A Sea Unto Itself (26 page)

They came at last to the beach in the sweltering heat of the late afternoon. Charles quickly found his boat's crew lounging in various attitudes of ease under the cluster of palm trees. Someone had obtained a goatskin of water which he had passed around.

“Would you care for a sip, sir?” Malvern offered as they approached. Charles took a deep drink. He looked at the assembled seamen, most in their jersey shirts, although some had removed them. Then he glanced at young Palgrave, still in his buttoned up uniform and hat with sweat running down his cheeks. There were limits to maintaining dignity, he decided, and slipped off his jacket, removed his stock, and unbuttoned the top of his shirt. The effect was instantly gratifying. “You have my permission to open your upper clothing,” he said to the midshipman. “You’d best put it back before we reach Leopard, though.”

They soon re-launched the jollyboat, and with the breeze coming off the land, set the fore and aft sails to carry them out. A huge sun lay just above the horizon, its reflection sparkling across the gentle chop. Penny would love to see this, he thought; she would enjoy the strangeness of it all. Then he remembered that she would have recently been in childbirth and might at that moment be nursing their infant—or she might be dead. Women dying from the complications of birthing was by no means uncommon. That was just one additional uncertainty among the many others which were visited upon him. His mood darkened. For the moment he didn’t see how he could overcome any of it.

After hastily re-buttoning himself, Palgrave was deposited back onboard the flagship. Charles ordered Malvern to steer for the Hellebore so that he could convey Blankett’s orders. The brig-sloop rode placidly at her anchor a cable’s length away. “I’ll only be a moment,” he said as he climbed up over her side.

“Welcome aboard, sir,” Hellebore's first lieutenant said, greeting Charles as he pulled himself onto the deck. The officer was probably in his middle thirties, he guessed, a lean man of average height with the prominent white line of a scar down his otherwise deeply tanned left cheek. Charles’ first impression was of a thoughtful, steady man, probably capable of dealing with most problems put before him. “I am Nathaniel Drinkwater. I see you’ve only just arrived.”

“Charles Edgemont of Cassandra, fresh from Chatham,” he responded with a smile and extended his hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” The two men shook. “Is this all you do, sit in the harbor?”

Drinkwater’s mouth tightened. “We serve at the Admiral’s pleasure,” he said carefully.

“Then perhaps I bring a welcome change. Is Commander Griffiths available?”

“On what passes as our quarterdeck. This way, if you please.”

Charles saw an elderly, grizzled figure seated in a chair aft, with one leg propped up on a stool in front of him.

“Captain Edgemont; Commander Madoc Griffiths,” Drinkwater announced, making the introductions.

“Bach, my pardons if I don’t rise, Captain,” Griffiths said with a thick Welsh accent. “It’s the gout, you know. Still, I’m pleased to greet you. You’ve met Nat here, I take it.”

“I have,” Charles said, taking an instant liking to the older man.

“He’s been as grumpy as a puppy who can’t find a teat these past weeks,” Griffiths continued sympathetically. “His lady back home is in an expectant way and he’d rather be there than here. Am I right, Nat?”

The lieutenant colored at this intimate revelation about his personal life.

“Du,” Griffiths said with a grin. “If you can’t take the pressure then you shouldn’t have done the deed.” At this Drinkwater blushed a still brighter shade.

Charles laughed out loud. “Really?” he said. “I find myself in similar circumstances. It’s the very devil not knowing, isn’t it?”

“It is that,” Drinkwater admitted.

“But enough of this,” Griffiths said, turning serious. “You’ve been on shore; to see Blankett is my guess. Is this a social call, or do you have some word?”

“I’m to tell you he’s decided to put out a patrol,” Charles said. “There’s reason to believe the French may have already entered the sea. You are to make preparations to sail.”

“And you, sir?” Drinkwater asked.

“I’m going north,” Charles answered. “We should be back to join the squadron in a month or so.”

“It’s about time he put some ships out, to my thinking,” Griffiths offered. “Past time. There’s no arguing with the man, though.”

Charles returned to Cassandra in a brighter frame of mind, satisfied that there was at least one other person who shared his misery over the unknown condition of his wife. The sun dropped into the sea; in these latitudes night followed swiftly. His sense of wellbeing did not last long. “Assemble the men on the deck, Daniel,” he said almost before he had fully passed through the entry port.

“May I enquire as to why?” Bevan asked.

“They will be expecting to be permitted leave ashore. Blankett has forbidden it.”

“Hell’s embers,” Bevan said. “Pardon my French, Charlie, but they aren’t going to like it.”

“I don’t expect they will.”

Bevan relayed the order and the boatswain’s calls summoning the hands sounded the length of the ship. In the gathering darkness Charles stood beneath a lantern hung from the mainmast as the men tumbled up the hatchways fore and aft. He could make out the forms as they found their divisions, but not see the faces except for those just below him. An expectant silence fell over the ship.

“I have called on the admiral commanding this station,” Charles spoke loudly, “to request permission for leave ashore.” There was a murmur of whispered conversation at this from below. He wished he could make out their expressions, but he knew well enough.

“Silence on deck!” Bevan bellowed, as usual.

“It’s all right,” Charles said, also as usual. He wanted to hear their reaction. Taking a deep breath, he spoke again. “The admiral denied the request. There will be work parties only. I am personally sorry for this. I thought it best if I told you myself.”

“Bloody ‘ell,” an angry voice immediately shouted back. “We ain’t any of us ‘ad a minute of liberty since Chatham.”

“Since afore that,” shouted another. “Us was turned over to this scow direct. I ain’t been ashore in more ‘n a year! It ain’t right.” An uproar of protests broke out.

Charles let it go on for a few moments. He felt badly for them. They did deserve leave; they’d earned it, but there was nothing he could do. Finally, he held his arms up for silence. The noise tapered away. “It happens that I agree with you,” he said when he had their attention. “I promise to make it up at the first opportunity.” He doubted that his words would satisfy. “You may dismiss them,” he muttered to Bevan. “I’d keep a careful watch over the next several days if I were you.”

Charles looked on unhappily as the hands milled about on the dimly lit deck, grousing and complaining as they made for the hatchways and below. He thought to go down to the wardroom for his supper when he saw Midshipman Aviemore lounging against the binnacle. He was reminded of one final detail he should attend to. “Mr. Aviemore,” he called.

“Sir?” the boy inquired.

“You will be pleased to go down to my cabin to inform Mr. Jones that I would appreciate a word with him.”

“Which cabin, sir?” Aviemore asked. “The captain’s cabin or Lieutenant Bevan’s cabin which be also your cabin?”

Charles decided that he would be very pleased when Jones and his entourage were finally put on shore so that his life could return to normal. He would also be pleased when Aviemore reached the age of about forty and might be expected to reason as a normal human being. “Whichever you might the most reasonably anticipate finding him in,” he offered. Aviemore actually skipped across the deck to descend the ladderway.

“What do you want?” Adolphus Jones growled. He appeared with a napkin still tied around his neck and had apparently been disturbed at his own meal.

Charles pushed down his annoyance. “I have been into the port this afternoon,” he said. “There I met with an acquaintance of yours. Underwood is his name. He has extended an invitation for you to visit.”

“Ah,” Jones said.

“Ah? Is that all you have to say: Ah?”

“I believe it best to decline,” Jones elaborated.

“May I ask why?”

Jones stood silent for a moment, then said, “Mr. Gladfridus Underwood is indeed an acquaintance of some duration. A trifling misfortune befell him several years ago, over which he has adopted an unforgiving attitude. In short, he has sworn to have me murdered should I set foot in Mocha. I would prefer to reminisce with him in a more neutral setting.”

“His fingers?” Charles asked.

“It seemed appropriate in the spirit of the moment.”

“Ah,” Charles said. “In that case we may allow the invitation to lapse.”

*****.

The next days passed in a flurry of activity under an intemperate sun. Cassandra's boats plied to and from the beach, returning laden to the gunwales with filled water casks, bawling bullocks, sheep, goats, and scrawny chickens. There were great sacks of millet, wheat and peas, dates, lemons, limes, and a towering pile of firewood. All were swung up by sweating, shirtless seamen, and tucked into their places in the filling hold. The cattle and sheep were butchered on the forecastle as they came aboard, cut into mess-sized chunks, and stored in salt-filled barrels. The hands, Charles observed, labored steadily if unenthusiastically under a blistering sun, which he found understandable; but there was something in their attitude that had changed—an increased distance, resentment. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Was he measuring the temper of the crew, or were they measuring him? .

Charles watched as Hellebore sailed on the second day to begin cruising back and forth between Mocha and the African shore. He also took the opportunity to pay social calls on Captains Harry Bell of Daedalus and Dante Sugden of Fox. Bell proved a not quite piercing officer who expressed himself content to sit in the Mocha roads “until hell froze over,” if his king commanded it. “At least it would be cooler then,” he said. Sugden’s diversion was endless games at whist, to which Charles was invited but declined.

On the fourth day Cassandra pulled her anchor from the sandy bottom of Mocha Bay and started northward under fitful southerly airs. Cromley’s chart informed that it would only be 1,400 miles or so to Cape Muhammad on the tip of the Sinai Peninsula. He stared at the paper until he had memorized what little information it contained. Despite himself, he had an intense curiosity and no small apprehension about what they might find there.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The long columns of crabbed figures on the page refused to stay in focus. Charles sat on the cot in Bevan’s cabin, his back propped against the bulkhead and his stockinged feet drawn up so that he could more easily read the purser’s ledger, open across his thighs. A dim lantern swung from the beam above his head, the flame adding unwanted warmth to the musty, close space. The room was cramped, eight by six feet, containing the cot, a tiny table, and a single chair. A door, louvered for ventilation, opened onto the wardroom. And if the wardroom itself had been in any way ventilated, Charles might have been pleased. Excepting her captain (normally), all of Cassandra’s officers and senior warrants had similar though less spacious cabins partitioned against either side of the hull in the aftermost third of the mess deck. On a two-decked ship of the line these accommodations would be shared with a hulking thirty-two-pounder cannon, which allowed less floor room but at least provided a gunport to open for light and air. A frigate’s mess deck was at the waterline and, aside from the hatchways, unpierced by any opening its entire length. It was a dark, airless expanse lit by occasional lanterns and perfumed by the too infrequently washed bodies of hundreds of seamen and marines who berthed forward and the still more malodorous delights of the bilge below.

“Purchased in Mocha, 30–31 May, 1799,” he re-read the heading at the top of the page. “Oxen, one score; sheep, two score and six; millet, five hundredweight; peas, six hundredweight; dates, two hundredweight . . .” What the hell did Wells want so many dates for? Charles struggled to keep his mind on the list in front of him. If the wind held it would only be three weeks to a month before he could reasonably expect to put Jones and his women ashore somewhere along the Gulf of Suez at the head of the sea. He was anxious to get the thing done, not just so that he could be rid of his passengers and have his own cabin back, with its operable gallery windows and gun ports, but because it would take him one step closer to the completion of his mission. Once Jones had discovered the true intentions of the French—whether or not they were intending to come down the sea—all Charles had to do was inform Blankett. It would be the Admiral’s responsibility to decide how to confront the situation—if there was indeed a situation to confront. He ached to have it settled so that he might be able to retrace his course back to England to see Penny, or even to make Cape Town or Gibraltar where there would be letters with word on the outcome of her pregnancy, and with news about her health and that of their child. There were times when he didn’t care whether the enemy landed in India or not. He wished it were finished and he could go home.