A Sea Unto Itself (30 page)

“By the mark, seven,” the leadsmen chanted out almost together. The next throw recorded almost ten fathoms. Charles breathed easier and made his way aft where he ordered a single seaman to be left in the bow to cast the lead, and he to be replaced half hourly in deference to the leaching heat. “We will make to the southwest, if you please, Mr. Cromley,” he said to the master. “Under topsails only for the time being.” Cassandra would still be treading gingerly, and there was no point to hurrying upon some obstacle with too much speed to avoid it.

The archipelago revealed itself as a seemingly unbounded expanse of scattered islands, some mere specks, others several miles in width. All appeared low lying and featureless in the shimmerings of the heat rising off the water. By noon the ragged dark line of the African coast took form along the horizon to the west. Sea depths remained at a relatively comfortable fourteen and sixteen fathoms, although once going as deep as forty before coming back up again. At nightfall, Charles ordered the sails taken in and an anchor cast off to wait out the hours of darkness.

In the morning they started again. The sea soon opened to a broad uninterrupted expanse, the islands and atolls falling behind. The depth of the water beneath also increased abruptly from fourteen fathoms on one cast, to thirty-five, then forty-seven. Charles allowed the leadsman to stand down when no bottom was reached on a fifty-fathom line. By the beginning of the afternoon watch, the line of coast formed as a dark serrated mass, unbroken to the north and south as far as the eye could see. Bell by bell, as the half-hour glass was turned, the mass defined itself as a rugged chain of blue-green mountains falling to a narrow strip of desert beside the sea. There were no signs of human habitation, not even the meanest hovel along the expanse of shore. The afternoon watch turned to the first dog, then the second, the sun sinking toward the mountain crests. A thin line of white surf showed along the foot of the bluffs at the sea’s edge, now three miles to starboard.

“There it is,” Bevan said, a long glass to his eye, pointing southwestward toward a bluff point with an opening bay beyond. He lowered the telescope. “That’s your Massawa, I’ll wager.”

Charles looked through his own lens, following the line of the surf until he came to a low settlement on what might have been a small island or a spit of land tucked into the northern end of the bay. It was difficult to pick out much detail in the failing light, and what there was of it was shaded by mountain scarps rising on the land behind. He made out some sort of craft there, dhows or what, he couldn’t tell. He was fairly certain that he saw nothing of the towering masts of a ship of war.

“I think it would be best if we came to anchor for the night, Daniel,” he said. “We will call in the full light of day. I might suggest an especially vigilant watch be kept about the ship until then.”

Daybreak came as clear as crystal, the sun rising above the sea orange-red, just as it had set. The light outlined a sprinkling of islands to the east, the inner limit of the archipelago. With it, the warmth of the day announced its soon-to–be-magnified presence. Through his glass, Charles carefully surveyed the distant bay. It became evident that there were two settlements. One occupied a modest outcropping with mud-brick, flat-roofed dwellings similar to those he had seen at Mocha, only smaller. An abbreviated minaret poked above the roof lines, and there were two sambuks, probably what passed for fishing boats, pulled up on a sandy beach.

A peninsula jutted into the bay a half mile to the north, occupied by a collection of single-story European-style buildings laid out in a regular pattern with low-pitched roofs. Charles thought he made out signs of construction along the water’s edge on the southern side. Three ships rode placidly at anchor in a natural harbor between the island and the point of built-up land. He studied these carefully and decided they were indeed two pinks, with their distinctive narrow sterns and lateen sails, and a larger, square-rigged polacre. From their shape he thought it likely they were of Italian construction, probably from Genoa or Leghorn. There was even a newly built and relatively small stone redoubt overlooking the anchorage at the point of the peninsula. At the distance he couldn’t tell if the fortification was armed with cannon or not. Yellow and blue flags of a pattern he had never seen before flew from the redoubt as well as from the roof of the largest of the buildings. One thing was abundantly clear, there was no ship approaching the size of a frigate of war by either of the settlements or anywhere else within sight.

When Charles lowered the glass he found Daniel Bevan standing beside him. “Weigh the bower, Daniel,” he said. “We’ll take soundings and chart them as we go. It might prove useful to somebody.”

Bevan relayed the orders to Winchester, standing officer of the morning watch; then turned back. “Do we offer a salute to the fort?”

‘Fort,’ was an overly generous term, Charles thought. Still, it was stone and had some sort of flag. He hated using even the minuscule amount of powder it would take for the gesture. “Five guns,” he decided. “I’ll be damned if I’ll waste more powder than that.” It was almost an insult to fire off so few, particularly if the residents were touchy about the subject, or if, on the longest chance, some royalty happened to be present; but he didn’t even know whose flag it was or what authority lay behind it except for Jones’s mention of Italian refugees.

Cassandra approached slowly under topsails braced tight as she clawed across the fitful morning breeze. The ship’s bell rang eight times to mark the beginning of the forenoon watch. Still a mile away, Charles watched the distant settlements. He wondered about the Italians, if that’s what they were, and how they had found themselves in this faraway place, fleeing the French or no. Genoa had fallen relatively easily to the advances of Napoleon Bonaparte’s army, and there was said to be considerable Republican sentiment there. It crossed his mind that they might in some way be connected to France’s designs on India, but it seemed a farfetched idea. In any event, he would soon know.

Raising his telescope again, he saw the figures of people—white skinned in European dress—beginning to gather at the near end of the town close by the fortification. There were a few women among them, he noted, with dresses down to their shoes and parasols for protection against the sun. He saw no one making an effort to man the redoubt. The construction along the harbor front was more extensive than he had thought earlier. In addition to a stone quay almost a cable in length, there were a number of substantial buildings rising, possibly for use as warehouses, judging by their size. What sort of trade could be carried on from this desolate part of the world that would require such facilities? A large number of native laborers were gathered at the far end of the quay under white supervisors, preparing no doubt for the day’s work. The place looked to be thoroughly hot, dry, and dusty, with an expanse of desolate scrub stretching several miles to the rising massif behind.

“You may show the colors,” Charles said to Sykes, already standing beside the halyard with the multi-crossed flag of the United Kingdoms of England and Scotland bent on. At once the bunting ran up the mast, breaking out to fly in the wind when it reached the mainmast truck. Charles nodded to Beechum. Simultaneously, the first of the six-pounders sounded out, the noise echoing back from the heights.

The boom of the first gun brought a flurry of activity from the settlement. Additional numbers appeared from some of the buildings, mostly men, some with muskets in their hands. A few ran toward the redoubt, but for what purpose he couldn’t guess since he could now see into the empty embrasures. They must have seen that Cassandra was British and not French, but that should have been more reassuring than otherwise. As the second of the guns fired its powder charge, Charles saw the flag at the center of the fortification dip and then lift, then dip and lift again. Since there were no cannon to return the salute, lowering and raising the flag was the only form of greeting available.

“Do you think they’ll send a pilot boat out?” Bevan asked with a grin.

Charles laughed. “I doubt they have a pilot, or a boat for that matter, other than what came with the ships. I think we should come to anchor at the head of the harbor about midway between the town and that Arab island. If you would have the launch prepared, I’ll take Winchester, Beechum, Ayres, and a dozen of his marines across for a call. Just in case, run out the starboard guns. That should impress them.”

Bevan spoke to Winchester about the orders. Charles glanced over the port rail at the little island with its sleepy Arab village. Hardly a soul stirred along its beach except for a few curious children drawn out by the sounds of the cannon fire. He saw no flag or any other sign of Ottoman authority. That was unusual, but perhaps the Turks just didn’t bother for such a distant and tiny outpost.

He saw Jones come onto the quarterdeck as the men were preparing to cast off the anchor. “I am going over to pay a visit to that settlement, Italians I think you mentioned,” Charles said. “I would be pleased to have you along.”

“Genovese,” Jones corrected him. “And, no, I can’t be bothered with their kind. I require a boat to take me there.” He pointed toward the Arab town. “See that it is arranged.”

Charles asked Bevan to prepare the jollyboat for Jones, and then slipped reluctantly into his best uniform coat and hat that Augustus had brought up from his cabin. “Thank you,” he said to his servant. Augustus would be part of the launch’s crew, he knew. “I would be pleased for you to come on shore when we land, just in case there is trouble.” He decided there were situations where he felt more comfortable with the man at his back.

“Yes, Cap’n,” Augustus said. Charles noted that he had already armed himself with a cutlass, which was hung from his belt. Shifting his gaze, he saw that numbers of the crew were gathering in the waist in anticipation. Some were looking out over the side, others up at the quarterdeck with questioning eyes. Of course, Charles realized, they would be expecting permission to go ashore. He had promised it to them at the first opportunity that arose. He looked more carefully at the Italian settlement, then the Arab. Both were minuscule places. Such a large influx of seamen would easily overwhelm them. He also doubted that the men would find much to satisfy them in either locale. He sighed in resignation, then spoke to Bevan. “Pass the word among the hands, if you will, that I have gone ashore to request leave for them to visit. I hope that serves.”

“Christ,” Bevan said. “There’s nothing there. Not of the sort they’ll be looking for anyway.”

Charles cast his eyes again with a growing sense of unease. “You might suggest that if this Massawa proves inadequate, there might be better pickings farther north.”

The master, Cromley, overheard this and chuckled. “Begging your pardon, sir, but there are no ports with much in the way of those services anywhere along the Red Sea. Jeddah on the Araby side, just maybe, but that’s close to the seat of their religion and they’d never allow it. Koessir and Suez is now French.”

Charles grumbled under his breath. Possibly, by some miracle, the Italians would be well stocked with alcohol and whores in anticipation of a British ship of war dropping by. Genoa certainly was; at least he could ask. Maybe the crew would be satisfied with an afternoon of innocent sightseeing, a comradely stroll up and down the quay. He could guess the answer to that too. “Tell them I’ve gone to inquire anyway,” he said to Bevan.

Charles followed his servant over the side and into the launch; Winchester, Beechum, and Ayres, with the marines, had already settled in. “Shove off,” he said to Malvern. “Smartly now.”

The marines filed up the wooden ladder onto the half-finished quay first, followed by the two lieutenants, then Charles, with Augustus behind. A sizable crowd greeted him as he stepped onto its flagged surface. Charles searched the faces and appearances among the women hopefully, but saw no one remotely identifiable as a practitioner of the world’s most elemental profession. The marines in their bright red coats and lacquered black hats were aligned in a file, their muskets at shoulder arms, as if on a parade ground. Three formally, if hastily, dressed men and a younger woman hurried forward. The delegation came to a halt in front of Charles. The elder of the men bowed in the continental fashion.

“Siamo onorati de ricevere sua eccellenza alls nuova Colonia di Massaua. Io sono il Governatore Giovanni Bellagio. Le posso chiedere a cosa dobbiarno l’onore della suo venuta in Massaua?”

Charles recognized the language spoken as Italian, but he understood almost none of it. He bowed politely in return anyway. “What did he say?” he asked, looking hopefully to Winchester and Beechum, who between them at least spoke some French and Spanish.

Winchester shrugged. “Something about welcoming us to his dominions. He’s the governor, I think.” Beechum nodded sagely in agreement.

“He say that he is most honored by your arrival,” the woman interjected. “He is Signore Giovanni Bellagio, the governor of this Massawa Colony. He requests to know the purpose of your call.”

Charles looked at the speaker in surprise. She was a petite woman of slender frame with direct green eyes and a full mouth, probably about his own age. Strands of rich dark hair showed under a straw hat contrasting exquisitely with cream-colored skin lightly freckled by the sun. She smiled at him warmly.