The Captain's Nephew

by Philip K Allan

  Both men turned away from the side to organise their respective parties. Clay tried to get the line around the fluke himself, but stretch as he might, he was still just too short. He considered standing on the rail, his fear of heights appalled by the drop down the ship’s side to the boiling sea below, when he caught sight of Evans, a full head taller than the sailors around him. For a moment he felt his duty as an officer to lead by example clash with his common sense. It was his common sense that won.

  ‘Evans, over here,’ he yelled. ‘Fletcher, you too.’

  Evans apelike arms reached the fluke easily enough, Fletcher and Clay each gripped one of his legs just in case. The line was taken back around one of the bits, the huge square cut timber beams that ran through the whole depth of the ship to supply a reliable anchor point. Clay made the men wait, coordinating each heave on the line with the moment at which the anchor swung towards the ship with each successive wave. Wave, heave, wave, heave. Slowly, inch by inch, the collective weight of twenty men hauling on the line brought the anchor under control.

  ‘Belay that line,’ ordered Clay, and then he signalled to Knight that with the line secured he could get the men over the side.

  ‘Well done, men,’ he encouraged. ‘Catch your breath and try and find what shelter you can. We will need to lower the anchor into place directly Mr Knight has completed his work.’

  While the men took a break, he looked about him in the storm. Far downwind he caught the occasional glimpse of lights in the night, shut off quickly as another towering wave swept past them. The East Indiamen too battled against the power of the storm. Once more he tried to picture Lydia, wondering how she was faring in this appalling weather. He had tried to warn her that the Biscay could be rough in March, although even he had not expected three days of gales quite as bad as this.

  Thoughts of Lydia, brought him to thoughts of that magical evening they had spent together. He tried to visualise her features once more, but instead found himself staring into Rosso’s unshaven face, shiny with spray.

  ‘Mr Knight’s signalling sir,’ he bellowed. ‘He is ready for us to lower the anchor.’

  ‘My thanks, Rosso,’ shouted Clay, returning from the candle-lit warmth of the Earl of Warwick’s great cabin to the howling reality of the forecastle of the Agrius in a full gale.

  As he organised the men once more, something troubled him. Seeing Rosso’s face at that moment had triggered a memory. It was to do with Lydia and Rosso, Rosso and Lydia, but he struggled to make the connection. Something had happened that night, while Lydia had been out of the room. In a flash it came back to him. George Roberts, the very drunk merchant from Bristol, who thought he had recognised Rosso. Except that he had called him something else. Now, what was that other name he had mentioned?

  Lowering the anchor back into place was a tricky operation. Knight coordinated it from the forecastle rail, signalling first for Clay to lower, and then to hold. The line of seamen was angled back against the weight of the anchor like a tug-of-war team, struggling to keep their footing on the heaving deck. By tiny increments the heavy anchor slipped down the ship’s side, dropping back into place, until Knight signalled that it had been lashed securely to the hull once more.

  The boatswain stumped over the deck to where Clay stood by the foremast, surrounded by his gasping team of men.

  ‘Well done, sir,’ he shouted, his face wreathed in smiles at their success. ‘That was a right seamanlike piece of work, if I say so as shouldn’t. The anchor is now lashed on tight as any barnacle on a rock.’ To Knight’s surprise, Clay’s face showed only horror.

  ‘Wave!’ he roared, pointing over the boatswain’s shoulder. ‘Everyone clap on!’

  The freak wave was massive, an avalanche of grey slate that towered over the men on the deck. The Agrius’s bows had only just started to rise to meet it when it thundered down on the forecastle, smothering the deck waist deep in water. Rosso felt his feet swept from under him as he clung to the base of the mast. He slipped below the surface and the sucking water gripped his body, wrenching him finger by finger from his hold. The frigate’s motion had been frozen by the huge weight on her bows, but then slowly she started to rise again, geysers of steel-grey water pouring out through her scuppers. Rosso felt the mill race of departing sea sweep him across the deck towards the side. He flung his arms out wide, seeking a hold that wasn’t there. Then he felt a hand grip his ankle, the water flooded past him and was gone.

  ‘Are you well, Jones,’ said Clay as they picked themselves up, the forgotten name returning to him at last. Rosso was so shocked by his narrow escape that he seemed not to notice Clay had used his correct name.

  ‘I am fine now, thank you, sir,’ he replied, stumbling off to rejoin the others.

  *****

  After almost a week of storms the weather moderated a little, and they could at last set some sail again and resume their journey. They completed their crossing of the Bay of Biscay, and were soon heading along the coast of Spain. Once they had rounded the tip of Galicia each sea mile that now passed took them farther and farther south. They were leaving the northern spring behind them and as the temperature rose, the sea by tiny increments changed from green to sapphire. The Agrius now led the line of stately Indiamen, her sails lofty pyramids of glistening white, echoing the foam of her long straight wake as it stretched out behind her.

  Clay started to feel some hope that he might see Lydia again soon. With the arrival of better weather there was the chance for visits between ships once more. From the quarterdeck of the frigate, Clay could see the boats of the East Indiamen as they passed between them, ferrying passengers from one ship to another. The news in the wardroom over breakfast was that the Agrius was to return the hospitality offered to her officers by the captain of the Earl of Warwick and his principal passenger. Captain Follett would be hosting a dinner the following night, to which they had all been invited.

  The next day preparations started early for the captain’s dinner party. The carpenter and his mates removed bulkheads to combine the great cabin with the captain’s sleeping quarters and coach in order to accommodate the number of guests who had been invited. By popular demand, the numerous former fisherman among the ship’s crew were excused all duty for the day and issued with nets and lines to see what they could procure from the sea around the frigate; the men feeling that the honour of their ship required that a fish course should form part of any meal.

  A reluctant Robespierre the cat was lured from hiding by a proffered fish head, and after considerable spitting and scratching found himself locked into the cooper’s cabin for the duration of the dinner. An equally reluctant Hart was lent by the wardroom to help Lloyd with his preparations for the meal. Three dozen bottles of the captain’s hock were packed with care into a canvas bag, then lowered into the sea beside the ship to chill for the evening ahead. The Italians found their clothes confiscated by the crew and passed over to the more able of the sail makers for urgent repair. Once they were dressed in a fashion that might bring a little credit to the ship, they were installed in a corner of the great cabin to play gentle string quartets during dinner. A deck further down, Yates toiled away with a hot iron and brushes, in an attempt to make his first lieutenant’s appearance as fine as possible.

  Yet all of Yates’s work was to be in vain. When the guests of honour were piped over the side, Sir Francis and Lady Ashton were alone. They were profuse in their apologies to Captain Follett, but their niece was unable to accompany them tonight. By no means anything to occasion worry. Merely a slight chill caught during the recent inclement weather, the patient eager to come, but a trip in an open boat not recommended by the surgeon. Clay found it hard to conceal his disappointment. To his mind all of the preparations were wasted without the presence of the only person he really wanted to have been there. He did his best to be sociable through his captain’s lengthy dinner party, but without Lydia as his foil, he tended to return to his normal shy self in unfamiliar company. Her
empty chair at the table was as obvious as a missing tooth in a smile.

  *****

  William Munro hummed to himself as he sat at the wardroom table, carefully cleaning his pistols. They were a fine pair of matching guns, beautifully crafted by the most talented gunsmith in Dublin. The heavy round butts fitted smoothly into his palms, the weight of the guns close to perfection. They were a gift from his father when he was first commissioned. George Munro hoped they would preserve his son’s life either in action or through any of the duels that young Irish officers had a reputation for being drawn into. Although they had not yet been called into action to settle any affairs of honour, they had seen battle, and had done their job well. Munro pulled back the lock of one, delighting in the smoothness of the action, and sighted at the stern post at the back of the wardroom.

  ‘Is your project only to pollute the wardroom with the infernal smell of gun oil, or are you planning on shooting off the rudder?’ asked Clay as he emerged from his cabin. ‘In the latter case, I submit that you may need a weapon of a rather larger calibre.’ Munro smiled as he uncocked the gun and placed it down on the table.

  ‘Would you be aware that the Agrius is designated as a ship of war at all, Alex?’ replied Munro. ‘I believe the occasional martial odor can be permitted. Do you ever hear me complain when you stink out the ship with powder smoke from those cannon of yours?’ Clay grunted as he sat down opposite him.

  ‘So I take it that it was you and your men that were responsible for all that firing earlier, while I was trying to get a little sleep,’ he asked.

  ‘Indeed it was,’ replied the Irishman, smiling at the memory. ‘On account of all these storms and want of practice, half my men have forgotten which end of their muskets to point at the enemy, but I will turn them back into a body of sharpshooters, by and by.’

  The mention of storms reminded Clay of the night of the freak wave, when he tricked Rosso into revealing his true name. There seemed little doubt now that Rosso must indeed be Jones, the merchant’s clerk. Yet he had still done nothing about it, partly because he was unsure what he should do. He had turned it over in his mind for days now, but was no nearer to a solution. The two men were alone for once in the wardroom and Clay thought of Munro as a man of sound judgement. He decided to seize the moment and confide in the Ulsterman.

  ‘William, would you be willing to give me your opinion on a matter that is vexing me at present?’ he asked. ‘I have to make a decision upon it, and would value your opinion.’

  ‘By all means, Alex,’ said Munro, pressing his pistols back into the velvet-lined recesses of their case, and closing the lid. ‘Would you care for a sherry?’

  ‘My thanks,’ replied Clay, accepting the glass and swirling the pale liquid around while he gathered his thoughts.

  ‘I have in mind one of the hands,’ began Clay. ‘He is a generally well regarded member of the crew, of apparent good character, and is broadly diligent in the performance of his duties. He is an ordinary seaman at present, but could be rated as able soon. In time I did consider that he might make a good petty officer, perhaps even a master’s mate, for he has his letters.’

  ‘Well that all sounds well and good,’ said Munro, sipping at his sherry. ‘Where might the problem lie?’

  ‘It has been brought to my attention that this individual has a criminal past that he is concealing,’ said Clay. Munro laughed out loud.

  ‘Well what of it Alex?’ he said. ‘Surely the same might be said to be true of half the crew. It is certainly true of my marines. Why do you believe that we have a surge of Irish volunteers straight after any trouble in Ireland? But we are always so short-handed that we diligently weed out the more obviously wicked and the ne'er-do-wells, and take on the rest. You have need of seamen, and I have need of marines. The service has never been one that peers too closely into a recruit’s past.’

  ‘What you say may well be true William, and I agree we do turn a blind eye, so long as there are no further offences once they are on the books, but this case is more complicated,’ explained Clay. ‘I have been approached by someone on board one of the East Indiamen, so outside of the service. He had some suspicions about this member of the crew, suspicions that I now believe to be true. Does my duty not require me to expose the individual?’

  ‘That is a little different,’ conceded Munro. ‘Is it an offence that endangers anyone on board? Such as murder or larceny? An active thief can cause a lot of ill will.’

  ‘The accusation is that he embezzled funds from his employer,’ said Clay.

  ‘Well, so long as you keep him away from the purser’s books, I would judge we should be alright,’ said Munro. ‘I have a notorious poacher among my marines, and a dammed fine shot he is too. As there is little scope for him to return to his evil past while we are at sea, I don’t let it trouble me. That said, I do periodically count the wardroom chickens just in case he has been unable to resist temptation.’

  Clay laughed at that, partly from relief at what Munro had advised. Clay knew Jones to be a good member of the crew, and it would have been a shame to have lost him. Let him remain as Rosso, and let sleeping dogs lie, he decided.

  ‘Thank you for your council, William,’ said Clay. ‘I think you have the right of it. I will leave this rating be, although I perhaps will not seek to promote him till I am quite sure he is a thoroughly reformed character.’

  ‘You are truly welcome, Alex. I am glad to have been of service,’ said Munro. ‘Mind you, I did think it passing strange that a man called Rosso was not able to speak any Italian with the musicians.’ Clay’s jaw dropped.

  ‘Damn it, Munro!’ he exclaimed. ‘How did you know who it was?’

  ‘I am quite the thief taker, don’t you know, Mr Clay?’ said the Ulsterman with pride, ‘but it was you that supplied all the parts to the mystery. You spoke of a sailor, not yet rated able who knows his letters, of good character, and who must needs be a member of the launch crew to have been spotted by someone on one of the East Indiamen. Only one person it could have been. It was not exactly untying the Gordian knot.’

  Chapter 7

  Madeira

  They were now only a few days sailing north of Madeira, and the end of the Agrius’s time with the convoy was almost at hand. The sun was high overhead, already warm at this latitude and the Atlantic all about them was deep and blue. Clay was once more in the stern of the Agrius’s battered launch, rising and falling as the boat headed across the waves towards the Devon. He was the sole guest from the Agrius going to a luncheon on board. The original invitation was for Captain Follett, but he had declined it.

  ‘You had best go in my stead, Mr Clay,’ Follett had said. ‘Captain Jones of the Devon is a passing acquaintance of mine whom I find to be very provoking. We had a rather hot argument last time we met, but over what, I can no longer recall. The wine was in and the wit was out, as they say. No, it is a situation best avoided. I would not want to fall out with him again after we have both had a glass too many.’

  As they approached the East Indiaman, Clay glanced at the launch crew and was content with what he saw. The oars swung rhythmically backwards and forwards, perfectly in time, the men cheerful and apparently happy. He glanced at Rosso, seated behind Evans, pleased that he had decided to do nothing about his past. Rosso had chosen his false name well, thought Clay. He did have the dark swarthy look of the Mediterranean, presumably from his mother’s side. Rosso averted his gaze and concentrated on his rowing.

  When Clay arrived on board the Devon he found that a large canvas awning had been put up, stretched across the entire quarterdeck. In the shade under the spreading canvas a table was set with china and glass quite as it would have been below deck. A number of the other guests were already there, sipping on glasses of chilled wine. Captain Jones turned out to be a cheerful, stout man who made Clay very welcome, and showed no immediate sign of wanting to pick an argument with him, or with any of the other guests. He had just completed introducing him to the passe
ngers and officers of the Devon he had not already met on board the Earl of Warwick back in Plymouth, when Clay became aware of fresh arrivals at the entry port.

  ‘Lady Ashton, Miss Browning, what an unexpected pleasure,’ he said. For once the conventional formula was true. Lady Ashton seemed to be out of sorts, barely acknowledging the young lieutenant, but Lydia’s obvious pleasure at seeing him lit up her face, and his heart surged.

  ‘Mr Clay, I believe I may now claim to be every bit the veteran mariner that you are. I have crossed your Bay of Biscay in March, and lived to tell the tale!’ He joined in her laughter out of pure pleasure in being back in her company.

  The last time they were seated at a table it had been one of the most enjoyable evenings of his life, and this meal at first showed equal promise. Captain Jones’s decision to serve luncheon on the quarterdeck was inspired. Even in the spacious great cabin of the Devon, the number of people that had been invited would have made for an uncomfortably hot and clammy gathering, especially for the men in uniform with their heavy broadcloth – such inappropriate clothing for a ship nearing the tropics, so impossible to remove by the conventions of the age. By contrast it was delightful under the shade of the awning, with the clean sea breeze flowing in over the quarter, and a complete panorama of ocean running to the distant horizon in every direction.

  Unfortunately, by accident or by intention, the captain’s seating plan had placed Lydia and Clay as far apart as was possible. She was at one end of the long table, close to her aunt, and next to her host, while he sat at the opposite end, sandwiched between an indigo planter’s wife, and one of Captain Jones’s younger ship’s lieutenants. As lunch guests they were complete opposites. Clay did his polite best to draw the planter’s wife into conversation. He spoke about the fabulous view, the working of the ship, asked questions about India. To everything he tried, he received little more than monosyllabic answers. The company officer, by contrast, was delighted to have a navy lieutenant with whom he could share his considerable passion for navigation. Once Clay admitted defeat with the planter’s wife, he found himself trapped in an unending one-sided and highly technical conversation about the merits of various recent designs of chronometer, and the continued utility of celestial observation. As the lieutenant droned on and on, Clay’s attention started to drift. What he really wanted to listen to was the conversation further down the table, where Lydia sat.