A Sea Unto Itself (24 page)

“How long do you reckon before we try the straits?” Ninety miles farther along the coast, the Gulf of Aden narrowed like the waist of an hourglass at the Straits of Mandeb, the entrance to the Red Sea. Mocha, his rendezvous with Admiral Blankett’s squadron, lay only fifty miles or so beyond on the Arabian side. He expected to encounter one or more of Blankett’s force on patrol well before reaching the port.

Cromley answered without hesitation. “It’ll be too late to make the passage tonight.”

“I see,” Charles said. “I take it you do not wish to try the straits in the dark?”

“No, sir, not even with a full moon. It’s not more than fifteen mile across, and that with Perim Island and the Seven Brothers islands and plenty of shoals. It might be attempted for good reason. I wouldn’t advise it unless there were urgent cause.”

Before Charles could respond to this he heard the lookout in the mainmast tops shout down, “Deck! Sail ahead, direct on the bow.” He looked forward, only to shield his eyes against the glare of the sun.

To Winchester, doing his turn as watch officer, he said, “Stephen, who is the sentry at the masthead?”

“George Crowe, I believe.”

“Send up a replacement and have him report on deck, if you please.”

Within moments the seaman Crowe, a deeply tanned man, thin as a stick, with a bowlegged gait, came onto the quarterdeck. He cautiously approached and pressed the knuckles of his fist against his forehead. “Yer sent fer myself, sur?”

“I did. You must have uncommon eyes. How could you see anything into that sun?”

“It weren’t direct in t’ sun, sur. It were just ofter t’ side. If’n yer peer through t’ gaps in yer fingers, yer can see fair keen. ‘Tis a trick I learnt.”

“And very useful it is. What can you tell me about the craft?”

Crowe pulled on his lower lip, then caught himself and scratched at his nose instead. “Well, I’d say they be about as far as yer can see, mebby ten league. T’were only a touch o’ t’eir t’gallants I saw, sur.”

“They? Were there more than one?”

“Might o’ been a pair. I only seen one fer sure. Her masts in a line, braced up tight, bearing away like.”

Charles smiled his appreciation. “I thank you for your alertness, Crowe. You may have the remainder of the watch at liberty as a consequence.”

“T’ank yer, sur,” the seaman knuckled his forehead again and backed away.

“What do you make of it?” Winchester asked. He had been standing nearby, listening intently.

“I’m sure it’s Admiral Blankett’s frigates patrolling the exit to the Red Sea. They seem a fair distance afield though.”

“I would have thought they might have signaled, or run down on us to see who we are,” Winchester offered.

Charles pondered this for a moment. “Possibly we’re at such a distance they didn’t see us.” He had an uncomfortable sense that, with the last of the sunlight before them, Cassandra's sails should have stood out in bright contrast against the darkening sky behind.

*****.

Bevan and Charles stood by the rail of the quarterdeck, the day lit by the just-risen sun. Even in the early morning the heat intruded like an unwanted blanket. The two looked out to where the coastline of the Arabian Peninsula turned away toward the north, the small lump of Perim Island, and the faint line of the African continent hazy in the west. The deep channel into the Red Sea lay on the far side of the island, Cromley had informed him. The entirety of the sea around them, and as far as the lookout in the crosstrees could see, was bare of any shipping.

“Whoever we saw yesterday, they’ve gone on,” Bevan observed. “Up through the straits, most likely.”

Charles thought that much as clear. “Yes,” he said. “But in the night? I would have thought them to lay to and wait for daylight.”

“Maybe they had some pressing need. Could have been in a hurry.”

“What kind of hurry? They’re most likely bound for Mocha. They would have arrived in the middle of the night. There’s no need to risk running upon a reef for that.”

“I don’t know, Charlie,” Bevan said easily. “But it’s clear they didn’t care to dawdle.”

“I suppose so,” Charles said. His feeling of discomfort did not leave.

Cassandra soon came about to put the wind on her beam, her bow cutting through the moderate chop northwestward into the channel. The low, arid form of Perim Island passed to starboard, the desert plateau of Somalia to port. Charles studied the occasional villages along the shore as they passed, miserable mud-and-wattle places with reed roofs set among scrub and palms. Rough fishing smacks lay where they had been pulled up on the beach. As the sun climbed, the air became oppressively warm with a stultifying humidity that brought rivers of sweat at the smallest exertion. He ordered lookouts in all three mastheads to keep a sharp eye for any ships of war, in particular English warships that would be Admiral Blankett’s frigates watching the entrance to the sea. He had even spoken with Sykes about the appropriate salute when this occurred. It did not occur; no ships of any kind were encountered.

Early in the afternoon watch, a substantial walled town, its battlements and towers salmon pink in the shimmering haze, came into view along the Yemeni coast. It the midst of its tightly packed buildings rose a slender minaret and the glistening golden dome of a mosque alongside. Behind, a dun-colored plain stretched eastward to the sharp peaks of mountains in the distance. To Charles it was fantastic, a mysterious scene straight from the Arabian Nights. Of more immediate interest were four European warships at anchor in the roads a mile and a half off the port. They were soon revealed as a two-decked, fifty-gun ship, two frigates, and a brig-sloop. From each of their mizzen peaks fluttered the blue ensign of the British navy. The fifty, the smallest two-decker in the navy’s arsenal, showed a broad pendant trailing languidly from the main.

“Am I correct in assuming that to be Mocha, Mr. Cromley?” Charles asked.

“Aye, sir,” the master answered. “Famous for its trade in coffee, but you can get almost anything in the suq—that’s what the locals call a market. They’ll have all manner of merchandise: gold, pearls, hashish, girls, young boys. Whatever it is suits your fancy.”

“I thank you for the information,” Charles said. “I do believe I’ll settle for calling on Admiral Blankett at the moment. Mr. Sykes!”

“Yes, sir.” The boy came hurrying up.

“You may send up our colors and recognition signal. If you would be so good as to begin the salute afterward.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The flags ran up Cassandra’s halyards and guns boomed out, soon to be answered by the flagship. Charles turned his mind to the things he needed to accomplish while in port. In addition to the resupply of water, foodstuffs, and firewood, there was the question of leave for the crew. From what he observed, and his officers reported to him, their temper had improved. There had been no further outbreaks of fighting, or even the generously shared insults that had been common enough before. Still, the men went through their work with a certain grimness, he thought, performing their assigned tasks readily enough, but without enthusiasm. He put this down to their having been denied leave or even visitors from the bumboats while at Cape Town. He could make up for that now and allow them ashore. He glanced once more at the heat-soaked jumble of mud-brick structures and wondered what delights the men might find there. He imagined some would be unusual indeed. At least it would be a change for them, and he was comfortable that few would choose to desert in such an isolated and inhospitable place. He saw the signal flags as they rose the flagship’s mast.

“Anchor to leeward,” Sykes reported, the signal book open in his hand.

“Thank you,” Charles said. “Mr. Cromley, we will come to anchor as ordered, if you please.”

Cassandra glided past the other warships, taking in her topsails and courses as she went. He identified them as Hellebore, the brig-sloop; Daedalus and Fox, smart thirty-two-gun frigates; and the flagship Leopard. He thought it a light force for protecting against something potentially as important as the French entering or leaving the Red Sea. In all likelihood there would be others on patrol beyond his sight.

A half cable’s length beyond the flagship, Cassandra’s foretopgallant braced around to lie against the mast. “Let go!” he heard Beechum’s voice forward, and the anchor cable begin to run out through the hawse. The hands aloft fisted in the remaining sails and tied them off. Cassandra snubbed once at her anchor and stilled, swinging slowly on the barely existent current. Charles ordered the jollyboat hoisted out over the side and waited for the signal calling him to report on board. The satchel of mail and dispatches for the squadron was passed down, followed by the boat’s crew. No signal showed. The five warships lay quietly at anchor in the glaring heat of the bay as if forgotten toys in a pond. He waited by the entry port for ten minutes, fifteen, with Bevan standing beside him. The ship’s bell dinged out four times, marking two hours into the afternoon watch.

“Maybe Blankett’s learned of your reputation and is just hoping you’ll go away,” Bevan offered. “Can’t say as I’d blame him.”

“I’m going across anyway, invitation or no,” Charles said, growing impatient at the lack of communication. He swung out and climbed down into the boat. Augustus had taken his place on the stroke oar, he noted, more carefully dressed than was usual in anticipation of Charles’ going ashore and requiring protection. He almost regretted disappointing him. “The flagship,” he said to Malvern. The climb up Leopard's sidesteps brought pools of sweat under his uniform coat.

“The admiral is ashore, sir,” Edmund Danforth, the Leopard’s too carefully dressed first lieutenant, said. “I am sure he will call for you on his return.” Charles noticed that the flagship was in perfect order—her decks holystoned pristine white, the brightwork glistening, her yards perfectly squared, and the falls flemished down. She looked as if she had been prepared to receive an inspection from the king himself.

“When will that be?” Charles asked.

“When his business is completed,” Danforth answered pertly. “I suggest you employ the time smartening your ship. The admiral expects a shipshape appearance.”

Charles took this as an implied insult, but ignored it. “What is the strength of the squadron?” he asked. “How many are out on patrol?”

“Come now, captain. This is the foot of the Red Sea, the closest place on earth to Hell. Nothing happens here. We are not conducting the blockade of Toulon.” He chuckled at his joke.

Charles decided that the lieutenant was being intentionally unhelpful. “How many ships?” he repeated.

“The squadron is just what you see,” Danforth answered finally. Charles recalled the sails he had seen making for the Straits of Mandeb. “Do you tell me that there is no one on patrol to look out for ships passing into or out of the sea?”

Danforth smiled knowingly. “Patrol? Of course not. You’ve only just arrived, or you’d know there is no need for it. Daedalus was out a week ago. She reported nothing, as you would expect. The Admiral considers it a waste of time.”

“No one’s come or gone from this anchorage since then, no one at all?” Where were the two ships that had passed the straits immediately before him?.

“No,” the lieutenant answered flatly. “Now if you will excuse me, I have . . .”

“Where in the town is Admiral Blankett,” Charles interrupted. “I insist on reporting to him at once.”

“I told you, it would not be convenient. He is involved in negotiations with the local authorities. He cannot be . . .”

“I do not care whether it is convenient or not, Lieutenant,” Charles snapped. “You will provide someone to take me to the admiral at once, or I will go with my marines and turn Mocha upside down until I find him.”

Danforth assumed a displeased expression, then sighed in resignation. “He is at Mr. Underwood’s residence. Mr. Underwood is the British commercial agent in Mocha. He trades in coffee and such, I believe.”

“How do I find him?”

“I will send Midshipman Palgrave to show the way. But I warn you, Admiral Blankett will not be pleased at the intrusion.”

“Admirals are seldom pleased, I find,” Charles replied.

The sixteen-year-old Palgrave, perfectly attired in his uniform jacket buttoned up to his chin, tumbled down into the jollyboat, closely followed by Charles. They began the long pull into the port.

Mocha’s harbor consisted of a pair of sandstone jetties projecting into a shallow bay. At the northern and southern ends were long abandoned, crumbling forts on points of land, which presumably had once protected the entrances to the port. The sea, Charles noted, was shallow to more than a mile out, with frequent coral reefs just beneath the surface, over which waves washed with a gentle froth. Numerous small, shallow-draft sambuks, with single masts for their lateen sails were pulled up on the beach. A half dozen more sizable vessels known as baghalas, some as large as several hundred tons burthen weight, lay at anchor a mile or more from shore. These would be sea-going trading ships, easily capable of journeys as far as the East Indies or the Philippines. All were double-ended affairs, often with large eyes painted on the bow, and not dissimilar to some he had seen in the eastern Mediterranean. The jollyboat grounded on a glistening white sand beach before the walls. The oarsmen jumped into the water and hauled the craft onto land. Charles rose from his place in the sternsheets, went forward, and stepped out. Immediately he was assaulted by an army of flies swarming at his eyes and mouth and any bare skin, no matter how persistently he brushed them away. “Rest the men in the shade of those palm trees,” he said to Malvern. “Keep an eye on the boat. I’ll return as soon as I can.”