A Man of No Country Page 23

  ‘That is handsomely put,’ said Rosso. ‘Even if it is all so much gammon. A right strange manner of freedom you have won yourself. Confined onboard, only allowed ashore when the Grunters permit it, and flogged when we should stray out of line.’

  ‘That’s a bit bleak,’ protested Sedgwick.

  ‘Is it?’ his friend queried. ‘Don’t you feel the oak walls about you pressing in sometimes? Surely you have but traded one kind of slavery for another?’

  ‘It ain’t like you to be so down, Rosie?’ asked his friend, watching him from the far side of the table. ‘Is all well with you? Adam did tell me how you made a proper mess of gun drill earlier.’ Rosso sighed.

  ‘I am well enough,’ he said. ‘I just got a lot on my mind, like.’

  ‘Anything you want to tell me about?’ said Sedgwick, leaning forwards.

  Rosso looked up, aware of a strange tone in his friend’s voice. ‘Why are you asking?’ Sedgwick shrugged.

  ‘I’ve noticed you not being your regular self, too. I just wondered if the death of young Oates might be distracting you in some manner.’

  ‘What has that got to do with me? Everyone knows that it was Grainger what did for him. His helping you rescue that sailor has fooled no one.’

  ‘Everyone thinks they know it was Grainger,’ corrected Sedgwick. He glanced around the deserted deck before returning his attention to his friend. ‘But you and I both know that it wasn’t him.’

  ‘I know nothing of the kind,’ protested Rosso. ‘What’s got into you, Able? Why are you talking like this? That Oates was a filthy cutpurse who stole from his shipmates. When he tried to take from Grainger, he got what he deserved, and when that oaf of a master at arms finally catches up with him, he will doubtless swing for his wickedness.’

  ‘But that won’t answer, Rosie. If Oates was the thief, who do you suppose it was that gave Sam back his money?’ asked the coxswain. ‘It can’t have been Oates, for he was long dead.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Rosso. ‘Maybe Grainger put the money back?’

  ‘In secret?’ said Sedgwick. ‘Why would he not do it openly? And besides, how would he have come by money that was so well hid the Lobsters couldn’t find it? No, it is only these last few days that I have been able to get it all straight in my head. I know now who killed Oates.’

  ‘What?’ said his friend, after a pause. ‘How come you have that figured out?’

  ‘Like I said, it has only come to me of late, thinking on stuff. You know it was Sean who touched closest to the truth. You remember, when Sam had just got his money back. He said the like of “What manner of cutpurse returns what he has stolen?” I’ve pondered on that, and I believe I know the answer. A friend does, who feels the guilt at what he’s done. A friend who stole in desperation, but then finds he no longer needs the money.’

  ‘Got anyone in mind?’ asked Rosso, folding his arms.

  ‘Aye, it was you,’ said Sedgwick. ‘I can see the truth of it right now, written on your face.’

  ‘Oh that’s a right good one!’ exclaimed Rosso, after a shocked pause. ‘Why the fuck would I have done that?’

  ‘Because Oates was from the same part of Bristol as you,’ the coxswain explained. ‘When we were all drinking back in Gibraltar he said he thought he knew you, but the talk moved on. Later he must have worked it all out.’ Rosso stared at his friend, transfixed. After a while Sedgwick went on.

  ‘I can almost hear what he would have said. “I know you! You’re that shipping clerk that vanished with his master’s cash box.” And then, being the low bastard he was, he thought to squeeze you a little. I heard you and him talking, at the turn of the year, by the galley. I had just come in from the heads. I never realised it was your voice at the time, but it was you, sure enough. Then all the thieving happened. That was you as well; desperate to find the money to make sure he held his tongue.’

  ‘Come on, Able, you know about my past. So does Adam, Sean and even Sam. What threat was that little shit to me with a secret that all of my friends know?’

  ‘Sure, we are no threat. You know we would never grass on you. But Oates would, as easy as anything. He told you he would send word to Hanging Jack, and you knew what a strict bastard he is. Earl St Vincent would have a thief swinging from the yardarm, as soon as look at you.’

  ‘All this writing has got to you, Able, but I do enjoy a good yarn. So what happened next?’

  ‘Next came the attack on that battery,’ continued Sedgwick. ‘The night when we got up to the body of that poor sentry. Evans asked Grainger why he had cut his throat, and he made some manner of comment about it being the fastest way to silence a man. It passed most of us by, but it found its mark with you. Why should I be a cutpurse that has to prey on my shipmates, you thought, when there is a much easier way to gain a man’s silence, forever. You agreed to meet him in the hold when we arrived in Naples, and while he was busy counting his pieces of silver, you slit his throat from behind.’

  ‘You can’t prove nothing,’ spluttered Rosso.

  ‘No, not to a court marshal, nor to the master at arms,’ said the coxswain. ‘But like I said, I can see in your eyes plain as plain that I am right, and if I can see it, so too will others. I wouldn’t grass on you to the Grunters anyway. But you have broken the code, Rosie. You’ve stolen from shipmates. How do you think Powell and Black will react? The lower deck can be a cruel place for a Jonas.’

  ‘But I gave it all back,’ exclaimed Rosso.

  ‘And you killed a man.’

  ‘He was a blackmailing bastard!’

  ‘Why didn’t you just come to your mates?’ asked Sedgwick. ‘We would have sorted that little shit out for you. Big Sam and I could have shaken him down a bit. He would have been meek as a lamb afterwards.’ Rosso shook his head.

  ‘I don’t rightly know,’ he said. ‘That’s what I should have done, but I suppose I just panicked.’ The two men sat and looked at each other.

  ‘So what you going to do, Able?’ asked Rosso at last.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he replied ‘I ain’t about to grass on you to the Grunters, if that’s what you’re afraid of. So don’t you go and slit my throat while I sleep. But Pipe wants this sorted. Maybe you could transfer to another ship, then I can spread the word that all is well.’

  ‘Maybe that would be best,’ said Rosso. ‘Be sad, though. As Oates showed, it’s still too hot for me to go home, and you and the others are all the family I have right now.’

  ‘Listen, Rosie, if Pipe has got it right, we’ve got this battle to fight first. Let’s get through that and see where we are. Perhaps I can figure out a better way to end all this.’

  Chapter 14

  Aboukir Bay

  In the great cabin of the L’Orient, Vice Admiral Francis Paul, Count de Brueys, raised his glass of champagne and watched the candlelight sparkle off the little columns of bubbles rising through the liquid. The other officers grouped around the dinner table matched the gesture with their own glasses.

  ‘1793 may have been a bad year for Louis XVI, but it was a very good year for champagne,’ he remarked. ‘Gentlemen, I give you a toast. To the army, and to General Bonaparte’s most splendid victory over the Ottomans under the shadow of the Pyramids!’

  ‘The army!’ came the reply from those around the table, followed by a pause as the wine was drunk.

  ‘It must have been an inspiring sight, Lieutenant Mallet,’ said Captain Casabianca, L’Orient’s portly commanding officer, as he turned to the young cavalry subaltern who had brought news of the victory. ‘Imagine that, a battle fought next to one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.’ Lieutenant Mallet pulled at his thin moustache and cleared his throat before he replied.

  ‘The general may have deployed a little... eh, shall we say licence in the name he chose for his victory, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Whatever can you mean, lieutenant?’ queried the naval captain. ‘Was this battle fought beside the Pyramids or not?’ The young subaltern
shifted in his chair.

  ‘They were certainly visible, sir,’ he replied. ‘Once the dust of battle had settled, on the horizon.’

  ‘I think I comprehend, Lieutenant Mallet,’ said the admiral. ‘General Bonaparte does have a reputation for reporting his achievements with as much advantage as possible. I dare say the Battle of the Pyramids will seem of more consequence than a victory won beside a village no one in Paris will have heard of.’

  ‘I believe you have the truth of it, sir,’ smiled Lieutenant Mallet.

  ‘Ha!’ snorted Casabianca. ‘So was it even a victory?’

  ‘Oh indeed yes, sir,’ enthused the young cavalry officer. ‘The Ottomans came on with great dash, particularly their horse. Fully six thousand of their fearsome Mamluk cavalry charged out of the desert, in wave after wave. They were quite a sight in their silk robes and brandishing their glittering sabres. They came on with great panache to the sound of numberless drums.’

  ‘Goodness,’ said the captain of the L’Orient, helping himself to a little more of the fish stew. ‘How were you able to resist the onslaught?’

  ‘Fortunately, the enemy had little notion of the modern way of warfare,’ continued Mallet. ‘They dashed themselves against our squares in hordes, some even threw their swords at our men, while we responded with volleys of musket fire and artillery. It was glorious to behold, but our men held firm, and in the end we beat them off. With their much vaunted horsemen defeated, their infantry showed very little fight. Our losses were a few hundred, while the enemy’s can be counted in thousands. The survivors fled away to the south, and we marched into Cairo unopposed.’

  ‘I confess that does sound like a very fine victory,’ said Captain Dupetit-Thouars, the stern, grey haired commander of Le Tonnant from the far side of the table. ‘Whatever name young Bonaparte chooses for it.’ A growl of approval came from the other naval officers in the cabin.

  ‘What of the English fleet, gentlemen?’ asked Lieutenant Mallet. ‘Has anything been heard of them? The general is most anxious that his victory on land should not be compromised by a defeat at sea.’

  ‘What of the English?’ scoffed de Brueys. ‘I hear that they have at last scraped together some ships to operate in the Mediterranean, under this young puppy Nelson, but I have seen nothing of them.’

  ‘I understand that Sir Horatio has acquired some merit as a fighting captain against the Spanish,’ added Captain Casabianca. ‘But when he is obliged to fight my mighty L’Orient, with a crew of southern Frenchman, he will find matters altogether hotter.’

  ‘Perhaps he will lose more than an arm this time,’ said another naval captain, to general laughter.

  ‘My ships are in a formidable position, lieutenant,’ explained the admiral. He pointed at the view visible through the stern windows of the cabin. A ship’s length away Mallet could see the bow of the next warship in the line, with others beyond it in a gentle curve that stretched across the bay, while off to one side was a sandy shore, dotted with palm trees.

  ‘See how we are anchored in a solid line,’ continued de Brueys. ‘Just behind us is Captain Dupetit-Thouars’s fine ship to guard my stern from attack, just as L’Orient in turn serves to guard the stern of the ship ahead of us. The shore over there protects us on one side, and we have shoal water ahead and astern of us. I have thirteen ships of the line and over a thousand cannon. If the English are mad enough to attack us here, it will be much the same as when these Mamluks of yours attacked our army’s squares. Brave, but very foolish. Please, do go and look. Satisfy yourself with how strong the position of my fleet is, before you return to report to General Bonaparte.’

  Under the urgings of the admiral, the young cavalry officer rose from the table and walked across to the stern windows, his spurs chinking on the deck as he went. After a moment of hesitation, a young flag lieutenant at the other end of the table came to join him, while the senior officers returned to their champagne and boisterous talk. Mallet shaded his eyes against the low sun on the water and peered out through the glass. The shore was much farther from the ship than he had imagined. Why, it must be at least a mile, perhaps more, he thought. He noticed a French frigate moored halfway between the flagship and the beach and frowned for a moment.

  ‘Sir, that ship over there,’ he said pointing. ‘Is it at anchor in deep water too?’

  ‘L’Artemise?’ said the flag lieutenant. ‘It is moored on the very edge of the shoals.’

  ‘Really?’ said the cavalry man. ‘Am I to understand that deep water lies between us and them? I thought the admiral said that the fleet was anchored so that the shore would offer some protection on that side. Surely there is plenty of room for an enemy to pass between us here and the edge of the shoal water over there?’

  ‘We must have a little sea room to manoeuvre in, should the occasion arise,’ said the lieutenant. ‘I can assure you that the admiral himself ordered this disposition for the fleet.’

  ‘Of course,’ smiled Mallet. ‘I did not mean to imply any criticism.’ He looked at the heavily gilded bow of the ship moored behind them in the line. The figurehead was of a helmeted goddess who glared back at him across fifty yards of muddy, brown water. Her outstretched arm sought to pass a fistful of thunder bolts to him. These vessels are anchored a lot farther apart than I would have expected too, he thought to himself.

  ‘Was there anything else you wanted to know, Lieutenant Mallet?’ asked his companion.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, and then he paused. What do I truly know of the sea, he thought? I am used to the packed ranks and tight formations of the army. Ships must surely deploy themselves in some other fashion, he concluded. ‘Eh, I was going to ask why the sea is so brown and dirty here in the bay?’

  ‘If you direct your gaze over there, you will see one of the mouths of the River Nile,’ replied the flag lieutenant. ‘It is the mud of Africa that makes the water so. Have you seen all you wished to, Lieutenant Mallet? If so, perhaps we might rejoin the party?’

  ‘Your dispositions look excellent, sir,’ said Mallet to the admiral as he retook his seat. ‘I hope the English do attack you.’

  ‘Well said, young man,’ said Captain Casabianca, slapping him on the shoulder. He looked past the cavalry man as the cabin door swung open. ‘Ah, is this the cheese, at long last?’

  To Casabianca’s disappointment, the young midshipman who came through the door carried nothing edible. He came across to speak to the flag lieutenant, who in turn rose from his chair, went to stand beside the admiral and whispered something in his ear. The noise of conversation dropped around the table as all the naval officers tried to hear what was being said.

  ‘Really?’ said de Brueys in the silence, before he turned to the others. ‘Gentlemen, it would seem that this Admiral Nelson has at last managed to navigate his way here. The English fleet is in sight. They are coming up the coast from the direction of Alexandria.’

  ‘In what numbers?’ asked one of the other ship’s captains.

  ‘Similar numbers to our own, sir,’ said the flag lieutenant.

  ‘Please excuse me, Admiral de Brueys, but I must return to my ship and prepare for battle,’ said Captain Dupetit-Thouars. He rose from the table, and all around the cabin other chairs were pushed back and glasses of wine were drained.

  ‘Gentlemen, some calm,’ said their host. ‘The English are still a considerable way off.’

  ‘Yes, and we haven’t had pudding yet,’ added Captain Casbianca, ever the committed trencherman. ‘On ne vieillit pas à table, as my grandfather used to say.’

  ‘Besides it will be dark soon,’ said the admiral. ‘There will be no battle today. Only a madman would choose to launch an attack at night into a bay with so many navigational hazards.’

  *****

  ‘The flagship is signalling, sir,’ said Midshipman Russell. He leafed through his codebook. ‘General signal number fifty three. Oh, sir! That is for all ships to prepare for battle!’

  Lieutenant Preston looked around hi
m. For the last few hours the fleet had pushed forwards, as fast as it was able, and it was now spread out in a straggling line across a sea that had turned to pale blue in the evening light. Behind the ship a blood red sun hung a hand’s breadth above the horizon.

  ‘Does the admiral mean for us to fight tonight, sir?’ he queried. ‘It will be darker than the Earl of Hell’s hat within two hours.’

  ‘Acknowledge the signal if you please, Mr Russell,’ ordered Clay, before turning to his officer of the watch. ‘After so many weeks of futile searches the admiral has no intention of letting the French give him the slip in the dark, Mr Preston. What are our general orders for a night action?’

  ‘We are to fly white ensigns in place of our blue ones, and all ships in the fleet are to show four blue lights in a line from the mizzen top yard, sir,’ replied the lieutenant.

  ‘Very good,’ said the captain. ‘Kindly have those executed, and have battle lanterns lit down on the main deck, if you please.’ Clay turned away and pulled out his telescope. Off to one side was the shoreline of Egypt, flat and low, marked here and there by the curved trunks and feathery tops of distant palm trees. Farther up the coast Clay could see the square mass of a stone castle, flushed orange in the evening light. It was built at the end of a spit of land. Beyond its crenellated walls he could just make out the black lines of ships’ masts rising up into the pale evening sky. Tall, heavy masts, he concluded, such as only large warships would carry.

  ‘That castle marks the start of the bay,’ said Armstrong, who had appeared beside him. ‘We need to give it a wide birth. There is a long line of shoals and rocks that run from that point a good few cable lengths out to sea. Beyond that is the deep water channel that leads into the bay.’

  ‘General orders for a night action put in place, sir,’ reported Preston.

  ‘Very good,’ said Clay, still looking through his telescope. ‘Kindly beat to quarters and have the ship cleared for action. And send Mr Butler to me, if you please.’