by Seth Hunter
‘Well, he has been my commanding officer, sir, for some considerable time.’
‘Yes. I suppose that is true. You are not yourself a follower of this Zoro fellow?’
‘No, sir. I am a practising member of the Church of England, sir.’
Which was more than Nathan was. He feared he was lapsing into hypocrisy. Even so.
‘Well, it is one thing to be a scholar of ancient religions –’ he began. He paused as Tully stood up and left the room, his gait uncertain.
Nathan took a moment to compose himself. ‘But it is quite another to go off on some pilgrimage to a pagan shrine when on active service, and to take a pinnace and twelve men with you.’
‘I know, sir. But what was I to do, sir? I did attempt to remonstrate with him. But he said he would be back within two or three days, sir.’
‘Did he? And when did you say he left?’
‘Four days ago, sir.’
‘Well, as I say, if he is not back by noon tomorrow, we are leaving without him.’
‘Yes, sir. I am sure he will be back, sir.’
‘Otherwise, Troy, you will assume the role of first lieutenant. Which you have been performing very commend ably, it seems to me, in the meantime.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’ Troy looked perfectly miserable at the prospect.
‘That is all, Mr Troy. Oh, except that I wish the ship to be restored to its original name – the Hannibal.’
Troy paused in his retreat towards the door. ‘Sir?’
‘The Hannibal. That was its name, you know, when it was in the British service. Perhaps you would be good enough to have the name Pondicherry painted over, and the name Hannibal inserted in its place.’
Troy appeared to be struggling for an appropriate response. Finally, he spoke. It was, however, far from appropriate. ‘But – I am sorry, sir – but is that wise?’
‘Is it wise? What can you mean, sir?’ This time Nathan did not have to act the Old Jarvey.
‘I am sorry, sir,’ Troy said again. ‘But many of the ship’s company are attached to the present name. It is by way of being a unifying influence, sir. Given that many of them are not British, or subjects of King George. Their loyalty has been very much to the ship, sir.’
‘Are you telling me that they will cease to be loyal if the ship’s name is changed back to what it was when she was launched – and in the British service?’
‘No, sir, but – it – it may cause some – some agitation, sir. They may think it is bad luck. I know that things are not quite as you would have ordered them, sir, and there are certain irregularities, but it has been a very happy ship, sir.’
Nathan sat back. His expression remained stern, but he realised with surprise that it was a happy ship. There was something cheerful about it. Cheerful, or lackadaisical? But he could not fault the discipline, not at present at least.
‘Very well, Mr Troy. There may be something in what you say. We will leave things as they are for the present. I will wait to see just how happy a ship she is when we are at sea. And how efficient.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Troy beamed. It transformed his somewhat pinched and anxious features and made him appear about twelve years old. ‘You will not be disappointed, sir.’
‘I am disappointed already,’ Nathan confided when the lieutenant had gone and Tully, apparently sober and once more in control of his emotions, had taken his place. ‘I had been quite hopeful about Hannibal. There is something much more … warlike about it, much more manly. Like the figurehead.’ The ship’s figurehead was of a bearded and helmeted warrior. ‘The Pondicherry does very little for me, I am afraid. And as for the Cherry …’ he shook his head. ‘What sort of a name is that for a ship of war? And what are we to call the crew?’
‘I am not sure I understand,’ Tully confessed.
‘You understand very well,’ Nathan corrected him sternly. The crew of a ship were invariably known by the name of that ship, in its plural form. Hence the Swiftsures and the Unicorns. ‘I cannot speak for others, but personally I would be loath to lead a boarding party onto the deck of an enemy with the cry, “Follow me, Cherries!” Or am I being unduly sensitive?’
‘No, but then I would be as loath to refer to them as Hannibals,’ Tully assured him. ‘And I feel sure the captain of the Fly admits to a similar inhibition. Personally, I would revert to the simple, “Follow me, men”, but in the passion of the moment who knows what I might utter.’
Nathan reflected on this for a moment as various alternatives occurred to him. ‘But seriously,’ he resumed, ‘what do you make of this Zoroastrian business?’
‘I cannot say I would lose any sleep over it,’ Tully shrugged, ‘provided he puts the requirements of the service before those of his religion, like most members of the Church of England.’
‘Yes, but the signs are not good in that respect.’
‘I suppose we will have to wait until we have met the man, before we make any judgement against him.’
‘If we ever do meet him,’ Nathan replied caustically. ‘I mean it, you know. I will not delay our departure for him.’
‘Of course not. I can take over as first lieutenant if necessary. I am senior to Troy by about three months, apparently. Provided you wish it, of course.’
‘And what if I do not wish it?’ Tully looked at him in surprise. ‘What if I wish you to be captain?’
The smile froze. ‘Can you do that?’
‘Of course I can. I am a commodore. I can do anything. We do not have a captain and you are the most senior officer present, apart from myself. You have been a commander. You are entirely competent. You have no unnatural vices. Besides those I am acquainted with. And you are a member of the Church of England, are you not?’
Tully did not deny it. ‘And you do not wish to be captain yourself?’
‘I could never bring myself to captain a ship called the Cherry,’ Nathan assured him. ‘If it were restored to the Hannibal I might consider it.’
‘But you could insist. You are a commodore. You can do anything.’
‘Then I am making you captain, and that is all there is to it.’
‘Well, thank you. I will do my best not to disappoint you. But what if Mr Joyce comes back? He is senior to me by several years.’
‘Makes no difference. It is my decision. Subject to the approval of the governor, of course. But I cannot see that he will make any objection. I do not think Mr Joyce is a favourite of his.’
‘No. So. Very well.’ It was hard to tell if he was pleased or not. Nathan thought he probably was. ‘And you wish the ship to be ready to sail by the first bell in the afternoon watch.’
‘I do.’
And so it was. The last of the provisions were taken aboard some two hours before this, but Nathan waited until the sun was exactly overhead before he gave the order to weigh anchor.
Slowly, but with commendable style, aided by a light north-easterly wind and in brilliant sunlight, the squadron threaded its way through the pattern of islands, past Bombay Castle, and out into the deep water channel leading to the open sea. From the unfamiliar vantage of the poop deck, Nathan looked back at the rest of the squadron – his squadron – led by the frigate Bombay, stretching back in a long line towards Parel Island and the watchful eye of the governor.
Nathan had taken leave of him at nine in the morning after confirming the appointment of Tully as captain and receiving his sealed and written orders, which were not to be opened until they had cleared the 18th parallel. Nathan was slightly suspicious of this precaution, but it failed to diminish the enormous sense of pride and pleasure he experienced as the squadron headed out into the open sea. He felt that not only the governor but also the entire population of Bombay, all 60,000 of them, had taken time off to watch their departure – seven men-of-war, under a full press of sail, led by the Pondicherry, the blue ensign of Admiral Nelson at her stern and the broad pennant of a commodore at her mizzen.
They were almost abreast of the lighthouse
on Old Woman’s Island when a small boat was sighted on the starboard bow, under oars.
It was the missing pinnace and unless Nathan was very much mistaken, the figure standing up in the stern and frantically waving his hat was the missing first lieutenant and Zoroastrian, Mr William Joyce.
Chapter Thirteen
The Malabar Patrol
‘What the Devil is going on? Are we at war or something? Have the French landed?’
The lieutenant glared about him as if they were lurking aboard his ship, but he must surely have noticed the commodore’s pennant flying from the mizzen, and his eyes flew uneasily to the quarterdeck where Nathan now stood watching him, with Tully and the other officers at his side. Joyce was a great bull of a man with a bellow to match. Almost as tall as Nathan but much broader in the girth and at the shoulder. He would have made a fine wrestler or prize fighter and he was clearly as popular with the crew as any Mendoza. There had been a spontaneous cheer from them when the cutter was first sighted and though they had been swiftly restored to order by Troy and the petty officers, it left Nathan in no doubt of the esteem in which the first lieutenant was held.
The Pondicherry had backed her sails to allow the boat to come alongside, and the rest of the squadron was obliged to follow suit so that Nathan had the ludicrous impression that the world was holding its breath for Joyce to make his entrance. And Joyce milked it for all it was worth.
His first gesture upon stepping aboard had been to doff his hat and bow to his supporters. It could not be called the customary salute to the quarterdeck by any means. Then came the bellow and the glare, and Nathan braced himself for conflict. Joyce was the heavier by a good two or three stone but he carried a fair bit of that about the waist and he would tire more easily. Keep your distance, Nathan thought, and dance round him, hit him a good few blows to the face and then, when he is losing it, in at the belly hard and fast and dancing away before he can grab you.
Remarkable. That it should even cross his mind for an instant. Officers in His Britannic Majesty’s Navy did not conduct themselves like prize fighters. Or wrestlers. Their contests were much more refined, and far more deadly.
Troy was down there talking to him quietly, presumably informing him of recent developments and conveying the commodore’s instructions to wait upon him in the great cabin. Joyce squared his massive shoulders and touched his hand to his hat, but the look that accompanied this gesture might be thought challenging. The diminutive figure who had appeared at his side must be Mrs Joyce. She wore Indian dress, with a scarf covering her hair and most of her features. An added complication, but it must be dealt with – and soon. The pilot cutter was about to leave and as far as Nathan was concerned, Mrs Joyce would be aboard it.
The rest of the absentees came aboard more warily than their leader, looking questioningly at their shipmates. Nathan turned away and strode through the door into what had once been the lieutenant’s seraglio, Tully at his heels. Let battle commence.
‘If it will help matters …’ Tully began as they entered the cabin.
Nathan shook his head sternly. He had not a moment’s regret for his appointment of Tully, but now he had taken the measure of the man he had replaced, and been given an indication of his popularity with the crew, he could not help wishing that they had left an hour or so earlier. He would have sacrificed the pinnace and all twelve men to avoid the present confrontation; not that he feared confrontation, but the last thing he wanted was to give the crew the impression that there was a serious division between their officers.
When Joyce entered the cabin, however, there was a very obvious change of mood. He appeared contrite, even sheepish. He was very sorry, he said, not to have been here when the commodore came aboard, but he trusted everything was in order – his eyes flitted from Nathan to Tully and then about the cabin as if he was looking for something he had left behind, or, more likely, wondering where it had all gone.
‘And I was sorry to learn of your absence,’ Nathan told him evenly. ‘But now you are here, let me introduce you to Captain Tully, who is your new commanding officer. I trust the rudder braces made the journey worthwhile,’ he added, with a hint of irony, as he saw the officer struggling to come to terms with this intelligence.
‘Ah, well, as to that …’ They had not got so far as Surat, the lieutenant explained, having taken longer on the journey than he had anticipated. With the wind remaining steadily against them, he had decided to return prematurely to Bombay.
Nathan listened to this explanation in a patient but discouraging silence. Joyce was an Irishman, a Dubliner, in fact, with all the easy charm of that race, but he must have been aware that it was having little effect on his present audience. Nathan had been concerned that Joyce would demand to see Nelson’s order, and even challenge its author ity, but either he did not think of it or Nathan’s remark about the rudder braces entirely took the wind out of his sails.
‘Well, I am glad that you were able to join us before we sailed off without you,’ Nathan assured him insincerely. ‘It would have been a great loss.’ But as he felt more in command of the situation, he experienced a corresponding need to put Joyce more at his ease and to leave the subject of fire temples for another occasion. ‘As you may have gathered, we are embarking upon a cruise down the coast of Malabar,’ he informed him. ‘I regret that we will have to wait until we pass the 18th parallel before I am at liberty to reveal the governor’s orders in their entirety, but I can tell you that we will be absent for some weeks.’ He allowed a small pause for the lieutenant to take this in before he lobbed the next bombshell. ‘So I expect that you will wish to take your leave of Mrs Joyce before she is set ashore. Her ladies, she will find, have already preceded her – with all their belongings.’
He observed the flush spreading from the lieutenant’s bulging neck, though whether of anger or embarrassment it was impossible to judge. Probably a degree of both. ‘She may avail herself of the pilot cutter, which I am assured will be ready to leave in a few minutes.’
Joyce opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and finally settled for a curt gesture that was something between a bow and a nod before taking his leave.
Nathan came out on the quarterdeck to make sure that Mrs Joyce did not miss the boat. He found the couple locked in a passionate embrace. Mrs Joyce was weeping. So, too, was Mr Joyce. This was distressing but not unusual. Most men of Nathan’s acquaintance wept on occa sion, even when parting from their wives. What was the more surprising was that so many of the crew were weep ing. Mrs Joyce was clearly as well-liked as her husband.
Nathan felt uncomfortably like Captain Bligh when he dragged the wretched Mr Christian from his Polynesian lovely. When he had first read of this incident – and viewed the dramatic illustration that accompanied it – his sympathies had been mostly with the master’s mate. But he had not been a commanding officer then. Now he assumed as stern a visage as any despot, hands clasped firmly behind his back, as the pilot cutter headed back to Bombay with the diminutive figure waving, and doubtless still weeping, at the stern.
Lightning and heavy clouds, but without rain … Nathan reviewed his first entry in the commodore’s log and found it wanting. The words had been written without much thought to posterity – or, indeed, any thought at all – and as he viewed this single line on the otherwise pristine page, he wondered if he might not have contrived something a little more heroic, portentous, even, to mark the start of his first voyage as a flag officer. As portentous, perhaps, as the dark thunder clouds and the violent flashes of lightning which continued to track them along the western horizon and provided an epic backdrop to the progress of the seven men-of-war as they rode on the back of the brisk north-easterly down the Malabar coast.
‘Lightning and heavy clouds but without rain’ did not really cut the mustard so far as posterity was concerned. Certainly it fell far short of Homer. But he could hardly write what was truly on his mind, for Nathan was a seriously worried man.
What if
they sailed all the way to Mangalore and all the way back without encountering a single Frenchman? How would that look in his journal or – more worryingly – in the report he would have to write to their lordships of the Admiralty? Especially if Bonaparte took the opportunity afforded by his absence, and the prevailing winds, to send a large part of his army across the Arabian Sea and land them on the unguarded shores of India.
It was all very well to talk of Mangalore being the obvious place for a French landing, but it was only obvious – a word Nathan distrusted on principle – if the French were intent on sending troops and supplies to the Sultan of Mysore. What if they made straight for Bombay, the commercial hub of the East India Company, with nothing to defend it but a garrison of 1,500 troops and a 12-gun brig – the little Fly being the only vessel they had left behind?
But it was too late to do anything about it now, except fret. And indeed, there was little else to occupy his mind. Tully and Joyce ran a tight ship between them, and with an apparent minimum of effort. Lightning and heavy clouds, but without rain. This summation might as well have been applied to the first lieutenant as to the weather. A massive, brooding presence on the quarterdeck, he was clearly nursing a grievance, and there was the occasional flash of something in the eye that threatened to erupt into violence, but in public, at least, he kept himself under a tight rein. And you could not fault him as an officer. He was easy in his manner, at least in so far as the junior officers and the crew were concerned, and confident in his authority. It must have helped, of course, that his voice carried effortlessly from one end of the deck to the other and that he looked as if he could pick up a man with one hand and break him in half – but, happily, he was never obliged to perform such a feat. The crew went about their business with admirable efficiency and no apparent need of instruction. There was no call for the boatswain’s mates to chivvy them into action or resort to their starters – in fact, the absence of the notorious knotted rope was another point in the lieutenant’s favour so far as Nathan was concerned. It was undoubtedly an advantage that so many of the crew were trained seamen, of course. Danish, French or British, there was scarcely a landman among them. They could hand, reef and steer as well as any crew Nathan had ever commanded, and a good deal better than some. They had weighed anchor, set sail, and led the squadron through the tortuous maze of islands and shoals that comprised Bombay harbour with admirable composure – and the Pondicherry was not an easy ship to handle, by any means. For all her airs and graces, she was a damned awkward brute, even in a moderate wind.
