The Spoils of Conquest

by Seth Hunter

  ‘Signal Bombay,’ Nathan instructed Mr Blunt, ‘and request the commodore’s attendance aboard the flagship as soon as it might be convenient.’

  ‘It is impossible,’ declared Picket, when Nathan had told him as much of Caterina’s story as he deemed suitable. ‘How could they have known?’

  ‘Did you know?’

  ‘Me? A silver shipment? Only a very small number of people would have known of it, in London and in Calcutta.’

  ‘And this ship – the Shiva – which is to meet them at Devil’s Point?’

  ‘She is an old East Indiaman,’ said Picket thoughtfully. ‘Built in Deptford in the late sixties. Her original name was the Gabriel but she was sold into the country trade, and for some reason her new owners renamed her the Shiva – after the Hindu goddess of destruction,’ he added disapprovingly.

  They could call her the Devil’s Whore for all Nathan cared. ‘The country trade?’ he enquired. It struck a vague chord but he was damned if he could remember why. Something Duncan had said?

  ‘It is what we call the traders that are permitted under licence of the company’s monopoly. But it is also a name we use for smugglers – an aphorism, you might say. Like the freetraders and the moonrakers of the English Channel. One who is “engaged in the country trade”. The practitioners are mainly British, or Persian. But I am not sure who owns the Shiva.’

  ‘But she does have fifty guns?’

  ‘Possibly, but not heavy guns. Twelve pounders for the most part – maybe half a dozen 18-pounders on the lower deck, more for ballast than anything.’

  This was not what Nathan would call ballast. ‘Is it usual for ships to be so heavily armed,’ he enquired, ‘in the “country trade”?’

  ‘I believe her trade is mostly with China, through the Strait of Malacca, which is heavily infested with pirates – as are all the China Seas.’

  ‘And she has a French crew?’

  ‘I think they are mainly Lascars and Malays – and some Chinese. Perhaps some of the officers are French.’

  He was beginning to look rather worried, Nathan thought.

  ‘So you think we should take this threat seriously, or not?’

  Picket shook his head. ‘It is very hard to say. But if there is a shipment of this nature, and we have had intelligence that the French plan to intercept it … well, I would not care to report to the Governor of Bombay that we failed to act upon it.’

  Nor would Nathan.

  ‘It really rather depends on how much you trust your informant,’ continued Picket bluntly. He had met Caterina, still in her sailor suit, and had appeared to be impressed. But then this was her usual effect on men.

  ‘Plucky young woman,’ Picket had said. ‘Very sharp, lots of bottom.’

  ‘I trust she is in good faith,’ Nathan responded guardedly. ‘And that she has reported accurately what she heard, or thought she heard. But they know she is a British spy, or was, and there is the possibility that the information was fed to her deliberately.’

  ‘In the expectation that she would jump overboard – in a gathering storm – and swim to the nearest British ship of war?’

  ‘There is that.’

  ‘Well, it is your decision,’ Picket declared, in his usual supportive fashion, ‘but, at the very least, it will give us an opportunity to catch up with these scoundrels and pay them back for what they did to poor Cutler and the Comet – and the Bombay off Mangalore.’

  Picket had lost eight men in the encounter off Mangalore, and his sick bay was still crowded with the wounded.

  ‘But what if it is a ruse de guerre,’ Nathan put to him, ‘and the French plan to bring troops from Egypt while we are far to the south?’

  ‘Good God, man, we are far enough to the south already,’ Picket retorted.

  This was true, and it was hard to resist the opportunity of surprising the French at their rendezvous and serving them as they had the Comet.

  ‘Very well.’ Nathan came to a decision. ‘Then let us set a course for Devil’s Point.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Devil’s Point

  ‘I do not for a moment believe that anyone would accuse you of being shy when it comes to a fight,’ Tully assured Nathan over breakfast in the captain’s cabin. ‘And if anyone did, and I was made aware of it, I would have them flogged to within an inch of their lives.’

  Nathan regarded his friend sceptically. ‘Have you ever had a man flogged, Martin?’

  ‘No, but I can only be pushed so far.’

  They were discussing the crew’s opinion of Nathan’s conduct in breaking off his pursuit of the Forte in order to pluck a half-naked nun from the sea.

  ‘Well, I am sure they are saying something disparaging about me,’ said Nathan, ‘for I have observed it in their manner.’

  ‘You have been exposed to insolence? Disrespect?’ Tully reached for the coffee pot and found it empty. He raised his voice for his steward: ‘Arnaud. Arnaud there.’ Tully, too, had a French steward, but a rather more obliging one than De Fournier.

  ‘I will not say insolence,’ Nathan allowed. ‘I will only say I have seen looks exchanged, particularly by certain of the junior officers.’

  ‘Looks? What kind of looks?’

  ‘Knowing looks. Smirking looks.’

  ‘Ah. Well, you know why that is.’

  ‘What do you mean, “Ah”? Said with that – knowing look. That is exactly what I mean.’

  ‘I have said to you before, Nathan, and with the greatest respect, that you are sometimes a little too concerned with the opinion of those under your command. You can do as you like. You are the commodore.’

  The steward came in with more coffee and toast and the discussion was suspended until he had departed with the empty pot.

  ‘So what are they saying about me?’ Nathan resumed, when he had gone, buttering his toast with a great air of indifference.

  Tully sighed. ‘It is really of no consequence, you know.’

  ‘I do not know. That is why I am asking you. I am – as you have pointed out – the commodore. I am as removed from common intercourse as the Pope in Rome. That is why I rely upon my friends to inform me.’

  ‘Very well. It has not been said to my face, but I believe that there is an opinion, shared by some, that you do not practise what you preach.’

  ‘I have never preached in my life,’ Nathan affirmed. ‘Save when I am obliged to do so at Sunday divisions by the exigencies of my office, and even then I confine myself to generalities – one might almost say banalities.’ Nathan had an aversion to preaching, derived from his sufferings as a child under the brutal regime of the Reverend Judd of Alfriston, who had been known to draw out his sermons for an hour or more. ‘What am I supposed to have preached and not practised?’

  ‘Abstinence. From the desires of the flesh.’

  ‘What? Do not be ridiculous.’

  ‘“The women of my people have ye cast out from their pleasant houses – from their children have ye taken away my glory forever.”’

  ‘Good God! Who said that? I did not say that.’ His brow furrowed in suspicion. ‘Is this Mr Joyce?’

  ‘No. It is the Prophet Micah, as a matter of fact, from the Book of Micah, Chapter Two, Verse Nine. But I will admit that it was Mr Joyce who drew my attention to it.’

  ‘The mutinous dog! What is the Book of Micah? How dare he bring the Book of Micah aboard a Christian vessel.’

  ‘The Book of Micah is in the Bible, I believe, albeit the Old Testament. The Prophet Micah being one of the minor prophets of the Jews and a contemporary of the Prophet Isaiah.’

  Nathan regarded him with suspicion, for Tully was no more inclined to the study of the Bible than he was.

  ‘I thought Mr Joyce was a follower of the Prophet Zoroaster.’

  ‘He is. But he maintains that this does not prohibit him from reading the Bible and drawing such solace from it as he may.’

  ‘I see. So, I take it that this is a reference to my casting out of his
women from my house – such as it is. And that the suggestion that I do not practise what I preach is a reference to the fact that it is now occupied by a deputy prioress of the Church of Rome?’

  Tully smiled. ‘This may possibly have been what he had in mind, yes.’

  ‘Where was I supposed to put the bloody woman if not in my cabin? I could hardly stick her in the orlop deck. Or would you rather I had turfed you out of your quarters? Or Mr Joyce from his?’

  ‘I have no opinion on the subject, I have merely told you what it was you wished to know.’

  ‘And you let this – seditious libel – pass without rebuke?’ Tully made a noise very like a snort. ‘You consider it amusing?’

  ‘I do think it was quite droll, yes. At least I did at the time. I thought you would, too, as a matter of fact, else I would not have mentioned it. Come now, you cannot possibly take it seriously.’

  Nathan considered. ‘Well, I would not take it quite so seriously if I thought Mr Joyce had the slightest degree of respect for me. As it is—’

  ‘Oh but Mr Joyce has the greatest respect for you.’ Tully seemed genuinely concerned.

  ‘Does he? Good God, why?’ He observed Tully’s expression. ‘I do not believe you.’

  ‘He said, in my hearing, that he was honoured to serve under the son of Lady Catherine Peake.’

  ‘My mother?’ Nathan was stunned. ‘What has my mother to do with anything? He has never met my mother.’

  ‘He has, as a matter of fact. In London.’

  ‘Oh my God! You are not saying –’ Nathan had gone a little pale. ‘He has never had … ?’

  ‘Of course he has not. He is far too young.’

  ‘I hope you will never say that in my mother’s presence. Besides, he must be all of thirty. My mother would consider that positively senile. Joyce? Joyce?’ He frowned. ‘Oh my God, there was a Joyce. I remember. Not that I ever met him but … And he was a Dubliner.’

  ‘It was not Mr Joyce.’

  ‘I am sure his name was Joyce and that—’

  ‘It was his brother.’

  ‘His brother?’

  ‘His elder brother. When you were a schoolboy at Charterhouse.’

  Nathan journeyed back in his mind to this distant period of his life, just before he had joined the Navy. He had been a boarder at Charterhouse but he had spent a fair bit of time at his mother’s house in St James’s, when she first set herself up in opposition to King George and was busy filling it with all manner of dissidents and Republicans.

  Joyce, Joyce … ? A number of likely candidates flitted before his eyes, all young men of a certain age and temperament. Then he had him. Neil Joyce? Noel Joyce? Some Joyce at any rate. A tall, lean, gangling fellow with red hair and a garrulous manner. An associate of John Wilkes and Charles James Fox and other so-called Friends of Liberty, who called the rebel army in America ‘our army’ and ostentatiously celebrated its victories over the redcoats. Nathan groaned aloud and held his head in his hands. Why did his mother do this to him? He had no recollection of seeing an even younger Joyce about the house, nor could he remember his mother having mentioned such a creature, but then there was no reason why she should have. Nathan had made it very clear to his mother at an early age that the less he knew of her liaisons the better, though at the time she always referred to them publicly as her protégés.

  ‘Well, she certainly made a great impression upon him,’ Tully reported. ‘He was lavish in his praises. Wise, witty, beautiful, bewitching …’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Nathan sighed. ‘You told him, I hope, that we have nothing at all in common.’

  ‘I would not be so ill-mannered. I have oft heard it remarked that you have an excellent profile, and as to wit—’

  ‘I mean in terms of our political views.’

  ‘I said you had a great deal of affection for your mother and had been a staunch support in her hour of need.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Well, it is true, you know.’

  ‘But you know what I think of my mother.’

  ‘I know what you say about her. I also know you have devoted a considerable amount of effort and resources to ensuring her continuing comfort and wellbeing.’

  ‘I have done what any son would do to avoid the embarrassment of having a mother detained at the King’s pleasure.’

  ‘Be that as it may, Mr Joyce regards Lady Catherine as one of the most virtuous women he has ever met.’

  ‘Good God, man, she was sleeping with his brother. What does he mean, virtuous?’

  ‘Possibly in the French meaning of the word, of having a deep sense of public duty.’

  ‘Absurd. However, I have nothing more to say on the subject of my mother. I have said enough already. But I do not consider it respectful in Mr Joyce to be quoting the Prophet Micah at me and accusing me of being a hypocrite. I hope you assured him that my relations with Caterina – Sister Caterina – are entirely virtuous – in the true, English meaning of the word and none of your French bollocks.’

  ‘I did no such thing. I have no idea what your relations with Sister Caterina are. Nor do I wish to. They are entirely your own concern.’

  ‘Well, I can assure you, as your friend and commodore, that there has been no impropriety between us. None whatsoever.’

  He relapsed into a brooding silence. His relations with Sister Caterina had required considerable steadfastness on his part, and he believed he deserved some credit for this. He had spent two nights now in close consort with her, their adjoining cabins separated by only the thinnest of partitions. He could hear every movement she made, every sigh, every murmur she made in her sleep. Or if he could not, he could imagine them. Virtuous he may have been – a true English gentleman – at least in so far as his actions went, but his thoughts had been entirely French.

  If the voyage lasted much longer, he was not sure how he would cope. Yet there was no end in prospect. They had been driven far to the south-west by the storm and now faced a long, hard tack across the Laccadive Sea towards Devil’s Point on the distant coast of Ceylon. Further, the wind that had so whipped and harried them had died to a warm caress – all Nathan’s analogies, it seemed, were now of a sexual nature – and for long periods they had lain practically becalmed. They sweltered under a burning sky the long day through, and the nights brought scant relief; certainly not for Nathan, writhing in his cot, wondering if his tormentor desired him as much as he desired her. He had only to cross a few feet of cabin to find out. But to do so would be to declare himself as much a hypocrite as Mr Joyce and most of the crew clearly considered him to be. The kind of commander he despised, who had one rule for the officers and crew, and another for himself. Not that he had ever said anything, let alone preached it, that was in any way supportive of abstinence. The sins of the flesh, indeed. He left that kind of thing to the Reverend Judd and his like. But he had made it plain that he did not approve of women aboard a ship of war and now most of the crew thought he was having sex in his cabin with a nun of the Church of Rome. He could have wept. Especially as he wasn’t.

  On the other hand – a small subversive voice whispered in his ear – if they believe it anyway …

  He could not stop thinking about her. It was like the rustling of silk in his ear. And the thoughts in his head … He invited Joyce and several of his fellow officers for dinner, if only to avoid dining alone with Sister Caterina. But he was overly conscious of her presence. He felt her eyes on him throughout the meal. Once he inadvertently touched her hand when they both reached for the salt, and a shiver passed through him. He was dreading the night ahead. Or, to put it another way, he was torn between apprehension and desire.

  He need not have worried. The sea had its own agenda.

  He was walking his special preserve on the poop deck, in solitary splendour but disturbingly aware of Caterina’s presence immediately below his feet. She had gone for a ‘lie-down’, she said, after dinner and she had given him a look that was very little short of an invitation. He was
also aware that he had only to glance through the skylight to catch a glimpse of her. He stared resolutely out to sea and whistled for a wind. They were still over a hundred nautical miles from the rendezvous at Devil’s Point with no prospect under the present conditions of reaching it in anything much under two days. Two more days of torture.

  But then from the lookout in the maintop came the shout of ‘Sail ho! Three points on the starboard bow.’

  And within moments, the sound of gunfire came rolling towards them across the lethargic sea.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Shiva the Destroyer

  The lookout had been mistaken: there were two ships, not one. But so close together, it was as if they were joined at the hip. They were running northward, about as close to the wind as it would allow, and pounding each other with their broadsides so fiercely it was like one continuous roll of thunder.

  Nathan ran up to the maintop for a better view through his glass. The nearer of them was a two-decker of 1,000 tons or more – and he could just pick out the striped ensign of the Honourable Company at the stern. The other, being to leeward, was masked both by her opponent and by the smoke from the guns, but she looked much the same size, and although Nathan could not see her colours, it was reasonable to assume she was French.

  When he slid back down to the deck, Tully had cleared the ship for action and the drummer was beating to quarters. There was a rush of feet and a rumbling of iron wheels as the guns were run out. Powder monkeys were scurrying up from below with cartridges and powder barrels and the redcoats were climbing into the tops with their muskets and their grenades. Everyone but Nathan, it seemed, had something to do. In the absence of more useful employment, he sought out his steward and instructed him to store Sister Caterina in the orlop deck, well below the waterline, with the furniture and other breakables. He considered taking a moment to pass on a word of reassurance, but decided against it, not wishing to appear anxious. He could rely on De Fournier to make sure she was kept out of harm’s way, he thought, in as much as was possible on a ship of war. If a spark reached the magazine she was done for, but then so were they all.