by Alaric Bond
“They’ve been missing it a fair while,” Crowley said evenly, as Walsh fell into step with him.
“You never did give it up when you were in England,” Walsh observed.
“I could not be so dedicated,” Crowley admitted. “A penny or so of tax is neither here nor there, as far as I am concerned.”
Walsh said nothing for a while, and Crowley actually began to feel guilty for not being as committed as his friends. Then an anger rose up inside him. He had not asked to be involved in their mission; in fact, his objections had been raised from the start. It was just a queer combination of circumstances that had led him to France; there was nothing for him to feel bad about.
“It were a close call last night,” Walsh said after they had been walking a short while. “I thought our goose was caught. Caught, plucked and fully roasted.”
“Then we were of the same mind,” Crowley agreed.
“It was as if they were aware of us,” the younger man persisted. “Why would that be, do you think?” he asked innocently.
“I have no idea.”
“I was wondering if you might have something to do with it.”
Crowley stopped suddenly. “You are suspecting me?” he asked flatly. “You think I peached on my mates?”
Walsh had taken a couple more steps, and had to turn back. “The opportunity was there, right enough,” he said. “There was ample time when visiting your friend the British lieutenant. And the allegiance you hold to King George’s Navy is well known.”
“So your logic suggests that I betrayed you?”
“You must grant it a possibility.”
“And in doing so, put myself in danger at the same time? The British were firing on us and cared not who they might hit, or had you forgotten?”
“To be truthful, Michael, I know not what to think,” Walsh conceded, and the tension relaxed somewhat. “The others will not have a bad word said against you, and that would normally be enough for me. But then we live in times when brother is often set against brother. And frankly, I am not sure where it is that you stand.”
“I owe no allegiance to any country,” Crowley said, his tone quite soft and even, “and frankly despise those who do. There has never been a clump of grass, a rock, or a tree that has meant more to me than a person.”
Walsh watched him in silence as he continued.
“It is people who matter to me. So I stand for my friends, be they British or Irish. And I’ll tell you now, I would cheerfully betray any cause if I felt that one that I regarded as my own was in danger. But never, ever would I speak against a friend, and certainly not in favour of a project such as yours. Or any other merely political ideal, come to that.”
The other man considered this for a moment, then began to move on once more. “I had thought as much, but am thankful to hear it from your own mouth. There would be many who might think the same, but say otherwise.”
“I am not amongst them,” Crowley told him, walking alongside.
“I see that, and am glad.”
They were nearing the village now, and the lights from the tavern were in clear sight.
“Douglas and Collins will be staying here,” Walsh said. “They can manage the boat right enough on their own. We will be leaving in the morning for Brest: it is only twenty-five kilometres away. With luck we should be there in time for dinner. There is much news that has to be shared, and not all of it good. I would rather do it there. There is also a man I want you all to meet, who may do the telling better than I.”
“And then?” Crowley asked.
Walsh paused for a moment as if relishing the prospect. “Then there is the biggest group of ships that has been put together for quite a while, and they will be sailing for Ireland. Ireland and freedom. I hope you will join us Michael, really I do.” His eyes flashed, suddenly bright. “We need all the honest men we can get.”
* * *
The majority of the officers berthed in the gunroom, a space slightly smaller than the captain’s quarters directly above it. The quarters were subdivided into eight cabins, with a central communal area for dining. In larger ships it would have been known as a wardroom, with a smaller gunroom below, for lesser officers. In a frigate these lower ranks, which included the gunner, berthed outside the gunroom and had alternative, less salubrious messing arrangements. Traditionally the gunroom officers formed a tight family. Their cabins were admittedly tiny, but as all bar two were for single occupancy, and in one of those the second tenant was a cat, the lack of space was no great problem. Besides, it was usually more comfortable to sit in the dining area, where the mess table made as pleasant a place to read as to eat, and company was usually to be found.
King had finally come to the end of a busy day and was tucking into a large plate of mutton that a steward had brought him. The meat was fresh, a welcome change from the usual sea diet of salt beef or pork; and King, with no one to talk to, found himself wolfing the food down with a young man’s appetite. He pushed the plate back once he had finished and considered calling the steward for a pudding; but he had eaten on an empty stomach, and the haste had given him mild indigestion. Instead he sat back in his chair, belched quietly, and then yawned. Really he should go straight to bed, but he felt like some company. Caulfield would probably join him shortly, or Fraiser; either one were good for conversation. King decided to wait for them and, in the meantime, enjoy the peace and solitude; both rare luxuries aboard a ship of war.
But his time was soon interrupted. Almost before he had closed his eyes and tried to think of anything other than the problems of the day, a murmur of conversation from the surgeon’s cabin caught his attention. He had yet to meet Mr Clarkson, who was currently travelling down from London; his wife was aboard, of course, but there should be no one for her to speak to in their quarters. And one of the voices sounded male.
He wriggled uncomfortably on his chair as the talking changed to a whispering that ended abruptly in laughter. It was definitely two voices; one was a woman’s and must belong to Betsy Clarkson, unless Mrs Porter, the boatswain’s wife, was in there as well. The other, well, King was reluctantly certain it belonged to a man. And, being that Mr Clarkson was absent, he could only conclude that whoever owned it really should be somewhere else.
But who was it? Chilton had been sent off on a recruitment drive and would not be back for several days. Caulfield and Fraiser were on the quarterdeck. Dudley, the purser, was ashore, and the final cabin was currently unoccupied. That only left Marshall, the lieutenant of marines.
King raised his eyebrows and puffed as another chorus of giggling made itself heard. He was not unduly surprised; Marshall was as cocky as he was vain: King could have guessed that the lure of a pretty and temporarily available young woman would be too much for him to ignore. But such a thing was not encouraged in any commissioned ship, especially during wartime. Women were not even officially allowed on board, although they might be carried at the discretion of the captain. Once there they had to behave themselves, or risk being put off at the next port.
King also sensed that any case of marital disharmony could only grow and fester, even when Mr Clarkson returned and all were apparently put to rights. Such tension must disrupt the ship, and just at the wrong time, as she was settling down to a new regime. There can be few secrets in a wooden frigate; it would not be long before something was noticed or overheard, just as he was doing now. Then questions would be asked and folk were bound to talk and speculate; it would be hard keeping such delicious gossip quiet, and right now all their energy was needed getting Scylla up to standard.
He stood up a little uncertainly. It was a difficult situation and one he was not truly fit to handle. He could order the lowering of a topgallant mast when storms were expected, and might usually be relied upon to set the ship’s position to within tolerable limits. But this went far beyond the realm of seamanship. Marshall was his inferior in rank; it would be quite in order for him to rap on the door and demand an explanation. B
ut there might be a scene, and he would have to think quickly; the marine was an eloquent man and was bound to have some reasonable explanation, one that would be perfectly innocent and leave King looking the fool.
Another peal of laughter broke out, followed by what sounded very much like a slap. King swallowed, and looked about. There was no one else in the gunroom; he was quite alone, as clearly Marshall and Mrs Clarkson felt themselves to be.
So, it would be a case of his word against theirs, and this early on in the commission, it was a confrontation he did not relish. Perhaps it might be better to leave things as they were; it could only be a momentary fling: an affair that would die away to nothing as soon as Mr Clarkson came back to claim his rightful place. Besides, did King really have any business interfering with such things? He might be better to choose discretion. And telling himself he was in no way dodging the issue, he rose and quietly made for his own cabin.
* * *
In the midshipmen’s berth the entertainment was far more innocent. The boys, and with the possible exception of Barrow they might all be called so, had just finished an especially tiring day and carried appetites worthy of men twice their age. The middle-aged marine servant who acted as a combination of steward, housekeeper and surrogate parent had drawn the same meal as that of the officers, and the smell of fresh mutton was there to greet them as they tumbled good naturedly into the small room.
“My, that smells good.” Barrow made straight for the pewter pot and peered within. “No salt horse there, what? God bless Peter Warren!”
“Peter Warren?” Parfrey, a twelve year old volunteer who had joined that afternoon, asked cautiously.
“It’s a jape,” Rose said kindly, “a play on words; when in harbour we are issued with petty warren rations.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Barrow said, dipping a finger in the stew. “Mr Warren’s the butcher who supplied this mutton; and it was a splendid beast, I’d chance.”
“Come on gentlemen, we ‘aven’t got all night,” the marine steward was also keen for his own supper. “Form up and I’ll serve out; then you can spend all day talking if it pleases you.”
The lads clattered down on to the benches that ran either side of the table, and the marine reached for the pile of plates. Rose collected a handful of forks from a locker and threw them down in an untidy pile in front of the lads. The more experienced amongst them collected one apiece and pressed the tines through the canvas table covering, cleaning the head of any debris left over from the previous meal, while the marine passed out the plates until there was one in front of each. He regarded them seriously. “No foolin’ now,” he cautioned. “Sergeant Rice ‘ears you makin’ a noise, and it’ll be me who’s for it.”
The lads smiled angelically back, and soon they were left alone.
“So?” Barrow said, looking about. “This is our first proper meal together; what’s it to be?”
“Do we say grace?” Parfrey asked.
“Can if you wish,” Barrow shrugged. “But there is more fun to be had elsewhere. “I’d say we try a spot of… All change!”
At the words he, and several of the other, older boys immediately slipped off their bench, and began crawling under the table on all fours. They emerged on the other side, sometimes to an empty place, sometimes to one that was filled, but shortly to be emptied, whereupon they began to devour the food in front of them. Most had managed two or even three forkfuls before the cry of ‘All Change’ went up again, and the process was repeated. The new lads caught on quickly enough, and soon the evolution was even working quite smoothly, although some confusion, when eight adolescent bodies met under a table while trying to pass in opposite directions, was inevitable.
The stew was finished in no time, and the lads beamed at each other, panting exaggeratedly and wiping nonexistent sweat from their brows. It had been an excellent meal.
* * *
Fraiser entered the gunroom just after King had fled to his cabin. He also heard the talking, but took far less time in coming to a decision. Instead of taking a seat and calling for his supper, he made straight for the surgeon’s cabin and rapped firmly on the door. There was a sudden silence from within, then Mrs Clarkson’s voice gave out a hesitant “Yes?”
“Sailing master, madam,” Fraiser said, in a firm tone. “You have company in there, I believe.”
“Bugger off, Fraiser. We’re busy.” It was the marine lieutenant’s voice, as he had expected and, despite Marshall’s seniority in rank, the man had no business addressing him so.
“Mr Marshall, kindly present yourself, sir.”
The sound of movement from within was unmistakeable. Fraiser waited, but the door remained closed.
“Mr Marshall, I insist that you exit this lady’s cabin immediately.”
Suddenly Marshall’s face appeared at the partially opened door. “What the devil do you mean by this?” he asked, glaring down and into the older man’s eyes.
“You are in a lady’s cabin, sir,” Fraiser said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “Kindly remove yourself at once.”
“We are doing nothing untoward, and this is not of your business.”
“Very well, then I shall inform the captain,” Fraiser went to go, but Marshall called after him.
“And tell him what? That Mrs Clarkson and I are playing a game of vingt-et-un? Hardly a criminal offence, I’d chance.”
“Not a criminal offence, Mr Marshall,” Fraiser said, “but one that will certainly see you off this ship. If you were to play a game with Mrs Clarkson, you would have been better to do so at the gunroom table.”
Marshall considered him for a moment. “Very well,” he said finally. “We shall do so in future.”
“There will not be the opportunity,” Fraiser said firmly. “You shall leave this ship without delay.”
“I shall what?” Marshall stepped out of the cabin. He was dressed in a plain shirt and britches, and his hair was not dressed and hung in a tangle. “You stupid old fool; you are naught but a sailing master; how dare you presume to order me about?” The marine’s complexion had grown dangerously red, and he all but spat his words. “I am your superior and could buy and sell any warrant officer a hundred times over. You have absolutely no authority in this matter, and certainly none over what I do in my free time. And in addition you have made an outrageous suggestion that has upset Mrs Clarkson deeply; I insist you apologise.” Marshall’s face was barely inches away from Fraiser’s, although the older man met his glare with quiet composure.
“There will be no apologies, unless you see sense and choose to offer one,” Fraiser said, his words clipped and firm. “I have found you carrying on in a commissioned ship of war. Worse than that, a fellow officer’s wife is involved. The matter shall be taken to the captain, or you will leave this very evening; it is your choice, and you must make it straight away.”
Marshall considered Fraiser for a second, then a quizzical look played upon his face. “You’re serious, aren’t you? I cannot just walk off a ship to which I am appointed.”
“Mr Marshall, you can do exactly that; hand in your papers if need be, but go, and go now. There will be time to appoint a new man in your place.”
“You jumped up, Jesus bothering nonentity…” the marine stopped, mouth open, desperately searching for words.
“I have right, and the law on my side,” Fraiser continued smoothly. “And the Lord as well, since you choose to include Him.”
Marshall continued to stare at the man, then suddenly pushed past, out of the surgeon’s cabin, and across the gunroom to his own. He went inside, slamming the frail door behind him.
“Steward, do we have some food?” Fraiser asked suddenly, turning away from the half opened cabin door and ignoring the sound of a woman’s sobs from within. The gunroom servant appeared, rather too readily he thought, and placed a bowl of steaming stew on the table.
“And I’ll take a cup of tea, if you please,” Fraiser said, seating himself, and pulling
the bowl towards him. He began to eat and continued, even when Marshall bellowed for his servant. He was just finishing his meal as the two of them bustled out of the cabin, out of the gunroom and, in Marshall’s case, off the ship.
Chapter Four
“We are for the Irish station,” Banks said; and, strangely, the statement brought no immediate reaction. All of the officers present had been expecting a posting to the Channel Fleet, and it took several seconds for them to properly register the news. “Admiral Kingsmill is at Cork, and we shall be based there, though we are bound for Dublin first with despatches and to be briefed,” he continued, taking advantage of their surprise. “Scylla will be travelling alone, but I believe it likely that further reinforcements are to be sent to join us shortly.”
Banks looked down from the head of the table. Of the four men before him, three he knew well; only Chilton stood out as the newcomer and, as he had only just returned from his recruiting drive, still remained something of an enigma. The captain unfolded the orders he had received that morning; they carried far more background information than was usual, but then Evan Nepean, the secretary to the Board of Admiralty, was known to have an interest in Irish matters.