The Captain's Nephew

by Philip K Allan

  Last night he had been lying in his cot in a futile attempt at sleep when the other officers had returned from the farewell dinner. A tiger pattern of light had spilt in through the slats in his cabin door as they had burst into the wardroom in a wave of good cheer. They had been so close to where he lay that he was able to recognise their various sounds. Munro had softly sung an Ulster air and Fleming’s Scottish brogue had joined in. Windham, his voice sudden in the quiet room had called to Hart for more drinks, while someone, presumably Booth, had lurched against the wardroom table.

  Clay had then had the agony of lying quiet through a dissection of the evening he so wanted to have been a part of. Who had said what to whom, the repetition of the funnier anecdotes, the passing on of the choicer tittle-tattle. They then moved on to the attractiveness or otherwise of the various women present, agony for Clay when Lydia was mentioned so carelessly by Windham. Little by little the noise level ebbed as one by one the drunk officers had returned to their cabins to be undressed by their servants, and put to bed. Finally a return to peaceful darkness, and then the faint knock on his cabin door.

  ‘Who is that?’ he had whispered.

  ‘It’s me, Alex,’ Sutton had whispered in return. ‘May I come in?’

  His friend had crouched down beside the cot, his face lost in the darkness, his whisper urgent, his breath heavy with wine fumes.

  ‘I will not ask you how you fare, for I can barely imagine what agonies you must be going through. What I do have to relate is some news from tonight. Miss Browning was there, and though she concealed it well I observed that she was quite upset. During the meal itself she was closely chaperoned by her aunt, but a chance did occurred prior to dinner for me to converse with her out of the general hearing of the party. It was only a very brief moment. I took my opportunity and told her that I had your confidence. I explained your absence, and then made the declaration on your behalf that you had been prevented from delivering. Unfortunately we were forced apart by the arrival of her aunt before she could respond properly, but I saw in her face that she welcomed my intelligence. I hope my actions were correct, Alex? I only had a moment in which to make a decision to act and I had no possibility of consulting you first.’

  ‘John, you fill me with joy. You could not have rendered me a better service. I am truly in your debt.’ Clay had said, reaching out and grabbing his friend in a clumsy embrace.

  ‘I am pleased you approve, but that is not all. I did make several attempts to renew my conversation with Miss Browning during the course of the evening, as did she, but without success. Without success that is, until the ladies returned to join us at the table. Miss Browning contrived to brush past where I sat, and dropped this by my feet.’ Sutton had fumbled for Clay’s hand and had pressed a small square of paper into it.

  ‘I give you joy of your message, and hope it brings you the news you wish to hear.’ Sutton had whispered, before slipping out to return to his own cabin.

  At first Clay had been too frightened to move. He had continued to lie on his cot, the square of paper unopened between his fingers. He had raised it to his nose, and breathed in. It had held the faintest trace of her perfume. He had risen at last from his cot, and opened his cabin door. When he was certain that he was alone he had passed through into the now deserted wardroom. A shuttered lantern hung from a beam next to the solid column of the mizzen mast. In the pool of light he had opened the note. The hand was elegant, but written in haste, for it only contained twelve words. “To my dearest Alexander, I promise to wait for you – Lydia Browning.”

  The ships had past the Agrius now, heading out into the open ocean. Clay continued to stare after them, his eye watering with the effort. Had he imagined it, or could he see a tiny point of white, perhaps a fluttering handkerchief by the poop rail of the Earl of Warwick? It was hard to tell, he found the image in the eye piece of his telescope had become blurred. With surprise he realised that, for the first time since he was a child, he was crying.

  Chapter 8

  Departure

  With the Agrius still awaiting her sailing orders, Captain Follett granted shore leave to the hands considered at low risk of desertion, among them the four messmates. They may have been at low risk of desertion, but like most sailors ashore they were at high risk of inebriation. Once this was achieved, they planned to track down the most willing whores that the town had to offer.

  Funchal’s picturesque little harbour had been successfully bypassed. Several historically interesting local sights had been ignored and a bare minimum of charming cobble streets ascended before they found the place that they sought. On a street corner was a low, single story stone building with a pitched terracotta roof. The floor of packed earth had rarely been swept, the rafters overhead were black with grime. The oak tables and benches were roughly hewn, the local wine was rougher still, and the serving wenches comely. With a sigh of contentment, Evans, Rosso, O’Malley and Trevan settled down at a table deep in the gloomy interior.

  ‘So why is it I ain’t never heard you curse, Rosie?’ asked Evans, well on his way to being drunk. ‘Not so much as a cross word. What I find strange is how you can hold your tongue with all these Portuguesers jabbering to you in foreign on account of your Dago looks. That should have drawn an oath from a saint.’ A thought came to the huge Londoner, and he lent forward, the table protesting as it took his weight.

  ‘Are you one of them Quakers?’ he accused.

  ‘That is a grand point, Sammy,’ added O’Malley, who certainly was quite drunk. ‘How long have you been one of them feckers?’

  Rosso sighed at his companions, and lifted up his wine cup as evidence.

  ‘Pray, would I be drinking if I was a Quaker?’ he asked. ‘Or indeed would I be content to serve on a warship?’

  His two accusers turned towards each other on their bench for a swaying consultation, before returning to the attack. O’Malley’s face was shrewd, all narrowed eyes and knowing smile.

  ‘May bees, all of that is just one big sham. You are a fecking Quaker! I think you’re a wicked clergyman on the run having stolen the altar plate,’ he proposed, his knowledge of Protestant sects a little hazy. Rosso ignored the accusation, and waved over one of the maids serving in the wine shop for more drink, partly to cover his alarm at the underlying grain of truth behind O’Malley’s harmless joke.

  The girl who served them was much taken by Trevan. Blond-haired, blue-eyed men were obviously a rarity in Madeira, and as she sashayed across to their table her hips swung just a little more freely. The jug of wine she set down was fuller than those going to the other customers, much to the annoyance of the party of American seamen at the next table. To add insult to injury, this time it was accompanied by a dish of green olives. The girl expertly swerved to avoid O’Malley’s attempt to draw her onto his lap, and returned to the serving hatch with a lingering backwards stare at the Cornishman.

  ‘I am telling you, Adam Trevan,’ said O’Malley, waving an uncertain finger in his general direction. ‘This is the last time I go drinking with you, at all. You’re too fecking pretty.’

  ‘Shall I see if she has a sister for thee, like?’ asked Trevan, taking out his clay pipe to smile at the Irishman. ‘Or maybe you would prefer to meet her mother?’

  ‘Ah, now that would be grand,’ said O’Malley, joining in the general laughter.

  ‘What do you make of these beans here?’ asked Evans, poking at the olives. ‘They don’t look to have been cooked proper to me.’ The three more experienced seamen exchange glances.

  ‘Oh, now those are very good, really sweet and tasty,’ said Rosso, with a wink at the others. ‘I believe I will have some before they all go.’ He quickly picked one up and popped it in his mouth, chewing vigorously.

  ‘Oh, right you are,’ said Evans, pouring a few into his hand. ‘I am feeling passing hungry myself.’

  The sailors roared with laughter at the look of first surprise, and then disgust on Evans face as he bit into the mouthful o
f olives.

  ‘Revolting, aren’t they?’ said Rosso, leaning forward and showing the Londoner the olive he had taken earlier, and deftly kept in the palm of his hand. ‘The Dagoes love them, for some reason.’

  ‘Damn you Rosso, you bastard!’ spluttered Evans, lurching to his feet. ‘God, I am going to be bleeding sick.’ He shoved his way to the door, barging past two of the American sailors at the next table and causing then to spill their wine.

  ‘Watch what your goddamn about!’ protested one, wiping wine from his chin.

  ‘Ah, go fuck yourselves!’ shouted O’Malley, the drink filling his unsteady limbs with Dutch courage.

  ‘What did you say, you bleeding bog trotter?’ said the American sailor, turning to face the Irishman.

  ‘Bog trotter is it?’ repeated O’Malley, his face growing red. ‘That the best you got?’

  ‘Now you listen here... ’ the American started to say, before he was interrupted.

  ‘Listen to you? Haven’t I been after listening to the whining shit coming out of your Yankee arse all afternoon?’ said the Irishman, spoiling for a fight.

  ‘Well, is that so?’ said the American as he rose to his feet, followed by his five companions. O’Malley got to his feet, a little unsteady, and squared up to him, the drink overwhelming any caution. Trevan caught his arm with a restraining hand.

  ‘Sean, leave them be,’ he urged. ‘There are plenty more grog shops in this here town.’

  ‘Oh, it will not be me as will be leaving,’ said O’Malley, shaking off his companion and raising his fists. The American sailor was a similar build to the Irishman, but much less drunk. He landed a heavy punch on the side of O’Malley’s face, before he could block the blow. The Irishman fell sprawling backwards. He got back to his feet, shook his head to clear it, and jumped at his attacker with a roar. His opponent ducked below O’Malley’s wild haymaker and delivered a series of crunching blows to the Irishman’s body. Winded, he sunk to the floor, and the American kicked his unresisting body.

  ‘Easy now mate,’ protested Rosso, placing himself between the American and the fallen Irishman. ‘This is a poor contest. Can’t you see he is too far gone with drink to mill with you?’ For his pains, Rosso was sent reeling from a punch he received himself. Trevan brought one of the wine jugs crashing down on the American’s head, and the other American sailors waded in to help their friend.

  Out in the street, Evans spat out the last of the salty olives. He straightened up, still wiping his mouth. After a pause he laughed to himself. He had a good sense of humour, and had to admit that Rosso had played the trick on him with some panache. Hurrying to take one of the olives, rather than just saying how good they were had quite taken him in.

  He turned back towards the entrance of the wine shop, and then paused. The volume of noise from the customers had been loud most of the day, but it seemed to have reached a new level. He could now hear the thud of blows, cries of pain, and the crashing of furniture. He rushed back inside to see what was happening.

  The fight was not going well for the Agrius’s three ratings. O’Malley was down, while three of the Americans kicked at his body. Rosso continued to trade blows with the sailor that had first squared up to the Irishman, while Trevan was holding off the last two assailants with a bench. Evans got himself into position, and then shouted at the top of his voice.

  ‘Oi!’ he roared. ‘You leave my bleeding shipmates alone.’

  He was quite an intimidating sight. His eyes blazed with anger and his huge frame filled the space below the rafters. More intriguing was the way he stood. He was side on to the brawl, his left leg extended out, his right flexed behind it. He held his chin tucked down behind his balled fists.

  The three Americans who were kicking O’Malley turned towards him, and the lead one looked him up and down with contempt.

  ‘What you going to do, standing like that, teach me to fence?’ he scoffed. Quick as a snake he threw a heavy punch, straight at Evan’s head. To his surprise, the blow never landed. The Englishman swayed slightly to one side to let the fist brush past the back of his head, and stepped forward to deliver a crashing uppercut onto his opponents chin. The American’s head shot back, the whites of his eyes flashed in the lamp light, and then he fell onto the floor like a dropped sack of grain.

  Evans pressed on, delivering a quick jabbing combination of right and left hooks to the next American. He reeled backwards clutching his face, his nose gushing with blood. The third sailor backed quickly away, holding both palms up in token of surrender. His friends stopped their various individual fights, and turned to face this new threat.

  ‘Him on the floor has got a bust jaw,’ said Evans, still in his prize-fighting stance, his dark eyes fixed on the remaining sailors. ‘The one covered in claret has a broken nose. Now I can carry on, or you boys can pick up your friend and get the fuck out of here. Which do you fancy we do?’

  ‘No problem, mister,’ said the sailor with his hands up. ‘We are going now.’ Two of the Americans each took an end of the unconscious sailor, and carried him out into the street. The others followed behind, one still dripping blood. Evans waited till they had all left before he stood upright again, rubbing at his reddened knuckles. Rosso and Trevan grabbed hold of him, and led him back to the table, calling for more wine. O’Malley was groggy, but starting to come around. They carried him over to the table, and propped him up against the wall to recover, before sitting down to take stock.

  When the wine arrived it was the same girl serving again. This time she ignored the Cornish sailor, and seemed to have eyes only for Evans. Trevan looked around for his pipe, found that it had been broken in the fight and turned back to the others with a sigh.

  ‘So come on, tell us Sam,’ asked Rosso. ‘Where the hell did you learn to mill like that?’ Evans looked around before replying.

  ‘Oh it was just something my old Pa taught me,’ he answered. ‘It sort of came back to me, like.’ The other two sailors exchanged glances of disbelief.

  ‘Look Sam,’ said Trevan. ‘No need to tell us if you don’t want to, but I have seen a few prize fights in my time, and I knows a proper bit of training when I sees it, wine or no wine.’

  ‘We all have a past, Sam,’ said Rosso. ‘If you need us to hold our peace about what we saw tonight, that’s fine with Adam and me.’ He looked down at the slumbering O’Malley. ‘Not sure that you need to worry about Sean either, he will be struggling to recall his own name come the morning.’

  Evans looked at both of them across the top of his wine cup for a long moment. After a while he seemed to come to a decision.

  ‘Alright, I will tell how I learned to mill, but I need you to keep it to yourselves,’ he said.

  ‘You can trust us, Sam,’ said Rosso. ‘We are your shipmates, after all.’

  ‘You will have probably worked out I am not exactly cut out to be a sailor,’ he began, looking out across the bar rather than at his audience. ‘I don’t fit on the ship for one thing, always banging my head on the bleeding beams, feet hanging out of my hammock like.’

  ‘That’s right enough,’ said Trevan, with a laugh.

  ‘Which might make you ask why I volunteered,’ continued Evans. ‘The answer is that I had to get clear of London in a bit of a hurry. It’s true, my old Pa did teach me to mill, and he made me good at it, if I say so myself. My wits may be a bit slow, but my eyes and hands are sharp, and I have the wind and the bottom to see me through most bouts. I won my first few fights easily enough, which got me something of a reputation, and eventually landed me a mill with Jack Rodgers, the Southwark Butcher.’

  Evans sat back from the table a little, his eyes alight with his memories. ‘Southwark Jack is a legend in the prize fighting world. He is not one of the top rank of fighters, so he doesn’t have a gun named after him on the Agrius like a Mendoza or a Broughton. Butcher makes him sound a bit fiercer than he is – he is only called that on account of that being his normal trade, see. Jack is a fair bit older th
an me, but a similar size, and has been through no end of mills. No one has ever put him down, they say, and he has rarely failed to come up to the scratch at the start of a round. The mill was to be his wisdom and craft pitted against my speed and youth,’ he looked back at his companions. ‘It was a dream for me, a right big purse and a chance to make myself a name to match Jack’s.’

  ‘So what happened?’ asked Rosso, his wine forgotten in its cup.

  ‘The day before the mill my Pa tells me that I am to throw the fight,’ said Evans, his voice dead of emotion. ‘He had gone and done a fucking deal with the bookies for me to lose, in return for a much bigger purse. My big chance, given away by my own father, damn him to hell.’ He took a sip at his wine, feeling again the rage and betrayal he had felt then. Trevan and Rosso were silent, listening to the big man’s tale.

  ‘The day of the mill comes, and I am going easy on Jack, trying not to be hurt by him too much either,’ continued Evans. ‘To this day I have no notion if he knew what was going on or not. Suddenly he opens up with a hard combination of blows, and he hurts me. Well, I get the red mist, and I smash back at him. Maybe because it was such a quick change from me going easy, or maybe he had been told I was just there to take the fall, either way I takes him unawares. I landed a left plum on the chin just like that Yankee back there. Next thing I know he’s down, I have won, and I am now up to my neck in an ocean of shit. My Pa might forgive me one day, but these bleeding bookies ain’t the forgiving kind.’