On the Lee Shore Read online

  On the Lee Shore by Philip K Allan

  Copyright © 2018 Philip K Allan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-946409-48-5(Paperback)

  ISBN :13: 978-1-946409-49-2(e-book)

  BISAC Subject Headings:

  FIC014000FICTION / Historical

  FIC032000FICTION / War & Military

  FIC047000FICTION / Sea Stories

  Editing: Chris Wozney

  Cover Illustration by Christine Horner

  Address all correspondence to:

  Penmore Press LLC

  920 N Javelina Pl

  Tucson, AZ 85748

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1 The Savage

  Chapter 2 Lines

  Chapter 3 The Ghost Ship

  Chapter 4 The Inshore Squadron

  Chapter 5 Bertheaume Bay

  Chapter 6 Alone

  Chapter 7 Portsmouth

  Chapter 8 Revolting

  Chapter 9 Redemption

  Chapter 10 Reunion

  Chapter 11 Ashore

  Chapter 12 Tents

  Chapter 13 Fog

  Chapter 14 Storm

  Chapter 15 Escape

  Chapter 16 Ballyheige

  Chapter 17 Titan

  Chapter 18 Tying The Knot

  Note From the Author

  About The Author

  Advertisements

  Dedication

  To my Suzy Q

  Acknowledgements

  Like most authors, I rely on the support and help of those around me to help make my vision a reality. The books of the Alexander Clay series start with a passion for the Age of Sail. Mine first began to stir when I read the works of C S Forester as a child. Then, in my twenties, I graduated to the novels of Patrick O’Brian. That interest was given a little academic rigor when I studied the 18th century navy under Pat Crimmin as part of my history degree at London University.

  Many years later, when I decided to leave a comfortable career in the motor industry to see if I could make it as a novelist, I received the unconditional support and cheerful encouragement of my darling wife and two wonderful daughters. I strive to make sure that my work is accessible for those without a detailed knowledge of the period, or a particular interest in the sea, and the crucible of my family is where I first test my work to see if I have hit the mark. I have also been helped by the input of my dear friend Peter Northen.

  One of the most unexpected pleasures of my new career is to find that I have been drawn into a community of fellow authors, who offer generous support and encouragement to each other. When I needed help and advice the most, I received it from David Donachie, Bernard Cornwell, Marc Liebman, and in particular Alaric Bond, creator of the Fighting Sail series of books.

  Finally my thanks go to the team at Penmore Press, Michael, Christine, Chris, Terri and Midori who work so hard to turn the world I have created into the book you hold in your hand.

  Chapter 1

  The Savage

  The last gale of the winter had grown in fury all day. Long lines of slate-grey waves swept in from the open Atlantic to batter against the bow of His Majesty’s frigate Titan as she struggled to hold her course in the Western Approaches to the Channel. Rain poured off her rigging in silver skeins and drummed down onto the tarpaulin hats of her crew as they huddled for what shelter they could find underneath the gangways. On the quarterdeck George Taylor, the Titan’s grey-haired first lieutenant, struggled across the steep pitch of the deck to where his captain stood, and saluted with one hand whilst clinging on to the mizzen shrouds with the other.

  ‘What is it, Mr Taylor?’ growled Captain Sheridan. Taylor bent his head close to make himself heard above the roar of the storm and the thunderous flapping from both men’s oilskins as the wind tore at them. He was near enough to be able to smell the alcohol fumes on Sheridan’s breath, in spite of the rushing air.

  ‘I submit we need to take another reef in the foretopsail sir,’ yelled the lieutenant. ‘She is over burdened now that the wind has freshened.’ The captain rolled his yellow eyes towards the foremast. He noted the way the ship struggled to shoulder her way through the heavy sea, and saw that the foretop yard was bent like a bow by the power of the wind.

  ‘Very well, Mr Taylor,’ said Sheridan. ‘Do as you see fit.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied Taylor. He touched his hat again to his captain and then made his way across the rain-soaked planking to the rail at the front of the quarterdeck. He wiped the spray from his face, cupped a hand against his mouth and yelled towards the forecastle. His order was soon picked up by the boatswain’s mates, and their calls shrilled through the ship as they summoned the men on deck.

  ‘All hands! All hands to take in sail!’

  Soon a flood of seaman made their way up the shrouds. The gale howled through the rigging, making the soaked rope hum beneath their hands and feet. Once they were level with the foretop cross-trees they spread out to their places on the yard. They lay across the wooden spar and reached down to claw up the sodden canvas and secure it into place. In the strong wind their clothes ballooned and thrashed about like so much washing on a line. Taylor watched their efforts with concern, unaware that his captain had made his uncertain way forward to join him at the quarterdeck rail.

  ‘You are wholly deficient in your management of the men, Mr Taylor,’ said Captain Sheridan. ‘Look at the leisurely fashion in which they go about their duties. They make sport of your kindly nature behind your back, you know. You must be firmer with the blackguards.’

  ‘But the yard is wet and treacherous, sir,’ protested the lieutenant. ‘I submit the care they take is quite necessary in these conditions.’ The captain ignored him and reached forward to take the speaking trumpet from its becket. It dropped with a clang to the deck, and a midshipman stooped to recover it. Sheridan tilted his head back into the storm, the rain running off his face, and bellowed up at the yard.

  ‘You’re all too damned slow!’ he roared. ‘Master at arms! I want the name of the last man off the yard. He shall have three dozen at the grating.’

  The result of his threat on the lofty spar was electric. Men battled to complete the reef in the sail with no regard to those about them, and then flung themselves for the backstays. With almost all of his shipmates pouring down the rigging, the sailor at the extreme end of the yard realised he was going to be the last to come down. He pulled himself up onto the yardarm, took a few uncertain steps along the top of it and turned to jump across to the backstay. As he launched himself, Taylor saw one foot slip. For a moment the man was airborne, a silhouette against the grey sky, arms stretching out to catch the rope he would never reach. Then he turned through the air in a slow cartwheel as he fell, gathering speed like an avalanche till his descent was stopped by the iron-hard deck. No one moved to help him. Lieutenant Taylor saw the faces of the crew, blank with shock as they turned towards the quarterdeck. The captain swayed for a moment with the rain cascading from his oilskins and the speaking trumpet loose in his hand. Then he returned it to his mouth.

  ‘Master at Arms!’ he bellowed. ‘Bring me the name of the second from last man off the yard instead.’

  *****

  ‘I am telling you, Mrs Walsh, it is quite in opposition to what is natural,’ exclaimed Old Widow Fry. The stiff black bonnet that she had worn every day since the death of her husband quivered with the strength of her emotions. ‘How can it be endured?’ she continued. ‘Never in life have I heard of such a thing. A blackamoor, attending
the village schoolhouse alongside honest Christian children. My only comfort is that dear Mr Fry never lived to see the like.’

  ‘You’re so right,’ agreed her neighbour. ‘Why, I shudder to think of the savage cunning he might employ to corrupt those poor innocents behind the teacher’s back.’

  ‘I would not be surprised at all if presently those same children were to scorn the wearing of clothes and take to the woods with bones through their noses, you mark my words,’ said the widow.

  ‘Oh, don’t I know it, Mrs Fry,’ replied Mrs Walsh. ‘And yet Mrs Clay seems to be such a decent, upstanding lady. I cannot conceive why she might allow that son of hers to return to the village with his Negro follower. He may be a naval captain now, but even so... ’ Mrs Walsh dropped this last choice piece of gossip in with deceptive indifference.

  ‘What!’ spluttered the widow. ‘Young Alexander Clay, a naval captain? Why, he is barely out of the schoolhouse himself.’

  ‘In truth he is a little older than you suppose, Mrs Fry,’ said her neighbour. ‘Did he not first go to sea as a child, during the war with those wicked, rebellious Americans?’

  ‘I suppose that might make him as much as eight or nine and twenty years now,’ conceded Old Widow Fry. ‘How did he come to be so senior a rank then?’

  ‘Mrs Clay was saying that he has captured some manner of Spanish galleon, out in the Americas, or thereabouts. They made him a post captain on the spot for the deed,’ said Mrs Walsh. Her companion sniffed at this.

  ‘That may all be very fine,’ she said, ‘ but that don’t give him licence to overrun the village with half the savages he may have chanced upon during his travels. Why, we might all be murdered in our beds.’

  ‘Very likely,’ agreed Mrs Walsh. Her neighbour looked around her and dropped her voice.

  ‘Or perhaps we shall suffer an even worse fate,’ she muttered.

  ‘Worse than being killed, Mrs Fry?’ queried her fellow gossip. ‘Whatever can you mean by that?’ The widow beckoned her neighbour closer, till their trembling bonnets were almost touching.

  ‘I hear that Negro men have certain appetites,’ whispered the widow. Mrs Walsh shivered with delight.

  ‘What manner of appetites?’ she asked.

  ‘Base appetites of a most impure lustfulness which they are wholly unable to control,’ said Old Widow Fry. Her neighbour squeezed her eyes closed, all the better to envisage the horror of the prospect.

  ‘Good morning, ladies,’ said a deep voice from the path behind them. The neighbours’ heads clashed together as they both spun round to find themselves face to face with the object of their concern. Mrs Walsh let out a shriek while the widow rubbed at the place where her friend’s solid cranium had struck home.

  ‘I hope I did not startle you,’ added the sailor, his hand still holding up his hat. ‘Are you unwell, Mrs Fry? Shall I help you to sit down?’

  ‘No, no!’ cried the widow. ‘I shall be fine in a moment. Come no nearer, if you please.’

  An awkward pause followed as the man, who had been hastening forward, stopped in confusion, while the two ladies seemed to be frozen with fear.

  ‘Well, I will be on my way then,’ said the man at last. ‘Good day to you both.’ Then he replaced his hat and, without showing any immediate signs of wanting to murder, or indeed ravish, either septuagenarian, he resumed his way towards the village school.

  Able Sedgwick was certainly an imposing figure. He was a tall, pleasant looking young man. His face was handsome enough, with a solid jaw framed by short sideburns. He kept his black hair cut short, except at the nape of the neck, where the beginnings of a pigtail was tightly plaited and secured with a neat blue ribbon. His deep brown eyes looked out on the world with intelligence tinged with sadness. He was dressed in the high-waisted trousers and tight short blue jacket of a shore-going sailor, and the clothes suited his powerful frame well.

  Regrettably that same powerful build made it difficult for him to squeeze into the tiny place allocated for him in the back row of the schoolroom when he arrived there. The bench he sat on had obviously been designed with a much smaller person in mind. His long legs protruded far beyond the narrow table that served as a desk, and the bench creaked a little when he shifted his considerable weight on it as he tried to get comfortable. When he was wedged into place, he was able to look around him. The room was small and bare, with a swept wooden floor and whitewashed walls. It had four rows of benches, each with one of the narrow tables before it. Pupils’ places were indicated by wooden framed squares of slate and pieces of chalk. Behind where Sedgwick sat, the spring sunshine flooded into the room through a large, arched window that looked out onto the village green. At the front of the room hung a blackboard and a square of white canvas with the letters of the alphabet painted on it. There were ten other children in the room, the oldest of whom was just half the age of the sailor, and all of whom were staring round at him. He rummaged in his pocket for a moment, then turned to the little boy who sat next to him on the bench.

  ‘Thomas, I nearly forgot,’ he said. ‘I have finished that beast I said how I would make for you.’ He produced a small carved wooden animal and gave it a final polish on his sleeve before placing it on top of his neighbour’s slate.

  ‘Oh, thank you, Mr Sedgwick!’ exclaimed the boy. He examined his gift with obvious pleasure. ‘Is that truly what your proper oliphant looks like then?’

  ‘I think so, although I ain’t no authority on the subject,’ explained the sailor. ‘I’ve only seen one before in my life.’

  ‘Really?’ queried the boy. ‘I thought how Africa was quite thick with oliphants.’

  ‘Some parts may be,’ conceded Sedgwick, ‘but not where I come from. It were a while ago now that I saw him, when I was no older than you are now. My uncle and I found the remains in the forest near my village.’ He tapped the back of the carving with his index finger. ‘Best as I can remember, he looked like that.’ Thomas picked the carved elephant up and made it walk across the desk a few times, watched with envy by his fellow pupils.

  ‘Was your village very like Lower Staverton then, Mr Sedgwick?’ he asked.

  ‘No, not really,’ answered the sailor. ‘It were on the banks of a much larger river than the mill stream, for a start. Proper close to the sea and quite surrounded by forest.’

  ‘Any lions?’ asked Thomas, his eyes alight.

  ‘No lions,’ he replied. He noticed Thomas’s look of disappointment and added quickly. ‘But there was no end of leopards in the forest, which are quite the equal for your lion when it comes to ferocity.’ The boy nodded at this, as if it confirmed a view he had long held.

  ‘Did your village have a church spire as tall as ours?’ he asked.

  ‘No, for it had no church, or any manner of stone buildings for that matter,’ replied Sedgwick.

  ‘No church? What, not even a chapel?’ queried the boy. ‘How wonderful! My mother makes me go to church every Sunday without fail, and twice during the week. I wonder at you ever choosing to leave such a grand place?’

  ‘Well now, it wasn’t so much a matter of my leaving or no,’ replied the sailor. ‘It were all a bit complicated like. See, I was made to go by these men who came to my village.’

  ‘Why would they have done such a wicked thing?’

  ‘Have you heard tell of slavery at all, Thomas?’ asked Sedgwick. The boy scratched one cheek with the trunk of the elephant.

  ‘I think the parson may have talked of that Pharaoh in Egypt and the Israelites once?’ he said at last. ‘Would that answer?’

  ‘Aye, I was taken just like that.’

  ‘And brought here to go to school?’

  ‘Ah… well not exactly... you see… oh dear. Ah, here comes the teacher at last.’

  With a clatter of shifting furniture, the class all rose to their feet.

  ‘Good morning Mr Guthridge!’ chanted ten high little voices and one booming bass.

  *****

  ‘Your coxswain is mak
ing tolerably good progress with his letters, according to Mr Guthridge,’ said Betsey Clay to her brother as they sat together in the parlour of Rosehill Cottage. Clay looked up from his newspaper and across the cluttered table at his younger sister. Their late father’s calm grey eyes were the only obvious feature that the two siblings had in common. Where Alexander Clay was a tall, lean man with curly chestnut hair, his younger sister was petite and fair, just like their mother would have been at the same age.

  ‘He is quite a remarkable man, to be sure,’ he agreed. ‘Particularly if you consider that he spent his formative years as a field slave in Barbados. I believe he must be in possession of a very determined character. That is abundantly clear from how readily he has taken to his duties as a sailor.’

  ‘Is that what motivated you to bring him back to England with you, Alex?’ she asked.

  ‘He proved his worth repeatedly on my last commission,’ he replied. ‘But I confess that part of my motivation was also the knowledge that he can never truly be free while he remains in the Caribbean. As a run slave he was unable to take any shore leave because of the danger of recapture, so the poor man had to remain on board ship whenever we were in port. At least in England he can walk through the village to the school house without arousing suspicion.’

  ‘Do you know what he told me his chief objective was in acquiring an education?’ said Betsey.

  ‘He is not motivated by a simple desire to improve himself?’ asked Clay.