On a Making Tide

by David Donachie

  ‘If I may be permitted to continue, sir,’ the first lieutenant said. ‘Do you really see the skirmish your uncle took part in as in any way vital?’

  Nelson replied coldly. ‘I think it was something more than a skirmish.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ Waddle replied, pleased to have riled Nelson and making no attempt to hide his insincerity. ‘I have no wish to diminish the action off Cape Francis Viego, but does that really explain your uncle’s present position? I would wager that a busy application of flattery to superiors might achieve more in the way of advancement than a single sea battle.’

  ‘I’m sure you mean no such thing, Mr Waddle,’ said Locker. He then forgot his own remark about admirals. ‘But you have just seen fit to disparage a senior officer. He also happens to be a close relative of one of your fellow guests.’

  ‘I intend no disrespect, sir, the point is general, and—’

  ‘Good.’ Locker cut across him. ‘So now we can return to the subject of American privateers.’

  Waddle had been put in his place and had no option but to comply. But he engaged in the conversation in a sporadic moody manner that further diminished him in the opinion of his captain. Nelson was much more alert, eager when the master produced his charts to spread them on the table and point out the various routes through the islands that the Americans might use to evade British cruisers.

  ‘Are we required to proceed directly to Jamaica, sir?’ Nelson asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, young fellow,’ Locker replied, with a laugh. ‘Admiral Gaynor will not thank us for deviating.’

  ‘What if we were to turn up with a capture?’

  ‘Then we’d be praised and damned at the same interview. But never fear, he won’t keep us tied up at the quayside for long. It’s no profit to him unless we are at sea.’

  ‘Is he a friend to your uncle, Nelson?’ asked Waddle.

  ‘I have no idea, sir,’ Nelson replied, ‘but if he is, it’s not something I can help.’

  ‘Yet it is something you will most certainly profit by.’

  Nelson jabbed the chart. ‘I hope for us all to profit by taking the enemy ships that are smuggling contraband into the sugar islands.’

  ‘All of us, Nelson?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘So now you add piety to all your other virtues.’

  ‘Enough!’ said Locker. Conveniently eight bells rang out to denote the change of the watch. ‘I suggest that it is time you return to your duties.’

  Locker proved to be absolutely right about Admiral Gaynor, who was full of impatience, harrying him to revictual and get Lowestoffe to sea. Gaynor knew he was due to be relieved and was all for ‘making hay while the sun shines’ and ‘striking when the iron is hot’. Locker was ordered to take station covering the wide straits between Hispaniola and Haiti to intercept Americans trading into Jamaica itself. The three thousand-mile voyage, during which Locker had lost only a dozen hands to sickness and accident, had done more than turn the crew into a single unit: some of those snatched from a London street had shown enough aptitude to become topmen, the cream of the crew, who would even sit aloft talking when not required so that they could carry on yarning in peace.

  But the same thing applied to all the divisions. It mattered little the watch they served with: they dressed the same and talked the same. Convention stilled the animosity between Waddle and Nelson. Mewed up as they were, in such close proximity to one another, their feud had to be tempered if it was not to burst into another open challenge. Locker helped by behaving as if the dispute didn’t exist, and forcing his officers to do likewise. If the two men could not be brought to love each other, at least they wouldn’t resort to the violence that would end in a court martial.

  Matters eased when they took an American carrying a full cargo of rice, a commodity easy to dispose of, and the prospect of money, even if it was distant and at the whim of the prize courts and the depredations of individual prize agents, cheered the whole crew. That was what the volunteers had signed on for, a redemption of the promises made on Locker’s posters. To those pressed, it was the final compensation for a forced life at sea. So when, in heavy seas, they spotted the armed American Letter of Marque, a two-masted barque, cruising between Cape Maize and Cape Nicola Mola, the whole crew cheered when they sought to engage.

  What ensued was a long, exhausting chase, one that in such a sea, aided by a stiff quartering breeze, favoured the heavier ship. Now the months of blue water sailing and steady training told as the master used all his skill to coax out of the frigate another ounce of speed. The American privateer was a good ship, well manned with a crew that had no desire to see the ship they had a share in fall into British hands. But the fates were against them, and the heavy press of sail they were forced to carry did nothing to aid their escape. In fact, it did the opposite, the wind forcing the ship head deep into the water so that a great quantity was shipped aboard, not all of which was discharged as the barque rose again.

  As the afternoon wore on Lowestoffe steadily closed the gap. She had the weather gage and with land to leeward the lightly armed American, up against the superior firepower of a British man-o’-war, was soon in a hopeless situation, losing speed as the shipped water began to fill her ’tween decks and slow her even more. But the Captain had no intention of dipping his flag without showing his mettle and he let off his forward guns just as the frigate came within range. That and the reply from his own ship brought William Locker stamping unevenly on to the quarterdeck, to join Waddle and the ship’s master who had the con.

  ‘Gunnery, by damn,’ Locker exclaimed. ‘He’s a plucky fellow and no error. Do we need to clear for action, Mr Waddle?’

  ‘I cannot believe so, sir. Our friend yonder has a stark choice between surrender or destruction from Mr Nelson’s maindeck cannon.’

  ‘Then let us get that boat to him.’

  Locker looked over the side to where a prize crew waited, with Giddings on the tiller, the longboat lashed fore and aft to the side of the frigate, bobbing up and down alarmingly and needing a great deal of fending off to keep it from crunching into the planking.

  Waddle stiffened perceptibly. He had decided on a course of action and was less than happy to see it questioned. ‘A chancy affair in this kind of sea, sir. I would rather lay him close and threaten him with our great guns.’

  ‘Time might not favour that course Mr Waddle.’ His glance at the heavy clouds scudding above was eloquent enough not to require explanation. Night came quickly in the tropics, and with such a sky it would be pitch black within the hour. ‘If we fail to board before dark he may be able to give us the slip. You have a boat in the water. I suggest it would be better used than just lying tied to our hull at risk of being swamped.’

  ‘He will not prevail against the threat of guns, sir.’

  ‘He might not have to without a prize master aboard. Lacking the benefit of moon or starlight our plucky fellow might choose to run.’

  ‘In his present waterlogged state he would struggle to make enough headway to put the horizon between himself and us before dawn.’

  The frustration was clear on Locker’s face, and the cause was not hard to fathom. He couldn’t order Waddle to take to the boat and secure the prize. That was beyond his power. He could suggest, but every officer had the right to decline a duty, and the Captain had to acknowledge that his own instincts, which were of the board them and be damned variety, might not always be correct. His premier knew this too, knew just what his rights were in relation to his responsibilities. To the first lieutenant’s way of thinking the risk wasn’t justified. In this sea a boat might easily capsize too far away from the frigate to effect a rescue. Waddle felt he could secure the initial surrender of the privateer without risk to the crew. And even if the prize did, by some fluke escape, he reckoned he’d be able to justify that decision.

  Many a ship’s captain, frustrated or not, would have left it at that, more concerned to maintain good relations with their second in command t
han risk a breach. Not William Locker! The look on his face had changed to one of anger and he spoke, as he later admitted, without giving much thought to Waddle’s amour propre.

  ‘Have I no officer in this ship who can board that prize?’ he cried.

  The premier opened his mouth to protest, but any words he was about to utter were forestalled by the master. He called to one of his mates to take the wheel, headed for the gangway. Nelson, who had commanded the guns that had so recently responded to the American salvo, abandoned his post at the same time, beating the master to the gap in the bulwarks by a hair’s breath.

  ‘I have the right, sir, as second,’ he shouted, using what weight he had to block access to the gangway. ‘It is my turn. And if I fail then the duty falls to you.’

  The master, a big man, tried to squeeze past, but failed against the second lieutenant’s tenacity. He was left on the deck, watching his chance of glory recede as Nelson dropped into the bobbing longboat. The boat was away from the side in a flash, Nelson in the thwarts urging the crew to row like the devil. That was easier said than done with half the oars out of the water at any given time. For the rest the bows were either aimed at the heavens as they crested a wave, or towards hell and damnation as they dropped sickeningly into the subsequent trough.

  The prize was in a bad way, nearly waterlogged, proof that in his desire to evade capture the American Captain had risked a great deal. Indeed he was still trying, keeping his sails aloft and drawing when prudence surely demanded that they be let fly. The bulwarks amidships were under water every time a wave struck, and as much as he was able, Nelson ordered Giddings to set the tiller to aim at that point, ignoring the look of disbelief that engendered. But Giddings was a good sailor, a long pigtailed hard case who had spent all his adult life at sea. He was yelling now, swearing imprecations at the oarsmen, ordering each blade to draw as it bit so that he could keep way on the longboat.

  They dropped into a trough, the effect lessened by the bulk of the American ship, which steadied the boat so that all the oars could operate effectively. Still under orders to ‘pull like Old Harry’, the sudden release of pressure, added to the combined pulling power, took the longboat right into the water above the American deck. Nelson could see the startled faces of the Captain and the crew on either side, watching, waiting for the ship to lift and tip these heathen interlopers into the heaving water where they would, no doubt, drown.

  Aboard Lowestoffe every man, from quarterdeck to bowsprit, was holding his breath. Expressions varied from downright anxiety through silent encouragement to that of the premier, who could not keep from his face the look of justified satisfaction that came from being proved right. He heard Locker, by his side, emit a fear-filled hiss.

  ‘Pull off, man.’

  ‘Haul away!’ Nelson yelled, at exactly the same moment, his voice drowning even that of the equally alarmed Giddings. Heads down and pulling oars the boat crew knew little of the danger they were in. But when the second lieutenant, normally a quietly spoken individual, yelled like that, they knew the situation was parlous. Doing as he bid them, they just managed to take the longboat out on the scud of discharged water, clearing the rising bulwarks that would have tipped them to a certain death by the width of a hair.

  ‘God be praised,’ whispered William Locker.

  ‘They are still in danger, sir,’ Waddle replied.

  ‘I know that,’ Locker snarled. ‘But even a man who cannot summon the spirit to carry off such a feat must surely applaud it in another.’

  ‘I—’ Waddle spluttered, but in the face of what was almost an accusation of cowardice, he could not continue.

  More commands hauled the longboat’s head round and better timing on the approach put Nelson on board the prize, knee deep in water. Giddings had lashed the boat to the side and the crew scrambled to follow their officer, running to obey his orders to reduce sail. Aware that further effort was futile the Captain had let the ship’s head fall off, which eased the pressure on the hull and steadied the darkening deck. Across the water the huzzahs broke the tension, as the crew of the frigate cheered their mates to the grey forbidding skies.

  Meanwhile Nelson had made his way aft to the wheel, now barely visible in the fading light, and was accepting the surrender of the vessel from its master. The words, as he spoke them for the first time in his life, were sweet to the ear. ‘Lieutenant Nelson, sir, of His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Lowestoffe, at your service. I must, sadly, command your surrender.’

  The American Captain, soaked like the man taking his ship, gave a courtly bow and replied in a thick rolling Devonshire accent that nailed his place of birth if not his port of residence. ‘You have it, sir.’

  ‘To whom am I obliged?’

  ‘Jahleel Wilkins, of Boston, Massachusetts.’

  ‘And your ship?’

  ‘The Torbay Lass.’

  ‘We must reduce sail even further, sir, and do something to get the pumps working in a more effective fashion.’

  ‘It be yours to command, sir.’

  ‘I would be obliged if you would alter course to ease the effect of the running sea.’

  ‘You want me to con the ship?’

  Nelson smiled, grabbing the rail to steady himself as a wave swept under the counter. Behind him he could hear Giddings yelling at the American crew. ‘You know her ways better than I, sir, and even in the unhappy position you now find yourself I doubt that you have any notion to let us founder.’

  ‘Everything I possess is in the ship, sir.’

  ‘Everything except body and soul. I suggest a course that keeps us before the weather until such time that we can pump some of the seawater out and get a sight of the bilge.’

  ‘You have not required my parole, Lieutenant,’ said Wilkins.

  ‘I’m sure you’re a man of honour, sir. What other kind of person would let fly with his guns in the situation you so recently found yourself? And by your accent, even if you now hail from Boston, you were born an Englishman. I cannot believe that anyone of my race would so debase themselves as to withdraw their word of surrender.’

  ‘I can barely see Lowestoffe, your honour,’ Giddings shouted. ‘Happen we should rig some lanterns.’

  ‘If you can find dry flints make it so,’ Nelson replied, taking off his hat and waving it at his mother ship, hoping that they could see it.

  ‘We’ve lost him, Waddle,’ said Locker, ‘but he’s got her head round onto a safe course.’

  ‘Sir,’ Waddle replied. His face was mask, but inwardly he was cursing both his superior officer and the man who served beneath him. Word of what had occurred would spread, that could not be avoided, and his decisions, which only an hour before had seemed rational and proper, would be made to look like cowardice. What interest he had was small and distant, a kindly disposed yellow admiral, one not trusted with a command, who hadn’t been to sea in the decade following his promotion.

  ‘Shape a course to match that of Mr Nelson,’ Locker ordered, his voice hard and unfriendly. ‘I want to see the topsails of that barque at dawn.’

  ‘Aye, aye sir.’

  Waddle wasn’t sure he did. Apart from his long-term prospects, which, no doubt, had been irretrievably damaged by Nelson’s behaviour, there was the immediate effect it would have on his life. Could he sit opposite that man in the wardroom knowing of what he was suspected? Even at this moment the effect of the day was apparent. Under normal circumstances Locker would have been cock-a-hoop enough to host a dinner to celebrate the capture. The invitation would have come to him before the Captain left the deck. Not today.

  ‘Do me the honour, Nelson,’ he murmured under his breath, ‘of drowning.’

  That was not an impossible prospect, as Nelson soon discovered. Even with the sails eased and on a new course, the pumps were struggling to cope with the water the barque had shipped. One of the reasons was that Wilkins was short-handed: a number of his crew had succumbed to a fever on the outward voyage. On top of that, he carried
as cargo a mixture of molasses and rum, and some of his men had got to the latter when they saw that capture was inevitable. It had been lack of people sober enough to send up which had kept his sails aloft and drawing when common sense dictated they should have come down. It was the absence of any sense in their now addled brains that had the pumps working at only half their capacity.

  ‘We’ll have to put our own men to working the pumps, Giddings, and let the crew sleep it off.’

  ‘That ain’t right, your honour,’ the bosun’s mate protested. ‘Let me get at their bastard backs with a starter and they’ll pump us dry in a trice.’

  ‘Whipping drunken men will not help.’

  ‘They’ll be sober in ten strokes.’

  ‘No.’

  Giddins looked into the officer’s eyes, half intending to protest further, which he knew with a decent soul like Mr Nelson he was at liberty to do. But what he saw stopped him. The man before him seemed somehow different from the same officer on the deck of the frigate. He was more in the boarding mould, no longer the pale fellow who gave his orders in a quiet voice, but a harder creature altogether. It wasn’t that there was any anger in the gaze – indeed the face had the customary half smile. The cheeks were rosy, but that could be put down to the amount of seawater that had battered them on the way over. Locker’s hard case bosun’s mate couldn’t put a finger on what the difference was. But he knew one thing for certain: you just didn’t argue with that look, not lest you wanted to waste your breath.

  ‘Our men, of course, will benefit from a tot of that rum after the soaking we’ve endured.’

  ‘Why that’s right kind of you, your honour.’

  ‘Just one tot, Giddings. Two sets of drunks will see us drown.’

  ‘You’ll join us?’

  Nelson shivered in his wet clothes. He was cold too, but that was only skin deep. Inside he was elated, well disposed to the notion that a tot would be fitting to celebrate his first capture. Like any man he had doubted himself, unsure when it came to the test whether he might falter. That had gone. He closed his eyes, recalling the vision he had had on the way back from Calcutta. He was a long way from the goal he had set himself then, but the first rung of the ladder had been climbed.