by Jay Worrall
“How do I find him?”
“I will send Midshipman Palgrave to show the way. But I warn you, Admiral Blankett will not be pleased at the intrusion.”
“Admirals are seldom pleased, I find,” Charles replied.
The sixteen-year-old Palgrave, perfectly attired in his uniform jacket buttoned up to his chin, tumbled down into the jollyboat, closely followed by Charles. They began the long pull into the port.
Mocha’s harbor consisted of a pair of sandstone jetties projecting into a shallow bay. At the northern and southern ends were long abandoned, crumbling forts on points of land, which presumably had once protected the entrances to the port. The sea, Charles noted, was shallow to more than a mile out, with frequent coral reefs just beneath the surface, over which waves washed with a gentle froth. Numerous small, shallow-draft sambuks, with single masts for their lateen sails were pulled up on the beach. A half dozen more sizable vessels known as baghalas, some as large as several hundred tons burthen weight, lay at anchor a mile or more from shore. These would be sea-going trading ships, easily capable of journeys as far as the East Indies or the Philippines. All were double-ended affairs, often with large eyes painted on the bow, and not dissimilar to some he had seen in the eastern Mediterranean. The jollyboat grounded on a glistening white sand beach before the walls. The oarsmen jumped into the water and hauled the craft onto land. Charles rose from his place in the sternsheets, went forward, and stepped out. Immediately he was assaulted by an army of flies swarming at his eyes and mouth and any bare skin, no matter how persistently he brushed them away. “Rest the men in the shade of those palm trees,” he said to Malvern. “Keep an eye on the boat. I’ll return as soon as I can.”
Augustus immediately moved to stand beside him, his mouth set in a determined line. Charles looked up at the town, then at a number of the local inhabitants watching cautiously from a distance. All were men or boys, deeply tanned to the color of weathered oak. The men were a hard-looking lot, mostly dressed in loose-fitting turbans and gowns with large curved daggers tucked prominently into belts over their bellies. “All right, this time you may accompany me,” he said to his servant, and felt the better for it. He turned to Palgrave. The boy was swatting ineffectually at the flies competing for the trickles of moisture running down his face. “Lead on,” he said with some sympathy.
Charles trod laboriously over the loose sand, sweat collecting anew under his open uniform coat. The buttoned up midshipman soon had the appearance of having stepped out from under a waterfall. The air cooled noticeably once they reached the town. Four- and five-storied, mud-brick buildings crowded against unpaved streets. The fronts of the structures, often with a workshop of some kind at the ground level, were overhung with awnings and balconies, shutting out the direct rays of the sun. The roadway was shared with lumbering camels, heavily laden donkeys, goats, chickens, and crowds of men. Few women were to be seen, and those completely covered except for their faces, and sometimes only their eyes. No breath of air stirred to disturb the flies or to relieve the robust odors of milling animals and crowded humanity.
“This way, sir,” said Palgrave, who seemed to know exactly where he was going. They soon turned into a narrow alleyway completely shaded with reed mats, then into another so constricted that Charles had to follow in single file, scraping against the building sides whenever someone passed in the opposite direction. After several turnings, which left him completely without any sense of direction, the midshipman stopped and knocked loudly on a nondescript wooden door set into the peeling wall of a three-story building. The door swung back revealing a large black man, almost as large as Augustus, in a yellow turban, bright blue vest, and baggy trousers of the same color gathered at the ankle. A familiar curved dagger with a fabulously decorated scabbard and hilt was tucked into his belt.
“Mr. Underwood, please,” Palgrave said.
The servant, if that is what he was, glanced suspiciously at Charles, then with something bordering on respect at Augustus. Then he stepped out to look up and down the alley. Satisfied, he spoke in oddly accented but otherwise perfect English: “Enter, gentlemen. Mr. Underwood and Admiral Blankett are in the courtyard. Your name, Captain?”
“Edgemont,” Charles answered, stepping cautiously into a darkened room. As his eyes began to adjust he saw another similarly proportioned and uniformed retainer behind the door. The second man closed it and slid a heavy wooden bar into place. Charles felt the thick texture of a carpet beneath his feet.
“Follow, if you please,” the doorman intoned, and started toward an arched passage at the room’s far end. As Augustus moved to follow, the second man barred his way. “Not this one,” the first said firmly. “He will wait here.”
“Cap’n?” Augustus protested.
“It’s all right; do as he asks,” Charles said. He followed the doorman and soon came to a cloistered walkway surrounding a courtyard with a running fountain, flowers in profusion, and several date and orange trees. Intricately decorated rugs overlaid a flagged surface beside the fountain. On these, two men reclined on thick pillows. They were in the midst of being served a dark liquid in tiny cups by an exotically attired young woman. Another, similarly dressed, plucked at a stringed instrument off to the side. One of the men wore Arab dress, including a long flowing head cover; the other wore white European breeches and a silk shirt of the same color. Charles took the second man to be Admiral Blankett, his new commanding officer. “Mr. Midshipman Palgrave and Captain Edgemont,” the doorkeeper announced. He took up position with his arms crossed immediately behind Charles.
“What is the meaning of this?” the admiral said in an irritated voice. “Mr. Palgrave, I left distinct orders that I was not to be disturbed.”
“I know, sir. I’m sorry. But the captain is newly arrived. He insisted.”
“Well then, what have you to say for yourself?” Blankett said, transferring his gaze from the midshipman to Charles.
“I have only just arrived . . . ,” Charles began.
“I know that.”
“. . . from England.” He looked meaningfully at the Arab man. “I have important recent information.”
“This is Mr. Gladfridus Underwood,” Blankett said. “He represents His Majesty’s government in this region. He can hear anything you have to say.”
Charles studied the oddly dressed figure more closely. His features were darkened by the sun, but softer than those of most natives he’d seen. The man might be European, he decided, or of mixed blood. He shrugged. “Yesterday evening as Cassandra approached the Straits of Mandeb, we sighted two unknown warships off our bow. It is likely they passed by here during the night.”
“Cassandra is your ship?” Blankett asked.
“My frigate, sir. Thirty-two guns.”
“And you did not discover the nationality of these two warships?”
“No, sir. To be truthful, I cannot swear they were warships, but they were ship-rigged. I imagine there are few European merchantmen in these waters.”
Blankett frowned to show his displeasure and pushed himself to a sitting position. “Captain Edgemont, I very much doubt this concerns me in the least. My orders are to prevent the French, should they incredibly decide to attack India, from exiting through the mouth of the Red Sea. This I am well able to do. A brig of war, now three frigates, and a fifty-gun ship of the line are more than sufficient to destroy any number of dhows, baghalas or any other bottoms available along this godforsaken waterway. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Charles said. “But . . .”
“No buts,” the admiral snapped impatiently.
“Yes, sir. But the sails, sir.”
Blankett frowned. “I see that I will have to spell it out for you. Really, I don’t know why the Admiralty foists such unimaginative officers on me. You have allowed yourself, sir, to become twisted into a pretzel about some hypothetical ship, or ships, that may, or may not, have sailed past Mocha and up the sea. Mind you, I have no orders re
garding any craft entering, only those attempting to leave. I will also enlighten you to the extent that we do indeed see the occasional European merchant going back and forth.” He turned momentarily to Underwood. “Where is it they do their trading?”
“Massawa,” Underwood answered. “Those Italians.”
“Oh yes. They have some legitimate business there, I believe.”
Charles stood rigidly erect. None of the customary courtesies, such as inviting him to sit or offering any refreshment, had been extended to him; now he was being condescended to. He clenched his jaw to keep from saying anything that could be taken as insubordinate. It did not ring true that the sails his lookouts had seen were ordinary merchantmen, not passing through the straits at night.
“Let us assume the worst, shall we?” Blankett continued. “Supposing that these ships were French. Most likely it, or they, would be transports. That’s what would be needed most. Even at that, only two would be sadly insufficient. Just possibly one of them might be a frigate. It’s unlikely but possible. It might even be that both are frigates. This borders on the unbelievable, of course, but I still have ample force should they attempt an exit. You do understand that, don’t you, Captain?” Possibly to mitigate the harshness of his tone, he added with a small chuckle, “It’s not as if they’d be ships of the line.”
Ships of the line. Charles felt an itch crawl up his spine. What if the two sets of sail his lookouts had glimpsed were the same frigate and seventy-four he had encountered in the Atlantic? It was not impossible. A single seventy-four would make short work of Blankett’s tiny squadron. He wished he had been closer so that he could be sure. He had nothing concrete, only supposition. He sensed that if he pressed the issue, the admiral would dismiss him as one of those officers who see terrors in every corner. Charles made an effort to compose himself. “With all respect, sir, you have no patrols out,” he said carefully. “I’m not suggesting it, but you wouldn’t know if the combined fleets of France and Spain have passed this way.” He smiled as if he’d meant it humorously.
Blankett did not take it as humor. “There is no need for patrols just now in any event.”
“Why is that?”
“The wind’s wrong, that’s why. Do you think me a fool?” The admiral glared at him impatiently. “During this season it blows to the north, up from the Horn of Africa. Won’t start southerly for another month or two. If the French intend to come down, that’s when they’ll do it, not before. And, sir, that’s when I intend to put out active patrols.”
Charles knew he should tread carefully, but something had to be done. “Wouldn’t it be useful at least to know what forces have progressed up the sea, if for no other reason, to know what to expect when they come down?”
“If they come down,” Blankett emphasized. “It’s a poppycock notion to begin with.” The admiral’s expression cracked into a smile. “But all right, since you are so concerned, I’ll send Cassandra out to patrol. Perhaps that will calm your nerves.”
Charles felt his anger rise to the surface at Blankett’s sarcastic tone and rigid thinking. "The man hasn’t the imagination of a pencil box," he remembered Effington saying at the Admiralty months before. “I am sorry, sir,” he said, controlling his tone. “I would be pleased to do so were it possible. I am under the Admiralty’s orders to make for the head of the sea. I am not to join the squadron until my return.”
At this the second man, Underwood, raised his eyebrows. “Are you really?” he said. “Why?”
Charles looked to Blankett, uncertain of how much he should reveal. “I’m sure this is explained in the dispatches I brought from London,” he said.
“Doubtless,” the admiral observed dryly, “these same dispatches will inform me of your anticipated appearance. But do tell, why are you being sent north?”
Charles glanced uneasily at Underwood in his Arab dress. For the first time he noticed the man was missing three of the fingers of his right hand. Who was he anyway? “I have orders to land certain persons there,” he said carefully.
“Who are you intending to put ashore?” Underwood asked. Blankett nodded in agreement at the question.
“I do not think I should say,” Charles answered firmly. “The admiral will learn of it in his written orders.”
“Then let me guess,” Underwood said with a wry smile. “You are Captain Edgemont: I recall the name in connection with the affair at Abukir in the Mediterranean. Or was it at Acre? Could it be your passenger is a certain Adolphus Jones?” Charles wondered at the man’s knowledge and knew that no answer was required. “I am sure you will be at Mocha several days to renew your water and such,” the agent continued. “By all means, invite Jones and his party on shore. We are old acquaintances.”
“I will mention it,” Charles said. He sensed that there was a history between the two that he did not understand.
Underwood rubbed his jaw thoughtfully before speaking to Blankett in an undertone. “I believe there may be some benefit to watching for who enters the sea,” Charles heard him say. “It’s a small thing, but best to err on the side of caution.”
The admiral nodded sagely. “You will inform Commander Griffiths of Hellebore to make ready to sail,” he said to Charles. “Tell him his written orders will be prepared this evening. If that is all, you may return to your ship.”
Charles was as anxious to be away as the admiral was to see him gone. He had a great deal to think through. There were only a few administrative details while he had Blankett’s attention. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I take it that we may begin the resupply of my ship in the morning? I expect to sail as soon as that is complete.” As an afterthought, he added, “And, it is my intention to allow Cassandra's crew leave to go on shore, with your permission, of course.”
Blankett's glare expressed annoyance that Charles had not already left. “No,” he said in a barely interested tone. “Your men are to be confined on board. Those are my standing orders for all the ships of the squadron. Watering parties and the like are excepted, of course, but keep them about their duties. I have enough problems with the damned natives as it is.”
Charles wasn’t prepared for this. He knew that the crew would be expecting leave and would be disappointed if it were withheld. “But, sir,” he began.
The admiral scowled, his patience apparently exhausted. “You are dismissed, Captain Edgemont. That is an order. Do you require it in writing?”
“No, sir,” Charles said, his face rigid. “I thank you for your time. Good day, sir.”
Charles followed Palgrave back through the dwelling whence they collected Augustus and soon found themselves in the foul-smelling alleyway once again. Charles, with Augustus following, obediently stayed on the midshipman’s heels as the boy turned from alleyway to alleyway, leading hopefully back to the waterfront. Was it possible that the French ships had entered the Red Sea on their way to Egypt? Might the sails they had sighted really be the same L'Agile and Raisonnable he had encountered in the Atlantic? Would that mean that an invasion of India was certain? It all seemed fantastic, but then everything in this part of the world seemed fantastic, from the determined clouds of flies to the unmoving British squadron in the port, while their admiral idled his time away in secret luxury on shore. And, who was Mr. Gladfridus Underwood? He seemed a most peculiar creature indeed. The only thing that Charles thought certain was that Underwood exercised some undefined influence over the admiral. He also was keenly aware that he would have a potentially far larger problem when his crew learned that they were to be restrained on board.
They came at last to the beach in the sweltering heat of the late afternoon. Charles quickly found his boat's crew lounging in various attitudes of ease under the cluster of palm trees. Someone had obtained a goatskin of water which he had passed around.
“Would you care for a sip, sir?” Malvern offered as they approached. Charles took a deep drink. He looked at the assembled seamen, most in their jersey shirts, although some had removed them. Then he gl
anced at young Palgrave, still in his buttoned up uniform and hat with sweat running down his cheeks. There were limits to maintaining dignity, he decided, and slipped off his jacket, removed his stock, and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. The effect was instantly gratifying. “You have my permission to open your upper clothing,” he said to the midshipman. “You’d best put it back before we reach Leopard, though.”
They soon re-launched the jollyboat, and with the breeze coming off the land, set the fore and aft sails to carry them out. A huge sun lay just above the horizon, its reflection sparkling across the gentle chop. Penny would love to see this, he thought; she would enjoy the strangeness of it all. Then he remembered that she would have recently been in childbirth and might at that moment be nursing their infant—or she might be dead. Women dying from the complications of birthing was by no means uncommon. That was just one additional uncertainty among the many others which were visited upon him. His mood darkened. For the moment he didn’t see how he could overcome any of it.
After hastily re-buttoning himself, Palgrave was deposited back onboard the flagship. Charles ordered Malvern to steer for the Hellebore so that he could convey Blankett’s orders. The brig-sloop rode placidly at her anchor a cable’s length away. “I’ll only be a moment,” he said as he climbed up over her side.
“Welcome aboard, sir,” Hellebore's first lieutenant said, greeting Charles as he pulled himself onto the deck. The officer was probably in his middle thirties, he guessed, a lean man of average height with the prominent white line of a scar down his otherwise deeply tanned left cheek. Charles’ first impression was of a thoughtful, steady man, probably capable of dealing with most problems put before him. “I am Nathaniel Drinkwater. I see you’ve only just arrived.”
“Charles Edgemont of Cassandra, fresh from Chatham,” he responded with a smile and extended his hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” The two men shook. “Is this all you do, sit in the harbor?”
Drinkwater’s mouth tightened. “We serve at the Admiral’s pleasure,” he said carefully.