by Jan Needle
The Devil’s Luck
Jan Needle
© Jan Needle 2013
Jan Needle has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
This edition published 2013 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
For Terry Gardner
Table of Contents
Historical Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
About the Author
Extract from In the Dark of the Moon by Christopher Kenworthy
Historical Note
Although this book, and those that follow it, is set very firmly in the eighteenth century, it does not deal with a specific phase in the never ending struggle for world supremacy between Britain and France, nor any of the shorter-lived interventions by other nations. Daniel Swift features later in the century as a captain of the frigate Welfare, but here he is a lieutenant, learning his trade with characteristic single-minded ruthlessness. The Seven Years War is yet to come, and naval skirmishes, rather than set piece battles, are the order of the day.
Chapter One
Like many men who have been at sea too long, Captain Hector Maxwell had an uncertain constitution and a stomach that was ten times worse. This early evening, bowling along the Channel with a stiff easterly right on his tail, his mood should have been all sunshine. It was not.
‘Look at him,’ he told the assembled dinner table. He pointed. ‘Regard. A fine young man foisted upon me by the strictures of the service, with all the backbone of a maiden’s pap.’
His first lieutenant, a stolid man called Stewart, belched gently into his fist. This was a permitted solecism; the ship was rolling like a bitch on heat, and everyone was feeling it. The light frigate Pointer was over-canvassed, because Maxwell was in a hurry, so Stewart belched. The midshipman who was the captain’s target, however, was going green.
‘He is young, sir,’ said the second, with a smile that was almost gentle. Lieutenant Bullen was a kindly soul, who still bore the scars of bullying from his own first years. ‘What one of us has not felt likewise in a dead-stern ripper?’
The officer next to him snorted, quietly. It was delicate, because the young man was the captain’s nephew. How far should one go in reasonable contempt?
He had not gone far enough, it seemed.
‘You are too soft,’ said Captain Maxwell. ‘It is blows he needs, Lieutenant Swift, not farmyard noises. This youth is the fruit of my sister’s loins, and he is too much like her. Too much like her and her milksop of a husband.’ An infinitesimal pause. ‘God rest his soul.’
The midshipman, despite himself, gave a deep-rooted shudder, manfully suppressed. A noise escaped his throat, which might have been a half a sob.
‘For the devil’s sake!’ the captain shouted. ‘If you are sick here I will have you flogged! I will flog you myself, and throw you overboard! Pull yourself together, man. You shame yourself and us!’
The first lieutenant, stolid soul, signalled to a servant, who looked on in concern as he slid the mutton trencher on the table.
‘The young gentleman may need a bowl, perhaps?’ he asked. ‘Have I the liberty…’
The words died in his mouth. He was from the captain’s Sussex home and household. No other servant would have dared to say such words.
‘It’s a bucket of water he needs, on his shitty head!’ roared Maxwell. ‘You boy, Charles Raven! Craven, more like it! One speck of vomit from your lips and you are overboard! My sister should be flogged for sending you!’
Even Stewart showed signs of mild discomfort. He pulled the platter more firmly onto the table as the Pointer gave a reeling lurch, and reached out a helping hand. But Lieutenant Bullen got there first, and gripped the midshipman as he tried to stand. Lieutenant Swift, by contrast, moved smartly back from Raven, who had gone from green to white, a glaring white with large and round black eyes.
‘Look out!’ he said. ‘By God sir, I fear he will defy you!’
The servant, a big man called Winterson, did what none of his masters cared or dared to do. He threw an arm round Raven’s neck and shoulders, lifted him from his chair, and in the fluid movement of a seaman, rolled to the stateroom door and through it. Above the sudden clamour of the Channel squall, all heard the burst of retches that tore from out of Raven’s guts and chest.
‘By Christ,’ snapped Captain Maxwell. ‘And now I suppose I have to carve my own damned butcher-meat!’
Smooth as a dancer, Daniel Swift reached for the trencher, and the knife and steel. With great dexterity the mutton was uncovered, the blade clashed along the steel, the slices severed as by the hand of a French chef. Bullen watched him with a strange contempt, while the first lieutenant’s face remained unreadable. Captain Hector Maxwell speared two great hunks on the point of his own knife and slapped them on his plate.
‘Potatoes and kale,’ he said. ‘Fit for a king. Good Christ, who gives a man such poltroons as Charlie Raven to have on board their ship? How dare their lordships force such bastards on me? It would try the patience of a greater saint that me!’
Despite himself, Daniel Swift caught Lieutenant Bullen’s eye. Taking the youth on board had been Maxwell’s own choice, a fact known well to both of them. It serves you damn well right, thought Swift, but it is your place and pleasure now to knock him into shape, so stop your griping, man.
‘It is indeed a trial for you, sir,’ he said. ‘I know he is your family, but surely… Well, before God, no man can choose his relatives; and that is more the pity.’
The look on Bullen’s face became more complex. You are a stuck-up prig, thought Swift. I think that I must watch you, like a hawk.
‘I think that he is rather young, sir,’ Bullen said. ‘Perhaps it is a pity the service takes them in so tender. But he will surely rise under your tutelage. He is from your stock, sir. Depend on it, he will turn out a seaman born.’
The first lieutenant, Stewart, belched gently once again, which seemed to Swift to hide a sneer. The captain jammed more meat into his mouth and chewed.
‘If one sick craven is the worst I bear today, I suppose the case is not so bad,’ he said. ‘We are well down Channel, and may come upon those Frogs within not very long. Please God we fall on them as a great surprise, like wolves on a pen of bleating lambs. It is time the dear Lord smiled on me. The bugger’s not dished out much luck so far.’
Even Swift felt a tremor of discomfort at this speech. They needed all the luck that they could get to bring this expedition off in the time intelligence had said that they might have, and Maxwell’s casual blasphemy was an awful hostage to on high. He made a noise in his throat. A non-committal noise.
Lieutenant Bullen went further.
‘In terms of wind,’ he said, ‘His mercy in the last two days has been extreme. Easterly, and strong, and steady, and a blessed boon. I cannot see we could have made it in this time without such smiling providence.’
‘Aye,’ muttered Stewart, into his chin. ‘But will it last, that’s all?’
Did he know something? Did he feel a change of movement in the flying hull?
For within two minutes, the sailing master put his head into the cabin, without even a knock. Nobody else, perhaps, would have dared.
‘Beg pardon, sir,’ he told Hector Maxwell. ‘Unless I’m very much mistook this wind is falling light. It is dying, sir, and fastish. Perhaps you’d care to come and have a look?’
Three stomachs round the table fell. To catch and kill these Frenchmen was a make or break for Captain Maxwell. It was a prize he had to win, and every last minute to do it in was precious.
He stood and left the stateroom without another word.
Chapter Two
Charlie Raven, as it happened, was lucky in the timing of his collapse. Before Captain Maxwell had left the cabin, the servant Winterson had got him to a place of safety. He had spewed voluminously upon the deck, but the rolling Channel combers washed the low waist frequently, and none of the seamen was inclined to add to his discomfiture by drawing attention to the residue. Maxwell, to them, was some sort of ogre, an unpleasant captain that they would happily see dead.
In fact the servant was re-emerging from a companionway when Maxwell appeared, and faced up to him foursquare across the quarter deck.
‘Beg pardon, sir,’ he said. ‘I have took the youth below. He—‘
‘The devil take the bastard! If you have choked him on his vomit that is a point in favour, man. Get off this deck and leave it to the proper men.’
Toby Winterson had a face that told no stories. He nodded briefly and made back to the cabin door without another word. The master, Mr Collins, gave him half a smile behind the captain’s back. Their thoughts on their lord and master were not dissimilar.
‘Merde, merde, merde and merde again!’ spat Maxwell. As he looked to larboard a solid gout of spray flew down on him from forward and caught his face, although it was not that which made him swear. ‘You’re right man, damn you! It’s falling like a bloody stone!’
The master agreed.
‘Aye, sir. That’s the last wetting we get from forrard in my opinion. The seas will take us from astern now on. The mizzen’s lifting in its vangs already.’
‘How far from France? Can we set more canvas? Can we not claw up there before it dies?’
The two men stared out across the rolling waves. As the wind fell lighter they were already tending to jumble. Suddenly the solid airstream from astern ceased for a long moment, as if the wind had caught its breath. Both felt the Pointer arrest herself, give a sort of stagger. Then a new puff pushed her forwards. But not for long.
‘The bastard,’ said Maxwell, and Collins wrinkled his nose up in distaste. Maxwell was swearing at the deity once more. Collins was a godly man.
‘We have fair tide for only an hour more, sir. With the wind dying, and that turning, we will be pushed north. If we keep enough strength in it we might raise the Scillies, but even that will be with luck I fear. There we could anchor. Who knows what the new day will bring?’
‘Merde, merde, merde and merde again,’ repeated the captain, with far less passion this time. He eyed the sails, which had begun to flutter round the leeches as the breeze played with them. ‘Wait overnight and hope, is it? But why not try to crawl up closer to the Frogs? Every league we make will…’
The master’s face gave him the answer. Maxwell was one of many navy officers who had learned the hard way to defer to the real men of the sea in matters of wind and weather.
‘The tides, sir. In three hours we will be moving like a fish basket. In the opposite direction.’
‘Indeed. I was about to point that out myself. So how long to the Scillies? Can we come up there by dark?’
Collins sucked his lip. He surveyed the clouds above him, the surface of the sea.
‘We may get in close enough, sir. We have the sweeps, if pain should turn to desperation. I’ll send a lookout to the highest truck. A keen-eyed man might raise the land already.’
Captain Maxwell seemed to find a boost in this. He brightened, and his rather sour visage almost achieved a smile. Maxwell was a great man for the oars.
‘Ha, the bastards!’ he exclaimed. ‘Now that will get the idle buggers sweating! They thought their Sunday had come early in the week!’
It was as if, Collins thought, all obstacles had passed. It was as if the heavy vessel would fly on like a skiff. In fact, with sweeps out, she could make a knot or two, in calm waters, in a sheltered harbour. But in fact, also, Maxwell loved to see men working to extremes. All the time the frigate could be pushed, all would be well. The two Frenchmen, the targets, were forgotten.
‘Break out the sweeps, then!’ he commanded. He glanced over the taffrail, dubious on the instant. ‘But hell, man. Jesus, there is still a sea running. Are you certain that it can be done?’
Collins’ face was unmoving. His voice betrayed nothing.
‘Too soon yet, sir, you are absolutely right,’ he said. ‘And we still have a breeze for the moment, although that not for long, I think. We must use it to the best of our advantage. The lookout, sir. Shall I send a fresh man up? Or one for every mast, maybe?’
‘Of course, of course, of course! I assumed that you had exercised that order already, man! Good God, Collins, don’t play the slouch with me on this one – we must get there soon, and strike across when the wind will let us. Shit and buggery! What a bastard, bastard thing to befall me!’
As Collins moved away to issue orders, Lieutenants Bullen and Swift hove into view. Both read immediately what the master was detailing to the men.
‘I wish it would be fitting if I went up aloft,’ said Daniel Swift, ingratiatingly. ‘We need a man with damn good eyes on the main truck.’
Bullen looked at him, again the odd look on his face. Swift was younger and lither than he was, but not that young and lithe.
‘There’s ten foot of bare pole below the main truck,’ he said, mildly. ‘Shinning up that would not do your breeches any favours.’
‘Sir?’ asked Swift, of the captain. ‘If you desire it I am more than ready. A man can always get new breeches.’
Maxwell chose to laugh.
‘Nay, man, that is a mere boys’ game. Or a common seaman’s. Look, Mr Collins has told off a hand already. You have shoes on, sir. You would break your neck up there!’
Swift touched his wig.
‘Your solicitation warms me, sir. When I was a lad I was a great one for that lark indeed. I have been dubbed a monkey in my time.’
‘Solicitation?’ said Lieutenant Bullen. It was almost inaudible. You have misused a word, his eyes told Swift, who coloured slightly. ‘Aye, a monkey. I can believe that, sir.’
It was a jest, so Swift joined the laugh. But the subject seemed to strike a chord with the captain.
‘That milksop youth should go aloft,’ he said. ‘You are right, Mr Swift. When I was a stripling also it was the way. Within five minutes of my first setting foot upon a deck I was up the ratlines. Like a rat, indeed. Captain Sinclair was my man, and I think my longtog coat put him out of humour. He bade me strip it off and climb to the main truck without delay. Indeed, I did not know what a truck was, hardly.’
‘The same was played on me,’ said Daniel Swift. ‘And apropos of your words, Captain Maxwell, my tormentor made me keep my shoes on, too. It was so slippy I almost used the lubber’s hole to get on to the top. And then I heard him roaring from the quarterdeck, and knew my life would not be worth a jot if I played the coward then.’
‘Indeed, a proper discipline,’ the captain said. ‘A boy fell off on my second ship. Slipped on the main topgallant yard and tumbled like a knitted doll. He was lucky, he hit a spar and then a jackstay and bounced into the jolly boat lashed to the skids. He broke both legs and got sent ashore before his box had even been unpacked.’
Bullen was shaking his head.
‘Poor thing,’ he muttered. ‘The end of his sea-life, I suppose. Poor child.’
‘He lived, at least,’ said Maxwell. ‘Three weeks later we caught a hot one off of Barbary and eleven men were blasted all to hell, i
ncluding two more snotty boys. One might say he was a lucky one.’
‘A proper discipline,’ Swift echoed, thoughtfully. ‘It was indeed a way to make cowards into men. I must confess when I was sent aloft I thought that I would surely die. It took damn near half an hour, and my clothes were ruined quite. And one of my pretty little shoes went by the board, and all. I had to kick it off to get on to the truck. I was like a monkey then indeed. I got one toe in a knot-hole and damn near scratched my toe-nails off to get the grip.’
‘Jesu,’ said Lieutenant Bullen. ‘I thank the lord my first commanders were not such—’
The captain’s eyes were on him, cold.
‘You think it wrong, do you? You think a lad is better left a milksop?’
‘It never did me no harm,’ said Swift. ‘Indeed I might say it was the making of me. Within a week I could outrun any topman on the ship. In fact, in races and on liberties I won prizes in some store. I was a small youth, but any thought the worst hands might have had of ragging me, or doing me a greater harm on a dark night, were out of doors immediately. Firstly above the decks, and then on them or below, I was a match for any of ’em!’
‘Bravo,’ said Maxwell. ‘And you remain a stout man to this day. Small but powerful, eh, Mr Bullen? The very picture of a young sea officer!’
Bullen, a tallish, lightish man, had no thought to argue or demur. But his features betrayed nothing of his mind, especially in the matter of his junior. Swift, he knew, was ambitious, and wholly ruthless in his desire to rise above the ruck. Bullen, it seemed, was not the man to struggle with that thought.
‘Mr Swift is impressive, sir,’ he said. ‘It is a privilege to know and work with him. I look forward to his rising through the ranks.’
The wind was falling light. There was a sudden clap and clatter from the sails above them. The Pointer, bereft of forward power for the moment, took a violent roll, first to larboard then the other way. From high aloft a piping shout came down.