by Lynn Bryant
“You’re quiet, Major,” his chief said. Campbell and Stanhope had dropped back, talking quietly together. Paul glanced at him.
“What’s he like - Lord Cathcart?”
“Personally or professionally?” Wellesley asked.
“Either.”
“Professionally he is competent as far as I am aware. Possibly a little cautious. Personally he is a very pleasant gentleman who is unfailingly polite. My concern is that he is going to dislike what he is being asked to do as much as we do and being higher born and higher placed than either you or I, he may be a little too willing to let that show. I do not think he is ruthless enough.”
Paul shook his head. “They should have given the command to you.”
“It is too big and I am not senior enough.”
“Oh I know why they haven’t. It just pisses me off.”
Wellesley laughed. “You are my most constant supporter, Major, and I will never know why, I am appallingly rude to you.”
“I’m fairly rude to you at times. It doesn’t matter, does it, as long as the rest of the army doesn’t hear it?”
“It doesn’t matter between friends. I am not too concerned about Lord Cathcart. It could have been a good deal worse, at least he has recent military experience. There are rumours in town that the Earl of Chatham is looking to return to the field and I would hate to be under his command. And so would you.”
Paul’s brain, which was still slightly shocked at Wellesley’s first remark, caught up. He looked at his commander and said neutrally:
“I quite like Lord Chatham.”
Wellesley turned his head and stared down his long nose at him. “How on earth do you know Lord Chatham?” he demanded and Paul smiled at his tone.
“Sir, I know a number of people; I did have a life before I met you on a hillside in India.”
“I am aware of that, Major. Just not a particularly normal one.”
“That’s rude even for you. When I came back from the navy I was seventeen and pretty much angry all the time; I could barely speak to my father. It was decided that I should go to Oxford and my father was keen to see me integrated back into society. He was very worried that I’d picked up a lot of bad habits as well as a foul mouth during my time below decks with the navy.”
“He wasn’t wrong,” Wellesley said and Paul grinned.
“I was a lot worse then,” he said.
“You never talk about it.”
“What were you doing at fourteen, sir?”
“I was at Eton.”
“I was kicked out of Eton. It’s not really the lap of luxury there, is it? But as one who has done both, I can tell you it’s a damned sight more comfortable than two and a half years below decks on a warship with eight hundred men who are not like anything you’ve ever met in your sheltered life. Trust me, it affected me.”
Wellesley was studying him and Paul had the odd feeling that he was in some way seeing him for the first time. “I had no idea,” he said softly. “Really, I feel somewhat stupid for never having thought about it.”
“I got over it very quickly, sir. I enjoyed Oxford but society was a different matter. My family’s social position has always been a little odd; he was from trade and she was very definitely from the nobility.”
“She was a daughter of Viscount Tevington, I understand.”
“His only daughter. To this day I’ve never known how that match came about, although I expect the money helped, there are a lot of poverty stricken peers out there. It gave my father a position in society – not the highest, but more than respectable. I think if my sister had lived he had high hopes for a good marriage for her; Joshua married very well. My father did not want my unfortunate experiences in the Royal Navy to get in the way of all that. He came up with the idea of a court presentation.”
Wellesley laughed aloud. “Try as I might I cannot imagine you in knee breeches and a wig, Paul. I’ve never seen you in anything other than uniform.”
“It’s where I’m most comfortable, sir. I didn’t particularly want to do it but Josh and Patience talked me into it. Father wanted a sponsor for me and came up with the Earl of Chatham.”
“Why?” Wellesley said blankly and Paul laughed.
“Money,” he said succinctly. “The Earl has an expensive position to keep up and not enough money to do it.”
“The Earl’s propensity for fine wines and expensive fashion does not help either,” Wellesley said acerbically and Paul shook his head.
“I know nothing about his drinking habits, nor do I care. I don’t know the details and it’s none of my business but I imagine my father arranged a loan on very good terms with the discreet understanding that he would not chase for payment. He’s done it with half the Tory party.”
“Really? I must mention that to my brother.”
“He might already know, sir,” Paul said. “I know nothing about my father’s private financial transactions, thank God. I was rigged out like something from Drury Lane and went through the painful process.”
“And for that you feel gratitude towards Lord Chatham?”
“Who mentioned gratitude? I said I liked him. I don’t know him well but there are two ways of managing that particular obligation. My father effectively paid him to present me at court although nobody would ever have mentioned anything so vulgar. What he actually did was got his wife to invite me to a small gathering a week or so before the event. She was extraordinarily kind to me – they both were – introduced me around as if I was the son of a family friend instead of a chore they’d taken on.”
“She is a very nice woman,” Wellesley admitted.
“She was certainly very nice to me that evening and it made it less awkward when I had to go to court. He made the whole thing less difficult than it might have been. I wrote to thank him afterwards and he took the trouble to reply. I was very young and not nearly as sure of myself as I liked to appear back then. It was difficult, coming back from where I’d been to a life of privilege. I used to feel sometimes that I’d walked into a world where I didn’t belong. Still get that sometimes when I go home after being on campaign and find myself at some party with people who look down their noses at the men who fight and die beside me.”
Wellesley was studying him. “I am beginning to understand a good deal more than I have before,” he said quietly.
“As I said, I liked him. I’m aware that he came under a lot of criticism at the Admiralty although that was well before my time, and I know some people – including you – think he’s doing a poor job as Master of the Ordnance. That might be true. But personally, I think he’s a good man. And as a lad who spent a lot of time being told he needed to be more like his older brother, I’ve some fellow feeling for the man growing up as the lesser known brother of William Pitt.”
Wellesley smiled thinly. “You so often surprise me, Major. You are probably right about Chatham. I am notoriously intolerant of incompetence or laziness and there have been times when he has displayed both – and no doubt will again. But I know nothing about him personally that I dislike. Certainly whatever our differences in the future, I shall try to remember that story. It might help me to hold my tongue.”
“It won’t, sir. But it’s a nice idea. Wish I’d brought a cloak with me, it’s going to be cold on that water.”
“I was just thinking that,” his chief said smoothly. “I think we will instruct the boatmen to take us to the Prometheus first, I would hate Captain Stanhope to catch a chill.”
“Thank you, sir. Nice to know you care.”
Wellesley grinned as Paul let out a bellow to alert the boatmen. “I’m surprised you’re coming with us at all, Major. I was expecting you to go back to the inn tonight.”
Paul laughed. “I did think about it,” he said. “But I am trying very hard to be a better husband, sir.”
“Reforming your ways, Paul? I am impressed.”
Paul shook his head and leaned out to give a hand to the seaman who was scrambling up
to tie up the boat. “I’ll let you know how it goes, sir,” he said. “If I don’t freeze to death on this bloody boat. Major Campbell, let me give you a hand down.”
Chapter Eleven
Hugh had almost given up expecting orders when they came, swiftly and with urgency. He had been sitting very early at his writing desk staring at the second letter from Josiah Crellin which was sitting on top of the first, both unopened.
The detached part of his mind mocked himself for his cowardice. At least one of those letters might contain something important relating to business, requiring a response. His advocate had reported enthusiastically about his first quarterly returns in his Manx investments but Crellin’s shipping firm was particularly promising and Hugh knew he had made a good decision. He liked Josiah Crellin and he did not want their business dealings to descend to the point where he was nothing more than a sleeping partner, with contact made only through their advocates. He needed to open those letters, read them and reply, preferably with an apology for the delay.
He also knew that one of them probably contained the news of Roseen Crellin’s marriage to Lieutenant Edward Barton. Hugh knew it must have happened by now and although he still thought of her daily, the pain had receded to a dull ache. Still he could not bring himself to open those letters and see the words written in Crellin’s neat script, ending the episode for good and making any further hankering after the new Mrs Barton completely inappropriate. He should do it and get it over with and it might even help him to put her from his mind. When he finally ended his time with the navy, he would find himself a plain widow who would be happy to keep his house and share his bed and would evoke no memories of Josiah Crellin’s long-limbed, blunt-spoken daughter.
“Orders, sir. Looks urgent.”
The fact that Durrell had forgotten to knock told Hugh all he needed to know. He felt a surge of relief as he got up.
“By hand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bring him down, Mr Durrell and let’s see what we’ve got.” Hugh glanced again at the letters and promised himself that when he got back he would open them and get it over with.
Hugh had been aware of a sense of expectancy. He had dined several times on other ships, including twice with Admiral Gambier and Sir Home Popham on the Prince of Wales and he knew that diplomatic negotiations were not looking promising. Several days earlier, Crown Prince Frederick had abandoned his conversations with Francis Jackson and made a swift journey to Copenhagen. He was there for less than twenty-four hours, summoning military and navel commanders along with his ministers and the town officials of Copenhagen to hear his orders for the defence of the city. In addition he removed his elderly and senile father from Frederiksberg Castle and sailed at night to reach Nyborg.
His activity was distantly overlooked by the British fleet at anchor off Copenhagen. With most of the Danish fleet unrigged and inoperable, there were only two Danish frigates anchored off the coast, further up near Elsinore, the Frederiksvoarn and the Kronborg. They had anchored peacefully beside the British fleet for over a week but clearly Prince Frederick’s orders had included instructions to the captains of the two ships and on the night of the 12th August they had made their attempt to quietly slip away.
With the wind coming from the south-east, a return to Copenhagen was impossible and probably not a good idea. As he stood on the quarter-deck watching his crew moving to their stations and hearing the familiar creaking and groaning of a ship preparing to sail, Hugh reflected that from what Popham had told him at dinner, it was unlikely that Gambier would have acted to stop them if they had been returning to the city since officially Jackson was still trying to find a negotiated solution. What he could not afford, was for the ships to escape, so he had sent orders to three ships, the Iris and the Defence, both 74 gun third raters and the Comus, a 22 gun sixth rater.
As the Iris slipped anchor and set sail, picking up speed quickly in the wake of the other two ships, Hugh wondered if the other captains had received, as he had, their visit from Sir Home Popham or if the three ships had been chosen for other reasons. It hardly mattered now; he was in pursuit in light winds and good conditions and he felt, deep inside, the familiar knot of excitement at the prospect of action.
Hugh had fought in both major battles and minor skirmishes and had distinguished himself in both, but he knew that his expertise lay in this kind of single-ship action where individual speed and skill and knowing what his ship could do, made a difference. He had fought before at Santa Maria in an action of doubtful legality and was expecting, once the legal case was settled next year, to be considerably the richer for it. The precedent set by that case might well be used in this one and if there was a prize to be taken today, Hugh had no intention of leaving it to others.
With two ships and possibly three, if rumours of a warship also heading up the coast proved to be true, Hugh guessed that the Danish ships would separate as far as possible, hoping to lure any pursuit after one vessel. He knew that he did not have the speed in these winds of Heywood’s Comus. Intelligence suggested that both ships were heading north up the Swedish coast towards Norway and Hugh gave his orders to his first lieutenant and watched as the top men scrambled aloft and the sails billowed to maximum speed.
Whichever Danish ship was sighted first was going to be the prize of the Comus. Hugh’s first post-command had been of a similar vessel and he knew how fast they could be. He watched with a sense of frustration as the smaller ship began to pull away, outdistancing both the Iris and the Defence as the miles flew past until she was a speck in the distance. He could sense Durrell’s disappointment beside him but kept his crew on full alert and remained firmly beside the watch officer, his glass to his eye.
It was cloudy but visibility was good, grey-green waves parting before the two warships as they followed the frigate through the Kattegat with the Swedish coast occasionally visible as a vague shape to the starboard side. The wind tugged at Hugh’s hat and he settled it more firmly with a sudden painful memory of Roseen’s straw hat sailing down the hillside at South Barrule and wondered how long it would be before such memories faded.
As the day wore on, the crew grew faintly restless. Hugh ignored it, knowing they had begun with hopes of a prize which had faded into the distance with the Comus. The light wind had picked up a little, increasing his speed and he kept an eye on the empty seas ahead and on the Defence, falling a little behind him.
As the long day drew towards a close, Lieutenant Durrell approached and saluted.
“Sir, permission to pipe down?”
Hugh glanced at him in surprise and then shook his head. “No,” he said. “Has the first watch eaten?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get the rest of them fed. They can sleep on the boards tonight no hammocks.” Hugh looked out into the fading light. He had not even realised until now that he had made a decision. “Set a new course,” he said. “And signal the Defence. She can carry on after the Comus, just in case she runs into trouble.”
Durrell’s young face reflected his horror. “Sir. Our orders were…”
“Mr Durrell!” Hugh said, his voice rising. “On this ship at this point there are only one set of orders and I’m giving them! You want to register an objection, enter it in the log. Otherwise do as you’re told.”
“Sir.” Durrell’s face was wooden and Hugh wondered if he had overreacted again. If he had, he would put it right another time. He nodded and moved towards the officer of the watch.
By the time it was full dark and the first watch of the night was set, the Iris was speeding on her new course towards the north-west, losing sight of the Defence in the darkness. Hugh had half expected Captain Ekins to query his signal. Ekins was the older and more experienced captain, which gave him seniority and Hugh would have given way. He liked Ekins, an intelligent and imaginative captain and he suspected that the other man had taken some time to decide which course he preferred to take. They had no way of knowing what the Danish ships ha
d done. They might already be far out of reach. They might have stayed together in the hope of outgunning any pursuers or they might have separated, expecting the British ships to stay together, so that at least one of them would make it away.
Hugh would have done the latter.
He had thought about it through the long hours and decided that either he or Ekins should divert to a different course and continue at the same speed to see if one of the ships had changed course. They would not now go back to Copenhagen but they might head for the northern shores of Denmark to then take a direct route towards Norway. If they had, depending on at what point they had changed course, he might be able to cut them off.
Ekins had seen the sense of it as Hugh had known he would and had suggested that Hugh make the change. Of the two ships, Hugh’s French built warship was slightly lighter and he suspected faster and he guessed that Ekins thought the same. With luck, Ekins might catch up to the Comus in time to share in the prize, especially if both ships had remained together, in which case Hugh faced a pointless voyage and would return empty-handed. On the other hand, he might be lucky, and in the past he often had been.
With the watch on full alert and the men sleeping restlessly below decks, Hugh went finally to his cabin and tried to catch a few hours himself. He was trying to be philosophical about his decision. Nothing had been lost by his sudden instinct to take a different course and if they found nothing by mid-morning he would call off the chase. By then if the ships were not found they would be long gone, safe to a port in Norway and lost to the British.
The watch called in the quiet hour before dawn and he was fully awake and off his bunk in seconds, having slept in his clothing. On deck he joined his first lieutenant on the quarter deck. Durrell stood with his telescope to his eye, unmoving.
“Report, Mr Durrell?”
“We’ve found her,” Durrell said softly. Hugh raised his own glass and looked and felt a rush of pure triumph at the sight of the ship, in full sail and moving as fast as she could across his bow.