Spanish war, a victualler or guardship perhaps. Forty guns, almost twice as many as the pirate, if Devlin had kept to the same ship.
Twenty twelve-pounders on the lower and twenty six-pounders on the upper, according to Howard, but none on the fo’c’sle or quarterdeck.
Coxon had never commanded a separate gundeck and they were heading to Africa in June, in the rains. He had heard many bemoan that rough water kept the lower deck ports closed, a whole battery ineffective. It depended on the wind and the rain; more often a heavy downpour could be gracious, and smooth the water like glass; then the gundeck’s portholes could be used for sweeps, long-oars, to speed her along. He asked Howard if she carried a complement of such. Howard confirmed.
They continued to the gig awaiting them. ‘And oil, Thomas? Does she have plenty hogs of whale oil also?’
Howard was surprised at the seriousness of Coxon’s face at what seemed like the dullest factors of a supercargo’s mind.
‘Some, sir. For lamps, grease and such. We should carry more?’
Coxon spied their man with his red oars and slops, surely theirs, the only gig not loaded and a man not impatient to be so.
‘Oh, no concern. We will meet many tides. We are entering the coasts during the wrong season, that is all.’ His words were too cryptic for Howard to follow and you only questioned your captain once.
‘But I should like to know how much oil she carries by and by, Thomas. And what you have been up to these past years. You will dine with me tonight?’
‘Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.’
They found steps and clambered into the gig, with the tightest-lipped greeting from Coxon to the man of whiskers and Monmouth cap who rowed them off.
‘Did my man find his way aboard, Thomas?’ Twenty more minutes and the familiarity would drop. It would be Mister Howard again until supper.
‘Your man, sir?’
This had been the first test for Walter Kennedy. He had coached down to Portsmouth with Coxon but had been sent to find the ship and go aboard alone. It raised a level of trust that Coxon would need if the mission were to go well; but after seeing the Marshalsea he had confidence that Kennedy stroked his neck carefully at every deliberation.
Howard settled Coxon’s doubts just so.
‘Oh, yes! Scruffy fellow with darting eyes, kept his head low. Used to a ship. Good man, Captain?’
‘I’m very much afraid not, Thomas,’ and he leaned back to relish the bright morning, the sounds of life drifting off behind, the lap of waves at the gunwale and the mesmerising stroke of the oars drawing the frigate closer. Thomas Howard felt sure that his captain’s utterances were hieroglyphics that only needed experience to decipher and a nod of the head to at least acknowledge that one had heard.
One turn of the glass later, the final grains tapped loose by a black fingernail, and the tang-tang of the bell coincidently marked Coxon pulling himself through the entry port. He forsook any introductions or piping; the ship was busy, and noon, for their departure, only two hours off. Taking his bag he gave Howard his muster instruction that he would address the ship ten minutes before the noon bell but that he would like to see his First Lieutenant, Christopher Manvell, in his cabin as soon as he was free from his duty. Coxon ducked beneath the quarterdeck and went to his coach, to his new command. His first for very near three years.
He gave a brief study of the wine cradled in the rope beckets just inside the door and a twelve-pounder at his left knee and another just past his cot. A breath of his cot: clean, no trace of powder, an emery starchiness to the sheets, a compass set into the wood above for him to read on his back. He slung his sack and entered the cabin. Dry, beeswax-scented air was just overpowered by the coffee pot sitting in its gimbal on the table and squeaking to and fro with the tide.
He tossed his hat beside it and stared out the slanted windows
Twenty twelve-pounders on the lower and twenty six-pounders on the upper, according to Howard, but none on the fo’c’sle or quarterdeck.
Coxon had never commanded a separate gundeck and they were heading to Africa in June, in the rains. He had heard many bemoan that rough water kept the lower deck ports closed, a whole battery ineffective. It depended on the wind and the rain; more often a heavy downpour could be gracious, and smooth the water like glass; then the gundeck’s portholes could be used for sweeps, long-oars, to speed her along. He asked Howard if she carried a complement of such. Howard confirmed.
They continued to the gig awaiting them. ‘And oil, Thomas? Does she have plenty hogs of whale oil also?’
Howard was surprised at the seriousness of Coxon’s face at what seemed like the dullest factors of a supercargo’s mind.
‘Some, sir. For lamps, grease and such. We should carry more?’
Coxon spied their man with his red oars and slops, surely theirs, the only gig not loaded and a man not impatient to be so.
‘Oh, no concern. We will meet many tides. We are entering the coasts during the wrong season, that is all.’ His words were too cryptic for Howard to follow and you only questioned your captain once.
‘But I should like to know how much oil she carries by and by, Thomas. And what you have been up to these past years. You will dine with me tonight?’
‘Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.’
They found steps and clambered into the gig, with the tightest-lipped greeting from Coxon to the man of whiskers and Monmouth cap who rowed them off.
‘Did my man find his way aboard, Thomas?’ Twenty more minutes and the familiarity would drop. It would be Mister Howard again until supper.
‘Your man, sir?’
This had been the first test for Walter Kennedy. He had coached down to Portsmouth with Coxon but had been sent to find the ship and go aboard alone. It raised a level of trust that Coxon would need if the mission were to go well; but after seeing the Marshalsea he had confidence that Kennedy stroked his neck carefully at every deliberation.
Howard settled Coxon’s doubts just so.
‘Oh, yes! Scruffy fellow with darting eyes, kept his head low. Used to a ship. Good man, Captain?’
‘I’m very much afraid not, Thomas,’ and he leaned back to relish the bright morning, the sounds of life drifting off behind, the lap of waves at the gunwale and the mesmerising stroke of the oars drawing the frigate closer. Thomas Howard felt sure that his captain’s utterances were hieroglyphics that only needed experience to decipher and a nod of the head to at least acknowledge that one had heard.
One turn of the glass later, the final grains tapped loose by a black fingernail, and the tang-tang of the bell coincidently marked Coxon pulling himself through the entry port. He forsook any introductions or piping; the ship was busy, and noon, for their departure, only two hours off. Taking his bag he gave Howard his muster instruction that he would address the ship ten minutes before the noon bell but that he would like to see his First Lieutenant, Christopher Manvell, in his cabin as soon as he was free from his duty. Coxon ducked beneath the quarterdeck and went to his coach, to his new command. His first for very near three years.
He gave a brief study of the wine cradled in the rope beckets just inside the door and a twelve-pounder at his left knee and another just past his cot. A breath of his cot: clean, no trace of powder, an emery starchiness to the sheets, a compass set into the wood above for him to read on his back. He slung his sack and entered the cabin. Dry, beeswax-scented air was just overpowered by the coffee pot sitting in its gimbal on the table and squeaking to and fro with the tide.
He tossed his hat beside it and stared out the slanted windows
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