A Man of No Country Page 20

  ‘Sometime in the afternoon watch, sir,’ he concluded.

  ‘It will come as a mighty relief, if only from this heat,’ said Preston.

  ‘I would not be so certain of that,’ said the American as he pulled his wig from his head and mopped his bald crown with a coloured handkerchief. ‘An easterly in these parts will have crossed the deserts of the Levant before reaching us here. Cool it will not be.’

  ‘Do you not find your periwig to be an inconvenience when it is so intolerably hot, Mr Armstrong?’ asked Clay.

  ‘Not at all, sir,’ he replied. He folded his wig with care before he stuffed the prickly mass deep into his coat pocket. ‘When my head is excessively warm, as it is now, I have the convenience of being able to remove my hair altogether. It is a pleasure that you two gentlemen, with your fine heads of curls are denied without recourse to a barber’s razor.’

  ‘I dare say that is true,’ smiled Clay. He ran a hand through his damp hair. ‘Perhaps when my locks begin to fail I shall avail myself of one.’

  ‘Are you wholly resolved that the French intend a descent on Egypt, sir?’ asked Preston. ‘The intelligence you gathered from the master of the brig seemed rather uncertain.’

  ‘I am, although I do not believe it to be their final objective,’ replied Clay. ‘They may well mean to use it as a steppingstone from which to advance farther east. I wonder if their true objective is not to strike at our possessions in India.’

  ‘It seems a very bold enterprise, sir, said the lieutenant. ‘The French would still have many lands to cross to reach Bengal.’

  ‘From what I hear of this Bonaparte, he is a very bold fellow,’ said Armstrong. ‘Look how swiftly he conquered most of Italy from the Austrians last year. They say he is much taken by the heroes of the classical world. In Italy he was Hannibal, crossing the Alps with his army. Now he wishes to emulate our captain’s name sake. Did Alexander the Great not first conquer Egypt, and then march on India?’

  ‘What an eloquent fellow you are, Jacob,’ exclaimed Preston. ‘I never had you marked as a scholar. Do you suppose it is the proper regulation of your head temperature that has given you such mental endowments?’ Clay laughed at this, before turning back to the American.

  ‘Perceptive as well as eloquent,’ he said. ‘I believe you have the French plan down pat, Mr Armstrong. Perhaps you would oblige me with your view of how to frustrate such an enterprise?’

  ‘Catch the French at sea,’ he said. ‘Defeat their warships, and capture all their transports before they ever touch the shores of Egypt.’

  ‘That is undoubtedly what the admiral is intent on doing,’ agreed Clay. ‘But what if we should fail to intercept them and they reach their destination? They might be landing their troops before the walls of Alexandria even now.’ Armstrong ran a hand over the top of his head while he thought of this.

  ‘I would still aim to destroy the French fleet,’ he concluded. ‘If it were done thoroughly then their army will be cut off both from the supplies and support it will require to press on, and the prospect of any retreat to France. In either instance we defeat their ambition, sir.’

  ‘Bravo, Mr Armstrong,’ said Clay. ‘You make for an able strategist. Now all we need is this wind of yours to propel us on, and of course, we still need to locate the damn French.’

  *****

  Thin streaks of cloud, some mere lines of gossamer high above the world, spread across the sky from the east as each hot hour passed. It was not till six bells had rung in the afternoon watch, when half the sky was covered by the little wisps of white, that the first of Armstrong’s promised wind came whispering out of the east. The lookouts saw it first. There were lines of ripples on the surface of the sea that spoilt the perfect flat calm that had gone before. The initial few breaths felt deliciously cool to the crew of the frigate, after their day spent sweltering in the heat of the central Mediterranean in midsummer, but the wind quickly grew warmer. It made the sails flap languidly for a moment, but barely moved them through the water. Then it returned again, stronger, hotter and more constant. The sails flapped once more, and then filled, while from the forecastle came the first chatter of a bow wave as it started to form.

  ‘Helm be answering,’ said Old Amos at the wheel to Lieutenant Blake. ‘What course should I steer, sir?’

  ‘Close hauled on the larboard tack if you please, quartermaster,’ he ordered. ‘Close to the wind as she will lie.’

  ‘Close hauled it is, sir,’ repeated Amos. He spun the wheel over and settled an experienced eye on the leach of the main topsail, as he watched for the flap from the canvas that would tell him he had strayed too close to the wind. Blake walked over to the compass binnacle and looked at the heading that the ship was on. His instincts told him that she could go closer to the wind yet.

  ‘Mr Harrison!’ he yelled. ‘I’ll have that foretopsail yard braced round another turn.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ came the reply.

  Every few hours the frigate went about, first to the north east, then to the south east. Zig followed zag as she hauled herself forward against the pressure of the wind, clawing her way eastwards for the rest of that day. When the sun finally set at the end of the second dog watch, Clay ordered the ship to stand on one long run to the south east through the night so the crew could get a proper sleep. But the wind had other ideas. An hour after the watch changed at midnight it freshened, and all hands had to be called to reduce sail.

  With the crew at work, the lower deck was empty. The air was warm and fetid, still full of the smell of the poorly washed bodies that had abandoned it so recently. The mess tables that lined the sides in the day had been folded away, and the space was given over to a carpet of hammocks that hung a foot beneath the beams above. They had all been abandoned when the men below had been called. They swayed to and fro in time to the motion of the ship, illuminated by occasional discs of orange light from the lanterns.

  Sedgwick was the first of the crew to come back down the ladder way. He padded on his bare feet along the free strip that ran like a corridor the length of the ship, with a layer of hammocks on either side, eager to get back to sleep. He was too tall to walk upright. Instead he went with his head bent forward below the beams that supported the deck above. With his eyes forced to look down it was easy for him to catch sight of something off to one side, in spite of the gloom. It was a dark oblong that lay flat on the planking. He paused for a moment. There was something familiar about it. He stooped under the ceiling of empty hammocks and crouched down. Surely it was his journal? The front had that distinctive tooled leather with its Moroccan pattern. A frown of annoyance spread across his face.

  ‘What bugger has been and gone through my things?’ he muttered as he picked it up. But as soon as he held it, he realised he was mistaken. The feel of the book was all wrong. The leather beneath his fingers felt smoother than it should, as if polished by much handling. He hefted the book, and noticed how the cover was more flexible than his. Not mine then, he concluded. It must have fallen from one of the hammocks above. He envisaged the unknown sailor, startled from sleep, as he tumbled out of bed under the urgings of a boatswain’s mate. Perhaps the leather book had fallen to the deck, unnoticed amidst the roar of noise. He stood back upright and pushed his way between the hammocks to looked at the black numbers painted on the beam that identified whose place this was, but it was not one that he recognised.

  More and more sailors flowed down the ladder way now, all eager to get back to sleep. Several looked at him curiously as he stood there wondering what to do. Sedgwick was about to toss the book back onto the nearest hammock when something stopped him. He ducked back down out of sight, as a memory came to him. In his mind’s eye he could see the angry face of Grainger, as he snatched Sedgwick’s newly purchased journal from the table top outside the tavern in Gibraltar. He must have made the same mistake that I have just made, he thought, in which case this must be Grainger’s journal. Sedgwick glanced towards the hatchway. The fl
ow of legs passing by had thickened, and all around him hammocks sagged down as they were occupied once more. He pushed the journal under his shirt and crawled away towards the side of the ship. Once there he stood back up and made his way aft towards his place.

  ‘There you be,’ remarked Trevan, as he appeared beside his hammock. ‘I had started to wonder where you had got to, like.’

  ‘I just needed the heads, Adam,’ said Sedgwick, as he clambered back into his hammock and settled down for sleep. He rolled his back towards his friend, conscious of the square bulge of the journal as it pressed against the front of his shirt. ‘See you when the watch changes.’

  ‘Aye, unless we get called back on deck again,’ muttered the Cornishman, his voice heavy with the return of sleep. Sedgwick lay still with his eyes closed, and forced his breathing to lengthen. All around him he could hear similar sounds as the watch fell asleep once more. The air began to reverberate with their snores. He made himself slowly count to a hundred twice and then opened his eyes once more. In the dim light he listened to the noises around him. Behind his back Trevan muttered something, the only distinct word of which was Molly, the name of his wife. The sailor in front of him lay on his back with one arm cast across his eyes and his mouth gaping wide. When he was satisfied that all around him were asleep, he dropped lightly onto the deck and crawled under the hammocks once more, until he found a patch of light from one of the lanterns that slanted down past the massed bodies. He lay pushed up on his elbows with the journal in front of him.

  ‘Now then, Grainger my friend,’ muttered the coxswain as he opened the book. ‘Let us see who you truly are.’

  Inside the cover was a title written in a strong flowing script. Sedgwick ran his finger along the line and read “Journal kept by John Grainger on board the Russian ship Saint Dmitry.” He flipped open the first page and looked at one of the early entries.

  Sailed from Leghorn as a Merchant Vessel, entering into Porto Ferrajo, in Elba four days later, where we were employed getting Shot and Guns and sundry warlike equipment up from under the ballast, where they had been stowed so as not to arouse suspicion. Pierced the sides for the great guns and took on board 50 Muskets, 70 Cutlasses, 34 Blunderbusses and 80 Pistols. Joined by a further 60 men, every Man jack a thief or a pirate.

  ‘I knew there was something wrong about him,’ muttered Sedgwick. ‘Navigator on a Neapolitan trader, my arse.’ He turned over to the next page and read another entry.

  Took a Ragusa Brig from Zante with Passengers, plundered her of a Great Quantity of Silk and Dollars. The Captain called all Hands aft, and explained His purpose, which was for every Man in the ship to make his fortune in a few Months, and the readiest way of doing it would be to make no Distinction, but to burn, sink or Destroy all that came in our way and give no Quarter, for the Dead could tell no tales, and the more we took the more we should have. We gave him Three Cheers when he had done speaking. The Dollars were shared at the Capstan to the amount of 50 per man, but the Captain kept the silk.

  Sedgwick flipped through the pages and paused here and there to read entries. As he moved through the journal, the accounts became steadily more gruesome. He stopped at one in particular that caught his eye

  In the night, armed all the Boats and boarded two Turkish Vessels at anchor laden with Wine, Silk and Honey, cutting the people's Throats as they lay sleeping as I had shown the men they should do. Plundered them and stood for Milo, having first grappled the ships together and set fire to them. Shared Money in gold and silver to the amount of 430 sequins a Man.

  ‘What is it with that man and throat slitting?’ he murmured, before turning over a few dozen pages at once. He stopped and read a fresh entry.

  Preceded to Damietta, where we took four ships we found at anchor in a bay. One of the prisoners got loose and tried to throw the Captain overboard, for which he was ordered to have his eyes tore out, his fingers chopped off, and the bones of his Arms and Legs broken. He was then set adrift on a grating, in order that he might expire in the extremist of tortures.

  ‘Murdering bastard,’ growled Sedgwick as he snapped shut the journal. The breathing of the seaman above his head paused at the unexpected noise. The coxswain lay quiet on the planking and stared hard at the closed leather cover while he let his anger fade. When he was a little calmer, and the man’s heavy breathing had resumed, he crept across the deck to where Grainger’s hammock hung. He positioned the book on the deck at the same angle as he had found it earlier and then stole away.

  *****

  John Grainger ducked through the low door to the forecastle and instantly sensed danger. The area around the galley seemed unusually quiet. It was the only place onboard a wooden ship where the men were permitted to smoke, but the normal crowd of yarning, off duty seamen had vanished. The empty space was lit by a single lantern that cast deep shadows all around. He placed the side of the ship to his back and reached for the hilt of his knife.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I was you, Turk,’ came the voice of Josh Black. Grainger turned to see the bulky figure of the captain of the foretop leaning against the carriage of an eighteen-pounder. ‘I am a petty officer. They will hang you if you pull a knife on me, don’t you know?’

  ‘Nah, let him do it, Josh,’ said a second voice from the other side of him. ‘He deserves to swing for what he done to that poor little shit. Grunters are too stupid to see what’s under their bleeding noses, if you ask me.’ The second man stepped out into the light. It was William Powell, a boatswain’s mate who was second only to Evans in size aboard the Titan. As if that was not intimidating enough, his face bore a long cutlass scar that lay across one eye, the legacy of a savage boarding action earlier in the war.

  ‘Evening, Mr Powell, Mr Black,’ said Grainger, not leaving the safety of the oak wall behind him. ‘What is this all about?’

  ‘Don’t he sound innocent, Bill?’ asked Powell. ‘Anyone would think nothing had happened on the barky this commission.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed the boatswain’s mate. ‘Not a farthing pinched before he turned up, and now a man can barely walk the lower deck without some bastard trying to slit his throat.’

  ‘That was nothing to do with me,’ said Grainger. ‘I had nothing to do with any of this.’

  ‘Really,’ queried Black, walking closer. ‘So why you been telling so many lies, then? All that crap about Naples. And whoever heard of a man with no notion of where he bleeding comes from?’

  ‘That’s the truth!’ exclaimed Grainger

  ‘No, I don’t reckon it is,’ said the captain of the foretop. ‘I think how you like to muddy the waters, but Bill and me are simple souls. Perhaps that’s why we can see past all your shit.’

  Powell pushed off the gun he was leaning against and approached him with his hand held out.

  ‘Hand over that wicked knife of yours,’ he said, and when Grainger hesitated, he barked. ‘That is an order!’ Grainger paused a moment longer, then slid his knife out, flipped it around, and held the handle towards the petty officer. Powell took it and instantly slammed his other fist into the sailor’s stomach. Grainger had half expected the blow, and had tensed his abdomen. What he did not expected was the heavy, iron shackle pin that Powell had wrapped his fist around to add weight to the punch, and he doubled up in pain. A moment later Black was beside his colleague, and the two petty officers started to methodically beat the seaman till he slid to the ground, his face a mess of blood. They continued to kick at the prostrate figure, as he writhed on the deck, only stopping when a shout came from farther forward.

  ‘Mr Hutchinson’s coming, lads,’ called the voice of their lookout. Black bent down and pulled Grainger’s battered head up off the deck by the hair.

  ‘Understand this. There is plenty more where that came from. Next port we put into, you fucking run, if you know what’s good for you, Turk,’ he spat. Powell dropped Grainger’s knife beside him, and the two men disappeared down the fore ladder way.

  *****

&nb
sp; It was mid July now in the eastern Mediterranean, and the sun beat down on the Titan with savage intensity, day after day, as she battled her way eastwards against a steady wind that seemed as hot as the breath from an oven. A slow drip of melted tar fell from the standing rigging and down onto the scrubbed decks, to the fury of Hutchinson, the boatswain, who had parties of seamen locked in a constant battle with mops and holystones to keep the frigate’s decks clean. Awnings had been spread to provide some shade for her crew, and wind sails had been installed to bring a little welcome air down below decks. But none of this did much to reduce the temperature in the airless wardroom, where four of the ship’s officers sat around the table in shirt sleeves.

  ‘We tack to the north, we tack to the south, we tack to the north once more,’ moaned Charles Faulkner as he fanned himself with an old copy of the Gazette. ‘Like the wagging tail of a hound, day after day, in this intolerable heat.’

  ‘What I would like above all things is some ice,’ said Armstrong, his periwig abandoned and his bald head shiny in the heat.

  ‘Ice?’ exclaimed Tom Macpherson as he looked up from volume three of The Bramptons of Linstead Hall. ‘And where the deuce do you propose we will obtain that out here?’

  ‘We had it in the summer when I was a child, back in the New York colony,’ said the ship’s master. ‘When the rivers froze in the winter, we would cut blocks of it, and store them packed in straw underground. Much of it would melt, but enough survived to make the summers tolerable. I could certainly do with some ice in my drink now.’