So Near So Far (12 page)

He was still thinking on these lines when Mr Williams appeared in person, recognised him at once, and plunged into technicalities about the engines and steering gear. He also confirmed what Delancey had suspected, that the
Invention
was to be ketch rigged and was to mount a large mortar and two 32-pounder guns. The crew would number thirty and the
engineers would number four. “Here,” he concluded in triumph, “is the man-of-war of the future.” Delancey had to agree, mentally consigning that future to some period after his own retirement.

“I commend your patriotism, Mr Williams,” he said aloud. “You are spending a small fortune on a ship of no commercial value, with no chance of any return unless the Navy Board should purchase her.”

“Well, sir, I am a patriot and would do all in my power to bring about Bonaparte's downfall but I do not depend entirely upon that spirit of enterprise for which the Navy Board has never been famous. I shall apply, sir, for Letters of Marque. This vessel will sail as a privateer.”

Delancey took his leave, after further compliments, and made his way back to London. At dinner that day he told Fiona and Colonel Barrington about his trip to Woolwich. He expressed reluctant admiration for the
Invention,
adding his devout hopes that she would prove a failure. The Colonel was more tolerant and could see such a vessel playing havoc among the French invasion craft. “But then,” he added, “a privateer would go after a different kind of game.”

“Frankly, sir,” said Delancey, “I can't take the
Invention
seriously as a privateer. Letters of Marque will give Mr Williams a good excuse for putting to sea without convoy but this vessel would be useless as a private man-of-war. She has heavy guns and a small crew. If she intercepted a French merchantman, her prey would be smashed and crippled and Williams would lack the men to bring her into port. A privateer is something entirely different, needing small-calibre guns and a swarm of men.”

Delancey was henceforth to divide his time between London
and Chatham, now watching the repair of the
Vengeance
and now attending the theatre with Fiona. All the talk was of war and the Delanceys were actually present when the King himself announced the outbreak from his box at Drury Lane. It was the Command Performance and all present rose to applaud Addington's decision to make war on France. Poor Fiona wept as the carriage rolled back to St James's Square. “You'll go to sea, darling, and I shall be left in Guernsey to wonder whether you'll be wounded or drowned.”

“Not in the first instance,” Delancey replied. “When the
Vengeance
sails for Guernsey—and that, I hear, is to be her immediate destination—you shall come with me. If we are to sink on the way we shall thus go down together!”

“Stop teasing me! I'll sail with you but will be sick all the way, I expect.”

“You'll have more room for it than you had in the
Starling,
and anyway, I can tell you a sure remedy. All you need do is to go and sit under a tree. Nor will you run any risk again of being wrecked on the shell beach. It will take young Le Page many years to live that down! As for the
Vengeance,
you must admit that she looks better since she came out of dry dock. Confess now, you were shocked when you saw her in the hands of the shipwright, presenting a scene of chaos. But since she was painted and now she is rigged she begins to look the part. Buff and white and a touch of gold, with a frowning figurehead and red gunports, you must admit that we are entitled to feel proud of her. There are better frigates, I'll allow, but this is the one I've been given and I must do the best with what I have. Cheer up, dearest, you married a man whose trade is war. You made the right decision—it would be absurd, as you
must admit, for you to have married anyone else—but there are certain drawbacks, as I have to admit. If I stay ashore, I am penniless and everyone thinks me a coward. If I go to sea I am separated from the most wonderful girl in the world. There is my dilemma but I don't really have a choice. I must go to war as soon as
Vengeance
is manned and ready for sea.”

W
HEN THE frigate
Vengeance
finally left Chatham, mooring at the Nore, Delancey was faced with the problem of manning her. All he had at this stage were his officers, some of them temporary, his warrant-officers, his midshipmen, his boys or second-class volunteers, and his detachment of marines. There were over a hundred more men to recruit and all the other men-of-war were equally seeking what they might devour. With the actual outbreak of war, however, press warrants were issued and the press gangs became active. The best seamen were removed from the merchantmen entering the river, some without information that the war had begun. The worst were those sent down the river by the London magistrates, having been given the choice between prison or the Navy. Although the manning problem was difficult enough it would certainly become worse as the war went on. Delancey's two lieutenants (apart from old Harrison) were constantly out with the boats or ashore in Sheerness but the process of manning went slowly and the men press-ganged were, many of them, without sea experience. After weeks of effort Delancey at last had a crew of sorts and was able to sail. It was at this point that Fiona came down from London by coach and joined her husband's ship for what would be her first voyage in a man-of-war.

It was a fine morning when
Vengeance
finally sailed and Fiona was found a corner of the quarterdeck where she would
be out of everyone's way. Harrison had charge of the deck and it was he who gave the order “All hands make sail!” There was hectic activity as the seamen ran to take up their positions. “Away aloft!” sent many of them up the shrouds. After which came the order “Man the topsail sheets!” and “Let fall!” To Fiona the scene was one of furious confusion but she wondered at the rapidity with which the sails were set and sheeted home. But no speed in action could satisfy the boatswain or his mates, who called the men lazy lubbers; using different terms, however, when they thought that she was out of earshot. Harrison presently apologised to her for all the shouting. “We have too many landsmen aboard,” he explained, “and what we do is under the eyes of the other ships. We don't want to earn a reputation for slackness.”

The frigate was presently out in the Thames estuary, heeling gently before a sou'-westerly breeze. Soon afterwards came the order to exercise the great guns and Fiona watched while the cannon were loaded and the matches, crowbars, handspikes, and spunge staves were laid beside each gun. Then followed the order for silence and further orders in the sequence:

“Cast off tackles and breechings.”

“Take out the tompion.”

“Take off the apron.”

“Unstop the touch-hole.”

“Handle the priming wire.”

“Prick the cartridge.”

“Prime.”

“Cover the vent.”

“Aim.”

Instead of firing the guns the seamen then repeated the whole exercise while Mr Harrison timed it with his stopwatch.

”Dreadful!” he moaned. “Shocking!” said the boatswain, and the exercise continued.

On that day Delancey dined alone with Fiona and she expressed her surprise at the examples she had seen of naval routine.

“What I can't understand, dearest, is the way each action, however trivial, has to be at the word of command. We have to do some of the same things on the stage and we even use some of the same words, as when we strike some property in the wings or lower the curtain. But everyone knows what has to be done. We don't have to shout all the time!”

“It may seem silly, love, but there are some facts you need to know. It is not true that everyone knows what has to be done. Many of the men you see were working ashore a week ago, one as a workman in a brewery, another as an errand boy. You then have to realise that these commands as affecting the cannon will not be used in battle, nor would they be heard if we shouted them. Our aim is to make people learn a certain sequence in what they do, learn it until the actions become automatic. They have to be done, remember, under the enemy's fire. As for actions being trivial, they are anything but that. Take, for example, the order, ‘Take out the tompion'—”

“That bit I understood. The tompion is a sort of cork thrust into the cannon's muzzle. You take it out as you might uncork a bottle.”

“Quite right. But what is it for?”

“To keep the gun clean?”

“Well, to keep it dry, mostly. Now, suppose you left it in and fired the gun, what would happen?”

“You would lose the tompion.”

“You would more likely burst the gun and kill most of the
gun's crew. Then take the order ‘Cover the vent.' What would happen if the vent were left uncovered?”

“The powder might get damp?”

“So the gun wouldn't fire. Or else it would fire by accident before men were ready. We have to depend upon a lot of men who are new to the sea, many of them fairly stupid. Then we have so to drill them that they will carry out the correct sequence even when the orders are inaudible, the gun deck full of smoke, and the noise deafening. Nor is it enough for the majority of them to do what they have been taught. They work as a team and rely upon each other, so that every single one of them must do his part correctly—one to remove the tompion and another to cover the vent. Their lives—and all our lives—depend on doing it correctly.”

“And it's the same, I suppose, with the sails?”

“Just the same. You may think that we are all mad to repeat the drill, stop-watch in hand. But the day may come when we are heading for the rocks and our lives depend on the speed with which we can put the ship about!”

“Like that time when Le Page nearly put the
Starling
on the shell beach?”

“Exactly! I am forgetting that you have been at sea before—that you were a cabin boy when first I saw you and still a cabin boy years afterwards!”

“You would have thought that I should be more than my master's mate by now.”

“But you are. You are a goddess, remember?”

“You think I might serve as a figurehead? I hate the one we have.”

“So do I, love, but we can do nothing about it. All the seamen believe that altering or replacing a figurehead will bring
bad luck. They may be right for all I know. I had to pay for the gold leaf myself and hoped that it would improve her. It has made her, if anything, worse. We see little of her, luckily, so long as we remain on board.”

The voyage continued and Delancey had his officers and midshipmen to dine with him on the following day, noting the looks of dumb admiration they directed at Fiona. He realised at the same time that he could not have his wife on board except on such a short voyage as this. It was wonderful to have her near him, wonderful to think that she would be there when he finally turned in, but her presence was bad for him and worse, he thought, for everyone else. He could order no flogging, for example, while she was on board, and the men knew it. In the ordinary way he always hoped to avoid punishing men except by reproof or loss of privilege. That was his rule with a disciplined crew but it could not be his practice during the first month of the commission. The men must come to realise that orders are to be obeyed and that covert insolence—even to the youngest of the young gentlemen—will never be overlooked. He knew by now who the troublemakers were and all five of them, but for Fiona, would have been brought to the gangway by now. Nor was he certain that her presence was good for his own sense of duty. He hated to disturb her sleep but how could he avoid it? On two occasions he had stayed below when he would, as a single man, have been on deck in a flash. It had not mattered but the day might come when it could matter a great deal. He loved Fiona more than anyone in the world but the time was coming when they must part. It was almost her cue to go ashore.

Anchoring at St Peter Port on 9 August 1803, Delancey expected to pay his respects to Sir James Saumarez, under
whose flag he was to serve, but was unable to do so. For one thing, Saumarez was not there. For another, the Guernsey division of his squadron had been placed under the command of Commodore Clinton, whose business it was to keep the French coast under close observation. He was a handsome and well-bred officer with a gallant record but only moderate intelligence. He had a temporary headquarters ashore and explained that his ships were deployed between Cherbourg and Granville.

“We shall probably raid the French coast this autumn so as to gain intelligence but we hardly expect them to attempt anything much this year. If the French try to invade England it will be in the summer of 1804. Until then our work will be routine but we have had one item of intelligence that remains something of a puzzle. We captured a French brig last month. The master was a stubborn sort of character but as she was out of Granville we tried to make him talk. In the end my interrogator got him drunk and he was eventually forthcoming on the subject of a mystery vessel called the
Nautilus.
She is nearing completion at Granville and would seem to be some sort of explosion vessel. She is being built under cover, though, and we don't think our man had actually seen her. Their security precautions have been elaborate and we don't think he was doing more than repeating the local rumours. To judge from his drunken mutterings the
Nautilus
is Bonaparte's trump card, the ace in the pack. But this fellow's French was difficult to follow even when he was sober—and by then he would tell us nothing more. We had a local man to help us, for it is a Norman French that people speak here, but we are very uncertain whether we understood him aright. It may all amount to nothing but I should like to tell the Admiral what the French idea is.”

”It happens, sir, that I can tell you something about it. I was recently in Scotland watching an experimental steam-vessel on the Forth and Clyde Canal, the
Charlotte Dundas.
Another visitor on the same day was an American, Mr Fulton, who has also built a steam-vessel and who is the designer of the
Nautilus.
”