Authors: David Donachie
There was no need to go aloft. This was all deck work, easing the yards a fraction while Rathbone worked the rudder, then hauling them tight again. But the risk they ran was soon evident, as the ship, lifted sideways on to a huge wave, nearly broached to, saved only by the strength of the wind at the top of the rise, which took her head round. They had closed the gap with Judd but not by much.
‘We’ll not be risking that again, I hope, Capt’n,’ called Verner, as he struggled to hold the wheel. Rathbone silently shook his head.
McGrath was helped on to the bulwark, four men holding him as he lay backwards, feet on the ship’s side, walking backwards on the planking into the water. A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the seascape, followed by a crack of close-by thunder. That flash of light underlined to everyone on deck just how little time they had.
‘Topmen aloft, Mr Verner,’ said Rathbone. ‘We’ll need to re-reeve those sails.’
‘Aye.’
‘I’ll delay as long as I can, boy,’ Rathbone growled, ‘but that lightning is running ahead of a heavier storm, and that means an increase in the wind.’
Going aloft had two advantages. It kept him occupied and afforded a better spot from which to view McGrath’s endeavours. He had struck out from the side of the ship, slowed by the barrel but clearly with the strength to cope. Judd had started calling to him, his voice noticeably more feeble. On the yards, every man was in his place, ready to haul up the sails and tie them off. What little light remained faded and John Judd was swallowed up by the darkness, then the struggling McGrath. Just as it seemed full night was on them, another flash of lightning lit the sky, showing both men in the water still too far apart. The thunder was instantaneous, and mingled with yet more streaks of lightning. Rathbone could wait no longer.
‘Aloft, reef the topsails. On deck, haul round on those falls. Mr Verner, resume the course.’
‘Move yourself, Nellie,’ shouted the man inside him, forcing Nelson to go to work. But each flash of lightning made his heart sink, and he saw McGrath being hauled back to the ship, while John Judd, still gesturing, drifted away. Tears streamed down his face, as the man who had taught him so much crested on a wave. Was it in his imagination that he heard one last faint cry, before John Judd was carried into the next trough and oblivion?
The sight of England, as they spotted the Lizard three weeks later, brought a lump to Nelson’s throat, which seemed to grow the closer they came to making their landfall. He felt very different from the youth who had set sail six months previously, more of a man than a boy, aware that for all the skill
he had absorbed the most important lesson had little to do with seamanship, and much with companionship.
The talk now was of where the men would meet again, and those whose friendships were deep swore to find a new berth together. For almost the first time since coming aboard
Swanborough,
Nelson felt separate from the crew. He was going back to his uncle, back to the King’s Navy and that midshipman’s berth. And if he failed to fit in a second time, it would be back to his father and his Norwich school.
He wasn’t afraid, but he was sad. The loss of John Judd still weighed heavily. He and Amos endured long silences, as they tried to come to terms with his absence. When Nelson contrasted the present with the
unwelcoming
nature of a mid’s berth, set against the sense of easy fellowship he had had these last months, he felt a terrible temptation to damn the Navy to hell and stay in the merchant service. Rathbone saw the gloom, guessed the cause and, in a surprisingly gentle way, dissuaded the youngster from any such madcap idea.
‘Why, your uncle will see you advanced, lad. I told you that when you came aboard, and it holds as true now as it did then. You’re destined for a quarterdeck, not a slung hammock. And if you can find employment for such as John Rathbone, old as I’ll be, then I will be obliged to you for it.’
The point at which the anchor hit the water off Deal was the full stop to the trip, with most of the crew going ashore there. The Nelson to whom Amos Cavell said goodbye was a different creature from the fresh faced, nervous youth he had encountered on coming aboard. And, in the nature of things, Amos had no real idea of how he himself had changed.
That which they had both been taught had been absorbed into a body of knowledge acquired as much by observation as learning by rote. The legacy of John Judd would stay with them for life. The daily toil of shipwork and his attention to their ways, with rope, canvas and wood, meant that they were sailors now; no longer ship’s boys to be kicked aside, but close to full grown men in the level of their skill.
‘Take care, Nellie,’ Amos said, ‘and if there’s a war, God pray they don’t press me into any ship in which you’re a servin’. I’ve got you marked down, in a blue coat, as a hard horsed, floggin’ bugger.’
The grin took the sting out of the words, as Nelson responded in the same vein of humour. ‘You won’t escape me, Amos. I’ll insist on having you in my crew, with a special grating rigged just so the bosun’s mate can stripe your back at my whim.’
They stopped off Deal only long enough to get seamen ashore and paid off. Rathbone, sober, was back aboard
Swanborough
within two hours, eager to weigh and get home. They picked up a Thames pilot off Margate, and a small extra payment took the ship south of the Isle of Sheppey so that they could close the Great Nore anchorage.
Horatio Nelson, dressed once more in his dark blue coat, was boated to Chatham. The Captain, very obligingly, came with him, and his last act as
the boy stepped on to dry land was to hand him a packet of letters for his uncle, and various other officers believed to be on the station.
‘Good luck, Mr Nelson,’ said Rathbone. ‘If you’re ever stuck for a berth in a peace, look me up. If I have ship, you shall have a place in her.’
McGrath had helped row the boat ashore. He didn’t say anything, but his smile and wink spoke volumes. Nelson couldn’t reply in kind, since he knew to do so would give away how close he was to tears. Rathbone was back in the thwarts, and as the cutter spun away from the steps, he called after them.
‘God be with you all.’
No novice now, he called at the Port Admiral’s office to check if his uncle was still serving. The lieutenant he spoke to confirmed that Captain Suckling was aboard the guardship
Triumph.
He produced a chart to show her position, and was kind enough to take from him the letters that Rathbone had addressed to other serving officers. This time, as Nelson approached the side he was spotted by the officer of the watch. He placed himself carefully to ensure that all proper forms were observed, then came up the gangplank and made his way up on to the pristine quarterdeck. Once there he raised his hat to Mr Fonthill. ‘Permission to come aboard, sir.’
‘Granted,’ the officer replied.
He looked up and down at the youth before him, noting the deep tan on the previously pallid face. He had grown a bit and the shoulders had broadened. But the greatest gain was in the sense of presence, most tellingly in the steady look in those deep grey-blue eyes. He shouted to a group of sailors working by the hammock nettings. ‘You there. Look lively and fetch Mr Nelson’s gear aboard.’ Then he turned back. ‘I sent to tell your uncle that you were returned. He desires you to proceed to his cabin at once.’
‘Aye, aye, sir,’ Nelson responded briskly.
‘Well, well,’ said Suckling, standing to receive his nephew, ‘you’ve put in some sea time.’
‘Captain Rathbone desired that I deliver these, sir,’ Nelson replied, handing over the letters.
There was a pause of a few seconds while each relative examined the other. Nelson saw the faint smile on his uncle’s lips, which hinted at pride in his nephew. The knowledge that he had pleased his uncle filled him with happiness. Whatever doubts he had harboured, he knew for certain that life for him in the King’s Navy now would be different from his first experience.
‘Steward, a glass of wine,’ Suckling called, as he opened the packet, and indicated that his nephew should sit down. The wine was poured as Suckling read. Finally he laid the letter aside, picked up his glass, and looked at Nelson. ‘So, nephew, you have gone from one ship, sailed to the West Indies, acquitted yourself well judging by Rathbone’s opinion, and returned to my new command. Raise your glass to a scheme well complete.’
Nelson did so, noticing the twinkle in his uncle’s eye. The full, slightly
feminine lips parted in a grin, just before he spoke. ‘Ha, ha, boy. You could be said to have had a
Raisonable
voyage, and returned to a
Triumph.’
1773
Emma grew impatient with the sudden doubts of Jane Powell, her fellow housemaid, and had to take her arm to get her out through the basement door of Dr Budd’s house. Jane, the elder of the pair, should be taking the lead, not her. Dinner had been served, Mrs Lane the housekeeper had nodded off in the pantry and Gill Tooley, the head footman, with his two under-footmen, was on hand to provide anything their master and mistress required. Everyone would take it for granted that after a long hard day which had started with the laying of fires before dawn, the two girls had retired to their attic beds.
Her own blood was racing, part from fear and part excitement, since to leave the house without permission was forbidden. Employers of serving wenches, one just coming up thirteen, the other a mere fifteen, wanted their girls to be sober, cheerful, chaste and asleep after dark, not gallivanting on Autumn nights around the fleshpots of London.
The streets around Blackfriars were still busy, the wharves that lined the Thames hives of activity with cargoes being loaded into the barges that would take them up and downriver. They picked their way delicately through the throng of carts, carriages and people, hems held clear of the filth, horse and human, that coated the walkways. Though Jane was still nervous, Emma was filled with a sense of freedom, gabbling away nineteen to the dozen as they stopped to finger the goods at every covered stall that sold trinkets, lace or ribbons.
However, neither had the means to buy, and frustration grew as they made their way on to London Bridge, which was lined with tiny shops. There, behind glass, was gold jewellery, fans decorated with elaborate eastern patterns, dress materials of the finest satin, wool and silk and gay shawls. Downriver of the bridge, silhouetted in the fading light, stood the masts of thousands of ships, the very vessels that had fetched in this abundance. Beneath their feet, the river transport surged through the narrow arches; barges, small boats and the rivermen’s tiny wherries.
‘Do you not long to go
to sea, Jane,’ Emma asked breathlessly, ‘to see the world’s wonders?’
‘I could think of nothing worse. My uncle Gabriel was a sailor, and he said that all that blather about the world’s wonders was stuff. It were backbreaking toil and barely a farthing to roister on ashore. That was before the pox he got from his voyaging took away from him the power to speak.’
‘If I were a man, that is what I should do, go to sea.’
Emma caught Jane looking at her full breasts, a source of deep envy, she knew, to her less well endowed companion, but of some pride to herself. Although she was younger than Jane, Emma was taller by a good two inches, with a fuller figure that made her look several years older than her years. Yet Jane Powell had beauty as well: an olive complexion and near black eyes to contrast with Emma’s green, though her short chestnut hair, however well brushed and shining, could not compete with Emma’s three feet of auburn.
‘You’ll never pass for a man, Emma Lyon,’ Jane said, trying to sound more grown up than her companion. ‘If it’s salt water you’re after, find yourself a sailor. And while he’s traipsing round the globe, making the money to keep your affections, enjoy yourself with any of his mates who happen to be ashore, ’cause that’s what he’ll be about in every port he calls at.’
‘That’s a sure way to please my ma,’ said Emma, with a trace of anger.
She had visited today, an unbidden call that had nearly killed off the plan for this nocturnal adventure. A friend of the housekeeper, Emma’s mother could come and go as she pleased to a house where Cath Lane ruled the roost. She had the key to the tea caddy, and a sharp eye for the lecherous eye of Gill Tooley, who was a touch free with his hands.
Emma knew that her mother thought her too boisterous for her station, but Cath Lane seemed to enjoy her lively nature, encouraging both her and Jane to sing as they wished. The sound was pleasing to the mistress of the house, Dr Budd’s invalid wife, though not to her husband, who demanded peace and quiet when he was about.
‘She fears to see you out on your ear again, that’s all,’ said Jane.
‘I’m not sure I do,’ Emma replied, immediately realising that she had said the wrong thing. Jane Powell’s dark eyes showed real alarm as the consequences of what they were doing crossed her mind. ‘You don’t reckon on service all your days, do you?’
That was the way to steady Jane: to remind her of how often in the eighteen months they had been together they both spoke of a better life than that below stairs, at Dr Budd’s or anywhere else. They had fantasised about other avenues to advancement – to becoming actresses or singers, owning a shop or marrying a rich man captivated by their uncomplicated charm.
Emma wondered if her mother knew how she added to that sense of disquiet. How could she insist that this was a proper life for her daughter when she wore well-made clothes of silk and velvet, a fashionable hat on
her head and trailed a waft of expensive scent that hinted at a life far better than Emma’s? How she achieved such was never discussed, but it was scarce a secret that she worked for a lady called Mrs Kelly, who owned a fine house in Arlington Street; that everything she owned was provided either by her or by male admirers. Cath Lane had worked there too, which was why they were friends, until her beauty had faded. Now Cath Lane was near as broad as she was high, with a round face in which her nose had near disappeared between bright red cheeks, and she had forearms like a drayman.
‘And how are we to know what’s to be had,’ Emma added, taking Jane’s arm to propel her along, ‘if’n we don’t go abroad to see it?’
Jane was smiling again as they traversed the other half of the bridge. Over the sound of vendors shouting of the beauty and value of their wares, they could hear fiddles, fifes and drums, the sound of the camp that occupied the Southwark bank opposite the city. Once military, it was now a permanent fairground, as well as home to any number of travellers. Crowded and bustling, the rule was that if you could find a space and a way to attract attention, you were free to perform. There were jugglers by the dozen, while others swallowed swords or fire. Moth-eaten bears were made to dance, and the cockfights in the central arena took turnabout with contests between battling dogs.
The girls were invited to Rat and Trap, play skittles, shy balls for prizes, and try their hand at short archery. Using dazzling smiles to slip into the boxing booth without payment they watched as the two pugilists hammered each other, the blood from their bare-knuckled blows spattering the crowd, who were yelling for the man on which they had placed their bets. They observed people who thought themselves wiseacres relieved of their coins on the hunt the thimble board, made dizzy by the way the three cups were switched.
Hardest to bear was the smell of food so powerful it overbore the human stink: pork on a spit, roasted potatoes and chestnuts, fresh sweetmeats that made their nostrils twitch. The hot spices from mulled wine rose to tempt them, overtaken suddenly by the fragrance of cool lemonade. Emma thought of Fred Stavely, and tried to reckon how much a quick, darting fellow like him could pick up in a crowded arena like this. Looking around the soldiers, sailors and ordinary citizens, an ache grew in her belly that demanded to be filled. She regretted that she had never asked him to teach her the skills of a successful dip.
‘If I don’t get something to eat I’ll faint,’ said Jane.
They had stopped in one of the lanes that criss-crossed the camp, with no real idea of where they were. It was pitch dark now, the only light coming from flaming torches that flared above each booth or stall. People milled around them, and some of the passing males, mistaking their purpose, made suggestions that brought a blush to their cheeks. One party of sailors, pigtails stretched down their backs, made so bold as to approach them, the smell of drink obvious on their breath.
‘Hey ho, my beauties,’ said the leader, who was dressed in his best shore-going rig, a short, brass-buttoned blue coat, wide trews and stripped stockings to match his waistcoat set off by buckled shoes. With his tarred hat in his hand, he executed a deep bow. ‘My shipmates here, having observed as I ’ave that you’re a pair of true sprites, was wondering if we might engage you for matters of a sporting nature.’
‘Only in conversation,’ said Jane Powell, archly.
‘As long as it’s criminal conversation,’ said one of the others, to loud laughter.
Their leader waved his hat impatiently. ‘As you will observe, some of my mates here are drunk to the point of bein’ blind. They can’t see your innocence as I can.’
‘You get much closer and that innocence’ll be forfeit.’
‘Belay, you damned oaf,’ their interlocutor said. ‘The trouble with you is you only knows how to address whores. These be more gentle creatures.’
‘Stuff your gentle creatures,’ spat the man who had responded first. ‘Get the price, an’ let’s either get them on their backs or seek elsewhere.’
The naïveté that had kept them in conversation was broken. Jane screamed and Emma turned and grabbed her as they ran away, pursued by a long string of lubricious catcalls. Yet for all her fear, there was a delicious thrill in Emma’s breast. That sailor had marked their beauty, and the look in his eye, as he spoke to them, had hinted at something else.
‘They took us for whores,’ Jane wailed, as they rounded the corner to find themselves standing in a small open space, under huge lanterns, at the back of the boxing booth. ‘Who could do that?’
‘Not the one that came close,’ Emma replied, putting her arm around Jane to comfort her. ‘He was more of a gent than the others. The rest were just pie-eyed with rum.’
‘And there was you prattling about goin’ to sea.’
‘What’s to be afraid of in this mob? Except having no money. We’d have more of a time if we had some coin.’
‘You’re not suggesting we take up on them jack tars!’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Emma snapped. ‘I just said we had to get hold of some coin.’
‘Well, there’s the moon, Emma Lyon.’ Jane pointed to the sky. ‘You may whistle for it if you like.’
‘What about singin’ to it?’
‘Sing?’
‘Like we do in the house, when we’re working.’ Emma took off her cloak and laid it on the ground in front of them. Her hat followed that, and the long auburn tresses of which she was so proud tumbled down to frame her face. ‘See, we can stand here and chant – perhaps that Granger air we both know – an’ those going by may tip a coin into my cloak as payment. When we’ve got enough, we can get ourselves something to eat and drink.’
‘It’ll never work!’
‘If jugglers can drop their beanbags and still get paid, so can we, even if we drop a note or two. You’ve got a better voice than me, so you take the lead part and I’ll do the reprises.’
What came out of Jane Powell’s mouth when she started singing was so far from the real item that Emma burst out laughing. Out of key, weak and tuneless, it would have driven people away if she had been loud enough. She began to sing herself, loudly, and with a
faux
assurance that covered the feeling of butterflies churning in her stomach. Slowly, as Jane gained confidence, her voice grew in strength until she was singing with enough gusto to allow Emma to drop to a softer tone.
They had plenty to compete with – the roars from the boxing booth at their back, the shouts of a crowd at pleasure, as well as the odd drunken yell ‘to put a boot up the cat’s arse’ – but one or two people stopped to listen. Those accompanied by wives or sweethearts were swiftly dragged away, for the trilling girls were not very good – so it was more their youth and looks that attracted. The rougher element, on hearing a song of soft love and sweet muses, didn’t linger either, though one or two, more from habit than generosity, threw a few coins into Emma’s cloak.
They were left, as an audience, with young, unattached men, none of whom seemed to have the courage to approach too closely, nor the means to reward them for their efforts. But one duo did, though they waited till the end of the song to applaud and throw a sixpence. The one who tossed the coin was tall and thin, with sharp, unbecoming features, thick lips under a nose that seemed too big, and an eager look that rendered him unattractive. He was well dressed in a buff coat of good quality, white breeches and stockings that looked to be silk.
The other, in a plain black coat, was of medium height, round of face and fair skinned. He had a sullen air, though this might have been attributable in some measure to the tricorn hat pulled down low over his forehead. They listened to another song, made payment of a second sixpence, applauded again, then approached the performers, the tall thin fellow well to the fore. ‘Bravely done, girls,’ he cried.
‘Bravely?’ Emma demanded, stretching to her full height.
He smiled. ‘If you listen carefully, and put aside the noise of the crowd, you will realise that the nightingales have fled the contest. You have, my beauties, triumphed over nature.’
He had a good voice, even and deep, so the insincerity in his eyes did little to diminish the compliment. Jane had stepped back slightly, so that her friend’s greater substance shielded her.
‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am James Perry, and this is my very good friend Owen Dunn.’ The smaller man gave a grunt, as his friend continued, ‘We are both of the opinion that we enjoyed your concert immensely.’
‘The word “bravely” sits ill with that, Mr Perry,’ Emma replied, thrilled at her own boldness.
‘There are those who might flatter you, Miss …?’
‘Lyon,’ Emma exclaimed, confidently. ‘And this is Miss Jane Powell.’
That produced another bow, and Jane took a tight grip on Emma’s arm. Perry looked down at the few coins in the cloak. ‘I fear you’ll never make your fortune as a fairground
chanteuse,
Miss Lyon, though you’d be amazed at what you might achieve with a trifling amount of tuition, especially at your tender age.’ He gazed into the huge green eyes. ‘Indeed, you have the necessary presence to overcome any flaw in performance.’
Emma bobbed a curtsy, then cursed herself for doing something so childish. ‘I thank you kindly Mr Perry. But you mistake our purpose. We are naught but a pair of housemaids.’