The Captain's Nephew Read online

  The Captain’s Nephew by Philip K Allan

  Copyright © 2017 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: 978-1-946409-36-2(Paperback)

  ISBN :13: 978-1-946409-37-9(e-book)

  BISAC Subject Headings:

  FIC014000FICTION / Historical

  FIC032000FICTION / War & Military

  FIC047000FICTION / Sea Stories

  Editing Terri Carter

  Cover Illustration by Christine Horner

  Address all correspondence to:

  Michael James

  Penmore Press LLC

  920 N Javelina Pl

  Tucson, AZ 85748

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgmetns

  Review

  Prologue Drowning

  Chapter 1 North Sea

  Chapter 2 Flanders

  Chapter 3 Downs

  Chapter 4 Channel

  Chapter 5 Plymouth

  Chapter 6 Biscay

  Chapter 7 Madeira

  Chapter 8 Departure

  Chapter 9 Atlantic

  Chapter 10 Hunt

  Chapter 11 Chase

  Chapter 12 Doldrums

  Chapter 13 Storm

  Chapter 14 St Lucia

  Author’s Note

  About The Author

  Advertisements

  Dedication

  To my wife, Jan

  Acknowledgements

  All authors rely on the help and support of those around them to translate their vision into reality and I am no exception. A work like The Captain’s Nephew starts with a passion for the period. Mine was first awakened by the works of C. S. Forester that I read as a boy and more recently those of Patrick O’Brian. That interest was boosted when I studied the 18th century navy under Pat Crimmin as part of my history degree at London University.

  Many years later, when I first suggested giving up a lucrative career in the motor industry to write full time, I received the unconditional support of my darling wife and two wonderful daughters. They have given me nothing but cheerful encouragement, in spite of the belt-tightening my career choice has entailed. My thanks also go to my father for his support.

  Finally there are those who worked with me on the book itself. My friend Ian Drury, for his faith, encouragement and help in teaching me the skill of writing fiction; and for the team at Penmore Press, Michael, Terri and Midori, for turning my words into the book you now hold in your hand.

  Review

  Move over, Pat O’Brian, Alexander Kent and C.S. Forester. Philip Allan arriving!!! Allan’s first book – The Captain’s Nephew – is a wonderful tale about Alexander Clay, a young Royal Navy officer who faces dual threats to his career. One, he has a captain who believes in patronage over ability; and two, Britain’s traditional enemy, the French. Despite Clay’s leadership and courage during a raid on the Belgian coast, Captain Follett’s report gives credit to his own nephew. Follett’s acknowledgement that he deliberately favored his nephew by not telling the truth creates conflict that boils over to the poop deck and leads to a series of mistakes that almost cost them their lives. The Captain’s Nephew has a wonderful cast of characters from the fo’c’sle to the wardroom, and Allan’s descriptions of square rigged ship handling, watch standing, living conditions and rhythm of living on a Royal Navy ship in the early 1800s are spot on. All in all, The Captain’s Nephew is a riveting tale well told and a must read for all who like stories about the age of sail. Well done!!!

  MarcLiebman, Captain, USN (retired) and award winning author of five novels about an American Naval Officer and Naval Aviator – Big Mother 40, Cherubs 2, Render Harmless, Forgotten, and Inner Look.

  Prologue

  Drowning

  He knew that he was drowning. Moments earlier he had been fighting for the life of his ship in the world above him. Now he was caught in a more deadly struggle. The moment he smashed through the surface of the water everything changed. Sight and sound was transformed. He could distinguish the shock as individual cannons fired, each one a dull thud in his chest, like blows delivered by an exhausted opponent. The fight, though muted by the water, seemed as fierce as ever. Gunfire lit his underworld with splashes of yellow and orange. A blast of grapeshot flashed the surface with a fan of white. As the froth of bubbles disappeared, the individual balls fell like slow hailstones all around him.

  The churned surface of the sea was above his head, the ceiling of a lofty room that he stretched for but could not reach. He struggled and the gold braid on his uniform glittered like fish scales in the beams of sunlight. It reminded him that he needed to work free from the close embrace of his broadcloth coat, but as he tried it became entangled with the scabbard belt of his sword. The whole mass dragged him down, down into the heavy, jade-green water. His movements became leaden as exhaustion slowed him. He was becoming caught like a fly in hardening amber.

  He knew he was hurt. He remembered the ship had been struck by yet another broadside. The quarterdeck rail had disappeared in a shower of splinters next to him as the mizzen mast had come crashing down. The wreck of its fall had smothered the deck with debris, knocking him over the side of the ship. He had not felt any pain at first, but now he could feel the hot throb of a wound in spite of the cool water that surrounded him. Wisps of crimson blood rose past his face, turning in the water like smoke.

  The mast! It had been trailing in the sea beside the ship. The crew would be fighting to cut it free. If only he could reach it in time, he could use it as a bridge to escape from his nightmare. Oh, to return to the world above! He would be able to draw fresh air into his lungs. He wanted to breathe again so much. He craned his neck from side to side, back and forward, but the ship must have drifted away from him. A stream of bubbles escaped from his clothes as he struggled and robbed of their buoyancy, he drifted further down.

  A fresh broadside flashed into being, fire and light washing over the surface of the sea. How could they still fight up there, without him? Did no one care he was dying down here? He might have been able to accept his fate if this was an accident of war, if he was just another casualty among the mayhem and madness of a sea fight. But this was no accident.

  There had been a moment before he fell into the water. Knocked from the deck by the falling mast, he had clung to the side of the ship by one of the ropes that dangled from the wreckage. He could have been rescued but instead he had been cut free. In his mind he could see the face leaning out from the ship’s side above him, the sword flashing down on the rope, the sudden parting of the line and his long backwards fall. Hot anger gave renewed thrashing energy to his struggle for life.

  Suddenly it was much darker. He looked up, and saw that the surface of the sea was now far, far away. The light from above was masked by the hull of the French ship as it passed over him, bulging out like the swollen belly of a huge sea monster. All hope left him. It was replaced with the certainty that he was to die. The air in his chest was stale and turning to liquid fire in his throat. The urgent need to draw breath was all consuming. At last he was forced to expel the toxic air from his lungs. Choking water flowed in to replace it. His body twisted in agony, made curling fish movements in the gloom and then was still. The anger in his eyes faded away, to be replaced by the porcelain stare of a doll.

  Chapter 1

  North Sea

  Six months before the drowning, Alexander Clay, the efficient first lieutenant of His Majesty’s frigate Agrius, stood naked at the tiny washstand in his dimly lit cabin and picked up his razor. He paused for a
moment, the silver blade hovering in the air beside his face as the ship’s bell sounded through the deck above his head, cutting through the creak of the ship’s timbers all around him. He counted the six clear strokes and grunted to himself. Only half an hour before he was due to have breakfast with his captain.

  He was a tall man. To shave under the low deck beams he had to spread his legs, tripod like. This brought his face level with the square of polished steel that he used as a mirror. He shaved with care, using his fingers to feel his way in the orange light of the lantern. The face that stared back at him appeared streaked and blurred in the poor reflective surface. It ballooned and shrank as he manoeuvred his head under the rasp of the razor. He thought once more how much easier shaving would be with a glass mirror, but then reminded himself he could not really afford one. Besides the men, superstitious as only sailors could be, would be alarmed at the ill luck that might flow from the frequent breakage to be expected at sea.

  This was a shame, for a better quality mirror would have shown Lieutenant Clay to be a handsome young man, perhaps a little thin, but very much in his prime at twenty-seven. He had a full head of naturally curly brown hair. His pale grey eyes followed each precise stroke of the razor as he finished shaping his sideburns. While he washed, his servant Yates returned, squeezing around him to lay out his clothes on his cot, and picked up his nightshirt from the floor. With both of them standing in the same small space, the cabin seemed impossibly crowded.

  It was little more than a box. The floor area was a scant seven feet square while the height between the decks was less than six feet. Along one side of this space was Clay’s cot, swinging from the beam above, with his sea chest underneath it. On the other side was his wash stand and his tiny desk fixed to the bulkhead. The outer wall of the cabin was formed by the side of the ship, curving down towards the keel deep below their feet. There was no natural light down here on the lower deck. His cabin was either just above the water line or occasionally below it when the ship heeled over on the other tack. Beyond the oak skin he could hear the endless surge and gurgle as the sea rushed past.

  Clay and his twelve-year-old servant had shared many months on board together. This had allowed them to work out an efficient routine for getting him dressed in such a confined space. The lieutenant took responsibility for dressing his top half, while a kneeling Yates worked beneath him in almost complete darkness. His servant buckled his breeches over his stockings, as Clay did up the buttons of his waistcoat. Yates would place his master’s shoes on his feet at the very moment that Clay subconsciously rocked his weight from one side to the other to allow him to do so. Clay finished by settling the folds of his neck cloth into place. He then reached backwards into the space behind him, knowing with certainty that Yates would have stood up just in time to be holding out his broadcloth coat. He pulled it on, smoothed it down over his shoulders, and extended his nod of thanks to Yates into an instinctive duck under the low door frame of his cabin as he stepped out into the wardroom.

  The wardroom of the Agrius was at the absolute stern of the ship, tucked underneath the captain’s quarters which were on the deck above. From just over his head, Clay could hear footsteps and the dragging of furniture as someone, presumably Lloyd, the captain’s steward, organised the great cabin to receive the breakfast guests. It was only marginally better lit than his cabin and was dominated by a table that ran the length of the room. Rising through the middle of the table and disappearing through the deck above was the thick column of the mizzen mast. Along both sides of the room were the rows of officer’s cabins, four on each side, packed as close together as the cells of a bee hive. Most of them were dark, but from two other cabins the glow of light and the bustle of activity showed that at least some of his fellow officers were nearly ready to emerge.

  William Munro, the Agrius’s young lieutenant of marines was the first to join him. He was still tying on his officer’s sash, the scarlet of his uniform appearing purple in the gloom. This was an improvement. Fully lit the colour jarred with Munro’s shock of ginger hair.

  ‘Confound it, Alexander! Do you know how vexing it is for your fellow officers that you always contrive to be ready first?’ he complained, his strong Ulster accent adding unintentional menace to the comment. ‘You must have retired to bed fully dressed for the morrow.’

  Clay smiled at the Irishman. ‘And a good morning to you too, William. I am aware that you Lobsters find getting up this early presents a challenge. If you would know my secret, it is one of diligent practice. After fifteen years of watch keeping in His Majesty’s navy, if I have learnt nothing else, it is how to dress in the middle of the night.’

  Nicholas Windham emerged next, blinking into the gloom of the wardroom to complete the party. Clay thought once more how young Windham was, as he looked over the two junior officers to make sure that nothing was amiss in their appearance. He must barely need to shave, thought Clay, and yet he was already second lieutenant of the ship.

  ‘How old are you now, Nicholas?’ he asked, voicing his thoughts.

  ‘I am comfortably into my twentieth year, sir,’ replied the second lieutenant proudly.

  ‘A prodigiously good age, indeed,’ said Clay, exchanging a glance with Munro. ‘Now, let us not keep your uncle waiting. Please, gentlemen, after you.’

  Not for the first time, Clay felt a wave of annoyance at the ease with which the well connected could progress in the navy. Perhaps if I had a post captain as my uncle, I too might have been a lieutenant at such a tender age, thought Clay, as he followed Windham out of the wardroom and onto the lower deck. The marine sentry outside the door snapped to attention as the officers emerged and made their way across to the accommodation ladder that led up to the main deck above.

  Clay paused to check on the watch below, using all of his senses, like some nocturnal creature in the gloom. They were still asleep in their hammocks, a snoring, breathing mass of packed humanity. The smell and warmth of their poorly washed bodies flowed over him like the hot breath of an animal. From where Clay stood the whole deck was open in one long sweep right up to the bows, over a hundred feet away. Most of the space was in darkness, but the occasional lantern cast a disc of subdued light down on an unbroken carpet of packed hammocks suspended midway between the deck above and the one below. The whole mass creaked backward and forwards with the motion of the ship. All was as it should be.

  *****

  Clay and his fellow officers were ushered into the great cabin of the Agrius. It was barely half past three in the morning on land, and it was still ink-black night behind the sweep of glass windows that ran across the whole width of the ship. By contrast the cabin itself was a blaze of light. Captain Percy Follett came from a wealthy family of Nottinghamshire landowners, blessed by considerable deposits of coal on their land. Silver lanterns swung from the beams above, and a row of candelabra ran down the centre of the table. Light sparkled off polished silver cutlery, glassware, and the silver domes that covered the serving dishes. The officers blinked in the sudden contrast with the troglodyte gloom of the wardroom they had left, as if they were miners on the Follett estate emerging from a long shift underground into the sunny Nottinghamshire countryside.

  The cabin was decorated with considerable taste, in a powder blue and white colour scheme. The painted panels on the walls matched the curtains at the windows and the bolts of fabric that were draped tastefully over the massive bulk of the Agrius’s sternmost twelve pounder cannons. The furniture was made from warm brown cherry wood and watery blue and white silk upholstery. The studied elegance of the room was matched by that of their host. In spite of the earliness of the hour, Captain Follett was immaculately dressed in a well tailored uniform. Where his officers’ clothes were made from wool and linen, his were of cashmere and thick china silk. Although he was a much shorter man than his first lieutenant, he held himself with the patrician bearing of a Roman Emperor. He was a man who had been brought up from childhood accustomed to give orders in th
e sure expectation that they would be instantly followed.

  ‘Ah gentlemen, you have timed your arrival to perfection. Lloyd has just finished laying up our breakfast,’ he enthused, shaking each of them by the hand. ‘I took the liberty of inviting Mr Preston and Mr Croft to join us this morning, as they too will be part of our little adventure,’ he continued, indicating two of the ship’s gangly complement of teenage midshipmen. Both boys struggled unsuccessfully to conceal their relief at the arrival of their betters. At last they were now safe from the agony of having to make further small talk with their lofty captain.

  ‘I always feel that one should go into action on a capital breakfast,’ Captain Follett continued, ‘for one may never know where the next meal is to come from.’ He shepherded them across to the table, and they organised themselves instinctively into a seating order based on seniority. At the head of the table he slipped with accustomed ease into the role of convivial host, while Lloyd and his assistants ferried food and drink to the guests.

  ‘To drink I have laid in coffee, tea or for those who prefer it small beer,’ the captain offered, ‘No to the beer? Well perhaps it is a little early, in Mr Booth’s absence.’ Follett raised his coffee cup up towards the skylight in mock salute before he turned to the two midshipmen with a conspiratorial look. He held one hand next to his mouth as if to mask his stage whisper.