A Sea Unto Itself (6 page)

“Ease ‘er toward the middle, sur,” Jeffers offered. “The current runs faster there.”

“Aye, aye,” Charles said with a grin. It wasn’t often he took orders from a petty officer. He pushed gingerly on the bar, unsure of how much rudder to apply. He saw little result for his effort.

“Begging yer pardon, sur. You’ll have to steer large. She’s a long boat.”

“My apologies,” Charles answered. He pushed the tiller boldly over and the bow angled gratifyingly toward the center channel. Ahead he saw that the traffic on the river had begun to increase along with the appearance of a sliver of the sun on the horizon over the south bank. The Savoy Palace and then Somerset House—where the Navy Board Offices were housed—passed to port. The seemingly endless expanse of the city spread out along both banks, the smoke of wood and coal fires rising from countless chimneys, then uniting in a dark stream eastward under scattered orange-bellied clouds.

Charles swung the tiller to steer behind a lighter crossing. Blackfriar’s Bridge showed ahead, the first of two they would pass under. He found himself unreasonably pleased to be back on the water’s surface and began to relax as he felt more comfortable managing the boat. The span soon loomed over them, then fell behind.
 
Below the bridge, the thickening congestion of river boats, lighters, and wherries threatened to clog the waterway. Charles refocused his attention as he maneuvered the barge through the constantly changing obstructions, occasionally taking an opportunity to shout a warning or even an obscenity at some particularly obdurate craft impeding their progress.

The towering mass of London Bridge filled the skyline ahead, its closely spaced arches and huge abutments holding back the receding tide. He could feel the barge accelerate as the flow quickened, hurtling them irresistibly toward a narrow gap between two of the stone supports. He saw that the river churned white around their bases then fell abruptly in elevation as it passed through.

“Boat yer oars,” Jeffers announced calmly as the span approached.

“What do I do?” Charles said in alarm. The tiller swung almost without resistance under his hand. He had no control over their direction.

“Hold ‘er midships or let go altogether, sur,” Jeffers replied. “It don’t matter now, the current will carry us through.”

The barge shot into the restricted channel. In the darkness under the span they dived over the swell at exhilarating speed, dropping a good three feet, then spilled out into the sunshine on the far side.

“Out oars,” Jeffers ordered as the barge began to drift sideways in the swirls and eddies below the abutments. Immediately as the oars bit she gained way, the rudder took hold, and Charles steered to point the bow once more downstream. It took several moments for his heartbeat to return to normal.

“Boat oars,” Jeffers said again after they had gone a scant cable’s length from the bridge. In response to Charles’ questioning look, he added, “We’ll step the masts now, sur. The wind’s fair and there’s no more bridges ‘tween here and Chatham.” The two masts, one forward and one aft, were hoisted into place with practiced ease. Equally quickly the sails were bent on; the canvas snapped then filled as a firm westerly breeze pushed them over the water at a quickened pace.

“I can take the tiller now, sur,” Jeffers said, coming aft. “Don’t I appreciate yer help.”

“It was my pleasure,” Charles answered. He turned over control of the bar and made his way to the center of the boat to seat himself on one of the now unoccupied rowers’ benches across from his servant. Augustus sat staring out at the river traffic and the enormous city around them.

“It’s a very large place, isn’t it,” Charles said.

Augustus grinned. “I never saw such a thing.”

“It's bigger than Philadelphia for a fact,” Charles said. “London’s the largest city in the world, I’m told.”

Immediately to port rose the stark, block-like enormity of the Tower of London, King William I’s principal fortification for the domination of his newly conquered kingdom, built more than seven hundred years before. Below lay the Pool and the London Docks, the immense port from which the great city’s wealth derived. Charles himself was impressed by the forests of masts crowding both banks, ships of innumerable types and nationalities, from Ramsgate trawlers, colliers, and coasters to bulky Indiamen, snows, cats, pinks, brigs, brigantines, and even the sleek schooners from America. The Indiamen—large armed merchant ships of the Honorable East India Company with their distinctive horizontally striped ensigns—stood out. There were more than a dozen of them waiting to unload their hugely valuable cargos. It was to preserve this trade, Charles knew, that was the underlying purpose of his orders. Just below the Pool he noticed three slavers moored stern to bow. He saw Augustus looking through narrowed eyes at the black-hulled craft, but his servant remained tight lipped and silent.

As they progressed down the river, the commercial shipping began to thin and men-of-war to predominate. Charles studied the naval craft with professional interest as they swept past. They were mostly seventy-fours, a few larger and a number smaller. The majority had their topmasts struck down and were undergoing overhauls, from replacing frame members to coppering. In slips along Deptford Creek on the south bank were the rising skeletons of a number of new two-deckers under construction, and what looked to him like one that might be a first rate—a warship of one hundred or more guns on three decks. This was the Royal Dockyard at Deptford, he knew. There were five such major naval dockyards in England: three along the Thames below London, Deptford, Woolwich, Chatham, as well as Portsmouth and Plymouth on the Channel coast. In these yards the great power of the royal navy was largely built and maintained. A wooden warship, no matter how well constructed, required constant attention to the wear of wind and weather, and a thorough overhaul in a well-equipped yard every two or three years.

The sight of so many navy ships brought him back to the interview at the Admiralty the day before. It was clear that at least some on the board felt a French attack on India to be a credible possibility. But was it really? It would require a fleet of nearly a hundred transports to carry a force of ten thousand with their horses, artillery, and stocks of supplies. There was a relatively small French harbor with some supply facilities at Mauritius in the Indian Ocean. Could they manage such an expedition? He doubted it; troops and transports would have to be brought all the way around the mass of Africa from Europe. Perhaps this General Bonaparte, of whom everyone spoke so often, would rely on commandeering such craft as were to be found locally. Charles had no clear knowledge about what types or how many Arab merchantmen might be available, but he supposed it was a possibility.

One thing became increasingly evident as he thought about it. Despite Captain Millford and Viscount Effington’s assurances, no one really knew what French intentions were, the strength they might employ, or the methods they would use to employ them. If there was an invasion attempt, and if he were somehow to help thwart it, there would be little praise for preempting an emergency that never came to pass. If he were to fail, he might well become the nation’s scapegoat for the loss of her most precious colonies.

Beyond Deptford the river widened and slowed. While they were rounding the broad horseshoe bend at the Isle of Dogs, Charles noticed that Augustus had switched his attention from the surrounding countryside and was now studying the barge’s sails and rigging. Of course, all this would be unfamiliar to a newly escaped slave from the plantations of Virginia. “It’s like magic, isn’t it?” Charles said. “I mean skimming along the water with no effort on our part.”

“I know how the wind can push a stick across a pond,” Augustus answered seriously. “What I be trying to figure am how they can turn this boat so that with the wind commin’ from the side they can still go straight ahead.”

Charles tried to think how he could explain this to someone who knew nothing about ships. “You see,” he said, “there’s a long board along the bottom which we name the keel. This keeps a craft running forward because it’s the easiest direction for it to go. At the back end, the stern as we call it, is the rudder which presses sideways against the water. The rudder obliges the boat to turn on the keel, which otherwise it doesn’t want to do. This forces the front part, or bow, around to the direction you want to go in. The canvas does pretty much the same. The foresail catches the wind to drive her forward, while the mizzen uses the same breeze to push the stern one way or the other.” He looked to Augustus to see whether any of this had penetrated.

The black nodded thoughtfully. “You mean, it be like usin’ a bar to lever out a stone,” he said after a moment. “The block what you put under the bar be your keel; it stay put, but the stone move.”

Charles had not thought about the forces operating on a boat’s hull in terms of a lever and fulcrum, but it made sense. “It’s a little more complicated in actual practice,” he said with a smile. “But I think you’ve got the main point.”

Just for a moment Augustus turned to study the barge’s canvas, particularly the set of the mizzen, now swung out over the gunwale to port. He nodded again, “There be one more thing I’ve been hopin’ to inquire on, Cap’n, if it ain’t a bother.”

“Of course it’s no bother,” Charles said. The question, when it came, was unexpected.

“Be it true that I’m a free man, just like that?”

“Just like that,” Charles answered.

“And Miss Viola be a free woman?”

“She can stay on with Mrs. Edgemont, or go elsewhere, as she pleases,” Charles answered. “I hope she decides to stay.”

“And the masters can’t come to take her back?”

“Not as long as she is in England,” Charles said. “No court here would allow such a thing.”

“It be a wonder,” Augustus said. “I don’t rightly know how to fasten my mind on it.” He fell silent.

Charles thought it curious that Augustus seemed more concerned about the girl’s status than his own. He wondered, not for the first time, about the relationship between the two.

The river widened still further, to a half a mile or more, with broad expanses of marshland on either bank. Occasional merchant shipping passed on the opposite tack, and once a single navy frigate. The warship was one of the newer thirty-sixes with an eighteen pounder cannon on her main deck, and Charles studied her with envy. As the frigate neared he saw that her sides were freshly scarred and she had jury repairs to her masts aloft. The strakes along her gun ports were stained black by burnt gunpowder. She had clearly been in a scrape and must be on her way to Deptford to have it repaired. The crew of the barge stood and gave a cheer as she passed. The frigate’s captain came to the rail and raised his hat in acknowledgement. Charles responded in kind.

The sun continued its steady rise until it hung nearly overhead. Beyond Gravesend the tang of clean salt air began to replace the mixed smells of the land. Charles felt a growing sense of anticipation despite his misgivings. He wished he were on board, with his own deck beneath his feet. Wherever he was going, he would be free of the land and on the unbounded sea. There the requirements on him would be simple and direct. He enjoyed the life of a sea captain, with his relatively spacious private cabin and the familiar routine of shipboard life. There might be dangers to be sure, but with capable officers and a willing crew all things were possible. He would be in his element with its comfortable sameness and familiar challenges. There were worse things than that.

Past Lower Hope and the Blyth Sands the river began to open to the North Sea. The tide was on the turn, beginning to run against the breeze, and starting up a sharp chop over which the barge gently bucked, kicking up small bursts of spray as it went. At last, Sheerness showed ahead and just before the town a broad opening that was the mouth of the River Medway. As he watched, two seventy-fours exited the inlet, and then wore in succession to the east and the open sea beyond. They had most certainly come from Chatham. Only seven miles up the inlet lay the sprawling complex that was His Majesty’s royal dockyard where his own ship lay.

*****.

“That’s ‘er there,” Jeffers said, pointing with his arm toward a frigate moored fore and aft in the basin a cable’s length off the victualing wharf. Charles studied the ship with an experienced eye. She was freshly painted black with the strakes along her gun ports picked out in a band of white. It was a style that had become increasingly popular among captains in the British navy, emphasizing the sleek lines of their vessels. He found the effect pleasing. Closer inspection told a different story. Between the paint and the waterline lay a broad streak of bright copper which meant that she was riding high and not yet laden with her full requirement of stores and supplies. Her yards were up and crossed, although in a haphazard fashion, the canvas sloppily furled. He could only guess what that implied.

“Ahoy. What boat?” a voice from the frigate’s quarterdeck called as it became evident the barge intended to come alongside.