So Near So Far (10 page)

“Is it as easy as that?” Delancey asked. “How many men do we have who can build an engine? How many engineers are there in this country?”

“Very few, I grant you, but they can be trained, and it would all take about a year.”

“I agree with that, Mr Fulton,” said Williams. “You've hit the nail on the head. Our difficulty must be to convince their lordships of the Admiralty, and we shan't have done that until the war is over. Now my plan is to build a steamship of my own and show the Royal Navy what it can do—at sea, mind you, not on a canal. I have a shipbuilder friend at Woolwich who can do the construction of the vessel and there are engineers in London who can build the engine. I don't mind revealing to you gentlemen that I am in touch with one of the greatest inventors of all time, Joseph Bramah himself, a genius of our age. With the help of these gentlemen known to me, I can give Britain a naval superiority over every other country in the world.”

“But that we already have, Mr Williams,” said Delancey sharply. “What more superiority do we want?”

“Why, Captain, we can have superiority, in addition, over wind and tide!”

“Well, gentlemen,” said Fulton, “I have plans, too, but have
had little encouragement from your Navy Board. I shall have to offer my inventions to Bonaparte.”

“Would you not rather assist us against this tyrant?” asked Delancey. “Do you want to see him rule the world?”

“I am a citizen of a country which is neutral, sir, but remember that we owe our independence to France. Our traditional alliance is with the French and our traditional opponent is King George. We did not grow to national manhood with any prejudice in your favour. No, sir. But I have treated you more than fairly. I have offered my help and it has been rejected. You may think that the steamship is a simple device and so it is, but what would you say to a craft which can travel below the surface of the sea?”

“I should say fiddlesticks!” replied Delancey. “The thing is impossible.”

“No sir, it is not impossible, and I am prepared to prove it. I have built just such a vessel and called her the
Nautilus.”

T
HE DELANCEYS' visit to Bristol was a great success. Rachel, his sister, was still the respected wife of Alderman John Sedley, the West India merchant, and still lived at her old address in Queen's Square. Her children, however, had all left home by now and even the youngest daughter had married. There were nine grandchildren all told, and peacetime had brought greater prosperity to the whole family. Rachel and Fiona became great friends at once while Richard was introduced to several of John's associates, all merchants of note, some of whom he had met during his previous visit in 1798. The Delanceys were pressed to stay for a long visit but Richard explained that Fiona had still to see her new home in Guernsey. “I have a small estate there,” he explained, “a place called Anneville Manor. I have been making it habitable over the years, making improvements as I could find the money, and the time has come for my wife to see where she is to live and meet our neighbours. I had thought of travelling to Southampton and sailing from there.” This was a reasonable plan but fate decreed otherwise. At a dinner party, the Delanceys met a young naval officer called Le Page, who commanded a cutter called the
Starling.
He was under orders to sail for Portsmouth but he was a Guernseyman and had a premonition that he would be compelled by weather conditions to seek shelter in St Peter Port—the home, as it happened, of the girl he hoped to marry.
In a convivial mood, he offered the Delanceys a passage, an offer which he confirmed on the following day, and the opportunity seemed too good to miss. All was arranged and Le Page was paid something for the use of his cabin. The
Starling
had been sent on some errand to Ireland and was making a leisurely return to her home port. Lieutenant Le Page was a breezily confident youngster who evidently did not expect to be questioned too closely about where he had been and why. The cutter herself was an almost new craft and in very good order. Fiona, for one, looked forward to the voyage and to seeing Anneville. Delancey himself saw that favourable winds could well make this the quickest way of reaching Guernsey. As against that, contrary winds were to be expected in a voyage during which the original course would be south-west and the subsequent course nearly due east. It was to be hoped that the cutter could keep close to the wind, as might be expected of a vessel with her rig. As for distance, he would guess that the nearest route to Guernsey would be about three hundred miles as a seagoing steamship would steer (supposing that such a craft existed). With reasonable luck, the voyage could be done in three to five days. The cutter, incidentally, had not come up the Avon to Bristol but was at anchor in the King Road, a sensible precaution against being windbound.

Sailing before daybreak on a September morning meant a long pull in the ship's boat on the previous evening but Delancey saw to it that Fiona was warmly wrapped in a boat cloak over all. Le Page's quarters, which he had lent them, were necessarily cramped but a coasting voyage had at least the merit of involving fresh food on the table, with milk even on the first two days. Although Delancey was on deck to watch the cutter sail, Fiona was wisely asleep and woke only off Ilfracombe to
have, presently, a distant view of Lundy on the starboard bow. The wind was fair for Land's End and seemed to have settled in that quarter, foreshadowing a tedious beat up Channel.

Delancey came to the conclusion, meanwhile, that
Starling
was navigated by a young man of rather less than ordinary intelligence. He should at least be familiar with the approach to Guernsey, which was a consoling thought, and he had a reasonably good crew, weakened however by the sickness of the boatswain who had been left ashore, but his own experience was limited, and the
Starling
was his first independent command. Off Land's End there was enough of a sea to make the cutter pitch and roll. The wind dropped later and Delancey decided to go on deck, where he found that the cutter was on the starboard tack with no land in sight. There was so dense a mist that no observation was possible. Le Page now had the ship's bell rung at intervals but there was no answering sound from any other vessel. Although heading up Channel in one of the busiest highways the
Starling
seemed to be alone in the world. She sailed on slowly as night fell. By the morning what had been mist had turned to fog.

Le Page had so far been very much in command but he was now worried enough to call Delancey into consultation. In the cabin he unrolled the chart and showed Delancey his pencilled calculations. “But where are we?” asked Delancey, and was shown a hesitant pencil mark in mid-Channel due south of the Lizard. “What was your last observation?”

“When I sighted Land's End.” Le Page pointed to a firm pencil mark with the bearing shown. “All since is by dead reckoning …” Delancey realised that the cutter's estimated position could be five or six leagues out in any direction, and that she was certainly not in soundings. “If I were you,” he said at last, “I shouldn't lay a
course for Guernsey. I should make for Start Point and hope to sight it in the morning. Then you could approach the Channel Isles on a known bearing, and maybe meet with some fisherman on the way who might know where he is.” After some hesitation, Le Page agreed to this plan and Delancey stiffened his resolution with a glass of brandy. They both knew that Guernsey was the last place in the world to approach in a fog with one's last position in doubt. There were rocks everywhere and a strong tidal current, some areas to the south-west and north-east being mere graveyards for incautious mariners. During the night the bell was sounded at intervals, no other bell was heard, and daylight revealed a fog which was thicker than ever. “If my calculations are right,” said Le Page bravely, “Start Point should be somewhere on the starboard bow.” Delancey studied the chart afresh and then summed up the position with finality. “We are lost,” he concluded briefly. “We have no idea of our true position.”

More by luck than science, the
Starling
struck soundings that afternoon in 23 fathoms, which proved that they were somewhere on the English coast. Better still, the fog lifted for a few minutes and gave them a distant glimpse of Portland Bill to the eastward.

“Now we know where we are,” said Le Page. “A course almost due south will bring us to Guernsey. If this wind holds we shall be there by noon tomorrow.”

“But what about the fog?” asked Delancey.

“It will probably disperse during the night.”

Delancey could not accept this conclusion. Had he been in command he would have dropped anchor somewhere off Bridport and waited for the fog to clear. But was he being
over-cautious because Fiona was on board? As against that, Le Page was ready to take risks in order to reach his girl in St Peter Port. Lord St Vincent hated his officers to marry—as if their being single would make them sexless!—but sex was the force that could distort judgement and he could not swear that his own judgement was unaffected.

The fog thickened again as the cutter headed south and Le Page plunged into calculations about the tidal current.

“I shall keep well to the westwards,” explained Le Page. “It doesn't matter if we pass Guernsey on that side. If we go too far to the eastwards we could hit the Casquets before we are in soundings.”

This was profoundly true and Delancey agreed that it was better to err in that direction. He went below and did his best to entertain Fiona, reading to her until it was time for sleep. He was on deck at first light, only to find that he could see for no more than a cable's length. The fog, although patchy, was persistent and the cutter was sailing on a course of south by west, sounding her bell at intervals and checking her speed by the log. As the day wore on, Le Page was increasingly worried. Turning at last to Delancey he said that his calculation of the distance run put the
Starling
actually beyond Guernsey on the chart and heading, therefore, for the French coast. Supposing, however, that Guernsey had been passed, he did not know on which side. Delancey took the chart below and studied it on the cabin table. “Yes,” he concluded, “if we were south of Guernsey we should be in well over twenty fathoms. I can't believe that we have passed north of the Casquets—we should be aware by now of the Race of Alderney. If your calculation of distance is right we are about here, north of Sark.”

Knowing these waters but ignorant of their own position, he remembered all the rocks which cluster around Sark and Herm.

“Your best plan,” he said finally to Le Page, “is to go about, set a new course to the north-west or as near as the wind will let you, keep under easy sail, and listen hard for the sound of breakers.”

The fog seemed to be clearing, affording a view of perhaps two cables ahead, but there was nothing to be seen or heard. An hour passed and Le Page made preparation for lowering the two boats should the emergency arise. For his part, Delancey joined the lookout in the bows, watching and listening intently. More time passed and then, suddenly, he heard the surf and saw a white line across the cutter's bows. Turning aft, he shouted “Hard a-starboard! Quickly!” The helmsman obeyed and Le Page hurried forward to join him, as the cutter swung broadside to the shore.

“Look!” said Delancey. “At least we know where we are!”

“What d'you mean, sir?” asked Le Page.

“Can't you see the whiteness beyond the breakers? That is the shell beach on Herm—couldn't be anywhere else for a hundred miles around. We were heading straight for it and would have been wrecked in another two minutes. We should have been as certainly wrecked had we turned the other way. Now tack, head north-east for half an hour—we must clear the Bonne Grune—then head due west and we shall be in the Little Russel and so on course for St Peter Port.”

Now that their position was clear the fog began to lift, affording glimpses of Herm and, soon afterwards, of Guernsey itself. There, presently, was the Brion Tower and Vale Castle. The cutter made more sail as Fiona came on deck and there
was even a passing gleam of sunshine to prove that all was well. Forward, a group of seamen had gathered round a four-pounder which presently saluted Castle Cornet, from which the saluting battery replied, amid a chorus of protest from the seagulls. Delancey had the sense of homecoming which he always had when entering St Peter Port. The red roofs climbing the hillside, the tower of the town church, the ramparts of Castle Cornet on its island, the masts of the shipping, the distant glimpse of Fort George—all these had formed the background to his boyhood. It was good to be home, better to think that he actually owned what was no longer a ruin, best of all to remember that his bride was with him. Sail was reduced until, finally, the cutter glided into the anchorage under her jib alone. The cable slid through the hawse-hole, the anchor struck bottom, and the voyage was over. The boat was now manned which would take them ashore. “Thank God for that!” said Le Page, and Delancey replied “Amen.”

T
HEY STAYED on arrival at the Golden Lion and dined there on the following day. As they sat down to dinner a number of men recognised Delancey and came over to greet him in French. He replied in the same language, presenting them to Fiona as Nicolle, Henri, Michel, and Jean-Pierre.

“Michel,” he told Fiona afterwards, “is a smuggler in quite a big way of business. During the war the others there were privateersmen, Jean-Pierre being the most successful of them. Now we are at peace they must be doing something else. Or perhaps they are merely hoping for a renewal of the war. The younger privateersmen will never have had another trade. I myself commanded a privateer at one time. That was back in 1795.”