‘Sir Hyde, my lord?’ queried Clay.
‘Do you have an objection to Admiral Parker, Captain?’ asked Spencer, his eyes penetrating.
‘No, of course not, my lord,’ said Clay. ‘I would never be so presumptuous.’
‘I fancy the captain is surprised we’re entering an old nag such as Parker into a race, when we have a thoroughbred like Lord Nelson in the stable, what?’ suggested Vansittart.
‘I would never put it like that,’ said Clay. ‘In fairness to Sir Hyde, I am not well acquainted with him, but his reputation is that of a cautious man. From your remarks, my lord, I had imagined it to be a situation where bold measures may be required.’
The First Lord exchanged glances with Vansittart.
‘Lord Nelson is available,’ said Spencer. ‘Between us, he will be promoted to vice admiral presently, and will go with Sir Hyde as his deputy. But I will be damned if he will be in command. He would be a liability if any diplomacy was required, which is passing likely. Look at the hash he made of matters in Naples. Besides, his private life is an utter disgrace!’
‘Isn’t he cuckolding poor old Sir William Hamilton?’ remarked Vansittart. ‘I heard Lord Nelson had moved into his house, borrowed his wife, and the husband appears perfectly content with the arrangement! Dashed odd, if you ask me. Meanwhile, Lady Nelson moons around Piccadilly, weeping on any shoulder she can find.’
‘As I said, Lord Nelson’s private life leaves much to be desired,’ said Spencer. ‘But I agree with you, Clay; he is the best fighting admiral we have. Sir Hyde can be his nursemaid, and ensure that matters do not get out of hand, while Lord Nelson will take charge if battle looks likely.’
‘Now I come to think of it, ain’t Hyde Parker just got hitched to some slip of a girl forty years his junior?’ asked Vansittart, holding a manicured hand aloft as he tried to remember. ‘Miss Onslow! That was her name. Lady Minto was telling me that she leads him around like a keeper with his bear. God bless my soul! Is there something in sea water as makes your admirals randy, George?’
Lord Spencer pulled at the lace cuffs of his shirt and glared at the politician. ‘Pray, can we attend to the matter in hand, and leave your more lascivious observations for another occasion?’ he demanded.
‘As your lordship wishes,’ said Vansittart, bowing low in his chair.
‘Will the Griffin be part of this fleet, my lord?’ asked Clay, keeping his face wooden as his fellow guest chuckled to himself.
‘My thanks for showing the gravitas these matters deserve, Captain,’ said the First Lord. ‘I will need you to go ahead of the other ships. I want you to be first in that sea when the ice starts to break. You are to assist Mr Vansittart here on a diplomatic mission to the Baltic. The government will be entrusting him with full powers to treat on their behalf, which makes him very much our superior, Clay. It is hoped that you gentlemen may succeed in averting war, but if you should fail, then Parker and Nelson will do the rest.’
******
His majesty’s frigate Griffin was a fine sight as she rode at her moorings, just off the bustling shipyard that had built her. Already the slip where she had taken shape had started to sprout the outline of a new hull, the frames curving up from the keel like the fossilized ribs of some huge, long extinct creature. The Griffin was newly painted; a broad stripe of yellow followed the line of her gun ports along her sleek black hull. Beneath her long, tapering bowsprit a bronze-coloured griffin crouched, its wings partly open and its beak gaping wide to reveal a bright red tongue. Above the deck rose a dark mass of masts and rigging, soaring high into the pale sky. Most of her yards were crossed and bore furled sails, as if she might leave on the next tide; but above the flowing brown water of the River Thames, a broad strip of copper gleamed in the winter sunshine to show that her hull was still half empty. In her wardroom, close to the waterline, four of her officers were enjoying lunch.
‘This pigeon pie has an unusual savour to it,’ said George Taylor, the grey-haired first lieutenant of the frigate. He prodded a piece of meat onto his folk and held it up for inspection in the light of the lantern.
‘Too gamey for pigeon, I should say,’ said John Blake, the ship’s young second lieutenant. ‘Could it be partridge?’
Jacob Armstrong, the Griffin’s American sailing master, sniffed at his food, then scratched at the periwig that encased his large bald head. ‘I can barely smell my vittles over all the new oak and tar hereabouts,’ he pronounced, waving towards the freshly painted cabin doors that lined the sides of the wardroom.
‘Do you miss the stench of bilge water and rats already, Jacob?’ asked Blake. ‘They will return all too soon, I fear, and the frigate will stink just like the old Titan did.’
On the far side of Armstrong sat Richard Corbett, the frigate’s naval surgeon. He slit open the pastry and teased the crust apart with care, as if about to operate. A waft of steam briefly misted his round spectacles as he examined the meat in the pie.
‘From what anatomy has survived the cooking process, I would say that the origins are certainly avian in nature, but from a rather larger bird than a partridge, Mr Blake,’ he said. He drew out a strand of muscle and held it up for inspection. ‘With long wings, I should say. Where did you come by it, Britton?’
‘It were given to the wardroom with the compliments of some of the newly arrived crew, sir,’ said the steward. ‘All former Titans just back from Gloucester, and grateful to be amongst shipmates. It were Adam Trevan what brought it. They gave another pie to the gunroom.’
‘And did he say what was in it?’ asked Taylor.
‘That he didn’t, sir, and I ain’t had no occasion to ask, not wanting to seem ungrateful like,’ said the steward. ‘Would you like me to enquire, sir?’
‘Not on my part,’ said Armstrong, helping himself to another slice. ‘Now that the surgeon has confirmed it is not rat or dog, I am content. I find it quite excellent.’
‘Have you ever eaten dog or rat, Jacob?’ asked Blake.
‘Not to my knowledge, John,’ said the sailing master. ‘But then, how would I know, given we are so uncertain about this dish?’
‘Is Charles still ashore, George?’ asked Corbett.
‘Mr Faulkner?’ said Taylor. ‘Yes, in pursuit of all manner of worsted clothing for the crew. Waistcoats, undergarments, gloves and the like. Who would be a purser, eh?’
‘Are we off to seek for the Northwest passage then?’ asked Blake.
Armstrong snorted. ‘You know the Admiralty. A guinea says we shall be despatched to the Caribbean the moment Charles takes delivery of his last woollen mitten.’
‘The Baltic is where I would put my money,’ said Taylor, leaning forwards and lowering his voice. The sailors serving behind each chair leant forward too, anxious not to miss anything. ‘I met up with a friend of mine last night, Sam Harper, who is third in the Saturn.’
‘She’s a seventy-four, isn’t she?’ asked Armstrong.
The first lieutenant nodded. ‘He told me they’ve been ordered to join a fleet gathering at Great Yarmouth. Now, you only assemble there with one of two objects in mind—to fight the Hollanders or to sail for the Baltic. With Admiral Duncan having thrashed the Dutch back in ninety-seven, it doesn’t require much figuring to see where we shall be bound. It would also account for the sudden shortage in woollens.’
‘I have never had occasion to sail in those waters,’ said Blake. ‘Have you done so, George?’
‘Some years ago I did,’ said Taylor. ‘When I was in the Whitby coal trade, before the war. It can be indifferent sailing, being so shallow in places, and the want of salt means the sea freezes with ease in the winter.’
‘No salt in the sea!’ exclaimed Corbett. ‘Why the devil not?’
‘On account of the entrance being so narrow, and no end of big rivers draining into it,’ explained the veteran first lieutenant. ‘It is barely above a big estuary, in truth. I should say it is no more brackish than the river water over the side.’
‘I will take your word for that, sir,’ said Armstrong, turning behind him to have his glass refilled. ‘Still, a frozen sea may make an agreeable composition for one of your pictures, John.’
‘It will indeed,’ said Blake. ‘I shall bring some extra canvases with me.’ The officers all sat quietly for a moment, sipping at the wine and contemplating a voyage to that northern sea. After a few moments Taylor waved Britton forward to clear away the food. The surgeon indicated the unused plate next to him.
‘Who was this extra place for?’ he asked. ‘Was Lieutenant Macpherson meant to be present?’
‘No, Tom is still marching his marines across from Plymouth,’ said Taylor. ‘It was for Mr Preston, who I had hoped would join us. He is expected any day.’
‘Ah, poor man,’ said Armstrong. ‘Is he truly recovered sufficiently to resume his duties? That was a fearful injury.’ Taylor and the sailing master exchanged glances, remembering when the young lieutenant had fallen, his arm ripped open by a dagger of oak, his face pale in the moonlight.
‘It was certainly a considerable wound,’ said Corbett. ‘But I was able to amputate quickly, and there was sufficient flesh in his upper arm to produce a satisfactory stump. He is young, and there was no putrefaction to complicate matters.’
‘Would you care for some cheese, gentlemen?’ asked Britton.
‘Ah, not for me, I thank you,’ said Blake, his appetite vanishing as he eyed the pale yellow cylinder on its wooden board, just the size and shape of his friend’s stump. It was only the surgeon who took some, carving into the firm cheese with relish.
‘The captain has seen him and pronounced him ready,’ said Taylor. ‘Let us hope his judgement is sound. I daresay Lieutenant Preston has been delayed on the road south from Yorkshire, and will be with us tomorrow.’
But Taylor was wrong about the ship’s third lieutenant. He was in Woolwich already, within sight of the frigate as she pulled and snubbed against the tide in the river. He was looking at the Griffin at that moment, through the small window of his room under the eaves of the Star tavern. Edward Preston stepped back from the little panes of glass and, in the weak light that came through them, tried once more to button up his shirt, determined to succeed this time. He pushed a button towards the next slot in the linen with the fingers of his right hand, while his tongue slid from between his teeth and a frown appeared between his dark, sunken eyes. His left shoulder rounded forwards, the nerves in the stump tingling painfully as they tried to move a phantom arm to help. After a few moments of concentration, the button slipped through the hole. Motes of light came and went in the air around the young officer, and he sat down on the bed to regain his breath. Christ, but I am weak as a kitten, he thought. His pale face was covered with pearls of sweat, in spite of the chill in the room.
‘Come now,’ he urged himself. ‘I’ll have young Dray to help me once I am onboard, but I’ll be damned if I will appear before the general gaze ill dressed. How hard can this be?’
But the answer to his question seemed to be, very hard. His body was still weak from loss of blood and shock. It was only as the pale winter sun, empty on any warmth, sunk behind the reek of London that Preston emerged from the Star and walked down towards the wharf. At his heels came the inn’s ostler, singing to himself as he wheeled the officer’s sea chest along in a barrow. In truth his britches were still too loose and his white waistcoat concealed a largely open shirt, but his dark blue uniform coat was buttoned up over all of that, and his neck cloth was tied correctly. Down by the river it was growing dark, with the sulphur wash in the western sky reflected back as amber from the surface of the water. The ostler stopped his singing for just long enough to let out a piercing whistle, and in response a river boatman came alongside the steps to take Preston across to the Griffin. He hunched a little deeper into his coat against the cold as he watched his possessions being loaded into the boat and tried to stop himself from shivering. He looked across the few hundred yards of water to the dark silhouette of the frigate, and smiled. Strange, he thought, I have never set foot on that ship, and yet it feels like I am coming home.
Chapter 3
Cold
The start of February found the Griffin out at sea and heading northeast, away from the English coast. She had a complete crew, a full hold, and a set of new sails in which to gather the keen north wind. The sky overhead was the colour of pewter and the sea all about her was rolling slate flecked with white where gusts tugged at the wave crests. The frigate surged forward, beating up into the wind and cutting a diagonal path across the heavy swell. She rose up to each successive wave, her hull creaking in protest, twisted over the summit and then plunged down the far side. White water flew back from her bow as she cut into the next wave, and the cycle repeated itself.
‘How do you find the ship, Mr Preston?’ asked Clay, as he came on deck in his heaviest coat, with a muffler around his neck.
‘Very tolerable, sir,’ replied the officer of the watch, touching his hat. ‘The dockyard have handed her over in a good state. Mr Taylor and the boatswain had to renew some of the brace pendants on the foremast earlier, but otherwise the rigging seems sound. Perhaps not as swift as our old Titan, who was uncommonly fast, but very handy in stays.’
‘She does have fine lines, and new copper of course,’ said Clay. ‘And not too wet, I think. We have a ship to be proud of, which is most welcome. And how do you fare, Mr Preston?’
‘Well, I thank you, sir.’ The young lieutenant’s reply was clipped, and his chin jutted in a set way above his scarf.
I have not seen young Preston look at me like that before, thought Clay, as he searched the pale face and hollow cheeks and wondered again if he had made the right decision. The ship rolled more extravagantly to the next wave, and Preston staggered a little against his captain, but managed to keep his footing.
‘You must be growing weary of everyone enquiring after your health, Mr Preston,’ he offered. He was rewarded with a grin, much more reminiscent of the teenager he had witnessed grow into the man.
‘In truth it can be a little trying, sir,’ he replied. ‘Tom Macpherson holds I shall blow away if I do not feed myself up. I bear the questioning by reminding myself that it is motivated by kindliness.’
‘Quite so,’ said Clay. ‘We feared we had lost you when you were struck down, Edward.’
The young officer shrugged. ‘Is that not the lot of a king’s officer in time of war, sir? I recall the surgeon in despair when that musket ball entered your shoulder back in 96. Yet here you are.’
Clay instinctively rolled his shoulder inside his uniform, feeling the scars tighten as he did so, and then smiled at the young man. ‘Well spoken, Edward. You and I have enjoyed good fortune. Let us be content with that, and speak of it no more.’ He flogged his body with his arms, and then exclaimed, ‘Goodness, but it’s cold! And we have a good way farther north to go this voyage.’ He looked up into the low grey sky and saw the lookout at the fore masthead, his clothes flapping around him in the strong wind. ‘While we are discussing kindly acts, Mr Preston, pray see that the lookouts are relieved every hour, and that they are given a place by the galley fire to thaw out. In fact, I shall add that to my standing orders, while this chill weather lasts.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Preston.
‘Has Mr Vansittart settled into the wardroom satisfactorily?’ continued the captain.
‘He seems an amiable enough gentleman, although when I left him earlier to come on duty, he was finding the motion of the ship troubling, sir,’ said Preston. ‘He was also a little shocked at the size of the accommodation on offer. I believe he thought he was being made sport of when he first saw his quarters. Tom Macpherson had to show him all the other commissioned officers’ cabins before he was satisfied that his was indeed the largest by a good two inches. It did make me wonder how his valet is managing. Mr Taylor has added him to your coxswain’s mess on the lower deck, but twenty-eight inches in which to swing a hammock will come as a s
hock for a pampered servant.’
Clay laughed at this, his breath a trail of smoke, whipped away over his shoulder by the keen wind. ‘Sedgwick will see he comes to no harm,’ he said. ‘But stay; is that not him over there? On the windward gangway?’
Preston followed the line of his captain’s arm, and saw the man. He was swaying in time to the ship’s motion with only one hand resting lightly on the rail, although he was certainly not dressed like a sailor. Stockings and heavy buckled shoes showed beneath his coat, and he had a short round hat on his head. He was a heavily built man of medium height, with a deeply tanned face and long black sideburns. When he saw the two officers watching him he raised his hat, and dark curly hair whipped around his head in the breeze.
‘The valet seems rather more at his ease than the master,’ said Clay, touching his own hat to acknowledge the compliment. ‘Do you know his name?’
‘I believe Mr Vansittart said it was Rankin, sir,’ said Preston. ‘Joshua Rankin.’
‘Rankin,’ repeated Clay, continuing to watch the man. Just then the thin figure of his own servant appeared, wearing no coat, and trying hard not to hop from one foot to the other. ‘What is it, Yates?’ he asked.
‘Harte s... sends his c... compliments, sir,’ stuttered the youngster through chattering teeth, ‘and he s... says as h... how vittles is ready, and Mr V... Vansittart will arrive presently to d... dine with y... you, sir.’
‘Tell him I shall come directly,’ said Clay. ‘Now get yourself below, lad, before you catch a chill. Carry on, Mr Preston.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the lieutenant.
******
‘Ah, Mr Vansittart,’ said Clay, rising from his place at the table to greet his guest. ‘I trust I find you well, sir?’ The diplomat looked anything but. He was wearing his light blue coat once more, but it hung a little askew, and the garment’s bright colour only served to heighten the pallor of his face, with its distinct shade of green.
In Northern Seas Page 4