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  Delancey made his approach to Pollensa Bay in darkness, the coast of Majorca just visible under a crescent moon. The Venturer dropped anchor on his signal and then the boat’s crews were mustered and inspected. Under reduced canvas, the sloop drifted silently inshore with three of her boats towing astern. Mr Mather took his junior officers to the forecastle and studied the Bay as it opened. At length he lowered his night-glass and said quietly, “Well, they are there all right.” He handed the night-glass to Mr Langford, who passed it in turn to Northmore and Topley. “Well, gentlemen?”

  “There are five coasters in all, anchored pretty close to the shore. Three of them are quite small vessels, lateen rigged. Of the other two, one is a bark and the other a brig.” Langford was confident so far. With a little hesitation he added, “I should guess that the brig has a cargo aboard. The others are riding light.”

  “Have they seen us yet?”

  “Probably not, sir. They should see us against the sunrise in another quarter of an hour.”

  “So they should. But how are they armed, Mr Northmore?”

  “The bark shows a broadside of seven gunports, sir, but some of them will be dummies. The brig shows six gunports but she is low in the water and her guns will be cluttered with deck cargo as likely as not. The smaller craft seems to be unarmed.”

  “Anything else?” Langford and Northmore shook their heads but Topley looked through the night-glass again.

  “I can see no shore batteries, sir,” he said at length, “but there are some light-coloured patches on the headland to the north. I wondered, sir, whether they might be tents?”

  “Let’s suppose that they are. What then?”

  “We should keep close to the south headland, sir.”

  “Just so, Mr Topley. Any other comment?”

  “Well, sir,” said Northmore, “the Spanish could pitch their tents on one side and put their soldiers on the other.”

  “They might, but they wouldn’t. We know about our attack, but they don’t. Let’s not try to be too clever.”

  Mather told them to continue studying the ground while he reported to the captain. Delancey listened carefully and gave an order to the helmsman.

  “Very well, we’ll keep to the south side of the bay. But that confounded brig lies to the north!”

  “We shall leave her to the last. I notice, sir, that young Topley shows signs of promise. It was he who thought of studying the coastline while the others merely looked at the coasters.” There was a gradual lightening of the sky astern and Mather observed that the sloop must be all too visible.

  “I know that,” said Delancey, “but the enemy will have the sun in his eyes when we pull out again and that is the dangerous time, after the surprise effect has been lost.”

  Mather now ordered the boats to be manned while Mr Stirling backed the topsails. Langford went in Topley’s boat,

  Mather took the gig and Northmore the boat which would bring up the rear. A few minutes after they pushed off there came the distant sound of a bugle call. “That will be the alarm,” said Delancey to Stirling. The alarm it was but the Spaniards were slow to react.

  “Odd that the bark has not opened fire,” said Stirling.

  “How could she?” replied Delancey. “The bark is a merchantman and had no reason to expect an attack. Half her crew are still in their hammocks. Her guns are unloaded. Where is the gunner? Who has the key to the magazine? Has anyone seen the linstock? She won’t fire a shot for another ten minutes.”

  Dr Rathbone came on deck at this moment with his overcoat thrown over his nightshirt. White-haired, venerable but eager, the old scholar looked remarkably out of place.

  “Good-morning, sir,” said Delancey. “We may be under fire presently. Perhaps you should stay below?”

  “And never know what it is like to be in battle? No, Captain. I have the childish notion of playing the hero when I return to Oxford.”

  “But if you were to receive a mortal wound?”

  “I should make history, sir. It rarely happens that a Doctor of Divinity is killed in action.”

  Watched by those still on board the Merlin, the boats were pulling shorewards in line ahead. At a hail from Mather’s speaking-trumpet they now fanned out, each boat offering only a single target. They had nearly reached the bark before the first gun was fired. Four other guns went off in a ragged sequence and without effect, followed by a volley of small-arms. Northmore’s boat was steered, undamaged, for the enemy bows, and Topley’s boat rounded her stern in the smoke, followed by the gig, evidently to board her from the shoreward side. Two minutes later her flag was hauled down. Small-arms fire continued, however, probably from the smaller vessels. Then the firing died away and the Merlin came slowly inshore, steering so as to place the bark between her and the brig. Delancey focused his telescope on the shoreline to the north.

  “Is the battle over?” asked Dr Rathbone in a tone of disappointment.

  “No,” replied Delancey, handing over the telescope. “Look at the vessel on the right.” The classical scholar focused with difficulty and then exclaimed: “Soldiers!”

  “Just so—soldiers. Some along the shore and some being rowed out to the brig. Perhaps a company all told. Mr Stirling! Fire a gun and make the signal for recall! Lower and man the other gig. I’m going in.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Delancey stood on the quarterdeck of the captured bark, which was, he found, the Santa Catarina. Mather, beside him, explained that he was about to obey the signal, having manned the three smaller vessels. He was reluctant, however, to leave the brig untaken, having so far not lost a man.

  “We could capture her easily and at small cost,” he pleaded. “We can fire this ship’s guns and board her in the smoke. We can take her in five minutes.”

  Delancey had been studying the brig through his telescope, which he now closed with a snap.

  “No, you couldn’t, Mr Mather. You would lose ten men and I can’t spare them. Her capture is out of the question. Tell me, though—with what cargoes are the smaller vessels laden?”

  “Two are in ballast and one, the San-Felipe, partly laden with a few barrels of olive oil.”

  “Is she, by God? Oil! And to whom did you give the command?”

  “Mr Northmore, sir.”

  “Tell him to come within hail. What have you done with the prisoners?”

  “I have kept a few to help with the sails and have sent the rest ashore.”

  “Very well, then. We shall quit this bay together in fifteen minutes’ time. Get ready to hoist sail aboard this vessel and convey the same order to the two in ballast.”

  At this moment the brig opened fire on the Santa Catarina, following up her cannon-shot with a volley of small-arms. Delancey took Mather’s speaking-trumpet and hailed the San-Felipe during a moment’s lull in the firing.

  “Mr Northmore!”

  “Sir?” came the distant reply.

  “Put the San-Felipe on course for the brig, set her alight and return in the launch. Is that clear? Use San-Felipe as fireship to destroy the Spanish brig. SET HER ALIGHT!”

  “Aye, aye, sir!” The young man would seem to have heard and understood the order, for the lateen sails were being set and the San-Felipe’s cable was being cut. Using the light southerly wind, the coaster had begun her last voyage. Northmore could be seen forward with an axe, staving in a barrel. The launch was being hauled alongside. A few minutes later seamen could be seen tumbling into the boat with some alacrity and Northmore, still forward, was fumbling with flint and steel. Delancey wanted to tell him to use his pistol but there was now a continuous noise as the brig engaged this new assailant with musketry. It was probably a musket-ball which touched off the blaze for Northmore was evidently taken by surprise. Seeing the fire in the vessel’s waist, he jumped overboard and swam back towards the launch.

  “Make sail, Mr Mather!” shouted Delancey and there was frantic activity on board the Santa Catarina. She was no longer under fire and the Spanish gunners on
board the brig, while aiming at the San-Felipe, were being enveloped in a drifting cloud of smoke. The Spanish cannonade was now at random and the withdrawal took place in good order, almost without hindrance from the enemy. Followed by the two other and smaller prizes, the Santa Catarina slowly left Pollensa Bay and headed for the open sea.

  Looking astern through his telescope, Delancey could see that the brig was fairly alight and that her crew and soldiers had taken to the boats. They had made little effort, seemingly, to put the fire out.

  “Mr Mather!”

  “Sir?”

  “Ask your prisoners about the brig’s cargo.”

  There was some difficulty, but Mather managed to put the question in Spanish and returned with the answer.

  “Like the San-Felipe, sir—oil.”

  “Thank you, Mr Mather.”

  Inwardly, Delancey cursed himself. He should have guessed what her cargo would be. Of course, it would be oil! She would blaze for hours, sending up a column of smoke which would be visible for thirty miles in every direction—no, further still to leeward. This would attract the attention of cruisers on either side, the last thing he wanted. Had he been on his own, he could have made all sail to leave the scene of his minor exploit but he was hampered and delayed by the Venturer. The barks he might have scuttled but he could not avoid responsibility for the ship he was escorting. He had the uneasy feeling that he had made a mistake.

  Back on board his own ship, he set a course to the southeast and signalled the Venturer to take station in his wake. It took Gosling half an hour to get under way and Delancey used the time to send their gear to the prize-masters, Langford, Northmore and Topley, together with a rendezvous in case of separation. By the time he could pause for breath he found Dr Rathbone at his elbow.

  “Congratulations, Captain! You took what you could and burnt what you couldn’t.”

  “Thank you, sir. You will observe that we had no killed or wounded on this occasion.”

  “I fear that I may forget that when I come to tell the story in the fellows’ parlour at Edmund Hall. I may even be tempted to give myself a conspicuous role, as perhaps in tossing overboard a mortar bomb with fuse alight.”

  “And indeed, I recall the incident,” said Delancey, smiling. “What better witness can you have?”

  At that instant, the look-out hailed from the mast-head, reporting a sail which was seen at the same instant from the deck. The ship was rounding the northern headland and was already within signalling distance. She was a British man-of-war and an exchange of numbers revealed that she was the 14-gun sloop Speedy, commanded, as Delancey knew, by Lord Cochrane.

  Her arrival was unwanted and he regretted still more the column of smoke which had probably attracted Cochrane’s attention and might well attract the enemy as well. His only consolation lay in the fact that Cochrane was a few months junior to him in the Commander’s list. The young man had a great reputation as the officer whose 14-gun brig sloop had actually taken a Spanish frigate of thirty-two guns. No one could doubt that he would have a brilliant career but the fact remained that he came at this moment under Delancey’s orders.

  Through the telescope the Speedy looked a queer craft, originally, he guessed, no more than a merchant brig. She had done good service under the command of Captain Brenton, that much he knew, but there was something odd about her rig. She seemed to be overmasted with too big a spread of canvas for her tonnage. This perhaps accounted for her endless list of prizes but it would require superb seamanship to handle her. That Cochrane was exceptionally able was undoubtedly true but Delancey knew that he was unpopular in some quarters. With his little squadron hove to, Delancey waited for the Speedy and finally signalled her captain to come aboard.

  Lord Cochrane turned out to be a tall, handsome, red-haired man in his middle twenties. He had a Scots accent, an aristocratic manner and no particular love for officers who might be senior to him.

  “Thomas Cochrane, sir,” he introduced himself, “at your service. I saw the smoke and sailed to investigate. It is evident that I am too late to be of any assistance. Perhaps I could interest you, sir, in another enterprise?”

  “I am glad to make your lordship’s acquaintance. If you will step into my cabin I might be permitted to offer your lordship a glass of wine.” Delancey had no aristocratic friends and found it difficult to strike a balance between the claims of seniority and social position. He apologised for the austere furnishing of his day-cabin, assuming that his guest was accustomed to something better.

  “I assure you, captain,” said Cochrane, with disarming frankness, “that you are better accommodated than I am. I don’t even have headroom in the Speedy and am confoundedly short of money. All my inheritance consists of is a ruined castle and a heap of debts. There is nobody so poor as a man with a title and without a fortune. Much is expected of him and he has nothing to give.”

  “You have my sympathy, Lord Cochrane,” said Delancey rather coldly, “but I should rather suppose that you have good prospects of promotion.” He thought inwardly that he would not be Cochrane’s senior for long.

  “I could wish that you were right!” Cochrane continued in a very open manner. “I have some influential friends and relatives, to be sure, but this can tell against me. If too many people approach the First Lord on my behalf, he may well resent it and say ‘No.’”

  Not entirely convinced, Delancey asked him about the project he had mentioned.

  “Well, sir, I have long had my eye on a French privateer called L’Espoir and presently based on Cagliari in Sardinia. She is not valuable in herself but would be fit for purchase into the service as a sloop. She is too fast for me and needs to be trapped between two pursuers. I observe, sir, that you have an English merchantman in company?”

  “Yes, the Venturer of Whitehaven.”

  “I would suggest using her as bait with this ship, disguised, in company. Then I would place the Speedy between the privateer and her base.”

  “I am sorry to disappoint your lordship, but the Venturer is bound for Gibraltar, carrying the mails.”

  “But of course! This would be only a minor detour, hardly out of her way. Her master could have no reasonable objection.”

  “I regret that the first objection comes from me. I am bound in the opposite direction.” Delancey spoke rather stiffly, perhaps in a chillier tone than he had intended. He was having to resist Cochrane’s social position and undeniable charm.

  “No doubt of it, sir. But an officer must be allowed to use his initiative. I have intelligence, moreover, that the French are at sea. I learn—and this from a reliable source—that Admiral Linois has sailed, or is about to sail, from Toulon, bound for Cadiz with a squadron destined to co-operate with the Spanish fleet. He may be already between us and the coast of Spain. A detour southward, therefore, and a passage along the African shore would be justified on grounds of caution.”

  “So it would, my lord, but the same could not be said of a preliminary detour eastwards. I thank you for your suggestion and I sincerely hope that you capture L’Espoir, but my answer to you is ‘No.’”

  “I must confess, sir, that I am disappointed. You have a reputation for activity and I had counted on your co-operation.”

  “It is with infinite regret that I decide against sailing with you.” Delancey knew where his duty lay and felt that his decision was inevitable. But Cochrane’s powers of persuasion were considerable and Delancey had no love for the part he was playing. Was he unimaginative and dull, pleading prior orders and behaving like a prig? He had made his choice, however, and Cochrane had risen, plainly showing his resentment and contempt.

  “You will allow me, sir, to take my leave?” he said coldly. “I must make some other plan for the capture of L’Espoir.”

  “I am confident that your lordship’s abilities are more than equal to making the capture without such help as I could offer.”

  The two captains parted coldly and Delancey wondered afterwards whether he had be
en unwise to antagonise Lord Cochrane. He would have been wrong to go against the orders he had received but could he not have found a better way of saying ‘No’? He would have handled the situation better if the other man had not been a lord. He called himself a fool and returned to his work. He and his group of vessels kept close to the wind and the Speedy was soon hull down to the north.

  At dinner that afternoon Dr Rathbone was Delancey’s guest, with Mather and Northmore to complete the party. It was a better meal than average, with a piglet from Minorca, with plenty of fruit and some Maltese wine.

  “Thank you, sir, thank you,” said Dr Rathbone as his glass was filled, “I was agog, I own, to see the celebrated Lord Cochrane, the hero of so many exploits. He makes a striking figure, to be sure. I should suppose that we shall hear of him again, perhaps some day as an admiral.”

  “What did you make of him, sir?” asked Mather, looking to his commanding officer.

  “I was impressed, Mr Mather, I must admit. He is undoubtedly an outstanding seaman and officer. It seems to me, however, that he is too much the partisan, too eager to distinguish himself and too keen to make money. The one thing he fails to capture is the good opinion of the flag-officers under whom he is placed.”

  “I am interested, captain, in your verdict,” said Dr Rathbone, “but I should have thought that his success would be enough, in itself, to gain their approval. They have their share of the credit and also, I believe, of the money. Is that not enough for them? What more can they ask of him?”

  “What they ask,” replied Delancey, “is that he should do as he is told. We all have to decide, at one time or another, whether we are fighting our own war or whether we are serving the King. It so happens that I have done both in my time. I have been tempted—and shall no doubt be tempted again—to ignore my orders and go after prize-money. My conclusion is, however, that it is wrong and that it does not even pay in the end. Our duty is laid down for us in orders and we neglect them at our peril. As for Lord Cochrane, my belief is that he will play his tricks once too often.”