Sails on the Horizon: A Novel of the Napoleonic Wars (15 page)

“Thank you,” Charles said, a feeling of loss enveloping him. He took her hand and kissed it lightly. “I’m sorry if I caused you any discomfort.” With that he heaved himself onto Pendle’s back. They exchanged terse good-byes and he trotted down the lane in the failing light. On the way home he decided that, if he left first thing in the morning, he could probably reach Liverpool in time to take command of the little brig before it was given to someone else.

FIVE

“W
HICH SHIP, SIR?” THE STROKE OARSMAN ASKED AS
Charles and Attwater settled uncomfortably in the riverboat’s sternsheets, their sea chests wedged between the thwarts in front of their knees. A driving rain pelted the river’s surface, with the wind blowing a small chop and driving the wet into every crevice and opening of Charles’s boat cloak no matter how tightly he drew it around him. “The brig
Lomond
,” he replied.

“All right Bob, together now,” the wherryman said to his companion on the opposite oar. “Remember what I said. Together means we both pull at the same time.”

Bob, a thick-necked, dark-haired man who looked to be in his early thirties, nodded slowly, his eyes watching his companion’s oar like a hawk, even though it was still shipped.

“The
Lomond
, she’s upriver off Whitby,” the stroke said, turning to Charles. “You’ll have to give Bob here some leeway. Got hit on the head by a falling spar when we wuz messmates on the ol’
London
. Ain’t been the same since. He wuz my best mate, though. I kind of looks after him.”

“That’s kind of you,” Charles replied. “I’m sure he appreciates it.” It had crossed his mind more than once that it was a harsh world for crippled or otherwise disabled seamen. They were a common sight in all the port towns, often missing limbs, or disfigured by scars or the pox, or wasted by some other disease. When no longer useful, they were simply discharged as unfit for service and left to be a burden on others or to fend for themselves. A few were reluctantly accepted onto parish poor rolls, some looked after by their families, if they could afford it. The rest died early, or became beggars or thieves. Bob was one of the lucky ones. The navy, for whom they had given their health, accepted no responsibility. For many, Charles thought, it would have been better if they’d been killed instead of injured.

“It’s no trouble,” the stroke said. “He pulls real good once you get him started.” With that he unshipped his oar and shoved it against the jetty. As the boat fell off he said, “Now, Bob,” and both men dipped their oars into the water. “Mind if’n I ask yer business on the
Lomond,
sir? If’n you don’t mind my ask’n, that is.” The boat moved into the current, well out of the crowded shipping channel. Although it was only early afternoon, the other ships anchored in the harbor were mere outlines in the downpour, the riverbanks and buildings beyond almost totally obscured.

“I’m her temporary commander,” Charles answered, the wet and the cold wind off the water making him distinctly uncomfortable.

“Oooh,” Bob intoned. It was the first sound Charles had heard him make and sounded deep and meaningful.

“I told you so,” the stroke said to his mate a moment later, nodding significantly. “Didn’t I tell you so?”

Charles and Attwater had left Edgemont Hall at first light the morning after Charles’s conversation with Penny. They had driven in the carriage to the Liverpool port admiral’s office, which they reached before noon. He had decided that taking up the command was the most sensible thing he could do. It would be his first real command, not counting his few days in charge of the battered
Argonaut,
and he thought that working with some other officer’s trained and disciplined crew would be good practice before taking control of his own ship. He also hoped that a busy month at sea would keep him from brooding on the very painful subject of Penny Brown. She had cut him firmly adrift and it was time he found a new course. Only one thing worried him about leaving home—Stephen Winchester had declined to join him. Charles had requested, almost to the point of begging, that Winchester come along as a volunteer, but the lieutenant had steadfastly refused. In the end all he could do was to remind his lieutenant what he had said about priests and to instruct John to keep a very close eye on him and Ellie at all times. “Left to their own devices, they’d be like rabbits” were his exact words.

Although the port admiral was temporarily away from Liverpool, it was quickly arranged with the admiral’s representative, one Captain Alphonse Dawson, that Charles should take command of the
Lomond
immediately. Dawson expressed surprise that Charles had arrived so soon; he hadn’t been expected for a week or longer. The courier who had been sent to inquire as to his availability, and to whom Charles had refused the day before, had in fact not yet returned. As soon as the necessary orders were drawn up and signed, Charles and Attwater set off to find a riverboat to take them to his new ship.

“What do you mean, ‘I told you so’?” Charles asked the stroke oarsman.

“Oh, sir, we shouldn’t be talk’n about it. We’d be out of line, we would be,” the waterman answered. Then, to his mate, “Bear a little to larboard. No, here, just ease yer oar a bit.” Without a blush he said to Charles, “The
Lomond
’s capt’n, he’s a sot. I know it for a fact. We rowed ’im to shore a week or two back. Shak’n like a loose jib too close to the wind, he was, and see’n things. Fit to be tied, he was.” Nodding his head forward, he added, “That’s her over there.”

Charles peered through the falling rain, using his hand to shield his eyes, and made out the hull of a smallish brig anchored at the bow and stern about a cable and a half’s length from shore. Her masts were indistinct against the backdrop of the land. From this distance she looked normal enough, but as they neared he began to notice details. Just under her taffrail the name
LOMOND
was carved in large block letters that had once been painted a brilliant gold. Now chipped and peeling, the lettering seemed to read
ION NI
. Both her masts were rigged but the yards were badly askew, hung at various angles fore and aft and tilted haphazardly to port or starboard. Several bumboats that normally ferried out local merchants selling all manner of goods, from clothing and tobacco to spirits and women, seemed to be more or less permanently tied up alongside.

By this time, rain or no rain, Charles and his boat were close enough that they should have been hailed by the watch on deck. No one seemed to be on deck and he heard no challenge. Charles began to suspect that all was not going to go as smoothly as he had hoped.

“She ain’t exactly a smart ship, is she?” the stroke offered.

“Row around her. I want a closer look.”

“It’ll cost ye extra, sir,” the stroke said, nudging Bob to lift his oar so he could swing the skiff to starboard. “Sixpence extra.”

“All right.”

“Each,” he added.

“Fine,” Charles muttered at the boatman.

As the small boat started along the side of the
Lomond,
Charles’s dismay increased. The brig’s sails were carelessly furled so that the huge folds bellied toward the deck as they filled with rainwater. The sail halyards and clew lines hung sloppily, poorly fastened or flapping in the wind, and some actually trailed overboard in the water alongside. As they passed under the bow, he could see that she had been a trim ship once, with fine lines, a little scrollwork on her bow, and a sharp cutwater. Now she had gone seedy from lack of paint and attention. On the port-side hammock netting clothing was hung out haphazardly, perhaps to dry before the rains had started.

It was at this point that a squeaky cry came from the ship, “Ahoy, what boat?” The high-pitched breaking voice reminded Charles of Billy Bowles from the old
Argonaut.

“Lomond!”
the stroke oar yelled back.

There was a silence before the someone on the deck said, “Just a moment.” Charles thought it a strange reply to an announcement that the brig’s commanding officer was about to come on board.

“Lay alongside. I’ll climb up by the mizzen chains,” Charles ordered.

“No, t’other way,” the waterman said to Bob, and in a minute the wherry bumped against the
Lomond
’s side. Charles stood in the rocking craft and grabbed the heavy chains attached to a narrow platform on the ship’s side and heaved himself up, then over the railing and onto the deck. He had discarded his boat cloak for the climb and the rain already began to soak through his new uniform coat. Almost immediately, a ship’s boy, possibly twelve or thirteen, padded toward him. He was barefoot, clad in sodden oversized clothing, and incongruously carried a telescope almost as tall as he was on a strap over his shoulder.

“I told you to wait,” the boy said indignantly.

“You call me ‘sir,’” Charles answered. “You say, ‘I told you to wait,
sir,’
and if you talk back to me again I’ll have your behind striped. Now go below and fetch the lieutenant. Leave the glass by the binnacle.” Charles waited, looking around him as the boy darted off, fuming at the sloppiness and disorder around him.

A disheveled and unshaven man in most of what might have been a British naval lieutenant’s uniform appeared moments later, still tucking his shirt in as he came. Charles noted that they were about the same age and build, with the same short dark hair. He took an instant dislike to the unkempt lieutenant who could allow his ship to fall into such a state.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the lieutenant said as he stopped in front of Charles. “Didn’t expect you for another week at best. Be more presentable if we’d known.”

“I should hope so,” Charles answered, looking pointedly at the mess around him. In addition to the tangles of rope, the decks were filthy, there were overturned buckets, items of clothing, including women’s clothing, and other equipment lying here and there.
Christ, Algerian slave galleys must be cleaner than this.
He looked at the officer more closely. His eyes were bleary and he swayed slightly but noticeably on his feet.

“Who are you?” Charles demanded.

“Tillman, sir. I’m the first lieutenant. I’m in charge while Commander Freemont is away.”

“I’m in charge now,” Charles snapped, his dismay turning to disgust. “My steward and sea chests are in a boat alongside. Have them brought aboard immediately. Pay the boatmen the going rate and two shillings extra.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then have the women cleared off the ship and the spirits put under guard.”

Tillman looked dismayed. “But, sir—”

“But what?” Charles snapped.

“Nothing, sir.”

“As soon as the women are gone, call the ship’s company aft and I’ll read myself in. After that, we’re going to put this ship in order.”

“But, sir,” Tillman interjected again.

The last thing Charles wanted to hear was an argument. An angry response was not far from his tongue. With an effort he restrained himself and said, “Yes, what?”

“Captain Freemont, our regular captain,” Tillman sputtered on, “he let us have some time to relax a bit in port. He liked an efficient ship. He didn’t care much how smart she was. All that polishing and flemished lines and all is a lot of foolery in his opinion. He often said, it’s how well she—”

This was getting to be a longish speech and Charles seriously doubted that the
Lomond
was any more efficient than she was smart. “Captain Freemont is not among us at present,” he broke in sharply. “Flemished lines are one thing, loose yards and guns are another. See to my steward and sea chests. Then the women. Then call the hands. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant responded, drawing himself up at the rebuke.

“I will be in my cabin. Have me called when the men are assembled.” Charles turned to leave, then stopped and turned back. “And, Mr. Tillman, I do believe in a smart ship as well as an effective one. Including her officers.”

“Yes, sir. I see, sir.” The lieutenant was standing rigidly erect. He felt vaguely sorry for the man, but the
Lomond
in the condition she was in was an insult to the navy. If he was to accomplish anything during his brief command, things would have to change quickly. If that was hard on this lieutenant, then so be it. Charles took a moment to look over the masts, rigging, and deck again, grimaced, and then made his way aft toward the ladderway and the captain’s cabin. He was looking for the key to Commander Freemont’s desk when Attwater arrived with four seamen carrying their chests.

“Damnation,” Charles swore, his frustration with the desk, the first lieutenant, and the deplorable state of the ship coming to the surface. “How do you open this thing?”

“’Ere, sir. Don’t you fret none.” The elderly steward reached up and felt along a ledge above the desk and almost immediately came down with a small black key. “That’s where Captain Wood, ’e kept his key, sir. Hidden like, where no one couldn’t find it.”

“Thank you.” Charles let out a long breath and some of the anger and disappointment seemed to leave him. “Arrange things as you see fit. When you have the time, ask the cook to make some coffee. He should probably make enough for the crew to have at dinner instead of their evening grog. I think they’ve had enough of that for now.”