On a Making Tide

by David Donachie

  If he had thought the Captain didn’t notice his greed then he was wrong, since Farmer posed a question just as he stuffed three slices of tough roast beef into his mouth. His attempt to reply was inaudible, and sent flying several pieces of meat.

  ‘We must do something about your manners before we raise Calcutta, Nelson. And not just yours!’

  ‘Slur,’ Nelson replied, a wad of beef stuck in his gullet.

  ‘Every midshipman I have aboard is the same,’ he said to Durrand.

  The premier, Durrand, responded with his habitual scowl, which looked even worse than it had previously on his peeling face. Nelson knew that the sun had not been kind to him on the voyage: it had left his visage, pockmarked under the shards of skin, looking like a piece of upholstery scratched by a cat.

  Farmer had turned his attention back to his still chewing young guest. ‘Once we anchor, Nelson, there will be a great deal of social activity, some of which might be of benefit to you – not that I want to deny you the common whorehouse, if that is your wish. I’m told the Bengal bawds are a cut above their English counterparts, perfumed, gentle creatures unlike the brutes you’d find in a home seaport.’

  Surridge, also a guest, coughed slightly, to remind his commander, whose voice had grown wistful, that he had strayed off his point.

  ‘Quite!’ said Farmer, recovering himself. ‘I daresay it would be futile to hope that any of my midshipman’s manners should improve, since none of the young men I have aboard seem to possess an ounce of that commodity, have they Surridge?’

  Surridge replied with a heavy nod. ‘I’ve often had occasion myself to bemoan the lack of polish in the mid’s berth.’

  ‘Shockin’, Surridge! God help the Calcutta whores when they get that lot between their thighs, eh! I doubt the perfume will suffice to kill off the smell. And as for gentility they’ll not last two grains of sand. And what am I to do with them in polite society, I don’t know. Weren’t like that in my day. We were born to be gentlemen and knew how to behave like one.’

  He gave Nelson a hard look, just as the youngster managed to shift the last lump of his meat to one side of his mouth. ‘That’s what I’d like to see from you.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

  Farmer had leant forward and was peering at Nelson’s bulging cheek. ‘For God’s sake, boy, get rid of that lump.’

  The knock was so slight it was almost inaudible, and the door opened swiftly to reveal the round red face of Thomas Troubridge. ‘Flag signalling, sir. Squadron to make more sail, dipped three times.’

  Surridge had already made to leave, since that meant the Admiral apprehended danger, and Farmer had lost his vagueness. The eyes that had seemed sleepy were lively now. ‘Anything from the masthead?’

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ Troubridge replied.

  ‘If the best eyes are not aloft already, get them there.’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘And my compliments to Mr Stemp, he is to comply with the signal.’ The eyes were on Nelson next. ‘What are you still doing here? Get about your duties!’

  In the background Nelson could hear the cry of ‘All hands’. Before that would have meant him going aloft, but he’d been removed from that station. ‘With respect, sir, I’m not sure what my duties are.’

  ‘You may act today as my aide. Mr Durrand, I would like things put in hand to clear for action.’

  By the time Farmer appeared on deck they had heard the dull boom of distant gunfire. Every eye was straining to see the source of that sound, with the officers occasionally glancing aloft at the two men who occupied the masthead. Surridge was yelling orders through his speaking trumpet to the men aloft, while on deck canvas was coming up from below, sails to be laid out ready for bending on to the yards.

  Seahorse was racing along, her deck canting to the angle of a steep-pitched roof, her bowsprit digging into the heavy swell of the Indian Ocean, throwing up a great mass of water. Ramilles and the other 74s were striving likewise, but their bulk slowed them down compared to the frigate, and Farmer had to shorten sail to remain on station.

  Nelson felt as if his entire skin was itching, so quickly was the blood racing through his veins. All the ships in the squadron had a full suit aloft now. The sloop Vixen – on point duty – which had raised the alarm, had gained on everyone, increasing the gap between herself and the fleet, seemingly determined to get to the centre of the action first.

  ‘Flagship signalling, sir,’ said Durrand.

  ‘What does he say?’ Farmer asked Troubridge, who was now the signalling midshipman.

  ‘Difficult to make out, sir. The wind is angling the flags away from us.’

  ‘Vixen shortening sail, sir,’ added Durrand, a telescope fixed to his eye.

  ‘Flagship’s orders being repeated by Euraylus, sir,’ said Troubridge pointing to another frigate, then consulting his book to make sense of the message. He nearly screamed the order as Sir Edward’s signal became clear. ‘Flag is making our number, sir. The message reads, “Make all sail”.’ Everyone on board the vessel was watching as that set of coloured pennants disappeared and a fresh lot was sent aloft. ‘General chase due east.’

  ‘Mr Surridge,’ said Farmer, calmly, ‘I want the very best you can give us.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  The next hour was a whirlwind of activity, as yards and sails were set up in an endless stream. Nelson was sent dashing in all directions with messages to the various divisional officers, all the time aware of what the master was about, trying to second guess each alteration to the sail plan before it was made, happy that he managed to anticipate about half of what occurred.

  Studdingsail booms were lashed on, to be pushed out from the main yards, the canvas they carried spreading well beyond the side of the ship. Royals and Kites were hauled up to take what wind there was at the very top of the masts. Vixen, too lightly armed to go on alone, spilled the wind from her sails then joined company as the two ships opened up the gap between themselves and the rest of the squadron. The log was cast continuously, as Surridge trimmed sails, added to one side and subtracted from another, until, on the even Indian Ocean breeze, and taking account of the leeway, he had achieved the maximum speed.

  ‘By damn, twelve knots, sir,’ he called, as the log was heaved again.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Surridge,’ Farmer replied.

  Nelson now stood beside Farmer on the quarterdeck, balancing himself against the motion of the ship, left leg extended to hold his position on the canted deck, right dipping to absorb the motion of the swell. Spray washed his face continuously, blown over the bows to hang in the air as Seahorse ploughed on through it. Cool as it was, it did nothing to dampen the excitement he felt, or the feeling that this was where he belonged.

  It was what he had dreamed of in that cold coach that first took him to Chatham, the image of himself in command of a warship going into battle. It was the stuff of endless speculation among the youngsters he messed with; would they one day rise to a captain’s rank? On this deck now it was easy to forget the presence of Farmer and imagine himself in the role of which he dreamt, to transpose their respective stations and conjure up the notion that he was issuing the orders. He would, God willing, rise to command, and when he did, he would be a better captain than the man he was standing by, at this moment, to serve.

  Farmer’s eyes were fixed on the scene ahead, an East India merchant vessel that had fought off a pirate assault long enough for the attacker to realise that warships were coming to the rescue. Still partly obscured by smoke the attackers had been close to success. The Indiaman’s bulwarks showed several jagged areas where they were stove in, and what sails she had aloft were shot full of holes. Obviously the enemy had lain off her stern, out of the arc of her guns, firing through the casements of the main cabin, which were so shattered as to be non-existent.

  The enemy must have been close to the point of boarding through that very cabin, but had disengaged as soon as they spotted Vixen’s skysails, running
before the wind to make an escape. The East Indiaman cheered first Vixen then Seahorse as they went by, with all the officers raising their hats to each other in salute. But Nelson observed that blood was running out through the scuppers, and through the shattered sides he could see bodies strewn on the deck, proving that it had been a close run thing.

  ‘Signal the flag, Mr Durrand,’ said Farmer. ‘Enemy in sight, am engaging.’

  Those last words proved to be at best premature. The ships they were pursuing turned out to be a couple of Chasse Marées, small, compact vessels with narrow lines and a low freeboard designed for speed. They were fore and aft rigged, so on their present course the square rigger lost a great deal of the advantage of being able to put aloft more sail. A wind dead aft meant that the maincourse took pressure off the forecourse, which in turn deprived the inner and outer jib, while to come off the wind slightly so that they could draw meant that Seahorse had to tack and wear in pursuit. Farmer decided to split with the sloop, himself taking a more southerly course, while Vixen trended north. That would create a triangle with the British ships at the base and the chase at the apex.

  ‘Mr Surridge, we require subterfuge. I want plenty aloft, but I would wish them not to draw too efficiently. They have seen us struggle in their wake, let them see us wallow a trifle on a more favourable course.’

  ‘If I could be appraised of your intentions, Captain?’

  ‘We could stay on this course for days, if the wind stays true, and we’ll lose them for sure. Their home port has to be north towards the Kerala peninsula. I want them to turn that way assuming that only Vixen stands between them and safety. Let them also believe that even with the most favourable wind we could never catch them.’

  ‘Would they not have seen our true ability as we bore down on the action?’

  There was a touch of impatience in Farmer’s reply. Nelson surmised that the master had asked one question too many, exceeding his duty in that respect and annoying a man who disliked having to explain himself.

  ‘That I cannot tell, Surridge. I’m hoping they were too busy to note it. Now you will oblige me by complying with my request so that I may discover if I have the right of things.’

  Surridge took the rebuke well, having achieved his purpose, this being that all the men on the ship should know what was required. And Captain Farmer could not have had a better ship’s crew for such a task. Nelson watched carefully as Surridge, employing skills honed over many years, did as he was asked. Now the idea of one sail interfering with the efficiency of another was deliberate, the canvas behind spilling just enough of the breeze to keep the one ahead taut, so that it looked as though it was drawing well, when it fact it was working at only three quarters of its capacity.

  ‘Who do you think they are, sir?’ asked Durrand.

  ‘French dogs, for certain,’ Farmer snapped, ‘with local Indian crews, either out of Madras or Pondicherry.’

  ‘Since we are at peace, they have engaged in piracy.’ Durrand’s peeling face showed real pleasure as he added, ‘We can hang them.’

  ‘There’s no peace out here, Durrand, regardless of what happens in Europe. The best you can hope for is an armed truce, and those ahead of us have just broken it.’

  Farmer threw back his head and shouted to the men in the crosstrees. ‘Keep an eye on the enemy decks. As soon as you see them prepare to alter course, I want to know.’

  Nelson, who had considered George Farmer as bit of a duffer, was now looking at him with open admiration. The Captain’s eyes were alight, and his whole frame seemed infused with a new spirit of animation. Horatio Nelson would be a kinder captain than Farmer, less inclined to employ the cat, but he would settle for the same competence as a sailor.

  ‘Mr Surridge, I will require an increase in speed on this course, since I intend to deny them the opportunity, if they make an error, to correct it.’

  ‘The chase is manning the braces, Captain,’ the lookout called.

  Nelson strained to see, but from his position on the deck, with a running sea creating waves fifteen feet high, he only glimpsed the two enemy ships when all three vessels crested at the same time. But he could imagine the men on the ropes, half an eye on the pursuing frigate, the other on their own captain, waiting for the orders that would change their course.

  ‘Mr Surridge,’ said Farmer.

  ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ the master replied. Having discussed what would happen next more words were superfluous. The main course was goose-winged into a triangle, the raised corner allowing the wind full play forward. Braces were tightened and yards trimmed so that every one drew, with the driver boom, holding the fore and aft gaff sail, hauled to leeward to take full advantage of the wind.

  ‘Enemy going about, sir,’ said Durrand. There was then a moment while he waited for them to sheet home again on their new course. ‘Heading north-north-east.’

  ‘Mr Troubridge, a signal to Vixen, if you please, to read, “Disengage, course north-north-east”. Mr Surridge, stand by to go about. Mr Nelson, a message to the gunner. I intend a mixture of bar and case shot to be ready and loaded as soon as we clear. Tell him I require double charges to make them fly.’

  ‘Sir,’ Nelson replied crisply, running for the companionway. Desperate not to miss anything on deck he raced to the lower depths, hauling back the wetted screen on the hanging magazine to relay Farmer’s order.

  ‘Belay there, you daft swab,’ the gunner growled. He was bent over, sorting charges by the glimmer of candlelight that filtered through the glass window. ‘Don’t you know better, boy, than to rush in here when there’s powder laying about?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Nelson replied, before delivering the Captain’s message. He got back to the deck just in time to hear Farmer order the new course. The chase was now off the starboard beam, with Seahorse at the end of a near straight line drawn from Vixen, through the two Chasse Marées.

  The months at sea paid off now as the Seahorse came about almost in her own length. The deck was a mass of men hauling and running, first easing the ropes that held the yards in place, then, as the rudder bit and the ship began to turn, pulling even harder to tighten them at an angle to the wind, which was now coming in right over the frigate’s quarter. Surridge was yelling and waving his arms, calling for a mass of adjustments, some tiny, others major, so that he could get the best out of the top hamper.

  Farmer, immobile through all this, waited until Seahorse was settled on the new course, until the master himself, taking the wheel, nodded to say he was satisfied, before turning to Durrand. ‘I think we may now clear for action.’

  They pursued the Chasse Marées for hour after hour, the distance closing imperceptibly, while ahead of the enemy Vixen barred their escape. Having overheard the discussion, Nelson knew that Captain Farmer had no intention of exposing Vixen to a fight with two of the enemy. In such a small fleet and far from home the number of ships had to be maintained. Capture of these two pirate vessels would avail little if the sloop was rendered useless in the process.

  Both the enemy helmsmen were good, as were the crews, quick to see an extra puff of wind or a path through the run of the seas that would keep them clear. The hands were fast workers when it came to slight alterations to the set of a sail, the combined skills keeping them out of danger for longer than Captain Farmer had thought possible.

  As the sun began to sink, they saw the enemy trying to lighten their ships, throwing overboard anything deemed unnecessary to survival; water, food and personal possessions that bobbed on the water until the frigate ploughed through them. Having eased away from the Captain, Nelson had questioned Surridge as to what was likely to happen.

  ‘He won’t request Vixen to haul her wind unless the pirates throw overboard their guns. She will stay ahead of them, avoiding battle until we can overhaul.’

  ‘But it will be night soon.’

  ‘Aye, lad, and if you look at the sky you’ll see nary a cloud. There’s a moon due, and that will be bright enough for us to work b
y.’

  ‘Why don’t they change course?’

  ‘Because, no matter which way they turn, the wind and leeway favour one of our ships. And that wind can hold steady for a week in these parts. They should have held to the west and run for two days, if need be, to get clear, waited for a dark night to go about and get home safe.’

  ‘How long, sir?’

  ‘See that one that’s a touch laggardly?’ he answered, pointing to the rearward enemy ship. ‘We’ll have him within long gunshot by dawn.’

  ‘Mr Nelson,’ called Farmer, ‘gun crews to worm every second cannon. Please go round the officers and tell them to split their men into watches. Two hours’ sleep each.’

  ‘What about food, sir?’ asked Durrand. ‘They have not been fed.’

  That remark surprised Nelson, who had always thought Durrand a hard-case premier who would see the men suffer rather than appear soft.

  ‘Neither have we!’ Farmer snapped, proving where the indifference lay, also killing any hope that the cook might be able to re-light his coppers. ‘Give them cold water and biscuit.’

  Night turned slowly to day, the sky full of moon and stars fading to a cold grey before the orange ball of the sun lit the western horizon. The first bow chaser fired, at extreme range, just after four bells in the morning watch, by which time any enthusiasm for what was to come had evaporated among the crew. They were hungry, and so was Nelson. And he was tired, not having been allowed to leave the deck all night. The ball skipped across the waves, dropping short on the second vessel’s stern. Immediately the two ships changed course, heading in opposite directions.

  Surridge was yelling again, bringing them round in the lead ship’s wake, while a signal went out to Vixen to engage the other. The frigate was closing fast on her quarry. And since they knew their fate the pirates were determined to fight, lining the side in the low, brilliant sunlight and casting off their guns.

  ‘Six pounders, Durrand,’ said Farmer. ‘I doubt we have much to fear from those.’