‘Ah, indeed,’ said the flag officer. ‘I am mindful that the court should remain focused on the issue of the loss of the Titan. There is no cause for a more general inquiry.’
‘But Sir Thomas,’ protested the questioner, ‘if the Titan was engaged in contact with the shore, we need to hear the particulars. In my experience the French only hazard their ships with some object in mind. Perhaps there was more to the appearance of the Argonaute than—’
‘And perhaps you are straying into areas that are best not discussed so frankly,’ warned the admiral. ‘Kindly desist, sir.’ Clay caught the briefest nod of approval in the corner of his eye.
‘Might I ask a question concerning this Major Fraser, who appears in so many of the reports, Sir Thomas?’ said another of the captains.
‘No, sir, you may not,’ said the admiral, after a glance towards the man in the pale blue coat. ‘We must keep our enquiry pertinent to the fate of the Titan. Are there any questions of that nature for the captain?’ A few of the officers behind the table exchanged glances, and others shifted in their seats, but no one spoke. ‘No? Then perhaps we can now move to consider our verdict. Master at Arms, pray clear the court.’
There was a general tide of movement out of the cabin and Clay found one of the Namur’s lieutenants at his elbow.
‘Would you be so good as to accompany me, sir?’ he asked, leading Clay towards a separate door. Outside was an empty corridor lined with cabin doors, one of which the officer opened. The room beyond was only furnished with a cot, a small desk and a chair. To Clay it seemed troublingly close to a prison cell.
‘If you could wait in here, sir,’ said the lieutenant, standing back from the door to let him enter. ‘Can I offer you any refreshment? Perhaps a copy of the London papers?’
‘Nothing, I thank you,’ said Clay as he entered the cabin. He pulled the chair from under the desk and sat down.
‘Very well, sir,’ said the lieutenant. ‘I shall return when the court has reached a verdict. I don’t imagine the deliberations will be very long.’
The moment the door was shut behind him, Clay was on his feet once more, trying to pace up and down the tiny space. It was very unsatisfactory, with barely two of his long strides between the door and the blank oak side of the ship. He considered asking to be allowed to walk on the Namur’s quarterdeck, but quickly rejected the idea. Striding in the pouring rain would hardly be seen as the action of a guiltless man, and it would probably mean that he would have to encounter some of the witnesses. He did not want to face his former officers, or Captain West, until he had been acquitted and could look them in the eye. Assuming that he was to be acquitted, he reminded himself, turning around at the door. The sound of the Namur’s bell rang out from somewhere forward.
He went over the details of the trial as he walked, trying to gauge how the discussion amongst his judges might be going. It was hard for him not to be pleased with the testimony he had heard. George Taylor and John Blake, his first and second lieutenants, and Jacob Armstrong, the Titan’s American sailing master, had all given their evidence with an enthusiasm for their captain that had at times touched on hero worship. Then there had been the letters of support from former commanders, such as Sir Edward Pellew and Lord Nelson, all fulsome in their praise. If it were not for the awful consequences of a guilty verdict, Clay might have enjoyed that part of his court martial.
But there had been other currents running in the room. Several of the judges had seemed suspicious of the simple narrative presented to them. He had felt their penetrating gaze on him and sensed the doubt in their minds. What had the Titan been up to that night? Who was this Major Fraser who featured in so many of the reports? Was he connected with this mysterious French ship that had appeared on that stretch of coast, at that precise time? Clay knew it was the major who had betrayed them to the French, and had bled to death that night on the beach for his treachery. It was a tale that in part could exonerate him, and yet the admiral and the mysterious civilian seemed determined it would not be discussed. He lifted his arms in frustration as he turned in the narrow space once more.
What would happen if he were found guilty? It was hard not to dwell on the awful consequences of such a verdict. If he were censured by the court, he was realistic enough about his lowly connections to believe that he would be on the beach for life. And then there was the nagging feeling in the back of his mind that he deserved to be found guilty, for the way he had failed his men. He had been given plenty of warnings not to trust Fraser, but had failed to heed them.
There was a knock at the cabin door just as Clay turned away from it. He quietly returned to the chair, pulled his coat straight and settled into what he hoped was the position of an innocent man who had been seated the whole time. ‘Come in,’ he called. The door opened to reveal the same lieutenant as before.
‘Would you accompany me once more, sir?’ he asked. ‘The court is ready for you.’
The same great cabin, the same grey sea outside, the same witnesses and observers sat to one side, and the same line of judges behind their table. All these thoughts came to Clay as he stooped to pass through the open cabin door with the practiced ease of a tall man who had served at sea for the last two decades. Then he saw that something had changed in the cabin. His sword had been turned around on the cloth, so that the hilt now pointed towards him. The admiral waited until Clay stood in front of the table before picking up a sheet of paper. He carefully re-attached his pince-nez and began to read.
‘Captain Clay, it is the finding of this court that you are not answerable for the loss of his majesty’s ship Titan,’ he read. ‘Furthermore your engagement with the French national ship Argonaute is considered to have been in the best traditions of the service. In consequence you are most honourably acquitted. Perhaps you will permit me to be the first to offer you my congratulations?’
The cabin seemed to disappear into a swirl of movement around him. In a daze Clay exchanged formal handshakes with the post captains behind the table, and more enthusiastic ones from a grinning Taylor, whilst Blake pummeled his back, and Armstrong scooped up his sword from the table and tried to buckle it around his waist. All the time he was conscious of the civilian in the pale blue coat, still sitting in his place and looking on with approval.
******
While Captain Clay was being congratulated by his friends aboard the Namur, four of his former crew were seated around a table in a Bristol tavern. The Anchor was a modest establishment, with loose reeds scattered over the floor, a low ceiling of dark oak beams and rows of solid tables, each flanked by a pair of elm-wood benches. But the beer was plentiful and cheap; the location convenient for both the docks and a nearby cock-fighting pit, and the serving wenches appeared comely, at least in the feeble light supplied by the tallow reeds on each table. In consequence it was popular with sailors.
‘So what we doing in Bristol again, Sean?’ asked Sam Evans, by far the largest of the four, a six-foot six-inch giant who retained the build of the prize-fighter he had once been. The dark-haired sailor seated opposite him took a pull of his beer before he answered.
‘Now we’ve been paid off, we can’t be hanging around Portsmouth any,’ explained Sean O’Malley, his accent broad Irish. ‘Will you look at us, at all? Adam and I with fecking pigtails down to our arses, you with your tattoos, even Able here looks more sailor than slave these days. The press gang would sweep us up quick as quick. No, we needs to steer clear of Pompey until Pipe has his next barky, an’ then we can go and volunteer for that.’
‘But that’ll not be until after his trial, like,’ observed Adam Trevan, anxiety in his clear blue eyes. ‘You reckon he’ll be getting a new ship?’
‘Course he bleeding will,’ said Evans. ‘He’ll be free before you knows it. A frigate against a seventy-four! That’d be like Adam here milling with me! There ain’t no disgrace in the Titan losing, no disrespect there, mate.’ He patted the Cornishman on the arm.
‘I see how we can
’t stay in Pompey, but why Bristol?’ said Trevan, ignoring the huge Londoner. ‘I wants to get back home to my Molly, now she’s expecting a nipper.’
‘Aye, and I does needs to get back to Pipe,’ said Able Sedgwick, a well-built, handsome man. He had joined Clay’s ship as a run slave in Barbados years before, and had been his coxswain throughout his time on the Titan. ‘He’s given me a few weeks liberty, but I need to return to Lower Staverton afore long, so come now, Sean. Why are we here?’
‘Wouldn’t it be grand to give your Molly a proper purse of chink to see her through, Adam?’ said O’Malley. ‘And we all lost a deal of stuff when the ship got burned.’ He gestured for the others to move closer. ‘Gather round, shipmates. We’re here to make ourselves a fecking fortune!’ The others exchanged wary glances.
‘This ain’t like that time you had us digging up half of St Lucia looking for bleeding pirate gold, is it?’ demanded Evans.
‘That was a mistake any fecker could have made,’ protested the Irishman. ‘No, ask yourselves. What touches at Bristol every month, lads?’ The others looked blank.
‘A convoy from the Caribee!’ announced O’Malley. ‘Even as we sit on our arses here, a fleet of West Indiamen will be a heading up the Bristol Channel, and every last one is a chance for us to make a fortune. Because what have those feckers got onboard?’
‘Sugar?’ offered Trevan.
‘Rum, logwood?’ suggested Sedgwick.
‘Aye, all of that, to be sure,’ said the Irishman. ‘But what else?’
‘Molasses?’ said Evans.
‘Parrots!’ corrected O’Malley. ‘Every tar on board will have bought a parrot. You’ll remember how you could get a beauty on the quayside in Bridgetown for a penny?’
‘In truth I was stuck on the bleeding barky at the time, for fear of the traps, but I remember some of the lads bringing them on board,’ said Sedgwick.
‘Right you are,’ said the Irishman. ‘Well, them as bought one will have been keening and cuddling them birds the whole voyage home. Learning them some blarney, and all manner of tricks. And then they arrive in Bristol, get paid off, and there’s not a boarding house in the city as will let you keep a beast in your room. So we meet them jacks as they land, offer them a fair price for the fecking birds, say a tanner, and then it’ll be us as has them.’
‘I still ain’t seeing it, Sean,’ said Evans. ‘So I am now up a parrot, down six pence, and I can’t return to me boarding house, on account of this fowl. Where’s the sense in that?’
‘Do you know what folk will pay for a talking parrot in Gloucester up the fecking way?’ asked O’Malley. ‘Your parson as wants one for his daughter, the doctor buying something special for the wife? Ten fecking guineas, that’s what!’ The other sailors exchanged glances.
‘When does this bleeding convoy get in?’ asked Evans, his eyes alight with avarice.
******
At first glance the oak planking beneath his feet seemed to be smooth enough, running in long parallel lines across the room. But his limited experience had taught him that life was rarely so simple. He viewed the surface with suspicion as he stood, clinging to the side of the chair and testing the floor with one foot. He took a final look towards his destination, fixed his face into a look of determination and set off to traverse the gap. The moment he released his grip, the planking was on the move, tilting first one way and then the other, as if a considerable sea was running. After a few tottering footsteps, he collapsed forwards onto all fours, and then rapidly crawled the last few yards towards the extended hands of his father.
Alexander Clay swept up his son and held him at arm’s length in front of him. Both grinned at each other, in expectation of what was to follow.
‘Oh!’ cried Clay, as he let Master Francis free-fall towards the wooden floor of the nursery, catching him a foot from disaster and lifting him back up again. His son shrieked with delight and kicked his plump legs in the air, prompting Clay to repeat the drop, with much the same reaction.
‘Have a care, Alex,’ warned his wife, Lydia, from the door. ‘He has not long had his pap. Such exertion so soon after he has eaten cannot be good for his constitution.’ The words may have been reproving but her tone was one of pleasure at catching father and son together.
‘Your pardon, my dear,’ said Clay, promptly dropping Francis once more and hauling him back aloft, accompanied by yet more squeals of delight. ‘It is such a pleasure to engage with him. When I last left him he was a swaddled baby, but now he is so much more animated. Isn’t that right, Master Francis?’
‘Da!’ yelled Francis in agreement, reaching forward for the loose end of Clay’s neck cloth. His father dropped him once more, and was rewarded by more delighted laughter that ended when his son was sick across the sleeve of Clay’s coat.
‘Did I not caution you?’ scolded Lydia, coming towards him, but the nanny was quicker. She crossed from her place by the nursery window with a square of muslin in her hand and collected the baby from his father’s arms.
‘There, there, little man,’ she said, as she bore him away, leaving Clay contemplating the puke on his clothes.
‘Oh Alex, it is so good to have you home,’ said Lydia, mopping with her delicate lace handkerchief at the stain.
‘And it is wonderful to be home,’ said Clay. He caught her around her waist with his clean arm and drew her close.
‘But how long will it last, now that you have been acquitted?’ she asked, continuing to daub at his sleeve, while enjoying the feeling of her husband’s closeness.
‘That I cannot say, my darling,’ said Clay. ‘I have written to the Admiralty twice now, but have had nothing more than acknowledgements. I start to wonder if Sir Thomas did not include some hint of disapproval in his report on my court martial.’
‘Surely there can have been no grounds for censure?’ she asked. ‘Your poor ship was roughly handled by a superior vessel, and you did your best to save her.’
‘Yes, you are right, my dear,’ he said. She turned within his arms, looking up into his pale grey eyes and he bent forward to kiss her. Her lips parted under his, and she started to melt against him. Then her eyes opened wide and she pushed him away.
‘My dress!’ she exclaimed, pulling the material out into a fan to search for any evidence of her son’s lunch. Finding none, she resumed her mopping of his sleeve. ‘It may be selfish on my part, but I would urge them to not be overly hasty in their deliberations, if only for myself and Francis’s sake. No, it is no good. It requires a proper sponging. You shall have to shift this coat for another.’
By the time that Clay was changed, his son was fast asleep in his cot. He kissed him gently on his head and slipped from the nursery to re-join his wife in the drawing room at Rosehill Cottage, just as the front door bell rang.
‘Were we expecting callers this afternoon, my dear?’ he asked. ‘I know that it is too early for my sister.’
‘Indeed so,’ confirmed Lydia. She looked towards the door as the maid came in and curtsied. ‘Who is it, Nancy?’ she asked.
‘Beg pardon, madam, but there is a gentleman at the door asking to see the master. He’s come in a handsome carriage, with horses and a footman an’ all. He asked me to give you this, sir.’ The maid offered a silver tray on which a calling card rested. It was thick and embossed, and carried the faintest trace of cologne.
‘The Honourable Nicholas Vansittart, King’s Counsel, and Member of Parliament for the Borough of Hastings,’ he read. ‘Who the deuce might he be?’
‘He is no acquaintance of mine,’ said Lydia. ‘No, wait, Vansittart you say? I believe my aunt may have mentioned him. If I recall correctly, he has excellent connections. She said that he was a close friend of Pitt's and has a finger in most of the government’s pies.’
‘A man of some consequence, then,’ said her husband. ‘Kindly show Mr Vansittart in, if you please, Nancy.’
The pale blue coat had been replaced by one of plum-coloured broadcloth, but the silver
-topped cane was unchanged, as was the intent expression on the face of the man who had attended his court martial.
‘Captain Clay, I do hope you will forgive my intruding in this way,’ he said. ‘It is impertinent of me, I know, particularly as we have not been formally introduced, but I was almost passing your door, so I thought that I would avail myself of the opportunity it presented.’
Clay and Lydia exchanged glances. The village of Lower Staverton was ten miles from the nearest turnpike, and their house was on a lane that ended in Farmer Grey’s yard.
‘You are of course most welcome, sir,’ said Clay, shaking their visitor’s hand. ‘May I present my wife, Mrs Lydia Clay.’
‘Your servant, ma’am,’ said Vansittart, bowing low over her hand and brushing it with his lips.
‘Please do take a seat, Mr Vansittart,’ she said. ‘May we offer you some refreshment?’
‘My thanks, but mine is but a brief visit, I fear,’ said their guest, glancing over her shoulder towards the case clock that stood against the wall. ‘I am expected back in town this evening. But there was a matter of some delicacy I was hoping to discuss with your husband, before I depart.’
‘Of course,’ said Lydia, getting up from the sofa with a swish of satin. ‘I do have some other matters to attend to. Would you excuse me?’
‘Most obliged, Mrs Clay,’ said their guest, bowing once more. When the door of the drawing room closed, he straightened up and turned towards Clay. ‘Good. Now, to business.’
‘By Jove, sir, but you are very forward!’ exclaimed Clay. ‘Perhaps you might start with an explanation for your behaviour. First attending my court martial, and now appearing unannounced in my home to chase my wife away with the barest civility. Who are you, sir, and what are you to me?’
In Northern Seas Page 2
