the canoes and the pitpans would come up to lighten them, and ease their passage. Nelson suggested that some medical supplies at least could be stowed in the canoes, but here again a clash ensued.
‘I have told you, sir,’ said Dr Dancer, ‘they are extraneous. Once we are upriver a few miles they will not be needed. We will be clear of the effluvia, we will be beyond disease. You are a sailor, sir, while I trained under the most eminent of physicians for many years. You must place your trust in me.’
Hastie stared at his captain, and tried to speak him with his eyes. His own bag was stuffed with medicaments, at the expense, even, of extra underclothes. But Nelson’s way, he knew, was not to quarrel on marginalities, but to save his powder for the bigger fights. And time was ticking on.
‘We need food for invalids,’ said Nelson. ‘Men will die if they cannot digest.’ He shrugged. ‘I bow to your knowledge and experience.’
‘Sugar, sago, oatmeal,’ said Dancer, triumphantly. ‘They all take space, sir. They are all of dubious advantage. You are the fighter, sir. Would you not place greater store in ammunition?’
The Hinchinbrook’s boats, however – the cutter and the pinnace – took on a disproportionate amount of ‘food for weaklings’ as the surgeon was later heard to disparage it. Being great seaboats, and exceeding buoyant for their shallow draught, they took on a disproportion of most things, in fact. As Nelson had observed, the larger native craft, although ideal for a river in full flood, were cripplingly deep, while the canoes and pitpans were not designed to carry bulk.
The other craft designed by men from the Old World, Captain Collins’s Royal George, the ammunition carrier Chichito, and the ‘floating dung cart’ Lord Germain, filled Colonel Polson and the other soldiers with deep satisfaction as they took on more and more and more of everything. Deep was the key, however. Even with his small experience of the way of ships, Hastie recognized and understood the growing gloom among the seamen. And Captain Nelson, backed up by Collins, had to positively insist at one stage that the ships could take no more.
‘We cannot leave guns, sir!’ said Polson. ‘Do you say we don’t take cannons and their balls?’
‘No such thing, sir. Except that today, we take no more. Today we must set forth. My boatswain is ready, sir, with his call. My two vessels with our fifty men are going, sir. If you remain that is your decision, but I would wish you joy of it. Speak now, or forever hold your peace!’
He gave the signal, and the boatswain shrilled the order. First the pinnace, then the cutter, backed off from the shore. With their heavy oars in hand, the sailors boomed out three rousing cheers.
From the denseness of the wooded shores the birds shrieked and screamed and whooped the chorus. Of the two sets of creatures, they made most sound, by far.
Eleven
Tim Hastie, born in Wales and years in Liverpool, had never seen or imagined anything like the lower reaches of Rio San Juan. He was in what Nelson called the ‘well’ of the cutter, which was the roomy area between the stroke oar thwart and the small afterdeck, which in turn covered an area for stowing dunnage. The man who had the tiller could stand if he so desired, or sit or squat cross-legged on this deck. Also in the well were Nelson himself, a stout seaman with a long pole for punting off the ground or river bank, and a lugubrious marine.
He was one of the shorter soldiers from the Hinchinbrook, but still his shanks and armaments fitted uncomfortably in the well. His musket already had its bayonet fixed, and on his knees were laid two large pistols, primed but not yet (please God, thought Tim) primed to fire. He had a wig on, and a cocked hat, and sweat was running out from under it.
His task, as he well knew and Nelson made well clear, was to keep a lookout for anything suspicious on the banks, and draw a bead in case the
‘I have told you, sir,’ said Dr Dancer, ‘they are extraneous. Once we are upriver a few miles they will not be needed. We will be clear of the effluvia, we will be beyond disease. You are a sailor, sir, while I trained under the most eminent of physicians for many years. You must place your trust in me.’
Hastie stared at his captain, and tried to speak him with his eyes. His own bag was stuffed with medicaments, at the expense, even, of extra underclothes. But Nelson’s way, he knew, was not to quarrel on marginalities, but to save his powder for the bigger fights. And time was ticking on.
‘We need food for invalids,’ said Nelson. ‘Men will die if they cannot digest.’ He shrugged. ‘I bow to your knowledge and experience.’
‘Sugar, sago, oatmeal,’ said Dancer, triumphantly. ‘They all take space, sir. They are all of dubious advantage. You are the fighter, sir. Would you not place greater store in ammunition?’
The Hinchinbrook’s boats, however – the cutter and the pinnace – took on a disproportionate amount of ‘food for weaklings’ as the surgeon was later heard to disparage it. Being great seaboats, and exceeding buoyant for their shallow draught, they took on a disproportion of most things, in fact. As Nelson had observed, the larger native craft, although ideal for a river in full flood, were cripplingly deep, while the canoes and pitpans were not designed to carry bulk.
The other craft designed by men from the Old World, Captain Collins’s Royal George, the ammunition carrier Chichito, and the ‘floating dung cart’ Lord Germain, filled Colonel Polson and the other soldiers with deep satisfaction as they took on more and more and more of everything. Deep was the key, however. Even with his small experience of the way of ships, Hastie recognized and understood the growing gloom among the seamen. And Captain Nelson, backed up by Collins, had to positively insist at one stage that the ships could take no more.
‘We cannot leave guns, sir!’ said Polson. ‘Do you say we don’t take cannons and their balls?’
‘No such thing, sir. Except that today, we take no more. Today we must set forth. My boatswain is ready, sir, with his call. My two vessels with our fifty men are going, sir. If you remain that is your decision, but I would wish you joy of it. Speak now, or forever hold your peace!’
He gave the signal, and the boatswain shrilled the order. First the pinnace, then the cutter, backed off from the shore. With their heavy oars in hand, the sailors boomed out three rousing cheers.
From the denseness of the wooded shores the birds shrieked and screamed and whooped the chorus. Of the two sets of creatures, they made most sound, by far.
Eleven
Tim Hastie, born in Wales and years in Liverpool, had never seen or imagined anything like the lower reaches of Rio San Juan. He was in what Nelson called the ‘well’ of the cutter, which was the roomy area between the stroke oar thwart and the small afterdeck, which in turn covered an area for stowing dunnage. The man who had the tiller could stand if he so desired, or sit or squat cross-legged on this deck. Also in the well were Nelson himself, a stout seaman with a long pole for punting off the ground or river bank, and a lugubrious marine.
He was one of the shorter soldiers from the Hinchinbrook, but still his shanks and armaments fitted uncomfortably in the well. His musket already had its bayonet fixed, and on his knees were laid two large pistols, primed but not yet (please God, thought Tim) primed to fire. He had a wig on, and a cocked hat, and sweat was running out from under it.
His task, as he well knew and Nelson made well clear, was to keep a lookout for anything suspicious on the banks, and draw a bead in case the
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