A Sea Unto Itself (23 page)

“We keep the men from the women when we can, you see,” the jailer explained. “It leads to trouble otherwise.” He made no move to open the cells.

“How civilized of you,” said Charles, and reached for the man’s belt to snatch up his keys. These he tossed to Augustus. “The two women and the white man,” he said.

“But I ain’t been paid for them,” the jailer protested.

Charles wanted nothing more than to be out of this stinking hellhole as quickly as possible. “How much do you get for three prisoners a day?”

“A quid each.” The reply came quickly.

“No you don’t,” Charles said. “I’ll give you six-pence for the lot and call that generous.”

“Two shillings,” the man insisted. “I got expenses.”

“One shilling, and if you argue with me any further I’ll lock you in with them when I go.” When he saw that Jones and the women were free, he tossed the man a coin, and hurried outside. In the sunshine, he took several deep breaths to cleanse his lungs.

“Captain Edgemont, as I recall,” Jones said, brushing at some filth on his jacket. “Did the Admiralty send you? What the hell took so long? I’ve been waiting a month already.”

The American was a dark-haired, rugged-looking man of middle height whom Charles guessed to be in his late thirties or early forties, although it was difficult to be sure. “My ship has only just arrived. I’ve orders to provide transport for yourself and your companions to the Red Sea,” he answered. “The idea may have originated with a certain Viscount Effington I met with in London.”

“Ah, Freddy,” Jones said, apparently more concerned with the state of his clothes than anything else. “I do odd jobs for him on the occasion. Somewhat nervous in temperament, but the only one worth a fig in London.”

“And how did you find yourself in prison? Really, bigamy?”

“An unfortunate misunderstanding,” Jones answered offhandedly. “The authorities hereabouts are a gaggle of crab-assed, myopic, puritans. Beside, I’ve been in worse places.”

The older of the two women, whom Charles had understood to be the only Mrs. Jones, stood disapprovingly silent. The younger, an attractive, delicate-looking brunette he remembered as Constance, spoke indignantly. “If that sodding turnkey came in to paw me one more time I was going to hand him his balls.” She lifted her skirt and petticoats above her knee and came up with a slender nine-inch dagger. “I need to pee,” she added.

“There are facilities on board ship, I’m sure,” Jones said. “Cross your legs.” He turned to Charles. “We must hurry; there is not a moment to lose. You are prepared to sail? We must be away on the tide.”

Charles opened his mouth but Mrs. Jones spoke first. “You are always in such a rush. We shall proceed to our lodgings for the luggage, Adolphus. Constance may attend to her wants there. Then we can sail.”

This was agreed to. The carriage clip-clopped off in the direction indicated by Mrs. Jones with repeated urgings to hurry from Constance.

“Why such an urgency to depart?” Charles asked as they rattled along. “I’ve spoken to the port admiral and the governor. Neither considers the French any threat to India. Even the Admiralty is divided on the subject.”

Jones looked at him incredulously. “No threat? Of course there’s a threat, a deathly serious threat. That the dim thinkers of Cape Town find the notion inconvenient does not mean that it will not be attempted.”

Charles remained skeptical. “But why?” he said. “This General Bonaparte has only just secured Egypt. The door to any reinforcement from France has been shut by Admiral Nelson. He has not only destroyed their fleet but now blockades Alexandria. Why would the general, as intelligent as he is said to be, further extend himself to India? I should think he has enough on his plate where he is.”

“Think, man,” Jones goaded impatiently. “Use your head for once. You ask why Bonaparte would attack India. Ask yourself this, why did he invade Egypt: For the sand? For the trinkets of the Pharaohs? There is nothing in Egypt of the slightest interest to Paris. But India is different. The loss of the colonies on the subcontinent would cripple your government and destroy the economy. The value of Egypt, the only value of Egypt, is as a stepping stone to India.”

“Still,” Charles argued, “there’s no point to it. Bonaparte could have no hope of supply apart from what he might capture or loot. Even if British forces were defeated he couldn’t hold the place. Why would he make such an effort with no hope of success?”

“What is success?” Jones said patronizingly. “The French, I am sure, have no intention of occupying anything as large and fractious as India. They have no need to; success is throwing the English out. The place can go to hell after that for all they care. I doubt this little man Bonaparte seriously intends remaining in Egypt once the greater object is accomplished. You must think strategically. It’s not winning every battle that matters; it’s which battles you win. Even the complete loss of their expeditionary force in exchange for cutting away India would be considered a capital bargain in Paris. A general as capable as Napoleon understands this; the pooh bahs in London do not.”

Reluctantly Charles had to admit that Jones’s argument carried weight if one looked at it that way. He had a further objection. “It is well known that Tippu Sahib would be France’s strongest ally. The governor-general in Bombay had decided on war against Mysore. Surely that changes everything.”

“It changes nothing,” Jones snorted derisively. “I doubt the army in India has a competent general among their ranks. But, I grant you, suppose by some miracle they were to suppress Mysore. If not Tippu, it will be someone else. There is little love for the British Empire anywhere in that region. I tell you, even five thousand veteran French grenadiers would make hash of your colonial forces. Mark you this,” he said firmly, “whatever General Bonaparte does is planned to the last detail. The man is a genius; his methods are always well considered. Of course the French will attempt India, and they will do so sooner rather than later, you may count on it. There is no time to lose; we must sail immediately.”

“We will have to complete our re victualing first,” Charles answered dryly. “It is a little known fact that navy ships require food and water for long cruises.”

They came to a halt in front of a nondescript building along a narrow dirt side street. With Augustus’ and Charles’ assistance, a small mountain of trunks and other baggage were carried out and heaped onboard. With just enough space for the women, the carriage started again, groaning its way toward the waterfront. The men followed on foot.

Charles had asked Sykes to bring the jollyboat and its crew to the dockside at noon, the hour at which he expected to return. It now being mid-afternoon he found the midshipman sitting on a bollard whittling on a stick, but saw no sign of his boat, or Cassandra, either at her former anchorage or closer to in the harbor.

“She’s been moved to the victualing wharf, sir,” Sykes explained. “It’s only just around that bend yonder. As you can easily walk, I thought it best to send the boat back.”

Charles introduced the midshipman to Jones and the two women. Sykes, he noticed, eyed Constance admiringly and greeted her with sputtered enthusiasm. Good luck to you there, Charles thought.

A short way, with the carriage following, brought them to his ship, moored fore and aft to bollards on the dock. Charles was pleased to see numbers of Cape Town’s marines lined along the wharf to prevent desertions. Hogsheads of foodstuffs, livestock, and casks of fresh water were being assembled alongside, there to be swayed across. They boarded by means of a gangway. He repeated the introductions to the other ship’s officers. The elder of the Mrs. Jones promptly announced, “I am fatigued and wish to retire. If you would show me to our cabin, please.”

Charles had considered this problem earlier, without reaching a conclusion. There were, of course, no spare cabins on Cassandra. Indeed, there was hardly any free space between decks even to swing a hammock. There was the women’s privacy to be considered and, where Constance was concerned, the safety of his crew. The most suitable accommodation on board was his own quarters. He hated to give it up. The only real alternative being to turn over two or even three of the wardroom cabins. That would mean displacing a similar number of his officers to the already cramped gunroom where they would have to berth with the midshipmen.

“I’m sure the captain’s cabin will suit, my dear,” Jones announced airily. “It will be a little cramped, but we must all make sacrifices.”

Charles racked his brain one last time to find an alternative, without success. He observed Bevan grinning at his discomfort. “Of course,” he said, surrendering to the inevitable. “Mr. Sykes, if you would be so good as to show the way.”

The moment the Jones’ departed, he turned to his lieutenants. “Daniel, I will be pleased to accept your gracious offer of the loan of your cabin. You may have Winchester’s smaller one. Stephen, you are awarded Beechum’s palatial accommodations; and you, Mr. Beechum, have the honor of berthing with the midshipmen.” No one seemed pleased with this change of arrangements, which gave Charles some small satisfaction.

The supplies of water, firewood and foodstuffs were completed by midmorning the next day. The damaged mizzen boom had been quickly replaced and re-rigged. Only then was Cassandra kedged back into the harbor where the required powder and shot were lightered out and stowed away. Late in the afternoon, as the last of the shot were lowered into their lockers, Admiral Cobbham had himself ferried out and climbed aboard.

“I want to express my thanks for the promptness with which our needs were attended to,” Charles said sincerely.

“Only too pleased, don’t you know?” Cobbham answered. “I’ve only come over to wish you luck and a speedy voyage, eh? Mrs. C. and Arabella were hoping that you’ll call to dinner when you’re next back this way. Perhaps you’ll bring along your officers, what? Any single?”

“I would be honored, sir, and I am sure I speak for my two unmarried lieutenants as well. Please convey my fondest regards to your wife and daughter.”

Midshipmen Hitch and Aviemore, who had overheard this conversation, stood smartly by the entry port as Cobbham descended. They passed the remainder of the evening with an ‘eh,’ or ‘what,’ or ‘don’t you know’ at the tail of every sentence until Charles snapped at them to stop it.

At dawn the next morning, at the start of the run of the tide, Cassandra weighed her anchor. A brilliant late-summer sun warmed the air, the barren crags at the tip of southern Africa receding over the aft port side quarter. With an increasingly brisk beam wind they weathered the Cape of Good Hope before noon and Cape Agulhas, the true southernmost extremity of the continent, by nightfall.

Charles spent the day pacing the quarterdeck, unwilling to return to the closet-sized space that was now his cabin, attempting to untangle what he might actually find when he arrived at the mouth of the Red Sea.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Captain Charles Edgemont stood on the windward side of his quarterdeck looking out at the rugged heights of the mountains of Yemen, hard and deeply ravined, on the southern tip of the Arabian Peninsula. At their base, almost as if resting on the sea, he could just see the port of Aden. If he used his glass, he could make out the shapes of the whitewashed, flat-roofed buildings in the town. The sky stood an unbroken expanse of deep blue, shaded darker in the east, a blaze of blood-orange sun settling into the horizon off the bow. A golden highway reflected across the wave tops in a line, as straight as any rule, connecting living ship and dying light. He felt a twinge of anticipation that the end of the long voyage lay just a day ahead.

Fifty-one days from Cape Town, he calculated. Cassandra had made good progress northward following the so-called ‘inner channel’ between Madagascar and the African mainland in order to avoid any possibility of running afoul of French naval forces based at Mauritius. More particularly, it was one hundred and thirty-three days since they had weighed anchor in Chatham dockyard, and eleven more-as if he hadn’t counted them-since he had parted from Penny at their home in Tattenall. Four and a half months had passed since he had heard anything of her. She must have given birth by now. He found it troubling that he could no longer see her face before his eyes or hear her laughter whenever he chose to do so, but the image would come to him unbidden when his mind was elsewhere, sometimes with startling clarity, leaving a void as it faded. He had learned not to dwell on the subject unduly, else there was no bottom to the well of self-pity he would fall into. He forced his attention on the sails, full bellied, and braced around sharply to catch the wind. He saw nothing amiss that he should call to Bevan’s attention, so he decided to speak with the master instead. “Mr. Cromley, a word if you please,” he said crossing the deck.

“Sir?” Cromley answered from his customary place near the binnacle.