Devil to Pay (8 page)

“Well?” asked Harris, “How did you fare with the secret mission? Was I right about it, hey?”

“You were quite right, sir, It had ‘failure' written on it from the outset. I am lucky to be alive.”

“Or were you careful, hey? I heard something about you t'other day. What was it? Some army captain called you out and you refused the challenge. Don't blame you! I should've done the same.”

“It wasn't like that, Mr Harris. I
did
fight one of them and wounded him but I'll confess that I wasn't prepared to fight them all.”

“You should have laid them all out with a capstan bar. Waiter!”

For weeks to come Delancey's mind was continually on his career. After another year ashore he would not be a seaman. But his luck might change. There might be a battle with heavy losses and empty berths. He might still be promoted. But, somehow, just then, it seemed unlikely. He was a commissioned officer in wartime but without prospects of any kind. To the story that he had almost been guilty of mutiny was now added a story—not entirely false—that he had since been found wanting in courage. When news came of Lord Howe's victory his hopes revived for some weeks but such vacancies as were caused by this battle were filled by the promotion of juniors rather than by seeking ashore for officers whose merits had so far been overlooked. The mere length of time Delancey had been on the beach would evidently tell against him.

In other circumstances Delancey would have been tempted to give up his naval career and return to Guernsey. That door was closed, however, by the presence there of the 42nd Regiment. He resolved to wait for his luck to turn and was encouraged in this resolve by a chance meeting with an old officer called Fanshawe, one of a small group of veterans who played whist together. “Study the lives of the great admirals,” said Fanshawe. “Read books on shipbuilding and naval tactics. Learn all you can,” he would emphasise, “and read the gazette letters, hear the gossip and study the news. Be ready to take your chance when it comes!” Delancey followed this advice, borrowed books, argued over technical problems and knew the name of every ship in port. He also made a fourth at whist whenever asked to play and found, to his surprise, that the game had a certain fascination. The day came when Fanshawe had to admit that Delancey was as good a player as any in his circle.

It was a matter, he had found, of concentration and memory and he could imagine that the same qualities of mind might often be needed by senior officers. It was at this time that he developed his small talent for painting in watercolours. He began by making copies in pencil of the illustrations he found in books of travel. Then he took to colouring them and finishing the outlines with pen and ink. He resolved, when the weather improved to make sketches from life. In the meanwhile he drew several pictures of the
Royalist
from memory. At this time he took to wearing civilian clothes so that his uniform should remain presentable. On fine days he would walk on the quayside and look at the ships in harbour, learning all he could about them. There were odd days that winter when he felt confident and almost cheerful, convinced without reason that success might still be his. On other days—on days which became more frequent as the months went by—he felt that his case was hopeless. He had been ashore for longer than he cared to remember. It looked now as if he might well be ashore for good.

P
ART
T
WO

A
SMART FRIGATE was leaving Portsmouth harbour, watched by a small group of idlers collected at the Point. One of these, a well-dressed and elderly gentleman, had borrowed a telescope from a one-legged seaman who stood beside him and was watching the way in which sail was made. “What a splendid sight!” he exclaimed, finally, returning the telescope to its owner. “But a common spectacle, I suppose, in time of war.” He was told by the other bystanders that the port was busy enough. As they watched, the frigate heeled to the stiff breeze, foam at her stem and her pennant streaming to leeward. A fleeting gleam of wintry sunshine lit her canvas for a moment as she passed Block House Fort. In a few minutes she vanished from sight and the shivering spectators began to disperse. It was a cold February afternoon, to be followed by a colder and stormier night.

“What ship was that?” asked the elderly gentleman but the one-legged sailor had gone. His question was answered, instead, by a much younger man in civilian clothes whose eyes had followed the frigate until the last moment.

“She is the
Thalia
of 36 guns, commanded by Captain Manley, launched at Bursledon in 1782.”

“Whither bound?” asked the elderly gentleman as they turned away from the Point.

“For Jamaica, sir, as I understand.”

There was something about the younger man's appearance and still more about his manner—clipped, decisive and exact—that attracted the old gentleman's interest.

“You seem to be well-informed, sir, in naval matters.”

“I hold a commission, sir.”

“But without an appointment, perhaps?” Delancey's grim expression was answer enough and the old gentleman tried to retrieve the situation by adding, quickly: “No offence, sir—not my intention to pry—forgive my bluntness—but I know something of the service from my nephew. Promotion is often difficult to achieve in your profession and especially for those without interest.” Delancey assented briefly and his elderly acquaintance looked at him more keenly. What he saw left him still curious. Of average height, dark-haired, with dark blue eyes and a rather melancholy expression, the young man was something, he guessed, between thirty and thirty-five years old. He was rather thin and rather shabbily dressed, his overcoat made of inferior cloth, his shoes well polished but badly worn, his cravat frayed and yellow in the hem. The older man, coming to a decision on impulse, decided to introduce himself.

“My name is Grindall, sir, wine merchant of Southampton. My nephew is to meet me presently for dinner at the Star and Garter. Would you do me the honour of joining us?” It seemed for a moment that the invitation was regarded as an insult and Mr Grindall went on quickly to forestall a touchy refusal.

“I'll be frank with you, sir, and explain what I have in mind. My nephew has been offered a berth in a revenue cutter and the problem is whether he should accept it. The offer came through me—for the Collector of Customs at Southampton is an old friend of mine, known to me since boyhood. His kind offer is a very handsome one, very handsome indeed, but my fear is that Henry should miss the better opportunity of serving overseas. Your advice, if you will give it, may be of the greatest value and will leave me greatly in your debt. Come, sir, I'll take no denial!” Whether seriously meant or not, this plea for guidance had the desired effect. The naval officer's scruples over accepting charity were overcome by Mr Grindall's tact.

“In that event, sir,” he replied, “I can only say that I am very much at your disposal and will accept your kind invitation with the greatest pleasure. My name is Delancey and my last service was in the cutter
Royalist.”
Mr Grindall soon ascertained, by indirect means, that his first guess had been correct. Delancey was an unemployed half-pay lieutenant with neither interest nor private means; left ashore for reasons which he did not choose to explain. He could only guess at the rest of the story; but it had been a cold winter for a man who might be hungry. Mr Grindall found other topics for conversation; the sad illness and death of the
Thalia's
previous captain and the scandal over naval contracts at Plymouth. Did Delancey think that any good would come of the recent changes at the Admiralty? They chatted easily enough until the Inn was reached. Then they were able to thaw in front of the tap-room fire. With his overcoat removed, Delancey looked shabbier than ever, with threadbare elbows and cuffs. He warmed to his host's kindness, however, and was glad to be indoors. It would snow, he predicted, before nightfall. There were four or five other gentlemen in the room and they all agreed that the weather was exceptionally bad for the time of year. It was February 13th, 1795, and the winter, they all felt, had gone on long enough. Mr Grindall ordered dinner for three and took some time over the wine-list. He had scarcely chosen the claret before he saw his nephew in the street and went to meet him. After a few minutes he returned, ushering Henry before him, and called out, “Here he is at last! Mr Delancey, allow me to introduce my nephew, Mr Midshipman Fowler. Henry, I want you to meet Mr Delancey, lieutenant until recently of the
Royalist!”
He looked, beaming, from one to the other.

There was a moment of tense silence, the conversation dying away. It was almost as if two mortal enemies were suddenly face to face. Then Delancey saved the situation by saying quietly: “There is no need for any introduction in this case, Mr Grindall. Mr Fowler and I are old shipmates. We served together in the
Artemis.”

“How are you, sir?” asked Fowler and his uncle was quick to comment on the strange turn of events which had brought the two of them together again.

“If I had not chanced to fall into conversation with you, Mr Delancey, my nephew would most probably have missed seeing you. What a pity that would have been!” The kindly old man led the way into the dining room and placed his guests on either side of him near the end of the table. Young Fowler was awkward and silent at first and Delancey, conversing with his host, was able to study the youngster's appearance. He was nearly two years older than he had been when he joined the
Artemis
as a volunteer in 1793. How old had he been then? Fifteen, perhaps. He would be seventeen now, perhaps nearly eighteen, unemployed most likely since the
Artemis
was stranded. His family had no interest so far as Delancey could remember and he rather supposed that the boy's parents were dead, which would account for his uncle acting as guardian. Fowler was a young man now, less of a schoolboy and quite presentable.

“One does not like to speak ill of the dead,” Mr Grindall was saying, “but I have always thought that Captain Fletcher's going down with his ship was a providential circumstance. Henry here has told me, Mr Delancey, of some of the things that poor madman said and did. It must have been a terrible situation for you and for the other officers. As I understand the matter, the
Artemis
was in the worst possible state of indiscipline, disorder and fear, a ship heading for disaster up to the point when she was actually lost. Strange are the ways of providence, Mr Delancey. But for the previous running aground both you and Henry might have been drowned. I am convinced that you were both saved by divine intervention, the result of prayer.”

Fowler was busy with his knife and fork but Delancey replied without batting an eyelid: “You are very right, sir, and several of my old shipmates would agree with you.” The youngster looked up from his plate and caught Delancey's eye. A glance passed between them but the older man's face was expressionless. There was a moment of silence and then Mr Grindall called for a toast to the King. After that act of loyalty, a toast followed to the navy and, proposed by Delancey, to the wine trade. Young Fowler's toast was to a long war and quick promotion but about that his uncle thought differently.

“I drink to that for your sake, Henry. It is what every sea officer must want—you not least, Mr Delancey. But we in the wine trade have our own interests at stake. Remain at war with France and you cut off our nearest and best source of supply. French wine and brandy are all but unobtainable and even German wines will soon be costly in freight and insurance. Port wine we may still have and Madeira may be plentiful but our trade must otherwise dwindle. We had laid in stocks, to be sure, but look at the duties we had to pay!”

“Duties which some people choose to avoid,” said Delancey.

“Just so,” replied Mr Grindall, “but I am not one of them. I am known as an old-established wine shipper and an honest merchant. I may not have a large connection but my friends include the mayor of Southampton, the collector of customs, the sheriff and his deputy and a dozen justices of the peace. Others can engage in the free trade, as it is called, but I cannot. And this brings me to the question on which I wanted to ask your advice. I can offer my nephew here a berth in the Southampton revenue cutter but would he be wise to accept?”

“Tell me first what interest you have,” asked Delancey. “Do you have a relative who is an admiral or captain? Have you a vote as a Southampton burgess? What can you do to gain Mr Fowler his commission?”

“The truth is, Mr Delancey, that I can do nothing for Henry, as he has come to know by experience. When war began I had interest enough to place him on the quarterdeck. More than that I cannot do.”

“In those circumstances Mr Fowler is better afloat than ashore. He can gain more experience and—who knows?—he may make some money. The sale of smuggled goods is profitable, I believe, to the captors. What is your own conclusion, Mr Fowler?”

“I am quite of your opinion, sir. I have little to lose by serving in a revenue cutter and small hope of promotion were I in the navy.”

It emerged in conversation over the dinner table that young Fowler was staying with some relatives in Portsmouth and had been trying for a berth in a frigate, so far without success. His uncle had come from Southampton to explain about the vacancy on board the
Rapid
revenue cutter. But that was not the only possibility as he now made clear.

“It so happens that there is another cutter in these waters, the
Rose,
based on Cowes. She was built for Mr William Agnew, collector in the Isle of Wight, who is presently in London. His deputy is Mr John Payne, whom I have never met. I am slightly acquainted, however, with Mr Ryder, who commands the
Rose,
a very good seaman and an honest man. I do not know that he has a vacancy but I have asked him, by letter, to join us here this afternoon. His advice, if he can come, should be of great value.”