‘Good luck there, Able,’ called Trevan. ‘We be ready when you are.’ Sedgwick returned his attention to the sea, holding on to the shrouds and leaning out to peer down. Big green waves surged backwards and forwards against the side of the ship in a foaming melee. The dive he would have to make shrank to a matter of five feet, before growing with the next trough to a dizzy thirty or more. When is the best moment to leap, he wondered?
‘Not yet, Able,’ said a voice beside him in answer to his thoughts. He looked around to see John Grainger adjust a line around his waist and pull himself up into the chains beside him. ‘These waves will dash us to pieces against the ship’s side long before we can swim clear. Captain’s going to set a scrap of jib to turn the barky across the wind a trifle and give us a bit of shelter.’
‘I didn’t know you was a swimmer?’
‘Nor I you,’ said Grainger, the rain soaking his beard. ‘I can swim like an eel.’ Sedgwick looked at the newcomer’s body, long, lean and whipcord.
‘I dare say you can,’ he said and returned his attention to the sea. The ship had angled round a little now, producing a calmer triangle of water beneath them. Sedgwick drew in a deep breath and tumbled forward in a shallow dive.
He had been braced for the sea to be stinging cold as it rippled across his body, but he was surprised by how warm it was. It was late May now, and in spite of the storm the water was strangely pleasant. Then his head broke the surface, and chaos was all around him. One moment a glass green wave reared over him, next a valley opened up beside him to swallow him whole. Blinding white foam, thick as spittle, was driven by the wind into his eyes. He struck out in a powerful over arm stroke, to impose some control, but every few breaths his head would turn up for air only to draw in a mouth full of choking sea water. Within a few moments he realised he had no idea in which direction the wreck lay.
‘Able,’ came a voice in the storm. He looked around, and for a brief moment saw Grainger as a wave swept him aloft. ‘Take... your mark...ship...,’ he heard. He trod water for a moment, rising up and swooping down in the monstrous swell and looked about him. Of course, the Titan! There she lay, her normally towering masts oddly shortened with their top third brought down on deck, but the one solid thing in this mad, mad sea. He thought about which direction the wreck had been in when he was on board, and placing the frigate behind his left shoulder, he struck out anew.
Each time he came up for breath, he glanced back towards the ship, adjusting his angle a little. With something certain to reassure him his confidence grew, and swimming became a little easier. He started to gain a feel for the rhythm of the sea. It was not completely random, and if he adjusted the moment that he twisted his head up for air, he could use the tiny lee of a passing wave to draw breath. Occasionally he saw Grainger’s head, a blob of dark hair in the white foam, falling behind him as the swam. So much for the eel, he muttered to himself. On and on he swam, fighting through each fresh wave as it tried to suck him back. Now he could feel his arms and legs starting to tire with the demand he was making of them. With every fresh stroke the ship became more and more distant, and the ever lengthening line around his waist grew heavier, drawing him down into the thick green water.
Just at the point when he thought he could go no farther, he caught a glimpse of something dark ahead, a flash of black amongst the waves. He struggled on with renewed vigour against the resistance of the line. Stroke by stroke, he pushed an arm forward, seeming to haul the wreck ever nearer till the black arc of the upturned hull filled his vision. A final surge of the waves brought him crashing up against it. He cried out in pain and desperately tried to grab on. His body urged him to rest, the ache in his limbs becoming overwhelming, but the wreck was covered in slimy green weed. He felt the barnacles and shells that studded the ship’s bottom tear at the skin of his hands and arms as he was dragged along by the waves. In desperation he curled his feet around and thrust himself clear, back into the wild sea.
Now swimming was agony. The salt water bit at the fresh wounds in his hands. His limbs were leaden with exhaustion and his right arm had been badly wrenched against the stone-hard wood of the hull. He forced himself to tread water while he took stock, gasping for air as he did so. Then Grainger appeared beside him, his eyes wide and desperate as he struck out for the upturned hull. He swept past Sedgwick.
‘No! Not… there!’ he choked, but the exhausted swimmer was beyond caring. Grainger’s line snaked past his thigh and Sedgwick grabbed it. He pulled him to a halt and then hauled in on the rope till the two men came together in the sea.
‘What… fuck… doing?’ gasped Grainger, his face twisted with anger, his arm pulled back to strike. Sedgwick briefly broke the surface with one arm, and held a torn and bloody hand to the other man’s face.
‘Hull… no good,’ he yelled. ‘No grip. Go… round. Follow… me.’ The rage faded from Grainger’s eyes and he followed as Sedgwick swam away in a wide circle around the wreck.
When they reached the far side, they saw the piece of broken yard, thick and heavy, as it jerked about in the water beside the hull. Of the two survivors they had seen clinging to it from the ship, one man had vanished. The two rescuers slumped across the curve of wood, barely less exhausted than the sailor they had come to rescue. For the first few minutes they could do little but gasp for breath as they clung on. Then Sedgwick pushed himself up in the water and looked around for the second man, but there was no trace of him in the wild sea all about them. He turned his attention to the first sailor. He was barely conscious at all. His head had a nasty cut were it had struck against the wood, and his fingers were manic claws locked into a knot of cable on the far side of the beam.
‘Help get him free,’ yelled Sedgwick over the roar of water all around them. He threw a protective arm around the man, and digit by digit they prised him loose. The sailor flopped back off the spa and into the coxswain’s arms.
‘Ready to go back?’ he bellowed. Grainger was too tired to answer, but nodded weakly. ‘I’ll, take him. You signal to the ship.’
Sedgwick braced himself to go, but now the moment had come it was almost impossible to make himself push away from the spa, and let go of the only place of sanctuary in a wild, wild world. He felt more tired than he had ever done, and the Titan looked so far away. A wave surged over them, and as they emerged spluttering from the foaming water, he dropped backwards from the yard. His arms were locked around the sailor and his legs kicked frantically to keep them both afloat. He saw Grainger wave towards the ship, and moments later he felt a firm pressure on the line as he was drawn back through the waves.
*****
‘How are they?’ asked Clay.
‘More than half drowned, but alive, sir,’ said Taylor. ‘Mr Corbett is treating them down in the sick bay, along with the sailor they rescued. Sedgwick is quite cut about the hands and arms, and both men are utterly spent, but the surgeon believes they will recover.’ Clay looked at the worsening sea and the waves that surged and roared past them.
‘It was uncommon brave of them to hazard all in that fashion,’ he said. ‘I doubt I would have, even if I were a swimmer.’
‘Nor I, sir,’ replied Armstrong from his other side. ‘And I can swim, after a fashion.’
‘I shall take this as a warning not to risk the ship in your storm, Mr Armstrong,’ said Clay. ‘I daresay our message can wait for it to blow itself out. Do you suppose this gale may have done for the French?’ The master shook his head.
‘These Mediterranean storms are of short duration, and often very local,’ he said. ‘The French might be passing down the other side of Sardinia right now under blue skies and a fair wind, with never a hint of the tempest that rages on this side of the island.’
Jacob Armstrong was correct about the storm. They followed it southwards through the night, the sea rough and the wind howling around them, but the worst of the storm was always ahead. The southern horizon flickered with white light to within a few hours of dawn, and then t
he storm blew itself out as quickly as it had sprung up. The following morning the Titan arrived at the squadron rendezvous, under a cloudless sky swept clear by the departing gale. The sea had settled back to a deep blue, flecked with dazzling white as the last of the choppy waves clashed and broke around the frigate.
‘Land! Land ho!’ yelled the lookout.
‘Masthead there!’ yelled Taylor. ‘Any sign of the squadron?’
‘No, sir,’ came the lookout’s reply. ‘Nothing in sight, baring the land off the larboard bow.’
‘That will be Cape Pecora, sir,’ said Armstrong. ‘We are at the rendezvous right enough.’
Clay looked about him. ‘Very well, Mr Armstrong. If you were off this point yesterday when that storm struck, where might you have gone for shelter?’
The master stroked his chin for a moment before he replied. ‘If it was bad, I might have fled before it, in which case I would be many miles to leeward by now,’ he said. ‘Or if I had urgent need of relief I might have sought out the shelter of the bay that lies behind the Cape.’
‘Let us go there then, and see if the Vanguard’s master was of your way of thinking.’
The frigate came round onto her new course, and the coast of Sardinia grew from a faint smudge into a solid bar on the eastern horizon. After a few hours of sailing a fresh hail came from the masthead.
‘Deck there!’ yelled the lookout. ‘I can see the masts of some ships, sir, in a bay three points off the bow. Big ships by my reckoning.’
‘Is it the squadron?’ yelled Clay.
‘Could be, sir, but I only see the two sets of masts, mind.’
‘Up you go with a spy glass, Mr Russell. Tell me what you can see.’
Aye aye, sir,’ replied the midshipman. A few minutes later there was a fresh hail from the masthead.
‘Deck there!’ cried Russell. ‘It’s the squadron alright. The two ships are the Orion and the Alexander, and I can see the hull of the flagship now, too.’ Armstrong and Clay exchanged glances.
‘What do you mean, Mr Russell?’ called the captain. ‘Why can you only see the Vanguard’s hull?’
‘Because she looks to have been dismasted, sir.’
*****
‘Larboard side, sir?’ asked Sedgwick from beside him in the stern sheets of the barge. ‘They seem to be a mite busy aboard.’ Clay looked towards the approaching flagship. Even at this range he could hear the sound of hammering and sawing as the crew worked to repair the damage of the storm. The Orion was warped close alongside, and her main yard was being used as the arm of a crane to draw free the stump of the Vanguard’s foremast. As he looked it swung free, the top shattered like a broken tusk. Sedgwick was right, the crew would be grateful not to have to gather to perform the naval ceremony that usually accompanied the arrival of a visiting captain.
‘Yes, make it so,’ he said, and the coxswain pushed the tiller over with one of his injured hands. A slight flicker of pain crossed his face before he settled on the new course.
The bay was wide and sheltered, with a fringe of white sandy beach lining the shore. Farther back the land rose in a series of scrub covered hills. Moored by the entrance to the bay, the Alexander sat squat on her reflection in the blue water, her guns guarding against any enemy that might arrive to take the dismasted Vanguard at a disadvantage. Clay examined the side of the lofty flagship as they drew closer. A wall of black and yellow loomed up over him, cutting off the light of the sun.
‘Easy all,’ growled Sedgwick. ‘In oars!’ The barge slid along the ship’s side and came to a halt next to the entry port ladder. ‘Hook on in the bow,’ said the coxswain. He reached over to steady the stern of the boat, but then stopped himself.
‘Here, clap on for me, Abbott,’ he said, holding a bandaged hand under the nearest crewman’s nose.
‘Aye aye, Cox,’ said the man, and Clay turned to examine the slats of wood that rose like a ladder above him with care. The bottom few were steep and slippery with weed, but once past those he could see that the pronounced tumble home of the hull would make matters easier. He adjusted his cock hat, checked he still had his report tucked inside his coat, stood up in the boat and jumped across onto the ship’s side. A breathless scramble later he was onboard.
‘Captain Clay?’ said a well dressed midshipman with a shock of bright ginger hair. ‘Captain Berry apologises for not being here to greet you himself, but he is otherwise engaged.’ He waved a hand forward where a large man was shouting orders. Clay could see lines of men straining at various cables grouped around the forecastle. ‘Will you come with me, sir, and I will take you below to the admiral.’ The visitor followed the young officer across a deck strewn with wood chips and sawdust, weaving his way past teams of carpenters as they worked away, shaping various new spars.
‘I fear you find my flagship in a quite shocking state, Clay,’ said Nelson as he rose from behind his desk to greet his visitor. ‘Can I offer you a little of this Madeira in consolation?’
‘Thank you, Sir Horatio,’ he said, turning to accept a small crystal glass from the steward beside him. ‘We were fortunate only to catch the tail end of the storm on our way here, but we did come across a wrecked Genoese merchantman. From the state of the swell it appeared to have been uncommon savage.’
‘I have been through hurricanes in the Caribbean that were less troublesome!’ exclaimed the admiral. ‘We were very nearly wrecked ourselves. It descended on us so directly that poor Berry had little time to prepare for the onslaught. Then a squall almost had us on our beam ends. The main and mizzen topmasts went by the board, and we were obliged to cut free our whole foremast just to right the ship. After that we found ourselves being driven towards the lee shore, and were quite certain to be lost.’
‘Good lord!’ exclaimed Clay. ‘How did you survive, Sir Horatio?’
‘Captain Ball very handsomely closed with us and took us in tow, right at the height of the storm,’ he explained. ‘It was the damnedest piece of seamanship I ever saw. Then, at considerable risk to the Alexander, he dragged us free of the approaching land. It was touch and go for some time, I can tell you. At one stage I ordered him to cut us loose, as I thought both ships were certain to perish on the rocks, but he ignored me and carried on. The wind backed half a point and by that miracle we were saved.’ The admiral turned his good eye on his visitor. ‘It is strange how frequently I have felt our Maker’s influence in my affairs. Are you a religious man, Captain Clay?’ he asked.
‘I do believe in God, naturally, but I cannot claim to be especially fervent on matters of faith, sir.’
‘How many times have you fought the French?’ Clay thought about this for a moment.
‘Including on shore and various cutting out expeditions, perhaps twenty occasions, Sir Horatio.’
‘And how many times were you beat?’
‘I can’t say that I ever was.’
‘Then you should feel obliged to be a deal more religious than you are,’ snorted Nelson. ‘Twenty victories without so much as a single defeat? Do you truly perceive no divine influence in all of this?’ The admiral touched his empty sleeve and indicated his blank eye. ‘God knows I have paid a price for my triumphs, but strange to say, I still hold that the Divine watches over my affairs. That is why we came through the storm. He knows I still have a duty to perform for my country, and that is a comfort to me. Now, what have you to tell me of those wicked French?’
‘That they are out, Sir Horatio,’ said Clay. ‘We reached Toulon three days ago and found that their fleet had sailed. Warships, transports, every last one of them. I have a full report here.’ Clay pulled a sealed envelope out from the inside of his coat and placed it on the desk.
‘So soon!’ exclaimed Nelson. ‘I had hoped that my reinforcements might have arrived first. Do you have any notion where they may have gone?’
‘None at all, I am afraid, sir,’ he replied. ‘Other than that we encountered no French on our way to Toulon, so I doubt that they were bound for the A
tlantic.’
‘Mind you, even if we knew for certain where they were bound, I could achieve nothing against them at present,’ said the admiral. ‘I shall be stuck here for several days yet, completing my repairs, and in any event I cannot challenge the French until the other ships should arrive. But what I chiefly need is a base to operate from. This storm has shown how vulnerable we are with only Gibraltar to rely on. I need somewhere central in the Mediterranean where I can resupply and repair my ships.’
‘Would Naples serve, Sir Horatio?’ asked Clay.
‘Naples would answer very well,’ replied Nelson. ‘But they are currently a neutral. Would their government let me base myself there?’
‘They might, Sir Horatio,’ said Clay. ‘When I was there earlier this year I was resupplied by them. I also understand from Sir William Hamilton that the royal family may hate the French even more then you do. I spoke with him about the possibility of us using Naples when I was last there, and he pledged to make enquiries.’
‘I would be most obliged if you could conclude such an arrangement,’ said the admiral. ‘Do you think you can do it?’
‘I can at least try, sir. We shall hardly be worse off if they reject the notion. Send me there with your formal letter of introduction to their government and I will endeavour to accomplish what I can.’
‘I like your pluck, Clay,’ smiled Nelson. ‘You remind me of myself at your age. I will give you your letter, and let us see what you can achieve. Do you think their assistance might extend beyond just the provision of supplies and a port to operate from?’
‘What did you have in mind, Sir Horatio?’
‘A base is all well and good, but it will serve of little value if we cannot find the French,’ said the admiral. ‘Could they be persuaded to help me more directly? Say through the loan of some of their smaller craft to make searches for us. At present the Titan is the only such vessel I have. I can supply crews if necessary and they could operate under British colours.’
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