HMS Prometheus (The Fighting Sail Series Book 8)

by Alaric Bond

  * * *

  “What's going on here, then?” Lieutenant Lewis asked in surprise. There was a grunt from behind; so suddenly had he stopped that Bentley, the midshipman following, almost cannoned into his back. The two officers had been posted to shore duty at the Southern Bastion and were taking advantage of a quiet afternoon to go sightseeing around the fortress. The large stone structure's height gave a wonderful view across the bay, and both were rather guiltily making their way down again when they came upon the line of familiar seamen blocking their path.

  “We was just going to the top, Mr Lewis,” Bleeden, at the head, told him. Lewis considered the group, most of whom appeared to be from Flint's mess, although he could also see a veritable crowd of other hands watching, apparently enthralled, from the parade ground below.

  “Why would you be doing such a thing?” the lieutenant asked. “And what exactly are you carrying?”

  Bleeden glanced down at his load, then quickly adopted a look of astonishment, as if unaware he had been holding anything at all.

  “It's a parcel, Mr Lewis,” Flint said more solidly from further down the line. And indeed it was. A parcel: wrapped in a hammock, tightly bound and containing something that might once have been a man.

  “And what is inside?” Lewis persisted.

  “Well, I recon's it'll be supplies,” Bleeden said, as if discussing the possibility. “What do you say, lads?” he asked, and his mates began nodding forcefully and mumbling affirmative expressions as they did.

  “We've to take it to the upper lookout point,” the seaman added with a mildly wicked expression. “The one what faces out to sea...”

  Lewis was about to ask the manner of supplies when something inside the bundle gave a long, drawn out, moan.

  “Take it back down to the casement,” he said instead, wearily indicating the ledge just below them. He and the midshipman followed as the seamen turned awkwardly on the narrow stairway, then began to retrace their steps.

  The light was better on the stone gallery and Lewis thought the parcel may be moving slightly, although he had no wish to jeopardise his authority by saying so.

  “Better take a look,” he told the midshipman.

  Bentley stepped forward uncertainly. He was the youngest to have been allowed ashore as well as the smallest present. He also lacked experience in his rank, still finding it hard to trust older, stronger men, who were deemed inferior to him, and even privately fearing they may cause him physical harm.

  “Open it up at once,” he ordered, in his adolescent tenor.

  The load was lowered none too gently onto the floor of the casement and, as it hit the stone flags, there was a distinct cry. Bleeden fumbled with the line that secured it until Flint brushed him aside and released the knots far more efficiently. The canvas fell back, revealing the upper body of a comatose man wearing a marine's uniform and boasting a huge moustache that was crudely scrawled across his face in black paint.

  “Who is it?” Lewis sighed.

  “That's Wainwright,” Flint told him.

  “We found him asleep by our hut,” Bleeden added. “And thought we'd better bring him up for some fresh air.”

  “So when he awoke, he'd be at the top of the fort, rather than outside your quarters?” the lieutenant asked. “And would wonder how in Hades he had gotten there?” Lewis had begun his career as a lower deck man, and understood their humour perfectly.

  “Something like that, sir.” Flint agreed.

  “Or why 'e hadn't bothered to shave,” another added, to a ripple of suppressed laughter.

  “He's drunk,” the midshipman declared, to more sniggers. Indeed, the smell of brandy was unmistakeable, and the boy, being nearest, was receiving the full force.

  “Not exactly drunk, Mr Bentley,” Flint suggested apologetically. “He was, there can be no doubting it, but now he's just asleep.”

  “An' it's surely better for him to be asleep on duty than drunk?” Bleeden asked earnestly.

  Lewis closed his eyes and drew another deep breath. There was something else that could not be doubted: the men were more than ready to go back to sea.

  * * *

  Her afternoon in the midshipman's berth had all the makings of a success and Poppy soon lost track of time. Despite giving them such scant warning, the four boys had tidied up their stuffy little home and did much to make her comfortable. She was plied with food; everyone ate rather a lot actually. And it was chicken: a whole one that Brown, the ginger haired lad with nice eyes, claimed to have squirrelled from the gun room. Poppy, who was experienced enough in stealing to know it should rarely be boasted about, didn't argue this last point; she was not being asked to pay for the bird, so what did it matter if her host made up stories?

  But whether thief or a liar, Brown was undoubtedly the group's natural leader. Poppy judged him about a year older than herself and already wondered if he would make an agreeable companion, at least for the duration of the present voyage.

  There was drink as well: some rum and a bottle of red wine. Briars, probably the youngest, provided that, though readily admitted it less romantically purchased from a seaman who traded in such things. Poppy's preferred cup was Hollands; the rum was unusually harsh and, even though she persevered with Briars' wine, it still tasted weak and sour. But no one objected when she let her third glass go untouched. No one made her do anything, in fact – it was just a pleasant time with a bunch of young lads eager to treat her like a lady.

  And they looked so smart in their uniforms; any one of them being infinitely more presentable than the customers she was used to associating with before Mrs Manning had changed her life. The middle aged men who thought sagging bellies and balding heads became invisible when a few pieces of silver were passed. Even accepting the poor light from two pusser's dips and some obvious grime on the canvas covered table they were seated about, Poppy told herself she might have been dining in the captain's cabin, just like Mr and Mrs Manning. And of the two groups, she could guess which was having the more fun.

  After their meal they chatted for a while and the spotty young Briars sang a song, although his voice kept cracking, and the others teased him. Cross professed to know a comic rhyme about a cat caught up a tree which he declared at length to critical laughter, even if it seemed two of his audience knew the poem better than he did. Then they played a hand or two of cards – Vingt-et-un, – but it soon paled as none of them had any money to gamble with. And it was at that point Brown suggested the game.

  It sprang from their mutual lack of funds and sounded jolly; a little daring even, so all agreed. Each would take turns in dealing the cards and when someone received the pack's only joker they must remove an item of clothing. Poppy was as keen as any of them; a quick calculation told her she was wearing more than the midshipmen, and playing as they would be ruled out the advantage of skill. Besides, her previous life had left her immune from the horror of naked flesh: hers or anyone else’s.

  At first the boys had been disconcerted to realise that midshipmen's britches were better removed before their precious stockings, unless they wished to create ladders. This caused a deal of merriment and any remaining thoughts about the others cheating were dismissed. With each player taking their turn to deal it was blatantly fair, and when Brown, the oldest and original instigator, was reduced to his stockings and a pair of slightly off-white cotton drawers, she had been laughing too much to worry further.

  And it was fun. Brown's run of bad luck continued until he was forced to step out of his small clothes and stand, wickedly bare, in the flickering light, to a chorus of cat-calls, jeers and girlish giggles. The boy was embarrassed of course; something that made his state of undress even more delightful to Poppy, who secretly appreciated the early opportunity of viewing him in the skin. But Brown's self-consciousness soon faded, and when Briars later joined him, their nudity became almost common place.

  After fifteen minutes play, Poppy had lost gaiters, stockings and shoes, but still retained her
dress as well as the floral bodice Mrs Manning had passed on when they left England. And beneath everything she wore a linen chemise, so was well ahead of the remaining two: the tubby Carley being down to his small clothes with Cross not so very far behind.

  The bodice went with the next hand, then it was Poppy's turn to deal again. She remembered shuffling the greasy cards especially well, so was horrified when the joker appeared in front of her almost straight away. The dress took a while to come off, and did so to the sound of good natured whistles and smirks from the boys. Her chemise was perfectly decent in the low light though; she might not be wearing anything beneath; Mrs Manning' view being that such things were only for ladies of questionable virtue, but Poppy still felt fortune to be on her side. And when subsequent hands saw Carley red faced and as nature intended, while Cross had shed everything bar a single stocking and some rather baggy drawers, she was starting to become hopeful of seeing the afternoon out in relative modesty.

  Then her luck had run out. The next round was hers to deal once more and, once more, she drew the joker. Poppy must have stared at that card for a full ten seconds while the others about her tittered and sniggered although, when she finally stood up, it was to absolute silence.

  But it had been such a pleasant afternoon, and she could hardly let down her gender, not when the boys had already proved themselves sporting. Besides, Poppy could not see what harm it would do to show a bit of flesh. It might even be looked upon as paying for her meal, and she had done considerably more for a good deal less in the past.

  So, despite the stillness, Poppy did not hesitate in reaching down and pulling the light garment over her head. There was the usual difficulty when drawing her auburn mane through the stiff linen, but it was soon done and she could toss the thing carelessly to one side and look again to her audience.

  The four below her were staring hard, and she had smiled cautiously. But a remarkable change seemed to have come over the group and even the poor light could not hide their individual expressions. The innocent young boys of a few seconds ago were now changed into something very different: monsters apparently devouring her pale body with their hungry eyes. Then she had laughed, hoping they would laugh also, but there was no trace of humour on any of the faces. And when they rose up from the table, Poppy suddenly wondered if she had made a terrible mistake.

  Chapter Five

  Precisely eight days later HMS Prometheus, still tacky from her tender paint, was warped from the mole and brought round to anchor properly in Rosia Bay. Then the job of victualling could begin, and the ship began to be assailed by a series of lighters and hoys, an attack that was maintained throughout the daylight hours and did not cease until most of her holds and store rooms were filled to capacity. Some items were not to hand, of course; the purser had been right in grabbing candles when they were available: the few crates he had been able to secure would have to last them until their next provisioning, and there was the usual scarcity of soap. But within a week the ship had taken on everything possible, and a bloated Prometheus edged cautiously out to sea.

  Her next stop was Tetuan; they set sail at first light and a favourable wind took them swiftly across the Strait, so that it was mid afternoon when they anchored under the watchful gaze of the white, turreted tower, and began sampling what turned out to be a reasonable supply of fresh water. At least a day and a half would be needed to take on the two hundred tons a third rate carried so, while the men were still sweating over pumps and tackle, Dawson, the purser, went ashore to try the local market.

  With him he took his steward, Rigget, as well as a former East India hand who claimed to be fluent in the variation of Arabic spoken thereabouts, along with a guard of marines in case he was not. But they were successful and, by noon of the third day, Prometheus had taken on a good supply of citrus fruits, as well as pomegranates and almonds for the officers' stores, and could set sail once more.

  They covered the seven hundred odd miles to Toulon in just under a week. Prometheus sailed well, despite diffident winds, and even such a brief spell of freedom proved enough to settle all on board, especially the many who had been almost pining for the air and space of sea travel. Then, just before dawn on the seventh morning, their journey ended. There was a thick haze to show that summer, which had been endured rather than enjoyed, might finally be coming to an end. As it cleared, and the first stray strands of dawn spread from the east, they revealed the spars and mastheads of the British inshore squadron. That near perfect meeting was the final blessing, and Banks felt he could be certain, both of his ship, and the men he had been given to manage her.

  “Eleven guns, I think is proper,” he said softly as they drew nearer, and the first lieutenant touched his hat in acknowledgement. By then dawn had broken and colours were flying, so the salute could start without delay. Already Prometheus had made and answered the private signal and her number soon broke out from Victory's mizzen at the head of some form of message. The deep boom of the first saluting gun sounded almost immediately, indicating that Hurle, their new gunner, was also fully alert and aware of his duties.

  “Flag is signalling,” Franklin confirmed, as the sound of their cannon continued to roll out. All on the quarterdeck looked across to where Victory lay on the starboard tack, barely making steerage way behind a column of two deckers. “Captain to repair on board.”

  Banks had not eaten breakfast and still wore the bottle green leather waistcoat Sarah had given him for chilly mornings. His gig was already being swung out, however; a request from the commander-in-chief being important to the honour of the ship and need not wait for confirmation. Nelson was certainly keeping to his maxim for not losing a minute; it was fortunate that David had laid out Banks' britches and stockings that morning. He should have time to don his full dress tunic but, as he turned for his quarters, it was to meet his servant emerging with the jacket in hand, and he was not sorry.

  * * *

  “Sir Richard – such a pleasure to see you again,” the admiral informed him. “Why it must be five years or more!”

  Banks felt himself blushing from the compliment. If he were being pedantic, it was actually more like six, but Nelson had achieved so much in the intervening time that his simply remembering their previous meeting was remarkable in itself.

  The dining cabin in Victory was filled with people. No less than eight stewards stood in permanent attendance at a table that held a collection of officers ranging in rank from cockpit to flag, although most wore uniforms of the finest cut. And there were a fair few civilians present: again, impeccably turned out and appearing remarkably relaxed in such auspicious company. But one amongst them, the slightest by far, appeared strangely ill at ease. He was dressed in the shabbiest of uniforms, yet naturally drew the eye, and it came as a shock when Banks remembered the scruffy little man was also the most senior in the room.

  “Pray, sit down, do. Have you taken breakfast?” Nelson asked. “We have only just finished, and will wait while yours is served. There is bound to be much to tell and probably easier to do so here.”

  The table appeared to have been laid for what must have been a minor feast, with the smell of fresh bread and cooked meat still hanging tantalisingly in the air, so it was easy for Banks to allow one of the immaculate stewards to guide him to a chair directly in front of his commander-in-chief.

  “Captain Murray, my first captain, and Captain Hardy who is acting as second – I am sure you remember Thomas from our last meeting,” Nelson continued, nodding to the tall, assured man on his right. And this is Dr Scott my Chaplain, and Mr Scott my secretary.” For a moment the tired face lit up in unexpected humour. “Such a clash of names does make for confusion at times,” the admiral explained, “though there are greater matters of concern, to be sure. But you must eat, Sir Richard. There are rolls and some splendid tongue, help yourself, do – steward, light along a fresh brew of the tea.”

  Banks settled into the high backed chair and selected a roll still delightfully wa
rm to the touch. He broke it open in his fingers and briefly enjoyed the aroma as yet another servant placed a cup of milk-less tea beside him.

  “We are fortunate that a small supply of soft tack can be baked on a daily basis,” Nelson said, as Banks bit into the roll, although he could not help but notice the plate still lying in front of the admiral lacked any crumbs. And as his glance naturally rose to the man himself, it became clear the time between their meetings had taken its toll.

  Since then, and in the very same ship, Nelson had been through many changes. The loss of an arm, Banks had been expecting, but hair that once was full and dark now lacked colour and seemed worryingly thin. A livid scar ran along his forehead, and the skin itself was fragile, pallid and stretched so tightly across the sharp bones of the admiral's face, that it appeared in danger of being split.

  “So, what news of England? Do you carry despatches?” Nelson asked. “Or, if not home, Gibraltar or Malta then? Have Ball or Otway anything to say?”

  “Nothing, I fear, my Lord,” Banks replied, feeling genuinely sorry as Nelson's expression fell.

  “It is of no matter. We received a brig not ten days back, but news is always of the greatest importance. What of your command, captain?” Nelson asked, switching the emphasis suddenly. “She has fared well at the hands of the dockyard I assume?”

  “I am delighted at the speed and efficiency of our refit,” Banks replied sincerely.

  The admiral lowered his head slightly, giving the absurd impression he was accepting a compliment addressed to himself. “Indeed, they are an exemplary yard, and do much with so little facilities. Why, they fixed our ships after Egypt in record time; I doubt if another could have done so well.”

  “So your ship is quite recovered from the taking of those liners, Sir Richard?” This was Hardy asking and, although a senior captain, Banks was surprised he should effectively interrupt his admiral's questions.