On a Making Tide Page 3

  The sky had cleared to reveal twinkling stars by the time they hired a wherry from the naval dockyard. Out in the main channel, close to the point where the Medway joined the river Thames, a whole fleet lay moored. Horatio Nelson had never seen a ship-of-the-line close to, so the size of the great warships was astounding. The boat swept him past the Victory as Frears reeled off details about her size, complement when commissioned, and armament. A hundred guns, displacing two and a half thousand tons fully rigged and supplied, she was enormous, towering above the little boat he had hired to bring them out. ‘There’s your vessel, young Nelson,’ Frears said, finger pointing past the oarswomen, square-faced brutes with bad skin and arms like tree trunks. He was indicating a ship just visible in the gathering gloom as they ran under the gilded décor of the Victory’s stern.

  Raisonable lacked the third deck that made Frears’s ship so impressive, yet up close she seemed even bigger. Horatio understood a fraction of what he was being told about her crossed yards and the standing rigging. That was partly through ignorance, but more because the knot of anxiety in his stomach made it difficult to concentrate. The rowers, pipes clamped firmly in their mouths, took their wherry deftly in a long arc, and swung it in expertly to touch against the platform at the bottom of the long, sloping gangway.

  ‘You will visit me, I hope, young man,’ said Frears, as a rope appeared and was lashed to Horatio’s chest, which disappeared into the night air. ‘And pray be so good as to mention me to your uncle, Captain Suckling.’

  Horatio nodded to the older man and, with some assistance from the hard-faced Medway women, stepped over the counter from the bobbing boat on to the empty, floating platform. Climbing the gangway brought him to the entry port, which led on to a long, dark, deserted main deck spliced by two sets of open stairways that led aloft. From the bottom of the nearest he could see starlight, and ascending that he rejoined his chest where it had been dropped. The men who had hauled it aboard were nowhere to be seen.

  The upper deck was empty and Raisonable rocked gently, creaking and groaning. Occasionally someone would appear from a companionway and walk to another part of the ship, but they didn’t acknowledge him, and he was left to pace back and forth, once more shivering and a victim of the penetrating cold.

  Horatio wondered if he was forever to be a deserted soul in an unfamiliar landscape. Did the jolly tars he had been led to expect, the decorated fellows singing and dancing that were the stuff of naval legend, really exist? Was that image a myth? Could this be the reality? A cold, harsh, indifferent world that made him long for the comfort of home?

  A man emerged from a door aft. Looking at an hourglass he stepped towards the carved belfry that enclosed the ship’s bell, which he rang with little enthusiasm. Then he murmured, ‘All’s well.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for Captain Suckling.’

  ‘He’s not ’ere,’ the man replied, as he turned to go back whence he had come. ‘Ain’t been aboard the last fortnight, an’ not like to be back this comin’ week.’

  He disappeared, and Horatio felt more bereft than ever. His father had told him the sea was a hard occupation, but nothing had prepared him for this. He sat on a pile of neatly coiled ropes and leant against the hard metal of a still-warm chimney, close to tears, until eventually his eyes fluttered and closed.

  The fitful dreaming that followed, continually interrupted by the bell, as well as the need to move around and keep warm, meant that when the drummer came on deck to herald the dawn, Horatio was fast asleep. The new midshipman lay crumpled in his cloak on the deck planking with his head on his hat. He slept through the long, soft drum roll that saw the sky turn from black to grey, jerked but remained still when the Port Admiral’s gun fired from distant Sheerness. The eight bells of the middle watch that summoned the crew failed to disturb him; the noise of the master at arms, rousing men from their hammocks, demanding that they ‘show a leg’, was muted by the wood of the deck. But the hard kick on the sole of his shoe woke him immediately.

  ‘Who the devil are you?’

  Horatio tried to stand up quickly, to respond to the officer, but his limbs were stiff. When he gained his feet, having stooped quickly to grab his falling hat, he was momentarily unsteady.

  ‘Are you drunk, sir?’

  The man who asked this was no older than Horatio’s brother, Maurice, but his tone and the way he held himself had an authority that belied a five-year difference.

  ‘No, sir,’ he protested weakly.

  One pair of bare feet made little noise on wooden planking, but there was no missing the growing sound of a hundred pairs, or of men being harried on to the deck by the harsh yells of the petty officers.

  ‘You will oblige me by getting out of the way,’ the officer barked. ‘You’re in danger of interfering with the running of the ship.’ He added, ‘And smartly!’ but this was unnecessary, for Horatio was faced with a wall of sailors rushing towards him. Being small, he could slip between a pair, as they made to ram the long round bundles of their rolled hammocks into the nets that lined the ship’s side. Not many noticed him, and those who did were only prepared to glare, especially at his sea chest, which was in the way. A convenient gap existed between a mast and those nettings. He dragged both the chest and himself clear, and from that vantage-point watched in the grey dawn light as the ship came to life.

  Buckets were thrown over the side, to be filled with sea-water, which was cast before men with large mops. They worked behind the sweeper, who in turn followed a line of sailors on their knees, with blocks of wood in their hands, grinding them over a thin line of sand. The ensemble was brought up at the rear by a line of men flogging the deck dry with cloths.

  ‘And who, sir, for the second time, are you?’ demanded the officer.

  ‘I’m Nelson, sir. Horatio Nelson.’

  All around him sailors were carrying out tasks, some mysterious, others obvious, like the hauling aboard of fresh greens or casks that had been fetched from the shore. Their laughing, joking and cursing made it hard to concentrate on his interrogator. He was hungry and fearful, but curious too.

  ‘That means nothing to me,’ the officer barked. ‘Nor did I ask for your name. I am more determined to root out your purpose.’

  A cask that had been lifted high inboard suddenly dropped towards the deck, seeming certain to smash to pieces. Horatio held his breath, then let it escape as the cask halted on its rope, the planking no more than a hair’s breath away.

  ‘Well?’

  Horatio dragged his eyes back to the puce-faced officer. ‘I have come aboard to serve, sir, which my uncle, the Captain, will confirm.’

  The eyes widened, and the face reddened even more. ‘Captain Suckling is your uncle?’

  ‘He is.’

  He had expected the man’s tone to mellow at this but quite the opposite happened. ‘You are telling me you’re related to the Captain when you don’t have the faintest idea of how to present yourself aboard his ship?’

  Horatio gave something between a nod and a shake of the head, which did nothing to improve the impression he had created. ‘You report to the premier, that is the first lieutenant, Mr Fonthill. He, and he alone, will decide whether to let you stay aboard, or tell you to sling your hook.’

  ‘Can you tell me where I’ll find him, sir?’ Horatio enquired, looking first at the poop, then at the bows.

  ‘Officers reside abaft the mainmast. And I don’t suppose you know which is aft and which is forrard?’

  Two of the men labouring close by laughed, which earned them a glare.

  ‘You will proceed down on to the main deck. Then make your way aft to the wardroom, and stop once you encounter the marine sentry – hard to miss since he is coated in bright red. There you will ask for the premier. You will say to him that the officer of the watch sent you. You will then introduce yourself, and throw yourself upon his tender mercy.’

  That produced another laugh, and a reprise of the previous glare. ‘Belay that d
amned noise.’

  A lack of certainty ensured slow progress, and every time he stopped it appeared he stood in someone’s way. He was jostled on his way down the companion way and an object of curiosity on the main deck, which he followed aft to where the promised marine stood, his back to a door set into a wall of panelling.

  What to ask for, premier or first lieutenant? He reckoned them the same, two appellations for the one rank, but in a mood of some confusion certainty was at a premium. In the end he asked for Mr Fonthill.

  ‘It’s customary to come aboard with letters of introduction!’

  Fonthill was a tall, gangling man, every feature on his bony frame, from nose to throat, clearly defined by the lantern that cast a faint glow around his crowded cabin.

  ‘My father led me to believe my uncle Suckling would be here, sir.’

  ‘Then your father was mistaken. And, since you have no letters, how do I know that you are who you say? The purser won’t thank me for another mouth to feed, especially one that’s not on the books.’

  Only the fear of being slung off the ship gave him the courage to reply. ‘But I am, sir. My uncle wrote to inform my father that I was entered as captain’s servant on January the first.’

  ‘Were you, by damn?’ Lieutenant Fonthill replied, though the expletive was muted. He reached for the muster book, a thick, leatherbound volume in a deep shelf behind his head, opened it and flicked through. His lips moved along with his finger as he ran it down the list of names, until finally he said, ‘Nelson, Horatio. That’s a damned awkward appendage.’

  The boy squared his shoulders and gave a reply that would have pleased his father, who never feared to advise a stranger of the family bloodline. ‘It comes to me through my Walpole relations, sir, ennobled as the earls of Orford.’

  It didn’t please Fonthill. He gave Horatio a hard look, which made his thin eyebrows quite threatening. ‘It don’t do to go boasting of your connections, young man.’

  ‘I didn’t—’

  He got no further, and was treated to such a fine piece of sophistry that he wondered if he was back at school. ‘Silence. Do not speak unless spoken to.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Proceed to the gunner’s quarters, and there introduce yourself to his wife.’

  ‘I’ll need some help with my chest.’

  Fonthill leant forward, his face screwed up in distaste, every feature sharper still as he was right below the lantern. ‘You’re a poor specimen, Nelson, runtish in fact, with a tendency to flaunt your relations in the hope of impressing. But you are, for your sins, a young gentleman. As such, you do not carry your own dunnage. You may tell the officer of the watch to have your chest taken below. He will detail some hands to oblige.’

  ‘And the gunner’s quarters, sir?’

  ‘Damn you, boy!’ Fonthill barked. ‘Do you expect me to sketch you a map of the ship?’

  He was out of the premier’s cabin before Fonthill had finished the sentence.

  CHAPTER 2

  Emma Lyon looked forward to Thursdays, to the weekly journey to Chester market. It was the one day, barring Sunday, that she was free of the burden of learning. Attending classes at the curate’s house, she had soon discovered, was a misery; a dozen children at the mercy of a grubby creature who was free with his cane and never sounded as though he had much of interest to say. For all that, being quick, in three months she had got to grips with writing and counting, though with the former she had run up against the twin obstacles of spelling and grammar.

  Home was little better. The Steps was a thatched cottage, old and draughty, with whitewashed walls and leaded windows streaked with the effect of wind and weather. It stood on rising ground on the edge of the muddy road that led out of Hawarden village. To get away from both, in the company of Grandma Kidd, was a treat to savour, even if a seat on the box of an unsprung cart was an uncomfortable way to travel.

  She left behind her not just schooling but the constant laments of her elders. They never varied, nor were they ever resolved, just set aside to be raised at the next encounter. Grandpa moaned daily about his lot, stuck out in his shallow pit, rusting musket in hand, there to stop the local dogs from attacking the sheep he was employed to watch; this while Uncle Willy lay about all day, setting off disputes every time he claimed that he hadn’t been born to work. The two unmarried aunts, who knew as well as anyone that there was little to spare in coin, wailed about the difficulty of snaring a husband with nothing to offer but passable looks. And Grandma Kidd herself, chief breadwinner and undoubted ruler of the roost, silenced them all by reminding them of every fault they possessed.

  ‘Stop fidgeting, girl! Grandma Kidd was sucking hard on her clay pipe, which, in a toothless mouth, robbed the admonishment of any force. Not that she was often fierce: the indulgence shown to Emma was another ongoing source of family strife. She hauled on the tarpaulin that had been laid on the box seat to keep the girl clean. ‘That there dress’ll be streaked with coal dust if you don’t set still.’

  The road from Hawarden ran across the flat landscape of Saltney Marsh, the ramparts of the medieval castle plain now, jutting up into the bright blue sky. Emma loved Chester; the arched gates that had once been shut against invaders; the bustle in the narrow streets that promised both danger and safety. Best of all was the market, quiet now in the early morning, soon to be teeming with trade. Her grandma knew the value of a pretty little girl, tidily dressed, for attracting custom. Not that Emma was tied down: having taken the horse to the livery stable, she would run around to talk with other children and extract favours from the vendors – sweetmeats perhaps, or an occasional bit of ribbon or lace.

  ‘How’s the dipping, Fred Stavely?’ she squealed.

  ‘Ssh!’ Fred responded, putting a grubby finger to his lips. ‘You’ll get me hung by the thumbs.’

  Five years older than Emma, he was smaller, a stunted orphan who worked the square on market day. Many was the time she had seen Fred filch a handkerchief or sometimes even a purse from some unsuspecting mark. Small, bright-eyed, like a bird of prey, Fred would steal anything, even fish or poultry, but only after it had been bought and paid for. He couldn’t keep it, of course: he had to hand it over to the two villains who controlled the crime.

  Brand and Potts, they were called, low-looking coves who bribed the market steward to leave them in peace. Everybody knew them, and some of the bigger stallholders paid them a regular stipend to protect their steady customers from the likes of Fred Stavely. They had approached Grandma Kidd with their demands, only to be sent away with a flea in their ear. Although Fred might work under their control, he wasn’t like them. He was the type to share his good fortune with someone he thought of as a friend.

  ‘I got my eye on that fat goat over yonder, the one with the flat round hat. He’s wearing a watch and chain, an’ keeps hooking his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets so that all can observe his prosperity.’

  The market was getting crowded and Emma had to look hard to see who Fred had his eye on. Every stall had an awning, as well as a cart covered in produce of every colour imaginable. Orange carrots vied with dark brown potatoes, which sat next to deep green cabbages. On the cloth stalls the rainbow was represented in all its hues, which contrasted with burnished brass, dank pewter and bright iron. The noise was distracting too, the babble of vendors set against the arguments that went with every notion that a purchase might be made.

  ‘There,’ Fred said, breaking a dip’s rule and pointing at his mark.

  Emma looked along his finger to the fellow he had targeted. Even through the crowd, with all that noise, he oozed pomposity. The object Fred had spotted was his watch, on open display. ‘He’s asking to have it lifted,’ she said, trying to sound adult.

  Fred grinned, his puckish face creased in delight and puzzlement. ‘You sounded just like Brand then. He would see me strung up on the Chester gibbet just to get his hands on a piece like that.’

  ‘I don’t want you strung up, Fred.’


  ‘I know you don’t,’ he replied, giving her a gentle push as his mark turned towards them, the sunlight glinting on the chain across his belly. ‘And nor are you like to see such a thing. Now you just go and stand over by Hargreaves’ wet fish stall an’ watch me work.’

  Emma had heard her grandmother rail about pickpockets often enough, with many a warning of what to look out for or avoid. Working alone, as Fred Stavely did, was unusual. Dips normally worked in teams of three or four, using their numbers and quick transfers to avoid being nabbed. The knowledge that what Fred was about to attempt was dangerous thrilled Emma rather than alarming her. As he had asked, she sidled over to the fish stall, her nose wrinkling at the familiar smell.

  Fred’s mark was bargaining loudly for some French lace, tugging at his own jabot, insisting that it was of a far superior quality to what was on offer and demanding that the vendor should drop his price. Florid of face, his belly was prominent under his watch chain, and his clothes, though of good quality, were well worn, the velvet on both coat-collar and elbows showing thread. He looked like a tenant farmer, who had his hunting horse, enough coin to finance his alehouse boastings, and sufficient pride to wear his watch on market day so that folks could see his worth.

  Fred was running now, darting through the shoppers, matching his pace and course to the state of the continuing bargaining, trying to time his arrival at the point when the loud transaction would have gathered the curious, without creating a throng that would impede him. Being so small in a crowd where only the costermongers knew him, Fred was taken for a child at play, afforded the odd impatient look yet never challenged. Just as the mark, with an imperious, dismissive wave, turned away from his bargaining, Fred barged into him with enough force to bring forth a shocked ‘Damnation!’

  Fred, as if hurt, fell at his feet, then hauled himself up by his mark’s legs. The man swung his hand but his thick coat handicapped the force of the blow. However, it was enough to send Fred flying. He glared after the child, too triumphant to notice that his watch and chain had gone. That didn’t last. Once again he poked his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets.