The Captain's Nephew

by Philip K Allan

  ‘I am unsure if those great sausages that pass for fingers with you will be fit for a delicate piece of rope work like this but we can but try. Best you just watch me for now.’

  Rosso held out his left hand, back towards his pupil, with the fingers splayed, while with the other he wound the rope about them.

  ‘Three loops north and south like that, then three more east and west around the equator, slip out your hand, hold it just so, add three more loops there round and about the last three, pull the ends good and tight, and as the Frogs would have it – Voila!’

  Evans looked opened-mouthed as if a conjuring trick had just been performed. He picked up and examined the tight round ball.

  ‘Bloody hell, Rosie,’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s wonderful neat. Not sure I entirely followed it though. You may have lost me with the east, north and west part. I know I am meant to be a sailor now, but I am a bit indifferent on me compass points, like.’

  ‘Yes, that is strange in a sailor,’ said Rosso. He thought for a moment, and then inspiration came to him.

  ‘You must have a fair knowledge of London streets?’ he asked.

  ‘Few better,’ said Evans with pride, ‘ain’t I been running through them since I was a nipper?’

  Rosso untied the monkey’s fist and started again, putting on a passable impression of Evan’s Seven Dial’s accent.

  ‘Three loops heading up and down Farringdon Street, then three more along Fleet Street towards Westminster, slip out your hand, add some trips up the Great North Road, pull the ends, and there we bleeding well have it.’ Evans threw back his head and laughed.

  ‘Well, why didn’t you say that earlier?’ he said, ‘instead of all your bleeding easts and souths! Let me try.’

  After a few more attempts, Evans was able to make a reasonable knot. Rosso was surprised how dextrous the big man was with his hands.

  ‘That’s not bad, Sam,’ he whistled, turning the finished ball in his fingers. ‘Your Farringdons are a bit loose, but we may make a seaman of you yet.’ Evans bowed low to acknowledge the compliment, and Rosso began to untie the knot once more. After a while, Evans looked around. Once he was sure they could not be overheard, he turned to his friend.

  ‘Rosie,’ he said. ‘You know what I said back in Madeira about the prize fight?’ Rosso glanced around too before he replied.

  ‘Aye, hard for me to have forgotten that little revelation.’

  ‘Do you think any of the crew have found out?’ Evans asked, his face full of anxiety.

  ‘Adam and I have said nothing,’ Rosso replied, ‘and O’Malley was out cold while you were giving the Yankees a thrashing. What has made you suspect they do?’

  ‘Cause everyone keeps asking,’ said Evans. ‘They want to know how we did for so many of them in a fight. I been telling people the Yankees were so full of knock-me-down they could hardly stand to the scratch, but I am not sure they believe me.’

  ‘That should do for now,’ replied Rosso. ‘But you need to understand a couple of things, Sam. First one is that secrets and ships don’t mix. I don’t know when, but I know a time will come when the reason you ran from London will be generally known. But when that day comes, and it will, then you’ll find the second thing to be true. A ship’s crew might be worse than a village green full of old wives when it comes to gossip, but there isn’t a soul on this barky that would rat on a shipmate.’

  Evans felt moved by the sincerity with which his friend spoke, recognising that he was speaking from the heart.

  ‘Well thank you, Rosie,’ he said. ‘That’s a real comfort to me.’ He held his friend’s gaze for a moment before he continued.

  ‘That sounded very deep, mate. Deep like it came from something that has happened to you, maybe?’

  Rosso looked uncomfortable, scanning the deck once more to check they could not be heard. Evans held his arm, his touch light for such a large man.

  ‘Rosie, I am only asking ’cause if I can help you, you know I will.’

  ‘Sam, you have me all aback,’ said Rosso. ‘I have tried to keep my past quiet too, and after over two years at sea I had just got to congratulating myself that I had escaped it at last. But just recently one of the Grunters has found out about it. But like I said, he has not ratted me out, nor done anything about it as far as I can tell.’

  ‘A Grunter?’ queried Evans. ‘Which one?’

  ‘Pipe himself.’

  ‘Pipe!’ exclaimed Evans, amazed that it should be the lofty first lieutenant, rather than a more junior officer like a midshipman. Rosso hushed him as a couple of sailors nearby looked around.

  ‘Well, knock me down,’ Evans whispered. ‘How did he find out?’

  ‘The last night we were in Plymouth, you remember how the Grunters all had that dinner on the Earl of Warwick,’ said Rosso. ‘I got spotted by one of the merchants from the office I used to work for in Bristol. I saw him looking down over the side, so I ducked behind your back, and thought he might have missed me. But ever since Pipe has looked at me a little strange – thoughtful like. Then during the storm off France when we were securing the anchor, Pipe stopped me going overboard after the wave hit us. He helped me back onto my feet, using my right name. I didn’t notice at the time, but afterwards it came back to me. I guess now that old Roberts must have spoken to him that evening back in Plymouth. But he’s had plenty of opportunity to turn me in. He could have done it in Madeira. I would say that if even Pipe won’t rat on a shipmate, there should be no cause for you to worry Sam.’

  Evans thought about this for a moment.

  ‘So your right name ain’t Rosso then, Rossie?’ he asked

  ‘Nope, my name is really Jones,’ replied Rosso.

  ‘Jones!’ exclaimed Evans, quietly this time. ‘Well I never. Does that mean you got a Welsh Pa like mine?’

  ‘Sam, please do not tell me your name really is Evans.’ Rosso was incredulous. ‘What kind of running away from your past is that! Why didn’t you change it when you volunteered?’

  ‘Don’t know really,’ said Evans, a little crestfallen. ‘The bloke asked me my name and I just said it out straight. There he was, nib of his pen hovering over the papers like, and my mind went all empty. I couldn’t think of another one.’

  ‘Smith? Brown? Jones even?’ suggested Rosso.

  ‘Bit late now, I suppose,’ said Evans. ‘Where did Rosso come from then?’

  ‘Name above a shop window on the way to the docks,’ replied Rosso. ‘I thought with my Dago looks it would work. Also it is a bit less obvious than Smith.’

  ‘Ah well. That will be why you’re the brains in the mess,’ replied Evans, a little rueful. ‘So what was it you done?’

  ‘My Pa, he was always a bit of a gamer. Cards for the most part, sometimes dice. He used to play in local taverns when I was a boy, nothing too hot mind. He was a reasonable hand at it, so he normally won more than he lost, which helped out at home. It’s what paid for me to learn my letters and grammar, even a bit of Latin. After I left home and moved to Bristol he got to thinking as to how he might be able to game his way into a proper bit of money. You hear about all these stupid toffs and rakes that go and lose their family fortunes. So he thinks, if they are all losing, someone must be winning. Why couldn’t it be him that should be the one to win from them? So he got into trying his hand at some bigger games, the stupid arse. He began to lose, tried to keep going and got in over his head. Well he comes round to my lodgings one day, all terribly sorry and blubbing tears. Says how he can’t pay the rent, how the screws are coming round to turf him and mother out into the street, and what will my sisters do, and can I help?’

  Rosso paused for a moment, the image so clear in his mind. His desperate father had begged him to help, the despair he had felt at his inability to do anything. The hot rage at his father’s stupidity, and the bitter words he had levelled at his downcast head. He had found it hard to believe that the slick, ever confident man that was so much of his childhood had now become this broken
reed. Most of all he remembered the dark night that had followed. He had paced the floor of his garret, the unnoticed tallow light burnt down to a guttering point of light, and how eventually, close to dawn the glimmer of a desperate idea that had formed in his mind.

  ‘So what did you do?’ asked Evans.

  ‘I stole from the merchant house I worked at,’ Rosso sighed. ‘The partners trusted me, which made it all the simpler to do, although it made me feel even worse. It might have been easier if they had treated me badly. I covered my tracks by doctoring the books to give me a few days to get away, gave the money to my mother so that stupid bastard wouldn’t be tempted to try another game, and left to join the navy.’

  Evans stared back down the ship for a moment, absorbing the tale he had just heard. Below him on the main deck Lloyd appeared with a line of assistants. He shepherded the chain of serving dishes as they came up from the galley and processed along the main deck towards the great cabin. The captain would be having his regular Sunday meal with his officers, including Clay with his knowledge of Rosso’s past, thought Evans. Then he turned to his friend and smiled grimly.

  ‘We don’t seem to have come off too well when it came to fathers,’ he said.

  *****

  At the opposite end of the ship to the forecastle on which Evans sat it was uncomfortably warm. Follett had done his best to combat the heat in the great cabin. The skylight overhead was open to allow hot air to leave, while on both sides the gun ports gaped wide to allow in a little sea breeze. He had taken the opportunity of the open gun ports to have the squat twelve pounder cannon run out, making some welcome extra room for his guests, but in spite of his efforts the officers of the Agrius were far from comfortable. They all wore their thick full dress uniforms, and were being treated to the last of Captain Follett’s Madeiran mutton, roasted, fatty and served with heavy red claret. As he glanced around the table, Clay could see some alarmingly florid faces.

  The captain’s musicians did their best to combat the soporific effects of roast meat served on a sweltering afternoon in the tropics. They sat in a group in the captain’s day cabin and sawed their way through a jaunty piece of Campagnoli string music. The sweat dripped liberally from the players’ faces, onto their instruments, and eventually adding to the pools that had formed on the deck around them.

  Only Robespierre the cat seemed to enjoy the conditions. Somehow he had slipped into the cabin undetected by the eagle-eyed Lloyd and lay curled in a patch of full sunlight on the bench seat that ran beneath the stern windows. Wynn contemplated the cat for a moment. For an exceptional ratter who had come on board on the promise that he would clear the hold of its population of vermin, he seemed to spend a lot of time asleep in various officers’ quarters. The surgeon’s attention returned to the conversation around the table, which had stumbled into a rather tedious discussion about which of several deserving men should be promoted to replace the recently drowned able seaman.

  ‘I understand that poor Hansen was not able to swim, and so was lost before the boat could reach him,’ said Wynn to the table in general. ‘What amazes me is why a sailor would not invest the time to acquire such a valuable skill? It would seem to be a fairly obvious precaution to take, given the perils of the deep he is exposed to.’

  ‘Can you swim, Mr Wynn?’ asked Sutton.

  ‘No I cannot, but then I am only recently come to sea. In my former practice in rural Buckinghamshire I had little reason to learn. Can you swim, Mr Sutton?’ the surgeon asked in return.

  ‘I confess that I cannot, and there are few seamen of my acquaintance who are able to. I would wager that there are probably no more than a dozen men on board who can, the rest are quite deficient in that skill. For example, how many swimmers are there around this table?’

  There were shakes of the head from all sides.

  ‘I have never tried,’ said Follett, reluctant to acknowledge any weakness. ‘I dare say I could acquire that ability, if I put my mind to it.’

  ‘I can swim very well.’ All eyes turned to the purser. ‘I am sorry to disappoint you, Mr Sutton, but I grew up on the Ayrshire coast. My father would take me fishing on the rocks when I was a boy. He insisted that my brother and I had to learn to swim first, in case we got swept off by a wave, which happened not infrequently.’

  ‘Well, with the exception of Mr Fleming, and his curious Scottish ways,’ said Booth, stirring himself to join the conversation, ‘the rest of us cannot. The answer to your original question, Mr Wynn, is that most sailors cannot swim because they choose not to learn.’

  ‘But why should that be the case, Mr Booth? It surely makes no sense,’ Wynn persisted. Booth rolled an appraising, bloodshot eye on to the diminutive surgeon.

  ‘It does to a true seaman, born to this way of life. Permit me to explain. Consider how the lives of most ships come to an end.’ The master looked around the table to be sure of his audience’s attention, and then listed the ways, emphasising each one with a heavy hand thumped down on the table.

  ‘They strike reefs. They are pooped by huge waves. They clash with mountains of ice. They are driven onto lee shores. They founder in storms. They are struck by lightning. They catch fire. Their timbers are consumed by the dreaded Teredo worm, till the bottom of the ship falls away without warning on a clear day such as this. Or in most cases, they simply vanish, far out at sea, never to be heard of again.’

  Booth ran his gaze around the table once more, before returning it to the surgeon.

  ‘Now that you are a little clearer as to what fate mighty Neptune has in store for you in your new career, you have a decision to make. When the moment comes when your ship vanishes from beneath your feet, far out at sea with no hope of rescue, what will you preference be? Will you look for the swimmer’s fate, a prolonged struggle against the inevitable with the agony of exhaustion as your sole companion; or will you wish for a quick end? Seamen are more superstitious than a coven of witches, wary of an excess of hubris in this matter, and I would say rightly so. There is much for us to be fearful about.’

  In the silence that followed, Follett cleared his throat. ‘In the unlikely event of the Agrius surviving all of the hazards that Mr Booth has envisaged for us, may I be permitted to inform you as to the reason we have been sent this far south?’ Instantly he had all of their attention. He prolonged the moment, enjoying being the centre of attention once more after Booth’s cameo. He turned to call over his shoulder to his steward.

  ‘Lloyd, three more of the claret if you please, and can you remove the dead marines,’ he added, indicating the empty wine bottles already on the table. Once the drink arrived, he announced ‘Gentlemen, we are going hunting.’

  ‘As of now, we are part of Vice-Admiral Benjamin Caldwell’s Windward Islands command, and under his orders,’ continued the captain. ‘He is principally charged with the protection of our colonies among the Windward Islands of the West Indies, together with the conquest of those of our enemies. There is currently considerable fighting amongst those islands in order to wrest the various French possessions from the control of Paris. This effort is being thwarted by a constant flow of reinforcements arriving from France. Our task is to hunt down one such attempt and prevent it. Currently at sea, ahead of us, is one of the larger French frigates. She is called the Courageuse, a substantial vessel of forty guns. More importantly she also carries a body of troops, along with a variety of war-like stores, all bound for the relief of the French island of St Lucia. We are to intercept her at sea, and prevent her arrival.’

  ‘How will we find her, sir?’ asked Booth.

  ‘A good question, Mr Booth,’ answered the captain. ‘The islands of the Caribbean can be thought of as like pearls on a string. They are all strung out in a curved line from Trinidad close to South America in the south, through to Cuba in the north. We have plentiful naval patrols in and around the islands, so that a French ship arriving at one point in the chain, and trying to move along the line of them is sure to be found. My instruc
tions from Admiral Caldwell indicate that the French mode of delivering relief to their possessions is to dash in from the open ocean as quickly as possible to the intended island, unload their men and material and depart again, and so evade our cruisers altogether. As a result, the admiral is confident that the Courageuse will run westwards along fourteen degrees of latitude, as this will bring her directly to her destination. As I said earlier, that destination is known to be St Lucia.’

  The sea officers around the table smiled at this, pleased to have an explanation of the odd navigational instruction that had been given to Booth. Their non-watch keeping counterparts were less clear. It was Fleming who spoke up first.

  ‘Forgive my ignorance, sir,’ he asked, ‘but why is the admiral so certain that in this entire broad ocean, it is upon a single line of latitude that we shall run the French to ground?’

  ‘Mr Booth, would you care to offer the explanation?’ said the captain, ‘Pray do so briskly, perhaps without straying into a further catalogue of the perils of the deep, enlightening as I am sure we all found it.’

  ‘Hear him, hear him!’ said Windham, the claret and the presence of his uncle making the young lieutenant bold.

  ‘Mr Fleming,’ began Booth in his now familiar school masterly way. ‘Even as a humble purser, you will doubtless be aware that we mariners draw lines to aid our navigation upon our Maker’s clean earth. Those that run around the globe parallel to the equator we call lines of latitude. Those notional lines that cut the earth through both poles like the segments of an orange are termed longitude. Are you with me, sir?’

  ‘Aye, Mr Booth. I was passing familiar with the concept,’ said Fleming, rolling his eyes.

  ‘Splendid, we shall make a Magellan of you yet,’ continued Booth. ‘What you may not be aware of is that the two lines offer rather different challenges to the master mariner. To navigate along a line of latitude is simplicity itself. One but requires a sextant and a clear sight of the sun each day to keep the ship upon the chosen line. For that reason, following a line of latitude has been used to reliably cross oceans since the days of the Tudors. Find the line upon which your final destination rests and follow it till you arrive.’ Booth paused to refresh himself with a long pull of claret.