The Captain's Nephew

by Philip K Allan

  Clay decided to mirror his superior. He too would follow the course of polite normality, and bide his time. As a result, much of the meeting followed the well trodden path of previous ones, with Clay giving his report on the state of the ship from the sheath of notes he had made that morning. The gunner had given him a tally of the powder and shot expended in their recent action in Flanders, now in need of replacement. The armourer was finding it difficult to replace all the muskets abandoned on the beach when they left it, his explanation to the Navy Board as to how they came to be lost having been met with incredulity. The boatswain continued to worry about the state of the foretop yardarm; it would need replacing soon or he (the boatswain) would not be responsible for the consequences. The cooper wished to alert him to the excessive leakage in some of the larger water casks, could the captain indent for replacements? The surgeon had compiled his report on the inevitable result of the crew’s recent run ashore. He was now treating a fresh influx of patients with injuries caused by either love or hate, in this case venereal disease and various wounds acquired when fighting.

  The list ran on, with both men taking notes as each point was resolved between them, all perfectly normal, but for Clay it was the calm before the storm. They finished by a review of the punishment list, all the individuals who had committed any of the sins of lateness or omission that occurred in even the best run ships of war.

  Captain Follett finished writing, and put down his pen at last. Clay waited.

  ‘When all things are dually considered, we are in passing good shape,’ the captain concluded, looking up from his notes. ‘Which is important, as I am expecting fresh orders to arrive from the Admiralty shortly – to what end, I know not.’ Captain Follett looked across his desk at his subordinate with a smile.

  ‘Was there anything else, Mr Clay?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir, there is a further matter I would like to discuss,’ said Clay, keeping his voice calm. ‘I would appreciate an explanation as to how it can be that Mr Windham has accrued most of the credit for the successful attack I conducted on the bridge at Middekerke.’

  Captain Follett leant back in his chair and made a steeple with his fingers. The shape was mirrored by another v that now appeared in the frown between his eyes.

  ‘Mr Clay, this is very forward of you. I am not in the habit of explaining myself to junior officers, or indeed discussing which of my officers’ merits I should and should not bring to the attention of their Lordships. I confess I am taken aback by the tone of your remark.’ The two men looked at each other intently. Follett, used to having his way in most things, was surprised to see that Clay showed no signs of backing down from this confrontation. After a moment, he spoke again.

  ‘You are an excellent officer,’ he said. ‘It is only my respect for you that compels me to indulge you at all in this regard. If I am to discuss my dispatch with you, I want that to be understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Clay replied, ‘and I appreciate and value that regard. But if I am held in respect by you, it makes it all the harder to understand how another officer can have received credit for my actions. To me it would seem quite wrong.’

  ‘Wrong, Mr Clay?’ Follett bridled at the word. ‘That is coming on very strong. I hope you are not insinuating that I am guilty of having misled their Lordships with a falsehood?’

  ‘No, of course not, sir.’ Clay tried to continue, but he had lost his captain’s attention. Follett was now opening the lower draw of his desk, and produced the ledger in which his clerk copied all of his correspondence.

  ‘I would not want to let such an accusation stand unopposed. Let us refer to my despatch on the action itself. Let me see now.’ Follett leafed through the book till he found his letter to the admiralty. ‘Ah, here, I have it.’

  ‘Captain Percy Follett commanding HM ship Agrius, off Ostend… etc., etc., ... in pursuance of my orders, I landed a mixed party of seamen and marines on shore under the command of my first lieutenant Mr Alexander Clay... ’ he looked up for a moment, held Clay’s gaze and then returned to the letter. ‘They pressed inland with all despatch and captured the bridge at Middekerke in a most handsome fashion... etc., etc., ... the bridge having been very ably destroyed by Mr William Smith, gunner... etc., etc., ... retreat carried out under considerable annoyance from the enemy, conducted in determined style by Lieutenant William Munro of the Marines... regret to inform you of the loss of seven men killed, four wounded and three missing as per the attached list... etc., etc., … the party left the beach on a make-shift raft constructed by the skill and ingenuity of my second lieutenant Mr Nicholas Windham, whose conduct I cannot praise highly enough… etc., … having recovered our men with no further losses I proceeded to rejoin the squadron forthwith.’ Follett looked up from his desk. ‘I fail to see where there is an inaccuracy. Which part of this account do you find to be incorrect?’

  ‘Sir, it is in the tone of the dispatch, not in the particulars that there is fault,’ Clay protested, aware that to an outsider who had not been there, he was in danger of appearing petulant. ‘It was my idea to escape on the raft, yet you imply that it was Mr Windham’s.’ Clay spread out his hands in his exasperation.

  ‘Tone, imply?’ queried the captain, ‘I am not sure what I can do to supply you with the satisfaction you seek from me, Mr Clay. My report needs to be a factual account, not some sort of novel. Why, if I recall correctly, in your own report you told me that the raft was constructed under Mr Windham’s supervision.’

  Follett appraised Clay for a long moment, till at length he came to a conclusion. He smiled at his subordinate, doing his best to reassure.

  ‘Come, Mr Clay, you have been in the navy long enough to know how these matters work. I flatter myself that I am an influential man with a certain amount of preferment that I can use to further the interests of my followers. I am prepared to acknowledge that I probably did structure my correspondence with the Admiralty to favour Mr Windham. Perhaps in this instance I may have let my enthusiasm to help Mr Windham’s career run ahead of me somewhat, but I am sure you will concede that such an action is only natural and just? He is after all my nephew. Doubtless I will have opportunities in the future to help you as well. You are one of my followers too, you know?’

  ‘Sir, what you say is true,’ Clay conceded. ‘I am quite sensible as to how the world works, as only one who enjoys none of those privileges that you speak of can understand. My father was but a country parson. What little influence he had was buried with him when he died, leaving his grieving widow with two young children to support. I was sent to sea shortly after and what progress I have been able to achieve has come from my own abilities, and as a result of long years of fighting my way up to my current position.’

  ‘All of which is very commendable, Mr Clay,’ said the captain. ‘Why, I make no doubt that that experience will have forged your present character and has doubtless contributed to make you the decidedly talented officer you are.’

  ‘Yet such talent can only get me so far,’ said Clay. ‘The step from lieutenant to a command of my own is one that talent alone will not suffice to achieve. Mr Sutton’s father has been a first lieutenant for almost twenty years now, and will in all likelihood die in that position. No, it is clear that for that step I shall either need the benefits of preferment, or a notable success that will bring the previously un-regarded name of Clay to the Admiralty’s attention.’

  ‘That may be so, Mr Clay,’ said Follett. ‘Which is why I urge you to show some patience. I have those advantages of preferment that you speak off. I can furnish you them through my connections. Once my nephew has had his step, I am happy to consider your merits.’

  ‘So I am to wait in line, is that it, sir?’ said Clay, his face colouring. ‘I am to watch while an inferior officer with better connections takes my place? I should tolerate an unjust system and wait my turn for what crumbs of patronage may come my way? If I was devoid of any sense of justice, I might do so, but this was my chance! It is an
action that is being discussed widely in the Service – Mr Sutton says that there was talk of little else in Deal. Had I not been in command on that beach, the whole shore party would have either perished, or be rotting in a French prison now, your nephew included. Yet because of the manner in which you have seen fit to report matters, the credit for my actions has been passed across to another. It is unjust and not fair.’

  ‘Not fair! Not fair!’ Captain Follett mocked, struggling to control his temper. ‘This is one of His Majesty’s ship’s of war, not a damned nursery! Look around you, man, what do you see that is fair in this wooden world of ours? How many of the hands are volunteers, as opposed to pressed men? Barely a quarter! The rest are kept here by the threat of a flogging, and the noose if that fails. And who is it that keeps the men on board, against their inclination? It is the unwearied diligence of us, you and I and every other King’s officer!’

  Follett felt betrayed by Clay. Had he not explained his motives? He could not remember ever having opened up to a social inferior in the way that he had just done with his first lieutenant. He had felt every part of his being, every lesson from his upbringing rebel against the idea. Yet he had done it. He had come more than halfway in compromising, yet would the stubborn young man meet him? Could he not see that he was trapped by the same system of patronage that Clay so despised? His influence came from his family, who would look askance if he was to ask them to promote the interests of an outsider over one of their own. The anger he felt at Clay’s stubborn refusal to accept the world as it was clashed with his guilt at the knowledge of the injustice he had done him.

  ‘Who do you think you are?’ he spat, as his wounded pride got the better of him. ‘It was a dammed impertinence on your part to raise this matter with me at all. Yet I give you a fair hearing, against my strongest inclination. I set to one side the obvious inferiority of your condition relative to my own to condescend to explain myself to you, and what do you do? You throw my explanations back at me!’

  ‘I am sensible of our relative positions in life, sir,’ replied Clay, ‘which is why I am deserving of your fair treatment. Mr Windham already has the benefit of your connections. I have no such advantages and must rely on the opportunities that I can create for myself using my own wit and skill. If I have been overly forward it is because I believe so passionately that a wrong has been done me.’

  ‘You speak like a democrat, Mr Clay. Are you one?’ Follett asked, using the insulting term with cold care.

  ‘Of course I am not,’ Clay answered, bridling at the suggestion. His failure to end his answer with sir passed unnoticed by both men, testament to the depth of anger between them.

  ‘I am pleased to hear it, Mr Clay,’ said Follett, ‘because we need not look very far to see where these misguided notions of “fairness” can lead. Consider our enemy! The French have endeavoured to build a society based on such ridiculous notions of what is fair or not, rather than rank and station. Look where it has got them. First they have slaughtered all of their betters, and now they have run out of those, their so-called republic has descended into terror and chaos.’ Clay tried to respond, but his captain cut across him.

  ‘No, Mr Clay, this is quite intolerable. I will not hold any further discussion with you on this subject. You will now please return to your duties,’ Follett concluded. Clay gathered up his notes, and stormed out of the cabin.

  *****

  In the wardroom preparations were underway for the officers’ dinner. The Agrius was still anchored in the Downs, but after two weeks of lashing winter gales the weather had at last started to moderate. The wind had dropped and swung round to the south east. This allowed the inbound commerce to head into the Thames estuary in an unseemly scramble. It also meant that one of the wardrooms’ two gun ports could be opened to let in some much needed air and watery sunlight. Ducking down to look through the square opening, Lieutenant Sutton could see the squat grey bulk of Deal castle, a strip of shingle beach below it, and the green fields of Kent, boxed with hedges, rising up behind.

  ‘I have secured the wine,’ announced Munro as he came through the wardroom door. ‘As per your commission, a dozen of the better claret served at the Admiral Keppel. It will make a welcome change from the sickly Porto wine that we usually have to endure, provided Mr Booth doesn’t get hold of it too soon. How are preparations going for the meal proper?’

  ‘All in hand, my Irish friend,’ replied Sutton. ‘I too can report a victory. I have succeeded in persuading Lloyd to cook for us, much to Hart’s fury.’

  ‘A triumph we will doubtless pay for later,’ smiled Munro. ‘It is a rare thing for a wardroom steward to get on with his captain’s equivalent, but there is no want of ill feeling between those two. What manner of feast will the talented Lloyd grace our humble table with?’

  ‘This fortunate break in the weather has allowed me to send my foraging parties ashore to strip Deal bare, Mr Munro,’ answered Sutton. ‘For once we dine on fresh food. A leg of mutton and a side of beef, procured from a man claiming to be the finest butcher in this part of Kent, together with the choicest of winter vegetables. Best of all, we have fresh bread, baked this very day, in place of our more usual ship’s biscuit, with its attendant weevils.’

  Both men surveyed the wardroom table, laid with the captain’s borrowed silver in place of the normal pewter. Glasses sparkled in the beams on sunlight reflected in through the open gun port from the water beyond.

  ‘Do you think it will work?’ asked Sutton. ‘He stands in sore need of good cheer. In all the long years we have been friends, I have never know Alex to be so low in spirits.’ Munro shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Good fare and fine wine should have the desired effect,’ he replied, ‘but he did argue most bitterly with the captain. I was down here when they met, and I could almost discern every word, they were both speaking so indiscreetly. There are few secrets in a ship this size, packed in as we are. Most of the crew are on Alex’s side, you know. They have heard of how his role in the landing has been played down, and those that were there have made little secret of what they think of the captain. But what do you think, John? For you know him the best of all of us.’

  Sutton thought about the affection, almost brotherly in its intensity, that he felt for Clay. ‘That is probably true, for I have known him most of my life,’ he replied. ‘You know we first served together on the old Marlborough. I was fifteen, newly promoted and very lost, for it was my first time aboard a ship of the line. Alex was a year older, but he was always mature for his age. He was like an older brother, standing up for me when I was being bullied by the other midshipmen, and covering for my more obvious failings more times than I can recall. There was a real tyrant in the gunroom, a bastard called Kennedy who took a strong dislike to me. Alex made what might have been a very lonely, trying experience at least tolerable, for which I will be forever in his debt.’

  ‘Well, let us pledge to make this dinner for our friend as good as we can,’ said Munro, touching Sutton’s arm, moved by the obvious intensity of his brother officer’s feelings. ‘The vittles can be no better; if the company can match them we have a fighting chance. Ah, and here comes the man himself,’ this said over Sutton’s shoulder to the tall figure of Clay as he came through the door.

  The other officers soon arrived to join them, gathering around the wardroom table as they emerged from their cabins, or came in from their duties in various parts of the ship. It was impossible when at sea for all seven of them to sit down together at the same time because one of them was always on watch, but here at anchor they could. Around the table the three naval lieutenants and Munro were joined by James Fleming, the purser, and a for once sober Edward Booth. George Wynn, the ship’s surgeon, came bustling in last of all, apologising profusely for his tardiness. A dressing of one of the injured marines in need of replacement was today’s excuse. He was a small, shrewish man who viewed the world over the top of his pince-nez with pale, watery eyes.

  Conversat
ion was at first stilted. Wynn’s perpetual lateness infuriated his naval colleagues, long accustomed to a world regulated by punctuality and routine, and governed by the ship’s regular heart beat of tolling of bells. There was also a natural tension between the subdued Clay and his colleague Windham, the recipient of the captain’s misplaced praise. Whenever Clay glanced across, Windham avoided eye contact with him. Sutton was alive to the tension in the room and took on the role of convivial host. He filled the initial awkward pools of silence by turning to alcohol, the navy’s time honoured conversational laxative.

  ‘Mr Fleming! A glass of wine with you,’ he said, raising his glass to the purser. Once his glass was refilled, ‘Gentlemen, I give you the health of the heroes of Middekerke, with a bumper, if you please.’ Soon the claret began to have the desired effect. Except for the master and the surgeon, they were all young men, and the reality of the wine combined with the prospect of the food served to lighten their mood.

  From outside the wardroom door, an ill-tempered Hart could be heard remonstrating with his mate. ‘... could I stop that bloody Welsh git rubbing it with dead leaves? No, Josiah I could not.’ The door banged open, and in came a line of ship’s boys bearing steaming dishes of food. The leg of mutton was thumped down in front of Sutton. Hart stood back from the table, still muttering, while the delicious aroma of rosemary wafted across the room.

  When he was full at last, Clay remembered that he had some news for them all. He leant forward and rapped his wine glass with the back of his fork.

  ‘Gentlemen, this morning our sailing instructions arrived at last,’ he announced, when the table fell silent.

  ‘I thought you spent rather a long time with the captain,’ said Sutton. ‘Can you acquaint us with our fate?’