Theirs had been a strange romance and an unlikely one, possible perhaps only in the turmoil of a revolution. Harry McGann had been nothing more than an innkeeper’s son who had made his living by smuggling French wines and perfumes for the benefit of the Irish gentry; Elizabeth Bartlett had been the daughter of one of New York’s most prominent merchants. But the War of Independence which had ruined Bartlett’s business — he had also been a prominent Tory — had at the same time raised Harry McGann, in the company of his great, and now mourned, friend John Paul Jones, to the level of a national hero, holder of a gold medal presented by Congress, and given him the prosperity he now enjoyed.
It was a solid, unchanging prosperity, except that it grew with the years. The old timber house he had built with his own hands had been extended, by means of wings and upper floors, into a rather ramshackle colonial mansion; the original dozen heifers had grown into a milch herd of over a hundred; there were chickens in the runs and pigs in the pens, just as there were fish in the streams and abounding in the Sound, only a few miles distant. There were several acres under wheat, as well as a vast apple orchard, and barrels of cider in season as well as the home brewed barley whisky. And there was New York, seeming itself to grow every day, to provide a market for the McGann and Palmer surplus produce, from which was found the cash for Elizabeth and Jennie’s ribbons and furbelows, for the powder and shot for the men’s muskets, for the occasional luxury — and to finance Toby into the Navy. However he might regret the abrupt termination of his naval career, Harry McGann had accomplished more solidity than most men.
Yet it had been hardly won. Although he had recognised his love for Elizabeth almost from the moment of their first meeting, more than thirty years before, the course of their romance had by no means run smoothly, Toby knew. He had himself been born out of wedlock, while his mother had been another man’s wife — although there had never been any doubt in anyone’s mind whose son he was — and it had taken some twelve years for them to reach the tranquillity of Long Island, together.
Toby bore no grudge for his bastardy. That had long since been set right. Indeed, he envied his parents the adventures, and misadventures, of their youths, and wondered if his own romantic career would be as uncertain — and would have as happy an ending. Whenever it commenced. It had not, so far; joining the Navy as he had done at the age of sixteen, there had been no time for the ladies, especially as he had shortly been pitchforked into the middle of a war. But in fact, he had never had the inclination.
Until now? No doubt it had been the aftermath of the battle, when his emotions had still been as tight as a bow-string, and the rum punches had been playing tricks on his overtired brain — but Felicity Crown had affected him most strangely. He could not get the image of her out of his mind, nor the strange conviction that they would one day meet again.
‘And you say the British offered you hospitality?’ Harry’s tone was sceptical. But then, the old enemy whose pistol shot had shattered his leg had been a Royal Navy officer, quite apart from the year he had spent as an impressed man.
‘Indeed they did, most generously,’ Toby said. ‘As well as supplying our company with much fresh fruit and vegetables. Of course, they were grateful. Without us, they’d have scarcely got past Martinique.’
‘But they’d not assist you in the battle itself.’
‘Well, that was Uncle Tom Truxton’s decision, Pa,’ Toby protested.
‘Ha!’ Harry commented.
Toby bit his lip. He had, of course, told his parents nothing about Felicity Crown. Ma might sympathise, but she was inclined to keep her opinions to herself where the English were concerned, and Pa had a deep-seated hatred of anything to do with England, saving the woman he had loved and married. Apart from his own experiences, it had been an English order that had caused the hanging of his father. Toby could not quarrel with that point of view, even if he regretted it. There was good and bad in every nation, and he did not think he felt that way about the English merely because he was half English himself. Besides, none of them was English, or Irish, anymore: they were Americans. Pa should remember that.
But he’d never quarrel with his father. And in truth, his irritation was only on Felicity’s account. Senselessly. Why cause friction over a woman he’d probably never see again? He was well aware that his promise to her had been nothing more than fine words; he was a serving officer, and his life would be spent going where his ship was ordered, not where he personally might have chosen.
‘There’s a gentleman approaching, Captain McGann,’ said the hired hand, standing hat in hand at the foot of the steps; his employees always gave Harry the courtesy title.
Now he shaded his eyes to look at the horseman walking his mount up the drive, somewhat cautiously, clearly happier on the deck of a ship than the back of a moving animal. ‘Tom Truxton, by God!’ he shouted, and heaved himself to his feet.
Truxton dismounted, rubbed his backside, shook hands with his old friend, kissed Elizabeth, slapped Toby on the shoulder, and smiled at them grimly.
‘You look like a man carrying a burden of news,’ Harry said. ‘But also on holiday?’ He frowned; Truxton was not wearing uniform.
‘Aye, well …’ Truxton sat down, extended his long legs, accepted a glass of whisky from Elizabeth. ‘I’ve news, certainly. The war’s done.’
‘Now there’s good news,’ Harry said. ‘It should never have begun.’
‘I’d not argue with that.’
‘But …’ Toby bit his lip as the older men looked at him. ‘Do you mean the war between France and England is done as well?’
‘Lord, no, lad. They’ll never stop fighting. They never have in the past. No, just our little quarrel has been patched up.’
‘Little quarrel.’ Harry observed. ‘It was big enough to bring you all the fame a man could wish. Two victories over superior ships? There’s immortality.’
‘And for my crew,’ Truxton reminded him. ‘Toby here … he’s a fine career ahead of him. Mine has ended.’
‘What did you say?’ Harry and Toby spoke together.
‘I have resigned my commission.’
‘But why?’ Harry demanded.
‘Ah, ‘tis the way Congress and the Navy Board handles its affairs,’ Truxton told him. ‘But they are the nation’s affairs as well. The moment the war with France was done, it was decided, Adams decided, but he’ll have been stirred by Jefferson, there’s no doubt about that, he decided to do something about Tripoli. You’ll have heard of it?’
‘About Tripoli?’ Harry asked. ‘Some.’
‘What is Tripoli?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘It’s one of the Barbary states,’ Harry explained. ‘You know, all those little city states along the north coast of Africa, what they call the Barbary Coast. There are several of them: Algiers, Tunis, and Tripoli as well, to be sure, as well as others inland. They are nominally parts of the Turkish Empire, and own allegiance to the Sultan, but they are in reality all but independent.’
‘Their rulers call themselves deys,’ Truxton told her. ‘And the ones on the coast are a right load of pirates. Have been for generations. Algiers was always the worst. But it seems a couple of years ago there was some kind of revolution in Tripoli, and the Dey, Hamet Karamanli, with whom we have always got on very well, was chased from his throne, and replaced by a total ruffian, who since then has been capturing every American vessel he can lay hands on, and imprisoning the crews.
‘You’ll recall that it was part of Jefferson’s election manifesto to demand a cessation of these attacks, and a return of all enslaved Americans. Well, as he won’t be inaugurated until next March, Adams is doing the job for him meantime, and you know what? This dey has actually had the temerity to demand that we pay him an annual tribute. If we do that, he says, he’ll leave the Stars and Stripes alone. Imagine it, the United States of America paying tribute to some tinpot pirate. The President means to refuse, of course. But he considers it best to have some strength actually in
the Mediterranean to look after our interests.’
‘So he’s sending a squadron,’ Toby cried, hardly able to believe his good fortune.
‘That is the intention, to be sure.’
‘Under whose command? Yours, of course,’ Harry said. ‘But you say …’
‘I resigned my command. They would give me Barron as my flag captain. I’d not have it. I wanted Decatur. They’d not budge. So there it is.’
‘But … surely there was no need to resign?’ Harry was aghast.
‘I lost my temper.’
Harry sighed. Whatever the fighting qualities of this new American Navy, he was well aware that its chances of success were always at risk because of the quick-temperedness and independence of its captains. Tom Truxton clearly understood the need, and approved the concept, of taking action against the pirate fleets, yet he would not take the command except with officers of whom he personally approved. ‘So who will command?’
‘Why, they have said Barron.’
‘Ah,’ Harry commented. ‘I’ve heard it said he’s a good man.’
‘When driven to it,’ Truxton growled. ‘Anyway, there it is, Toby, I’ve secured you a position, second lieutenant on the Essex. She’s Barron’s flagship.’
‘Oh!’ Toby cried, mind spinning.
‘You’re to report next week.’
‘The Mediterranean!’ Elizabeth said. ‘A long way away.’
‘But only to teach a handful of pirates a lesson,’ Harry said. ‘The boy can come to no harm there. It’ll be a holiday.’
The Mediterranean, Toby thought. Gibraltar! That was a singular turn of events. ‘But … I had hoped to sail with you, Uncle Tom.’
‘You’ll not do that again,’ Truxton said. ‘I’ve a mind to follow your father’s example, and turn my hand to the plough. ‘Tis what the Good Book recommends, to be sure. But it’s been a pleasure having you aboard, Toby. A real pleasure. Now mind you go straight to the top. There’s no reason at all why you should not. You have the courage and the determination, and the skill. All you need now is the experience, and the opportunity to show your worth. This campaign could give you that opportunity.’
‘Amen!’ Harry McGann agreed.
In the Mediterranean, Toby thought. Only fighting pirates, to be sure. But, in the Mediterranean!
CHAPTER 2
The Atlantic – 1801
The Atlantic! This was truly the ocean on which to sail, Toby thought. It was the ocean on which his father had learned his trade, and across which he had sailed to find his home in the Americas. Now, as Toby gazed at the rainswept northern horizon, he almost felt he could see the green hills of Ireland: they were only a few hundred miles away.
He had never visited the country of his forebears. Or England, his actual birthplace. Perhaps, being stationed in Europe, it could be possible … but a glance at the map had told him it was a very long way away from Sicily, which he gathered was to be the American squadron’s main base of operations — both because the Kingdom of Naples was one of the few European countries prepared to offer them facilities and because Sicily was situated immediately north of Tripoli itself — to Ireland.
Yet it was a distance which had been traversed often enough by the very Barbary corsairs it was their duty to overawe and, if necessary, chastise.
He frowned at the distant sail, appearing and disappearing through the rain mist, and perhaps five miles away. Could they have encountered their first pirate? But that was wishful thinking. The Barbary pirates had certainly raided the coasts of England and Ireland in the past, but that had been before England’s Navy had reached its present enormous strength and reputation. Nowadays, if the corsairs ventured into the Atlantic at all, it was to harry the coasting trade of Spain and Portugal, and the only British ships they would dare to assault would be those isolated by weather or circumstance.
But if it could be an enemy, over there … the Essex was a fine ship, commissioned a year after the Constellation, but built to the same general design. And her crew were nearly all veterans of the French war, during which, under the command of Edward Preble, she had been the first American warship to round the Cape of Good Hope. While not a mile away to the south, her sister, the USS President, also rode the waves. Together, they’d be a match for any pirate, or fleet of pirates, Toby thought.
Nor could he find much fault in his new Captain, however prepared he had been to be critical in the beginning. James Barron was no Thomas Truxton. He was a younger man, and lacked Truxton’s experience, and Toby could well understand Truxton’s being unable to appreciate Barron’s more relaxed, easy-going style of leadership. But he had earned considerable distinction as first lieutenant of the USS United States during the French war, under the captaincy of John Barry, the most senior of all serving American naval officers, and it had been Barry himself who had recommended Barron for promotion. Toby did not doubt he would give a good account of himself when called upon to do so.
He was on deck now, a short, stout man with red cheeks, looking almost bearlike in his heavy oilskin coat and hat, off which the drizzle dripped. ‘What do you make of her, Mr McGann? What do you make of her?’
‘I would say she’s a Britisher, sir,’ Toby replied. He had already studied the approaching ship for some time through his glass, noting her lines even as he had allowed his imagination to roam.
‘Aye, that would be right. On convoy duty. There are several behind.’
Toby brought up his glass again; his captain had keener eyes than he had supposed, keener indeed than the look-out who was only now reporting the approaching ships.
‘Shall we close them, sir?’ Toby asked.
Barron shook his head. ‘We’ll alter course to keep our distance, Mr McGann. We’ve no business with them. Our first destination is Gibraltar, for water and fresh provisions. We’ll likely see those very ships there; they can hardly be bound anywhere else.’
Gibraltar, Toby thought. It was less than a week away, if the wind held. In fact, thoughts of the famous rock had loomed much larger in his mind than any of Ireland or England during the Atlantic crossing, and now the sight of the sails of a convoy brought back that day, over a year ago now, after the fight with La Vengeance. There had been times he had desperately wished he could get Felicity Crown out of his mind; there were others when he wanted to think of no one, and nothing, else. And she would be in Gibraltar.
Would she be in Gibraltar? Well, surely her father still would be. He could only have taken up his position towards the end of last year, and he was a government servant, who would be stationed in each post for some time. But would she be there? She would be eighteen by now. More beautiful than he even remembered, perhaps. And if she had not been betrothed a year ago, that would surely have been because there had been no eligible young men in St Lucia. But once she had got back to England … oh, by now she would certainly be at least betrothed, if not already married. There was gloom.
And what would he do, supposing she were not either betrothed or married? He was only just coming up to twenty-one himself, and was, besides, a sailor. He did not suppose the meagreness of his pay would present a problem. Once Ma approved, as she certainly would of such a girl, he need have no worries on that score: Ma would be able to persuade Pa to accept her, he was sure. But would Felicity wish to remove herself to the United States, still regarded in some English quarters as a revolted colony … especially when he would be away so much of the time?
And besides, he reminded himself, his mother’s English caution attempting to dominate his father’s Irish romanticism, he hardly knew the girl. Indeed, he did not know her at all; he had met her but once, and then for an hour, and in most unusual circumstances. He was a romantic, and that was no way to approach the most serious business in life: marriage.
‘Besides,’ Captain Barron remarked, as the rain stopped and a patch of blue sky appeared in the grey mass above them, even as a puff of wind filled their sails with unexpected energy, ‘we’ll have other things on
our minds for a day or two, Mr McGann. Rain before wind means a blow, in my experience. You’ll call up the watch below to shorten sail.’
*
‘Ships!’ cried Mistress Flemming. ‘Oh, Captain, do let me see.’ She waddled to the rail, scattering raindrops from her cloak and hat.
‘Are they French, do you suppose? Will there be a battle?’
Captain Brathwaite willingly gave his telescope to the stout woman, and looked over her head to waggle his eyebrows at Felicity Crown. She was his favourite passenger, not only because she was the prettiest of the half dozen women on board this ship, and not even because it was her father he would have to deal with when the convoy reached Gibraltar, in order to get his papers cleared and a place in a fresh convoy allotted before he would dare venture into the war-torn Mediterranean Sea. Mainly it was because she was an experienced sailor, who had crossed the Atlantic — and who had also witnessed a battle at sea, even if from the point of view of a spectator.
But Mistress Flemming was chaperone to the girls, and had to be humoured. ‘I doubt there will be a battle, madam,’ the captain said. ‘We are too strongly escorted. And in any event, those ships are flying the American flag.’
‘Are they?’ Felicity cried, suddenly interested.
‘As far as I can make out, Miss Crown.’
‘May I borrow your glass, Mrs Flemming?’ Felicity asked.
Somewhat reluctantly, Mrs Flemming handed over the telescope. ‘Of course,’ she remarked, ‘you have lived in America.’
‘Not exactly,’ Felicity said, levelling the glass. ‘But I have seen American ships before.’
She gazed at the two frigates, which were proceeding on a course very nearly parallel with their own. She did not think either of them was the Constellation, which was irrelevant, as there was little probability that Toby McGann would still be serving on the same ship as a year ago. So then … but the odds on Toby McGann being in the same few square miles of water as herself for a second time were extremely remote.
The Sea and the Sand Page 4
