The Captain's Nephew

by Philip K Allan

  In the stunned silence that followed, Booth slumped back into his chair, his look of jingoistic fervour replaced by a puzzled frown as he pondered how his glass had become quite so empty. Clay turned to the purser, unwilling to let Booth’s bombast be the final word on the matter.

  ‘Your calculation is factually correct, Mr Fleming, but as Mr Booth so pithily put it, it is not the full picture. For one thing, the Courageuse will not want to fight us before she has completed her mission. She could have allowed us to catch up with her in order to fight us when we encountered her yesterday, but she chose not to. Partly that would be because she is unlikely to be able to operate many of her guns, encumbered as she must be with additional stores and soldiers for the relief of St Lucia. Also it is not the French Navy’s way. French officers are trained to always attempt to complete their mission first, avoiding action until they have done so.’

  ‘A nation of cowards if you ask me... ’ muttered Booth.

  ‘No, there I do not agree with you, Mr Booth,’ said Clay. ‘In my experience the French rarely want for courage in a fight. It is true that their ships have not fought as well this war, but I believe that can be attributed to a want of experienced leadership on board their vessels. The chief part of their officers in the last war were noblemen. Most will have fallen foul of the revolutionary government and either gone by way of the guillotine or will have fled the country. Doubtless the French navy will promote men of merit to replace them, but this is sure to take time. So you see, Mr Fleming, we are not without some advantages of our own. That said, the captain of the Courageuse seems to be a man of some resource, if we are to judge from the way he evaded us in the night. When we bring him to action we will need to have our wits about us.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ muttered Booth. The wine drew his head down towards his chest, but he was still able to pay a little attention to what Clay was saying.

  Chapter 12

  Doldrums

  The wind that Clay had hoped would bear the Agrius out of the Doldrums died away altogether during the night. When he first opened his eyes in the morning, still befuddled with sleep, he thought for a moment that the frigate must be at anchor, or run aground, so motionless was the hull.

  Up on deck, the sky was the same hazy blue of the day before. Flat sails sagged limply against the masts while the ship slowly rotated like a top on the oily surface of the sea, passing through the points of the compass one by one.

  With no moving air to mitigate it, the heat of the sun was already intense, even though it had only recently cleared the horizon. It had begun to melt the protective tar that was soaked into the standing rigging, sending down a steady drip of oily black onto the normally spotless deck below. Knight had a party of seamen with buckets and mops locked in a losing battle to keep the deck free of the tar. On the forecastle Clay saw some members of the crew indulging in a selection of the usual seamen’s remedies for a lack of wind. Clasp knifes and marlinspikes were stuck into the foremast, while other hands were engaged in bouts of tuneless whistling. Clay examined the surface of the sea in all directions. Stare as he might, he couldn’t detect the slightest ruffle of air moving anywhere. As he closed his telescope the captain appeared on deck.

  ‘Ah, Mr Clay, a very good morning to you, although “good” may be over egging our pudding unless we get some wind directly,’ he said.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ replied Clay. ‘I have conducted a thorough survey about us, and I have never seen a sea so flat in every direction. Unless the men’s clasp knives work soon, I fear we will be becalmed here for some time yet.’

  Follett snorted in response.

  ‘Well, that will never do. We need to find ourselves north of here and back into the trade wind if we are to have any chance to catch the Courageuse,’ he said, speaking rather louder than normal. They stood next to the quarterdeck chicken coops, and the captain was in competition with the triumphant crowing of one of the wardroom hens, delighted at the arrival of her egg. When the noise subsided, he continued, ‘I want the ship under tow as soon as may be convenient.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir. I will get it organised now,’ said Clay. He turned away and called over the officer of the watch and the boatswain.

  ‘Mr Knight, Mr Sutton! A word with you both, if you please,’ he ordered.

  ‘Now gentlemen,’ he began, when the men arrived. ‘We are going to tow the ship northwards in an attempt to free ourselves from these infernal Doldrums, and find ourselves an honest trade wind.’ Knight took a deep breath and blew it slowly out again. Clay tried not to smile at the image this created in his mind. With his cheeks distended, the boatswain was transformed into one of the cherub faces that blew wind from the corners of old sea charts, the very wind in fact that they sought.

  ‘That’s like to be some task, that is, sir,’ he mused. ‘Fully laden as she is now, she’ll have a burden well over seven hundred tons. It’ll be like trying to tow St Paul’s cathedral.’

  ‘You don’t say, Mr Knight?’ snapped Clay. ‘Can a hundred and forty foot warship not be towed with perfect convenience by two ship’s boys and a jolly boat?’

  ‘I am only saying how it is, sir,’ replied Knight, stiffening a little.

  ‘Well I would be obliged if you might confine your comments to those that may assist us to achieve this herculean task,’ said Clay. ‘Mr Sutton, what have you to suggest?’

  ‘We should get the pinnace and the launch both towing from the bows,’ replied Sutton. ‘In this heat we shall need to relieve the crews every hour or so, and also have plenty of water in the boats. Maybe even rig a scrap of awning in the boats, so the men at the oars may have a little shade.’

  ‘Excellent, Mr Sutton,’ Clay said approvingly. ‘Can you kindly ask the sail maker to rouse out some canvas for the awnings, and take charge of organising the boat crews? You had best warn Wynn too. He will have some blistered hands and sunburnt arms to deal with before the day is done. Now then, Mr Knight, what have you to add?’

  ‘We also have the sweeps, sir,’ said the boatswain. ‘Five per side, although I will need to find where they are stowed, as we have not used them for many months.’

  ‘I have heard of them, but never seen them in action,’ said Clay. ‘How do they function?’

  ‘Well now, sweeps are great long oars, like a galley might use,’ explained Knight. ‘Most small frigates and sloops carry some. They are really only meant for use in an emergency, to give us some way when all else has failed. There are little square ports between the middle bank of guns on each side of the main deck. You feed the sweep through there, down to the sea, then crew each with four or five hands, and they walk them backwards and forwards to row with.’ Clay considered this for a moment.

  ‘That doesn’t sound to be very skilled work, Mr Knight,’ said Clay. ‘Is it the sort of task we might get idlers to perform?’

  ‘I dare say you could, sir,’ said the boatswain with a chuckle. ‘Be good to see them lubbers sweat away at some honest work for a change. Some of those cooks and sail makers could do with shedding a few pounds.’

  ‘I will gratefully take help from anywhere I can find it,’ said Clay. ‘In fact I will ask Mr Munro to provide some of his marines to take a turn as well. Gentlemen, we have a plan. Mr Sutton, kindly organise the boats. Mr Knight, can you get the sweeps in play. I will go and organise an army of idlers to man them.’

  *****

  Rosso and Evans took their places in the launch, and looked back at the Agrius as she sat deep upon her perfect reflection in the silver mirror of ocean. Seen from down on the surface of the sea, she towered over the two little boats, looking massive and immovable. A thin cable was attached to a cleat on the back of each boat, from where the lines dipped below the surface of the sea, before they rose in a graceful arc to disappear over the bows of the ship that seemed to loom above them, as high as a cliff. The Agrius’s centaur figurehead looked down on them with wide-eyed surprise.

  ‘So am I to understand that leaving my kni
fe in the mast like that Cornish bastard told me to do hasn’t worked, then?’ muttered Evans, regarding the wide expanse of windless ocean with a jaundiced eye.

  ‘Steady there Sam,’ said Rosso, a little shocked. ‘You don’t want to go and jinx up a hurricane.’

  ‘Blimey, Rosie,’ said the Londoner, ‘you don’t hold with all this nonsense, do you? Not even three years at sea, and you’re as full of nautical bollocks as the rest... ’ Evans trailed off as he took in the scandalised looks on the faces of his fellow crewmen seated behind Rosso, pigtailed mariners to a man. A grumble of angry muttering broke out.

  ‘Silence in the boat, there!’ ordered Preston from the stern of the launch. ‘Evans, sit round properly and stow your noise.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied Evans. He spat on the palms of his hands and glared up at the ship. How the hell were they to shift that, he wondered. The sunlight reflecting off the water caused him to squint, as the figure of Clay appeared over the bows with a speaking trumpet.

  ‘Mr Preston, Mr Sutton!’ he called. ‘Are your crews ready to give way?’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ Preston replied, his words echoed from the pinnace.

  ‘Keep the men rowing steady, long and strong if you please,’ said Clay. ‘You have an hour of rowing before you will be relieved at two bells. We will deploy the sweeps directly, which may provide you with some relief. Carry on please.’

  ‘Give way all,’ ordered Preston. The crew swung forward as one and dipped their oars into the still water and the launch began to move forward. Behind Preston’s back the cable rose up from the sea, dripping with water, the curve flattening out. As the tension came on the cable the launch jerked to a halt, the oars foaming through the water with no apparent effect. To Evans the task seemed impossible. He had overheard Knight earlier, equating it to that of towing St Paul’s. The sweat began to flow down his face, oiling his chest as he heaved away in the stifling heat, the sun dazzling on the water. Then, in tiny increments, he saw the frigate’s bowsprit start to swing like a compass needle towards the north, and she began to creep across the water. Moments later the sweeps, long fragile poles curving under their own weight, seemed to grow out of the sides of the ship like the limbs of some insect, and they too started to swing slowly backwards and forwards. The stroke was much slower than that in the launch, but the effect was noticeable. Little by little the Agrius began to move.

  The hour that Evans spent at the oars was almost as hard as one of the prize fights from his former life in London. The heat was intense this close to the motionless water. The shade of the awning seemed to do little to keep him cool. At each stroke he saw his oar bend with the effort of levering the launch forward another few inches. When two bells finally rang out and the boats were recalled, he could barely muster the energy to climb up the ship’s side. Back on deck, Clay waited for them.

  ‘Very creditable work men, well done,’ he said. ‘The captain has dispensed with the usual restrictions on your daily water allowance. Take as much water as you need from the butts, and then get some rest in the shade. You will be back on duty in the boats at four bells.’ Evans joined the line waiting to drink at one of the scuttle butts, and looked at his hands. He thought that the months he had spent on board the Agrius would have hardened them sufficiently, but he had still managed to pick up a painful blister. Wynn made his way along the line of waiting seamen, inspecting hands.

  ‘That looks nasty, Evans,’ he said as he peered up at him over his little silver glasses. ‘When you have drunk, pray go and see one of my assistants over by number eight gun. He will provide you with some liniment to ease that. We have established a temporary dispensary there for today.’

  ‘Thank you sir, I will do that,’ said Evans. He looked around the deck and was impressed with the organisation he could see. Fresh boat crews had been waiting to replace them the minute they had come on board. At the same time the men who manned the sweeps had been replaced too. He could see that each oar had a mixed crew. The more experienced seamen mixed in with the idlers and marines. The nearest sweep to where he stood was worked by, among others, the Agrius’s enormously fat armourer, much to the amusement of the crew.

  ‘Mr Clay, I have some more volunteers for you,’ said the captain, striding down the main deck with the four musicians in tow. Clay looked at the scrawny Italians, a little unsure.

  ‘Thank you sir,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps if I combine them with some of the sturdier members of the crew at the sweeps, their contribution will prove fruitful.’

  ‘You misunderstand me, Mr Clay,’ said Follett. ‘I meant for them to position themselves on the forecastle, where their playing can serve to inspire both the crews in the boats and the men at the sweeps.’

  ‘How foolish of me,’ replied Clay, his expression blank. ‘Some music will be most diverting for the men.’

  ‘Music is it?’ muttered O’Malley from his place at one of the sweeps. ‘He can stick that up his fecking arse. Give the Diego buggers an oar to pull on, that’s what I say.’

  ‘What was that, O’Malley?’ said the captain, turning around.

  ‘I was just remarking on how grand some music would be, begging your pardon, sir,’ replied the Irishman.

  ‘There you are, Mr Clay,’ beamed Follett. ‘I knew the men would appreciate it. Kindly make it so, if you please.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied the keener-eared Clay, glaring at O’Malley.

  Each hour, when the ship’s bell tolled, the crews who manned the oars and sweeps were swapped over throughout that long, oven-hot day. Each four hours came the change of the watch, and those who were finally relieved could creep below deck to escape the glaring sun. With each change of crew or watch, the ship’s way would come off her altogether, and she would again start to rotate on the sea. During these delays, Clay was aware of an impatient Follett just behind him, pacing the deck.

  Hour after hour the boats tugged at the tow cables and the men sweated at the sweeps. The sun rose higher and higher, growing ever fiercer as it beat down on the ship and the struggling crew. The sound of the steady grind of oar strokes syncopated with the beautiful music that drifted on the hot air. Hour by hour the sun dropped towards the horizon, and still the ship crept on, the oar splashes absorbed into the motionless water. At dusk Clay recalled the boats, and the sweeps were drawn back in through their little sweep ports. There was still not the tiniest breath of wind.

  *****

  Down in the captain’s coach Booth, Clay and Follett were huddled around the chart table.

  ‘The current sets westward here, so as well as the progress we have made today northward, we will also have drifted west,’ explained Booth. ‘We were able to take a very clean noon sighting, and the chronometers are in good agreement, so taking all of that into account... ’ He drew off the drift on the chart, and added a small pencil cross. ‘We are here, sir.’

  The other two bent over the table to examine the cross. Follett frowned.

  ‘Mr Clay, have we really only made such poor progress today? Why we have covered at best a dozen nautical miles.’

  ‘I am sorry sir, but the men can really do no more. The conditions are very difficult. Exceeding hot, with no help at all from any wind,’ Clay replied, controlling his irritation. Follett must know that the men had put in a supreme effort today.

  ‘Mr Clay is right, sir,’ added Booth in support. ‘The wind is always difficult in the Doldrums, but I have scarce heard of such a calm as this. A whole day without even one breath of air! Have you ever seen a sea so flat? It could be Uncle Uriah’s duck pond out there.’

  ‘Bah! A pox on your calm, Mr Booth,’ said Follett, irritated by the master’s enthusiasm. ‘I would be obliged if we might set Uncle Uriah’s pond to one side, if you please. What of the French? Where might they be?’ A chastened Booth considered the situation with care.

  ‘Well sir, if we assume that they turned north rather than south as they appeared to do at sunset two day’s back, then at dawn they s
teered west southwest to bring them back to fourteen degrees? Are we happy to assume that they would have then resumed their westward course and that the trade wind we had that night continued to blow for the last two days?’

  ‘Assume that is so, Mr Booth,’ said Follett. Booth returned first to his calculations and then to the chart.

  ‘They would be approximately here, sir.’ Follett looked with open-mouthed horror at the chart.

  ‘But that must be three hundred miles away! That cannot be correct.’

  ‘It may well be that they are closer than that, sir,’ said Clay, trying to calm his captain. ‘Mr Booth is showing us the very worst case. They might well have had indifferent winds too. They could even be becalmed just like us this very night.’

  ‘Quite so, Mr Clay,’ said Follett, much preferring his first lieutenant’s interpretation of their situation. ‘We must hope that your reading of the situation proves to be accurate and pray for wind on the morrow. In any event, it is our duty to continue with our chase until it is proved to be quite forlorn. It has proved a tiring day for all, but would you gentlemen care to join me for supper?’

  *****

  Later that night, Clay found himself shaken awake in his cot.

  ‘What is it, Samuel?’ he muttered, his head still groggy with Follett’s wine. ‘Surely it is not time to get up yet?’

  ‘It is Preston sir, not Yates.’ Clay sat up, instantly awake.

  ‘What is the problem, Mr Preston?’

  ‘No problem, sir,’ whispered the midshipman. ‘Mr Booth sends his compliments, and if you would care to come on deck you will see a phenomenon quite unique in his experience.’