The Flood-Tide (11 page)

When Charles had read this part aloud, Allen said, 'He is right that war is unthinkable, and you may write and tell him, Charles, that the Government has no more desire for it than he. Chelmsford tells me that one of the reasons Lord North called an election now was so as to be free to deal with the American situation immediately. And the King wishes only that the colonies should acknowledge sovereignty, not that they should be subdued. Chelmsford said that North was talking of a free pardon and amnesty, and a scheme to allow the colonies to conduct their own taxation affairs.'

‘I will tell him so,' Charles said, not looking any happier, ‘but I am afraid that there are some hotheads amongst the colonists who will be satisfied with nothing less than a complete break with England, and you know yourself, sir, how a few wild men can sway a mass of indifferent people.'

‘True. But I do not think even the indifferent people will actually fight, for it would be a civil war, you know, not like fighting a foreign enemy. Most men will stop at killing their own countrymen. I saw it again and again in Scotland, in the '45.'

‘Well, I hope you are right, sir. All the same, I wish there was some way I could be there with them, and see for myself.’

*

From being so miserable at Eton that he wanted to die, Edward had passed to being so happy he never wanted to leave. His work was so good that he had been advanced to a higher class, and with his usual care and attention to lessons he was able to avoid beatings from his masters and even win their praise and approval. But most importantly, he had the protection and friendship of Chetwyn.

Edward had always been a lonely boy, though it was only now, bathed in the roseate glow of his association with the House Captain, that he realized it. From birth he had been enclosed in the solitude and responsibility of being the eldest, the heir, a solitude made more absolute by the fact that the next to him in age were the twins, so utterly wrapped up in each other. He had had no companion to share his thoughts, even amongst the adults: his father was away so much, his mother so busy, and Father Ramsay, though a good teacher and just lawgiver, was not a kindly or affectionate man. It was only a few months before that he had made the acquaintance of John Anstey, towards whom he had been making the first shy approaches of friendship when he was sent away to school.

But he could never have imagined a friendship like this, with an older boy whom he could respect and admire and serve, whose apparent affection for himself was such an honour that Edward knew not how to deserve it. The tasks he had done in fear and loathing for Stevens he did with pride for Chetwyn. He managed to get the best coals from the weekly ration for Chetwyn's fire, and when they ran out, as they always did in the winter half, he roamed far and wide in his free time to pick up firewood. He polished Chetwyn's boots to a glassy gleam, brushed his clothes better than a valet, made his bed and mixed his bath, fetched and carried for him, toasted his supper cheese, and glowed with delight when Chetwyn invited him to stay and share it.

Love brought out the best in him. He was a boy of no outstanding beauty, but he had pleasantly regular features, wavy brown hair, and large pale-blue eyes, which needed only an expression of happiness to be attractive. Chetwyn, on the other hand, was handsome. He was a tall, well-made young man, excellent at all sports and games, a fine horseman, a graceful dancer, and charming enough to get by without being particularly clever at anything. He had a handsome face, high-coloured, with bright green eyes and smooth, shiny hair the colour, Edward always thought, of a bay horse - almost conker-coloured.

Their friendship, extending as it soon did beyond the normal bounds of fag and fag master, attracted attention, but no great curiosity. Chetwyn's father, the Earl of Aylesbury, was a racing man, which gave them enough in common to explain anything that needed explaining, and Chetwyn's rescue of Edward from Stevens was only what everyone expected from a good-natured fellow like him. Once or twice a master, in beating Edward for being out of bounds with Chetwyn at Datchet or Ascot races, might wonder whether to reprove the elder boy for his bad example; and sometimes another senior boy would ask Chetwyn to tell his damned fag not to take more than his share of coals and hot water. But no wonder could outlast seven days in such a community.

One bitter-cold evening in December, Edward was kneeling pensively in the hearth preparing supper, while Chetwyn, with a great deal of splashing and half-finished songs, was bathing in the next room. The latter had been out hunting with a couple of his peers, and Edward guessed that they had been in an alehouse for some time before Chetwyn had finally come home for his bath. He wondered whether Chetwyn had met a girl there, for he seemed more than usually cheerful. He knew some of the seniors had girls, and only last week Stevens had been flogged savagely for attempting to seduce the headmaster's daughter. He was still wondering about it when Chetwyn came through from the next room, flushed and damp and wrapped only in his towel, and scurried to the fire saying, 'Make room there, Morland. It's so damned cold, the water's turning to ice on my back. Here, take an end and rub me down, will you?’

Edward laid down the toasting fork - no blistered fingers in Chetwyn's service - and took the end of the towel and rubbed briskly at the smooth-skinned back, while his master leaned forward to the glow and dried his face and neck with the other end.

‘That's better - brrr, I thought I should perish. Rub as hard as you like, Morland, I shan't mind. You know my mother says if two people use the same towel, they will quarrel. She's full of little nonsenses like that. Do you think there's any chance of us quarrelling?' He laughed, not requiring an answer. 'Do you know, MacArthur offered me five guineas for you the other day. You're getting a reputation for assiduousness, old fellow! Well, you can always set up as a valet when you leave here, if you have no other career in mind.’

He realized there was a certain lack of response from the younger boy, and paused to look at him. Edward had his eyes averted, and Chetwyn said kindly, 'What's the matter, Morland? You're very quiet.' No answer. 'Has anyone been upsetting you? Has Stevens been at you again?'

‘No - no, Chetwyn. Nothing like that.'

‘Well then, what's the matter?' He waited a long time, while Edward turned the end of the towel round in his fingers, his eyes on the flickering flames.

At last the boy said, 'I was thinking of Christmas, and going home.'

‘Yes?' Chetwyn said encouragingly.

‘And then I thought - well, you won't be here much longer will you?' It came out in a rush, and Edward's eyes came up and round to him, with all sorts of unaskable questions in them.

‘Only one more half,' Chetwyn said gently. 'If I weren't so stupid, I should have been gone by now. You might never have known me,' he added, trying to make a joke of it. Edward's eyes were dangerously bright. Chetwyn leaned a little towards him. 'I say, Morland,' he said, 'would you like to come home to Wolvercote with me, to my people, for Christmas? I'm sure my parents would like it, if yours would give permission.’

Edward glowed. 'Really? Do you really mean it?’

Chetwyn nodded. Edward stared at him, filled with a strange and indescribable delight. Chetwyn's smooth side was rosy where the fire-glow warmed it, and two tiny images of the flames danced in his eyes, which seemed dark by contrast. A lock of his straight, silky hair had fallen forward in a smooth curve, like a wing, and Edward suddenly wanted to reach up and push it back, though he did not dare. The towel lay forgotten on the floor between them, the bread was abandoned untoasted in the hearth, and there was no sound but the snap and hiss of the wood burning in the grate. It was Chetwyn who finally put up a hand to brush away the brown hair, Chetwyn, too, who reached forward to place his hands on Edward's trembling shoulders.

*

On a dark and showery, windy day in April 1775, large ragged clouds were tearing across the sky, dark grey against the flat grey of the cloud blanket above them. Rain fell in soaking hatfuls, thrown by the wind against the ramparts of Portsmouth and the oilskins of the few hardy souls who walked there. The sea was grey and tossing, flecked all over with white horses, and with the larger white patches that were the sails of ships.

The coach put William down at the dockyard gates, and he huddled into his collar as a cold squall dashed around him, and felt completely lost. Beyond the gates and the grey buildings, he could see a forest of masts and spars, like naked winter trees against the low sky. The wind smelled of salt and fish and dead weed and tar, smells so alien to a nose accustomed to earth and grass and sheep that they made him feel dizzy. The coachman let down his box, and the second coachman thumped it to the cobbles beside William. Accustomed as he was to delivering young boys to the gates of their naval careers, he yet felt sorry for William.

‘By God, you're a little 'un, though,' he shouted. 'I wonder they thought of the sea for you. How old are you, boy?'

‘Twelve,' William said, trying to keep his lip from quivering. The second coachman shook his head.

‘You look no more than eight. There's the dockyard gates. Go through to the office, and tell 'em your business. They'll see to you.'

‘Thank you, sir,' William said, grateful for any guidance in this strange world. He managed to get his box onto his shoulder, and heard the coachman say as he turned away, ‘I wouldn't wonder if that one hadn't run away. Well, they'll sort him out in the dockyard. Twelve, my foot!’

There was enough rain on his face for the odd tear not to show, but he had his voice under control by the time he came to the office, and spoke to the one-armed clerk inside.

‘The
Ariadne?
What name?' William told him, and he checked with a list. 'Quite right. Well, she went out of harbour this morning, first light.’

William stared in panic. Out of harbour? 'I have missed her?' he said, dry-mouthed. The clerk sucked his teeth impatiently.

‘No, no, she's gone up to Spithead. There'll be a boat going out to her at six this evening from the sally-port. You can go in that.'

‘Thank you, sir,' William said, and then just stood and stared. He had no idea what to do next, where to go, how to occupy himself until six o'clock. The clerk took pity on him.

‘Just come off the coach, have you? I daresay you'll be hungry.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Got any money?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Well, go out of the gates and turn to your left. You'll see a tavern along there, The Ship. Go and get yourself a fourpenny ordinary and sit by the fire until it's time to go. They'll tell you where the sally-port is. And keep your hand on your money, child, and don't show more than fourpence of it to anyone. There are sharks even in these waters, and you look more tender than the usual bait.’

At the corner of the trestle nearest the inn's fire, with his feet safely on his box, and his jacket gently steaming, William felt a great deal more cheerful, and attacked the plateful of food in front of him with childish appetite. Boiled mutton, pease pudding, carrots and winter cabbage, and a large hunk of rather mousey-looking bread at the side to mop up the gravy, made a good fourpenn'orth, and William had proudly ordered two pennyworth of ale to go with it, and felt for the first time in control of his life. It was the first time he had ever eaten in a tavern, or indeed paid for his own food, and as the damp, pale hair dried on his forehead, he felt his spirits rising.

‘Make the most of it, young 'un,' the waiter had said jovially as he slapped an extra dab of pease pudding on William's plate. 'Nothing for you now but salt meat and hard bread for God knows how long - maybe for ever, if a cannonball takes your head off before you see home again. Still, your father'll be glad to know you're provided for.’

But William was not deterred by such talk. It had been his idea from the start, ever since he had heard that Cousin Thomas was to spend a week at Morland Place before sailing for the West Indies. General Gage in Boston had asked for more troops, and the Generals Howe, Clinton and Burgoyne were to sail to join him.
Ariadne
was to collect one of them at Portsmouth, and then sail round to Cork to pick up and convoy one of the troopships, the
Norwich.
Troopships, being built for the purpose of carrying as many men as possible, were not able to carry also the firepower to defend themselves, so a convoy was necessary.

Uncle Thomas had not been hard to persuade: to him, nothing was more natural than that a boy should want to go to sea.

‘I'll take him with me as a volunteer. He can be my servant, and run messages, and as soon as he learns his way around, I'll give him a warrant as midshipman,' he had said. The reaction of the family, however, was exactly as William had feared.

‘William go to sea? Nonsense!' Jemima had cried. 'Why, he would not last a week on a ship.'

‘Once we are out of harbour, it is a very healthy life, you know,' Thomas had said mildly. 'Plenty of fresh air, no infectious diseases—'

‘But the hardship,' Jemima cried. Allen agreed with her.

‘The food and accommodation, Thomas,' he protested. ‘I know you make nothing of them, but William is delicate. I doubt whether—'

‘And the damp, always to be damp and cold. His lungs, Thomas, consider!' Jemima broke in. 'He would die for sure.'

‘I do not think,' Father Ramsay said, 'that the boy has the strength or constitution for such an active life.’