by Seth Hunter
Paintwork apart, she belonged to a different age – a time when the British Admiralty had succumbed to the conviction that the Navy needed heavy cruisers – bigger than a frigate, faster than a ship of the line. But the thinking was suspect. They had ended up with a class of ship that was slower than a frigate and too lightly armed to stand in the line of battle; neither thoroughbred nor warhorse. And there were other complaints. They were top heavy, their critics said, they rolled badly in a storm and tended to drift to leeward in the lightest breeze. Britain’s chief naval rivals had got rid of them twenty years ago. The ones Britain still had were used as guardships or troopships, or convoy escorts. Or they were razéed – cut down to a single deck and converted into very large, heavily armed frigates.
But Nathan had come a long way for this – and whatever her detractors said about her, and the class to which she belonged, the Pondicherry, or the Hannibal, as he preferred to think of her, was probably the most powerful ship of war in the Indian Ocean. In the right place, and with the right support, she could stop Bonaparte from moving a single ship, or a single regiment, beyond the Gulf of Aden. But she could not do it in Bombay and the sooner they were at sea the better.
What troubled Nathan, after what he had learned of her history, was whether she could ever put to sea. She had been laid up in Bombay harbour or the shipyard at Surat ever since she had been brought from Pondicherry, as far as he could gather. And for most of that time she had been without a captain. He had been taken ill, apparently, and sent back to England but had not survived the voyage. Since when her first lieutenant had been in charge – a man called Joyce. Duncan had said little else about him, but Nathan had detected a strong sense of disapproval. He had said nothing at all about her other officers, or her crew.
The Fly hove to a half-cable’s length off her starboard quarter and they stepped into the waiting launch. This time Nathan took Tully and Blunt with him – for it was quite possible that they would stay aboard and they could send back for their kit later. They exchanged few words. Nathan had a good idea what Tully must be thinking, for if Nathan’s role was ambiguous, Tully’s was even worse.
Whether the ship had been forewarned of their visit by signal or had divined it by some other means, they were clearly expected. Or at least the governor was. Side steps had been lowered to the water’s edge and as they ascended them they were greeted by the reassuring wail of the boatswain’s call and the stamp and crash of the marine guard as they presented arms. There was a file of redcoats drawn up on the gun deck under the command of a lieutenant. But they were not marines, it became apparent to Nathan as soon as he stepped aboard. They were soldiers – with the badge of the 12th Regiment of Foot on their crossbelts. It was not so unusual on a ship of war for soldiers to fulfil the function of marines, but it added to Nathan’s sense of things being not quite right. And then his wandering eye fell on something else that added con sider ably to his unease – the heads of several women, regarding him with apparent amusement from the level of the deck. As they encountered Nathan’s astonished gaze, they disappeared but he could have sworn he heard an explosion of girlish giggles.
With an effort, Nathan recalled himself to the necessity of greeting the ship’s officers. A lieutenant had stepped forward, taking off his hat and making his bow to the governor, though his eyes flickered across to Nathan in his captain’s uniform with barely disguised alarm.
‘Troy, is it not?’ the governor addressed him. The lieutenant confirmed that this was indeed the case. ‘Lieutenant Joyce aboard?’
‘I am afraid not, Your Excellency. He is gone ashore.’
‘Is he, indeed?’ Nathan gathered from the governor’s tone that this was not unexpected. In fact, Duncan’s manner revealed a certain wicked pleasure in the situation. ‘And when is he due back?’
‘I am not entirely sure, sir,’ the lieutenant replied uncomfortably. ‘He said he would be a day or two.’
‘I see. Well, I have brought a surprise for you, Troy. This is your new commodore, Captain Peake.’ The lieutenant did not look so much surprised – he looked as if he had been shot. It might have been Nathan’s imagination, but he thought he heard a collective gasp from those other of the ship’s officers grouped behind him.
‘I will shortly leave you to become better acquainted,’ Duncan continued blandly, ‘but in the absence of the first lieutenant, perhaps you will be so good as to conduct us to the great cabin where we may converse in private.’
The lieutenant flinched, the blood draining from his countenance. For a moment he was rendered incapable of speech or movement.
‘If that is convenient,’ the governor added pointedly.
Troy delivered a stammering apology to the effect that the great cabin was presently unprepared, and perhaps the governor would be more comfortable in the wardroom. Nathan decided this had gone far enough.
‘The great cabin, if you please, Mr Troy,’ he instructed him briskly. ‘And let us not keep His Excellency waiting.’
For a moment he thought the lieutenant was going to argue. Nathan engaged him with a look he had copied from Old Jarvey, but he was startled by the horror in the officer’s eyes. What in God’s name was going on here? Troy’s shoulders slumped and he lowered his head in what might have been shame or an apology of a bow.
‘If you will follow me, sir.’ His tone and the set of his features betrayed the grim fatality of a man leading the way to the gallows.
The Pondicherry, in common with all of her class, was equipped with a poop deck, the large space beneath being reserved entirely for the convenience of the flag officer, if she possessed such an object, or her captain if she did not. It was entered through a pair of double doors at the rear of the quarterdeck, immediately abaft the helm. These led to the dining room which, in turn, led to the great cabin. It was of generous proportions. So too were the several women who were its present occupants. They were lying on a number of couches or divans spread upon the floor and conversing amiably while they took turns at a number of hookahs or water pipes. They looked up in surprise when the doors opened. Something – perhaps a gesture or expression of the lieutenant, who stood resolutely in the entrance – alerted them to a potential problem. Swiftly and without a word, they jumped to their feet and fled to the sanctuary of the state room on the starboard quarter. Nathan had the impression that they had a monkey with them.
The lieutenant stood to one side and held himself stiffly to attention, his chin extended and his eyes fixed on an immeasurable distance.
Nathan stepped inside the cabin. It occupied the entire space at the stern of the vessel from one side to the other. A pair of double doors opened on to the stern gallery, another to the quarter gallery. It was not much smaller than the great cabin of the Vanguard where Nelson had given him his final orders before he had embarked for the East and would normally have been furnished in much the same manner. Indeed, there were several objects that were by no means out of place: a desk for the use of the flag officer and a table for his charts; a number of upright chairs and a pair of leather easy chairs; a globe and a mounted telescope, and a few other objects of nautical interest. But these were far outnumbered by objects of a far more frivolous and intimate nature.
The deck was covered by a large Oriental carpet, richly patterned and coloured. The armchairs had been pushed up against the bulkhead and the centre of the cabin was occupied by the several brightly cushioned divans, upon which the women had been taking their leisure. A large decorated chest displayed a great many silks and satins and items of female apparel which they had apparently been inspecting, or perhaps trying on. There were a number of footstools and copper trays and water pipes scattered about the remaining area. The bulkheads supported about half a dozen mirrors with richly ornamented and bejewelled frames, reflecting the light that poured in through the stern windows, splintered into rays by the smoke from the hubble-bubbles. There was a strong smell of scented tobacco and other, more exotic odours. In one corner stood a large
harp, reaching almost to the deck above; in another was a perch containing a large parrot. Its measuring eye met Nathan’s. ‘Who’s a pretty boy, then?’ it uttered in a tone of creaking menace.
Nathan looked at the lieutenant.
‘I am very sorry, sir,’ said Troy. ‘I regret that our standards have been allowed to slip.’
In truth, Nathan was less surprised than he might have been and not such a hypocrite as to be shocked. It had been common practice in the Mediterranean fleet for the captains to take a woman aboard. In fact, ‘mistress’ was the polite term, for most of them were courtesans, supplied on a regular basis to officers of the fleet by a Mr Udny, the British consul at Leghorn. Nelson himself had possessed one of the most handsome, who had presided as his hostess at formal dinners aboard the old Agamemnon when it was his flagship in the Gulf of Genoa. Indeed, when the British fleet had been forced to evacuate Leghorn, Nathan himself had entertained Signora Correglia and a number of her companions aboard the Unicorn on their passage to Corsica. His own stern cabin had pretty much resembled that of the Pondicherry at the time; there had even been a number of songbirds and a harpsichord. But the circumstances had been exceptional and at least it had been his own cabin, not that of an absent flag officer.
‘I will speak with you later,’ he told the lieutenant. ‘In the meantime, we will adjourn to the dining room – and perhaps you would be good enough to send me whatever charts you possess of the Arabian Sea.’
He caught Tully’s eye as they left the cabin. He looked amused.
‘I would be glad if you would show Lieutenant Tully around the rest of the ship,’ Nathan instructed Troy coldly, ‘while the governor and I discuss some matters in private.’
When they alone, Nathan made his own apologies to the governor, though he had an idea that Duncan had known exactly what they would find, and took pleasure from the embarrassment it had caused. Certainly it could only strengthen the governor’s hand in whatever game he was playing, and he held all of the half-decent cards already.
‘So far as the ship’s discipline is concerned, I am sure you will take whatever measures are necessary,’ he addressed Nathan smoothly. ‘I am more concerned with what measures you propose to take with regards to the French. Or perhaps you have yet to consider the matter.’
‘I have thought of little else since leaving the Mediterranean,’ Nathan assured him, with scant regard to the truth. But whatever else had been on his mind, the means of stopping the French advancing to India by sea appeared so obvious as to require very little deliberation. ‘If Bonaparte is to support his friends in India, he must open up a line of supply from Suez – down the Red Sea and then across the Arabian Sea to the west coast of India. In fact, we know that one of his principle agents – a man called Xavier Naudé – was despatched to Suez for this very purpose at about the same time as I was sent to India.’
He was interrupted in this exposition by the timely arrival of a young officer with the charts he had requested. He found the one he wanted and spread it on the table for the governor’s inspection. ‘The only way the French can reach India is through the Gate of Grief,’ he explained, pointing to the narrow strait at the southern end of the Red Sea, between Aden and the Horn of Africa. The Bab-el-Mandeb, the Arabs called it – the Gate of Grief or the Gate of Tears – possibly because of the number of vessels that have been lost there, for it was notoriously difficult to navigate.
‘As you can see, it is only twenty miles wide,’ Nathan continued, ‘and it is divided by an island – Perim Island, here, forming two distinct channels. If we were to station the squadron at the southern end of the strait, just south of Perim Island, I am confident we could stop even a single French vessel from entering the Arabian Sea.’
‘So you are proposing a blockade?’
‘I am. The French have no ships of war available to them at Suez. It would be impossible for them to force a passage. With even a small squadron we could bottle them up in the Red Sea.’
‘And what about the Île de France?’
‘The Île de France?’ Nathan frowned.
The governor stabbed a finger on the map. ‘Here, to the east of Madagascar.’
Nathan knew where it was. He was at a loss to know what it had to do with stopping the passage of French troops from Egypt.
‘You are aware that the French have a garrison there,’ Duncan persisted, ‘and a squadron of frigates?’
‘I am aware that it is a French base. I was not aware that they had any significant naval forces there, beside a few privateers. And it is a long way from Suez – or Bombay.’
‘I don’t care how far it is. It is on the direct route from the Cape. The route taken by our trading ships between England and India.’
‘I appreciate that this may be a problem for you.’ Nathan conceded, ‘but I would suggest that it is not as great a problem as the danger of a French advance from Egypt. My instructions are very clear in that respect. If you are suggesting an expedition against the Île de France …’
‘What I am suggesting is that the French may have other means of aiding Tipu Sahib than by way of the Bab-el-Mandeb, or any other Bab you care to name.’
Nathan struggled to keep his voice even. ‘You think they plan to support him from the Île de France?’
‘I do. Indeed, I have precise knowledge of it. The governor of the Île de France is a man called General Malartic – or, to give him his full name, Anne-Joseph-Hippolyte de Maurés, Comte de Malartic. General M’larky, I call him. I expect he has dropped the title since the Revolution but he is one of the old guard. Professional soldier under the old regime. Gardes Françaises. He has a large naval squadron at his disposal – privateers, admittedly, but quite big ones – up to thirty-six guns, from what I have been told.
‘According to our intelligence, in January of this year one of these corsairs – the frigate La Preneuse – picked up two of Tipu’s envoys in Mangalore and took them back to the Île de France for talks. Shortly after their arrival, M’larky posted notices across the island calling for volunteers to go to the aid of Tipu the Tiger – Pasha Tipu the Victorious, he called him – against the aggressions of the British East India Company. Impudent rogue. There was, I am told, an enthusiastic response. They have been formed into a legion under the command of a cove called Louis August Chappuis – Colonel Chappuis – and are ready to leave as soon as conditions are thought to be right.’
Nathan studied the map to give himself time to think. This was as bad as anything he had feared. The Île de France was in the bottom corner of the map, about as far away from Bombay as Bonaparte was – further, in fact, but in the opposite direction.
‘I understand your concern,’ he began carefully, ‘and I confess that I am not as informed as Your Excellency regarding the Île de France. However, I doubt very much if the entire garrison is much more than a thousand troops.’
‘One thousand, two hundred.’
‘One thousand, two hundred,’ Nathan conceded this estimate with a polite nod. ‘Whereas Bonaparte has over forty thousand in Egypt, with heavy artillery and a formidable amount of military equipment.’
‘But no ships.’
‘No ships of war. However, there are plenty of merchant vessels in the region which he can utilise as troopships. And if we were to divert our own naval forces to the Île de France at such a time—’
‘As I have said, I am not proposing to divert a single ship to the Île de France.’
‘Then – forgive me – but what are you proposing?’
‘That we intercept them off the Malabar Coast.’
‘But with no precise knowledge of where they are to land …’
‘We know precisely where they are to land. Our intelligence is first rate. They are to land here – at Mangalore.’
The bony finger stabbed once more at the map. Mangalore. On the Malabar Coast. Six hundred miles south of Bombay. Even if the governor’s intelligence was correct, and the winds were in Nathan’s favour, it woul
d take him the best part of a week to sail there – and how long would he have to wait, off a hostile shore, for this phantom squadron to arrive? If it ever did. He opened his mouth to point this out.
‘Mangalore is a hundred and fifty miles from Seringapatam, where the Tiger has his lair,’ Duncan continued. ‘General M’larky has promised to send help before the advent of the north-east monsoon. Which gives you two weeks at most. I suggest you had better get started.’
Chapter Twelve
The Happy Ship
‘I know that you will think me a hypocrite,’ Nathan began, ignoring Tully’s mild expression of protest, ‘but I am not at all relaxed about having women at sea. And if I am perfectly honest, I do not like having them in port, either.’
‘Well, they are all gone now,’ Tully replied soothingly.
‘And the monkey and the parrot?’
‘All gone.’
Nathan sighed. It had been a fraught day. He stretched his long legs under the table and looked about him. The great cabin had been restored to a condition resembling what you might expect of a ship of war: all polished wood and gleaming brass, though there was a persistent hint of perfume in the air, even with the stern windows open to the fresh sea breeze. But it was a cabin Nathan might come to like, even love. He particularly liked the two galleries at the stern and starboard quarter which permitted him to walk up and down in perfect seclusion in the open air just a few feet above the sea. He could even pee into it, if he wished. Though there was a perfectly comfortable privy for his exclusive use. The fifty-gun ship might have its drawbacks but it provided excellent accommodation for a flag-officer, which was presumably why it was so often used for showing the flag. You could entertain fifty or sixty guests quite easily in a cabin like this.
There were other considerations, however.
The surface of the table was almost entirely covered with the ship’s books and whatever other documents the purser had considered pertinent to Nathan’s enquiries. He had spent the best part of the day going through them. On paper, at least, the ship seemed to be in excellent order. She had recently undergone a complete refit at the shipyard in Surat. Her hanging knees, her rudder, and much of her copper sheathing had been renewed. Several suspect strakes had been removed and replaced with new ones. She had been supplied with a new foretop and bowsprit and many square yards of pristine canvas. In addition, her rigging had been given a thorough overhaul and she had received several coats of paint – though in rather more lurid colours than Nathan would have preferred. She was, according to the carpenter, Mr Pugsley, as good as when she had left the Adams Yard in Hampshire, as long ago as 1778. ‘Probably better,’ he had added, for Mr Pugsley was a Devon man.
