A Man of No Country Page 7

  ‘Has he indeed?’ mused Clay. ‘Yes, Mr Preston?’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, but one of the lookouts reports he can hear something on the larboard beam,’ said the lieutenant. ‘He thought it might be some manner of ship-board noise.’ The officers moved across to that side of the deck and listened. Clay placed his head on one side. After a few moments, from somewhere high in the fog came the sound of a slight squeal.

  ‘What was that?’ he asked.

  ‘It sounded a little like a line passing through a poorly greased block,’ speculated Taylor. ‘And I think I can hear voices now, sir.’ The three men listened again. After a moment there came another sound.

  ‘That was the flap of a topsail, sir, or I have never heard one,’ said Preston.

  ‘It is damned hard to distinguish between the noise of the Titan and this newcomer,’ said Clay. ‘I am almost persuaded that I can hear the sound of a hull passing through the water, but it is quite possible I am just listening to our own progress. Thick mist can play very odd tricks on one.’ The officers continued to listen, and a little later a ship’s bell sounded clear in the fog.

  ‘That was no trick, sir,’ said Preston. ‘But I could have sworn it came from the other side of the ship, over there.’ The bell had only just stopped when a second bell rang out much farther away, followed by others all around them.

  ‘Christ, it must be a fleet!’ exclaimed Taylor. ‘We’re right in the middle of them, sir.’

  ‘I counted six separate ships, sir,’ said Preston.

  ‘Mr Taylor, make sure our own bell is not sounded,’ ordered Clay. ‘I want the ship to be as silent as possible. Lookouts are to report in person, not by hailing.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied Taylor.

  ‘Mr Preston, turn up the watch below and man the guns. In absolute silence, if you please.’

  ‘Shall I have the ship cleared for action, sir?’ Clay thought about this for a moment.

  ‘No, that would make too much noise,’ he replied. ‘But do have the galley fire put out. We would not want a stray shot to set us ablaze.’

  Clay paced the deck, his hands clasped behind him as he pondered what to do, while all around him the crew crept to their places in silence, like naughty children worried about waking an irritable parent. Keep calm, he urged himself, don’t let the people see you are worried. All is well at present; the ship is safe for now. But what had Armstrong said about these fogs, that they barely lasted? He looked up furtively. Was he imagining it, or could he already see a lot more of the ship’s upper masts, and did the dome of fog start to have a silvery look as the sun worked on it from above? He stared around him into the mist. On the side that they had heard the first ship a dark shadow seemed to loom up. He looked out on the other beam, but there was no escape in that direction. The first ship’s bell had come from that side, and here, too, he could see a shape in the fog. The Titan would be caught between the two ships as soon as the fog lifted. What should he do? Think, man think. Then he stopped midstride as the idea came to him.

  ‘Mr Armstrong, how long is it since the lookout first reported hearing noises?’ he asked. The ship’s master consulted the rough log that hung by the wheel.

  ‘Eight minutes ago, sir,’ he replied.

  ‘And yet the ships about us have neither closed nor moved away,’ mused Clay. ‘So they must be on a similar course and doing much the same speed.’

  ‘That is not so very strange, sir, said Armstrong. ‘If they are a squadron bound for Cartagena like us, there is only one line of approach with this wind that will clear St. Anna point at the harbour entrance. We have probably been overhauling them little by little through much of the night.’

  ‘Did you hear all those bells earlier?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the master. ‘Like Mr Preston, I heard six vessels.’

  ‘Where did you place them?’

  ‘One on either beam, sir, the rest ahead.’

  ‘None astern, then?’ asked Clay.

  ‘Not that I heard, sir.’ He turned to his other officers.

  ‘Did any of you hear a ship’s bell behind us?’ he asked. They all shook their heads.

  ‘My thanks, gentlemen,’ said the captain. ‘That is what I heard too, but this fog can addle the mind. I wanted to have it confirmed.’

  ‘Shall we haul our wind then, sir?’ asked Taylor. ‘We could let these ships sail on none the wiser that we were ever present.’ Clay looked at his first lieutenant, who spotted a well remembered twinkle deep in his pale grey eyes. ‘What are you considering, sir?’ he sighed.

  ‘I was thinking that we might have a little entertainment first, before we disappear back into the fog,’ he said. He turned to his other officers. ‘Mr Blake, can I trouble you to have both batteries double shotted and the guns run out? But it must be done as quietly as you are able. There is a ship on either flank, which shall be your targets. When I give the order you are to fire both broadsides together and then secure the guns. Is that clear?’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied the lieutenant.

  ‘Now, Mr Preston, you are to take charge of the sails. Have men posted in the rigging ready to act. The moment the guns fire, I want every sail taken in so the ship will lose her way in a flash. After that we will sit as quiet as possible. Get to your positions, gentlemen.’

  ‘Sir, have you considered that the ships around us might not be enemies?’ asked Taylor. Actually this possibility had not occurred to Clay, but he was committed now.

  ‘I had, but I hold it to be most unlikely,’ he said, as calmly as he was able. ‘We are the only Royal Navy ship that the admiral has sent into the Mediterranean. No, they are Dons for sure, this close to their naval base at Cartagena, or perhaps French. Either way it is our duty to make them uncomfortable.’ From the main deck he heard the low rumble of gun carriages as they were eased across the deck, accompanied by a hiss of whispered commands from the gun captains. The two officers moved to one side as a rush of top men flowed past and raced up the shrouds. A curtain of dislodged moisture from the vibrating ropes pattered down on the deck as they disappeared through the ceiling of mist above the quarterdeck. After a while Midshipman Butler came hurrying up the companion ladder.

  ‘Mr Blake’s compliments, and the guns are ready to fire, sir,’ he muttered.

  ‘Very good, Mr Butler,’ he replied. ‘That coat looks to fit you rather better now.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ smiled the youngster. ‘Hart was very helpful, thank you, sir.’

  ‘Mr Preston,’ hissed Clay. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ came the low reply. Clay returned his attention to the midshipman.

  ‘Give my compliments to Mr Blake, and he may fire when ready.’ The young man scampered away, and for a moment the frigate sailed on in its world of silence and fog, with the ships on either side only visible as cliffs of darker shadow. Then Clay heard Blake’s quiet voice.

  ‘Gun captains, are you ready?’ he asked, and then, ‘Both sides, open fire.’ With a colossal roar of sound, orange fire engulfed the ship and walls of smoke shot up into the mist on either side. An instant later came the sound of the two broadsides crashing home in the fog. There was a moment of shocked silence, followed by the screams of the wounded and cries of alarm. From the ship on the starboard side came the sound of yelled orders, while on the other side an indignant voice shouted out a challenge. Clay could make out little of what had been said, but the language was Spanish. From down on the main deck Clay heard Blake continue to issue quiet instructions. ‘Stop your vent, number three cannon. Make sure those guns are properly secured, larboard side.’

  ‘Now, Mr Preston,’ said Clay. A little latter the air above him filled with the sound of whispered orders and the creak of stiff canvas as the sails were gathered in. More curtains of drips pattered down through the fog as the way came off the frigate. Clay walked forwards to the front of the quarterdeck and stared into the fog. The ship on the port side seemed to have recovered from the ma
ss of shot that had appeared out of the mist. He could hear the roar of a drum as the crew went to quarters, the sound advancing ahead of the slowing Titan.

  ‘I don’t think they can have seen us falling behind, sir,’ said Taylor.

  ‘We only have bare poles to show now,’ said Clay. ‘You would need keen eyes to spot us in this gloom.’

  The dark shadows of the two ships dissolved away as they continued to advance ahead of them, but sound still travelled through the damp air. From both ships they could hear the distinctive noise as port lids were banged open, and the rumble of heavy cannon being run out.

  ‘It was hard to tell in the fog, but they looked like ships of the line to me, sir,’ said Taylor.

  ‘The one on the larboard side appeared to be the bigger of the two,’ added Armstrong, who had joined them at the rail. ‘Three-decker, maybe?’

  ‘Ships of the line?’ laughed Clay. ‘Better and better! What a prodigious mess they will try to make of the enemy who fired on them.’

  ‘Mr Preston’s compliments,’ said Midshipman Russell, ‘and all sail is now off the ship, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Russell,’ said Clay. ‘Now, gentlemen, my hope and expectation is that both of our opponents are busily engaged in a search for the enemy that so rudely fired on them. With the fog continuing to clear they should presently catch sight of one another. I have little doubt that if Mr Blake’s men shot true, they will be spoiling for a fight.’

  There was no sign of either Spanish ship now. The frigate was all alone, drifting along at the centre of a disc of green water with a wall of swirling grey all about them. Armstrong looked up.

  ‘The fog starts to break up, sir,’ he reported. He pointed towards a small patch of blue that had appeared overhead. At that moment a double line of orange flashes lit up the fog in front of them, followed by a roar of noise. Moments later the other ship responded with a broadside of its own.

  ‘Did you ever see the like!’ exclaimed Taylor. ‘The Dons battling with each other! Look at them, hammering away like a pair of fighting cocks!’

  ‘A splendid sight, Mr Taylor, I make no doubt, but we must leave them to it I fear,’ said Clay. ‘With this fog lifting they will soon realise their mistake. I suggest we put some distance between us and them before that should occur.’

  It was only later that morning, when Clay was alone at this desk writing his report on the incident, that the full possibilities of the narrow escape the Titan had survived occurred to him. He found he was sweating at the extraordinary risk he had run. What if the Spanish ships had been better prepared? Or had spotted his ruse, and reduced sail too? Caught in the crossfire between two ships of the line, his frigate would have been quickly overwhelmed. And what had he achieved of value to set against that risk? At best some minor damage to two of his enemy’s ships, which would be quickly repaired, and a few casualties. He glanced across at Lydia, who looked down on him from her portrait, her eyes full of disapproval. Yes, my dear, perhaps I was showing off a trifle, he thought to himself. I will endeavor to be more careful in future.

  *****

  ‘Will you please do me a kindness and shift them paints, sir!’ exclaimed Britton, the Titan’s harassed wardroom steward. ‘If I don’t get these here places set for tonight, Mr Macpherson will be after blood.’ Lieutenant Blake let out a sigh, and lay down his brush on the wardroom table.

  ‘Oh very well,’ he said. ‘I shall stop now, but it is a great shame. I am so very close to achieving a tolerable likeness.’ Britton let out a cry and snatched up the paint brush from the polished wood. He glared first at the tiny blob of paint that had been left behind, and then at the frigate’s second lieutenant.

  ‘Might you oblige me with some of that spirit of wine, what you uses to clean your brushes, sir?’ he asked. ‘It may answer to remove this stain, after a deal of scrubbing.’

  ‘Who was your model, John?’ asked Charles Faulkner, the Titan’s aristocratic purser from the far side of the table. He patted at his auburn curls and twitched at the front of his well tailored coat. ‘If it was me, I trust you employed my superior side.’

  ‘No, not you, Charles,’ smiled Blake. ‘I have been trying to capture the likeness of those members of the crew who possess more interesting features. I started with the boatswain, who makes a fine subject. Every one of his forty years at sea are etched into Mr Hutchinson’s face. Then I progressed to our newest recruit. Tell me, what do you think?’ He turned his board around, and the purser found himself faced by the startling blue eyes and dark face of John Grainger.

  ‘That is very good,’ he said. ‘You really have captured him well. That Moorish hue to his skin, those disconcerting eyes... I can almost feel his underlying sense of mystery. Perhaps it is best if you do not paint me. I am not sure I am quite prepared to have my inner being so exposed. What do you think, Jacob?’

  Armstrong put his book down and came around the table to look at the picture.

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he exclaimed. ‘There certainly is something troubling about that Grainger fellow, and you have it right there in that darn picture. He has a look about him that is, well, not quite civilised.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Blake. He turned the picture back towards himself and tilted it first one way and then another to examine it in the light. ‘Perhaps it needs just a little more shading around the eyes.’ He leant forward to pick up another brush. A cough, close in tone to the bark of an angry dog, stopped him with his hand still in midair. ‘I do beg your pardon, Britton. I was about to pack away, was I not?’

  ‘Yes, sir, you was,’ said the wardroom steward, his arms folded tight. ‘Shall I call for your servant to come and assist with clearing them paints away? That way I may still have some hope of having the table laid this watch.’

  ‘No need,’ said Blake. ‘I shall behave myself now.’ He packed away his painting materials and took them through into his cabin. The picture was left behind on the table. The purser leant forward to examine it more closely.

  ‘What is it that troubles you about the look of our friend Grainger?’ he asked the American.

  ‘I am not entirely sure,’ said Armstrong. ‘I never did wholly buy his curious tale as to how he came to be on that Russian privateer, and we have little notion as to why he should be in the Mediterranean in the first place. I grant you he has some facility with the English tongue, but even my colonial ear can tell what a strange accent he has. Yet it is his manner that truly troubles me. Blake has caught it well in his picture. It is not the first time I have seen that demeanour.’

  ‘Really?’ said the purser. ‘Where have you encountered it before?’

  ‘Back in the Americas,’ said the ship’s master. ‘During the revolution I served in a Loyalist militia. Most of the savages were for the King, too, and we fought alongside a large troop of Mohawk Indians for much of one summer.’

  ‘Was that how you came to be scalped, Jacob?’ asked the purser, indicating his fellow officer’s bald head.

  ‘No, that affected him later,’ laughed Blake, as he returned from his cabin to join them. ‘Have you not noted that all ship’s masters lose their hair in time? It is a consequence of them tearing it out as they puzzle over the indifferent charts the Admiralty supply them.’

  ‘Too true,’ smiled Armstrong. ‘As it happens the Mohawk do indeed pluck out their hair, tuft by tuft, until all that remains is a square on the back of the head, which they braid and decorate. But it is their gaze, so cold and in want of animation, that put me in mind of our friend Grainger. It is a look that shows their true character, pitiless and stern, and quite without compassion. They fought with us that season, but none of us had any illusion they would just as readily fight against us if the wind should shift to another quarter.’

  ‘I once had a creditor with a countenance like that,’ said Faulkner. ‘I was in a spot of bother after a wretched run of ill luck at the card tables and the damned cove turned up with his traps every deuced place I we
nt. I have no notion how he knew where I would be, but the first thing I would see when I stepped down from my carriage was him, standing there just looking at me. His face was as solemn as a judge, every bit as savage as one of your Mohawks.’

  ‘Did you ever manage to repay him, Charles?’ asked Blake.

  ‘Eventually,’ he replied. ‘With some help from my people, which in a curious way is why I am obliged to earn my honest crust as a purser.’

  ‘Now there is a brace of words you seldom encounter together,’ laughed Armstrong. ‘Honest and purser!’

  ‘My route to becoming a purser is strange, I grant you, Jacob,’ said Faulkner. ‘But your path must be curious too. How does a militia man find himself navigating a King’s ship?’

  ‘By rights, I should have taken over my father’s farm in Albany County, if it were not for the damned Yankees,’ he explained. ‘After the war the government gave us compensation and the chance to buy land in Upper Canada, but my people were done with the Americas, and returned to England. I served as the first the mate and then the master of a trading brig my family owned for a while. My father was always at heart a farmer, and in consequence made a very indifferent ship owner, but I fell quite in love with the sea. I had always had some facility with numbers, and I took to navigation as to the manner born. So when the war came I decided to join the navy, heaven help me.’

  ‘Do you ever feel the urge to return home?’ asked the purser. ‘To this Albany County you speak of?’

  ‘It was a fine part of the world Charles, but there is little there for me now. Perhaps that is what truly fascinates me about Grainger. Not what is different between us, but what we share. We are both straws in the wind, both men of no country now.’

  ‘Gentlemen, I shall be obliged if you would vacate the wardroom for a wee while,’ said Macpherson, as he bustled in through the door. He was resplendent in the full dress scarlet of a marine officer, and over his shoulder could be seen the face of the wardroom’s steward. ‘You have vexed poor Britton quite long enough. It is a lovely evening out. Will you not take a diverting turn upon the quarterdeck and let the poor man finalise the preparation of the cabin for our Hogmanay feast?’