On a Making Tide (24 page)

‘There are American privateers in those waters, as well as Frenchmen flying their colours. What we see, gentlemen, we will engage. And I give you this advice should we meet a Frenchie, which was the watchword of Lord Hawke himself: always lay a Frenchman close and you will beat him.’

His newly commissioned second lieutenant, who had been a glint in the parental eye when Locker had been wounded, could not hear enough about the heroic Hawke; Nelson encouraged the Captain in his historical ramblings, drinking in everything he had to say. There was no doubt that the older man was flattered by such unaffected attention. Waddle, of course, could not be brought to believe that such mutual esteem bore no relation to the position and influence of the young man’s connections, which lowered Nelson even further in his estimation.

Nelson didn’t boast of his relationship to the new Comptroller of the Navy Board, but it wasn’t surprising, in a small world, that the first lieutenant soon found out. Waddle knew just how much power that office conferred on the holder. Though still only a captain, Maurice Suckling could look admirals square in the eye, since the power of his patronage was at least as great as theirs, and only marginally less than that of the First Lord himself. Such influence, dispensed wisely, would produce a positive response to any corresponding request.

It was two months before Nelson saw his uncle again. An enervating illness which had laid the Comptroller low precluded contact, even though
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was being made ready for sea less than a mile from his office. Nelson joined him for dinner in his spacious accommodation, which alone gave ample evidence of both Maurice Suckling’s elevation, his power and his connections. No cramped cabin here but a vast chamber in the former Royal Palace at Greenwich, with huge windows that overlooked the river Thames.

Everything had the feel of real luxury, from the polished mahogany and sparkling brass fittings on the doors, to a gleaming table that could host a conference or dinner for fifty. The walls were hung with portraits of his predecessors, as well as scenes of great naval victories. Yet there was intimacy too, as they sat in a pair of twin satin settles on either side of a blazing fire, a liveried attendant discreetly just outside the circle of candlelight ready to see to their every need.

‘Sir James Douglas’s nephew will never make a sailor. He’s green around the gills at the sight of a stagnant pond. But I have been able to provide for him a position as assistant to the master attendant at Chatham dockyard. In time, naturally, he will succeed to the senior appointment.’

Since the post he had been offered as second lieutenant on
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had been granted by that same Admiral Douglas, his uncle had no need to spell out the connection. Reciprocal influence was at work, as was so often the case in the Navy. Maurice Suckling went on to talk about what
opportunities
might occur on this new commission.

The commanding officer in Jamaica, Admiral Gaynor, was due to be relieved. There was a queue a mile long of admirals wishing to take over, there being no better place to be in a war than the West Indies. A hundred thousand pounds in prize money was not unknown in those waters for an active admiral with enterprising officers.

Nelson listened attentively, yet could not avoid noting that the ravages of recent fever were still in his uncle’s face, which had not filled out to the rounded healthy countenance that he remembered. Likewise his hair had lost its fine texture. But at least the eyes were still direct, piercing and without side.

‘Whoever gets the post, Horace, I will be here acting on your behalf. A new admiral going to a new overseas commission will have requirements, some of which I flatter myself I will be able to meet. Your task is to achieve a degree of prominence so that whatever recommendations I suggest will be gladly undertaken. In short, you must excel yourself, boy.’

It took no great leap of Nelson’s imagination to see himself fulfilling his uncle’s wildest hopes: victorious, standing on an enemy deck accepting a captain’s sword in surrender, a hero to the fleet. But when he spoke, he knew he had to sound modest and grateful. ‘I will do my very best, sir.’

‘I’m sure you will. But it’s not as easy as it sounds. Your new commander is a fine sailor who loves a fight. But I’ve seen men as good and even better than William Locker who have spent their whole service life without so much as a sniff of powder. Just pray that
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puts you the way of a trifle of glory. Then, when the new admiral arrives he will have no difficulty in showing you preferment. Never forget, Horace, that whatever he decides, even three thousand miles away, will have to be confirmed here in London.’

‘I will pray to God for guidance on the voyage, Uncle.’

‘Just don’t get your head blown off,’ said Suckling, his voice gruff. ‘God knows, I’d miss you if you did.’

Nelson never knew who informed the premier that the new Comptroller had chaired the body set to examine Midshipman Nelson, to ensure that he was competent to receive a lieutenant’s commission. And, despite the evidence of his own eyes as Nelson carried out his duties, Waddle rarely lost an opportunity to diminish Nelson by alluding to that fact, the implication that he had only passed because of his uncle’s presence.

And it was always allusion, never a direct insult. But, as the man who chaired every meal at the wardroom table, and who had the authority to control the subject of conversation if he so chose, Waddle never lacked opportunity. He took a savage pleasure in discussing it at their present mooring off Woolwich, so close to the office Captain Suckling occupied in the neighbouring parish of Greenwich.

‘The service stands in peril from the misuse of influence, gentlemen, do you not agree?’ Even if the sentiment was accurate the murmurs of assent were muted; too many people knew the target to be comfortable, but that was enough to encourage Waddle to continue. ‘At peace, it might make little difference, but in a time of war it is perilous indeed to go placing people in positions of authority merely because of their connections.’

With his pallid complexion, and smooth, moon-like face, the premier could never smile without causing unease, since what should have been an amiable gesture too often hinted at conceit. He was a competent, if uninspiring seaman who held the loyalty of his juniors through his office, not through personal affection. But he was not actively disliked. He could appear interested in everyone, and it was only when each member of the wardroom was asked, for the third time, the same question regarding background or past experience that they realised he rarely listened to their answers.

‘For it is in the heat of battle that the mettle of officers is tested,’ the premier added, ‘though you would scarce think so when you see the ease with which some of our number achieve their rank.’

‘I’m sure, when the time comes, we need only follow your example, sir.’

Waddle’s eyes narrowed a fraction, but he didn’t look at Nelson. Instead, his gaze ranged around the others present: the master, Mr Bootle, the
purser, Abel Corman, Pryce the schoolmaster and finally the marine officer, Lieutenant Livingston. Not one met his gaze, suddenly more interested in their food than conversation.

‘What about that skirmish in the Indian Ocean, Nelson? That’s one treat you’ve yet to regale us with.’

‘It was a trifling affair, sir,’ Nelson answered, suddenly wary. Under normal circumstances he would have obliged happily, but with Waddle looking at him in that jaundiced way he suspected he was being drawn into a snare.

‘Come along, sir,’ said Waddle, leaning forward with an insincere smile. ‘No false modesty, if you please.’

All eyes were on Nelson now, eager to hear the details of any action, even if he had described it as trifling. Nothing excited a ship’s wardroom more than tales of a fight that resulted in the taking of prizes. That meant a money reward, which, to a profession with few wealthy men, was the stuff of every dream, waking or nocturnal. There was no alternative but to comply, and it was a requirement that he set the scene, with the names of ships, number of guns, plus the course and weather. Questions were posed, especially by Mr Bootle who knew Surridge, though all fell silent when it came to the capture.

‘So you didn’t actually board yourself?’ asked Waddle.

‘No, sir.’

‘I’m surprised, Mr Nelson, that you could resist it. Still, having been so newly appointed to your division you could hardly be expected to be sure of your duties.’

There was little he could say in response, having been put in his place by a man far more experienced at dinner table talk. The telling of such a tale required a degree of modesty anyway, if he wasn’t to sound boastful. And he had been below decks at the point of boarding, which robbed the conclusion of much of its impact.

‘A very creditable action, I’m sure,’ said Waddle, with another smile. Then he turned to the purser, the thin, pinch-faced Abel Corman. ‘You were a resident in Jamaica, Mr Corman, do tell us what we can expect when we arrive there.’

Nelson wanted to decline the command of a press gang, but the look in Waddle’s eye left him in no doubt that such a request would be denied. The premier spotted his hesitation to proceed though, and commented on it. ‘You find the idea uncongenial, I can see. The trouble is, Mr Nelson, if your uncle and the Navy Board cannot supply the fleet with enough men, we must go out and press them ourselves.’

‘Estuary boats would be better than prowling the streets, sir.’

‘They would not! Every ship-of-the-line will have their longboats off Margate and the Essex coast. Take the word of one who has real experience. I was active there during the Falklands quarrel. Blood was spilt then and

there will be blood once more. And it won’t be merchant seamen with dented skulls, it will be the crews of the men-o’-war doing battle with each other for some minor advantage, rather than searching for the few scarce hands they can take up.’

There was no denying the truth of that; two ship’s crews in the same location, on land or at sea, seeking to recruit or press men for their own vessel, invariably ended in a brawl.

‘Then let me go further out, sir, south of the Downs, if necessary.’

‘A letter to your uncle would do more good,’ Waddle snapped. ‘We’re still eighty men short on our complement, and that with the conflict barely begun.’

‘Perhaps some of the men who would naturally volunteer dislike the idea of fighting the American colonists.’

‘How about you? Are you one of those dissenting Fenland types?’

Nelson refused to be drawn on that, even if he did have some sympathy with the revolutionaries. The affair had been badly handled. And the good folk of Norfolk, many of whose Puritan ancestors had provided the first settlers, had been quick to say so. His own opinions didn’t count. He was a serving officer holding a King’s commission. If the sovereign decided that the Americans must be chastised rather than persuaded, he had little choice but to obey.

‘We are unlikely to find eighty sailors wandering the streets.’

‘Bodies will do, Nelson. We’ll make sailors of them when we get to sea.’

‘What’s the tally, Mr Waddle?’

The premier raised his hat as Captain Locker approached, his limp exaggerating the rolling sailor’s gait. The information that a hundred men had come forward was treated with a grunt.
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was detailed to escort a convoy already assembling in the Downs.

‘We need more’n that to do our duty!’

‘I agree, sir. I was just about to detail Mr Nelson to press more hands, but he seems to harbour a degree of reluctance.’

Locker’s eyes, lit by flaring torches, seemed to blaze with more ferocity than the flames. ‘Does he, by damn?’

Waddle’s explanation made much more of Nelson’s disquiet than was strictly true, but he couldn’t complain. Locker had set up a rendezvous near the Tower of London, and that had brought in volunteers, but they were a sorry bunch, with few real tars among them, dregs tempted by promises of regular food, clothing, West Indian sunshine. Poster parties were still out in strength, proclaiming Locker of the
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to be a follower of the great Admiral Hawke and as like to achieve success as his mentor. They were also busy ripping down the proclamations of rival ships, replacing them with their own. That the other ships’ companies were likewise engaged was held to be common practice, and as long as they were not caught in the act of destruction, nothing would be said or done.

‘I agree with Waddle about the estuary, Nelson,’ said Locker. His voice
carried no trace of anger as he continued, ‘And don’t go thinkin’ your reluctance is singular. Pressing men is a damned unpleasant business and not one that I ever took pleasure in.’

‘But it is, sir.’ insisted Waddle, ‘very necessary.’

Locker nodded, eyes still on his second lieutenant. ‘We have no other way of crewing the ship, Mr Nelson, and what cannot be gainsaid must be borne. Now, go about your duty, and do as well as you are able.’

‘There’s two ways of doin’ this, your honour,’ said Giddings, a short, burly bosun’s mate, with a flat face made more so by an oft broken nose. Waddle had put Giddings at Nelson’s disposal along with seven other crewmen, and Bromwich, a twelve-year-old midshipman, was bringing up the rear.

Nelson knew the latter better than Giddings since he had made a point of ensuring that the midshipmen’s mess was being run in the proper manner. Thanks to his strictures, Bromwich, tall, gangling and a touch bovine, was in more danger of bumping his head than being bullied by his messmates. Giddings was a different case altogether. You could see from his face, squashed nose and a cauliflower ear, that he liked to scrap. As a man who would inflict punishment with the cat he had to be a hard case. Nelson always had to fight his own natural dislike of a breed like that, reminding himself that, from his privileged position, he was in no position to carp at how others made their way in the world.

‘I’ve done this afore,’ Giddings added, ‘an’ you either has to get them drunk, or find them that’s had too much ale already. The former be the easier.’

‘The first way wouldn’t entail the crew enjoying a drink as well, would it, Giddings?’

The bosun’s mate didn’t see the faint grin on the officer’s face as he grunted his reply. The street was too dark and Nelson was ahead of the lanterns. These men barely knew him and they would assume he was a soft touch until he proved otherwise. That was a notion of which they needed to be disabused.

‘Else we find a rookery, surround the place,’ Giddings added, ‘an’ take out every man who’s able of body.’

‘Ten men to surround a rookery that might contain several hundred souls?’

There were enough dwellings of that nature around the areas that abutted the London docks, rambling ramshackle affairs, one hutch tacked on to another in a dizzying configuration with no thought to order, home to people well versed in avoiding anything smacking of authority. The whole south bank of the Thames was lined with them, the homes of those attracted to the work the docks provided, a place where criminality flourished alongside poverty and disease. The locals knew their patch, alleys no bigger than an inadvertent gap between two shacks, trapdoors and roof spaces that provided ready exit in a way that no outsider could hope to
unravel. There was only one way to take a rookery: seal the external exits with one large body, while another systematically searched the interior.

‘It’s not a lot I will grant, your honour, but it might serve to get us what we want.’

Why didn’t Giddings share his own revulsion at what they were being asked to do? The man might be a volunteer himself, and as a bosun’s mate he had achieved some status. But he had more in common with the men they were seeking to take up than he had with the officer leading him. The rest of his party was just as ardent, and he knew that one or two of them, peacetime sailors, had been initially pressed in wartime themselves. Surely, from what they knew about life before the mast in wartime aboard a man-o’-war, they would be more inclined to run than gather more victims. Nelson knew he couldn’t ask, but his curiosity was so acute that a way of proceeding came to mind.

‘I had a friend once, Giddings, a man called John Judd. I served with him on a merchant vessel.’

The bosun’s mate was genuinely surprised. ‘You did merchant service, your honour?’

‘I did, and as a common seaman. A round voyage to the Caribbean in which I learnt a great deal not vouchsafed to many officers, most of it imparted by that same John Judd. He even spoke of the activity in which we are presently engaged.’

‘So what did this friend of yours say?’ Giddings asked, guardedly.

‘I fear I must quote him at the peril of my soul. He said that pressing men was a job for a poxed son of a shit shoveller’s bitch, but that there wasn’t a King’s hard bargain born that didn’t fucking love it.’

Giddings hadn’t gasped at the language, the like of which he had heard often enough on an officer’s lips. But the man he was with now was reckoned to be pious, free from harsh judgement and disinclined to raise his voice or bark his orders. There was a different note in his own voice as he replied, ‘I’ve never been one to deny another a favour, your honour.’

Nelson laughed. ‘A favour?’

There was a note of emphatic sincerity in the man’s voice as he responded. ‘For certain, your honour. Don’t forget that I’ve been ashore, man and boy, and I know how hard it is to make a crust. ’Tis no different for others that we take up, half starved, livin’ by beggin’ or riflin’ the rich man’s bins. Least we feed ’em ’board ship. And providin’ they don’t pine too much for home, and they attend to what they’re shown, well, they come to love the life.’

‘I imagine John Judd would say bollocks to that.’

‘Just how long was you on this merchant barky, your honour?’

‘Long enough, Giddings, to know when I’m being invited to piss into the wind.’

Giddings chuckled. ‘How about the fact that if I ain’t got a warm feather
bed and a wide comfortable arse to snuggle to then I’m damned if anyone else will be free to enjoy the like?’

‘Now that has the ring of truth.’

‘Sir,’ called Bromwich from the rear.

‘A hush, sir, if you please.’ Nelson heard the singing as soon as he stopped talking, drunken warbling that was plain at a distance.

‘Sounds like trade to me, your honour,’ hissed Giddings, shading his lantern.

‘What’s the best method?’

‘Doorways, lads,’ muttered the bosun’s mate, ignoring his officer. ‘Keep hidden and come out on my yell.’

Nelson found himself in a doorway too, his own lantern shaded, listening as the noise grew louder. The cold night air had already penetrated his boat cloak and now, standing still, it was chilling him to the marrow. He couldn’t see their prey, but the shuffling, uneven feet told him they were very drunk indeed. He knew they wouldn’t be sailors, even here, close to the docks. Seamen might not be noted for true wisdom, but any man who sailed a vessel into the Pool of London couldn’t fail to see the ships fitting out for the Americas further downriver, and blue-water men, according to John Judd, knew how to keep away from the press.