In Northern Seas

by Philip K Allan

  ‘In truth I do not feel at all well, Captain,’ he said, walking into the cabin and extending his hand out to grip that of his host. The frigate heeled over to the next wave, sending the guest careering past, and it was only by grabbing an arm that Clay was able to stop him fetching up against the windows that ran along the back of the great cabin. The steward rushed forward to take Vansittart’s other arm, and between them they escorted him to his chair at the table.

  ‘Thank you, most obliged,’ he gasped, once he was wedged in place. He mopped his face with his napkin and then waved an arm towards the windows. ‘Tell me, Captain, when do you expect this gale to desist?’

  ‘Gale, sir?’ queried Clay, settling down opposite him. ‘This is only a little above a topsail wind. The northeast course we are obliged to follow makes the swell troubling, I grant you, but the conditions are quite normal for the German Sea in February. I daresay the Baltic shall prove more agreeable, when we should get there later in the month, although it will be damn cold. Would you care for a glass of wine?’ He waved Harte forward with the decanter.

  ‘I thank you, but no,’ said his guest, placing a hand over his glass. ‘Might I trouble you for a warm beverage? A pot of hot chocolate, perhaps, or a dish of tea?’

  ‘Of course,’ said his host. ‘Kindly see to it, Harte.’

  ‘Hot drink, sir!’ exclaimed the steward. ‘But I shall have to go to the galley to prepare one. The vittles will be sadly overcooked, sir.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think you can overcook a good fatty piece of mutton,’ said Clay.

  ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ said the steward, his face stone. He left the cabin, closing the door with a little more force than was strictly necessary.

  ‘Mutton,’ groaned the diplomat. His eyes rolled upwards at the prospect, and then became mesmerised by something over Clay’s shoulder. The captain looked around to see the cabin’s lamp, swinging backwards and forwards on its hook above them. He returned his attention to his guest.

  ‘I am not a sufferer from the sea sickness myself, sir, but I believe the best remedy is to eat a little, even if one is not inclined to do so, and to concentrate on something other than the motion of the ship,’ he said. ‘Should that fail, my privy is beyond that door behind you.’

  ‘That does sound like tolerable advice,’ conceded Vansittart, wrenching his gaze away from the light, and searching the cabin interior for something more solid. ‘That is a fine likeness of Mrs Clay,’ he said, pointing towards the bulkhead. Clay looked at the portrait of his wife. It showed her full length in a blue satin gown the exact colour of the eyes that looked back at him.

  ‘It is a fine picture, sir,’ he agreed. ‘I was most fortunate that it survived the loss of my last ship, with no more than a little staining at the back. Lieutenant Blake was the artist responsible for it.’

  ‘Blake!’ exclaimed Vansittart. ‘Can you mean the young gentlemen who resides in the monk’s cell next to mine, and whose slumbers I can hear so distinctly at night?’

  ‘The very same,’ said Clay. ‘He has considerable talent in that regard, although he only does it for his own amusement. As for your accommodation, I should observe that it is quite normal in size for a King’s ship. A frigate is regarded as spacious when compared with the sloop of war that was my first command.’

  ‘So I am told,’ said his guest, his eye becoming a little less dull. ‘Although I note that size of cabin, like so much in life, depends on rank.’ He waved an arm to take in the cabin around him. ‘The navy appears to have an exalted view of the accommodation required for its captains. Daylight? Book shelves? Why, this cabin must be over thirty feet wide! Can all this space truly be for just one man?’

  ‘Eh... it is, sir,’ said Clay. ‘Together with my sleeping quarters and coach. Of course it is very much a working space, you understand? So I can converse with my officers with some degree of privacy. That was my object in inviting you to dine with me. I thought we might discuss our activities over the next few months.’

  ‘A shift in the tone of the conversation worthy of a politician, Captain,’ chuckled Vansittart, ‘but a capital idea, notwithstanding. Let us leave a comparison of our cabins for another occasion.’ He leaned forward with his elbows on the table. ‘What we are facing in the Baltic is nothing short of a return to the same Northern League of Armed Neutrality as we faced in the American War. Back then we could do little about it. We were so busy fighting the Yanks, whilst trying to stop the bloody French and Spanish fleets from sailing up the Channel, that we were obliged to yield to the bastards.’

  ‘And if I recollect, the members of this league are Russia, Prussia, Sweden and Denmark, sir,’ said Clay.

  ‘That’s correct,’ said Vansittart, his face already taking on more colour. ‘But the Frogs are behind it.’

  ‘I see, sir. So how do we proceed with breaking up this alliance?’

  ‘You can ignore the Prussians,’ explained his guest. ‘They have damn all ships, and only go along to keep the French happy. No, it is Tsar Paul who is the chief mover in all this. Talleyrand has got to him, which was hardly difficult. His Imperial Majesty has never liked us, ever since we persuaded him to send some of his precious soldiers to an ignoble defeat in Flanders. Do you know much about him?’

  ‘Only the little I have read in the papers, sir,’ said Clay.

  ‘Well, you may meet him soon, and count yourself blessed at the shortness of the acquaintance, by Jove!’ said his guest. ‘I have met him a few times, and he is quite the maddest member of a demented family.’

  ‘Your hot chocolate, sir,’ said Harte, appearing at this side.

  ‘Do you know, Clay, I believe you were right,’ said Vansittart. ‘All our talk has quite driven away the seasickness. I declare my appetite may have returned. Could I trouble you for a glass of wine, after all?’ Harte’s jaw worked noiselessly, and for a moment Clay wondered if his steward was about to empty the pot of chocolate over Vansittart’s head.

  ‘Of course, sir,’ he said. ‘Kindly attend to it, Harte, and you can serve dinner now. So tell me of Tsar Paul?’

  ‘His mother was Catherine the Great, who had more balls than the rest of the Romanov family put together,’ explained his guest. ‘She murdered her mad husband, Tsar Peter III, over thirty years ago, and ruled in his stead. Damned good ruler too, but wicked as they come. She brooked no opposition and rutted with any of her ministers that she fancied.’

  ‘But surely then, Paul should have succeeded his father to the throne, not his mother?’ said Clay. ‘Yes, I will have some of the potatoes, Harte.’

  ‘He should, but the lad was only eight when his father was killed, poor mite,’ said Vansittart. ‘Before he was out of small clothes, Catherine had married him to some Kraut princess she had selected to spy on him. Then she locked him away in the middle of Russia with nothing but his toy soldiers to play with. When he did have a son, Alexander, the boy was whisked off by Grandmother Catherine, and raised as her own. Alexander, at least, seems to have come out of life with the Romanovs reasonably sane. Meanwhile, Catherine ruled on and on, but even she couldn’t live forever, although I dare say she tried. Three years ago she finally croaked, and out from his prison, blinking in the light, came Paul to find he was Tsar of all the Russias, but with no clue what he was about.’

  ‘And it is this Tsar Paul that the French have persuaded to establish the League of Armed Neutrality you spoke of, sir?’ asked Clay.

  ‘Regrettably so,’ said Vansittart, wiping his mouth with a napkin. ‘See, if you can catch Paul’s attention at the right moment, you can persuade him of anything. He can be as feeble as they come one day, and ranting fit for Bedlam the next. It drives our poor ambassador at St Petersburg to distraction. In three short years he’s banned foreign books, stopped Russians travelling abroad, and turned half of the nobility against him. Not bad for a simpleton, what?’

  ‘If he is such a fickle ruler, why are the other Baltic powers going along with his madness, sir?’ asked his host.<
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  ‘Fear of the Russian bear,’ said the diplomat. ‘A madman with a huge army ain’t a neighbour you want to gainsay, what? Our aim shall be to try and reason with them, naturally. But if things cut up rough, and that don’t answer, we shall have to make them fear us more than they fear Paul. That is where the navy comes in.’

  ‘If it should come to fighting, the various fleets don’t pose too much of a threat,’ said Clay, sipping his wine. ‘The Swedes have about a dozen ships of the line, the Danes much the same, while the Russians can put to sea with two dozen. Things could turn ill if they were to combine, but fought separately, Sir Hyde and Lord Nelson should have their measure.’

  ‘But before we mill with them, we must try persuasion,’ said Vansittart. ‘Starting with the Danes.’

  ‘So we are to make for Copenhagen then, I collect, sir?’

  ‘If you please, Captain, although not directly,’ said his guest. He fished out a note book from one of his pockets, and pulled out a strip of paper which he passed across the table. ‘I would first like you to visit this place on the Danish coast. I believe it to be a remote spot.’

  ‘Very well, sir,’ said Clay, glancing at the slip. ‘What is our object?’

  ‘To land my valet.’

  ‘Your valet?’ exclaimed Clay. ‘The fellow I observed earlier, taking the air on deck?’

  ‘The very same,’ said Vansittart.

  ‘Why on earth would you wish your valet to be landed in Denmark, sir?’

  ‘To make contact with certain persons who are of our way of thinking, and to see how the land lies,’ said Vansittart. ‘Have no fears on Rankin’s part, I pray. He is a resourceful enough cove to make his way across the country and rejoin us in Copenhagen.’

  Clay waited for more of an explanation, but for once the garrulous diplomat was silent. He found his gaze held by his guest’s dark eyes, quite devoid of any trace of seasickness.

  ******

  When eight bells rang out from the belfry on the forecastle, the watch changed over. Moments after the sound of the final chime had faded away, there came the squeal of the boatswain’s pipes and the thunder of feet on the ladder ways deep in the ship, as those who had been sleeping below came rushing up on deck. But as they emerged from the cattle shed warmth of the lower deck and out into the open, their pace slowed. Many paused to pull their jackets tighter around their bodies against the cut of the wind. Those waiting for them on watch hopped from foot to foot or flogged their arms, all the while breathing clouds of steam over their clenched hands.

  ‘Move your arse, Pickford,’ protested Evans as he watched his relief trudge along the gangway, winding a red woollen scarf around his neck. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if me bleeding fundament had come adrift. I got a soaking earlier, and I ain’t felt nought below me belt this past hour.’

  ‘Aye, his ivories have been a-chattering away fit to raise the dead,’ confirmed Trevan.

  ‘Skeletons pleasuring themselves make less racket,’ added O’Malley to general laughter.

  ‘All right, I am here now, ain’t I?’ said Pickford. ‘Christ, but ’tis cold!’

  This last remark was directed at the backs of the three seamen as they hurried below. The lower deck of the Griffin was certainly warm, but it was also damp. It was placed just above the waterline when the frigate was level, and frequently beneath it, as now, when she was heeling over in a stiff breeze. In consequence the only natural light and ventilation were what filtered down through the gratings and hatchways from the world above. Lines of orange lanterns provided some illumination through the fog of moisture that filled the space. It rose like steam from the wet garments of those coming off watch. It ran in beads down the oak walls of the ship, and dripped from the beams overhead. But it also rose from the steaming bowl of burgoo that was set down in front of each sailor.

  ‘Holy Mary, but that be fecking better,’ sighed O’Malley, as he scraped the last of the hot food from his bowl.

  ‘Bit sharp up top, then?’ queried Sedgwick, who had yet to venture out.

  ‘Devilish cold, so it is,’ confirmed O’Malley. ‘And like to get colder, according to Gustavsson. He was saying how even the sea freezes over in the Baltic proper, if you’ll credit it.’

  ‘Fancy that,’ marvelled Sedgwick, shaking his head. ‘I am a long way from Barbados now.’

  ‘Who’s the extra porridge for?’ asked Evans, pointing to the last bowl on the table. ‘Coz if it’s spare, I don’t mind stowing it in the hold, like.’

  ‘You leave well alone, Sam Evans,’ said Trevan, who was responsible for their food. ‘That be for that new bloke’s flunky, what’ll be messing with us.’

  ‘All right, but if he don’t turn up sharpish I’ll have it,’ said the big Londoner. ‘No call for wasting good honest vittles.’

  ‘That weren’t what you was saying about my parrot pie,’ said Trevan, exchanging a wink with his mess mates.

  ‘That were different,’ protested Evans. ‘Don’t seem natural to eat them as can answer back. Anyhow, does this new bloke have a name?’

  ‘He’s called Joshua Rankin,’ said Sedgwick.

  ‘Josh Rankin, did you say?’ queried Evans. ‘Bleeding hell! It can’t be!’

  ‘You be all right, our Sam,’ queried Trevan. ‘You look proper spooked.’

  ‘Aye, it’ll be no more than hazard,’ said the Londoner, with a shake of his head. ‘I knew a bleeder of that name, back home like, but that don’t mean nothing. There must be no end of folk with that name.’

  ‘Well, it could be him,’ said Sedgwick. ‘He do sound a bit like you, now I come to think on it.’

  ‘Another fecking Londoner?’ protested O’Malley. ‘Jesus, that’s all we need!’

  ‘No, it can’t be him,’ declared Evans, folding his arms.

  ‘Really?’ queried the Irishman. ‘So how many fecking Joshua Rankins from London have you heard tell of, then?’

  ‘Only the one, in truth,’ said Evans. ‘But he weren’t the sort as would end up as no gentlemen’s flunky. He were a right vicious bastard. Worked as a trap for some nasty blokes, squeezing them as couldn’t pay up. When a couple of folk he’d been seen with turned up in the river with horseshoes for lockets, he had to scarper before the tipstaffs caught him. That were years back, mind.’

  ‘I reckon we be about to find out, Big Sam,’ said Trevan, looking over his friend’s shoulder. ‘If I ain’t deceived, that be him a-coming.’

  ‘Is this the bleeding muck we are obliged to break our fast upon?’ said Joshua Rankin, taking his place at the table and peering at his bowl. ‘While in the wardroom, the gentlemen tuck into mutton chops and salt bacon. Well, perhaps it’s better than it looks.’ He dropped his face to sniff at his bowl and then stopped when he caught sight of the big sailor opposite him. ‘I know you, don’t I? Your pa was a Welshman. Jones? Or Williams, maybe?’

  ‘Evans,’ corrected the Londoner.

  ‘That’s it! Evans! Sam Evans!’

  ‘Hello, Josh,’ said his fellow Londoner.

  ‘You’re a bleeding long way from Seven Dials, Sam, ain’t you?’ said Rankin.

  ******

  The following morning Clay was awoken by two competing sounds, one familiar and a second that was not. The first was the musical gurgle of water being poured into his metal-lined washstand by Yates. The other sound was a persistent scraping on the deck above his head. While he tried to place the noise, he lay a little longer in the warm cocoon of his bed, aware that the air in the cabin was chill and uninviting. He looked at the hot water steaming in the basin and reached back into his years at sea for clues as to what the other sound might be, but without success.

  ‘What the devil is happening on the quarterdeck, Yates?’ he demanded.

  ‘That will be the afterguard shifting all the snow what fell in the night, sir,’ said the teenager, his eyes alight. ‘Mr Hutchinson issued them with the shovels he uses to move ballast in the hold, but it don’t answer any. More of the stuff just keeps on
coming. Me and some of the other lads was fighting with snow grenades earlier, until Mr Taylor made us quit. There must have been a good foot of it lying on the deck at four bells.’

  ‘Snow!’ exclaimed Clay. ‘At sea, and settling on the ship, you say? Is there no wind to drive it away?’

  ‘Only enough to give us steerage way, according to Mr Armstrong, sir,’ said Yates. ‘It’s a rare sight, an’ no mistake.’

  ‘Then, upon your recommendation, I shall go and see for myself,’ decided his captain, swinging himself out of his cot and pulling his nightshirt over his head. He washed and shaved quickly, and laden with every item of warm clothing Yates could find, from sea boots to sou’wester, he left the cabin.

  Snow on snow greeted Clay when he came out onto the quarterdeck. The sky was full of tumbling, silent white. Over the side it vanished the moment it touched the dark green sea, but where it fell onboard it added to what was already there. It lay thick over the quarterdeck carronades, like the dust-sheets covering furniture in some long abandoned country house. The rail beside him had a soft layer four inches high on top of it. He swept a section clear with his gloved hand, the black painted wood startling amongst all the white, and watched as fresh flakes settled to repair the damage.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ said Taylor, one of the dark figures that stood by the wheel. ‘Thick as goose down in a plucking shed, I am afraid. I have the hands at work trying to shift it, but it returns the moment they move away.’

  ‘It’s extraordinary!’ exclaimed Clay. ‘I have never encountered anything above sleet or hail at sea before.’ He looked up towards the rigging, blinking as flakes of snow landed on his eyelashes. Just beyond the rail at the front of the quarterdeck the solid column of the main mast rose up like a forest tree, but then vanished into the blizzard of white. Above the main yard, the upper two thirds was invisible.