On a Making Tide (16 page)

‘Nothing like a bit of pain to get your pecker rampant, eh? Daresay your next meeting with Mallory will be someplace quiet.’

The blow, a full tight fist, caught Midshipman Bertie right on the nose. Nelson had a vision of startled eyes before the blood began to flow in copious, satisfying quantities.

Prevarication could last only so long, and even the various boards had to succumb to the pressure of the Admiralty. They wanted Sir Edward Hughes and his squadron at sea, on his way to relieve the ships that had now been on station in eastern waters for two and a half years. Nelson was on deck, ready to go aloft on the great day, impressed by the band playing on the hard, as well as the presence of several senior officers come aboard to see them off.

He was first to the shrouds when the order came to weigh, and from aloft he looked down on the quarterdeck to see Captain Farmer stagger till he clasped the binnacle. Having been entertaining or indulged by others for a full twelve hours, he was in no fit state to command a ship’s longboat. Not that he tried. He stood on the quarterdeck trying to make his swaying look as if it was caused by the ship’s motion rather than half a dozen bottles of claret.

Red-faced admirals were heading back to the Portsmouth sally port. As they landed the signal gun spoke from the Round Tower, a plume of white smoke preceding the boom. This was only a second ahead of that on the flagship HMS
Ramilles.
Signals broke out instantly at the masthead and on each deck the first lieutenants raised their hats to their commanding officers and set in train the actions that would not only get every vessel to sea but also allow their captains to return to their cabins and sit down.

Nelson, still waiting for his orders, watched the crowds that lined the ramparts, waving their scarves and handkerchiefs in time to the music of the band. Below decks the men began to move to that same rhythm, the off duty watch and the marines at the capstan, straining to haul HMS
Seahorse
over her anchor, a thousand tons of inert timber, guns, stores and a three hundred man crew, heaving till the call came that she was ‘thick and dry’.

Durrand, head held back and speaking trumpet to his lips, called aloft to let fall the maintopsail, which followed as the bunts were released by the singular sound of falling canvas, like the slow wing-beat of a gigantic bird. The canvas beneath Nelson’s feet changed quickly from a creased shapeless mass to a thing of white beauty, as the wind took the sail, billowing it out until it was as taut as a drum. A turn of the head saw the frigate fetch her
anchor, sailing slowly over it so that it could be plucked from the bed of the sea.

‘Anchors aweigh, sir,’ came the cry.

‘See it catted and fished,’ called the first lieutenant, as the free anchor was hauled up on the cathead, well clear of the side of the ship, prior to being securely lashed. On the deck below, men were struggling with a wet, slimy hawser while on slippery planking, boys threw fast loops to attach it to the messenger cable so that it could be brought inboard and laid, head to tail, in front of the stout wooden bitts that held fast to the end. Every other ship in the squadron had carried out the same manoeuvre, creating, to a young, impressionable eye, a wondrous vision of a fleet going to sea. Sure it was a small one, but it was impressive nevertheless.

‘Mr Nelson,’ called Lieutenant Durrand, his voice a loud growl, ‘I will thank you to attend to the fore topgallant sail, and to cease your damned daydreaming.’

He did as he was ordered, but it was hard. He had never seen so many ships put to sea at once: majestic two-deckers, several frigates, down to a couple of scampering sloops, all encouraged by the music of a band. That and a thousand relations, a great many of them wives who would be weeping with the fear that they might never see their loved ones again. He thought of his own family, his sisters and brothers, even his father, which brought a tear to his own eye and a rasping comment from his neighbour on the yard. ‘Belay them tears, Nellie lad, for if they hit the premier’s fresh-swabbed deck, he’ll have your guts.’

Seahorse
heeled over as the wind took enough of her sails to bring a tilt to her deck. Looking down, he saw the water running down the lee side of the ship, deep, green and cold …

Blue and warm and startlingly phosphorescent, the water was now even deeper, as the frigate ploughed through the great swell of the Indian Ocean. The crew of the
Seahorse
were now so practised in their sail drill that they could bend on a sail, take it in or reef it in their sleep. Durrand, his pockmarked face bereft of the ability to smile, might be a bad-tempered martinet but the ship ran well enough to be termed a crack frigate by the Admiral, one that could be detached for special duty when the need arose.

They had crossed the line so long ago that it seemed like a distant memory, all the numerous candidates for the ceremony daubed and ridiculed as they made their first foray into the southern hemisphere. The Cape of Good Hope, where they had taken on wood and water, had come and gone, as had Mauritius and La Reunion. Ceylon was behind them and the flagship had set her bowsprit well to the east so that the squadron would master the currents and winds that would carry them on to the Bay of Bengal and the mouth of the Hoogly. He learnt this from the man responsible for teaching him seamanship, the master of the
Seahorse,
Emmanuel Surridge.

‘For failure to do so, Nelson,’ Surridge said, as they carried out their fifth consecutive night of lunar observations, ‘would see us hauled up westerly and foul of the Maldives.’

‘Yes, Mr Surridge.’

‘Tell me what that would mean, young man.’

There was no attempt to trap him in the question, just a desire to ensure that his pupil had absorbed all that he had been taught. Nelson had come to admire his teacher for the depth of his knowledge, the extent of his curiosity and to esteem him for his kindness and patience.

‘Coral reefs and sandbars, sir, many of them uncharted and deadly danger to a ship’s hull on a night without a moon, especially with any kind of wind blowing.’

‘Now, sir, lay me a course to avoid that by taking a fix on Venus and the Orion’s belt.’

John Judd had taught him to hand and reef aboard the
Swanborough.
Emmanuel Surridge had added spherical trigonometry, lunar and
astrological
observation, mathematical considerations about the consumption of stores related to the state of the frigate’s trim, plus a thousand other points of learning required by a sailor. The process of assimilation was almost unnoticeable, and only the thickness of the boy’s journals betrayed how much knowledge he had acquired.

Captain Farmer entertained them in rotation, an occasion for the
ever-hungry
midshipmen to fill themselves at a more well endowed table, and to drink more than was good for their young heads. Nelson was no exception, happy to let the conversation pass him by as long as he could keep his mouth full. On this occasion he had been invited along to hear in which position he was now going to serve, it having been decided that he had spent enough time aloft to be fully competent.

If he had thought the Captain didn’t notice his greed then he was wrong, since Farmer posed a question just as he stuffed three slices of tough roast beef into his mouth. His attempt to reply was inaudible, and sent flying several pieces of meat.

‘We must do something about your manners before we raise Calcutta, Nelson. And not just yours!’

‘Slur,’ Nelson replied, a wad of beef stuck in his gullet.

‘Every midshipman I have aboard is the same,’ he said to Durrand.

The premier, Durrand, responded with his habitual scowl, which looked even worse than it had previously on his peeling face. Nelson knew that the sun had not been kind to him on the voyage: it had left his visage,
pockmarked
under the shards of skin, looking like a piece of upholstery scratched by a cat.

Farmer had turned his attention back to his still chewing young guest. ‘Once we anchor, Nelson, there will be a great deal of social activity, some of which might be of benefit to you – not that I want to deny you the common whorehouse, if that is your wish. I’m told the Bengal bawds are a
cut above their English counterparts, perfumed, gentle creatures unlike the brutes you’d find in a home seaport.’

Surridge, also a guest, coughed slightly, to remind his commander, whose voice had grown wistful, that he had strayed off his point.

‘Quite!’ said Farmer, recovering himself. ‘I daresay it would be futile to hope that any of my midshipman’s manners should improve, since none of the young men I have aboard seem to possess an ounce of that commodity, have they Surridge?’

Surridge replied with a heavy nod. ‘I’ve often had occasion myself to bemoan the lack of polish in the mid’s berth.’

‘Shockin’, Surridge! God help the Calcutta whores when they get that lot between their thighs, eh! I doubt the perfume will suffice to kill off the smell. And as for gentility they’ll not last two grains of sand. And what am I to do with them in polite society, I don’t know. Weren’t like that in my day. We were born to be gentlemen and knew how to behave like one.’

He gave Nelson a hard look, just as the youngster managed to shift the last lump of his meat to one side of his mouth. ‘That’s what I’d like to see from you.’

‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

Farmer had leant forward and was peering at Nelson’s bulging cheek. ‘For God’s sake, boy, get rid of that lump.’

The knock was so slight it was almost inaudible, and the door opened swiftly to reveal the round red face of Thomas Troubridge. ‘Flag signalling, sir. Squadron to make more sail, dipped three times.’

Surridge had already made to leave, since that meant the Admiral apprehended danger, and Farmer had lost his vagueness. The eyes that had seemed sleepy were lively now. ‘Anything from the masthead?’

‘Nothing, sir,’ Troubridge replied.

‘If the best eyes are not aloft already, get them there.’

‘Sir!’

‘And my compliments to Mr Stemp, he is to comply with the signal.’ The eyes were on Nelson next. ‘What are you still doing here? Get about your duties!’

In the background Nelson could hear the cry of ‘All hands’. Before that would have meant him going aloft, but he’d been removed from that station. ‘With respect, sir, I’m not sure what my duties are.’

‘You may act today as my aide. Mr Durrand, I would like things put in hand to clear for action.’

By the time Farmer appeared on deck they had heard the dull boom of distant gunfire. Every eye was straining to see the source of that sound, with the officers occasionally glancing aloft at the two men who occupied the masthead. Surridge was yelling orders through his speaking trumpet to the men aloft, while on deck canvas was coming up from below, sails to be laid out ready for bending on to the yards.

Seahorse
was racing along, her deck canting to the angle of a steep-pitched roof, her bowsprit digging into the heavy swell of the Indian Ocean, throwing up a great mass of water.
Ramilles
and the other 74s were striving likewise, but their bulk slowed them down compared to the frigate, and Farmer had to shorten sail to remain on station.

Nelson felt as if his entire skin was itching, so quickly was the blood racing through his veins. All the ships in the squadron had a full suit aloft now. The sloop
Vixen
– on point duty – which had raised the alarm, had gained on everyone, increasing the gap between herself and the fleet, seemingly determined to get to the centre of the action first.

‘Flagship signalling, sir,’ said Durrand.

‘What does he say?’ Farmer asked Troubridge, who was now the signalling midshipman.

‘Difficult to make out, sir. The wind is angling the flags away from us.’

‘Vixen
shortening sail, sir,’ added Durrand, a telescope fixed to his eye.

‘Flagship’s orders being repeated by
Euraylus,
sir,’ said Troubridge pointing to another frigate, then consulting his book to make sense of the message. He nearly screamed the order as Sir Edward’s signal became clear. ‘Flag is making our number, sir. The message reads, “Make all sail”.’ Everyone on board the vessel was watching as that set of coloured pennants disappeared and a fresh lot was sent aloft. ‘General chase due east.’

‘Mr Surridge,’ said Farmer, calmly, ‘I want the very best you can give us.’

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

The next hour was a whirlwind of activity, as yards and sails were set up in an endless stream. Nelson was sent dashing in all directions with messages to the various divisional officers, all the time aware of what the master was about, trying to second guess each alteration to the sail plan before it was made, happy that he managed to anticipate about half of what occurred.

Studdingsail booms were lashed on, to be pushed out from the main yards, the canvas they carried spreading well beyond the side of the ship. Royals and Kites were hauled up to take what wind there was at the very top of the masts.
Vixen,
too lightly armed to go on alone, spilled the wind from her sails then joined company as the two ships opened up the gap between themselves and the rest of the squadron. The log was cast continuously, as Surridge trimmed sails, added to one side and subtracted from another, until, on the even Indian Ocean breeze, and taking account of the leeway, he had achieved the maximum speed.

‘By damn, twelve knots, sir,’ he called, as the log was heaved again.

‘Thank you, Mr Surridge,’ Farmer replied.

Nelson now stood beside Farmer on the quarterdeck, balancing himself against the motion of the ship, left leg extended to hold his position on the canted deck, right dipping to absorb the motion of the swell. Spray washed his face continuously, blown over the bows to hang in the air as
Seahorse
ploughed on through it. Cool as it was, it did nothing to dampen the excitement he felt, or the feeling that this was where he belonged.

It was what he had dreamed of in that cold coach that first took him to Chatham, the image of himself in command of a warship going into battle. It was the stuff of endless speculation among the youngsters he messed with; would they one day rise to a captain’s rank? On this deck now it was easy to forget the presence of Farmer and imagine himself in the role of which he dreamt, to transpose their respective stations and conjure up the notion that he was issuing the orders. He would, God willing, rise to command, and when he did, he would be a better captain than the man he was standing by, at this moment, to serve.