‘And did that answer to stop the hands from gambling?’ asked Macpherson.
‘It seemed to, at first,’ said Armstrong. ‘But then these curious circles began to appear in the tops of the mess tables, marked into the wood with the point of a knife. They always took the same form, an outer ring about the size of a hand, with an inner circle perhaps the size of a crown piece. Well, Puritan Bob had a notion they must be some manner of pagan symbol, so he had his parson redouble the fervour of his preaching. But despite that, the number of circles continued to grow.’
‘Good heavens, so what did they prove to be?’ asked Preston.
‘It would seem that you can no more keep a seaman from gaming than you can from drink,’ explained Armstrong. ‘When the men were tapping the weevils out from their ship’s biscuit, they would place the liveliest to one side. After the meal, the tables were cleared, and then each man would lay a wager down. At a given moment the weevils were dropped into the small circle. First man’s worm to touch the rim of the outer circle took the purse.’
‘An excellent tale, Mr Armstrong,’ laughed Clay from the head of the table. ‘What a shame we have fresh bread for once. A weevil race over the cheese might have been diverting. More antelope, gentlemen? Perhaps while Harte is serving you I might share what Captain Sutton and I have learnt from our various consultations with Sir George, apart from his advice on how to whiten deck planking, that is.’ The officers all quietened down to listen.
‘The situation is that the French have three of their larger frigates at large in the Indian Ocean. They have established themselves at St Paul on their island of Reunion, or Bourbon as it was before the revolution. It is an excellent roadstead, well provisioned and with good port facilities. From that base they have been fanning out to attack our East India trade, which they have been able to do this past six months with little annoyance from us.’
‘Are we to root them out from their nest at St Paul, then?’ asked Macpherson, sitting forward at the prospect of action.
‘I think not, Tom,’ said Clay. ‘It is protected by fortifications and has a considerable garrison. Without a regular army we can attempt little against it. Sir George plans to defeat the enemy at sea. Destroy their frigates and they will be able to do little further to harm our trade.’
‘Does he have a project in mind to achieve that?’ asked Taylor.
‘The next convoy of Indiaman is due to touch at the Cape any day now,’ explained the captain. ‘In the first instance the squadron will convoy them across towards Bombay. He is hopeful that the French will attack them.’
‘And what if they decline to make such an attack, sir?’ asked Armstrong.
‘The convoy is a substantial one,’ explained Clay. ‘Sir George is quite confident that it will suffice to draw the enemy to us. But should they not prove inclined to make such a bold move, we will split up, as they do, and hunt them down. The Black Prince shall take one part of the ocean, we on the Titan another, and so forth.’
‘And the Rush will operate with the Echo,’ added Sutton. ‘Two sloops together should be a match for a single French frigate, if they are well handled.’
‘You are senior to Captain Windham of the Echo, I collect, sir?’ asked Macpherson. ‘So will you be in command when you two split away?’
‘I suppose that I shall be, yes.’
‘Your first time in charge of a squadron!’ announced Macpherson, rather grandly. ‘Gentlemen, I give you a toast. To our honoured guest, and his first tentative step towards being named as Admiral of the Fleet, Sutton!’ The toast was drunk with enthusiasm by the company. The captain’s friend was well liked on board, and Preston, Macpherson and Faulkner had all served with him. Sutton bowed with mock gravity on all sides as the officers banged the table.
It was some time later that the party began to break up. First Corbett rose to his feet, profuse in his apologies, but he had an appointment ashore with an apothecary who could renew his depleted stores of drugs. Then Taylor remembered he had promised to inspect the fore main yard with the boatswain. With the first lieutenant’s departure, the other more junior officers were quick to made their excuses and leave, which left Sutton and his friend at the head of the table with the last of the Constantia.
‘What is your true opinion of Dismal George’s plan of campaign, Alex?’ he asked.
‘That it is most unlikely to succeed,’ replied Clay. ‘I have said as much to Montague, not that he takes very kindly to suggestions from his juniors.’
‘What is it in his project that you particularly object to?’
‘Take his initial notion, that we should all accompany these Indiamen to Bombay in the hope that the French will attack them. That will never answer. The enemy will not attempt such a thing.’
‘Why not?’ asked Sutton.
‘Because the convoy will now be much too well protected!’ exclaimed his host. ‘Four warships for an escort? The French will run a mile. They are here to menace and annoy our trade. If we are all in one place, they will simply proceed to another. No, if you truly wish to tempt them to make an attack, have one escorting ship, or at best two.’
‘So if you think that his plan is so ill judged, what would you do, Alex? If you were in command?’
‘I would send to Bombay for a regiment or two of John Company Sepoys,’ he replied. ‘It is the East India Company that has most to gain by the elimination of this French menace. Then I would descend upon this St Paul, as Tom Macpherson suggested, and destroy the place before the French have any notion that there is a British squadron in these waters at all. Surprise in a campaign is more than half the battle. Deny the enemy their base to repair and resupply their ships and the French will be obliged to return home. But no, we shall instead let them mark us as we escort this damned convoy, and thus announce to them our exact numbers.’
Clay sloshed more wine into the two glasses and stared out of the window across at the Black Prince. The men had moved farther along the hull. The fresh paint behind them was hard to distinguish from the old. Then he sighed aloud, and smiled at his friend.
‘You would have thought by now that I might have become reconciled to the frustrations of junior rank, wouldn’t you, John?’ He raised his glass towards the portrait of his wife. ‘Lydia generally keeps my feet on the ground at home. Perhaps you might serve in that office afloat?’
‘I will if I can, brother,’ said Sutton. ‘But I shall have my own problems. As your officers were so gleeful to point out, when the sloops leave the convoy I shall be in command of Mr Windham. I cannot help but dwell on how much he will resent my direction.’
‘Oh, he will hate it,’ confirmed Clay. ‘But does that not add some savour for you, eh?’
‘He still believes that I killed his uncle. I can see the hatred in his eyes.’
‘That is because you did, John,’ said Clay, leaning forward, his face serious. His friend looked around him.
‘Not so loud, Alex,’ he hissed. ‘Ships have ears, as well you know.’
‘As you wish, brother. But make sure that you watch him closely. I do not trust our friend Windham. If he is able to serve you an ill turn I am sure he will not hesitate to do so.’
The two captains were quiet for a moment. Sutton thought back to that insane moment on board the Agrius three years earlier, when Captain Follett had been knocked overboard by the fall of the mizzen mast. He had rushed to the ship’s side, exultant that all his friend’s problems might be solved by this stoke of good fortune. Then there was the crash of disappointment when he looked down and saw that the captain had somehow managed to grab on to a single strand of rope. He had stood there, alone for a moment in a whirl of smoke and confusion, his hand resting on the hilt of the razor-sharp sword by his side. The straining rope had creaked beside him, stretched taut against the last fragment of splintered rail. It had been the work of a moment to turn what he had actually found into what he had hoped to see. Sometimes he still saw Follett’s face in his dreams. It fell away fro
m him, as slow as a feather, with an expression that moved from hope, to surprise, then rage and finally terror in the instant before the jade-green water closed over him.
‘Sorry, Alex,’ he said as he returned to the warm cabin with a shiver. ‘I was not attending. What was it you just said?’
‘I was looking at my wife’s portrait, and wondering how she fares at home,’ said Clay.
‘Of course, poor Lydia,’ he exclaimed. ‘When is the child due?’
‘She will be rather more than half way through her confinement, now,’ said the expectant father. ‘She will be stuck inside, in the middle of winter, and unable to venture out as she so loves to do, poor thing. God, but I wish I had some intelligence of how she fares. It is truly agony to be so many miles away at this time.’
‘Perhaps this convoy of Indiaman will bring letters for the squadron,’ said Sutton.
‘If they do it will hardly answer,’ said Clay. ‘They can only have left a few weeks after we did. I can well remember how she was quite radiant then. It is how she is now that I wish to know.’
‘I fear any letters from home will not tell you that, but they may serve me better,’ said his friend, half to himself. Clay looked at him for a moment, then cleared his throat.
‘Might I touch on a subject of some delicacy?’ he said.
‘Of course. We have never had secrets, you and I.’
‘Have we not, John?’ replied Clay. ‘You kept Captain Follett’s fate from me for many months. Remember that it was Windham who first opened my eyes to what happened, but let us not return to that disagreeable topic. What I wanted to ask you is if the correspondence that you expect will be from my sister?’
‘I do hope to hear from Miss Clay, yes,’ he confirmed. ‘As you know I was unable to fulfill a commitment I had made to visit her, thanks to the speed of our departure. I wrote to her, of course, and I am anxious to see her reply.’
‘I see,’ said his friend. ‘Might I know the nature of the approach you made to her, before we left?’
‘That would seem to be very intrusive, brother,’ said Sutton. ‘I must say that I am not generally inclined to discuss correspondence of a personal character in such a way. But as you are a close friend, perhaps I can put your mind at rest. What is it that you fear was said?’
‘It is not necessarily that I suspect there to be something I should fear, but she is my sister, and since my father is long dead I feel it my duty to be mindful of her well being.’
‘Her well being?’ queried Sutton. A frown formed on his brow. ‘Surely you can trust me to have the same regard for Miss Clay’s happiness as you?’
‘Perhaps I could, if I knew what it was you had communicated to her. I ask for no particulars, just the general nature.’
‘I am not sure I am comfortable with your tone,’ said his friend, putting down his glass. ‘I do not recall such niceties being required when I was bringing secret love notes back to you from Lydia! This is me you speak to, Alex, your oldest friend.’
‘Of course you are,’ said Clay. ‘But that is still not a satisfactory reply. As the senior member of my family it is I that am responsible for my sister’s protection. So I ask you again, have you made any formal advances to her?’
‘That is none of your damned business!’ exclaimed Sutton, standing up. ‘If she has not seen fit to tell you of our relationship, I do not see how it can be demanded of me. Asking me to break a confidence is a damned impertinence.’ Clay stood up too, his face flushed.
‘The only possible conclusion I can draw from your extraordinary behaviour is that you have something to hide,’ he said. ‘Has a formal understanding been reached between Betsey and yourself, yes or no?’ In response his friend turned and yelled towards the cabin door.
‘Pass the word for my barge, there!’
‘Kindly do not presume to issue orders on my damned ship!’ roared Clay.
‘Oh, I see how things stand! So now you are going to deploy your superior rank, are you, sir? That is a low way to treat a friend who has done so much for you. I shall put your extraordinary behaviour down to an excess of Constantia, for it is plain to me that the wine is in and the wits are out. Good day to you!’ He stormed out, knocking past a chair, and the cabin door crashed closed behind him.
Clay spun around in frustration, and caught the eyes of his wife staring down on him from out of her portrait.
‘What would you have me say?’ he demanded. ‘Oh, I know I handled it very ill, but I will not have it!’ He looked around to check that he was quite alone, and dropped his voice to a murmur. ‘How can I let darling Betsey marry a man I know to have committed murder, even if he is my closest friend?’
*****
Across an ocean of cobalt blue came the double line of ships, their sails white against the empty dome of sky. One line consisted of four widely spaced East Indiamen. They were big, bulky ships with their double rows of gun ports picked out in white stripes like men-of-war. On closer inspection the naval aspect of the ships vanished. On their quarterdecks could be seen groups of civilian passengers taking the air, the men in coats of green, brown or pale blue, while beneath an awning sat a number of ladies, their dresses extended in coloured fans around them. A few miles to windward was the squadron. These were lower, sleeker ships, in a tight line. At each ship’s masthead was stationed a pair of lookouts to scour the empty sea. They scanned the distant horizon for the first glimpse of the enemy, expecting them to appear at any moment to snap up one or more of the rich merchantmen. But none had materialised so far. Day followed day as they headed northeast towards India.
‘Is them bleeding Frogs going to show sometime, or are we to sail on and on till Doomsday?’ demanded Evans, leaning on his mop while Trevan sloshed clear sea water over the planking. Although he was recovering quickly, pouring water was the only activity his friends would allow him to do in his weakened state.
‘Pipe don’t reckon as how we will see them at all,’ said O’Malley, as he scrubbed. ‘On account of Dismal George having made such a sad cock of things. The Frogs shan’t go putting their precious frigates at hazard by milling with this fecking great armada.’
‘I don’t see why these here East Indiamen need us in the first place,’ exclaimed the Londoner. ‘I mean, look at them! More bleeding gun ports than the Sovereign of the Seas.’
‘You doesn’t want to go and be fooled by the look of them, Sam,’ said Trevan, leaning on the rail. ‘They may choose to look all warlike, but that be so much gammon. Cargo and grand folk is what they chiefly carry. Half them ports will have no gun behind them, and the rest will be little six pounders. They ain’t got the crew to man more than that, for one thing. Too many stewards and not enough gunners, that be the John Company way. No, they may look fierce enough to scare away a pirate, but that’ll not answer with the Frogs.’
‘Who shan’t be fetching up any time soon, as long as we are here,’ added O’Malley. ‘Leastways not according to our Pipe.’
‘I can never get me neck around how you know all this stuff,’ complained Evans. ‘I mean, how do you bleeding know what Pipe thinks of Dismal’s plan?’
‘Sam, lad, you may dress like a fecking sailor, but you’re still after being a city boy at heart,’ said the Irishman, with the air of a sage. He tapped the handle of his mop on the Londoner’s chest to emphasise his point. ‘For as long as Grunters shall want seaman to serve them at table, there can be no secrets on a ship.’
‘Meaning how he shares a pinch of backy with Harte of an evening hard by the galley,’ added Trevan. ‘And the two of them gossip like a brace of Penzance fish wives.’
‘What did he have to say about all that shouting between Pipe and his mate back in Cape Town?’ asked Evans. ‘I heard it were a proper set to, with Pretty Boy storming off with a face like a bishop during lent. He even left his hat behind.’ O’Malley looked around them before he answered, and then beckoned his two friends close.
‘Harte happened to be polishing the silver in
the coach when all this to-do was happening,’ he said. ‘He heard our Pipe layin’ into Pretty Boy on account of his being a bit too fecking sweet on his sister, if you follows me drift.’ The gossip tapped the side of his nose.
‘What, has he and she been dancing the old featherbed jig, like?’ said Evans, with a leer.
‘Got to be something of the sort, for him to carry on so,’ said O’Malley. ‘He would hardly have ranted like that over a kiss and a cuddle now, would he? Why else would he be so vexed with his best mate?’
‘Deck there! Sail ho!’ roared the lookout. ‘Sail fine on the larboard bow.’ The sailors all exchanged glances.
‘Frogs?’ queried Evans.
‘Maybe Dismal ain’t such a fecking dunce after all,’ said O’Malley.
‘Deck there!’ persisted the lookout. ‘I can see two of them now. Indiamen from the look of their topgallants.’
‘Ah, so not Frogs, then,’ said Evans, slapping his mop back down on the planking and resuming his cleaning.
With the convoy and the two newcomers on converging courses, they drew steadily closer. The sailors moved to scrub the forecastle planking by the port side carronade with particular thoroughness, as it was the portion of deck with the best view of the approaching ships. First, tiny white squares appeared. Then more and more sail became visible, until the ships themselves could be seen. As the range shrank, more detail became apparent. Now they could detect tears and shot holes in the canvas, then powder stains and damage to their sides, and rigging that showed signs of having been spliced.
‘Them ships look to have been in a right mill,’ said Evans. The other two sailors grunted in agreement.
‘There may be no Frogs here now,’ said O’Malley. ‘But those devils must be fecking close.’
Chapter 7 Madagascar
Commodore Sir George Montague straightened the inkstand on his desk with care, while he waited for the captains of his squadron to settle. His steward had arranged chairs for them in a semicircle across the floor of the Black Prince’s great cabin, and was now serving drinks. One of the seats was already occupied by a stranger in the naval-style uniform of the East India Company. He was a small, neatly dressed man, with fair hair and very full ginger sideburns.
The Distant Ocean Page 10