The Distant Ocean

by Philip K Allan

  ‘Are you sure there is a ship there?’ said Macpherson.

  ‘She was moored hard up against the bank, sir,’ replied Butler. ‘They had covered the rigging with such a profusion of foliage you could have missed her in broad daylight.’

  ‘And she is precisely lined up behind this bank of mud here?’ asked Taylor.

  ‘That is correct sir, with her bow pointing towards the sea.’ Just behind the long boat two other nucleuses of darkness appeared in the night.

  ‘Mr Preston, Mr Blake, are you ready?’ said Taylor.

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ drifted quietly across the water, twice.

  ‘Here is where we divide our forces,’ said Taylor. ‘We will carry on, round the bank upstream and attack her from astern. You will both round the bank downstream, and attack her from in front. Is that clear?’ A pair of whispered acknowledgments sounded in the night. ‘Then good luck, gentlemen,’ and Taylor returned his attention to the boat.

  ‘Absolute silence now, lads,’ he ordered. ‘Lay us up against their stern, Sedgwick.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir. Give way all.’

  The longboat gathered way and resumed her progress up stream, while the other two boats turn around and stole away into the night. After a dozen strokes Sedgwick pushed over the tiller to take them around the top of the mud bank.

  ‘Row steady there,’ growled Taylor, as he sensed the rising excitement in the boat making their speed quicken. Sedgwick scanned the night ahead, searching for the ship. He had expected to see at least a few little splinters of light leaking out from below deck, but all was dark. He searched the sky for the distinctive silhouette of rigging against stars, but all he could see were the huge trees of the forest towering over the boat.

  ‘Where the bloody hell is this ship?’ muttered Macpherson. ‘Surely we should have....’

  ‘Easy all!’ shouted Sedgwick. ‘Backwater, both sides! Boat Ahoy!’ From out of the darkness ahead there were more cries of warning. Water foamed silver in the night along the sides of both boats as their oarsman desperately tried to slow them down. They struck bow to bow with a crash that threw most of their occupants from their seats, and warm river water slopped freely over the gunwale of the longboat.

  ‘In the bow there,’ said Taylor. ‘How bad is the damage?’

  ‘Whole crew, get bailing,’ supplemented Sedgwick. ‘Use your hats, hands, anything you can find.’

  ‘Top strake be a touch stove in, sir,’ reported a voice from the bow. ‘She should be all right for a bit, like.’

  ‘Boat ahoy!’ came the voice of Preston from ahead of them. ‘The cutter is all right. We have shipped a deal of water, but no serious damage. It is fortunate you hailed when you did. If we had not slowed, one of us would have sunk for sure.’

  ‘Any sign of the enemy?’ asked the first lieutenant.

  ‘None, sir. No sign of them at all.’

  ‘But that is ridiculous!’ raved Taylor. ‘They cannot have slipped past us out to sea, and in any case the captain has that eventuality covered.’ He rounded on his midshipman. ‘Is this the correct mud bank, Mr Butler?’

  ‘They were here, sir!’ insisted the teenager. ‘Of that I am certain. Sedgwick saw them too!’

  ‘That’s so, Mr Taylor, sir. They was moored here this afternoon, right enough,’ said the coxswain.

  ‘So where the bloody hell have they gone?’

  ‘I think I may know, sir,’ said Sedgwick. ‘If you was to put me on shore here, I could go and see if I am right.’

  *****

  It was close to midnight now, and the three ship’s boats were moored amongst huge tree roots that curved down like claws to plunge into the water. Out on the river the faint glimmer of starlight brushed across the top of the moving water. Close into the bank, beneath the canopy of trees, was a cave of utter black. The forest around them had fallen silent, amazed by the strange presence of the ring of marine pickets that Macpherson had thrown out to protect the boats from a surprise attack. In the centre of the circle the officers whispered to each other as they awaited Sedgwick’s return.

  ‘And that is the last we shall see of him,’ muttered O’Malley, easing himself into a more comfortable position in the crowded boat. ‘If he doesn’t tread upon a viper, he will be dinner for a fecking lion. It’s a crying shame an’ all. He had the makings of a passable seaman.’

  ‘I tell you what, I wouldn’t fancy a stroll through that there forest,’ said Evans. ‘I can’t see me bleeding hand before me nose out here. It’ll be black as a Newgate coal scuttle under them trees, quite apart from being obliged to dodge all manner of savage beasts.’

  ‘Ah, but you be forgetting he comes from around here, Big Sam,’ said Trevan. ‘It may be as natural for him as you setting out for a walk through Whitechapel of a night.’

  ‘I bleeding hope not,’ said the Londoner. ‘I doubt the lions in these parts are half as fierce as an East End footpad.’

  ‘What a fecking shambles,’ said O’Malley. ‘Do you reckon there was ever a ship here at all?’

  ‘Able were proper certain,’ said Trevan. ‘An’ he be a steady one. He said it were concealed with no end of creepers and the like, but it were here, right enough.’

  ‘Well, where has it gone to?’ asked Evans. ‘I mean it ain’t like we’re hunting for a lost shoe. A bleeding ship can’t just up and vanish!’

  ‘Hold steady there, Sam,’ whispered Trevan, placing a hand across the big man’s chest. ‘Something be happening ashore, like.’

  Deep in the forest, Private Conway spun round towards a faint sound of movement.

  ‘Wh... wh...who g...g...oes there!’ he called towards the rustling sound in the dark, his accent pure Munster. ‘You halt now, or I am after firing at yous!’

  ‘Friend, friend!’ replied the rustle as it drew closer. ‘Careful where you point that musket, Ryan.’

  ‘Holy Mary, Able,’ said the marine. ‘I was after thinking you might be a fecking oliphant or the like.’ He felt himself patted on the arm.

  ‘I wouldn’t go worrying about those,’ said the coxswain. ‘You can hear them coming on from miles away. No, if I were stood out here, in the dark, it is the leopards that would truly concern me.’

  ‘Is it the leopards, you say?’ queried the marine. ‘Why them feckers?’

  ‘Because they make no sound at all,’ whispered Sedgwick into his ear. ‘Where can I find Mr Taylor?’

  ‘O...over yonder. B...by the boats,’ stuttered Conway, peering past him into the blackness, his musket at his shoulder.

  ‘Have you discovered the whereabouts of the enemy, Sedgwick?’ asked the first lieutenant, as he stepped out of the night.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied the coxswain. ‘They must have seen that Mr Butler and I had smoked them, then gone and shifted that there ship soon as we left. There is another inlet, a little farther up the river. It’s a narrow creek really, a proper tight squeak, just big enough for them to slip into. They have towed her up into it by the stern.’

  ‘Good work, that,’ enthused Macpherson. ‘Can we come at them by boat?’

  ‘We can, sir. It’s a bit snug at the mouth, but then it sort of widens later. If we go behind each other, we should be fine.’

  ‘How the hell did you know where to seek them?’ asked Blake.

  ‘When I saw they had gone, I remembered this place. I used to fish there as a boy with my brother.’

  ‘Come then, gentlemen, at least we have found our quarry,’ said Taylor. ‘We have done quite enough blundering around for one night. It is time for us to resolve matters directly. Lead us to this inlet of yours, Sedgwick.’

  *****

  Perhaps the sky had grown paler out on the water, or perhaps their eyes had now fully adjusted to the dark, but to the men in the boats the river seemed easier to navigate. The broad stream was now a slate of grey, in contrast to the inky black forest on either side. They moved steadily upstream, the oarsman all swinging backwards and forwards with the creaking rhythm of each st
roke. They passed another, much lower mud bank the glistened a little beside them like the back of some huge slumbering creature. Then there was a stretch of farther rowing before Sedgwick turned the longboat towards the trees. The endless hedge of dark forest reared up against the backdrop of stars, and then Taylor noticed a break, a deep notch visible before the forest begun again. In the middle of the gap was a nucleus of something even darker in the night.

  ‘There is the ship,’ breathed Sedgwick. ‘They are bow on to us. When we get closer you will see they have a number of lamps lit on deck.’

  ‘Easy oars,’ hissed Taylor. ‘Let the rest of the men catch us up.’

  Two other patches of dark slid across the water towards them. They heard muffled orders and one boat drew up just behind them while the other appeared off to one side.

  ‘Mr Preston, Mr Blake!’ whispered the first lieutenant. ‘Do you mark the enemy ahead, where that break is in the trees?’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ came the faint replies.

  ‘The launch will attack at the starboard chains, the cutter over the bow,’ he ordered. ‘We will take them from the other side. Is that clear? Good, give way all.’

  The boats all surged forward, gathering speed and shuffling into a tight line ahead. The bank grew closer and closer. Taylor watched the shape of the privateer as it emerged out of the gloom ahead. The masts were high above them, still festooned with branches, but with a starry sky behind the shape of yards and shrouds were plain to him now. It was their straight lines that betrayed their manmade origins. A sharp pencil stroke of gold appeared in the night where light leaked out around an ill fitting deadlight. Soon they were close enough to detect the glow of lamps in the air, and the faint shadows of those on watch as they moved about in front of the lights. An oarsman in the cutter ahead missed a stroke in his excitement, and Taylor saw the blade foam white in the darkness.

  ‘Qui va la?’ shouted a voice from ahead, sudden and loud. Moments later a musket fired, the flash brilliant after so many hours of darkness. Then a long bowsprit was above their heads and the side of the privateer appeared like a wall beside them.

  ‘In oars!’ yelled Sedgwick, just in time. Another musket banged in the night on the far side of the ship, followed by several more, and a cheer echoed loudly from close to the front of the sloop. The longboat came to a halt and Macpherson sprung up, drawing out his long claymore with a hiss of polished steel.

  ‘On your feet, marines! Fix bayonets!’ he ordered. As the men slotted their long blades home, a head appeared over the side of the ship and levelled a pistol at the Scotsman. There was a loud bang, and his hat was whisked away to splash into the water alongside.

  ‘Corporal Edwards, you will shoot that man,’ said Macpherson without looking up from the lanyard of his sword that he was securing about his wrist. A musket flashed from the centre of the longboat, and when Macpherson turned to face the ship’s side the head had vanished.

  ‘Marines will charge!’ he shouted. He stepped onto the gunwale of the longboat and then scrambled up into the fore chains of the sloop, leaving the boat rocking behind him. The rest of the marines poured up after their commander and heaved themselves over the side.

  ‘Abbot, you stay with the boat,’ ordered Taylor. ‘The rest of you follow me. Plenty of noise, lads. Put the fear of God into them.’

  Evans was one of the first of the sailors to scramble out of the longboat. He pulled himself up until he stood on the side rail of the Passe Partout and balanced himself with one hand hooked into the privateer’s shrouds. He looked down into the melee that swirled about his feet. The deck was packed solid with struggling marines trying to drive forward. They were thrusting out with their long bayonets, but they were hemmed in against the side by a resolute ring of defenders. Macpherson was in the thick of the fight. His glittering blade clashed and shrieked against the cutlass of a huge, dark-haired sailor with a thick moustache. Evans looked across the ship to where he could see a similar fight on the far side, and another breaking out around the bow. More and more French sailors were pouring up from below in various states of undress, but all of them were armed.

  ‘What’s the fecking hold up, for Christ sakes!’ yelled O’Malley from behind him. ‘Are you after being invited aboard?’

  ‘There ain’t no bleeding room,’ shouted Evans. ‘The Lobsters are all hard up against the side. It’s packed tighter than Bartholomew Fair.’

  ‘Use your pistol!’ urged the Irishman.

  ‘Pistol, right you are.’ He yanked it out of his waist band, remembered to cock it, and took aim at the French sailor fighting with a marine by his feet. The man’s eyes widened in horror as he saw the weapon. Then the Londoner pulled the trigger. The lock snapped forward with a click, but nothing further happened.

  ‘Pistol’s bleeding knackered,’ he yelled behind him. ‘Must have copped it when we shipped half the river.’ Then an idea came to him. He flipped the heavy weapon around till he had it by the barrel, took careful aim and hurled it over arm, straight at the Frenchman’s head. It struck him full in the face and he jerked back with a cry. In a flash the marine was on him. He thrust low with his musket, and the man went down with a shriek of pain. Evans pulled out his cutlass and dropped into the slip of deck vacated by the soldier.

  ‘Right, my lovelies,’ he yelled as he squared up to the man in front of him. The Frenchman’s eyes travelled up the frame of his huge opponent with growing horror. Pinned as he was between two bulky marines, Evans was unable to display the accomplished swordsmanship of Macpherson. He did manage to pull his right arm free, and from his superior height he sent down a rain of blows on his opponent’s cutlass, as if he were a blacksmith shaping hot iron on an anvil. After half a dozen blows, the poor man’s guard failed altogether and Evans sank his weapon deep into the Frenchman’s shoulder. With a cry of pain he fell down, and the Londoner broke through at last onto the open deck, with O’Malley and Trevan at his back.

  A desperate privateer thrust at Evans with a boarding pike, but now that he had room to move he had become a formidable opponent. His years of fighting in the prize ring had made him surprisingly light and nimble on his feet for such a big man. He watched the pike head as it accelerated towards him with deceptive calm. At the last moment he swayed out of the way of the lunge, twisting around so as to let his opponent’s momentum carry him onto the point of his cutlass. He wrenched the blade free just in time to block a clumsy blow. As the blades screeched together he abruptly dropped the hilt of his cutlass so that his opponent fell forward, and delivered a stunning left hook to the side of the man’s jaw. The French sailor’s head shot back and he dropped to the deck. Evans trampled heavily across his fallen body as he pressed on across the deck.

  Now that the tight cordon around the boarders had been breached, the attackers’ numbers began to tell. More and more of the crew of the longboat swarmed over the side and fell on the retreating French. Macpherson paused to form his marines into a double line in close order. The solid, disciplined block began to tramp towards the ship’s wheel, where the last knot of resistance had rallied around a well dressed man who wore a fine pair of calf-length boots.

  ‘Marines will halt!’ ordered Macpherson, when his men were a matter of yards from the French. All the pairs of boots came to a stop with a collective stamp.

  ‘Present arms!’ roared the Scot. A double line of muskets rose up to their owner’s shoulders and settled their aim on the last of their opponents. Weapons began to drop to the deck as the privateer’s men gave up the fight. The man in the leather boots looked to left and right, then shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Marines will fi—’ began Macpherson.

  ‘Non, Monsieur,’ said the ship’s captain. He stepped out in front of his men and held out his sword with the hilt towards Macpherson. ‘No more, I pray you. The ship is yours.’ With a clatter, the last few members of the crew laid down their arms.

  Chapter 5 The Line

  A week after they had secured the
Passe Partout, the Titan crossed the equator. Jacob Armstrong had taken a good sighting of the sun at noon the previous day and calculated by dead reckoning that the frigate moved into the southern hemisphere, together with her captured prize, shortly after nightfall. The following morning, which happened to be New Year’s Eve, eight bells rang out from the belfry as usual to mark the start of the next watch. From under the main deck came the muffled squeal of boatswains’ calls, followed a little later by the thunder of bare feet as the crew came running up on deck, ready to start the day. Most of the men had come prepared for a few hours of labour scrubbing their portion of the planking to an even shade of white before breakfast. What they were not ready for were all the changes that had been made to their ship while they had slept in their hammocks. For one thing the frigate was hove to, rocking backwards and forwards in the gentle swell, instead of pressing on towards distant Cape Town and her rendezvous with the rest of the squadron. Then there were the fire hoses that had been rigged to the main pump, which was manned by a line of grinning sailors. In addition there were a number of large hogsheads that stood around the deck, filled to the brim with seawater. Strangest of all was the small canvas awning that had been hung over a raised dais by the forecastle. In pride of place beneath it stood one of the wardroom chairs, barely recognisable under its heavy decoration of fluttering ribbons and twisted rope work.

  ‘What the bleeding hell is all this about?’ exclaimed Evans, still half asleep, as he looked around him. ‘How am I meant to clean the deck? My bit is under that there barrel.’

  ‘I have no clue at all,’ said Sedgwick beside him. O’Malley began to whistle tunelessly, while Trevan thrust his hands deep into his pockets and stared out to sea.

  ‘Deck there! Boat ahoy!’ cried the lookout at the masthead. ‘Boat approaching on the larboard beam!’