by Alaric Bond
“I think at this point it may be worth a brief résumé for those who are not fully aware of the current state of affairs,” Banks said. “You may well have heard of the rather ragged uprising a few months back.” He raised his eyes and looked at each in turn. Caulfield, he knew, had Irish connections; Fraiser was a Scot; and it was not inconceivable that Chilton or even King held sympathies. Should he notice any sign of support in these, or any of his officers for that matter, he would have them exchanged without delay. The Irish situation was difficult enough; it was vital that he trusted everyone: there was no room for subversive tendencies or misplaced ideals.
“The attempt was ill organised and inconclusive,” he continued, studying them still. “This was partially due to our agents infiltrating the illegal organisation known as the United Irishmen, and partially to the firm hand taken by the military. A series of arrests were made which raised the tension and precipitated a spontaneous revolt that was relatively easy to put down; although not without bloodshed, of course.” The men were meeting his gaze with nothing other than total attention, and Banks continued, quietly relieved.
“We think that the rebels had been planning something a little more elaborate, very likely involving French forces. Similar expeditions have been staged in the past; I know that most of you will be aware of the attempt in ‘ninety-six, when enemy ships came as far as anchoring in Irish waters. That attempt failed, and I am proud to say that our last ship had no small hand in the matter, which incidentally may well have influenced my Lords of the Admiralty when selecting Scylla for this task.” He paused; there was no harm in reminding them of previous success. “So May’s rebellion was defused, although feelings still run high, and it is considered that another attempt, possibly with assistance from the French, is likely.” To Banks, the Irish’s apparent fascination with rebellion truly was surprising. Why any nation should wish to decline the presence of Britain, with its wealth, power and intelligence, was something of a mystery.
“There are at least two squadrons of enemy shipping thought to be in the general vicinity; one of them, commanded by Commodore Savary, left France when news of the May uprising was received. They are known to be carrying upwards of a thousand troops, which, though not an especially large force, will probably attract support from the civil population. We have yet to discover where they are bound; they may even be half way to the ‘Indies by now, but if Ireland is their destination a landing must be avoided at all costs.”
He studied the men again and then relaxed. “So, gentlemen; are there any questions or comments?”
Only Chilton, who was unused to his new captain’s strange habit of inviting his inferiors to hold an opinion, looked in any way disconcerted. Caulfield was the first to speak.
“You mentioned support, sir. As I recall the Irish station is not blessed with many ships; when can we expect assistance?”
“True, they have only one liner plus a handful of frigates and some smaller stuff in the south,” Banks agreed, “hardly sufficient to protect a country as large as Ireland. But then the Admiralty is fully aware of the situation, and hopefully the Channel Fleet will stop any sizeable force venturing too far. Privately I would expect at least one flying squadron to be despatched to reinforce us without delay, and there may be others joining on a more permanent basis.”
Fraiser was the next to speak, and did so with his customary quiet assurance. “The crew, sir. There are many Irish amongst them.”
“Indeed, Mr Fraiser,” Banks said, picking up the thread. “And all must be watchful. In some ways we are in a far better position than the Army; an enemy at sea is clear and indisputable; whereas on land there is no telling whom you can trust. But that does not mean we are immune to sympathisers amongst our own. If you have doubts or suspicions you will report them to me without delay. And clearly any act that could be looked upon as sabotage will be dealt with in the firmest manner.”
He waited, but no one was keen to add further. “Very well, gentlemen; our orders are to sail at the earliest opportunity: can you give me the current situation with stores, Mr Caulfield?”
The first lieutenant cleared his throat. “Yes, sir, we are fully victualled in all bar fresh water, although the remaining tonnage required can be taken on in a morning. We are also awaiting candles and tallow from the renderers, but would have sufficient should you wish us to proceed. Fabric and frame are in good repair, with only regular maintenance, and some small attention to the forecastle caulking required. And standing rigging is now complete, with running to be likewise by the end of the morrow. The outstanding problem is men.” He allowed himself a brief sigh. “Despite Mr Chilton’s gallant efforts we still remain forty able down, and could probably find a place for that many landsmen if given the chance.”
Banks leant forward in his chair. “I think I can put your mind at rest. We have been awarded a draft from a seventy-four, currently being paid off in Torbay. There should be fifty prime hands with us by the morning after next.” The officers’ look of surprise and relief was like a tonic. Banks savoured the moment, even though it was probably the last favour his father would grant him.
“They will indeed be welcome,” Caulfield murmured. Banks glanced up; all the lieutenants were actually smiling like a bunch of lads, while Fraiser assumed an expression of smug approval.
“We have also had news of a replacement for Mr Marshall,” Banks continued, oblivious to any affect that mentioning the man was having on at least two of his officers. “We are to receive a captain of marines, a Mr Westwood, in addition to a replacement lieutenant. Also a further fifteen private soldiers and a corporal.”
“That will be quite a force, sir,” Caulfield remarked.
“Indeed,” Banks eyes fell for a moment. “It is possible that Scylla will be involved in operations ashore, and provisions are being made to see that we are properly equipped.” There was a moment’s silence; all were well aware that any land based action was likely to be difficult and deadly; their force of marines, though large compared with the usual frigate’s compliment, was minuscule in military terms. And, if they were deployed, the very fact would be a sign of failure: an indication that the enemy had been allowed a firm stronghold and that every available resource was needed.
“It is indeed strange that Mr Marshall chose to leave so suddenly,” Banks said, collecting his papers together and considering for a moment. “Problems of a family nature, I understand, but still…” He was clearly hoping for some response, some thread of information, but received nothing but blank stares in return. Even Fraiser, usually one with particular concern for his fellow man, showed a remarkable lack of reaction. But then Banks was conscious that Marshall had made very little impression on him, and he supposed the others felt the same. Yes, rather a nonentity, he decided; and, that being the case, it was probably better that he had gone, even if taking on a replacement this close to sailing was inconvenient.
“Very well gentlemen,” he said, bringing himself back to the subject in hand. “I am sure we all have plenty to keep us busy; if no one has any objections we will aim for Wednesday’s morning tide: I will signal to that effect.”
* * *
Egmont had been a decent ship, of a proper size, and with a lower gun deck stuffed full of thirty-two pounders, an armament worth talking about. This Scylla was nothing more than a row boat in comparison, and her eighteen pounders, what they were pleased to call the great guns, were almost an insult to a man accustomed to handling true weaponry. As a quarter gunner Surridge was used to having overall charge of four of those monsters. And he had trained men to use them, trained them in such a way that they did not lose their heads or cry for mother when the shot started flying, or their mates got snuffed about them. He could probably do so again, even on this piss poor little gig, if that was what King George intended: Surridge, or Suggs, as he was known to the men, wasn’t inclined to go against authority as high as that. But he didn’t have to like it, and even now, from what he regarded as a
position worthy of respect, Surridge could still cause trouble on the lower levels should he choose to do so.
He’d drawn one of the coveted hammock spaces at the end of a row. It was almost next to the galley, which was convenient, as Surridge hated chewing tobacco but was fond of a night time pipe, and handy for the heads. But in Egmont he had wangled a cabin – not a true one admittedly, it was more a partitioned off pen; the carpenter had made it to house a gentleman’s fag when they were shipping a bunch of gentry coves back to England. Surridge had claimed it as soon as the party left, and it was an indication of his character and position in the social hierarchy of the ship that he had done so over the heads of several petty officers superior to him. He’d liked that cabin, both for its space, and the recognition it gave of his true worth. To go back to sleeping amongst other men, and in a ship that hardly warranted use of the title, was not Surridge’s idea of advancement. Besides, he had been looking forward to a decent cruise ashore. With three years’ wages in his pocket he should have been able to spend a happy week or so in the Torbay brothels and tap houses, and to find his plans so drastically altered had thoroughly spoiled Surridge’s day.
He walked down the berth deck where others from Egmont were also finding their way about and commenting on the situation. There was Cox, a former miner who had been a gun captain; and Joshua the negro, one of the servers, and strong enough to haul a thirty-two back almost single-handed. It would be an education to see how they took to the pop guns they would be using. A gawky midshipman was calling out names from a sheet of paper; presumably they were setting out the messes. Surridge caught the eye of Cox, who acknowledged him good-naturedly.
“Whatcha think, Suggs?” he asked. “Bit more space than the old girl, eh?”
Surridge sneered and looked about. Admittedly the lack of guns on the berth deck gave generous room for the two hundred or so men who would be sleeping there. But no artillery also meant no proper divisions; messes would be spilling out into one another; there would be a lack of privacy and no shortage of draughts.
“I been in frigates afore,” Surridge grunted. “She’ll be cold, damp, and constantly on the move.”
Cox shrugged. “Maybe so, but given the choice between ‘er and the Egmont, I’d choose ‘er,” he said. “No smell of wet rot, an’ you got more than an even chance of seeing port.”
Surridge took a furtive glance about, then spat generously on the deck. Cox looked his surprise, which bolstered the quarter-gunner’s mood still further. “B’now I should have been deep in the arms of Nellie Lake,” he confided. “Biggest apple shop in the West Country, she has.”
Cox opened his mouth to comment, when his face became fixed on something beyond his friend’s shoulder.
“You there,” it was a lad’s voice, but not without authority. “Wipe that up!”
Surridge turned to see a midshipman glaring at him, and pointing to the spittle on the deck. “What’s that?” Surridge demanded.
“I said, wipe that up,” the lad repeated. “An’ you call me Mister Rose.”
“Rose?” Surridge’s eyebrows twitched and a faint look of scorn appeared across his grubby face. The midshipman’s uniform was slightly too small for him, emphasising his age, and making the surname seem even more appropriate.
“Mister Rose,” the boy insisted, still pointing at the spittle.
Surridge smirked, and extended a bare foot. He wiped the spot with his sole, smearing it into the deck, then regarded the boy once more as if he was assessing him for a minor task.
Rose’s face was mildly flushed. “What is your name?”
“Surridge.” The man paused. “Mister Rose.”
“Very well, Surridge. “The next time I catch you behaving like that it will be a report to the lieutenant.”
“I’ll remember,” Surridge’s expression was not quite a smirk, and certainly nothing that could be officially regarded as insubordination, but he noticed the glow on the boy’s face had increased, and knew that the lad would remember as well.
* * *
Throughout the next day Scylla‘s men worked. The last of the water was taken in, along with a further, unexpected, and very welcome consignment of fresh vegetables. Then the tallow finally arrived, together with several barrels of oil, what seemed like a lifetime’s supply of candles, and even some soap, all of which was instantly claimed by Mr Dudley, the purser.
Amongst the hands there was a good deal of confusion at first. The men were of vastly differing backgrounds and intellects. Some, mainly those new to the Navy, found pretty much everything confusing, and could not be expected to remember much beyond their own names, while the experienced hands blatantly ignored their correct messes and gravitated to previous mates, much to the despair of their divisional officers. But by the evening a few were becoming familiar faces; small routines, such as the division of spirits at noon and four, had become established; and at least some semblance of sense and cooperation was starting to appear.
The senior officers were reasonably pleased, in fact, and as they all met in the small ship’s gunroom and ate their first meal together there was quite a convivial atmosphere.
Robert Manning had joined them that afternoon, and was present as a guest of King. By luck he had come down part of the way with Mr Clarkson, and so had had plenty of time to become acquainted. They had yet to work together, of course, but it was clear that the fair haired, slightly hesitant surgeon knew his stuff, and the two had the makings of a good professional relationship.
Captain Westwood had also boarded that day. A pleasant, well educated man of middle years and delicate features, he was far more refined than the bumptious Marshall they had grown uncomfortably used to, and soon became accepted by all. Westwood’s subaltern was Lieutenant Adshead, a considerably younger and almost frail little man, serving his first term at sea. Adshead was not quite so easy; he came across as somewhat nervous, and was inclined to stammer. He also had very fair skin that had already burnt horribly in the English summer and would not serve him well should Scylla ever be sent for tropical service.
The surgeon’s arrival meant that his wife finally released herself from what had become almost continual occupation of her cabin. Both her self-imposed exclusion and Marshall’s departure was understood by those who knew or guessed the reason, and politely ignored by the rest. In the case of Mr Dudley, the purser, whose life was neatly divided between keeping track of his constantly changing stores and the well being of Sophie, the gunroom tabby, it was possible that neither had even been noticed at all.
But now they were all together; even the cat was surreptitiously present on Dudley’s lap, and they seemed to have the makings of a full and happy gunroom.
“Wine with you, sir!” Westwood raised a half filled glass to Chilton, who had been one of the quieter contributors throughout the meal. “You have served in Scylla before, and shall have a wealth of stories to tell, no doubt?”
Chilton sipped at his wine a little uncertainly. “You are speaking of her sailing manners, sir?”
Westwood laughed. “Lord, no; I have singularly little knowledge of such things, nor the need of it.” He beamed good-naturedly to the company in general. “I was meaning more her history; she has shone in battle, perhaps?”
“I regret not,” Chilton replied. “The occasion never presented itself. Though of course I am sure that she would have, had it done so,” he added clumsily.
“You were with the Channel Fleet, I collect?” Caulfield asked.
“Indeed, and were once ordered to join an escort for an India convoy back to Portsmouth; apart from that we spent much of our time polishing the French coast – without actually touching it, I am thankful to say.”
“Blockade duty can be deadly dull,” Caulfield conceded, amidst the polite laughter. “Let us hope our current role will show a bit more life.”
“It would be good to see a little action,” Chilton mused; then, noticing a faint look of concern in Fraiser’s eyes, he hurriedly ad
ded: “Not that I am wishing for bloodshed, of course.”
“On the contrary, it should be the desire of every serving officer,” the young Adshead replied, as if reading from a book. “We are at sea to fight; to do otherwise would be a waste of our talents.”
“Well, I for one have no need for combat,” Clarkson said. “And I think you would feel the same were you to attend the results.”
There was further laughter, and King noticed how Clarkson’s wife, who had been attentive to her husband’s every wish since his return, squeezed at his arm after he had spoken. The two exchanged what might have been a secret look, and King wondered briefly at her nerve.
“No, a bloody war and a sickly season,” Westwood joked, and glanced at his deputy. “Is not that what you are after, Gerald?”
“It is the better way for promotion,” Adshead confessed, then blushed dramatically at the roar of laughter that followed his comment.