by Jay Worrall
Two days carried them farther to Cyprus and nearly to the easternmost limit of the Mediterranean. The midday sun was such as to soften the pitch between the seams of the decking, and the dry heat sufficient to shrink the deck boards themselves. On the advice of the surgeon, Charles increased the ration of water to the crew and ordered that they stay below as much as possible and wear shirts and hats when abovedeck to prevent stroke. He also had a large canvas awning raised over the after half of the ship to provide shade. In the first light of dawn, the two ships weathered the ten-mile promontory of Cape Gata on the southern underbelly of the island and into Akrotiri Bay. The two warships, the Union flag of Great Britain at their mastheads, dropped their anchors in the just-waking harbor of Limassol.
Charles immediately dispatched Sykes in the gig to Pylades with a detailed message for Bevan, and had both Louisa’s launch and cutter hoisted out. He was determined to accomplish several important and overdue tasks before the heat of the day overwhelmed them. The launch he sent under the boatswain with a dozen hands and four marines, with as many of the ship’s empty water casks as they could carry. This would mean several trips back and forth, heavy work at the oars, and hoisting the filled casks back on board, but Charles could then increase the water ration yet again.
Into the cutter went Penny, with all of her laundry in a large canvas sack, Attwater, Black the purser, a half-dozen marines, acting Lieutenant Beechum, and Charles himself. They were met at a quay on the seawall by a deputy to the port governor, dressed in slippers with long pointed toes curled upward, baggy pantaloons, an equally baggy cloak, and a large yellow turban wrapped loosely around his head. He’d had the sense to bring someone who could translate into English, and a small army of attendants.
Greetings were exchanged on behalf of His Most Sublime Excellency, whom Charles took to be the governor of the island, and His Most Gracious Majesty, King George III. Charles offered a golden sovereign as a gesture of his esteem. Business proceeded thereafter on an amicable basis.
“How may our small, inadequate city be of assistance to your gracious sir?” the interpreter asked.
Charles ticked off his requests on his fingers. “I would like to replenish my ships’ supplies of water. We will pay four pence a barrel. Two of our boats with casks are already at the water jetty.”
“Most certainly, it is arranged,” said the interpreter, after interpreting.
“I wish to send my purser and some others into the market to purchase lemons, limes, onions, sheep, goats, and whatever else is available. I will agree to an honest price in gold and silver coins, of course.”
“Of course,” the translator said with a small bow. “The market is open to you. I will send an assistant to see that you are treated fairly.”
“Thank you,” Charles said, bowing in return and suspecting that the role of the assistant would be to ensure that they were overcharged and that the port administrator got his fair percentage. “Third, and this is in the nature of a personal request, my wife and her companion are traveling with us. They have requested the services of a laundry. I am sure you understand that this is a significant matter, and I would be most grateful, as would King George himself, if this could be done as quickly as possible, say, before noon.”
The translator spoke to his superior, who immediately clapped his hands. A second assistant came running. “This man will escort you to the most prosperous” (—Charles was sure he meant to say something like “proficient,” but perhaps not—) “laundry in Limassol. A small gratuity only would be appropriate.”
Charles sent two sailors with the sacks of laundry and two marines as guards to follow the man. He gave orders that they wait until it was all dried and folded and handed a sailor several copper coins. That should be more than adequate.
“I have a final request of which I am sure, as a man of the world, you will understand the delicacy. My wife and her companion have been at sea for a considerable period without the opportunity to bathe their persons properly. I am told the Turkish have the finest baths in all the world. Would it be possible—”
The interpreter threw up his hands. “I am Greek, you understand,” he said with some indignity. “But the Turks also have adequate such facilities.” He signaled for yet another assistant to approach. “If you will give him two silver coins, he will make all the necessary arrangements.”
Charles thought two shillings an exorbitant price for two baths but knew he was in no position to bargain. “Beechum,” he said, fishing the coins from his purse, “take Mrs. Edgemont and Miss Bridges and two of the marines. Follow this gentleman. The women are going to a bathing house. Wait until they come back out. If Mrs. Edgemont is satisfied, give him these and return here.”
“Yes, sir,” Beechum said, spinning one coin nonchalantly in the air, a gesture that irritated Charles greatly. He took a moment to think about the principal reason why he had come to Cyprus. He didn’t want to excite so much interest that he would have to pay for it. “Has there been any talk of French warships in these waters?” he asked in his most offhanded manner.
“No,” the interpreter answered. “We have seen nothing of the French for many years. I have heard that they have captured Venice, and now we have seen not even them.”
The deputy port administrator spoke, evidently asking after the subject of their conversation. An exchange followed, and the interpreter said, “He has heard of a French fleet, very large, far to the west some weeks ago, possibly near Crete. But they would never come here. No one comes here.”
The party that had gone to the market returned late in the morning with a hired donkey cart piled with local fruits and vegetables, several dozen scrawny chickens tied up by their feet, and four goats tethered behind. By the time these items had been stowed securely in the cutter, the women’s laundry appeared, neatly tied into bundles with twine. Finally, Beechum, the two marines, and pinkly fresh Penny and Molly emerged from an alleyway and came toward them.
“How was it?” Charles asked.
Penny blushed brightly. “It is a public bath for women only,” she said. “I have never been the object of such intense curiosity about my person. You would think they had not seen an Englishwoman before. But we are clean, very clean.” Charles thought she looked somehow pleased with the experience.
During the row back to his ship, he considered the information, or rather the lack of it, that he had obtained about the French. It was beginning to look as though he had taken up a fool’s errand. He had come to the farthest extremity of the Mediterranean and found nothing. It would take only a few days to sail down the coast of the Levant, but he certainly would have heard of some rumor if the French had landed there. He could call on the British consul at Acre, on the unlikely chance that he might have some intelligence, and similarly the government’s representative at Alexandria, so that he could at least say that he’d been thorough. The simple fact was that he would soon run out of places to search.
BETWEEN CYPRUS AND ACRE, Charles married Daniel Bevan and Molly Bridges in the relative cool of the evening of Monday, the ninth of July, 1798. The ceremony took place on Pylades’s quarterdeck. Molly came across in Louisa’s launch, along with Charles, Penny, Winchester, Beechum, and most of the ship’s warrant officers who knew Bevan from when they had served together. The bride-to-be arrived in fine looks, shining eyes, and high spirits, almost bubbling with infectious excitement. Bevan wore a wide grin that he did not seem to be able to suppress.
Charles stood by the binnacle with a Bible and some hastily scribbled notes in hand, Bevan and Molly before him. As quiet fell over the assemblage, Charles read a few suitable passages from the book, made a personal observation about the joy and meaning of matrimony, and asked solemnly if each took the other with all the appropriate requirements that went with it. As the last “I do” was uttered, he closed the book. “I order you man and wife,” he said. “Make the best of it.”
Molly squealed in delight as Bevan lifted her off the deck and kiss
ed her. Pylades’s crew tossed their hats and cheered, echoed by a loud “Huzzah” from Louisa, lying to a hundred yards off. Charles had asked Mr. Black to draw up a suitable certificate, which the couple now signed, then Charles himself as “Charles Edgemont, Captain RN, presiding”; Winchester and Eliot witnessed the document.
For the occasion, an extra ration of ship’s spirits was served up to the crew. Charles and Penny took a glass of wine in Bevan’s cabin with the other officers, then ordered that those from Louisa were to return and both ships resume their course. Before he could leave the room, Molly caught his arm. “Captain Edgemont,” she said seriously, “in a million years I couldn’t thank you and Missus Edgemont for all you’ve done for me.” She kissed him on the cheek.
Charles flushed in embarrassment. “You’ve done it yourself,” he said. “You’ve turned out to be full of surprises. I wish you nothing but happiness.”
Bevan and Penny found them, and they all went up to the deck together. At the rail by the side steps, Charles waited while Penny was lifted down into the launch.
“Thank you, Charlie,” Bevan said. “You’re a true friend.”
“If you want my opinion, Daniel,” Charles said as he swung outboard and started down, “between you and Molly, you got by far the better of this bargain.”
THE SWELTERING MIDDAY heat lay over the Bay of Haifa like a physical presence, leeching moisture, energy, and willpower from all who chose or were forced to endure it. Charles thought that this was what it must be like to live in a baker’s oven. There was no place cool on Louisa. Even in the regions below the waterline, the airless, unventilated space was like a foul-smelling steambath.
“The bower’s down, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr. Beechum,” Charles responded. The ship now lay at anchor in the outer harbor of the ancient Palestinian city of Acre, shimmering in the haze over the water, reflecting a million glances of dancing sunlight so brightly that he had to shield his eyes. It was not difficult to imagine this as the principal port for the crusader armies of centuries past. Richard I, the Lionheart, had sailed the same course from Cyprus to this very spot. Charles couldn’t recall, exactly, but he hoped Richard hadn’t done it in mid-July.
“Will that be all, sir?” Beechum asked, still standing in front of him.
“What?” Charles said, startled from his reverie. “I’m sorry. We will hoist out the gig at the beginning of the second dog watch, if you please. I will be calling on the British consul.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
The second dog would begin in about four hours, Charles calculated, after the sun had lost some of its power; a cooling breeze should have started up off the sea. Any breeze, even a forge bellows, would be welcome now.
Charles glanced out again at the stultified harbor with its Arab dhows, feluccas, xebecs, and other lateen-rigged craft. Nothing moved on the water’s surface. How different from the brisk activity of an English harbor.
Bestby, one of two seamen he had posted as lookouts from underneath the canvas canopy, called to him: “Captain, sir.”
“Yes?” Charles answered.
“There’s a boat comin’ out from the ’arbor, sir. I swear it’s set a course for us.”
“Where away?”
“There, sir. Fine on the beam. Just afore that green-’n’-red thing with the eyes painted on the bow.”
Charles looked as directed and saw a small skiff with two men pulling on the oars, making toward them. He found his pocket glass and raised it to his eye. A single man sat in the back, wearing a full-length, not particularly clean gown and a checkered scarf wrapped loosely around his head. Charles’s first thought was that the man might be some kind of local merchant coming to peddle his wares. But judging from the urgency with which the taximen strained at their oars, and the absence of any obvious merchandise in the craft, Charles decided not. As the boat neared, he trained his glass on the passenger. He looked more European than Arab, with a deeply tanned face and a weeks’ old stubble of beard. To belay all doubt about his intention, the man raised an arm and waved. Charles had the impression that he had seen the man somewhere before, but couldn’t think where.
“Boat ahoy, state your business,” Beechum called down as the skiff glided under Louisa’s side.
“I have information of the utmost importance for your captain,” the passenger called back in impeccable, American-accented English.
Charles immediately recognized the voice as that of the curious American he had encountered off Cádiz. “You are welcome to come aboard, Mr. Jones,” he said to the man in the boat.
“Captain Edgemont, isn’t it?” Jones said as he gained the deck. “I thought I recognized your ship.” The two men shook hands. “What on earth are you doing in this godforsaken end of the Mediterranean?”
“I might ask the same of you, sir,” Charles answered. “For myself, we are searching for a British squadron which I had hoped to find in these waters. A squadron, I might add, that I had thought to be dogging the French fleet you warned us of at Cádiz. I’ve had no luck, though. It seems I’ve been on a wild goose chase. But I am a poor host; may I offer you some refreshment in my cabin?”
Jones shook his head. “Another time, perhaps. I must return to the port before I am missed. There are French agents everywhere. I can answer both of your questions, though, at least to some degree.”
“What do you know?” Charles said.
Jones took a breath. “The French force I informed you of landed at Alexandria in Egypt ten days past. They have already taken the city and occupy the surrounding countryside. I expect they will be in Cairo by now.”
“How do you know this?” Charles asked, somewhat suspicious that anyone could have such recent intelligence.
“I watched as they landed with my own eyes, sir,” the American answered, as if offended by his word being doubted. “I sailed from Egypt in a native dhow only five days ago to inform the British consul here. Unfortunately, he is not in residence at present.”
“You mentioned knowing the whereabouts of my squadron,” Charles prompted. This was his central concern. He could pass any information about the French to Nelson.
“Only this,” Jones said, rubbing at a small scar on his chin. “A squadron of English seventy-fours were seen looking into Alexandria only two days before the French arrived. They were too early, and where they’ve gone since, I have no idea.”
“I see,” Charles said, disappointed to still not know where he could find Nelson.
“Possibly you do not,” Jones said emphatically. “Your Admiral St. Vincent must be informed of the French landing as soon as possible. I cannot emphasize this strongly enough. Their presence so near to India cannot be allowed to stand. Those colonies are already in rebellion; even a small modern force acting in concert might tip the balance. It is vital to the war, to England, to the world, that this force be destroyed, or at the very least isolated. Do you understand?”
Charles nodded. “I understand full well, sir,” he said. “What can you tell me about the disposition of the enemy, so that I may put it in my report?”
“Their warships were at anchor off Alexandria when I saw them last,” Jones said. “They are a strong assemblage. Here, I’ve written it down for you.” He fished in a pocket of his garment and came up with a scrap of paper.
Charles glanced at the hastily scribbled list and whistled under his breath.
L’Orient, 124
Le Franklin, 80
Le Guillaume Tell, 80
Le Tonnant, 80
L’Aquilon, 74
Le Conquérant, 74
Le Généreux, 74
Le Guerrier, 74
L’Heureux, 74
Le Mercure, 74
Le Spartiate, 74
Le Timoleon, 74
Le Peuple Souverain, 74
Artémise, Diane, Félicité, Justice—frigates
“You will have to return to Gibraltar, in any event,” Jones continued. “I doubt the squadron you are s
eeking is sufficient to engage them.”
SEVEN
“I DON’T KNOW, SIR, I’M SURE, ” SAID SAMUEL ELIOT, RUBBING at the back of his neck. “It’s Egypt, that’s a fact, but exactly where along the shore, I can’t say. There ain’t no landmarks that I know of.”
Charles looked out at the line of surf, a featureless, dun-colored landscape beyond. A single miserable village of a dozen mudbrick huts with reed-thatched roofs lay huddled among a few scrawny palm trees set back from the shore, three weathered fishing boats pulled up on the beach in front.
“Don’t look like much, does it?” Midshipman Sykes observed. Beechum, standing beside him, shook his head disparagingly.
Louisa and Pylades had departed Acre two days earlier, sailing to the southwest to pick up the Egyptian shore, with the intention of looking into Alexandria and see with their own eyes the French presence there before proceeding westward with their precious intelligence. The wind had turned variable, sometimes from the north, sometimes west of north. At present it blew fitfully along the coast from due west.
“Have we any charts?” Charles asked.
“Naught, sir,” Eliot answered. “Nothing for this far into the Mediterranean. Nobody does. The navy don’t have much call to come this way. I have some small maps with broad features; no use for taking bearings on anything.”
“All right, in general terms, do you reckon that we are to the east of Alexandria?” Charles asked.
“Aye,” Eliot offered readily, “I think that’s safe. It’s how far to the east, I don’t know.”
“We are agreed, then. Put her on the starboard tack, we’ll make to the west. Mr. Sykes, please make the appropriate signal to Pylades. Mr. Beechum, make sure that the lookout in the masthead keeps a sharp eye.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
The boatswain blew on his call. The cry “All hands to tack ship” passed up and down the decks. The men trundled up from below, some to the ratlines and aloft, others to the braces. Charles listened as Eliot bellowed out the orders. The wheel spun, and the yards were hauled and lowered; the ship slowed as her head turned. The main and mizzen topsails flogged as they lost their bellies, snapping and shivering. The foretopsail laid back against the mast, pushing her bow to swing through the eye of the wind. “Midships,” Eliot commanded. “Meet her.” The lines were hauled and the sails filled. Gracefully, Louisa laid over on her new course, her canvas braced up tight against the breeze.
