‘Tell me, Nelson, what do you think of this exploit now?’
He had felt shame in the night when he recalled it, and he felt that now as he replied, ‘It was foolish in the extreme, sir. Seeing the animal at a distance, we had no idea of its true size.’
They had soon learned when it rose up from the ice, over eight feet tall on hind legs, with massive jaws that looked big enough to bite either of the boys in half. It was too big to be felled by one musket ball, unless they managed to wound some vital spot.
‘I read that you tried to down it with the butt of the weapon.’
‘That was after I fired, sir.’
‘And missed?’
He hadn’t been trying to hit it with the butt, just to stop the beast from leaping across a crevasse in the glacier. They couldn’t run without either he or Tom Floyd being caught. Keeping that gap between themselves and the bear, which it would have had no trouble in crossing, afforded them all the protection they had from the beast. If Skeffington hadn’t fired the signal gun to recall them, thus frightening it off, he doubted he would be here now giving this weak explanation.
‘I dislike disobedience, Nelson,’ said Farmer, looking down and tapping the desk with his fingers. ‘I hope you know that by now.’
What had happened on deck not an hour previously left no doubt about that. ‘I do, sir.’
‘And escapades of this nature will not be tolerated. Being a nephew to Captain Suckling affords you many advantages, but if you are to satisfy his desires and become a commissioned officer, you must show more self-discipline. You do yourself desire this, I take it?’ Farmer looked hard at him, as if this needed to be confirmed.
‘It is my earnest wish, sir,’ Nelson replied, not sure that he was telling the truth. What he was sure of was his fear of being sent packing, then having to face his uncle and his father.
The silence lasted several seconds, as George Farmer considered his options: to take this young man to sea with him and risk whatever trouble that might cause, or to send him back to a well-connected uncle who might take that as a personal insult. Though not tall or broad of shoulder the youngster looked fit, healthy and eager. And there was an air of guileless sincerity about him.
‘Very well,’ Farmer said finally. ‘Return to your duties. But be warned, Mr Nelson, I have my eye on you.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ he replied.
‘Come and have a look, Nelson,’ said Troubridge, hauling on Nelson’s arm to drag him towards the sick bay. The sailor who had just pushed past the pair had carried a mess kid, and the smell of the scouse, like that of beef dripping, had wafted up into his nostrils to linger with the stench of the bilge. ‘They’re dressing Mallory’s back.’
The attempt at resistance was brief, a momentary tug of war between fear and pride that lasted no more than a split second. Nelson allowed himself to be led towards the murmuring that was coming from the tiny cubicle. The canvas screen had been left open, and Mallory lay face down on a cot, a lantern beside him to illuminate his condition. Nelson felt the hot, acid bile rise in his throat as he looked at the mashed flesh. The loblolly boy was applying the scouse to the defaulter’s back. The raw flesh glowed as if it had a life of its own; a separate hellish entity that shone and flickered as Mallory took deep, painful breaths.
Suddenly he arched his back, showing the faintest trace of the exposed white bones. His jaw was as taut as a bowstring, teeth biting hard into the leather strap that had been replaced in his mouth. But Mallory was aware of his surroundings, and as his head turned in agony he spotted the two youngsters filling the doorway. Nelson was fighting to avoid retching, but he registered Troubridge’s deep interest. The most compelling image, however, was Mallory’s grin, which seemed to change from a rictus of suffering to a terrible satanic smile.
Conscience made Nelson visit the sickbay the day after the flogging, glad that Mallory’s back was now covered with a sheet. The sailor remained face down, and was still in some pain, though he had dispensed with the leather strap. His eyes, alert and suspicious, fixed on Nelson as soon as he appeared in the doorway, and watched him while he sought permission from the surgeon’s mate to enter, then moved the few feet to the table.
‘I brought you this,’ he said, holding out a straw covered flask, aware that his voice sounded nervous.
Mallory looked first at it, then at him, with little in the way of gratitude. Nelson felt the tremor in his voice even more as he continued. ‘It is brandy, which I hope will help to ease the pain.’
The pause seemed long, though it was only a few seconds. Then Mallory pushed himself on to his elbows. Balancing on one, he took the bottle with his free hand and inspected it, his eyes conveying a clear lack of faith. ‘If this be some mid’s berth joshing I’ll have your hide.’
‘What do you mean?’ Nelson was stunned by his ingratitude.
‘It ain’t beyond you lot to piss in a bottle like this and pass it on to an unsuspecting soul.’
Nelson was so shocked he spoke without thinking. ‘Would I do that after I put you in my prayers last night?’
‘Your prayers, boy? An’ just what was it you was praying for?’
Nelson blushed, well aware of what the sailor was alluding to. ‘Your full recovery to health was what I asked from God, and a remission of your sins.’
Mallory grinned and the youngster anticipated a jeer. But the sailor’s voice, though harsh, was uncritical. ‘Then you must be close to the Maker, lad, ’cause he would have told you that this is what Mallory would see as like a pardon.’ Mallory passed back the flask.
‘You don’t want it?’
‘Course I do,’ Mallory replied, moving painfully. ‘But I be in dire straits when it comes to haulin’ out that fuckin’ cork, savin’ your presence.’
The surgeon’s mate, who had been watching this exchange in silence, spoke. ‘Best leave that to me, young ’un, otherwise this no good sod will down the lot and rate himself another dose of the cat.’
Mallory’s response contained real venom. ‘You can stuff yourself, mate. If’n you get your hand on that, I’ll scarce see a drop of what’s inside.’
‘How long before you’re on your feet?’ asked Nelson, hurriedly, as he broke the wax seal.
‘Another day, an’ then it’ll be light duties for a week.’
‘We might be at sea by then.’
Mallory took the bottle, tipped his head sideways, and drank a quarter of the contents. He handed the bottle back to his benefactor. His initial anger and suspicion had evaporated in the face of plain goodwill. It was not something he had experienced much in his twenty-five years but he could recognise it when he saw it. This youngster, with his innocent expression and honest blue eyes, genuinely cared, which brought a lump to the sailor’s throat. A racking cough covered it as he spoke. ‘You care for this. It’s like to make me sleep, and as soon as I close my eyes the rest’ll vanish down the first throat that nabs it.’
Nelson wanted to say that would not be the case, yet he knew from what Judd had told him about Navy ships that it would. A small merchant crew was one thing but three hundred navy tars in a hull this size quite another. ‘Would you like me to fetch it back to you tomorrow?’
‘No, lad,’ Mallory replied, his voice friendly now. ‘I’ll be in luck to get through this commission without another kiss of the gratin’. Save it for then, eh?’
‘I do so hope that isn’t true.’
‘Get away with you boy,’ Mallory growled, forced to turn away his head lest young Nelson see the tear in his eye.
Nelson’s relationships on the ship were generally good. Many who shared the cramped accommodation of the midshipmen’s berth had been serving longer than him, one a hopeless case who would never rise above his present station. But few had put in his sea time, which gave him an authority that was impossible to overcome. Troubridge, although cursed with a choleric nature, had become his friend; he might swear more than was strictly necessary, and use harsh words where soft ones w
ould have served, but he was kindly underneath, and had endeared himself to his new messmate by the way he had stood up for the smaller boys in the berth.
So there were no more than the normal run of disputes. He had settled in easily, finding his niche in the hierarchy without difficulty, while making it plain that he was now too much of an oldster to be practised upon by the common midshipman’s pranks.
Not that there was time for any such thing. They were kept busy, with the Commodore firing off endless requests for statements of readiness to get to sea. Not that the officers, masters and pursers were laggardly; being in port cost everyone money, so a desire to get to sea and make some instead of spending it was built into the system, while the dockyards, as well as the Ordinance and Victualling Boards, who wished to husband what they held, had a keen interest in delay. They were therefore eager to query, several times, any request for spars, sails, spare canvas, powder and shot, beef, pork and peas in casks, fresh provisions and water, along with all the thousand other items it took to provision a ship of war for a voyage of several month’s duration.
The new midshipman had his duties aloft, supervising the rigging of the ship’s top hamper. He had to ensure that the clewlines and bunts were in place, that the lanyards were free to run; preventer stays tight to the jeer blocks that ran round the mast, getting to know those men for whom he would be responsible at sea. They were a cheerful bunch who sought to guy him, quick to notice that he took such in good heart and would often laugh as heartily as the men who had played the joke.
He was Nellie from the first day, and liked for his willingness, not least to learn from men who knew more than he did about how to go about rigging the mass of ropes, blocks and pulleys. They were all nimble, these topmen, young pigtailed individuals who took pride in their ability to do their task with a laugh.
He had the added responsibility of Thomas Bertie who, apart from being ‘damned cocky’, was as green as it was possible to be, though so willing he was a danger to himself. Working aloft was a gradual process, where risk had to be balanced against experience. Bertie wanted to go from knowing nothing to doing everything, so was constantly in receipt of instructions to ‘Belay that damned nonsense, lest you’re minded to kiss the deck at speed.’ Greasy and black from head to foot, both youngsters were happy. Busy all day, they were kept apart, so when they met hunger was the common glue of their existence. Nelson had his likes and dislikes but on balance he rated his mess a happy one.
So it never occurred to him to wonder if his act of charity had been observed. Even less did he imagine that it might be misinterpreted. Needless to say it was Midshipman Bertie, too cocky to guard his tongue, who made the first unfortunate crack.
‘Like ’em rough, do you, Nellie?’
Still lost in his own thoughts from talking to Mallory, Nelson missed the point of the allusion. But the knowing look and the rocking of the hips that accompanied Bertie’s next remark, added to the grins on the faces of the others present in the mid’s berth, didn’t leave much room for doubt.
‘Nothing like a bit of pain to get your pecker rampant, eh? Daresay your next meeting with Mallory will be someplace quiet.’
The blow, a full tight fist, caught Midshipman Bertie right on the nose. Nelson had a vision of startled eyes before the blood began to flow in copious, satisfying quantities.
CHAPTER 12
Prevarication could last only so long, and even the various boards had to succumb to the pressure of the Admiralty. They wanted Sir Edward Hughes and his squadron at sea, on his way to relieve the ships that had now been on station in eastern waters for two and a half years. Nelson was on deck, ready to go aloft on the great day, impressed by the band playing on the hard, as well as the presence of several senior officers come aboard to see them off.
He was first to the shrouds when the order came to weigh, and from aloft he looked down on the quarterdeck to see Captain Farmer stagger till he clasped the binnacle. Having been entertaining or indulged by others for a full twelve hours, he was in no fit state to command a ship’s longboat. Not that he tried. He stood on the quarterdeck trying to make his swaying look as if it was caused by the ship’s motion rather than half a dozen bottles of claret.
Red-faced admirals were heading back to the Portsmouth sally port. As they landed the signal gun spoke from the Round Tower, a plume of white smoke preceding the boom. This was only a second ahead of that on the flagship HMS Ramilles. Signals broke out instantly at the masthead and on each deck the first lieutenants raised their hats to their commanding officers and set in train the actions that would not only get every vessel to sea but also allow their captains to return to their cabins and sit down.
Nelson, still waiting for his orders, watched the crowds that lined the ramparts, waving their scarves and handkerchiefs in time to the music of the band. Below decks the men began to move to that same rhythm, the off duty watch and the marines at the capstan, straining to haul HMS Seahorse over her anchor, a thousand tons of inert timber, guns, stores and a three hundred man crew, heaving till the call came that she was ‘thick and dry’.
Durrand, head held back and speaking trumpet to his lips, called aloft to let fall the maintopsail, which followed as the bunts were released by the singular sound of falling canvas, like the slow wing-beat of a gigantic bird. The canvas beneath Nelson’s feet changed quickly from a creased shapeless mass to a thing of white beauty, as the wind took the sail, billowing it out until it was as taut as a drum. A turn of the head saw the frigate fetch her anchor, sailing slowly over it so that it could be plucked from the bed of the sea.
‘Anchors aweigh, sir,’ came the cry.
‘See it catted and fished,’ called the first lieutenant, as the free anchor was hauled up on the cathead, well clear of the side of the ship, prior to being securely lashed. On the deck below, men were struggling with a wet, slimy hawser while on slippery planking, boys threw fast loops to attach it to the messenger cable so that it could be brought inboard and laid, head to tail, in front of the stout wooden bitts that held fast to the end. Every other ship in the squadron had carried out the same manoeuvre, creating, to a young, impressionable eye, a wondrous vision of a fleet going to sea. Sure it was a small one, but it was impressive nevertheless.
‘Mr Nelson,’ called Lieutenant Durrand, his voice a loud growl, ‘I will thank you to attend to the fore topgallant sail, and to cease your damned daydreaming.’
He did as he was ordered, but it was hard. He had never seen so many ships put to sea at once: majestic two-deckers, several frigates, down to a couple of scampering sloops, all encouraged by the music of a band. That and a thousand relations, a great many of them wives who would be weeping with the fear that they might never see their loved ones again. He thought of his own family, his sisters and brothers, even his father, which brought a tear to his own eye and a rasping comment from his neighbour on the yard. ‘Belay them tears, Nellie lad, for if they hit the premier’s fresh-swabbed deck, he’ll have your guts.’
Seahorse heeled over as the wind took enough of her sails to bring a tilt to her deck. Looking down, he saw the water running down the lee side of the ship, deep, green and cold …
Blue and warm and startlingly phosphorescent, the water was now even deeper, as the frigate ploughed through the great swell of the Indian Ocean. The crew of the Seahorse were now so practised in their sail drill that they could bend on a sail, take it in or reef it in their sleep. Durrand, his pockmarked face bereft of the ability to smile, might be a bad-tempered martinet but the ship ran well enough to be termed a crack frigate by the Admiral, one that could be detached for special duty when the need arose.
They had crossed the line so long ago that it seemed like a distant memory, all the numerous candidates for the ceremony daubed and ridiculed as they made their first foray into the southern hemisphere. The Cape of Good Hope, where they had taken on wood and water, had come and gone, as had Mauritius and La Reunion. Ceylon was behind them and the flagship had set
her bowsprit well to the east so that the squadron would master the currents and winds that would carry them on to the Bay of Bengal and the mouth of the Hoogly. He learnt this from the man responsible for teaching him seamanship, the master of the Seahorse, Emmanuel Surridge.
‘For failure to do so, Nelson,’ Surridge said, as they carried out their fifth consecutive night of lunar observations, ‘would see us hauled up westerly and foul of the Maldives.’
‘Yes, Mr Surridge.’
‘Tell me what that would mean, young man.’
There was no attempt to trap him in the question, just a desire to ensure that his pupil had absorbed all that he had been taught. Nelson had come to admire his teacher for the depth of his knowledge, the extent of his curiosity and to esteem him for his kindness and patience.
‘Coral reefs and sandbars, sir, many of them uncharted and deadly danger to a ship’s hull on a night without a moon, especially with any kind of wind blowing.’
‘Now, sir, lay me a course to avoid that by taking a fix on Venus and the Orion’s belt.’
John Judd had taught him to hand and reef aboard the Swanborough. Emmanuel Surridge had added spherical trigonometry, lunar and astrological observation, mathematical considerations about the consumption of stores related to the state of the frigate’s trim, plus a thousand other points of learning required by a sailor. The process of assimilation was almost unnoticeable, and only the thickness of the boy’s journals betrayed how much knowledge he had acquired.
Captain Farmer entertained them in rotation, an occasion for the ever-hungry midshipmen to fill themselves at a more well endowed table, and to drink more than was good for their young heads. Nelson was no exception, happy to let the conversation pass him by as long as he could keep his mouth full. On this occasion he had been invited along to hear in which position he was now going to serve, it having been decided that he had spent enough time aloft to be fully competent.
On a Making Tide Page 16
