Song of the Sea Maid (29 page)

‘Yes indeed. We will sup together soon with the officers in my cabin. You must be very hungry.’

‘And you. Francis said nobody won the battle, is that correct?’

‘That is a matter of great debate. I will explain at dinner. You will hear some hot opinions, I am sure.’

We are seated around the captain’s table and eat a hearty meal of chicken with vegetables and gravy. The bread is somewhat coarse but a small glass of wine is welcome and I am happy, beside me my Robin and inside me the warm secret we share. Now that the imminent danger is passed I can bask in his nearness. His fellow officers are all engaging fellows, kind and courteous, seemingly pleased of my presence and the excuse to show off in their stories of battle bravery. Yet soon the discussion descends into an argument over the decisions taken by their much-maligned leader, one Admiral Byng.

‘But what on earth was he playing at, lasking like that?’

‘He allowed our end to be much punished. Andrews is dead, for God’s sake. And Noel’s leg shot off. But the
Ramillies
has not one injury or an inch of damage.’

‘It was cowardly, by God.’

‘Have a care.’

‘What else can one call it? I say what I see.’

‘It is only the good seamanship of the rest of the line that prevented an outright disaster. The crippling of the ships’ rigging in the centre held up all the ships astern of them and that is why the gap opened up. Thank God our brave colleagues closed it, or we would be in French hands tonight, or dead.’

‘The French fought well, one has to admit it,’ says Robin, the first statement he has uttered for many minutes. I receive the impression that he is holding back, particularly on the conduct of his superior officer. He restricts his comment now to the French and says nothing of the admiral’s tactics. ‘Galissonnière showed fine judgement. He used his van most wisely to disable and muddle their opposites and then retired at the moment we began to develop our firepower. He could have exploited the gap and tried harder to cut through our line, but perhaps his instructions forbade him from taking the risk. And that is why they retreated when they did.’

Many heads nod in assent and droop in thought.

‘Gentlemen,’ I say and all heads lift, ‘am I correct in concluding that the battle has ended without any definite advantage to either side?’

‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ says a lieutenant and there are various blustering noises.

But Robin turns to me and says, ‘You would be partially correct, Miss Price. One could say we had the best of the action, disgracefully confined as it was. But one might also assert that if our rear in general had done their duty but indifferently well, we could have won the day. And now, this evening, the French fleet lies between us and Fort St Philip, we have landed no relief force on the island and we have at least half our ships damaged, several hundred incapacitated or killed, and Minorca still lies in the hands of the French. What the admiral will do next is anybody’s guess.’

All at the table chew silently, or take a swig of wine, and one young officer nibbles on his thumbnail.

Say I, ‘But I know that
this
ship fought bravely and cleverly. Never have I seen such comradeship, order and resilience as that displayed here today. I believe every man on board the
Fox
did his utmost.’

‘Thank you,’ says Robin, smiling subtly.

‘Hear, hear,’ says another. ‘To Miss Price.’

‘To Miss Price,’ say all and raise their glasses.

Robin still smiles at me behind his swilled wine. But his eyes are dreadfully tired and I see he is gnawed with fretfulness about the ignominious action he has taken part in today, and what on earth will happen on the morrow. And I wish for a moment alone with him, so that I can kiss his eyelids closed and caress his cares to sleep for a time, away from the odious remembrance of this day.

We do not receive our moment, however, as he must attend to ship’s business late into the night and I go to his bed and sleep all night alone, tossing and turning and dreaming of cannon fire and of Robin. He is not mine – he belongs to his ship, his wife and his sons – I know this. But it does not prevent me from wanting him, however wrong it may be.

The next day, some of our crew are engaged in working hard to repair what is possible to do at sea, while others run the ship as we are sent on an errand. Two of the ships – the
Intrepid
and the
Chesterfield
– have parted company with us in the night, so we go looking for them. Though I ache for time alone with Robin, I must say that to spend time with him amid his colleagues, to see him at work and at ease in his most fitting environment in command of such a grand vessel, is so enjoyable that my frustrated desires are kept at bay and I find myself blissful. I cannot predict what will happen in the coming weeks. I know our days together are finite and will be cut short, maybe very soon. And so I luxuriate in this one, a sunshiny day of sea air and porpoises spotted off the bow, of activity and the bright shouts of men cutting the swish-swash of the ever moving water; and over my shoulder, whenever I wish to turn, the comforting presence of my beloved Minorca, nestled in the azure Mediterranean. But what will become of it, now that it seems our admiral has played his game of war so badly? And I feel a pang in my heart when I think, I will look back at this day, perchance from a grey street in London; I will recall what it was to be truly happy, how it ebbed away from us and was lost to the tide of time.

That same day in the late afternoon, I meet with Robin in one of his few free moments on deck and insist that I be removed to a smaller cabin and the captain make full use of his once more. He arranges for his first officer to share with another, while I am allocated this small cabin for myself. My effects are moved in and I welcome the smaller space, as I felt swamped in the captain’s cabin and a veritable usurper. Also, I am hoping that now Robin has his own cabin once more, he may well have the freedom to leave it in the dead of night and visit me. And indeed he comes to me that very night, at two bells. We do not speak one word. Our bed sheets are much tumbled. He has to leave soon after to avoid detection. I have no dreams at all and sleep wonderfully well. He comes again the following night, and the night after that. During the days we are all decorum and propriety and Miss Price-this and Captain Alexander-that and at night we are silent and all is of the body and nothing else exists on this ocean.

The next morning at seven bells, the admiral calls a council of war. Robin is not present, as only the captains of the ships-of-the-line are called, and not those of the frigates. By evening, we hear that the decision has been made to return to Gibraltar straightway. There is general scandalous disapprobation of such a move. Voices are heard complaining that the Minorca garrison has not had a sniff of us to bolster and comfort them in their hour of need, and now we are to abandon them. The mood in the ship is characterised by decided resentment. I cannot believe it to be so. To leave my cherished island, when such a collection of His Majesty’s ships are here, ready to beat the French again? What can be the thinking behind it?

On deck that evening, I ask Robin what he makes of the admiral’s choice. Around us, his crew go to and fro, attending to their roles, some clearly listening in to see what their captain makes of this latest scurrilous order from above. The admiral’s decision is not only crucial to the interests of Minorca and to England, but also to this one woman and how long she will be able to spend her days – and nights – with her lover. There is a heat amid us so thick one could almost reach out and grasp it. I listen with care to Robin’s words but have to force myself to concentrate, as all I can think of at this moment is preventing myself from slipping my hand into his breeches.

Says he, ‘I have been told that all the captains in the council of war agreed on the main question: if there was no French fleet, could the English fleet save Minorca from the French army? The answer was no, to a man. We have not the number of troops to succeed.’

‘But surely they could have landed some soldiers to help the garrison?’

‘It was felt that the troops were needed to defend Gibraltar.’

‘Are the French to attack there? Is there proof of it?’

‘I know not of proof. But the council agreed that no man could be spared. Though it is rumoured that the bulk of the French army in this region is on Minorca, and therefore cannot be in two places at once. And that the French transports are all busy fetching supplies from Toulon, and therefore could not be available to bring troops to Gibraltar. But those are only rumours.’

‘Do you feel Gibraltar is at more risk than Minorca?’

‘I do not know. But you must remember too that we suffered losses in the late battle, and many repairs are needed. We have enough victuals for ten weeks, but are very low on our boatswain’s, gunner’s and carpenter’s stores.’

‘You agree with this decision, then?’

‘I follow orders, Miss Price.’

The next day, we make sail to Gibraltar. Robin tells me the journey will take two to three weeks or thereabouts. Each evening we dine with the officers, and play at some cards – the sound of the sailors singing on deck might drift in – and I speak lightly of my work (keeping my more controversial ideas to myself; I am learning not to bluster through this world as if it owes me its ears). I am charmed by the manners of Robin’s colleagues and begin to comprehend the camaraderie that exists between men in a life at sea. There is clearly a tremendous fondness and respect demonstrated by the men for their captain. Robin and I attempt to engage in nothing that could interfere with that respect. We eye each other surreptitiously whenever we are near and the air sparks between us invisibly. One day strolling on deck I hear a seaman whisper as I pass, ‘There goes the captain’s doxy.’ I expect they say much worse below, but it smarts nonetheless.

Robin cannot come to me every night, and those when he does not are long and unsettled. As well as the beautiful silence of lovemaking, as time goes on we begin to take time to whisper to each other, before he repairs to his cabin. We do love to talk – and argue – as ever we did. I tell him of my ‘mermaid’ – the sea cow – and wait for him to mock me and my theories, as he habitually does. But he does not.

‘I do not know if there are sea people or not. A captain I once knew from the Isle of Man swore he caught a mer-child, which from the waist upward had a human form, but the rest was like a fish, with a tail turning up behind; the fingers were joined together by a membrane and it had green hair like seaweed. He said it struggled and beat itself almost to death in his net before escaping and swimming away at great speed. I myself have never spied one. But I know enough of the sea to say that there are such curious phenomena within it that neither you nor I nor any man on earth can say he knows it all. To exemplify, there is a fish that was thought to be a sea serpent. It is exceptionally long with a red crest and fringe that runs all the way along it and looks as much like a Chinese dragon as one could want. And I know that once hundreds of these reclusive fish beached themselves in the Far East one day, only hours before an earthquake and giant wave afflicted that very region, as if they knew well that the quake was coming.’

‘I thought you would scoff at me, hunting for sea maids.’

‘I do like to laugh at you, for I love to see your eyes blaze when you are angry with me. But, on this occasion, we can agree. As the Psalmist wrote: “They that go down to the sea in ships, and occupy their business in great waters, these men see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep.” And that is what you do too, my love. We are engaged in similar enterprises, in that respect at least.’

‘You adore your work, do you not?’

‘I do indeed.’ He smiles at the thought of it.

‘It is as if you were born to it. I cannot imagine you doing another thing in this world.’

‘Nor me.’

There is a moment where we consider this fact and then glance at each other, his smile gone.

Another night, we play a game of the imagination, where we pretend there are no rules, no restrictions or regulations, and we can make any choice we wish of what will happen next, of where to go and what to do with our time. It begins happily enough, as he thinks up such trifles as, ‘I wish a plate of roast goose would appear before us this instant, served with apple sauce and a calf’s heart pudding and green sallet,’ and I add, ‘Or a steaming bowl of Francina’s lobster stew with a plate of her sweet little cakes to follow.’ Then we move on figuratively from this room and project our desires out into the world.

Says he, ‘I wish I could sail this ship to … to Cephalonia, an island near Greece. It has a beautiful prospect. There we would descend into my barge and row to shore, find a tavern and eat olives and shrimp and drink wine, and from there we would rent a small room with white walls and a large soft bed and I would make love to you all evening and we would sleep until the afternoon, when we would climb up the hills to the highest point and then stroll down under the shade of the trees and feel the sea breeze. Even on the hottest August day, there are refreshing sea breezes there, and one is never hot, or uncomfortable, or the slightest bit homesick. And I believe, if time stopped, and the world did not turn, I could live there blissfully with you, my love, until the end of time.’

I kiss him ardently for that.

‘And you,’ says he, ‘what is your heart’s desire?’

‘I think you have said it all. As long as I could do my work.’

‘No time for work. Only for love,’ and he caresses me most delicately.

‘But I would miss my work,’ I muse, but instantly know it is an error, for we are wrenched out of our dream and back to our true station here, stealing moments on a British man-of-war headed for Gibraltar, at war with France, and Robin seals it by saying, in a low, gloomy tone, ‘And I would miss my sons.’

A fortnight has passed and the ship will arrive in Gibraltar within ten days or fewer. Our time passes in days of charming discourses, nights of anticipation, yearnings met or unfulfilled; an intoxicating mixture of which I will never forget the heady yet infuriating sensation. I will the ship never to reach her point of disembarkation, but the wind and the waves sweep us onwards. Our night conversations change. The real world encroaches too often.