On the Lee Shore, page 9
‘Why do you say that, Edmund?’ asked John Blake, the frigate’s third lieutenant, who was seated next to Morton. He was a thin young man of medium height with sandy coloured hair.
‘Well, taking that prize was all very well,’ said the second lieutenant. ‘But the way that he made use of those fishing boats to sneak into the bay like a thief in the night was rather a base trick. Not the sort of thing a gentleman would do at all. Still, I suppose if you stand in need of the prize money.’ He brushed away some imagined dirt from the sleeve of his immaculate uniform coat, and smiled at his fellow officers.
‘So how do you believe a gentleman should have approached the problem, Edmund?’ asked Macpherson.
‘If he was prepared to hazard a King’s ship to achieve the capture of a merchantman at all, which is doubtful,’ said Morton, ‘he would certainly have been more straightforward about the whole enterprise. Up and at ‘em, that’s what I say.’
‘Hear him,’ said Blake. ‘Up and at them, that’s the way!’ He was about to thump the table in appreciation with his fist when a further roller forced him to turn the movement into a quick grab to prevent the escape of his fork. ‘I hope Mr Warwick is contriving to make himself understood on deck. I do wonder how he manages when it blows above a cap full of wind.’
‘You have taken part in plenty of cutting out expeditions I collect then, Mr Blake?’ asked Macpherson. ‘To have such firm views on how they should proceed?’
‘Eh no, not actually taken part in any as such,’ replied the young lieutenant, a little flustered. ‘My comment was more in the way of general approval of Mr Morton’s sentiments.’
‘Mr Blake was one of our young midshipmen until Captain Sheridan was able to arrange for him to pass for lieutenant late last year,’ explained Taylor. ‘He has only ever served on the Titan, and Captain Sheridan was rather less industrious then Captain Clay. We saw little direct action with the enemy these last few years.’
‘Ha, you can say that again,’ snorted Haywood, the purser, turning towards the wardroom door. ‘What can be keeping the food?’
‘Ah, I see,’ replied the marine, returning his attention to Morton. ‘I am still unclear as to which of the gentlemanly virtues would have served to get our cutting out expedition through the cross fire of a pair of forty-two pounder gun batteries as efficiently as the method we actually employed, Edmund?’
‘Perhaps that’s just it, Macpherson,’ he replied. ‘A gentleman might not have been motivated to try in the first place. He would have saved his men and powder for a more worthy opponent.’
‘But surely then a valuable ship with a considerable cargo of military stores would now be at the disposal of the enemy, rather than on its way in to Plymouth?’ persisted Macpherson. ‘Unlike Mr Blake here, I have participated in numerous cutting out expeditions, both of the blunder straight in variety and those involving a degree of stealth and deception. I am quite clear as to which method answers the best.’
‘So are we to expect more such distasteful assaults on trade from our new captain?’ asked Morton.
‘I believe we shall,’ said the Scotsman. He turned towards Blake. ‘And I am sure they will involve your participation, John, if only to complete your education in the art of war. I was thinking that we should invite the captain to join us at one of our dinners in order to celebrate our recent victory. It might also permit an opportunity for him to share with us some of his future plans?’
‘That’s a very worthwhile suggestion, Tom,’ enthused Taylor. ‘Does anyone object?’ Most of the officers nodded their assent, even John Blake, until he realised that Morton was glaring at the marine officer rather than responding.
‘Excellent,’ said Taylor with an awkward glance towards the second lieutenant. ‘I will get an invitation arranged. Ah! Here comes our dinner at last. Mr Morton, Mr Macpherson, a glass of wine with you both.’ All three drained their drinks. Morton’s face was more flushed then it should have been after one drink. He placed his glass down and leant across to wipe the table cloth in front of Taylor with his napkin.
‘Your pardon sir,’ he said. ‘I believe I may have seen some coal dust.’
*****
Forward of the wardroom, on the lower deck, the violent motion of the ship filled the space with a chorus of groans and cracks as the frames twisted with each fresh roller that ran under the keel. But in spite of the noise and the violence of the motion, the watch that was off duty tried their best to relax. At some of the mess tables men worked on pieces of scrimshaw, adding little cuts and blowing away the dust from their elaborate carvings, and reaching out without looking to catch their open clasp knifes as the motion of the ship rolled them off the edge of the tables. In the middle of the deck O’Malley was playing a duet with Fraser, the Titan’s Scottish sail maker’s mate, and a fiddle player of some repute in his own right. The tune sawed backwards and forwards between the two rivals, while a party of sailors danced in front of them, the elegance of their whirling hornpipe punctuated by volleys of rapid steps as the performers tried to combat the sudden pitching of the ship. In a quieter space towards the aft end of the deck sat two figures, apparently trying to read out loud in spite of the fury of the gale, the cascade of music from the fiddlers, and the uncertain light. After a stumbling hour of work, the task was completed at last.
‘I must say your letters is coming on right well there, Able,’ said Rosso, looking up from the dog-eared pamphlet that lay on the mess table between the two friends and reaching with his arm to thump his pupil on the back. ‘You do still have to spell out some of them long words, mind, but we got there in the end.’ The captain’s coxswain smiled in return.
‘You’ve been so patient teaching me, Rosie,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how to thank you. I have wanted to understand all those little squiggles, ever since I first saw slave traders use them. You may laugh to hear me say it, but back then I used to hold that they were the secret to a sort of evil magic, and that in some way it was that which gave them their power over us.’
‘That so?’ said Rosso. ‘I suppose that may not be so far from the truth, in a way. Ain’t it learning and the like that gives civilised folk all the guns and ships and money?’
‘You're right there, Rosie,’ smiled Sedgwick. ‘You had best watch out, then, now that at least one savage has the secret to your magic!’ Rosso snorted at that and picked up the pamphlet from the table. He read out the title, putting on an aristocratic voice.
‘An Essay on the Treatment and Conversion of African Slaves in the British Sugar Colonies by the Reverend James Ramsay,’ he intoned, before reverting to his usual Bristol accent. ‘Not sure that will supply any magic as will change the world any time soon, Able. How did you come by this?’
‘Do you remember Mr Linfield, the surgeon on the Rush who left the ship and married that planter’s daughter back in Barbados?’ said Sedgwick.
‘Oh, aye. He was right hot on abolition as I recall. Did he give it to you, then?’
‘He did,’ said the coxswain. ‘And you are wrong about these pamphlets, you know. I believe they may change the world for some of us. When I can write well enough I shall publish one myself.’ Rosso looked across in surprise. There was a look of determination that was new to him in the face of his friend, a glint of zeal in his eye.
‘I do declare you will,’ he said. ‘There’s a strength in you, Able, that is right good to behold. Mind, if it’s all the same with you, can we read something a little less worthy next time?’
‘Sure we can, Rosie,’ said Sedgwick, folding up the pamphlet and slipping it into his pocket. ‘So how did you come by your letters?’
‘I learned them as a nipper,’ said Rosso. ‘They were thrashed into me by Mr Samways with the help of his cane when I was in school. Only good thing my Pa ever did for me, paying for me to attend. I didn’t think it at the time, mind. I learnt my figures there, too.’
‘If you can read and count, how come you’re on the lower deck, and not a Grunter?’ asked his friend. Rosso shrugged.
‘Ah, that is because I still needs to lie a little low, and not draw too much attention to myself, Able,’ he looked around him and saw that they were being watched from another mess table. ‘I will tell you about it some time, when we are off the ship, like.’
Farther down the deck the pair of keen blue eyes that Rosso had spotted continued to watch the pair of sailors with naked hostility.
‘That black monkey has been reading my letters from the Indy, I bleeding know it,’ growled Sexton.
‘Don’t be bloody daft,’ said Page. ‘He’s only a Negro. Who ever heard of one of them as could read?’
‘If it ain’t him, he will be passing it to one of his civilised mates as bleeding well can,’ insisted the big sailor. ‘He’s got to that sniveling shit Rodgers in the barge crew somehow, I know he has.’
‘Do you reckon he will go to the Grunters then, Dick?’ asked his friend.
‘Aye, maybe he will,’ mused Sexton. ‘Which means we need to find some way to stop his bleeding interfering. We need to sort him out and that great big sod he hangs around with, too. I think I can see how it might be done. I will need your help, Morris, and Shane and some of his paddies, an’ all. Leave it to me. I believe I might have a plan as will answer.’
*****
The gale lasted for two days and nights, but before dawn on the third night the wind began to moderate and back towards the north. When Clay awoke at dawn he immediately felt the change in the ship’s motion. He hurried over to the barometer mounted on the cabin bulkhead and examined the long column of mercury. The level had risen since yesterday. Good, he thought, the weather is moderating at last. He called out for Yates, his servant, and began to undress. As soon as he was shaved and in uniform he went up on deck.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said the officer of the watch. ‘Did you pass a restful night?’
‘Very comfortable, thank you, Mr Blake, now that the gale has past,’ replied Clay. ‘How has your watch been? Is there anything to report?’
‘The wind has been moderating steadily since I came on deck, sir,’ said the young lieutenant. ‘Otherwise it has been quiet. From the look of the sky I believe we may have seen the last of that gale.’
‘Yes,’ said Clay, looking around him. The wind was still strong, but had become gusty as it lost its strength and the sea was calmer. Above his head the early morning sky was much brighter than it had been for days. ‘Any sign of the rest of the squadron?’
‘No, sir,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps they stood farther out to sea to avoid the worst of the weather.’
‘Hmm, perhaps they did,’ said the captain. ‘You will be coming off watch shortly, I collect?’
‘Yes, sir, very soon,’ he replied.
‘Are you hungry, Mr Blake?’
‘Famished, actually, sir,’ he replied with a grin.
‘I well remember the morning watch being particularly trying when I was your age,’ said Clay. ‘Would you care to join me for breakfast? It will give us the opportunity to spend a little time together.’
‘Why, I should like that above all things, sir.’
‘Good, let us make it so,’ said his captain, turning towards the midshipman. ‘Mr Russell! Can you pass the word to my steward? Tell him I shall have a guest for breakfast this morning at eight bells, if you please.’
‘Now, Mr Blake, while our breakfast is preparing, let us put her on the other tack and take her back towards the land,’ ordered the captain. ‘I want to see what the French have been about while we have been absent.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied the lieutenant. ‘Shall I have the upper masts set back up?’
‘Not immediately,’ said Clay. ‘It can wait till after the men have broken their fast, too.’
‘Oh, really?’ said the lieutenant. ‘Of course, as you wish, sir,’
‘You seem surprised, Mr Blake,’ said his captain.
‘It is only that Captain Sheridan would never have let the hands’ breakfast stand in the way of such a task, sir.’
‘I do not doubt it,’ replied Clay. ‘But consider what consequences flowed from his lack of attention to the needs of the men, Mr Blake. Those on watch will be every bit as hungry as you and I. Expecting them to perform several hours of hard work swaying up the top gallant masts on an empty stomach while we have gone below to gorge ourselves would be decidedly poor leadership.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Blake. ‘I understand.’
*****
Eight clear strokes from the ship’s bell rang out from the forecastle, and with a thunder of noise the watch was changed. A torrent of seaman swept up the ladder ways from the lower deck, each man carrying a warm hammock he had recently been sleeping in, tucked into a neat canvas package. As they arrived on deck the flow of humanity spread out in a fan as the hands ran to deposit their bundle in its numbered spot in the netting troughs. Then there followed the ritual dance of change as each member of one watch was replaced by his successor. Lieutenant Morton, who arrived to replace Blake, was still working on the last mouthful of his breakfast while he listened as the younger man handed over the ship. Clay watched his jaw grind with bovine regularity, which served to remind him how hungry he was.
‘I will see you shortly, Mr Blake,’ he said as he hurried below.
‘I hope Mr Blake will not be over long, sir,’ said Hart, as he settled his captain at his place at the table. ‘The bacon will keep well enough in the pewter dish, but these here eggs is starting to congeal.’
‘He was just behind me, Hart,’ said Clay. ‘In fact that may be him knocking now. Come in!’ Blake hurried through the cabin door that the marine sentry held open for him, and took his place opposite his captain.
‘I do apologise for keeping you waiting, sir,’ said the young man, glancing round at the loud sniff that came from the steward. ‘But I was explaining to Mr Morton the need to wait till the hands below had had breakfast before sending the upper masts up. I am not sure he quite followed the advantages of delaying the operation.’
‘No matter, I am sure he knows how to follow an order,’ said Clay. ‘Let us at least delay no longer. We have salt bacon, eggs, some fried pieces of ship's biscuit, and more biscuit in the basket there with butter and jam. Hart, hot plates if you please, and can you pour the coffee now.’
The start of the meal was spent in companionable quiet as the two men ate their way through what was on the table. The clink of flatware on china and the scrape of spoon on pewter was punctuated with requests to pass the jam, or to Hart for more coffee. Eventually Clay pushed himself back from the table, dropped his napkin onto the cloth and drew his coffee nearer.
‘So tell me, Mr Blake, how did you come to be in the service?’ he asked.
‘In a rather curious fashion, sir,’ explained his guest. ‘My father is a grain merchant in the northern part of Wiltshire. He is a reasonably prosperous man, and was able to fund a fair education for myself and my older brother with a view to our joining his business when we were of an age. All had gone to plan as far as my brother was concerned, and might have done for me too had it not been for an encounter I had when I was but twelve.’
‘This sounds most intriguing,’ said Clay. ‘Another pot of coffee please, Hart. Pray continue, Mr Blake.’
‘You see, sir, my home town is far enough from the sea, yet one day a sailor came to our door who I had not set eyes on before. He was a cousin of my mother’s who had gone to sea as a boy and had been away for many a long year. He chanced to be in the area and had decided to renew his acquaintance with her. He stayed with us for a week, and then returned to his ship.’
‘What manner of sailor was he?’ asked the captain.
‘For an impressionable boy of twelve, the worst as far as my father’s plans for me was concerned, sir,’ laughed Blake. ‘My mother’s cousin was a true man-of-war man, a tall powerful fellow, with a pigtail to his waist, rings in his ears and tattoos up his arms. He had a rich fund of tales to tell of storms, battles and voyages he had made to the most exotic of places. He filled my head with cutting out expeditions under the stars and of fights with Malay pirates in the East Indies. When I reflect back on what he said now I make no doubt that the yarns he spun had all the exaggeration to which sailors’ tales can be prone. I daresay in reality he spent much of his time in the Channel Fleet at anchor, but back then I knew little different. By the time he left to rejoin his ship, my head was quite turned.’
‘As you are here, I suppose your father acceded to your boyish notions of going to sea?’ asked Clay.
‘Only with enormous reluctance, sir,’ said the lieutenant. ‘I doubt he would have done so at all if my brother had not already been established in the business. It took two years of pleading for him to eventually concede that my mind was so full of the sea, that there would never be any room for talk of bushels of wheat and bags of grain. He did a considerable amount of business as corn factor to the Morton family estate, and so was able to get me my place here aboard the Titan as a midshipman, thanks to an application from Lieutenant Morton on my behalf to Captain Sheridan.’
‘Ah, I think I see how matters rest,’ said the captain. ‘You must feel a strong sense of obligation to Mr Morton, I collect?’
‘Oh yes, sir,’ enthused Blake. ‘The family have preferred me both in finding me a place as a midshipman, and then helping with my step to become a lieutenant.’
‘And that is all very proper,’ said Clay. ‘But you must also remember that you are an officer in your own right now, able to hold your own opinions. What, for example, do you think of the mutiny that occurred against Captain Sheridan?’
‘I find the actions of the Admiralty to be very ill judged, sir,’ stated the young lieutenant. ‘Why, it is much as Mr Morton says, those among the crew of a rebellious character believe that they have succeeded in overthrowing the natural order on board. Surely it will only serve to encourage them to further disobedience?’
