The Captain's Nephew

by Philip K Allan

  ‘Very well, Monti, if you can play as well as you say that you can, as and when I require you to do so; I will agree to your conditions. You will not be given any watch duties, and if there are no breaches of discipline, then I am willing to commit that none of you shall be flogged.’

  The Italians struggled to follow all of what was said, but they understood the gist of it. They were profuse in their thanks, much to Captain Follett’s embarrassment.

  ‘Yes, yes, very well,’ he said, disentangling his hand from Giovanni grasp. ‘Gentlemen, please, no more of this damned bowing, I beseech you.’ Once they had left the cabin he turned back to Clay.

  ‘Enter them in the books, Mr Clay,’ he concluded, ‘and let us set sail for Plymouth as soon as it may be accomplished.’

  Chapter 5

  Plymouth

  Clay was sat at the wardroom table, writing letters. The light was much better than at the little desk in his cabin, and he had several to finish. He had just completed his weekly letter to his sister Betsey, and sat back to review what he had written. He smiled at the thought of his vivacious, spirited and beautiful sister, which triggered an ache of longing to see her again after so many months apart. That could not be, for as he explained in the letter, he would be leaving soon for a further lengthy period at sea. He turned next to the dutiful letter to his mother he had yet to write, in which he could at least bring her the welcome news that he would soon have some prize money to give her from the sale of the Vrai Patriote.

  Winter was almost over, and today a distinct promise of spring perfumed the keen Devon air as it drifted in through the open gun ports at the stern end of the wardroom. He was tired but satisfied with his work over the last few days. The ship would set sail as soon as the three East Indiamen they were to escort completed taking on stores. He thought about how hard he had worked to ensure that the Agrius was ready to depart on time with considerable satisfaction. She now had a full complement of crew and a hull bursting with provisions and stores. She was ready for wherever she might be bound, after she had completed her convoy duties to Madeira. Somewhere forward of him, he could hear Giovanni and his fellow musicians playing, presumably just for the simple pleasure of the music as the captain was ashore today with his recently arrived wife. True to their word they were performing very well, and he let the music wash over him, combining with the spring air to lighten his mood.

  ‘You seem a little more cheerful than of late. May I enquire as to the cause?’ John Sutton came into the wardroom, and thumped himself down in a chair opposite his friend. Unseen by both men, a shadowy presence had flitted in through the door with him.

  ‘A gentle spring breeze, a prize captured and the prospect of further adventures ahead, all good reasons to lift the spirits. What should be troubling me in particular, John?’ said Clay, rocking back in his chair and expanding his arms to encompass all about him.

  ‘Well indeed, my dear Alex,’ smiled his friend. ‘Then can I assume that you and the captain have resolved your disagreement over the landing in Flanders? I witnessed you both working well together over the capture of the privateer?’ Clay’s chair returned to the deck with a bang.

  ‘No, I cannot say so much,’ he said. ‘The capture of the Vrai Patriote is welcome of course; by I fear it changes little in our relationship. He has wronged me, John, and until that is put right I cannot forget it. But what more can I do? I have made my protest, and have been rebuffed.’ Clay spread his arms wide once more, repeating the same gesture as earlier to now encompass the hopelessness of his position.

  ‘I believe that you are wise to leave this matter, Alex,’ said Sutton. ‘We will soon be embarking on a sea voyage of uncertain duration, all locked together in our tight little world for perhaps months ahead. If it is not an impertinence, for you have not sought my advice, I would council you not to generate further bad feeling between you by seeking to raise the subject again.’

  ‘I take no offence with your concern,’ replied Clay with a smile. ‘I am well aware of the dangerous waters I have stirred. The Follett family are not to be trifled with. Should he so choose I have little doubt that the captain could use his power to break one humble lieutenant as easily as he can promote the prospects of another.’ Clay held a hand aloft, as if taking an oath. ‘If I pledge to behave better, will you at least let me complete my last letter?’

  ‘Only if you agree to give my regards to the lovely Miss Clay,’ replied Sutton.

  ‘I will add the post script now,’ said Clay, returning to the letter to his sister, before he drew a fresh sheet of paper towards him, and began to write to his mother. His pen nib scratched onwards across the paper, but he found it hard to concentrate, now that he was no longer alone with his writing. Sutton quietly drummed his fingers on the table top, while staring out through one of the gun ports. Clay had just decided to plough on with his letter regardless, when he suddenly jumped back with a cry. He had felt a warm heavy pressure against his leg. A pair of venomous green eyes stared back at him when he looked under the table.

  ‘Hart!’ he bellowed, ‘that damned cat is back in the wardroom again.’

  ‘Naughty Robbie!’ said Hart, with obvious affection, picking up the heavy black animal, and carrying him away.

  Clay returned to his letter but got no further than a handful of lines before Windham too burst into the wardroom.

  ‘Ah, gentlemen, I give you good day. I come hot foot from the captain with important intelligence,’ he said in a grand manner, his young face flushed with excitement. Clay had his pen poised midway to the ink pot. He stopped writing once more, and put the pen down with a look of resignation.

  ‘Very well, Nicholas. What news do you have?’ Clay asked, the thread of his concentration now quite broken.

  ‘Well, I have just returned from luncheon ashore with my uncle and aunt at the Crown. Towards the end of the meal, he was kind enough to reveal that he has received our sailing orders at last, and that they are for our urgent departure. I believe we are to sail tomorrow with the tide.’ Clay already knew this but he chose not to spoil Windham’s excitement.

  ‘Doubtless that is correct,’ he conceded. ‘Thank you for telling us.’

  ‘Secondly, and of much greater importance, an invitation has been received by the captain from the commanding officer of the East Indiamen we are to escort. All of the officers of the Agrius are invited on board the Earl of Warwick tonight to dine with the passengers and officers of the Honourable East India Company.’ Windham was triumphant, Sutton delighted but Clay less so. He groaned out loud.

  ‘I give you gentlemen joy of your invitation, but I confess that you both take so much more pleasure from these social gatherings than I am able to. I find it so trying and difficult to converse with civilians.’

  *****

  ‘Pull handsomely there!’ barked Midshipman Croft, trying his best to achieve a quarterdeck rasp of authority with his squeaky fifteen-year-old voice. The boat rowed up Plymouth Sound in the dusk of early evening, and Croft wanted to make a good impression. Not only did he have his captain beside him in the stern of the launch, but all seven of the Agrius’s senior commissioned officers were seated down the middle of the boat, watching his every move. The honour of the ship rested on his thin shoulders, for their approach was also being witnessed by the other boats that converged on the Earl of Warwick. They brought the more important guests from the Devon and the Madras Castle, the other two East Indiamen in the convoy. Their boats were beautifully painted, their crews in smart matching uniforms, their passengers elegantly dressed. By contrast, the Agrius’s launch was a working boat, its paintwork battered and its crew dressed in their ordinary clothes. The officers were in their full dress uniforms, but except for those of the wealthy Captain Follett and Lieutenant Windham, most of their clothes had seen better days.

  Once the officers of the Agrius arrived on board they were ushered below decks by white-gloved stewards and into the great cabin of the Earl of Warwick. The cabin put its
equivalent on the Agrius to shame. She was a large vessel, almost the size of a small ship of the line, and like most East Indiamen was designed to carry both cargo and passengers. This included the wealthy and privileged who were used to a degree of luxury. The cabin was vast by comparison with that of the frigate, the head room almost enough for the tall Clay to stand upright, and it was sumptuously fitted out. Thick carpet covered the deck, gilt framed pictures were mounted on the walls and the gleaming polished furniture was upholstered with rich damask.

  Captain Follett and his nephew seemed to swell into the occasion. They both appeared to know some of the other guests, including the principal passenger, the recently appointed Collector of Bengal, the Honourable Sir Francis Ashton, travelling to take up his new position together with his wife and a niece, Miss Lydia Browning.

  After the initial flurry of introductions, Clay found himself standing a little apart from the rest of the party, feeling self-conscious and shabby. He was by nature a shy man who had grown up onboard navy ships with their comfortably familiar routine and faces. As a result he found occasions like this awkward and difficult. All around him swirled a kaleidoscope of images. Dark-eyed women, their shoulders bare and their hair piled up to reveal glistening jewellery. Loud men in tail coats of bottle green or sky blue, stretched open over their richly embroidered waistcoats, laced with heavy watch chains. Even the other uniformed men, the naval officers of the East India Company, seemed impossibly elegant compared to him.

  ‘Did I hear your name correctly, sir? Do I have the pleasure of addressing Lieutenant Alexander Clay?’ asked a voice next to him. He turned to see that one of the prettier women in the party had appeared at his elbow. He gave her a stiff bow.

  ‘Indeed so, madam. You must be Miss Browning, Sir Francis’s niece. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance,’ he replied, actually very pleased that he had been able to remember at least one name from all those fired at him when he arrived.

  Miss Browning was a strikingly beautiful young lady. She had a mass of dark hair piled up on her head, some curls of which she had allowed to escape so that they might hang down and frame her face. Her blue satin dress was a perfect match for the clear blue eyes that looked with languid appraisal into his own grey ones. A ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of her generous mouth.

  ‘Good, because when my uncle shared the guest list with me earlier today, I determined that I had to meet you. In fact I hope you will not think me too forward, but I have also engineered my sitting next to you at dinner, if you have no objection. You see I am acquainted with your sister.’

  ‘Betsey!’ he exclaimed, ‘I mean Elizabeth. I am delighted to hear it. May I enquire as to the origins of your connection with her?’ he asked. Although Miss Browning and his sister must be of similar ages, they were from very different backgrounds. It was hard to see how they might have met.

  ‘Well, I was staying with my other aunt, Mrs Rebecca Bannerman, in Herefordshire, and... ’

  ‘... and Betsey has a position as governess to her children,’ completed Clay. ‘Oh Miss Browning, will you please tell me how you found her when you last met. My sister and I write to each other weekly, but it will be almost six months since I was last together with her.’

  ‘Well, Mr Clay, I left her in good health and I think tolerably happy. I was very pleased to have made her acquaintance; indeed I now regard her as a firm friend. We spent several months together, and found each other’s society very agreeable. She has such a very kind and sweet disposition, and is a gifted teacher to my cousins. She also made it very plain to me that in spite of her separation from him, she is as fond of her brother as it would seem that he is of her.’ Miss Browning smiled up at him again, and for a moment the room seemed to go quiet.

  ‘Dinner is served!’ yelled the chief steward. Clay recollected himself and held out his arm. With a smile of acknowledgement, she took it, and they moved across to the dinner table. All the way he was aware of the warm pressure of her gloved hand on his arm.

  After a period of polite conversation with the other guests around them, they both turned towards each other at the same moment.

  ‘Tell me Mr Clay, apart from your captain and Mr Windham, your other officers seem inclined to be a little subdued. Is there a reason for that?’ Lydia asked.

  ‘To tell you the truth, Miss Browning, I believe that they may be a touch overawed by the occasion. We sadly inhabit a very small, male dominated world in the Navy. Long months without the society of ladies can make us awkward in company. Like monks, suddenly released from their cloister, it takes us a little time to adjust to the world. But we have been known to become more lively if we are given time. For example, look at my particular friend Mr Sutton there. Do you observe how he now seems to be making himself very agreeable to the young lady on his left?’ he caught Sutton’s eye, and both men raised their glasses in silent toast to each other.

  ‘So he is! But are there really no women at all on a King’s ship? I am sure I had heard that sometimes there are,’ she asked.

  ‘There are during peacetime. Then some of the older warrant officers were allowed to ship their wives with them, the carpenter, the cooper and so forth, but that is not generally permitted in time of war,’ he explained. ‘When we are at sea, no women are allowed on ship.’ Clay was pleased that his dinner guest did not seem to have noticed the deft way he had only spoken about what happened when a ship was at sea. He was in polite company, talking to a very attractive young lady. These were not the circumstances to describe the scenes of debauchery that followed when the Agrius was in port, and the hands were permitted to bring their “wives” on board. Large numbers of women would arrive to service the carnal needs of the crew, a vanishingly small number of whom they may have been married to. Even now he shuddered to think what the scene would be like on the lower deck of the Agrius, with the officers all absent during their last night in port.

  ‘But what about stowaways?’ persisted Lydia, her eyes alight with mischief. ‘In novels I have often read stories of desperate young sweethearts who contrive to disguise themselves as men and run away to sea to be with their lovers.’

  Clay thought of the packed lower deck of the Agrius. ‘It is very hard to imagine how the deception could be accomplished within the confines of a man-of-war, but the stories you have read are not entirely fanciful. During the last war, for example there was a quite celebrated case. It was that of a marine, I believe. Do you recollect the particulars, William?’ he asked, calling across the table to Munro. The Irishman thought for a moment, and then it came to him.

  ‘Would you be referring to the peculiar case of Private William Prothero, at all?’ he queried.

  ‘The very same!’ exclaimed Clay. ‘Are you able to relate the details? Miss Browning here is all agog to learn more.’

  ‘Let me see if I can bring the full circumstances to mind,’ said Munro, taking a thoughtful sip at his wine. He prided himself on his ability to tell a good story, and wanted to get this one right.

  ‘I have it now. William Prothero joined the marines sometime in the 1770s with a particular request to serve aboard the frigate Amazon. When you volunteer for service, Miss Browning, and all marines are volunteers, you are able to make requests of this kind concerning serving on a specific ship, or of following a particular captain. If it is possible, the navy will accommodate the request, which indeed happened in this case. Young William served on the Amazon for the best part of two years without incident until one day, during a particularly sharp action with the French, he was struck down. His unconscious form was borne below to the surgeon. It was while he was being treated for his wounds that the discovery was made. William Prothero was found to be a welsh girl of eighteen who had cut off her hair and run away to sea to be with her lover, an able seaman serving aboard the Amazon!’

  Munro sat back in his chair to enjoy the general laughter the story had generated. When the noise died down a little he added. ‘Of course it could never happen now.�
��

  ‘You seem very decided in your opinion, Mr Munro. I am intrigued to hear how you are so certain that it does not go on today?’ asked Lydia, all wide-eyed innocence.

  ‘I think I should know if my men were all girls!’ protested Munro.

  ‘But can you be quite so certain?’ she asked. ‘If I have understood the case of Private Prothero right, did she not escape the detection of her officers for almost two years? Presumably if the officer commanding the marines on the Amazon had been asked if any of his men were girls the day before the disclosure, his answer would have been as vehement as yours? Indeed, it seems to me that but for the ill fortune of her injury, she might be serving still.’

  Clay joined in the general laughter at this besting of the Irishman, whose face had flushed as crimson as his jacket.

  Clay sat back from the table, feeling elated. He thought what a fool he had been, to have come in to this evening with such low expectations, for it was turning into one of the most enjoyable of his life. He surveyed the other guests in the cabin, confirming his initial impression that he was undoubtedly sitting next to the most beautiful person in the room. When his gaze returned to Lydia, he found that she was looking back at him, a mischievous glint once more in her eye.

  ‘What a careful survey you have made of the room, Mr Clay,’ she said. ‘May I be appraised as to what conclusions you have drawn?’ He had a feeling that she understood quite well what he had been thinking, and he felt a strong temptation to tell her, but he opted for a more oblique approach.

  ‘I was thinking how much you remind me of my sister, and that I believe I now understand perfectly how the two of you could have formed such an instant attachment. You are very like her in character, you know. She would have hugely enjoyed the witty, slightly mischievous manner in which you despatched poor Lieutenant Munro, had she been here to witness it.’