The Distant Ocean

by Philip K Allan

  ‘It is like a slaughter house down there, sir,’ exclaimed the lieutenant in charge of the guns. ‘Four of the larboard cannon are destroyed, and barely a gun has more than five men to serve it. I need more men to—’

  ‘Enough, gentlemen, please,’ exclaimed the captain. ‘The surgeon is dealing with almost a hundred killed and wounded. There are no more men for me to give you! Holes in the hull must wait. If we are still fighting in half an hour, I will come and plug them myself with my head, and then I shall cut free the mast with my teeth. Look over there!’ He pointed at the scarred hull of the Titan as it closed in towards them. ‘The time has long past for such matters. Forget the hull, leave the mast, abandon the cannon, and arm every sailor that can still hold a weapon. Bring all your men, gentlemen, and man the bulwarks. The enemy is upon us.’

  When his officers had dispersed, Olivier rubbed at his temples. His head ached from the concussion of the guns and his body felt drained and weary. He had tried so hard to be cautious, and yet somehow the enemy had tricked him into the very battle he had wanted to avoid. He looked towards the other French frigate, hoping for some help from that quarter, but she was caught in a close embrace by the Black Prince on one side and the Echo on the other. Her foremast had gone completely, as had much of her main mast. He thrust down the feeling of rising helplessness and returned his attention to his own foe.

  The British frigate that had pounded his ship remorselessly was almost silent as it slid ever closer.

  ‘How do they manage to do that?’ he asked out loud, shaking his head.

  ‘How do they do what, mon capitaine?’ said his first lieutenant, who had appeared unseen beside him. Olivier pointed with his speaking trumpet.

  ‘How can they be so quiet? Listen to our men, or any French crew for that matter. They can never be like that in battle, making hardly a sound. It is both terrible to behold, and very cunning. It gets into the minds of our sailors, persuading them that they fight against automatons rather than men of flesh and blood like them.’ He could see that they were preparing to board him now. Their red-coated soldiers had been pulled back into a solid block on the quarterdeck, the officers stood at the head of their men, and all her guns were run out to deliver one final broadside.

  ‘They are certainly well organised, mon capitane,’ said the younger man. Olivier looked at his first lieutenant and noticed how his right hand clenched and unclenched around the pommel of his sword.

  ‘The waiting is the worse part, Jean Claude,’ he said. ‘Once the fighting starts the men will be brave enough. You will see.’ Then he returned to his study of the enemy frigate, if only to conceal his anxious face from his nervous subordinate.

  He knew exactly what was to follow, for he had been here before. In an earlier war, he had been a young lieutenant, just like Jean Claude. His hair had been long and glossy black then, and he had burned with ardour to do wonderful things for his King and country. He had summoned all his men around him, urged them to fight to the last, as he was pledged to do for his ship. But the British had approached like this, so calm, so silent. One final devastating broadside, and then they had swarmed across in the smoke, like mad barbarians pouring out of mountain fog, and every bit as savage. He looked at the surviving members of his crew, lined up along the ship’s side, and sensed their fear. Battered by those remorseless cannon, fired so much faster and truer than their own, they had little left to give. He sighed to himself. During the last war he had spent two long years as a prisoner in the cold and rain of England, dreaming of his home in sun-drenched Provence. His face set in a look of determination. That would never happen again.

  ‘Come on, my brave children!’ he called as he drew out his sword. ‘See how battered their ship is. We have hit them hard. They have tried to bombard us into submission, and failed. Now they shall try to board us in a last desperate ploy. Be true to your country; be true to your shipmates; follow your officers and all will be fine.’ That raised a muted cheer, and the men returned to their places, fingering their weapons.

  Olivier turned his attention to the British ship. They had come very close now, yet still they had not fired. He watched the tall officer with the glittering medal at his throat on the other quarterdeck. He seemed young to be a post captain. He smiled to himself. Perhaps it is you who are too old for this, mon ami, he thought. He raised a hand to the man as their eyes met, and to his surprise the gesture was returned. Now the range was very close. This broadside will be dreadful, he thought. He found he was looking almost straight into the muzzle of an enemy carronade. A seaman was staring along the huge barrel at him, his linstock poised over the touch hole with a line of smoke drifting up over his shoulder. The young captain of the ship started to step across toward the rail at the front of his quarterdeck, his mouth opening to give the order, and Olivier knew that his men would never survive what was to follow.

  ‘Everyone down,’ he yelled. ‘Take cover! Now!’

  *****

  Gun seven roared out one final time, and dashed back inboard. Wisps of smoke coiled out from her muzzle to drift through the open port. Outside it was thick with smoke, and then grew dark as a wall of oak loomed up, blocking out the light. Her crew rushed to secure the cannon, then Evans dropped his rammer to the deck and O’Malley thrust his smoldering linstock into the water bucket with a hiss.

  ‘Up to the gangways!’ roared Lieutenant Blake. ‘Take your weapons and get moving. Look alive there!’ The mass of sailors streamed towards the bottom of the ladder ways, and poured up them and out into the light.

  On deck the side of the ship was packed with a mass of boarders. Many had climbed part way into the rigging; others were balanced on the rail, peering into the smoke. O’Malley shoved his way to the front, followed by the other members of the gun crew. The side of the French frigate appeared out of the gloom. She was at least a foot lower than the Titan now as the bigger ship continued to settle in the water. Her bulwarks were peppered with little white holes where the blizzard of canister had struck, and a curtain of rigging lines hung down, sliced through just above the deck. Those who had been too slow to heed their captain’s warning lay in bleeding heaps, but many more were busy picking themselves up, amazed to still be alive. Just in front of him a soldier, barely out of his teens, stooped to pick up his battered hat, pulled it on to his head, and turned to face towards them. All those around him had been killed or wounded by the canister, leaving him alone on the blood-sodden deck. His little face looked lost in a uniform several sizes too big for him. Standing next to O’Malley at the rail stood the huge figure of Powell. He was one of the Titan’s boatswain’s mates, and was second only to Evans in size aboard the frigate. His battered face was a thing of nightmares, with a long red cutlass scar running across one eye. Powell pointed at the youngster with his boarding axe, and then drew a finger across his throat. O’Malley watched the terror grow in the boy’s eyes.

  The hulls came together with a squealing crunch, and the voice of Clay sounded from the quarterdeck.

  ‘Titans away,’ he yelled, and the madness began. The young soldier stood with his musket braced, the tip of the bayonet towards the enemy as Powell leapt across the narrow gap like a panther. He landed in front of the boy and clattered the weapon aside with a swipe of his boarding axe before closing with the small figure. For a moment he loomed over him, his axe raised high. O’Malley could see the horror on the boy’s pale face. Powell jerked forwards, downing his opponent with a stunning head butt before he pressed on to find his next victim. The Irishman felt pleased that the petty officer had not followed through on his threat to kill the boy. Perhaps a heart did beat in Powell’s huge chest after all.

  He followed the trail of destruction behind the boatswain’s mate as he advanced along the gangway, swinging his axe from side to side and felling opponents with ease. Off to one side of him was Trevan, dancing and thrusting with his cutlass, the blade clashing against that of a fleet-footed opponent. On the other side Evans was driving back the
enemy, with no one wanting to square up to the giant sailor.

  ‘Come on, you bastards,’ the Londoner roared. ‘Who wants a bleeding mill?’ Now there came a counterattack, a block of French sailors running into the melee from the side. O’Malley found himself crushed between an opponent and the hard body of Powell. Both men wriggled like eels to get free, but neither of them were able to raise their arms in the crush. The Irishman twisted around, won a few inches of space, and managed to rip his pistol from his waistband. He pushed it against what he judged must be his opponent, and saw fear grow in the Frenchman’s eyes as the hard barrel thrust against his belly. There was a bang, a scorching pain on his thigh and a gush of smoke rushed up into his face. His opponent let out a scream and slid down onto the deck.

  And then the fight was over. All around them French sailors and marines were melting away with a clatter of dropped weapons.

  ‘Quarterdeck, lads!’ O’Malley yelled, as he ran towards the stern of the Rhone, where the fighting was still fierce. But as they arrived their French opponents were backing away here too, laying down their weapons and holding their hands up in token of surrender. By the wheel stood a large man with grey hair in a torn and stained uniform. A ring of his enemies stood about Captain Olivier, the circle marked by the limit of the bloody sword he still held in his fist. Sweat poured from his face as he gasped for breath.

  ‘Yield, sir, I beg you,’ Clay was saying, the King’s sword held in front of him, but the tip down. ‘There is no dishonour in your doing so. You and your men have fought bravely, and achieved all that could be expected.’ Behind their captain stood a crowd of sailors, officers and marines. Olivier looked around him in desperation and then back towards Clay.

  ‘I have sampled enough of your nation’s hospitality,’ he said. ‘One visit to an English prison is quite enough for a single life.’ Suddenly he thrust at his rival, the speed of his sword extraordinary for such a large man. But before the blow could land, there was a loud bang, and he lurched back. His sword slid from between his fingers, and he followed it down to the deck. Blood welled up from a wound in his chest, and his eyes glazed over. Next to Clay stood the figure of Sedgwick, a leveled pistol in his hand.

  Epilogue

  A world away from the gun smoke and chaos of battle, late summer was tending towards autumn once more in the garden at Rosehill cottage. Another year’s crop of red fruit hung heavy from the boughs of the moss-covered apple trees. It was a sunny morning, and the old brick wall that surrounded the orchard was warm to the touch. The same table was back in position in the spotted shade, and Betsey and Lydia sat opposite each other once more with their damask wraps about their shoulders against what little breeze there was. Breakfast had just been cleared away by the maid, and the two ladies had settled down to do a little work.

  Just as a year before, Lydia struggled to concentrate on the letter she was writing. This year, however, distraction did not come from a falling autumn leaf, but from the baby that slept in her wet nurse’s arms. Nurse and baby sat in a wicker chair in the shade of a separate tree, with a carpet spread at their feet, dotted with wooden toys. Lydia gazed at the tiny, white-clothed shape for a moment. A small pink fist, like the knuckle of a ham, clenched briefly in the sunlight, and for a moment she thought her son would wake. But then it was drawn back into his satin gown, and she returned her attention to her companion.

  The pile of closely written manuscript pages that Betsey had been working on the previous year had been replaced now by the finished proof sheets for the novel. She was busy on them, her blue pencil poised as she corrected here and underlined there. As she worked, she held her head on one side, the tip of her tongue protruding, and a single honey-coloured curl spiralling down to brush the surface of the paper. Every so often a little smile played across her lips, smoothing away her frown of concentration. Her friend continued to watch her, and after a moment their eyes met.

  ‘You seem to have a very cheerful disposition this morning, Miss Clay,’ said Lydia. ‘Can it in anyway be connected with the letter in a mysterious hand that arrived from the Cape, together with Alex’s latest correspondence?’ Her friend laughed out loud, her joy obvious.

  ‘After all Alex’s dark hints that John might have been captured, or even killed, it was so wonderful to hear directly from him at last,’ said Betsey. ‘He would seem to have had a most unpleasant experience in a small boat, but he says he is much restored. And he has been put in charge of another ship. It is very unfortunate that poor Captain Windham was killed, but I feel sure that the commodore’s decision to give John the Echo must mean that he is not to be censured for the loss of the Rush. What did Alex have to say? His letter to me chiefly addressed inconsequential matters.’

  ‘He is delighted to have his friend restored to him, naturally, and was quite certain that no blame will be attached to Captain Sutton over the loss of his ship,’ confirmed Lydia. ‘I understand he will need to face a court martial over the Rush, but Alex sees that as but a formality.’

  ‘John is eloquent in his letter,’ continued Betsey. ‘His prose is quite overwhelming. He seems to have had much time to consider matters while adrift, and has become a deal more decided in his views about us.’

  ‘Ah, now we approach closer to the truth!’ said Lydia, folding her arms. ‘There is to be an “us”, is there? No wonder you cannot help from smiling every other moment. Has a formal declaration been made?’ Her friend flushed pink.

  ‘No proper understanding has been reached, perhaps, but John has made his intentions very clear in his letter,’ she said. ‘He even states that Alex has given his blessing, which implies that it has been discussed between them.’ Lydia reach across and took one of her hands.

  ‘I am teasing you in a most cruel fashion,’ she laughed. ‘I am delighted for you both. If voyages in little boats prompt eligible young men to declare themselves at last, then I am all for them! Perhaps he thought he might perish? I know Alex became very decided about me after he took that wound in his poor shoulder.’ The baby woke at that moment and both women looked towards Lydia’s child. The wet nurse cooed gently over her charge as she unbuttoned the front of her dress and drew him close into the curve of her arm.

  ‘I imagine the contemplation of new life may very well change Alex, too, whenever he will return to meet young Master Francis,’ said Betsey. Lydia nodded, a smile playing on her face below eyes touched with sadness. She felt the ache once more in her breasts as she watched the nurse feed the baby. For the first few weeks after the birth, a cry of hunger from her child had been agony for her. It would wet her undergarments with unneeded milk. The pain was more dull now, but the sense of longing in her heart to feed her baby remained undimmed.

  ‘I have never fully understood why it is so wrong for ladies of quality to attend to the needs of their own children,’ she said.

  ‘Why, because it would be so ruinous to your health, Lydia!’ exclaimed Betsey. ‘The physicians are all quite in harmony on the matter.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps I am being foolish,’ said her friend. ‘I wish for things that cannot be. Most of all I wish that Alex could be home, and share some of my pleasure in our son.’

  ‘I wonder when they will return?’ asked Betsey.

  ‘Not for months yet,’ warned Lydia, her eyes pricking with tears. ‘Alex’s last letter spoke of them returning to the Indian Ocean, and back into danger.’

  *****

  The same morning sun that warmed the garden of Rosehill Cottage shone through the stern window of the Black Prince as the frigate led the squadron and their prizes westwards towards Cape Town, and the onward journey home. Sir George Montague sat at his desk, staring past the line of ships that followed in his wake to the distant ocean beyond. The surface looked calm and blue, but in his mind’s eye he saw what lay beneath the waves. He thought of the man he was leaving behind. Somewhere in the cold, dark depths, where no sunlight ever came, would be the corpse of Nicholas Windham. They had buried him in the traditiona
l manner, many weeks ago. He had been stitched into a canvas hammock, with his shattered head swaddled to prevent any gore seeping through the cloth to stain the union flag that covered him. An eighteen-pounder cannon ball had been placed at his feet to speed his passage into the depths. But eventually his rapid descent, wreathed in bubbles, would have ended down there, in the cold dark. He doubted if much now remained of his closest friend’s nephew, once all the nameless, blind creatures that lived in the deep ocean had finished feasting on his corpse.

  ‘No, there is something of him left,’ he corrected himself. He reached for the folded note that had been found by the slumped body aboard the Echo. The writing was very poor, scratched in haste through a fog of gin and despair, and the surface of the paper was dotted with little brown stains, but still the words could be made out.

  By this, my final act, I bear witness that Commander John Sutton did murder Captain Percy Follett aboard His Majesty’s frigate Agrius, and furthermore I call on those who come after me to avenge my uncle’s death.

  N P Windham, Master and Commander

  Montague looked towards the ship’s wake once more, as it foamed up from beneath the counter below him in a long line across the sea. It would be the work of a moment to screw the paper into a tight ball, open one of the window lights, and drop it into the ocean to join its author. He rose from his chair, resolved to do it, but then something made him stop. He stood, midway to the window, patting the stiff paper against the open palm of his other hand. Then he seemed to come to a resolution. He returned to his desk, slipped the paper into the top drawer, and turned the key. There would be plenty of time to dispose of the note later.