A Man of No Country by Philip K Allan
Copyright © 2018 Philip K Allan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
ISBN-13: 978-1-946409-60-7(Paperback)
ISBN :13: 978-1-946409-61-4(e-book)
BISAC Subject Headings:
FIC014000FICTION / Historical
FIC032000FICTION / War & Military
FIC047000FICTION / Sea Stories
Editing: Chris Wozney
Cover Illustration by Christine Horner
Address all correspondence to:
Penmore Press LLC
920 N Javelina Pl
Tucson, AZ 85748
Table of Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter 1 Plymouth
Chapter 2 Privateer
Chapter 3 Gibraltar
Chapter 4 Cartagena
Chapter 5 The Fisherman’s Gift
Chapter 6 Naples
Chapter 7 Nelson
Chapter 8 Storm
Chapter 9 The Kingdom
Chapter 10 Malta
Chapter 11 Vanished
Chapter 12 Searching
Chapter 13 Egypt
Chapter 14 Aboukir Bay
Chapter 15 Night
Chapter 16 Day
Chapter 17 Home
Note from The Author
About the Author
Advertisements
Dedication
To my Father, with thanks
Acknowledgements
The creation of a work such as A Man of No Country relies on the support and help of many around me to help bring my vision to the page. The books of the Alexander Clay series start with a passion for the Age of Sail. Mine first began to stir when I read the works of C S Forester as a child. Then, in my twenties, I graduated to the novels of Patrick O’Brian. That interest was given some academic rigor when I studied the 18th century navy under Pat Crimmin as part of my history degree at London University.
Many years later, when I decided to leave my career in the motor industry to see if I could make it as a novelist; I received the unconditional support and cheerful encouragement of my darling wife and two wonderful daughters. I strive to make sure that my work is accessible for those without a detailed knowledge of the period, or a particular interest in the sea, and it is with them that I first test my work to see if I have hit the mark. I have also been helped, yet again, by the input of my dear friend Peter Northen.
One of the most unexpected pleasures of my new career path is to find that I have been drawn into a community of fellow authors, who offer generous support and encouragement to each other. When I needed help, advice and support the most, I received it from David Donachie, Bernard Cornwell, Marc Liebman, Jeffrey K Walker and in particular Alaric Bond, creator of the Fighting Sail series of books. Finally my thanks go to the team at Penmore Press, Michael, Chris, Christine, Terri and Midori who work so hard to turn the world I have created into the book you hold in your hand.
Prologue
Beneath the cobalt blue of a Mediterranean sky, the crew of the little trading brig were sailing for their lives. She was an old ship, with timbers that had been battered by too many storms and bleached by too many summers. Her paintwork was flaking and her patched sails had been worn so thin that they were now translucent scoops in the fierce light of the sun. Her captain could feel her ancient frames creaking in protest at the exertion now expected of them and his face grew grim.
‘That’s the last of them, sir,’ said his first mate as he came across to join him by the wheel. ‘Every sail we possess has been set and drawing. I even found an old flying jib that’s not seen the light of day since Michaelmas last. Do we gain on them at all?’ The captain looked over the stern rail and sheltered his eyes beneath a hand. Their wake was a long streak of white drawn across the dark blue of the sea. Halfway to the horizon he could see the other ship. She was a much sleeker craft, long, low and fast. The triangular shape of her lateen sails reached skywards like the fins of a shark. Even at this distance he could tell that they were losing the race.
‘We are still too slow, Silas,’ the captain replied. ‘We must endeavour to lighten the load and see if that will answer. Start what fresh water we still have over the side, and then get the hands to work pitching the cargo into the sea.’ He watched as his crew worked, their haste desperate, sparing only the occasional glance backwards towards their pursuer. They were a motley collection of men. Greeks, Bulgars, Sicilians, Lebanese, even an Egyptian. Only Silas and I are left from the original English crew that came out here all those years ago, he thought to himself. He felt a tug on one arm of his shirt, and he looked down at a curly haired boy of twelve.
‘Father, why is the deck heeled over at such an angle?’
‘Well, Jack, the heel of the deck is caused by the wind on our quarter,’ he explained. ‘It is more pronounced than is normal because we have set every sail we own, see? For once we stand in great need of haste, and I am putting at hazard our rigging that we may go all the swifter.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said the boy. He looked up at the profusion of sail above his head, and then back down to the busy deck. The main hatch was open now, and bundles were being swayed up from the hold. ‘Is that why the men are casting our trade goods overboard?’
‘Yes, Jack,’ said his father. ‘I would sooner save the ship than spare the cargo.’
‘Mother would have been very angry if she could have seen the men doing that.’
His father smiled at the recollection of his wife. He felt under his shirt for the locket he kept around his neck and glanced at the little portrait. The boy was right. She looked tranquil enough in the miniature, but would have been furious at him for losing as much as a farthing, let alone an entire cargo. He glanced towards the ship that pursued them and his smile vanished. They were a mile closer than when he’d last looked. He could see the huge green banner that streamed out from her masthead, and the twinkle of sunlight on polished steel from her deck. For the first time since he had lost his wife he was glad she was gone. He thought about what Barbary pirates might do if they chanced to find a woman onboard. Then he glanced down at his son, and shuddered.
He returned his attention to the crew, and realised that what they were doing was hopeless.
‘Silas!’ he bellowed. ‘Belay throwing the cargo by the board. The damned Turks are much too fast. Even if we made the old girl as empty as a beggar's pocket, they would still overhaul us.’ The first mate looked over the stern rail and lifted his arms in a gesture of despair.
‘What shall we do, sir?’ he asked. The captain drew him to one side.
‘Issue the men with weapons and make shift to defend ourselves as best we may. I shall return shortly.’ He went over to his son. ‘Jack, I need you to come with me,’ he said. He took the boy’s hand and walked across to the main ladder way that led to the deck below.
Down in his cabin he looked around for somewhere that the boy might hide. He considered the row of lockers built into the bench that ran below the window lights at the back of the space, but rejected them. That would be the first place any boarders would search. The sides of the cabin were lined with more storage lockers. He started to open doors at random but he drew a blank at every turn. Through the cabin windows the churning wake of the brig led back towards the pirate ship. It was growing closer all the time, pounding across the sea and throwing white spray up from its bow. The captain stooped down so that his head was level with that of his son.
‘Jack, can you recall how
you used to play hide and go seek about the ship with Uncle Silas when you were small?’ The boy nodded at this. ‘Good lad. Now try and think of the best place that you ever found to hide, where he never could track you down, and he was left to curse and holler for you.’ The boy smiled at a recollection and pointed towards the aftermost locker.
‘Over in that corner,’ he said. ‘There’s a little hole in the floor. I got through it once, and hid amongst some dusty sacks.’ The boy led his father across the cabin and opened a door. He pulled aside the clothes that hung there and pointed to a little wooden hatch in the deck.
‘Of course!’ exclaimed the ship’s master. ‘The scuttle down to the bread room. You are a clever lad!’ He pulled the hatch aside and peered down. Below him was a layer of large, knobbly sacks, full of ship’s biscuit. He craned his head to peer into the dark. He was trying to find the door to the room on the deck below, but all he could see was more sacks. A child who lay quite still on top of them might well pass unnoticed by a searcher who glanced through that door. He dropped to his knees and drew the boy to him. ‘Now Jack, I need you to be very brave for me. I want you to hide in here once more, and whatever you hear, you must be quiet as a church mouse. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, father,’ said Jack. ‘But what shall I do when I am found? Will it be my turn to seek?’
‘No, lad, not this time,’ said his father. He drew the little locket over his head and slipped it around the neck of his son. ‘The men on the other ship are wicked as the devil, but they may very well miss you in here. You must lie still and silent. But should that not answer, and they chance to find you, you must tell their captain that you wish to join with them. You are young enough that they may accept you into their crew. Agreed? Good lad. Now give your old father a kiss, and in you go.’
Once the cover was fitted back in place over his head, there was no glimmer of light in the bread room. Jack held his hand up in front of his face and tried to see what difference opening and closing his eyes made. The blank dark was the same. He decided to keep his eyes closed and settled back on the sacks. He could feel the discs of hard ship’s biscuit through the cloth. The sharp edges jabbed through the material as he shifted around in an attempt to get comfortable. The sacks under him rustled and biscuit pieces snapped as he moved, making him freeze once more. Quiet as a church mouse, his father had said.
As he lay there his ears became accustomed to slight noises in the dark. The wash of the sea dominated, as it rushed past the oak wall of the room a few feet from where he lay. Beneath this sound he could hear other noises in the room. As he listened he became aware of a slight rustle that seemed to come from all around him. He wondered what else might be in here with him. Could there be rats? He felt his heart start to pound with rising panic at the prospect, but then he remembered the close fitting door and the lead sheets that lined the bread room to armour the precious biscuit from vermin. But the tiny sound persisted, filling the space all around him. He thought back to the last meal he had had. It had been breakfast with his father at the cabin table above his head. He could see his father’s strong brown hand as he held one of the pale discs of biscuit in his long fingers and tapped it on the top of the table. One by one little white weevils had spilt out to squirm on the polished wood. He shifted around on the sacks once more and wondered if, on the whole, he might have preferred to share his hiding space with rats.
After a while he began to hear other, sharper, noises. First came the sound of his father as he barked orders on deck. Then there was the loud bang of a musket from somewhere above him. Finally he heard more distant shots, followed by the judder and crash of hulls coming together. He felt the room around him slew to one side from the collision and he almost toppled down from his hiding place. The rush of water past the outside of the hull slowed and died. Then he heard a roar of noise as of a distant crowd, a ragged volley of shots and the stamp of feet on the main deck. Quiet as a church mouse, he urged himself, but this proved harder than he had expected. He could feel the gritty dust of old ship’s biscuit all over his skin and clothes. It itched around his neck and face, and penetrated far up his sleeves and breaches. He scratched at his neck and stifled a cough and then forced himself to lie still once more. In the quiet he heard more distant sounds, a scream of pain, a voice that pleaded and then a splintering crash. Now the noises were very close. A shouted order followed by the sound of furniture being overturned in his father’s cabin. Suddenly a guttural voice, impossibly loud, just above where he lay, followed by the sound of laughter. Jack squeezed himself close into the sacks and held his breath.
The bread room door crashed open and flickering orange light flooded in from a lantern. The pile of sacks shifted as a few were pulled out. Jack heard the rasp of steel on scabbard followed by the rip of cloth. Ship’s biscuit pattered down onto the floor, accompanied by a growl of disappointment. He tried not to breathe, but then he could hold his breath no longer. He drew in a lung full of air, felt dust catch in his raw throat and coughed. A moment later the sacks around him were pulled away, and a dark bearded face appeared in their place. It peered at him for a moment, grinned, and then a large arm shot forward and gripped the collar of his coat.
Up on deck was a scene of utter chaos. Jack saw strange men everywhere, searching through boxes, dragging up bundles of cargo from the hold while others slashed them open to root through the contents. He looked about him for any familiar faces. Most of the crew were huddled in a group in the bow being covered by three of the pirates armed with muskets. Silas, the first mate, lay near the top of the ladder way and clutched at a bloody wound in his leg. Their eyes met, and he read terror in the other man’s gaze. Then two of the corsairs came over and dragged the old sailor towards the side of the brig. He cried out in pain as his wounded leg bounced across the planking. They lifted him up and with a couple of swings pitched him overboard. His cry of protest was choked off by a loud splash.
‘Father!’ shouted Jack. He twisted free from the hold the bearded man had on his upper arm and ran across the deck to where the ship’s captain knelt with his hands tied behind his back. Two guards stood over him. ‘Your head is all bloody. Are you hurt?’
‘I am fine, lad,’ he said, and he bent his face close to his son. ‘Remember what I said,’ he hissed. ‘You must join them, or they will make a slave of you. Go and see their leader, over by the wheel. The tall one who wears a blue turban. He speaks fair English—’ Any chance of further conversation was cut off by a kick from one of the guards that doubled his father up in pain and drove the breath from his chest. Jack avoided a lunge from the man who had found him, and dodged his way over to the wheel.
Ali Hamadu, captain of Barbary pirates, laughed aloud when Jack made his request. ‘What need do I have for a little white Kafir boy?’ he scoffed. ‘I have plenty of corsairs to fight for me already. You will fetch a very good price back in Tunis, with your pale skin and curly hair.’
‘I am worth much more to you than that!’ exclaimed Jack. ‘My father has shown me how to shoot and use the short sword. And he has taught me how to navigate. I know the stars, and can use a sextant to take sightings of the sun. I can plot a ship’s position as well as any man.’
Ali Hamadu looked towards the ship’s side, where the body of one of the pirates lay. That fool Selim, he thought, always he has to be the first to board an infidel ship. Well, he has paid for his folly this time with a pistol ball in the stomach. But his stupidity does leave me without a navigator. ‘Which star gives you true north?’ he demanded.
‘Polaris, sir, the brightest star in the lesser bear,’ replied the boy.
‘We call it Aljadi, the goat,’ said the captain. ‘So you say you can fight, boy? But can you follow orders? Can you be ruthless, as one of my corsairs must be?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Jack. Ali Hamadu drew out his razor sharp knife, hefted the curved blade for a moment and then passed it across.
‘Very well, little man, prove yourself to me. Go a
nd cut the throat of your father.’
Chapter 1
Plymouth
Captain Alexander Clay settled back into the leather seat of the phaeton and watched with admiration the way his coxswain, Able Sedgwick, handled the carriage’s two horses. They were on the final descent of the journey, down Crown Hill and into Plymouth, and sheets of autumn rain had swept out of the west to polish the cobbles till the road was slick and treacherous. Sedgwick was crouched forward in the rain and was talking to the horses in his quiet bass voice. The words were incomprehensible to the listening Clay. They must be in his native tongue, he concluded. He knew that his coxswain was a physically strong man, but what surprised Clay was the different side of him he was now seeing. In his left hand he held the wet reins with a loose but sure grip. His big arm moved, backwards and forwards, with each surge of the horses, making sure there was just the right amount of tension in the leather. Enough pressure to give the horses confidence on the wet road, yet slack enough to give them the freedom to pick their way down the slope. His other hand was wrapped around the top of the brake lever, which he dabbed on and off whenever the carriage threatened to run away from him.
‘Might I pay you a farthing for them?’ said Lydia, his new wife of four months from the seat beside him. Clay turned towards her and realised she must have been watching him for some time. He matched her smile and once again wondered how he could have won the love of such a beautiful woman. The waves of thick dark hair he had run through his fingers in bed that morning were tucked away inside her bonnet now, but that only served to emphasise the classic beauty of her oval-shaped face, with its pale skin and high cheek bones. From beneath the brim of her hat two clear blue eyes looked into his calm grey ones.
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