The Captain's Nephew

by Philip K Allan

  Clay went through a repertoire of listening techniques as he tried to hear what was being said. As a midshipman he had once been told that a slightly opened mouth made hearing sharper. Trying his best not to look like a village idiot, he let his mouth gape a little. But try as he might, he found it almost impossible to make out anything significant. The sound of glasses clinking, and silverware scraping down the length of the table masked much of it. The delightful surroundings, such an unusual place to have a meal in, stimulated a louder level of conversation along both sides of the table than usual. To this was added the normal sounds of a working ship at sea, the creak of the rigging, the rush of the passing sea, the shout of orders and the tramp of seamen hastening to carry them out. All of this conspired to isolate him completely from the one person of burning interest to him. At one point only did an alignment of silence run the length of the table to allow him to recognise the clear sound of Lydia’s laughter for a moment before it was washed away by a tide of returning noise. Even this seemed to add to his frustration. How could she enjoy herself so much without him? He watched carefully, almost jealously, and was reassured. She was not as animated without him as he had feared. He also suspected that he could detect some tension between Lydia and her aunt.

  Clay became aware that the company officer had stopped talking, and was looking at him expectantly. He shut his mouth and searched his memory. Nothing. He had not the faintest idea what he had been asked. Even the planter’s wife was looking at him, her eyebrows raised. He tried to think of a vague answer that might cover as wide a range of navigational questions as possible. Inspiration came to him at last, after what seemed like an age.

  ‘I am not the best person to ask about that. Our ship’s master, Mr Booth would know – he was with Cook in the Pacific,’ he answered, with a smile. The confusion on the company officer’s face was shared by the steward standing unobserved behind Clay’s shoulder.

  ‘I am not sure I quite follow you, sir?’ he asked. ‘Why would your ship’s master know if you preferred coffee or tea at the end of your meal?’

  *****

  With the end of the meal, the party began to rise from the table and break up into different groups. Clay was desperate to talk to Lydia alone, away from her aunt, but was unsure how he might achieve this on the crowded quarterdeck. Just as it had in the dunes in Flanders, an idea came to him when he needed it most. He hurried up to the head of the table and stopped next to where Lydia sat.

  ‘Miss Browning, would you care to take a turn with me on the forecastle? From there you will be able to see the other ships in the convoy with advantage, and we may even have the good fortune to observe some dolphins. There were a number of them swimming close to the Agrius’s bows earlier today.’

  ‘I would like that above all things. Thank you, Mr Clay,’ she replied, rising from the table, picking up her hat and taking his proffered arm before her Aunt could object.

  The forecastle of the Devon was the perfect place for them to talk. Lydia and Clay were in plain sight of her chaperoning Aunt under the awning on the quarterdeck, but far enough away for private speech. As an even wind blew and the ship was under easy sail, they were unlikely to be disturbed by the crew trimming the sails. Yet at first they were both quiet, shy with each other, as if uncertain as how best to take advantage of the situation Clay had engineered. They leant against the rail. Lydia stared out to sea, while Clay looked down to see if there actually were any dolphins. Finding none, he took the plunge and began the conversation.

  ‘You seem a little subdued, Miss Browning. Are you quite well?’ He was aware of how absurd what he said sounded. Sea air and sunshine had combined to make Lydia look even more beautiful than she had in candle light.

  ‘You find me in the best of health, thank you Mr Clay. I did find the storms we encountered near France trying, but they are happily behind us now. If I appear to be a little sad it is because I have argued with my Aunt today. I hold her in the highest regard and affection, but she does have a very strict view of what polite society expects of a young lady like me.’ Clay was surprised, but pleased by Lydia’s sudden candour. He also wondered if he might have been any part of their argument.

  ‘Would it be indelicate of me to ask what it is she objects to?’ he asked.

  ‘It might be thought of as a little impertinent, Mr Clay, but I am willing to tell you. She does not like me writing,’ said Lydia.

  ‘Writing? What possible objection could there be for you writing?’ Clay was genuinely puzzled.

  ‘If it was just my keeping a journal or indulging in a normal correspondence with suitable friends, there could be no objection on her part,’ said Lydia, ‘but I also do far worse. I am very fond of writing stories, and I want to compose novels, which is not what a well brought up young lady should do. I have been writing a story on board the Earl of Warwick and my Aunt has discovered it.’

  ‘Is that really so very dreadful, Miss Browning?’ asked Clay. ‘For certain most novels are written by men, but by no means all. Can such an ambition truly be offensive to your family?’

  ‘A capital offence according to my aunt, believe me,’ said Lydia. ‘Women who write are viewed with the deepest suspicion by her. They are little more than unsexed Blue Stockings – it is not at all what she holds I should be engaged in.’

  ‘Oh Miss Browning, I do sometimes find myself in despair about this world of ours,’ he said. ‘I am sure that your aunt’s views are an accurate reflection of the conventions of society, but it does seem absurd. Now that you force me to think on it, I cannot find one good reason why it should be an issue if a lady of position were to publish a novel.’

  ‘Or indeed serve as a Royal Marine, should she chose to,’ said Lydia, the mischievous twinkle he remembered so well returning to her eye. They both laughed.

  ‘I think that may be a step too far for Lady Ashton to sanction for you,’ concluded Clay, still chuckling. A companionable silence returned to them both for a moment. Then Clay had a moment of intuition.

  ‘Miss Browning, does my sister share your interest in writing?’ he asked. Lydia looked at him for a moment before replying.

  ‘Would there be an objection from her brother if she did?’ she asked. Clay thought about it for a moment, and shook his head.

  ‘If she has the personal and mental endowments to perform the task, and it brings her fulfilment and pleasure, then there can be no objection on my part,’ he said.

  ‘Then I am able to reveal to you that she does indeed write,’ Lydia continued. ‘Her prose is actually quite superior to mine. I am intrigued as to how you knew?’ Clay shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Until you confirmed it just now, I did not know. But I have always thought that her letters are very well crafted. There is an elegance in the way she relates an opinion or an incident. She has a manner of expression such that with a few words and phrases you are able to picture the whole scene in your mind.’

  ‘You may like to top it the bluff old sea dog,’ said Lydia, ‘but I believe there to be some hidden depth to your character, Mr Clay. For a man who professes to have little access to the society of women, you are surprisingly perceptive. I am very impressed.’ They smiled at each other, taking delight just to be together once more. Then Clay became a little more serious.

  ‘So how will you be able to share your stories with the world, assuming you are prepared to defy your aunt, of course?’ he asked.

  ‘I have talked with Betsey about it, she is my principal confidant,’ Lydia replied. ‘The undertaking will be difficult, but is not without hope. While all of the publishers of novels are of course men, there are many who will consider publishing a lady’s work. Your sister was of the opinion that the easiest way for society to accept our writings might be for us to publish anonymously. We might then pretend that the work was that of a man.’

  ‘But Miss Browning, where is the justice is that?’ said Clay. ‘Must you and my sister be forced to dissemble in order to gain the right to hav
e your work placed before a readership? Do you not find it intolerable?’ Clay surprised both of them with the strength of his feelings.

  ‘I am no revolutionary, Miss Browning. Indeed my duty as a King’s officer is to risk my life, if required, fighting against the revolution in France, but there is still much I would change in our society if I could. You and my sister being unable to publish as yourselves would be one such thing.’ She touched his arm.

  ‘I am pleased that my dear friend Betsey will have such a champion when she comes to publish.’ He enjoyed the pressure of her hand on his arm for a moment.

  ‘I am sorry to come over the hot-headed radical, Miss Browning,’ he said, his voice calm now. ‘I hope I have not alarmed you?’

  ‘By no means, Mr Clay. I am delighted to have found an ally in such an unexpected quarter. Are all King’s officers such firebrands?’ she asked, again with a twinkle of humour in her eye, but also the hint of something more tender.

  ‘No Miss Browning, I am far from a firebrand,’ he said ‘but like you I have my frustrations with this society of ours from time to time. In my particular case I find myself in disagreement with my captain at present on the issue of patronage. It has many unfortunate effects on the service that I love.’ Clay thought for a moment, and then began to speak again.

  ‘Perhaps I may best illustrate such ill effects to you by way of an example,’ he said. ‘When I was a midshipman, I served aboard the Marlborough, with my friend Mr Sutton. She was a ship of the line, what we call in the service a third rate. Being a very large ship, she had many midshipmen, most of whom were young men making their way in the service. I was sixteen at the time, and Mr Sutton was a year younger. The senior midshipman on board was a man by the name of Kennedy, who was in his late thirties. He was able enough, but had never had the connections to progress beyond the midshipman’s berth, and as that was during the peace he was also denied any opportunity to show his worth in action. For year upon year he had had to endure the sight of younger, better connected midshipman being promoted above him to be lieutenants. The experience of this over time made him increasingly bitter and vicious. By the time we served under him he was quite the brute. What little pleasure he could gain from his station was derived largely from tormenting the younger midshipmen, myself included. He took a particular dislike of Mr Sutton, principally because he came from a naval family. His father is a lieutenant in the service. Yet I believe that he had not started in life inclined to be the bully. It was the pernicious way that patronage had favoured others over him that made him so.’

  ‘You are altogether too kind to this Mr Kennedy!’ Lydia protested. ‘Why, you and Mr Sutton were no more than boys, and if he was ill used by the service on account of his want of preferment, it was hardly a fault to be placed at your door.’

  ‘That is so,’ said Clay, ‘my point was more generally to illustrate to you the evils of the system. It is by no means the first time that I have come across such injustice. I myself have been a victim, quite recently. This winter I was charged with leading a landing party to destroy a bridge in support of a military operation. The descent was ill-conceived, and we got into some considerable difficulty. We were being sore pressed by the enemy, without any means to escape. I managed to effect a solution to our problem, which was to escape to sea via a temporary raft from which we were later rescued by the Agrius.’

  ‘I believe I have heard of this action, Mr Clay,’ said Lydia. ‘Some of the gentlemen on board the Earl of Warwick were discussing it in very complimentary terms. I must congratulate you on your success.’

  ‘Perhaps you would do better to congratulate Mr Windham,’ said Clay. ‘He was given most of the credit for the action in the official despatch that reported it, the author of whom is his uncle. Perhaps you now perceive how the system can serve to generate injustice?’

  ‘How can such a travesty be tolerated!’ she exclaimed. ‘Surely your captain cannot be allowed to give a false account of the action to his superiors?’

  ‘Oh Miss Browning, it is much more subtly done than that,’ Clay said, a thread of bitterness in his voice. ‘As a writer you must know that tone and style can covey as much information as cold fact. His report will survive any challenge on factual grounds. Even if it could not, it would be the height of folly for a lowly lieutenant with few friends of consequence to take on a man as powerful as Captain Follett. There are many ways that a captain can ruin an officer. I cannot afford to spend the rest of my time in the navy on the beach.’

  Lydia placed her hand on his in sympathy. He turned to face her, and in another moment of intuition sensed that she wanted him to kiss her. He longed to do so, ruinous as this would be for both of them in public like this. Slowly, almost against their will, they started to lean towards each other. She closed her eyes.

  ‘Lydia! It is time for us to return to our ship.’ Lady Ashton’s harsh voice cut across the moment as she called from the gangway, just in time. They broke apart, as if they had been suddenly awakened. Both breathed heavily, their faces flushed with colour. Clay was the first to recover any composure.

  ‘Let me escort you to the entry port, Miss Browning,’ he heard himself say, his voice sounding false and mechanical. She took his arm, but said nothing in return.

  *****

  The convoy reached Madeira during the night and now stood on and off the island, waiting for sunrise. Clay had tried to sleep, but this would have been difficult in his hot, airless little cabin under any circumstances, impossible with his thoughts locked onto the certainty that he loved Lydia, and that she loved him. But now they were at the end of their voyage together. Once they had watered and taken on supplies at Madeira, the East Indiamen would sail on alone on their long run around Africa to India. It could be years before he saw her again. The regular sound of the ship’s bell through his sleepless night began to sound like a funereal tolling, the echo of his mood.

  It was after midnight when Clay gave up on sleep, and came on deck. The moon had yet to rise, but some patches of stars were visible through the broken cloud overhead. Off to one side of the ship loomed the dark mass of the island, more a presence to be guessed at than something visible. The Agrius rode the gentle swell under moderate sail, rising and falling like a breathing animal. Down to leeward he could see the three Indiamen. Their sterns were ablaze with golden light that spilt out from their many cabins, making them appear as if jewel-encrusted. Clay imagined the carousing that would be going on among their wealthy passengers. Somewhere across the water, behind that glittering glass, Lydia was probably enjoying herself even now. The ache of her impending departure became almost unbearable.

  By contrast the frigate was much more soberly lit. A bare minimum of lantern light on the main deck to allow the crew to see their way around, navigation lights in the rigging to ensure they were visible to other ships. At the wheel the light from the binnacle lit from below the quartermaster and Sutton, the officer of the watch, adding a gargoyle element to their otherwise familiar faces. Clay walked over.

  ‘All well, Mr Sutton?’ he asked.

  ‘All is well, sir,’ he replied. ‘We have the convoy safely under out lee, and our destination in the offing. Were you not able to sleep? We have a busy day of revictualling ahead tomorrow, ready for our departure to... well, who can say where?’ Sutton spread his arms wide, trying to encompass the full range of possibilities.

  ‘Who can say where indeed,’ replied Clay, echoing his friend. He wandered across to the rail and stared over the dark water towards the Earl of Warwick. After a while Sutton came across to join him.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ he asked. ‘You seem in very low spirits tonight.’

  Clay shrugged his shoulders, wondering where to begin.

  ‘Come, Alex, will you not confide in me?’ Sutton persisted. ‘You know that I will assist you if it is in my power to do so.’

  Clay was pleased that Sutton had made this offer. He felt he needed someone to share his dilemma, and Sutton was his c
losest friend in the world, in the absence of his sister. He also knew that it was wrong for him to press his problems onto his friend. Apart from anything else, he was Sutton’s senior officer, which could make the situation awkward. He realised that his subconscious had been aware, even if he was not, that Sutton would be on watch. His feet might have led him on deck in the hope of sharing confidences in the dark night, perhaps the only place he could find true privacy in a man-of-war, packed with humanity. Now that his friend had offered first, he felt he could unburden himself. He began to speak about Lydia, holding nothing back.

  Sutton whistled to himself when Clay at last finished speaking. ‘Well, Alex, for a man who professes indifference to attending social gatherings with civilians, you seemed to have achieved a prodigious amount at the last two. I had perceived during the dinner on the Earl of Warwick when we were back in Plymouth that you and Miss Browning had a regard for each other, but I had no idea as to the depth of your attachment.’

  ‘John, I have never been acquainted with a lady possessed of such a fine character, so cheerful and open, yet clever and animated too,’ enthused Clay. ‘Her disposition wants for nothing to improve it, and I am afraid that I am very much in love with her.’