The Sea and the Sand

by Christopher Nicole

  ‘Aye-aye,’ Barclay acknowledged. ‘Aloft there, lads,’ he told the seamen he had assembled. ‘Carry those lines up. Haste, before she goes.’

  ‘Heave to,’ Truxton was calling from aft. ‘You’ll accept a boarding party, La Vengeance. Any treachery, monsieur, and I will resume firing.’

  ‘We ‘ave surrendered,’ the French spokesman replied with dignity.

  ‘Break out a boat, Mr Rodgers,’ Truxton commanded. He still would not risk going alongside the larger and more heavily manned vessel until she had been totally disarmed. ‘Muskets, pistols, and cutlasses. And remember that we will be covering you.’

  ‘Aye-aye,’ Rodgers acknowledged, and issued the necessary orders.

  ‘Christ!’ Barclay muttered.

  Toby felt the breeze at the same instant, blowing on the back of his neck as he gazed up at the foremast. ‘Oh, damnation,’ he cried.

  For the helmsman had allowed the Constellation to turn too far away from the wind, and it was filling the foresails from aft; and none of the auxiliary stays had yet been secured. ‘She’s going!’ Barclay bawled.

  From above Toby’s head there came an enormous crack, and then a splintering sound. The seamen, swarming up the rigging, were thrown left and right as the mast snapped, well below the first cross trees, and went crashing forward, carrying sails and stays and men with it.

  ‘Fetch those men back,’ Toby shouted. ‘Axes, Mr Barclay, we must cut her free.’ For a moment following the collapse of the foremast there was almost silence, the crew of both ships being bemused by this sudden change of fortune. Then it was the French turn to cheer.

  ‘God damn and blast the treacherous rogues,’ Truxton bellowed. ‘They are reneging.’ Toby looked across the chaos on his own foredeck to that of the enemy; the Frenchmen were hastily resetting their foresails.

  ‘Abandon that boat, Mr Rodgers,’ Truxton called. ‘Recommence firing.’

  ‘Aye-aye.’ Rodgers called his gunners back to work. But where the Constellation could no longer work to windward without her jibs, the French, having only such sails, could, and was now steadily drawing forward. Nor could Toby load and aim the chasers, covered as they were in the debris of the fallen mast.

  ‘Wear ship,’ Truxton shouted. ‘All hands wear ship. We’ll give him a broadside. By God, we’ll have him yet.’

  But all the manoeuvrability which had been the American’s great strength was gone. By the time they had come around to deliver a broadside, La Vengeance was two thousand yards away, and escaping every moment. Yet she was escaping. She was running from a ship not much more than half her size. The Americans had won a clearcut victory, even if they had not been able to take possession of their prize.

  Truxton himself came forward to inspect the damage, and to stare after the disappearing enemy. ‘Treacherous rogues,’ he growled. ‘Damned Jacobins, I’ll be bound. Well, Mr McGann, what are you standing about for? I want a jury rig, and fast.’

  It was dawn by the time Toby’s crew had managed to cut away the last of the wreckage and bind a spar firmly enough to the stump of the foremast to take at least a single sail and restore, in some measure, the Constellation’s windward capacity. By then he, and all his men, were grey-faced and exhausted, and even then there could be no rest, as they assembled in the waist to attend the service, read by the captain, and watched the dozen men killed by the French shot being sent over the side, their weighted bodies slipping out from beneath the flag-shrouded biers to plunge into the clear blue waters and slowly sink from sight.

  Yet already the ship had been largely put to rights, the decks swabbed clean of blood, the carpenters patching the various shot scars on the bulwarks, the sailmakers stitching away at the torn canvas. And the guns remained run out; they were still only a few miles off Martinique, although during the battle they had drifted north and were by now almost as close to the mountains of Dominica, there was still a chance the Frenchman might return. But he had made back to the safety of Fort Royal, to lick his wounds. He had had enough.

  ‘Permission to come aboard, sir,’ came the cry.

  They had been so busy they had not noticed the approach of the Lancer, which had again put down a boat.

  ‘What does he want?’ Truxton growled, looking down at the British sailors. ‘We have a deal to do, sir.’

  ‘My captain but wishes to offer his congratulations, Captain Truxton,’ Lieutenant Crown called. ‘We have seldom witnessed a braver fight against odds, nor a more successful one. Had you been prepared to accept our help we’d have got him.’

  ‘Or blown each other to bits,’ Truxton said. ‘But I thank you, sir. We would have had him but for an unlucky stroke.’

  ‘Acknowledged, sir. My captain would take it most kindly if you and your officers would breakfast with us.’

  ‘Breakfast, by God,’ Truxton muttered.

  Then his face broke into a grin as he looked at Rodgers and Toby. ‘Why not?’ He knew he had won a remarkable victory. Outgunned by sixteen cannon he had yet to all intents and purposes captured the Frenchman, as he had certainly outsailed and outfought him. Had that foremast snapped but a few minutes later, or had the French captain been more punctilious and less revolutionary, La Vengeance would even now be flying the American flag. And the British were witnesses to the deed. More important, they could be of value. ‘Aye, Mr Crown,’ he said, ‘it will be a pleasure. If you will share some of your fresh provisions with my crew.’

  ‘That, sir, will be our pleasure,’ Crown replied.

  ‘Then you may expect us in half an hour.’ Truxton said.

  Rodgers and Toby tossed a coin, and Toby won. He was not sure he was pleased about that. For all his experience, it was still not sufficient for him to enjoy being alive on the morning after so many brave men had died, or been wounded or maimed; their cries continued to rise from the cockpit, where Dr Lamming was still hard at work. In addition, he was as exhausted as any other member of the crew. But it was necessary to match the British insouciance, and so he shaved and washed the battle grime from his face, donned his spare uniform, made sure his sword hilt was adequately polished, and joined Truxton and Midshipman McDonough in the waist, where eight smartly dressed seamen were already manning the captain’s gig.

  Like the Constellation, the Lancer was hove to, nodding in the low seas and gentle morning breeze provided by the protection of Dominica. Obviously they could clearly be overseen from the Martinique to the south. But equally obviously the crew of La Vengeance, even had they been able to effect repairs by now, would have to reckon that the two Anglo-Saxon ships might well fight together the next time around, so there was little danger from that quarter.

  Toby found himself staring at the tumbled peaks of Dominica, the last Caribbean stronghold of the still-feared Carib Indians. The Constellation had passed this way before, several times during her two tours of duty in this sea, and his nerves had never failed to tingle at the sight of those greenclad mountains. His father had been shipwrecked on that island, had spent a year living with the cannibals in the shadow of the Boiling Lake, as they called their active volcano, at the end of the famous Valley of Desolation. By his size and strength and vigour, as much as by his intelligence, Harry McGann had become one of their leaders, rather than one of their breakfasts.

  Toby wondered if the Caribs had listened to last night’s cannonade. But that was a sound and a spectacle they must be getting used to; just north of Dominica, for instance, had been the scene of one of England’s greatest naval victories, over the French during the War of the Revolution.

  He took his place beside Truxton on the transom as they were rowed towards the Royal Navy ship. The British gig had been taken up, and a petty officer stood in the bows to oversee their approach. ‘Who comes there?’ he called.

  Truxton smiled. He had not served in the Royal Navy for nothing, and had no intention of being caught out by British etiquette. ‘Reply, Constellation, Mr McGann,’ he said in a low voice.

  ‘USS Constell
ation,’ Toby replied. He also had been taught naval etiquette, by his father. The reply, ‘Aye-aye,’ would have indicated that although there was an officer on board, he was not a ship’s captain; ‘No-no,’ would have meant there was no commissioned rank on board at all; and ‘Flag’ would have indicated the presence of an admiral. But there were no admirals in the United States Navy, and the name of the ship conveyed the information that the captain himself was present.

  As the British understood. Whistles cooeed, and there was a guard of honour of red-jacketed and tall-hatted marines drawn up for them to inspect as they went on board.

  The three officers saluted the quarterdeck, and then the short, brisk little man who was awaiting them. ‘Captain Truxton,’ he said. ‘William Phips, at your service, sir. And may I be the first to congratulate you on a most brilliant action.’

  ‘We were unlucky, Captain Phips,’ Truxton said.

  ‘Oh, aye, but not so unlucky as that Froggie, eh, in catching such a tartar when he must have supposed himself on the verge of an easy victory. Oh, aye, this’ll make splendid gossip in Kingston, that it will. Now, sir, I’d have you meet my old friend Charles Crown, and his wife Julia; you already met their son, my first lieutenant.’

  Truxton saluted the civilians, and presented his officers in turn. The Crowns were very obviously the parents of the lieutenant, tall, thin, and sharp-featured.

  ‘And their daughter, Miss Felicity Crown.’

  ‘I am charmed,’ Truxton said, again raising his hat.

  While Toby felt quite bemused, and suddenly more awake than for some time. Undoubtedly the girl was the daughter of the two people he had just met, and the sister of the lieutenant: she was tall and slender. But on her the suggestion of gauntness, which shrouded the other members of the family was absent, and her face, far from being of the hatchet variety, was full-cheeked and red-lipped, although she certainly had somewhat aquiline features, which in repose might be a trifle severe. But when, as now, she was smiling, the wide mouth, longish nose, and pointed chin came together to make a most attractive picture. Her eyes were grey and cool, her hair a deep brown and straight and, as it was at present undressed, lay like a shawl beyond her shoulders. She wore a muslin day gown, with but a single chemise beneath, he was sure, and although manners forbade more than a glance in that direction, he was equally sure she possessed a figure to match her face.

  ‘You’ll take a glass,’ Phips was saying, and Toby discovered that a marine steward was standing at his elbow with a tray of glasses. ‘Rum punch, sir,’ Phips explained. ‘Rum punch. Nothing like it for warming the blood.’

  Toby looked at McDonough, who looked at him, and then they both looked at Truxton, who had gone red in the face.

  ‘Harrumph,’ remarked the captain. ‘Well … on this occasion, gentlemen. But remember that we have a great deal of work to do.’

  ‘Ha ha.’ Phips said. ‘I had forgotten that strong liquors are not permitted on board United States’ ships. But you are my guests, gentlemen. My guests. And now to breakfast.’

  Or luncheon, or dinner, Toby supposed; it was only a name. As Truxton had surmised, unlike the Constellation, several weeks at sea with few friendly harbours into which she could put for provisions, the Lancer had just departed a British port. Here was succulent fresh pork, or as an alternative, equally fresh chicken; here were yams and sweet potatoes, dug but two days earlier; here were okras and pumpkins, fresh as daisies. And here were mangoes and pawpaws, without a bruise or a discolouration. And here, too, continuously served, were the glasses of the heady brown punch, in which floated slices of oranges and tangerines. All the goodness of the Caribbean, accumulated beneath an awning on the quarterdeck of the Lancer.

  Toby used his rank to have himself seated next to Felicity Crown, McDonough having to be content with a place opposite.

  ‘I had never seen a battle at sea before last night,’ Miss Crown confessed, smiling at each young man in turn. ‘It was perfectly dreadful. And yet, somehow splendid as well. I will admit I did not retire all night, but remained on deck to watch.’

  ‘We are very flattered, Miss Crown,’ Toby said. ‘And may I say that your summation, dreadful but splendid, is admirably accurate.’

  ‘It must have been horrible to experience, though, and terrifying.’

  ‘I guess we were too busy to notice,’ he said. ‘And I suspect it was more horrible and terrifying for the French.’

  She gave a mock shudder. ‘You men can joke about it. We women find that impossible.’ She sighed. ‘It seems that we have been at war almost since I can remember. Certainly since I was ten years old.’

  Toby gazed at McDonough, aware that each of them was making the same rapid mental calculation. Great Britain and France had gone to war in 1793: she was seventeen years old. Old enough to be betrothed or even married. But the absence of any rings on her straight white fingers proscribed that. And was it any business of his?

  He thought it would be very pleasant if it was.

  ‘And now that Bonaparte has seized power, there is no saying where it will end,’ Felicity continued, revealing a seriousness unusual in one so young. ‘They say his ambition is to conquer all Europe.’

  ‘And Great Britain will continue to oppose him?’ McDonough asked.

  ‘Of course,’ she replied, without hesitation.

  ‘Will you be accompanying your father to Gibraltar?’ Toby asked.

  ‘Of course,’ she said again. ‘Should I not?’

  ‘It is just that I would have supposed Gibraltar, the gateway to the Mediterranean, would be in the very thick of the struggle.’

  ‘Why, so it is, Mr McGann,’ she replied. ‘But those are naval affairs.’ She gazed at him. ‘Will your duties ever take you to the Mediterranean?’ Suddenly her cheeks were pink at her own boldness.

  ‘Now that I doubt, Miss Crown. We have no part to play in opposing France’s ambitions, so long as they do not extend up the Delaware or the Hudson, to be sure. It is the avowed intention of my country to turn its back on the squabbles of the Old World.’

  ‘Squabbles you call them.’ Her flush faded and her grey eyes struck sparks. ‘It is the life of our nation, sir.’

  ‘Then I apologise. But still, it can be no quarrel of ours.’

  She nodded. ‘I understand that. Yet you are fighting the French.’

  ‘That is a private matter, between our two countries, which will hopefully soon be resolved.’

  As she continued to gaze at him, and as McDonough had been distracted by the English midshipman seated beside him, he ventured on a mild flirtation. ‘But I would like to make you this solemn promise, Miss Crown, if you will not take offence: should my duties ever take me to Gibraltar, or anywhere else that your father may be stationed, I should like to call … upon your family. With your permission, of course.’

  She did not reply for a moment, although she did not lower her eyes, either. Then she said, ‘Why, Mr McGann, I shall look forward to that day. Very much.’

  Their eyes held each other’s for several seconds; it was a moment when they could either go forward, perhaps faster than either wished or had intended, or could withdraw entirely from the situation. But before either of them could come to a decision, the meal had ended.

  ‘We shall sail in your company,’ Phips was declaring. ‘At least as far as Jamaica. Although there are no worlds left for you to conquer.’

  ‘There is always the sea, Captain Phips,’ Truxton said. ‘But it will be our pleasure, sir. Then we had best make haste, before the weather changes and we lose that jury mast all over again. Gentlemen. Ladies.’ He stood up. ‘My officers and myself thank you for your hospitality.’

  Toby hung back as they moved towards the ladder leading down to the waist. ‘Until our next meeting, Miss Crown. Because it will happen.’

  Felicity, gazing straight ahead, turned her head sharply. ‘Why, Mr McGann, I never doubted that for a moment.’

  *

  ‘And the jury mast held unt
il Norfolk?’ Harry McGann asked.

  ‘Just,’ Toby confessed. ‘We nearly lost it in a blow in the Florida Strait, but we shored it up.’

  ‘Good work,’ Harry said. ‘Good work. But your entire tour of duty was good work. How I wish I could have been there.’

  He sat on the porch of his house on Long Island, and looked out at the rolling acres of farmland he had cleared with his close friend John Palmer, and then ploughed and planted. John Palmer was dead now, but his son, who was married to Harry McGann’s sister, Toby’s Aunt Jennie, had proved as good a friend and neighbour, and business partner, as his father.

  Yet for all that Harry appeared, and pretended, to have found what he really wanted from life, here in the utter peace and tranquillity of his island home, Toby knew how much he missed the sea. Harry McGann was only just fifty-one years old, a mountain of a man who looked as fit as anyone half his age, save for the shattered leg which trailed behind him as he walked, and was now propped before him on its special stool. That leg had been the result of a duel with a man he had hated throughout his adult life, and it had ended his naval career. Otherwise he might have commanded the USS Constellation, instead of his erstwhile first lieutenant.

  ‘And how glad we are that you are home safe and sound, Toby,’ remarked Elizabeth McGann, drying her hands on her apron as she joined the men on the porch. Elizabeth remained as beautiful a woman as she had been a girl, thirty years previously, when she had first encountered Harry McGann. She stood straight, somewhat above average height, with a handsome face and clear blue eyes, a full figure and the most glorious yellow hair, although this was concealed beneath a bandanna — however well she could afford to employ several servants, she still did much of the work about the house herself. And she still looked at her husband with utter devotion and contentment; no one could doubt that she counted that pistol ball a fortunate event, as it had kept Harry home and free from danger. But Toby was her only son, and every time he went to sea she counted the days. Yet she had never attempted to interfere with his choice of career; she knew how much salt water there was in the veins of any McGann.