The Distant Ocean Page 2

  ‘Lord Cecil, what is your view?’ said the monarch, looking round at one of the figures stood behind him.

  ‘I believe Lord Spencer’s council to be wise, your Majesty,’ said the courtier, stepping forward. ‘I am sure the singular honour of having been presented to you will be reward enough.’

  ‘Be assured that your Board of Admiralty have not missed the mark of particular favour Admiral Nelson has indicated in his choice of Captain Clay to bring home news of the victory, your Majesty,’ said Spencer.

  ‘That is all very well, but we must do something more,’ grumbled the King. He tapped one white satin knee with his plump fingers, and his eyes strayed to the hilt of Clay’s sword. In a room full of glittering uniforms, its dull brass hilt stood out. ‘Ah, I have it! I will give you a new sword. You are not about to depart from these shores, are you?’

  ‘I… eh… am not entirely certain,’ stumbled Clay, looking towards Spencer.

  ‘Captain Clay will not be ordered to sea for a few months yet, your Majesty,’ said the First Sea Lord. ‘His ship is in need of extensive repairs. The Board of the Admiralty are minded to send him as part of the squadron that will depart in the autumn to regain our control over the Indian Ocean, under the command of Sir George Montague.’

  ‘Capital notion,’ agreed the king. ‘Hardly a day passes without John Company sending me another petition over all these dashed ships that have been seized. Captain Clay looks to be the sort of resourceful officer to put an end to that nonsense, what?’

  ‘Indeed, that was very much my way of thinking, your Majesty.’

  ‘Splendid!’ said the King. ‘Then that is resolved. Lord Cecil, I want the finest sword the Worshipful Company of Cutlers can produce as my gift to him. Young man, I give you joy of your new weapon. I shall expect you to carry it with you into your next battle.’

  *****

  In the orchard of Rosehill Cottage a table had been set up under the apple trees. It was late September now, and the canopy above was heavy with plump, red fruit. Sunlight filtered through the leaves to spot the table surface with discs of gold. Despite the lateness in the year, it was still warm enough for the two young ladies who sat writing there to do so with no more than a calico shawl apiece, draped around their shoulders. They made a contrasting pair. The older of the two had thick, dark hair crammed beneath her bonnet. Her dress was white with small blue flowers dotted across it, the colour a perfect match for the eyes that dominated her heart-shaped face. By contrast, her companion was several years younger, with fair hair. Her dress was of pale green, with a broad yellow ribbon that drew the fabric into a high waist. Her calm, grey eyes were the only feature she shared with her older brother.

  A single brown leaf spiralled down through the air to land on one of the sheets of paper. The older lady picked it up by the stalk and rolled it between her fingers. Autumn is close, thought Mrs Lydia Clay, and soon my darling Alex will have to leave me again. She looked up to find that her companion was smiling at her.

  ‘You have a very melancholy aspect,’ said Miss Elizabeth Clay, laying her pen down by the inkstand. ‘What can you have been thinking of?’

  ‘I was reflecting on what a very indifferent writer I am, Betsey,’ said Lydia. ‘Here I am, struggling to compose a single letter to my aunt, while my companion dashes down line after line of prose for the draft of her third novel.’ She indicated the pile of paper next to her friend’s elbow, every sheet of which was covered with rows of flowing script.

  ‘Lady Ashton is perhaps not the easiest person to correspond with,’ said Betsey. ‘But you, too, are a very fine writer. I admire your poems greatly. Might you not think to have them exposed to a wider readership?’

  ‘Goodness, can you imagine what my family would say to that?’ Lydia laughed. ‘They already consider my marriage to Alex to have been most unwise.’

  ‘Do they still look down on his origins, now that he has been presented to the King?’ said Betsey. ‘The sword that arrived from the palace last week is truly magnificent.’

  ‘It was a singular honour, I make no doubt, and I could not be more proud of his growing reputation. However, my aunt is the daughter of an Earl, and is well used to such distinctions. Perhaps I should draw her attention to how close my husband came to being knighted. According to Alex the King was minded to do it, but his courtiers persuaded him not to. Perhaps I should sign my letter as Nearly Lady Lydia Clay!’

  The two friends laughed at this, then Betsey became serious once more.

  ‘You could still see your poetry in print, without exciting the opposition of your family,’ she said.

  ‘How might that be achieved?’

  ‘Why, you publish anonymously, as I have done with my novels,’ said Betsey.

  ‘I suppose I could,’ said Lydia.

  ‘If you like, I shall write to Mr Turner on your behalf. He has already agreed to publish a short biography composed by Alex’s coxswain.’

  ‘Goodness,’ exclaimed Lydia. ‘Sedgwick’s account is to be published? How extraordinary!’

  ‘It is quite the tale,’ enthused Betsey. ‘Fisherman in Africa, seized by slavers and transported across the ocean, then his time as a slave in Barbados, escape, and finally a Royal Navy seaman. Mr Turner holds that it will do much to forward the cause of Abolition. The only pity is that poor Sedgwick will be far away with Alex when it is placed before the public.’

  Lydia felt sadness tug at her again at the thought of her husband’s departure. And this time he would be travelling out of Europe to a distant ocean. It would be many months, perhaps even years before he would be returned to her. She looked around the sunlit orchard, and felt it darken as a cloud past overhead. Then her eyes fixed on a particular spot.

  ‘I believe it was just over there,’ she said, half to herself. ‘Under that tree, with the scar shaped like an ear on the trunk.’

  ‘Is that the place where my brother confirmed his love for you?’ asked Betsey, and then she sighed. ‘I wonder if anyone will ever make such a declaration to me.’

  ‘Of course they will,’ said Lydia firmly. ‘A lady with your accomplishments, fine countenance and noble character? Why, the only surprise to me is that it has not happened already.’

  ‘I can write easily enough of romance, but it is so much harder in practice,’ said Betsey.

  ‘You underplay your abilities, Miss Clay,’ said Lydia, with mock gravity. ‘I have seen the way you regard our current house guest.’ Her friend flushed pink with embarrassment.

  ‘Is it so obvious?’ she said.

  ‘Only to those that know you well,’ smiled Lydia, reaching across the table to squeeze her friend’s hand. ‘And is no more obvious than his attention towards you. Captain Sutton is a very agreeable young man, is certainly unattached at present, and is your brother’s closest friend. All of which makes him very eligible.’

  ‘He does cut a handsome figure, does he not?’ said Betsey, picking up her pen and brushing the feathered end against her cheek as she pondered. ‘But wait. Is Captain Sutton’s ship not due to be part of the same expedition that will take my brother away?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said Lydia. ‘But that is not for at least a month. Time enough for your acquaintance to blossom. They will return from their shooting soon.’

  ‘So be it. I shall do my best to make myself irresistible for when he appears,’ said Betsey. She adjusted her bonnet. ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Very desirable,’ said her friend. ‘Although perhaps I should council caution before you lose your heart to a sailor. The long absences are very trying. You might be happier with a nice fat squire.’

  ‘A squire!’ laughed Betsey. ‘Now I see how low your opinion of me is. Fear not, for I well understand the path you choose when you marry a sailor. Since the age of eleven Alex has been away from mother and me far more than he has ever been at home.’

  ‘Yes, but then a day will come when, like me, you shall have some hope for the future, and will known that you will f
ace that change alone,’ said Lydia. Her friend’s eyes opened wide with delight.

  ‘Can it be true?’ she exclaimed. ‘Oh goodness! Am I truly to become an aunt?’

  ‘I have not had it confirmed by a physician, but yes, I am as certain as one can be so early in such a grave matter. But you must not tell Alex – not until I am sure. So much can yet go wrong.’

  ‘Not tell Alex! But Lydia, why did you tell me at all, then? You know I cannot dissemble. I shall turn as red as one of those apples the moment I see my brother!’

  ‘You had better try and regain your composure, for if I am not mistaken I can hear the gentlemen in the garden now.’

  ‘Good afternoon, ladies,’ said Clay, as he approached the table with John Sutton. ‘What a hive of industry we have here!’ Both men were out of uniform for once, with their shirts open at the neck, their long coats unbuttoned and mud spattered up their boots. Sutton carried a fowling piece casually over his shoulder, while Clay had left his propped against the orchard wall.

  ‘Did you shoot well, my dear?’ asked Lydia, smiling up at her husband from beneath the rim of her bonnet.

  ‘No, I shot very ill indeed, I am afraid,’ he replied. ‘Our French opponents will have little to fear from either myself or John on the evidence of today. But it was still very agreeable to be out in the countryside. I must confess to being quite parched.’

  ‘Then let us go in for some refreshment,’ said Lydia, pushing herself up from the table. ‘I feel a little chill, now that the sun has gone in. Captain Sutton, would you escort Miss Clay?’

  Betsey watched the married couple walk out of the orchard, arm in arm, with their heads inclined towards each other. The chatter of their talk faded with the distance, leaving an obvious silence behind them. She turned her attention back to Sutton, who had placed his gun down on the grass, and taken Lydia’s place at the table. He really is a fine looking man, she thought. His hat was angled back on his head, which allowed a ring of tousled, dark brown hair to fringe his face. His features were nicely proportioned, with a strong nose between a pair of brown eyes that seemed almost black in the shade of the apple trees.

  ‘How does your latest work precede, Miss Clay?’ he asked. ‘I presume well, to judge from the quantities of paper that are by your side.’

  ‘It goes tolerably, thank you,’ said Betsey. ‘I have been a little stuck of late on the look and appearance of one of the characters. It is that of the hero who will be of principal interest to my heroine. But I believe I may now have had some inspiration.’ She held her companions gaze for a moment, and then dropped her eyes.

  ‘That is splendid, Miss Clay,’ smiled Sutton. ‘It is awaited with impatience by some of your admirers in the service.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ laughed Betsey. ‘My brother has told me of the bold warriors aboard his ship, who none the less indulge themselves with my romantic novels!’

  ‘Since when have King’s officer been barred from having such feelings?’ he protested.

  ‘Do you place yourself in the category of a romantic, Captain Sutton?’ she asked. He rose to his feet, bowed and extended out his arm.

  ‘Would you care to take a turn around the garden with me, Miss Clay, and judge for yourself?’

  She rose, made a mock curtsy and took his arm. Sutton was aware of the warm pressure of her hand on his arm as they walked, and the matching warm glow he felt inside at the contact. Behind them in the orchard it was growing dark beneath the trees. A cold wind had begun to blow and it ruffled at the pages of her unfinished novel.

  *****

  A month later in Portsmouth Able Sedgwick, the captain’s coxswain of the frigate Titan, tilted the brim of his tarpaulin hat to deflect the worst of the October rain from out of his eyes. The soon-to-be published writer was one of two men trudging along a narrow street. He was a tall, heavily built man with a handsome face and solid jaw framed between his short sideburns. Unusually for a sailor, his black hair was cut short. This contrasted with the thick pigtail of his companion, which would normally have stretched in a blond rope down his back, but was so sodden with rain that today it showed dun brown. His was a much slighter figure, lean and wiry, and he strode with the arrogant self assurance of a trained top man. Startling blue eyes looked out from under his hat, and a gold ring glinted in his ear.

  ‘I reckons this here lane be Mast Street,’ said Adam Trevan, in his strong Cornish accent. ‘Can you see that there grog shop?’ The two sailors peered down the dark, narrow way, searching in vain for the tavern. Sedgwick stepped across the road and looked at the name painted on the house wall that stood at the corner.

  ‘So why is it set down Liberty Street here?’ asked the coxswain, pointing to the white letters.

  ‘Ah, must be the next one, then,’ said Trevan. He set off down the road again. ‘It’s been a right long while since I was last in Pompey. Mind, it do help some to have a scholar along as can read them signs, like. Come on, Able, this ain’t the weather to linger any.’

  With a sigh, Sedgwick hunched his shoulders against the rain and pushed his hands a little deeper into his pockets as he followed his friend over the gleaming cobbles.

  The next street proved to be the right one, and half way up one side was the Elm Tree tavern, with a crudely carved tree that hung from a pole above the door. It was a dingy little place, with low beams and a beaten earth floor. The air was thick with pipe smoke and the loud talk of the twenty or so members of the Titan’s crew who sat around the few wooden tables inside.

  ‘Ahoy, lads!’ came a shout in a broad Irish accent from one of them. ‘Over here!’ The companions looked around and saw two figures waving at them. The one who had shouted had a long, dark pigtail every bit the equal of Trevan’s; the other had shorter brown hair, and at six-foot-six was comfortably the biggest man in the room. They both rose to embrace the new arrivals.

  ‘Sean O’Malley, as I live and breathe,’ said Trevan. ‘And Sam Evans, too! How have you been, my lovelies?’

  ‘Fecking awful,’ moaned the Irishman, who was the owner of the pigtail. He sloshed beer from an earthenware jug into two spare mugs for the new arrivals. ‘Since the dockyard chucked us off the barky, I been stuck in a garret here.’

  ‘An’ I still can’t show me face in London,’ said the huge Evans. ‘Five bleeding years since I made a cock of losing that prize fight, and the bookmaker’s traps is still a-looking for me.’

  ‘So have you two been holed up in Pompey the whole time, then?’ asked Sedgwick.

  ‘We have,’ said Evans. ‘Burning through our prize money on whores and grog.’

  ‘Aye,’ smiled O’Malley. ‘So it’s not been all bad.’

  ‘Have you lads got your Nile medals?’ said Trevan. He reached into the neck of his shirt and pulled out a two-inch bronze disk. O’Malley fished deep into his jacket pocket and produced his, along with a clasp knife, to which the medal’s blue and white ribbon had become caught.

  ‘I got my fecker too,’ he said holding it up. ‘But you can barely get a tanner for them at pawn. Not like the grunters, who got silver ones, like.’

  ‘Or the captains with bleeding gold,’ added Evans. ‘But I likes mine. The wenches are always wanting to know how I came by it, and I makes them work for that knowledge.’

  ‘Drink up, then, lads’ said the Irishman. He raised his mug high. ‘To the four of us — each one a hero of the Nile!’

  ‘And to those we left behind, like Rosie,’ added Sedgwick. The others all paused with their mugs near their lips.

  ‘Aye, you’re on the mark there, Able,’ said Trevan. ‘Let’s drink to Rosie.’

  ‘Have you had word of this frigate squadron we’re to join, at all?’ said O’Malley, once the toast had been downed. The three sailors all looked at Sedgwick.

  ‘Pipe don’t share everything with me,’ cautioned the coxswain. ‘But he did say as we would be part of a squadron led by some bloke by the name of Sir George Montague.’

  ‘Christ, no,’ groaned Ev
ans. ‘Not Dismal George! I shared a beer with some of the lads from the Black Prince. All they did was moan about what an arse he is. They say how he’s a proper spit and polish tartar. He has them cleaning brass and scrubbing decks every hour the bleeding Almighty gives. This fellow was saying as how they only has three rules on his ship. If it moves, you salute it. If it don’t move, you shifts it. If you can’t shift it, you paints it.’

  ‘Aye, that’s right,’ agreed Trevan. ‘My mate Tom says they never does no live firing on the Prince ‘cause he won’t tolerate smuts of powder smoke on his precious paint work.’

  ‘Handy that, in a scrap,’ said O’Malley. ‘We’ve never actually fired our fecking guns before, Monsieur Frog, but you should mark the speed we can polish brass!’

  ‘So there be us in the Titan and Dismal’s Black Prince in this here squadron,’ said Trevan. ‘Any more ships?’

  ‘Two sloops of war, one of which will be our old barky Rush, with Pretty Boy in charge,’ said Sedgwick. His friends brightened at this.

  ‘Proper good grunter is Captain Sutton,’ said Trevan. ‘Pipe’s best mate, too. What’s the other sloop to be?’

  ‘She’s named the Echo, eighteen guns. I ain’t heard who her skipper will be.’

  ‘What was that name again?’ said O’Malley. He cupped a hand to one ear.

  ‘Echo,’ repeated Sedgwick. The Irishman shook his head as if to clear it.

  ‘Still not fecking getting it. What did you say again?’

  ‘I SAID ECHO......oh, you lousy bastard,’ laughed Sedgwick, as he finally spotted the grins on all the faces round the table.

  ‘He had you good and proper,’ chuckled Evans. ‘Which marks a change. It’s usually me as gets made game of.’

  ‘Where’s this squadron headed for then, Able?’ asked Trevan. ‘Is it back to the Med for us?’

  ‘I don’t know for certain, but I think it might be a deal farther off.’