A Man of No Country

by Philip K Allan

‘Keep going, Sam! Get that gate open.’

  Evans ran past the fight and arrived in front of the gate. It consisted of a pair of heavy oak doors, reinforced with beams and peppered with iron studs. A lantern hung on a hook to one side, and in its light he examined the task. From behind him he heard a musket go off, followed by another and a cry of alarm in Spanish.

  ‘Right, open the bleeding gate,’ muttered Evans to himself. Across the doors a heavy looking beam rested in metal brackets. He dropped his boarding axe and grabbed it with both hands. It was a colossal piece of timber, obviously designed to be lifted by more than one person. ‘Come on,’ he urged as it inched upwards. With a final heave it came free and dropped to the ground with a clatter. Evans grabbed the ring in the centre of the door and yanked it hard towards him. Nothing moved. Behind him he could hear the clash and cries as the fight grew in intensity. He glanced over his shoulder. More sailors had come down from the wall, but the garrison were now flooding out of the barracks, many just in their trousers or shirts, but all armed.

  ‘Get a move on, Sam!’ he heard Rosso urge.

  He turned back to the doors and pulled out his pistol. He searched for a lock that he could shoot, but there didn’t seem to be one. In desperation he picked up his axe and hurled it into the wood again and again, but after a few massive blows it was clear the fight would be long over before he could cut through such tough oak. On the far side Macpherson’s marines pounded at the gates in desperation.

  ‘Come on, Sam, me boy,’ he said out loud. ‘Brawn will not answer, try brains. What is it as is holding this door? Think, man, think!’ He squeezed his eyes closed for a moment and was a little child once more, back home in London. He saw his mother kneeling down to tend the kitchen fire and his father at the door, locking it for the night. He watched as he turned the key in the lock and then reached first for the top of the door and then stooped towards the bottom and his eyes flew open.

  ‘Bolts, you idiot!’ he yelled. It was the work of a moment to find them at the top and bottom of the doors and draw them back. The gates flew open under the pressure of a wave of marines.

  ‘Steady, boys,’ roared Macpherson. ‘Reorder yourselves there!’ The soldiers halted their charge and shuffled back into a solid block. ‘Better,’ said the Scotsman as he drew his sword. ‘Marines will advance! Sergeant, the private three from the left in the second rank is not attending to his duty. Take his name.’ The marines swept forwards and the melee in front of them parted before their approach. The defenders dropped back, but then rallied in an untidy group in the centre of the battery under the urging of their officer.

  ‘Marines will halt!’ ordered Macpherson. ‘Present arms! Single volley, fire!’ The night was lit by a line of stabbing flame as the muskets crashed out, and several of the defenders fell to the ground, including the officer. More sailors had surged in behind the marines and they spread out to either side of the scarlet block, fingering their weapons.

  ‘Marines will charge!’ yelled the Scot, and with a surge the remorseless line of glittering bayonets swept forwards again. It was too much for the last of the defenders. With a clatter of steel on cobbles, they lay down their weapons and backed away, their hands held aloft.

  ‘Well done, Evans,’ said Preston, as he walked through the gate. ‘You took your time, but we got there in the end.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied the Londoner. He wiped sweat from his brow, in spite of the chill air.

  ‘Mr Russell! Go and find Mr Taylor and tell him, with my complements, that the Titan can come into the bay and take the prize. Mr Powell has the signal rocket.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the midshipman, and he dashed off back through the gate.

  ‘You men, follow me,’ said Preston. ‘Let us see about disabling some of these guns.’ He strode into the captured battery, slipped and almost fell, but managed to recover himself.

  ‘Damnation!’ he exclaimed. He looked down at the pool of blood he had trodden in and saw the body of the Spanish sergeant.

  ‘Have a care, sir,’ said Evans. ‘The way is easier on this side of the arch.’

  ‘Was that Grainger again, Evans?’ asked Preston. ‘What is it with that man and the slashing of throats?’

  ‘I am not entirely sure, sir,’ replied the sailor. ‘It does answer well to silence a man with speed. That there sergeant was bent on raising the alarm when he was struck down.’

  ‘No matter,’ said the lieutenant. ‘He did do a tolerable job upon the soldier who guarded the cliff path. I certainly prefer to think of him being on our side of a fight than that of the enemy.’

  Chapter 6

  Naples

  ‘No treasure at all?’ queried O’Malley, his face aghast. ‘How can that fecking be? Old Amos said he heard the Grunters speak of it, as plain as plain!’

  ‘I was there when the hold was first broke into, and let me tell’ee, we was that desperate to find the loot, we nearly rolled the ship over,’ said Trevan. ‘It were like the sack of Rome. Bales and boxes everywhere, but we never found so much as a bent groat in the whole ship. Just bundles of tents and cooking gear, and no shortage of them neither.’

  ‘It will still make a fine prize,’ said Rosso. ‘Big well founded ship like that, full of military stores. She’ll be condemned for sure. It’s a shame about the money an’ all, but I never quite believed it. Even if Amos heard it right, how would the Grunters have known that this ship they had never so much as clapped eyes on would be full of treasure?’

  ‘Through spies and such like,’ insisted the Irishman. ‘He’s a fecking deep one that Pipe. He had us waiting off that cape just at the moment the snow showed up.’ Rosso snorted at this.

  ‘Well that’s rot! It was pure chance! There must be any number of merchant ships on this coast. Besides, if he was as deep as all that, with spies an’ all, how was it that we wound up capturing a snow with no treasure on board?’ O’Malley scratched at his shirt for a moment, but was unable to find a fault in his friend’s logic. Instead he rounded on the figure of Evans, who was knelt down on the deck and had pulled all his possessions from out of his kit bag.

  ‘What are you about, Sam?’ he asked. ‘You’ve had your head stuck in that fecking bag since we came off watch.’ The Londoner sat back on his haunches and glared at his messmates.

  ‘That’s because some bastard has been and taken all of me bleeding chink,’ he growled. ‘I had six crowns in my purse when we left Gibraltar, now I can’t find any.’

  ‘Who would have been and done that, Sam?’ asked Trevan. ‘Are you sure you didn’t give it to a whore before we left, like?’

  ‘Nah! We wasn’t that pissed,’ he said. ‘It were only the afternoon, and any road, what kind of doxy costs that bleeding much? I remember paying the one I had, and then I stowed my purse, and it was definitely full of chink. Now look at it.’ He held up the small leather bag for inspection.

  ‘No, you’re at low tide for sure,’ said Trevan peering in. ‘Are you certain now? You’ve not just been an’ lost it? Be it in your other jacket?’

  ‘Six whole crowns!’ he exclaimed. ‘I ain’t able to chuck me money around like bleeding Midas, you know.’

  ‘That’s a fecking disgrace,’ said O’Malley. ‘One shipmate stealing from another? I call that as low as it gets.’

  ‘No, that is proper bad,’ said Trevan. ‘Ain’t like we earn that much in the first place. It do seems strange, mind, to have a cutpurse on board all of a sudden like.’

  ‘Or perhaps not so strange,’ said Rosso. He indicated where the bearded figure of Grainger sat at a separate mess table.

  ‘You all seem very thoughtful,’ rumbled a bass voice from behind them. The men turned to find the figure of Sedgwick, his shoulders stooped under the low beams, with his journal tucked under one arm.

  ‘We’re after reflecting on lost silver, in all its forms,’ sighed O’Malley. ‘First there was Amos’s fabled treasure as never fecking was, and now Big Sam says he has been robbed of si
x crowns.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Sedgwick. ‘Now that is interesting. Yesterday Stephenson was saying how he had some money taken. Mind, it would be a brave thief that would risk being caught stealing from you, Sam.’

  ‘Too bleeding right,’ growled the Londoner. ‘Stephenson too, eh? I told you I wasn’t making it up. You lads keep your eyes skinned, and a hand on your own purses.’

  ‘Best report it, and let the Grunters sort it out,’ said the coxswain. ‘Rosie, you ready to help me with my journal now?’

  ‘Sure I am,’ said Rosso. ‘Let’s shove off to a quieter berth.’ The two men found an unoccupied mess table towards the stern end of the lower deck, and sat down next to each other. It was early afternoon, and enough daylight came down through the grating above their heads to illuminate the table top. Rosso waited for his friend to open the journal, but instead Sedgwick looked around the deck with care.

  ‘Rosie,’ he said, ‘before we get back to my writing, I need to ask you something. This lad from Bristol as has joined the ship. How well do you know him?’

  ‘Daniel Oates? I can’t say as he is much of an acquaintance at all. He seemed a bit lost when he joined the barky, and kind of latched on to me when he heard my Bristol accent.’

  ‘Does he know anything about your past?’ asked Sedgwick. ‘About why you changed your name and ran away to sea?’ It was Rosso’s turn to look around at this.

  ‘Course not,’ he whispered. ‘It’s only my close mates as knows that: you, Sean, Sam and Adam.’

  ‘Well, just you keep it that way,’ urged Sedgwick. ‘On New Year’s Eve I was on my way back from the heads when I heard that little shit. He was talking to someone, hard by the galley. He was asking them for money in exchange for keeping his mouth shut.’

  ‘Who was it?’ gasped Rosso. Sedgwick shook his head.

  ‘I couldn’t rightly hear. He spoke that low and angry it was difficult to place, but the other man was definitely Oates. He was proper bullying him, too. He may play the dumb volunteer, but that is so much gammon, I reckon.’

  ‘You have my thanks for the warning, Able,’ said Rosso. He sat back from the table and puffed out his cheeks. ‘You’re right, I do need to be more careful. That’s the last time I go drinking with young Oates. You never can tell what may slip when you’ve had a mug of grog too many. Shall we see how you are getting on with your story?’ Sedgwick drew the book towards him and opened the cover.

  ‘I have made a fair start,’ he said. ‘I thought to first set down where I come from. This part here is about when I was a nipper in Africa, so people will get me better. What do you think?’

  ‘That’s a right good way to set about it,’ agreed his friend. ‘Folk at home have no notion of foreign parts. They’ll think of your kind as savages, living a life of dissipation and vice. If you can show it to be more like what they are about, that’s all to the good. Let’s have a read.’ Rosso scanned through the pages of closely spaced lines.

  ‘This is very good, Able,’ said Rosso after awhile. ‘You and your uncle being fisherman sounds very proper, as does all that about families and houses and the like. Makes it sound like a civilised village anywhere.’ He flipped over a page and read on. ‘And you have hit the mark with this here wedding of your brother. Good Christian folk will like to hear about you having those. Ah, but they might not be so taken with this bit here, with all that witchcraft. Best not to sail too close to that wind.’

  ‘Do you not think so?’ asked Sedgwick, ‘You don’t reckon I should show how we has religion too?’

  ‘But folk will think your religion is no more than wickedness,’ explained Rosso. ‘They hold as ours to be the only proper one. I wouldn’t go rattling along about any of that, if I were you.’

  ‘Alright,’ said Sedgwick. ‘I shall take that bit out. Then over here I come to the point when my village was attacked by a rival tribe, and we were captured and taken to the slavers' compound.’

  ‘Hold steady a moment!’ said Rosso. ‘Are you saying that it was fellow Negros as sold you into slavery?’

  ‘Yes, but from a different tribe,’ explained the coxswain. ‘One that proper hated my people. It is much like you are always fighting the French. Only they would have done it out of greed, for the trade goods of the slavers.’

  ‘Well, that may be all fine and true I am sure, Able, but you need to be careful,’ said Rosso. ‘Don’t you see how plantation owners and the like will make use of such talk, if you sets it down like that? Why, they shall say as how slavery is quite the norm, amongst Negroes in Africa, cause look‘ee here, even the Abolitionists are obliged to say that it’s so. And then they might say as how, if slavery be the natural state of your Negro, is us profiting by it such a base thing?’

  Able sat back and stared at Rosso. ‘I just want to set down the truth. My story is of how a great wrong was done against me. Surely I have only to tell it straight?’

  ‘Is your mark to tell the truth, or are you after bringing an end to slavery?’

  ‘Can I not aim to do both?’ said the coxswain.

  ‘You could try, but it may not answer nearly as well. That’s how politicking works, mate. Keep the message plain. Nothing too complicated like.’

  ‘So I am not to offend the God-fearing, with talk of religions,’ exclaimed Sedgwick, pushing the book away. ‘Nor speak the truth about how I was taken. Is that how it should be? I must be fearful in what I says? What manner of freedom is this? I know you are only trying to help, Rosie, but this story won’t answer for me unless what I tell is what happened. I am who I am. I took back my freedom from that bastard Haynes, and I want to tell my story. If people choose to use my words against me, or to dislike parts of the tale, so be it. But I must set it down, straight and true, as best I can recall.’

  Rosso looked at his friend, and saw the stubborn resolve in his eye. After a moment he stretched his hand across the table and drew back the book till it was in front of them once more.

  ‘Very well, Able,’ he said. ‘Let it be the truth then, and damn the eyes of the lot of them. So what happened next?’

  *****

  Even on a blustery afternoon in February, the Bay of Naples looked beautiful. The rain that had fallen since early morning had been pushed aside by the wind, and some watery sunshine had broken through the blanket of cloud to sparkle off the tops of the little green waves. Out at sea, lines of islands had appeared through the murk. Closer at hand the curved sweep of the shore was lined with whitewashed villas, their terracotta roofs polished clean by the last shower. Deeper into the city the tall bell towers of numerous churches rose above the roofs, while farther back still loomed the massive block of San Elmo castle, high on its wooded hill.

  ‘I am afraid you are not able to see the city quite at its best captain,’ said a rich voice from behind him. ‘When the weather is warm the bay is a tolerable shade of blue, with diverse little boats out on the water. And over there, behind the castle, one can normally see our volcano.’ Clay turned from the large window of the villa to see a lady in her early thirties, dressed in a plain white dress that was cut tighter than the current fashion so that the folds of thin muslin clung to the curves of her body. A pair of large dark eyes appraised Clay from beneath a mass of thick, coiling brown hair, a long wisp of which curled down one side of her face.

  ‘Do I have the pleasure of addressing Lady Hamilton?’ he asked.

  ‘Please, do call me Emma,’ she said, as she came forward and held out a delicate white hand for him to kiss.

  ‘Captain Alexander Clay, at your ladyship’s service.’ He brushed his lips against the back of her hand, aware all the time of those liquid eyes upon him. His nostrils filled with her perfume, lilac with a hint of something muskier.

  ‘You seem very young to be a post captain,’ she said.

  ‘I have been fortunate in the matter of promotion, Lady Emma,’ he said. ‘I was made post in ninety-six after a successful action with a Spanish ship of the line when I was eight and
twenty.’

  ‘How splendidly heroic!’ she exclaimed, clasping her hands to her bosom. ‘Was it a particularly bloody affair?’

  ‘Eh, I suppose it was,’ said Clay. ‘I took a bullet in the shoulder, and we had—’

  ‘Did you now?’ Lady Hamilton’s eyes grew even larger with interest. ‘Oh, you poor man! I trust you are quite recovered?’

  ‘Yes, I am now. Thank you for your ladyship’s concern.’

  ‘Do you know, we had another injured naval captain who came to stay a few years back,’ she mused. ‘He was a charming little man, but he would talk on and on in the most frightful rural accent, principally about himself. He had been injured in one eye, as I recall. It looked quite black, like that of a fish, but his other eye was rather handsome. A fetching shade of blue, if I am not mistaken.’

  ‘I believe you may refer to Sir Horatio Nelson, Lady Emma. He has lost an arm now too.’

  ‘Goodness, has he really?’ she exclaimed. ‘Poor man! I wonder what will remain of him when he should next chance to call?’

  ‘Do you make such detailed observations about all your visitors?’ smiled Clay. ‘If so I must take care in what I say.’

  ‘Only those with which I truly become intimate, Captain,’ said Lady Hamilton. ‘The question is whether you will permit my acquaintance with you to develop in that fashion?’ The pink tip of her tongue flashed for a moment in the corner of her mouth. ‘Will you?’ she asked, her head held on one side as she looked at him.

  ‘Sir William is ready to see you now, Capitano,’ announced the bewigged footman who had marched into the salon. Clay let out a sigh of relief and stood up.

  ‘My apologies, Lady Emma, but I must see your husband.’

  ‘Oh, now I suppose you will be locked away for the rest of the day, talking only of politics and war,’ pouted his hostess. ‘It is all very vexing. When you are done, I shall insist on you returning to see me, captain. I will trouble you for a proper account of this battle of yours. We get so few visitors since this wretched war has prevented anyone from touring on the continent.’