Chapter 9 #2
“Kidnapped, just now on the Parade. What gall!” The lieutenant’s eyes darkened. “I am Lieutenant Lanyon… How so, Colonel, a Frenchie in Brighton, and the Regent arrived but yesterday! And the ladies?”
“Miss Bennet, Miss Lydia Bennet, and Miss Darcy. They are known to us. Miss Darcy is Mr. Darcy’s sister, the other two ladies are under the protection of Colonel Forster.
Perhaps Wickham is seeking a ransom—yet, it’s a risky business.
” Colonel Fitzwilliam grasped the railing in anger.
“I have no authority, Lieutenant. Do you command a vessel here? Anything to pursue them!”
“Sir! Your rank is equivalent to post-captain. While not in my chain of command, I would be pleased to lend assistance. The Wasp is at your service.” He ran down the steps and along to another boat, similar in size to the cutter, which was pulled up on the beach.
“Cox, we are about to cast off! Mr. Smithers, take this note to the Commodore. We’ll be gone by the time you return—place yourself under his orders.
” He spoke to a young midshipman of about ten years, quickly writing a brief note for the boy to carry to the naval station.
“My brig can overhaul her with a fair wind, but we have barely a half-dozen marines aboard. I cannot guarantee we’ll take her by force, even if we draw alongside. And we cannot use the carronades for fear of injuring the women.”
Further along the Parade, Darcy noticed a ragged company of riflemen, green-jacketed, dragging their feet, clearly having marched some distance from the direction of Rottingdean.
“Richard, is that sorry lot any use to form a boarding party?”
Colonel Fitzwilliam did not hesitate. He strode onto the street, raising a commanding hand. “Lieutenant… Colonel Fitzwilliam. We have need of your men—immediately. If you please, your orders?”
Newly commissioned Lieutenant Will Goulding’s eyes widened. “Colonel Fitzwilliam?” He fumbled, opening a pocket on his jacket. “Of course, sir!”
Fitzwilliam took a pencil and quickly scrawled on the company’s orders. “You are now under my command, Mr. Goulding. Quickly, we must ride out to that brig—you are become a boarding party!” He turned to the naval Lieutenant. “Captain, can your barge carry us all?”
Within minutes, the riflemen were stowed aboard the Wasp.
Fitzwilliam and Darcy conferred with Captain Lanyon, laying out a plan: they would overtake the sloop and, if possible, board her before she could escape into the Channel.
The brig’s crew sprang into action, anchors raised and sails trimmed to catch what little wind there was.
On the deck, Darcy gripped the rail, his knuckles white. The thought of Georgiana—his sister, so gentle, so easily frightened—once again in Wickham’s clutches chilled him.
Fitzwilliam, for his part, was all resolve. He moved among the riflemen, checking their rifles, issuing instructions. “We may have only one chance,” he told them quietly. “We must not fail.”
The brig crept toward the sloop, the distance closing with agonising slowness. Wickham’s vessel, also burdened by the lack of wind, was making little progress.
As they drew nearer, the riflemen readied their bayonets, eyes fixed on the enemy. Fitzwilliam stood at the prow beside Darcy, both men searching for any sign of the girls. Captain Lanyon barked orders to his crew, sails taut as they coaxed every knot from the sluggish wind.
Suddenly, a gunshot rang out—a warning from the sloop. Wickham, ever the gambler, was not above violence. Fitzwilliam signalled the riflemen to hold; they would wait for the right moment.
“Put a shot to their starboard, Mr. Dean,” called Lanyon. Instanter, a long-gun, one of two forward 12-pounder chasers, fired; the smoke from the cannon momentarily hid the view of the sloop. A spout of water rose some fifty yards off the stern of the vessel.
“They’ll not yield,” said Lanyon ruefully, “not with the women aboard. We’ll have to get close and board her.
” He turned to Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Not sure your riflemen will be much use. Perhaps a volley into their decks, then follow my marines. Gentlemen, let me outfit you with swords. Mr. Darcy, are you willing, sir?”
* * *
“Wind’s no friend to us, sir,” muttered Mr. Pym, the master, his voice rough as rope. He stood a pace behind Lanyon, hat tucked under his arm, weather-beaten face creased with worry. “We’ll not catch her at this rate.”
Lanyon nodded, lips pressed tight. The men at the braces and sheets cast glances aft, anxious for orders.
They’d been at quarters twice already, only for the sloop to slip away in the haze.
Wasp was a solid, serviceable vessel, every plank British oak, but she needed wind to run.
With the channel becalmed, she was little more than a wooden shell adrift on a lazy sea.
He watched the French ship through his glass, noting the way she staggered, sails flapping, her captain no doubt cursing the same lack of breeze. Lanyon allowed himself a thin smile. At least the enemy suffered too.
It was nearly noon before the air shifted.
Lanyon felt it first as a chill along his cheek, a shiver in the rigging.
A gull, blown off course, circled once overhead and vanished south.
The wind came in fits, then settled, tentative but growing.
Canvas snapped to life. The sloop’s sails, too, filled, and she heeled over, making for the open water with renewed purpose.
“Wind’s coming up, sir!” cried a topman, and Lanyon’s heart leapt.
“Starboard your helm! Hands to the braces—let’s show the Frogs what English canvas can do!” His voice cracked like a shot, and men scrambled to their posts, bare feet thumping on the wet planks.
Wasp surged forward, her bow biting at the waves, cordage thrumming.
The old brig came alive beneath his boots.
The gap began to close, slowly at first, then with greater confidence as the wind freshened.
The Frenchman, lighter and quicker, kept her lead, but Lanyon could sense her captain’s nerves.
She had shown her stern, the Hirondelle.
“Helm, bring us to a point off her starboard quarter,” Lanyon barked. “Let’s see if she’ll show us her heels as well.”
The midshipman at the wheel nodded, hands white-knuckled on the spokes. Below, the crew scrambled to stations, bare feet slapping on damp planks, voices sharp and eager. The chase had begun.
Fitzwilliam sent the riflemen to the galley—it could be a long chase, and they hadn’t eaten since marching from Eastbourne; having completed their training at the army camp at Shorncliffe, they had been walking along the coast to Brighton to be assigned to their regiment.
“Darcy, there is no point standing at the prow. Captain Lanyon is doing all he can to bring us closer to the Hirondelle.”
“You have the right of it, Richard. I am of no use to Georgiana if I am too tired to swing a cutlass. But I am mystified—why would Wickham be in league with the French? And to abduct Georgiana? It makes no sense that I can determine.”
“Is it Georgiana, Darcy? Oh, Wickham knows you will pay a ransom to have her returned. But French involvement? There must be a greater prize than a few thousand English guineas.
“Please, Darcy, let me speak before you dismiss my thoughts. I suggested to Miss Bennet that she could read Napoleon’s mind… But, no! That is not her gift—she sees futures; she saw where Wickham was taking Georgiana. Not always certain; yet, often enough.” He paused, looking directly at Darcy.
“Consider this,” he continued, “what value would you ascribe to a person who can see where armies might manoeuvre during battle, the route they take across mountains and the plains of Spain? Miss Bennet would never, of her own volition, disclose such to the French… yet, if she were forced to collaborate because of a threat to her sister—or to a dear friend? What then, Darcy? ’Tis certain that Miss Bennet is the greater prize. ”
There was little left to say. Against his will, Darcy was forced to concede that his cousin had a point.
He had seen for himself the power of Miss Bennet’s sight.
In Napoleon’s hands—it would lead to disaster for the British armies.
The peninsula would be lost, forcing Britain to seek peace.
Leaving Napoleon master of all of Europe.
For an hour, the brig and sloop ran parallel, the Wasp’s gunports closed, her crew silent but for the creak of tackle and the snap of canvas.
The Frenchman hugged the wind in a way that spoke of a wily master.
She darted westward, always just outside the range of the Wasp’s bow chaser, every so often spilling wind to tease her pursuer.
“Clever bastard,” Lanyon muttered, watching the sloop’s stern jig in the sea. “Keeps just out of reach.”
By late morning, the Cherbourg Peninsula lay a distant smear off the port quarter. The wind, once a blessing, gathered itself, swelling with ominous intent. Clouds thickened, bruised and heavy. Lanyon glanced aloft; the sky was an iron lid, pressing down, threatening.
“Looks to blow a bit, sir,” Pym muttered, voice taut.
Lanyon nodded. “We’ll weather it. She’s a good ship.”
The wind built steadily, turning raw and insistent. By noon, whitecaps danced atop the Channel, and the swell grew mean, slapping at the timbers with a sound like thunder. The sky darkened, clouds massing in bruised heaps—ominous, thick, and low.
“Sir,” called Mr. Finch, senior midshipman, appearing at Lanyon’s elbow, “barometer’s falling. Storm’s coming up fast.”
Lanyon nodded, jaw tight. “She’ll run for shelter, if she’s got sense.”
But the French sloop did not alter course. She seemed almost to welcome the coming blow, and the Wasp followed without hesitation.
By late afternoon, the Channel had become a cauldron.
Rain fell in sheets, lashing the men’s faces and stinging the deck.
The wind howled, a banshee shriek that rose and fell with the heaving of the sea.
Visibility dropped; the coast faded into a blur, then vanished altogether.
Only the sloop remained, a ghostly shadow, sometimes lost in spray and gloom, sometimes revealed by a flash of lightning as she fought through the mounting waves.
“Top gallants down!” Lanyon shouted above the roar, teeth gritted as the ship bucked under him. “Reef the topsails! Stand by braces!”
The men clambered aloft, slick with rain, hands numb and faces set. Canvas came in, reef lines snapped taut, and the brig settled into the troughs, less canvas aloft but still surging with the storm.
For a brief moment, once again Lanyon caught the sloop’s name—Hirondelle—painted in faded gold on her stern as she was lifted by a monstrous wave. Her deck was nearly awash, her crew black silhouettes against the boiling sky.
Then the world dissolved into chaos.
The squall hit, a wall of wind and water that tore at the rigging and threatened to rip the masts from their steps.
The Wasp careened, her lee rail buried, spray flinging over the deck.
Men clung to shrouds, eyes wild, while the sea hissed and seethed around them.
Somewhere off the port bow, the Hirondelle was little more than a memory—a shadow lost in the fury.