A Sea Unto Itself

by Jay Worrall

  “Then perhaps I bring a welcome change. Is Commander Griffiths available?”

  “On what passes as our quarterdeck. This way, if you please.”

  Charles saw an elderly, grizzled figure seated in a chair aft, with one leg propped up on a stool in front of him.

  “Captain Edgemont; Commander Madoc Griffiths,” Drinkwater announced, making the introductions.

  “Bach, my pardons if I don’t rise, Captain,” Griffiths said with a thick Welsh accent. “It’s the gout, you know. Still, I’m pleased to greet you. You’ve met Nat here, I take it.”

  “I have,” Charles said, taking an instant liking to the older man.

  “He’s been as grumpy as a puppy who can’t find a teat these past weeks,” Griffiths continued sympathetically. “His lady back home is in an expectant way and he’d rather be there than here. Am I right, Nat?”

  The lieutenant colored at this intimate revelation about his personal life.

  “Du,” Griffiths said with a grin. “If you can’t take the pressure then you shouldn’t have done the deed.” At this Drinkwater blushed a still brighter shade.

  Charles laughed out loud. “Really?” he said. “I find myself in similar circumstances. It’s the very devil not knowing, isn’t it?”

  “It is that,” Drinkwater admitted.

  “But enough of this,” Griffiths said, turning serious. “You’ve been on shore; to see Blankett is my guess. Is this a social call, or do you have some word?”

  “I’m to tell you he’s decided to put out a patrol,” Charles said. “There’s reason to believe the French may have already entered the sea. You are to make preparations to sail.”

  “And you, sir?” Drinkwater asked.

  “I’m going north,” Charles answered. “We should be back to join the squadron in a month or so.”

  “It’s about time he put some ships out, to my thinking,” Griffiths offered. “Past time. There’s no arguing with the man, though.”

  Charles returned to Cassandra in a brighter frame of mind, satisfied that there was at least one other person who shared his misery over the unknown condition of his wife. The sun dropped into the sea; in these latitudes night followed swiftly. His sense of wellbeing did not last long. “Assemble the men on the deck, Daniel,” he said almost before he had fully passed through the entry port.

  “May I enquire as to why?” Bevan asked.

  “They will be expecting to be permitted leave ashore. Blankett has forbidden it.”

  “Hell’s embers,” Bevan said. “Pardon my French, Charlie, but they aren’t going to like it.”

  “I don’t expect they will.”

  Bevan relayed the order and the boatswain’s calls summoning the hands sounded the length of the ship. In the gathering darkness Charles stood beneath a lantern hung from the mainmast as the men tumbled up the hatchways fore and aft. He could make out the forms as they found their divisions, but not see the faces except for those just below him. An expectant silence fell over the ship.

  “I have called on the admiral commanding this station,” Charles spoke loudly, “to request permission for leave ashore.” There was a murmur of whispered conversation at this from below. He wished he could make out their expressions, but he knew well enough.

  “Silence on deck!” Bevan bellowed, as usual.

  “It’s all right,” Charles said, also as usual. He wanted to hear their reaction. Taking a deep breath, he spoke again. “The admiral denied the request. There will be work parties only. I am personally sorry for this. I thought it best if I told you myself.”

  “Bloody ‘ell,” an angry voice immediately shouted back. “We ain’t any of us ‘ad a minute of liberty since Chatham.”

  “Since afore that,” shouted another. “Us was turned over to this scow direct. I ain’t been ashore in more ‘n a year! It ain’t right.” An uproar of protests broke out.

  Charles let it go on for a few moments. He felt badly for them. They did deserve leave; they’d earned it, but there was nothing he could do. Finally, he held his arms up for silence. The noise tapered away. “It happens that I agree with you,” he said when he had their attention. “I promise to make it up at the first opportunity.” He doubted that his words would satisfy. “You may dismiss them,” he muttered to Bevan. “I’d keep a careful watch over the next several days if I were you.”

  Charles looked on unhappily as the hands milled about on the dimly lit deck, grousing and complaining as they made for the hatchways and below. He thought to go down to the wardroom for his supper when he saw Midshipman Aviemore lounging against the binnacle. He was reminded of one final detail he should attend to. “Mr. Aviemore,” he called.

  “Sir?” the boy inquired.

  “You will be pleased to go down to my cabin to inform Mr. Jones that I would appreciate a word with him.”

  “Which cabin, sir?” Aviemore asked. “The captain’s cabin or Lieutenant Bevan’s cabin which be also your cabin?”

  Charles decided that he would be very pleased when Jones and his entourage were finally put on shore so that his life could return to normal. He would also be pleased when Aviemore reached the age of about forty and might be expected to reason as a normal human being. “Whichever you might the most reasonably anticipate finding him in,” he offered. Aviemore actually skipped across the deck to descend the ladderway.

  “What do you want?” Adolphus Jones growled. He appeared with a napkin still tied around his neck and had apparently been disturbed at his own meal.

  Charles pushed down his annoyance. “I have been into the port this afternoon,” he said. “There I met with an acquaintance of yours. Underwood is his name. He has extended an invitation for you to visit.”

  “Ah,” Jones said.

  “Ah? Is that all you have to say: Ah?”

  “I believe it best to decline,” Jones elaborated.

  “May I ask why?”

  Jones stood silent for a moment, then said, “Mr. Gladfridus Underwood is indeed an acquaintance of some duration. A trifling misfortune befell him several years ago, over which he has adopted an unforgiving attitude. In short, he has sworn to have me murdered should I set foot in Mocha. I would prefer to reminisce with him in a more neutral setting.”

  “His fingers?” Charles asked.

  “It seemed appropriate in the spirit of the moment.”

  “Ah,” Charles said. “In that case we may allow the invitation to lapse.”

  *****.

  The next days passed in a flurry of activity under an intemperate sun. Cassandra's boats plied to and from the beach, returning laden to the gunwales with filled water casks, bawling bullocks, sheep, goats, and scrawny chickens. There were great sacks of millet, wheat and peas, dates, lemons, limes, and a towering pile of firewood. All were swung up by sweating, shirtless seamen, and tucked into their places in the filling hold. The cattle and sheep were butchered on the forecastle as they came aboard, cut into mess-sized chunks, and stored in salt-filled barrels. The hands, Charles observed, labored steadily if unenthusiastically under a blistering sun, which he found understandable; but there was something in their attitude that had changed—an increased distance, resentment. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Was he measuring the temper of the crew, or were they measuring him? .

  Charles watched as Hellebore sailed on the second day to begin cruising back and forth between Mocha and the African shore. He also took the opportunity to pay social calls on Captains Harry Bell of Daedalus and Dante Sugden of Fox. Bell proved a not quite piercing officer who expressed himself content to sit in the Mocha roads “until hell froze over,” if his king commanded it. “At least it would be cooler then,” he said. Sugden’s diversion was endless games at whist, to which Charles was invited but declined.

  On the fourth day Cassandra pulled her anchor from the sandy bottom of Mocha Bay and started northward under fitful southerly airs. Cromley’s chart informed that it would only be 1,400 miles or so to Cape Muhammad on the tip of the Sina
i Peninsula. He stared at the paper until he had memorized what little information it contained. Despite himself, he had an intense curiosity and no small apprehension about what they might find there.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The long columns of crabbed figures on the page refused to stay in focus. Charles sat on the cot in Bevan’s cabin, his back propped against the bulkhead and his stockinged feet drawn up so that he could more easily read the purser’s ledger, open across his thighs. A dim lantern swung from the beam above his head, the flame adding unwanted warmth to the musty, close space. The room was cramped, eight by six feet, containing the cot, a tiny table, and a single chair. A door, louvered for ventilation, opened onto the wardroom. And if the wardroom itself had been in any way ventilated, Charles might have been pleased. Excepting her captain (normally), all of Cassandra’s officers and senior warrants had similar though less spacious cabins partitioned against either side of the hull in the aftermost third of the mess deck. On a two-decked ship of the line these accommodations would be shared with a hulking thirty-two-pounder cannon, which allowed less floor room but at least provided a gunport to open for light and air. A frigate’s mess deck was at the waterline and, aside from the hatchways, unpierced by any opening its entire length. It was a dark, airless expanse lit by occasional lanterns and perfumed by the too infrequently washed bodies of hundreds of seamen and marines who berthed forward and the still more malodorous delights of the bilge below.

  “Purchased in Mocha, 30–31 May, 1799,” he re-read the heading at the top of the page. “Oxen, one score; sheep, two score and six; millet, five hundredweight; peas, six hundredweight; dates, two hundredweight . . .” What the hell did Wells want so many dates for? Charles struggled to keep his mind on the list in front of him. If the wind held it would only be three weeks to a month before he could reasonably expect to put Jones and his women ashore somewhere along the Gulf of Suez at the head of the sea. He was anxious to get the thing done, not just so that he could be rid of his passengers and have his own cabin back, with its operable gallery windows and gun ports, but because it would take him one step closer to the completion of his mission. Once Jones had discovered the true intentions of the French—whether or not they were intending to come down the sea—all Charles had to do was inform Blankett. It would be the Admiral’s responsibility to decide how to confront the situation—if there was indeed a situation to confront. He ached to have it settled so that he might be able to retrace his course back to England to see Penny, or even to make Cape Town or Gibraltar where there would be letters with word on the outcome of her pregnancy, and with news about her health and that of their child. There were times when he didn’t care whether the enemy landed in India or not. He wished it were finished and he could go home.

  He fingered the thick paper of the ledger and stared at the list of supplies again with renewed determination. “Lemons . . .” The seasonal shift in the direction of the prevailing winds from southward up the sea to down the sea from the north would be essential to any French calculations. If they intended to come down, it could only be done with favorable winds. How would such an effort be organized? If it were up to him, he would collect whatever transports were available at some convenient Egyptian port on the Red Sea—Koessir, which was shown on his chart, for example, or possibly Suez—load them with troops and supplies, then run south as soon as the wind allowed it. That had the advantage of being the most straightforward approach. The disadvantages, as he saw it, were two: It was a long sail from Egypt to Bombay, a month and a half at the least, even with the best of winds. And the British squadron at Mocha would have to be somehow defeated or avoided. He was certain that the French would be aware of Blankett’s presence and strength; local traders passing up and down the sea would long since have informed them.

  There was another disadvantage, Charles reflected: Massing the transports at a port in Egypt was the most obvious thing to do, and left them vulnerable to attack—should they be discovered and should Blankett be so inclined. He remembered the viscount at the Admiralty telling him to be wary of the obvious. What in God’s name did that mean? If not the obvious, what—the obscure? Maybe Blankett and all the others were right; there was no French intention to invade India, and his whole goddamned mission was a goddamned waste of time.

  Charles muttered an obscenity under his breath. All he had to do was force his attention until he finished with the purser’s report, then he could sign the damn thing and go on deck. “Lemons . . .” He remembered that he was also arrears in his log-keeping. That could wait until another time. It was uncomfortably warm in the cramped cabin. If he listened he could hear Beechum, Sykes, and Aviemore playing at cards on the wardroom dining table and the footfalls of seamen on the gundeck above. There was little talk at the game which had been going on for hours, but the shuffling and slapping of the cards was clear enough. He could not hear anything of the activities on the quarterdeck, two decks above, which he would have followed easily were he in his own cabin. His ears picked up when he heard the door from the crew’s mess to the wardroom open, then slam loudly shut. “Slow down, Hitch,” Beechum’s voice commanded. “And keep it soft, the captain’s working.”

  “It’s the Frogs!” Midshipman Hitch chirped breathlessly, then the tap-tap-tap of a pair of feet hurrying across the floor.

  Frogs? What frogs? What could frogs possibly have to do with anything? It came to him—not frogs, Frogs! He dumped the ledger on the cot and swung his legs over the side to search for his shoes as the knock came at his door.

  “Come.”

  “Lieutenant Bevan’s respects, sir,” Hitch said formally. “The lookout’s seen a Frenchie. The same, he says, what we did with before.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hitch,” Charles said, attempting to suppress his excitement. “You may tell Mr. Bevan that I shall be on deck presently.”

  He quickly slipped his feet into his shoes and buckled them. Without bothering with his coat he took up his sword and hat. “Come along, gentlemen,” he said as he passed the card game, exited the wardroom, and made for the ladderway.

  Cassandra sailed a course north-by-northwest in deep water up the center of the long, narrow sea with a following wind. Two days from Mocha, they were giving the reef-strewn Dahlak Archipelago a wide berth to port. At the noon sighting their latitude had been fifteen degrees, forty-five minutes north.

  “What has he seen, Daniel?” Charles said as soon as he came onto the quarterdeck.

  “Two sail off the larboard quarter,” Bevan said. “One of them is square-rigged. The lookout swears she’s the same French frigate we encountered in the Atlantic, although that seems a bit hard to swallow. The other’s some kind of local dhow, I think, double masted with a small mizzen aft, all lateen sails.”

  “What course do they have?”

  “The dhow’s running to the southwest; it’s possible the frigate is in pursuit.”

  “Mr. Sykes,” Charles called. “You will be pleased to take a glass up to the mainmast crosstrees. Make careful note of every detail you can, then report back what you see. I am particularly interested in the identity of the frigate. You might also make a careful scan of the horizon to be certain there are no other sail in sight.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Sykes took up a telescope from the binnacle and started toward the mainmast shrouds.

  “Mr. Cromley.”

  “Sir.”

  “Steer west-by-southwest, if you please.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll be heading into shallow water amongst those islands, you know.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Cromley. I am aware of that.”

  Charles rubbed a hand across his forehead. If the lookout was to be believed, the sighting confirmed that at least one of the French warships had entered the Red Sea. Where was the two-decker—what was her name?—Raisonnable. If there was one, the other would probably have accompanied her. He thought it a good wager that the big seventy-four was somewhere farther north. The frigate—L’Agile, he remembered—
had likely been detached to collect suitable transports as she came upon them. In this instance, he did not pause to consider whether or not he should give chase to engage. It was his duty to do so. The presence of the two ships of war would seriously compromise Blankett’s ability to blockade the sea’s exit. Capturing or crippling the frigate would help to redress the balance, leaving only the seventy-four to deal with. Besides, it was the first time he had come upon her without the larger consort. As he had the opportunity, he had best take advantage of it; there might not be a better one.

  It was troublesome that Cassandra’s change of course to intercept the enemy would carry her ever closer to the Dahlak Archipelago, an almost completely uncharted expanse of scores, if not hundreds, of small islands, coral reefs, rocks, shoals, and shallows. The morass extended for a hundred miles or more to the African coast. It was likely that the shallow-drafted dhow intended to run there for her safety. For the deeper draft of the frigates, it would be an ungodly dangerous place for a sea battle.

  “Daniel, you may clear the ship for action. Don’t send the men to quarters until we are closer.”

  “Aye, aye,” Bevan said.

  “Station two men in the forechains with lead lines, one on each side. We’ll take soundings as we go. Send Beechum forward with a notebook to keep a record. Assign Hitch and Aviemore to run back and forth with reports. Do you have all that?”

  “Aye, I have it.”

  The bosun’s call sounded for all hands on deck. The men hurried up the ladder-ways full of chatter. Word had apparently already passed between decks that a French warship had been sighted, and she was the same they had fought before. Charles watched the men carefully, attempting to read their mood. Some at least were excited at the prospect of renewing the battle. Others—he noted the more experienced seamen among them—moved deliberately to their places, their eyes cautious as they glanced up at him in passing. Still, the waisters took up their lines to brace the sails around. Others fell without notable enthusiasm to work preparing the ship for battle. They would tend to their duties when the guns began firing, he knew. They would have little choice.