A Sea Unto Itself (5 page)

Charles nodded again, tight lipped. This was not exactly a flattering revelation.

Millford held up his hand. “No one doubts your abilities, young man. I have made inquiries as to your career. I find you to be more than generally competent, though on the occasion you have shown a disposition to act in a, shall we say, independent manner. I have read Admiral Nelson’s report on your actions immediately preceding the Battle of the Nile, for example.”

“Sir,” Charles protested, even though he knew Millford to be at least somewhat justified. On that occasion he had ignored his admiral’s signals for hours, and in the end did not obey them at all. “I have always acted in what I considered to be the best interests of the service,” he said strongly. “If Admiral Nelson has suggested . . .”

“Quite,” the captain said dryly. “I should say that Nelson has expressed himself admiring of your initiative. It is among these qualities which I find may recommend you for the task at hand.”

“I see,” Charles said doubtfully, not at all clear on what that meant.

Millford fingered an envelope on the table top by his elbow then pushed it across. “These are your written orders. You needn’t open it now; I’ll tell you what they say. Afterward, Lord Effington will provide additional background so that you may better understand some of the difficulties, if not the uncertainties, involved.”

Charles glanced at the Viscount who was fidgeting impatiently with a pencil in his hand. The interview was beginning to strike him as somewhat unusual.

“Captain Edgemont,” Millford said formally, “you are to proceed the instant your ship can be made ready to the port of Mocha at the foot of the Red Sea. There you will find a squadron under the command of Rear Admiral Sir John Blankett. Blankett’s purpose is to prevent the French in Egypt from transiting to India and fomenting insurrection there. I should stress that this is the fundamental intent of your own instructions as well. On no account may any French force be permitted to reach the subcontinent. The situation in India hangs on a knife’s edge as it is, with local uprisings an ever present threat.”

Millford coughed into his hand and then continued. “You will also call at Cape Town, in the course of your journey to take on board a certain agent employed on our behalf. You are ordered to provide transport to the head of the Red Sea, and afterward render such assistance as may be required. Is that much clear?”

Charles hesitated. His orders were straightforward enough, so much so that he didn’t understand why the Admiralty felt it necessary to explain them in person. He did have one question: “Am I to be under Admiral Blankett’s orders, or the Admiralty’s?”

The Captain steepled his fingers in front of him, then spoke with what Charles took to be unusual care. “The board has considered this very question at length. The answer is that you will be under Admiralty orders until such time as the agent mentioned has completed his mission. When that is accomplished, you will place yourself at Blankett’s disposal. As he is the senior officer on the scene, it is felt that it can hardly be otherwise.” Millford leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. “If I may speak with the utmost confidence, some feel the Admiral may at times prove—what should I say? —cautious. You will find nothing in your written instructions, but it is anticipated that you may determine, under exceptional circumstances, it to be necessary to act on your own initiative. It is my great hope that no such occasion will arise, and that in any case you will not be reckless in your judgment. But if you do find independent action to be absolutely necessary, and if you are successful as a result, I will press the board on your behalf that no disciplinary proceedings go forward.”

Charles assumed that he was being told that he had some uncertain amount of leeway as long as he was successful. But what if he was not? The arrangement made him decidedly uncomfortable. “Why not send a replacement to command the squadron?” he said. “Surely that would be satisfactory?”

“I am not at liberty to answer beyond that the board has decided against it,” Millford said.

“Frankly,” Viscount Effington interrupted, his patience apparently at an end, “Admiral Blankett hasn’t the imagination of a pencil case and everyone knows it. I find it indefensible that he has been allowed to retain his command.”

Millford sighed. Charles thought there must have been a split among the board and the compromise had been to send a junior captain with some undefined element of independence instead. Or, perhaps the split was serious enough that the board as a whole was not privy to Charles’ verbal instructions. Before he could ponder this further, Effington continued. “The very possibility, if not the certainty, that the French will attempt to intervene militarily against our position in India is of such magnitude that the Crown’s ability to prosecute the war may depend on it. The French, particularly under this General Bonaparte, have proven themselves both resourceful and innovative—two things which Blankett is not.”

“I see,” Charles said tentatively. He meant the remark as a polite statement that he was paying attention.

“I very much doubt that you do, sir,” Effington said flatly. “That Tippu Sahib, the Sultan of Mysore, is on the verge of yet another war to drive the British out of India is well known. Less publicized is that he is substantially better armed and in greater strength than before and that the Directory in Paris is known to have committed itself to aiding him. At any cost—I repeat, at any cost—this must not be allowed to occur.”

This was all well and good, Charles thought, bridling at the condescension in Effington’s tone. He had heard these arguments before. “I understand the importance of what must be accomplished,” he answered. “But so far, aside from being less than respectful to Admiral Blankett, little light has been shed on how I am to accomplish it.”

“I recognize that,” the Viscount said with perhaps a touch less acid in his voice. “The situation in the Red Sea basin at this moment is largely unknown to us. From what gleanings I have been able to come by, there are indications of preparations at one or more locations. The French are undoubtedly aware of our interest, and some of those preparations may be ruses. It is to address this deficiency of information that I have arranged for the agent mentioned earlier. Mr. Jones and his wives have provided useful service in the past. I am confident of their diligence in the present instance.”

“Jones?” Charles said. “Mr. Adolphus Jones?”

Effington raised his eyebrows. “Do you know him?”

“Our paths have crossed twice. He was instrumental in the discovery of the French fleet at Egypt.” Charles had another thought. “Did you say wives?”

“Yes, two,” Effington said offhandedly. “Didn’t you know? Jones is a Mussulman. He is entitled to four. It is an excellent religion on many levels. I recommend it to you.”

“Thank you, I find one wife more than enough,” Charles answered.

Captain Millford cleared his throat. “I may tell you that we have prevailed on Trinity House to appoint a sailing master familiar with the Red Sea, and he has been provided with the latest chart for the region. If we are down to discussing wives, I may assume that our business is now complete. Have you any questions?”

Charles searched his mind. He had a great many concerns that were unanswered. Aside from transporting Jones, he still didn’t know precisely what he was to do. But then, it became clear, neither did either of the men across the table from him. At least it would be a help to have a master experienced in local waters and up-to-date charts. He would doubtless learn more about the situation when he reached Mocha. “No, sir,” he said.

“One last piece of advice,” Effington offered stiffly. “There are too many that doubt it, but be assured that the French will make the attempt. It may not be by the most obvious method. Be wary. You may find that things are not always as they first seem.” He fell silent, signaling that the interview was at an end.

Charles picked up the envelope containing his orders and rose from the chair. The interview struck him as very peculiar indeed. He realized that he had learned little that he had not known before entering the room. “Thank you for your confidence, sir. Your Lordship.” He shook hands with Millford across the table, bowed again to the Viscount, and turned to leave. As he was passing out and the door closing behind him, he heard Effington say, “This is pointless. This Edgemont is too inexperienced and a single frigate certainly insufficient.” Millford’s voice responded: “You know my feelings. He is all we have available. The political . . .” The latched clicked shut.

CHAPTER
 
TWO

In the cold dawn of the following morning, Charles and Augustus went by hackney to the Whitehall Stairs on the Thames embankment in search of transport to Chatham. The Royal Dockyard lay on the River Medway, a tributary to the Thames, thirty miles downstream. “That’s the Admiralty barge there, sir. She’s for the yard with dispatches,” a seaman at the head of the steps informed him. “Jeffers is the mate in charge. It’s fer certain he’ll give ye passage if ye tells him.”

Charles saw the thirty-foot, ten-oared boat at the foot of the steps, snubbing gently at her lines, and started down. The high water and absence of any movement on its surface told him that the tide was at flood, almost on the turn. He guessed her crew would want to shove off with the ebb so that the current would help speed their progress down the river. “You’re Jeffers?” he said, approaching the man who had been pointed out to him.

“Aye, sur,” the mate answered, seeing Charles’ uniform and touching the brim of his hat.

“I’m told you’re bound for Chatham. I would be appreciative if you take my steward and me along.”

“Be pleased to, sur,” Jeffers said. “We might be delayed a spell though.”

“Is there a difficulty?” Charles saw eddies starting along the edge of the steps as the flow of the river began its turn toward the sea.

Jeffers wiped the back of his hand across his forehead in a gesture of frustration. “It’s Clive and Wickers,” he said. “I don’t know where they be, but they ain’t ‘ere. I don’t fancy trying the passage with only four pair oars. It’ll be a hellish pull if we miss the turn of the tide at Sheerness to push us up to the yard.”

Charles wanted to take up his command without unnecessary delay. He didn’t want to spend the chilly morning waiting on the steps for the two missing oarsmen to appear. “Perhaps I could be of assistance,” he ventured.

“You, sir?” Jeffers said, dismissing the notion. “I couldn’t ask one as yerself to do any such thing.”

“I’m offering,” Charles insisted. He nodded toward the large form of Augustus. “There’re two of us, my steward and myself.”

The mate’s eyes took in the black man. “’As ‘e any experience pulling an oar?”

“No,” Charles admitted. “But he’s a quick study. I would be pleased to man the tiller.” He thought the offer a generous one.

Jeffers hesitated while he considered this new arrangement. He was not a particularly quick-thinking person, Charles realized. The current began to run strong past the steps. “I suggest we push off while we still have the tide.”

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” the mate said. “It ain’t regular.”

Charles decided to make up his mind for him. “Augustus, please see that our sea chests are placed onboard.” To the barge’s mate, he said, “Mr. Jeffers, if you would be so good as to board, we will be off. You may take one stroke oar, my servant the other. You can show him what to do as we go.” To settle the matter, he stepped across the gunwale and settled in the stern beside the tiller.

Jeffers shrugged. “Don’t I appreciate your assistance, sur,” he said, evidently resolved to make the best of the situation. He took his place at the rearmost port side oar, gesturing to Augustus to take up the one to starboard on the thwart beside him.

“Cast off forward,” Charles called. He slipped the knot on the stern and tossed the line onto the steps. The current quickly caught the craft, pulling it forward. “Shove off all,” he ordered, taking the tiller in his hand and moving it experimentally from side to side. It had been years since he’d steered a small boat. The port side oarsmen pushed their blades against the stones; the barge glided away from the shore. “Mr. Jeffers,” he said, “she’s your craft. You will give the orders. Please think of me as one of the crew.”

“Aye, aye, sur,” Jeffers said. Then, “Out oars, lads. Pull hard.” He turned to Augustus who was watching him closely. “Like this,” Jeffers said. “Just you do what I do.”

The barge spread its oars and soon fell into steady rhythm as it started down the Thames. Charles held the tiller firmly in both hands and stared forward over the bow in search of any hazards on the water that he would be expected to avoid. He noticed that Augustus very shortly picked up the intricacies of manning an oar in concert with the others, which was no small accomplishment.