‘You’re not wrong there,’ enthused Trevan. ‘Why do you think me and my mates was so keen to follow them across from the Agrius? But I tell you, Tom, you ain’t seen the half of it. Pipe is a rare good fighting captain an’ all, and you knows what that means?’
‘Prize money!’ they both said together, their eyes wide with greed.
‘You got it,’ laughed Trevan. ‘Now just you let me and Able get away to our dinner. God I could eat me a horse.’
‘Lads, this here is our messmate, Able Sedgwick,’ he announced to the sailors seated around the table once they had pushed their way through the caldron of noise. ‘Like us, he is new to the barky.’
‘Would you be one of the Galway Sedgwicks, at all?’ asked the seaman on his right, to general laughter. He was a man of medium build with dark curly hair, brown eyes and the thick accent of central Ireland.
‘That jester is Sean O’Malley,’ explained Trevan. ‘He is a papist sod, but him plays the fiddle well, so we keep him in the mess, like.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Sean,’ smiled Sedgwick. Inwardly he groaned at having yet another tricky accent to master.
‘Your man there be Joshua Rosso,’ said Trevan, indicating a swarthy-looking sailor seated next to O’Malley. ‘Only we calls him Rosie. He’s the brains in the mess, having his letters and all.’
‘Delighted to meet you, Able,’ said Rosso, his educated voice contrasting with those around him.
‘And the big bastard over there is Sam Evans,’ continued Trevan. ‘Like you he’s a volunteer landsman. He knows little of the sea, but he can be quite useful in a mill. He saw off a gang of Yankee sailors in a grog shop back in Madeira when we was all on the old Agrius.’ Evan’s smiled at Sedgwick and shook his hand.
‘It will be nice to have some other bleeder fresh to the sea who can help me deal with all the nautical bollocks this lot spout,’ said the huge Londoner.
‘I know I am rated landsman,’ said Sedgwick, ‘but back home in Africa I was a fisherman, so perhaps I will have some new nautical bollocks for you?’
To his delight his new mess mates roared with laughter at this. Rosso and O’Malley both thumped him on the back as they settled him onto a stool between them. Sedgwick felt himself warming to his new companions. The friendly faces and easy laughter was a delight to someone so long starved of those simple pleasures. In this alien environment, these were the most welcome of the many strange experiences he’d had that day.
The next strange experience was about to unfold, in the shape of the meal that had been slapped down in front of him in the square wooden plate he had been issued with earlier. On it appeared to be a large piece of leather in a steaming, gelatinous mess of gravy. Next to it was a pale green swamp, while on the side were some hard white discs. His mess mates all set to with keen appetites. Most of them tapped one of the white discs absently on the table with one hand while they spooned food into their mouths with the other. Sedgwick stared at the disc that Evans was tapping opposite him, transfixed by the small white worms that fell from it to wriggle amongst the crumbs.
‘Ain’t you hungry, shipmate?’ asked Trevan, observing his hesitancy.
‘No, I am, Adam,’ replied Sedgwick. ‘I am just a little unsure of what nature of food I have here.’
‘Well, I make no doubt it will be a while since you have had any good Christian food set before you,’ said the Cornishman, slipping back into teacher to the new recruit. He began by pointing at the green swamp.
‘That there is pease, which we get most days. It is right good, especially when hot. On the side is ship’s biscuit . You best leave those for now, till I can show you how to tap out the weevils, and that is your pound of pork, you know pig.’ Trevan supplemented his explanation by wrinkling up his nose and making squealing noises.
It was small wonder Sedgwick was unable to recognise the lump of salt pork, almost a year in its barrel and barely softened in the cooking process, as something edible. Meat had been a rarity in Africa and unknown during his time as a slave. The thought of a whole pound of it just for him was profoundly new. As he started to eat, he found that the quantity and quality of the strange looking meal was far better than he had been used to as a slave. The pork was very salty and required considerable chewing, but was tasty for all that. The pease was very good, and easy to eat, and towards the end of the meal he even tried his hand at some biscuit tapping. He was famished after his first day at sea, and found himself eating with much of the relish of his new mess mates around him. When he at last glanced up from his meal, his hunger sated, he felt hostile eyes on him. Looking back down the ship, through a gap between bodies on the crowded deck, he saw that the brooding gaze of Josh Hawke was fixed on him.
*****
A few days later, Clay contemplated his own meal with similar suspicion to that shown by Sedgwick as the plate was slid in front of him with panache by his steward.
‘God bless my soul, Hart, what manner of remove is this?’ he asked, pointing at the steaming dish. It appeared to contain a thick, folded beige sheet, glistening wetly.
‘Tripe a La Poche, sir,’ announced Hart proudly. ‘Mr Lloyd was good enough to let me have some of his recipes before we left Bridgetown. Now that I am a captain’s steward, rather than serving the needs of the wardroom, I have resolved to produce some superior vittles than previous, like.’
‘Well, that is very admirable of you,’ said Clay, prodding the section of tripe with his knife. The tip punctured one of the folds, and it slowly collapsed with a hiss of escaping fluid. ‘But you do perhaps need to advance by stages. Mr Lloyd was a chef of considerable ability. His talent was built up over several years apprenticing in Paris before the start of the war, you know.’
‘Ain’t I experienced too, sir?’ protested Hart. ‘I done four years in the kitchen of the Ox and Bush on the Guildford road before I joined the navy.’
‘Quite so,’ agreed Clay. ‘Perhaps the fare you learnt to prepare in that inn might prove a more fruitful starting point than some of Mr Lloyd’s more extravagant dishes. Do please try not to let your culinary ambition soar too far above your actual cooking ability, Hart.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ grumbled the steward, his arms firmly crossed. ‘Would you be having some potatoes with that at all, sir?’
Clay was destined never to discover if Hart had, in fact, pulled off a rare culinary triumph. Just as he struggled to cut off his first mouthful of tripe, he heard a cry from the deck above.
‘Deck there! Sail ho!’ yelled the lookout, the sound clear through the open skylight above Clay’s head.
‘Where away?’ came the officer of the watch’s reply, louder and much nearer. The voice was pure Devon. Mr Appleby, the ship’s rather overweight master must be on watch, thought Clay.
‘Three points on the starboard bow, and making for the coast, sir.’
Clay was about to dash on deck when he remembered that he was now the captain, with a certain gravitas to uphold on board. He decided to ignore the dangerous looking tripe, and quietly stuffed as many of the potatoes into his mouth as he could before the expected knock came.
‘Come in,’ called Clay, his voice rather distorted with food. The marine sentry outside his door opened it to allow the midshipman to enter.
‘Mr Appleby’s compliments, sir, and there is a sail in sight off the starboard bow.’
‘Thank you, Mr Croft,’ Clay replied. ‘Please tell Mr Appleby that I will be on deck shortly.’
*****
When Clay came up onto the quarterdeck he could sense the excitement all around him at the prospect of action. The Rush had been standing off from the east coast of St Lucia, out of sight of land so as not to alert the French to her presence. She was patrolling the approaches to the small port of Micoud in the hope of catching any ships that tried to enter or leave. It would seem one had now slipped into her net.
‘Mr Croft, take this glass and go aloft. Tell me what you make of her,’ said Clay to the midshipman.
> ‘Aye aye, sir, aloft it is,’ replied Croft. He rushed to the mainmast shrouds and scampered up them with the facility of a gibbon. Clay looked on with admiration for a moment. His fear of heights would never have allowed him to climb at such a speed. He turned to the officer of the watch.
‘Mr Appleby, kindly put the ship on the other tack and have the topgallants set. I want to head her off before she can reach safety.’
‘All hands! All hands to make sail!’ The boatswain’s calls shrilled through the ship, bringing the watch below up on to deck. The top men raced up the rigging only marginally slower than Croft had, while the other hands crowded around, ready to sheet home the newly set sails and brace round the yards. Looking forward, he noticed the bulky figure of Sedgwick as he ran to his place on the forecastle without any apparent hesitation. He is learning fast, thought Clay to himself.
‘Deck there!’ came a girlish squeal. Croft’s adolescent voice had recently started to break, and when forced to shout tended to reverted to its pre-pubescent pitch. ‘She is a square-rigged merchant brig, on the port tack under easy sail. Should be visible from the deck soon.’
Clay took his glass and stared across the brilliant blue sea at where the brig would appear. There was nothing visible yet, but with their two tracks converging he should be able to see her soon. He looked farther forward. The blue strip of sea was cut now by a greenish smudge topped with bulging cloud as the island of St Lucia appeared on the horizon.
‘I think I can see her now, sir,’ said Sutton’s voice at his elbow. Clay focussed back towards where Sutton was pointing, and he saw two tiny white squares, flecks of something more solid than the pale sky. Top gallant sails, lifting just into view. He raised his voice up towards the masthead.
‘Mr Croft, what sail does she carry?’
‘Topsails and now topgallants, sir, same as us,’ came the falsetto reply.
‘Mr Appleby, can you shake out the courses and take a cast of the log, if you please,’ Clay ordered.
With her big lower sails set, the Rush heeled over under the press of canvas, her round bow dipping into each wave with a crash of spray before she lumbered up again ready for the next one.
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Clay. ‘How laboured she is! The Agrius would have fair sliced through this sea with half the top hamper we carry, would she not, Mr Sutton?’
‘Indeed so, sir,’ lamented his lieutenant. ‘We may have removed some of the longer fronds, but I fear we still have a mass of weed as thick as grass for the sea to grip upon.’
‘Well, there is little we can do about it now. Kindly take a bearing on the chase and see if the main sails have made a difference.’
‘There is not much in it, sir,’ said Sutton, after a period of careful observation, ‘but I believe her to be head-reaching on us.’ As Clay digested this news the master joined them, fresh from casting the log.
‘Six and a half knots, sir,’ he reported proudly. He touched his hat with one hand in salute, while with the other he clung to the mizzen shrouds to keep his footing on the steeply sloped deck. ‘Mr Sutton here and Mr Carver have improved things markedly with their scrub of the hull.’
‘And yet, gentlemen, it would seem we are out-paced by a merchant ship that carries a third less canvas than us,’ said Clay. ‘This is a sorry state of affairs to find upon a King’s ship, I must say.’ He looked up at the bulging pyramids of canvas on the masts, and down at the sloping hull. A line of ugly green weed, dense as a mat, was visible on the windward side of the hull, testament to how far the ship was heeled over. He sighed to himself. She could bear no more canvas than she had.
‘Deck there!’ came the latest hail from Croft at the masthead. ‘The chase is setting more sail now.’ Clay looked across at the brig, now visible on the horizon as their courses drew closer together. He watched a large sail billow out from her foremast, before being sheeted home. It was less smartly done than it would be on a Royal Navy ship, but it would still mean that the brig would be able to show them a clean pair of heels.
Two hours later, and Clay’s first pursuit of an enemy as a captain in his own right had ended in failure. The Rush had done her valiant best, trailing along in the wake of the brig in the vain hope that something might carry away in the Frenchman’s rigging. They were standing into the Bay of Micoud and the emerald coastline of St Lucia was folded close about them, rising up from the brilliant blue of the sea. They were so close in that they could see stretches of white coral sand, and catch the occasional glimpse of red mud roads and terracotta roofs dotted in among the thick green of crops and forest. Ahead of them the ship they pursued was taking in her sails. She had made the tricky turn around the large sand bank that lay across the entrance of the bay, and was ghosting into the sheltered water beyond. Clay watched as she dropped anchor with the sand bank between her and the Rush.
‘The town of Micoud is directly behind the brig, sir,’ said Appleby beside him. ‘You can just see the church tower and some of the roofs.’
‘Yes, I see,’ said Clay, looking through his telescope ‘Tell me a little about the bay, Mr Appleby.’
‘The entrance is blocked as you see by that spit of sand,’ said the master. ‘To the south of it there is no clear passage for ships on account of a coral reef. Do you see where those waves are breaking? The only navigable route is round the north end, the way you saw the brig enter the bay. That approach is protected by a battery marked on the chart. We should be able to see it soon. Ah, here we go.’
As the ship glided through the water, a puff of smoke appeared on the top of the low cliff at the northern end of the bay. Moments later a line of splashes rose out of the sea as a cannon ball skipped towards them, each jet of water progressively shorter as the shot lost momentum. The final small splash was several hundred yards short of them. Clay glanced round and called back towards the quarterdeck.
‘Close enough, Mr Wardle,’ Clay ordered. ‘Kindly bring her to the wind, if you please.’ The Rush turned through the water and with her topsails backed she came to a halt. As the ship swung, Clay and Appleby moved along the forecastle rail to keep the bay in view.
‘No batteries covering the southern end of the entrance then?’ said Clay.
‘That’s right, sir,’ said Appleby. ‘No real need for any. You couldn’t pass anything bigger than a ship’s boat through the channel between the reef and the sand bar.’
Clay continued to stare after the brig with the longing of a cat outside the bars of a bird cage, before he closed his telescope and turned away. If only this wretched ship had been careened, they would have caught the Frenchman easily, he thought. He began to pace up and down the weather side of the ship in search of inspiration. Then he stopped, almost mid-stride, a look of determination spreading across his face.
‘Mr Wardle, take us back out to sea, if you please,’ he ordered. ‘Mr Appleby, can you join me below with the best chart you have of this coast. Mr Sutton, will you come too.’ He strode down the quarterdeck ladder and disappeared in the direction of his cabin.
Chapter 4
Micoud
In the warm darkness of the tropical night, the Rush slipped back towards the land once more. As she moved across the calm water, her wake stirring a faint trail of milky phosphorescence that disappeared moments after it formed. The ship showed no light to the world outside, only on the main deck did her two battle lanterns provide enough faint light for the members of the cutting out expedition to assemble, the marines with their stamped tread, the seamen with their bare-footed patter.
Up on the quarterdeck Joseph Appleby conned the ship. The island ahead was a black bar dotted with the occasional light from dwellings on shore. Where the town of Micoud lay the bay was illuminated by a faint wash of light which gave him a navigational mark to aim at. He ordered the ship to heave to, and the sound of her gentle passage through the water was replaced by the slap of waves against her stationary hull.
‘We are in position now, sir,’ he said to Clay. �
�Four cables east of the sand bar.’
‘Thank you, Mr Appleby,’ replied Clay. He turned to the group of officers around him. ‘Well, gentlemen, do you all understand your parts?’ He turned first to the officer in the group he had never served with before.
‘Lieutenant Macpherson, what role will your marines play?’ Clay heard the soldier stroke his bristling sideburns in the dark before he answered.
‘My men will be with Mr Preston in the cutter, sir,’ he replied, in his soft Highland accent. ‘We are the second boat, and are to board the brig from the larboard side.’
‘Very good. What about you Mr Sutton?’ he asked next.
‘I am in command, sir,’ he replied. ‘I also have the launch. We attack the starboard side at the same time as the marines make their assault. Having secured the ship we signal to the Rush, slip the anchor, and bring the prize out by the deep water channel.’
‘And finally Mr Croft?’ said Clay.
‘I am to take the jollyboat in last of all,’ recited the midshipman. ‘I wait till the other boats are engaged, then I board over the bows and fall on the French from an unexpected quarter.’
‘And for my part I wait for Mr Sutton’s signal, and then stand in to distract the battery,’ concluded the captain. ‘Very well, gentlemen, that is all quite clear. You may depart at your convenience. Good luck to you all.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ they replied, turning away.
The blocks of men dispersed to the sides of the ship, and clambered down into the boats alongside. Those left behind quietly wished their departing shipmates well. The line of boats formed up next to the ship, and then slipped away into the night, heading for the unprotected southern entrance to the bay ahead. Clay watched them go, feeling for the first time in his career the true loneliness of command. Before now he would have been in one of those boats, controlling his own destiny, able to make his own decisions. Now he felt the utter powerless of having to trust on others to perform well without him. He had sent more than half of his crew off into the night, and now, if the whole attack was a disaster, he would barely have enough men to limp back to Bridgetown to report the calamity to Admiral Caldwell. He felt a cold prickle of sweat on his neck as he stared out into the dark.
A Sloop of War Page 6
