The Distant Ocean Page 5

  ‘Before I go, may I ask if any suspicious vessels have been seen near Freetown?’

  ‘Suspicious vessels?’ repeated the young man, his eyes darted towards the large bible on its stand. ‘I am not sure how I would judge that. I am only a printer, after all.’

  ‘Very well, have any vessels visited Freetown recently?’

  ‘Oh, I… I am not sure about that. We have so few ships stopping here.’

  ‘Not sure?’ said Clay. ‘But if visits are rare, should they not be easy to recall? You must have a port official who keeps some manner of record? Are you trying to hold something back from me?’

  ‘I do not wish to be unhelpful, but I would prefer not to answer your questions further, captain,’ said the governor, folding his arms.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Clay, ‘What can you possibly mean?’

  ‘Only what I said. I am not in a position to assist you in this matter.’

  ‘Sir, I am a King’s officer, seeking to investigate a suspicious incident at sea. If you know something about it, you must tell me. I am entitled to expect your unambiguous support!’

  ‘I do not seek to dissemble, but you must understand the position I am in,’ said Ludlam. ‘If such a ship were to exist, and if it was directing itself to attacks on the slave trade, its activities might not be wholly unwelcome to the Sierra Leone colony.’

  ‘Is that what the drowned wretches whose remains I came across out there would say?’

  ‘Many of our residents in Freetown would think them lucky,’ said the governor, pointing towards the open window. ‘Unlike you and I, they have firsthand knowledge of the horrors of the middle passage, and the fate that awaits those who survive it in the Americas.’

  ‘Governor, I understand your passion for your cause,’ said Clay, leaning forward in his chair. ‘But if you have knowledge of a threat to our country’s commerce, it is your duty to tell me of it.’

  ‘You must also understand, captain, that the greatest threat we face here is not from the activities of privateers, but from slavers, many of whom are British,’ said Ludlam. ‘They pay scant regard to the official status of this colony. Any resident that strays too far from Freetown is likely to be taken by them, or by one of the local tribes that are their creatures. If this privateer is attacking slave ships, I am not likely to be displeased with their activities.’

  ‘I can see how this must vex you, Mr Ludlam,’ said Clay. ‘I myself find slavery to be abhorrent, but under the law of our country the slave trade is still legal. As a naval officer I cannot stand aside and let an enemy prey on British ships.’

  ‘There is also God’s law, sir, which is surely superior to any law of men,’ said Ludlam.

  ‘That may be so,’ said Clay. ‘But fortunately my orders do not require me to enforce that, too.’

  ‘Well, sir, you must of course do your duty, as I must do mine. Sierra Leone is not a Crown colony but is run under private charter. I am not going to be able assist you any farther.’

  ‘No, Mr Ludlam, that will not do!’ exclaimed Clay. ‘It is plain to me that you have some knowledge of this enemy ship. I must oblige you to pass it on to me.’

  ‘But they are not my enemy. The foe of my foe is my ally, is it not said?’

  ‘This is intolerable! I insist that you tell me what you know!’ roared Clay. ‘I shall not leave this office until I am quite satisfied you have been candid with me.’ He fixed the younger man with a glare from his steel-grey eyes.

  *****

  There were two gun ports at the very rear of the Titan’s wardroom, one either side of the rudder. No guns stood behind them, and even George Taylor, the ship’s veteran first lieutenant, could not remember them ever having been used in battle. They were placed so close to the surface of the water that it was only on occasions like now, when the frigate was at anchor, that they could be thrown open to let in some welcome natural light and a little fresh air into the gloomy cave where the ship’s commissioned officers spent much of their time. Sunlight danced off the water and sent patterns of silver spiralling across the low ceiling of the wardroom.

  Taylor peered through one of the square openings and across the brown water towards the beach where the captain’s barge still lay, pulled up on the sand. The crew had retreated to the shade of some palm trees that overhung the beach, and the crowd of onlookers had moved on. He looked along the straggling line of wooden shacks that lined the shore and searched for a familiar tall figure.

  ‘I wonder what can have detained the captain for such a long period,’ he mused to himself, pushing a hand through his grey hair. ‘Do you think I should go back on deck?’

  ‘Mr Preston has the anchor watch, sir,’ said John Blake, his second lieutenant. ‘I am sure he will send word the moment his barge pushes off from the beach.’ He had spoken without looking up from the leather-bound sketch book he had propped up in front of him. Taylor got up from his chair by the open port and squeezed around the table that dominated the little wardroom to look over Blake’s shoulder. On the sheet of paper a strong, angular face in profile was appearing. The artist had just started, but even from the first few lines it was already clear the face was that of Tom Macpherson, the frigate’s Scottish marine commander. He glanced from the portrait to the subject, sitting at the wardroom table. Blake did the same, and lay down his piece of charcoal in frustration.

  ‘Can I trouble you to stay in the same position for above a minute, Tom?’ he said. ‘Please disregard George in his restless pacing around the room and continue to look only at the entrance to my cabin, as we agreed.’

  Macpherson angled his head back towards one of the slated doors that lined the sides of the wardroom, and the artist returned to his picture. He rubbed in some charcoal with his finger, conjuring the marine’s bristling black sideburns from out of the paper.

  ‘Perhaps I should send another boat ashore, to see if anything is amiss?’ mused Taylor to himself, as he returned to his original seat.

  ‘Oh, no, sir! I pray do not consider such an ill judged action!’ exclaimed Richard Corbett, the Titan’s surgeon, glaring over his little steel glasses. He was a small man in his late thirties with thin, sandy hair and pale blue eyes. ‘I have already agreed with the captain that we must have minimal contact with the shore, and none at all after dark. The noxious vapours on this coast are most unwholesome. The less the crew are exposed to such miasmas the better.’

  ‘Surely the town should be healthy enough,’ protested Taylor.

  ‘Healthy!’ exclaimed the surgeon. ‘Doubtless it is, if you discount the risk of Yellow Jack, Ague, Bilious Fever, Plague and all manner of Fluxes.’

  ‘He has the truth of it, George,’ said Blake, still concentrating on his work. Then he started to chant.

  ‘Beware and take care of the Bight of Benin.

  There's one comes out for forty goes in.’

  ‘Save that the Bight of Benin is a good seven hundred miles east of us here,’ grumbled the first lieutenant. ‘But I daresay your advice is sound, Mr Corbett.’ He returned his attention to the gun port and found the square now filled with the beaming face of a large black man with a mass of grey, bushy hair.

  ‘Upon my soul!’ exclaimed Taylor, jumping back from the opening. ‘Wherever have you sprung from?’

  ‘Good day to you, Massa,’ said the man, in the distinctive drawl of the American Deep South. ‘Only one way to reach you folks, and that’s by boat.’ He indicated the canoe he was seated in to answer Taylor’s question. The middle section was loaded with a pile of tropical fruit. He selected a large one from the top and held up the glossy red and green orb for Taylor to inspect. ‘Got the finest mangos in Freetown, right here. You wan’a buy?’

  ‘I daresay the purser might, but you will have to present yourself in regular form to him at the entry port.’

  ‘Hey, Armstrong!’ called Macpherson. He reached behind him with an arm and banged on one of the cabin doors, while still holding his head motionless for Blake. ‘We h
ave a fellow colonial for you to converse with.’ The Titan’s sailing master came out of his cabin with a yawn. He rubbed his eyes and repositioned his horsehair periwig back on his bald head before joining Taylor at the open port.

  ‘Where you from, boy?’ he asked.

  ‘Why that’s a darn’ New England accent, or I ain’t never heard one!’ exclaimed the boat man. ‘I was born in South Carolina before I ran, Massa.’

  ‘Goodness, but you are a long way from home,’ marvelled Armstrong. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Now that depends. I started with a slave name of Clinton, but I changed it to Nash, after the preacher who helped me to escape. I mainly go by that, these days.’

  ‘So how did you come to be all the way over here, Nash?’ asked Taylor.

  ‘Just after I ran, the goddamn rebellion started,’ said the former slave. ‘I fought for King George an’ all, but then the darn Yankees gone and won. Government had promised to look after us, so they went and settled all us loyal Negros on some Crown land up in a place called Nova Scotia. My, oh my, but them winters was cold! Well, that was no good for a South Carolina boy like me. Soon as I heard tell of this place, I was first in line to be resettled.’

  ‘Sounds a little like my story,’ said Armstrong. ‘Near broke my father’s heart to leave our farm in Albany County along with the other Loyalists and move away up north. Do you prosper over here now?’

  Nash shrugged. ‘Be good if more ships put into Freetown for us to trade with, Massa,’ he admitted. ‘We only had you and that other one this last month or more.’ Armstrong exchanged glances with Taylor as the germ of an idea came to him.

  ‘Nash, I am going to have a word with Mr Faulkner, our purser,’ he said. ‘I will see if he might not buy all these fruit of yours, you having been such a good servant of the King. In return, might you find your way to help me? As a fellow Loyalist?’

  ‘That I will,’ said the former slave, his eyes alight with greed. ‘What is it that you need, Massa?’

  *****

  When Clay clambered up from his barge and in through the entry port, his face was even redder than could be accounted for by his wearing a uniform coat of heavy broadcloth in the tropics. He gave a perfunctory salute to the assembled line of white-gloved ship’s boys and boatswain’s mates as they squealed on their pipes, and strode across to where his first lieutenant stood to greet him.

  ‘Can you believe it?’ he raved. ‘I have just passed over two hours with that damned man, but the sanctimonious, snotty-nosed printer refused to tell me anything.’

  ‘Printer, sir?’ queried Taylor.

  ‘Mr High and Mighty Thomas Ludlam, the governor of this God forsaken place. Apparently he is a printer by his calling.’

  ‘Ah, I see, sir. And I collect he refused to cooperate with you?’

  ‘He was perfectly civil, at first,’ said Clay. ‘He made it clear as to how those bodies came to be in the water. He said that they would have been dumped by a slave ship who sought to avoid capture. He as good as confirmed that there is an enemy ship operating on this coast, right now. But once he got wind that I might want to deal with such a menace, he was tighter than a clam. All he would give me was some rot about their attacks on our slave ships being beneficial. Doesn’t he damn well realise we are at war?’

  ‘Then I may have some glad tidings for you, sir,’ replied Taylor. ‘I believe we have discovered the intelligence you seek. There is indeed a French privateer in these waters, named the Passe Partout. She is an ex-slaver, fitted out with a dozen cannon and a substantial crew. She was in Freetown not four days ago, flying American colours, although there is barely a man aboard who is not French. Once she had watered and taken on some supplies, with this Ludlam’s permission, she left. Our source tells us she headed eastwards down the coast.’

  ‘Mr Taylor!’ exclaimed Clay. ‘You have me quite taken aback. How in the name of creation did you learn all of this? Have you gone against Mr Corbett’s instructions and been ashore?’

  ‘All our intelligence gathering was performed from the comfort of the wardroom, sir,’ said Taylor. ‘It was chiefly Mr Armstrong’s doing, but it is a long story. Perhaps I can give you the particulars below, where your servant can relieve you of your coat before you expire? We might then plan how we will track down this privateer over a glass of fresh mango juice.’

  *****

  A week had passed, and the Titan still searched for the illusive French privateer. She sailed over a sea that changed from azure to the most brilliant of sky blues as it washed towards the white sand that lined the shore. Beyond the beach was Africa, massive and green. The coastline that slid past their port side seemed empty of human life. Only the occasional remains of long abandoned villages hinted at the thriving population that had lived here once. Beyond the last abandoned hut, thick, tangled forest sprung up. Dark and mysterious, it stretched endlessly away into the interior.

  ‘We have another of those river estuaries coming up on the larboard bow, sir,’ reported Midshipman Butler. The teenager was a little out of breath, and sweat coursed down his face. He had run the length of the ship from his position on the forecastle. Lieutenant Preston looked on him with a kindly eye. Eighteen months ago that would have been me, he thought, having to run about in this heat. Now I am a lieutenant, able to stand where I choose, in the shade of the mizzen sails.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Butler,’ he replied. ‘Would you care to take the launch in to reconnoitre the river? You may find the air a little cooler close to the sea.’ The teenager brightened at the prospect.

  ‘Why yes, sir, I should like that above all things. A most agreeable diversion. I shall go and fetch my spy glass and dirk.’

  The Titan’s launch was the second biggest of her four boats. With a small mast stepped, and mainsail and jib drawing well, she quickly left the ship’s side and headed across the rolling sea towards the land. Butler settled into the stern sheets and let his hand trail in the water. It was delightful to feel the coolness that rushed between his fingers and soaked upwards into his sleeve. He was sat next to Sedgwick, who had the helm, while the rest of the crew handled the sheets and sails. How wonderful to be away from the frigate, he thought. Aboard the Titan I am the most junior of officers, while out here I am as good as a captain. Cool sea water splashed up from the waves as the boat skimmed on her way, and a fresh wind flowed across them. Butler looked over his shoulder at the stately frigate as she sailed along under easy sail spread on her soaring masts. Then he returned his attention to the land that was now rapidly approaching.

  ‘Ah, now this is the life,’ he sighed, to no one in particular. The crew of the launch smiled at his high spirits. The one exception was Sedgwick, who leant forward in the boat with a frown of disapproval.

  ‘Where are your eyes, Rodgers?’ he demanded. ‘Ain’t you seen that boat up ahead?’

  ‘Sorry, Cox,’ replied the sailor at the jib sheet. ‘Boat ahoy, Mr Butler. Fine on the bow. She looks to be some manner of dugout.’

  ‘Signs of life at long last!’ exclaimed the midshipman. ‘I had begun to wonder if anyone lived here at all.’

  ‘There was no end of folk here once, all along the coast, sir,’ said Sedgwick. ‘Mind, that were afore all them slavers came. Them as is left have shifted far inland.’

  ‘I dare say they have,’ said Butler. He loosened his dirk in its scabbard. ‘See if you can take these two we have found unawares. It is possible they may know something.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Sedgwick. He ran the launch down towards the dugout. There were two figures in the crudely carved canoe. One was a powerfully built man in his prime and the second was a much younger boy. Both were naked apart from cloth kilts tied around their waists. They were so intent on pulling in their fishing net that they missed the approach of the sailors completely. It was only when Sedgwick brought the boat smartly up into the wind beside them with a volley of flapping canvas that they looked around in wide-eyed surprise. The young man let out a cry, dro
pped the net and grabbed for his paddle.

  ‘Clap onto the canoe there,’ ordered Butler. Several arms reached across and pulled the two boats together.

  ‘It’s all right, lads,’ said one of the crew, seeing the two men’s terror. ‘We ain’t no slavers.’ He smiled widely to reassure them, an effect largely spoiled by the many sinister gaps amongst his teeth.

  ‘Might you be able to converse with them, Sedgwick?’ asked Butler. ‘Reassure them, and see what they know. You did proceed from these parts originally, did you not?’

  ‘That were ten year ago now, sir, but I can try.’ He started to talk, the words returning to him haltingly at first. Both men grinned with relief and spoke rapidly in return. ‘They ain’t from the same tribe as me, but their lingo be close enough, sir. I have told them that we aren’t slavers, and that we shall let them go with their catch as long as they answer our questions truthful like.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Butler. ‘Ask them if they have any knowledge of the Passe Partout?’ Sedgwick spoke again. He turned to point over his shoulder towards the distant frigate. Both men followed his arm, and then spoke excitedly. The younger one pointed towards the beach emphatically with his paddle.

  ‘I said as how we was searching for a ship, like the Titan but smaller, that may have passed this way, sir. They both say they saw one here yesterday, but they ran away from it because they thought it were a slaver. They beached their canoe and fled inland and only returned to collect it again this morning.’

  ‘Yesterday, eh? That’s capital!’ exclaimed the midshipman. ‘We are getting close at last.’ Sedgwick then spoke some more with the men. To Butler he seemed more animated, as he pointed to himself and then to the coast ahead. In response the older man shook his head and said a few words back, his tone sad.

  ‘What did you ask them?’ said Butler.

  ‘Just for some more details of the area, sir,’ said the coxswain. ‘I learnt nothing of note.’