The Distant Ocean Page 13

  ‘Very well, so we wait for the Titan,’ continued Montague, still to himself. ‘Then perhaps we can seek the enemy closer to their refuge. Maybe catch one of their frigates at sea and level the odds again.’ He strode on, backwards and forwards, his head down and one hand twisting in the other. After a while he stopped in mid-stride and stared at the window next to him.

  ‘What is it, Sir George?’ asked Windham. ‘Have you had an insight?’

  ‘Only to replace my damned steward,’ said the commodore. He pulled a silk handkerchief from his coat pocket and buffed at the glass. ‘Bloody smudges everywhere.’ Then he turned back towards his visitor, with his handkerchief poised as a fresh thought came to him.

  ‘Nicholas, have you given any consideration as to how you will face Captain Clay?’ he asked.

  ‘How do you mean, Sir George?’ asked Windham. Montague’s eyes rose towards the sky.

  ‘Do you not think he may require an explanation as to how it was that his closest friend was abandoned to his fate by you?’ he said. ‘You will certainly need to furnish him with a better one that I have just heard.’ Windham stared back at him, his eyes dark and unreadable.

  ‘Well, as for that, I shall tell him that his friend died bravely in battle, just like my Uncle Percy did.’

  *****

  On the island of Reunion, Commander John Sutton stood on a terrace that looked out over the harbour of St Paul. A frown played across his face as he wondered what he disliked so much about the place. The location of the port was spectacular, on a promontory of flat land cut off from the rest of the island by huge, forest-covered hills that loomed above the little town and its hinterland of fields and groves. The buildings were nice enough, with their thatched roofs and colourful shutters framing the windows. Many had climbing plants sprawling up their walls, ablaze with tropical flowers in crimson, yellow or bright orange. Most of the houses were whitewashed, but there were others dotted amongst them that were painted blue, or ochre or gentle pink. Clustered amongst the buildings were trees, many bearing fruit of various kinds. The weather was warm and sunny, with a pleasant sea breeze to check the heat from becoming too fierce. And on three sides of him was the ocean, vast and blue, as it stretched away to the far horizon.

  No, it was the other little details that annoyed him. Where the sea met the palm-fringed shore, the sand of the beach should have been white, but instead it was a dirty volcanic grey. It was much the same colour as the blocks of stone used to build the numerous gun batteries that protected the harbour. All were squat, ugly, functional buildings that jarred with the softer lines of the town’s houses. Then there were the vessels in the harbour. Not the little fishing boats with their brown sails and pale blue hulls, or the two massive French frigates that swung at anchor. They were attractive enough, but behind them were two battered East Indiamen, symbols of his country’s inability to protect its commerce, and worse still there was the Prudence. Her hull lay hauled down on its side against a slipway. He could hear the echo of distant hammering from where he stood, as the dockyard workers smoothed away all the damage he had inflicted on her. Soon she would be good as new, as if his beloved Rush had never fought her. But most of all what depressed him was the large tricolour flag that floated above his head, reminding him that he was no longer the captain of a ship, but just a simple prisoner of war.

  He turned away from the view in response to a muted cough, and saw a curious figure waiting for him. The man was dressed in a shabby version of a footman’s uniform that stretched no farther down than his knees. Below the torn bottoms of his britches, his legs and feet were quite bare, while on his head a dirty white wig framed his black face.

  ‘Monsieur le Commandant will see you now,’ said the servant, with a bow. ‘Please to follow?’

  ‘Of course,’ he replied. He turned his back on the view and followed the footman. They left the brightly lit terrace, and plunged into the cool dark of the residency. The high-ceilinged corridor beyond had walls lined with portraits of bewigged figures and ornate chests in tropical wood. Sutton was led past doors that opened on both sides into various rooms. The footman stopped at one that was closed and knocked firmly.

  ‘Entree,’ came a deep voice from inside, and the footman swung it open for him. Inside was a large office with windows down one side. The shutters were partly closed, leaving slats of brilliant light through which Sutton could just see the lush greens and flashes of colour of a tropical garden. In the room were two other men. Seated behind the desk was a large bull of a man in a pale blue coat and snuff-coloured waistcoat. He turned his heavy, jowly face towards the door and regarded the visitor with dark eyes. The other was Enseigne de Vaisseau Chavency, the handsome young lieutenant from the Prudence who had looked after him since his capture.

  ‘Ah, Commander Sutton,’ he said, as he rose to his feet and favoured the Englishman with a flashing smile from his very white teeth. ‘May I present Monsieur François Morliere, Commandant of St Paul. You and your men will be under his protection now.’

  ‘You mean that he is to be my next jailer?’ said Sutton.

  ‘If you make war upon France, you must accept the risk that you may be captured, monsieur,’ said the lieutenant.’

  ‘You may call me a jailer if you wish to,’ growled Morliere. ‘I had in mind a more liberal regime for you and your men, but if you would prefer a dungeon, that too can be arranged.’

  ‘Your pardon, sir,’ said Sutton. ‘I am a little low in spirits at present.’

  ‘Every fighting man must face defeat at sometime,’ said Chavency. ‘You have no need to be ashamed of your conduct. You and your men fought bravely, that is what is important.’

  ‘May I ask what provision has been made for my people?’ asked the prisoner. ‘I am particularly concerned about the wounded.’

  ‘We are not savages, monsieur,’ said Morliere. ‘They have all been taken to the hospital where they will receive treatment for their wounds.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Sutton. ‘And what of those who survived unharmed?’

  ‘We are fortunate in being on an inaccessible part of an island many miles from land,’ said the commandant. ‘Escape is quite impossible, which allows me to grant you some liberty. The surviving seaman will be housed in an old warehouse near the docks.’

  ‘A warehouse?’ queried Sutton. ‘Is that suitable?’

  ‘It is clean and dry, and has been used by the sailors from the East Indiamen we captured without complaint,’ said Morliere. ‘I imagine it is better accommodation than they are used to aboard your ship. I will permit you to visit them once each day. As for the officers, it is only you and Monsieur Croft who survived unharmed. I will provide you with a small house near to here, together with your steward to attend to your needs.’

  ‘Thank you for your kindness, sir.’ The commandant’s dark eyes narrowed as he regarded Sutton.

  ‘You should know that I can also be much less kind, monsieur,’ he said. ‘While you are here, so long as you behave, I will grant you a degree of freedom. But let me be quite clear; if I find you have abused my trust, I will have you and your men locked up in a less pleasant location.’

  *****

  The weather side of the Titan’s quarterdeck was over sixty feet long, yet it seemed close and cramped to Clay as he tried to work off the boiling frustration within him. Like a caged animal he tramped up and down, up and down, his eyes passing over the life of the ship about him, registering little. He reached the limit of the deck and swung round to retrace his steps once more, his head bowed in thought.

  Something was wrong. He had felt it the moment he had stepped into the great cabin of the Black Prince earlier. Sir George Montague had been as polite as ever. He had peppered Clay with inconsequential questions. Had his trip back from the Cape passed without incident? Was the Titan in tolerable shape? All the time he had fussed even more than usual over the positioning of the items on his desk.

  ‘Why is the Rush not with the squadron, Sir G
eorge?’ Clay had eventually asked. ‘I particularly wished to speak with Captain Sutton.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ the commodore had said, tearing his attention away from his ink stand. ‘I am afraid I have some bad news with regard to that. There has been a battle, and matters have ended badly for your friend.’

  Clay reached the quarterdeck rail of the Titan, and turned back towards the stern. Behind the frigate sailed the Echo, keeping station, a cable length back. How was it possible, Clay asked himself, for a brave fighting officer like John Sutton to fail in battle, and yet the incompetent Windham to somehow come through the same action? The first was the veteran of a dozen fights, the other had barely fought one, and had hardly distinguished himself then. He scanned the rigging of the little sloop behind his ship, searching for clues. Those spars have been barely touched, he told himself, and yet in the same fight the Rush was lost? No, this whole story stank to high heaven. Something was wrong, he felt it in his bones, and he had seen in Montague’s eyes that he knew it too. Thoughts of the battle brought back thoughts of his friend again. He felt his eyes begin to water as he turned about once more.

  Could it be it that John was truly dead? His dear friend, with whom he had shared so many adventures? This was the man who had spoken to Lydia on his behalf when he was unable to do so. It was John who had been first to cradle his head on the quarterdeck of the Rush when he was struck down by a Spanish musket ball. John Sutton, who was so full of life and fun, dead? No, it couldn’t be true. He swerved around the last ring bolt on the quarterdeck and headed aft once more.

  Why had he parted on such bad terms with his friend? Clay’s hands writhed briefly in the air in frustration, before he clasped them back behind his back. Well, the past is the past, he decided. Little can be done to remedy that matter now. But I need to find the truth. I owe John that. He slowed as he approached the rail at the stern of the frigate and paused to lean on it, his breath coming in gasps. Looking back at him from the little sloop was its strangely carved figurehead. Above the cupped hands, two painted eyes stared back at him. What did you see, Echo, Clay asked the carved nymph, on that fateful day? What truly happened off the coast of Madagascar?

  *****

  For the next few weeks, life on Reunion settled into a regular pattern for Sutton. The little, single storey house provided to the officers was furnished simply, and was clean and dry. It stood in a secluded spot on the edge of town at the top of a small rise that overlooked the beach and the coral reef beyond. A little farther along the coast was the last of the big stone coastal batteries that protected St Paul from attack by sea.

  His day would begin shortly before dawn, when the sound of bird song from the trees in the house’s garden woke him. He would get up, wash and shave with the help of Chapman, his steward from the Rush, get dressed and then leave the house. A narrow, sandy track ran past the side of the garden and down to the beach. Once by the sea he would walk while the sun was still lost in the east, behind the forest-covered mountains that formed the back wall of his prison.

  It was important to walk this early on the curious dark sand. When the sun fell directly on it, it would heat rapidly until it was uncomfortable even for a man wearing leather-soled shoes. Every morning his route was the same. He reached the beach and then turned right, away from town, and walked in front of the solid wall of the coastal battery. He would glance up at the big guns that projected out above his head from between the stone embrasures, then return to his thoughts, with both hands clasped behind his back.

  On one side of him was the sea. He could see the waves of the ocean as they broke far out on the edge of the reef, while the shallows closer to him were littered with pieces of driftwood. On the other side of him were lush fields and groves of fruit trees that rolled away from the edge of the beach. A mile or so along the sand was the point where the mountains met the sea amongst spectacular cliffs. Squeezed between the two was a coast road that ran in the narrow gap, but the sentries who guarded it always turned him back at this point.

  As he walked, his mind was occupied with playing over and over the visions that haunted his sleep. Every night he tossed and turned through the long tropical darkness. First there were images of Betsey Clay, her long fair hair, her cool grey eyes, her neat white teeth when she laughed. Even now he could see the flash of her smile as he had last seen it beneath the shade of the apple trees back at Rosehill cottage. He now knew with certainty that he loved her, but he had no confirmation that she loved him. He had written to her before the Rush left Portsmouth, but that was a poor substitute for what he had wanted to do. If only he had been able to meet her and declare himself properly. In his mind he would imagine how that scene would have gone. Her eyes growing wide with pleasure as he told her, her rush into his arms, the feel of her slim body as he held her close. Then her face angled back, her eyes closing and those rose-coloured lips parting beneath the pressure of his kiss.

  But then he would curse himself as a fool. What true evidence did he have that she loved him at all? His hands coiled around each other. Oh God, she must, he thought. Yet his ship had outrun any possible reply from her, leaving him in an agony of doubt. And even if she did love him, how impossibly far away was she now? There were all those thousands of long miles between her and where he stood, on a beach in the middle of this distant ocean. Then there was the ridiculous attitude of her brother that had made him quarrel with Clay for the first time in their friendship. Worst of all was the reality that he was imprisoned on this island, and could be for long years ahead. And how had he come to be here? The hands behind his back clenched into fists as scarlet rage flooded his mind.

  Windham. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have let that man trick him so easily into making his fateful attack on the Prudence, while he had stood back from the fight? And what of all the poor souls that had died to give him his petty revenge? Like Lieutenant Wise, shot through the chest by a musket ball. He could still hear the thwack as the bullet struck, spinning him around like a doll and sending him crashing first against his captain before sliding down to the deck. He had dropped down beside him and held up his head as he spluttered and coughed. He had witnessed the terror in his eyes as his lungs filled and he drowned in his own blood.

  As he returned along the beach he looked with hunger at a pair of little fishing boats pulled up on the sand, but they were much too small to cross an ocean. If he could only escape for this place, he knew what he would do. He would hunt Windham down without mercy.

  Later, he would return to the little house, calmer for now, but with nothing forgotten. By then Chapman would have laid the little table on the veranda for breakfast, and Midshipman Croft would be waiting for him, up and dressed. Then the dreary pleasantries of their domestic life would descend on him. And how was the beach today, sir? What was the state of the tide? A little more of the soft tack if you please, Chapman. It seems to have turned out fine again, Mr Croft. The two officers were slipping into the behaviour of an elderly couple whose many years together had driven out any spark of originality in their conversation.

  After breakfast came his daily walk into St Paul, to visit the remaining wounded in the hospital. Then he would check on those of his crew who were well, as they lounged about in their abandoned warehouse. Occasionally the officers of the garrison, or from one of the frigates, would take pity on him and invite him to dinner. Afterwards he would return to the little house with its lengthening shadows and the prospect of another hot, dark night tossing and turning with thoughts of desire and revenge clashing in his mind.

  And then one morning, everything changed.

  *****

  ‘Oh, sir!’ cried Chapman, dropping his basket of washing in surprise as he came out of the house. Clothes of all colours tumbled out onto the floor of the veranda. ‘You gave me a proper turn! I was just going to get these here togs hung on the line afore breakfast. Ain’t you going for your constitutional this morning?’

  ‘No, not today,’ said Sutton. H
e stood looking out to sea and shading his eyes beneath one hand. ‘Tell me, Chapman, do we have a spy glass?’

  ‘We do, sir,’ said the steward, as he gathered up the wet garments. ‘It be only a small one, mind. Mr Croft chanced to have it in his pocket when we was taken. I am surprised them Frogs left him with it. It was the Devil’s own job to get ‘em to let me keep my clasp knife.’

  ‘Have you seen something of interest, sir?’ asked the midshipman as he stepped out onto veranda too, tucking in his shirt tails as he came.

  ‘I believe I have. Mr Croft, could you oblige me with your glass?’ The youngster disappeared into the house again, and returned with the little tube.

  ‘It is rather indifferent, I am afraid, sir,’ he said, offering it to his captain, but Sutton shook his head.

  ‘You have the younger eyes. Direct your gaze at the horizon, two points to larboard of that palm tree, and tell me what you can see.’

  ‘Top gallants of a ship I would say, sir,’ the midshipman said. ‘With a second one on its beam.’

  ‘And all three of the French frigates are back in harbour, I collect?’ asked Sutton.

  ‘That’s right, sir. The Rhone arrived back yesterday.’

  ‘I can think of no reason why any Indiamen who valued their freedom would come within sight of here,’ said the captain. ‘Which means that it may very well be the squadron.’

  Once Chapman’s washing billowed on the line, he brought out their breakfast on a tray. The two men ate their meal fitfully, with frequent breaks for one or other to look back out to sea. The tiny white squares that had first lifted above the horizon were growing, stretching into pillars of white as more and more of the ships’ sails became visible. From the coastal battery down by the beach came the echo of a drum and the sharp bark of orders as the guns were manned. By the end of the meal there could be no doubt.