The Distant Ocean

by Philip K Allan

  ‘Able?’ he mumbled. ‘How did you come to be in the sea?’

  ‘Never you mind about him,’ snapped O’Malley. ‘He should never have painted the boatswain blue, at all. Just you put your fecking back into your rowing.’ The Irishman glared down at him from where he stood in the stern of the whale boat, with a steering oar tucked under one arm.

  ‘Come on, my lover,’ urged a low, female voice from behind him. ‘Back to work now.’ He turned to find himself looking into the sea-green eyes of his wife Molly. Her mass of red hair streamed in the wind, much to the delight of his long dead son who sat laughing beside her on the bench.

  ‘Pull three!’ yelled O’Malley, and the whale boat started to move again. Trevan did his best to row, but he felt so tired. His whole body protested at the effort it was being called on to produce. He looked at his trembling arms as they strained on the oar, and he noticed for the first time how thin and wasted they looked. His skin had lost its usual deep tan and had an unpleasant yellow look to it.

  ‘I can’t be doing this for much longer, Sean,’ murmured the Cornishman. But the helmsman was staring at something ahead. He raised one hand from the steering oar to shade his eyes. From behind his back Trevan heard a hollow roar of air and felt a warm mist drifted across the boat.

  ‘There she fecking blows!’ bellowed O’Malley. ‘Pull all! Evans, get the harpoon!’

  ‘Evans?’ muttered Trevan. ‘You be here, too?’ He turned on the bench again, and now saw that the huge figure of the Londoner stood beyond his wife in the bow. He had one foot resting on the gunwale and he held the long shaft of a harpoon aloft in his fist. Sunlight glittered on the sharp edge of the blade. Just ahead of him was an island of dark grey skin. Then Evans hurled the harpoon, and it thumped into the whale with a spurt of crimson. The creature rolled forward and a pair of huge flukes lifted high above them before they sliced down into the boiling water and disappeared beneath the surface.

  ‘Watch that fecking line!’ yelled O’Malley. Trevan glanced down and saw there was a wooden tub at his feet. The rope coiled around the interior was streaking out as the whale dived, the line smoking and hot.

  ‘Wet the line,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘That be what I needs to do. I remember it now.’ He picked up a little bucket of water and tried to pour it onto the hot rope, but the smoke grew worse. It made his eyes smart and caught at the back of his throat. As he went to retch, a loop of line caught around his foot and in an instant he was plucked off the bench and sent clattering down the boat. Objects and people cannoned off him as he was dragged to the bow, and in a flash he was over the side. He had a brief glimpse of Evans’ face above him, and then green water closed over his head.

  Down, down he went, pulled ever deeper by the rope. Below him he could see the sperm whale as it swum powerfully downwards. Lodged in its vast back was the harpoon, with a ribbon of blood streaming out behind it. Its tail swung up and down, each thrust sending a rush of water past him. Above him the surface of the sea was a distant ceiling. Diagonal streaks of sunlight turned in the water. High above his head he could just see the little hull of the whale boat, with the wavering line still running from it, and then it disappeared from view. Now the water was getting dark and cold. The whale had vanished into the gloom beneath him. But after so much burning fever, he found that the cold was pleasant. It washed away the sweat from his face, and soothed his aching body. He was very tired, so he closed his eyes to sleep.

  Someone had grabbed hold of his pigtail and was shaking his head by it. He opened his eyes to find Molly with the blond plait in her hand. Her pale face was angry and her long copper hair coiled about it like weeds as she shook her head from side to side. Bubbles erupted from her mouth as she yelled at him. Silver flashed in her hand, and she thumped him in the chest with something hard. He glanced down to see that it was the ash hilt of his open clasp knife. She pushed the handle into his hand, and closed his fist around it with her own. Wearily he bent forward in the water and sawed at the whale line knotted around his foot. It parted at last, and he felt his downwards rush ease to a stop. He dropped the knife and it spiralled away from him, turning and flashing as it fell towards the blackness underneath him. He hung in the cool gloom for a while, unsure what to do next. Then he felt a hand in his, tugging him upwards. Molly swam above him, pulling him towards the light. Her skirts ballooned around her in the water like the bell of a jellyfish.

  *****

  Captain Alexander Clay stood in front of the portrait of his wife that hung on the cabin bulkhead and adjusted the folds of his neck cloth. The garment was proving difficult to settle down behind the still unfamiliar Nile medal around his neck. As he pulled at the thick China silk, his eyes looked at the dark-haired Lydia, who smiled back at him from out of the picture. It was an extraordinary likeness that Lieutenant Blake had achieved. The physical form was undoubtedly that of his wife, but he had also captured her spirit. There was the merest ghost of a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth, and a sparkle in her eyes. Together they hinted at the underlying sense of fun that he knew lurked just below the unruffled surface of the grand lady. His eyes strayed towards the front of the blue satin dress in the picture. All being well, you will have long since had to abandon that garment, he told himself with a smile. If he had been alone in the cabin he would have talked out loud to her painted face. He had been embarrassed to do so at first, when the picture had been given to him by his wardroom two years ago. He would only speak to her in a whisper when he was certain he was alone. He had found the benefit immediate. It was soothing on long voyages, helping to ease some of the ache at being apart. He gave the neck cloth a final tug, and drew himself as upright as the low headroom would allow. I am a captain and master of my own ship, he reminded himself. I can do what I dammed well please. He opened his mouth say something to Lydia. At that moment his servant came back into the cabin, and the words somehow turned into a cough.

  ‘Will it be your new sword as you’ll be wearing, sir?’ asked Yates. The teenager held the magnificent black and gold weapon that the King had given him in his hands.

  ‘If you please, Sam,’ he replied, holding up his arms to allow the boy to buckle it around his waist. He glanced down at the glittering hilt. From amongst all the seed pearl that encrusted the pommel, the head of a lion snarled back at him. Then there was a knock at the cabin door. ‘Come in!’ called Clay.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ said his first lieutenant, as he came into the cabin. He too was in full dress, with his own silver Nile medal hung around his neck.

  ‘Good evening to you, Mr Taylor. Have all the preparations been made?’ asked the captain.

  ‘They have, sir. The ship is as still as I can make her, and the black ensign flies at the masthead.’ Through the open door came the sound of a boatswain’s call. ‘That will be Mr Harrison, summoning the people.’

  ‘And Mr Corbett is as certain as he can be that tonight’s ceremony will be an end to matters?’ asked Clay. ‘Nothing brings a crew low like the melancholy drip of frequent burials. I want a single event at which we bid farewell to our shipmates, and then we sail on.’

  ‘I understand, sir, and the doctor is certain.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Clay. He took his best hat and his service book from Yates. ‘Let us get the wretched matter done with.’

  He strode out of the cabin, acknowledged the salute of the marine sentry who stood outside, and walked onto the main deck. The ship rocked in the gentle amber light of evening. Overhead the pale blue sky was dotted by clumps of cloud turned pink in the light of the setting sun. To one side of the deck the crew were drawn up in the blocks and lines of their various divisions. All were dressed in their best shore-going clothes. Dotted amongst them were his officers, and when he looked behind him he could see the frigate’s contingent of marines drawn up behind the quarterdeck rail. He returned his attention to the deck in front of him. Stretched out on the planking was a long line of mess table tops. On each one lay a hammock, st
itched shut to form a cocoon around the body that it held. The job had been done thoroughly. From the bulge at each person’s feet Clay could guess at the round shot placed there to pull them down into the depths beyond the reach of sharks. The stitching finished in the traditional way, over the corpse’s face with the last one driven through the nose as a final test that the victim was indeed dead.

  He counted the mess tables to check they were all there, then caught the boatswain’s eye.

  ‘Off hats!’ roared Harrison, removing his own polished leather one with the royal arms painted on the front. Clay found himself drawn to search his grey hairline for any remaining paint.

  ‘Carry on, Mr Harrison,’ he ordered.

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ growled the boatswain. He summoned over a party of eight sailors to lift the first table up onto their shoulders. Clay opened his service book at the place where a slip of paper marked the text, although he knew the simple words by heart now.

  ‘One moment, please,’ ordered Clay, stopping the men in their tracks with the first mess table still on their shoulders. He had just caught sight of movement at the fore ladder way. Two emaciated figures were climbing up the steps, each helped by one of the surgeon’s assistants. Corbett came last of all and guided the survivors to the chairs that he had placed for them in the shade under the forecastle. Midshipman Butler and Adam Trevan took their seats, and the funeral for the others recommenced.

  Chapter 6 The Cape

  Two weeks later, the Titan dropped anchor in the open waters of Table Bay, alongside the other three ships of the squadron. Close to where they had moored were the ditches and stone walls of the Dutch fort that lay at the northern edge of Cape Town. From beneath the ramparts stretched the wharfs and whitewashed houses of the little town in a curve along the shore. Farther back from the sea, the roofs of larger buildings and church spires stood proud of the surrounding roofs. Behind the town could be seen steep slopes, chequered with green fields and vineyards. They stretched up towards the base of Table Mountain, with its flat summit, that reared above the bay like the fortress of a giant.

  The first twenty-four hours after the frigate arrived were packed with activity. The Titan needed to be resupplied, and a full report on her adventures on the Gold coast made to Commodore Sir George Montague. The French prisoners from the Passe Partoute were handed over to the soldiers of the garrison, while the privateer herself went to the port admiral to be condemned as a prize. Clay found himself torn between the needs of replenishing his ship and time spent with Sir George and the other captains. The commodore was keen to draw up plans to tackle the French menace in the Indian Ocean. It was not until three days after they had arrived, that he was able to entertain his officers, together with his best friend John Sutton of the Rush. At long last he was able to sit at the head of this cabin table, the surface loaded with all the fresh produce the Cape had to offer and the sides lined with his expectant guests.

  ‘I trust you will find the wine tolerable, gentlemen,’ said Clay, holding up his glass to the light. ‘It is of local production. Constantia, the Dutch name it. Apparently it is like to a port wine, and has been grown here since the Dutch first came.’

  ‘It is very agreeable, sir,’ said Faulkner, who had already tried his. ‘I must get Britton to replenish the wardroom’s pantry with a dozen cases or so. I had expected to find Hollander gin here, but not a wine as pleasing as this.’ There was a rumble of agreement from around the table, and a general movement as officers half turned in their seats to have their glasses refilled.

  ‘Let us hope the meal is a match for the wine,’ said Clay. ‘As you can see, Harte has procured a haunch of antelope from a butcher who insists that it is as fine as any venison, and a tolerably good selection of local vegetables. But even if he has been deceived with mule, it will make a more pleasant remove than our usual salt beef.’

  ‘Or mango,’ said Macpherson, to general laughter.

  ‘Mango?’ queried Sutton.

  ‘Mr Armstrong here agreed to purchase a prodigious quantity of the fruit in return for intelligence of the Passe Partoute, sir,’ explained Preston. ‘In consequence we have dined on little else since we left Freetown.’

  ‘It is a very fine anti-scorbutic, gentlemen,’ said Corbett, peering around the table. ‘As Doctor Lind of Haslar has long established, the consumption of fruit is an essential component of a mariner’s diet. I now have little fear that scurvy will break out in the wardroom.’

  ‘Do you remember Admiral Keppel?’ asked Sutton, turning towards Clay. ‘He came aboard the old Marlborough to dine with the captain when we were midshipmen.’

  ‘Small, sour-faced cove who was said to never smile?’

  ‘The very same,’ said his friend. ‘Apparently he suffered very badly from the scurvy when he was a youngster. He accompanied Anson on his circumnavigation of the globe, and when the disease broke out he shed every tooth in his head. That was what prompted his resolution to never smile thereafter.’

  ‘It must have been hard to preserve such a melancholy aspect,’ said Macpherson. ‘Were the survivors of that voyage not all made fabulously wealthy on account of that prize they took? The Spanish treasure ship.’

  ‘If he was pleased, Old Keppel concealed it well,’ said Sutton. ‘I remember him barely saying a word.’

  ‘How did he contrive to eat?’ mused Preston. ‘Without the benefit of any teeth to aid him.’

  ‘He may well have had a false set made from elm,’ offered Armstrong. ‘They say that George Washington has wooden ones, having lost all of his teeth to an over fondness for molasses.’

  ‘The latest sets can be quite effective, I understand,’ said Corbett. ‘The wood is set with actual teeth recovered from cadavers.’ Conversation around the table faltered to a stop as the officers considered this with looks of distaste.

  ‘I live in hope that all those here present are blessed with at least some teeth,’ said the captain briskly. ‘Else this antelope may prove beyond us. Would you care to carve, Mr Corbett? I always find that surgeons do the most creditable job when it comes to slicing flesh of all kinds.’

  While the piece of antelope was carved, polite conversation started again around the table once more. The officers of the Titan were an amiable group of young men, and the prospect of fresh food melded with the excellence of the wine to make for a jolly party. During a break in the flow of conversation, Blake pointed towards the stern windows of the ship. Through the glass was the squadron’s other frigate, moored behind the Titan. A number of sailors could be seen at work on hoists mounted over the frigate’s side, toiling away under the hot midday sun.

  ‘Can the Black Prince really be painting her hull again?’ he remarked. ‘They do seem to spend a prodigious amount of time on embellishing their ship.’

  ‘According to the sailing master, Sir George Montague has his own private supply of paint,’ said Armstrong. ‘It is a formulation of his own devising, and he has it applied to the ship whenever they have the leisure to do so.’

  ‘Perhaps Mr Harrison should petition for some of his blue paint for out next line crossing,’ said Macpherson, to chuckles from his fellow Titans.

  ‘I am surprised they don’t founder under the weight of all those extra layers,’ said Taylor. ‘You have been aboard her, sir. Is the Black Prince a particularly smart ship?’

  ‘Absolutely spotless,’ confirmed the captain. ‘The Royal Yacht could hardly be trimmer. Pipe clayed hand ropes, Turks heads on every available stanchion, and the brass could serve as a mirror to shave by.’

  ‘But does it answer to make a ship truly effective?’ asked Sutton. ‘The Rush may be a little shabby by comparison, but I doubt if the Prince could match my people in gun drill. I never saw them fire their guns once the whole way here, bar the odd salute.’

  ‘I would not want to be thought to criticise another captain’s methods before they are proven in battle,’ said Clay. ‘And of course a certain thoroughness in the regulation of a ship is desir
able; but to my mind I am with you, John. How much sail drill and gun practice the people have had is what chiefly counts when the enemy is in sight.’

  ‘I invited Sir George to dine with me when we were at Gibraltar, and he was most put out with the condition of the Rush,’ said Sutton, accepting another large plate of roast antelope. ‘He was tut-tutting over the brass here, wiping a finger across a cannon there. I tell you, it was as if a maiden aunt had come to call. The man is quite obsessed.’

  ‘It is strange how some captains can take matters to such extremes,’ said Armstrong. ‘Did you ever hear tell of Captain Robert Willoughby? I served with him at the start of the war, on the North American station.’

  ‘The name is passing familiar,’ said Preston. ‘Was he not rather hot in matters of religion?’

  ‘The very same,’ said the master. ‘The hands named him Puritan Bob, on account of the fervour of his religious beliefs. He always shipped with a fire and brimstone parson in tow, and he made the crew attend Divine service every morning without fail, even the Jews and Papists. Then one day he resolved to bring about his people’s morale improvement by preventing them from playing games of hazard.’

  ‘How did he do that?’ asked Faulkner.

  ‘During service one morning he ordered the Lobsters to search the ship from stem to stern for every pack of cards and all dice onboard, and had the lot tossed over the side.’