shattered blocks joined the litter on Avenger's deck.

A great crash shook the hull, and a chorus of shouts and yells made the seamen scatter as the topmast with yards and flailing stays plunged down, splintering yet again above the guns before lurching over the side.

Hugh Bolitho waved his sword. `Put the helm down, Mr Gloag! We will steer as close as we can!' As the tiller went over and the great mainsail swung on its boom, obedient to the straining seamen, he added for Truscott's benefit,_ `Now! On the uroll!'

With the range falling away, and fully conscious of their own peril, each gun captain fired at will.

Bolitho gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the terrible cries from the wounded men below the mast. He concentrated every fibre as he watched for the fall of Avenger's ragged broadside.

Then he heard the crack. Across the angry wave crests and above the din of battle he heard it, and knew one of the six-pounders had found its mark.

And it only needed one. Under full sail, standing dangerously into the wind to beat away from 'Avenger's invisible ally, the sloop seemed to quiver, as if striking a sand-bar. Then, slowly at first, then with terrifying speed, the complete array of canvas began to stagger aft. The topgallant mast, the fore-topmast and yards, driven with all the speed of wind and strain, collapsed along the deck, changing the Virago from a thoroughbred to a shambles in seconds.

Hugh Bolitho snatched up a speaking trumpet, his eyes never leaving -the other vessel as he shouted, `Stand by to shorten sail! Mr Pyke, prepare to board!'

Then there was a new sound, rumbling and spreading as if from the Avenger herself. But it was her company whose voices mingled in something like a growl, as snatching up their weapons they ran to their stations for boarding.

Dancer said, `There'll be more of them than us, sir!'

Hugh Bolitho pointed his sword and looked along the blade as if sighting a pistol.

`They'll not fight.'

He watched the range falling away, the sloop spreading out on either bow as if to snare them.

`Now, Mr Gloag.'

The sails were already being taken in, and as the tiller went over again the Avenger's bowsprit came up and into the wind, while between the two hulls the sea was lost in their shadows.

The tiny figures on the Virago's deck had become men, and the faces had sharpened into individuals, some of whom Bolitho recognized, a few he had even seen in Falmouth.

Hugh Bolitho stood at the bulwark, his voice sharp through the trumpet.

`Surrender! In the king's name!' His sword swung like a pointer towards the levelled swivel guns. `Or we fire V

With a lurch the two vessels came together, bringing down more broken rigging and spars to add to the confusion. But despite a few defiant shouts not a shot was fired, not a sword was raised.

Hugh Bolitho walked slowly between his men towards the place where he would board. Taking his time, looking for some last spark of,defiance.

Bolitho followed him with Dancer, hangers drawn, conscious of the oppressive silence which had even quietened the wounded.

These were not disciplined sailors. They had no flag, no cause to guide or inspire them. At this moment of truth they knew they would not escape, so that personal safety had become all important. To lay evidence against a man they had once called a friend, to face prison rather than a gibbet. Some would even now be hoping to be freed altogether by using lies with no less skill than their cruelty.

Bolitho stood at his brother's shoulder on the Virago's deck, watching the cowed faces, feeling their fury giving way to fear, like the blood that had faded away in the blown spray.

Sir Henry Vyvyan would probably be able to plead for some special privilege even now, he thought. But Hugh's victory was complete all the same. The ship, her cargo and enough prisoners to make Mounts Bay safe for years to come.

'Where is Sir Henry?'

A small man in a gilt-buttoned coat, obviously the sloop's master, pushed towards them, his forehead badly cut by flying wood splinters.

'Worn't my fault, sir!'

He reached out to touch Hugh Bolitho's arm but the sword darted -between them like a watchful snake.

So he backed away, while Bolitho and the others followed him towards the poop, which had taken the full brunt of the falling mast.

Sir Henry Vyvyan was pinned underneath one massive spar, his face screwed into a mask of agony. But he was still breathing, and as the sailors stood over him he opened his one eye and said thickly, `Too late, Hugh. You'll not have the pleasure of seein' me dance on a rope.'

Hugh Bolitho lowered his sword for the first time, so that its tip rested on the deck within inches of Vyvyan's cheek.

He replied quietly, `I had intended a more fitting end for you, Sir Henry.'

Vyvyan's eye moved towards the glittering blade and he said, `I would have preferred it.'

Then with a great groan he died.

The sword vanished into its scabbard, the movement final, convincing.

`Cut this wreckage away.' Hugh Bolitho sounded almost untouched by the events and the sights around him. `Pass the word to Mr Gloag. We will require a tow until a jury-rig can be arranged.'

Only then did he look at his brother and Dancer.

`That was well done.' He glanced at the flag which was being run up to the Virago's peak, the same one which, although torn ragged by wind and gunfire, still flew above his own command. `The best Christmas gift I have ever been given!'

Dancer grinned. `And maybe there will still be something left at Falmouth to celebrate with, eh, Dick?'

As they made their way back to their own vessel, Bolitho paused and looked aft towards the great heap of wreckage.

His brother was still standing beside the trapped body in the long green coat.

Perhaps, even now, he was thinking that Sir Henry Vyvyan had beaten him?