The Distant Ocean

by Philip K Allan

  ‘It’s the squadron for certain, sir,’ said Croft. ‘I can see the Echo now, off to windward of the other two, and I would recognise the Titan’s topsails anywhere.’ Sutton said nothing, but he stared hungrily at the approaching ships.

  ‘Do you think they mean to attack the port, sir?’ continued the midshipman.

  ‘I doubt it, Mr Croft, unless they have brought considerable reinforcements,’ said his captain. ‘The French fortifications are much too strong to attempt a seaborne attack. I imagine they mean to blockade the port. It may answer for a while, but when victuals run low on board, they will be required to return to Cape Town, and out the enemy shall come again.’

  ‘Is that all they will do, sir?’ said the teenager. ‘I did wonder if their arrival might lead to our being rescued.’

  ‘Do you very much want to escape?’ asked Sutton.

  ‘At first I had assumed that we would be exchanged before too long, what with there being so many more French sailors who are prisoners of our nation than the other way around,’ explained Croft. ‘But then I realised that they must all be back in Europe, and then I got to thinking how long such an exchange might take to arrange.’ Sutton looked at the young man thoughtfully.

  ‘So if the opportunity presented itself, you would favour our flight?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes, sir,’ enthused the youngster. ‘I thought at first that we might steal a fishing boat, but those in the harbour are too well guarded, and the little ones on the beach look altogether too small for an ocean voyage.’

  ‘Too true, but perhaps we may yet contrive to escape, Mr Croft,’ said his captain. ‘I generally find that with new circumstances comes opportunity, for those who are open to it.’ He twisted in his chair to call over his shoulder. ‘Chapman! Our hats and coats, if you please. We shall be going into town.’

  As the two officers approached the heart of the little port, they noticed a change in the atmosphere. St Paul was generally a relaxed place, but today they could feel the tension in the air. Instead of the usual groups of black labourers heading out to the fields, the streets seemed strangely empty. They turned around a corner to find a drummer boy in a dark blue uniform covered in red braid advancing towards them down the centre of the road. He was marching in time to the steady tattoo he beat on his instrument, and troops were emerging from some of the houses, buttoning up their uniforms as they came. At the square at the end of the street was a party of gunners, drawn up in a small column. Their sergeant barked an order and they swung away, down towards the sea. The two men exchanged glances, and then followed the soldiers.

  When they reached the end of the street they found themselves looking out over the harbour. They could see that all the ocean-facing gun batteries were being manned. Some officers were grouped around the substantial figure of the commandant, who stood close to the harbour wall. He was studying the approaching ships through a large telescope that rested on the patient shoulder of a black servant. The quayside around them milled with people, black and white, civilians and military, all of whom were chattering about the ships that had appeared that morning. Sutton picked a figure out from the throng and waved his hat at him.

  ‘Monsieur Chavency!’ he called. The young lieutenant looked around, flashed a smile in his direction, and pushed his way through the crowd.

  ‘Captain, and Monsieur Croft,’ he said. ‘Have you come to join in the fun? Your compatriots have appeared, how do you say it, in the hoofing of St Paul?’

  ‘The offing we would have it,’ corrected Sutton. ‘Do you think they mean to attack?’

  ‘All the world knows that the English are quite mad, but St Paul has over a hundred guns to protect her. Unless your friends have brought other ships that we cannot see, there is little such a small force could hope to achieve.’

  ‘So you think they look to blockade you?’ asked Croft.

  ‘Doubtless that is what they will try, my friends,’ smiled the young man.

  ‘How do the repairs to your ship go?’ asked Sutton He looked towards the Prudence and felt a pang of jealousy. ‘I she is afloat once more, with a new foremast in place.’

  ‘She is quite restored,’ said the Frenchman proudly. ‘In fact, I am on my way to rejoin her. We have now only her yards to set up, and some provisions to take onboard, and she will be ready to go to sea. I fear that I shall not have the pleasure of you gentlemen’s company for some months.’

  ‘Really!’ exclaimed Sutton. ‘You mean to sail out and fight the squadron?’

  ‘Of course not! We French are so much more subtle than you English. The Prudence will slip by your cruisers very easily,’ he boasted. ‘We go at midnight tomorrow, when the tide is high and the moon has set.’

  ‘But I do not understand, monsieur. Even in the dark, how will you manage to evade ships that wait just off the harbour entrance?’

  Chavency tapped his nose and chuckled. ‘Because we know these waters, mes amis. And your friends know them not at all. At high water there is a beautiful passage through the coral reef. In fact, it comes out just in front of your house. If you cannot sleep tomorrow night, be sure to wave to me as I depart, eh?’ He laughed at his own wit, pushing at Sutton’s arm, and the two British officers smiled with him.

  Farther down the quayside there was a commotion amongst the crowd. It parted in a wave to make room for a man on a horse as he pushed his way forwards. He trotted smartly up to the three naval officers and pulled his mount to a halt. Sutton noticed that, unlike the blue-clad gunners he had seen earlier, this man wore a military uniform of dark green, with yellow piping and flashes.

  ‘Non!’ he called down to them, wagging a gloved finger. ‘It is forbidden! By order of Monsieur le Commandant.’

  ‘What is forbidden, Jean-Pierre?’ asked Chavency.

  ‘These men cannot be here,’ replied the horseman. ‘Not while the enemy are just off the port. Monsieur Morliere has ordered it.’

  ‘But what about my men?’ protested Sutton. ‘I have not visited them yet.’ The hand waved again, with increased agitation.

  ‘No more visits!’ he said. ‘Your men are now under armed guard. I must insist that you return to your house, and that you stay there until you are permitted to return.’

  ‘Very well, monsieur, I will of course comply with the commandant’s wishes. Goodbye, lieutenant. Forgive me if I do not wish you a prosperous voyage.’ He shook Chavency’s hand, and the two men left the port and retraced their way back towards the little house by the sea.

  *****

  When they returned, the three British ships were plain to see. They beat up and down outside the entrance of the port like sentries, sailing just out of range of the coastal guns. The Black Prince was in the middle of the line. She was the biggest of the ships, the paintwork of her hull noticeably cleaner than the other two. Farther away was the Echo, like a much smaller version of the two frigates. Sutton stared at her for a long while through Croft’s telescope, trying to recognise Windham from among the tiny figures on her quarterdeck. Closest of all was the Titan. She was very slightly smaller than the Black Prince, but she was being sailed the best of the three. She turned crisply at the end of her run, her sails sheeted home with a minimum of fuss, and now she was sailing back along the edge of the reef, comfortably out of range of the coastal batteries. In the little disc of magnification she grew and grew, filling the space. Now she was almost level with them, and Sutton could see individual figures on board her. Sunlight flashed from the gold epaulet on the tall figure by the wheel, and Sutton felt a surge of longing for his friend. Then the frigate turned around once more and sailed away from him. He gently compressed the telescope and placed it on the table, his eyes vacant.

  ‘Are you quite well, sir?’ asked Croft. Sutton dropped down into one of the chairs on the veranda and folded his arms.

  ‘I am fine,’ he said. ‘But I do find our position to be vexing. Here we are, with vital intelligence of the enemy. We know when the Prudence will leave port, and even the
route she will take. Over there is Captain Clay, in plain sight from where we sit. I just wish there was some manner in which we might communicate with the squadron.’

  ‘It is very annoying, sir, said the midshipman. ‘But it can’t be helped. Still, if they should attempt anything, we shall have a fine view of it from up here.’ Sutton glanced towards the younger man and then stopped, transfixed by what he saw. Beyond the end of the veranda was Chapman’s washing, like a line of bunting, as it billowed and flapped in the keen sea breeze. He felt a rush of excitement as an idea began to form in his mind. After a pause he became aware that his companion was looking at him curiously. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Your pardon, Mr Croft, but I have been seized by a notion,’ he said. ‘Tell me, how long were you signal midshipman on the Rush?’

  ‘Over two years, sir. Ever since Mr Preston and I transferred from the old Agrius back in Barbados.’

  ‘And how much of the code book do you retain? In your head.’

  ‘As you know, there is no end of words and phrases in the book, each with its own numbered code, sir. I don’t know them all by any means, but I daresay I could recall the common ones easy enough, with a little thought.’

  ‘And if I collect, you have ten different types of flag on board, one for each digit?’

  ‘That’s right, plus a few extra to qualify a signal, sir. For instance, if you wished to order the Titan to close with the enemy, I would first put up the Titan’s number followed by the flag for one over the flag for six. Sixteen being the code for engage the enemy more closely.’ Sutton nodded, and then indicated the line of washing.

  ‘With a deal of cutting and stitching, could we make some sets of flags with the material we have? They would not need to be full size, just big enough to be seen by the Titan.’ Croft got up and walked along the washing line, letting the clothes pass through his outstretched hand.

  ‘Mostly blue and white, sir,’ he announced. ‘That will do for many of the flags, and I have a red cover on my bed we could use, but we shall need some yellow cloth. The flags for three, five and nine all have yellow in them.’

  ‘Chapman!’ bellowed Sutton.

  ‘Sir?’ said the steward as he emerged from the house, wiping his hands on a cloth.

  ‘Did I hear that you were once taken as a cutpurse?’

  ‘Aye, I been arrested a brace of times, like,’ he admitted. ‘But them traps could never prove naught, sir.’

  ‘Which I suppose argues for you having some talent in that regard,’ said his captain.

  ‘If it’s all the same with you, I would sooner not answer that, sir,’ he replied, his face a mask.

  ‘No matter. I want you to go down into the town, and without being observed, steal some yellow garments that have been put out to dry. You might also bring back another washing line too. Enough to make a signal halliard for that palm tree over there, when long spliced together with our own line.’

  Chapter 9 Washing

  Sunday afternoon on the Titan was generally devoted to make and mend, whether the frigate was far out to sea or, as was the case today, a French naval base with three powerful warships was two miles off the starboard beam. The entire wardroom had been invited to dine with their captain, apart from Lieutenant Preston, who was officer of the watch. From the volume of the officers’ laughter drifting up through the open skylight in the middle of the quarterdeck, it was proving to be a successful meal. A minimum crew had been allocated to sail the ship, which meant that the rest of the hands could do as they pleased for the afternoon.

  Most had congregated in the warm sunshine of the forecastle. They had washed their clothes, and as a result the rigging of the foremast was alive with garments of every shade and hue, all flapping together in the breeze. Then they had washed their hair, a considerable process for sailors who had only ever lightly trimmed their locks since the day they became man-of-war’s men. Some of the more veteran mariners sat on the forecastle rail with clouds of grey hair blowing all about them as it dried. Sean O’Malley’s curly black hair only reached down to his shoulder blades, and was already dry as he sat with an air of Louis XIV behind Adam Trevan. In his hands he was braiding the Cornishman’s blond locks back into a thick pigtail for the week ahead.

  ‘A deal of fecking grey in here now, Adam,’ he said, as he secured the end with a length of blue ribbon.

  ‘Aye, but only since that blasted fever, like,’ moaned Trevan. ‘It was yellow as corn afore that.’

  ‘As was your bleeding face, mate,’ said Evans, while Sedgwick plaited his hair. ‘Looks better now, mind,’ he added. The others all looked at the Cornishman. In truth his face was still much too thin and gaunt, but the yellow hue had indeed gone, to be replaced with his more familiar mahogany tan.

  ‘Hoy, Able,’ called one of the group of hands who were fishing off the larboard cathead. ‘We got one here as looks like a fat herring. Be he any good to eat?’ The sailor held up a blue and silver fish for inspection that gasped and twisted in his hands.

  ‘Can’t say, Roger,’ replied Sedgwick. ‘He looks wholesome enough, but the fish hereabouts are all different to them as I knew off the Gold Coast.’

  ‘I heard how some of them are fecking deadly,’ added O’Malley, with a leer. ‘Venomous, so they are. Full of all manner of noisome bile and the like. Drop you down dead before your second mouthful.’

  ‘Poisonous, eh?’ said the sailor to his fellow fishermen. ‘We best play on the safe side, lads. I’ll flog this one to the gunroom.’

  ‘You’ve sailed in this here sea before, ain’t you, Adam?’ asked Evans. ‘Did you not try the fish?’ The Cornishman had now swapped places with O’Malley, and he was combing the Irishman’s hair for lice.

  ‘That be right, Sam, I was in these waters afore the war, like,’ he said. ‘But it were bigger fish as we was hunting. If you goes a bit farther south of here it be proper good for whaling. Plenty of big sperm whales to go after. We spent the best part of two year on my last voyage, much of it hereabouts.’

  ‘Two fecking years!’ exclaimed O’Malley. ‘What was you doing for vittles, if you wasn’t catching any fish?’

  ‘Your whaler don’t carry a big crew, no more than thirty men at most,’ explained Trevan. ‘Each hand gets a part of the cargo, bit like how we does prize money, so you don’t want the profits to get shared too thin. Then you starts from home with no cargo, so plenty of room for provisions. As you scoff a keg of salt pork, a barrel of whale oil replaces it. And there be plenty of food, if you knows where to seek for it.’

  ‘Like what?’ asked Evans. Matters of food were always of importance to the huge Londoner.

  ‘No end of whale meat, of course, although that don’t have a good savour to it,’ Trevan replied. ‘But away south there are islands that only whalers ever visit, with creatures that ain’t never seen no folk before. Plenty of seals, and birds as can’t fly and the like, what will just stand and look, mild as kittens, as you slaughter their kin. Some of them are fair eating, an’ all.’ He finished off O’Malley’s pigtail and slapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Right fecking cold though, I shouldn’t wonder,’ said O’Malley as he placed his back against the belfry so as to enjoy the sun and closed his eyes.

  ‘Aye, it is,’ said Trevan quietly. ‘But I would sooner have a mountain of ice than some tropical ague again.’ The others were quiet for a moment. Then Evans looked at Sedgwick and frowned.

  ‘You got fleas in your small clothes there, Able?’ he asked. ‘You’re jumping about like the bleeding deck’s on fire.’

  ‘There’s something flashing this way from onshore,’ said the coxswain. ‘It keeps getting in my eyes.’

  ‘Probably some dirty great Frog, sharpening up his sabre in case we try to land,’ murmured O’Malley, as he drifted towards sleep. ‘It will pass soon enough.’ But Sedgwick rose to his feet and stared towards the land.

  ‘If it were just a chance something catching the light, wouldn’t it have stopped as the sh
ip sailed on?’ he asked, shading his eyes. ‘See! There it goes again, from the little house on that there hill.’ Trevan stood up to look too.

  ‘You might be right there, Able,’ he said. ‘You reckon someone be trying to get our attention?’

  ‘Bah!’ scoffed O’Malley. ‘It’ll be some fecking kid, bored of an afternoon. Thought he would try and dazzle us with a scrap of tin.’

  ‘Maybe it is, but I reckon I’m still going to report it,’ said the coxswain.

  *****

  ‘Where away did this flash come from, Sedgwick?’ said Lieutenant Preston, as he opened his telescope and pointed it towards the shore.

  ‘From the white house there, with the palm tree next to it, sir,’ he said, pointing towards the beach.

  ‘The one behind the battery?’ inquired the officer. ‘It will doubtless prove to be the garrison at weapon’s drill.’ He focused on the house. As the image sharpened he saw a figure that held a small square of silver in his hands. The man tilted it in the sun, and as the angle changed the square turned into a blinding flash of light that shot towards him.

  ‘God bless my soul!’ exclaimed Preston, pulling the telescope from his eye and blinking. ‘There is a man over there with what looks to be a mirror in his hands.’ He looked again with his other eye. ‘Well, I never did.’

  ‘What have you seen, sir?’ asked the coxswain.

  ‘He has abandoned his looking glass and is pointing towards a most curious collection of washing hung from a tree beside him,’ said the lieutenant. ‘That is strange. Why, they could almost be some of our flags. Mr Russell, see what you make of this.’