Element of chance, p.6
Element of Chance, page 6
‘Humbugged at every turn, Bryse. What do you have to say to that?’
Such a direct question from his superior demanded that he reply. He tried a soothing response, even though he knew that it would very likely prove futile. ‘There could be any number of reasons, sir. Freak weather conditions, for instance.’
Poynton was about to blast him when the lookout hailed the deck. ‘Deck there. Ship’s cutter, fine on the larboard bow. Single gaff sail and low in the water.’
Poynton’s shoulders seemed to slump and his voice was soft enough not to carry past Bryse. ‘Not again.’
The premier cupped his hands and called to the lookout. ‘How many men aboard?’
The lookout, knowing that his emotion would be shared by everyone on deck, allowed himself to deviate from the strict rules governing the making of reports to officers. The sour, angry note in his voice was a mile away from the mere relating of the facts.
‘Just like the others, sir. Overflowing like a free bawdy house!’
‘Shape a course to intercept, Mr Bryse,’ said Poynton, squaring his shoulders again. He turned and looked over the bulwarks, to a sea still empty to an eye at deck level, and slowly extracted a telescope from the rack by his elbow.
The men that came up the ship’s side had been in the cutter for a mere four hours, which meant that their ship had been taken just below the horizon, out of sight of the Andromache. They were Danish and their vessel, the Ecklandsal, had been captured without a fight. The captain, Gunnerstrom, was confused, not only by what had happened, but in the manner of the loss.
‘A Dansk flag they fly. My name is to them known as well. They call to me, hello Ecklandsal.’ Then he jabbed his finger into his chest. ‘Hello, Ole Gunnerstrom too.’
Poynton made a polite face, but declined to say anything. He could see no point in letting on that he knew the name of their ship, and this captain, as well. In his cabin he had a list. The Ecklandsal was on it, with a description of her tonnage and her cargo, as well as precise instructions relating to her course and illegal destination. This was the fourth time he’d heard such a tale in as many days. But good manners obliged him to invite Gunnerstrom to his cabin and offer him a drink, some food, and an ear willing to suffer his woeful story. The Dane was long-winded and graphic in his description, both of the ship that had taken the Ecklandsal and of the man who commanded it. Listening to this took a great deal of patience. Once Poynton had consigned him to the gunroom, Gunnerstrom would find there three other merchant captains who could relate exactly the same tale.
‘For my life I feared a lot, French pigs.’
The Dane turned his head to spit on the deck. But he stopped on seeing the rich carpet that covered the planking in the Andromache’s great cabin. Likewise the glass that he held was of the finest crystal and the furniture that filled the room, as well as the gilt mirrors on the wall, created the air of a rich man’s study rather than a cabin of a man-o’-war. It was no place to go spitting on the floor, however angry you were.
Poynton longed to puncture this injured innocence, to tell this uncouth villain what he knew: that Gunnerstrom, just like the other three captains sharing the officers’ quarters, had been intent on selling their goods illegally into a British possession. If this ‘French pig’ hadn’t got him, then he himself would have done so. And then he would have lost not only his cargo, his liberty would have been forfeit too. He’d have been confined to the cable tier, instead of enjoying the hospitality and the comforts of the gunroom.
‘Did you by any chance catch the fellow’s name?’
‘Catch? He introduce himself to me, the swine. Hand me drink and say he’s sorry. Sorry, with that damn it hat and sash.’
The Dane stood up, wide eyed with disbelief at the effrontery of his captor, and essayed an elegant bow. ‘Victor Hugues, he say. Heard of me you may. Known I am for my love of blood. How wise are you not to resist. Me allow to help you, your sea-chest load in the boat.’
‘And the ship? Did you get the name of his ship?’
Gunnerstrom shook his head and prepared to resume his seat.
‘Stokes!’ yelled Poynton. The steward appeared before the Dane was halfway to comfort. ‘Show Captain Gunnerstrom to the gunroom. Ask Mr Bryse to sort him out a berth, then compliments to the master, he’s to report to me.’
Poynton might have thought he was smiling at his ‘guest.’ But to Gunnerstrom he looked like a man who wanted to bite off someone’s head. He uttered a quick thanks and hurried after the steward. The captain of the Andromache spun round in his chair and looked out at the wake. Quietly he repeated the name Victor Hugues, and in his mind went through the events of the last week. Five ships he’d been intent on intercepting, all taken like this last one from under his very nose. He had to assume that the first one, an American vessel called Brandon, had been taken as well, though he’d had no sight of the crew.
Victor Hugues? He’d given each captain a drink and an apology. Could this really be the same man who’d butchered three hundred men on the beaches of Guadeloupe, who’d set up the guillotine in the main square of Pointe-à-Pitre and continued his bloody work on the civilian population? Hugues had sent expeditions to try and retake both Dominica and Grenada, which had led to much fighting on both islands. There was no doubt he was a genocidal firebrand intent on setting the entire Caribbean alight. But none of that really mattered. It didn’t alter the fact that Hugues clearly knew exactly where these ships were from, as well as where they were headed.
‘The question is this,’ he said to himself. ‘Where, Monsieur Victor Hugues, are you getting information that tallies exactly with what is being given to me?’
The knock on the cabin door made him spin round quickly. The master entered on command and stood to attention before his captain. Poynton looked at the top of his desk, at the list which contained the names of another four vessels. Then he picked up his quill pen and with an angry flourish scored out the last of them, Eckslandsal. At the top the only name without a line through it seemed to mock him. Brandon!
‘Shape me a course for English Harbour.’
As the master went out, his steward came back in. ‘There’s another one of them there captains seeking a word, sir.’
‘Which one?’
‘Caufield, your honour. One of the Jonathans.’
Poynton sighed. ‘Very well, show him in.’
The American came through the door just as the first of the commands rang out on deck. A well-built individual with a scarred face, he wore a bandage over one ear, the result of a wound he’d received when he lost his ship. Caufield paused for a moment, crouched in the low doorway, his ear cocked to hear the orders, then turned to look at Poynton.
‘Sounds like we’re setting a brand-new course?’
‘You wish to see me?’ asked Poynton. Caufield just smiled and closed the door, cutting off the sound. He moved towards the desk and sat down without being asked. ‘Well?’
‘It seems to me a mite lucky, Captain Poynton, that you have sat in the path of so many distressed sailors, and that in so short a space of time.’
‘Does it indeed?’
‘It do. And I was wondering whether you was waiting for something.’
‘You may wonder all you wish, sir.’
‘The man who took my ship.’
‘Victor Hugues,’ interrupted Poynton.
Caufield looked away then. He fingered the bandage over his ear and his voice was low when he replied. ‘As you say, Victor Hugues.’ His eyes lifted to look at Poynton again. ‘He was sharp an’ no mistake, Monsieur Hugues. Must be upsetting to you and the British navy to have so many ships taken from under your noses by a man like that.’
‘He was lucky,’ said Poynton.
‘He was that. And if he hadn’t been so lucky we might have sailed right on till we met the good ship Andromache.’
Poynton’s eyes narrowed. ‘You might.’
‘We would have been safe then, sir, right under the guns of King George’s navy.’
Poynton coughed loudly. Caufield leant forward, his elbows on the desk. ‘We captains have been a-talking. And it seems to us that you’re just a mite upset. We was wondering if we had in some way offended you, or deflected you from your duty?’
It was Caufield’s attitude that cracked Poynton’s demeanour, especially the way he was leaning on his desk, like a man addressing a social inferior. ‘Let us say that I’m not fooled by your inventions. Every one of you pleads the innocent. Rest assured that if I’d met you, there would have been little doubt—’
Poynton stopped suddenly, not wishing to state openly that he knew they were illegals. To do so would only expose him to explanations, followed by further protestations of innocence. Caufield seemed somewhat abashed, because he’d dropped his eyes till they were staring at the desk. Then he stood up abruptly, bending over to avoid hitting his already damaged head on the deck-beams. When he spoke again he had a grave expression on his scarred face.
‘Forgive me, Captain Poynton. I came here to thank you, not to annoy you.’
‘You have already done that, sir, several times. I had assumed you came to request something.’
Caufield turned at the open door, through which the sounds of the ship carried once more. ‘I came to ask when we were heading for home. I guess what I’m hearing is the first part of my answer.’
He was gone before Poynton could ask him how he knew they were heading for English Harbour. A mere change of course was hardly sufficient. Perhaps he’d bespoken the master as they passed in the corridor. The captain’s eyes dropped once more to the list of ships on his desk. He grabbed the paper, scrunched it into a ball, spun round, then threw it out of the open stern window into the wake.
CHAPTER FIVE
ADMIRAL Bessborough fingered the knife that lay on his desk, his face creased with displeasure as he listened to Poynton’s lengthy report. The coffee poured by his manservant Cram lay untouched by his side. He was a handsome man, despite his years, who’d been termed ‘Beau Bessborough’ in his youth. The Gainsborough portrait in his drawing-room showed him to full advantage. Tall and imposing, with a smooth rounded face topped by a noble forehead, he had a strong nose and deep green eyes under an impressive pair of bushy eyebrows. The waist and the jowls had thickened somewhat since he’d sat for that painting and the air of confidence achieved with the brush had not carried over with age. He was vaguely aware that his officers didn’t respect him, without being conscious of the reasons: that his preferred method of command alternated quixotically between flattery and bluster. And, especially since the loss of the island of Guadeloupe, he seemed to have let slip control of events.
His greatest fear was that another island would fall to the French. They’d already tried to retake Dominica, committing their usual barbarities in pursuit of their aims. That threat looked to have been contained, though all the military forces at his disposal were tied down on that island. That left all the other British possessions in the Caribbean exposed, a danger that could only be met by constant patrolling carried out with the limited means at his disposal. On top of that, he had a responsibility to stop illegal trade. This was a matter on which his second in command, Captain Vandegut, had pronounced views, which he freely and openly discussed with everyone but his commander. At this very moment Bessborough’s noble brow was furrowed and his eyes were troubled. Finally, as Captain Poynton paused for breath, he interrupted, his manner abrupt and his voice harsh.
‘What you’re saying, sir, is this. That you have returned empty handed. That you have miserably failed by allowing yourself to be humbugged by some filibuster, who merely had to take station upwind of you to capture all the ships you were set to intercept.’
Poynton flushed angrily. He was not accustomed to polite behaviour from his seniors, least of all Bessborough. But the man should have taken some cognizance of the other people present. Vandegut, the captain-of-the-fleet, might be a two-faced nuisance, but he was at least a contemporary. And since he and the admiral rarely saw eye to eye, it was a fair bet that he’d support him. Then there was Cram, a mere serving man, though many a ship’s captain had been given cause to wonder if that appellation was appropriate. He had come into the household with Lady Bessborough, having served in a stratum of society that made his present appointment seem, to him, a demotion. If anything, when it came to naval officers he surpassed that lady in the depth of his condescension, which was no mean feat. But Poynton could console himself that he was a retainer, and therefore, regardless of his pretensions, of little account.
Dillon was Bessborough’s political assistant; his presence offended him. The Irishman had his eyes on the floor between his feet, fixed there the entire time Poynton had been in the room. The animosity between the pair was well known. They’d rubbed each other the wrong way from their very first encounter, long before their present commander had arrived from England, and each subsequent meeting only made matters worse. There was no cause other than mutual antipathy. But the real problem for a man as proud as Poynton was that Caddick, the admiral’s nephew, was in the room, ostensibly there to take notes. He was still in his formative years, and the boy had passed for lieutenant so early in life entirely because of his uncle’s influence: the captains who examined Caddick saw Vice-Admiral Bessborough as their patron, and were more interested in pleasing him than in assiduously examining the boy. He was close to being the most junior commissioned officer on the station, yet he’d been given command of the brig Percival. This act was, in itself, scandalous enough and caused the usual moans from those who saw themselves as more deserving of promotion, officers who’d been at sea twice as long as this upstart. But they knew they could do little in the face of such potent interest. They consoled themselves with the fact that Bessborough had arrived in the Lesser Antilles with only one relation, instead of the customary half-dozen. Other officers of more senior rank, on observing that the Percival was kept safe in harbour under the admiral’s avuncular eye, were less ready to indulge him. They wondered, sometimes aloud, why the brig and its commander were not, like them, almost permanently at sea.
Dillon, despite his dislike of Poynton, spoke out, seeking to calm things by introducing a positive note. If it was intended to aid the captain of Andromache it failed. All Poynton saw was an attempt to mollify his commanding officer, rather than him.
‘We have acquired some hands, sir,’ he said. ‘And that is very necessary in this climate. Certainly equal to the interception of illegal cargoes.’
Bessborough made no attempt to modify his angry tone as he rounded on his political assistant. ‘Nonsense, Dillon. What’s fifty or sixty sailors compared to what those ships were about?’
The Irishman coughed gently and rubbed his hand across his thinning ginger hair, wondering if the admiral was referring to their activities or their value. Given the manifold tasks that fell to the Leeward Islands squadron, it was remarkable, if not uncommon, that the Andromache should be so engaged. It was an activity layered with excuses, not the least of which was the need to protect British vessels trading between the islands. But no warship so occupied set sail without a list of illegals, ships of other nations trading into King George’s possessions in defiance of the Navigation Acts. This provided nearly everyone on the station with that most welcome alternative to dreary blockade duty: the taking of prizes for profit.
Despite the recent drought in captures, Poynton had badgered Bessborough for the right to cruise independently, a privilege that the admiral normally reserved for his client officers. In a navy where advancement was dependent on interest, to be attached to a successful senior officer was paramount. This man had no need to win battles. The sole requirement was that he be gainfully employed, and therefore be in a position to pass such a gift on to those who’d supported him in the past. In turn, they could expect that anything going in the way of profit or glory would come to them. But this put a heavy responsibility on the commander, especially in a world where every officer, of any rank, felt he had a God-given right to inform the Admiralty of his feelings. Letters from disgruntled captains with no connection to the admiral could generally be discounted. But if he couldn’t keep his clients happy, the rumblings of their discontent could do much harm.
Normally reliable in such areas, Bessborough had swung round on to the opposite tack, partly to offset the failure at Guadeloupe, and he’d given Poynton the opportunity to stifle accusations of blatant favouritism. That the man before him fell outside that category had something to do with his manner, but more to do with the fact that he’d been on the station when Bessborough arrived. He had, under Admiral Sir John Jervis, helped capture Martinique, St Lucia, and Guadeloupe. He was also tactless enough to refer, often, to the qualities of his late commander as well as those successful forays. If anything was designed to ruin Bessborough’s day it was the slightest mention of his predecessor, coupled with the name of the last of those islands.
Furious despatches continued to flow back and forth between the Admiralty and Antigua, with those Bessborough received showing scant appreciation of the difficulties he laboured under. Everyone in London, down to the meanest, crab-handed clerk in the Admiralty Office, knew that ships on this station had too many tasks to perform, just as they knew that a French fleet could arrive in the West Indies before the commander on the spot even knew they’d sailed. But the loss of Guadeloupe had happened in his bailiwick, so Bessborough had to deflect the criticism heaped on officers seen to have failed in their duty. His attempts to shift some of the blame to Lord Howe had foundered on the Glorious First of June. It was useless to point out that Victor Hugues had sailed in April, while the noble Howe had been sitting comfortably at anchor in Torbay. The Channel Fleet had been at sea when it really mattered. Trouncing Villaret-Joyeuse had made ‘Black Dick’ Howe the hero of the nation. Any criticism levelled at him not only fell on deaf ears, but seriously compromised the complainant. On receiving news of the battle, and well aware of the damning statements his despatches contained, Bessborough had feared that he might be relieved. It was a situation which unsettled his supporters and encouraged those disinclined to show respect. Vandegut was one who’d exploited it to the full, taking advantage of his commander’s uncertainty to inflate his own importance.
