A Sea Unto Itself (4 page)

No one knew Attwater’s exact age, not even the man himself, but Charles guessed that he must be well past sixty. This winter he had been seized by a persistent cough, which made him seem frailer and older than ever. “We have spoken of this before, Timothy,” Charles said gently. “Augustus will learn well enough as he goes along. I am the poorer for losing your services, but you know that I shall rest more comfortably knowing that you are here to look after Mrs. Edgemont, especially in her current delicate condition.”

“Yes, sir, of course,” Attwater had replied, at least partly mollified.

In her current delicate condition. The phrase echoed in Charles’ mind as the coach rattled and swayed along the highway. It weighed on him that he would not be present when Penny bore his child. But the war continued unabated, although there was increasing talk that it must end soon. It was widely known, or believed, that republican France had exhausted herself after six years of revolution and conflict. As a king’s officer, Charles had argued with himself, he must do his duty, especially with the end so near. The birth of a child was insignificant compared to the clash of nations—wasn’t it? His honor demanded that he sacrifice personal considerations out of loyalty to king and country—didn’t it? That he knew himself to have doubts deepened his feeling of having betrayed his wife. Still, other ships’ captains must have faced similar conflicts and opted to serve. Common seamen were never given any choice in such matters; they went where ordered without complaint, at least no complaint that anyone listened to. If others were obligated to put aside personal considerations in order to do their duty, then he was as well—wasn’t he?.

 
Such thoughts brought a melancholy to which there was no bottom. To force his attention elsewhere, he reached inside his uniform jacket to extract an envelope with its Admiralty seal. It had arrived at Tattenall nearly a month before, and he had read and reread the document so many times that he could recite it by rote:

Whitehall, London.

10th December 1798.

To Captain Charles Edgemont, Esq.

Tattenall Hall, Cheshire.

Sir, you are hereby directed and required to report onboard His Majesty's Frigate Cassandra not later than the Fourteenth Day of January, in the year of Our Lord 1799. You will thereby take command of said frigate, requiring her officers, warrants, and men to act in strict accordance to your orders, and in accordance with the Admiralty Regulations and Instructions, and the Articles of War. Said frigate is to be found in His Majesty's Dockyard at Chatham, on the River Midway, where she is completing fitting out in anticipation of a voyage to the northern limit of the Arabian Gulf.

It is further directed and required that in good time prior to assuming said command, you shall call upon the First Lord, or his deputy, and from him receive further orders, intelligence and instructions as shall be deemed fit to be provided.

Not you, nor any of you, shall fail in the execution of these orders except at your peril.

I have the honor of being,.

Evan Nepean,.

First Secretary to the Board.

Charles rubbed the sheet absently between his forefinger and thumb as he attempted to discern its deeper implications. It was interesting, he considered, that it had come directly from Whitehall, rather than from Lord St. Vincent or some other fleet admiral, and hinted that he might be operating independently under Admiralty instructions. There was the mention of the Arabian Gulf—the Red Sea as it was more generally known, a fourteen-hundred-mile-long indentation of water between Abyssinia and the Arabian Peninsula—but no indication of why or what he was to accomplish there. He supposed that he should be grateful that any destination had been mentioned at all. It was not unheard of for a captain to prepare his wardrobe on the assumption that he was intended for the waters of the Mediterranean only to be sent north into the Baltic in winter.

But why the Red Sea? Charles knew that the French had established themselves in Egypt the year before; he had been directly involved in the destruction of the fleet that had carried them, but that expeditionary force, large though it was, was bottled up by Nelson’s squadron on blockade off of Alexandria. His orders did mention “the northern limit” of the gulf, which would include the Red Sea coast of Egypt, but why that was important was not revealed.

Cassandra was less of a mystery. He knew that she was a twelve-pounder frigate, built in the years following the American War and in the process of completing a refit to make good the wear to her structure, rigging, and fittings. She was considered a promotion where he was concerned. At thirty-two guns, Cassandra was a fifth rate warship, while his previous command, Louisa at twenty-eight guns, had a sixth (and lowest) rating. Charles’ pay would be increased a step to reflect his greater responsibilities.

He had also discovered the barest description of her particulars: 140 feet along her gun deck, sixteen feet of draft, and a burthen weight of eight hundred tonnes. Her compliment would be 220 officers and men with an additional thirty-six marines. As the commander of a fifth rate, he was also entitled to three lieutenants, instead of the two he’d been authorized on Louisa. Since Charles was determined to put off his departure from home to the last possible moment, he had requested Daniel Bevan, Stephen Winchester, and Isaac Beechum, known and trusted officers from his previous command, and arranged that they report ahead of him so that any last-minute difficulties in preparing for sea should be well in hand.

Outside the coach window he noticed that it was now broad daylight and the morning overcast had given way to sunshine, turning the passing fields and pastures a brilliant rolling green. They were somewhere in Shropshire, he supposed. Augustus slumped against the coach bench, snoring rhythmically. Charles again settled back and crossed his arms over his chest in an attempt to imitate him. Again his thoughts turned back to home, keeping sleep away. In the very best of circumstances, he realized, he could not return to England for at least a year, more likely a year and a half, very possibly longer. During that time no mail might reach him. There would be no word that a child had been born, whether it was a boy or girl, healthy or sickly, or even if the infant or its mother had survived. The thought settled like a stone in his breast and would not go away.

*****.

At long last, the coach reached the outskirts of the great city of London, galloping past Regent’s Park to much honking of its horn, scattering foot traffic and farm carts alike. Its progress slowed in the thickening congestion of Tottenham Court Road, although the incessant blaring of the horn did not. The two men finally climbed down close by Covent Garden in the late afternoon. Charles found himself shaken and stiff and happy to have his feet once more on unmoving ground. Augustus stared around him at the streets crammed with buildings. There were peddlers loudly hawking everything from puddings, sausages, and cheeses, to live chickens, or cut flowers. Unceasing crowds swirled past. Charles handed a gratuity to the coachman and postilion. With his new steward sitting on the sea chests, he went to find a hackney to carry them to Lothian’s Hotel on Albemarle Street where he had arranged lodgings. Here he found no difficulties with the management, who were accustomed to a broad range of naval clientele and their sometimes unique servants. Charles was shown to a spacious room on the second floor, Augustus being directed to the servant’s dormitory in the attic. In the morning, well rested, bathed, and breakfasted, he dressed in his best uniform to call upon the Admiralty. Preparing to leave, he found his servant pulling on his own outer clothing as if to go outdoors. “It’s not necessary for you to accompany me, Augustus,” he said. “I expect to be back in time for supper.”

“I’ll just follow along, if I may, Cap’n,” Augustus said.

“It’s not necessary,” Charles repeated. “I assure you that I can manage on my own.”

Augustus stood firm.

Charles had a suspicion. “Did Mrs. Edgemont put you up to this?” Penny had a habit of requesting his seamen to look after his wellbeing as if she thought him incompetent to get by on his own.

Augustus nodded. “Afore we went off she asked me to set my eye on you, no matter what. I give my word on it.”

Charles sighed. “In that case I suppose you had better obey orders. I assure you that it will be quite safe where we are going though.”

“It don’t matter, Cap’n. She say you be reckless. One never know what can happen.”

“I see,” Charles said doubtfully. With his servant following, he went out to find the carriage he had reserved. He felt a little like some Eastern potentate with his own immense bodyguard following on his heels.

The hansom from Lothian’s trotted briskly down Albemarle and then St. James’s Street with its exclusive clubs and gaming establishments. Augustus stared from the window with intense curiosity as they passed. In front of St. James’s Palace they turned left along Pall Mall, past Queen’s Chapel, and through Charing Cross. Angling southward along the Thames, the driver soon swung his conveyance into the center of the roadway and then hard right to make the sharp turn under the archway into the forecourt of Whitehall itself.

Charles and Augustus climbed down. After paying the fare, Charles dismissed the driver. “You may come along, but you’ll have to wait in the foyer while I do my business,” he said to his servant.

Augustus nodded his agreement and the two mounted the steps onto the portico where a doorman made way for them to enter.

“May I help you, Captain?” a liveried attendant asked, approaching from near a fireplace to the left and casting a suspicious eye at Augustus.

“Edgemont,” Charles answered, removing his hat and pulling off his gloves. “I have an appointment with His Lordship. My steward will wait by the fire, if that is agreeable.”

“Of course.” He gestured for Augustus to seat himself on a bench by the wall. “I am to inform you that the First Lord, the Earl of Spencer, is detained on other business this morning. Captain Millford is a member of the board. He and the Viscount Effington are expecting you. If you will come this way, please.”

Charles knew of Captain Millford, a senior officer with a reputation for competence. The Viscount he had never heard of. “Who is Effington?” he asked as they started down the hallway.

The attendant hesitated as if unsure how much he should reveal. “The Viscount is not a standing member of the board,” he said finally. “I believe him to provide certain ancillary services on the occasion.”

“I see,” Charles said, not really seeing at all.

The attendant approached a door to their left, turned the latch, and opened it. “Captain Edgemont,” he announced.

Charles stepped into a brightly lit, high-ceilinged room with a long table placed in the middle. On the far wall was a globe of the world and above that a curious device with a face like a clock and a single hand, which apparently indicated the direction of the wind, currently wavering between south-by-east and south-by-southeast. Eight upholstered chairs were arranged around the table. This was the famous room, he realized, in which the board of the Admiralty met daily to decide the composition and disposition of the far-ranging British navy. From here, orders were issued for every decision, from promotions and appointments for commissioned officers, to the movement of great battle fleets. At present only two of the chairs were occupied, one by a middle-aged man in the undress uniform of a navy captain, the other, younger, in soberly tailored civilian clothing. Both stood as he entered. Charles heard the door latch softly behind him.

“Captain Edgemont,” the naval officer said, coming around the table and extending his hand. “I am George Millford, and this is my associate, his Lordship the Viscount Effington. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“The honor is mine, sir,” Charles said and shook the offered hand. Millford was tall and gray haired, with a weatherbeaten face and firm grip. The Viscount presented severely lean, angular features. Charles thought he had hard eyes and a secretive look about him. He did not offer his hand, although the eyes measured Charles closely. “Your Lordship,” Charles said, bowing slightly from the waist.

Millford cleared his throat. “We shall get down to business, shan’t we? If you would please seat yourself.”

Charles moved to a chair at the middle of the table opposite the others, adjusted his sword, and sat. “It was I that requested this meeting,” the Captain continued, “so that, on behalf of the board, I may convey to you something of the nature of your orders and to emphasize the gravity of your mission.”

Charles nodded his comprehension.

“There are delicacies involved which may require both judgment and diplomacy on your part. I will be honest when I say that the board would have preferred a more senior officer, but none suitable was available.”