by Lee Henschel
As we waited, a westerly came on, blowing a moderate gale, and the water churned in a seething maelstrom, driven by an unseen fury slamming between the two ships. Towerlight ordered Captain Ramosa brought on deck. The man came on deck rumpled and disarranged. Mr. Starling had closed the gash in Ramosa’s cheek where Marley had smashed him, and he’d tied a cloth strip tight around Ramosa’s broken jaw to keep it from shifting. The Spaniard could not talk, yet held himself tall as Towerlight addressed him.
“Your men are about to be transferred to a prison ship and you’ll not be among them. This war is long and will now be even longer for them. So I will allow you to visit your men for a moment before the transfer begins. To encourage them.”
Ramosa shook his head decisive.
“Very well. Take him below.”
Mr. Lau watched Ramosa being escorted below. “That was good of you, lieutenant, to regard the prisoners in such a way. Why did you do it?”
“These men are Spaniards, Mr. Lau. They fought on our side not so long ago and perhaps they will again someday. Besides, I remember the prisoners we took off Bayonne in Mona Passage. Not a good thing, sir, being a prisoner of war.”
The transfer began—an arduous process at best and made more so because these prisoners knew no English and were slow to react to commands. Many were weak. One toppled from the barge and sank out of sight quick. The wind died and abysmal rain followed on, adding torment to misery. The whole undertaking dragged on through the afternoon and was not completed until the last dog watch. Finally Royal Anne’s barge officer signed for the prisoners, making sure the one who drowned had been scratched from his manifest. He signed for Royal Anne’s mail bag and the business was ended. It was growing dusk now, with dark clouds stacking, and not enough light to find the squadron’s flagship, Hydra. So the captain agreed to stay on and relieve Iona. The sloop had been standing by all afternoon and now must resume her duties. She would inform Hydra of our number, nine-four-one, and that we had captured a Spanish brig. We made through the night on station serving as Royal Anne’s outlier, both Eleanor and Santa Isadora making between her and the ninety gun Warspite, the nearest ship to leeward.
That evening Captain Cedric summoned me to his cabin. Mr. Lau sat with him.
“Tomorrow we shall make contact with Hydra. Admiral Tiverton will expect me to come onboard and he will likely invite me to dine. I will ask Gottlieb to join us. The admiral will be pleased to entertain someone with diplomatic status, and Gottlieb might appreciate the gilt of a Sea Lord’s stateroom as well.”
“Aye, sir.”
“This will leave both time and opportunity to discover the false bottom of Gottlieb’s sea trunk. Mr. Lau will be in charge of the operation. You will assist him.”
The sun rose over the Bay of Cadiz. The wind blew a fresh breeze, west by southwest. Soon we raised the offshore squadron of the Cadiz blockade, first-rates all, and all making full and by, bearing south by south. They always remained twenty miles off the Spanish coast lurking just below the horizon to deny Cadiz the benefit of sea trade, and in hopes the Franco-Spanish fleet might come out to fight.
We caught them up in little time. Santa Isadora sailed in our lee, and Mr. Botherall braced on her foretop playing Rule Britannia on his trumpet glorious loud as we made down the line. First came Ocean, then Queen Charlotte, Impregnable and Blenheim. Then Blenheim, Neptune and Glory. And then holding center most, Hydra. With ninety-eight guns she was no larger than the other first-rates but her stature was self-evident. She sailed excessive trim, as a flagship must. And over busy with her crew of eight hundred swarming about, many of them shooting off signal guns and flares and sending up any number of flag hoists, the whole thing remindful of a sea battle and a pageant conducted simultaneous.
Hoyer, serving as flag midshipman, was ordered to send up a hoist stating who we were and that we had a diplomatic passenger onboard. Soon a hoist came up on Hydra’s mizzen with our number. Close to hailing distance. It was a small hoist, and might have been overlooked in all the fuss, but the Eleanors watched sharp. We acknowledged and closed the gap.
A speaking trumpet hailed us. “Captain Cedric will report to Hydra. Lord Admiral Tiverton wishes to meet your passenger. You are both invited to dine with him. Santa Isadora will stand by to receive a relieving party. Mail barge underway.”
All Eleanors followed Captain Cedric’s gig curious as it made its way to Hydra. The captain had found an old boat maker in Portsmouth to build his gig out of heartwood left over from Eleanor’s oak keel. He was most fond of his gig, choosing to leave its hull unpainted, coated instead with many layers of China wood oil. It looked a spritely thing darting across the water, her gunnels, rowlocks and oars trimmed in white. I read HMS Eleanor stenciled on the transom. E-L-E-A-N-O-R. Oh! I read the thing! And all on my own self!
The captain’s gig was oared handsome by four strong backs, each man scrubbed clean and tricked out smart wearing blue blouses, white piping, white ducks creased. Ajax’s long silver white hair flew loose on the wind. He stood broad in the stern manning the tiller while Captain Cedric and Gottlieb sat athwart. The captain wore Best Uniform, an embroidered blue coat with white facings, cream waistcoat, white breaches and stockings, black shoes, cut steel buckles. His single epaulette glittered gold in the morning light, worn on his right shoulder to denote his rank. A canvas satchel holding the packet of fleet orders rested on his lap, his bicorne held firmly in place over them. Gottlieb wore his white cotton thawb and black damask espadrilles, beaded black. My uncle and Gottlieb looked resplendent after their own fashion, the captain returning the mail officer’s sharp salute when Hydra’s barge passed by and Gottlieb nodding calm.
There were many cutters and jolly boats calling on the flag ship that morning, all on fleet business, and Eleanor’s gig waited patient. Hydra’s busiest entry port was amidships, on her main gun deck. A grand porch of sorts, nearly thirty feet above the waterline. To accommodate captains and important visitors the bosuns had rigged portable stairs running alongside the hull, complete with a landing. Finally Captain Cedric’s gig hooked on. He set his hat proper, slung his satchel, then waited for the right moment, shifting onto the landing and up the stairs smart. He disappeared in the entry port and we heard the bosun’s whistle pipe him aboard. Gottlieb went up next, doing rather well for a man wearing a robe. He was followed close on by Ajax, who paused for a second at the entry port to look back at Eleanor. He nodded, then ducked in. That nod was meant for Mr. Lau, to make for the great cabin and commence searching.
I went below with Mr. Lau. Since Captain Cedric was not onboard Eleanor there was no marine posted at his quarters, so no one saw us enter the great cabin and lock the door behind us. I brought Mr. Lau to the chest stored in the port bunk room. It was a large trunk made from barrel staves three feet long and two feet wide and high. A domed top, with thick brass latches and hinges most heavy and toilsome as we dragged it clear. We opened it without delay. The false bottom stood obvious simple to someone expecting to see it and Mr. Lau was about to remove the tier when I noticed a black hair stuck in place along the inside lining.
“Mr. Lau, please wait, sir. I see something.”
“What, boy? What is it?”
I pointed to the hair. “There’s a thin black hair stuck in place, sir.”
He frowned, adjusting his glasses. “Right you are, lad. And good on you! I’d not have seen it with my weak eyes. No doubt it has a purpose.”
“I think so, sir. If it’s displaced he’ll know someone’s tampered. Father used to mark his money box that way. I thought it was a farrier’s trick, but now I see others know it, too.”
“We must not to allow Gottlieb to think we’ve disturbed his trunk, so take good measure to replace it when we’re through.”
I removed the hair and set it aside careful. The false bottom lifted out easy and exposed the queerest thing. A grey slab lying flat and wedged fast into a corner to keep it from shifting. It had three sides only, to fit the c
orner snug. Five inches thick, the size of a generous roast of beef. This was solid stone though, and probably weighed fifty pounds easy. Its edges were uneven and jagged rough, as if broken away. What stood out was one flat surface facing up—markings, hundreds of them, etched in tight rows all, and orderly.
“What marks are those, Mr. Lau?”
Mr. Lau squinted, massaging his wen. Eleanor creaked and groaned, a vague laugh filtered down through the gratings, and the whoosh and pop of another signal flair sounded from Hydra before he finally replied.
“Glyphs.”
“Sir?”
“Letters.”
“I’ve not seen these letters before.”
“No doubt you haven’t. They’re ancient. Greek, or Etruscan.”
“Can you read them, sir?”
“No. Well, some. They makes no sense, though. It may take quite some time for me to decipher this.”
“Why are they cut in this stone, sir?”
“I’m not sure. It may be part of a stela.”
“A stela, sir?”
“Aye. A stone etched with words of great importance. Edicts and such. They’re meant to last. Most are quite old, made long before the science of man and our age of reason. I suspect this may be a piece of a larger stela that broke off long ago, only to become lost.”
“Is this the ghoti, sir?”
“No, lad. A good thought none the less. I’m quite certain you shall come across the ghoti’s meaning before long, but not in this object.”
“Why would Gottlieb have this, sir? And hide it.”
“Enough, boy. Go you now and fetch some foolscap from my cabin. Bottom drawer, left. And a pencil. I shall make a rubbing.”
“Aye, sir.” I made to leave.
“On your way be sure Gottlieb’s still on Hydra. Remind the deck officer to give us warning of his return. Three rapid knocks on the quarterdeck.”
“Aye, sir.”
I beat feet. On the quarterdeck I slowed to take measure of the captain’s gig. It was still hooked on at Hydra. I moved on smart until I was forced to stand aside for a detail of marines being encouraged by Sergeant Archalatta, explaining to his marines that they were escorting Captain Ramosa for transfer to Hydra . . . for interrogation, and then to be tried and hanged. The Spaniard struggled until a marine knocked him to the deck and Sergeant Archalatta stood over him.
“Tie his hands behind. I’ll have the bosun rig the chair . . . we’ll sway this one into the cutter.”
I squeezed by them, passing the small cabin where Reggie had worked and slept. I paused to look in. Poor Reggie. A good mate. His death seemed it just happened, not twelve days past! I backed away. Mr. Lau’s temporary cabin was opposite. His usual quarters were the starboard gallery cabin, but Captain Cedric slept there for as long as Gottlieb was a passenger. These quarters were much smaller but Mr. Lau was also small. He didn’t require much room.
I fetched the foolscap and graphite then hastened back, checking once more for the captain’s gig to make double-sure she was still at Hydra. Still there, probably dining by now with the admiral. But for how long? I made haste.
In the great cabin I saw Mr. Lau’s head, pink and bald with his stiff white hair sticking out over large ears as he bent over in the trunk. He heard me and brought himself out quick.
“What took you, boy? We’ve not got all day.”
I told him.
He nodded. “See here, then. To make an accurate rubbing we must lift the thing out and place it flat on the deck. I’ve taken account of just how it lies and we must replace it exact. But the thing is basalt . . . heavy to move.”
“Shall I fetch a marine to help us, sir? They’re all over strong.”
“You will not. Captain Cedric wants this kept private. No written orders. No log entries. A captain can inspect whatever and whoever he wants onboard his ship, including passengers. But Gottlieb has diplomatic status, and to search his personal space without his knowledge might have repercussions if it were found out. That means no marines jacking their jaws. We shall lift the thing out together. You and I.”
After we set down the stela I thought to ask Mr. Lau the question still vexing me. “I wonder, sir, why the captain wishes me to remain here after we’ve completed our task.”
“It will be quite normal for Gottlieb to return and find you here. And the captain wants Gottlieb to see the normal.”
“Why, sir?”
“Gottlieb is a wary man. Why else would he be hiding something in the bottom of his trunk? If he sees you here and notices something’s not just as it was when he left, well he may wonder about that, but he’ll be apt to think it’s just you going about you duties and not setting his things back in place.”
“If he suspects, sir, I will look over guilty.”
“No doubt of that. You have an honest face . . . young and easy to read. So let’s make use of that honest face by having it betray your guilt over a simple mistake made while going about your duties. Such as this.”
Mr. Lau pulled a vial from his waistcoat and handed it to me.
“Lamp oil. Spill a drop or two on his prayer rug. Do it now.”
I did.
“Surely he’ll notice that. But it’s an honest accident, don’t you see. After all, one must keep the glims full. And surely accident enough to stir a bit of guilt in a cabin boy. This way your guilt will be honest . . . yet your truthful face will only betray a half truth.”
“Aye, sir. But if . . .”
“No more!”
Someone fired the captain’s Prélat for the noon sighting and eight bells rang out. We wondered if the admiral preferred to dine before the noon sighting, or after. Either way we held steady to our task. It took the next half-hour for Mr. Lau to produce three rubbings fair and complete. He sent me to his cabin once more for a ledger and several folios of best parchment. On my way aft I saw the captain’s gig still hooked on, and her oarsmen chatting casual with Hydra’s crew. Even so, an admiral mustn’t dine forever, and I scurried on. Mr. Lau folded the parchment into sleeves and gently placed each rubbing into its own sleeve and inserted them, one by one, deep in the ledger.
He began a forth rubbing just as three rapid knocks sounded on the quarterdeck. We replaced the slab and wedged it in most heedful. Mr. Lau replaced the false bottom. I wet the black hair and stuck it precise. We closed the trunk and just as we had it placed all proper the deck officer hailed the captain’s gig. We made one last sweep. Mr. Lau departed and I began a slow inspection of Gottlieb’s prayer rug, with a drop of lamp oil in one corner.
Chapter Twelve
On their return, Captain Cedric and Gottlieb made room for one more passenger. Lieutenant Lockhart. The man had just passed his exam for lieutenant and Admiral Tiverton had lost no time in posting him to Eleanor to serve as her fourth officer. Most frigates had at least four officers. They were supposed to have even more but the war against Bonaparte had dragged on for years, depleting the Realm of her resources, especially naval officers.
Lockhart looked about twenty, baby-faced and still showing little need to shave. He was of moderate build but somewhat round, as he retained a good deal of baby-fat. He removed his bicorne to reveal long, curly white hair, a cerebral brow and observant eyes. His day uniform, as yet bare of rank or insignia, carried the smell of camphor from ship’s storage. His kit was humble small, and he stood on deck unpretentious, though his face brimmed with joy for being a lieutenant now, and the good fortune to serve on a frigate, a coveted assignment among all officers and men. Captain Cedric introduced Lockhart to his fellow officers and then barked out a long string of commands.
“Mr. Lau, this wind is favorable and we will get underway instanter. Set a course for Cape Trafalgar. Lay on all sail including all stud sails.”
The wind blew a fresh breeze from the Atlantic. The captain studied the sky for a moment longer, then went below.
The wind came on Eleanor’s best quarter now and straightway she showed her heels to the offshore
squadron. The leadsman called nine knots . . . then ten. By the time the captain returned to the quarterdeck we had put all the first-rates hull down. Soon we raised the Cadize Blockade’s last outlier, Phoebe, but drove steady on, only signaling who we were, that there was mail for them aboard Hydra, and that a new code book was on the way.
I awaited Gottlieb in the great cabin and when he entered, he barely looked around, going instead for his prayer rug. I knew he’d missed noon prayers and probably wished to atone.
“Why is there lamp oil on my prayer rug?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I spilled when I filled your lantern. I think I can get it out, though.”
“Please do so after I pray. I’ve requested Lieutenant Kyle to join me this evening after dinner to discuss the Otra Nova mission. You will serve me dinner then remain in quarters.”
“Aye, sir. Did you dine with Admiral Tiverton, sir?”
“Unfortunately a roast of pork was the main dish.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I know you don’t eat a pig.”
“The admiral was gracious enough to offer a side of what he called heava cakes. His cook also prepared fresh eggs from the admiral’s own chickens.”
“Did Captain Cedric enjoy his roast pork, sir?”
“Captain Cedric was unable to join us.”
“Why?”
“He was occupied giving testimony to be read into Captain Ramosa’s trial. At first the admiral insisted Captain Cedric be present for the trial which will begin this afternoon but the captain explained he was under orders to make best speed to Gibraltar. The captain was also required to sign over Santa Isadora. It all took time. And then it was time to leave.”