The Distant Ocean Read online

  ‘Caribbean?’ suggested Evans.

  ‘Doubt it, Sam, the Frogs is proper beat over there,’ said O’Malley. ‘Fightin’ be all but done. Could it be the South Seas, maybe? Now that would be fecking grand! You must have heard tell of the wenches in them parts? Babylon ain’t in it!’

  ‘Autumn be hard upon us now,’ said Trevan. ‘We be sure to be bound for the Baltic.’

  ‘I helped stow Pipe’s kit, and there were precious few warm togs,’ said Sedgwick. ‘No gloves, nor mufflers, no woollen smalls. Instead it were all light stuff. From what his missus has laid in for him, I should say we’re bound somewhere devilish hot.’

  ‘Devilish hot, eh?’ said Evans. ‘We had best get a drink in, while we still can. Hoy! Landlord! Bring another jug of your ale here!’

  The landlord of the Elm Tree was a big, cheerful man, and he swayed his large frame through the packed tavern with some skill to arrive at the sailors’ table. He banged a foaming jug down with a friendly smile and paused to wipe his hands on his apron. Then he saw Sedgwick and the smile vanished from his face.

  ‘What’s he doing in my tavern?’ he barked. ‘We don’t have his sort in here. This is a respectable establishment.’ The sound of the sailors’ chatter died away across the room.

  ‘What did you fecking say?’ snarled O’Malley in the resulting quiet.

  ‘You heard me. I’ll have no Blackamoors in the Elm Tree. You others are welcome to stay, but he’ll have to clear out.’

  ‘This be Captain Clay’s coxswain!’ exclaimed Trevan. ‘He ain’t no ordinary tar.’ The Cornishman rose to his feet. Others followed his lead across the room.

  ‘I don’t care if he’s the Lord High Admiral himself, he can’t drink in here,’ said the landlord, folding his arms.

  ‘He fought at the Battle of the fecking Nile for the likes of yous,’ said O’Malley, brandishing his medal under the landlord’s nose. The other sailors at the table lined up behind the Irishman, the huge Evans having to crouch under the beams as he pushed his way forward. The landlord retreated back towards the serving hatch.

  ‘Mary, fetch my cudgel,’ he called, keeping an anxious eye upon the Londoner.

  ‘Lads, it’s fine,’ said Sedgwick, stepping forwards to place himself between the innkeeper and the sailors. ‘I was done with grog for today, any road.’

  ‘Listen to your shipmate now,’ urged the landlord. ‘There ain’t no cause for trouble.’

  ‘No fecking cause for trouble!’ roared O’Malley. ‘Haven’t you just insulted my friend?’ There was a growl of approval from his fellow Titans.

  ‘Let’s fire this miserable place,’ suggested a voice on the far side of the tavern. Earthenware slid over oak and smashed onto the floor as a table was up-ended.

  ‘Mary, send the pot boy for the parish constables,’ yelled the landlord over his shoulder. ‘You leave that table alone now! And those broken crocks will need to be paid for.’ A jug flew across the room and smashed into the wall next to his head. The innkeeper ducked round in fury, and then his face cleared.

  ‘Calm yourselves, there is no occasion for any riot,’ he said, stepping into the middle of the sailors and pointing to the open door. ‘See, all is well. He has gone and scarpered. At least the monkey seems to know his place.’ He turned back towards Sedgwick’s companions, just in time to receive the full force of Evans’s right fist as it crashed into his jaw.

  The coxswain was not present to witness the blow, or indeed the subsequent destruction of the tavern’s interior by his enraged shipmates. He had slipped away and was walking through the rain towards the sea. After a few hundred yards he reached the quayside and looked out over Portsmouth harbour. It was crowded with rowing boats and skiffs all busy on the water. Moored opposite him, in a line along the edge of the freeway, a row of warships rocked in the current. All around them where gathered Victualling Board lighters, full of barrels and sacks being hauled up onboard. A struggling cargo net swayed through the air towards the deck of a ship of the line, and he heard a bullock’s indignant bellow drift through the dank air like a fog horn. That ship would leave on the next tide, he concluded, now they are getting the livestock on board. Just behind the big two-decker he could see the Titan, with light coming from her long row of open gun ports, while beyond her was another similar sized frigate. He could just make out that the figurehead was of a horseman in black armour. So, Dismal George is here too, he thought. They would soon sail from this confusing bloody country, sometimes so full of hope, but always ready to disappointment once more.

  He pulled out his Nile medal from his pocket and looked at it. The disc of bronze rested heavy in the palm of his hand. On it was the figure of a robed lady who stood barefoot on a rock by the sea with an anchor behind her. Tucked under one of her arms was a shield with Nelson’s bust on it, while with the other arm she held out a leafy branch. The Goddess of Peace, said Sedgwick to himself. That is who Miss Betsey had said she was. What an odd choice to commemorate such a destructive battle, he thought. His friend Rosso had been dashed away in an instant by a shot that had flown in through an open gun port. The skeletal form of the Goddess of Death would have been more appropriate.

  He stood with the rain pattering down on the top of his tarpaulin hat and the bronze disc in his hand. The green water of the harbour at his feet was speckled with tiny splashes. They were joined by a single, larger splash as he tossed the medal away.

  Chapter 2 Departure

  The captain’s steward of the Black Prince stood back from the damask-covered table in the frigate’s great cabin, all the better to admire his work. The warm light from the candelabras winked back off the ranks of polished silverware and sparkled in the glittering crystal. At one end of the table, straight as a line of guardsmen, a row of broad-bottomed decanters were arrayed, each precisely filled to the same level with dark wine.

  ‘Just the squadron’s captains for dinner, Sir George?’ the steward asked.

  ‘Yes, that is correct, Thomas,’ said Commodore Sir George Montague. ‘It shall be a last chance to meet with them all before we depart. I have asked the captain of the Echo to come over before the others, so pray have the sherry ready to serve. He is the nephew of an old shipmate of mine.’ He walked over to the table and moved one of the spoons a fraction straighter. Then he ducked down and pointed towards a glass. ‘Half a finger mark on that, Thomas. For God’s sake, man, use your damned eyes!’

  ‘Aye aye, Sir George,’ replied the steward. He pulled a soft cloth from out of his pocket and polished the offending crystal.

  Montague watched him work with an angry frown. He was a short, haughty-looking man in his mid-forties. His dark hair, cut a little shorter than was the fashion, was flecked with grey above his temples. Two intense dark eyes looked out from either side of a large, patrician nose. He pulled out a silk handkerchief from his pocket and flicked a little dust from the sleeve of his beautifully tailored coat. From the look of the broadcloth, it was new. The front was heavy with a commodore’s gold braid. Then he paused as the sound of boatswain’s pipes squealed from the direction of the entry port on the far side of the bulkhead. A little later there was a knock at the cabin door.

  ‘I trust I am not late, Sir George?’ said Commander Nicholas Windham as he stepped through into the cabin. ‘It took a little longer for my cutter to reach you with the tide now in flood.’

  ‘No matter, my boy,’ smiled Montague, gripping the young man’s hand. ‘Upon my word, how you have grown!’ He stepped back to look at him properly. Windham was a little taller than his host, slightly built, with dark brown hair that had begun to recede over his temples. His eyes seemed sunken in this pale face. My, how he has aged, thought Montague. He can surely be no more than mid-twenties, yet he looks so much older.

  ‘You were no more than a milksop midshipman when I last saw you, on your uncle Percy’s ship,’ he enthused. ‘That would have been back in the year ninety-one or two? But now look at you! Newly promoted to Master and Commande
r, with your own sloop of war to boot. If he were still with us, your uncle would have been bursting with pride.’

  ‘I wanted to express my deepest gratitude for my step, Sir George,’ said Windham. ‘I know I would still be a lieutenant were it not for your preferment.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense, boy,’ said the commodore. ‘A word offered in the right ear, no more than that. What is the use of the Montagues' commanding four seats in Parliament if I can’t help out the nephew of an old friend, what? How else do you think I got the plum command of this squadron? Do have a glass of sherry, Nicholas.’ Thomas came over with the tray as the two officers took their seats.

  ‘Now tell me how you find the Echo?’ asked the commodore.

  ‘She is a fine little vessel, sir,’ said Windham. ‘But I had never realised how much effort it would be to commission a new ship. All manner of stores to be loaded, rigging to be set up, hands to be found, and with the assistance of just one commissioned officer.’

  ‘It can be difficult in a sloop. I trust that your lieutenant is at least competent?’

  ‘At first I had thought so, Sir George. He is a good friend of mine who pressed me for the position. Well bred, from a sound family, but now I wonder if a more experienced officer might have answered better. I might then not be obliged to take on so much myself.’

  ‘Perhaps so,’ said Montague. ‘I will help of course, if I am able, but I do have my own preparations to complete. The fact is we shall be away very promptly. Have you thought to seek the assistance of Captain Clay or Commander Sutton? They will be joining us presently. Did you not all serve together as lieutenants, under your Uncle Percy?’

  ‘We did, Sir George, but we have become somewhat estranged since then,’ said Windham.

  ‘Really?’ said Montague, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. ‘But they both seem such amiable coves.’

  ‘At first acquaintance they can be tolerable enough,’ said Windham. ‘But perhaps when you come to know them better, you will see matters as I do, sir.’

  ‘That may be so, but I don’t like the sound of this at all. You must affect a reconciliation, Nicholas. I cannot tolerate any dissention within my squadron. We have a long and challenging mission ahead of us. Only the most harmonious relations between my commanding officers will answer. What on earth can have occasioned such a breach?’

  ‘It dates from the time of my uncle’s death, Sir George,’ said Windham. He rose from his chair and began to pace the room. ‘In truth, I was never satisfied with the explanation that those gentlemen were able to supply as to how my uncle came to die.’

  ‘He fell in battle with a French frigate, did he not?’ said his host. ‘The papers at the time were most fulsome with their praise of him.’

  ‘Yes, that is what Clay and Sutton would have you believe,’ scoffed Windham. ‘What is less generally known is that Uncle Percy had quite fallen out with Clay, and he planned to have him broken when we reached Barbados. But of course he never arrived. In the height of battle he fell from the ship, and as he was no swimmer, he was never heard of again.’

  ‘And you hold that it was Captain Clay who did this?’ asked Montague. ‘That he raised his hand to strike down his captain? If true, it is quite the most shocking thing I have ever heard.’

  ‘In fairness it cannot have been him, Sir George. He was on the gun deck with me at the time of my uncle’s disappearance. It was Sutton who had the opportunity to do it. He has always been one of Clay’s creatures.’

  ‘Can you prove any of this? Were there any that witnessed it happen?’ Windham stopped his pacing and shook his head.

  ‘No, I have no conclusive proof of that kind,’ he said. ‘God knows, I have tried to obtain it. But I know in my heart what I say is true.’

  ‘Nicholas, come and resume your seat before you wear out my carpet, I pray,’ said Montague. ‘Consider for a moment what you are saying. The accusations you make are of a very grave character, and yet you tell me you have no proof? Surely you see what folly it would be to pursue this?’

  ‘No, Sir George, I do not,’ he said, gripping the arms of his chair. ‘All I seek is justice for my uncle. How can that be folly?’

  ‘Listen to me now,’ said Montague placing a friendly hand on top of the younger man’s. ‘I can see from your general appearance how injurious all this is proving to your health. You look like a man that hasn’t slept for a month.’

  ‘God knows, I have tried to let matters rest,’ he said. ‘And while I was serving on a distant station, that was possible. But since I have been assigned to my new sloop, and learnt who commands the other ships in the squadron, it has brought the horror of it all back to me. They killed Captain Follett. I know they did.’

  Montague looked at his guest, and his face hardened.

  ‘Your uncle was a good friend of mine, you know, Nicholas,’ he said. ‘If I find a shred of evidence that what you say is true, I give you my word that I shall act. But consider what you are telling me! A warship cleared for action has no hiding place in which such a base act could have occurred. A captain on his quarterdeck is surrounded by other persons. Marines, gunners serving their pieces, quartermasters at the wheel, sailors of the afterguard, other officers; yet you tell me that none of these individuals saw anything amiss?’

  ‘The mizzen mast had just fallen,’ said Windham. ‘All was confusion!’ His host held up a hand to silence him.

  ‘Even with a falling mast, if what you say were the case, someone would have seen it done,’ he continued. ‘I speak to you now as an old friend of your family as well as your commanding officer, when I say to you that you must let this matter drop. I cannot have bad blood amongst my squadron. Is that clear?’

  ‘Aye aye, Sir George,’ said Windham, after a pause. His grip on the arms of the chair relaxed a little, but his eyes remained cold as flint.

  *****

  ‘This is a capital beef steak pie, Sir George,’ enthused John Sutton later that evening. He held his plate towards Thomas, who cut him another generous slice. ‘It has a most unusual savour.’

  ‘That will be the taste of truffles, Mr Sutton,’ said his host. ‘Are you familiar with them at all?’

  ‘I cannot say that I am, sir. What, pray, are truffles?’

  ‘Some manner of fungus that grows like a gall upon the roots of diverse trees,’ replied Montague. ‘My cook is a very talented Frenchman. He was serving the captain of a French West Indiaman I captured back in ninety-two. He tells me that in his country they use truffles extensively in the better sort of kitchen. It requires but a little to flavour a dish, which is deuced fortunate, for they ain’t the cheapest of cabin stores. Are you familiar with truffles, Captain Clay?’

  ‘I have had them only the once, on the occasion of my wedding, Sir George.’

  ‘Only once, sir?’ queried Windham. ‘I have them quite frequently when at home, but then, of course, Fenton Park does have a better sort of kitchen. No more of the pie for me, but I will have some more wine, Thomas.’

  ‘I collect you wedding was quite a grand affair, then?’ said Montague.

  ‘Moderately so, Sir George,’ said Clay. ‘I married the ward of Lady Ashton last year. John here was present to assist me.’

  ‘Yes, I had heard that you did very well in the matter of your marriage,’ said the commodore. ‘You are to be congratulated for having wed into a family so decidedly above your station.’ Clay looked sharply at Montague, but his host smiled at him in a friendly fashion. He settled back into his seat and let the comment pass. Any talk of his marriage could not fail to remind him of Lydia, and the wonderful news she had whispered into his ear that morning.

  ‘Lord Spencer told me that you were presented at court last month,’ continued Montague, filling the gap in his guests’ conversation. ‘Was that your first levee?’

  ‘It was, Sir George,’ replied Clay. ‘Although it was not at St James’s. I was obliged to travel down to Weymouth. Have you met with the King?’

  ‘Oh, frequently,
’ said the commodore. ‘The last occasion was when I was knighted. Spencer said the king thought to dub you, too, for a while, till it was pointed out to him that if he made everyone who successfully delivered a letter a knight, the postal service might become rather too grand, what?’ He and Windham laughed uproariously at this, and his other two guests exchanged glances.

  ‘There was some talk of it, but in the end I was presented with a rather fine sword instead,’ replied Clay. ‘Perhaps now that I, too, am part of a family with some influence in parliament, my next visit may prove to be as rewarding as yours.’

  ‘I have been to court on diverse occasions,’ said Windham. ‘What about you, Mr Sutton?’

  ‘Not yet, Nicholas,’ he replied.

  ‘No? Nor your father either? Pity that, though I suppose he never did rise very high in the service. He is but a lieutenant still, I collect?’

  ‘That is correct,’ said Sutton.

  ‘While you and Captain Clay have both advanced yourselves to such a prodigious degree,’ continued Windham, his words a little slurred. ‘Why, you both command your own ships now, one a post captain, the other a commander. All this in the few brief years since my uncle was killed.’

  ‘Now then, Nicholas,’ cautioned Montague. ‘Pray let Captain Sutton enjoy his pie.’

  ‘I fear it has defeated me, Sir George,’ said the commander of the Rush, laying down his knife and fork. ‘My appetite for your excellent beef seems to have fled.’

  ‘No matter,’ said their host. ‘Truffles can sometimes make a remove over rich. You have performed with distinction, for your first skirmish with that noble fungus. Will you take a glass of wine with me to mark the occasion?’ As the wine was drunk he glanced at his steward who came forward to clear the table.

  ‘Now, I have some rather fine cheese to follow,’ he continued. ‘I live in hope that the prospect will restore Captain Sutton’s appetite once more. By the way, does anyone have any knowledge of a riot that occurred at one of the taverns behind Gun Wharf, Monday last? Apparently the owner was soundly thrashed by a party of sailors and his establishment turned over. The Port Admiral is most anxious to find those responsible.’