‘Of course... how could I forget that it is also the anniversary of the fall of Yorkshire’s very own Captain James Cook?’
‘Well remembered, Edward,’ said Taylor from Miss Hockley’s other side. ‘Splendid man that he was, and an excellent seaman. Lanced by savages in a dispute over a stolen jollyboat, I believe.’ Preston exchanged glances with Miss Hockley, and both burst into laughter.
‘I am not sure it is the occasion for mirth,’ said the first lieutenant, before turning away to talk to his other neighbour.
‘I trust you do not mind being made game of a little, as one Yorkshire born to another, Miss Hockley,’ said Preston. ‘My sisters do the same to me when I am at home, and I miss it, in truth.’
‘I thought your accent was familiar,’ she said. ‘You’re not from the coast, though, that at least is plain. Vale of York perhaps?’
‘You have a good ear, Miss Hockley,’ he said. ‘My people are from Ripon.’
‘Which is quite some distance from the sea,’ she observed. ‘How came you into the navy, Mr Preston?’
‘That happened very much in opposition to my parents’ will. My father wanted me to follow him into the wool trade, which would doubtless have happened, had an uncle not given me a copy of The Life and Adventures of Robinson Crusoe one Yuletide. After reading that, I became quite determined to go to sea.’
‘Were his experiences as a mariner not off-putting?’ she queried. ‘Shipwrecked and then left for years on a deserted island, if I recall.’
‘True, but what grand adventures followed that unpromising start, Miss Hockley,’ said Preston, his eyes alight.
‘On the subject of matters that are grand, here comes our fishermen’s pie,’ said Taylor.
As promised, the pie was indeed a huge creation, several feet across, with a raised pastry top that towered up in a golden wedge. Steam rose through holes in the side like smoke from the vents on a volcano. Its arrival, borne by two seamen, was greeted with acclimation by the hungry guests.
‘Is there some significance in the shape of the crust, Britton?’ asked Clay, who had noticed the look of pride on the wardroom steward’s face. ‘The Rock of Gibraltar, perhaps?’
‘Not the Rock, no, sir,’ he explained. ‘It be formed in the shape of the Cape St Vincent headland itself, leastways according to how she is set down on Mr Armstrong’s chart, and the best recollection of Gonzales in the larboard watch.’
‘How splendid!’ said Taylor, over the general rumble of approval.
‘So was this battle of particular note to you gentlemen?’ asked Hockley, as the pie was being served up. ‘Were you all present?’
‘In truth no,’ admitted Clay. ‘I was convalescing at home at the time. Mr Macpherson and Mr Preston here were returning from the West Indies, and I believe the rest of these gentlemen were serving in the Channel Fleet. But we were all at the Battle of the Nile the following year, as marked by the medals we bear.’ He pointed to the gold disc at his throat, and indicated the silver ones the officers had. ‘Everyone present that night received one, even the seamen, who were given a bronze version. It was a splendid idea, which I hope may be repeated for future engagements of note.’
‘Then we have a further toast to drink,’ said Vansittart. ‘To the victors of the Nile, with a bumper if you please, gentlemen!’ Again the glasses were drained. The combination of the packed numbers in the wardroom together with the strength of the wine began to flush faces around the table, apart from the teetotal Hockley. When the food arrived in front of Miss Hockley and Preston, she looked at the lieutenant with concern.
‘It had not occurred to me until this moment, but I have not yet witnessed how you manage at the table,’ she said. ‘With your injury, I mean. If you need assistance, I will happily help.’ A flicker of sadness passed across his face, and she reached out and touched the right hand that rested on the table next to her. ‘I am sorry, Mr Preston. I hope that my foolishness has not offended you. Was I wrong to mention it?’
‘By no means, Miss Hockley,’ he said. ‘It is I that am being foolish. I was so enjoying our discourse, I had quite forgotten my want of an arm. But you need have no fear on my part. Fish pie will present little difficulty for me; besides, I have this.’ He held up his fork, one tine of which had been replaced with a blade.
‘How ingenious,’ she said. ‘That will serve you very well.’
‘It is modeled on one that the captain observed Lord Nelson using in the Mediterranean, and was fashioned for me by Mr Arkwright, our Armourer. It performs thus.’ He sawed a piece of fish in two, spiked one half, and popped it into his mouth. With his rival unable to speak, Blake took his opportunity to join the conversation from across the table.
‘How are you finding life aboard, Miss Hockley?’ he asked.
‘Very agreeable, I thank you, Lieutenant,’ she replied. ‘My cabin is a little snug, but perfectly dry and comfortable for all that.’
‘Upon my soul, ain’t snug the word,’ muttered Vansittart, a little louder than he intended.
‘And what of the society of sailors?’ added Macpherson, whose face began to mirror the scarlet of his tunic.
‘I have travelled a little with my father, so I am not wholly unfamiliar with life afloat,’ she said. ‘I can report that the officers of this ship, at least, seem to be perfectly civilised and refined.’
‘What, even young Preston, who has been shamelessly monopolising you this past half hour?’ said Faulkner, to general laughter.
‘Even he,’ continued Miss Hockley. ‘I had been warned that Royal Navy sailors can be very forward, with the reputation of having a sweetheart in every port, but I have seen little evidence of such vice.’
‘Ah, but you have yet to witness the hands ashore,’ said Corbett. ‘More drunkenness and whoring than Babylon in its pomp. The weeks after are my busiest, although my Hippocratic Oath forbids me from sharing more of the particulars.’
‘I should hope so, too,’ protested Blake. ‘We are still eating!’
‘I am pleased to hear your report that the behaviour of my officers, at least, is quite honourable, Miss Hockley,’ said Clay. ‘I have long despaired at restraining Jack ashore, but their conduct is often better than the lewdness reported of sailors more generally in the popular ballads.’
‘Although such tales are not wholly without foundation,’ added Faulkner. ‘What about the case of Lieutenant Carmichael, of the Majestic?’
‘Ah, yes,’ agreed Blake.
‘The old hound,’ added Corbett.
‘Whatever did he do?’ asked Miss Hockley, her hazel eyes wide and innocent.
‘Nothing but rumours while he lived,’ said Faulkner. ‘But after he fell in battle no less than three wives approached the Navy Board to claim their widow’s pension, every one of them armed with a valid certificate of marriage.’
‘Poor ladies,’ said Miss Hockley, underneath the laughter of the officers.
‘Try not to judge us too severely,’ said Preston. ‘We are obliged to spend too much time away from the civilising influence of ladies. Most wardrooms are like this at sea. Young men, living together, with the prospect of death or injury just beyond the horizon. It makes us bawdier than we would be in other circumstances.’
Miss Hockley placed her hand on his again. ‘I do understand that, Mr Preston, and I am not in any way distressed,’ she looked around the room of flushed faces and animated chatter. ‘In many ways I feel privileged to have been invited to share in a world that is so different to my own.’ She looked back at him, her eyes straying to the empty sleeve of his coat, and then to his face, still pale and thin. In her eyes he read compassion, laced with something warmer.
******
Forward from the bright candlelight and wine-fuelled jollity of the wardroom, a more restrained atmosphere prevailed on the lower deck. The men had eaten their evening meal earlier, and now the watch below took their ease at the mess tables. The third one along on the larboard side was a scene of companionable in
dustry. Sean O’Malley, who was comfortably the frigate’s best musician, at least in his own opinion, was fitting new strings to his fiddle. Trevan was carving a tracery of flowers into the handle of a small wooden comb he had made, while Evans held an oil lamp close above the table surface, to help him see clearly. Sedgwick was resting with his back against the ship’s side reading from a slim leather volume that he had angled towards the light. They all looked up as the door of the wardroom swung open. A burst of light and laughter flowed out, followed by the captain and Vansittart loudly thanking their hosts.
‘Pipe and the Hollander sound more pissed than a brace of parsons,’ observed Evans.
‘Bout fecking time they finished their carousing,’ said O’Malley, a trace of envy in his voice. ‘Aren’t we a warship, sailing into danger, at all?’
‘That mate of yours will be along soon, Sam,’ said Sedgwick.
‘He ain’t no bleeding mucker of mine,’ growled Evans. ‘You couldn’t touch his sort back home. He worked for them as ran most of the gin shops and bawdy houses.’
‘But he ain’t in that world no more,’ said Sedgwick. ‘Now he’s in ours.’
‘Ha!,’ snorted Evans. ‘How you bleeding figure that? He’s working for the Hollander, ain’t he? Who has the ear of the Prime Minister his self, if you’ll credit it. We got more chance of making post than getting one over the likes of him.’
‘Hold steady, there, Sam,’ protested Trevan. ‘You be shaking that lamp like a wrecker trying to beach a galleon. I can’t see bugger all.’
‘Sorry, mate,’ said the big Londoner. The lamplight steadied and Trevan picked up his knife once more. ‘Nice bit of wood, that.’
‘Aye, slice of elm, this,’ agreed the Cornishman. ‘Boxwood’s better for fine work, but this be coming out all right. The carpenter gave me a few off cuts as was bound for the galley fire. I’ve fashioned some bits from them.’ He pulled a small wooden rattle and a beautifully worked spinning top from a cloth bag that lay beside him on the deck. Evans spun the top between finger and thumb and watched as it ran with barely a wobble on the table top.
‘You got a proper talent when it comes to shaping lumber, Adam,’ he said. ‘You going to flog this stuff?’
‘No, the comb’s a gift, and them toys is for the nipper,’ said Trevan. ‘My Molly’s due any day now.’
‘What you hoping for?’ asked Sedgwick.
‘I wants a boy, but Molls reckons that’d be too raw for her, what with losing our little Samuel so young,’ said Trevan. ‘In truth, her and the babe coming through safe would do me just fine.’
‘Fecking strange, ain’t it, lads,’ observed O’Malley, almost to himself. ‘Adam being a father an’ all.’
‘You could be one, if you fancied it,’ said Sedgwick. ‘What became of that girl you promised to wed?’
‘Back in Drumgallon?’ said the Irishman. ‘Lovely colleen, so she is. I’ll return for her, when I’ve done with roving, and saved enough chink.’
‘Sometime around 1840, then,’ observed Evans.
‘Now ain’t this a scene of domestic bliss,’ said Rankin, appearing out of the gloom and sitting down heavily at the table. ‘Music, reading, polite conversation? I daresay you ladies will start chanting psalms presently.’ He swayed in his place a little more than the easy motion of the ship required, and then belched against the back of his hand.
‘You been at the fecking grog, Josh?’ asked O’Malley.
The new arrival tapped his nose. ‘That’s a flunky’s privilege, my Irish friend,’ he explained. ‘Whisk away the bottles with a gill left in and replace them with fresh ones. Once the Grunters are past the first remove, they never bleeding notice.’ He favoured the table with a broad smile, and then settled his attention on Sedgwick.
‘Read, can you?’ he observed. ‘Or is you just pretending?’
‘I can read well enough,’ said Sedgwick.
‘Able ain’t just got his letters,’ said Evans, glaring at the new arrival. ‘He’s only been an’ wrote a book, with no end of pages an’ all.’
‘A blackamoor with schooling,’ marvelled Rankin. ‘Best watch out, lads, case the savages become the masters and we end up as slaves, eh?’ He laughed uproariously at the thought, his mirth loud in the silence around the mess table.
‘So what you reading then?’ he resumed. Sedgwick held up the title page for inspection. ‘The Bramptons of Linstead Hall, a novel in three volumes, by a Lady,’ he read aloud. ‘What’s that all about, then?’
‘Pipe’s sister writes too, and this here is one of hers,’ explained Sedgwick. ‘In truth I ain’t entirely sure what be going on. Miss Brampton is hot for this young buck, but he be more interested in the squire’s daughter, and no end of dancing and turns about the garden seem about to put it right.’
‘Not unlike what were going on in the bleeding wardroom with the Hockley wench,’ said Rankin, pointing with a thumb over his shoulder.
‘She be a comely piece, and no mistake,’ said Trevan, laying aside his knife. ‘Not a patch on my Molly, of course, but handsome enough.’
‘There’s a few of the Grunters what would agree with you there,’ said the valet. ‘Why, they was swarming about her like flies round a chamber pot. We nearly had a mill over whose arse was to sit beside her.’
‘Was she sweet on any of them?’ asked Evans.
‘Oh, aye,’ confirmed Rankin. ‘She and that Grunter what’s shy of an arm were close as thieves. Her father was proper vexed by it all. Odd her choosing to favour him over the others.’
‘Young Preston?’ said Sedgwick. ‘Good for him. He deserves some luck, after what he’s been through.’ There were mutters of approval at this from those at tables nearby who listened on. O’Malley shifted on his stool.
‘How will he fecking manage, I wonder?’ he asked. ‘With the one fin, like, when they wants to, you know... do it, like.’
‘It’s his arm as is missing, not his bleeding Thomas!’ protested Evans. ‘He climbed the main mast in a blizzard. I dare say he’ll manage, when the time comes.’
‘Aye, it be no different from you, Sean,’ said Trevan. ‘How many times have you been in a bawdy house, too pissed to stand? You lies back, and so long as you can raise your topgallant mast, the wenches can generally do the rest!’ Once the roar of laughter that greeted this image had subsided, Evans turned back to Rankin.
‘I don’t remember you being no scholar, Josh,’ he said. ‘Back home like, yet you read Able’s book brisk enough. Where’d you get your letters?’ The valet’s dark eyes became thoughtful as he regarded Sam.
‘There’s plenty about me what you don’t know, Sam lad,’ he said. ‘Much of which had best stay that way. But to answer you straight, it were John Company what gave me my schooling, back in Madras. That’s where I fetched up, after I had to scarper.’
‘Bleeding India?’ said Evans. ‘What you been doing out there?’
‘Soldiering, for the most part,’ said Rankin, ‘amongst other stuff. There’s no end of work for them with a talent out there. But one answer deserves the same. How’d you end up being a tar? I had you marked for a prize-fighter, when I left home.’
‘I was, right enough,’ said Evans. ‘A bleeding good one an’ all. I even beat that Jack Rodgers, the Southwark Butcher.’
‘I’m impressed,’ said his fellow Londoner. ‘So why did you quit?’
Evans shrugged his shoulders. ‘Turns out my old man had pocketed a deal of chink from the bookies for me to take a drop against Southwark Jack,’ explained Evans. ‘Only I never saw it that way. I don’t need to tell you what a bastard an angry bookie can be.’
‘Aye, worked for a few of them in my time,’ said Rankin. ‘No wonder facing bleeding cannon balls seemed the safer place to be. You and I have a lot in common, Sam lad.’
‘If you say so,’ said Evans, without any trace of a smile.
******
Dusk was gathering around the frigate as she sailed beneath a blanket of low cloud. The
faint drizzle that had fallen for the last hour had soaked the deck and silvered the ropes. The green sea darkened to grey as the light faded, and the chill wind became fitful with the approach of night. To one side of the Griffin was the North Sea, wide and empty in the last of the evening light, while on the other side was the low coast of Jutland. It was a drab, flat land. An endless beach of promising white sand gave way to low, scrub-covered dunes, treeless and dotted with the occasional sheep.
‘It’s little more than a long finger of land with a saltwater lagoon and a deal of marshland behind it, sir,’ reported Armstrong. ‘The only settlement of note is a fortified village at the far end, named Thyboron, that commands the entrance. I believe I may be able to see the place now.’
Clay followed where the American pointed with his telescope. The sun had almost set now, but as it dipped to the horizon a few rays slipped beneath the cloud and lit up the land. Clay saw the grass-covered embrasures of a gun battery, with a red Danish flag stirring over it. Beyond it were the grey roofs of a settlement and the haze of wood smoke from its chimneys. The beach ended at a stone breakwater, behind which could be seen the masts of fishing boats. A line of birds flew in front of the village and faint over the water came the mournful honk of a goose. Then the sun vanished, and it grew dark. Soon the village was only visible as a cluster of yellow points in the night. Clay closed his telescope.
‘A bleak spot, Mr Armstrong, and yet it is undoubtedly the right place,’ he said. ‘Heave too, if you please, and call away the blue cutter.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the American. Clay turned to a slight figure standing next to the wheel.
‘Mr Todd, kindly go below and give Mr Vansittart my compliments,’ he said. ‘Inform him that we have reached our destination.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the youngster, touching his hat.
As the midshipman departed, Clay heard a burst of laughter, quickly stifled, from the leeside of the quarterdeck. He walked in that direction to investigate and came across two figures standing by the rail. The taller of the two stiffened and touched his hat, while his companion, who was lost in a sailor’s jacket many times too big, bobbed down in a slight curtsy.
In Northern Seas Page 8
