In Northern Seas

by Philip K Allan

  ‘Hmmm, all very illuminating, George,’ said Vansittart. ‘What of his heir, Grand Duke Alexander? Is he of the tsar’s way of thinking?’

  ‘The son has little love for the father,’ said the ambassador. ‘Catherine made sure of that, raising him apart from Paul, very much as her creature. Now he, at least, is a rational man.’

  ‘That sounds more promising,’ said Vansittart. ‘I had heard what a splendid fellow he was. I look forward to meeting with him, but first I wonder if you would invite a couple of other chaps to look over captain Clay’s command, and perhaps stay for a little refreshment?’ He passed a slip of paper across to his colleague, who glanced down at it.

  ‘God bless my soul, you want to meet with these two?’ he exclaimed. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ said Vansittart. ‘Tomorrow would be convenient. It might be best if this was looked on as a private visit, independent of the government. Perhaps to help maintain that fiction, it would be best if your lordship was not one of the party?’

  ******

  Lieutenant Taylor had always kept a smart looking ship, but the news that two important, but unnamed, Russian gentlemen would be visiting the frigate the following day prompted him to take matters to another level. As the Griffin was newly built, her hold had yet to acquire the richer odour of a mature ship, but still he ordered her gratings to be thrown open so that sunlight and cool sea air could enter into her mustier corners. While the hull was being aired, some of the crew were sent over the side with pots of fresh paint, to cover over the powder stains and cinder burns caused by the brief battle with the Liberté. Others busily scrubbed each of her decks to an even shade of grey. Every inch of her brass work was polished to the sheen of a mirror, and the boatswain led a party of veteran seamen in an orgy of rope weaving, decorating the ship with a profusion of Celtic knots and Turk’s heads. It was a weary crew who gathered around their mess tables later that evening, once all had been stowed away and put back in place.

  The clear sky above the frigate had filled with stars, and the gentle light of the moon brushed the rigging and upper works with silver. On her deserted orlop deck, only a modest scatter of white points had filtered their way down through the successive layers of grating. Even the stronger light from the few horn lanterns that swung on hooks beside the ladder ways served only to emphasize the many dark places all around. Joshua Rankin peered uncertainly under the low deck, with its scant five foot of headroom. The sound of the men’s talk and the clatter of mess stools being shifted reverberated through the planking overhead. He unhooked one of the lamps and advanced into the dark.

  ‘Here, Ludlow!’ he whispered. ‘Where you bleeding hiding?’

  ‘In the cable tier, like what I said,’ came a hissed reply from farther off.

  ‘An’ how am I expected to know where that is?’ muttered the valet, as he crawled towards the sound of Ludlow’s voice. He sensed more than saw a black void that opened up beside him. Peering over the edge he found himself looking down into the hold. A row of huge barrels, all tightly wedged in place, were lined up just beneath him.

  ‘Bleeding hell!’ he exclaimed. ‘You never said nothing about holes in the floor! I could have bust my neck!’

  ‘Not so loud, Josh,’ urged the voice. ‘You’re close now.’

  Rankin crawled on, and soon the glow from his lamp began to flow over great columns of coiled rope, close on either side. Over the noise of the crew above came the sound of rapid scampering from the shadows on either side.

  ‘Are there bleeding rats hereabouts?’ he demanded.

  ‘Course there’ll be rats!’ said Ludlow, seemingly from just ahead of him. ‘You’re on a bleeding ship, ain’t you?’

  Rankin turned around the last coil of rope and found the seaman, sitting cross-legged on a clear area of deck, with another lantern and a polished wooden box set out in front of him. The box was eight inches square and six deep, and looked to have been made with considerable care.

  ‘I hope you ain’t brought me down here on a fool’s errand, Bill,’ warned the valet, settling down beside his fellow Londoner.

  ‘Nah, I got what you wanted,’ said Ludlow. ‘I risked me bleeding neck to get it, mind, but you said it had to be something worth a bit. Reckon this should answer.’ He pushed the wooden box across the planking. It was made from rich brown mahogany that gleamed in the lamplight. A pair of folding brass handles fitted into recesses on the sides. Rankin pulled the box across towards him, surprised at first by its weight. The snugly-fitting lid swung open on well-oiled hinges to reveal an interior lined with baize. Mounted on a loop of brass was a large, beautifully crafted clock. Rankin tilted the box towards the light, and the chronometer pivoted silently on its gimbals so that it remained perfectly flat. He held his lantern over it and read the maker’s name, painted in flowing script on the white enamel face.

  ‘Thomas Earnshaw of London,’ he said. ‘What the bleeding hell is this?’

  ‘It’s like what you asked for,’ said Ludlow. ‘Some manner of ticker.’

  ‘For a bleeding giant, maybe!’ exclaimed Rankin. ‘I said to pinch something small, like a pocket watch! How am I meant to slip this into Evan’s stuff?’

  ‘I just done the thieving, like what you said,’ replied Ludlow, folding his arms. ‘You wanted something valuable, and that’s what I got you.’

  ‘Aye, a bob or two I said, you arse!’ exclaimed Rankin. ‘Any fool can tell this is worth a bleeding fortune! Where did you come by it?’

  ‘I were passing the clerk’s cabin, and it were sat on the desk,’ said Ludlow. ‘The Lobster on guard were looking t’other way, an’ no one else were around, so I nabbed it. Weighs a bleeding ton, mind.’

  Rankin looked at him askance, then closed the box and pushed it away.

  ‘It’s got to go back,’ he announced. ‘Grunters were talking about this in the wardroom. This must be that bleeding chronometer-thing what the Yank’s looking for. I didn’t know what they was on about, but him and Taylor are proper hot over getting it back. When they finds it, some arse is going to bleeding swing.’

  Ludlow gazed at the box in front of him, innocent-looking but suddenly full of menace.

  ‘The chance I had to nab it ain’t never going to come round again,’ he said, pushing the marine chronometer back towards the valet. ‘Deals a deal. You said I only had to take it, and it were you as was going to stash it on Evans. It’s yours now, Josh.’

  Rankin stared at his fellow Londoner, taking in the firm set of Ludlow’s jaw and the determined look in his eye, wondering how far he could push him.

  ‘Fair’s fair, I suppose,’ he said at last. ‘I can come and go pretty freely amongst the Grunters, so I daresay I might be able to think of something. Keep it for a little longer for me, Bill, while I works out how I can smuggle it back to the Yank.’

  ******

  A deck above where Rankin and Ludlow were crouched, Sarah Hockley sat over a bucket of water in her tiny cabin. Her head was tilted to one side and her hair was gathered in a single, thick tress that she was pressing dry with a towel. The space was tiny, a mere six feet between two partitions of stretched canvas, with the ship’s side at her back and the flap of material in front of her that served as a door. A drover in his tent must live like this, she thought, before correcting herself. No, he at least had the freedom to pitch his dwelling where there was sunlight, birdsong and the smell of crushed grass under foot. She, on the other hand, was in the dark, airless lower deck of a frigate, surrounded by the oath-edged talk of scores of sailors. But Sarah was content as she worked at her hair, the colour changing from the slick black of an otter to burnished chestnut as it became dry. The ship’s bell struck seven times, making her smile. Only half an hour before he comes off watch, she told herself, and she started to sing gently.

  ‘May I come in, my child,’ said her father. He must have been waiting outside for some time, she thought, for she had heard no footfalls approaching.

  ‘Of cours
e, please enter,’ Sarah said, reaching for the elm wood comb with a tracery of carved flowers that some anonymous sailor had made for her. She had found it on her hammock one day, left as an act of kindness while she was on deck.

  He came in, pulling the flap to behind him. Slight though they both were, between them they filled the tiny space. Sarah pushed the bucket to one side and rose to her feet, still combing her hair.

  ‘You are making yourself beautiful, I see,’ her father observed.

  ‘Oh, it is such bliss to have clean hair!’ she exclaimed. ‘I begged for some fresh water when the frigate renewed its supply this morning, and the captain’s steward was kind enough to spare me a little soap.’

  ‘And do you pay such attention to your looks to catch the eye of Mr Preston?’ he asked. Although he spoke calmly, she could see he was trembling with anger.

  ‘I chiefly do so for my own part, Father,’ she said. ‘I had always understood cleanliness to be adjacent to Godliness. Did the Reverend Wesley not say as much?’

  ‘I doubt very much that he was referring to the preparations of a jezebel!’ exclaimed Hockley.

  ‘Father!’ said Sarah, colouring in her turn. ‘How can you use such a word about me?’

  ‘And what word would you prefer?’ he hissed. ‘Harlot, perhaps? Do you deny that you go to see that man?’

  ‘I do not deny it, but I go only to walk a little in the evening air, and enjoy the diversion of his society,’ she said, trying hard to stay calm. ‘What on earth do you think I would be doing with Mr Preston?’ She felt tears prick in her eyes, but she blinked them back. Neither of them had noticed that the sound of the lower deck outside had grown quiet.

  ‘Disobedient creature!’ exclaimed her father. ‘Have I not forbidden such contact? I have never chastised you before, Sarah, but I am so vexed by your stubbornness in this that I could strike you now!’

  ‘Not if you bleeding knows what’s good for you,’ growled a voice from beyond the thin canvas screen, together with a murmur of approval from the other listening seamen.

  ‘Will you not interfere!’ yelled Hockley turning towards the lower deck.

  ‘Pipe down then, you arse, and don’t you go a-threatening the little miss,’ answered another voice.

  ‘The impertinence of these sailors,’ fumed Hockley. ‘Listening to the private discourse of their betters. I have a good mind to report them all to Captain Clay!’

  ‘Father, let us speak more softly,’ said Sarah, catching hold of his hands and turning him towards her. ‘You must know that I love you—’

  ‘Then obey me, child, as the fifth commandment requires of you,’ urged Hockley.

  ‘I love you,’ repeated his daughter, ‘but matters have gone too far now with Mr Preston, for I also love him. As for the fifth commandment, it requires me to honour you, which I will always do, even if you seem to have such little regard for my future happiness.’

  ‘But it is your future happiness that moves me to act as I do,’ said Hockley. ‘The station and character of the man that you marry will certainly determine that.’

  ‘I agree with you wholeheartedly,’ said Sarah. ‘Mr Preston’s station is of a gentlemen and officer, and if you would but converse with him a little, I know you would be quickly convinced of the agreeableness of his disposition.’

  ‘Sarah, you are a very amiable and attractive person,’ he said. ‘You could have the pick of the merchant captains in Whitby.’

  ‘Such as who?’

  ‘John Wainwright, for one,’ said Hockley. ‘He has often spoken of you in the most favourable terms.’

  ‘But I barely know the man!’ she exclaimed. ‘And he must be my senior by twenty years.’

  ‘Not quite so many, and at least he is whole in body.’

  The moment the words were out of his mouth, Hockley realised he had made a dreadful misjudgement. For the first time in his life, he saw contempt in his daughter’s eyes.

  ‘Whole in body?’ she repeated. ‘What are you saying? Is this how you judge the worth of a man?’

  ‘No, of course not, but it is surely a consideration—’

  ‘Was it a consideration for our saviour, when he tended to the sick and injured?’

  ‘Sarah, please, I only want what—’

  ‘What would happen if I wed Mr Wainwright and he was injured in an accident? Would you have me abandon him as no longer suitable?’

  Of course not,’ said Hockley. ‘But that is not the same—’

  ‘Then how can you ask me to disregard Mr Preston on the same grounds?’ said Sarah. ‘It would destroy him! If you truly think me capable of doing such a thing, then you do not know the daughter that you have raised. Now stand aside, sir, and let me pass!’

  ******

  ‘It grows warm, does it not,’ commented Clay the following morning. He was standing to one side of the Griffin’s entry port. The Baltic sun was shining down on the dark blue of his heavy full-dress coat, and was strong enough to make him feel warm now, for the first time in weeks. It glistened on the tops of the ice flows that continued to bob all around the frigate.

  ‘It does indeed,’ agreed Vansittart, who was stood beside him in an elegant green coat of a much lighter weave. ‘Why, the sea ice must have retreated a good thirty yards since yesterday.’

  Clay looked at the channel of green water. It was ragged at the edges now, as pieces of ice broke free to join those bobbing past on their way out to sea. All the gangs of men who had been cutting it had also vanished.

  ‘We shall have the Russian fleet at our rear presently,’ said Taylor, who stood beside his captain.

  ‘I daresay we shall,’ agreed Clay. ‘Have all the preparations been made, Mr Taylor?’

  ‘They have, sir,’ confirmed the first lieutenant. ‘The ship is ready to pass an inspection from the king, bar the lack of ceremony when the gentlemen come aboard.’

  ‘Precisely so,’ said Vansittart. ‘This is to be a strictly private visit.’

  ‘Deck there!’ yelled the lookout overhead. ‘Boat putting out from the shore!’

  ‘Any colours?’ yelled Taylor.

  ‘No sir, just a boat with a pair of gents in the stern.’

  ‘So who are these Russians that will be visiting us presently?’ asked Clay.

  ‘General Levin von Bennigsen, hero of sundry wars with the Turks, much loved in the army, and summarily dismissed by Tsar Paul on a whim,’ explained Vansittart. ‘He is the thinner gentleman with the silver hair seated on the left. The man beside him in the white coat is Count Peter von Pahlen. Now he is a decidedly useful cove! A Baltic German, a life-long friend of General Bennigsen, and currently military commander in the city.’

  The boat came alongside, and the two men climbed their way up to the entrance port. The first to arrive was the general, a tall, spare man with dark eyes and a prominent nose. He threw his arms wide when he saw Vansittart.

  ‘Nikolai!’ he exclaimed, pulling the startled diplomat close. ‘It has been too long!’

  ‘Quite so, General,’ said Vansittart, as he wriggled free. ‘May I introduce you to Captain Alexander Clay, who commands this ship?’ Clay found his hand gripped firmly by the general. Although the soldier was twenty years his senior, and a few inches shorter, there was wiry strength in his lean frame.

  ‘Pleasure to meet you, Captain,’ said von Bennigsen, in reasonable, if heavily accented English. ‘You have good Russian name, no? Alexander, just like son of our tsar, although what is “clay”?’

  ‘Eh, it is a type of mud, used in the making of pots, sir,’ he explained. ‘Welcome aboard the Griffin.’

  ‘Mud, you say,’ said von Bennigsen, both eyebrows raised. ‘Your name mud!’ Then he roared with laughter, before lightly punching Clay on the shoulder. ‘You English! Always you make good joke!’

  ‘Would you honour us with an introduction to the count, General,’ said Vansittart, indicating the second visitor from the shore, an aristocratic looking man who peered around the deck with obv
ious interest.

  ‘Of course,’ beamed the general, drawing his friend forward by the arm. ‘May I present Count Peter von Pahlen.’

  ‘Delighted to meet you, Mr Vansittart,’ said the count, in excellent English. ‘Much obliged to you, Captain Clay.’

  ‘Would you gentlemen permit me to name some of my officers to you?’ said Clay. ‘After which I wondered if you would care to inspect the ship?’

  Once the Russians had shaken hands with the line of officers, they set off on a tour of the frigate, led by Taylor. Clay had arranged it this way so that he could stand back a little and watch the reactions of the two soldiers. He was unsure how familiar they would be with naval matters, but trusted that as fighting men they would be used to assessing the combat potential of what they were shown.

  ‘Mr Harrison, kindly set the fore topsail, if you please,’ ordered Taylor.

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the boatswain, taking the silver call from around his neck and sounding a trilling blast. It was answered from the deck below, and the top men came flooding up onto the deck, to then race up the shrouds and out along the yard. Within moments, the huge sail was tumbling down above them to be sheeted home, pressing the frigate backwards against the pull of her anchor. Clay caught a glance of surprise between the two visitors at the speed with which the change had been made.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Harrison,’ he said. ‘You can furl the topsail once more.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  ‘The blighters do it just as swiftly in a blow, though how quite defeats me,’ commented Vansittart, as the party made their way up onto the forecastle. Both Russian’s stopped in surprise at the sight of one of the frigate’s huge carronades.

  ‘This gun, very big,’ said von Bennigsen, slapping the breech with admiration.

  ‘It’s a thirty-two pounder, sir,’ said Taylor. ‘The men call them smashers. They are poor weapons at range, but answer very well close to.’

  ‘Could such a cannon be used on land?’ asked the count.