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  On board the Bonaparte, to which Delancey had shifted his gear after dark, Mather received his final orders:

  “I have taken many of our best men but have left you with seamen enough to handle the Merlin. You will sail tomorrow forenoon, setting a course for Plymouth. By evening you will double back under easy sail and place Merlin to windward of the course I shall follow towards Portsmouth. I have marked on the chart the position I expect to have reached before the Daphné stages her attack. All this is guesswork but I do not suppose that the marked position is wildly wrong. I cannot believe that Daphné will be well manned but Charbonnier has the advantage of knowing the Bonaparte extremely well. If all goes as I expect, there will be no cannon fired on either side. What fighting we do will be with boarding pike and cutlass, with pistols as necessary, and a belaying pin to finish the argument. Should we fail in our efforts, which seems unlikely, you must rescue us. Whatever the event, leave the Daphné alone. Let her escape. Is that clear?”

  “Aye, aye, sir. Should I make it seem that you are on board the Merlin? If Langford were to wear your uniform when we sail? He is about your height …”

  “Use every deception possible. For my part, I shall keep out of sight until we put to sea and Stirling will keep most of his men below hatches. His visible crew will number twelve as seen from the quayside.”

  “I shall do my part, sir. Let’s hope we make an end of Charbonnier this time.”

  ”I don’t mean to take him alive; nor do I want many other prisoners. As someone said—Cromwell, perhaps—’Stone dead hath no fellow.’ We must put an end to this nonsense. Of war against lunatics I have already had enough.”

  When the Merlin left harbour next morning quite a few people saw that her captain was on the quarterdeck. Mr Stirling, moreover, who was ashore the previous night, was loud in his complaints about the weakness of his prize crew. “How am I to bring a large ship into Portsmouth with a dozen men and those the worst we have?” Below decks in the Bonaparte Delancey issued his orders to Stirling, Northmore, and Topley:

  “We are to sail for Portsmouth the day after tomorrow. It is my belief that we shall be attacked by a privateer called the Daphné commanded by the former master of this ship, intent on recapturing her before she is brought into an English port.”

  “Can he do that, sir, in time of peace?” Northmore protested. “Surely the capture would be disallowed?”

  “One would think so, Mr Northmore, but Charbonnier may have an answer to that. He may plan to bring the ship into an Italian port under a false name. All that is surmise. That he means to recapture the Bonaparte I am very reliably informed. I plan to surprise him. While he has reason to expect a weak prize crew, he will actually meet with strong resistance. I am merely guessing when I suppose that he may have thirty men in his boarding party. Given that sort of strength, he will find himself outnumbered by experienced and vigilant opponents. Mr Stirling, you will command this ship. I am on board merely as a passenger. Make your own plan for dealing with the privateersmen but remember that we don’t want to have any prisoners. Charbonnier, who will probably lead the attack, should be killed on sight. One other thing—don’t fire any cannon nor even any muskets if you can help it. The French should be cut down, bayonetted, knocked on the head. I suggest you let them on board before you reveal your strength. Is that all sufficiently clear? Mr Stirling?”

  “Is Charbonnier a madman, sir?”

  “Undoubtedly, Mr Stirling. His whole plan is mere lunacy.”

  “Shall we capture the Daphné, sir?” asked Northmore.

  “No,” replied Delancey. “We cannot take a prize in time of peace. Let her escape.”

  “What if the privateer opens fire on us?” asked Topley. “Are we to reply?”

  “She won’t open fire.”

  “Should muskets be loaded, sir?” asked Northmore.

  “No. Any further questions? Very well, Mr Stirling, take command of the prize. I shall be in the Captain’s cabin if you want me and I invite all officers to dine with me this afternoon.”

  In making Stirling assume the command, Delancey had acted again on instinct. He felt that Charbonnier had some other trick up his sleeve. He wanted to think about it and decide how it should be countered. In taking no part in the action he was giving Stirling some useful experience but neither he nor anyone else was going to gain credit from the sort of skirmish which no government would want to know about. Was it just possible that Charbonnier had obtained the co-operation of another privateer, one that was better armed and manned than the Daphné? Would Stirling find himself outnumbered after all? Over dinner he heard something about Stirling’s plan, which seemed very sensible.

  When the time came for the expected attack the night was dark, the sea nearly calm, and the westerly breeze no more than moderate. The presence of the privateer was more sensed than seen for she showed no light and made no sound. She was there all right and edged down from to windward, a shadow among shadows but with purposeful movement. There was no sound of her boats being lowered (she must have been towing them) and the helmsman could fairly start with surprise when the first of them came alongside.

  The leader of the first boatload was evidently young and without experience, placed at the head of men who were not the desperadoes for which the scene was set. Petty criminals they may have been but buccaneers they certainly were not. When suddenly lit by the flare they looked more woebegone than menacing. Before they could panic they were joined by a second boatload, this reinforcement being enough to encourage them to face their opponents. After a few minutes of conflict they were attacked in the rear by the marines. They must have known by then that their position was hopeless. The ship they had boarded was not the defenceless merchantman they had been led to expect. While they wavered, Stirling charged them at the head of his best seamen. He was a ferocious fighter by temperament and he had been told to offer no quarter. Making straight for the French leader he hit him a powerful blow with the butt of the musket he had seized and then finished him off with the bayonet into his throat. An instant later he knocked aside the cutlass brandished by a French petty officer and kicked the man in the stomach, going on from there to bayonet another man who was probably about to surrender. Several of the enemy who had held back made for the boats, only to discover that they were sinking. Stirling’s assault continued, the privateersmen putting up only a feeble resistance. Northmore killed two of them with his cutlass and Topley may well have accounted for three. This ruthless conduct was at least partly due to the fact that the Bonaparte was the Merlin’s prize, fairly captured in battle, and that the French were trying to retake a ship that had surrendered. It was, as Delancey afterwards pointed out, “expressly against the law of arms, as arrant a piece of knavery, mark you now, as can be offer’t.” It was knavery for which the French were to pay in full. Eventually the fighting died away as the last of the Frenchmen were cut down and as one at least was tossed overboard. The fighting fury vanished quickly and several of the severely wounded were spared. When four men came alongside in a boat, moreover, begging for quarter, they were allowed on board and treated quite well. As for the privateer herself, she had disappeared as silently as she had come and Stirling knew that there was no question of pursuit. He set his men to swabbing the bloodstained deck.

  Leaving Stirling to defend the ship, Delancey had made his way down to the lantern-lit passage which led to the Bonaparte’s magazine. He was armed with two loaded pistols and a jug of water. Sitting down on an upturned tub, he wondered whether he had made a fool of himself as never before. As like as not he would have to remain there, doing nothing, until the fighting was over. Seamen would soon be asking—they would be asking now, some of them—how the captain had come to lose his nerve. He had, however, reached a certain conclusion and he could see no other course open to him. It was his task to sit and wait. He could not order anyone else to do it because there was no one he could trust to do the right thing at the right moment. A muffled noise overhe
ad told him that the boarding party had arrived, the poor deluded creatures. Against proper men-of-war’s men they should not last five minutes. They were serving Charbonnier’s purpose, for all that, or this at least was Delancey’s guess. Another minute or two would suffice to prove him right or wrong. For the third or fourth time he looked to the priming of his pistols. He shifted his position slightly and started a silent recitation of “Toll for the Brave,” which he had once learnt by heart, probably as a punishment. He wished that the whole nonsense were over and done with.

  When things happened, they happened quickly. There was a sound of footsteps descending the hatchway. There was a pause for less than a minute, after which the footsteps broke into a run. Suddenly, Charbonnier appeared, holding a lighted hand grenade (he had paused, no doubt, while lighting it) and looking the maniac that he was. Seeing Delancey he snarled his hatred and prepared to throw his grenade at the closed door of the magazine. At that instant Delancey fired his first pistol, hitting Charbonnier in the stomach. The Frenchman reeled backward, dropping the grenade, while Delancey fired his second pistol, the shot blowing out the madman’s brains. In an instant Delancey threw water over the grenade’s fuse and trod out whatever spark was left. His part in the action was over and he went on deck where he found that little remained to do. The Merlin now appeared from to windward and he returned to her, giving orders for most of his men to follow. The ships soon afterwards parted company and the Merlin set a course for Plymouth.

  At dinner the following day, to which Delancey invited his officers, he gave his own explanation of the recent skirmish:

  “This man Charbonnier had probably been losing his sanity for years. He went quite mad when we captured the Bonaparte, hiding in the magazine and threatening to blow both ships to eternity if we did not steer for Cherbourg. He became obsessed with the idea of a great explosion to end everything. He wanted the explosion more than he wanted to capture the Merlin. As you all know, we knocked him on the head and put him in irons, finally sending him back to France. Still clinging to his obsession, he managed to persuade her owners to lend him the Daphné, probably for a short period like two weeks.”

  “But what was his plan, sir?” asked Mather. “Did he mean to repeat his former trick, seizing the magazine and blackmailing us into obeying his orders?”

  “No,” replied Delancey. “Whatever he told the owners was a lie. Whatever he told the crew was probably a different lie. His real and suicidal purpose was to blow up the ship, end his life, and have his revenge on us at the same time. He lighted his fuse, remember, before he even saw me. He had no slow match either. The grenade was to go off in about six seconds and his intention was to throw it into the magazine.”

  “But the door was locked,” Mather objected. “Would the grenade have touched off the magazine when exploded outside?”

  “An even chance,” said Delancey, “but it would have a better than even chance of breaking the door hinges or lock. Had he run back out of immediate danger, throwing himself on the deck, he could have finished the job with his pistols. That was no doubt his intention.”

  ”But how did he reach the magazine?” asked Topley. “Did he follow the boarding party?”

  “No,” replied Delancey. “He entered through one of the stern windows. What I did not expect was the grenade. I had water at hand to damp the priming of his pistols. Anyway, it served my purpose. Once more it was a case of touch and go.”

  Chapter Two

  DRURY LANE

  DELANCEY’S AGENT, Mr Lawrence, had been at sea as a purser, serving in India and becoming agent for several regiments in the Indian Army. That was why he and his partners kept an office in Leadenhall Street. As navy agents they had another but smaller room in St Martin’s Lane. It was at his main office in the City that Delancey and Mather had their appointment one afternoon, their plan being to dine together, call briefly at the Admiralty, and end by going to the theatre. Lawrence was no stranger to Delancey but Mather, meeting him for the first time, saw a rather short, rotund, and owl-like businessman with grey hair and spectacles, attended by a tall and weary clerk, surrounded by a litter of paper and having as background many shelves laden with leather-backed ledgers.

  “Good to see you, Captain,” Mr Lawrence began, looking up from his newspaper. “And this gentleman was your first lieutenant, I think, in the Merlin? Happy to make your acquaintance, sir. Do be seated, gentlemen. Lawkins, fetch me the correspondence about the prize Bonaparte.” As the agent’s clerk looked for the relevant papers Lawrence returned to his newspaper and to the item of news which he had been studying when his visitors arrived:

  “Did you see this astonishing story about a ship found abandoned off Dieppe? She was brought into the Downs by the master of a Guernsey coasting vessel—quite possibly by some seaman who is known to you, by George—but without a soul on board when she was boarded. Did you ever hear of anything so extraordinary?”

  “Perhaps she was leaking and had been abandoned in panic by her crew?”

  “No such thing, sir. She was watertight and in good order, armed, provisioned, and under sail. French-built, seemingly, the ship had no papers, no log, and no name. One of her boats was missing but she was otherwise complete. The Guernseyman can obtain salvage to her full value unless the owners come forward to claim the vessel.”

  “Her having no name would seem to make it hard for the owners to identify her.”

  “Which may explain why the name was painted over or chiselled off. Ah, here is the correspondence with the clerk of the Admiralty Court—thank you, Lawkins—together with a shipbuilder’s valuation and a manifest of the cargo. I’m afraid that the peace will bring about a fall in the price of brandy but the general goods should find a good market. Yes, you were fortunate, Captain, with the Bonaparte. There can be no doubt as to the Court’s verdict—I have checked that with Counsel—”

  A long and technical discussion followed and Delancey gained the general impression that his share of the prize money should come to a very useful total. Bewildered by talk of high finance, Delancey and Mather eventually said goodbye to their agent and dined presently at a tavern near Charing Cross. After calling at the Admiralty, where he had some business to transact, taking an hour or so, Delancey led the way into the Strand and began a leisurely stroll eastwards. He had been enjoying his stay in London and had widened his circle of friends there. On this particular evening he had been asked to join a party at the theatre and had been authorised by his host, Major Mark Willoughby, to bring a friend with him. Mather had been the obvious choice and the evening’s amusement was a fitting conclusion to a day of business.

  “The play we are to attend,” explained Delancey, “is at Drury Lane. It is called The Scheming Lieutenant, a three-act farce in a naval setting.”

  “And not the first one, by God,” replied Mather. “As for scheming—well, you, sir, have been accused of it.”

  They were walking slowly towards the playhouse where the curtain was due to rise at half-past six. To the casual observer these two officers, both in civilian clothes, offered a certain contrast. Delancey, the taller of them, was dark-haired with dark blue eyes, his figure sturdy, his manner confident and direct. He might be “Captain” only by courtesy, his real rank being Master and Commander, but he looked the part of a senior officer.

  “What exactly is the story you have heard?” asked Delancey after a minute’s pause.

  “Well, sir, the story goes that you are betrothed to the Honourable Mrs Farren, the former Diana Rice, younger sister of Mrs Markham and of Lord Dynevor. She is known to be wealthy and Captain Markham—well, he is at the First Sea Lord’s elbow. It is said that you should be posted any day and can choose your frigate if war should come.”

  “Fiddlesticks, Mather, you shouldn’t believe all the gossip you hear. I am not betrothed to anyone.”

  “No, sir? But you have often been seen with the lady, surely?”

  Delancey knew that this was true enough, that his atte
ntions had been well received and that he could not break off the friendship without giving offence to Lord Dynevor and the Markhams. He had first met Mrs Farren at a dinner party given by his American cousins and their mutual interest was at once apparent. Delancey admired her good looks, fine complexion, and perfect breeding. She, on her side, had been a widow for the last six years and was a little past the age at which her friends expected her to marry again. They had become friends and it was a friendship which her relatives had finally approved. Delancey was admittedly no great match for her, as all her circle had agreed, but she was past her prime and perhaps a little thinner than the reigning beauties of the day. Her brother-in-law, John Markham (the John Markham) was a very senior Captain, Member of Parliament for Portsmouth, and a key member of the Board of Admiralty. Delancey’s future seemed assured.

  “Yes,” replied Delancey, “I have been much in her company of late. She is a lady I hold in the highest esteem.”

  “Is she to be one, sir, of this evening’s party?”

  “Good God, no! I should explain that she took to evangelical religion after her late husband’s death. She strongly disapproves of horse-racing, gambling, betting, and the stage. Her late husband was killed while riding in a steeplechase.”