The Sea and the Sand Read online

  THE SEA AND THE SAND

  CHRISTOPHER NICOLE

  © Christopher Nicole 2015

  Christopher Nicole has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 2001, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1986 by Severn House Publishers Ltd.

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 1

  The Caribbean and Long Island — 1800

  ‘Sail ho,’ came the cry from the masthead.

  ‘Where away,’ replied Second Lieutenant Tobias McGann, standing on the quarterdeck of the United States Ship Constellation.

  ‘Bearing three points off the starboard bow,’ was the answer.

  Toby McGann moved to the rail, levelled his telescope to the south-east, at the distant cluster of canvas emerging every second above the horizon, white against the lush green slopes of the island beyond. It was February in the Caribbean Sea, in the year 1800, and in this best of tropical seasons the water gleamed a brilliant blue in the noonday sun, with only the odd breaking crest, whipped up by the northeasterly trade wind, to splash against the bows of the United States’ frigate as she beat towards St Lucia. Clouds were gathering above the island peaks, and there would certainly be a rainsquall within a couple of hours, but this was normal midday convection — it would do no more than cool the air slightly.

  Sailing such waters, where his father, the famous Harry McGann, had first learned about fighting at sea, could not help but stir Toby’s blood, even if, at nineteen, he had already seen far more action than had Harry when such an age. But the Caribbean was where all the great sea battles had been fought over the past century; he was just fortunate that events had transpired to give him the opportunity to sail this sea in time of war.

  ‘Where is she, Mr McGann?’ Captain Thomas Truxton spoke quietly but with brisk authority. Ashore, when visiting the McGann family home on Long Island, he might call his second lieutenant Toby, and exchange a quip as well as a glass, for he had sailed as lieutenant to Harry McGann, and had known Harry’s son almost since birth. But at sea he preserved his growing reputation for being a disciplinarian, and also as a fighting skipper whose men would follow him anywhere.

  ‘Bearing east by south, sir,’ Toby replied. ‘Just clearing the shadow of the island.’ A note of excitement entered his voice. ‘I make out four of them.’

  Truxton, tall and spare, although giving three inches to the young giant who stood beside him, levelled his telescope. Toby waited for his captain’s evaluation of the situation; he counted this man as almost a second father. But he was a true son of Harry McGann, six feet four inches in his stockinged feet, and made to seem even taller by the blue bicorne hat he wore. His heavy shoulders and slim hips were set off by the blue tailcoat and white breeches of his uniform, so that the sword slapping his thigh seemed hardly larger than a dirk. His hair too, straight and black, was that of his Irish father, but he had the blue eyes of his English mother. His heart pounded with a pleasant anticipation at the thought of a possible action, even against what promised to be considerable odds. He had been born to the sea, as had his father before him. And he had accumulated, even at his tender age, sufficient experience to make the possible terrors of action or storm nothing more than vague apprehensions, which he was confident of taking in his stride.

  ‘They’re English, out of Castries,’ Truxton remarked, closing his telescope with a snap, his voice laden with disappointment. He could not yet make out the nearest vessel’s flag, but he could discern from the shape of her bow and the cut of her foresail, or jib, not less than from the yellow-varnished hull with its row of black gunports, as the ship steadily came closer, that she was not the Frenchman he sought. ‘A frigate, I’d say, escorting three merchantmen.’

  ‘Ahoy the deck,’ came the call from the masthead. ‘She is signalling.’

  Truxton and Toby, now joined by John Rodgers, the first lieutenant, hastily cramming his hat on his head as he came up the companion ladder, again levelled their glasses. ‘She wishes to speak with us, sir,’ Toby said. ‘Aye, well, we’d best heave to. She may have news of importance. Perhaps even an end to this senseless war.’

  ‘She could also be looking for men,’ John Rodgers remarked. The Royal Navy, in the course of its long war with Republican France, sought to impress able seamen wherever it could, even off American vessels — claiming they were British deserters.

  Truxton gave a grim smile. ‘She can be looking for all the men in the world, Mr Rodgers,’ he said. ‘She’ll not take any from my ship.’

  He had total confidence in his thirty-six-gun frigate, and his men. With reason: he had proved their worth in battle.

  ‘We’ll hear what he has to say. Heave to, Mr McGann. But have the guns loaded, just in case.’

  ‘Aye-aye,’ Toby acknowledged, and gave the orders. The frigate’s sails were sheeted hard to bring her up directly into the wind, and secured there, so that whenever she sought to gather way she was again turned into the wind to check herself. Thus held, she danced gently over the waves. The Constellation did everything superbly, because she was a superb ship, and a beautiful one, from her snow-white decks to the sheath of copper that plated her hull and keel to repel the teredo worm; from the three tall masts to the Stars and Stripes fluttering proudly at her stern. One of the six frigates authorised by Congress in 1794, when it had become apparent that the young republic had to possess some kind of navy in order to protect its overseas trade, she had been built in Baltimore, and commissioned for sea only eighteen months previously, in June, 1798, the first of the six to be completed, and just in time to fight the French.

  That the United States and France, who had fought shoulder to shoulder against the British less than twenty years before to secure American independence, should now have gone to war with each other was one of the absurdities of human nature, as both Harry McGann and Thomas Truxton agreed, and Toby acknowledged. But the fault lay with the Republican Government of France, which had taken offence because President Adams had at last signed a peace treaty with Great Britain, and had then insulted the Americans by attempting to bribe the United States’ representatives in Paris. And whatever the reasons, the conflict had provided the infant United States Navy, and especially the USS Constellation, with an opportunity to show the world its mettle; an opportunity the officers and men of the Constellation had certainly grasped.

  Now the sailors moved like the well-drilled crew they were, every man carrying out his allotted task with hardly an order from the officer.

  ‘She’s putting down a boat,’ called the masthead.

  The British ship was now within a few hundred yards, and they could clearly see what was taking place.

  ‘Prepare to receive an officer, Mr McGann,’ Truxton said. ‘Full honours.’

  ‘Aye-aye,’ Toby acknowledged. The boatswain’s whistle cooeed, and a guard of honour of twenty men fell in at the waist of the ship, while the port gangway was opened and the ladder put down.

  The British frigate had also hove to, although the ships of the convoy, under shortened sail so as not to leave their escort behind, continued to make slowly north-west, approaching every second. Toby could see that the decks of the merchantmen were crowded with people, amongst whom were a considerable number of women and children.
But then, to his surprise, he saw that there was at least one skirt fluttering on the quarterdeck of the frigate as well. He had no time to look more closely, for already the British gig was bouncing across the gentle waves, to come in under the side of the big American ship.

  ‘Boatswain,’ Toby commanded, drawing his sword and standing to attention, as the guard of honour did the same.

  The man who came through the gangway, dressed in blue frock coat and white vest and breeches of a British naval officer, was not many years older than Toby himself, and if lacking an equal height, was still tall and decidedly thin, with a somewhat cold, narrow face, built around a prominent nose and determined mouth. He raised his tricorne hat, replaced it, saluted the quarterdeck, and then again, as Truxton and Rodgers advanced to meet him; like all the American frigates, the Constellation was flush-decked. ‘Lieutenant Jonathan Crown, at your service, Captain Truxton.’

  Truxton raised his eyebrows. ‘You know my name?’

  ‘Every sailor in the Caribbean knows the name of the captain of the USS Constellation, sir,’ Crown said. ‘Your victory last year, over the L’Insurgente, why, sir, it has become a classic of the sea. Did she not carry the heavier metal?’

  ‘Slightly, Mr Crown. Slightly.’

  ‘And was it not in these very waters?’

  ‘It was north of here, Mr Crown. Off the island of Nevis, but just a year ago. And I hope, sir, that you did not request this meeting merely to flatter me?’

  ‘No, sir. You’ll be aware that there is another French man-of-war in these waters.’

  ‘I have heard rumours, Mr Crown.’

  ‘We have positive information, sir, brought to us by a Vincentian fisherman, that she arrived in Fort Royal a week ago. Her name is La Vengeance, and she carries fifty-two guns, sir.’

  ‘The devil,’ Rodgers commented. ‘Fifty-two guns? If that information is correct …’

  ‘It is correct, sir,’ Crown insisted. ‘She is at present lying in Fort Royal, Martinique, taking on fresh provisions after her Atlantic crossing.’ He looked over his shoulder at the large island lying immediately to the north of St Lucia in the Windward chain, and which he would have to pass, with his convoy, in the next twelve hours if he continued to the north. ‘Fifty-two guns, sir. She is all but fit to take her place in a line of battle, sir. And she is loose, here in the Caribbean, with not a Navy ship south of Jamaica capable of offering her battle.’

  ‘Hm,’ Truxton commented. ‘You’d best come aft, Mr Crown, and we’ll discuss the matter. Dismiss your men, Mr McGann, and join us.’ He led the way down the companionway into the great cabin of the frigate, where Toby followed them, along with the senior midshipman, Thomas McDonough, a keen young man only a year the younger and with whom he had struck up a close friendship. There they were offered lemonade by Truxton’s steward, and shown to chairs around the table.

  ‘Now, sir,’ Truxton said. ‘We are grateful for your information, but would appreciate knowing the reason for your co-operation.’ Crown was sipping his lemonade with a somewhat quizzical expression; clearly he was used to something stronger. ‘Why, sir,’ he replied. ‘Are we not allies against the French?’ Truxton frowned. ‘Allies, Mr Crown? I know of no alliance between Great Britain and the United States.’ His tone implied that he would not believe it even if he had heard of it.

  ‘Well, sir,’ Crown acknowledged. ‘Perhaps no treaty has been signed. But as we fight the same enemy …’

  ‘For different reasons, sir,’ Truxton interrupted. ‘You seek to reimpose a monarchy on the French Republic, as I understand it. Or certainly to put an end to that republic. We merely seek reparations from our sister republic, for certain insults and damages offered to our flag and our citizens.’

  Crown finished his lemonade, set the glass on the table, gazed at his host. ‘I am truly sorry, sir, that such is your attitude. I had thought, my captain had hoped, that we could make common ground here, sir. May I point out that it would be to both our advantages? We mount but twenty-eight guns on board Lancer, Captain Truxton. Our duty is to convoy those three ships you see out there to the safety of Kingston, Jamaica, where there is a large escort waiting to see them and others safely to England. Now we are informed there is a fifty-two-gun French ship hovering on our flank, waiting to dash out and destroy us, and against whom we would be very nearly helpless. You, sir, whether you agree with our reasons for fighting this war or not, are yet also at war with France. It is your duty to do what damage you can to your enemy. But that is a fourth-rate ship, sir. What damage can you, with your thirty-six guns, do against such strength? And he will be seeking to avenge the loss of L’Insurgente, you may be sure of that. But together, the pair of us may well give him a bloody nose.’

  ‘And ensure the safety of your convoy,’ Rodgers remarked.

  ‘Indeed, sir, that would be a most satisfactory outcome of our endeavours. Those ships are crammed with innocent women and children, who have no part in this conflict.’

  ‘And would you, Mr Crown, engage upon our side if we were the convoying vessel?’

  ‘I, sir, and my captain, would most certainly engage an enemy ship on sight, where there was the slightest prospect of victory, as we shall in this instance, without such a prospect if we have to, in defence of our charge.’ He flushed. ‘My own family is on board these ships, sir, en route back to England. In fact, my father and mother and sister are guests of my captain on board Lancer.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Truxton raised his eyebrows. ‘Your family are planters?’

  ‘No, sir. My father was Chief Secretary to the Governor of the Windwards. He has now been reassigned, after leave in England, to Gibraltar, and is thus on his way home.’ Truxton smiled and nodded. ‘And you would not wish them to fall into the hands of the French.’

  ‘Would you, sir?’ Crown asked. ‘If they were yours?’

  Truxton cleared his throat.

  ‘May we ask, sir, what would your captain do, had we not been sighted?’ John Rodgers enquired. ‘Would you have put back to Castries?’

  Crown flushed. ‘I have already indicated, sir, that we understand our duty. Those ships must reach Kingston by the end of next week; the main convoy will not wait after then. But as you have been sighted …’ His flush deepened. The mission on which he had been sent was obvious to all present, yet it went against the grain of an Englishman to have to come out and ask the help of upstart Americans.

  As Truxton understood. But he understood much more than that. He gave another cough. ‘There is some mystery here, Mr Crown, which I would appreciate your explaining to my officers and myself. You say you knew of the Frenchman’s arrival in Fort Royal some days ago, and thus prudently postponed your departure. Yet now you have departed while he is still there and, indeed, his replenishment has no doubt been completed. Even to rendezvous with the Jamaica convoy that was a remarkable risk to take.’

  ‘Well, sir …’ Now Crown’s face was almost purple.

  ‘Or did you in fact have additional information,’ Truxton suggested. ‘From a fisherman, perhaps, bound for Castries, two days ago, with whom we spoke, and who therefore was able to tell you there was a United States ship on patrol in these waters? A ship which, her topsails sighted, your captain thought might make common cause against the French?’

  Crown gazed at him with his mouth open, unable to think of a suitable rebuttal.

  Truxton smiled. ‘Your captain was mistaken, Mr Crown. I will not fight alongside a ship flying the flag of the Royal Navy. I fought against such ships for too long to change my principles now. But you have reminded me that it is my duty to seek out and destroy the enemies of my country wherever they may be, and in whatever strength. This I shall now do, acting upon your information. While I am doing so, I would recommend you escort your precious charges as rapidly as possible to Jamaica.’

  Crown’s face cleared. ‘Sir, that is spoken like the man we knew you to be. We expected nothing more. We shall, of course, assist you.’ Truxton pointed. ‘You w
ill do no such thing, sir. We require the assistance of no Royal Navy ship. I will make this plain, Mr Crown. If you approach within gunshot while I am engaging the Frenchman, I will fire into you.’

  Crown frowned at him. ‘You will seek battle with a fifty-two-gun ship on your own?’

  ‘Now that I know where he is to be found, sir, I shall certainly seek either to restrict him to his port or to damage him beyond his ability to harm the United States or her ships at sea. I will tell you, sir, that we had supposed the Royal Navy, indulging in its principle of close blockade of all French seaports, had rendered impossible the escape of any large French vessel from Europe. Now that I see we have been mistaken in that assumption, we must take steps to remedy your comrades’ neglect.’ Crown’s flush returned. ‘Accidents do happen, Captain Truxton. Well, sir …’ he stood up and saluted. ‘I will report your intention to my captain.’

  Truxton nodded. ‘Do so, Mr Crown, and wish him good fortune.’

  Crown looked from the captain to Rodgers to Toby to McDonough. ‘You’ll challenge a fifty-two-gun ship,’ he remarked. ‘Gentlemen, if I may say so without causing offence, you are mad, stark raving mad.’ He saluted again and left the cabin.

  *

  ‘Fifty-two guns,’ John Rodgers mused, watching the gig pulling into the side of the British frigate to be taken up. ‘The young fellow could be right.’

  ‘We’ll not fight in harness with any Britisher,’ Truxton growled. Like many American seamen, such as Harry McGann himself, he had once been impressed on board a Royal Navy ship, and bore no happy memories of the harsh discipline and inflexible rules he had experienced. ‘And fifty-two guns, Mr Rodgers, even fifty-two guns, are only as powerful as the men who serve them. You’ll make sail, Mr McGann. Course is east-north-east, for Fort Royal. We’ll show ourselves, and the flag, and see if this Frenchman comes out.’

  ‘Will I beat to quarters, sir?’ Rodgers asked.