Shadows of ships

Rebecca sat beside the sheltering rocks in the warmth of the late summer sun, looking out across the bay to the wide, deep blue seas. A northerly breeze brought with it the prospect of autumn. It’s chill edge sharp against the skin, and the thought of him.

With each passing day the ceaseless sea became more dangerous, turbulence cresting white-flecked waves here, here where she was familiar with the seasons’ shifting signs. This was her home where she told time through the shadows.

‘If only a ship would appear,’ she hoped, ‘if only he would come back.’

It was time to go. She sighed, looked once more out to sea and collected her things. Into a worn and favoured bag went her knitting beside the folded cloth in which she had carried a sandwich for lunch. Alongside these were three apples, fresh from the orchard, one each for her daughters, and a comb for their hair.

She had come to the rocks every day for the last five weeks. Close to their cottage it was one of the best vantage points above the bay. She had not ventured down to the harbour. There was no point unless a ship came in. And anyway, the harbour was not a place she wished to be. It was rough and noisy, and smelt of dead fish and lanolin.

In these weeks she had fallen into a pattern: getting the children up, taking Belle and Alice to school, and Esme, the youngest, to her mother’s. Then she returned home to complete her chores and any work that was to be done. After that she would pack something to eat and drink, and walk out to the rocks to watch for the boat that would bring him home. Late in the afternoon she collected the girls, made them supper, and finished whatever bits of work she could. Although she was not a carpenter like her husband James she had learned enough to make repairs and to clean and polish furniture.

Rebecca was tired. Tired, not just from the extra hours awake to get everything done, but from a deep churning in her gut that she sought to push to one side or to resolve with teas of lavender and mint. When she let herself feel, it was a knife slowly cutting deep. She would steel herself, prepare for the following day, and seek some sweet semblance of sleep. She needed sleep, craved it. It was the only way to have the energy to keep going, not for herself but for the children.

James had been called to work on one of the naval ships being refitting for the war. The long hours had sometimes meant staying over in the port. Then, five weeks ago, she had seen the ship sail and hoped for her husband’s return. It had been a Sunday and they, she and the girls, had waited in their Sunday best for him to come home. On the Monday too … and every day since. She watched and waited. She had heard that some of the carpenters, her husband amongst them, had been retained on board to continue with repairs.

He was not a sailor but a man of the land, of earth and trees, and with a family. She had gone down to the port but none were that sympathetic to her concerns. It was a time of war. She had returned home disconsolate and tired, unable to find the words to tell the girls that their father had gone to war across the seas.

It wasn’t that he had gone, that was bad enough, it was not knowing when, or even if he would return. Esme had taken it worst, and not because she was the youngest at five years old. With Belle and Alice going to school Esme was the one who spent most time with her father. She would often stay with him in the workshop, watching him with love enthralled by his skillful craft.

On the 23rd, in the sixth week after his departure, Rebecca saw a ship on the horizon, a lone grey shadow in autumn light under scudding clouds. Her heart leapt in hope, yet she squashed it down in fear and a calmness James had found attractive. Not that she was calm. As the ship angled toward the harbour she could see it was a naval ship. She gathered her things and half-ran, half-walked back to her mother’s to say she would be going down to the harbour.

James’ parents were there, and George, her father-in-law, offered to come with her. Their trip to the harbour, a walk of nearly three miles was coloured with hope and fear. George did his best to keep their spirits up even inviting her to sing a little as they walked toward the brow of a small hill. When they reached it they stopped walking, and singing, and looked out at the grey shadow now clearly a ship of the line perhaps half an hour from docking. Before they moved on George sought agreement on what they were going to do when they arrived – they would keep calm and find the relevant person to ask regarding news, if there were any to be had. He had old friends in the harbour, ships’ chandlers who knew most everyone from craftsmen and traders to captains of the fleet.

It was late when they returned home to find the girls in bed. Rebecca’s mother and mother-in-law were sat keeping the fire lit and supper warm.

There was no sight nor news of James. They realised that few might know of one carpenter amongst so many men in the fleet. What they had heard was of a furious battle, victory and death. They had seen some of the thousands injured brought to shore, heads, arms, bodies, legs wrapped in bloodied bandages, some missing limbs, some groaning, some silent. She wondered which was worse. Families on the quay stood aghast, crying or stoic, as they watched so many men, shadows of the men they once had been.

Rebecca fought back her tears. She pushed it all down deep inside.

She barely slept that night yet strove to continue as before. On the morrow she went out to the rocks, and to her solitary vigil of the sea.

In the next days more ships arrived. She and George repeated their walk and their enquiries to no avail. On the seventh day another ship arrived. George found her at the rocks where he knew she’d be, and asked if she wished to go to the port. He put his arm around her to keep her warm and they made the slow walk to find, once more, that no-one had heard of James, nor seen him.

Their walk home was silent. At one point Rebecca put her arm in George’s for support, although she couldn’t tell if it were for her, or for him. James was her husband. James was his son.

As they reached the door they heard a man’s voice in the house, familiar in a way. Rebecca’s heart raced. George’s too. Could it be him? Could it be James?

They entered as calmly as they could, saw the back of a man’s head as he sat in the large armchair in which James usually sat, and heard his voice again.

Rebecca’s knees buckled slightly. George caught her. The girls looked at their mother and ran across to her, wrapping her in their arms, wrapping her in their tears.

It was not James, but a man she had met several times, someone James knew, a fellow craftsman. He was tall and strong, but not now. Now he was drained and tired, a ghost of a man.

“I have come as your husband asked. My name is Daniel. We have met before.”

With that the children were taken to bed. Then Daniel told his story.

He told them that he had been on the ship with James, helping to refit it. Seven of them had been obliged to continue on the promise of being returned via a supply ship. Yet their fate became unimportant as the naval ship sailed out toward battle. News that the enemy fleet had left harbour meant that the supply ships would not be attending as planned.

The hours building to battle were racked with tension. Everyone knew that their lives and that of their countrymen depended on this battle. There was ample time to look amongst your fellows and to consider your fate, and theirs. Those that weren’t at work in the rigging, preparing the guns, or on watch sought to occupy themselves with cleaning, clearing decks, helping keep watch, anything but to be in your own mind and subject to its imagination.

The battle began at noon, the first thumping blast, the first cries of battle, but not the last of pain. By five o’clock it was done. Thousands dead, wounded and captured on each side. It had been brief and it had been brutal. Yet during those five hours it was as though time had slowed to an eternity. Each cannon shot that screamed across the deck, each that smashed mast, deck, hull or men ripped and wrenched worlds. Splinters the size of a man’s arm flew. Musket balls too. The air was thick with smoke, gunpowder, shouted screams and death. The scent, dirt and sweat thick upon your skin. And these were not the worst. The worst was the noise. A noise that tore at your very being, that hammered at your soul, not just your ears. When a cannonball hit close by it felt as though the sound would pull your eyes from their sockets, your hearing hid, your head like thick soup, thumping. Two of the retained carpenters, apprentices, froze in a corner as though the solid oak were protection enough, and it wasn’t. One survived, if you can call his state that of being alive, if you can imagine the horror to one so young.

All were caught up in the scenes Daniel described, and, almost as soon as it had begun, he fell back into the chair and into himself, ashen.

“And what of James?” Rebecca asked.

“We helped with the wounded, dead and dying. A shot hit close by. That’s what took young Amesby, just fourteen, Master Linton too.”

He paused not knowing whether to look her in the eye or not. She had her hands to her mouth not knowing whether she would scream or cry.

“I did not see him after that hit. James. I looked amongst the crew. I looked amongst the dead, the wounded. No-one had seen him. But, some, some were missing, cast overboard in the heat of battle. I am sorry I have no better news than this. I …” he paused and looked at Rebecca, then at the others, then to the small table before him and the floor on which it stood. “I realise that not knowing may be worse than knowing. The last thing he said was that if he did not make it, to remember him well. He loves you all and will be with you always.” He brushed his nose with his sleeve. They saw the tears eager in his eyes.

Rebecca did not scream, nor cry. She slumped as though all will and energy had left her, except her eyes. Her eyes stayed fast on Daniel’s face.

Nobody spoke for some time. Then Daniel stood and George walked him to the door, offering to accompany him home. Daniel declined, offering to return, if he could be of any help.

Rebecca sat beside the sheltering rocks looking out across the bay to the wide, deep blue seas. The late summer had turned to autumn and the prospect of winter lay heavy in the northerly winds and low set sun, and the thought of him.

‘If only a ship would appear,’ she wished, ‘if only he would come back.’