A Man of No Country Read online

  ‘Well I’ll be damned!’ exclaimed Clay. ‘That’s our prize! They must have set her on fire!’ The smoke thickened quickly into a black column, and hungry orange flames appeared beneath it. They licked and flared across the hull, and the sound of cracking timbers drifted across the surface of the water towards them. Through the growing heat haze, Clay watched the last of the crew as they disappeared into the woods. No, not all of them, he corrected himself. He could see one single figure as he stood on the beach, his possessions by his side. He raised a hand and waved towards the approaching launch, as if impatient for them to reach him.

  Chapter 3

  Gibraltar

  ‘Are you telling me we only captured one of these pirates, Mr Taylor?’ said Clay, a frown of annoyance on his face.

  ‘I’m afraid so, sir,’ reported the lieutenant. ‘By the time the marines had disembarked, the crew had long gone. Mr Macpherson pursued them inland, but the forest proved to be very thick, with few trails for his men to follow. After an hour without result he abandoned the hunt.’

  ‘And the ship was completely destroyed, of course,’ said Clay. He turned in his chair to look through the windows at the back of his cabin. A few charred curves of timber, like the shattered rib cage of some ancient beast, stood proud of the water to mark the place where the sloop had beached herself.

  ‘Once the fire reached the magazine she was doomed, sir,’ said Taylor. ‘There really was little the launch crew could do. At least she will no longer prove to be a threat to our commerce.’

  ‘I suppose that is true,’ conceded his captain. ‘And the prize crew we captured will meet justice when the Charlotte returns home. So tell me of this one man we did apprehend then, Mr Taylor.’

  ‘I am not sure that apprehend is quite the right word,’ said the lieutenant. ‘While the others fled, he waited for the marines on the beach, and welcomed them ashore as if they were his rescuers.’

  ‘Curious behaviour for a pirate, wouldn’t you say?’ mused Clay. ‘Do you know who he is?’

  ‘That is where matters become unclear, sir,’ said Taylor. ‘He says that he is an English sailor by the name of John Grainger, but he doesn’t look like any tar that I have ever seen. For a start he is dressed like a Turk, and his skin is as dark as any Arab. His English is fair, but he has an accent that I cannot place at all.’

  ‘Where in England does he say he comes from?’

  ‘That’s just it, sir. He claims not to know. Says he was but a youngster when he left home with his parents to come out here,’ said the first lieutenant. ‘And they both died many years ago, according to his account.’

  ‘How very convenient,’ snorted the captain. ‘So what has he been up to all these years?’

  ‘He says that he has been serving on all manner of vessels in the Mediterranean, first as a deck hand, later as a navigator.’

  ‘Very curious indeed,’ said Clay. ‘Very well, let us have him in.’

  John Grainger certainly did cut a remarkable figure as he came into the cabin accompanied by his two marine guards. He was a tall, strong looking man in his thirties, with a large bushy beard and short dark hair concealed by a dirty round cap. He wore baggy white trousers drawn in at the ankles and a red sleeveless tunic over his shirt. Around his waist was tied a thick green sash. His skin was burnt so dark that only his piercing blue eyes gave any hint that he might not be a native of North Africa.

  ‘Mr Taylor tells me you are an English sailor,’ said Clay. ‘But I struggle to conclude that from your general appearance. Why are you dressed in such a fashion?’

  ‘When I was but a boy I was captured by Barbary Pirates, sir,’ Grainger replied. ‘They made me become a Mohammedan, and dress as one of them.’

  ‘Did your parents do nothing to prevent it?’

  ‘My mother had died before then, sir,’ replied the man. ‘My father fought against the pirates, but he was killed.’

  ‘And where did all of this happen?’ asked Clay. The man shrugged.

  ‘Somewhere out in the eastern Mediterranean, I think, sir,’ he replied. ‘I was only young then. It is hard to remember clearly the substance of it.’

  ‘Did they make you a slave?’ asked Clay.

  ‘Not once I agreed to follow Allah, peace be upon him,’ he replied. He touched his forehead and face with an elegant gesture of his long fingers. ‘Then I became a sailor, sir.’

  ‘In a Barbary Pirate ship?’ queried Clay. ‘Surely that would make you a pirate yourself, Grainger?’

  ‘No, no, never a pirate, sir,’ he insisted. ‘I served on a trading dhow out of Algiers.’

  ‘You say it was not a pirate ship, yet I find you on board a vessel that committed an act of piracy when it attacked a British merchantman in these very waters but two days ago,’ continued the captain. ‘Why should I not hang you for that crime?’

  ‘I am not with them!’ exclaimed the sailor. ‘They took me prisoner from my last ship, sir. I was a navigator on a Neapolitan merchantman, the San Giovanni Battista. We were two weeks out from Palermo with a cargo of oil and grain, bound for Lisbon. They captured my ship and took me off it as a prisoner. I am not a pirate. I did not run like those other Russian scum.’

  ‘What were you doing on a Neapolitan ship?’ asked Clay. ‘A moment ago you said you were on a trading dhow? I must say this all seems very strange.’

  ‘My ship foundered on the coast of Sicily some years ago, when it was driven onto the rocks in a storm,’ he said. ‘I survived the wreck, and found work with a Naples ship owner. He took me on because I speak Arabic, so I could help him to trade with the Levant, Africa and Egypt.’

  ‘This all appears most irregular,’ said Clay. ‘What do you think, Mr Taylor? Should we hang him for serving on board a pirate ship, or take him at his word that he is a British sailor and press him into the crew?’

  ‘I believe he is a sailor, as he says, sir,’ replied the lieutenant. ‘He certainly seems to know his way about a ship, although I have yet to ascertain if he can hand, reef and steer. As he says, he could very well have cut and run earlier on the beach, but chose to remain, which is in his favour. Even if his past is shady, we already have a good sprinkling of convicted smugglers, poachers and former mutineers amongst the crew. I can’t see one more ne’er do well causing too many problems.’

  ‘Very well, John Grainger, the English-Algerian-Neapolitan found aboard a Russian ship, you may be of many countries or none, but as of now you are a sailor in the Royal Navy and subject to the Articles of War. If you step out of line from now, you can be flogged or hanged for the offense. Have him read in, Mr Taylor, if you please, and then let us be on our way, I beg you. We have spent too long on this coast. We should have joined the fleet off Cadiz some days ago.’

  *****

  George Amery wore the immaculate uniform to be expected of the flag captain of an admiral who was a byword for both discipline and ill humour. He held the door open for Clay with a polite smile, and his guest stepped through into the admiral’s cabin and stopped in wonder. It was the largest room he had ever seen onboard a ship. Before him was a sweep of glass that was at least thirty feet wide, through which he could see the rest of the fleet, stretched out in a line of warships, spaced a perfect cable length apart as they followed their flagship across the green waters of the Atlantic. Inside, the interior bulkheads had been painted a delicate primrose yellow, which complemented the rich reds and blues of the oriental carpet on the floor, and the warm chestnut furniture that crowded around him.

  ‘We so often refer to the stern cabin of a ship as the great cabin, but that of the Ville de Paris truly merits the name, does she not?’ asked the flag captain as he closed the door behind him.

  ‘Indeed so,’ said Clay. ‘Why, my first command had a great cabin that might fit in this space a dozen times. The Ville de Paris is new built I collect, sir?’

  ‘Only finished eight months ago,’ confirmed Amery. ‘They gave her to the admiral to replace the Victory, which had bee
n rather roughly handled during our triumph off Cape St. Vincent last year. She has a hundred and ten guns, which makes her the biggest first rate in the navy; although I hear the French have some even bigger ships. There is one called the L’Orient that is being fitted out in Toulon as we speak. She carries over a hundred and twenty guns, if you will credit it.’

  ‘And doubtless has an even greater cabin, sir,’ said Clay.

  ‘Quite so,’ said Amery, with another smile. ‘Do please take a seat. May I get you a glass of Madeira?’

  ‘That would be most welcome, sir,’ said Clay.

  ‘Are you acquainted with the admiral, then?’ asked the flag captain, decanter in his hand.

  ‘I met him briefly when I was third lieutenant on the Minerva, long before he became Earl St Vincent. He was plain John Jervis then.’

  ‘Or Hanging Jack, if you are one of the hands,’ said Amery, passing over the glass.

  ‘So I understand,’ said Clay. ‘Capital drop of wine this, sir.’

  ‘The wine is one of the few benefits of blockading Cadiz. When supplies run perilously low, we have the island of Madeira a scant five hundred miles west southwest of here. They send us supplies of Malmsey on a regular basis. Good health to you.’

  ‘Will the admiral be joining us soon, sir?’ asked Clay

  ‘I would imagine so, sir. If I know his lordship he will be perusing the despatches you brought from England, searching for news of the Chosen One’s return,’ said the flag captain.

  ‘I am not sure I follow you, sir,’ said Clay. ‘To whom do you refer?’

  ‘Why, to Sir Horatio Nelson,’ he replied. ‘We all call him that in the fleet. His Lordship fair dotes on him, and in consequence Sir Horatio can do little wrong in his eyes. He was invalided home last year, but that don’t stop the admiral pining for his return.’

  ‘Does calling him the Chosen One not seem a little disrespectful, sir? I was under the impression that Sir Horatio gained considerable distinction for his part in the defeat of the Dons at the Battle of Cape St Vincent?’ Amery smiled at this.

  ‘He did, but not nearly enough distinction to satisfy the Chosen One,’ he replied. ‘He was most displeased at only being honoured with a knighthood for his efforts. The admiral did try for more, but to no avail.’ He looked over Clay’s shoulder and muttered, ‘Speak of the devil,’ as he rose to his feet. Clay stood up, too, and turned towards the cabin door, where a large man had darkened the entrance.

  Admiral John Jervis, Earl St Vincent, had a square, jowly face topped with grey curly hair that he wore long at the back and sides, perhaps to compensate for the rate at which it was thinning on top. He was not as tall as Clay, but was considerably wider than his new subordinate. Clay found his gaze locked and held by two intense, china-blue eyes for a moment. Then the admiral held out a big hand and crushed that of his visitor.

  ‘A very warm welcome to you, captain,’ he growled. Clay searched the scowling face in front of him in vain for any trace of either warmth or welcome. ‘You come with a fine reputation as a fighting man.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord,’ replied Clay, resisting the urge to wring his hand when it was finally released. ‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance.’ The admiral advanced past Clay and settled himself into one of the larger chairs in the cabin.

  ‘Do please be seated, captain,’ he boomed. ‘I see Amery has let you sample my best Madeira. I must apologise for the necessity of keeping you waiting. I needed to examine the despatches you brought from London.’ The flag captain exchanged glances with Clay and allowed one eye brow to rise a little.

  ‘If it is not impertinent, might I know if their contents were satisfactory, my lord?’ asked Amery

  ‘Highly satisfactory,’ said St Vincent. ‘They hold very welcome tidings. It would seem that their lordships are sending us reinforcements under the command of Rear Admiral Nelson, just as I requested. Ain’t that the grandest thing?’

  ‘Indeed, your lordship,’ said the flag captain, his face impassive. ‘The fleet will be pleased.’

  ‘Are you acquainted with Sir Horatio, captain?’

  ‘Only by reputation, my lord,’ said Clay

  ‘He is quite the naval genius, you know,’ said the admiral. ‘Every action he has with the enemy is attended with victory.’

  ‘Except, perhaps, for his unfortunate attack on Santa Cruz last July, my lord,’ offered Amery. The admiral waved away the comment.

  ‘An excess of zeal on his part,’ he replied. ‘Combined by the most shamefully indifferent intelligence. And pray remember that he paid for his mistake with the loss of his arm.’

  ‘Quite so, my lord,’ agreed the flag captain. ‘Are the Admiralty certain that Sir Horatio’s health has recovered sufficiently to withstand the rigours of a return to duty?’

  ‘Apparently so,’ said St Vincent. ‘He will be here in the spring, with a fresh squadron of ships.’

  ‘How splendid,’ murmured Amery. The admiral swung his attention back onto his new subordinate.

  ‘Now, Clay, can you favour me with an explanation as to why you took so long to join us?’ he asked, his eyes becoming hard. ‘I have been expecting you this last four days, and if there is one matter upon which I am most firm it is that of punctuality.’

  ‘I did make a tolerable passage down to Cape Finisterre, my lord,’ explained Clay. ‘But just south of Oporto I encountered a British merchantman that had been captured by a privateer. I was obliged to hunt down that ship before any more attacks could be made upon our commerce. We overhauled her the following day, and once I had seen her destroyed, I came on to join you as swiftly as I was able.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said St Vincent, a frown still prominent on his face. ‘Well, that seems to be in order, Clay, but I had wanted you to join me sooner. The fact is the deuced Admiralty have been starving me of frigates. The First Lord has too much interest in the City for my liking. He has all of our smaller vessels based in home waters protecting commerce. Frigates, like your Titan, are worth their weight in gold when they are permitted to serve as the eyes of the fleet. Can you conceive how provoking it is to have a great ship like this, and yet not to be able to find my enemy for want of a few vessels to do my scouting for me?’

  ‘I’m sure the First Lord of the Admiralty knows...’ began Clay.

  ‘I’m damned sure he don’t!’ exclaimed St Vincent. ‘Look at the deuced way he gave in to mutiny in the Channel Fleet last spring! We had a little of that nonsense out here, but do you suppose I yielded to the scoundrels? No, sir, I did not! I ordered the marines armed and stopped them from any fraternising with the men. At the first hint of trouble I strung up all of their leaders, after which the rest of the people were meek as lambs. I can take being called Hanging Jack if it serves to keep the men loyal. I suppose your ship rose when you were in the Channel Fleet?’

  ‘It did, for a number of hours, but I was able to suppress the mutiny with the help of some loyal hands.’

  ‘Good for you, Clay,’ enthused the admiral. ‘What became of the blackguards?’

  ‘One of the ringleaders was killed during the suppression and another was hanged for the murder of an officer, my lord. There was a third instigator who benefitted from the general pardon issued by the King.’

  ‘Pity,’ rumbled St Vincent. ‘Still, a brace bagged from three ain’t too shabby, what?’

  ‘Would now be an appropriate time to brief Captain Clay on the mission we have in mind for the Titan to perform, my lord?’ asked Amery. ‘I am conscious that you are due to see Sir Peter at five bells.’ The admiral rolled his eyes at this, then returned his attention to the newest member of the fleet.

  ‘Captain Amery is worse than a damned nurse maid, but he do serve to keep me punctual,’ he said. ‘Now, you will recall that the Admiralty stripped me bare in the spring to reinforce the Channel Fleet, and in consequence we were compelled to pull out of the Mediterranean for want of ships? As you can well imagine, with us off the dance floor, the damned Frogs have g
rabbed all the ladies they can with both hands.’ The admiral’s own considerable hands began to count off his large sausage fingers.

  ‘They retook Corsica. That damned young upstart Bonaparte conquered half of Italy, and not a week goes by when they don’t capture another dashed Greek island. Meanwhile in Toulon they lay down new warships faster than our spies can count them.’ He slammed a fist down onto the desk. ‘This has to stop, and when Nelson arrives in the spring, by Jove it will!’

  ‘I understand, my lord,’ said Clay. ‘What is to be the Titan’s role in all of this?’

  ‘You are to enter the Mediterranean to be my eyes and ears,’ said the admiral. ‘Use your frigate’s strengths. You should be swift enough to avoid trouble, and powerful enough to deal with any ship you cannot run from. I need to know what is happening, so that when I am reinforced I can strike at the heart of whatever mischief the damned French are planning.’

  ‘I see, my lord. Where in particular should I focus my search?’

  ‘Look into the enemy’s naval bases and ports,’ said St Vincent. ‘See if there are any suspicious concentrations of ships. And see if you can find out what is afoot in Italy. In your orders Captain Amery has listed most of our existing intelligence, but it is precious thin. I need you to use your nose, Clay. If you get wind of anything, follow that trail and then come back and tell me what you have found.’

  ‘Our ambassador in Naples, Sir William Hamilton, is a valuable contact,’ added Amery. ‘He is a wise old hand, with excellent connections. His wife, Lady Emma, is very close to Queen Maria Carolina of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, so he generally knows all that is happening on the Italian peninsula.’

  ‘Aye, but be careful of Lady Emma Hamilton,’ cautioned the admiral. ‘Before she wed she was plain Emma Hart, the artist’s model. Apparently she used to dance on the dinner table at Uppark House without a stitch on, when she was Sir Henry’s mistress.’