A Sea Unto Itself by Jay Worrall

Author:Jay Worrall [Worrall, Jay]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: _NB_fixed, Action & Adventure, amazon.ca, Naval - 18th century - Fiction, Sea Stories, War & Military, _rt_yes, Fiction
ISBN: 9781611792737
Google: V9ExngEACAAJ
Amazon: B00FJ7EM1C
Publisher: Fireship Press
Published: 2013-09-15T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

The long columns of crabbed figures on the page refused to stay in focus. Charles sat on the cot in Bevan’s cabin, his back propped against the bulkhead and his stockinged feet drawn up so that he could more easily read the purser’s ledger, open across his thighs. A dim lantern swung from the beam above his head, the flame adding unwanted warmth to the musty, close space. The room was cramped, eight by six feet, containing the cot, a tiny table, and a single chair. A door, louvered for ventilation, opened onto the wardroom. And if the wardroom itself had been in any way ventilated, Charles might have been pleased. Excepting her captain (normally), all of Cassandra’s officers and senior warrants had similar though less spacious cabins partitioned against either side of the hull in the aftermost third of the mess deck. On a two-decked ship of the line these accommodations would be shared with a hulking thirty-two-pounder cannon, which allowed less floor room but at least provided a gunport to open for light and air. A frigate’s mess deck was at the waterline and, aside from the hatchways, unpierced by any opening its entire length. It was a dark, airless expanse lit by occasional lanterns and perfumed by the too infrequently washed bodies of hundreds of seamen and marines who berthed forward and the still more malodorous delights of the bilge below.

“Purchased in Mocha, 30–31 May, 1799,” he re-read the heading at the top of the page. “Oxen, one score; sheep, two score and six; millet, five hundredweight; peas, six hundredweight; dates, two hundredweight . . .” What the hell did Wells want so many dates for? Charles struggled to keep his mind on the list in front of him. If the wind held it would only be three weeks to a month before he could reasonably expect to put Jones and his women ashore somewhere along the Gulf of Suez at the head of the sea. He was anxious to get the thing done, not just so that he could be rid of his passengers and have his own cabin back, with its operable gallery windows and gun ports, but because it would take him one step closer to the completion of his mission. Once Jones had discovered the true intentions of the French—whether or not they were intending to come down the sea—all Charles had to do was inform Blankett. It would be the Admiral’s responsibility to decide how to confront the situation—if there was indeed a situation to confront. He ached to have it settled so that he might be able to retrace his course back to England to see Penny, or even to make Cape Town or Gibraltar where there would be letters with word on the outcome of her pregnancy, and with news about her health and that of their child. There were times when he didn’t care whether the enemy landed in India or not. He wished it were finished and he could go home.

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