Until the Colours Fade

by Tim Jeal

  ‘If your husband had thought more of himself and less of others, he might yet have been spared to us.’

  Helen was watching anxiously as Humphrey was persuaded to drink by the surgeon. She knew that Ferris expected her to say something but could think of no reply. The man clearly wanted to tell her exactly how Harry had received his fatal wound; it was as if his need for consolation was greater than hers.

  ‘Tell me what happened?’

  As Helen heard how Harry, oblivious to his own danger, had crossed the churchyard to stop a pointless gun-battle, she felt admiration but anger too. If he had thought of his wife and son, he would have hesitated before taking such a risk; he would not have ridden to the church, but would have gone on foot, presenting perhaps a less impressive spectacle, but also a less inviting target. She thought of his reckless riding as he led the field at every hunt, and of his scornful disregard for caution when riding in steeplechases. In the end he had been killed by his own élan and panache. Ferris was saying:

  ‘Your ladyship may rest assured that the arrangements will be seen to by the regiment.’

  Helen imagined the bands, gun-carriages and firing parties and gripped the banisters. The regiment had had enough of him during his life and she would not have it dictate to her after his death. Had the regiment not killed him? And should she now meekly accept whatever role Harry’s brother officers might see fit to allow her in his funeral?

  ‘There will be no military funeral, Captain Ferris.’

  ‘I am sure that he would have wished….’

  ‘If he has left instructions, I shall abide by them.’ She turned without looking at his agonised face. As she reached the top of the stairs she paused: ‘After the inquest you may convey his body to Flixton Church, after that he will be buried in private by his family in the mausoleum at Hanley Park.’

  ‘He died commanding the regiment, my lady.’

  ‘Funerals,’ she murmured, ‘should console the living before they glorify the dead.’

  Ferris watched her go in stunned silence, interpreting her self-possession as callous indifference and her decision as an affront to the dead.

  Tom Strickland was sitting in the hall when she came down the stairs followed by her son, who was being helped by the surgeon. He rose and stepped forward so that she would see him if she needed him. She took his hand for a moment and then walked past to her carriage. A buzz of conversation broke out after her departure, but Tom did not wait to hear what was said. Instead he walked out into the deserted square, and eagerly breathing in the cold air, gazed up at the brilliant and indifferent stars. He thought of the dead man lying in his curtained room, and touched his own warm cheeks and felt the moisture of his breath on his hands. Life, he whispered, and an exultant surge of feeling rose within him; he felt greedy for the dawn and for new days and years, and whatever might transpire; he would try to welcome them and to waste nothing.

  PART TWO

  Return of the Admiral

  15

  Running into the Channel in a south-westerly gale, under double-reefed topsails and a single foresail, H.M.S. Albion surged forwards and steadied momentarily before dropping with stomach-turning speed into the troughs of the mountainous Atlantic rollers; then, more slowly she would rise to the next crest, as the following wave caught her up astern and passed her with a thundering rush, throwing up boiling foam as high as the main deck ports and sweeping on into the darkness with a hiss and a roar under the spray-drenched catheads and bowsprit. Like most tall three-deckers, Albion did not steer well when running in a heavy sea, and needed all the strength of four men at the wheel to keep her on course. Throughout the ship, the howling of the wind in the rigging, the rattling of blocks and spars and the creaking of the guns accompanied the more constant and lower-pitched groaning of the timbers. The pitching motion was more pleasing than the simultaneous heavy rolling, which had not been much reduced by lashing the main and middle deck guns amidships. But although the gale was uncomfortable, it was, from a sailor’s point of view, quite manageable.

  Shortly before three, Rear-Admiral Sir James Crawford abandoned his efforts to sleep, and, having clambered from his cot, lit a lamp, and, without waking his servant, pulled a uniform coat over his shoulders; leaving his sleeping quarters he passed through his dining cabin into his day cabin. Through the streaming windows of the stern gallery he could see the black rollers dwarfing Albion’s hull, always seeming to be about to break over the stern and swamp the ship, but then lifting her up and passing under her keel. The only light came from the lanterns on the taffrail above and from the phosphorescent flashes of foam on the crests of the waves. The moon and stars were hidden by a thick layer of low clouds. Albion could survive worse weather by far, but the accompanying frigate Blanche and the sloop Rifleman would be getting an unpleasant pounding. Every so often, when his flagship rose to the top of a wave, Crawford could see the smaller vessels’ navigation lights about a mile astern on the starboard quarter; small pin-points against the black waves.

  From the moment of waking, one thought had been dominant in Sir James’s mind: this was probably the last night he would ever spend afloat in the admiral’s quarters of a line-of-battle ship. His three years of command on the North American and West Indies Station were over and he was homeward bound. Often during his command he had attempted to make light of the excessive respect and awe shown to a naval commander-in-chief; but, although his career had been an unusual one, including, as it had, eight years in diplomacy as Her Majesty’s Minister in Athens, his lifelong passion for the service held him as firmly as it had when he had joined as a boy forty years before.

  When Sir James returned to his sleeping quarters, his servant, Partridge, was up and laying out his clothes for the morning: silk shirt, long underpants, undress frock-coat, plain trousers with no gold lace stripe, and a thick pea-coat with admiral’s epaulettes. Before dressing, he shaved while Partridge miraculously contrived to stop the bowl of water spilling, while holding up a lantern and a mirror; it was a tricky operation, but, whatever the weather, Sir James never appeared unshaven on the quarter-deck. Even by the light of the swaying lantern, the exceptional blueness of his eyes was apparent; and their clarity and sharpness, coupled with his heavily lidded eyes, gave him an eager but half-melancholy look. As a young man he had thought his rather full face undistinguished and dull, but now, in his early fifties, his thick profusion of iron grey hair and the deep lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes, while making him look more resolute and serious than he believed himself to be, had given his face an interest and distinction it had not previously possessed; age had embellished rather than marred his looks. After Sir James had shaved himself, Partridge dressed him, finally helping him into his pea-coat and boots. He declined the cocked hat held out to him and strode out into his dining cabin towards the companion-ladder leading up to the quarter-deck just aft of the mizzen-mast and the wheel.

  As he emerged on deck, the marine sentry came to attention and the men at the wheel stared fixedly into the binnacle. He walked over to the weather side of the quarter-deck, where the bulwarks afforded him some shelter from the wind and spray, which made his freshly shaven face smart. The officer of the watch nodded deferentially and then moved across to leeward accompanied by a midshipman, leaving him in the dignified isolation always accorded to his rank. No officer, not even the Captain, spoke to the Admiral, unless addressed first, except on duty when an order concerning a movement of the whole fleet or squadron was to be given.

  The ship was glistening wet from deck to trucks, and high above, the two topsails on the main and fore formed sharp black squares against the deep grey-blue sky as Albion ran on with streaming spars and canvas, pursued by pelting squalls. As Sir James heard the faint notes of seven bells flung past on the wind, he saw his flag-lieutenant come up the main companion-way between the two forward quarter-deck guns to hand him a paper with the apparent time of sunrise and the positions of the ships in company. Not wishing to ta
lk, Sir James walked as steadily as he could on the swaying deck towards the shelter of the overhanging poop.

  The last time, he thought again, watching the men at the wheel. During his absence Lord Palmerston had been dismissed from the Foreign Office; and with Sir James Graham, his other patron, no longer First Lord of the Admiralty, Crawford did not expect another appointment. A few years back, he could have bided his time, but now, with even the largest three-deckers being built with steam-engines as well as sails, the day could not be far distant when admirals would have to command fleets entirely composed of screw-assisted vessels, and then no flag-officer could hope to remain long ashore without losing touch with constructional and tactical developments. During the thirteen years since Sir James had become a widower, only his work had sustained him. When his flag came down at Spithead that afternoon, it would mean more to him than the simple ending of a command. Idleness frightened him more than the thought of any work, however arduous. Since all his working life, with the exception of four years on half-pay, had been spent at sea or abroad, he could not hope on his return to fall into the comforting routines of an established social life. Nor with an unmarried daughter, and an elder son who idolised him, would he be able to allow himself the comforting indulgence of a mistress, as he had during his years in Athens.

  Shortly after eight bells Sir James went below and did not return to the quarter-deck until dawn, which came – as so often after stormy nights – sullen and grey, with low fast-moving clouds and blustery showers. The sea, like the sky, was a dirty chill grey, flecked with white horses. Through his glass he could see the topsails of Blanche and Rifleman falling in and out of sight as they rose from the deep valleys of the rollers and fell away again out of sight. Already he found himself looking around him with a premature nostalgia, noting the most trivial details of the ship’s routine, not because he could ever forget what he had seen so often, but to record them one more time: the gunner’s mate coming up on the hour to verify the security of the guns for the officer of the watch, the carpenter’s mate reporting the depth of water in the well, and the midshipman on quarter-deck duty returning with a marine corporal from his rounds of the lower decks to repeat anything seen by the look-outs at the gangways and catheads.

  By mid-afternoon Albion was running alongside the southern shore of the Isle of Wight, past the lighthouse on St Catherine’s Point, and then reaching in the calmer water under the lee of the eastern side of the island. Another hour and she was close-hauled on the port tack ten miles from Spithead; by then Sir James was below, buckling on his full-dress sword-belt, with its embroidered oak leaves and acorns, and submitting to Partridge’s careful scrutiny. The stiff gold braid, which edged his high collar, cut into his chin unpleasantly and his trousers felt too tight, but having dabbed at him once or twice with a clothes brush, Partridge seemed satisfied. Holding his cocked hat in his hand and being careful not to trip over his cumbersome ceremonial sword on the companion-ladder, Sir James proceeded to the quarter-deck, followed by his flag-lieutenant and secretary, both also in full-dress.

  The ship was approaching her anchorage under topsails, fore-topmast-staysail and spanker. As the admiral came on deck, the officer of the watch was shouting to the men aloft through his speaking trumpet. At his orders the men in the fore and mizzen-tops furled their topsails, leaving only the main-topsail set. The captain stood by the helmsman as Albion edged closer into the wind.

  ‘Down helm! Haul down the staysail!’

  As the fore-topmast-staysail came down, the spanker was hauled to windward and the ship came up faster into the wind; at the same time the main topsail began to shake and was then caught aback reducing her speed. Precisely as Albion lost all way, the order rang out from the bows:

  ‘Let go!’

  The carpenter brought down his maul with a sharp blow knocking out the pin holding the anchor in place at the cathead. A loud splash was followed by the thunderous rattling of the cable. The rigging was now swarming with men furling sails, before swaying up the lower yards and squaring all yards. Others were far higher up checking that the topmasts and topgallants were still properly stayed and upright after the storm.

  ‘Hands out barge!’ resounded through the ship and the massive boat was soon slung out on the booms, while a dozen blue-jackets jumped in to get her ready; the lowering tackles were made fast, and, as the boatswain’s mate piped shrilly, she was lowered into the sea with a deep splash. Meanwhile the band had been summoned to the poop, and the marine guard marshalled on the quarter-deck, where they presented arms as Sir James and his flag-lieutenant passed by on their way down to the main entry port on the middle deck. There all the officers were assembled, standing stiffly, swords at their sides and hats in hands. The Admiral spoke a few words of thanks to the Captain and the First Lieutenant, and, while the boatswain whistled perseveringly, Sir James made his way down the lane of side-boys to the entry port and stepped out onto the accommodation ladder. From forward a puff of smoke and a loud bang marked the start of his thirteen-gun salute.

  He paused for a moment on the ladder and looked up at the mizzen where he could see a small white flag with a red St George’s Cross slowly coming down as the guns thundered, taken up by the other ships of his squadron.

  He knew that it was an empty ceremony addressed to his rank and not his person, but for all that he still felt his eyes filling and had to look away to avoid his flag-lieutenant’s eye. When he was seated in the stern of the admiral’s barge, the boatswain piped: ‘Away there barge’s crew,’ and the oars dipped and rose in perfect unison as the crew pulled away from Albion’s towering black and white sides. The band on the poop with numerous drum rolls broke into the opening bars of Auld Lang Syne. Looking back, Sir James saw the men lining the lower yards and the hammock netting and raised his hat in acknowledgment of their three cheers. A common enough practice on such occasions, but again he found it hard to maintain an impassive expression.

  He thought of the numerous ships he had left after a commission had ended and found it impossible to imagine that this was the last time. Could this really be the final occasion on which he would be rowed past the Round Tower, the Semaphore Tower, the Sally Port and the Point – landmarks which he had first seen from the sea as a boy of thirteen? A short time and they would be at King’s Stairs and after Portsmouth, London for a few days; a visit to the Admiralty and then the long train journey to Rigton Bridge, and after that, months, maybe years of waiting. A pinnace was putting out from the Victoria Pier; after a few strokes the coxswain’s command: ‘Oars!’ sounded across the water and every oar in the pinnace was raised in the air until the admiral’s barge had gone past. In the stern sheets of the pinnace Sir James saw a young lieutenant ‘off hat’ and look wistfully after him, doubtless envying him and wondering whether one day he too might attain flag-rank. Crawford shook his head and managed a smile. Every age imagined its own particular problems to be the worst; in his own career he had only troubled himself with his own immediate problems, and had never worried about those which might beset him after his next promotion. Only recently had he found it increasingly difficult to live in and for the present, but at Leaholme Hall he would have to do just that if he were to avoid a constant sense of bitterness and disappointment. As King’s Stairs came in view, Sir James was aware of his flag-lieutenant eyeing him surreptitiously. The young man owed his position to the influence of his uncle who was Second Sea Lord.

  ‘What’s on your mind, Mr Hay?’

  ‘Nothing at all, sir.’

  ‘An enviable condition, Mr Hay.’

  Hay laughed nervously and fiddled with the hilt of his sword. Sir James stared ahead of him; already he could hear the waves slapping against the steps and the quay.

  16

  Behind closed blinds in the first of the family carriages, Helen Goodchild gazed tenderly through her heavy mourning veil at Humphrey sitting beside her. The strain of behaving with the stoicism he thought expected of him showed in the concentra
ted frown on his unhappy face and in the way he sometimes bit his lower lip to keep back his tears. For Helen, her son’s black silk top hat – the first he had ever worn – and grown-up surtout stressed his vulnerability. Ahead lay the ordeal of the public funeral in Flixton parish church, and then the private ceremony at the family mausoleum. She touched his hand, but he looked away, as though afraid that any overt sign of affection might break down his frail defences.

  Helen felt her own eyes filling, not on account of her dead husband, but with anguish over her boy’s future. Three days before, the family solicitor had come from London at her request. The state of Harry’s affairs revealed by him had been beyond her worst imaginings. Not only would Audley House have to be sold, as Goodchild had always claimed it must, but the sum raised would not fully cover another mortgage he had taken out on Hanley Park. Since Joseph Braithwaite’s loan had been secured against the London house, after its sale other security would have to be given; and, since Harry’s Irish estates were entailed and could not legally be encumbered until Humphrey’s majority, the only possible surety for Joseph would be Hanley Park itself. Until the loan was repaid, their fortunes would depend on Joseph Braithwaite’s whims. Only knowing this had Helen understood her husband’s determination not to displease the manufacturer. Her only chance of repaying him would be to borrow from another source and pay the necessary interest; but with current income falling considerably short of expenditure, there could only be one way of achieving this. Having so ardently desired her freedom, the realisation that she must marry again, and quickly too, if Humphrey’s inheritance was to be saved, had been a crushing blow, which had tested her courage to the utmost.