‘I will take the comparison as a compliment. My thanks to you Mr Clay,’ said Lydia. ‘May I make an observation of my own?’ Clay smiled his agreement, wondering what it was she had noticed.
‘I believe that when you spoke earlier about your brother officers living in a cloistered world like monks, you were speaking chiefly about yourself. For just as you have, I myself have completed a careful survey of the room. I see little evidence of monastic restraint, except perhaps earlier tonight, from the tall, initially shy naval officer I found hiding behind Mr Brabant and his wife.’
Clay could only laugh with admiration at Lydia’s power of perception. Looking around the room it was plain that all of the Agrius’s officers were now thoroughly enjoying themselves. Sutton and Windham were both in animated conversation with the girls they were sitting next to. At the head of the table Follett laughed uproariously at a story that the captain of the Earl of Warwick was telling. Even the normally restrained Wynn and Fleming were engaged in a hot dispute with one of the East Indiaman’s passengers. Booth too seemed content, having found some companions who shared his calm determination to drink as much of their host’s wine as possible.
‘You leave me speechless with admiration, Miss Browning. I have never come across your equal for perception,’ Clay confessed. ‘It is true, I am rarely at my best in the society of women, and I am sure I am the poorer for my want of practice. The woman I am most at my ease with is my sister, and perhaps it is because you are so close to her in temperament that has allowed me to be more myself tonight.’
‘Now Mr Clay, I believe I may have embarrassed you enough for one evening,’ said Lydia, favouring him with a dazzling smile. ‘Shall we steer our conversation towards more comfortable waters?’
‘As you wish, Miss Browning,’ said Clay, feeling both relieved and a little disappointed. He was exhilarated by the freedom with which he found himself able to chat with her. Thanks to his shyness, an evening with a girl as beautiful as Lydia Browning whom he had not met before would normally have reduced him to incoherence.
‘How do you come to be travelling with your uncle and aunt to India, Miss Browning?’ asked Clay, ‘It must be quite an adventure for you.’ To his surprise Lydia’s face clouded a little.
‘They are more than my uncle and aunt, Mr Clay, indeed they are the closest persons that I have to parents. Both my parent are no longer here, you see,’ she replied, her face sad for the first time during the evening. ‘They died when I was but a child, within a few months of each other. My mother died first, and I have always believed that the grief of it finished my father, who followed her to the grave within so short a period. I was very fortunate that my mother’s sister, Lady Ashton and her husband, Sir Francis were able to look after me. They have not been blessed with any children of their own, and I could not have wanted for more kindly guardians. I regard them as parents in all but name. It was natural then, when they are bound for India, that I should go with them,’ she concluded, looking towards the head of the table with obvious affection. Clay felt a further surge of sympathy towards Lydia, knowing from personal experience how traumatic the loss of one parent had been, let alone both.
‘You were very fortunate to be the ward of such exemplary guardians,’ he said.
‘Oh yes, they provided a most diverting upbringing,’ Lydia enthused, the mischievous twinkle returning. ‘My aunt insured I acquired all the usual skills required by society for a young lady to display. I acquired a very modest ability in music, deportment, drawing and some poor French, but in secret I acquired so much more interesting knowledge from my uncle. He has an extensive library, where I spent my leisure hours poring over atlases and almanacs, imagining what the places I studied might be like.’
‘Now you are a little older, have you had the leisure to visit any of those places, and compare the original to the version in your uncle’s books?’ he asked.
‘Not yet, but I shall soon,’ she replied. ‘India was always one of my favourites. Were you ever stationed there?’
‘No, I have spent most of my career in home waters, or in the Americas.’
‘No matter,’ she said. ‘I will presently be in a position to make the comparison first hand for myself.’
They were so engrossed in each other’s company that it came as a surprise to find that the meal was over. Clay felt a pang of sadness when the ladies rose to leave the men to their port and cigars at the end of dinner, and he could tell from the lingering look of regret in her face that Lydia too would have preferred to stay with him. Once Lady Ashton had led the ladies from the cabin, like a goose with her line of goslings, he got up and moved to join some of his fellow male guests grouped around the captain of the Earl of Warwick, and the Collector Designate.
As Clay crossed the cabin towards the head of the table, he noticed a group of appreciative civilians and East India Company naval officers gathered around Windham, engrossed in what he was saying.
‘Our situation was truly perilous on the beach,’ said Windham, his face flushed with excitement. ‘What with the Frogs closing in on one side, and the sea kicking up a wild surf on the other. It was then that I resolved to fashion the raft with the materials we had to hand. Once complete it took the whole of our party. It was a damned close run thing, but we managed to confound the Frogs and slip away from right under their noses.’
‘By Jove, that was pluckily done, sir!’ exclaimed one of the civilians. ‘I read the accounts of your action in the papers, but I had little understanding of how precarious your position was. May I have the honour of shaking you by the hand?’
As Windham turned to grasp the proffered hand he caught sight of Clay, listening to the conversation. His face looked a little embarrassed, but he made no attempt to introduce Clay to the others. Clay turned his back on the group and continued on to the head of the table.
He soon discovered that he was one of the more sober of the guests gathered around their host. Several of the civilians, together with Booth, were quite incoherent, while the rest of the men sported red faces and strongly pronounced opinions. Among those who could still communicate, much of the talk was about the war with France. Most thought that it was going badly for the British. France’s revolutionary ideology was spreading across the continent. Holland had recently been defeated and was now occupied by the French. Prussia had made a separate peace with the French, and most of the group thought it was only a matter of time before Austria and Spain, Britain’s only remaining allies, would follow suit.
Clay could follow the flow of the conversation while it rested on the political situation in Europe. Unfortunately most of the party were more interested about what it all meant for them. There soon began a highly technical discussion about the impact of the war on all matters Indian. There was excited talk about the opportunities to gain influence at the Dutch expense, now that they were no longer allies. There were dire predictions about the threat posed from growing French influence among the native rulers. He may have been one of the few guests whose head was not spinning with wine, but it soon spun with the mental struggle of following the twists and turns of the conversation, filled as it was with numerous Rajas of this and plentiful Sultans of that.
It was something of a relief when one of the civilians dropped into the seat next to his, and tapped him on the arm. He was a short, balding gentleman, dressed in a snuff-coloured coat that gaped open to reveal a splendid emerald green waistcoat as he sat down. From the look of his small blood shot eyes, and slightly lowered lids, Clay deduced he was drunk.
‘Are you one of the naval officers from the frigate, sir?’ asked the man, his speech a little slurred.
Clay turned to look at the man, then down at his naval uniform, the Admiralty fouled anchor prominent on every button.
‘You are a model of perception, sir,’ he said with a smile. ‘My name is Clay, and I am the first lieutenant of HMS Agrius. Whom do I have the honour of addressing?’
‘George Roberts, sir,’ replie
d the man, making an unsteady grab for Clay’s proffered hand. ‘I am partner in a firm of spice merchants from Bristol, on my way out to the east on my company’s business. I was hoping you would indulge me with some information regarding the boat you arrived in this evening.’
‘The launch?’ replied Clay, a little puzzled. ‘I will assist you if I can. What was the nature of your enquiry?’
‘I chanced to be on deck earlier, and was taking the air when you arrived alongside,’ continued the merchant, ‘and I believe I may have recognised one of the boat crew. The man seated on the left as one looks towards the bow, behind the very large sailor. Might I know his name?’
Clay thought for a moment. ‘I believe that would be Joshua Rosso. He is an ordinary seaman on the Agrius.’
‘Rosso you say?’ repeated the man. ‘No, that is not the name of the man I had in mind.’
‘May I ask who it is you thought him to be?’ asked Clay.
‘The light was poor, but I thought that he bore a most striking resemblance to a clerk I once employed who disappeared two years ago with a not inconsiderable amount of money, but his name was Jones,’ Roberts replied. ‘Ah! Here come the fillies again, how splendid!’
Clay stood up as the ladies came back into the cabin, Roberts eventually making it to his feet with some assistance from the table. Clay bid the merchant farewell, and moved quickly back to his place, anxious to re-commence his conversation with Lydia. Once he was settled back down in his original chair, she rewarded him with a winning smile.
‘What are you thinking of now, Mr Clay?’ she asked, observing his thoughtful expression.
‘I was just reminding myself of the ease with which a man who joins the navy can leave his name and his past on the quayside, should he wish to,’ he said. ‘But how foolish of me. Of course, with your unparalleled perception you will have known that already, Miss Browning.’
‘Mr Clay, who is teasing whom now?’ she replied with a laugh.
‘No matter,’ said Clay, dismissing any thoughts about Rosso’s past. He had no intention of letting anything spoil his remaining time with Lydia. ‘Tell me how you are finding life on board, Miss Browning?’
‘I find that it agrees with me very well. I believe I may have the makings of a sailor yet. I have my own very small cabin, although I understand from the officers of the ship that by most standards to be found at sea it is unusually spacious. It has its own window, built in furniture, and is really very agreeable. I have read that when one first goes to sea, one is inclined to suffer from the sea sickness, but I find the motion of the boat to have not affected me at all, although I have only been on board three nights, and we have yet to leave Plymouth Sound. Perhaps you should ask me if it still agrees with me once I have reached Bombay?’
Clay smiled, wondering what she would think if she saw the little dark box that he slept in. ‘The first part of our voyage will include crossing the Bay of Biscay in March. I fear you will know if you are a natural mariner long before Bombay.’
‘Well, I may have only been a sailor for three days, but how does my experience compare with yours? You seem a little young to be coming it the ancient mariner with me,’ she asked, teasing once more.
Clay rose to the challenge. ‘Well, for accommodation I am willing to concede that you have me well beaten. No cabin on a King’s frigate will ever compare with that provided on a John Company ship. When it comes to a reckoning as to our relative sea time, I will own that your three days at anchor are mighty impressive, but I believe I may be able to claim a victory. I first went to sea in April 1780 during the American war, so that would be sixteen years ago. Of those intervening years I cannot have spent above three years altogether on land, which would make my sea time at least thirteen years.’
‘Thirteen years!’ she exclaimed. ’You must be making sport of an innocent landlubber. Why you would only have been a small child back then.’
‘Indeed so, Miss Browning, I was but eleven years old at the time, and yet I was by no means the youngest boy on board.’ A hint of sadness entered in to Clay’s voice, out of keeping with the gayety of the evening so far. Lydia touched his arm, and after a pause, Clay went on. ‘It was a truly strange world that I entered, bewildering for one so young. The names of things were quite different to those on land, the manner of people’s address, the clothes the sailors wore, the food that we ate, even the dances and songs, all was foreign to me. I might have been transported to one of the more exotic countries in your uncle’s atlases.’
‘How did you come to be sent so young into the navy?’ she asked.
‘Like you, Miss Browning, I also lost a parent at a young age,’ explained Clay. ‘In my case I was a little more fortunate than you, as it was just my father that was lost. He passed away after a short illness, but unfortunately for his family, he had been unable to make proper provision for our welfare before he was taken from us. My mother lacked the means to be able to support both me and my sister. We were a very close family, but needs must when the devil drives. My mother has an older brother who was a clerk at the Navy Board, and he arranged for me to be sent to sea. It was the only practical solution to our situation, Miss Browning.’
Clay found himself transported back to that time. He had been a country lad, rather small for his age then. The largest body of water he had encountered had been the village duck pond. Somehow he had found himself, tear-stained and cold, huddled in the middle of a ship’s boat heading out into the choppy waters of Spithead. Gone were the familiar faces of family and friends. Instead he was surrounded by large, rough-looking seamen with rings in their ears and long pigtails down their backs. Perhaps it was the unexpected conversation about his sister that had triggered it, but Clay felt again the ache for those lost years he had missed with his family. He looked across at Lydia, and saw only compassion in her eyes.
*****
It was warm and almost dark on the lower deck of the Agrius. There were the occasional pools of light cast from the lanterns that hung by the ladder ways. The moon, close to full, shone down through the grating in the main deck to project a chess board of silver squares onto the planking below. The mess tables and stools that normally littered the space had been packed away, and row after row of hammocks filled the gap between the decks.
For the first time in over three years, Adam Trevan lay next to his wife Molly in his hammock. Their combined weight had pushed it down in the middle so that the canvas sides reared up and pressed their semi-glad bodies together as if to merge them into a single person. They lay so close they seemed to share each other’s pulse, could feel their body heat mingle, and could hear each other’s deep breaths rasping in their own body as they recovered from their love making.
They had found it difficult at first. There was the shyness of long separation to overcome. Then there was the knowledge of so many other crewmen in the hammocks pressed all around them to make them feel awkward. Their growing desperation for each other after their long separation had been tempered by the need for them to move slowly, without jolting their hammock against those about them. As a result, sealed in their cocoon, it was that careful slowness that had made for a night of long, lingering pleasure for them both.
Now after so many years apart, they lay impossibly close together, drifting upon a sea of warm contentment. Somehow they had succeeded to isolate themselves from the world about them, the snores and grunts of the sleeping seamen, the calls and chatter of the anchor watch on the deck above, and over all the false cries of pleasure from the many prostitutes making noisy love elsewhere on the deck.
‘So how does the boy fare?’ whispered Adam, their heads so close that the barest murmur was enough.
‘His name is Sam, my Adam,’ she replied. ‘I hope you like it – I had to get him baptised in case he got sick, and with you away like, I had to chose some’t.’
‘Sam,’ he repeated the name to himself, wondering at the coincidence that the little scrap of a child should share the same name as th
e colossal Evans. He had caught a distant glimpse of his son earlier when Molly came aboard. She had pointed towards his son as he was held aloft by the landlady on the quayside. In the weak afternoon light he had seen that the boy shared his own blond hair, but he could make out little else. Molly had arranged for Sam to be looked after tonight, freeing her to stay on board. He had felt his heart painfully torn. The joy at seeing Molly once more fused with pain as he regarded the expanse of flint grey water that still lay between him and his child.
‘I hold Sam to be a right fine name, Molls,’ he confirmed. ‘I did ask for shore leave to come and see him, but what with us going tomorrow, and me a pressed man an’ all, none is being granted.’
‘I know you did, my lover,’ she replied. ‘Maybe next time, eh?’
‘Aye, next time,’ Trevan said, wondering how to tell her of their imminent departure. ‘What’s he look like then, our little Sam?’
‘Oh, he’s going to be right handsome!’ Molly said warmly. ‘He has your hair and eyes, and all. I reckon the girls in the village will needs take care in a few years or so.’
‘Oh aye? Like what you did?’ asked Adam, and they shook the hammock together with gentle laughter.
When they were both quiet once more, Trevan whispered to Molly again. ‘I am pleased you got the note I sent. I got my shipmate Rosie to set it down, him having his letters like, but I wasn’t sure as you would be able to come.’
‘I got it, but I nearly never came,’ she breathed. ‘My Ma, she was all for burning the letter, case it was from the bailiffs, but then I saw your mark at the bottom. I had to get old Parson Rowbotham to read it for me.’ He could sense her smile in the dark, and chuckled to himself at the possible comedy of errors so narrowly avoided.
‘How you been otherwise?’ he asked.
‘Been fair tough Adam, I am not going to lie,’ she replied. ‘We gets a little of your pay through, but them thieving navy clerks are forever holding back this, or deducting for that. Parish is meant to help, you serving your country an’ all, but we see precious little of what we are due. Your back pay from the Emilia, is all gone now.’ He thought for a moment, frustrated at his impotence to help his wife and child. Then he saw a little hope.
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