In Northern Seas

by Philip K Allan

‘You are quite right, Captain, my manners have been deficient,’ said Vansittart. ‘The only excuse I can offer is that I am to sup with the Prime Minister tonight, and he is most particular about punctuality. I might add that if your residence were but a little easier to find, I could have gratified you with a more fulsome display of courtesy towards the mistress of this house.’

  ‘If you had given me notice that you were coming at all, I would have sent someone to guide your coachman,’ said Clay. ‘But no matter, you are here now, although I am still no clearer as to why.’

  ‘My first reason is to offer you an apology,’ said his guest. ‘It was on my recommendation that Major Fraser was assigned to your mission to the Royalist rebels in Brittany, and so I am in some part to blame for its failure and the loss of your ship.’

  ‘I see,’ said Clay. ‘Well, in truth you were not alone in being made a fool of by that gentleman. I was quite taken in, although he failed to deceive my lieutenant of marines, Thomas Macpherson.’

  ‘Is that the case?’ said Vansittart. ‘He must be a shrewd cove. Macpherson, you said his name was?’

  ‘A very talented officer,’ confirmed Clay. ‘Was it your interest in Major Fraser that occasioned your presence at my court martial?’

  ‘In part it was,’ conceded the diplomat. ‘The government was anxious not to have the major’s activities brought to the attention of the public. Missions like his are best conducted in the shadows, what? But courts martial can be uncertain affairs. I was also there to ensure that the correct outcome was reached.’

  ‘Was that wholly for my benefit, or was it to spare the administration any further embarrassment?’ asked Clay. ‘I imaging that a nice, uncomplicated version of events, for which no one need be blamed, was preferable to a close scrutiny of the shambles left by the major?’

  ‘Pon, my word, sir, I can see you are no fool either,’ his guest chuckled. ‘You are wasted in the navy. You should try your hand at politicking. In truth I had aimed at achieving both ends.’

  ‘And what happens to me, now that I no longer have a ship, Mr Vansittart?’ asked his host.

  ‘That deficiency can be swiftly remedied, Captain,’ said his visitor. ‘The navy is launching new ships all the time. I understand there is a rather handsome eighteen-pounder frigate named the Griffin that is just now being completed at Woolwich. She is a thirty-eight, so a little larger than the Titan. Would that be of interest?’

  Clay felt a surge of pleasure at the prospect of command, compete with the dread at leaving his young family again, and irritation with Vansittart. Why was he being offered this ship by a damned lawyer, instead of the Admiralty, he wondered, and how is it he seems to know so much?

  ‘Is such a thing truly in your gift, Mr Vansittart?’ he asked. ‘Should it not come from my superiors within the service?’

  ‘Oh, we are only speaking informally here, Captain,’ said his guest. ‘But I have discussed the matter with the First Lord. It was he who gave me the particulars of this ship. I make no doubt that if you want her, she is yours.’

  ‘What will become of the surviving crew from the Titan?’ asked Clay.

  ‘You are more expert on such service matters than I, but I would imagine that as the Griffin is but recently launched, there will be vacancies for them all. If the handsome manner in which your officers gave testimony at your trial is typical, they would doubtless welcome the opportunity to follow you again.’ Vansittart smiled at Clay, and then his face fell as he caught sight of the clock.

  ‘Damnation! Can that truly be the time?’ he exclaimed, jumping up. ‘I must be away. I will let George—that is, the First Lord of the Admiralty—know that you will accept the Griffin.’

  Clay rose to his feet, and found his hand grasped between both those of his visitor.

  ‘My dear sir, your record as a captain is commendable, and I hope you observe that you are not wholly without friends, you know? Your efforts this past year have not gone unnoticed. An officer of your undoubted ability cannot be left idle at home in these dangerous times. I give you joy of your new ship, and I fancy that our paths may cross again before too long, Captain Clay. Adieu for now, as the French have it!’

  It was only after Vansittart had rushed from the room and the front door had slammed shut behind him that it occurred to Clay that he hadn’t actually said yes to his offer.

  Chapter 2

  HMS Griffin

  It was market day in the city of Gloucester, and close to the looming bulk of the cathedral a small crowd had gathered in a side alley off Westgate Street. On a grey day, the profusion of large, brilliantly coloured birds in cages that filled a handcart had aroused considerable interest. Hardly less exotic amongst the soberly dressed burgers of the city were the sailors who manned the stall. All four were in their shore-going attire of high-waisted trousers, shirts decorated with ribbons, short blue jackets and broad-brimmed hats. Several passersby were examining the birds, and one gentleman, dressed in the black suit and white neck cloth of a clergyman, appeared to be contemplating a purchase. He brought his face close to the bars of a cage that Evans was holding towards him so as to inspect the blue and yellow macaw within.

  ‘Tis a Bengal Blue, yer honour,’ announced O’Malley. ‘Isn’t he a beauty?’

  ‘Bengal, you say?’ queried the Reverend William Medley. ‘But surely that is in the Indies? I understood you to say that these birds were all from the Americas?’ The parrot blinked, as if it too was momentarily confused, before it resumed preening the feathers of one wing.

  ‘Eh, did I say Bengal?’ said the Irishman, tugging at the gold ring that dangled from his ear. ‘I was after saying Bermuda. I am always getting them two confused. Lucky it ain’t me as navigates the barky, eh?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Medley, returning his attention to the parrot.

  ‘Ain’t he a wondrous creature?’ enthused O’Malley. ‘Tame as a dove, and prattles on like nobody’s business, so he does.’

  The clergyman tapped the bars of the cage with his finger. ‘He doesn’t seem very inclined to speak at present,’ he observed, looking towards the other birds. ‘What about that green one over there, with the rose coloured face?’

  Evans was about to return the macaw to the hand cart, when its occupant deigned to speak.

  ‘Coil that line, shipmate!’ squawked the parrot.

  ‘Oh, how charming!’ exclaimed one of the bystanders.

  ‘Bless my soul,’ said the churchman. ‘Why, it is conversing just like a little sailor! Mrs Medley will certainly find him most diverting. Was it ten guineas you said?’

  ‘Aye, it were, sir,’ said O’Malley, rubbing his hands together. ‘I am robbing myself, in truth, but as you can see you have me at a disadvantage, with so many birds to shift.’ The clergyman pulled out his purse and began to count out the money.

  ‘Avast there, you poxed son of a whore!’ ordered the parrot. Medley looked around.

  ‘What did that bird just call me?’ he demanded.

  ‘Oh, t’was nothing, your honour,’ said O’Malley, positioning himself between his customer and the parrot. ‘He’s just after forgetting where he is, amongst the genteel, like.’

  ‘I have to consider my position,’ said the clergyman, juggling the gold coins in his palm. ‘It would never do to have lewd speech in my home, even from one of God’s lesser creatures.’ The Irishman stared at the money as it sparkled in the light. It was so close he could almost sense the weight of it in his palm.

  ‘He may have picked up the odd word of sailor talk, that’s all, your honour,’ he explained. ‘But once you get him home, amongst the society of respectable folk, he will be singing psalms afore you know it.’

  ‘I bleeding won’t, damn your eyes!’ offered the parrot. The macaw’s sudden garrulousness seemed to encourage the other birds to speak.

  ‘Shift your arse!’ demanded a plain green one.

  ‘Bugger me,’ offered another.

  ‘That rope be slacker than a whore’s—’ T
he rest of the bird’s offering was mercifully lost in a roar of laughter from the less reputable members of the crowd. The Reverend Medley’s face turned crimson.

  ‘These creatures are an absolute disgrace!’ he roared, returning his money to his purse. ‘How dare you offer such wicked fowl for sale to honest folk? I have a good mind to have your privilege to trade revoked by the magistrates.’ The Irish sailor shifted from one foot to another, and exchanged glances with Trevan.

  ‘You do have a market day license, I take it?’ persisted the clergyman.

  ‘Ah... a license is it?’ queried O’Malley, patting down his pockets. ‘I am sure as we do.’

  ‘Constable!’ called Medley, striding down the alley. ‘I need a constable, here!’ The small crowd were now looking on with considerable interest.

  ‘Have you got this here license, Sean?’ asked Sedgwick from the side of his mouth.

  ‘Course I ain’t got no fecking license,’ whispered the Irishman.

  ‘Course I ain’t got no fecking license!’ repeated the macaw.

  ‘Oh blimey! That ain’t good at all,’ offered one of the crowd, with obvious satisfaction.

  ‘Did they transport the last bloke they caught without a license, Bill?’ asked another. ‘Or did he spend a day in the pillory?’

  ‘Twas the pillory,’ said his friend, making himself comfortable on an upturned box. ‘Shocking state he were in, when they finally let him go.’

  ‘We best bleeding scarper, afore the tipstaffs show up,’ urged Evans.

  ‘But what’re we to do with all these fecking birds!’ wailed O’Malley.

  ‘I could let you stow them in my barn,’ offered Bill, ‘for a price, like. Could only be for a few hours, mind.’ Sedgwick and Evans each grabbed one shaft of the handcart.

  ‘Lead on, mate,’ said the Londoner.

  ‘Damn your eyes!’ exclaimed a large red bird.

  ‘Course you has to keep them quiet,’ said Bill, looking at the parrot. ‘While the traps are scouring the streets, looking for’ee.’

  ‘Aye, all right,’ said Trevan. ‘I has a notion how we might do that.’

  ******

  It was quiet in the office of Earl Spencer, First Lord of the Admiralty. The tall windows faced towards the inner courtyard of the building and away from the blustery east wind. Although the Admiralty Building was in the heart of London, the cry of hawkers and the clop of passing carriage horses in the nearby streets barely registered over the steady tick of the carriage clock that stood on the mantelpiece. Beneath it a glowing fire of sea coal filled the grate. Lord Spencer looked up from the pile of dispatches on his desk in response to a knock on his door.

  ‘Come in,’ he said, returning his pen to the ink stand. A bewigged clerk entered and came partway across the carpet.

  ‘Captain Clay is waiting in your anteroom, my lord, and Mr Vansittart has just now arrived.’

  ‘Capital,’ said the earl. ‘Do show them in, Higgins, if you please. Oh, and kindly serve the superior Madeira.’

  He waited until his clerk had bowed his way out of the office, then rose from his chair to examine his reflection in a mirror positioned on the wall to one side of the desk. Having checked his teeth, he tweaked his neck cloth a little straighter and turned back towards the door, which opened a moment later.

  ‘Gentlemen, thank you both for coming to see me,’ said Earl Spencer. ‘I believe you may already be acquainted? Captain Alexander Clay, this is the Honourable Nicholas Vansittart.’

  ‘Mr Vansittart did me the honour of calling at my house in the autumn, my lord,’ said Clay. He bobbed his head towards the other visitor. ‘Your servant, sir.’

  ‘Delighted, I am sure,’ said Vansittart.

  ‘Excellent,’ said the First Lord. ‘Do please be seated.’

  Higgins slid forward and held a silver tray between them. ‘Some Madeira, sir?’ he murmured. ‘And for you, sir?’

  ‘Is all well at Lower Staverton, Captain?’ asked their host. ‘Mrs Clay and the child are in good health, I trust?’

  ‘Both were fine when I last saw them, my lord, although fitting out a new warship affords me little leisure to visit them at present,’ said Clay.

  ‘How is the Griffin coming along?’ asked Vansittart. ‘I passed her on the river a few weeks back, and she had hardly any of those ropes and sticks you naval coves are so deuced fond of.’

  ‘She resembles a King’s ship a little better now, sir,’ said Clay. ‘Her masts are rigged and she has her eighteen-pounder cannon aboard, although there is still much to do.’

  ‘How soon before you will be ready for sea?’ asked Spencer.

  ‘I have a deal of fitting out to complete yet, my lord,’ he explained. ‘Almost all of the available Titans have volunteered for her, which is a blessing, but that still leaves me short by eighty men. Fortunately the bulk of my former officers were able to follow me.’

  ‘Even young Lieutenant Preston?’ queried the First Lord. ‘Surely he lost an arm in your action with the Argonaute, not three months back?’

  ‘He assures me that he is recovered, and able to perform his duties, my lord,’ said Clay. ‘It was his left arm, so in that respect he is better placed than some. Lord Nelson, for example.’ The steel-grey eyes betrayed no hint of the painful visit Preston had made to him, pleading not to be left on the beach. He had still been weak and pale from loss of blood. Clay remembered the tears in the young man’s eyes, his right arm animated as he argued, in strange contrast to the empty sleeve pinned across his chest.

  ‘Rather you than me, Captain, but I am sure you know best,’ said Spencer. ‘I receive no end of petitions from disabled officers applying to me, very few of whom I am able to find ships for.’ He pulled a sheet of paper towards him, and picked up a pencil. ‘So, you have your officers, I collect. What else do you need, beside men, to complete the Griffin for sea?’

  Clay pulled a leather note book from his coat pocket, opened it on his knee and ran his finger down a page.

  ‘Carronades for her quarterdeck and forecastle, shot and powder, all manner of gunner’s stores, a spare foretopsail yard, four anchors, three hundred fathoms of cable, all our ship’s boats, carpenter’s tools, boatswain’s stores, our sails, a forge and anvil for the armourer, thirty stands of muskets, fifty of pistols, boarding pikes, five dozen hammocks, provisions of all kinds—’

  ‘Damn well everything then,’ interrupted Spencer, laying down his pencil.

  ‘—and I have yet to be allocated any marines. If my crew and stores could be completed promptly, I could have her ready for a trial sortie into the German Sea by the middle of January, my lord.’

  ‘That may serve,’ conceded the earl. ‘I take it you would like Lieutenant Macpherson to command your marines again?’

  ‘If you please, my lord.’

  ‘Macpherson?’ mused Vansittart. ‘Weren’t he the cove you mentioned last time we met? The chap who smoked what that damned idiot Fraser was about?’

  ‘The very same, sir,’ confirmed Clay.

  ‘Very well,’ said Spencer. ‘Macpherson is yours, and I shall ask the port admiral at Woolwich to give you the cream of the press to bring you up to compliment. Let Higgins know the particulars of what stores you need on your way out, and I shall see that they are provided. You might want to add warm clothing for the crew and extra firewood to your list. I need you ready to sail by the beginning of February.’

  ‘May I be told what commission the Griffin is required for?’ asked Clay. In answer the First Sea Lord turned towards his other guest, who drew a newspaper from out of his coat pocket and passed it across.

  ‘This is a recent copy of Le Moniteur,’ he explained. ‘How is your French, Captain?’

  ‘I can converse tolerably, sir,’ replied Clay.

  ‘The article you are after is on the bottom right.’

  Clay read it, but although he could follow the gist of what was said, he found that he was none the wiser. ‘This seems to be an account of the retur
n of some Russian prisoners of war to their homeland, sir,’ he said. ‘How might that concern us?’

  ‘It concerns us because Boney don’t do prisoner releases,’ explained Vansittart. ‘He holds that the able bodied will simply come back to attack him again. And it ain’t just a few he has let go—over four thousand of the blighters, captured in the Low Countries a few months back. They’ve been cleaned up, given fresh uniforms, the officers entertained in style by General Berthier himself, and then sent back home.’

  ‘Hmm, so am I to take it he wishes to ingratiate himself with the Russians?’ asked Clay.

  ‘You certainly are, Captain,’ confirmed the politician. ‘It’s a damned shrewd move. Tsar Paul may be a simpleton, but the way to his heart is through his soldiers.’

  ‘It is not just the return of these prisoners, Clay,’ said Spencer. ‘That devil Talleyrand has his diplomats swarming over every court in the damned Baltic. Fleas on a badger ain’t in it! In consequence, the northern states grow resentful of us, just like they did during the American War. They have started to resist having their ships searched. Remember that damned impudent Danish frigate that fired on the Nemesis?’

  ‘The Tsar is leading the charge. He has never liked us, but it is the damned Frogs who are behind it,’ said Vansittart. ‘I am hearing rumours from St Petersburg that the Russians will presently close their ports to our shipping. Of course, it makes damn all difference now that winter is here, but it needs to be resolved before the ice melts in the spring.’

  ‘I don’t need to tell you how vital the Baltic is to the navy, Captain,’ said Spencer. ‘Half the items on that list of yours come from there. No Baltic trade means no ships in the Channel to keep the Frogs on their side of it.’

  ‘I understand, my lord,’ said Clay. ‘What measures does the government intend to take?’

  ‘Any required to keep the flow of naval stores coming,’ said Spencer. ‘And I do mean any. The Cabinet are quite resolved. If it means war, then so be it. A fleet will shortly be assembled in Great Yarmouth—with enough ships of the line to offer battle, bomb vessels to pound the shore, and plenty of smaller vessels. Sir Hyde Parker will be commanding.’