On a Making Tide (26 page)

‘Christ, your honour,’ said Giddings, who had taken to breaching the bounds of proper discipline by talking to an officer without permission, then doubling the offence by taking the Lord’s name in vain, ‘if I didn’t know better, I’d say they almost looked like sailors.’

‘They do that, Giddings,’ Nelson replied.

The two men exchanged grins as the clouds parted at last, and the first burst of sunshine they had seen since leaving the Downs bathed
Lowestoffe
’s deck.

As they sailed south to the Azores, where they would put up their helm to head west on the trade winds, faces became names, and names became people, with homes, families and problems they could always raise, providing Giddings had laid the way, with the second lieutenant. There were those who would never make seamen as long as they lived, the mere act of hauling on a rope nearly beyond their mental powers, but in some sense every man took on a role aboard ship, even if it was only as the butt of endless ribbing.

Nelson was reminded of the voyage on
Swanborough
in the way that relationships changed between the experienced tars and the newcomers. Except here, if there were fights and other vices, he as an officer was kept unaware of them. And in a man-o’-war the hands were allowed no idleness to brood. There was too much to do: sail drill to perfect the frigate’s ability to manoeuvre, gunnery practice to up the rate of fire – dumb show mostly, merely hauling the guns in and out so that the ten men per cannon could act as a team, powder being too expensive to waste.

There was practice in boarding with boats over the side, with one half of the crew trying to get back on the deck in the face of the others. Wounds were common, since no one wanted to play such games in a gentle fashion. Officers were not spared, and Horatio Nelson garnered as many bruises as the rest, but he handed out more, surprising and overcoming many a robust opponent with the sheer tenacity of his effort, his pike, marlinspike or sword wrapped in canvas doing sterling work.

The truth was he loved battle, even a mock one: it made his blood race in a way that he found exhilarating. Any feeling of weakness could be banished in an instant if he was offered the chance to lead a boarding party.
That he sometimes ended up in the sea, thrown back by a strong defence, only occasioned laughter, both from the crew and the victim.

His problems were not on deck or with the crew, or in the sailing of the ship on watch. They were in the wardroom where the premier disparaged his actions as a futile attempt to gain popularity, a dangerous way to behave with men who, if you were an officer with a proper sense of discipline, you would have to send to the grating.

Dinners with Captain Locker tended to be relaxed. He liked company, especially that of the younger members of the crew, and a ravenous midshipman was seen commonly on his left, usually taking little part in the conversation, but consuming as much as he could cram into his mouth.

‘Tell me Mr Bromwich,’ Locker said, with a twinkle in his eye, to the youngster who, probably because of his height, tended to put his fellows in the shade in the article of greed. ‘Does your coat have deep pockets?’

‘Yesh shir,’ the boy replied, his mouth full.

‘Then we’d best eat up, gentlemen,’ Locker whooped, aiming his knife at the great joint of roast beef in the middle of the table, ‘or there will be scant fare for the adults.’

Bromwich blushed to his roots, even though his commander was grinning at him. ‘Have you fed up the rats for consumption yet, young fellow?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You will in time, lad. A mid’s hunger knows no bounds. I remember that well. Pounded ship’s biscuit mixed with a drop of rum gives the beasts a very singular flavour.’

‘I was taught to feed them the bargemen, sir,’ said Nelson. ‘We’d hover round the mess tables and scoop the creatures up as the hands banged them loose.’

‘A bit of lobscouse does wonders for the texture,’ added Pryce, the schoolmaster, who had served on a line of battle ship, which opened up a general discussion of the best way to catch, prepare and eat rats.

‘Slow roasting over wood,’ said Waddle, ‘if you can persuade the cook to let you at his fire.’

Locker was of the opinion that they were best in a stew, as fine, any day, as chicken if you added some dried peas and a pint of blackstrap wine to the mix. Bromwich took little part in the discussion, continuing to eat his fill rather than miss the opportunity. Who cared about rats in the presence of a baron of beef? He was still at it when the conversation moved on to the American rebellion and the conflict it had caused.

‘The rebels have no navy, of course,’ said Locker, ‘and barring the
intervention of the French, we won’t see much in the way of proper action. But there might be the odd privateer preying on our merchant ships.’

‘Yet our duties will be congenial, sir,’ replied Waddle. ‘The seditious swine are still trading into the sugar islands. Let us scoop them and turn their loss to our profit.’

Locker looked at his premier. ‘The taking of prizes is all very well, Mr Waddle, and fine for the prosperity of our endeavours, but nothing elevates a man like a sea fight with a proper warship. Ain’t that so, Nelson?’

Waddle’s face clouded and he looked hard at Locker, as though he sensed a deliberate insult. He knew that the Captain was aware of Nelson’s and his mutual antipathy, even though it wasn’t allowed to surface in his presence. On a small ship like
Lowestoffe,
such things could not be kept hidden. Preference couldn’t be kept secret either, and Locker clearly appreciated the company of his second lieutenant, a man keen to reprise at the table every battle the British Navy had ever fought. Waddle felt such games to be crass.

In Waddle’s opinion, Locker could bore for the nation on the subject of naval history, especially regarding Hawke, his own personal hero. The actions off Quiberon Bay and Brest were a constant refrain and the captain always concluded with a statement so frequently expressed that, to his premier’s way of thinking, repetition had rendered it fatuous: ‘Always lay a Frenchman close,’ he would exclaim, his hand invariably thumping the table top, ‘and you will beat him!’

Nelson would always applaud the sentiment, which damned it as even more stupid in Waddle’s eyes. But Locker’s story telling wasn’t confined to his own years of service: he could recount the details of every sea battle since ancient times and, encouraged by Nelson, did so. Waddle put this down to the fact that Locker came from a long line of naval folk: grandfather, father and numerous sea-going uncles. He had even married the daughter of a naval officer, which hinted at a damaging degree of inbreeding. Nelson might not be cast from the same mould, but he behaved as if he was.

Waddle, with his more classical turn of mind, thought they exhibited a damning degree of simplicity rather than any deep knowledge. The Latin poets quite foxed them and any mention of Greek tragedies inevitably prompted a return to the naval battle of Salamis between the Athenians and the Persians. Waddle also saw Nelson’s flattery of the Captain, his continual questions and enquiries regarding naval folklore, as nothing but the crawling of an officer determined upon advancement. What was even more galling to the bored observer was that it clearly paid dividends.

‘It certainly did my uncle Maurice no harm, sir,’ Nelson responded, when Locker reprised his mantra about beating the French. He had not looked at the premier as he spoke, so that he was unwittingly sailing into stormy waters.

‘You cannot claim it is mere battle that has made him what he is,’ Waddle growled. ‘From what I know of your uncle, which I admit is only hearsay, he
is a man of some culture, an avid reader and a presence at the cultural life of the nation. He has, of course, the advantage of being a bachelor without issue, which gives him time to indulge his wide variety of tastes.’

It was a finely balanced insult to Maurice Suckling, who lived alone, had never married and was known for a fussy attention to cleanliness and tidiness. Nelson had no knowledge of his sexual orientation, but he knew that to reply harshly to Waddle, to demand that he withdraw what was only an insinuation would reinforce rather than kill it.

‘I think he applied the same abilities you mention to the proper running of a ship, sir.’

‘What does this imply, Nelson? That the other officers who successfully fought the enemy during the Seven Years War did not?’

‘That’s certainly an accusation you could level at some of the admirals,’ Locker joked, the only person at the table who could advance such a jest. He was trying to lighten the atmosphere, though one glance at Waddle was enough to tell him he had failed. ‘They were not all like Hawke. At Quiberon Bay he risked his entire fleet to sail in after the French. If they’d guessed his purpose, and run their own ships into shoal water, the whole English fleet could have been lost.’

‘If I may be permitted to continue, sir,’ the first lieutenant said. ‘Do you really see the skirmish your uncle took part in as in any way vital?’

Nelson replied coldly. ‘I think it was something more than a skirmish.’

‘Forgive me,’ Waddle replied, pleased to have riled Nelson and making no attempt to hide his insincerity. ‘I have no wish to diminish the action off Cape Francis Viego, but does that really explain your uncle’s present position? I would wager that a busy application of flattery to superiors might achieve more in the way of advancement than a single sea battle.’

‘I’m sure you mean no such thing, Mr Waddle,’ said Locker. He then forgot his own remark about admirals. ‘But you have just seen fit to disparage a senior officer. He also happens to be a close relative of one of your fellow guests.’

‘I intend no disrespect, sir, the point is general, and—’

‘Good.’ Locker cut across him. ‘So now we can return to the subject of American privateers.’

Waddle had been put in his place and had no option but to comply. But he engaged in the conversation in a sporadic moody manner that further diminished him in the opinion of his captain. Nelson was much more alert, eager when the master produced his charts to spread them on the table and point out the various routes through the islands that the Americans might use to evade British cruisers.

‘Are we required to proceed directly to Jamaica, sir?’ Nelson asked.

‘Oh, yes, young fellow,’ Locker replied, with a laugh. ‘Admiral Gaynor will not thank us for deviating.’

‘What if we were to turn up with a capture?’

‘Then we’d be praised and damned at the same interview. But never fear,
he won’t keep us tied up at the quayside for long. It’s no profit to him unless we are at sea.’

‘Is he a friend to your uncle, Nelson?’ asked Waddle.

‘I have no idea, sir,’ Nelson replied, ‘but if he is, it’s not something I can help.’

‘Yet it is something you will most certainly profit by.’

Nelson jabbed the chart. ‘I hope for us all to profit by taking the enemy ships that are smuggling contraband into the sugar islands.’

‘All of us, Nelson?’

‘Yes!’

‘So now you add piety to all your other virtues.’

‘Enough!’ said Locker. Conveniently eight bells rang out to denote the change of the watch. ‘I suggest that it is time you return to your duties.’

Locker proved to be absolutely right about Admiral Gaynor, who was full of impatience, harrying him to revictual and get
Lowestoffe
to sea. Gaynor knew he was due to be relieved and was all for ‘making hay while the sun shines’ and ‘striking when the iron is hot’. Locker was ordered to take station covering the wide straits between Hispaniola and Haiti to intercept Americans trading into Jamaica itself. The three thousand-mile voyage, during which Locker had lost only a dozen hands to sickness and accident, had done more than turn the crew into a single unit: some of those snatched from a London street had shown enough aptitude to become topmen, the cream of the crew, who would even sit aloft talking when not required so that they could carry on yarning in peace.

But the same thing applied to all the divisions. It mattered little the watch they served with: they dressed the same and talked the same. Convention stilled the animosity between Waddle and Nelson. Mewed up as they were, in such close proximity to one another, their feud had to be tempered if it was not to burst into another open challenge. Locker helped by behaving as if the dispute didn’t exist, and forcing his officers to do likewise. If the two men could not be brought to love each other, at least they wouldn’t resort to the violence that would end in a court martial.

Matters eased when they took an American carrying a full cargo of rice, a commodity easy to dispose of, and the prospect of money, even if it was distant and at the whim of the prize courts and the depredations of individual prize agents, cheered the whole crew. That was what the volunteers had signed on for, a redemption of the promises made on Locker’s posters. To those pressed, it was the final compensation for a forced life at sea. So when, in heavy seas, they spotted the armed American Letter of Marque, a two-masted barque, cruising between Cape Maize and Cape Nicola Mola, the whole crew cheered when they sought to engage.

What ensued was a long, exhausting chase, one that in such a sea, aided by a stiff quartering breeze, favoured the heavier ship. Now the months of blue water sailing and steady training told as the master used all his skill to
coax out of the frigate another ounce of speed. The American privateer was a good ship, well manned with a crew that had no desire to see the ship they had a share in fall into British hands. But the fates were against them, and the heavy press of sail they were forced to carry did nothing to aid their escape. In fact, it did the opposite, the wind forcing the ship head deep into the water so that a great quantity was shipped aboard, not all of which was discharged as the barque rose again.

As the afternoon wore on
Lowestoffe
steadily closed the gap. She had the weather gage and with land to leeward the lightly armed American, up against the superior firepower of a British man-o’-war, was soon in a hopeless situation, losing speed as the shipped water began to fill her ’tween decks and slow her even more. But the Captain had no intention of dipping his flag without showing his mettle and he let off his forward guns just as the frigate came within range. That and the reply from his own ship brought William Locker stamping unevenly on to the quarterdeck, to join Waddle and the ship’s master who had the con.

‘Gunnery, by damn,’ Locker exclaimed. ‘He’s a plucky fellow and no error. Do we need to clear for action, Mr Waddle?’

‘I cannot believe so, sir. Our friend yonder has a stark choice between surrender or destruction from Mr Nelson’s maindeck cannon.’

‘Then let us get that boat to him.’

Locker looked over the side to where a prize crew waited, with Giddings on the tiller, the longboat lashed fore and aft to the side of the frigate, bobbing up and down alarmingly and needing a great deal of fending off to keep it from crunching into the planking.

Waddle stiffened perceptibly. He had decided on a course of action and was less than happy to see it questioned. ‘A chancy affair in this kind of sea, sir. I would rather lay him close and threaten him with our great guns.’

‘Time might not favour that course Mr Waddle.’ His glance at the heavy clouds scudding above was eloquent enough not to require explanation. Night came quickly in the tropics, and with such a sky it would be pitch black within the hour. ‘If we fail to board before dark he may be able to give us the slip. You have a boat in the water. I suggest it would be better used than just lying tied to our hull at risk of being swamped.’

‘He will not prevail against the threat of guns, sir.’

‘He might not have to without a prize master aboard. Lacking the benefit of moon or starlight our plucky fellow might choose to run.’

‘In his present waterlogged state he would struggle to make enough headway to put the horizon between himself and us before dawn.’

The frustration was clear on Locker’s face, and the cause was not hard to fathom. He couldn’t order Waddle to take to the boat and secure the prize. That was beyond his power. He could suggest, but every officer had the right to decline a duty, and the Captain had to acknowledge that his own instincts, which were of the board them and be damned variety, might not always be correct. His premier knew this too, knew just what his rights were
in relation to his responsibilities. To the first lieutenant’s way of thinking the risk wasn’t justified. In this sea a boat might easily capsize too far away from the frigate to effect a rescue. Waddle felt he could secure the initial surrender of the privateer without risk to the crew. And even if the prize did, by some fluke escape, he reckoned he’d be able to justify that decision.