Authors: David Donachie
How would he be received here in the Burnhams now that he was a Post Captain? Even unemployed and far from complete health, that made him somebody, perhaps enough of a person in the county not to fear too much from his present situation. Against that his elder brother Maurice, now toiling in the same Navy Office his uncle Suckling had run, warned him of the poor prospects facing idle captains forced to exist on half pay.
Rattling along past sights so familiar they tugged at his emotions, it was easy to conjure up the image of a rural idyll: a place of content, where the well respected Captain Horatio Nelson would be of some standing in the community, a man to elicit a raised hat from the gentry, and a doffed cap from labourers and tenant farmers.
Yet it was foolish to compare his standing here with the respect he was shown aboard ship. What could he hope for here except obscurity? The notion of being indistinguishable from the herd had never appealed to Nelson. Though he knew that his desire for recognition carried within it the sin of vanity he could not help but crave it. It had been with him all his life – even as a child he had sought to outdo his siblings.
His father would be there to greet him, the same man who had looked after him so assiduously in Bath. Illness had not spared the Rector’s son
oft-repeated
homilies regarding his manners, the forthrightness of his opinions, or how those impacted on his prospects for advancement. That his father insisted he recuperate in Bath had made sense, but the fact that he actually liked the place amazed Horatio Nelson. Why leave his parishes in Norfolk, where he was a highly regarded individual, to travel to a West Country town where he melded seamlessly into a flock of nonentities taking the waters, bowing and scraping to those they considered their social superiors?
With an uncomfortable vision that his own life might take a similar
course, he mouthed a silent prayer that their lordships at the Admiralty would give him a ship.
Albemarle
shuddered, her head falling off in customary fashion. Though Nelson could never be brought to say so, this ex-merchantman turned frigate was the most crank ship he had ever set sail in. It was a true example of the parsimony of a government that failed to build men-o’-war when they should, then could not provide them to defend Britain’s interests when required.
Of shallow draught, broad beamed and unstable in any kind of sea, she was even worse on a breeze, a ship that had her crew toiling aloft endlessly even on a calm day. Useless on a bowline, sailing into the wind was a struggle, and that had applied on the Baltic convoy as much as it did here, off Boston and Cape Cod. Her head would keep falling off, obliging Nelson to tack constantly, struggling to keep up with his better-sailing charges.
Locker had advised him to decline the command, and that had been when the captured French ship was still in the dockyard being converted. Nelson was never sure if it was pride or fear for future employment that had made him ignore such sound advice. Whatever, he had had ample cause to curse ever since, in which he was outshone by a cantankerous Frank Lepée, who had assumed certain rights and privileges – not least that of hinting to his master that he was frequently in the wrong, and that their presence aboard this barky proved it. That this, said openly, embarrassed his officers seemed to bother Nelson not one jot, just as the fact that Lepée was frequently drunk when serving table seemed to escape his notice.
The first cruise had seen Nelson trying and failing to keep a swift-sailing French privateer from snapping up some of the merchantmen, loaded with naval stores, he had escorted from the mouth of the Elbe. A month spent dragging her anchors in the Downs had worn him to a frazzle, that culminating, after a particularly nasty five-day gale, in a heavy collision with another warship. Any hope that the damage was permanent had been cruelly dashed by the dockyard superintendent: with a war on anything that could float had to be pressed into service. He announced the ship repairable and had her back at sea in a month.
The second convoy, from Cork to St John’s, Newfoundland, had been even worse.
Albemarle
had become separated not only from the cargo
vessels, but from the second escorting frigate,
Daedalus,
and had behaved so badly in the Atlantic swell that her arrival at the destination port was a whole two weeks behind the vessels she had been detailed to escort. He touched with the fleet at the Isle of Bec in the St Lawrence river, but was ordered back to sea within two days. This afforded him scant opportunity to replenish his stores, or to observe the town of Québec and visit the spot on the Plains of Abraham where his hero General Wolfe had fallen.
At least here, astride the main supply routes to the Continental insurgents, they took some prizes, mainly deep water fishing vessels with cargo and ships that were easy to sell in the St Lawrence and Newfoundland settlements. He had sent in four prizes already, calculating to within a golden guinea how much they were worth, while gnawing at the knowledge that, with the provision of prize crews, he had left himself perilously short of both officers and men. And by staying at sea for the maximum time possible he was also short of victuals. His water was good, having been replenished at Québec, but his fresh greens were quite used up, the crew diet reduced to barrels of beef, pork and dried beans that did nothing for their health.
Those left aboard had a lacklustre appearance, and were slower in going about their duties. Their skin had a grey tinge and the breath of most was fetid on the nose of anyone they talked to. Staying at sea was partly orders, but it was also the inclination of a captain determined to prove that his ship, the butt of many a joke in harbour, was a match for any frigate on the station.
Lepée, had Nelson enquired, would have told him of the brawls the crew had engaged in to protect the honour of their ship when they were berthed at Portsmouth and the Downs. He would not have mentioned, even if pressed, that some of the fights had been about Nelson himself, who was mocked by other crews for his height, his appearance, his gentle manner and the continuous presence of one of his midshipmen with him wherever he went.
‘Fog bank ahead, your honour,’ said the man on the wheel.
‘Thank you, Nichols,’ Nelson replied, stretching himself.
That shortage of officers meant Nelson standing a watch himself, so that Midshipman Bromwich, the last young gentleman he had aboard, could get some rest. George Bromwich, coming up sixteen, was the son of a blacksmith, a youth without any influence whatsoever. Tall and
golden-haired
he now had a ruddy complexion much marked by the scars of the skin eruptions that had accompanied the change from boy to man. He had written to Nelson for a place as soon as he heard that the man who had left him at the mouth of the San Juan river had a ship. Nelson, knowing him to have the makings of a competent seaman, had been happy to reply in the affirmative.
Now he wondered how Bromwich felt. Was he glad he had joined Nelson, or silently cursing the luck that had put him with such an unfortunate ship
and commander? Loyalty, that necessary commodity, only stretched so far. A year on
Albemarle
for a man in his position, even with the courtesy rank of acting lieutenant, could feel like a decade.
‘Deck there,’ the voice called from above, just loud enough to be heard, obeying the standard order not to use more voice than was necessary. ‘Ship!’
‘Where away?’ Nelson demanded, lifting a telescope from the rack.
‘Dead ahead, your honour,’ the lookout replied. ‘Just got a sight of some upper poles before they were swallowed agin by the fog.’
Nelson turned to Nichols. ‘Please, send someone to rouse out Mr Bromwich. I want you to hold the ship steady on this course.’
He climbed the shrouds quickly, telescope tucked into his breeches, joining the lookout in the crosstrees. Thorpe had a good pair of eyes, better than those of his captain, and even if they could see nothing now, Nelson was sure that the man was right. But he could add little to what he had already imparted. The swirling bank of fog ahead, a commonplace in these waters at this time of year, could have hidden a fleet.
‘If he saw us he will have changed course.’
‘Stayed on the same heading for the little time I saw him. His fore and main never wavered.’
Nelson had to ignore the foulness of Thorpe’s breath, assuming as he did that his was just the same. He rated the able seaman highly as a willing hand, a man who could hand, reef and steer, who was content to sit aloft for the whole of his watch if asked, keeping a lookout with one of the best pair of eyes on the ship. Apart from that he was a Norfolk man, and that pleased a captain who liked nothing more than to crew his ship from the men of his own county.
‘Two masts?’
‘Aye. And no pennant.’
‘On course for Boston, then, Mr Thorpe, and damn nearly home.’
That made the able seaman smile, it being one of his commander’s little habits to address the commonality as gents, in his customary unaffected manner. On his Sunday inspections, Nelson trod the decks avoiding what he knew would be accusing eyes, a crew that cursed him as much as they did the ship, never realising that his men esteemed him very highly indeed. They knew he had served before the mast and were given ample evidence that he had never forgotten it.
Notions that they might guy him or fail to carry out their duties properly fell at that hurdle. Nelson knew what to look for and where to look, and could put an expression on his face when dissatisfied that made the perpetrator feel like a scrub. There was no pomposity and neither could they complain for the fair way in which he behaved. There had been no more than two floggings in the six months since they’d weighed from Cork, and both, by common consent, had been well deserved.
‘Happen he’s laden right enough, your honour.’
‘Then, with your permission Mr Thorpe, I may increase sail.’
That brought forth yet another wide grin. But Nelson didn’t see it. They were approaching the edge of the bank, and looking down he could see that Bromwich had taken up his station on the quarterdeck. Soon the whole ship would be swallowed up and those below would be lost to sight. If he wanted to con the ship that was where he should be.
‘I’ll send aloft a youngster. No shouting, Thorpe! If you sight anything send him down.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘And, Thorpe, if you need to be relieved, send that message down too.’
‘I’ll be fine, your honour, never you fret.’
‘I never do when you’re aloft,’ Nelson replied, his hand on the backstay.
They were into the bank of fog by the time he reached the deck, orders given quietly to increase sail added to a small change in course to close one side of what he hoped would be a triangle. Two pairs of the maindeck guns, on either side, were manned, loaded and run out. Bromwich, his huge frame tense, was dying to ask, but convention denied him the right. Nelson was quick to put him out of his misery. ‘Thorpe has her as two-masted, another fishing schooner most likely. Reckons we weren’t spotted.’
‘He’s a good man, sir.’
‘That I grant you.’
Just then a cry drifted through the air, a call amplified by the mists that had every ear cocked to trace the sound. Nelson put out a hand and pulled the wheel two points to starboard, nodding to one of the crew to mark the course alteration on the binnacle slate. Silence descended then, the only sounds, apart from the odd cry of a seagull, the creaking of their own ship’s timbers, ropes stretching and easing.
An hour passed in that state, the ship seemingly alone and abandoned on the great ocean, held in place by the damp, cloying fog. His course, he suspected, was taking him into the Boston Bay, so he put a man in the chains with a lead, plus messengers to warn of shoal water. It was a dangerous place to be, but he calculated that at such a slow rate of sailing if he did run aground, provided he avoided rocks, he would have little trouble in hauling off.
Eventually the light increased as the fog thinned, first just a play upon the eye, then the hint of a watery centre to the radiance. Within a minute they could see the outline of the sun, no more than a yellow-tinged rim. That was when Thorpe, in defiance of his instructions, shouted down to the deck in a voice that would have woken the dead. ‘Ship two points free on the larboard bow, not more’n half a cable’s length.’
Nelson was half-way along the gangway before he had finished, rushing for the bows. The fog had turned hazy, and in the sunlight the wisps of mist could be seen moving. And as he leapt on to the tight ropes gammoning the bowsprit, hanging on to a stay to lean out over the bows, he saw the outline
of their quarry. ‘Hard a-starboard, helmsman,’ he yelled. ‘Larboard cannon fire before you bear.’
The head came round agonisingly slowly, the
Albemarle
behaving in its usual crank fashion. The gunners didn’t wait as long as they might, but fired off two balls low, which landed well in the wake of the target. By the time they had reloaded the warship was beam on to the American ship, with Nelson calling through a speaking trumpet for the master to heave to. Unarmed, the schooner had little choice when faced with heavy cannon, and it was with lifting hearts that the Albemarles saw the sails loosened to spill the wind.
Bromwich hadn’t been idle: the boats, towed astern, had been hauled up to the rope ladder that hung below the open gangway. Nelson was over the side on the heels of his barge crew, and with a swiftness that belied their aching limbs the men pulled for the capture, hauling alongside so that their captain and half of the crew could go aboard. The mist had cleared now, and the spires and roofs of Boston were plain to the naked eye, proof of just how close their quarry was to home. As if to underline his capture, the wind suddenly grew in intensity, blowing away what haze remained, ruffling the waters and showing the first signs of white caps.
‘Good day to you, sir,’ he said, as a tall, imposing man, clearly the master, stepped forward. ‘Captain Nelson, of His Britannic Majesty’s frigate
Albemarle.
Whom do I have the honour of addressing?’
The voice that replied was deep and rather attractive. ‘Nathaniel Carver, sir, native of Plymouth, Massachusetts, owner and master of the schooner
Harmony
.’
‘Your cargo, sir?’
‘Reckon you can smell that Mr Nelson.’
The odour of fresh fish was strong and, judging by the overflowing baskets that lined the deck, the vessel was full.
‘Do you have a licence from the authorities to fish these waters?’
‘Not any authority you will recognise.’
‘Then unfortunately, Mr Carver, I must confiscate both ship and cargo, as being the property of a rebellious subject of my sovereign.’
Nelson was pleased that Carver seemed an honest fellow, not one to try to pass off a forged certificate marking him out as an American Loyalist. Such documents were never good enough to deceive him and made what was an unpleasant duty that much worse, especially since there could be no doubt of where he intended to make his landfall.
‘You have your duty to do, sir.’
Nelson was only half listening, his eye caught by a degree of activity in the harbour. The gunfire would have set off every bell in every spire. Boats, no doubt, were being manned to come out and retake the vessel. And the wind had increased even more, making the two stationary vessels pitch. For a ship like his this was not promising. He had to go, and quickly, but so
close to the shore he knew he was among the shoals, banks and reefs that, with any kind of sea running, made the approach to Boston treacherous.
‘Mr Carver, I find myself at a stand. I have too few officers to man your ship, and I find myself close to a hostile shore that must, in all conscience, be more familiar to you than to me.’
‘That I would not disagree with, sir.’
‘You will also observe yonder that attempts are being made to launch boats to effect a rescue. In shoal water an armed cutter can be deadly even to a frigate. That means that I must depart this place in some haste, not a course I would normally adopt where I run the risk of grounding my ship.’