On a Making Tide

by David Donachie

‘Shall I reload the wormed cannon, sir?’

  ‘No. Put the men into a boarding party, to gather on the forepeak. You, Mr Durrand, may lead it.’

  The premier’s cratered face positively glowed. If the ship was taken by his boarding, the honour would belong as much to him as to Captain Farmer. And if the Admiral at Calcutta bought it into the service, he might even get it as his first command.

  ‘Message to Mr Foster, Nelson,’ Farmer said. ‘I want his maindeck cannon aimed well forward. He’s to clear those swine away from their guns so that when we touch Mr Durrand can board.’

  Going forward to relay this allowed Nelson to look over the hammock nettings. He could see several Europeans clustered around the enemy wheel, in breeches and shirts, but the rest of the crew were dark skinned, wearing nothing but white cloths around their loins.

  By the time he was back on the quarterdeck, the range had shortened and Durrand had his party ready. Slowmatch smoke drifted up from below, the smell of saltpetre lingering on the nostrils. But that disappeared as Farmer gave the order to fire.

  Nelson felt the vibrations through his feet, as the whole ship shuddered, the result of half a dozen guns going off at two-second intervals, sending a frisson of fear through him, not helped as, simultaneously, the balls from the Chasse Marée thudded into the frigate’s side planking. The boom was deafening, the great cloud of greasy black smoke rising to obscure the target. Surridge, on the command, put the helm hard down, so that Seahorse ran alongside the chase. A second salvo was exchanged, the pirates aiming high at the elevated bulwarks of the frigate. Durrand, standing on the hammock right by the forward shrouds yelling to his men, took a ball that went right through him. Even over the din of battle, Nelson could hear him scream in agony, before he dropped back on to the deck, twitching like a freshly stuck Pig.

  Farmer’s voice seemed devoid of emotion, even though he had just seen his first lieutenant killed. ‘Ask Mr Stemp to take over the boarding party, Nelson. You take his place on the guns, which are only to fire if the chase looks like getting clear.’

  Going below to the maindeck was to enter a different world, darker, full of smoke and sweating men, the only radiance coming in through the open gunports, streaks of sunlight on the red painted deck. The crews were kneeling by their pieces and only the gun captains stood, crouched, peering through at the target, which was now a few feet away.

  ‘What do I do, sir?’ he asked Stemp, as the lieutenant hurried away.

  ‘Fire them one at a time, and let the gun captains do the aiming.’

  ‘What else, sir?’ he shouted to the retreating back.

  ‘Stay clear of the recoil, or you’ll forfeit a leg.’

  Every time the frigate’s bows rose he could see the enemy’s side, splintered and broken where the guns had struck home. Above his head, he heard the yells of the men getting ready to jump for the side. He was in command, with only the sketchiest idea what to do. True he had orders, but they were so vague as to be useless. Suddenly there was a voice in his ear. ‘It’s all over bar the shouting, young Nellie.’

  He turned to look into Mallory’s smiling face. Clearly he was the gun captain on the number one piece.

  ‘Durrand’s gone, cut in two by a ball.’

  ‘That’s no loss,’ Mallory spat on the deck.

  ‘Belay that, Mallory,’ he shouted, offended. ‘I’m in charge of this division now.’

  ‘Nellie,’ Mallory replied, unfazed, his face splitting into a grin, ‘you’ve gone and joined the enemy.’

  Nelson looked set to protest, but Mallory slapped him on the back. ‘Had to come ’cause of the coat you wear. Never mind, when you’se high and mighty, lad, don’t you forget your old shipmates.’

  The ships, crunching into each other, killed any chance of a reply. Mallory ordered his gun pulled inboard, grabbed the wormer and poked himself half out of the gunport, jabbing at something unseen, the muscles in his scarred back flexing with each stroke. He blocked any view that his newest young gentleman had had of what was going on. All Nelson could hear were the muffled sounds, metal on metal particularly, accompanied by banshee-like screaming. Suddenly it went quiet for a split second, then a great cheer rent the air, some of it coming through the ports but the majority from the upper deck.

  ‘Come on, Nellie,’ called Mallory, tugging at his coat sleeve and heading for the companionway.

  ‘Have we won?’

  ‘How could we fail? It weren’t no more’n a smack. Mind, old Farmer will carry on as if it were a ship of the line when he dines with the Admiral.’

  Everyone was pouring up on to the deck. Hesitating for only a second, Nelson followed, to be greeted by the sight of a British Ensign being raised on the Chasse Marée’s mainmast. The boom of distant gunfire reminded them of Vixen and the task she had to perform, which was more difficult given her size.

  ‘Belay that damned cheering,’ yelled Farmer, before shouting across to the enemy deck. ‘Mr Stemp, you will take possession of the prize. Mr Surridge, shape me a course to join Vixen.’

  ‘Three huzzahs for Captain Farmer.’

  Nelson didn’t recognise the voice, but the cry was instantly taken up. He was standing close to Mallory’s back, so close that each stroke of the cat seemed like a separate etching or ridge in the re-formed skin. But the tough gunner was cheering like everyone else, and for the man who had bestowed his scars, which made Nelson wonder where sense started and excitement ended. Mallory should surely hate the Captain more than any man alive. When he turned, the sailor provided the answer to why he was cheering. ‘There’s money, Nellie,’ he whooped. ‘Good coin to make our Calcutta visit one to recall in old age. I’ll pay you back for that brandy you fetched me.’

  ‘Nelson,’ shouted Farmer, ‘what the devil are you doing away from your station?’

  ‘Sir,’ he cried, before turning to Mallory, his face flushed: ‘Get the men back on the guns.’

  The two fingers that went to the cloth wrapped round Mallory’s ears were a salute of sorts. ‘Aye, aye, Mr Nelson.’

  They buried Durrand on the way back to join the squadron. No plain shroud for him, rather the wooden cot he had slept in. It had been made to fit his body and was slung from the deck beams in his cabin. All it required was a lid and some roundshot to weight it. Had he ever pondered as he lay in it at night, that his bed might also be his coffin? Somehow, Nelson doubted it; Durrand had been a man who seemed bereft of imagination.

  But there was still emotion in this funeral, with the captured French officers in attendance and Captain Farmer reading the words of the service in a sonorous tone. On the voyage he had lost the usual number of men to sickness and accident, but this was the first time Nelson had witnessed a burial caused by action, and it was different.

  He hadn’t liked Durrand, but his death had made him think differently of the man and see beyond the scabby face and bellicose manner, perhaps to glimpse the fellow who wanted the men fed. The work of a first lieutenant was thankless: they got no praise when things went well – that was expected – but were roundly damned when anything went wrong. Perhaps his manner had been the result of his office and not his true personality. Nelson would never know the truth now that the man was dead.

  As Farmer spoke the final words, and the burial party tipped the body over the side, Nelson prayed for the soul of a departed shipmate with all the vigour of his faith. At the same time he shuddered at the thought of where Durrand’s remains were going.

  CHAPTER 13

  As she had delivered Emma to the Linley house, her irate mother had informed her that this would be her last chance; that an endless supply of below-stairs places could not be taken up through parental good offices. An honest reply from her daughter would have been, ‘Then thank Christ for that,’ for continued domestic service did not accord with the dreams she had harboured when she came to London, even less with those she had now. Yet the alternative, going back to Hawarden, was even less enticing.

  But she had to ad
mit her new situation was better than she had feared. Compared to dull Dr Budd’s, the Linley household was afire with continual activity, always full of visitors, actors and actresses, writers, scene painters, seamstresses and tradesmen seeking business or payment, the latter always a cause for noisy dispute. Lively herself, she fitted in easily. Supine, bobbing housemaids were not required by a family who lived off the profits of the Drury Lane Theatre. As well as performing their domestic tasks Linley servants were required to run errands connected with the business.

  Household chores completed, Emma was often despatched to the theatre, to deliver a costume or a message. The smell of the backstage area enchanted her, especially when the cast was rehearsing; dust, often hot from the footlights, a hint of dope from the scenery paint, the smell of humanity and greasepaint, a whiff of scented powder. To go from bright sunlight into the dark cavern of Drury Lane was to enter an enchanted world where reality vanished. Beyond the wings lay the stage and a world of fantasy.

  No one troubled her if she hung around to watch, sitting in the darkness of the reveals outside the circle of stage lighting, listening to the performers declaiming long speeches, or short sharp exchanges interspersed with cursing when the line they required wouldn’t come. There would often be a writer standing around looking anxious, or dashing about explaining to the cast the true notion he had formed of how the lines should be spoken.

  There were fights, dances, horses and carriages, and bewildering changes of scenery carried out in what seemed like the blink of an eye. A forest would disappear, pulled on ropes into the great void above the stage, another cloth thirty foot wide dropping in simultaneously to create the background of a drawing room already half furnished. Within seconds the doors and windows would be attached and heavy weights laid on the wooden bar at the foot of the backdrop, turning the flapping cloth into what looked like a solid wall. Inside a minute actors in loose clothes who had been picnicking in a forest glade would enter a drawing room dressed for a masked ball.

  Eventually Emma would remember her duties and rush back to the Linley house, to be scolded for her absence. But such was the chaos of the establishment that such strictures were lost in another tantrum or crisis. The place was exciting, alive and disordered, and connected to the theatre, which suited Emma perfectly. Then young Samuel Linley came home and life for the under-housemaid was transformed.

  Emma’s heart stopped the minute she clapped eyes on Samuel Linley. Sixteen years old, of medium height and slim, Samuel had fine blond hair that flopped over his brow, pale, delicate skin, and a wistful expression. That first day he was still wearing his midshipman’s uniform coat, dark blue with snow white facing to match his breeches. But it was his eyes that riveted her, pale blue under heavy fair lashes, they seemed to be full of dreams. Until they locked on hers.

  The attraction was instant and mutual. When they stole a moment of peace, Samuel loved nothing more than to gaze dreamily into her eyes and remark on their green beauty, while running his finger through the traces of auburn hair that had escaped from under her cap. Every time they held hands she felt a charge of excitement run up her arm and she knew he felt it too. Meetings in such a bustling house were of necessity brief and hasty, and his two weeks’ leave was on its last day before he plucked up the courage to kiss her.

  The infatuated pair saw themselves as star-crossed lovers in the mode of Romeo and Juliet, constantly kept apart by duty or circumstance, Samuel because he was an infrequent visitor who had to return to his naval duties, Emma because her station in the household should debar her from such an association. But intermingled with her sighs was the sure knowledge that in time she would be worthy of his attentions. She would be, perhaps, an actress employed by his father, a suitable companion to the son of the owner of the most famous theatre in the land.

  Every time she served the family and guests she had eyes only for Samuel, so missed the looks of deep disapproval coming from a mother who had also observed the secret smile with which her only son reacted. She said nothing until the end of her Samuel’s second visit, having allowed matters to rest so that she could see if the attraction would withstand the test of a month-long parting. That left her with a mooning housemaid whose spirits were only revived by the arrival of a billet doux. On Samuel’s next leave, when the pair took up where they had left off, she knew it was time to act. Having contained her impatience until her son’s leave was over, she called Emma into her workroom, which was strewn with cloth.

  ‘It is not unnatural for the son of the house to find himself attracted to one of the female servants, Emma, and since you are a pretty creature I absolve Samuel of any blame in the association.’

  Emma was wondering how she knew. They had been so careful.

  ‘Indeed, if I were the only one to notice I might have let matters take their natural course. My boy is turning into a man, and they, poor creatures, have needs that must be met somehow. But neither of you has been discreet. Samuel cannot sustain a conversation while you are in the room and you cannot properly attend to your duties for staring at him.’

  Emma was shocked, and dropped her eyes in the face of her mistress’s stiff stare.

  ‘The servants are aware of it, my guests are aware of it, even my family is aware of it. Except Mr Linley of course. He is as purblind as most fathers.’

  ‘Ma’am.’

  ‘It must stop.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts, my girl.’

  Then her voice lost its hard edge and became more comforting. Her face softened, showing the source from which Samuel had inherited his beauty.

  ‘Do not think I do not understand the attraction. You are young, so is he, and puppy love …’ She threw up her hands. ‘Well! But understanding does not bring approval. My son has his way to make in the world and I know him well enough to admit the possibility that he might, out of kindness, act foolishly. But it is not to be, and I, as his mother, have a duty to ensure that is so. Do you understand that failure to abide by my wishes will see you dismissed? It will be a month at least before Samuel returns to the house. Think on what I have said, make sure you attend to what is yours and let what is not to be die a natural death.’

  Those words came to haunt both of them. Samuel was home within a fortnight, suffering from a fever, confined to his bed, attended by doctors who could never emerge from his bedchamber with a cheerful expression. Emma, barred from that room, was dependent on bulletins from the male servants about her love’s condition, every spare moment spent on her knees praying that God might spare him.

  ‘Emma.’

  Still on her knees, Emma turned to look at Mrs Linley. Strength that had previously been evident in the face of the woman who had chastised her was gone now.

  ‘Samuel has asked for you. My own maid, as you know, has been in charge of the nursing but that brings on frustration in him, which the physicians says scarce does him good. They maintain that the vital spark necessary to pull him through this crisis is missing. Perhaps you can rekindle it. You have my permission to go to his room and take over such duties.’

  Emma was gone so quickly that she didn’t hear Mrs Linley’s sobs. She burst into Samuel’s room and rushed to his bedside to take his hand, shocked to see that his skin was now translucent and that the bones now stood out starkly from his skull. His hair was lank, not floppy and boyish, and the eyes she adored had a faraway look that only flickered when they crossed her face. She was hardly aware of the others in the room, the shadowy figure of the physician and the outline of Mrs Linley’s maid, hands clasped, mouthing indistinct prayers.

  ‘Emma,’ he croaked. She kissed the back of his limp hand in response, to convey her love, but also to hide her shock at his condition. ‘My mother relented.’

  ‘She did,’ Emma whispered, her lips brushing his skin, her eyes stinging with the tears she sought to control.

  ‘I fear I was harsh with her.’

  ‘I can’t believe that, Samuel. You don’t know how to be ha
rsh.’

  That produced a wan smile. ‘A naval officer must be a veritable tyrant, Emma, and, you do not see me at my duties. I had hoped that one day you would.’

  ‘That day will come, my love,’ she whispered.

  Samuel’s brow furrowed, and a look of deep sadness crossed his sweating face. When he spoke his voice was dry and rasping. ‘I cannot think I truly have the qualities for the Navy.’

  Emma picked up the glass that sat on the bedside table and gave him a drink. The water eased his voice, but there was no power in his speech and Emma had to lean forward to hear him.

  ‘I command men so much older and wiser than I,’ Samuel whispered. ‘Even those my age are my betters as seamen. They laugh so readily that I often wonder if I am the object of their mirth.’

  ‘I think it more like that you’re the object of their admiration.’

  ‘I saw myself in command, Emma, at sea, in my own ship, with a happy crew and you just as much at home in my cabin as I was myself.’

  Even if that didn’t accord with her own dreams, Emma’s reply was sincere. ‘I would be at home just by your side, Samuel, wherever that should be.’

  There was sudden strength in his hand, which gripped hers tightly. ‘Will it be?’

  ‘Samuel, you are low now to be sure,’ Emma answered, ‘but you will recover – you must recover, because I have enough strength for that. It will flow from me to you, Samuel, and sustain you through the worst of this fever, sustain you till your own strength is restored enough to bring you back to full health.’

  ‘When I am well again, I will take you away from here.’

  ‘This is your home, where you belong.’

  ‘Is it, Emma?’

  She wanted to say, ‘Of course,’ but refrained.

  They had never had time for much more than an exchange of endearments, never been together long enough to explore their thoughts. Emma loved to see him in his naval uniform, yet could not understand why he had been attached to a service that was full of ruffians. She was only vaguely aware that Samuel’s parents had aspirations for their son that did not include theatre management, and would not have believed Mrs Linley had she told Emma that Samuel’s professional future was merely an aid to raise his social position.