On the Lee Shore, page 19
‘Aye, that’s right. He was still mine.’
‘How did it happen, with your boy?’ asked O’Malley.
‘My Molly is not rightly sure,’ the Cornishman said. ‘Young Sam came in from running with some other lads in the yard one day saying he felt sickly. She stripped his clothes off him, and he had these red spots, all over him like a flounder. So she put him to bed with a hot brick to sweat it out of him. Next day it had turned into some manner of brain fever, and she couldn’t raise him or make him sensible. The sawbones came and bled him an’ all, but it wouldn’t answer. Following day he was... ’ His voice caught and died. O’Malley reached out with his arm and patted his friend’s shoulders.
‘That’s proper cruel, Adam,’ he said. ‘Poor Molly.’
‘Cruel is the word, Sean,’ said Trevan. ‘I was away whaling down beyond the Cape when he was born, then I was pressed into the navy soon as I got back home. I was taken off the ship within sight of the Lizard, if you can believe it. A few miles farther I could have seen my village. Then what with us being sent to the West Indies an’ all, I had only been with the lad twice in his little life. So when we got our two week’s liberty I was thinking how at last I might get to know him a bit, like. But he was already cold in the ground.’
‘It’s a hard lot ours, Adam,’ said his friend. ‘Who would be a sailor in time of war? But you know how easy children can slip away, especially the young ones. My mother buried as many nippers as she ever saw old enough to leave by the door.’
‘That’s true,’ replied the Cornishman. ‘It don’t answer to dull the pain any, though. Maybe one day you may understand when you have some of your own.’
‘Reckon I might have a few now,’ smiled O’Malley. ‘The amount of whoring I’ve been after doing. Could easily be a couple of little black Irishmen back in Bridgetown.’
‘That may be true,’ smiled Trevan. ‘Ain’t the same, mind you. Have you never had no one special then, Sean?’
‘I did have once,’ he replied. ‘I had a colleen back home in Drumgallon, before the fecking war an’ all.’ Trevan looked at his friend in surprise.
‘That so?’ he said. ‘You never mention no sweetheart before, Sean.’ O’Malley shrugged at this.
‘I doubt if she will have waited any,’ he said. ‘It’s near three years now since I’ve been home. Why would she, without any encouragement?’
‘Haven’t you written to her?’ asked the Cornishman.
‘How would that be after working?’ protested O’Malley. ‘I can’t fecking write, and she can’t read.’
‘Doesn’t stop me and my Molly,’ said Trevan. ‘Rosie sets down what I wants to say, and when Molly gets the letter she goes to see the parson, who reads it back to her. It do mean I has to keep it proper, with no saucy talk like, but it seems to answer well enough.’
‘What would I be after saying?’ said the Irishman gloomily. ‘Sorry you’ve not heard from me for three winters, and I can’t say when I will be fecking back home, but wouldn’t you mind waiting at all?’
‘Do you have feelings for this girl?’ asked his friend.
‘Maybe I do,’ said O’Malley. ‘I been after thinking upon her of late, which must mean something.’
‘Why not start by telling her that?’ said Trevan. ‘How you miss her, and that you been thinking about her. Get Rosie to set it down a bit poetical like, and see what comes back. I can help you with the words, if you want.’
The two friends returned to looking over the sea. It was dark as wine now that the sun had gone. High above them the first few stars had appeared as tiny points of silver in the deep blue dome of the sky. After a while O’Malley began to shift uncomfortably on the deck.
‘There may be a fecking problem with Rosie writing the letter, Adam,’ he said. ‘Did I say that she can only speak the Irish at all?’
Chapter 13
Fog
Two days later Clay was awoken from deep sleep by the sound of flowing water. He frowned for a moment as he tried to fathom how the smiling face of Lydia Browning had managed to turn so quickly into a blank wall of painted wood a few inches from his nose. After a moment he rolled over in his cot till he faced away from the bulkhead of his sleeping cabin and towards the muted light. He watched while his young servant poured the last of the steaming water he had brought from the galley into his wash basin. He then hung the lamp he carried on its hook, adjusted the wick and turned to face his captain.
‘Seven bells in the mid watch has just sounded, sir,’ he said. ‘There are light airs from the south east and Mr Warwick says it will be sunrise in two hours.’ Clay took all this in slowly, and then remembered the most important piece of information of all.
‘Is there any fog, Yates?’ he asked.
‘Thick as porridge, from what I can tell, sir,’ replied the boy.
‘That will answer very well,’ said Clay, rubbing his hands as he swung himself out of the cot. He slipped his nightshirt over his head and stepped across to the washstand. Yates caught the nightshirt and handed Clay his razor.
‘I will just get your clothes sorted, sir,’ he said as he retreated back into the main cabin.
Thick fog again, just as Warwick had predicted on the day they saw the tents, Clay told the face in the mirror as he drew his razor across it in short precise strokes. Perfect.
Ten minutes later he had washed and dressed and was running up the ladder way and out onto the quarterdeck. It was still black night, but the fog was apparent as a halo of silver in the air around the lights of the binnacle. Clay shrugged his coat a little closer in the chill, moist dark and approached the group of grey figures around the wheel.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said. The nearest figure touched his hat and the voice of the first lieutenant returned his greeting. ‘Now, Mr Taylor, have all the preparations been made for our little adventure?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Taylor. ‘All navigation lights are doused and the ship’s bell will not be sounded again. I have posted lookouts in the bow, and a good man to heave the lead with a chain of reliable hands posted up the starboard gangway for communication, ending with Mr Russell here.’ He indicated the small figure of the midshipman just visible in the gloom, before continuing. ‘Also Mr Hutchinson has the best bower anchor hanging from the cat’s head, ready to be dropped when required.’
‘Very good,’ said Clay. ‘What of the boat crews?’
‘Told off, armed, and waiting in the waist,’ replied the first lieutenant. ‘They have all had a hot breakfast. Mr Blake has the pinnace, Mr Preston the launch and Mr Butler the cutter. The boats themselves are in the water being towed behind us.’
‘Excellent, Mr Taylor,’ said Clay, before turning to the figure of the ship’s master. ‘Let us begin then, Mr Warwick. Are you certain of our position? Good, then kindly navigate us to the mouth of the Goulet.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ he said. ‘Mr Russell, I will have that lead going in the bow if you please. Helmsman, steer east by north half east.’
‘East by north half east it be, sir,’ said the man. He spun the wheel over and then reversed the movement a little till the compass needle settled on the right course. Clay looked about him in the dark. He could see almost nothing of the world around him, so thick was the air with fog, but his other senses told him a little of what the ship was doing. He could feel a faint breath of wind on one side of his face, and the occasional tendril of thicker fog seemed to flow across the deck, a finger of greater darkness in the night. From over his head came a constant drip from the rigging as the fog soaked into the invisible masses of hemp and canvas that crammed the space above him. He felt the gentle heel of the deck under his feet as the ship rolled to the last dying surge of an Atlantic wave that had penetrated this deep up the channel.
‘What speed are we doing?’ asked Clay.
‘Barely a knot through the water, but the water itself is moving at two knots with the tide, sir,’ murmured Warwick, angling his pocket watch towards the light of the binnacle. ‘I would like us to be up with some rocks soon, so I can fix our location properly.’
The figure of the Russell appeared to double for a moment in the gloom as a message was passed back from the bow, and then the midshipman walked over.
‘Leadsman reports twelve fathoms and grey shell sir,’ he said, before returning to his station.
‘You are using a tallow lead I collect,’ said Clay.
‘Yes sir,’ explained Warwick. ‘In this fog I must rely on the man casting the lead in the bow much as a blind man does his stick. The nature of the bottom is as useful to me as its depth. Grey shell is what I would expect on the north side of the channel.’
‘Lookout says he can hear breakers two points off the larboard bow sir,’ reported Russell.
‘That will be the Vieux Moines sir,’ said the master. ‘East south east now helmsman.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied the quartermaster, turning the wheel once more. ‘That’s east south east.’
‘We need to draw to the southward for the next half mile to avoid the council rocks ahead, sir,’ explained Warwick.
‘Very good,’ said Clay. ‘I will leave you to your navigation then without the distraction of my constant interrogation.’
Clay walked away from Warwick and joined the figure of the first lieutenant, hunched in his pea coat and looking forward over the quarterdeck rail. From ahead of them came the quiet shifting murmur and clink of weapons of the boat crews assembled in the dark well of the main deck.
‘The master knows what he is about,’ Clay commented. ‘Were I faced with such a game of Blind Man’s Buff amongst all these shoals and reefs, I am quite sure it would end with us upon the rocks. And yet when I suggested this operation to him, he accepted the task with remarkable calm.’
‘He is an exceedingly capable pilot, sir,’ agreed Taylor. ‘I know a little of this coast, and it is quite hazardous enough in God’s honest daylight for me.’
Both men turned as a flurry of sightings of breaking surf heard in the fog came in from the bow. Russell was rushing to report them to the master, who received each piece of information calmly, translating them into quiet instructions to the men at the wheel, and the Titan glided on into the impenetrable night.
‘Dawn soon, sir,’ said Taylor, as he sniffed at the cold air.
‘Still blacker than the Earl of Hell’s hat,’ muttered the captain.
But it was Taylor who was right. With infinite stealth the night began to lighten to a faint shade of dark grey, as if the ship sailed through deep shadow. Now dim faces began to resolve themselves into recognisable people, and the main mast of the frigate grew like the trunk of some huge tree, a darker mass soaring up into the thick canopy of fog.
‘Breakers dead ahead now,’ said Russell, his voice urgent.
‘That will be Les Fillettes,’ said Warwick. ‘Bring her up into the wind, helmsmen. ‘My compliments to the boatswain, and he can let go the anchor and get in the sail.’ Taylor and his captain heard the splash of the anchor from forward and the ship swung around in the flowing tide as the anchor bit into the shallow sea bed beneath them. When he was satisfied that the anchor held firm, Warwick came over and touched his hat to Clay.
‘Ship at anchor, two cables west of Les Fillettes with one hour of the flood tide to go, sir,’ he reported. Clay held out his hand in reply, and after a hesitation Warwick took it.
‘That was a notable feat of navigation, Henry,’ he said. ‘Congratulations to you.’
‘Why thank you, sir,’ replied the sailing master with a smile. ‘I must confess I am rather proud of it.’
‘Strange to think we are at anchor right in the centre of a most murderous crossfire,’ said Clay to the others. He indicated the walls of fog, now pearl as the light grew. ‘There must be any number of French guns trained on the entrance to the Goulet, and yet we can remain at anchor here in the centre of the freeway into Brest with perfect convenience.’
‘But only while the fog serves to cloak us,’ cautioned the first lieutenant. ‘These summer fogs never endure. The sun will be thinning it from above even as we speak.’
‘Quite so, Mr Taylor,’ said Clay. ‘Kindly have the boats manned, as quietly as possible.’
‘Do you think we shall catch any coasters, sir?’ asked the lieutenant, a few minutes later, when the inevitable slight noise made from the boat crews had faded into the billowing fog around them.
‘I hold it very likely, Mr Taylor,’ said his captain. ‘We are in position at the point where the routes they must take to enter the Goulet from both the north and the south converge. We are sure to intercept some trade.’
‘But why are you so decided that they will hazard such a journey in this fog, sir?’ asked Taylor. ‘Surely it serves to make them blind, and robs them of the protection of the batteries?’
‘Think of all those French coasters in the bays around us who have missed their tide these last few days because of the fog,’ said Clay. ‘All with deck hands to pay, whether they sail or not, or contracted to deliver their cargo by a certain day. Might you not say to yourself, what is the chance that you will encounter an enemy ship in the fog, right in the middle of the freeway into Brest?’
‘Sir!’ hissed Midshipman Russell. ‘There is a coaster on the starboard bow.’ Clay exchanged glances with Taylor, and both men hurried to the rail. It was light enough now to see a stretch of green flowing water and then a wall of unbroken fog. They heard a faint splash and the sound of a voice shouting an order.
‘There, sir,’ said Taylor, pointing into the gloom. ‘I can see the lugsail of a boat.’ Faintly showing in the fog was a square of something more substantial.
‘Mr Blake,’ Clay called quietly down to the boat below him. ‘See that coaster passing us on the starboard beam? Kindly capture it, put a prize crew onboard, and then return to the ship. Cold steel only, if you please. I do not want to raise the alarm.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied the lieutenant, and the pinnace pushed out into the flow and then darted away from the ship’s side to disappear into the gloom.
*****
‘When’s our fecking chance going to come?’ muttered O’Malley in the bow of the launch, as he watched the pinnace disappear. A few moments later came the sound of a startled cry, abruptly cut off.
‘Sounds as if they caught the bleeder,’ replied Evans through the side of his mouth, his whisper a little too loud. Lieutenant Preston looked up from his place in the stern sheets.
‘Silence in the boat there!’ he hissed. ‘Don’t you men like the chink of prize money in your pockets?’ Several of the crew turned around to glare at Evans, and the big Londoner dropped his head in shame.
‘Mr Preston,’ came the sound of Clay’s voice from just above their heads. ‘There is some manner of two masted chasse-maree approaching to larboard. Once you have taken her, leave a prize crew aboard to bring her out, and return to the ship. Be swift now, for this fog is starting to lift.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied Preston. ‘Shove off in the bow there, O’Malley. Give way all.’
Evans swung backwards and forwards with the rest of the crew, pleased to be on the move at last. The air was still chill and the fog had soaked into his shirt and hair. Grateful warmth began to spread down his arms as he rowed. Behind Preston’s back the looming shape of the big frigate dissolved into the fog, leaving the launch at the centre of a disc of deep green water, apparently alone and lost in its own grey world. Evans glanced over his shoulder, but could see nothing ahead.
‘Eyes in the boat!’ ordered Preston.
‘He’s bleeding changed,’ muttered Evans. ‘I remember when he was a right little pip squeak.’
‘Steady, lads,’ muttered Preston. ‘Starboard side! Be ready to board when I say, and remember, use your pistols to threaten, but no firing. Cold steel if you need to kill.’
‘Ah, here she comes,’ whispered O’Malley to his friend. ‘She’s a right big fecker, an’ all.’
Evans heard a cry of warning from just behind him, and the side of a large boat loomed up next to him.
‘Easy all!’ ordered the lieutenant. ‘Oars in. Hook on there, O’Malley. Borders away!’ Evans pulled his oar inboard just in time, stood up in the rocking boat and pulled himself over the side of the chasse-maree. He was the first to drop onto the deck and heard a shout of anger from behind him. He turned to see a crowd of French sailors dashing towards him, armed with an assortment of belay pins and clubs, and one with a heavy looking sword. The sight of the sword reminded him that he had still not drawn his own cutlass from its scabbard.
‘No time now for any of that now,’ he muttered to himself. Instead he bunched his hands into fists and turned side on in a prize fighter’s stance. The sailors stopped in amazement at the sight. Evans’s left fist flew out in a quick jab, and the leading Frenchman in the group dropped stunned to the deck, his club clattering away into the scuppers.
‘Rende-toi!’ called Preston from behind Evans, at the head of a more orthodox armed party of seaman. The remaining French hands laid down their weapons with a clatter, most of them still eyeing the huge Englishman.
‘An impressive punch you have there,’ said the lieutenant, ‘but do please use your cutlass next time.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied Evans. ‘I sort of forgot, like.’
‘Mr Griggs,’ said Preston to one of the Titan’s compliment of young master’s mates. ‘Take command of the prize, if you please. I can leave you with eight men. Secure the prisoners and then head south east. You need to be clear of this coastline when the fog lifts. The tide will start to flow in your favour soon, but I suggest you anchor for now while you get the boat fully under control.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Griggs, a thin, uncertain man barely older than Preston. The lieutenant reeled off a list of names for the prize crew, and the rest of the men returned to the launch.
