Until the Colours Fade (21 page)

Running into the Channel in a south-westerly gale, under double-reefed topsails and a single foresail, H.M.S.
Albion
surged forwards and steadied momentarily before dropping with stomach-turning speed into the troughs of the mountainous Atlantic rollers; then, more slowly she would rise to the next crest, as the following wave caught her up astern and passed her with a thundering rush, throwing up boiling foam as high as the main deck ports and sweeping on into the darkness with a hiss and a roar under the spray-drenched catheads and bowsprit. Like most tall three-deckers,
Albion
did not steer well when
running
in a heavy sea, and needed all the strength of four men at the wheel to keep her on course. Throughout the ship, the
howling
of the wind in the rigging, the rattling of blocks and spars and the creaking of the guns accompanied the more constant and lower-pitched groaning of the timbers. The pitching motion was more pleasing than the simultaneous heavy rolling, which had not been much reduced by lashing the main and middle deck guns amidships. But although the gale was uncomfortable, it was, from a sailor’s point of view, quite manageable.

Shortly before three, Rear-Admiral Sir James Crawford
abandoned
his efforts to sleep, and, having clambered from his cot, lit a lamp, and, without waking his servant, pulled a uniform coat over his shoulders; leaving his sleeping quarters he passed through his dining cabin into his day cabin. Through the
streaming
windows of the stern gallery he could see the black rollers dwarfing
Albion’
s hull, always seeming to be about to break over the stern and swamp the ship, but then lifting her up and passing under her keel. The only light came from the lanterns on the
taffrail
above and from the phosphorescent flashes of foam on the crests of the waves. The moon and stars were hidden by a thick layer of low clouds.
Albion
could survive worse weather by far, but the accompanying frigate
Blanche
and the sloop
Rifleman
would be getting an unpleasant pounding. Every so often, when his flagship rose to the top of a wave, Crawford could see the smaller vessels’ navigation lights about a mile astern on the
starboard
quarter; small pin-points against the black waves.

From the moment of waking, one thought had been dominant
in Sir James’s mind: this was probably the last night he would ever spend afloat in the admiral’s quarters of a line-of-battle ship. His three years of command on the North American and West Indies Station were over and he was homeward bound. Often during his command he had attempted to make light of the excessive respect and awe shown to a naval commander-in-chief; but, although his career had been an unusual one, including, as it had, eight years in diplomacy as Her Majesty’s Minister in Athens, his lifelong passion for the service held him as firmly as it had when he had joined as a boy forty years before.

When Sir James returned to his sleeping quarters, his servant, Partridge, was up and laying out his clothes for the morning: silk shirt, long underpants, undress frock-coat, plain trousers with no gold lace stripe, and a thick pea-coat with admiral’s
epaulettes
. Before dressing, he shaved while Partridge miraculously contrived to stop the bowl of water spilling, while holding up a lantern and a mirror; it was a tricky operation, but, whatever the weather, Sir James never appeared unshaven on the
quarter-deck
. Even by the light of the swaying lantern, the
exceptional
blueness of his eyes was apparent; and their clarity and sharpness, coupled with his heavily lidded eyes, gave him an eager but half-melancholy look. As a young man he had thought his rather full face undistinguished and dull, but now, in his early fifties, his thick profusion of iron grey hair and the deep lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes, while making him look more resolute and serious than he believed himself to be, had given his face an interest and distinction it had not previously possessed; age had embellished rather than marred his looks. After Sir James had shaved himself, Partridge dressed him, finally helping him into his pea-coat and boots. He declined the cocked hat held out to him and strode out into his dining cabin towards the companion-ladder leading up to the quarter-deck just aft of the mizzen-mast and the wheel.

As he emerged on deck, the marine sentry came to attention and the men at the wheel stared fixedly into the binnacle. He walked over to the weather side of the quarter-deck, where the bulwarks afforded him some shelter from the wind and spray, which made his freshly shaven face smart. The officer of the watch nodded deferentially and then moved across to leeward
accompanied
by a midshipman, leaving him in the dignified
isolation
always accorded to his rank. No officer, not even the Captain, spoke to the Admiral, unless addressed first, except on duty when an order concerning a movement of the whole fleet or
squadron was to be given.

The ship was glistening wet from deck to trucks, and high above, the two topsails on the main and fore formed sharp black squares against the deep grey-blue sky as
Albion
ran on with streaming spars and canvas, pursued by pelting squalls. As Sir James heard the faint notes of seven bells flung past on the wind, he saw his flag-lieutenant come up the main companion-way
between
the two forward quarter-deck guns to hand him a paper with the apparent time of sunrise and the positions of the ships in company. Not wishing to talk, Sir James walked as steadily as he could on the swaying deck towards the shelter of the
overhanging
poop.

The last time, he thought again, watching the men at the wheel. During his absence Lord Palmerston had been dismissed from the Foreign Office; and with Sir James Graham, his other patron, no longer First Lord of the Admiralty, Crawford did not expect another appointment. A few years back, he could have bided his time, but now, with even the largest three-deckers being built with steam-engines as well as sails, the day could not be far distant when admirals would have to command fleets
entirely
composed of screw-assisted vessels, and then no flag-officer could hope to remain long ashore without losing touch with
constructional
and tactical developments. During the thirteen years since Sir James had become a widower, only his work had
sustained
him. When his flag came down at Spithead that
afternoon
, it would mean more to him than the simple ending of a command. Idleness frightened him more than the thought of any work, however arduous. Since all his working life, with the exception of four years on half-pay, had been spent at sea or abroad, he could not hope on his return to fall into the
comforting
routines of an established social life. Nor with an unmarried daughter, and an elder son who idolised him, would he be able to allow himself the comforting indulgence of a mistress, as he had during his years in Athens.

Shortly after eight bells Sir James went below and did not return to the quarter-deck until dawn, which came – as so often after stormy nights – sullen and grey, with low fast-moving clouds and blustery showers. The sea, like the sky, was a dirty chill grey, flecked with white horses. Through his glass he could see the topsails of
Blanche
and
Rifleman
falling in and out of sight as they rose from the deep valleys of the rollers and fell away again out of sight. Already he found himself looking around him with a premature nostalgia, noting the most trivial
details of the ship’s routine, not because he could ever forget what he had seen so often, but to record them one more time: the gunner’s mate coming up on the hour to verify the security of the guns for the officer of the watch, the carpenter’s mate reporting the depth of water in the well, and the midshipman on
quarter
-deck duty returning with a marine corporal from his rounds of the lower decks to repeat anything seen by the look-outs at the gangways and catheads.

By mid-afternoon
Albion
was running alongside the southern shore of the Isle of Wight, past the lighthouse on St Catherine’s Point, and then reaching in the calmer water under the lee of the eastern side of the island. Another hour and she was close-hauled on the port tack ten miles from Spithead; by then Sir James was below, buckling on his full-dress sword-belt, with its
embroidered
oak leaves and acorns, and submitting to Partridge’s careful scrutiny. The stiff gold braid, which edged his high collar, cut into his chin unpleasantly and his trousers felt too tight, but having dabbed at him once or twice with a clothes brush,
Partridge
seemed satisfied. Holding his cocked hat in his hand and being careful not to trip over his cumbersome ceremonial sword on the companion-ladder, Sir James proceeded to the
quarter-deck
, followed by his flag-lieutenant and secretary, both also in full-dress.

The ship was approaching her anchorage under topsails,
fore-topmast
-staysail and spanker. As the admiral came on deck, the officer of the watch was shouting to the men aloft through his speaking trumpet. At his orders the men in the fore and
mizzen-tops
furled their topsails, leaving only the main-topsail set. The captain stood by the helmsman as
Albion
edged closer into the wind.

‘Down helm! Haul down the staysail!’

As the fore-topmast-staysail came down, the spanker was hauled to windward and the ship came up faster into the wind; at the same time the main topsail began to shake and was then caught aback reducing her speed. Precisely as
Albion
lost all way, the order rang out from the bows:

‘Let go!’

The carpenter brought down his maul with a sharp blow knocking out the pin holding the anchor in place at the cathead. A loud splash was followed by the thunderous rattling of the cable. The rigging was now swarming with men furling sails, before swaying up the lower yards and squaring all yards. Others were far higher up checking that the topmasts and topgallants
were still properly stayed and upright after the storm.

‘Hands out barge!’ resounded through the ship and the
massive
boat was soon slung out on the booms, while a dozen
blue-jackets
jumped in to get her ready; the lowering tackles were made fast, and, as the boatswain’s mate piped shrilly, she was lowered into the sea with a deep splash. Meanwhile the band had been summoned to the poop, and the marine guard marshalled on the quarter-deck, where they presented arms as Sir James and his flag-lieutenant passed by on their way down to the main entry port on the middle deck. There all the officers were
assembled
, standing stiffly, swords at their sides and hats in hands. The Admiral spoke a few words of thanks to the Captain and the First Lieutenant, and, while the boatswain whistled
perseveringly
, Sir James made his way down the lane of side-boys to the entry port and stepped out onto the accommodation ladder. From forward a puff of smoke and a loud bang marked the start of his thirteen-gun salute.

He paused for a moment on the ladder and looked up at the mizzen where he could see a small white flag with a red St George’s Cross slowly coming down as the guns thundered, taken up by the other ships of his squadron.

He knew that it was an empty ceremony addressed to his rank and not his person, but for all that he still felt his eyes filling and had to look away to avoid his flag-lieutenant’s eye. When he was seated in the stern of the admiral’s barge, the boatswain piped: ‘Away there barge’s crew,’ and the oars dipped and rose in
perfect
unison as the crew pulled away from
Albion
’s towering black and white sides. The band on the poop with numerous drum rolls broke into the opening bars of
Auld
Lang
Syne.
Looking back, Sir James saw the men lining the lower yards and the hammock netting and raised his hat in acknowledgment of their three cheers. A common enough practice on such occasions, but again he found it hard to maintain an impassive expression.

He thought of the numerous ships he had left after a
commission
had ended and found it impossible to imagine that this was the last time. Could this really be the final occasion on which he would be rowed past the Round Tower, the Semaphore Tower, the Sally Port and the Point – landmarks which he had first seen from the sea as a boy of thirteen? A short time and they would be at King’s Stairs and after Portsmouth, London for a few days; a visit to the Admiralty and then the long train journey to Rigton Bridge, and after that, months, maybe years of
waiting
. A pinnace was putting out from the Victoria Pier; after a few
strokes the coxswain’s command: ‘Oars!’ sounded across the water and every oar in the pinnace was raised in the air until the admiral’s barge had gone past. In the stern sheets of the pinnace Sir James saw a young lieutenant ‘off hat’ and look wistfully after him, doubtless envying him and wondering whether one day he too might attain flag-rank. Crawford shook his head and managed a smile. Every age imagined its own particular
problems
to be the worst; in his own career he had only troubled
himself
with his own immediate problems, and had never worried about those which might beset him after his next promotion. Only recently had he found it increasingly difficult to live in and for the present, but at Leaholme Hall he would have to do just that if he were to avoid a constant sense of bitterness and
disappointment
. As King’s Stairs came in view, Sir James was aware of his flag-lieutenant eyeing him surreptitiously. The young man owed his position to the influence of his uncle who was Second Sea Lord.

‘What’s on your mind, Mr Hay?’

‘Nothing at all, sir.’

‘An enviable condition, Mr Hay.’

Hay laughed nervously and fiddled with the hilt of his sword. Sir James stared ahead of him; already he could hear the waves slapping against the steps and the quay.