A Sea Unto Itself

by Jay Worrall

  Such thoughts brought a melancholy to which there was no bottom. To force his attention elsewhere, he reached inside his uniform jacket to extract an envelope with its Admiralty seal. It had arrived at Tattenall nearly a month before, and he had read and reread the document so many times that he could recite it by rote:

  Whitehall, London.

  10th December 1798.

  To Captain Charles Edgemont, Esq.

  Tattenall Hall, Cheshire.

  Sir, you are hereby directed and required to report onboard His Majesty's Frigate Cassandra not later than the Fourteenth Day of January, in the year of Our Lord 1799. You will thereby take command of said frigate, requiring her officers, warrants, and men to act in strict accordance to your orders, and in accordance with the Admiralty Regulations and Instructions, and the Articles of War. Said frigate is to be found in His Majesty's Dockyard at Chatham, on the River Midway, where she is completing fitting out in anticipation of a voyage to the northern limit of the Arabian Gulf.

  It is further directed and required that in good time prior to assuming said command, you shall call upon the First Lord, or his deputy, and from him receive further orders, intelligence and instructions as shall be deemed fit to be provided.

  Not you, nor any of you, shall fail in the execution of these orders except at your peril.

  I have the honor of being,.

  Evan Nepean,.

  First Secretary to the Board.

  Charles rubbed the sheet absently between his forefinger and thumb as he attempted to discern its deeper implications. It was interesting, he considered, that it had come directly from Whitehall, rather than from Lord St. Vincent or some other fleet admiral, and hinted that he might be operating independently under Admiralty instructions. There was the mention of the Arabian Gulf—the Red Sea as it was more generally known, a fourteen-hundred-mile-long indentation of water between Abyssinia and the Arabian Peninsula—but no indication of why or what he was to accomplish there. He supposed that he should be grateful that any destination had been mentioned at all. It was not unheard of for a captain to prepare his wardrobe on the assumption that he was intended for the waters of the Mediterranean only to be sent north into the Baltic in winter.

  But why the Red Sea? Charles knew that the French had established themselves in Egypt the year before; he had been directly involved in the destruction of the fleet that had carried them, but that expeditionary force, large though it was, was bottled up by Nelson’s squadron on blockade off of Alexandria. His orders did mention “the northern limit” of the gulf, which would include the Red Sea coast of Egypt, but why that was important was not revealed.

  Cassandra was less of a mystery. He knew that she was a twelve-pounder frigate, built in the years following the American War and in the process of completing a refit to make good the wear to her structure, rigging, and fittings. She was considered a promotion where he was concerned. At thirty-two guns, Cassandra was a fifth rate warship, while his previous command, Louisa at twenty-eight guns, had a sixth (and lowest) rating. Charles’ pay would be increased a step to reflect his greater responsibilities.

  He had also discovered the barest description of her particulars: 140 feet along her gun deck, sixteen feet of draft, and a burthen weight of eight hundred tonnes. Her compliment would be 220 officers and men with an additional thirty-six marines. As the commander of a fifth rate, he was also entitled to three lieutenants, instead of the two he’d been authorized on Louisa. Since Charles was determined to put off his departure from home to the last possible moment, he had requested Daniel Bevan, Stephen Winchester, and Isaac Beechum, known and trusted officers from his previous command, and arranged that they report ahead of him so that any last-minute difficulties in preparing for sea should be well in hand.

  Outside the coach window he noticed that it was now broad daylight and the morning overcast had given way to sunshine, turning the passing fields and pastures a brilliant rolling green. They were somewhere in Shropshire, he supposed. Augustus slumped against the coach bench, snoring rhythmically. Charles again settled back and crossed his arms over his chest in an attempt to imitate him. Again his thoughts turned back to home, keeping sleep away. In the very best of circumstances, he realized, he could not return to England for at least a year, more likely a year and a half, very possibly longer. During that time no mail might reach him. There would be no word that a child had been born, whether it was a boy or girl, healthy or sickly, or even if the infant or its mother had survived. The thought settled like a stone in his breast and would not go away.

  *****.

  At long last, the coach reached the outskirts of the great city of London, galloping past Regent’s Park to much honking of its horn, scattering foot traffic and farm carts alike. Its progress slowed in the thickening congestion of Tottenham Court Road, although the incessant blaring of the horn did not. The two men finally climbed down close by Covent Garden in the late afternoon. Charles found himself shaken and stiff and happy to have his feet once more on unmoving ground. Augustus stared around him at the streets crammed with buildings. There were peddlers loudly hawking everything from puddings, sausages, and cheeses, to live chickens, or cut flowers. Unceasing crowds swirled past. Charles handed a gratuity to the coachman and postilion. With his new steward sitting on the sea chests, he went to find a hackney to carry them to Lothian’s Hotel on Albemarle Street where he had arranged lodgings. Here he found no difficulties with the management, who were accustomed to a broad range of naval clientele and their sometimes unique servants. Charles was shown to a spacious room on the second floor, Augustus being directed to the servant’s dormitory in the attic. In the morning, well rested, bathed, and breakfasted, he dressed in his best uniform to call upon the Admiralty. Preparing to leave, he found his servant pulling on his own outer clothing as if to go outdoors. “It’s not necessary for you to accompany me, Augustus,” he said. “I expect to be back in time for supper.”

  “I’ll just follow along, if I may, Cap’n,” Augustus said.

  “It’s not necessary,” Charles repeated. “I assure you that I can manage on my own.”

  Augustus stood firm.

  Charles had a suspicion. “Did Mrs. Edgemont put you up to this?” Penny had a habit of requesting his seamen to look after his wellbeing as if she thought him incompetent to get by on his own.

  Augustus nodded. “Afore we went off she asked me to set my eye on you, no matter what. I give my word on it.”

  Charles sighed. “In that case I suppose you had better obey orders. I assure you that it will be quite safe where we are going though.”

  “It don’t matter, Cap’n. She say you be reckless. One never know what can happen.”

  “I see,” Charles said doubtfully. With his servant following, he went out to find the carriage he had reserved. He felt a little like some Eastern potentate with his own immense bodyguard following on his heels.

  The hansom from Lothian’s trotted briskly down Albemarle and then St. James’s Street with its exclusive clubs and gaming establishments. Augustus stared from the window with intense curiosity as they passed. In front of St. James’s Palace they turned left along Pall Mall, past Queen’s Chapel, and through Charing Cross. Angling southward along the Thames, the driver soon swung his conveyance into the center of the roadway and then hard right to make the sharp turn under the archway into the forecourt of Whitehall itself.

  Charles and Augustus climbed down. After paying the fare, Charles dismissed the driver. “You may come along, but you’ll have to wait in the foyer while I do my business,” he said to his servant.

  Augustus nodded his agreement and the two mounted the steps onto the portico where a doorman made way for them to enter.

  “May I help you, Captain?” a liveried attendant asked, approaching from near a fireplace to the left and casting a suspicious eye at Augustus.

  “Edgemont,” Charles answered, removing his hat and pulling off his gloves. “I have an appointment with His Lordsh
ip. My steward will wait by the fire, if that is agreeable.”

  “Of course.” He gestured for Augustus to seat himself on a bench by the wall. “I am to inform you that the First Lord, the Earl of Spencer, is detained on other business this morning. Captain Millford is a member of the board. He and the Viscount Effington are expecting you. If you will come this way, please.”

  Charles knew of Captain Millford, a senior officer with a reputation for competence. The Viscount he had never heard of. “Who is Effington?” he asked as they started down the hallway.

  The attendant hesitated as if unsure how much he should reveal. “The Viscount is not a standing member of the board,” he said finally. “I believe him to provide certain ancillary services on the occasion.”

  “I see,” Charles said, not really seeing at all.

  The attendant approached a door to their left, turned the latch, and opened it. “Captain Edgemont,” he announced.

  Charles stepped into a brightly lit, high-ceilinged room with a long table placed in the middle. On the far wall was a globe of the world and above that a curious device with a face like a clock and a single hand, which apparently indicated the direction of the wind, currently wavering between south-by-east and south-by-southeast. Eight upholstered chairs were arranged around the table. This was the famous room, he realized, in which the board of the Admiralty met daily to decide the composition and disposition of the far-ranging British navy. From here, orders were issued for every decision, from promotions and appointments for commissioned officers, to the movement of great battle fleets. At present only two of the chairs were occupied, one by a middle-aged man in the undress uniform of a navy captain, the other, younger, in soberly tailored civilian clothing. Both stood as he entered. Charles heard the door latch softly behind him.

  “Captain Edgemont,” the naval officer said, coming around the table and extending his hand. “I am George Millford, and this is my associate, his Lordship the Viscount Effington. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “The honor is mine, sir,” Charles said and shook the offered hand. Millford was tall and gray haired, with a weatherbeaten face and firm grip. The Viscount presented severely lean, angular features. Charles thought he had hard eyes and a secretive look about him. He did not offer his hand, although the eyes measured Charles closely. “Your Lordship,” Charles said, bowing slightly from the waist.

  Millford cleared his throat. “We shall get down to business, shan’t we? If you would please seat yourself.”

  Charles moved to a chair at the middle of the table opposite the others, adjusted his sword, and sat. “It was I that requested this meeting,” the Captain continued, “so that, on behalf of the board, I may convey to you something of the nature of your orders and to emphasize the gravity of your mission.”

  Charles nodded his comprehension.

  “There are delicacies involved which may require both judgment and diplomacy on your part. I will be honest when I say that the board would have preferred a more senior officer, but none suitable was available.”

  Charles nodded again, tight lipped. This was not exactly a flattering revelation.

  Millford held up his hand. “No one doubts your abilities, young man. I have made inquiries as to your career. I find you to be more than generally competent, though on the occasion you have shown a disposition to act in a, shall we say, independent manner. I have read Admiral Nelson’s report on your actions immediately preceding the Battle of the Nile, for example.”

  “Sir,” Charles protested, even though he knew Millford to be at least somewhat justified. On that occasion he had ignored his admiral’s signals for hours, and in the end did not obey them at all. “I have always acted in what I considered to be the best interests of the service,” he said strongly. “If Admiral Nelson has suggested . . .”

  “Quite,” the captain said dryly. “I should say that Nelson has expressed himself admiring of your initiative. It is among these qualities which I find may recommend you for the task at hand.”

  “I see,” Charles said doubtfully, not at all clear on what that meant.

  Millford fingered an envelope on the table top by his elbow then pushed it across. “These are your written orders. You needn’t open it now; I’ll tell you what they say. Afterward, Lord Effington will provide additional background so that you may better understand some of the difficulties, if not the uncertainties, involved.”

  Charles glanced at the Viscount who was fidgeting impatiently with a pencil in his hand. The interview was beginning to strike him as somewhat unusual.

  “Captain Edgemont,” Millford said formally, “you are to proceed the instant your ship can be made ready to the port of Mocha at the foot of the Red Sea. There you will find a squadron under the command of Rear Admiral Sir John Blankett. Blankett’s purpose is to prevent the French in Egypt from transiting to India and fomenting insurrection there. I should stress that this is the fundamental intent of your own instructions as well. On no account may any French force be permitted to reach the subcontinent. The situation in India hangs on a knife’s edge as it is, with local uprisings an ever present threat.”

  Millford coughed into his hand and then continued. “You will also call at Cape Town, in the course of your journey to take on board a certain agent employed on our behalf. You are ordered to provide transport to the head of the Red Sea, and afterward render such assistance as may be required. Is that much clear?”

  Charles hesitated. His orders were straightforward enough, so much so that he didn’t understand why the Admiralty felt it necessary to explain them in person. He did have one question: “Am I to be under Admiral Blankett’s orders, or the Admiralty’s?”

  The Captain steepled his fingers in front of him, then spoke with what Charles took to be unusual care. “The board has considered this very question at length. The answer is that you will be under Admiralty orders until such time as the agent mentioned has completed his mission. When that is accomplished, you will place yourself at Blankett’s disposal. As he is the senior officer on the scene, it is felt that it can hardly be otherwise.” Millford leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. “If I may speak with the utmost confidence, some feel the Admiral may at times prove—what should I say? —cautious. You will find nothing in your written instructions, but it is anticipated that you may determine, under exceptional circumstances, it to be necessary to act on your own initiative. It is my great hope that no such occasion will arise, and that in any case you will not be reckless in your judgment. But if you do find independent action to be absolutely necessary, and if you are successful as a result, I will press the board on your behalf that no disciplinary proceedings go forward.”

  Charles assumed that he was being told that he had some uncertain amount of leeway as long as he was successful. But what if he was not? The arrangement made him decidedly uncomfortable. “Why not send a replacement to command the squadron?” he said. “Surely that would be satisfactory?”

  “I am not at liberty to answer beyond that the board has decided against it,” Millford said.

  “Frankly,” Viscount Effington interrupted, his patience apparently at an end, “Admiral Blankett hasn’t the imagination of a pencil case and everyone knows it. I find it indefensible that he has been allowed to retain his command.”

  Millford sighed. Charles thought there must have been a split among the board and the compromise had been to send a junior captain with some undefined element of independence instead. Or, perhaps the split was serious enough that the board as a whole was not privy to Charles’ verbal instructions. Before he could ponder this further, Effington continued. “The very possibility, if not the certainty, that the French will attempt to intervene militarily against our position in India is of such magnitude that the Crown’s ability to prosecute the war may depend on it. The French, particularly under this General Bonaparte, have proven themselves both resourceful and innovative—two things which Blankett is not.”

  “I
see,” Charles said tentatively. He meant the remark as a polite statement that he was paying attention.

  “I very much doubt that you do, sir,” Effington said flatly. “That Tippu Sahib, the Sultan of Mysore, is on the verge of yet another war to drive the British out of India is well known. Less publicized is that he is substantially better armed and in greater strength than before and that the Directory in Paris is known to have committed itself to aiding him. At any cost—I repeat, at any cost—this must not be allowed to occur.”

  This was all well and good, Charles thought, bridling at the condescension in Effington’s tone. He had heard these arguments before. “I understand the importance of what must be accomplished,” he answered. “But so far, aside from being less than respectful to Admiral Blankett, little light has been shed on how I am to accomplish it.”

  “I recognize that,” the Viscount said with perhaps a touch less acid in his voice. “The situation in the Red Sea basin at this moment is largely unknown to us. From what gleanings I have been able to come by, there are indications of preparations at one or more locations. The French are undoubtedly aware of our interest, and some of those preparations may be ruses. It is to address this deficiency of information that I have arranged for the agent mentioned earlier. Mr. Jones and his wives have provided useful service in the past. I am confident of their diligence in the present instance.”