The Devil's Own Luck Read Online Free

men, sir,” said Bentley.
    “Carry on, Mr Bentley,” said Carter coldly. Even in the lofty tone normally used by a captain when issuing orders, his lack of regard for Bentley was manifest.
    The orders were given. The men dispersed slowly, their feelings for what they had just witnessed plain in their gait. At this point the captain would normally have left the deck, but he stayed, waiting to hear details of the other ship.
    “Sail has hoisted a signal,” cried the lookout.
    “Get the hands about their duties, Mr Craddock,” snapped Bentley, turning to the second lieutenant, an elderly red-faced man. Aware that Carter was staring at him, Bentley pulled himself erect and sent a midshipman aloft with a telescope. The midshipman called down the number of the flags. Another young gentleman leafed through the signal book.
    “The sail is signalling ‘Enemy in sight’ sir.”
    Silence followed this shout. Bentley was shaking his head, as if to clear it.
    “Ask her to make her number, Mr Bentley,” said Carter, plainly angry.
    “She hoisted a fresh signal, sir,” said the voice from above. Shout followed shout as the signal midshipman on the quarterdeck deciphered the message.
    “She’s the Medusa, sir,” said the young man finally. Then after a pause to read the last few flags, “Privateer.”
    “Privateer,” shouted Carter, his face going red. “What the devil is a privateer doing flying naval signals?”
    “Why, I imagine he is trying to tell us something, sir.” Bentley made no attempt to mitigate the sarcastic tone in his voice. Though accustomed to Bentley’s insolent air with the captain, the other officers registered embarrassment. Carter flushed bright red.
    “He has no right to tell us anything in that manner, Mr Bent-ley. And neither have you.”
    “Aye, aye, sir,” said Bentley quickly, but there was a trace of a smile on his lips. He walked up to his captain and spoke quietly in his ear.
    “If I’m not mistaken the Medusa is owned by Harry Ludlow.”
    Carter said nothing, but the look of anger turned to one of shock.
    “Another sail, same bearing,” cried the midshipman that Bent-ley had sent aloft.
    “He’s giving me orders, damn him,” snapped Carter.
    “She’s flying French colours, sir.” Then almost without a pause: “She’s let fly her sheets. Medusa has worn. She’s signalling, sir. ‘General chase.’”
    Bentley, coming to life, started to rap out a series of orders that would bring all hands on deck and send men up into the tops to set more sail.
    “Mr Bentley,” screamed Carter. “Belay!”
    Everyone stopped where they were. Was this the long-awaited confrontation? No one knew why such a hard horse captain allowed Bentley such liberties. They had waited a long time for the moment when Carter would haul him up with a round turn.
    “Belay, sir?” said Bentley quietly. Again that smile.
    “Are you obeying the instructions of a bloody privateer, man?”
    Carter’s shouted question ignored the presence of everyone else. Yet they were left to wonder why a captain was brought to discussing his orders, publicly, on his own quarterdeck.
    “I am seeking to profit from the news she is giving us. If the Medusa is running, she can only be running from a superior enemy. That would imply that the chase is French. Perhaps a warship?”
    Carter’s face froze. Bentley was talking to him in the most outrageous manner, completely ignoring the courtesies required when addressing a superior officer. He also had the right of it, and no one would really understand Carter’s hesitation.
    “Permission to make more sail, sir,” said Bentley.
    “Carry on, Mr Bentley.” It was hissed rather than spoken. Carter turned his back on Bentley, wanting no one to see the expression on his face.
    Harry rapped out his orders as the Verite, having sighted the Magnanime, shot up into the wind, her sails flapping. The cable holding the kedge was cut, and the parties manning the falls let go of the