The Distant Ocean

by Philip K Allan

  ‘What would you gentlemen care to drink?’ asked Montague, as the three captains sat in the pleasant early morning sunshine that streamed through the stern windows of the Black Prince. ‘I can supply coffee, tea or small beer. Captain Clay?’

  ‘A coffee would be most welcome, Sir George,’ said the captain of the Titan as he held his cup towards the steward. He deliberately tried not to look at his fellow guest, hoping to control the flush of anger he had felt when he had first seen him come into the cabin.

  ‘I will have the beer, if you please,’ said Windham. The commodore shot him a glance from beneath his brows. Windham looked as if he had not slept at all for the last few days. His eyes were sunken and dark, and his speech had a slur to it already. He drank thirstily at the beer, without waiting for his host to be served.

  ‘Just coffee for me too, please Thomas,’ said Montague, laying emphasis on the word coffee. ‘I trust that you gentlemen are fond of smoked fish? The hands caught some manner of local breed a few days ago, and Thomas has had it smoked for us. He used a keg borrowed from the cooper, and some smoldering fragments of oak supplied by the carpenter. It may not be your regular Scot’s kipper, by I live in hope it may be palatable. If, however, your preference is the Devil you know, then that dish there contains fried salt pork and eggs. Do please let us break our fast.’

  ‘I will gladly make a trial of your fish, Sir George,’ said Clay.

  ‘Nothing wrong with an honest portion of bacon and eggs, I find,’ said Windham, helping himself from the dish. He clattered the cover back untidily, and silence descended over the commodore’s breakfast table once more.

  ‘And how does your prize fare?’ asked Montague, hoping to get some sort of conversation flowing on professional matters. He reached forward to straighten the lid of the dish as Clay replied.

  ‘We completed the essential repairs to her yesterday evening, and sent her off to the Cape under the command of Lieutenant Preston,’ he replied. ‘She is a very sound frigate, a little knocked about by the rough fashion in which we fought her, but nothing that a naval dockyard will not be able to put right. I am certain the Admiralty will buy her into the service, and a fine addition she will make.’

  ‘Splendid,’ enthused the commodore. ‘And the Titan was but lightly damaged, I collect?’

  ‘Six dead and ten wounded, Sir George,’ said Clay. ‘Once I have my prize crew back, I will be in almost as good a shape as before the action.’

  ‘What a lowly butcher’s bill,’ said Windham, through a mouthful of breakfast. ‘The Frogs must have fought very indifferently.’ Clay lay down his knife and fork and looked at him for the first time.

  ‘And what do you mean by that remark?’ he demanded. Montague lay a cautionary hand on his sleeve.

  ‘I am sure Captain Windham meant his remark to be of a positive character,’ he said. ‘Naturally a triumph achieved at such a low cost is doubly welcome. But it would be instructive to understand how the feat was achieved. Perhaps you would favour me with the particulars?’

  ‘Of course, Sir George,’ said Clay. ‘Captain Windham is quite wrong. The French actually fought very well, in spite of the defective position they found themselves in. Much of the credit for our victory must go to how well prepared we were for the action. The intelligence we received from the shore proved most valuable. Acting on it, we were able to deploy the Titan in the perfect position to ambush the Prudence, undetected by the enemy. The nature of the channel was such that she could only approach us bow on, without any opportunity to turn aside or retreat. The flow of the tide brought her onto our guns, and the speed and accuracy with which my men served their pieces did the rest.’

  ‘And I am quite sure we both appreciate and value your excellent victory,’ said Montague. He fixed his dark eyes on Windham. ‘Don’t we, Nicholas?’

  ‘I give you joy of your victory, sir,’ said the Echo’s captain. He drained his mug of small beer, and immediately held it out for the steward to refill. Clay turned back to his host.

  ‘How do you propose we should defeat these last two French frigates, Sir George?’ he asked.

  ‘I had hoped that our dropping back over the horizon would prompt them to come out from St Paul,’ said the commodore. ‘And yesterday evening, it seemed to have worked. My lookout sighted one of their ship’s topsails on the horizon, but the moment I gave chase they turned tail. The Black Prince is thought of as swift in the service, but could I close with them? We chased them all the way back to Reunion. And therein lies the problem, gentlemen. They seem every bit as fast as our ships, and after your capture of the Prudence, I suspect they shall be very reluctant to give battle. What is to stop them cutting and running whenever we hove into sight?’

  ‘Is that such a problem, Sir George?’ asked Windham. ‘So long as we have them bottled up in St Paul, they can be of no threat to the John Company trade.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Montague. ‘But it will take only one bad storm to push us off station, and out they will come to plunder our commerce once more.’

  ‘And even if the weather is fine, want of supplies will drive us back to Cape Town before long,’ added Clay.

  ‘Let us keep to our plan to lure them out for now,’ said Montague. ‘We will maintain our station beneath the horizon. Captain Windham, you and the Echo will be in the centre of the line, due south of Reunion. I shall be to the east, and the Titan to the west. We shall be strung out like a net, ready to catch the enemy. Is that clear?’

  ‘Perfectly, Sir George,’ replied Clay.

  ‘As you wish,’ said Windham.

  ‘Excellent,’ said the commodore. ‘Would anyone care for more breakfast?’

  ‘Not for me, I thank you,’ said the captain of the Titan. ‘But there was another matter I wanted to discuss, Sir George.’ He drew several sheets of paper from the inner pocket of his coat. ‘I have a full list of the French complement from the Prudence. Their captain fell during the battle, but we took over a hundred and fifty prisoners, including two officers of lieutenant rank, and seven midshipman. We now have plenty of persons for us to exchange for the survivors of the Rush. I could certainly use a draft of prime seamen to make good my losses from battle and fever, and we owe it to the noble souls who gave us such excellent intelligence to see them released without delay.’

  ‘I would urge caution, sir,’ said Windham, sitting up and stifling a belch. ‘Do we honestly want to strengthen the enemy by the return of so many prisoners to them at this time?’

  ‘Now, there is a surprise for you!’ exclaimed Clay. He threw down his napkin and rounded on his fellow guest. ‘Captain Windham would sooner our men continue to rot in Reunion. What might your motive be behind that suggestion, eh?’

  ‘What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?’ said Windham, rising unsteadily from the table.

  ‘Only that I find your reluctance to have the survivors of the Rush released rather eloquent,’ said Clay. ‘What did happen when you fought the Prudence? Perhaps we should ask some of our new French prisoners for their account of the battle?’

  ‘Gentlemen, can you please keep your discourse civil,’ urged the commodore.

  ‘Well, isn’t that you all over,’ spat Windham, leaning across the table. ‘You would value the word of a bloody Frenchman above that of a fellow captain.’

  ‘So answer the damned question!’ yelled Clay, rising to his feet too. ‘Why are you so reluctant for the survivors of the Rush to be returned to us?’

  ‘I stated my reasons just now!’ shouted Windham. ‘After over a year out here I make no doubt that the French are running short of sailors. That is doubtless the real reason why you defeated the Prudence with such ease. I think it foolish to permit their two remaining frigates to be reinforced by returning these prisoners to them.’

  ‘I defeated the Prudence because I chose to fight with her, Windham. You should try it on occasion, assuming that you have the courage for it!’

  ‘Please, will you both moderate your
tone,’ begged Montague. ‘Before words are said that cannot be unsaid.’

  ‘Sir George, these are our own men we are talking about!’ urged Clay. ‘It may well include Captain Sutton. I hope to God I am never made prisoner with Captain Windham to rely on for my release.’

  ‘That is a damned insult,’ shouted Windham.

  ‘Silence, both of you!’ roared Montague, thumping the table. ‘May I remind you that this is my cabin, where you are both guests, not some tavern for you to brawl in! Take your places once more, gentlemen. That is a direct order!’ The two officers continued to glare across the table at each other, their faces red and flushed, but they both slowly sat down again.

  ‘That is better,’ continued their host. ‘Now, I am quite sure that Captain Windham meant his suggestion to delay any prisoner exchange in a constructive manner. However, not withstanding his view, there is of course no question of us leaving our men in the hands of the enemy. Captain Clay, I thank you for your list. I shall send an officer into St Paul under a flag of truce, as soon as convenient, to start to negotiate an exchange of prisoners.’

  ‘You have my gratitude,’ said Clay, not looking at Windham. ‘I will leave the list with you then, Sir George. If matters are concluded here, might you pass the word for my barge? I have much still to attend to aboard the Titan. I thank you for an excellent breakfast.’

  Once Clay had left, Windham turned on Montague.

  ‘An exchange of prisoners, Sir George?’ he whined. ‘Why not simply place a noose around my neck now, and be done with?’

  ‘Do not tempt me, Nicholas,’ he snapped. ‘You forget yourself! Not only am I your superior officer, I am your only friend in this dire position you now occupy. Let me remind you that both the sense of obligation I feel to your late uncle and my patience are not without limit.’

  ‘I am sorry, Sir George,’ muttered his guest. ‘I meant no disrespect.’

  ‘Better,’ said his host. ‘Now, were you attending to any of what was said, or were you too busy with the small beer?’

  ‘I heard most of it, in particular the fashion in which that bastard Clay virtually accused me of being a coward.’

  ‘Good, in which case you will also have noted that my only commitment was to promptly send a flag of truce into St Paul to commence talks. There will doubtless be plenty of delay to any negotiations, processes to be resolved, lists to be drawn up. Is a French midshipman the same as two British petty officers, and so forth. In my experience such matters can be made to take quite a time. Meanwhile, the French prisoners to be exchanged are currently on their way to the Cape, which is close to three thousand miles away. No, it is problems nearer at hand that should concern you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked the captain of the Echo, holding out his glass to be refilled.

  ‘No more beer for Captain Windham, thank you, Thomas,’ snapped Montague. ‘Please leave us, now.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the steward. He placed down the jug of beer and left the cabin. Montague walked over to his desk, opened a draw, and returned with a large sheet of grubby paper which he held by the extreme edges. It had been folded repeatedly, and showed signs of having passed through many pairs of hands, most of them none too clean. He placed it in front of Windham.

  ‘What do you make of this?’ he said. The paper had a block of text in the centre written out in a reasonable script. All around the edge, in widening circles, were seven or eight signatures and perhaps seventy shaky crosses, each with a neat little note beside it.

  ‘It is obviously a round robin of some description, produced in the usual cowardly manner such that none of the instigators can be identified,’ said Windham. He read the mark nearest to him. ‘Owen Richards, his mark. Now, there is a coincidence for you. I have an ordinary seaman in my afterguard by that exact name.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, man, are you quite witless?’ snapped Montague. ‘What you hold is a petition from your crew! It was sent to me anonymously yesterday. You had best read the middle section.’

  ‘To Commodore Sir George Montague, Knight of the Most Honourable Order...’

  ‘You can pass over that part,’ said Montague. ‘Read the main message.’

  ‘We, the loyal hands of the Echo,’ began Windham. ‘Loyal! That is rich! When they send such things behind my back?’

  ‘Just read it, Nicholas, I beg of you.’

  ‘...the loyal hands of the Echo most respectfully petition your honour to replace our captain. For we are now much ill used by the men of the squadron, who name us shy, and cowards, and make game of us for our part in not coming to the aid of the Rush. This is most unjust, for we would have fought that day like True Britons had we been given our chance, but our officers did hang back most shamefully, and left the poor Rush to her fate.

  We humbly ask that you replace our captain with a man of spirit, so that we may show you and the squadron how we can fight for our King and our Country.’

  Windham was struggling to read the paper by the end, it was trembling so much in his grasp. He looked up at the commodore and saw a face red with fury.

  ‘When we last discussed matters, you told me that I need not worry about your men!’ roared Montague. ‘You said that their view was so uncertain during the battle that they would have little idea what had transpired. I believe you mentioned the quantities of smoke involved. I now find they understand all too well what went on, and are as discontent at your explanation as the rest of the squadron seems to be.’

  ‘They are simply mutinous scum!’ exclaimed Windham. ‘When I get back on board, I will flog the lot of them. Let’s see how bold they are when they find themselves at the grating.’

  ‘No, no, no!’ roared Montague. ‘That is not how you will proceed, you fool, unless you wish to find yourself cast adrift in a small boat by your people! This has all gone beyond what can be checked by firmness. I want you to listen very clearly to me. I shall give you one, and only one, final chance to regain the trust and loyalty of your crew. Starting now! Stop hiding in a bloody bottle, and start being a damned leader, like your Uncle Percy. But understand this. I am at the very limit of my patience with you, boy. If I get one more petition, or one more hint of discontent from your crew, then I shall wash my hands of you, and that will be an end to matters.’

  *****

  Sutton awoke, and for a moment thought he was back on Reunion. He seemed to be listening once more to the sound of distant gunfire in the hut, high on the hillside above St. Paul. A moment later the surging motion of the boat, combined with the agony of thirst in his parched mouth, brought him back to reality. It was close and dark in their little shelter, and the three men lay packed together like stacked logs. Then he saw a flash of white light from outside, followed by the same rumble again. Not gunfire, but thunder, he told himself as he lay there. He pulled himself out into the open in a sudden panic, and kicked his companions awake, as the full implications of the noise came to him.

  ‘Thunder!’ he forced himself to croak. ‘Squall!’

  ‘Wh…at?’ muttered Croft.

  ‘Rain!’ gasped his captain.

  It was dark outside, with only a scatter of stars to supply any light. Waves still surged past them, rolling mounds that were dark as molten pitch in the night. But the wind felt different, cool and keen, and much fresher than it had been. Another flash of lightning seared across the sky and for a split second they could see an endless vista of black sea beneath clouds of boiling grey.

  ‘There!’ whispered Croft. He grabbed at his captain’s sleeve and pointed behind them. By the time the others had turned the night had returned once more. Sutton looked around him, frantic for something to collect rain in.

  ‘Coll...ect,’ he said, trying to force his swollen tongue to work. Lightning tore above them now, the crack deafening as it boomed off the surface of the sea, and the others saw his hands clawed into the shape of a cup. Chapman scrabbled around in the bottom of the boat and brought up the bailer. It was very small. At best i
t might hold a couple of pints. He propped it up against the thwart and pinned it into place with his clasp knife.

  ‘Shirts,’ grunted Sutton as he feverishly stripped off his own. The others followed his lead, and then crouched down in the boat as the motion became too lively with all of them standing at once. Stripped to the waist, they waited in the dark for the rain to arrive. Another crack of lightning split the sky, close to them now, and they all saw the streaked veil of water as it swept towards them across the waves. Then it was night again.

  The wind grew in intensity. It tossed their little craft about, and flapped at the linen shirts they held out. Then they could hear the rain, faint at first, but growing to a hissing roar in the darkness, just behind them. The temperature dropped again, but for a long moment of agony the squall seemed to come no nearer.

  ‘Come… bastard!’ pleaded Chapman. Sutton was desperate with thirst. He could feel his arms trembling as he held them out. Croft whimpered next to him. Then the noise of falling rain was all around them, and the first few heavy drops pattered down on their upturned faces.

  Deluge. It was as if their little boat had drifted under an unseen waterfall. Rain thundered down, filling the boat ankle deep and turning the sea all about them into a yeasty foam. Sutton felt his shirt grow heavy in his arms. He squeezed the wet linen into his mouth, but the water was too brackish from all the salt in the material. He spat and gagged, then forced himself to wring out the shirt before he held it to the rain once more and squeezed it clean again. He thought he could still hear Croft whimpering beside him, then realised it was his own voice. Finally he was able to squeeze perhaps a cup of fresh water into his mouth, and he groaned with pleasure.

  Hold out the shirt, wring it into the mouth, and then hold it out to the storm once more. Each wait for the material to fill was agony, but the pleasure of water running into their mouths was wonderful. Sutton drank and drank, feeling as if he had never tasted a more heavenly liquid, until he felt he was starting to drown in water. He could feel his tongue seeming to shrink in his mouth as it returned to its normal size, and at last his throat felt less raw. Then he remembered the bailer.