A Sloop of War

by Philip K Allan

  ‘It seems to be very difficult, this English of yours,’ he sighed. ‘I think I now start to see why so many of my shipmates have not bothered to learn their letters, Rosie.’

  ‘You’re fecking right there, Able,’ said O’Malley as he came up, having picked his way across the crowded deck to join them. ‘Now your Irish, there’s a noble tongue for you, and very convenient to write, or so I have been told.’ Like Trevan, his hair hung loose too, a river of dark curls that gave him the look of a Restoration aristocrat. ‘Will you tie my hair up first, Adam, or are you after me doing yours?’ he asked.

  ‘Do me first, Sean,’ said the Cornishman, sitting upright and staring past Able’s shoulder to make the Irishman’s job easier. ‘You will need to find a tie-mate soon, Able, rate your hair is growing,’ he said. Able ran his hand into his hair, noticing for the first time how bushy it had become. As a slave it had been regularly clipped for him, to prevent lice and other parasites.

  O’Malley knelt down behind Trevan and gathered his hair into his strong hands, pulling and teasing it into tresses.

  ‘So why are you looking to learn your letters any road, Able?’ asked the Irishman as he worked.

  ‘I sort of want to improve myself,’ explained Sedgwick. ‘I may not always be a sailor, and knowing my letters will help me with other callings. But also it is to follow a notion what the surgeon had. He thought if I was to set down my story it may help with ending slavery.’

  ‘Well, that all sounds right noble, so good luck to yous. None of us can read, apart from Rosie, and he learnt as a child. Even big Sam over there can barely set down his name straight.’ Able followed O’Malley’s look to where Evans stood on the forecastle rail, recovering his freshly washed clothes. With one hand he held onto the foremast shrouds while he stretched up with the other.

  ‘Hoy, Sam,’ shouted O’Malley. ‘Mind out for the sharks!’ The others laughed and heads turned to watch the big man. Evans flapped a dismissive hand towards O’Malley and the gesture unbalanced him a little so that one foot slipped from the rail. The ship rolled under him at that moment and the wave of his hand became a frantic attempt to regain his balance. For a long moment he beat at the air like a bird before he fell from view. Everyone on the forecastle froze in disbelief. A moment later the sound of a heavy body striking the sea came up from over the side.

  ‘Sam!’ shouted O’Malley, jumping to his feet. Rosso dropped the sheet of paper, and ran to the ship’s side with Sedgwick at his heels.

  ‘Man overboard!’ yelled Trevan, coming to life at last, and turning to bellow towards the quarterdeck. Rosso and Sedgwick arrived at the forecastle rail just in time to see the thrashing figure of Evans slip below the surface. He was soon back up again, his eyes wide with panic as he retched and coughed up water. The struggling figure drifted ever sternward as the Rush sailed on.

  ‘Can he swim, Rosie?’ asked the former slave.

  ‘I doubt it, Able,’ said Rosso. ‘Few of us can, and he comes from Seven Dials.’ Sedgwick pulled his shirt over his head, and let it fall to the deck. He dropped his clasp knife on top, and climbed up onto the rail.

  ‘Keep an eye on my stuff, Rosie,’ he said.

  ‘Hold fast a moment,’ called Rosso, but he was too late. Sedgwick tumbled forward, his body stiffening into an arrow just before it speared into the water. Moments later a head of black hair broke the surface and swam towards Evans, whose struggles had become increasingly laboured.

  John Sutton had been watching the four transporters through his telescope, tutting to himself at the poor way that they kept station when he heard Trevan’s shout. He looked forward, saw the crew clustered on the starboard rail, and ran across the deck just as the struggling figure came level with him.

  ‘Mr Croft!’ he yelled. ‘Get that life buoy in the water. Quartermaster, helm a lee! Bring her up into the wind.’ As the ship’s way came off her, Sutton rushed to the front of the quarterdeck. ‘Mr Carver, jollyboat crew away!’ he called. The order was picked up quickly by those on the main deck. Satisfied that the boat would soon be launched, he returned to the rail to see how the sailor fared. To his surprise he saw a second figure in the water, almost up to Evans and swimming well.

  ‘Agrius signalling, sir,’ said Croft. ‘Why have you left your station?’

  ‘Reply “Rush to Agrius, man overboard,” if you please Mr Croft,’ ordered Sutton, ‘and kindly pass the word for the captain.’

  ‘I am here, Mr Sutton,’ said Clay as he climbed up the quarterdeck ladder to see why the ship had flown up into the wind. ‘Who is in the water?’

  ‘I believe it is Evans, sir,’ replied the lieutenant. ‘But now Sedgwick appears to have joined him. He would seem to have some skill as a swimmer, unlike the unfortunate Evans.’

  ‘I suppose he might be able to swim,’ mused Clay. ‘Did not Robertson say he had been a fisherman back in Africa before he lost his liberty?’

  In the sea Sedgwick was close to Evans now, but it was clear that the big man was becoming exhausted. The water was colder than he had expected here in the deep Atlantic channel between Barbados and the crescent arc of the main Windward Islands. Ahead of him Evan’s head slipped below the surface. His shirt ballooned up with trapped air for a moment, and then collapsed. Sedgwick took a deep breath and dived down.

  He could see Evan’s now, a struggling figure beneath him. His face was white in the wash of sunlight that filtered down into the water, his dark eyes wide with panic. He swam down, grabbed the big Londoner around the waist and drove powerfully up, forcing his head above the surface. Then he released him and came up for air himself. Evans clutched at him, forcing him under in his desperation to push himself up. Sedgwick circled below him and came up behind his friend. He slipped his arm round Evan’s chin and lay back in the water, his mouth close to the drowning man’s ear.

  ‘Sam!’ he gasped. ‘Stop struggling! I have you now, just lie still and let me chiefly do the swimming.’ Evans flayed around him with his arms, but Sedgwick held him firmly by the chin until the realisation gradually came to him that he was no longer drowning. Sedgwick felt Evan’s body start to relax a little, melting into his grip. He kicked out with his legs and slowly towed the Londoner towards the approaching jollyboat. Evans coughed a few times, spitting salty phlegm onto Sedgwick’s arm, then lay still. His rescuer glanced behind him in the water, judging how far away the boat was.

  ‘How did you wind up in the water too?’ gasped Evans.

  ‘Saw you was after a swim and thought it might be a lark, so I jumped in after you, you great lump,’ he replied. ‘Try to keep your mouth closed.’

  ‘Wasn’t you worried about them sharks an all?’ asked Evans, ignoring his advice.

  ‘Are there sharks here abouts?’ said Able. ‘If I had known that I would have left you to bloody well drown.’ Evans laughed at this, took in a mouthful of water, and his body arched in Able’s grasp as he coughed.

  ‘Keep your mouth shut, you idiot, and just lie back,’ hissed Sedgwick.

  Chapter 10

  Vieux Fort

  Late evening, and the sun drifted ever lower into the purple clouds that formed a towering hedge along the western horizon. Beams of light, thin shards of gold, spilt out across the velvet blue sky for a moment, and then with tropical quickness the light in the main cabin of the Rush faded. Clay was entertaining his officers once more, and they were seated around his dining table, their faces cross lit in the last of the daylight. Those who faced towards the stern windows were flushed with colour; those with their backs to the sunset were highwayman dark. Hart hastened forward with candles for the table, and lit the lamps that hung about the cabin, till the space glowed warmly once more. The officers talked among themselves, sipping at their wine, and waited with keen appreciation for the arrival of their meal.

  ‘So have Sedgwick and Evans made a prompt recovery from their ordeal?’ asked Clay.

  ‘Indeed they have, sir,’ said Linfield. ‘I had instructed both men to re
st for the balance of the day, but I understand that they ignored me and went on to take a full part in evening gun drill. Is that not so, Mr Sutton?’

  ‘Precisely so,’ replied the lieutenant. ‘They are both very sound. I have high hopes of Sedgwick in particular, sir. He must be given the chief credit for saving Evans’s life, for I am most uncertain that the boat would have reached him in time. Mr Carver tells me he is a quick learner, and has already progressed much of the way to becoming a valuable seaman. Once he can show that he can hand, reef and steer, I believe we might rate him as ordinary.’

  Clay was about to respond to Sutton’s suggestion when Faulkner caught his eye. He closed his mouth again, picked up his fork and tapped the side of his glass to gain the attention of his other guests.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Earlier this evening Mr Faulkner came to see me to explain a matter of a certain delicacy. He also asked if he might be permitted to address a few words to the company tonight before we commence our meal. Mr Faulkner, pray continue.’ All eyes turned towards the purser. Most were indifferent but those of Macpherson, seated opposite him, brimmed with encouragement.

  ‘Ah... gentlemen,’ he started. ‘I hardly know where to begin. I wanted to tell you that I have been guilty of a sin of omission with regard to my past, and this has caused me to fall short of the necessary candour that should exist between fellow officers amid the perils of war. I would like to correct that now, and to ask for your understanding as to how it may have come about.’ He paused for a moment, to gather his thoughts. The cabin was silent.

  ‘In my youth I became enslaved to a love of games of hazard,’ said Faulkner, looking down. ‘My devotion to such practices brought me into contact with an unsavoury and rakish part of society, among whom I was to become a most active member. I was a young man then, and had I been checked by the council of friends or family, I might have avoided the excesses to which I later succumbed. Unfortunately the converse was the case. Most of my acquaintances were like minded. I became a sad creature, virtually nocturnal in my habits, and I practiced gambling to the exclusion of almost all else.’ Faulkner’s tale stuttered to a halt, the purser unsure what to say next.

  ‘What was the result of this obsession, Charles?’ encouraged Macpherson.

  ‘Why the virtual ruin of my family’s prospects,’ replied Faulkner, looking at the Scot. ‘I accumulated such debts that had my family not been favoured by the consideration and generosity of many of their acquaintances, the Faulkners might have quite ceased to exist.’

  ‘I see,’ said the marine officer. ‘So how was it you came to join the service?’

  ‘I have always had some facility with numbers, Mr Macpherson,’ replied the purser. ‘My father was generous enough to give me another chance by purchasing for me the bond of a purser, and was able to command sufficient preferment as to find me my position here on board the Rush. Thanks to the level of my debts, it is the final act of support of which he was capable, and I will be eternally grateful for it. And now I must make my own way in the world.’

  ‘Are you still tempted to gamble?’ asked Appleby.

  ‘I am sorely tempted,’ replied Faulkner. ‘But as yet I have been successful in not succumbing.’

  ‘You will all understand that I did have some concerns about Mr Faulkner’s tale,’ said Clay. ‘It is a rare thing to place a ship’s finances in the hands of a self-confessed rake. I am somewhat reassured by his candour. We have discussed matters at some length and I have received such reassurances as to his future conduct that I am now quite satisfied that they will be safe in his hands.’

  ‘Mr Faulkner, might I have a glass of wine with you?’ said Macpherson. ‘I consider the openness of your address to your brother officers in its way to be quite the match in bravery to Sedgwick’s rescue of Evans.’

  ‘Hear him,’ called Linfield, banging the palm of his hand on the table top.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Macpherson,’ said Faulkner, smiling with relief as the weight of his past eased a little from his shoulders. He raised his own glass, and the two men drained them together.

  ‘Well, gentlemen, that was very handsomely done by Mr Faulkner,’ said Clay. ‘Now, do we have any further confessions to hear? No active pederast, or undiscovered murderers amongst us? Capital, shall we proceed then to dinner?’ The company cheered at this, Appleby a little too loudly, while Sutton spluttered over his wine. Hart and his assistants came in from the coach, carrying in a large rib of beef.

  ‘Fresh meat at sea, gentlemen,’ said Clay. ‘A rare treat even when we are only a day out from port. Barbadian beef is not something which I can claim any familiarity with, but in the absence of a fortuitous shoal of flying fish it will sustain us, I make no doubt. Yes, I will have some of the vegetables thank you, Hart.’

  With roast beef, Hart was on safer culinary grounds than normal, much to his captain’s relief. Clay had recently had to be firm with his steward, insisting that he should stop adding sugar to every dish, even if it was a luxury that was freely available in the Caribbean.

  ‘Are we all served?’ he asked, looking at the heaped plates around him. ‘Splendid, into battle we go.’ The officers of the Rush were all active young men, with keen appetites, and the novelty of fresh meat had not worn off after only ten days in Bridgetown refitting. In consequence a companionable silence descended over the table, punctuated only by the clink of glass on glass, and flatware on plate.

  ‘Ah,’ said Clay, the first to come up for air. ‘That is considerably better. Mr Appleby, I see your trencher is clear, would you care for some more? Hart, would you oblige Mr Appleby? While we eat, perhaps I might tell you a little of the plans for the morrow?’ Heads came up from plates along both sides of the table, and Clay had all of their attention.

  ‘I am sure Mr Sutton will have told you the general situation,’ he began. ‘Our particular task is to descend on Vieux Fort in the south of the island. We will approach that place tonight, and land Colonel Gordon and his men at dawn, so as to give the French as little notice as we can. Once the troops are ashore, we are to provide what assistance they may require to invest and capture the small fortress we shall find there. I am expecting that the colonel may ask for the support of Lieutenant Macpherson and his marines, perhaps some men to help dig trenches and the like, and he will certainly call on us for gun crews for his siege pieces thereafter. He may also require your assistance, Mr Linfield, if the siege proves to be a bloody affair.’

  ‘How is the landing to proceed?’ asked Faulkner.

  ‘We land in the bay to the west of Vieux Fort, which is called Black Bay,’ Clay answered. ‘We will anchor as close inshore as we dare and unload the transporters using our ship’s boats.’

  ‘Are there any navigational hazards to consider, sir,’ asked Sutton. Clay looked across to Appleby to respond.

  ‘Nothing on any of the charts,’ replied the master. ‘This being the Caribbean proper, there will be precious little tide to detain us.’

  ‘Why is the bay called Black Bay?’ asked Linfield, almost to himself. The others around the table looked at him quizzically. ‘It is a French island,’ he explained. ‘All the names are French. The island itself is called St Lucia, not Saint Lucy. Micoud Bay, Castries, Vieux Fort; all these names are French, but not this Black Bay. I was just wondering if there might be an explanation as to why?’

  ‘Well, it is a little strange now you come to mention it, Mr Linfield,’ replied Appleby with a smile. ‘I have heard an explanation which I can share with you, but I am not sure if I can give it much credence. The story goes that Blackbeard, the notorious buccaneer, used the bay to hide his ill gotten gains, and it bears his name in consequence.’

  ‘Where is old Abrahams when you need him? He might have known,’ said Sutton. ‘You remember him, sir, sail maker’s mate on the Marlborough.’

  ‘I believe I do remember him, yes,’ said Clay. ‘One of the older hands, long scar on his arm. He had been in the service for years.’

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bsp; ‘The very same,’ said the lieutenant, turning back to the general company. ‘I was a youngster in those days, but newly come to sea, and I did love to hear some of his fund of tales. He had served in most parts of the world over the years, always in the navy. During the Seven Years War he was here in the Caribbean under Rodney when he had the Leeward Islands command. He always said that many of the veteran seamen were former pirates, pardoned in their youth and then recruited into the navy. He had no end of yarns about sea fights and bloody encounters he had heard as a young man, all happening in these very waters a couple of generations ago.’

  ‘It seems strange to think of men passing from piracy to the navy with never a backwards glance,’ mused Faulkner. ‘One wonders if they contrive to pass the other way with the same facility. It may help explain why the crew seem so obsessed with prize money.’

  ‘I hope you are not considering a further change in career, Mr Faulkner,’ said Macpherson. ‘Done being a rake, how about a little buccaneering?’ The table laughed at this, Faulkner with them, at ease with the group now in a way he had not been before tonight.

  ‘As I understand it, most pirates commence life as privateers, preying on their country’s enemies under licence,’ explained Appleby. ‘Then the war ends, the licence is revoked, but now the men have acquired the taste for easy spoil, perhaps to the point of addiction much as you have described can happen with cards, Mr Faulkner.’

  ‘You sound as if you speak from prior knowledge of such matters, Mr Appleby,’ said Clay, smiling at the ship’s master.

  ‘I fear I may lack the necessary frame for such a demanding occupation, sir,’ replied Appleby, stroking the front of his bulging waistcoat. ‘But we from the West Country have long been close to the sea. Are we not a cradle for the Royal Navy in time of war? But then what are we to do with all of those returning tars in time of peace? A little smuggling, you may make no doubt, but hardly sufficient to occupy us all. Take this Blackbeard you speak of, he was a West Country man through and through.’