The Pursuit Page 2

  ‘Anchor watches, Mr Leigh, and make it your business to keep the middies on their toes, you and Mr Loftus both. The wind may well increase overnight. You will need to double-breech your guns. Say so to Mr Storey. I shall return on the morrow, before the noon gun, and take divisions.’

  ‘Ay, sir.’ His hat off and on, making his obedience. Rennie had already given him these instructions, but Lieutenant Leigh had come to know that his captain was not a man to leave anything to chance, or misinterpretation, at sea.

  ‘And Mr Leigh . . .’ Rennie, calling up from the stern sheets of his boat.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Defaulters, too, hey?’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Again making to lift his hat, and then merely touching it. Good heaven would the man never give his officers any credit for their intelligence and sense of discipline? Had he no regard for their experience and knowledge of the sea, and ships, and men? A sigh, and he sent a boy to find the gunner Mr Storey. Presently Mr Storey came on deck, wiping his hands free of blacking with a piece of cotton waste.

  ‘You wished to see me, sir?’ Ducking his head against the rain.

  ‘No, not really, Mr Storey. You know what to do, in all particulars. But I must enter in my journal that I have spoke to you about the double-breeching, else I shall be found wanting should the captain ask to see what I have wrote. You know what he is, hm?’

  A nod, a little pursing of his lips. ‘I do, sir, indeed. Shall we say that you has told me that due to adverse weather we must by all means – without fail – double-breech our great guns, and shroud the flintlocks.’

  ‘By God!’ In mock alarm. ‘I had nearly forgot that! The flintlocks!’ A nod, a chuckle. ‘Thankee, Mr Storey, you have saved my life.’

  Mr Storey went forrard to see about the double-breeching, and Lieutenant Leigh went below to look at the defaulters’ book, shaking his head and smiling to himself.

  Ashore Captain Rennie stepped on to the Hard from his launch, sent the boat back to the ship, and made his way to the Marine Hotel, where he expected to find his wife Sylvia. She had not arrived, and he was at first puzzled, and then downcast. To the head porter:

  ‘The coach did not come, last night?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir. It did come, all right.’

  ‘But my wife was not among the passengers?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘There was no message, no written note, or anything, with the coachman?’

  ‘No, sir. Not as I am aware of.’ Shaking his head with dignity and sympathy in equal measure. He was very familiar with this sort of thing.

  ‘Ah. Hm. Very well, thankee. I will just go up and write a letter. I will ring presently, when I want a boy to take it up to the George.’ The mail coach departed from the George Hotel in the High Street.

  ‘Very likely Mrs Rennie will be on the coach from London this evening, sir.’

  ‘Yes . . . yes, very likely. I hope so.’ And he climbed the stair to his room. Captain Rennie kept a room at the Marine Hotel so that when he was in Portsmouth and could live ashore, his wife could join him from their home at Middingham in Norfolk, in order that they should not be apart unnecessarily. For the past month, while Expedient had been undergoing large repair at Portsmouth Dockyard, Sylvia had been detained at Norwich by the illness of an elderly cousin, who had since recovered, and she had lately written to say she would at last be coming to Portsmouth. Rennie and his wife were very fond. They had both been widowed, and by happy chance had found each other before life could attach them to that sad race of beings – the lonely.

  However, he was not writing a letter to his wife today, but to the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty in Whitehall. Certainly he hoped that his wife would join him late tonight, but in the meanwhile he had important business. He threw his boat cloak over the back of a chair, shrugged out of his undress coat, and settled at the writing table in the corner by the window in his shirtsleeves. Presently, as he found quill pen and ink and drew a sheet of paper before him, there was a knock at the door. A frown.

  ‘Yes?’

  The knock was repeated. Rennie sighed, rose from the table and went to the door. Opened it, and:

  ‘Ah. It is you, is it?’ Not with joy.

  ‘And good day to you, Captain Rennie.’ Mr Brough Mappin gave Rennie a polite half-smile, and raised his eyebrows a fraction. He had already removed his hat, and stood waiting, lean and dapper and at his ease in dark grey silk coat and waistcoat, his shirt and stock snowy, and his silver-buckled shoes discreetly gleaming. His hair was cut and arranged to flatter the shape of his head. From his fob pocket hung a neat little seal. Everything about him said that here was a dandy, a man of the coffee houses and gaming clubs and salons of London, given to witticisms, and elegant compliments, a social diplomatist with just a hint of the rake, and much admired by the ladies. It was an appearance he took great trouble to cultivate. In his other hand he held a silver-capped ebony cane. Rennie frowned at him.

  ‘I am – just writing a letter, you know.’

  ‘Even so, I wonder if you will spare me one moment of your time? Or even two?’

  ‘Oh, very well.’ Stiffly, stepping aside to allow Mr Mappin into the room. Then, unstiffening a little: ‘I hope y’will not think me unwelcoming. Sea officers are apt to sound blunt-spoke, ashore, and brusque-seeming. That was not my intention, sir.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Mr Mappin stepped down the room, and turned. ‘A pleasant view, even in wet weather.’ Nodding toward the casement, which overlooked the glistening cobbled street, and the rainswept darkening harbour beyond.

  ‘They know me here. They are very accommodating, always.’

  ‘Ain’t that their business?’ Mildly.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘To accommodate. This is an hotel, after all.’

  ‘Ah. Hm. Just so. Erm, how may I serve you, Mr Mappin?’

  ‘You said you were writing a letter, Captain Rennie. To Their Lordships, perhaps?’

  ‘I hardly see how that concerns you, Mappin, you know.’ Again stiffly.

  ‘Come now, Captain Rennie. We have had dealings in the past, you and I. We know each other tolerable well, I think.’

  ‘It was, as you say, sir – in the past. Now, today, I am a serving sea officer and nothing more. Your connections in London are not mine, and never will be again.’

  ‘You are quite certain of that?’

  ‘Quite certain, thankee. I have accepted my present commission in Expedient on the strict understanding that never again will I, nor my officers, be plunged unknowing into wickedness and foolishness abroad, in pursuit of fanciful notions invented by political men. Men acting behind, in shadow and deceit.’

  ‘And does that include the Prime Minister?’

  ‘I will not engage in this. I will not debate and dispute with you, Mappin. My position could not be plainer. If you must know, I am writing to Their Lordships today to inform them that I am at their disposal, now that my ship has been released by the dockyard after undergoing large repair. Repair, I may say, occasioned by inimical activity I undertook at your behest, all in vain. Well well, never again, sir. I have Their Lordships’ assurance as to that, firm and secure.’

  ‘Ah, have you? Then perhaps I waste my time, today.’

  ‘There is no perhaps. You do waste your time.’ Lifting his chin.

  ‘On t’other hand, you know, Captain Rennie – if I was you I should not bother to write the letter quite yet. Not quite yet, until you have heard me out.’

  ‘Nothing you could say to me will in any way change my position. Must I repeat it? You are wasting your time, sir.’ A sniff, and an irritated little shake of the head. ‘And you are contriving to waste mine.’

  ‘Two thousand pound.’ Another glance out of the window, then he turned his gaze again on Rennie. The half-smile.

  ‘I don’t understand you, Mr Mappin.’ Curtly.

  ‘D’y’not? Two thousand pound sterling of money, in specie.’

  ‘Pfff.’ Rennie returned
to his desk, banged out his chair and sat down, and took up his quill.

  Mr Mappin waited, patiently waited, and when Rennie turned his head irritably at last, and said:

  ‘Are you still here, sir?’

  Mr Mappin nodded politely, put his hat and cane on the settee, and drew from the inner pocket of his coat a folded document. There was no seal, Rennie noted.

  ‘May I read to you from this paper?’ Waving it briefly.

  ‘You may not.’

  Ignoring him, and opening the fold: ‘Oh, well, I need not trouble you with all the intricacy of language.’ Glancing at the paper. ‘The Whitehall clerks will have their way, in all such official utterance. Prolixity is their bread and butter. What it says, in little, is that if you will sign your name on the paper, 2,000 of money is yours.’

  ‘I want no part of such idle bloody nonsense.’

  ‘It ain’t idle, Captain Rennie, you know. Nor nonsense, neither. It is plain fact, wrote out.’ And again he held up the document. No seal, and no signature.

  ‘Did not y’hear me, sir?’ An exasperated, dismissive sigh.

  ‘Are not you curious, even a little, as to what you are asked to accomplish for this payment?’

  ‘I am not.’ Curtly.

  ‘I feel it my duty then – before you refuse absolute – to acquaint you with—’

  ‘Mr Mappin!’ Angrily, turning in his chair. ‘You will cease these blandishments at once, or know the consequence!’

  ‘Consequence?’ A bemused frown. ‘That sounds very like to a threat. My dear fellow, I am trying to help you.’

  ‘No, sir, no! You are not!’ Getting up. ‘You are attempting to importune, and to suborn, and I will have none of it! Go away now, will you!’

  ‘I do not think I can. I would be failing in my obligation to you if—’

  ‘Mr Mappin!’ Holding up a hand, breathing forcefully through his nose. ‘You have said that we have had past dealings, and that is true. They was wholly inimical to me, to my ship, and to a great many of my people. They cost shame and humiliation, they cost suffering, they cost lives, sir. – Be quiet! – When I accepted this new commission I was given absolute and unconditional assurance that my duties would be entirely naval in nature, in waters close to home. The protection of coasts, and sea lanes, the general oversight of the eastern shores of England, necessary to the nation’s interest in these or any other days – necessary but dull. And do you know, I welcome such opportunity. I wish to be a very dull fellow indeed, because by God I have earned that right. To go to sea without the smallest possibility of excitement, nor upset, nor alarum, is a delight to me, sir. I crave tedium, I embrace monotony, I love to be dull more than anything in the world. More than gold.’ Again holding up a hand as Mr Mappin began to interject. ‘More than any bribe or temptation you could offer me, however grand, however glittering, nor tremendous, nor astonishing. And now I will like to sit down and write my letter to Their Lordships, vouchsafing the intelligence that my ship is repaired and ready for sea, and that I await my final instructions. Good day t’ye, Mr Mappin.’ A sniff, and he sat down and once more took up his pen.

  And Mr Mappin, being not unintelligent, saw that for the moment he had better retreat, since no good would come of pressing Rennie further today. The matter he had in mind was urgent, but could be postponed a short time – a few days. Mr Mappin folded up the document, returned it to the inner pocket of his coat, took up his hat and stick, bowed, and:

  ‘Your servant, sir.’

  ‘Servant.’ Rennie did not even look up as Mr Mappin departed.

  *

  Lieutenant Hayter stood by the slipway at Mr Redway Blewitt’s private shipyard at Bucklers Hard, on the Beaulieu River in Hampshire, on a warm afternoon. Gulls turned and wheeled overhead, floating south toward the mouth of the estuary. The tide was low, and the smell of fishy mud lay heavy on the air. Mr Blewitt stood beside the lieutenant, a clay pipe fixed in his big yellow teeth.

  ‘Yes, sir, yes. Last time you was here, I repaired your cutter.’

  ‘Ay, the Hawk. But I do not come here today about cutters, Mr Blewitt.’

  ‘No, sir, as you said in your letter, you have a mind to purchase the Firefly.’ He nodded at the small merchant brig that lay shored up at the top of the greasy slip. ‘Her coppering is near complete. That had to be undertook, come what may. It will be done by the end of this week. Saturday forenoon, in fact.’

  ‘Excellent. And how long until her standing rigging is rove up?’

  ‘Hold fast a moment, Mr Hayter.’ He puffed at his pipe. Blue smoke wreathed his head. He removed the pipe and jabbed the stem at the brig. ‘There Firefly lies, naked except for her lower masts, and there she will remain, sir, without further moneys lavished upon her . . . unless you was certain of your intention.’ Replacing the pipe. ‘Which I would oblige you to confirm with your deposit of ninety pound, the remainder of the whole – 810 pound – to be paid in full by month’s end. Those are my terms.’ Another puff. ‘Well, now. Are you certain, sir?’

  ‘I am, Mr Blewitt.’ He gave into the shipwright’s hand a tied leather purse heavy with coin.

  ‘That is well, sir. That is very well indeed.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘Will not you count the money, Mr Blewitt?’

  Mr Blewitt puffed his pipe, and hefted the purse in his hand, making the coins chink, then he drew open the top and peered in. Presently:

  ‘It feels like ninety pound, sir. It sounds like ninety pound. And it looks like ninety pound. Therefore I am certain that it is ninety pound.’

  ‘Very good. I shall return on Saturday at noon, when the standing rigging will be complete, and her copper. Hey?’

  ‘That it will, sir. My rigging crew will begin the work at once.’ A nod, a puff, and he held up the purse and shook it.

  James made his way to the water’s edge, clambering over greasy slip timbers, to where his wherryman waited in the boat. A final wave to Mr Blewitt, and James went aboard and settled himself on a thwart. He clutched at his hat as a rippling breeze came down the estuary, and:

  ‘Give way, there. And row dry, if y’please, I have no boat cloak today.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The wherryman fitted his oars into the thole pins, and bent his back. As they progressed into the broadness of the river, James:

  ‘I will add a shilling if we arrive at Gosport by five o’clock.’

  A grunt. ‘I will do my best, sir, but that is a good twelve mile, and I cannot guarantee it.’

  ‘It is a pity we cannot step a mast and bend a sail in this boat. That would aid us greatly.’

  ‘A light little boat such as this could never wear canvas with safety, sir. We should likely fall down in the first gust of wind on open water, and be drowned.’

  ‘Hm, no doubt. – Two shillings, then, above the agreed fare, if you put me ashore at the Haslar wharf by five o’clock.’

  Another grunt. ‘I will do my best. That is all I can say.’

  James had an appointment at the Haslar Hospital with Dr Stroud, the eminent physician and disciple of the great Dr Lind. These two medical men had instigated between them a regime for the Royal Navy – now beginning to bear fruit – of both rigidly maintained cleanliness between decks, and the regular addition of anti-scorbutics to the diet of seamen. In those ships where this regime was followed a notable improvement in the health of the people had been observed, most particularly in the elimination of scurvy.

  James’s concern today was not scurvy, or the health of sailors in general, but the condition of one man, his old friend and shipmate Dr Thomas Wing. Dr Wing had been surgeon in Expedient since her first commission, when James had joined the ship as first lieutenant under Captain Rennie. Dr Wing – himself a pupil and follower of Dr Stroud – had been a success in Expedient from his first days aboard. He and James had seen much of the world together, and bitter bloody action on several occasions, and James had been saddened to hear, only a fortnight ago, that his friend was laid low at t
he Haslar with a serious illness. He determined then to visit him, and cheer him if he could, and do him any service he was able. He had written to Dr Stroud, and the physician had replied, naming the date and time James should call.

  The wherry reached the wharf at twenty minutes past five, and James was at first not minded to pay the wherryman the extra two shillings, but when he saw that after twelve effortful miles the man’s face was haggard and filmed with sweat, he relented and gave him the full amount.

  He came to the hospital gate at half past five, was admitted, and a moment after was received by Dr Stroud. The doctor was tall and lean, his rimless spectacles and close-cropped grey hair lent his face austerity and severity, and he could have made a forbidding figure. The warmth and liberality of his character gave the lie to this appearance; his smile was full of welcome.

  ‘My dear Lieutenant Hayter, come in, come in.’ Beckoning him into his private office. ‘I am right glad to see you looking so hale.’

  Dr Stroud had treated James for wounds a year or two before, after a savage encounter in the Channel between his cutter and a smuggler. James did not linger over reminiscence.

  ‘How is Thomas, Doctor?’

  A sigh, and a little grimace, that the doctor quickly made into a smile. ‘He is much improved, Mr Hayter, I think.’

  ‘He is – he is not mortally ill?’ Alarmed by that sigh.

  ‘The disease has greatly weakened him, and recuperation may be protracted, but he improves every day.’

  ‘What is the nature of the illness?’

  ‘It was a fever, a peculiarly pernicious fever. For nearly a month he was very ill indeed, and then by a miracle he began to rally. In course we kept him in strict quarantine, in an upper room where the air might penetrate and aid his recovery. Clean sea air can work wonders, you know. Well, but in course you do know, when you have spent so long in ships. But fever is a troublesome thing, a fickle and spiteful thing, and just when you consider that a patient is mending – he is gone in the space of an hour. Thomas nearly did depart permanent, upon two occasions, the last not above a week ago. He has rallied again, and I am very hopeful, but he is skin and bone – having eaten next to nothing for weeks – and there was little enough of the poor fellow when he was healthy and strong.’ A grim chuckle, and another sigh. ‘You will be very shocked by his appearance, I think, but you must not show it.’