The Distant Ocean

by Philip K Allan

  ‘Careful with your tone, Captain Sutton,’ he said, his face angry. ‘I can take the Echo away as easily as I gave her to you. But wait, it is all coming back to me. I had forgotten your distress back in Portsmouth, when you were unable to visit Miss Clay before we departed. Perhaps you are less impartial in these matters then you would have us believe?’

  ‘I am sure that John meant no disrespect, Sir George,’ said Clay, holding up a restraining hand. ‘Gentlemen, it is I that am at fault. I only thought to divert by mention of this book. I imagined that you might find the notion of an author emerging from the lower deck of interest. I certainly did not intend to provoke a quarrel. Come, a glass of wine with you both, and let us not mention it further.’

  The three men drained their glasses, and Sutton and Montague avoided each other’s gaze by looking around the cabin. The commodore settled on the portrait of Lydia that dominated one bulkhead.

  ‘That is a fine looking lady, Clay,’ he said, pointing towards the picture with his wine glass. ‘I assume that she is your wife?’

  ‘That is Mrs Clay, yes,’ he confirmed. ‘And it barely does her justice. Where pictures of ladies are concerned, I find it is always best to ascertain, as you just did, the precise nature of the relationship before passing comment. I served under Lord Nelson last year, in the Mediterranean. The first time I dined on the Vanguard the portrait in his cabin was of Lady Nelson, which occupied much the same position as that which Mrs Clay does now. Then, in Naples the pictured vanished for a while, and for several months the bulkhead was bare. On the final occasion that I visited the cabin a fresh likeness had appeared, which was that of Lady Emma Hamilton.’

  ‘Is that so?’ chuckled Montague. ‘Fine admiral though he is, I hear he is a thorough satyr where another man’s wife is concerned. If your wife looks anything like that, I would keep them apart. But I must say the artist who produced that picture must be a talented cove. The blue satin of the dress looks almost real, and the features are so well produced one might almost image she were here with us now. It is quite remarkable what he has achieved with only paint and canvas.’ Clay said nothing in return, and after a moment his two guests looked towards him.

  ‘Alex, are you quite well?’ asked Sutton.

  ‘My dear sir,’ said the commodore. ‘You look as if you have seen a phantom!’

  ‘Apologies, gentlemen, I am fine. It is just that all this talk of Lydia’s picture has given me an idea. I think I may have found a way that we might defeat the French.’

  *****

  While the officers sat with their wine in the stern cabin of the ship, farther forward Sedgwick’s copy of the book was being passed with reverence around the lower deck of the Titan. From hand to hand it went, with each recipient solemnly opening the leather cover and leafing a little way into the text, before they passed it on to their neighbour with a smile of comprehension. Not one man in ten could read the words, but all could recognise the face that stared out from the title page as that of their very own captain’s coxswain. It was a proud moment for the Titans.

  ‘I’ll wager that fecking arse at the Elm Tree tavern back in Pompey is feeling right foolish today,’ said O’Malley as he observed the book’s passage across the lower deck.

  ‘Assuming he be still alive, after Sam lumped him, like,’ added Trevan.

  ‘I barely touched the bleeder,’ said Evans. ‘He will still be around, his sort always are. The Devil looks after his own, don’t you know?’

  ‘I hope that he is alive,’ enthused the Irishman, ‘I can just picture the scene. Your landlord comes greasing over to some fancy arse in a shilling booth, who is a-reading that there book. He glances over his shoulder, like, and there will be Able givin’ him the eye from out off the page. “Not the Blackamoor again!” he cries. “I cast that fecker out!” And then your learned gent will give him a full broadside. “What! The Great African scholar himself? He was here, in all his pomp? In this very tavern, and you showed him the door, you fecking rogue!” Now that would be worth seeing.’

  ‘This here foreign name, Able,’ said one of the few readers amongst the crew. ‘A blank sing, a bonk sinking... any road, we meant to be a calling you that now?’

  ‘Able Sedgwick is fine,’ laughed the author. ‘It was Miss Clay as wanted me to use my African name. She thought folk would not credit the tale if some bloke what sounded English wrote it.’

  ‘Very deep, that wench,’ said O’Malley. ‘I would never trust a fecking word writ by an Englishman.’

  ‘Well, I shall still be going by my regular name in the service,’ concluded the coxswain.

  ‘Pity, that,’ said Evans. ‘Can you imagine the bleeding lark we’d be having if Josh Black or the boatswain had to holler for him in African?’ The lower deck laughed long and loud at the absurdity of the thought.

  ‘But will you be continuing in the service, when we get home, like?’ asked Trevan, when the mirth of his messmates had past. ‘Won’t you be giving up the sea to be one of them there philosophers?’

  ‘I don’t rightly know, Adam,’ said Sedgwick. ‘I never figured much beyond the setting down of my tale. It took that long to do, and then I gave it to Pipe’s sister a good year back now, and sort of forgot about it. Next thing I know, that there book shows up, with it all printed like, and a letter saying how it be selling in droves, and that she has a pile of guineas waiting for me in consequence. It’s all a bit sudden, in truth.’

  ‘Fecking go, mate,’ urged O’Malley. ‘Why would you want to stay and be shot at, flogged or drowned, when you have all that lucre at home?’

  ‘He’s not bleeding wrong, you know, Able,’ added Evans. ‘You could have soft tack to scoff every day, as much grog as you liked. Bleeding hell, what about all of them fancy doxies up in London, all randy as badgers for a bit of Jack Tar. I can’t see what you would be waiting for.’

  ‘Miss Clay said she would want me to leave the ship, she wrote so, but look at me, lads. Could you honestly see me yarning with all them grand folk, with a wig and a coat of plush an’ all? At best I would just be some manner of curiosity. No, I reckon I might just stay as I am.’

  ‘That sounds right good, Able lad,’ said Trevan, patting his arm. ‘Barky would be a strange place without your chubby hereabouts. Their loss be our gain.’ Sedgwick looked about him and registered all the nods and smiles of his fellow shipmates. He wanted to say more, about friendship, and acceptance, but that wasn’t the lower deck way.

  At that moment Midshipman Butler came running down the ladder and stood by the shaft of the main mast.

  ‘Listen now, you men,’ he bellowed. ‘I need volunteers. Does anyone have any facility at painting? Lieutenant Blake is in need of some assistants.’

  ‘I done the odd tavern sign, afore the war, like,’ announced a voice.

  ‘I worked in a printer’s back in York, inking up the plates,’ said another. ‘Does that count?’

  ‘You should try on board the Prince, Mr Butler,’ said Evans. ‘I hear them buggers do little else but paint.’ The midshipman ignored the big Londoner and the laughter his comment had provoked, and selected all those with any modicum of artistic talent. They followed him across to the main ladder way.

  ‘What be all that about?’ said Trevan to the others. ‘Do you reckon Dismal George wants us to tart up Old Henry?’

  ‘The figurehead?’ queried O’Malley. ‘To be sure, your man loves the smell of fecking paint, but Henry looked all right last time I was on the seat of ease.’

  ‘Well, just so long as they leave his eyes be,’ added the Cornishman.

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ asked Evans.

  ‘No, Adam’s got a fecking point, Sam,’ said O’Malley. ‘We don’t one some arse painting over his eyes. That would be dreadful.’

  ‘Is this a bleeding joke?’ exclaimed the Londoner. ‘Are you two making game of me?’

  ‘It be serious, Sam,’ said Trevan. ‘A ship has to have eyes.’

  ‘What
the bleeding hell for?’ exclaimed the Londoner. O’Malley looked towards the heaven, while across the lower deck pigtailed sailors shook their heads in disbelief. Trevan took the Londoner by the arm, and spoke to him in a tone normally reserved for discourse with idiots.

  ‘How does you reckon the barky will know where to go, if she…ain’t...got...no...eyes?’ he asked, pointing at his own piercing blue ones.

  ‘Ships with eyes!’ spluttered Evans. ‘I’ve bleeding heard it all now. I tell you, if there are any sailors locked up in Bedlam, folk would pay a guinea a minute to hear this stuff. Ain’t I the lucky one, getting it all for free!’

  Chapter 15 The Trap

  The wolves had broken free, and now had the run of the sheepfold. The remaining two French frigates had ventured out from their base on Reunion many weeks ago, when they had found that the ocean was theirs once more. They had known that this moment would come. Their stubborn opponents were sure to exhaust their supplies eventually and be forced to make the long trip back to the Cape to resupply. And they knew that those same ships would return as soon as they were able, so the frigates had made haste to gorge themselves on unprotected East Indiamen. They had worked as a pair, capturing five of the huge ships without so much as a sight of the Royal Navy.

  Captain Olivier of the Rhone was the senior French naval officer in the whole of the Indian Ocean. He was by nature a cautious man, whose long career had only served to make him more so. An iron-haired veteran in his late fifties, he had fought the Royal Navy in three different wars now, and had found himself on the losing side in each. It had been his decision to keep his two remaining frigates together at all times, even though this halved the amount of sea they could search. The loss of the Prudence had served as a warning to him, and he would permit no possibility of one of his ships being surprised by the enemy on its own. He had calculated with care how long it might take the British to first reach and then return from the Cape. He had repeated the calculation just last night, in the semi-dark of his cabin. Beneath the flickering lamp, his dividers had strode stiff-legged across his chart, while Captain Olivier silently counted. First from Reunion to Cape Town, a day or two to replenish their stores, and then back to the current location of his two ships, astride the sea lane to India. He had stared at the map as he pondered the conclusion he had reached.

  The following morning his cabin was a much more cheerful place. The builders of the Rhone had generous ideas as to the space that they should allocate to her captain, and the room ran across the whole thirty-foot width of the ship. The interior was light and airy, the bulkheads painted in a pale blue that contrasted pleasantly with the lemon-coloured upholstery of the furniture. Sunlight streamed in through the row of window lights that ran in a curve across the back of the space. All of which added to the cheerfulness of the group of officers as they ate their breakfast at the table.

  ‘We have fish today, gentlemen,’ announced Captain Olivier to the officer of the watch and the two midshipmen who had just been relieved on deck. ‘Some of the Breton hands have considerable skill with a line, and sell the best of their catch to my steward.’ He lifted the silver dome from the plate, and a delicious smell filled the cabin. ‘Please, help yourselves.’

  ‘Back in St Paul, while we were blockaded, they made lobster pots from bamboo, mon capitaine, and deployed them all around the reef,’ said the lieutenant, transferring the largest fish to his plate. ‘They supplied their catch to the wardroom and much of the garrison. I sometime wonder if they were making more from their fishing than from all our prizes.’

  ‘Perhaps they did,’ smiled Olivier. ‘And they may soon have to rely on lobsters for their fishing once more. I expect our English friends to return to these waters shortly.’

  ‘Really? So soon, mon capitaine?’ queried one of the two midshipman, through a mouthful of food.

  ‘It has been over two months that they have been away,’ explained the captain. ‘I have made the calculation with care. We must expect the enemy to return any day now. If they have had favourable winds, they may be close to us already.’

  ‘That is excellent, mon capitaine,’ said the lieutenant. ‘Capturing these merchantmen is all very well, but it becomes tiresome after awhile. It will be good to cross swords with another warship for a change.’

  ‘Like the Prudence did?’ said his captain. ‘Be careful what you wish for, lieutenant. Unlike you, I have fought the English, and spent long months as a prisoner in consequence. Our mission is to attack commerce, not to die, however bravely, in a fight with the Royal Navy. Let me be clear, if they should appear, it will be our duty to withdraw to St Paul once more. Steward, more coffee here.’

  ‘But why do we not fight them?’ The young man wagged his fork in frustration. ‘We always live in fear of the damned Roast Beefs.’

  ‘That is because we have a much smaller navy,’ said Olivier. ‘I salute your courage, but there is a difference between that and folly. Our mission is to attack our enemy where he is weak, and fly from where he is strong. In this way we shall wear him down, make him expend his ships, men and treasure. The longer we can keep him in this distant ocean the better. There is nothing that our enemy wants more than to fight us, because once we are defeated, the threat we pose will have gone. No, the very last thing we shall do is to battle with their warships.’

  ‘Deck there,’ came a cry from the masthead. It echoed down through the open skylight above their heads. All four officers looked up. ‘Sail ahoy! Sail on the starboard beam.’

  ‘Another East Indiaman?’ queried the lieutenant.

  ‘Or the arrival of the enemy, perhaps,’ said his captain. ‘Will you gentlemen excuse me? Please, stay seated and continue with your breakfast.’ He rose from his end of the table, wiped his mouth and dropped his napkin beside his plate. Then he held his arms out behind him so his steward could pull his coat over his large frame. Once it was settled and the sleeves adjusted, he took his hat from its hook by the door and left the cabin. When he had gone, the lieutenant threw down his fork.

  ‘Not fight the Royal Navy!’ he said in exasperation. ‘How are we to win a war if we do not fight!’

  ‘I am sure Papa Olivier knows what he is doing, sir,’ said one of the teenage midshipman. ‘He is very experienced.’

  ‘Papa Olivier has been beaten once too often, and now has forgotten what courage is,’ said the lieutenant. ‘Look what General Bonaparte has done with the Army! No one now dares to oppose him in the field. That is the sort of leader we need in the navy too, my friends.’

  *****

  When he reached the quarterdeck, the crowd of excited officers parted to let their captain through. He made his way over to his first lieutenant.

  ‘What do you have for me that is more important than my breakfast, on this fine morning,’ asked Olivier.

  ‘A convoy, mon capitaine,’ he reported. ‘Outbound and heading for India. There are two East Indiamen together with a small warship to protect them.’ The captain shot him a glance from under his bushy grey eyebrows.

  ‘A warship, you say?’

  ‘Yes, but only a very small one, mon capitaine. Nothing to compare with our two frigates.’

  Olivier looked about him, sensing the mood of his crew. They seemed to be boiling over with anticipation. Too many easy victories these last few months, he concluded. They have lost the need for vigilance, like that young puppy of a lieutenant, and are spoiling for a fight. After a moment’s reflection he decided he would see these ships for himself. Better safe than sorry, he told himself as he looked up towards the top of the Rhone’s enormous main mast. He was a large man with a slight paunch, and the breakfast he had just eaten sat heavy in his stomach. In his youth he would have scampered to the top of a frigate’s main mast in under a minute, but today it would take him rather longer. He turned back towards his first lieutenant.

  ‘Jean-Claude,’ he said. ‘I am going aloft. You may close on this enemy, but you are to stay out of range until I return. Understood
?’

  ‘Yes, mon capitaine,’ said the officer, touching his hat, and the older man made his way over to the main shrouds.

  ‘Now I have no choice,’ he muttered through gritted teeth as he gripped the thick black ropes and began his ascent.

  As he climbed, he concentrated on looking upwards. Lines of rigging ran away from him in all directions in curves and arcs, but he fixed his gaze only on the route that seemed to stretch endlessly ahead. As he reached the main top, he transferred his weight to the backwards-sloping futtock shrouds, his grip manic in its intensity as he felt gravity try to suck him backwards into the void behind him. He pulled himself up on to the topmast shrouds, and once more the slope was no worse than a steep ladder. Higher and higher he climbed, the wind shrill through the taut ropes, causing the tails of his coat to flap. Now his legs began to protest at the unaccustomed effort required of them, and for a moment he tasted grilled fish again in his mouth. He forced himself onwards and upwards until he arrived, with a final gasp, on the topgallant yard. He sat for a moment while he allowed his breath to return to normal, then mopped his brow with a red silk handkerchief, returned it to his pocket, and pulled out his telescope.

  ‘Where are these ships of yours, Leclerc?’ he asked, calling up to the figure perched on the royal yard above him. In response the lookout pointed towards the far horizon.

  ‘One point ahead of the starboard beam, mon capitaine. Two big East Indiamen, fat as plovers, with just that little sloop to protect them. Magnificent, is it not?’

  Olivier tried to ignore the delighted chuckling of the lookout and concentrated instead on the ships. Closest to him was the escorting sloop, which had sailed out to place herself between her charges and danger. Through his powerful telescope he examined her little yellow and black hull. The rake of her foremast seemed familiar to him.