by John Drake
On such occasions, when they’ve got your most precious parts poised before the mangle, and they’re wondering whether to run ‘em through the rollers, it’s absolutely vital to base your tale as close as ever can be upon the truth and nothing but the truth. Those two, but never the whole truth.
“Captain Seymour! Gentlemen!” says I. “Everything I have done these last months, has been for England.” I looked at Seymour like honest Jack Oakham attending to the Chaplain’s sermon against strong drink. “May I ask what you gentlemen know of Rear-Admiral Vanstable’s Grain Convoy, and of its importance to the French nation?”
That made ‘em jump, I can tell you! If they’d had hot irons applied to their backsides they couldn’t have started more. “The Grain Convoy?” says Seymour. “What of it?”
I’d got them from that instant. I could see it in their eyes (which were out on stalks). But Seymour was babbling on:
“It is the foremost duty of this squadron to locate the Grain Convoy,” says he. “Lord Howe awaits with the Channel Fleet, twenty-six sail of the line to intercept the Grain Fleet ...” Suddenly he broke off and looked guiltily about the deck. Lieutenant Barrow guessed what he was thinking.
“I shouldn’t worry, sir,” says he, looking at the men who swarmed all around us, “I doubt there’s a man of the squadron who doesn’t know what’s in our orders. You know how it is!”
“Hmm,” says Seymour, biting his lip, but he dropped his voice, none the less. “We must stop that convoy! If we deny the French the food those ships are bringing, then France will starve and we can impose upon them what terms we wish!” He worried a bit more about how much he could tell me, then cast off the last restraint. “Fletcher,” says he, “you must tell me anything you know of the Grain Convoy. Lord Howe is waiting to snap them up, but we don’t so much as know when the convoy sails.” He looked at me. “That is our purpose in being here, Fletcher. If we cannot bring intelligence to his Lordship on the location of the convoy, then the Channel Fleet will have no better course of action open to it than to patrol the Bay of Biscay in the forlorn hope of intercepting the convoy by chance!”
“It’s already sailed, sir,” says I. “On 2nd April, from Norfolk, Virginia.”
“WHAT?” I think the three of them actually leapt clear of the deck that time.
“My God!” says Seymour miserably. “Then we’ve failed.”
“No!” says Barrow. “Lord Howe must know of this with the minimum delay. We must turn for home at once!”
“Gentlemen!” says I, pulling my ace of trumps. I waved Cooper’s orders under their noses. Soggy, sticky and damp, but perfectly legible still. “I said that the whole purpose of my actions was for England’s benefit. Well, see the results. I have here orders from the American Congress to the Captain of the United States’ ship Declaration of Independence.” They were positively goggling at me now, like landed fish. “These orders contain a great secret entrusted by the French to their American allies — the rendezvous point where the French Fleet out of Brest shall meet the Grain Convoy and so escort it home.” I looked down and read out the vital details: “Latitude 47 degrees 48 minutes north; Longitude 15 degrees 17 minutes west of Paris …”
Well, nobody could say that Seymour was slow on the uptake. He and I were aboard Fydor, the flagship of the little squadron, just as fast as a boat could be manned. Wide-eyed and bursting with importance, he gabbled my news to Commodore Cutler and a conference of the squadron’s officers took place in Fydor’s Great Cabin within the hour.
By now I was a hero again. My story went round the squadron like lightning, and I was the saviour of Old England, the jolly lad who’d fooled the Yankees and come away with the secret that would set Lord Howe and his Channel Fleet on the Grain Convoy and snuff this war in its cradle. It was very like my early days aboard John Stark when Cooper had listened openmouthed to my tales of Passage d’Aron.
But this was different. It was bigger altogether and more serious. For one thing, the audience to my story was not a couple of Yankee “officers” that had been pirates the day before. It was three Post Captains, R.N., a dozen Lieutenants and assorted Sailing Masters and their Mates, not to mention officers of Marines. A sea of red and blue coats, gold lace and white facings, crammed around Cutler’s table under the stern windows of his Great Cabin. And there wasn’t no nonsense of turning up the hands to hear the tale, neither. I should jolly well think not, by Jove!
And this is where truth and nothing but the truth really came in. I told them a damn fine tale, all about how I’d been taken by a privateer from my lawful employment as First Mate aboard Bednal Green and all about my dreadful wounds, and how a Yankee Captain had offered to take me into his ship, which offer I had accepted only for the opportunity it presented of my gaining information on the Grain Convoy. Well — why shouldn’t they believe it? Here I was, after all, having undoubtedly abandoned the Yankees on the high seas and having Cooper’s undoubted orders in my pocket. I got three cheers and the raised glasses of the entire company.
Finally, Commodore Cutler raised his hand for silence and gave us all our marching orders.
“Thank you, Mr Fletcher,” says he, waving at me to sit, like Old King Cole dismissing the fiddlers three. “My friends and brother officers,” says he, with shining eyes — he was a balding, wrinkled old man, grown ancient in the service, and given command of these three frigates by some quirk of backstairs influence. He’d been a happy man already to hoist his Commodore’s pennant over Fydor’s decks, but now the Lord in His infinite wisdom and mercy had given Philip Cutler the chance to do something momentous for his King and country.
“My brothers,” he repeated, with the tears brimming in his eyes, “we shall turn for England at once! Our clear duty is to bear this tremendous news to Lord Howe at our utmost speed. My clerk is making copies of the American orders bearing the rendezvous details, so that each ship may carry one.” He turned to the Captain of Endemnon. “You, sir, shall seek Lord Howe ashore in case the Fleet may be driven to anchor at St H’lens, or Spithead, while I shall carry my copy to seek his Lordship at sea. My own orders tell me where it is to be found.” There was a brief silence and all present nodded. It was obvious sense to split our forces since nobody could predict what the weather might do to Lord Howe’s plans for his cruise with the Channel Fleet in search of the Grain Convoy.
Only one man looked glum: Captain Seymour of Phiandra. I think he already knew what he would have to do, but nobody had told him yet, and he had to ask.
“And Phiandra, sir?” says Seymour. “We’ve stopped most of the leaks and the pumps are gaining …”
Cutler produced a handkerchief and blew his nose slowly, avoiding Seymour’s eye.
“My dear boy,” says the maudlin old gnome, “I am so sorry. Phiandra is gravely wounded in all her masts. She will not bear sail and you’re working the pumps without cessation.” He turned to his First Lieutenant. “Ain’t that so, Barrow?”
“Aye-aye, sir,” says Barrow. “I doubt she can be saved …”
“She can be!” says Seymour instantly.
“No, Seymour!” says Cutler. “She’s lost.”
“No, sir!” says Seymour. “Halifax, Nova Scotia, is no more than two days’ sail and my crew will …”
“No!” says Cutler. “You’d be dismasted and on your beam ends in the first blow. That’s if the Yankees don’t get you first. You’ve two hundred prime seamen aboard and I shan’t let them be lost.” He paused, and made his decision. “I shall take off your people and all possible stores … and I shall burn the ship.”
And that’s just what he did. Don’t ask me if it was the right thing to do, but at least old Cutler could act when he had to. Maybe he wasn’t so senile as he looked. So there was a great bustling and hustling again, and the squadron’s boats were busy transferring men and gear. Fydor took Phiandra’s larboard watch and half her officers, and Endemnon took the starbolins and all the rest. That meant each ship had best part of four hu
ndred men and boys embarked — close packing for a pair of 38-gun frigates. At least it meant we had plenty of hands for the coming race across the Atlantic.
And it did mean that Sammy and Norris were with me in Fydor. It should have been a happy reunion, for it was a great pleasure to see them again, and they were grinning all over their faces when eventually we had the chance for a private talk. But then something stopped our chatter and doused the smiles: the smoke rising from Phiandra as our last boat pulled away from her.
It’s a dreadful thing to see a ship afire, but we couldn’t take our eyes away. You might wonder how a ship burns in the midst of all that water, but a wooden ship, built of seasoned timbers and cram-full of tar and rope and sailcloth, burns furiously once the fire takes hold.
Since Phiandra still had powder in her magazines there was no question of our lingering to see her go down, even if we hadn’t the urgent task of seeking out Lord Howe. So Fydor and Endemnon filled their sails and hauled away under a strong, fresh blow that drove them eastward at a good ten knots. In the end, with the old ship blazing like a Viking funeral, miles behind in our wake, there came a bright orange flash and she lifted her midships in the water, as her spine snapped and she threw her masts into the air like lances. The heavy rumble of the detonation came later. Grown men stood and wept, and I was one of them.
That was the evening of 26th April. With fair winds the two frigates headed westward, set fair to make a swift passage. As you may know (or even if you don’t) the winds of the North Atlantic tend to blow from the west, so a west to east passage is quicker under sail then east to west. In those days, for a reasonably well-found ship, you could reckon on forty to fifty days to America or the West Indies, while the home-bound crossing might take thirty days or less. Rough figures, those, and in later years the clippers made better time, but they’ll give an idea of what we were about in the days before the steamers changed everything.
Commodore Cutler decided that I was a gentleman and should mess with his commissioned officers, and I should inhabit a cabin in the wardroom. In fact, I did take my meals in the wardroom, but what with Fydor’s own people to accommodate, plus Captain Seymour and three or four of Phiandra’s gentlemen, I ended up sharing with the Gunner’s Mate down on the orlop. But I won’t complain. I was treated like an officer, and was kitted out with shirts, razor and other necessities, at Cutler’s own expense. He knew all about the Coignwood money and I suspect he wanted to earn my favour. I’d seen it before with Captain Bollington of Phiandra. Once they think you’re a millionaire they treat you like royalty. As a result, I kept no watches, slept snug, got my meals regular and had little to do other than cross off the days to England.
One thing I did do, though, was to get rid of that Yankee coat. It was causing me embarrassment. So I dropped it over the side and crammed myself into a respectable, bottle-green coat that I borrowed from Fydor’s chaplain who was at least something near my size. But there’s no chance of my shoulders going unaided into any coat that isn’t tailored for me, so Sammy Bone had to alter it for me. Like many seamen, Sammy was a better tailor than many who called themselves masters of that craft.
With so many hands aboard, there was light work for the crew and finally I did have plenty of opportunity to sit and yarn with Sammy and Norris. I told them everything except my gunnery activities aboard Declaration. I thought it would be better for everyone if I kept that to myself. But it wouldn’t be kept quiet. That blasted German Swede, “Brown” or “Braun” or whatever, was aboard Fydor and learning how to talk English.
One evening, about ten days after the battle with Declaration, and just after the turn of first dogwatch, when Sammy had no duties, we were sat by one of the fo’c’sle carronades. Sammy had something to say. I could tell that from the look on his face. But he took his time getting round to it. He asked me about Boston, and the Coopers and all sorts of things, and then he got to talking about my duties aboard Declaration. Now we’d been over all this before, so I wondered what Sammy wanted.
“So you was a quarterback officer, then?” says he. “Kept watches an’ all, did you?”
“Er … yes,” says I.
“How about the guns?” says he, fixing me with his eye. That gave me cause to think, but Sammy was waiting for an answer. “What about them?” says I.
“I hear you was teachin’ them Yankees our British drill,” says he.
“No more than any other officer,” says I, natural as I could manage. “You know the Yankees. They fight like we do. We all took turns at gun-drill. All the officers.”
“Oh?” says Sammy. “That’s not what Johan Braun says.”
“Who?” says I.
“That Swede you brung with you, in the boat. They’ve took him into the ship and he’s in with the mess next to ours.”
“Bah!” says I. “He can’t speak a word of English. He was in a mess where they were all Swedes, like himself.”
“Well, he ain’t any more!” says Sammy. “Learning English nicely, from his new mates, he is.” Sammy looked at me a bit odd. “Braun’s got some funny things to say about you, Jacob. He says you’re a bugger for the guns. He says you taught them Yankees all they know.”
This was very difficult. I didn’t want that known. But I couldn’t lie to Sammy. He knew every other secret of mine, in any case.
“Well, perhaps I did,” says I. “Sammy, it was the only way I could get aboard that ship. And I had to do it so as to ...” I faltered as I saw the sneer on his face.
“So as to get the Grain Convoy rendezvous?” says he. “Don’t give me that shit, Jacob! Save that for them as don’t know you like I do!” says he. “Can you look me in the eye, lad, and say you went aboard that Yankee just to spy for Old England? Are you telling me there wasn’t some money in it for you, somewhere?” I felt my face burning red and I dropped my eyes. Sammy just laughed.
“By God,” says he, poking me in the ribs with a finger like an iron ramrod, “you’re a bugger, Jacob Fletcher, and no mistake! Go on, tell me. How much was it?”
“Five thousand dollars,” says I and I laughed too. Not another man in all the world could have got that out of me. But that was Sammy Bone. He should have been in Parliament.
“Right,” says he, “now we’ve cleared the decks, let’s have the whole tale, from the beginning.”
And so I told him. He laughed once or twice, shook his head now and again and asked a few questions. When I was done, he spoke.
“You greedy sod,” says he. “It’s all money with you, ain’t it? Damned if I know why I ‘Jam you.” But he grinned. “I’ll do what I can for you. Can’t have the lower deck thinking you was that close to the enemy. But if you ask me, it’s a race between how fast Braun learns English, and us finding Lord Howe! ‘Cos then we’ll all have other things to worry about. The Frogs, for one thing.”
In the event the race was a close one. Cutler knew where Howe intended to be during the month of May — ploughing north and south across the Bay of Biscay. But that’s a needle in a haystack without a definite rendezvous. So it was probably as much by luck as judgement that we sighted one of Howe’s frigates on 25th May and finally encountered the Channel Fleet itself on the 26th.
And that’s how I came to see one of the great fleet actions of the age, but at least I was free of gossip about my doings aboard Declaration. That’s what I thought, anyway.
21
ITEM: Lady Sarah.
QUESTION: How much is true?
SUBJECT: Unnatural relations between & with her sons? Plot by son Alexander to murder FI? Murders by son Victor?
ACTION: Decide further involvement of self
(Transliteration of shorthand notes from Samuel Slym’s memorandum book for 26th September 1793.)
*
Just after dark on the evening of 26th Septmber 1793, Mr Samuel Slym was admitted, by the front door, to Admiral Lord Williams’s modest terrace house in Greenwich. It was not much to look at: a ground floor and a first floor with casem
ent windows, a garret above for the servants to sleep in and a basement below for the kitchens. To give some pretension to elegance each two adjoining houses shared a pitched roof seemingly supported on cheap imitation pillars of painted brick. The house had no special merit to it, but Slym’s heart was beating as if he were being received by King George at St James’s Palace. He was consumed with curiosity and excitement. Always previously she had come to him.
“Mr Slym?” said the servant girl who opened the door. “You are expected, sir.” She took his hat and indicated a door. “This way, if you please, sir.” Instinctively he glanced round, noting the cheap furnishings of the hall, the carpetless stair and the peeling wallpaper of the first floor, just visible in the light of the girl’s candle. It looked as if there was little money in the house. As always, he checked his escape, should one be needed: three doors plus the front door, led from the hall, with a stairway up and one down to the basement. Slym’s business depended on his taking care in such matters.
Just as he passed into the brightly lit room with the girl standing politely aside, his acute senses detected three things and swiftly drew his conclusions. From upstairs a faint wheedling voice was being hushed by a strong, female voice, like a mother scolding a child. And there was a thin stench of sickness too. So! Not a child, an invalid. An old man. That would be the old Admiral. Slym had made enquiries about Lord Williams and he’d not been seen abroad for months.
But then the door was closing behind him and he was alone with Lady Sarah. She was draped across a chaise longue in a thin gown that displayed her figure to perfection. Her hair was loose and her arms bare. She played with a pair of tiny embroidered slippers, dipping her toes in and out of them like inquisitive little fishes.
