A Sloop of War

by Philip K Allan

  ‘Do you have no notion why not?’ asked Munro. ‘Let us hasten to our tavern by a different way. There is much I have to tell you.’

  *****

  When they arrived at their destination, Sutton found the Crown to be both comforting and yet unfamiliar. The building was new and its design was that of a Georgian coaching inn that might be found in any English market town. The colour of the walls, a deep yellow, was a little unusual, as were the lofty palm trees that bent at various angles over the rear of the building. Its construction had used local materials with tropical wood taking the place of oak, and thatch on the roof in place of slate. The staff, all of whom were black house slaves, wore the mop caps, skirts and aprons of home. In place of mutton stew, the officers dined on goat, with plantains on the side.

  ‘So come, William,’ said Sutton, when they were settled into one of the Crown’s more comfortable booths. ‘Why should I avoid an encounter with Lieutenant Windham in the street?’

  ‘You need to have a care with him, John,’ said Munro. ‘He has always had an ill character, and Captain Parker has brought out the worst in him. No one could ever accuse Windham of being a diligent officer, but his uncle was quite willing to indulge his nephew. That has changed with the new captain who is a brute to those who he finds wanting in the performance of their duties. I am compelled to share a wardroom with Windham. I see him every day, and what I observe is not very edifying.’

  ‘You have my sympathy,’ said Sutton, ‘but I still do not see how this should bear on my relationship with him.’ Munro glanced around him before he replied.

  ‘Our friend Mr Windham has never been quite reconciled with the accounts that he has heard of his uncle’s death, and since you have been away it has been playing on his mind.’

  ‘What has he to say about the death of Captain Follett?’ asked Sutton, maintaining a calm exterior, his appetite quite gone.

  ‘It started on the night we last met, to celebrate Alex’s promotion,’ began the Irishman. ‘You collect that he made some excuse to avoid coming. When Fleming and I returned to the ship, we found him sat in the wardroom, quite drunk, brooding over his uncle’s death. He said much that was regrettable, about how you and Clay had done so well out of the death. How convenient it was for you both that the captain should have fallen.’

  ‘But this is madness!’ exclaimed Sutton. ‘It is quite normal for a first lieutenant to get his step after a successful action, whether the captain should survive or no.’

  ‘Not according to friend Windham,’ said Munro, leaning closer over the table and dropping his voice. ‘You recall he spent plenty of time alone with his uncle in the days before the battle. He maintains that that Captain Follett was resolved to break Clay when we reached Barbados. Then he went on to ask me again what I had seen, since I was on the quarterdeck when the mast came down. Well, I thought it was just a matter of the wine being in and the wits being out, but he is proving to be just as persistent on the issue when sober.’

  ‘But Clay was not even on the quarterdeck when his uncle went over the side,’ said Sutton.

  ‘That is true. But you were there. You were standing right on the spot,’ said Munro. Sutton held the Irishman’s gaze for a moment. He felt empty inside as he wondered what Munro really knew. After a few moments, his companion continued.

  ‘John, you are Clay’s closest friend. You have made no secret of your admiration for the man, and all of us were aware that the captain and Clay were quite estranged. Do you remember that time on the Agrius when he told us he was going to apply for a transfer, but he was worried that Captain Follett would blacken his name?’

  ‘Yes, I remember,’ answered Sutton.

  ‘So, Follett is bent on ruining your friend’s career,’ continued Munro. ‘The day of the battle comes, and the captain is making a decidedly poor fist of things. It was common knowledge to all the officers on the Agrius that Follett was no swimmer—he told us as much himself at dinner in his cabin, the day that Danish seaman drowned. Thick gun smoke everywhere, then the mizzen mast comes down and all is confusion. The captain is knocked over the side, but perhaps he manages to clap on to a rope? Everyone is engaged in cutting at the rigging to clear the ship of wreckage. What more perfect cover could you conceive of for someone standing by the ship’s rail over which the captain fell to choose the wrong rope, and solve a hat full of problems with a single sword cut?’

  ‘You describe the scene almost perfectly, as if you were there, William,’ said Sutton. And then he gasped, as he realised what he had said. ‘But of course you were there!’

  ‘John,’ said Munro, ‘I may have been struck on the head by a falling block, but I had rather more of my wits than I latter made out. Yes, I saw what transpired between you and the captain, and I did nothing to stay your hand. That blackguard deserved it, and there is not a man on board the ship that day, save perhaps Windham, who was not heartily pleased that you did what you did. We were on the brink of defeat until Clay took command. I give you my word that I will hold my peace till the earth covers me over. No, your problem is not that I may betray you. It is that if I saw what you did, I may not be the only one.’

  ‘Who do you suspect knows?’ said Sutton, his meal congealing on his plate.

  ‘There could be any number who might have seen something,’ said Munro. ‘And our friend Windham is persistent in his enquiries. Not only those who were on the quarterdeck at the time. I know he has spoken to most of my marines, in particular those that were sharpshooters positioned in the main mast. Then there would have been ship’s boys scurrying to and fro bringing up ammunition for the quarterdeck guns.’

  Sutton felt trapped. He looked around the tavern and began to read significance into the glances of the other customers. His act had never been planned. The moment had presented itself, and he had seized at the opportunity. He looked back at Munro.

  ‘What would you council me to do?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing rash, John, but you must be on your guard,’ the Irishman said. ‘Your foe has an unpleasant and bitter character, and wishes you ill. I do not believe Windham has any conclusive proof of what he suspects, for if he had he would already have acted. He will get no such decisive intelligence from me. My purpose in speaking to you of this is to warn you to be careful. I can watch what Windham is about on the Agrius. You need to do the same on the Rush. There are those who have volunteered to move from the Agrius, one of whom may know something, and now there is Mr Faulkner who you need to regard with suspicion. It would seem he is an associate of Windham.’

  Sutton reached across and gripped the Ulsterman’s hand.

  ‘You are right, brother. You have my eternal thanks.’

  ‘I know it,’ said Munro as he patted his friend’s arm. ‘But you must be careful. A ship has many eyes, John, and not all are friendly.’

  *****

  Able Sedgwick sat alone at the mess table, his shore-going rig spread out in front of him. By his side he had his small sewing kit, a few borrowed needles stuck into a piece of cork and a skein of thread, with his large clasp knife lying next to them. It was the same knife he had drawn on Hawke, and would have used if friendly hands had not seized his wrists in time. Hawke may have drawn his knife first, but he had quickly followed him. Thinking back on the fight, he was still shocked by the violence of the anger he had felt. He knew with certainty that he would have used the knife, pushed the blade deep into Hawke’s soft white belly if he had not been stopped. He shivered with revulsion at the thought of what he might have done. When his hands were steady once more, he returned to his needlework.

  He was now growing accomplished at altering his clothes. At first he had found sewing difficult. His large hands, calloused by years of manual labour, first on the plantation, now on board the Rush, had lacked the required dexterity. But in Adam Trevan he had a patient teacher. The Cornishman had spent many hours with him, sewing the same two pieces of cloth over and over until at last he began to produce stitches sufficiently
tiny, and in a straight enough line to meet with even Trevan’s grudging approval.

  He had just finished unpicking a seam of his best linen shirt. Along one lip of the gaping mouth he had produced in the garment he positioned a length of bright blue ribbon. Having done so, Able began to sew closed the seam again, pinching the ribbon between the two sides of shirt so it ran like a soft crest, a quarter of an inch of bright colour, proud of the milk coloured cloth.

  The mess deck was almost empty now, with most of the crew ashore. A scatter of men sat at some of the tables, some played cards in groups or chatted to friends, but most were solitary like Able. Those left behind were either shortly due on duty or notorious deserters who could not be trusted, even on an island with no obvious means of escape. Able was not in either of those categories, and his friends had tried their best to persuade him to come ashore with them.

  ‘Come on, Able,’ Trevan had said. ‘You been nearly three months on this damned boat, like. Don’t you want the feel of honest soil beneath your feet?’

  ‘The devil can take the honest soil beneath your feet,’ O’Malley had laughed. ‘A dishonest whore between my thighs is what I am fecking after.’

  ‘I am sorry, Adam, but the risk is too great,’ Sedgwick had answered. ‘What if I am spotted by my former owner?’

  ‘He would have to come with a pack of traps to nab you,’ Evans had growled, patting one open hand with the balled fist of the other. ‘It would be good sport to see him try.’

  ‘No, he has the right of it, Sam,’ Rosso had said. ‘We can talk bold now, but after we have all had a few mugs of knock-me-down, they could come and take him as easy as a newborn lamb.’ He had turned towards Able. ‘You best stay safe on board, lad. This must seem like an odd breed of freedom, what with you not able to leave the ship and getting flogged an’ all. They do say that a man who would go to sea for pleasure would go to Hell for a pastime.’

  He had had to sit to one side as the lower deck bubbled with excitement. Everywhere he had looked seamen had been preparing themselves to go ashore. Embroidered best shirts, the seams bearing all the colours of the rainbow, were being pulled over pale torsos that were webbed blue with tattoos. In front of him O’Malley had been plaiting Trevan’s long blond pig tail for the third time, determined on achieving perfection. Evans had been trying to lever his large feet into a pair of thin, shiny leather shoes. Like all the seamen he went barefoot on board, and either his shoes had shrunk, or his feet had widened in the months since he had last worn them. With a roar of triumph he had got the second shoe on, and had tottered around the deck for a while, trying to accustom himself to the unfamiliar feeling. Then, as if a plug had been removed somewhere, the deck had drained of men, and the sound of animated chatter had now been on the outside of the hull, receding from him at the speed that the ship’s boats could row.

  Able added the final run of stitches to the shirt. He then worked back over the last few and pulled it tight. With a slice of his knife he cut the thread, and worked the stitches flat with his strong fingers. He held the shirt up to admire it in the dim light. Not bad he thought and a glow of satisfaction ran through him. Then he dropped the shirt back onto the mess table as loneliness took over. What was the point of a shore-going rig if he was unable to leave the ship? He wondered where his friends would be now. Still drinking in some grog shop, or would they have moved on to the bawdy house? He felt a stir of desire in his own loins. With a shake of his head he returned to his needle work, cutting open another seam on the shirt, and beginning the process of adding a fresh length of ribbon.

  Later that night Able felt himself being shaken awake in his hammock. He opened his eyes and stared about him in the gloom. He had been expecting to be woken up with the return of the drunken revellers from ashore, but the deck around him seemed to be quiet and empty.

  ‘At fecking last!’ muttered O’Malley from just beside his ear. ‘You sleep sounder than a drunk parson.’

  ‘He be awake yet?’ came the sound of Trevan’s voice from the other side of the hammock, his breath laden with rum fumes. ‘Ah, that’s good.’

  ‘Now, Able,’ continued O’Malley from the first side. ‘Me and Adam are after giving you a little surprise. You will need to be quick, mind, the boat we came back on will not wait beyond six bells.’

  ‘What… what surprise?’ whispered Able, still groggy with sleep.

  ‘Well telling you will not answer!’ said Trevan, shocked. ‘What manner of surprise would that be? Just close your eyes, and you lay back down.’

  ‘An’ be fecking quick!’ added O’Malley. ‘If the Grunters catch us will be in a world of trouble.’

  Able relaxed back in his hammock, and closed his eyes. From beside him came the sound of rustling, accompanied by suppressed drunken laughter from Trevan and O’Malley. The hammock sank lower as a considerable weight was added to it. Able felt the press of a warm body on top of him. He opened his eyes in surprise, and found himself looking into the heavily made up face of a girl.

  ‘Hello there, my lover,’ she said, with practiced ease. ‘I hear from your mates that you’re feeling lonely. We can’t have that now, can we?’

  *****

  Jacob Linfield had nothing but admiration for Emma Robertson’s display of horsemanship. He had been pleased that, when he had mentioned the vague suggestion of the horse ride made so many months before, she had readily agreed. The offer had really been directed at the handsome Sutton, but it had been made in an open enough way for him to take advantage of it. Now they were making their way along a narrow trail that ran like a canyon between walls of lofty sugar cane. The ground was slick with red mud, yet Emma, riding side saddle, and her mare had bounded ahead of him. He could only catch the occasional glimpse of her rose coloured ridding habit as it flashed like a distant butterfly from farther up the path.

  ‘My word, but you are an accomplished rider, Miss Emma,’ he gasped as he clattered up to where she waited at the top of the rise. ‘I know I am in want of practice, but even were that not the case I doubt if I could keep up with you.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Linfield,’ she smiled. ‘I have ridden most days since I was a child, and know these paths well. Am I inconveniencing you by going too fast?’

  ‘Perhaps a little,’ he said, mopping at his brow.

  ‘Well, we shall go rather slower for the next part,’ said Emma. ‘You expressed a desire to see a little of our fauna, and the woods ahead have a family of monkeys in residence which we may chance to see if we approach with care. Would you like that?’

  ‘Above all things,’ said Linfield, looking where she pointed. ‘What manner of trees are those?’

  ‘They are mahogany trees,’ said Emma, urging her horse into a walk.

  It was cool in the dappled shade of the wood, and Linfield soon found himself surrounded by new and delightful wildlife. Where the canopy thinned there were sunlit glades, draped with flowering vines. Large butterflies were busy among the flowers, and hummingbirds flashed and shimmered in the light. He took such a child-like wonder in all that he saw, gasping at each new discovery, that Emma found it hard not to smile with him.

  ‘Pray, what is that bird there, Miss Emma?’ he asked. ‘The one above us who calls so insistently.’

  ‘People here call it a blackbird, although my father tells me it is quite different from the one with which you will be familiar in England,’ she replied.

  ‘I collect you were born on the island, Miss Emma,’ he said. ‘Have you ever been home?’

  ‘If by home you mean Scotland, I have not,’ she said. ‘Home for me is really Melverton. Ah, be still, Mr Linfield! There is your monkey, high in the next tree. Do you see him?’

  They watched the animal in companionable silence. To Emma it was charming in an everyday sense, while Jacob watched its antics with open delight. She found herself increasingly looking at her companion rather than at the wildlife. Under the ridiculous straw hat he wore, he did have quite an attractive face, she thought. A
fter a while the monkey slipped away deeper into the wood, and Emma urged her horse back into motion.

  ‘Will you attend Sir Richard’s ball on Saturday next, Miss Emma?’ asked Linfield.

  ‘We do normally go to the Governor’s ball,’ she replied. ‘But this year may be difficult, given the decline we have had in our relationship with our neighbours. I know that Papa is not minded to attend.’

  ‘The officers of the squadron have all been invited,’ said Linfield. ‘We will depart for St Lucia shortly afterwards, so it may be the last occasion to see us for a while.’

  ‘Then I shall tell my father we must go,’ said Emma, urging her horse into a trot.

  They crossed the top of the ridge, passing a boundary stone as they did so, and started to descend through more delightful forest.

  ‘We have just crossed into a neighbouring plantation,’ explained Emma. ‘I do not normally come this way, but there is a tolerably fine cascade of water you might like to see on this side of the ridge, after which we will return to my father’s land.’

  ‘That sounds quite magical, Miss Emma,’ said Linfield, entranced by all the beauty around him, not least his young companion.

  A little while later they left the trees and skirted once more along the edge of a cane field. This one was being cut by a line of slaves, their machetes flashing in the sun as they worked. Behind the slaves stood the overseers, long whips coiled in their hands. As Linfield looked he saw one of the whips flash through the air. A slave suddenly arched up in pain, and the sound of the crack followed a little while later. Emma looked across at her companion, and saw that his face had been transformed. Gone was the boyish delight in all he saw, replaced by tight lipped fury.