The Captain's Nephew

by Philip K Allan

  ‘What phenomena would that be, Mr Preston?’ asked Clay, intrigued.

  ‘Beg your pardon sir, but Mr Booth did say to me that I should not tell you. He wishes for it to come as a surprise.’ Clay detected a note of suppressed excitement in the midshipman’s voice and decided to probe no further. He was now wide awake in any case.

  ‘Very well, Mr Preston, you may preserve your mystery for the moment. Could you kindly bring me some light?’

  Clay had already made some progress with dressing when Preston returned. He took the lantern from him.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Please give my compliments to Mr Booth, and I will join him directly I have dressed.’

  When Clay came up on deck the first thing he noticed was that the stars were very clear. There was no moon or cloud to mask them, and they shone brightly in the motionless air. It was so clear that he could even see the path of the Milky Way with the naked eye, like a wash of chalk across a black board. He approached the dark figure of the officer of the watch, who stood at the very stern of the ship, leaning against the gunwale.

  ‘Now then, Mr Booth, I hope that this phenomenon of yours is worth seeing. If it is the stars on a clear night, I will own they are a fine sight, and not one that I have seen above a thousand times before... oh my God!’ Clay stopped with a gasp as he saw what was over the side.

  The infinite bowl of stars above their heads was flawlessly mirrored by the flat water below. The extraordinary stillness of the sea had combined with the clarity of the air to produce some optical trick that made the horizon vanish and the surface of the sea invisible. This left the Agrius apparently suspended in space, with stars in every direction.

  ‘Did you ever see the like?’ breathed Booth next to him.

  ‘Never in life, nor have I even heard tell of a calm to match it,’ replied Clay, also whispering, as if afraid that the very breath of his voice might create ripples on the water and shatter the illusion.

  Clay looked around him, and saw that the main deck was thronged with shadowy figures. He could just make out the carpenter and Smith the gunner – petty officers never normally up at night, staring mesmerised at the sea. From somewhere close by he heard Johansen’s sing-song voice whisper to a fellow Swede as the cooper expressed his wonder in his native tongue. There were far more crewmen crowding the deck than was normal at this time of night. Members of the watch must have crept below to wake shipmates, unwilling for them to miss this moment. They too were hushed to silence by what they saw.

  Clay returned to his own contemplation. He looked down at where the sea should be, and saw only stars far below him. The illusion was so real that he felt his fear of heights wash over him. He looked back towards where the horizon should have been, but found no relief there, only more stars.

  ‘Thank you so much for passing the word for me, Edward. I would not have missed this for anything,’ he said.

  ‘You’re welcome, lad,’ replied the ship’s master. Lost in the magic neither man noticed the incongruous way Booth had addressed Clay, his superior officer. After a long while, Booth began to speak again.

  ‘How are you these days, Alexander?’ he asked. ‘You seem to be more troubled of late. As if a spark has gone out that once was there. I mean no impertinence, but we officers that are forced together notice such things.’ Booth knew that Clay was a private man, but something in the atmosphere tonight seemed right for openness.

  ‘I am well enough, Edward,’ said Clay with a shrug, too engrossed in what he saw to detect the note of concern in the older man’s voice.

  ‘Pardon me mentioning it, but I could not help but observe that there was an atmosphere between you and the captain at supper,’ said Booth. Clay looked around at him, saying nothing.

  ‘I am more perceptive than many assume, who only take note of my lack of restraint when I drink,’ continued Booth, by way of explanation. ‘It is quite wonderful what we old drunks can detect.’

  ‘This night seems to be one for confidences, Edward,’ laughed Clay. ‘That is the first time I have heard you mention your love for drink.’

  ‘It is no grave matter,’ said Booth. ‘I take pleasure in overindulgence, true. But I still stand my watch, ready to hand, reef or steer and am a superior navigator to most.’

  ‘You are much the age my father would have been, had he lived, I fancy,’ said Clay. ‘He was no drinker, but I do sometimes miss the advice he might have been able to give me.’

  ‘Well, that cannot be changed,’ said the older man. ‘But if it is council you stand in need of, you could do worse than take the benefit of what wisdom may have survived all the bishop I have drunk in my time.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Clay with a smile. ‘You are right, Edward. There is a tension between the captain and me. I do not dislike him as a person. I do find him haughty and aloof, but with the superiority of his connections and circumstances, it is not a surprise that he should be so.’

  ‘You mean he has much to be haughty and aloof about,’ laughed Booth.

  ‘Quite so,’ said Clay. ‘No, my problems with the captain lie in his treatment of me, which I find to have been unjust and wrong.’

  ‘Do you refer to the manner in which your involvement in the attack on the Flemish bridge was reported by him?’ Booth asked.

  ‘That is part of the reason. I do not hold any particular objection to Mr Windham. It is true that my time on board would have been easier with the support of a second lieutenant processed of more experience. I do not resent that he has the good fortune to have been born into a powerful family, but that must surely mean that he will not want for preferment. I can only hope to receive advancement in my career by proving myself in action. If the captain had treated me fairly in his account, it would not have harmed Mr Windham. With his advantages he will be successful in any case, but it would have helped me, and I stand in need of such help now.’

  ‘All of your fellow officers disliked the way the captain treated you in his letter on the Flanders action,’ said Booth, ‘well, all save Windham. It was not right, and showed a meanness of spirit in the captain that I had not suspected was there.’

  ‘What I find even more provoking is that it is not the first occasion on which this has happened to me,’ continued Clay. ‘Before joining the Agrius I was third lieutenant on the Minerva. We had pursued a French corvette in the Mediterranean, which took refuge in a bay tolerably well protected by a shore battery. We stood off till it was quite dark, then effected a landing with our marines to storm the battery, while the second lieutenant and I went in with the ship’s boats to cut out the Frenchman. It was a black night, and needed a difficult piece of navigation. The second lieutenant may have been the son of an admiral, but he was a very indifferent seaman. The fool proceeded to lose his way altogether. So I was in position, ready to board the ship over the bows as we had planned, at the time he was supposed to assault her at the stern. I was aware that the attack on the battery was about to commence, which would alert the crew of the corvette that something was afoot, so I went ahead and boarded without him. Naturally it was a most uncertain affair, and much fiercer than it should have been. It might very well have gone the way of the enemy, in which case I might not be here with you now, Mr Booth. Fortunately the sight of all that gunfire in the night gave the ass something to row towards. When he eventually turned up his men tipped the balance of the fight in our favour. Now, who do you suppose accrued all the credit for this action?’

  ‘I presume the admiral’s son?’ said Booth.

  ‘Precisely so, Mr Booth,’ said Clay. ‘According to the dispatch the fight was going badly until his timely intervention saved the day. At least that captain had the decency to be apologetic to me, but he owed a favour to the man’s father, so what could he do?’

  ‘I understand how this must vex you,’ said Booth. ‘But you will find these things have a way of correcting themselves in the service. Those that were present with you in Flanders will make no secret as to what really ha
ppened, and so that knowledge will spread. It is only Captain Follett who stands to lose in reputation by the eventually exposure of the truth.’

  ‘And how long do you suppose that process will take?’ asked Clay. ‘Much too long for my needs, I fear.’

  ‘I do not mean to pry, but why is such an immediate exposure so important now?’ asked Booth.

  Clay looked at the older man for a moment, but his eyes were lost in the dark, lit only by shadowy faint star light. He slid his hand into the inner pocket of his coat and felt the reassuring crackle of the note from Lydia. After a few moments of thought, he carried on.

  ‘Were you ever in love, Edward?’ he asked. Booth stifled a laugh.

  ‘Only with trigonometry and salt water. Does that count?’ he replied.

  ‘I have recently become acquainted with a lady,’ continued Clay. ‘She was a passenger on one of the East Indiamen we escorted to Madeira. Although I have only had the opportunity to spend a brief time in her company, we have become very close. Edward, she is quite the most wonderful person I have ever met. In Madeira we came to an understanding of sorts. I am not in a position to marry her at present, but she has pledged to wait till I am. I need to be promoted, and soon, if we are to have any hope of one day being together. Perhaps now you understand why I cannot rely on some eventual correction of the facts with regard to Flanders for my promotion. My need is too urgent for that.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that now,’ replied Booth. ‘But why do you believe the captain to stand in your way with this girl? If it is promotion that you seek, I would recommend you to cultivate a better relationship with Captain Follett than you have at present. He is a man of considerable influence in the service; surely his good opinion is the surest path to gain the recognition that you seek?’

  Clay’s voice grew passionate as he spoke. ‘Edward, when we were in Madeira it was the captain who prevented me from meeting with my intended. He refused me the use of a boat when he learnt of my plans, and used his authority over me to prevent my leaving the ship until the convoy of East Indiamen had departed for Bombay. He treated me in a most cruel manner. Had it not been for Mr Sutton’s help, I would have been unable to reach any arrangement with the lady at all.’

  ‘So that was why you were not present to attend the farewell dinner on the Earl of Warwick,’ said Booth, understanding at last. ‘There was talk at the time of you being indisposed, but I did think it strange that you were not able to join us.’ They continued to stare out at the mass of stars in companionable silence, feasting their senses, both lost in their thoughts for a moment. After a while Clay carried on.

  ‘You speak of achieving my promotion by the good offices of our captain, but I cannot see that as anything but a distant prospect. Take as an example the way he acted over the death of poor Hansen. He asked for my account of the incident, and for my recommendation as to how the matter should be dealt with, but then preceded to do little more than verbally reprimand Mr Windham. God help the next hand to fall overboard when that man is on watch.’

  ‘Ah yes, not Mr Windham at his best,’ Booth conceded. ‘Alexander, I have observed many captains come and go in the service. In my time I have served under some perfect tartars: never content, always flogging the crew on to do more and more. Then in my next commission I have found myself with a captain who is soft and too easy with the men, and then the ship becomes slack, the crew start to take liberties, and it rarely ends well. Captain Follett is neither of those types. Perhaps you misjudge him, and he is not of so bad a character after all?’

  ‘That may be so as a generality,’ replied Clay, ‘he does handle the ship tolerably well, and I agree that he is no tartar. My issue is with the specific, how he has treated me in particular, and his favouritism towards his nephew. I surprise myself by saying it, Edward, for I am no hot-head, but I look forward to the moment when Captain Follett and I part company. It cannot come soon enough for me. If matters persist as they have to date, I do not know where they might end,’ Clay’s voice was still quiet, but there was no mistaking the calm strength of his emotions.

  ‘Come sir, is it really so very bad?’ asked Booth, a little shocked at what his companion had said.

  ‘Sometimes I find matters to be truly insupportable,’ Clay concluded, his face unreadable in the dark. ‘I wonder if a time will come when I shall grow weary of constantly yielding to a superior, whatever the justice of my position.’ He pushed himself back from the rail. ‘Thank you for giving attention to my problems, Edward,’ said Clay, feeling for the older man’s hand, and gripping it. ‘And you will always have my thanks for summoning me to share this wondrous spectacle with you. I bid you a good night.’

  Clay walked back towards the companionway ladder. The main deck was less full now as those not on watch drifted back to their hammocks below. He smiled to himself, feeling relieved that he had been able to speak freely with Booth. Until tonight he had not realised how bottled up within him his frustrations had become. Day to day life in the oppressive claustrophobia of the wardroom meant never being able to speak openly for fear of another overhearing. Even with Sutton he had not had the opportunity to be as forthright as he had with Booth tonight.

  Back on the quarterdeck Booth continued to stare out to sea, but he was no longer focussed on the stars as he pondered what he had heard. There was much justice in what Clay had said, and he sensed the younger man’s frustrations building up beneath his calm exterior. He felt a deep sense of foreboding, a charge in the air like that before a thunderstorm. He was a veteran of voyages to the South Seas and he knew what could happen on an isolated ship when the relationship between captain and first lieutenant broke down. It was only a few years ago that a disgruntled officer named Fletcher Christian had led the crew of the Bounty to rise up in bloody mutiny against their captain. For the remaining hours of his watch he ran through all he had heard, asking himself what he should do.

  Chapter 13

  Storm

  Clay woke in the morning to the familiar sound as Yates poured his shaving water into his wash stand. He listened for a moment to the musical tinkle the water made against the metal bowl, the pitch sliding ever lower with the changing level. In spite of his broken night, he felt refreshed. He closed his eyes and pictured once again the net of stars that had surrounded the ship in a cocoon of jewelled night. He also thought about the long conversation he had had with Booth by the light of those stars, and felt relief deep inside at having shared his pain with someone.

  As he lay in his cot another sensation came to him. It was a tiny sense of rising excitement. He forced himself to lie absolutely still and focus on the beam that stretched over his cot and held up the deck above. It was side lit in the yellow flickering light of the lamp that Yates had brought with him. There could be no doubt, the cot he lay in swayed a little relative to the beam. For the first time in over a day the hull of the Agrius was moving. He sat up and swung his legs out of his cot.

  ‘Yates, where is the wind?’ he asked.

  ‘No wind yet sir, but there is a little swell this morning. I had hoped that it might stay calm a while longer, begging your pardon. I know we need to get after the French an’ all, but Mr Hart was telling me all about the stars being reflected in the sea last night. He said it was a rare sight, and I slept through it all. I was hoping to see it myself tonight, for all on board who saw it are talking of little else. Did you chance to see the stars yourself, sir?’

  ‘I did indeed, Yates,’ replied Clay as he stropped his razor, ‘but only because Mr Booth was kind enough to pass the word for me. It is a pity you missed them for it was quite a sight. You could spend a hundred years sailing the oceans of the world and never see the like again.’

  Clay came up on deck into the midst of the early morning routine of a man-of-war. The hands were busy cleaning the decks. Water gushed in silver cascades as it was pumped up from over the sides. The heavy bear was being dragged forward and back, while individual seamen worked with holy stones, scrubbing
the planking to the correct shade of gleaming white demanded by Knight and his boatswain’s mates. Over the side the mirror calm sea was gone. There was now a gentle oily swell that rocked the ship with the lulled motion of a crib. The unfamiliar silence of the previous night was replaced by the gentle rattle of blocks and lines striking high up in the rigging, and the sound of the stays protesting creak, as the weight of the Agrius’s lofty masts bore against the standing rigging on first one side of the ship and then the other.

  ‘Mr Windham,’ said Clay to the officer of the watch, ‘has there been any sign of the wind’s return?’

  ‘No sir, not yet,’ replied Windham. ‘Do you think that it will?’

  ‘There is sure to be some wind blowing close at hand to have generated this swell,’ he replied. He leant back and cupped his hands.

  ‘Masthead there!’ Clay hailed. ‘Any sign of wind on the water?’

  As he waited for his answer Clay was aware of the keen interest being taken by the crew all around him as they scrubbed the deck. No one wanted a repeat of yesterday’s backbreaking labour, hauling the frigate forward yard by painful yard.

  ‘Deck there!’ came the reply. ‘A few areas of sea look a little ruffled, but nothing as would move the ship.’ A collective groan ran around the deck.

  ‘Silence there!’ called Clay. ‘Mr Knight! Keep the men quiet as they work.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied the boatswain. Clay turned to Windham.

  ‘After the hands have had breakfast we will need to break out the sweeps and boats again,’ he ordered.

  A little while later, while the hands ate their burgoo and small beer, Captain Follett came up on deck.

  ‘Good morning to you, Mr Clay,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘I do declare it to be a little fresher today. When I awoke this morning and felt the hull moving, I was sore tempted to dance a gig. Have we sighted any wind as yet?’