That morning at breakfast Mary insisted that he should consider this house his home. Once he returned from his voyage with Francis they would live happily together. As David rode away he was deeply troubled and a little ashamed of what he had inadvertently allowed this woman to believe. For the moment, however, it would give her something to look forward to. He would deal with the problem when he returned.
As David climbed through the entry port from the gig, Lieutenant Martin informed him that his marines had no spare flints for their muskets; the stores had been ordered and delivered but now could not be found. Mr. Clark told him that one of the men from the prison had tried to escape and was now in irons and that the ship’s surgeon, a Mr. Woods, had come on board. David had just sat at his desk when Jones came in from the pantry to inform him that the cook would not let him have the cabin stores. Captain Fletcher smiled to himself; this was where he belonged.
The cook insisted that the cabin stores were issued by the purser; the purser maintained that the stores had been released and had been delivered to the cook. The problem was not helped when Jones shouted that the cook was a dirty, fat, old bastard. David ordered that the stores were to be delivered to Jones; he did not care if they were the original stores but would be very upset if the purser’s books did not balance when examined.
The new surgeon, Mr. Woods, proved to be a young, quietly spoken man who believed that working on a king’s ship would be a chance to advance his knowledge and improve his health. This was a somewhat unusual approach in David’s experience.
Chaney told him that if the flints had been delivered, he had not seen them. That night Jones informed David that he now had his stores, which included a bag of musket flints.
The next morning all was suddenly correct, as was the way with ships. She was stowed, her decks clear and Mr. Clark reported that he was ready to proceed.
Admiral Keyton’s orders arrived at noon and David ordered the readiness hoist one hour later. They received permission to proceed and making sail headed for the horizon.
CHAPTER 3
With twenty knots of easterly breeze, the Challenger flew down channel. The sail drill had been a little shabby and so Mr. Clark spent some time reorganizing his top-men before sending them aloft again. Before dark they had stowed and reset the topsails four times. He had also set the marines at the fore tacks instead of the braces. Lieutenant Martin thought this wrong.
‘If we are to form in haste,’ he said, ‘we will need more room.’ Also there was some argument as to the billeting of his marines. Whilst the ship was at anchor the arrangements had been satisfactory, he said, but now he wanted his men moved further amidships. David left the lieutenants to work it out between them.
For once the weather in the western approaches was perfect and the following morning David set the crew to gun drill. The ship had experienced gun captains and the drills very quickly began to show signs of rhythm.
Standing beside the ship’s wheel Captain Fletcher watched the drills; the sun shone and the breeze was fair.
The Challenger ploughed along at some seven knots and all was perfect in David’s world.
Mr. Woods walked over to him. ‘Good morning, Captain,’ he said. ‘Could I have a word?’
‘Yes, surgeon, how can I be of service?’ David replied.
‘One of the men is unwell, sir, and from my initial examination it seems that he might have smallpox.’
David’s morning was suddenly shattered.
They moved the man to the brig, it being the only place he could be kept alone, and made him comfortable. He was one of the prisoners from Portsmouth jail.
‘Can you be sure, Doctor?’ David asked.
‘Not yet,’ Woods replied, ‘but he has all the symptoms.’
The nearest port was Falmouth some fifty miles astern and more to the point, upwind. I will have to keep him on board and pray the outbreak can be contained, David decided. ‘Move his mess mates into the hold and keep them there, minimum contact.’
The crew’s moral tumbled; all clustered in groups with worried expressions, some showed actual fear.
‘Put them to work,’ David ordered. ‘Clean out the between decks. Take particular care of the area where those men lived and then more gun drill.’
He walked across to where the sailing master stood. ‘Set course for Lisbon, Mr. Samuel. We will decide what has to be done when we arrive.’ So saying David went to his cabin.
Jones came through from the pantry. ‘I’ve beef stew for your midday meal, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s fresh cooked and the bread is still a bit soft.’
‘Stay in the cabin and pantry area,’ David told him. ‘We might have smallpox on board.’
‘It’s alright, sir,’ Jones assured him. ‘It’s not smallpox, its prison pox. My father suffered from it until they hanged him. I noticed it on that man when he came on board; those marks will go away in a day or two.’
David looked at him for a few moments. ‘Your father was hanged, Jones?’ he asked in a quiet voice.
‘Yes, sir, he killed a man in a bar fight.’
‘How old were you at the time?’
‘Eleven, sir. Three years ago.’
‘What of your mother?’
‘I don’t remember her, sir.’
‘I see.’ David looked at him for a few moments. ‘Well, Jones, the ship’s doctor thinks it may well be smallpox.’
‘From the looks of him, I don’t think he’s seen too many prisons, sir.’ Jones laughed. ‘I’ll get your stew, sir.’
Once the boy had gone, David thought of his own mother and father and the love they had shown him. He had never before realized how lucky he had been. He remembered his mother’s tears when he had left and felt a twinge of guilt. I’ll talk to Mr. Woods about prison pox, he thought. David smiled when he remembered Jones’ comment about the surgeon not knowing prisons. That he was sure was true.
The following morning David changed his mind. Admiral Keyton’s orders had included instructions to call at Gibraltar; he was not sure how the rock commander would receive a plague ship, but he would stick to his orders.
The patient was no worse or better according to the surgeon, who had never heard of prison pox. ‘There are marks on the man’s body,’ he said, ‘that would clearly point to smallpox; he also has a fever.’
The day passed well with the gun drills steadily improving, the broadsides becoming faster, with fewer mistakes and interruptions. Moral seemed to rise as the men got over their initial shock and accepted that smallpox was not like the black plague; a large proportion of victims survived smallpox.
As the Challenger sailed swiftly south the good weather held, dolphins played round the bow and the night sky was lit by a million stars. Closing the Portuguese coast David took a bearing on Cape St. Vincent and turned his bowsprit to the southeast and the Gibraltar straits.
David had just finished his midday meal when the surgeon came aft to report that the marks on the man’s body had disappeared and that his fever was now very slight.
‘I told you, sir,’ Jones said. ‘Prison pox, it comes from fucking.’
‘Enough, Jones,’ David interrupted. ‘Please keep your comments to yourself.’ Mr. Woods looked amused. After Jones had gathered the dirty plates and left the cabin David said, ‘I’m sorry, surgeon. I give the boy too much freedom.’
‘He seems a bright lad.’ Woods grinned. ‘I’ll talk to him about this prison pox.’
Gibraltar, when they arrived, was covered by a cloud that seemed to grow from the top of the rock. Four warships were anchored under the town. The weather had changed as they approached. The wind now came from the east and was increasing all the time. As David stepped out of the gig it began to rain and he was soaked by the time he had climbed up to the governor’s offices. The officer who had met them in a longboat when they arrived had been very specific about this meeting. He was under orders to discuss his business with no one else.
Once he arrived he was shown in
to a dark, panelled reception room that smelled of damp and was left alone. David’s clothes had begun to steam slightly when two men entered the room. The first walked over to him and shook his hand. At David’s height and about forty years old, he was well dressed and groomed. His companion was very dark in complexion and wore a robe that touched the floor; his eyes shone from beneath the hood.
‘My name is Baker, the first said. I’m attached to the governor’s staff. This is Jameel. He will be travelling with you.’
David had not been informed that he would be carrying a passenger. He looked at Jameel with some interest. The young man was tall and had an intelligent-looking face. David guessed him to be about eighteen years old and would have placed him as North African.
‘I will try to make you comfortable, Jameel,’ he said.
‘Please do not concern yourself, Captain. I am quite used to shipboard life.’ The man smiled displaying very white teeth.
‘Yes, Jameel has traded all along the coast you are interested in,’ Baker said. ‘He will be your guide.’
‘Can you tell me of a base used by French privateers?’ David asked.
‘No, Captain, but I can show you many likely places.’ Jameel waved his hands in front of him. ‘It’s a very long coastline, is it not?’
Baker could provide very little solid information. He had heard rumours of an organized network raiding shipping along the coast and had details of vessels that had never arrived at their destinations. Other than that he could be of little help.
‘What can you tell me of the slave trade?’ David asked.
Baker looked sharply at Jameel. ‘Nothing much I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘Not our line of work.’
‘Well, Captain, time is pressing and I am needed elsewhere. Good luck to you. I’m sure Jameel has all the information you need.’
As the door closed behind Baker, David turned to Jameel. ‘When will you join us?’ he asked.
‘I have my baggage now, Captain,’ the man replied.
Next David visited the flagship of Admiral Paterson who remarked that it was customary for junior captains to report to the senior officer upon arrival, not after walking round the town.
David apologized saying he was acting on orders issued in London.
‘I suppose it’s some cloak and dagger nonsense,’ the flag officer said. ‘Am I allowed to know where you’re bound?’
‘West Africa, sir,’ David told him.
‘Ha,’ Paterson said. ‘Good luck, that’s the arsehole of the world.’
After topping up his water casks and buying some fresh vegetables David asked for permission to leave, which was granted. The wind was still from the east, but the incoming tide made for a lively passage through the straits. Jameel had been installed in the chart space and presented Jones with a great mass of smoked goat. He would eat no pork, nor anything cooked in lard. After Jones’ first attempt at cooking goat meat Jameel took charge and the smell of spices wafted round the boat.
The second night at sea David asked Jameel to come to the cabin and started questioning him about the West African coast. He learned of great rivers, swamps, reefs and islands.
‘Is there one place you would choose above all others if you wanted a base from which to attack shipping on route from the far eastern ocean?’ he asked.
Jameel looked at him with a slight smile on his lips. ‘There are many places,’ he said.
‘Do you know of a base used by traders where a ship might provision?’
‘There are some small towns that could provide food and water,’ he admitted.
‘So tell me of a town that you know of that also has shelter for a ship of size such as the Challenger.’
Jameel looked uneasy. ‘There are some rivers,’ he began, ‘that come to the sea where the land reaches out to some islands far offshore.
Ships returning to England would pass between this land and the islands.’
‘You think these rivers could be used as bases from which to attack our shipping?’ David demanded.
‘Possibly they could be, Captain, but I do not know it at all well.’
‘Then that is where we will begin. Tomorrow you will show me this area on my chart.’
The following morning Jameel looked for the rivers, but could not find much information on any of the ship’s charts. David projected the course of a ship coming up the African coast, however, and noted a set of islands that lay 230 nautical miles off the coast. The normal route would take shipping inside these islands. ‘That is where we go,’ he told his officers.
As the Challenger moved down the African coast the weather slowly changed.
Whilst sailing between the coast and the Spanish islands they enjoyed a strong northwesterly breeze with the occasional squall. The Atlantic swell continued large on the starboard quarter. David expected to see Spanish warships moving around these islands and kept the crew on alert. Gun drill continued, although by now the broadsides were both fast and orderly. Soon they would be stopped in order to conserve ammunition.
David’s caution proved unnecessary, however, as no ships were sighted. Once the islands dropped below the horizon the wind strength fell steadily as the temperature rose. The coast was lost in the heat haze. Twelve days out of Gibraltar the wind failed and the Challenger lay becalmed. The heat was now oppressive, the guns hot to the touch. As the crew moved around the deck, the pitch burned their bare feet and more than one had blisters on their backs. David had all hands practise with pistol, musket and cutlass; more to keep them occupied than anything else. In the off watch the men fished with homemade hook and line or sat in the shade, under scraps of canvas, creating works of scrimshaw.
The largest fish was landed by the man who had been diagnosed with smallpox. Sharks began gathering round the ship and the men created a larger hook and baited it with some of the cook’s salt pork. On the fourth day without wind a shark was hauled onto the deck. Over six feet long, it took four men to drag it over the side. It then thrashed about the deck attempting to bite any who came near it. The bos’un finally killed it by repeatedly hitting it over the head with the carpenter’s maul.
Jameel became excited and cut open the shark’s stomach to remove the liver. This he said was the best part and rushed off to the cabin pantry to cook it. Jones was not impressed and complained of the smell, which was strong. The crew now renewed their efforts at fishing and that evening they ate shark soup, there not being enough for shark stew.
The following morning a sail was sighted on the southern horizon, a full rigged ship and moving towards them.
‘She is bringing a breeze,’ Lieutenant Clark said.
‘Yes,’ David replied, ‘but we are becalmed. Send the ship to quarters.’ By the time the hands were at their stations, cat’s-paws were on the water and the sails beginning to stir.
As the unknown ship steadily approached a gentle breeze lifted the Challenger’s sails. Mr. Samuel brought her onto the wind and the distance between the two ships closed more rapidly. David sent Lieutenant Peterson to the masthead with a glass. ‘She looks like an armed merchantman,’ he called down. ‘No flag as yet.’
‘If she’s French or Spanish we could have a fine prize,’ Mr. Clark enthused. Slowly the morning wore on as the two ships closed with each other.
The merchantman was now clear to the naked eye. She was large and weatherworn with patched sails. Painted black with white trim, still she showed no flag.
‘Hoist the ensign,’ David ordered. As the flag broke from the gaff end a similar flag was raised on the merchantman.
‘No prize today, Mr. Clark,’ David called. ‘Take us to within hailing distance and heave to.’
CHAPTER 4
As soon as both ships were stopped the merchantman lowered a boat, which pulled strongly to the Challenger’s side. Through the entry port climbed a huge man with a long black beard. He wore a great coat and top hat in spite of the heat.
‘Captain,’ he bellowed. ‘Your ship is a sight to gladd
en the heart of a poor merchant seaman. Would you be going home to England? I could cherish an escort.’ The man’s voice was as big as he was; his accent spoke of the south of England.
‘I’m sorry, Captain.’ David grinned. ‘My business is in these waters. Come to my cabin; let me offer you a drink.’
The man seemed to fill the cabin. He jammed himself into a chair and as Jones started to fill a brandy glass called, ‘What’s up, nipper? You got no good-sized glasses to give a man a drink?’ Jones quickly changed to a tankard and filled it with brandy. The man pulled his hat from his head and dropped it onto the floor. Taking a huge swig of his brandy, the man smacked his lips and said, ‘Mallard.’
‘I’m sorry?’ David said.
‘Mallard,’ the man repeated. ‘That’s me name. I’m Captain Mallard of the company ship China Lady, ninety-two days out of Manila. I loaded tea in Macau and then spices in Manila.’
‘A rich cargo, Captain. Did you have any trouble or sight any enemy shipping?’
‘None, only slavers and those inshore of me about two days ago.’
‘Can you give me the position where you saw these slavers, Captain?’
Mallard waved his empty tankard at Jones. ‘Same place you always see them on this coast,’ he said. ‘Heading to or coming from the Comango River.’ Jones handed him the refilled tankard.
‘I am sent to find French privateers, Captain. Can you suggest where they might have a base?’
‘No.’ Mallard was starting to slur his words. ‘But in my experience, scum sticks with scum. Find yourself some slavers and I bet the French won’t be far away.’ The captain’s tankard was empty again. Jones looked at David who nodded. Receiving his third brandy Mallard grinned at Jones. ‘You’re a good young nipper,’ he said and burped loudly.
By the Knife Page 21