by Alaric Bond
“In that case, you will pardon me if I seek to retain my present rank,” Fraiser replied.
“And I,” Westwood agreed. “Long may your chances of advancement be thwarted,” and the laughter returned yet again. Then he focused on the sailing master. “You are new to the ship, sir?”
The Scotsman nodded. “Aye, I last served with our present captain, alongside Mr Caulfield, Mr King and Mr Manning.”
Westwood looked with interest. “So, we have a team ready built? Capital! What ship?”
“Pandora,” Caulfield replied. “A light frigate.”
“I regret I have not come across her; did she see action?”
“Oh, yes,” Fraiser confirmed. “Enough to satisfy even Mr Adshead’s desires.”
The young man, who had suddenly developed a keen interest in his dessert fork, blushed again but did not look up.
“We fought the Spanish at St Vincent, and the Dutch at Camperdown,” King admitted, and Westwood beamed with approval.
“And now you are to fight the Irish?”
“Hardly that,” Caulfield, said quickly. “Were the Irish to be supported by the French, it may well come to action, but that would be another matter entirely.”
“Do you think so?” Westwood asked. “My brother is currently stationed in Dublin. There are few Frenchmen to be had, but the Irish seem happy enough battling it out with each other. Since May’s rebellion was put down, they’ve been mainly warring between themselves: Catholic against Dissenter, worker against farmer, that is the rule. And the United Irishmen are united in name alone; by all accounts they are an ill-disciplined bunch and have little interest beyond pillage and plunder.”
“The troubles continue?” Caulfield asked.
“They do for now, but slowly things are easing. I gather the pitch-cap has much to do with it.”
“Pitch-cap?”
Westwood shrugged. “It is a cruel device, to be certain. A man’s head is coated with a mixture of pitch and gunpowder. When ignited there are few that will not speak, and many who cannot stop.”
“Barbaric,” Fraiser said softly.
“Indeed,” Westwood met his eyes. “But when brother is fighting brother such measures are needed if they are to put a stop to the process.”
“But you said things were easing,” Caulfield persisted.
“So I believe,” Westwood agreed. “My brother was involved in a recent flogging campaign; it left most praying for the King and cursing any who say otherwise. There are croppy hunters by the score, and the magistrates are half hanging any who show signs of dissent. I should say a few more months of such action will see all put to right for the next hundred years or so. That is, if the Frogs don’t interfere; then we may well find ourselves fighting them as well as the Irish, and I for one do not relish such a prospect.”
“I don’t understand,” King interrupted. “The rebels have no navy; surely an enemy at sea can only be French?”
“In theory, yes.” Westwood regarded him. “But this talk of an invasion fleet, do you believe that to be entirely manned by Frenchmen?”
“In the main,” King said a little uncertainly.
Westwood shook his head. “I should be surprised,” he replied. “The French cannot afford to waste any more able-bodied men; they have lost a good few on the invasion force that Admiral Nelson dealt with. An army sent to assist the Irish in their revolution would be largely made up of foreigners. And of those, the Irish dissidents, of which there must be a fair few, would make up the majority.”
There was silence for a moment as the room digested his statement. Westwood, realising he might have broken the mood somewhat, shuffled in his seat. “But let us not dwell on such matters now; this has been a pleasant evening. What say we round it off with song?”
The suggestion was quickly adopted, and soon voices were raised that filled the small room and could be heard throughout most of the ship. King joined in readily enough, although there was something in Westwood’s remarks that had bothered him. It was quite true; many patriots had sailed with previous invasion attempts: why, even Crowley had been present in the French frigate that Pandora had fought and captured on her way down to Gibraltar. But then Crowley had not been a true nationalist. The man was more of a stateless drifter, one without a home or a cause to support. King knew that his friend had found both in the Royal Navy and was glad; even though, as he had now decided, Crowley must have chosen to join another ship rather that wait and serve with him. But it didn’t stop King from wishing Crowley was with them in Scylla, nor did it quell the faint and undefinable feeling of unease that stayed with him for the rest of that evening, and even late into the night.
* * *
“So, dearest?” she dabbed at her face. “You have yet to tell me, how did you find London?”
The cabin was dark and cramped, although they had managed to install a small table at which Betsy always sat. It was next to the canvas wash stand and had a strip of mirror above. A lantern hung overhead on which William Clarkson would occasionally bang his head; but, as it gave his wife light to attend to her appearance, he was content for it to remain.
“London was as London always is,” he replied. “I gave in the paper at Surgeon’s Hall, and met up with Daniel Brown – you will remember him from Haslar?”
“Oh yes, Daniel….” Indeed she did remember.
“We spent a pleasant couple of days together, and then I travelled on to see mama.”
“Well, I trust?” Betsy was applying powder to her nose even though they were about to retire. She was one who flushed easily, and the memory of Daniel had caused just such a sensation. It was fortunate that she was in the exact position to remedy the problem.
“Well enough, though her knee still pains her.”
“And your father?”
“He is splendid, thank you.”
There was little more that needed to be said. Betsy had complied with the common rules of politeness, which had been duly acknowledged by William. His parents had never approved of her, and consequently she held little feeling for them. Of course nothing was ever spoken out loud, but each party knew the situation well enough.
“Well, I am glad that you are back,” she said, turning and smiling up at him.
“And I equally so,” he rested his hand on her shoulder. The hair he loved so much was only half tied; some strands were loose and flowed down her back in a golden torrent. Daringly he ran his fingers through them, before finally smoothing and making all right once more. “You were not terribly bored?”
“Oh no,” she said lightly. Turning back she freed herself from his touch. Her hair was now in a perfect mess and she began to tease it back into place with the handle of her brush. “No, I found enough to occupy myself, thank you.”
“The new men seem fine.” He spoke more softly, as sound was very likely to travel between the frail gunroom cabins.
“They do,” she agreed.
“I should say Westwood is quite well educated,” he continued. “And a captain of marines; that is a rare thing for Scylla. The others appear a good bunch, and I certainly approve of Robert Manning: potentially a brilliant surgeon, I think. All in all I’d say it were an improvement on the last set.”
She tensed, hoping his mind would not follow on to the previous officers. “Yes, I think this will be a happy ship,” she said.
“Adshead may be a bit light.” The surgeon had taken off his jacket and was unbuttoning his shirt. “Not like that Marshall, though I confess I never really took to the fellow.”
“He meant little to me,” Betsy said evenly as she started to apply yet more powder.
Clarkson accepted her statement readily enough. “I expect you had little contact with him,” he said.
They had a bed, one of only a very few in the ship. The carpenter had made it during their first commission; it was almost four feet in width, but it folded up neatly if required, although it was rare for the gunroom to be totally cleared during action. Clarkson h
ad clambered in and was settling himself while his wife finished her toilette. He waited as she continued to play with her long blonde hair: tying it up, only to release it once again to try a different style. It was a habit she had taken to relatively recently, always the same routine and always last thing at night. Of course she had no idea how much the procedure frustrated her husband, and did not notice the times when he had actually fallen asleep waiting for her to join him. On that night, though, he was determined to stay awake: they had been apart for almost two weeks, and with the ship working up and all the confusion of a new crew, he felt the need of comfort and physical intimacy.
“Will you be long, my darling?” he asked eventually.
She looked up, and at him through her mirror. “Long? Why I shouldn’t think so.” Once more the hair was released, floating down onto her bare shoulders in a way that almost caused him physical pain. “But do not wait for me, dearest. I shall be certain not to disturb you when I do retire.”
* * *
They caught Wednesday morning’s tide. After nine weeks in harbour, a significant change to her crew, and being fully victualled for a good ninety days Scylla was more than ready to return to her natural element. The westerly wind was firm and all the senior officers, together with most of her crew, were on deck to witness the event. The last remaining anchor was now clear and being fished on the forecastle while topmen, already aloft, were carrying out their work competently enough despite the novelty of a fresh ship and colleagues.
“Lay out and loose!” Johnston, new to his position as boatswain’s mate, had a voice that carried and was revelling in the chance to use it. He glanced across to King, who was officially officer of the watch, and received a simple nod in reply. “Stand by – let fall!”
“Man topsail sheets and halliards!” Other voices were raised now, and Banks noticed that the men responded well enough. “Tend the braces!”
“Sheet home and hoist away topsails!” the calls continued, further fresh canvas appeared, and Scylla was slowly transformed from an inert lump into a thing of grace and beauty. Gathering speed, she slipped effortlessly between Pendennis Point and St Anthony Head, easily skirting the low waters around Black Rock.
“Take her sou’ sou’ east,” Fraiser’s usually gentle voice rang loud against the growing breeze. The ship heeled slightly as the sails filled, then settled on to a steady course that felt remarkably stable to those used to the stagger and buck of a jackass frigate. The air was now filled with the deep scent of open water, and Banks was smiling at all about him as the wind increased and the deck took on an even greater incline.
“It has been too long, Mr Caulfield,” he said, his voice cracking as he raised it to counter the wind. Caulfield grinned and was about to reply when a rogue gust caused him to grab at his hat. He pressed it more firmly on his head; then, admitting defeat, swept it off and trapped the thing under his arm. Banks noticed the action and both men laughed out loud. Barrow was ready with the log; Scylla might be smaller than his last ship but it was already clear she would be no slouch. King marked off the traverse board and replaced it in the binnacle. The spray was rising, giving a sting to the air that was at once both painful and stimulating, and the ship’s motion began to relax into something more regular and almost rhythmic. But all on the quarterdeck were oblivious to such insignificances; the ship oozed strength and power, she was well armed, fully manned, and would be perfect for the job in hand. There was still a good deal of summer left, and clearly a battle to be fought: none of them could ask for more.
Chapter Five
Theobald Wolfe Tone was not an especially impressive individual. The son of a protestant coach builder, or so Crowley had heard, his pale skin and fragile frame spoke little of manual work, and more of time spent in the courtrooms of Dublin where he had practised at the bar. Their paths had almost crossed several times in the past. Once, just over two years ago, Tone, under the auspices of Adjutant-General Smith, had sailed with a fleet that mounted an invasion of Ireland. Crowley only saw him twice in passing before their departure. It later evolved that Tone’s ship Indomptable had actually anchored in Bantry Bay and came very close to landing troops, whereas Crowley’s frigate was amongst the many separated from the main fleet in one of the worst storms of the century. Crowley finished up in the hands of the British aboard Pandora while Tone returned to France where he continued with his quest for revolution.
They were to come close to meeting once more the following year, this time at the Texel. By then Crowley had become a regular and trusted member of Pandora‘s crew, and Tone waited with the invasion fleet that Pandora, alongside Admiral Duncan and two worn out liners, stubbornly blockaded. The Scottish Admiral’s bluff and a decisive battle eventually saw the end to Tone’s plans, and the much vaunted army that had been ready to free Britain from the yoke of Monarchy was absorbed into other forces.
And now here he was again, this time in a small and rather shabby village hall, preparing to speak to men who had volunteered to join yet another attempt on behalf of Ireland. Men who were in the main Irish, and all doubtless already inflamed with the desires and ambitions that Tone was about to further arouse. Crowley shuffled uncomfortably on his wooden bench: there was, he knew, little for him in such an endeavour. The past two years had changed him greatly; he now held scant feelings for his home country, and hardly cared if it were under English or French domination. But fate had taken him thus far, and he was reconciled at the least to hearing what the man had to say. If, as he suspected, it was just a bundle of empty rhetoric, he would leave it at that. MacArthur and the rest could carry on alone; he would bide his time in France, where at least there should be a better chance of avoiding conscription. Then, come winter, he might make his way back to England and discover if Vernon was ready for him to return to the sea.
The buzz of conversation began to subside, and men started to grow attentive as Tone stepped up to the small platform and stood before them. There was no announcement, no introduction; every man present knew who he was and what they were there for, and all were content to let the process begin. For a moment Tone paused and surveyed the room as if it were an obstacle to be overcome, then his shoulders dropped, he relaxed, and began.
“Gentlemen, I thank you for coming here tonight, when I am certain there are greater pleasures awaiting you close by.” There was a murmur of laughter from the front of the audience; the hall was situated between a brothel and a tavern, and Tone smiled briefly. “I certainly do not intend to waste your time, however. I have important things to speak of, some of which may come as a surprise. Others you may know already, though I beg that you allow me to say them, as there might be some who are maybe not quite so clever.” Again the laughter, although now it held more of an expectant quality. Crowley watched, appreciatively; the man had primed his audience well and would be worth listening to.
“And to the last group, the ones who know me not at all, and to whom the idea of taking back a country from English rule would rate as nothing more than a waste of time and maybe lives; to them let me say this: I am in total agreement with you.”
The atmosphere was suddenly tense. Some thought they had misheard, or that the great Wolfe Tone had undergone a transformation not seen since Saul started off on the road to Damascus. And others, the majority, simply leant forward to hear every last word of what this strange little man might say.
“I have no illusions about the country of my birth,” he said, looking to the left and right as if for confirmation. “In truth, the land is not especially fertile and, although it may be pretty in parts, I have seen landscapes in the Americas and elsewhere that would surely put it to shame. But then, one loves one’s country no less for having a lack of romantic feelings about her. And when we speak of a country, do we mean the ground, the scenery or the weather? Or are we talking of the people it contains: the Brotherhood of Affection that I have been pleased to be a member of these five years or more? Men who, though dissident in their own beli
efs, are wise enough to throw open the doors of Parliament to include all faiths and every religion. Men who cannot stand by and see the humble worker trodden down by rich English landowners and magistrates. Men who care enough about their brothers to take up arms, if need be, to see that such atrocities cease.”
Crowley looked about him. In the main the audience were sitting upright, their fists clenched, some even with faint murmurs rising in their throats as Tone continued. In the space of two minutes he had mined and smelted the ore, and was now patiently forging an alloy from the various individuals present. Soon, no doubt, he would be casting out revolutionaries, all as inspired and sincere as any leader could wish for. More than that, these very same men would then go out and preach the word to others. It was a masterly performance: Crowley even found himself sitting more erect as he continued to watch and, despite himself, he was impressed.
* * *
They were now well clear of the Lizard peninsular; but the wind was still set in the west, and to reach Ireland Scylla was having to beat stoically against it. Chilton was almost at the end of his watch and had spent much of the time talking to Parfrey, a volunteer who had yet to reach even the lowly rank of midshipman, and was still becoming accustomed to being at sea. King came on deck early and acknowledged the pair as they stood next to the binnacle. He wandered across and collected the traverse board, inspecting it by the dim glow of the overhead lantern. They had tacked two hours ago, and were due to do so again. It was midnight, but the moon was bright, and there was enough light to see that Scylla was quite alone. He sniffed at the breeze; the wind showed no sign of changing. Until it did, they would make very little progress, and the effort would start to take its toll on the men and equipment.