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  “He is not much in favour, sir, with the Admiral’s staff at Malta.” Northmore’s comment was echoed by Mather who added that Cochrane seemed to do as he pleased.

  “It sometimes looks like that,” Delancey admitted, “but these things are remembered. Should there be a court martial, its members may start with an impression of an officer’s character based on past events.”

  “Had Lord Cochrane any news of the French, sir?” asked Mather.

  “He repeated what we had already heard—that the French are planning to send a squadron to Cadiz. His intelligence went a little further, however, suggesting that Linois may have sailed already. I should suppose that this could be true and I am setting our course accordingly.”

  “So we are heading south and will be sailing close to the African coast?” asked Dr Rathbone hopefully.

  “With your interest in mind, my good sir,” said Delancey. “We hope to increase our knowledge of classical antiquity.”

  “What astonishes me,” said Mather, “is the evidence on the African coast of a former and prosperous civilisation. To judge from its present state, as we read about it, there is hardly more arable land than will support a few villages. Can the climate have changed?”

  “I have been told,” said Northmore, “that it is the Arabs who have done the damage, their camels and goats having destroyed the trees.”

  “I too have heard that,” Delancey replied, “and they will have destroyed the vineyards on principle.”

  “What, sir, has history to teach us?” the tactful Mather addressed Dr Rathbone directly.

  “We know all too little about it, gentlemen. I believe myself that the camels and goats must take part of the blame. The fact is, however, that the fertility of the land declined under the Roman Empire during its later years. I incline to suppose that the land had been overcropped.”

  “You would maintain, sir, would you not,” asked Delancey, “that the population of North Africa must once have been considerable?”

  “There is no doubt about that, captain,” Rathbone replied. “I have examined the ruins in the vicinity of Tunis. Quite apart, however, from these traces of antiquity, who has not heard of Carthage, a power sufficiently strong to have sent its army to attack Rome by crossing the Alps? Who has not heard of Hannibal? No campaign of that sort could have been based on a few square miles of desert.”

  “Hannibal is certainly a name that has never been forgotten,” Mather admitted. “We have a ship of the line called Hannibal—a 74-gun ship built just after the last war, a sister ship to the Thunderer.”

  “We might drink a toast presently to Hannibal’s memory,” said Delancey, “but I shall first propose a toast to our guest, Dr Rathbone, hero of the Battle of Pollensa. I need hardly remind you, gentlemen, that he saved my life while we fought the enemy hand-to-hand.”

  “Boarding the Santa Catarina of a hundred guns,” cried Northmore, “it was he who cut down the Spanish Admiral with his cutlass.”

  “It was to him that Don Whiskerandos, their Vice-Admiral, finally surrendered his sword!”

  “A health, gentlemen, to our own Don!”

  Dr Rathbone took the joke in good part, finally asking Delancey whether the skirmish had served its purpose. He did not see that the captured vessels could be of much value and the only laden coaster had been destroyed.

  “A good question, sir. The purpose of the raid was to teach my young officers. Each of them had to steer a boat under fire, boarding an enemy merchantman. Mr Northmore here had the task of burning that brig. Each is now in sole command of his own prize, responsible for keeping station. Tomorrow I shall have the chance to exercise the squadron, giving these young men more to think about. They all did well, they are all gaining confidence and they can all learn from my mistake.”

  “What mistake, sir?” Mather was pained and surprised.

  “The mistake of burning a ship before you know what her cargo is. That coaster was laden with oil, sending up a column of smoke which could be seen for miles and marked our presence for hours. I shan’t make that mistake again, nor will my officers.”

  Next day’s exercises began with the Merlin closing each of the other vessels in turn and providing each with a description of the signals which would be used. The Venturer was directed to take station ahead, and Langford, Northmore and Topley were told to assume that she was a valuable prize taken from a superior enemy squadron and that the manoeuvres which followed were to prevent her recapture.

  Gosling was ordered to follow a given course, ignoring the others. If the exercise was not concluded by sunset, he was to display a stern light, allowing the squadron to re-form in his wake. If contact were lost, all ships were to rendezvous next day off Cape Cavallo, going no further westward except under escort. The beginning of the exercise was indicated by the firing of a gun. Since all the other young gentlemen were out of the ship, young Stock was made the acting signals officer and found himself a key figure in the exercise.

  David Stock had been overwhelmed and mostly silent during his first months at sea but he was now beginning to emerge as a personality, as a boy with some initiative and a sense of humour. This was his first taste of responsibility and the result was a delay over each signal. But Mather was a good teacher and coaxed Stock into seeing the logic of the code in use. “What does the man want to know—the one to whom you are signalling?” he asked patiently. “First of all, I mean?”

  “Whether the signal is for him, sir.”

  “Exactly. It can be for all ships and we have a way of indicating that. Or it can be just for one ship. How do we explain which?”

  “By her number, sir.”

  “But what if the ship is not a man-of-war? What then?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Well—think.”

  “Spell out her name, sir?”

  “Won’t that take rather a long time?”

  “Well . . .”

  The lesson continued, the signals were made and corrected, cancelled and repeated and eventually acknowledged. The signals were even obeyed, though seldom quickly and not always correctly. With inexperienced officers and minimal crews, there could be no very smart response to signals. With difficulty, however, and with frequent errors, the three prizes struggled into position, wore together and tacked in succession. They improved, moreover, and Delancey felt encouraged to attempt the last movement he had planned; the formation of line abreast. Young Stock did not panic even when he realised that Mr Mather had disappeared.

  “Now,” said Delancey, “the squadron will form line abreast. Make a signal, Mr Stock.” This time the flags were hoisted without more than a brief hesitation. Delancey ignored what delay there was and explained the exercise to Dr Rathbone.

  “This is not a battle formation. It can be used, however, to intercept enemy stragglers or, as in this exercise, to protect what we are treating as a valuable prize.”

  “Why is it never used in battle?” asked Rathbone. “The ancients regarded it as the normal formation. It was used, I fancy, at the Battle of Actium.”

  “Because of the danger of firing into our friends,” said Delancey. “Rowing galleys used to fight in line abreast even in modern times, but this was because their guns were all mounted in the bows. We fight today in line ahead, manoeuvring so as to have the enemy on our beam. In line ahead, we may fail to destroy the other side but we are safe at least from destroying each other.”

  While the exercise continued, the Venturer, having no manoeuvres to perform, drew slowly ahead of the rest. By evening she was only just visible in the failing light. Delancey cursed inwardly and brought the exercise to an end by firing three guns. By the time his prizes were once more in station the Venturer could not be seen at all. “No stern lantern,” said Delancey to Mather. “That man is an utter fool.”

  “Completely witless, sir. We shall sight him again at first light.”

  “What if we don’t? Can we trust him to make the rendezvous and stay there?”
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  “God knows, sir. I can’t see what he has to gain by sailing alone.”

  “To gain? Near Algiers? The man must be out of his mind.”

  “The Dey of Algiers will not attack a British ship, sir.”

  “That’s true. But the Dey’s subjects are not to be trusted when out of his sight. The Arabs on that coast would have no mercy on a ship in distress, under any flag. Should the Venturer be lost I shall be held to blame.”

  Delancey turned in that night with a sense of failure. The raid on Pollensa Bay had been a mistake. He had turned aside from his clear duty, which was to reach Gibraltar as soon as possible, ensuring the safe arrival there of the Venturer. He had resisted the worse temptation of joining Lord Cochrane in his wild operations. So far his common sense had triumphed. But he had lost a whole day with little to show for it and now he had lost touch with the merchantman he had to escort. It was quite true what he had said to Rathbone, that the raid had afforded valuable experience for his young men. So it had and so had the subsequent exercise.

  But the fact remained that he had risked the capture or destruction of what was supposed to be a valuable cargo. He would not be court-martialled for it even if the Venturer were taken, so much he knew. She was laden with military, not naval, stores, and any senior officer would accept his explanation that Gosling was to blame, as indeed he was. But a successful leader is not a man who offers good excuses for failure. He is one, rather, who habitually reports his success.

  He made a vow then and there to reject every temptation which could distract him from the line of duty. Rumour had it that Lord Nelson had been led astray by a woman. His guess was that Lord Cochrane had been led astray by his need for money. He was in no position to blame either of them. But he resolved never to repeat his own mistake. Tossing and turning, he wished repeatedly that he could undo the damage. In future, he resolved, he would sleep soundly in the knowledge that he had done his best, that he had obeyed his orders. He did not fall asleep until the small hours and was called a minute later, as it seemed, by young Northmore, knocking at his cabin door.

  “Beg pardon, sir, it is first light. Mr Stirling presents his compliments and begs to report that the Venturer is not to be seen from the mast-head.”

  “Thank you, Mr Northmore. Return my compliments to Mr Stirling and tell him that I shall be on deck in five minutes.”

  As Delancey reached the quarterdeck there was a hail from the mast-head. “Land ho on the starboard bow!” Telescopes were focused in an instant. Lowering his again, Delancey said “Good-morning Mr Stirling. That is Cape Cavallo and the Venturer is not in sight.”

  Chapter Seven

  SALVAGE

  DELANCEY’S conclusion was that the Venturer had parted company through sheer incompetence. He had to assume that she’d gone too far westwards, cutting the corner, as it were, and that Gosling had mistaken some other feature for Cape Cavallo. If their error was in the other direction, Delancey could do nothing more. He was certainly not going to head back for Tunis.

  “She couldn’t be astern of us, sir?” asked Mather.

  “No,” replied Delancey. “We were in line abreast when he parted company. We shall now keep close in with the land. Were we distant we might fail to make her out against the coastline. And if she were attacked by Algerine pirates, it would be the result of her going too close inshore. So we’ll make a coastal passage to Gibraltar, keeping just clear of the shoals. With luck we’ll find the Venturer to seaward of us somewhere off Dellys, where I shall tell young Gosling exactly what I think of him.”

  By the evening of that day, which had been very hot, the Merlin was off Algiers or Djegairi-gharb, the well-guarded and warlike city. Sailing close inshore with a wind off the land, Delancey studied the harbour through his telescope. The masts of shipping showed above the seaward fortifications. Behind the waterfront the whitewashed houses covered the hillside so as to form a triangle topped by the citadel. Beyond the surrounding fields and woods the more distant hills rose brown and yellow, barren and dry.

  “It looks,” said Delancey to Dr Rathbone, “like a ship’s topsail spread out on a green field. There is no sign of the Venturer in harbour.”

  “A formidable looking place.”

  “It’s as strong as they can make it. Or did the Romans begin the work before the days of Islam?”

  “Apparently not, captain. The harbour is artificial, I believe, built since Khair-ed-din captured the place in 1529. The Roman harbour on this coast was farther westwards and was ruined, they say, by an earthquake.”

  The Algerines ignored the Merlin, recognising her flag as that of a power they had learnt to respect, and the sloop sailed on under reduced canvas. Delancey did not want to pass the Venturer in the dark. Nor did he do so. She was sighted at daybreak, close in with the land. Stirling laid down his telescope and busied himself with the chart.

  “We must be twenty leagues west of Algiers,” he reckoned. “The village we can see must be Cherchell, and my guess is that the Venturer is hard aground.”

  As the distance lessened, the fate of the merchantman became increasingly clear. She was motionless, not far from a small island, her sails furled and her foremast over the side. Two or three Arab craft were circling round like vultures and there were signs of activity ashore. No efforts were being made to refloat the ship and Delancey guessed that her crew were exhausted by their labours during the night. She must have been miles off course. With a light wind it was another hour before the sloop and her consorts dropped anchor well to seaward of the wreck. Dr Rathbone had breakfast with Delancey and they came on deck together soon after the ship had anchored.

  “Now, doctor, this is Cherchell. Is this the Roman seaport you mentioned?”

  “It certainly is, captain. I have been studying my books and it is quite evident from them that this is the site of Julia Caesarea, later called Jol. The ancient city was destroyed by an earthquake, the site being occupied by an Arab town, but that too was destroyed by an earthquake as recently as 1738. What village there is would seem to have a pleasant surrounding country, with plantations stretching up to the mountains. There should be an aqueduct somewhere . . . might I borrow your telescope?”

  After a careful study of the landscape, Rathbone had to express his disappointment.

  “I can see no aqueduct. Over to the left somewhere is the river Hashem and its water used to be brought to the city by an aqueduct. The city was well fortified but rather shut in by the mountains. Procopius tells us that the Romans came to Caesarea by sea, the passes in the interior being held by hostile tribes, perhaps not unlike the Beni Menasser of today.”

  “But where would the city have been?”

  “I should suppose that much of it lies under the sea, since the ground-level fell dramatically during the earlier earthquake.”

  “Very well, then. I shall presently have a boat lowered so that I can visit the Venturer. If you care to come with me, you may be able to see something of the old city by peering into the water. We luckily have an almost dead calm.”

  In detailing a boat crew, Delancey added the ship’s carpenter and his mate together with an able seaman called Wishart, known for his skill as a diver. It was a half-mile pull under a hot sun and Dr Rathbone could at first see nothing, the water being too disturbed by the boat itself. As they approached the stricken Venturer, the dejected figure of Gosling could be seen on the quarterdeck, and the ensign drooped spiritlessly from the stricken gaff. There was no sign of any effort being made to save the ship. Delancey went on board, followed by the old carpenter, Nathaniel Corbin, and Isaac Denny, his mate. Dr Rathbone remained in the boat, looking fixedly over the side. Gosling met Delancey at the main entry port and attempted some form of salute.

  “Tell me, Mr Gosling, what brings you here?” he was asked. “Why did you fail to light a stern lantern? Why did you lose touch? Why did you not shorten sail? How did you fail to reach the rendezvous? What game do you think you are playing? And how, sir, do you p
ropose to refloat your ship?”

  There followed some stuttered excuses, received in silence. Then Delancey spoke again, after a pause:

  “What water have you forward and aft? Is your hull damaged beneath the waterline? Have you done anything to lighten the ship? What have you done, sir, and what do you mean to do?”

  Gosling muttered something about lowering a boat. Delancey ignored him and told Corbin to survey the position and make a report. Then he called down to his boat and told Wishart to dive under the ship and report back. He finally told the coxswain to sound with the hand lead both ahead and astern of the ship. A minute later, Wishart had thrown off his shirt and dived overboard.

  Realising that some action was expected of him, Gosling collected a party of his men and began swaying up and emptying the water casks. His first mate led another group forward to cut away what remained of the tangled foremast rigging. The Venturer’s carpenter began to sound the well and the boatswain started examining one of the boats with a view to lowering it. Half an hour later Delancey had some idea of the wretched ship’s predicament. There was deep water astern but none ahead of her. There must have been a higher water level when she grounded, probably the result of an onshore wind. She was not badly damaged below the waterline but was firmly wedged where she was. Then Wishart came aboard with a really startling report.

  “It’s not a reef, sir. It’s more like a building with solid walls still upright under the water.”

  “Like a house, you mean?” asked Delancey.

  “Well, sir, it put me in mind of St Martin-in-the-Fields at Charing Cross.”

  “There are columns, you mean?”

  “Pillars, as you might say: all broken, to be sure, but with carving like they have on the stern of an old flagship—foliage and suchlike.”

  “Is there just the one building, or are there others?”

  “I think there are others, sir, like as if it had been a city. The ship is wedged, seemingly, between two of ‘em.”