The Patriot's Fate

by Alaric Bond

  Rose was the unwitting provider. He happened to be in the vicinity with Johnston, the boatswain’s mate. They were carrying out a check of the bowsprit gammoning that had been giving concern when Surridge came lumbering across the deck. The lad stepped back and into the seaman’s path, giving a short cry of surprise as the ox-like bulk struck him. He was spun round, landing against Johnston, who caught him almost instinctively, and both glared at Surridge as he continued on his way.

  “Steady there!” The midshipman called back, brushing himself down.

  Surridge stopped for a moment but did not turn.

  “Where are your eyes, man?” Johnston asked, reaching to collect Rose’s hat. “Be more space aboard if we’d shipped an elephant.”

  “You got a problem?” the man was looking back now, and neither Rose nor Johnston liked the light in his eyes.

  “You’re a lumbering oaf, Surridge,” Rose told him as he replaced his hat. “Watch your step in future.”

  “An’ have the grace to apologise when you don’t,” Johnston added.

  Neither felt the need for more and were about to return to the gammoning when Surridge lurched forward. Despite his temper the seaman knew better than to threaten the lad in the dandy blue uniform, even if a clean hard fist in the face would arguably have been well worth the throwing. Instead it was the boatswain’s mate who drew his attention and the focus of his wrath. The man, Johnston, had annoyed Surridge several times already and, being new to his post, could probably benefit from being taken down a peg or two. With a movement swift enough to belie his heavy build, Surridge grabbed the petty officer by the shirt front and dragged him close. For a moment he enjoyed the look of shock on the man’s face, then closed his eyes as he cracked his own head down on Johnston’s skull. The smack of bone on bone was delightful: a delicious release, and as Surridge, still holding Johnston’s shirt, felt the body go limp, all the frustrations and disappointments of the last few days were magically resolved.

  Chapter Six

  “I’ve examined Johnston,” Clarkson told King, the divisional lieutenant responsible. “He has a fine lump to his frontal lobe, but nothing more.”

  “He was probably blessed with a skull as thick as his skin,” King grunted. He had known Johnston in previous ships, and even under a different name. The man had been a persistent deserter for many years and King had hoped the recent elevation to petty officer rank would cure his errant ways. It was clear Johnston had done nothing to instigate matters, yet still King felt mildly disappointed to hear of the fight so early in Scylla‘s commission. “Can he take up light duties?”

  The surgeon considered this for a moment. “In a day or so, maybe,” he said finally. “I’d like to keep an eye on him a while longer.”

  “Very well.”

  “Then there is Surridge,” Clarkson continued.

  “Surridge?” King was surprised. There would be some official action to be taken, of course, but he had not thought the man to be injured.

  “Yes, potentially more serious, I’m afraid.” Clarkson was referring to a small piece of paper. “My assistant, Mr Manning, examined him and his report is not good. You certainly won’t like it and neither will the captain.”

  Actually King could not have cared less what was wrong with Surridge. In the space of a few days the quarter-gunner had already made his presence aboard Scylla painfully evident. There had been several bad reports, and an awful lot more gossip. King secretly wished whatever damage the man had caused to himself would be permanent and enable his dismissal as soon as they reached Ireland.

  “He has the mumps.”

  “The mumps?” Now that definitely was more serious. While the condition might be not dangerous in itself, there had been instances when entire ships had been all but disabled while their crews succumbed to the illness.

  “The man’s parotid glands are heavily distended, and he complains of nausea and headaches.”

  “Striking Johnston on the head might have caused the latter,” King said, hopefully.

  “Very likely, although not the swollen tongue. Also he appears to be in a particularly sour mood, although I gather that not unusual in his particular instance.”

  “What have you done with him?”

  Clarkson looked up from his paper. “Done with him, Mr King? Why he is in bilboes on the punishment deck awaiting judgement at your orders.”

  “But the mumps, surely the condition is infectious?”

  “Oh yes, highly. In fact they are likely not to grant us entry to Dublin, have they the mind.”

  “Well, should he not be in isolation?”

  “Ideally yes, though I would suggest that any quarantine we might arrange now would be somewhat belated. The condition is infectious long before the first symptoms appear, and Surridge has already been active in the ship for several days. Any man who has previously suffered will be immune, and those that have not, well, I would say that contagion is already extremely likely. Besides, whatever provisions we make, absolute isolation is impossible; this is a fifth rate after all.”

  King thought for a moment. The mumps might have come to the ship through a variety of different avenues; Chilton’s draft of volunteers, the men from Egmont, or it could even have been present in the original crew. It was a nuisance, but no more, he supposed. Unless they were very unlucky no one was going to die, and most should avoid the more unpleasant complications. In fact the majority of the crew may even be safe; it was in the midshipmen’s berth and amongst the volunteers third class that those without immunity were more likely to be found. But that would not stop the older hands worrying. Seamen were inherently gullible; it only needed one blab with a modicum of medical knowledge, some tattler to regale them with a few horror stories, and they would all be thinking of nothing else.

  “The young can expect the condition to pass within ten to fourteen days,” Clarkson continued. “The same with older men, although any complications are more likely to come about there.” He hesitated as a thought occurred. “Tell me, Mr King, have you had the mumps?”

  A cold feeling ran down his spine. “I believe so,” he said. “Many years ago, when I was young.”

  “Then you have nothing to fear,” Clarkson was positive.

  “But, are there not unpleasant side effects?” King was now starting to worry: it might have been measles rather than mumps.

  “They need not concern you, Mr King. And the less we talk of such matters the better. I am not adverse to the opinion that illness can be acquired through thought; indeed I have witnessed it myself on a number of occasions. No, this is simply something we will have to ride out, hoping that all is passed by the time we see action.” Clarkson considered King again. The man’s face appeared mildly flushed, although there was no sign of undue swelling about the ears and neck. “You are quite certain about your medical history?” he asked.

  King went to speak but no sound came, instead he nodded emphatically, before adding a feeble, “Yes.”

  “Good.” Clarkson considered him once more. “Then I had better inform the captain.”

  * * *

  Banks had dined well but alone, and came on to the quarterdeck to benefit from the afternoon sun and perhaps a little company. The wind was blowing light but steady, cooling what had been another baking day, and, as he stood breathing in the soft air that had just the faintest tang of pitch he felt relatively at ease.

  They had made slow progress. Even now Fraiser did not expect them to raise the south-east coast of Ireland until the following evening. Then there would be nothing more taxing than to follow the land north until they reached the mouth of Dublin harbour, a slow cruise in pleasant weather; there were worse ways of spending a hot summer. Such journeys might be long or short, and totally depended on the weather. Banks had been a naval officer long enough to enjoy the present without undue concern for a future that was beyond his control. And the present, for him, was actually quite rosy.

  He was certainly pleased with his ship; Scyl
la had already fulfilled many of his expectations. She was a good strong sailer, with perfect manners and just the right amount of weather helm to make her both a joy to command and a first rate sea boat. She might lack the all out might of a seventy-four, but he had already decided that her speed and manoeuvrability, combined with a fire power that was by no means meagre, would outweigh any prestige that standing in the line of battle might bring. Besides, he had been fortunate in already partaking in two fleet actions. The majority of naval combat was single ship engagements, and he was confident that Scylla would hold her own with any of her size, and even some larger.

  Sure, she had a few minor idiosyncrasies; there was a small but persistent leak on the forecastle deck that no amount of paying or re-caulking was able to stop, and the gammoning to the bowsprit was slightly loose and really should have been attended to in Falmouth. But even those faults, rather than lower his opinion, actually imparted more of a personality and made him like her the more.

  The mumps was a problem, but not a great one; he had spoken to the surgeon at length and, apart from probably making communication at Dublin a little more complex, it should not hinder operations greatly. Scylla was well manned and could easily stand the temporary loss of a few hands. She was also fully provisioned: water, the first concern for any captain, was good for at least eighty days, and he had all else he needed for long after that. He took a turn about the deck and caught the eye of King, the officer of the watch.

  “A pleasant afternoon, Mr King,” Banks said, wandering across.

  “Indeed, sir,” King did not salute as the captain was bareheaded. “We’ve been especially lucky this summer.”

  “Any further outbreaks?”

  “The mumps, sir? Not that I am aware. Surgeon has taken some of the lads off duty for the time being, and four men who are suffering more than most have been moved to the sick bay. Other than that, just a couple more hands have complained, though they have no symptoms, and pass the test adequately enough.”

  “The test?”

  King lowered his voice. “Surgeon examines them; if they have enlarged glands they are put to light duties or allowed hammocks. Should they appear well he issues them a cup of lemon juice. Any man who has the mumps cannot tolerate the stuff,” King grinned. “It certainly sorts out the malingerers. Both the two drank it down without complaint, so the surgeon thinks they are swinging the lead.”

  Banks chuckled softly. “Mr Clarkson seems to be remarkably perceptive,” he said. “I think I may as well pay him a visit.”

  The ship was sailing sweetly enough and the watch on deck were yarning in the shade beneath the boats on the main deck when their captain descended the quarterdeck steps. He acknowledged them good naturedly as their conversation suddenly stopped and attitudes of earnest attention were quickly assumed.

  The sick bay was on the deck below and further forward, so was not blessed with much natural light and appeared almost dark after the sunshine of the upper decks. A row of filled hammocks were slung by the entrance; clearly these were for the men whom Mr Clarkson considered worthy of observation. He stepped quietly past, then knocked on the deal wood door of the dispensary.

  To his surprise it was Mrs Clarkson who answered. Banks stopped himself in the act of entering and stood, for a moment uncertain, on the threshold.

  “Please come in, sir,” she said, standing to one side. “If it is my husband or Mr Manning you are a wanting they have been called to the stewards’ pantry.”

  Banks eased himself past the woman and into the darkened room as she continued. “Apparently the cook is considering condemning a cask of pork and wanted them to take a look.”

  “Very well,” he grunted. Mrs Clarkson was standing uncomfortably close, and there was insufficient space for him to move away. “I was just coming to inspect the patients, but can return if it would be more convenient.”

  “You’re welcome at any time, sir,” she said, and he noticed her eyes were especially bright in the low light. “It is your ship after all. There are a couple of the lads in the sick bay proper; would you care to see them?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Banks said, with slightly more enthusiasm than was necessary. “Yes I would, if you please.”

  He followed her through the inner doorway and was able to make out two young boys lounging on fixed bunks in the darkened room. They sat up on his arrival and one he recognised.

  “Parfrey, isn’t it?” he asked, approaching. The boy went to nod, then instantly stopped as if in sudden pain. Banks noticed that he was unusually fat about the neck and the other, who looked to be a volunteer third class, was very much the same. Banks held up his hand. “Do not try to speak if it pains you.”

  “It is fine, sir.” Parfrey replied in a thick voice. “As long as no one makes us talk too much.”

  “Or larf,” the other boy added.

  “Or laugh,” Parfrey confirmed seriously.

  “Well, I promise not to do either,” Banks said. “I imagine you are passing the time well enough. You have books to read, Parfrey? That is, if you wish to stand as a midshipman, and you…”

  “Wickes, sir.”

  “Wickes. Yes, you know the Navy is always looking for young men with a desire to better themselves. Why, Mr Lewis, the master’s mate, was a regular hand not so very long ago.”

  The lad looked back at him in the half light; it was clear that he had few thoughts beyond tomorrow, and Banks decided to leave well alone.

  “Very good, with luck you should not be unwell for long and may return to your duties. I trust you will feel the better soon.” The boys thanked him a little uncertainly, and Banks glanced back to the woman.

  “What treatment is being prescribed, Mrs Clarkson?” he asked, following her out of the sick bay and into the dispensary.

  “Well, there ain’t none, not really. Mr Clarkson’s recommending a hot sea water gargle for the throat, and they may not eat fruit or too many vegetables.”

  “No fruit?” Banks asked.

  “Encourages the saliva: makes ‘em dribble,” she grinned. “Besides, they find it too painful to eat.”

  The captain remembered King’s words. “Yes, I had heard of the lemon juice.”

  “Would you care for a cup, sir?” The question was asked with an air of innocence that was clearly assumed.

  “Me?” Banks’s voice rose in surprise.

  “You’d be amazed at the number who come here just for that.” Mrs Clarkson laughed. “Word has got about that it is an indication, so men are all but queuing up for the stuff. And an awful lot of them are officers.” Banks looked puzzled and she continued. “Most are frightened of catching mumps, you see. Even though they may have had a dose already, they’ve heard such stories of what it can do, an’ they don’t want no chance of catching it again, bless ‘em.”

  “I see,” Banks said crisply. He was also aware of the possible side effects, and could understand that in a predominantly male environment all manner of tattle-tale would be circulating.

  “I just tell ‘em not to be so soft, an’ if they’re still worried to come back later an’ I’ll check ‘em out myself.” Even in the poor light Banks could gauge the woman’s expression, and he felt his face flush.

  “Indeed. Well I am glad so see that everything is being looked after, Mrs Clarkson,” he turned to go, knowing that her eyes were on him still.

  Curse the woman; curse them all for that matter. He had never been at ease with the opposite sex, and especially the type who were in any way forward. The surgeon’s wife was clearly of that ilk, and he made up his mind to give her the widest of berths in the future. “Please pass my compliments to Mr Clarkson,” he said heading, rather too eagerly, for the small door.

  “Very good, sir. Come and visit whenever you wish, you will always be welcome.”

  Banks cleared his throat; there was something in her tone, something that might even be bordering on insubordination. He glanced back; she was smiling at him quite blatantly; he could tell s
he had guessed at his awkwardness and was either enjoying his discomfort or openly offering a liaison. For a moment he wavered. Or had he misread the situation yet again? Was he just a clumsy lout, one completely devoid of social graces? Why did he have to think that every female must automatically be setting her hat at him, just because he was a post captain and a knight of the realm?