The Victory (22 page)

‘You'll need your gloves, sir. It's mortal cold on deck, sir.’

When Weston emerged, the blackness of night was just
beginning to give way to the greyness of dawn, and the air
was like knives. The rigging on the weather side of the ship
was rimed with ice, and the ratlines were hung fantastically
with icicles, but the deck was kept clear with silver sand. The
wind had blown steadily out of the east for weeks, relieving
the Brest blockade of the hazards of a lee shore, but exchang
ing it for the very real fear that even the unseamanlike
French might manage to get out of harbour. The
Nemesis,
along with the other frigates of the inshore squadron, had
clung to their station in the teeth of the wind only by
unremitting labour.

But in the last thirty-six hours the wind had backed, and
with every point westerly it had freshened. As he reached the
quarterdeck, Weston's eye travelled round and took in the
situation. The
Nemesis
was close-hauled under topsails and
topgallants, heeling over at a fantastic angle so that the black
sea broke in masses over her bowsprit whenever she put her
head down into the trough of a wave. On the lee bow he saw
flashes of white which marked the Black Stones and the
Parquette, the rocks which guarded the mouth of the Brest
approach, and told him he was on station. To windward were
the other two frigates; out of sight beyond the horizon, the
rest of the fleet kept their searoom.

Osborne, the first lieutenant, touched his hat as Weston
reached him. 'Wind's freshening, sir. I'd like to shorten sail.'

‘
Very well, Mr Osborne. Get the t'gallants off her. And
take a reef in the tops'ls.’

A westerly wind, Weston thought, would also delay the
victualling ships from England, along with any letters they
might bring. It was 30 December, and Lucy's child ought to
have been born by now, but the last letter he had had was
written at the end of November. He looked round him as the
seamen poured up on deck and ran to their stations, and
sniffed the wind, and felt the growing anger in it. Westerly
gales were coming, and it might be six weeks, two months
before he heard anything.

The blockading ships had been continuously on station for
seven months now, an extraordinary feat in response to an
extraordinary threat. The French were making ready their
ships of war, but very slowly, for the presence of the blockade
not only prevented their exit, but considerably impeded the
entrance of coastal trade, and it was the coastal vessels which
brought the supplies needed to make the ships seaworthy.

At Christmas there had been a new fear, that an invasion
of Ireland was planned. Troop movements had been observed
along the coast, and several warships had been converted into
troop carriers, and with the favourable easterly winds, they
had actually started coming down the Brest channel.
Nemesis
and her sister ships had cleared for action, and the crews had
been as excited as children at the prospect of a battle to
relieve the monotony of blockade duty. But after an exchange
of long-range shots, during which the leading French ships,
two convoying frigates, had sustained some damage, they had
retreated again into the harbour.

With the reef taken in,
Nemesis
stopped lying over so
extravagantly, and the ship-noises became more comfortable.
The men poured back down from aloft, and Bates appeared
at Weston's elbow.

‘Breakfast, sir.’

In his cabin, Weston sat at the table while Bates served him
a mess of fried, minced salt beef, and a hot drink made from
burnt breadcrumbs, which resembled coffee only in its colour.
To follow there was an ordinary ship's biscuit, smeared with
treacle: the last of the butter ration had gone rancid two
weeks ago. It was poor stuff, and Weston eyed it with dis
favour.

When he had put to sea, he had assumed, as had everyone,
that he would be putting in at regular intervals to revictual,
and he had expected to renew his cabin stores at those times. For weeks now, he and Jeffrey had been obliged to live upon
ship's rations, unrelieved even by so much as a dab of
mustard. Bates was a skilled cook, and could do wonders,
considering the difficulties he laboured under in the captain's
galley, but even he could not cook without ingredients.

‘
When the victualling ship comes out, Bates, you must be
sure to get some onions from them, at least,' Weston said
sadly. 'I can endure burnt-crumb coffee, but life without
onions is intolerable.'

‘
Aye, aye, sir,' Bates agreed gloomily. The trouble was that
as Weston was the most junior of the three captains .of the
inshore squadron,
Nemesis
was revictualled last, and anything
good to eat over and above the basic ration was snapped up
by his ruthless seniors.

Through the short winter day, the wind backed and fresh
ened, while
Nemesis
and her sister ships battled their way
northward on one tack, and southward on the other, beating
up and down like marching sentries outside Brest. Weston remained on deck, listening to the groaning of the timbers
and the shrieking of the rigging as wind and sea together tried
to break the fragile little ship in half. The
Nemesis
was
behaving well, but their safety was precarious. A moment's
inattention, or a sudden squall, might carry away a spar, and
then they would be driven helplessly down on to the hidden, treacherous rocks.

The light was fading, and the grey sea and sky began to
merge into one another in a colourless, formless mass. Close-
hauled on the port tack,
Nemesis
presented her port bow to
the huge rollers, as fast as galloping horses, whose impetus
had built up unchecked over the three thousand miles of open
Atlantic between North America and France. Her frail
timbers were the first resistance they met, and she lifted, rolled, and pitched as each one passed under her. Weston
could feel the planking press upwards against his feet as she
rose almost vertically, rolling only a little to starboard until
the tremendous force of the wind on her topsails checked her,
and rolling back as her head plunged into the trough.

Dusk gave way imperceptibly to darkness, and the invisible
wind rose shrieking to gale force. It became imperative to
gain some searoom, and Weston, clinging to the taffrail,
bellowed the order which brought the hands scurrying up from their below-decks frowst, and up the shrouds to the
insanely wheeling yards. The little ship clawed her way out to
sea, and with a safe distance between her and the rocky
Brittany shore, Weston was able to give the order to heave to
under a storm staysail. Yielding to the wind instead of fight
ing it,
Nemesis
behaved more moderately, and there was less
danger of anything carrying away. But still the gale increased,
and at the beginning of the middle watch, the
Lively
relayed a signal from the Admiral that the fleet was to run for shelter in
Torbay.

Weston ordered the fore-topsail goosewinged, and set about
the tricky business of putting the
Nemesis
before the wind. Torbay offered scant shelter, but it would mean they could
drop anchor, revictual and take on water. If the sea within the bay was not too rough, there would be shore boats, too, and a
chance to renew cabin stores: onions and root vegetables,
oranges and store apples, dried raisins and figs, cloves and
cinnamon and pepper and mustard. Fresh food, too: he
thought longingly of real coffee, and eggs, and crusty bread
just baked, and fresh Devonshire butter.

Above all there would be letters. At the representation of
Cornwallis, a new road had been cut across the moors between
Plymouth and Torbay to serve the needs of the Channel fleet,
and that meant that he might receive news from Yorkshire that
was only three days old.

*

The baby was born on 20 December with very little trouble,
creeping almost apologetically into the world under the super
vision of Docwra and Marie.

‘
A boy, my lady,' Docwra said with great satisfaction. 'No,
no, don't sit up. You shall see him by and by.’

The baby gave a gasp and a whimper by way of greeting to
the world, and Marie took him from Docwra and wrapped
him in a cloth.

‘Why doesn't it cry?' Lucy asked anxiously. 'Is it all right?’

 
‘Perfect, milady,' Marie said, coming round the bed to shew her. 'Look at his dear little hands. He is so beautiful!’

Lucy looked, and was disappointed. Foolishly she had
expected this baby to be different, to be special — the child of
Weston's that Weston knew about. But, she thought, it was
just like all the others: small, very red, and very wrinkled, and
entirely lacking the charm of, say, a newborn foal or lamb. 'It's very small,' she said, since Marie seemed to be waiting
for some comment. 'I had forgotten how small they are.'

‘
He'll grow soon enough,' Docwra said briskly, and nodded
to Marie to take the baby away and wash it, while she
attended to Lucy.

Half an hour later, Héloïse requested and was granted
admittance. She came to the bed and pressed Lucy's hand.
‘How do you feel?'

‘Well enough. Rather sleepy now.'

‘
Then I shan't disturb you long. The baby is beautiful. May
I shew him to the children?'

‘If you want.'

‘
I've made ready the crib which Stephen made when
Sophie was born,' Héloïse said. Her soft voice was soothing,
and Lucy's eyelids began to droop. ‘He's so pleased the new
baby will be using it. And Monsieur Barnard is making a
special dish for your supper, so you must sleep now and get up
an appetite. I will come again later.’

Outside she took the baby from Marie, and looked down
tenderly into his sleeping face. It was a long time since her
own was small enough to cradle in her arms.

‘
Poor litle soul,' she said aloud, ‘to be sent away, like a
criminal.’

Downstairs in the parlour, the new baby was exclaimed
over by everyone in turn. Sophie in particular was fascinated,
and begged very hard to be allowed to hold him.