Tide of War (30 page)

“Unthinkable is it now?” McLeish observed him curiously. “How is it that you can contemplate flogging a man, a living man, or hanging him or cutting him in half with a cannonball, but you cannot bring yourself to condone a simple chemical process performed upon a poor unfortunate who cannot feel a thing? And by so doing, satisfy the greater good?”

“I do not know how it is,” replied Nathan curtly. “I only know that I can never approve such barbarous practice. We are not in Edinburgh.”

“ Well, I do not know what else you are to do.”

“There is that skull in your cabin,” Nathan reminded him. “Your monkey.”

“My monkey?”

“That bears a striking resemblance to the skull of a human child.”

“I take it you mean the infant orang-utan. From Sumatra.”

“I stand corrected. But it would answer perfectly.”

“Answer what?”

“I told you, to place in an obscure part of the hull so that some member of the crew might find it.”

“You would contemplate such a gross deception?”

“You seemed to find it perfectly acceptable if we were to use the skull of your recently deceased ship's boy, boiled in vinegar and fed to the ants.”

McLeish considered. “And you would bury it—the head of an orang-utan—in the pretence that it is the head of a human child and pronounce the Christian burial service over it, from
The Book of Common Prayer,
in the full knowledge that it is the head of a beast?”

“In the interests of saving the ship, I would. And if you are concerned for your loss, when we are done you may dig it up and restore it to your collection.”

“I am astounded. I am deprived of speech.”

They began the search at first light. Each division took a quarter of the ship and Nathan offered a sovereign to whoever found the object.

It occupied them for most of the forenoon.

Then when it was almost time to pipe the hands to dinner a solemn procession came aft led by one of the older seamen bearing the pride of the doctor's collection in both hands as if it were a birthday cake. His name was Jennings, Tully informed him, sailmaker's mate.

“Well done, Jennings,” Nathan congratulated him, taking the skull off him before anyone else could get a look at it in the clear light of day and signalling Gilbert to give him the reward as a distraction. “Where did you find it?”

“In the sailmaker's stores, sir,” said the fellow in an awed tone, “under a pile of old canvas. It had been there all this time and none of us never knowing of it.”

“ Well, well, and you can see the teeth marks of the rats, I fancy, in the bone.” Nathan bore it away before they could get a closer look.

They buried it with all due ceremony close to the trench where they had lain those slaughtered in battle, a carved wooden cross announcing that here lay the mortal remains of John English of Chatham, Kent, died 1794 and Nathan read the same solemn words as for the
others; but this time, except in some notable cases, the hands evinced every sign of satisfaction.

Nathan studiously avoided McLeish's eye as they returned to the ship for dinner. They had barely stepped aboard when they heard the shout of “Sail ho!” from the lookout in the bows.

But it was not a sail. It was a fleet.

T
HE LION IS COME,
” declared the Baron de Carondelet from the prow of the leading gunboat, sweeping off his hat with a theatrical flourish, “the Unicorn to save.”

The reference was obscure but Nathan expressed his heartfelt thanks.

“I could do no less after the service you have given to His Most Catholic Majesty,” the Governor assured him. “And see, I have brought you my little fleet.”

Riding on their oars in the channel between the stranded frigate and Turtle Island were four slim galleys each with a 32-pounder in the bow followed by about a score of pirogues and other craft. Each of them loaded to the gunwales with men.

“Only tell us how we may be of assistance,” the Governor proposed, “and it shall be done.”

“Perhaps your Excellency would care to come aboard,” Nathan invited him, “and we will discuss the problem in more comfort.”

“Comfort?” Carondelet repeated archly, raising his equine countenance to view the stricken vessel. Had he possessed a lorgnette Nathan was persuaded he would have used it. “Is it safe?”

“Perfectly safe,” Nathan assured him. “It is as steady as a rock and as incapable of movement.”

Tully came aboard ahead of him.

“I am sorry we could not be here sooner,” he told Nathan. “But His Excellency was away from New Orleans and they told me nothing could be done in his absence. I found him at the mouth of the river, fighting the French.”

Nathan raised a brow.

“Cajuns?”

“And French marines that had been landed earlier—by the
Virginie”

Further discussion of this encounter was prevented by the arrival of the governor and his entourage, which included their old acquaintance of the swamp, Antonio de Escavar, in rather more finery and considerably better spirit than when Nathan had last seen him. Indeed, all the Spaniards appeared mightily pleased with themselves.

“We have been fighting the French,” the governor informed him cheerfully. “And have been entirely victorious.”

The Spanish fort near the mouth of the Mississippi had come under attack, he explained, and he had been obliged to go to its assistance with his gunboats.

“The
Lion,
the
Panther,
the
Crocodile
and the
Holy Ghost,
” he told Nathan proudly. “The
Lion
is my flagship.”

Nathan expressed his admiration of the Spanish flotilla and congratulated the Governor on his victory.

“Had I been able to convey them to the Rigolets we would have had none of that nonsense on Coquille Island,” Carondelet assured him, “but they are normally confined to the waters of the Mississippi. However, when your lieutenant found us in the Delta I lost no time in leading them to your rescue. And here we are.”

He had brought two hundred of his soldiers with him, he informed Nathan, and three hundred African slaves, “On the assumption that there is heavy work to be done.”

Nathan kept his face carefully composed but his heart sank. He had been brought up as a child to abhor slavery. It was the one thing on which his mother and father had been entirely in agreement and from the moment she had set foot in England, Lady Catherine had thrown herself wholeheartedly into the anti-slavery movement. For
a while, indeed, her house in St. James's had become a battle centre of the campaign and a refuge “for those that would not be seen dead in Clapham,” as Lady Catherine put it with her usual bluntness. William Wilberforce had been a regular visitor there until he and Nathan's mother fell out over his continuing friendship with Mr. Pitt.

Nathan could not abide the notion of using slave labour to free the
Unicorn
but if he refused the offer of assistance on the grounds of conscience the Governor would be deeply offended. It would be seen as a diplomatic affront: an offence against His Most Catholic Majesty, no less. Carondelet would take himself off in high dudgeon to write a scathing report to his seniors in Madrid—with a copy to the Spanish Minister in London—and the
Unicorn
and her entire crew would be left to rot.

Nathan wrestled with his conscience. Slavery was repugnant to him but it was sanctioned by the law, it thrived in the British colonies and it maintained the quality of life enjoyed by many in Europe and the Americas. Most Christian Churches spoke in its favour, the Africans practised it widely, and the Arabs were its greatest proponents. Besides, what choice did he have?

Hang it, he thought, I cannot do it.

He was considering the most diplomatic way of framing his objections when an idea came to him. Or rather the germ of an idea, for he needed time to develop it. But it restrained him from his immediate impulse and he listened with apparent attention as the Governor explained his own concerns.

“I am reluctant to put the military to hauling upon ropes,” he said, “for it does not become fighting men to indulge in manual labour. I do not include seamen in this, of course,” he added hastily, “as it is part of their normal duty but your Spanish soldier is possessed of a … how shall I put it? … a certain
reticence,
a certain manly pride that makes him ill-suited to menial work. In short, he is quite useless. I am persuaded the Africans will prove more than equal to the task. Many of them are Yoruba and of impressive physique, as you will find.”

When they returned above deck they saw that the boats were now
drawn up on the shore of Ship Island and the Africans were squatting in a large group under the watchful eye of the soldiers. They appeared entirely indifferent to their fate, or their surroundings, but Nathan was relieved to see that at least they were not chained: possibly because there was nowhere to run to.

“I propose to haul entirely from the shore,” he informed his officers, “using our own people on the capstan and the Governor's contingent hauling upon ropes at each side. But it is a question of where we attach them.”

After consulting with Mr. Lloyd it was decided to attach one hawser to the lower deck capstan and wrap the other right round the hull and through each of the hawse-holes with the Africans heaving upon each end from the shore. In addition Tully proposed they bring back one of the 18-pounders and mount it in the bows, firing it at the precise time they commenced hauling in the hope that the shock through the timbers might loosen the vessel from the sand.

“I hope you will not take it amiss if I beg the officers to join me at the capstan-bars,” said Nathan, “for we are all in the same boat, as it were.”

The expression had grown stale in the repetition—and it had been none too fresh when he first used it—and the smiles of his officers were at best perfunctory, but none could object when their captain was so clearly willing to put himself to the task. He only wished it would shame the Governor and his soldiers into overcoming their repugnance of “menial work” but it was not to be anticipated.

The preparations took them above two hours and it was past six bells in the afternoon watch before they were ready to begin. Nathan took off his coat, folded it neatly and laid it on the ground as if for a prize fight or a game of cricket. Then he rolled up his sleeves, rubbed a little sand in the palms of his hands, and took his place at the capstan.

A final look about him to make sure everyone was ready, then he gave the signal to begin.

The 18-pounder roared encouragement from the bow of the stricken vessel and there was a collective grunt from the men as they put their backs into it.

But for all the success they achieved they might have been trying to move a mountain.

Nathan's feet scrabbled in the sand as he leant his body into the hard, unyielding shaft of the capstan. He was already soaked in sweat. Groans from the men as from those upon the rack, or suffering the agonies of constipation. Nathan looked to the Africans. Carondelet had been right about their physique. The muscles bulged as they heaved upon the rope, leaning their bodies almost horizontally into the sand, driving themselves on with deep, almost ritualistic grunts. There were soldiers shouting at them in Spanish and by God one of them had a whip … Nathan felt close to despair. He would have to call a halt to it and there would be no more diverting the men with monkey skulls. Then, through the pounding in his ears he heard the roar of the gun again and … a jolt. He almost slipped in the sand. Had the bar slipped in its housing, had the fibres of the cable parted? Another. By Christ, she was moving. Or something was. No, the ship was moving. Slowly at first, an inch at a time, but then faster, further … and now it began:

I love a maid across the water…

Aye, aye, roll and go!

The savage stamp on the word “go” lacked the impact of a stamp on a wooden deck but Nathan's heart was bursting with emotion; he could have wept. And now the fiddler leaped up—the smallest man in the crew—up on to the drumhead with the fiddle to his chin, a little imp of a man, tapping out the rhythm with his foot …

Sally's teeth are white and pearly,

Aye, aye, roll and go!

Her eyes are blue, her hair is curly,

Spend my money on Sally Brown.

It was not a familiar shanty—Nathan had first heard it when they weighed anchor in the Havana—and McLeish had told him it was a
song the crew had picked up in Jamaica.

Oh, Sally Brown I had to leave you,

Aye, aye, roll and go!

Trust me I'll not deceive you,

Spend my money on Sally Brown.

And from along the shore, the song of the Africans. The deep, vibrant thrum from deep in their throats as they hauled upon the rope.

She was free! They were all on their knees and the
Unicorn
was floating free. A great cheer from the men, the hands and the jollies as one, and they threw up their hats and capered about the shore while the Africans collapsed in the sand with their heads between their knees. And then Nathan led the charge to the sea. He plunged in fully clothed, not waiting for the raft, delighting in the wonderful freshness of the water, striking out for the ship as she floated in mid-channel. He had left a skeleton crew aboard to let go the stern anchor so she would not drift on to another shoal and they threw him a line and hauled him up the side.

“Well done, Mr. Clyde,” he shouted up to the gunner in the bows. “I swear it was your gun that did the trick.”

“Aye, sir”—grinning bashfully and scratching behind his ear—”I reckon it may've helped a bit.”

And for the first time since he had come aboard Nathan felt they bore some resemblance to a crew and that he was a part of it.