A Sloop of War Read online

  ‘I apologise, Mr Linfield,’ said Emma. ‘It was a mistake to come this way. I had not thought that they might be cutting these fields so soon.’

  ‘There is nothing to apologise for, Miss Emma,’ said Linfield. ‘I am heartily pleased to have witnessed slavery first hand. It shall serve to strengthen me in my resolve to oppose it in all its forms.’

  They were close to the end of the line of workers now. The nearest slave looked up at them, his face blank with exhaustion, empty of any emotion. Emma urged her horse to go forward, and after a moment of hesitation Linfield followed. They continued in silence along the track. Emma looked across at her companion, a little concerned.

  ‘Do you still wish to view the cascade, Mr Linfield?’ she asked.

  ‘Perhaps on another occasion, Miss Emma,’ he replied. ‘I take it this track will serve to return us to your father’s plantation?’

  They were now screened from the line of slaves by uncut sugar cane, and Emma had just begun to relax, when they rounded a fresh turn in the path and came across another open patch of field. Here a wooden tripod had been set up, and a slave had been tied to the uprights. Two overseers were whipping his naked back, while a further group of slaves looked on. The man being whipped appeared to be unconscious, but still the punishment continued, a steady flow of blood dripping from his back and onto the ground.

  ‘Mr Linfield!’ cautioned Emma. ‘We must ride by. Come on.’

  ‘I agree, this is certainly no sight for a lady to witness,’ said Linfield, pulling up his horse and swinging down from the saddle. ‘I shall see you back at the house, Miss Emma.’ Emma hesitated for a moment, but Linfield brought the flat of his hand down on her horse’s rump, and the animal shot off up the path. He watched her depart for a moment, and then ran across till he stood in front of the slave, his arms spread wide to block any further blows.

  ‘In the name of all Christian decency, you will stop this barbaric punishment!’ he yelled, his eyes blazing with rage. The two overseers looked at each other, unsure what to do next, while the watching slaves raised their heads with sudden interest.

  ‘What in all damnation are you about, sir?’ shouted a furious voice. Linfield turned to see a red faced man on a horse approaching.

  ‘This man is in need of medical attention, and I am a surgeon, sir,’ explained Linfield.

  ‘This slave is none of your damned business!’ roared the man. ‘He is my property, and he will receive the punishment that I have instructed for him. I see you have come here with one of that negro-lover Robertson’s brood. You are trespassing, sir! Get the hell off my land, before I have my dogs set on you.’

  Chapter 8

  Ball

  Clay was sitting in a chair in his cabin while he waited for Sutton to join him for their regular morning meeting. This was when his lieutenant would normally update him on the state of the ship and crew. Together they would work through all the dozens of matters, great and small, that governed the life of the little wooden world that was the Rush. Their usual pot of coffee waited in its battered pewter pot and Sutton’s chair was set for him on the far side of the desk. What was less usual were the three small matching blue books that lay on the desk, together with the canvas package they had come in. Clay started to reread the letter that had accompanied the books once more.

  The desk and the two chairs were virtually the only items of furniture that were left in the cabin. Hart had long since arranged the removal of the dining table and chairs. Samuel Yates, the ship’s boy that had been Clay’s personal servant for two years now, was down on his hands and knees packing the last of his clothes into his sea chest. Clay returned to the letter from his sister Betsey, and read the final paragraph once more. In it she reassured her brother that she was in regular correspondence with Lydia in Bengal, and that she would gladly send her brother’s letters on to her within her own. She had confirmed that the first letter he had sent had been despatched, and she would forward any reply when it eventually came. He put down the letter with satisfaction and glanced towards the cabin door. Beyond it was the main deck of the Rush, curiously empty now with the crew gone and every movable object cleared away. As if in response to his gaze, someone knocked on the outside of the door.

  ‘Come in,’ called Clay. The door swung open, and in came Lieutenant Sutton.

  ‘Ah welcome, John, I was wondering what time it must be,’ said Clay. ‘With no one manning the ship’s bell it is difficult to tell.’

  ‘It is five bells, sir,’ replied Sutton, sitting down in the chair. ‘Or perhaps we should say half past ten in the morning, as we are shortly to move ashore. You seem very pleased with yourself?’

  ‘I have received a most engaging package from home,’ replied Clay as he poured the coffee. ‘What do you make of these?’ Sutton took one of the proffered books. It was a single slim volume bound in leather. He flipped it open and read from the title page.

  ‘The Choices of Miss Amelia Grey. A novel in three volumes, by A Lady,’ he read out loud, before looking at his captain with mock gravity. ‘May I say how refreshing it is that after so many years of friendship, you still have the power to surprise me, sir. I had never suspected you of being a connoisseur of romantic fiction.’

  ‘Before you are overly censorious, my dear John,’ said Clay, ‘you should know that what you hold in your hand is the first published work of my sister Betsey. She is the anonymous lady author.’

  ‘God Bless my soul!’ exclaimed John, looking at the book with renewed interest. ‘Is she really now?’

  ‘Yes, she has had an inclination to become a writer for some time,’ said Clay. ‘Her friendship with Lydia Browning was at first based on their mutual love of literature.’

  ‘By Jove,’ said Sutton. ‘I had no idea. Has Miss Browning been published too, then?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge, no,’ replied Clay. ‘I understand her aunt and uncle object to her doing so, although if she were to publish anonymously, as my sister has now done, they might never learn of it.’

  ‘Well, I have always considered Miss Clay to be among the cleverest ladies of my acquaintance, but I had no notion that her accomplishments stretched so far,’ said Sutton, returning the book to Clay. ‘Would you have an objection to my reading her work, once you have done so yourself?’

  ‘By all means,’ said Clay with a smile. ‘We might develop our connoisseurship of romantic novels together. Now perhaps let us return to the state of the ship.’

  ‘I have tolerably good progress to report where that is concerned,’ began Sutton. ‘The Rush is now empty of everything, including the ballast. It is all in storage in the dockyard. Mr Carver had already completed stripping the ship of the rigging, masts and yards by yesterday evening. All that is left on board now is this desk and chairs, the cabin bulkhead and that chest over there.’ Clay followed Sutton’s glance towards where Yates added the last of his shirts to the top of the sea chest. He frowned as he looked at his servant.

  ‘Yates, stand up, boy,’ he ordered. Yates rose to his feet and turned to look at his captain.

  ‘What is that wriggling in your pocket?’ asked Clay. A look of dismay filled the thirteen-year-old’s face.

  ‘Please, sir,’ he replied. ‘It is only William Pitt.’

  ‘William Pitt, in your pocket!’ roared Clay. ‘Do not presume to make game of me in my own ship, boy.’

  ‘No, sir, that’s what I calls him,’ said Yates, producing his pet from his jacket and holding it out on a trembling hand. The mouse regarded the two officers through uncertain eyes, and to Yates’s huge relief, both Clay and Sutton burst out laughing.

  ‘Who was that volunteer back when we served on the old Marlborough who had a pet mouse, sir?’ asked Sutton. ‘He got flogged for it, I collect.’

  ‘Yes, I remember,’ said Clay, looking at the horrified Yates. ‘His name was Hewett and he received twelve lashes. Mind you, if I remember aright, there were aggravating circumstances. Did he not allow the mouse to escape dur
ing divine service, and in his haste to recapture the animal he dropped the newspaper he had been reading?’ Clay let Yates tremble a little longer, before he pronounced judgement.

  ‘I will permit you to keep Mr Pitt,’ he said, ‘on condition that you undertake to keep him properly caged. Also you are not to appear on duty with the mouse on your person. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Yates with a grin of relief. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘So, Mr Sutton,’ said Clay, taking a sip from his coffee. ‘Now we have resolved the secure housing of the Prime Minister, we might return to the state of the ship. When does she get handed over to the dockyard?’

  ‘Noon today, sir,’ said the lieutenant. ‘Once we are finished here, I have a party on deck ready to remove the last of your furniture and clothes. The dockyard will then careen her fully and renew her copper. Once that is done they will warp her against the gun wharf, and bring on board her new armament. That will all take them a few days, as they need to fit slides for the carronades, and the gun tackle fixings are different from the gun carriages we are familiar with. With a following wind, we should have her back by Thursday, ready to load everything aboard her once more. I believe we will have her ready for sea with the crew back on board shortly after the Governor’s ball on Saturday.’

  ‘What of the men?’ asked Clay. ‘Where will they be quartered while the work goes on?’

  ‘The dockyard has a spare sail loft where they can sling their hammocks, and we can use the dockyard kitchens to feed them. Officers are to be billeted at that tavern we went to celebrate your promotion, the Munro Castle, where I have secured rooms for you as well.’

  ‘This is really capital work, John,’ said Clay. ‘I am most impressed. You seem to have it all arranged very well.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Sutton.

  ‘How are the men behaving, with all these changes?’ asked Clay.

  ‘Passing well for now,’ said Sutton. ‘I believe they rather enjoy the novelty of being ashore, although I plan not to let them be idle. Oh, and Josh Hawke has requested a transfer. I have arranged for him to join the Princess Charlotte.’ Clay was on the verge of asking how this convenient move had been engineered, but thought better of it.

  ‘That is good news. I am sure that it will be for the best,’ he said.

  ‘I think so too, sir,’ said Sutton. ‘And last, but by no means least, I have this morning arranged some carriages for seven bells in the dog watch on Saturday to take the officers from the Munro Castle to the governor’s ball.’

  ‘Oh yes, the ball,’ groaned Clay. ‘I really do struggle in such gatherings.’

  ‘Come now, sir, that is precisely what you said about dinning on the Earl of Warwick last year,’ said Sutton. ‘You remember, the night you first met Miss Browning. With luck, Saturday may prove similarly diverting.’

  *****

  General Sir Richard Nugent, Governor of Barbados, was well aware of the Royal Navy’s obsession with punctuality. Having issued an invitation for a ball due to commence at eight o’clock in the evening, it came as no surprise to him or to Lady Nugent that of the twenty or so guests who had arrived as the clock struck the hour, every one of them was either a naval or a marine officer.

  ‘Admiral Caldwell, what an unexpected pleasure,’ he said, with a glassy stare towards his wife. ‘I see you and your officers have seized the field of battle. Again.’

  ‘Sir Richard, your ladyship,’ beamed Caldwell. His freshly laundered periwig bobbed towards his hosts. ‘Doubtless the officers of the garrison will eventually dribble in to even matters up, what? In the meantime may I name some of my officers to you? Captain Parker you know I think, but you will yet to have had the pleasure of meeting Commander Alexander Clay of the Rush.’

  ‘Ah yes, the gentleman who brought in that captured French frigate earlier this year,’ rumbled Sir Richard. ‘Upon my word, that was a damned fine show, Clay.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Sir Richard,’ said Clay, colouring a little at the praise. ‘Might I introduce you and Lady Nugent to some of my officers?’

  From long years of practice the governor was used to being presented to rows of junior naval officers, and managed a smile and a nod with good grace as the stream of names flowed past him, until he was introduced to the Rush’s purser.

  ‘Did you say Charles Faulkner?’ he said, eyeing his guest with interest. ‘Sir Christopher Faulkner’s boy? I believe we may be acquainted already.’

  ‘Sir Christopher is my father, sir, but I am not sure...’ began the purser.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ persisted the governor. ‘I seldom forget a face. Now let me see... Ah! I have it! You are a member of Whites, where we have played at cards before. In fact I seem to recall having bested you quite soundly in many a skirmish across the baize, what?’

  ‘Of course, Sir Richard,’ said Faulkner with a weak smile. ‘Good to renew your acquaintance. Your ladyship.’

  ‘I always thought there was more to our Mr Faulkner than met the eye,’ muttered Sutton into Macpherson’s ear

  ‘Aye, me too,’ replied the Scot. ‘But did you ever truly suspect him of being a rake?’

  Once the introductions had been completed, the officers made their way through into the residency’s ballroom. An expanse of wooden floor spread out before them, the deep burgundy of the polished mahogany contrasting pleasingly with the pale lemon of the walls. Above their heads hung a double line of chandeliers, their blazing candles already adding their heat to the warm tropical air. Down one side of the room was a series of glazed double doors that looked out onto a veranda, and the residence’s garden beyond. All stood open to allow the sea breeze in. The wall opposite was lined with tables heavily laden with food and drink, while at the far end of the room was arranged a small orchestra, mainly dressed in black, but with four brightly coloured figures in their midst. Clay looked at them with interest.

  ‘You have doubtless recognised the Agrius’s little troop of musicians?’ said Captain Parker at his elbow. He was a dark haired man, almost swarthy in complexion, with eyes that were close to black. ‘Sir Richard was struggling to find enough players on the island, so I volunteered them. I must say that carrying them on the ship’s books was one of Captain Follett’s more inspired innovations. They play well, and their music is a most pleasant diversion.’

  ‘Indeed, sir, we took them from a French privateer in the channel last year, together with a large black tomcat,’ said Clay.

  ‘You mean Robespierre?’ said Parker. ‘I did think it a little strange that the ship’s cat had such a French name. Would you like him back on the Rush?’ Clay thought for a moment, remembering the numerous times he had had to remove the cat from his cot late at night, and all the hairs he had found on his uniforms.

  ‘I believe the hands think he brings good fortune to the ship, sir,’ he replied. ‘I would not want to interfere with that. You know how superstitious the men can be.’

  ‘Champagne, sir?’ asked a footman, his white powdered wig contrasting with his black face. Parker and Clay both helped themselves from the tray.

  ‘Damnation to the French,’ said Parker, clinking his glass with Clay’s. ‘Hmm, this is rather tolerable.’

  ‘I am always surprised by the facility with which champagne is to be obtained, in spite of our having been at war with France for over three years now, sir,’ said Clay, sipping at his wine. Parker looked surprised.

  ‘Do you truly not know where this batch came from?’ he asked. ‘Why, it was on board that brig you captured. Once the prize court had lawfully condemned it, Sir Richard pounced and purchased every bottle. The admiral was furious.’

  Parker and Clay were having to raise their voices to speak now as the ballroom filled with ever more guests. The blue of the navy no longer predominated. Looking about him, Clay could see plenty of scarlet jacketed army officers from the garrison, and a growing number of civilians, the men mostly in black coats, but some in green or various shades of blue. Many of the wo
men were in white, but others had dresses in all of the colours of the rainbow. Most of the gowns were cut to conform to the latest European fashion, the material gathered into a high waist with a coloured ribbon, and the sleeves short and puffed, leaving a tantalising cylinder of bare arm above the wearer’s long white gloves.

  Two young ladies flowed past the captains as they stood talking. One had on a white dress with sky blue ribbons, the other was all in very pale yellow. Both had added a spray of tropical bird feathers to their piled up hair, and the one in blue and white favoured Clay with a dazzling smile. For a moment he was reminded of Lydia, the girl’s dark hair and blue eyes were so very similar, and he automatically smiled back. The ladies swept on, leaving Clay with an empty sense of loss.

  ‘I think I may try a little of the food, sir,’ he said to Parker. ‘Will you excuse me?’

  *****

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ called the Master of Ceremonies with a voice that might have reached the masthead in a gale. ‘Pray take your places for the first dance, which shall be The Plough Boy's Reel.’ This announcement was followed by an instant buzz of anticipation. Those ladies with partners were led out onto the floor, while those without scolded their mothers over their failure to obtain the services of one of the choicer gentlemen.

  Two lines formed down the centre of the room, one of ladies, the other of men. Both rows tweaked at their clothing, and smiled about them a little awkwardly, aware of the unbroken circuit of watching guests around the ballroom. The Master of Ceremonies strode down between the couples, straightening the dressing of the lines with the pedantry of a sergeant major. When he was finally satisfied the dancing began.

  It was an uncomplicated routine with which to start the ball and the sets were well understood by the dancers. Alternate couples crisscrossed the floor, while those on either side of them stood still so as to form human poles around which those dancing could turn. When the set was complete, the roles were reversed, with human poles becoming animated and former dancers frozen into stillness.