Ocean Healing
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The ship was still a long way out, the wind driving her along at an angle to the course she had set. But he could see her now, and that gave him something to hold on to. He looked down at the water in his hand as it dripped away from the wound in his leg, then up at the sky.
There were no clouds, just blue, endless blue. A ship with its sails spread like wings against such a background must seem tiny indeed, but for the first time, he felt sure they would make it, though the distance between them was so great. The pain of the wound had faded to a dull ache; he knew there was nothing more they could do until nightfall when the winds should shift.
‘Captain?’ It was the boy, who stood at attention by the rail. ‘What is your pleasure? Shall we have some dinner, sir?’
‘I am not hungry,’ said Jack.
‘Then you shall have some tea.’
‘Very well, lad. Thank you.’
Jack watched him go below, glad that someone else was looking after things for a change. The boy’s father was dead, killed during the battle. His mother had died soon afterward; the lad himself was all alone aboard the ship. It was his job to stand by the captain whenever Jack needed to be tended to.
The lad was very good, but even so, he did not know much about wounds. When he saw Jack looking at his leg he would say, ‘It looks bad, Captain. You’ll be better off if you get back to your cabin and rest.’ And Jack would smile and say, ‘Thank you, lad, I will.’ Then the boy would run to fetch the surgeon.
He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He could feel the blood dripping steadily through his stockings. This was going to be a difficult day.
After a while, the boy reappeared carrying two steaming mugs.
‘Tea, Captain?’ he asked.
‘Yes, thank you.’
He sat on the edge of the quarterdeck, holding one mug in each hand.
As he sipped at both of them at once, he thought how strange life was: that he was drinking hot liquid on board a ship at sea, which seemed absurd enough, but that he was also sitting here feeling so weak, unable to move because of a wound, and yet this same ship was sailing towards land and would reach it within the week.
How many people were alive today whose fathers or mothers or brothers or sisters or children were buried beneath the waves, their bodies never recovered, their names lost forever? If only death were as easy to kill as these damnable Frenchies!
The sun was setting as the ship drew closer and closer to the shoreline. All around him, men began shouting orders, running across the deck to take charge of the tiller. Jack glanced over his shoulder; the horizon ahead was darkening fast, lit only by the last rays of the sinking sun. The Frenchman was still out there somewhere, hidden from sight by the rolling waves.
For a moment Jack wondered whether they might lose sight of her completely, then a sudden flash of white broke the surface of the water, followed immediately by another, then another – a dozen of them, perhaps twenty.
‘Fire!’ yelled the lookout, pointing. ‘Sails, full back, larboard tack, fire!’
The ship’s guns roared into action. The sound of gunfire echoed across the ocean, drowning out the sound of the thunderous surf. In front of him, the boy ran forward and began to pass Jack a cup of wine, which he gratefully accepted. The taste of it reminded him of his home, of Mrs. Maturin’s table. He drank deeply and suddenly became aware that he was sweating despite the cold air blowing past him. The pain was beginning to come again. He closed his eyes for a moment, wishing he could close his ears too.
‘Captain?’ It was the boy again. He looked around; the lad was standing before him, holding the other half of the wine bottle.
‘You are very kind, lad,’ said Jack. ‘But I don’t think I can drink anymore.’
‘No problem, sir. I’ll bring you some brandy later.’
‘That won’t be necessary.’
‘Of course not, sir.’ He went away, leaving Jack alone with his thoughts. They were becoming increasingly unpleasant. There was something wrong with this whole business. Something wrong with the way the world worked. Why should the French have such an advantage over Britain? It made no sense.
Was it really just the weather, that the Channel was always so stormy, that the winds were often contrary when the fleets met? That didn’t seem right either. Surely the wind was the same all along the coast? And surely the seas weren’t so choppy either?
If the French navy had been like this for years, why hadn’t anyone noticed? Had everyone been blinded by the brilliance of Napoleon’s army, the power of his victories? Or was it simply a matter of numbers? Perhaps Britain wasn’t equipped to fight against a modern fleet of battleships. But what sort of country was Britain?
What kind of nation had she become since the days of Nelson? She’d fought the Americans, and lost; she’d fought France and lost. And now she was fighting Spain, losing, and if Spain defeated her, what would happen to the British Empire? Would the Spanish Navy invade India? Would they go even further north, to Africa?
Would they turn the Mediterranean into a lake, and make Egypt and Greece part of Spain? Would they take control of Italy and Sicily, and start pushing eastward toward Russia? Who knew where the Russians stood in this new world order?
Were they already allied with Austria-Hungary, or did they favor Germany? What about Poland, Hungary, and Turkey? How much longer could Britain hold onto its empire?
And who was to blame for all of this? Was it the politicians, the people who ran the country? Did they know that their policies were destroying Britain? Was it the Royal Navy officers, those pompous fools who thought they knew best? Were they so arrogant that they believed the British Empire could survive without them?
Was it the Admiralty, the Ministry of War, and the Treasury, that powerful body of men who controlled the purse strings? Could they possibly imagine how difficult life would be for ordinary Britons once the war started? Could they ever conceive of a future without an Empire?
It must have been because none of them seemed to care. No one seemed to be interested in the future. Not the Prime Minister, nor the King, nor the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Their sole concern was winning the war, whatever it took. And if the war meant giving up the British Empire, so be it!
Jack shook himself from his reverie. His head felt light and he could feel the sweat soaking through his shirt. He turned to look at the boy, who was staring at him expectantly, holding out the empty wine bottle.
‘Thank you,’ said Jack, taking it from him. ‘I’m afraid I’ve drunk my fill.’
He held out his hand, but the boy ignored him, instead turning to shout instructions to someone on the deck above.
‘What is your name, lad?’
‘Tommy, sir. Tommy Bannister.’
‘Very good, Tom, thank you.’
A few moments later there came a clatter of footsteps and then a voice called down to him. ‘Mr. Bannister here will show you to your quarters, sir.’
‘Yes, please do, Mr. Bannister. Thank you.’
As the boy hurried off, Jack took another swig of brandy, feeling better than he had done since boarding the ship. As he walked aft, he wondered what had happened to the boy’s father. Where was he? What was he doing? Was he dead, or had he deserted? Or was he still serving aboard the Victory?
If so, he must be close to forty, and surely wouldn’t want to serve under a man twice his age. Yet there were many old sailors who continued to serve until their dying day, even though they might have retired ten or fifteen years earlier. Perhaps the boy’s father was one of them.
***
The cabin was small but comfortable. It was warm too, despite being a week after midsummer. The captain’s quarters were near enough identical to Jack’s own, which was hardly surprising as the two ships had sailed together before.
He’d shared a cabin with the first lieutenant on board the Prince of Wales, and now again with Lieutenant Collins. Both officers were youngish, in their twenties, and both seemed well-liked by the crew.
In fact, the only difference between the two cabins was that the first lieutenants were larger, and had a large desk built into one wall. This was where he spent most of his time, writing reports for the admiral and copying charts. There was also a settee and table, although the latter looked rather battered.
Most of the space was taken up by chests full of books and papers. In short, it was a typical naval officer’s cabin: small, cramped, and filled with clutter.
The cabin stank of tobacco smoke, something which Jack found distasteful. However, he couldn’t complain, since he smoked almost as much as the other man. It was probably the reason why he didn’t get seasick – not that he ever suffered any more than the next man.
Jack sat on the bed and began to unpack. He hadn’t brought anything with him except his clothes, since there was no room on the ship for luggage. He put his shirt in the chest beside the door and placed his sword and cutlass carefully inside.
Then he opened the second drawer and pulled out a pair of clean underwear, some socks, and his spare uniform. He hung everything neatly in the wardrobe, next to the first lieutenant’s belongings. After a quick check that there were no rats lurking within, he closed the wardrobe doors and made sure they were locked securely.
He was about to leave when he noticed something lying on top of the chest of drawers. Something wrapped in paper.
Carefully, so as not to rip the paper, he picked it up. It was a letter, and judging from the handwriting he assumed it was from Lady Wellesley. He untied the string and unfolded the letter.
Dear Jack,
I hope you are enjoying yourself. Please don’t tell me that you’re bored already! I am sorry that we can’t meet, but I suppose you’ll understand if I say that my husband won’t allow it. But I promise to write often and send you news about what is going on.
I miss you very much, but I know that you need to stay on this ship and help our brave navy win the battle against the French. I pray that you succeed.
Your loving wife,
Lady Jane
Jack read it once, then again. He felt tears pricking at his eyes. How could she be so cruel? She knew how much her letters meant to him. And yet here was one addressed to him, written just hours ago, and he couldn’t read it. Why? Had she changed her mind? Had he disappointed her? No, it wasn’t like her.
His hands trembled slightly as he folded the letter back up and returned it to its hiding place beneath the chest. He would keep it safe until he reached land again, then burn it. Hopefully, he wouldn’t live long enough to find himself back on sea duty.
He finished packing quickly and went over to the door, but paused there, thinking about what to do next. There was nothing to stop him from leaving the cabin now, but he didn’t really want to. He wanted to stay with Collins, at least for a while longer.
Maybe the lieutenant would be willing to let him share the small adjoining room he used for sleeping. That way, they’d have each other to talk to during those long, lonely nights.
But would the lieutenant agree?
Jack knocked quietly on the door frame and said ‘Collins?’
There was a moment’s silence, then Collins replied, ‘Yes sir?’
‘I’m ready to go ashore.’
A few minutes later, the door opened and Collins came into the room carrying a bundle of clothes under his arm.
‘You’ve got a visitor,’ he told Jack.
Jack followed the lieutenant outside. They passed through a narrow corridor lined with doors leading to the other cabins. As they walked past the first, Jack saw a tall, thin man standing in front of the door. A smile spread across the stranger’s face as he caught sight of them, and he waved cheerily.
‘Lieutenant Collins!’ he called. ‘Captain Roberts!’
The two officers stopped in their tracks.
‘Captain Roberts! Come along, come along! We mustn’t keep him waiting!’
They hurried down the steps and stepped onto the deck. The captain was seated on a wooden chair at the stern, next to an enormous wheel. His coat was off, revealing a white shirt and black waistcoat, and he was smoking a pipe. Next to him stood another man, who was wearing the same kind of clothes as Captain Roberts.
‘Captain Roberts!’ shouted the man. ‘Please forgive us for interrupting your time ashore, but it’s urgent that we speak with you.’
‘Who is it?’ asked the captain, looking puzzled.
‘Lord Stourton,’ answered the man.
Roberts looked from Lord Stourton to the two naval officers. ‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’
Stourton turned to the admiral. ‘My lords, may I introduce to you Mr. Robert Whetstone, a member of parliament.’
The admiral nodded politely and then turned to Jack. ‘And this young gentleman is the new midshipman aboard my flagship, HMS Victory.’
The admiral smiled. ‘How do you do, Mr. Whetstone?’
Jack gave a half bow. He had no idea what to make of all these people. One minute they were talking about war, the next they were discussing politics. Then one of them was calling out names – ‘Lord Stourton’, ‘Admiral Nelson’, ‘Mr. Whetstone’.
‘Mr. Whetstone has been kind enough to invite me to dinner tonight,’ continued Lord Stourton. ‘May I ask you to join us, Admiral?’
The admiral frowned. ‘Of course, Lord Stourton, I shall be delighted.’
Jack watched as the three men shook hands, and then the captain led Jack away towards the stairs that led up to the main deck.
As they climbed the staircase, Jack heard the admiral say, ‘It seems we will be dining together after all.’
‘Oh yes,’ answered Lord Stourton. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t any choice.’
The End