The Distant Ocean

by Philip K Allan

  ‘But will Sir George really act?’ asked Sutton. ‘It was he who petitioned the Admiralty to give Windham the Echo. If he now censures him, it will be an admission that he made a mistake. Their Lordships take a very dim of view of those that show such poor judgment.’

  ‘That is so, but what choice does he have?’ said Clay. ‘He cannot make the loss of the Rush vanish. The best course for him to follow now is to put matters right and admit that he may have misjudged his protege’s abilities. If he can defeat the French, he will hope that a successful campaign will cause their Lordships to overlook any earlier errors. I have spoken with the commodore. He may be close to Windham, and he is something of a peacock, I grant you, but he is no fool.’

  ‘What of Windham’s friends and family? Surely a court martial of a man with his connections is most unlikely to convict.’

  ‘Not in this case,’ said Clay. ‘The evidence is too overwhelming. Besides, what Windham did will so disgust any military man who considers the matter that no possible influence could save him.’ There was a knock on the cabin door, and the voice of surgeon came from the other side.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir, but I must insist on Mr Sutton being allowed to rest now,’ he said.

  ‘A minute more, Mr Corbett, I pray,’ said Clay. ‘I have but one more matter I need to discuss.’

  ‘Hmm!’ snorted the surgeon, but he went away again. Clay turned back to his friend.

  ‘Before I leave you, there is something you must let me say, or rather unsay. It has been playing on my mind for weeks now. Can you forgive me for the intemperate way I addressed you when we were back in Cape Town? My demand that you reveal the nature of your relationship with my sister was ill-mannered and impertinent on my part. Let me withdraw any objection that I may have implied towards your continued acquaintance with her. If you are lucky enough to win her heart, no one will be more pleased than I.’

  ‘Except perhaps me?’ suggested Sutton, with a smile.

  *****

  On the lower deck of the Titan, her crew were agog to learn what the implications of the rescue of the three castaways might be. When the larboard watch came pouring down from on deck, most of them gathered around one of the mess tables, where Sedgwick sat with his friends.

  ‘So what’s afoot then, Able?’ asked Davis, a slight, grey-haired seaman and one of the veteran members of the crew. He jerked a thumb towards the stern of the ship, where it was known the three new arrivals had been housed.

  ‘Aye, how are them poor bleeders doing?’ said Josh Black, the huge captain of the foretop. As a petty officer he should have been above such gossip, but he was just as inquisitive as the others.

  ‘Pipe’s mate Pretty Boy seems the best of the three,’ explained Sedgwick to the crowd of his fellow sailors. ‘He’s stowed in that spare cabin in the wardroom. Chapman is right enough, out cold on that draught they gave him and snoring like a prize bull. The lad is still poorly, mind, but the sawbones reckons he’ll pull through in time.’

  ‘Any word of how they came to be cast adrift?’ asked Davis.

  ‘Pipe has spent a good while with Pretty Boy this morning, and Tom Britton chanced to be tidying out Lieutenant Blake’s cabin next door, so heard most of what was said.’

  ‘Funny how old Tom can still fold a shirt with his lughole pressed against the bleeding bulkhead,’ said Evans. ‘What was he able to hear, then?’ A chuckle of anticipation ran around the deck. Those at the back craned forward, eager not to be left out.

  ‘He was saying as how Windy dropped him right in the shit when they fought that Frog ship, plain as plain,’ continued the coxswain. A growl of anger met this news.

  ‘It never did feel right, the way that Echo came back with barely a scratch on her, the buggers,’ offered Black, to general approval. ‘What else did they speak off?’

  ‘There was plenty of talk of how it was he came to escape,’ resumed the coxswain. ‘How they was stuck in that boat, without a drop to drink and all. Some stuff about Pipe’s sister, who his mate is sweet upon it seems, and then a load of talk on what they would do to Windy when they get to him.’

  ‘I reckon how Old Windy is proper done for,’ said Evans with satisfaction. ‘Plucked, stuffed, with an onion up his arse.’

  ‘You be right there, our Sam,’ said Trevan. ‘Blimey! What I wouldn’t give to see that bastard’s face when him finds out that Pretty Boy be alive! Mind, it be a miracle that he is. Not killed when the old Rush was taken, and then enduring all them days adrift. How they managed, I don’t rightly know. You saw the boat, didn’t you, Saul?’ This to a fellow Cornishman who stood behind him.

  ‘Aye, that I did,’ Saul confirmed. ‘I was in the launch crew. I tell you, it were no longer than our jollyboat, but only half the beam, if you’ll credit it. No mast nor sails, not even a rudder. All they had was one poxy little paddle, on my mother’s grave. How those poor buggers managed be beyond me. An’ they didn’t have no vitals to sustain them, neither. Just sea air and notions of revenge.’

  ‘Can’t wait to be back with the rest of the fecking squadron,’ added O’Malley, a glint in his eye as he looked around the group. ‘Can you sense what I can, in the air, like, lads?’

  ‘What you on about, O’Malley?’ said the petty officer. ‘What bloody smell?’

  ‘There be stormy weather and squalls ahead, Mr Black,’ replied the Irishman. ‘You mark my words.’

  ‘What you reckon will become of Windy, then, Sean?’ asked Sedgwick. ‘Once we get back, like?’

  ‘It’s in them Articles of War, what Pipe reads out every week on the Sabbath,’ said O’Malley. ‘Plain as you like, it is. He who holds back from a fight through cowardice, shall suffer death. No ifs or buts, and none of that bollocks about or lesser punishment neither. Just fecking death.’

  ‘That’s right!’ said someone. ‘He should be strung up!’ added another voice.

  ‘Even with him being a Grunter, like?’ queried a voice from the back.

  ‘Didn’t they shoot that admiral back in the day for being shy?’ said the Irishman. ‘What was the fecker called? Bang or Bong?’

  ‘Aye, Jack Byng,’ said Davis. ‘That were a few year ago now, mind.’

  ‘That don’t signify, any,’ said Evans. ‘Shy is still shy. They would string us up soon enough, so why not that bleeder Windham, eh? Like I said, he’s proper done for.’

  *****

  The stern cabin of the Echo may have been the most lavish accommodation aboard, but it was still a small, cramped space. The headroom was a bare five-foot-ten, which meant even a moderately tall man had to duck between the beams as he moved about. He would also have to avoid shouldering the hot oil lamp that swung close to the skylight. With a desk, table, chairs and a twelve-pounder carronade on each side, it seemed crowded, even with only two men sitting there.

  The first was an elegantly dressed young lieutenant, with pale curly hair, hazel eyes and a receding chin. He sat and looked at his captain, who was slumped at the desk, a half empty spirit bottle at his elbow and a brimming glass before him.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t try some of this Hollander gin?’ slurred Windham, his hair flopped across his forehead and his bloodshot eyes deep set. ‘It is rather acceptable. Made in a Cape Town still, by one of your proper Dutchmen. None of your London gut-rot, don’t you know?’

  ‘No thank you, sir,’ replied the Echo’s lieutenant.

  ‘Oh, come now,’ urged his captain, looking around for a second glass.

  ‘Really, sir, I would rather not. I am due to be on watch within the hour, as I said earlier.’

  ‘Suit yourself, Mr Noble,’ he said. He drained his glass and sloshed some more gin in to it. Then he paused for a moment, and pointed a swaying glass towards his subordinate. ‘That is very noble of you! Eh! What?’

  ‘Very droll, sir,’ replied the lieutenant, his face blank. ‘Could we please discuss the crew now?’

  ‘Those base villains again? Do we have to?’

  ‘Th
ey are becoming increasingly troublesome,’ said Noble. ‘Most of the petty officers have reported some incident of curt and uncivil behaviour, now. They know, sir.’

  ‘What is it that they know, Mr Noble?’ said Windham, his tone dangerous.

  ‘They talk about the fight with the Prudence,’ whispered the lieutenant. ‘How they were not allowed to come to their fellow sailors’ help.’

  ‘Ha!’ snorted the captain. ‘You really must not encourage them. The mutinous dogs seem to have ideas far above their station. They should be thanking me for saving their miserable skins, after the late Captain Sutton made such a sad hash of things. Be firm with them, Noble, and it shall pass.’

  ‘I am not sure that it will, sir. The boatswain came to see me earlier. He has received a further delegation from the crew. They want to know why Sir George has not responded to their petition.’

  ‘Why has he not responded?’ spluttered Windham. ‘He is a commodore and a knight of the realm! Who the hell do they think they are? Have they quite lost their damned senses? When did it become their place to issue demands to a King’s officer? I have a good mind to call out the marines.’

  ‘That might not answer, sir,’ said Noble. ‘Many of the Lobsters are sympathetic to the men. Some even signed that round robin. Lieutenant Barker says that he is sure that some of them may not be relied on.’ His captain stared at him for a long moment, swaying in his chair, his eyes slipping in and out of focus.

  ‘So Lieutenant Barker can’t control his bloody men?’ said Sutton. ‘For God’s sake, Noble, what are you saying? Can I not even trust my officers?’

  ‘Of course you can, sir. I can assure you that they are all behind you.’

  ‘Even that old Tarpaulin of a sailing master? That sod is forever presuming to query my seamanship.’ Windham glared across the desk, but his lieutenant was unable to hold his gaze.

  ‘I am sure Mr Fawcett only has the ship’s best interest in mind, sir.’

  ‘The ship’s best interests!’ yelled Windham. ‘And when did those separate from my best interests, eh? For God’s sake, Noble, why must you come and whine to me about all this? Just go away and deal with it! You’re the bloody lieutenant. Do as you see fit and leave me alone!’

  When the young officer had gone, Windham took another pull at the gin, staring into the distance. ‘I never wanted to be in the bloody navy, you know,’ he announced, as if Noble were still opposite him. ‘It was all that bitch of a mother’s fault.’ He put on a lady’s voice. ‘Oh, but Uncle Percy’s son has died. Very tragic, I am sure, but he has such influence in the service, and no one else to prefer now. It is your chance, Nicholas.’ He paused to take a pull from his glass. ‘My bloody chance,’ he muttered. ‘A God sent opportunity, she said. And now look at things. Uncle Percy killed in his own ship, by the hand of that bastard Sutton, God rot his soul. And when I try to put things right, what happens? Everyone starts to turn on me. Even Montague.’ He felt tears start to course down his cheeks, but he dashed them away. Then he returned to the comfort of the bottle.

  It was quiet in the cabin. The thick glass of the window lights deadened the sound of the ship’s wake. With the wind behind, there was very little creaking to be heard from the frames. He put his head on one side and listened. Behind his door he could hear the marine sentry as he shuffled from foot to foot. I wonder how reliable he is, thought Windham to himself. Will he turn back the tide of angry crewmen, if matters get out of hand? From beneath his feet came the low sound of his officers as they talked in the wardroom. He got down on all fours and pressed an ear to the planking, but the murmur of their voices was pitched just out of the range of comprehension, as those of plotters would be, he decided. From the quarterdeck above his head came the tramp of the officer of the watch, walking backwards and forwards like a prison guard. He stared around him at the oak walls. They seemed to be drawing ever more tightly about him, like the sides of a coffin. He drank thirstily from his glass of gin as he tried to wash away the feeling of impending doom.

  ‘Sail ho!’ came a distant shout.

  ‘Where away?’ yelled the voice of Noble, much closer.

  ‘Larboard quarter, and coming up fast, sir. Looks like the old Titan to me.’ Windham looked up towards the cabin’s skylight. He knew he should go up on deck, but his legs felt weak and unreliable. He felt so much safer in his cabin, away from the hostile gaze of his crew. The Titan had disappeared several days ago, pursuing one of the French frigates, and now she had returned. Windham emptied his glass and reached for the bottle of gin. Just as he started to pour, a thunder of knocking at the door made him spill some over the desk.

  ‘Eh ...come in,’ he called, mopping at the drink with his handkerchief.

  ‘Mr Noble’s compliments, sir, and he believes the Titan is in sight, off the larboard quarter,’ said the midshipman.

  ‘And where is the commodore?’ asked Windham.

  ‘In view, two miles off the starboard bow, sir,’ said the teenager, his eyes transfixed by the sopping handkerchief as his captain made several ineffectual attempts to return it to his coat pocket. Windham glared back at him.

  ‘Did you just wrinkle your nose, boy?’ he demanded.

  ‘N...no, sir, not at all, sir.’ The youngster looked terrified.

  ‘Don’t give me the lie, in my own damned cabin,’ roared Windham. ‘You just pulled a face!’

  ‘I d...d...did not intend to, sir,’ stuttered the midshipman, his face becoming pale.

  ‘How dare you disapprove of the actions of your superiors!’ yelled the captain. ‘My compliments to Mr Noble, and tell him that when you come off duty you are to report to the boatswain to be given a dozen strokes of his cane. Is that clear?’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  Once he was alone again, Windham drank more of the gin.

  ‘So the bloody Titan is back again, like some bird of ill omen,’ he said out loud. ‘It is always that bastard Clay, reading damned signals, capturing blasted prisoners to exchange.’ Then he began to chuckle to himself. Still, I wiped you in the eye, Clay, when I had your friend killed, he thought. No possible exchange there. From over his head he heard a dash of footsteps, and a voice calling.

  ‘Titan signalling, sir,’ called a voice with a Scottish accent. There was a long pause and then a further knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ growled Windham. The same midshipman came and stood at attention, his face fixed and immobile.

  ‘Mr Noble’s compliments and the Titan is signalling to the commodore, sir,’ he said. ‘Have on board three crew from the Rush.’

  ‘What did you just say?’ said the captain, his voice low with menace.

  ‘T...T...itan has three survivors from the Rush on board, sir.’

  ‘That is not possible,’ said Windham firmly. ‘The crew of the Rush are all imprisoned on Reunion. Are you seeking to make game of me? If you are, you will wish you had never been born. I can see that the boatswain’s cane will be working hard tonight. Who took the signal?’

  ‘M...midshipman Galbraith, sir,’ replied the teenager.

  ‘Well you can tell Mr Galbraith to check the signal again, unless he wants to spend the rest of the commission at the masthead,’ yelled Windham. ‘Now get out!’

  What nonsense was this, he said to himself, but the words sounded false even in his own mind. He started to brood once more, asking himself the same question that he had done late into the night for weeks now. Who could have survived the destruction of the Rush? He had searched the list that Montague had shared with him, but there were no significant names who could denounce him. The most senior officers were the surgeon and purser, both of whom would have been below deck treating the wounded during the battle. There had been a very junior midshipman; some sailors, of course; a few petty and warrant officers; and one master’s mate. No, he would be fine, he told himself. But in his bones he felt something was wrong. Who were these survivors that bastard Clay had somehow found? Other images seemed to dance before his eye
s. What if it was the solid, reliable Appleby, the sailing master, who was somehow alive? Or worse still Lieutenant Wise, who had been there in the cabin when the plan of attack was agreed? He started, as if he had heard a noise in the silent cabin, and half turned in his chair to glare towards the darkest corner. There it was again, the slight trace of a whisper, drifting through the air. Sutton, it seemed to hiss. What if Sutton has survived?

  *****

  The Titan was over the horizon now, bearing down on the other two ships of the squadron. Her pyramids of sail caught the keen trade wind in curves of white that drove her through the blue waters of the ocean. The Echo and the Black Prince came up into the wind with topsails backed to await her approach.

  ‘The commodore is signalling again, sir,’ reported Lieutenant Taylor. From over by the flag locker Midshipman Russell scratched on his slate, noting down the groups of numbers as they were read to him by his seaman assistant. After a while he came over to where Clay stood with Taylor, together with the thin figure of Sutton, who looked lost in one of his friend’s spare coats.

  ‘Signal from the Black Prince, sir,’ he said. ‘Commodore to Titan. Who from Rush is on board?’ Clay turned towards the former captain of the sloop.

  ‘Are you ready to release a fox into the hen coop, John?’ he asked. ‘We will be passing the Echo quite close on this tack. She will be able to read any signal.’

  ‘How do you suppose Windham will react?’ asked Sutton.

  ‘Not unlike Macbeth at the feast, I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Clay. ‘It is not every day that a ghost returns from beyond the grave to denounce you.’ His friend laughed at this.