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Authors: Adrian Goldsworthy
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knew that he was missing nothing. Formally his rank was Master and Commander of the eighteen-gun Sparrowhawk , but convention dictated that he be called captain. The frigate’s captain was a true captain, a post captain, confident that, so long as he remained alive and avoided disgrace, he would one day hoist his pennant as an admiral. Both sorts of captain wielded far more power than their namesakes in the army, and even a commander like Billy Pringle’s older brother ranked as a major. On board their own ship, a captain’s will was law in a way unimaginable in the army.
‘She is a handsome craft and a sweet sailor,’ Edward Pringlesaid, breaking the silence he had maintained as they rowed over in answer to the signal ‘Officers to repair on board’. Williams still did not know why he was included in the party, his only guide a gruff ‘You may be of some use’ from Sparrowhawk ’s captain.
The gig lurched as they once again felt the swell, but Williams made himself look up at the stern gallery of the ship. It was painted black, decorated in white and gold, and with the name TOPAZE painted in immaculately even and perfectly rounded golden letters above the row of seven windows.
‘Say what you like about the French, but they build damned fine ships.’ The captain smiled at Williams’ evident surprise, almost the first trace of humour he had shown in their brief acquaintance. ‘We had her from them back in ninety-three. Have even built some thirty-twos following her lines, but they never quite look the same. Too cramped, of course, far too cramped for comfort on a long voyage, but truly beautiful.’
Williams was unsure that he would employ the word, and yet could see the elegance of the Topaze ’s lines and appreciate the training, ritual and taut discipline which kept a working and fighting ship in such a state of neatness and order. He could also, even though they were now windward of her, still catch a trace of the smells of fresh paint, tar and all the odours inevitable on even the cleanest of ships when more than two hundred men lived so close together.
Born in Cardiff, a few years later Williams’ widowed mother had taken the family to Bristol, with its far bigger port, and had run a boarding house, mostly for the masters and mates of merchantmen who had no family. Later still, he became an apprentice clerk in a shipping office, and so the world of cordage, canvas, spars and chandlers’ supplies was one he knew well. Although being on the coast was familiar and reassuring, Williams did not especially like the sea – or perhaps it was better to say that it seemed not to care for him – for he felt queasy at the gentlest motion and had suffered greatly on the transport ships which had carried the regiment to war and home again. It was far better aboard the Sparrowhawk , and he guessed that men-of-warwere generally better handled and more stable than the old tubs hired to move soldiers. The milder waters of the Mediterranean no doubt also played a part, for, apart from one squall, the winds had been light. Williams could not yet claim to have embraced life at sea, but had to admit that this recent voyage was at least tolerable, rather than a prolonged test of endurance which he wished only to end.
‘Gently now.’ Without another order, the coxswain brought the boat alongside. The crew shipped oars, and after the softest of bumps the man in the bow fastened a long boathook into a ring on the frigate’s side. Captain Pringle was already on his feet and went up the steps cut in the side of the Topaze with practised ease. He was a small man, thin of face and narrow of lip, so unlike his big, plump younger brother that Williams struggled to see any similarity. When he mentioned this to his friend, Billy had joked that ‘Yes, it was a puzzle, but they do say I have a quite startling resemblance to the old baker’s boy!’ It was hard to imagine the older brother making any joke, let alone one with
‘She is a handsome craft and a sweet sailor,’ Edward Pringlesaid, breaking the silence he had maintained as they rowed over in answer to the signal ‘Officers to repair on board’. Williams still did not know why he was included in the party, his only guide a gruff ‘You may be of some use’ from Sparrowhawk ’s captain.
The gig lurched as they once again felt the swell, but Williams made himself look up at the stern gallery of the ship. It was painted black, decorated in white and gold, and with the name TOPAZE painted in immaculately even and perfectly rounded golden letters above the row of seven windows.
‘Say what you like about the French, but they build damned fine ships.’ The captain smiled at Williams’ evident surprise, almost the first trace of humour he had shown in their brief acquaintance. ‘We had her from them back in ninety-three. Have even built some thirty-twos following her lines, but they never quite look the same. Too cramped, of course, far too cramped for comfort on a long voyage, but truly beautiful.’
Williams was unsure that he would employ the word, and yet could see the elegance of the Topaze ’s lines and appreciate the training, ritual and taut discipline which kept a working and fighting ship in such a state of neatness and order. He could also, even though they were now windward of her, still catch a trace of the smells of fresh paint, tar and all the odours inevitable on even the cleanest of ships when more than two hundred men lived so close together.
Born in Cardiff, a few years later Williams’ widowed mother had taken the family to Bristol, with its far bigger port, and had run a boarding house, mostly for the masters and mates of merchantmen who had no family. Later still, he became an apprentice clerk in a shipping office, and so the world of cordage, canvas, spars and chandlers’ supplies was one he knew well. Although being on the coast was familiar and reassuring, Williams did not especially like the sea – or perhaps it was better to say that it seemed not to care for him – for he felt queasy at the gentlest motion and had suffered greatly on the transport ships which had carried the regiment to war and home again. It was far better aboard the Sparrowhawk , and he guessed that men-of-warwere generally better handled and more stable than the old tubs hired to move soldiers. The milder waters of the Mediterranean no doubt also played a part, for, apart from one squall, the winds had been light. Williams could not yet claim to have embraced life at sea, but had to admit that this recent voyage was at least tolerable, rather than a prolonged test of endurance which he wished only to end.
‘Gently now.’ Without another order, the coxswain brought the boat alongside. The crew shipped oars, and after the softest of bumps the man in the bow fastened a long boathook into a ring on the frigate’s side. Captain Pringle was already on his feet and went up the steps cut in the side of the Topaze with practised ease. He was a small man, thin of face and narrow of lip, so unlike his big, plump younger brother that Williams struggled to see any similarity. When he mentioned this to his friend, Billy had joked that ‘Yes, it was a puzzle, but they do say I have a quite startling resemblance to the old baker’s boy!’ It was hard to imagine the older brother making any joke, let alone one with
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