At last, in the middle of December, on a bitingly cold day, the wind veered round to the east and the captain of the frigate Hermione, charged with escorting the transports, sent word to Arthur that the convoy would set sail the next morning.
The wind howled across the surface of the sea, whipping foam off the crests of the waves. On the ships the rigging moaned and shrilled as the deck rolled one way and then the other beneath Arthur’s boots. Overhead thin strips of sail were stretched taut beneath the furled material hanging from the spars. Two small triangles of jib sails above the bowsprit helped to thrust the transport ship on as it followed the loose line of vessels ahead, steering south-west away from the coast of the Isle of Wight. Half a mile off the starboard bow the Hermione surged forward, bursting through the waves in great showers of spray that were blown back over her foredeck.
Wild as the weather was on deck, Arthur was enjoying himself, wrapped up in a thick coat and covered with oilskins to protect him from the icy squalls that blew in every so often, almost blotting out the coast of England when they struck. The wild fury of nature filled him with a sense of awe, mingled with an all too human pride in man’s triumph over the elements as the ships ploughed defiantly through the waves towards the open sea. Ahead he could just make out the Needles: tall columns of white rock stretching out from the end of the Isle of Wight. The lead transport was sticking to Captain Shelby’s orders and, as Arthur watched, began to pass well clear of the rocks. As the last of the transports beat past the Needles he could hear the boom and roar of waves striking the columns even above the wind. Then they emerged from the partial shelter of the island and the ship was exposed to the full force of the wind. The deck canted over alarmingly and he clung to the side rail.
‘Colonel! Colonel Wesley!’
He turned and saw a figure making his way forward along the quarterdeck. A fluke of wind blew the rim of the newcomer’s oilskin hat flat against his forehead, and Arthur recognised Captain Hodges. Hodges was an experienced sailor and strode forward comfortably enough as the deck heaved and swooped beneath his boots. As he closed up on Arthur he cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, ‘I’d advise you to get below, sir!’
Arthur shook his head. ‘Not yet! I want a last look at England!’
Hodges stared back for a moment and then shrugged as he turned back towards the quarterdeck. ‘It’s your funeral, sir.’
In truth Arthur just wanted to delay returning to the narrow cabin that had been allocated to him close to the stern of the ship. The soldiers had been ordered to stay below and keep out of the way of the sailors, but the world below deck was a hellish chaos. There was no fixed point of reference for the eye relative to the motion of the ship and within minutes the wild motion had stricken scores of men with nausea and several were vomiting into the first slop bucket that came to hand. Their suffering was made worse by the stink wafting up from the ship’s bilges. Some of the men were too terrified to feel unwell and sat wedged in corners against the great compass timbers of the ship that groaned and creaked with the strain of battling the storm. Their lips moved in silent prayer, or curses, and the cumulative effect of it all drove Arthur up on deck where he had sought Hodges’ permission to stay there a while, out of the way of the crew.
But now it was growing dark, and already the lead ship was no longer visible, just the bright spark of the heavy lantern lashed halfway up the mizzen mast. As night closed in round the transport, Arthur finally picked his way back towards the gangway that led to the cabins, and with a final glance at the black mass of the sea surrounding the transport he ducked down and carefully descended the steep stairs into the narrow passage. His cabin was one of the more spacious, but even so it was not very much larger than the cot it held. Arthur stripped off his oilskins and cloak, placed them over his sea chest, and then called for one of the ship’s servants to bring him a drink. As he settled into his blankets to go to sleep his ears were filled with the protesting creaks of stressed timbers, the deep moan of the wind, and the thud-crash of the waves.
The morning brought fresh problems. The convoy had been scattered during the night, and when Arthur joined Hodges on the deck in the wan glow of the light filtering through the dark grey clouds rolling overhead he could see the pale streaks of the sails of only two ships on the surrounding sea.
‘Are any of the other transports in sight?’
‘Lookout reports two more, hull down to the south of us.’
‘What’s happened to the others?’
‘Could be many miles away by now. If they haven’t foundered.’
‘Deck there!’ a voice cried out, just audible above the wind. Arthur glanced up and saw a figure in the ratlines of the main-mast, clinging on as the mast inscribed crazy circles against the clouds. ‘The Hermione’s hoisted a signal.’
‘What does it say?’ Hodges bellowed back through a speaking trumpet.
There was a delay as the lookout raised a telescope and tried his best to fix it on the frigate. At length he lowered the glass and called down, ‘Make sail, course south-west, until further orders.’
‘South-west?’ Arthur frowned. ‘Why south-west?’
‘For safety.We head south and we might come up on Ushant. West and we might hit the Cornish coast.’
‘In all this sea?’ Arthur shook his head. ‘Surely not. They are hundreds of miles apart.’
‘True,’ Captain Hodges admitted.‘But do you know where we are at this moment? Precisely where we are? Neither do I, and I won’t until I can shoot the sun. In this weather who knows how long that will be. So until then, we play safe and steer south-west.’
The following dawn revealed a storm-tossed horizon clear of any ships and Captain Hodges kept to the course he had been given. More days passed with grinding monotony as the transport sailed with the wind on her port quarter, rising up on each wave, then lurching and swooping into the trough as the wave passed on ahead. Rain squalls constantly swept over the ship and water found its way between decks so that soon nothing seemed dry and it was almost impossible to keep warm.
One morning, as Arthur emerged for his regular attempt at a walk up and down the quarterdeck, Captain Hodges came over to greet him with a brief knuckle to the brim of his hat.
‘Good day to you, Colonel.’
‘Any sign of the other ships?’
‘None, sir. Not for several days now.’
‘Any idea how far we’ve come?’
‘Difficult to say. We’re making six knots through the sea, but over the ground?’ He shrugged. ‘But if the wind stays steady, it’s fair for the West Indies and we’ll make good time.’
‘That’s something of a comfort.’