A Man of No Country Page 8

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  The lower deck of the Titan was a content place later that evening. It was an open space that ran from the officers’ quarters abaft the main mast in an uninterrupted sweep of deck a hundred feet long and almost forty feet wide. True, the main deck above the men’s heads was uncomfortably low for all but the smallest members of the crew, but once they were seated at the mess tables that ran down both sides of the ship, as they were now, even the enormous Sam Evans could sit comfortably. The lower deck was placed right down on the water line, which meant that only a trickle of natural light reached the men through the gratings from the world above, but on the other hand the glow from the lines of lanterns provided a warm, flattering light. The murmur of the crew’s talk mingled pleasingly with the sound of the waves as they surged against the ship’s sides a matter of inches from where they sat. A good dinner had been consumed by the men, the quality enhanced by fresh produce taken on board at Gibraltar. All seemed right in their world.

  At the third table back from the main mast, port side, was a companionable group of men. They sat facing each other and swayed to and fro on their benches in time with the motion of the ship as they worked at various activities. Sedgwick had his journal out and was copying in fair hand a passage he had scrawled out earlier in pencil on a scrap of paper. O’Malley sat across from him and tuned his fiddle, holding the smooth brown wood to his ear as he thrummed the strings. Trevan was at work with his clasp knife, and was carving a piece of oak, making deft little cuts and then blowing to clear away the dust. Evans was sewing, his thick fingers awkward as a hand of bananas as they gripped the tiny needle. He wanted to add a little more embroidery to his already magnificent shore going shirt. He looked up from his work as the door of the wardroom swung open for a moment, and yet another roar of laughter echoed forward through the ship.

  ‘Them Grunters are celebrating in style, and no mistake,’ he said. ‘They sound like they’re already as pissed as clergy. I mean, I get that it were a neat trick Pipe pulled off on the Dons this morning, but do it really warrant a roister like what they’re having?’ The other sailors sat around the mess table looked up from their various activities to stare at the Londoner. ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Are you not knowing what fecking day it is?’ demanded O’Malley.

  ‘It’s Sunday of course,’ said Evans. ‘I’m hardly likely to have missed that, what with us having a make and mend afternoon.’

  ‘What else about it?’ continued the Irishman.

  ‘Eh, it were a bit foggy first thing? Turned out nice later?’

  ‘Have you heard of New Year’s fecking Eve at all?’ suggested O’Malley, rolling his eyes at the others.

  ‘Really?’ said Evans. ‘What, today? Are you sure? I could have bleeding sworn it were only last week that we was having plum duff for dinner on account of it being Yuletide.’

  ‘So it was, Sam,’ said Trevan. ‘The one generally follows t’other fairly sharp like.’ The Londoner counted on his tattooed figures, got as far as the ‘F’ of fast and smiled at his friends.

  ‘You’re right,’ he announced, and set aside his shirt. ‘New Year’s Eve, eh? What are we about, all sitting round the table like a bunch of village widows? We should be having a bash ourselves. Why don’t you play your fiddle, Sean, and let’s have a hornpipe.’

  ‘Well that sounds grand and all, but we’re back on watch in less than an hour,’ said O’Malley.

  ‘That’s plenty of time,’ insisted Evans. He turned around on his stool to address the wider deck. ‘Hey, lads, it’s the last bleeding night of the year. Who fancies a dance?’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said Peter Hobbs, a lanky young top man at the next table, known for the unusual grace of his hornpipe. Other figures rose from their seats around the deck and moved towards the open area under the main hatchway where the headroom was a little more generous.

  ‘Will you look at what you’ve started?’ sighed O’Malley. He picked up his fiddle, rose to his feet and called across the deck to a fellow musician as he did so. ‘Hoy, Brendan! Have you got your drum to hand, at all?’

  Before long several lanterns had been moved to illuminate the open area of deck. To one side sat O’Malley on a mess stool, his violin poised beneath his chin. Opposite him sat Brendan with his small drum clasped between his knees. Both men stamped a foot several times to agree a rhythm, glanced across to one another, and the drummer produced a thunderous beat through which O’Malley stitched a waterfall of rapid notes. Soon the deck was alive with a spinney of graceful bodies, each one twirling and stamping on the spot in the flickering light. Those who watched in the circle of spectators kept the time by clapping their hands, or threw in the odd cry of appreciation as a particularly fine step was successfully executed, while others waited their chance to join the dancing.

  Sedgwick watched the dancers too. His head moved in time to the music, but his expression was far away and tinged with sadness. Trevan noticed the look and pushed his way to his side.

  ‘You alright there, Able, lad?’ he said. ‘You looked proper melancholy just now.’

  ‘I do love a good hornpipe, but when I hear people dancing to the sound of a drum, it is hard for me not to think of home. I have just been writing about those times, and even the noise of bare feet on the deck takes me back.’

  ‘Was it a good place, your village, like?’

  ‘No, not really,’ said the coxswain. ‘Some huts in the middle of fields, between the forest and the river. Nothing to mark it out.’

  ‘Mind, I always hold as it’s the people what makes a place tolerable or no,’ said the Cornishman. ‘There be no end of villages as is grand enough in the way of stone houses and a fancy church an’ all, but if the squire and the parson are right arses it don’t signify any. Ships can be the same. Good grunters and decent shipmates is what matter, more than fine paint and fancy scrollwork and the like. Was your home neighbourly, like?’

  ‘In its way it was. Most of the people there were relatives of some degree, uncles and aunts, cousins and the like.’

  ‘You reckon as you will ever go back home?’ Sedgwick shook his head.

  ‘What to, Adam?’ he said. ‘There will be little left. The tribe that attacked my village destroyed everything. The old were all done for, and the young like me were taken away to be sold to the slavers on the beach. There ain't nothing for me there now.’

  ‘That’s proper sad, mate,’ said Trevan. He patted his friend on the arm. ‘When it comes to settle down, once this war is done, you can always come back to the village that me and my Molly hail from. There be always work for a fisherman or a strong pair of hands, although what folks will make of a Negro, I can’t rightly say.’

  ‘Thanks, Adam,’ smiled Sedgwick. ‘You’re a proper mate. But you must let me through now. I need the heads.’ Sedgwick pushed his way through the crowd that ringed the dancers and headed towards the ladder way that led to the deck above. It was true that he did need to relieve himself, but he also did not want his friend to see the moisture that his memories of home had pricked in his eyes.

  On the main deck he made his way forward, ducked under the forecastle and past the galley. The crew’s evening meal had been served some time ago, but the firebox of the abandoned stove still glowed orange in the gloom. Beside him the massive cylinder of the bowsprit sloped up and away through the front of the ship. He followed it out of the low door that opened onto the beak head. Above him the long shaft of wood thrust onwards, while hunched beneath it was the bulging carved muscles and swirling cloth of the ship’s figurehead. Beyond the bowsprit the empty sea spread away from him, pink and calm in the evening light. Through the open basket of head timbers he could see the bow wave below him, endlessly renewed with a hiss as the frigate sliced through the water. To one side the mountains of Spain were a dark bar on the horizon, while above his head the first stars had appeared. He was alone with the beautiful view, and he felt it calm him as it washed away the memories conjured up
by the dancing. He breathed in deep lungfuls of cool evening air as he relieved himself, and then he returned to the main deck, buttoning up his trousers as he came. It was as he returned to the dark of the forecastle that he heard the voices, coming from the other side of the bowsprit.

  ‘I thought you was a bloody mate,’ exclaimed the first voice.

  ‘Sure I am,’ came the reply, calm and reassuring. ‘Which is why I ain’t rushing straight to tell the Grunters, an’ all. You’ve got to think of this just as a little bit of trade. No need to get all hot over such matters. I need some money, and you need me to keep my trap shut. All very simple, when you look on it.’ The first voice said something low and angry that Sedgwick struggled to catch.

  ‘Well, that’s as may be, but I shall not be moved,’ said the second man, who was much closer to where the coxswain stood. ‘I told you straight how much as will satisfy me. It be your business how you gets it. But surely it is no more than a trifle, compared with what will become of you if I tell what I know? Fact is that you will swing if they should find out what you’ve done.’

  ‘Damn your bleeding eyes!’ snarled the first voice, and Sedgwick heard footsteps as they disappeared along the deck. The second man waited in the dark for a moment, and then began to chuckle to himself. It was that laugh which allowed Sedgwick to place him. It was Daniel Oates, the shy little volunteer from Bristol.

  Chapter 5

  The Fisherman’s Gift

  Alexander Clay looked up at the yellow and red flag of Spain that streamed out from the masthead, and then returned his attention to the coast of that country. The fog off Cartagena was several days behind them now, and it was a crisp, clear January morning. The distant shore swung round in a great sweep till it ended in the long finger of Cape de La Nao. Beyond lay the wide gulf of Valencia, and the next naval base on their list to reconnoitre. Lieutenant Taylor stood beside him and eyed the flag with unease.

  ‘Do you hold such a ruse de guerre will be effective, sir?’ he asked. ‘By rights we should have one of those big wooden crosses hauled up to the peak if we truly wanted to pass off as a Don.’

  ‘They generally do not fool many, I grant you, but given we are the first Royal Navy vessel to be seen in these waters for ten months now, the native shipping may have grown less wary,’ he replied. ‘If it serves to confuse a possible prize long enough for us to get close, then it will have achieved its object. I had hoped that we might surprise some of the coastal trade as it attempts to round this cape.’ Taylor glanced up towards the lookout who stood on the fore royal arm, high above the deck. The sailor was alert as he scanned the horizon with one hand shading his eyes while the other rested on the mast beside him. He fixed on something, and then after a brief moment he turned his head towards them.

  ‘Deck there! Sail ho!’ he yelled.

  ‘Where away?’ shouted Taylor.

  ‘Full on the bow, sir,’ came the reply.

  ‘Let us get the topgallants on her, and see if we can contrive to slip a little closer,’ said Clay. ‘Mr Russell, kindly take a glass aloft and see what you make of the chase.’ The midshipman ran for the main shrouds and bounded up them with the agility of an ape.

  ‘She looks to be a big merchantman, sir,’ he reported, once he had regained his breath. ‘Might be a snow from the size of her. Spanish colours, and steady on her course.’

  ‘Long may that continue,’ said Preston, who was officer of the watch, as he rubbed his hands. ‘A heavily laden snow will bring in a bob or two of prize money.’

  ‘Deck there!’ yelled Russell. ‘She has hauled her wind, sir.’

  ‘Ah, not wholly taken in by our Spanish flag then,’ muttered Taylor. ‘Please God she should hesitate a while longer.’

  ‘I wonder if she will be carrying any bladders of quicksilver, sir,’ said the young lieutenant.

  ‘What a curious cargo to expect, Mr Preston,’ said Clay. ‘What makes you imagine that she might?’

  ‘I have no certain intelligence, sir,’ replied the lieutenant. ‘But do you remember Mr Knight, the boatswain on the old Agrius? He told me he was once involved in the capture of a Spanish snow bound for the Americas. When they searched the hold they found she was full of these curious bladders, packed in straw. The men thought they might be wine skins and knifed a few to sample the contents. They had the shock of their lives when all this liquid metal poured out, but it proved to be the finest of prizes. The men got paid over thirty guineas a head. Apparently quicksilver is more valuable than treasure, though why I have no notion.’

  ‘That is because it is needed to draw gold dust from pay dirt, Mr Preston,’ said Armstrong. ‘She will have been bound for the mines of New Granada and Peru.’

  ‘Deck there!’ yelled Russell. ‘She has gone about now and is busy clapping on more sail, sir.’

  ‘Not a farthing until we catch our prize, Mr Preston,’ said Clay. ‘Let us get the courses on her, and replace that flag with our own.’

  Old Amos, the Titan’s impassive quartermaster, stood at his place at the helm while his jaw worked on a piece of tobacco. He eased the wheel first one way and then the other with each wave that battered the frigate’s bow as her speed increased, all the time keeping the compass needle steady on the course he had been given. During his many years of service he had developed the ears of a pipistrelle when it came to overhearing officers’ conversations. He glanced across at his friend Josiah, the silver-haired captain of the afterguard, and raised a single grey eyebrow, which was sufficient to summon him across. He turned his head and spat his quid into the spittoon by the wheel with long practiced accuracy, and then addressed his friend out of the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Grunters say this chase has some manner of silver aboard,’ he muttered. ‘Forty guineas a man prize money.’ Josiah’s eyes widened with greed for a moment, and he sauntered away to rejoin his men.

  ‘Get that mizzen topsail drawing proper,’ he growled. ‘The ship we’re after is stuffed with loot.’ It took no more than five minutes for word of mouth to spread the news from the back of the quarterdeck to the top men high up on the foremast.

  ‘Cut the fecking thing if you have too,’ urged O’Malley, as he leant over the fore royal yard to remonstrate with his friend. ‘That treasure ship is after getting away from us. Haven’t you heard? Packed with ingots of gold, so she is, enough to set every man jack of us up for life.’

  ‘I am doing my best, Sean,’ muttered Trevan as he worked at the stubborn knot. His long blonde pigtail whipped around his face in the keen breeze.

  ‘What are you doing, Trevan, you Cornish bastard!’ yelled Josh Black, the captain of the foretop, and one of the Titan’s less patient petty officers. ‘Don’t you like fucking money?’ The rest of the men spread out along the yard growled in agreement, while the whole foremast circled in the air as the frigate raced through the water.

  ‘Got it, Mr Black,’ cried Trevan as the knot came free at last.

  ‘Let fall the sail,’ roared Black, then turned his head to address the tiny foreshortened figure of Lieutenant Preston a hundred and thirty feet below him. ‘Ready to sheet home, sir.’

  ‘About bloody time!’ came drifting up from below.

  The two sailors had a perfect view of the chase as they caught their breath, perched at the top of the frigate’s lofty foremast. The only substantial cable that might have impeded their view was the forestay, but it was below their feet as it dropped down, as steep as a church spire, towards the bowsprit of the ship far below. Five miles of green water away lay the bulky shape of the snow. She had every sail she possessed spread on her twin masts, each of which was almost as tall as those of the Titan’s. Together they drove her big hull surging through the water. Her round bow tossed the sea far on either side and she left a churned band of white behind her.

  ‘So do you think we will catch her at all?’ asked O’Malley. Trevan judged the distance still to go to the cape of land that now filled the horizon ahead of them with its tall cliffs an
d sucked in his cheeks.

  ‘I don’t rightly know, Sean,’ he said. ‘We be a good three knots swifter by my reckoning, but that there land is mighty close. Over yonder is where she’ll be bound. See that cove there?’ O’Malley looked at where his friend was pointing. He saw a small round bay scooped into the headland. The entrance was dominated by the stone walls of a coastal battery built high up on top of the cliffs that formed the sides of the little bay. Above the crenulated parapet the flag of Spain fluttered in the breeze. The two men watched the chase for another few minutes, until an indignant shout from Black ordered them back down on deck. By that time it was clear that the Titan would lose the race.

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  ‘That is close enough, Mr Preston,’ said Clay. ‘Bring her up into the wind and get the royals and courses off her.’ The last ranging shot from the Spanish battery had skipped across the water, kicking up a chain of splashes as it came. The final one was a bare hundred yards from the frigate’s side. Clay saw the dirty white ball of smoke from the cannon that had fired drift away on the sea breeze, while from the middle of the battery he could see a more persistent column of darker smoke that slanted away in a brown feather against the sky.

  ‘They’re heating shot up there, sir,’ said Taylor. ‘Against the prospect of us chancing our arm and going in after that snow.’

  ‘I am afraid so,’ said Clay. ‘I have only once been subject to such a bombardment, when I was third in the Minerva back at the start of the war. Red hot cannon balls make an ill companion for a wooden ship.’ He opened his telescope and examined the little bay ahead. The snow had rounded to and dropped anchor now, close under the protection of the battery on the headland above her. As he watched, the last of her sails disappeared, to leave her bare spars and rigging like black pencil strokes against the red cliffs behind her. What a shame, thought Clay. She would be easy enough to cut out with the ship’s boats, if only the guns were not there. He examined the battery with care. It was high up and inaccessible on top of its cliff. He could see tiny figures clustered beside the guns. Off to one side stood the lone figure of an officer. The sunlight flashed briefly off him. At first Clay thought it must be the braid of his uniform, but when he looked closer he could see that the Spaniard too had a telescope, and was examining the frigate.