by Hunter, Seth
Nathan helped drag one of the 6-pounders to the top of the quarterdeck steps, glancing to his right to make sure they were doing the same on the starboard side. His own marines were lined up along the quarterdeck rail with their muskets at the ready. He lifted the whistle from its lanyard round his neck and gave one long blast and the Nereids in the waist began to fall back, slowly at first and then breaking away and running towards the quarterdeck as instructed. Some of the Vestales went with them but were cut down when Canning’s men turned with the bulkhead at their backs. The rest stood in a confused mass with most of their officers dead on the quarterdeck and the frigate now clearly under way heading out to sea. Then came the crashing volley from Nathan’s marines on the quarterdeck: and another. Terrible slaughter among the packed mass of men in the waist. When the smoke cleared they looked up to see the two quarterdeck cannons pointing down at them, the gunners poised with their slow matches waiting for Nathan’s order to fire. He leapt up on the rail and roared at the Vestales to throw down their arms. No response. Too late, he realised his mistake. He had shouted the command in English. He opened his mouth to shout again and one of them shot him.
A confused void in time. He seemed to be sitting on the quarterdeck but he did not know how he had got there. There was a hole in his thigh with smoke coming out of it. He put his hand over it and felt blood but no pain. There was a pounding in his ears. He looked up and saw Gabriel kneeling at his side. Keeble too, and now Tully, his face full of concern. What was Tully doing there? He should be in the rigging.
“Are we under way?” His voice was harsh.
“Yes.” Tully carefully lifted Nathan’s hand from his leg and peered at the wound. “We are round the cape.”
Nathan felt a sudden stab of pain. “Jesus Christ!”
“We will have to get him below,” he heard Gabriel say.
“No!” Nathan did not want to go below. Below was the screaming horror of the cockpit and the surgeon with his saws. “Not until we are out to sea,” he added desperately.
“We are at sea, sir. We are out in the bay.”
The distant thunder of cannon.
“The 74,” he began as he tried to raise himself.
But Tully was shaking his head. “She is still at her mooring,” he said. “They are firing from the battery on Cap de la Hève and we will soon be out of range.”
“We have to get him to the surgeon,” Gabriel said again.
“No,” Nathan groaned. He did not want to go to the surgeon. The surgeon was a butcher and a drunk.
But there were hands round his shoulders lifting him up. He reached out and grabbed Tully fiercely by the arm.
“Don’t let them take my leg,” he said.
But he saw the look on Tully’s face and knew that they would.
Chapter 13
Gone to Ground
Half the county beneath Nathan’s bedroom window: the veiled ladies all in black and the pink huntsmen, the hearty squires and the sporting parsons, the fat farmers on their fat mares and the restless hounds . . . And Nathan in his chair looking down and thinking of the painting it would make if only they would stay still long enough for him to make a half-decent sketch. With the steam rising from the farting horses and the mist rising from the fields and the winter sun just showing above the Long Man of Wilmington . . .
He watched his father sitting high and handsome on his big grey Billy, greeting his guests as they gathered at Windover House for the first time that season, and the stirrup cup passing round. Gallantly doffing his hat to the ladies, a word here, a word there, as composed and commanding a presence as he had been on his own quarterdeck; you would never know he was a shy man at heart. Nathan was proud of his father, who might have retired gracefully after a lifetime in the service but at the age of fifty-five had begun a new career as a gentleman farmer and made a surprising success of it, joining his more progressive neighbours in improving the breed of Southdown sheep so that already they were become the wonder of the age. But he was a stickler for tradition too, a solid Tory in good standing with the county establishment. He looked up, caught Nathan’s eye and mouthed some instruction or query. Nathan frowned and tilted his head until it was repeated, accompanied by an unmistakeable gesture. Come down. Nathan pulled a face but ever loath to disappoint his father he hauled himself up from his chair and took up his cane and limped to the door.
The ragged cheer as he emerged. Applause and some amiable ribbing and Gabriel fussing over him as if he was an invalid.
“Shall I fetch you your coat, now, before you catch a chill?”
“No, sir, you may not but you may bring me the stirrup cup while it’s passing.”
And now here was my Lord Egremont, one of his father’s band of improvers. “I am sorry to see you lamed, Nathaniel, but by God it was boldly done and we are all proud of you, my boy, eh Admiral?”
“I thank you, my lord, but it was little enough and I hope I am not lamed by it, just a trifle inconvenienced.”
He caught his father’s eye again, who knew how close he had come to losing the leg. Tully had threatened the surgeon with violence if he as much as looked to the saw and got him to St. Thomas’s in London where they had dug the bullet out and set the bone with splints. But it had been touch and go for weeks after.
“Little enough, my arse. Not by the account I read.”
The news of Nathan’s exploits had been carried widely in the press but while giving him full credit for the victory, the papers had been strangely remiss in entirely omitting the part played by the Speedwell. The official report was that the Nereus had acted alone, boarding a 32-gun frigate in the mist and carrying her off under the guns of Cap de la Hève.
“Well, I’m glad to see you on your feet again, sir, and trust you’ll soon be at the Frenchies again, even if you must leave Charley to the rest of us.”
The hunt, being generally of the Tory persuasion, had taken to calling the fox Charley after Charles James Fox, leader of the Whigs, which presumably added to their pleasure at seeing it chased halfway across the county and torn apart by hounds at the end of it, an outcome denied them in Parliament.
“Well, I’m sorry not to be riding with you today, my lord . . .”
Lying through his teeth for he was no great shakes as a huntsman, but then he caught the eye of my lord’s eldest daughter, Fanny, with whom he had enjoyed a tussle in the past while riding to hounds—she had let him pop out her tits on the last occasion in Windover Wood and her present expression promised more. He was briefly tempted but the doctor had warned against violent exercise and the splints had only been off a week.
So with a prolonged blast on the horn they were off and away in a clatter of hooves and a final clearing of equine bowels, leaving Nathan and the servants alone on the steaming terrace. He stood for a while looking out over the lake with its sheen of ice and broken rushes, one lonely heron stalking the shallows, lamenting its own lack of sport. Then, reluctant to retire indoors and listen to the clocks, he walked round to the farm where those of his father’s labourers not engaged with the hunt were scraping up a season’s dung and loading it into carts for spreading on the fields, which was one of the few occupations left to them at this time of the year. With three big sheepfolds, stabling for fifty horses and sheds for a dozen Sussex ox and a score of cows, they had plenty to keep them busy and Nathan watched from the lea of the barn as they shovelled and scraped, thinking how he had known most of them since he was eight years old and wondering how many had been in Cuckmere Haven on his last visit . . . The huntsman’s horn sounded across the frosted fields and he lifted his head to observe the distant riders spreading themselves across the lower slopes of the Long Man and the hounds foraging at the edge of Wilton Copse. England. Many of Nathan’s colleagues would have said this was what they were fighting for—but was he?
“Ben’t gon t’jine hunt
today, young maister?” Old Abraham Eldridge, senior shepherd, in his smock and gaiters and the curious fringe of whiskers endemic to the breed. Nathan had observed him leaning on his crook and delivering a few sardonic words of advice to the labourers, having little better to do since Guy Fawkes when he had put the rams in.
They embarked on a familiar ritual that had engaged them, off and on, since Nathan was a boy.
“No, Dad, I ben’t. I be agoin’ to watch thee instruct thy underlins in the rudiments o’ shovellin’ shit, it bein’ more of an entertainment than chasin’ varmints half the day.”
“Oh aye, an’ if we wus all of that same opinion where’d us be?”
“Why, same place as us be now, Dad, I reckon.”
“And where be thy father’s lambs come spring time but in bellies o’ they same bloody varmints thou wouldna chase in winter, eh?”
“Well, as to that, Abr’m, I’s a weakness for mutton mesel’ but’ve niver bin chased t’ Jevington and back for’t.”
“Aye but thou’s bin chased t’Alfriston an’ I ’member right an’ had thy hide tanned somewhen for scrumpin’ o’ parson’s apples when thou wert a boy.” This with a hearty chuckle at the memory of it, taking off his tall hat to wipe his brow as if he’d done an honest day’s work and not been leaning on his crook all morning watching others.
“Chased I may a bin, Dad, but never caught an’ I recall. Though informed upon by them that ben’t so nimble.”
“Aye well, thou ben’t so nimble thysel’ now, boy, since Frenchies nobbled ’ee. Reckon ah could give ’ee half mile start an’ still beat ’ee t’ Market Inn, old as I be.” Another cackle at this rejoinder and a wink at several of his associates who had gathered round to witness the debate.
“Reckon thou’d beat any man in county to any inn they cared to name, Dad, if they wus payin’ an’ not ’ee.”
But further intercourse of this nature was prevented by the arrival of young John from the house with a letter that had arrived for Nathan by special delivery. He recognised the black seal with the fouled anchor and tore at the envelope in his haste to know the content.
“Not bad news, Nathaniel?” The old man’s face creased with concern, ever wary of the death and disease that might be carried by post.
“Not bad news, Abraham,” Nathan replied in the King’s English after scanning the brief note above the Second Secretary’s signature, “but I must have the chaise if there are horses for it.” And to the messenger, “Do you run to Gabriel, boy, and beg him to have my best uniform ready and an overnight bag for I am summoned to the Admiralty and must leave directly.”
Frost on the fields the short day long and darkness falling before they topped Shooter’s Hill. Nathan huddled in his navy cloak with his chin sunk deep into a muffler and his boots resting on a pan of coals. It was a foul day for travelling but he trusted it would be worth the inconvenience; the First Lord would scarcely require his presence at Whitehall to order him back to Nereus when a messenger would have sufficed. He knew his father and others anticipated he would be made post for his victory in the Baie de Seine—or what little they knew of it—with some plum beside and yet he was assailed by doubt. It was four months now since he had taken the Vestale and there had been no word from the Admiralty, no official commendation, not even an inquiry after his health. Just that erroneous account in the Gazette. He could not help thinking that this silence was significant: that he had given some offence. Perhaps his father had been making too much noise among his old friends in the service and it had ruffled their lordships’ feathers. And it was true that he had taken a risk with his command . . .
Perhaps the Speedwell and her precious cargo was more important to some people than the capture of a 32-gun frigate.
They pulled into the George at Croydon to change horses and he hurried indoors to warm himself at the fire while Gabriel fetched a hot toddy from the bar. It was raining when they left and by the time they reached Southwark it had turned to sleet.
A dirty, London sleet whipped up Whitehall by a wind from the northeast, the horses skidding in the slush and the cabbies hunched like gargoyles streaming water. Nathan showed his pass to the frozen sentry only to be greeted by the head porter in the lobby with the news that his lordship had gone to attend his brother at Downing Street and he was to meet him there.
“In Downing Street?”
“Aye, number ten,” said the porter in case he did not know where the King’s chief minister lived.
Nathan lingered in the porch watching the sleet in the light of the dancing street lamps. He had sent Gabriel off in the coach to his mother’s so as not to keep the horses standing in the cold and wet and left his stick behind so as not to seem a cripple.
“Shall I send for a cab, sir?” asked the porter with the hint of a sneer, for it was no more than a short walk down Whitehall and Nathan was no admiral.
“Thank you I’ll manage,” said Nathan and exaggerated his limp as he lurched into the sleet.
The porter at number ten was no more amiable, scowling at Nathan’s dripping hat and the pool he was making on the hall floor.
“I will see if his lordship is still here,” he said in a voice that indicated it was as likely as sunshine. He showed Nathan into a miserable little waiting room with a threadbare rug and a beggarly fire that crouched in the grate as if it was afraid of being noticed and raising questions in Parliament. Nathan’s soaring expectations—a captaincy, a knighthood, an audience with the King—had now plummeted but he had scarcely stopped dripping when the fellow was back with an obsequious face and the news that his lordship would see him directly. Relieved of cloak and hat Nathan followed him up the stairs and along a landing to a rather more elegant chamber and a far more impressive conflagration with two like-looking gentlemen sitting on either side of it in easy chairs like matching ornaments.
“Ah, Peake, come in, come in,” said the First Lord, rising. “I do not think you have met my brother.”
William Pitt, the King’s chief minister, not quite the gangling, pop-eyed, chinless wonder the caricaturists made of him but just about recognisable from their designs, bobbing briefly up and down as Nathan made his bow and gesturing for him to take the third seat at the fire.
Nathan nervously sat, wondering what in God’s name he was doing in such company while his racing mind chased fantasies.
“I trust the leg is on the mend,” began Chatham with a general nod at his nether regions.
“Yes, I thank you, my lord, much better than it was.”
“I am glad to hear it for I cannot condemn your enterprise, or your bravery, though it might easily have jeopardised the more vital work you were about.”
“With respect, my lord, I fail to see how the delivery of a cargo of tobacco . . .”
“There is much you fail to see, Commander, but you must trust in the judgement of those who are able to view the whole picture.” A glance at his brother who declined to comment, merely fixing Nathan with a glare. Again, not as pop-eyed as his caricatures but no less disconcerting for that. Nathan felt like a schoolboy brought before the headmaster, though head prefect might have been more apposite for even in his thirties and wearied by ten years in office, Pitt still looked as if he needed to fill out his suits.
“Yes, my lord,” Nathan replied stiffly.
“Well, it does not seem to have done as much damage as it might. We were able to suppress the details of the affair and provided you have been discreet, the Speedwell’s part in the affair remains undetected, at least by our friends over the water.”
So this was what grieved them. But why? Unless . . .
He was not long in doubt.
“We want you to go back,” Chatham confirmed his growing suspicion, “with another consignment.”
“Of tobacco?” Nathan made no attempt to hide his disgust.
�
��If that is agreeable to you?” Coldly, looking down his long nose.
“I will do my duty, my lord.”
“Very good. And there is another thing . . .” Another glance in the direction of his brother and this time Pitt responded.
“I believe you were in Paris, sir?” he said, leaning forward a little.
“Yes, sir. My contact being removed there and having dispatches to deliver to the American minister, I thought—”
“Quite. You acted with commendable resource. And what did you make of Mr. Imlay?”
“What did I make of him?” Nathan repeated with a frown.
“You travelled with him to Le Havre, according to your report. It must have given you time to form a judgement.”
“Well, sir, I confess I thought him a little brash—and with a very good opinion of himself.”
“But his insight—into French affairs?”
Nathan could only think of what he had said about the affairs of the Countess of Turenne, which could not possibly interest the present company.
“I believe he is as well informed as any,” he temporised.
“Better, I would hope. We have read his report.” He flapped a languid hand at the papers on the table beside him: the report that Nathan had brought back from France presumably. “He is most interesting on the prospects of the peace party in Paris.”