A Sea Unto Itself

by Jay Worrall

  Cassandra had finally come to rest in the Cape Town roads almost a half mile from the harbor front. It was not an ideal anchorage since it left them exposed to the steady westerly winds and steep rollers sweeping across the Atlantic, but the increased distance and rough seas would discourage most from jumping ship to attempt the swim ashore.

  “Out oars,” Malvern ordered. “All pull.” The boat started across the chop for the long row into the port. As they neared, Charles saw that a party had gathered at the end of the closest pier. A welcoming committee of some sort, he assumed. Since the pilot boat had returned earlier, word of the activities of his crew would have long since spread up and down the waterfront. He was already in a sour frame of mind and did not relish having to explain why there had been a riot on his ship in the very mouth of the harbor.

  “Boat yer oars,” Malvern snapped at the boat’s crew. “Smartly now, damn yer eyes. Dick, get a hook on that ladderway.” At least the coxswain was making an attempt to show that Cassandra was a capably manned and disciplined ship. Of course, the large black bruise around one eye, already swelling shut, went some way to counter the impression. The boat pulled alongside the ladder; Charles stepped across and climbed upward.

  The first person he encountered on the surface of the dock greeted him warmly. “Captain Edgemont, what? May I welcome you to the Cape Colonies? I am Samuel Cobbham.” The speaker was a middle-aged man with a round face and a comfortable paunch. He wore the undress uniform of a vice admiral in the Royal Navy. “It’s a pleasure to greet a real navy man for once, eh? Mostly we get those John Company duffers; not real captains, if you take my drift. The Admiralty has informed me that you”d be passing our way, don’t you know?”

  “Thank you, sir,” Charles answered, touching his hat carefully and looking for something solid to hold onto. He found himself unsure of his balance on the rigidly unmoving surface of the wharf.

  Cobbham laughed. “Been at sea long, what?”

  “Eighty-one days from Chatham, sir. I expect it will take me a time to find my land legs.”

  “Eighty-one days, eh? Long enough for your lads to work up some raw feelings, I do hear.” The admiral’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Is everything shipshape where your people are concerned, or do you require some assistance, eh?”

  Charles hesitated. He could fob off any excuse to the harbor pilot, but he didn’t want to lie to the Admiral. He didn’t want to admit that he couldn’t control his own crew either. “It’s not as serious as it might have appeared to the pilot,” he said carefully. “Just at present I have factions among my crew. We recently pressed a number of Americans at Bunce Island and they haven’t adjusted to their role on board as of yet. I expect to have the matter in hand before long.”

  Cobbham glanced reflectively at Cassandra, absurdly small in the in the distance, then back at Charles. “I see,” he said easily. “It doesn’t do to pry too closely into other officers’ methods is my rule, but if you’re to require resupply, she’s going to have to come into the harbor.”

  Charles said nothing to this.

  “If you’re worried about your men running,” the admiral continued gently, “I’d be more than pleased to post sentries for any strays that find their way ashore. I wouldn’t be concerned if I were you, it happens more often than you’d think, don’t you know?”

  “Thank you,” Charles said. “That would be welcome.”

  “Otherwise, an uneventful voyage, eh?” the admiral said, seemingly unconcerned as to Charles’ other problems. As he spoke, Augustus climbed up onto the pier with the mail bags and stood behind Charles in an expectant attitude. “Collect that if you will, Peters,” Cobbham ordered an assistant standing close by.

  “We encountered a pair of French warships along the way, a frigate and a seventy-four, sir,” Charles answered, thankful at the change of topic. “I am certain they will pass by the Cape into the Indian Ocean.”

  If he thought the admiral would be alarmed by this, he was mistaken. “There’s always some going back and forth to Mauritius. It’s a damned nuisance. Still, a ship of the line is somewhat unusual, what? But enough of this chit-chat is my thought. Come along to my office and we’ll make quick work of whatever official business there is. You’ll be staying to supper, of course. Mrs. C. will be dying for the latest news from home, don’t you know?”

  “I’d be honored, sir,” Charles said. He noticed that Augustus was still positioned resolutely behind him. He guessed that his steward wouldn’t know what he was supposed to do and so naturally stayed where he was until instructed otherwise. “You may go back to the ship,” he said. “I’ll return later this evening.”

  Augustus stayed in place, looking uncertainly around him. “I’ll just follow with you, Cap’n, if I may,” he said.

  “Whatever for?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed and his face assumed a serious expression. “In case somethin’ were to happen, Cap’n.”

  “What could . . .” It came to Charles that Augustus was concerned that some harm might come to him in a foreign port, English governed or otherwise. He remembered that Penny had appointed him as a kind of bodyguard, and while thoughtful, it would be awkward to have the man trailing him everywhere he went. “This is British soil,” he said. “I’ll be as safe as in my own home. You may return to the ship with an easy mind. In fact, I insist on it. I’ll be back later in the evening.”

  Augustus looked doubtful, but went down into the boat. Charles told Malvern to inform Lieutenant Bevan that he would return later than he’d expected.

  A mercifully short walk took them to a low stone building that was the Port Admiral’s headquarters. Cobbham ushered him through a small anteroom with a pair of clerks at their desks and into a spacious, well-lit office furnished more like a parlor than a place of business.

  “Sit, sit, Captain. We don’t stand on formality in this far outpost of the Empire, what? Will you take some refreshment?”

  “Coffee, if you have it,” Charles said, removing his hat and seating himself in a cushioned chair.

  “Coffee? You’re sure? The navy isn’t what it used to be, eh?” Cobbham summoned a servant and gave instructions for a mug of coffee and a glass of sherry. “To business then,” he said, easing himself into an adjacent seat. “I find it’s best get the preliminaries out of the way in the beginning, don’t you think? We are reasonably well stocked for victuals, water, firewood, that sort of thing. You have only to supply me a list. Is there anything else you require, what? Anything, anything at all, eh?”

  Charles found the admiral’s manner of speech somewhat difficult to follow, but the fellow seemed genuinely pleased for company and was certainly amiable enough. “In addition to the normal kinds of supplies, I would appreciate the opportunity to top off my powder and shot, and the replacement of a mizzen spar.”

  Cobbham raised his eyebrows. “What?” he said.

  “I mentioned that Cassandra encountered two French national ships on our way south. We engaged the frigate on two occasions. My report on both incidents is in the mail satchel.”

  “Damages? Outcome? Eh?”

  “Aside from the mizzen, there’s nothing we haven’t been able to replace ourselves. The results of both engagements were inconclusive.”

  “I see,” Cobbham said thoughtfully. “Inconclusive, was it? Well, I'm sure we can provide satisfaction where your needs are concerned. That’s why we’re here, don’t you know.”

  “I have two additional items, if I may.”

  The admiral nodded happily. “Of course, of course.”

  “My orders are that I am to take onboard certain passengers at Cape Town, to carry them into the Red Sea. I am also instructed to call on the governor for any recent intelligence he may have for that region.”

  “Yes, yes. I have already sent word to the residence that you might be calling on His Excellency in the morning. Time enough for that, I do think. I am also familiar with Mr. Jones and his—what should I say?—party. They’ve lodg
ings in the town, don’t you know? If I may take the liberty, I find them passingly odd. Very secretive, don’t socialize at all, no matter how many invitations are sent out. There’s something strange afoot there to my mind, what?” He took a sip from his glass, sighed in appreciation, then replaced it on the table. “So you’re bound for the Red Sea, are you? Bit of a red herring, that.” He chuckled to himself. “Do you follow? Red Sea, red herring, what?”

  Charles smiled politely.

  “Admiral Blankett’s station, don’t you know? You’ll find no joy there; hotter than the embers of hell itself. Frightened to death in India that the French’ll come down from Egypt to join with Tippu Sahib, the Sultan of Mysore, and toast their muffins for them. Of course, no such thing will happen. Can’t, there’s no transport for that kind of thing, what? Besides which, Blankett’s got the exit to the sea corked up with his frigates; besides which, the governor-general in Bombay just recently declared war on ol’ Tippu, don’t you know? That’ll be settled soon to my thinking.”

  “No, I didn’t know,” Charles said. “About the war against Mysore, I mean. Have they begun an offensive?”

  “Oh, no,” Cobbham said, dismissing the idea with the wave of his hand. “There’s plenty of time for that. Still searching about for the right officer to lead them. I hear tell it might be young Colonel Wellesley put into command, that’s the scuttlebutt, don’t you know?”

  “Yes, er, no,” Charles answered, thinking that a question may have been asked. Any news Cobbham would have from India would already be months old. Anything or nothing could have happened since then. One thing was clear, that the port admiral at Cape Town, considerably closer to the area in question than the Admiralty, had few worries about a further French excursion from Egypt toward India.

  “Oh, my! Look at the time!” Cobbham exclaimed suddenly. “Mrs. C. will be sorely disappointed if we are late to sup. We must be off.” The admiral rose, leaving his half-full glass on the table. “We shall walk, eh? It’s only just up the hill.”

  Charles followed as Cobbham passed through the anteroom to the out of doors. From what he could tell, the building was now entirely empty, without clerks, laborers, or servants. Activity along the waterfront had also largely ceased. The Cape Town dockyard was not a twenty-four-hours-a-day concern, he decided.

  As they climbed a winding cobblestone drive up the hillside, the admiral asked, “You’re not married by chance, are you?”

  The question brought Penny’s face before his eyes. If all was well she would have birthed by now. Perhaps at this very . .

  “Eh?”

  Charles pulled himself up. “What? Yes, I am, sir. Very happily so, if I may say. Why do you ask?”

  Cobbham clicked his tongue several times as he huffed his way up the lane. “My daughter, Arabella, will be pleased by your presence, don’t you know? Comely enough, but too clever for her own good, if you ask me. Too clever for the local lads anyway, what? There’s plenty of dead wood around here, I don’t have to tell you, I’m sure. Mrs. C. and I are ever hopeful of finding someone suitable. I suppose we’ll have to arrange something back home.” He fell silent for a moment, then laughed. “If you mention to Arabella I said that, Captain, I’ll court martial you, eh? She’s an independent thinker, that one.” Then he laughed again.

  The admiral’s house, when they came to it, was a comfortable place and reasonably substantial in appearance. Charles noticed several native African groundsmen working in the gardens. At the entrance they were greeted by yet another black servant in livery who took his hat and sword.

  “There you are, Mr. C.” A cherubic, middle-sized woman swept into the foyer. She was pleasantly, if amply, proportioned, with an irresistible smile. Charles guessed she would be Mrs. Cobbham. The two even resembled each other. He could only imagine what their daughter’s appearance might be and why there was such difficulty finding a match for her.

  “My dear, this is Captain Edgemont of the frigate in the harbor. Just arrived, don’t you know?” the admiral announced. “Captain E., Mrs. C., eh?”

  “Ain’t I pleased to meet ye, what?” the woman dipped a curtsey and held out her hand to be kissed.

  Charles obliged and then said, “It is my honor, madam,” which seemed appropriate in the moment.

  “Don’t I want to hear everything from home, don’t you know?” Mrs. Cobbham said cheerfully, taking his arm and leading him to a too colorfully decorated parlor off the hallway. As soon as Charles had been seated and offered refreshment she launched into a series of observations and inquiries focused on the latest gossip relating to the lives of the much-admired King George and his somewhat notorious offspring. It was a subject about which Charles had little knowledge other than hearsay, but he answered politely where he could and expressed regret for his ignorance where he could not. Either response seemed to please equally.

  After a time in this occupation he heard the admiral, who had largely left the floor to his wife, say, “Ah, there you are, my dear.”

  Charles turned to acknowledge the new presence. His heart stopped. Framed in the doorway stood a slender young woman of considerable beauty. She wore a low-scooped gown with a tight bodice and long blond hair pulled back from her face so that it fell in ringlets on bare white shoulders. A high forehead, bright blue eyes and a wide smiling mouth completed an appearance so closely resembling Penny that for an instant he thought it must be her.

  “Are you well, sir?” Arabella approached, concern on her face.

  Charles was cast into confusion as he stumbled to his feet. “I’m sorry . . . I apologize.” He struggled to regain his composure. The woman awakened such a yearning that he did not trust himself to speak.

  The admiral saved him. “Arabella, this is Captain Edgemont. Fresh from home he is, what?”

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, captain, I’m sure,” the girl said, still looking at him doubtfully.

  “I do apologize. I am honored to make your acquaintance,” Charles said, his heartbeat returning to almost normal. He carefully shook the offered hand instead of kissing it. Arabella seated herself on a sofa near him and began a new interrogation on the various intrigues surrounding the royal family. “I want to know everything there is, don’t you know?” she said happily. Charles found his composure returning by degrees as he watched her and answered her questions. She was not the twin of Penny, he realized, and any resemblance was superficial. The thought crossed his mind that any young woman he encountered during this long separation might remind him of her. Fortunately, where he was going, any such occasion would be rare.

  Late in the evening, following a leisurely and surprisingly enjoyable supper, Charles begged to return, asserting that pressing duties awaited him. Cobbham insisted on providing a carriage to convey him back to the waterfront, and the admiral’s barge was rousted out to carry him to his ship.

  “Has there been any further trouble with the men?” Charles asked Beechum as he climbed onto Cassandra's deck.

  “No, sir. All’s quiet. How was your time ashore?”

  “About as pleasant as could be expected, what? eh? don’t you know?” Charles answered, then made his way below.

  In the morning he spoke with Bevan about moving into the harbor, then met with Mr. Wells to review with him the list of foodstuffs, water, and firewood required to replenish their supplies. That completed, he sent for the ship’s gunner to obtain an accounting of their expended powder and shot, and then for the boatswain about the replacement of the mizzen boom. By nine-thirty he had changed into his best shirt and breeches. He allowed Augustus to help him into his full-dress frock coat with its heavy bullion lace and trimmings, which he wore only for the most official of occasions. An interview with His Excellency, the Honorable Sir Horace St. Legier, the British governor for the Cape Colonies, was clearly such an event. He noticed that his steward was also clothed with unusual care, with a short jacket, hat, and neckerchief over clean trousers made of sailcloth, and newly blacked shoes. Augustus look
ed quite presentable, Charles thought, and he knew why. “It’s not necessary for you to accompany me, you know,” he said.

  “I’m thinkin’ I should come, Cap’n. Just in case.” Augustus answered with his usual fixed expression.

  Charles knew that sooner or later he was going to have to put a stop to this. There was no harm to it, but it was embarrassing, as if he needed protection. “All right, this time if it pleases you. But be assured, I can manage on my own.”

  “Yes, Cap’n.”

  At the dockside, Charles hired a glorified farm cart with two aging dobbins that passed as a carriage. The thing jolted along on its unsprung axles through the town’s market square and up a broad cobbled way to the residency. The building stood as an imposing structure on the crest of a low hill with a panoramic view of the harbor. It took him only a moment to pick out his own ship, small in the distance, an oblong black and tan form surrounded by dark blue waters. She had evidently pulled her anchor and was even then dropping her topgallants to move closer into the port.

  “Captain Edgemont of His Majesty’s Frigate Cassandra,” Charles announced to the corporal of the guard at the arching wrought-iron gates.

  “Sir.” The red-coated soldier saluted, touching the back of his open hand to his forehead, in the army fashion. Two privates opened the barrier, and the carriage passed into the courtyard. Charles ordered the driver to wait, and then stepped down. Augustus immediately moved to follow. “You will have to stay with the carriage,” Charles said firmly. “I hope not to be long.” Without waiting for an objection he turned and started toward the entrance.

  “May I know your business, sir?” another uniformed attendant inquired as he stepped inside.

  “Captain Edgemont to see Sir Horace. I am expected.” Charles looked around him with some curiosity at the high-ceilinged hall with its marble floor and oddly foreign ornamentation.