by Alaric Bond
The intervening time seemed to merge into one black image; his world had changed in every way possible and yet, throughout the numerous novelties of adapting to life in a warship, it was Pigot, and his constantly impending presence that appeared to dominate each hour. Never before had he experienced such a rich vein of evil in one man. At a time when Rose was trying to master many new things, he found room to learn hatred for the first lieutenant, almost to exclusion.
That afternoon had been the worst. The delay in weighing had infuriated every member of the crew to differing degrees, but Pigot was the one to channel his annoyance. Rose had been in charge of the party on the forecastle that would cat the anchors as they were raised. Perhaps being in charge was unfair, as it was the first time he had ever witnessed the procedure, whereas the hands under his command consisted of almond-brown men whose iron muscles were the product of many such exercises.
The first anchor had come up, almost without effort, and Rose had needed to do nothing more than nod at the quartermaster as the cat tackle was threaded through the ring, and the entire weight manhandled up to the cathead. Once there, Rose found himself relegated to the position of spectator. The anchor party had the fish tackle rigged ready, and hauled the anchor horizontal, stowing it safely away from the hull of the ship, while two men released cable and plugged the hawse hole. The hands turned from their work, grinning to each other. Raising the anchors was the signal that they were really going back to sea, for most their natural element, and the physical effort involved, the final confirmation.
The strain began on the second cable, and all waited to repeat the procedure, none more so than Rose, who had missed some of the complexities of the cat tackle, and wanted to view the exercise again. For several minutes they waited, with the cable wringing water from its fibres as, further aft, men strained at the capstan. It was only natural for his party to look to Rose for orders, although there was precious little he could do about the situation. He wriggled awkwardly in his stiff new uniform, uncertain what exactly was called for from him. Eventually he turned back to the quarterdeck, looking for reassurance and advice. Instead he found Pigot.
The memory would stay with him. His stammered questions met by the cold, stone mask of antipathy. Rose knew nothing about Pigot’s own internal anger at being shown up in front of the fleet, and he could not tell of the modicum of satisfaction he supplied as the first lieutenant allowed him to dig deeper and deeper into his supposed offence. When he had finished his halting account of how he had failed to fish an anchor that had not been weighed, even then it was not the end. A brisk order from Pigot had seen the gunner raised from whatever depths he frequented when leaving harbour, and under the amused eyes of all, Rose had been swept down to the main deck, to suffer the most degrading public beating imaginable, over the breach of a gun.
The pain had all but dulled now, but his brain was not so easily mended, and ever since he had suffered a constant repeat of the incident as his mind refused to leave him be. To make matters worse there was an invitation, an invitation that carried the same force as a command, to dine with the captain that day. There could be no doubt that the first lieutenant would be there; that very evening he would be looking into his eyes, that very evening suffering more humiliation as Pigot ground him further into the dust. The fact that he had been on his father’s farm, safe, loved and many miles from the sea, not three weeks ago, escaped Rose for a moment, which was all that kept him from taking some desperate and final action.
*****
On the lower deck the hands were sitting down to eat. This time it was not the newness of the ship that caused the stifled silence, but something rather more sinister. A few knew of the incident with Wright’s wife, and many others had episodes of their own to feel bitter about. The remainder were merely resentful; resentful that any one man should take the trouble to make their lives, already uncomfortable enough, just that little bit worse. Flint had tried to break the gloom early in the meal, but soon stopped, when all attempts at geniality were met with mournful expressions. It was only at the end, and Carter, the mess cook, had cleared their platters away, that the talk began.
“I’m goin’ to kill the bastard,” said Wright softly, as if deciding upon a particular cut of tobacco. No one was worried by his words; the sight of a commissioned officer on the lower deck during supper was, by tradition, unheard of and apart from Guppy, who messed elsewhere, there was no junior or petty officer who did not understand or even share Wright’s sentiments.
“He’s a pig by name, and a pig by nature, and there’s no mistaking,” Flint said mildly. “But that’s no reason to take risks.” As he spoke he fiddled with the handle of his tankard, teasing the leather away and folding it back. His expression would lead anyone to believe that this was his sole source of interest and although he spoke in a soft measured tone, all the men listened. “Year or two from now things will seem different; ship might even be paying off. Then you got your whole life ahead of you. Spend it ashore, if you will; sounds like you live far enough inland to miss the press.”
“Aye,” another voice joined in; Lawlor, a Welshman who played the fiddle. “Sit on yer hands, take up your money; bit of prize mebee, and buy a place. You need never see the likes o’ him again.”
Wright was unmoved, staring into his drink with a vacant look. The silence lasted for several minutes before the rest of the mess began to talk quietly of other things and did their best not to distract him in any way.
Guppy appeared towards the end of supper, when the starboard watch, which included Flint’s mess, were about to go on duty.
“Now hear this!” he said, his voice carrying easily through the subdued messdeck. “We’n settin’ for the Channel, an’ after that down south. Time bein’ it’s gonna be cold, an’ First Lieutenant’s ordered we berth watch together, harbour fashion.” Now the murmurs began to rise. Berthing watch together as opposed to watch on watch meant that rather than enjoying the best part of four feet of room per man, they would be crammed into eighteen inches; one man’s shoulders resting against his neighbour’s, an almost unheard of and unnecessary annoyance in any well-run ship at sea.
“You’ll thank us, you’ll thank us!” Guppy’s voice rose above the din. “You’ll thank us when it comes to blow. You’ll be warmer’n dry; no draught to get the chill in.”
“They could do as much with screens,” Lawlor muttered.
“Aye, they rigged ’em in the old Boston when we were on that Newfoundland convoy, back’n ninety-four,” Carter added. “Kept the warm in lovely, they did.”
Guppy left the lower deck to cries of derision far too universal for punishment. The noise grew, almost drowning out the bell that sounded the setting of the new watch.
“That’s us, lads,” Flint informed them, although none of his mess made to move. The noise rose once more then levelled out before dying, as men of the starboard watch shuffled towards the hatches. The ship was barely clear of the island, and yet already this was turning into a bad voyage. Flint gave an inward sigh; the colliers had been hard, monotonous work, but nothing like this. He never dreamt that within a week he’d be missing them.
*****
Banks usually dined at three but, with the ship only just clear of Spithead and many departments still shaking down, dinner with his officers had been repeatedly delayed until it turned into supper. Even then it was late, by naval standards, and rather less than the splendid meal normally expected when a captain entertains his officers for the first time. He acknowledged this to them simply; neither apologising nor blaming the situation that had caused the delay. Younger than most of his guests, Banks carried himself well, and Caulfield, for one, felt his confidence grow.
The gathering ran the course usual in these affairs; the officers seated in order of rank in the great cabin, with Banks at the head of the table, playing a role somewhere between agreeable host and wary headmaster. The talk was stilted and reserved at first, while the captain’s personal servants hand
ed out large welcoming glasses of Madeira along with some sweet biscuits that were all but monopolised by the youngsters. With the first course, a rich turtle soup, the men began to relax, and by the time the fish was served they were starting to get on well together.
Even Pigot; that was the strange thing. Caulfield studied him as the captain began to carve into a large saddle of mutton. All traces of the irrational tyrant had vanished and it was as if a new and totally different man had appeared in his place. Of course he had taken more than a glass of wine, but there was no fault in that and he could never have been called drunk. Rose, the volunteer first class and by far the youngest present, was talking now; a chance remark had grown into an anecdote, and the boy was slightly flushed as he realised the whole room, from his captain to the marine servants, was listening to him, and him alone. He finished the tale gamely enough, and there was a roar of appropriate laughter, which gratified Rose, making him blush once more. Pigot laughed as loud as any, and as the conversation turned away he caught the lad’s eye.
“Splendid story, Rose,” he murmured, nodding appreciatively. “Wine with you, sir?”
Caulfield watched as the lad cautiously raised his glass to the man who, only that afternoon had seen him bent across the breach of a gun and beaten.
A knock at the door heralded the arrival of Cobb, the midshipman of the watch. Cobb, a well-built lad, entered the cabin with the assurance of a man, and took in the loaded table and the smug expressions of his two messmates in one glance.
“Mr Fraiser’s duty, sir, an’ the watch is ’bout to be set.”
Caulfield wiped his mouth with his cloth and turned to Banks. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I have to relieve the master.”
“Of course, of course, Mr Caulfield. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to ask Mr Fraiser to join us for pudding, if he can spare the time?”
The air on deck was clammy and dank, although there was no actual rain. Caulfield approached Fraiser, standing next to the binnacle, and smiled.
“A choice of drowned baby or spotted dog, I believe.”
Fraiser’s watch coat carried a sheen of damp and his face was rosy with cold. He rubbed his hands in anticipation.
“An’ the company of gentlemen, of course.” There was a gleam in his eye that might almost be called wicked.
“Of course,” said Caulfield, promptly, and they grinned at each other. To have said otherwise would have been altogether wrong.
*****
Four hours later, when Caulfield came off duty, everything had changed. He stood outside the gunroom door and shook the rain from his watch coat. A steward appeared, looking pensive and troubled. Caulfield handed him his coat; there was silence from within the gunroom; not unexpected at the late hour, although he could also feel a tension in the air. He opened the door and stepped through.
Inside a group of officers were seated about the table. Pigot was at the head and, even partially obscured as he was by the mizzen mast, his face showed crimson and bloated. The other officers: Stuart, the surgeon, Martin the marine lieutenant, and Soames, the purser, looked half asleep. In front of each was a bumper glass of brandy and the scent of alcohol was strong. Then Caulfield spotted Rose, the volunteer, sitting uncomfortably at the foot of the table. His shoulders were hunched and he sat low in his chair, as if seeking to hide in the dim light. He also had a glass in front of him although his appeared untouched.
“Mr Caulfield,” Pigot greeted him, sitting back in his chair with elaborate disdain. “How fine it is to see you. I suppose I cannot tempt you to a glass of brandy?” The other officers took little notice, although Soames let out a wet belch; only Rose, ashen faced as if in shock, turned to look imploringly at him. “Mr Rose here has been entertaining us,” Pigot continued, his voice thick and low. “Tellin’ us tales of his youth, weren’t yer, Mr Rose?”
Stuart gave a drunken chuckle; the midshipman nodded but remained silent.
“It’s very late,” Caulfield said. “I think I should turn in.” He paused. “I think we all should.”
“Do!” Pigot gave him a half smile. “Go now. Mr Fraiser is already abed. As for the rest of us; why, we are enjoying ourselves, is that not the case?”
The other officers signaled their approval in various stages of inebriation and Stuart, the surgeon, drained his glass and looked pointedly at the empty decanter.
“Steward!” Pigot’s voice rose, although not to a shout; Caulfield guessed he had no intention of waking Fraiser. “My guests are running low.” The steward departed. “I’ll have no one go short at my table; you’re not dining with the captain now!”
“What has the captain to do with matters?” Caulfield could not resist the question.
“Why, you only have to see the way he serves wine!” Pigot sat back and considered his glass.
Soames, the purser, looked about, smiling in a way intended to be ingratiating. “Aye, reckon we’s in for a dry old cruise with this one.”
The steward returned with two opened bottles and reached for the decanter.
“Leave ’em, leave ’em,” Pigot waved the man away as if he was an annoying fly. The surgeon reached out for a bottle and filled his glass with deliberate concentration and what could almost be called love. Caulfield had already judged him a man who enjoyed his drink, although of them all he seemed strangely sober.
“Another story, Rose!” Pigot commanded, tapping the table with his finger.
The boy jumped visibly. “I, I don’t think I know any.”
“A song, then?” The first lieutenant was smiling, while his eyes held a glare that was evil and intense. “Come on, man, you entertained us so well at the captain’s table. Sure there is a wealth of talent in that young body.”
The boy was silent.
“W-well what about one of the ones you’ve told already, eh?” Martin, the marine, had a cultured voice; distorted by liquor it sounded feeble and comic. “The time you fell into the sheep dip?”
“Pushed!” added Soames, with glee.
“Aye,” Martin again, “that was a good one, eh gentlemen?”
There were general nods from the other officers, although none took their eyes from their glasses.
“I think Mr Rose has had enough for one night,” Caulfield said pointedly. “I think everyone has.”
“You do?” Pigot eyed him with apparent interest.
“I do.” There was no point in any further discussion. “Mr Rose is on watch in under four hours.” Turning to the lad, his voice took on the tone of command. “Take yourself back to your quarters, right now.”
For a moment the boy stayed put, as if frightened of obeying Caulfield’s order. Then he cautiously rose from the table and made for the door, his eyes meeting Caulfield’s only briefly. Pigot watched him go, before switching his gaze back to the lieutenant.
“Mr Caulfield, you have broken up my party,” he said. His tone was cold and there was no trace of inebriation as he spoke. “I do not like juniors who take such things upon themselves, in fact I do not like presumptive people in general. And I do not like you, Mr Caulfield, I do not like you one little bit.”
CHAPTER THREE
The afternoon was dark and cold with a thin, but persistent, drizzle that had been constant since first light. Lewis stood next to the quartermaster, his woollen coat gaining weight as it steadily soaked up the rain while allowing just enough past the collar to make him thoroughly miserable. Beneath his feet Pandora moved with a steady, rhythmic motion, pressing through the leaden waves with little show of effort. The light, fitful wind came on her larboard quarter, and with topsails, forecourse and topgallants set, she was making reasonable progress; nothing more. Only occasionally would she hint at her true potential when a sudden blast of cold wet air pressed her hull down, chilling the men who had to stand her decks, and changing the regular hum of her lines to a scream that grated the nerves like a baby’s cry. There were still several hours of supposed daylight left, yet the low blanket sky gave the illusion of dusk
. Lewis suppressed an involuntary shiver and rubbed his hands together while he told himself there had been plenty worse watches when he had been a lower deck man.
King strode aft, hands clasped behind his back in an effort to break the lifelong habit of thrusting them into his pockets. The toothache that had been bothering him on and off for the past day or so had gone for the moment, and he felt reasonably at ease. Lewis caught his eye, and the two exchanged a smile; it might be cold and wet, but to be on deck was a pleasant contrast to the oppressive, quarrelsome atmosphere that had become common below.
“We must be well clear of Ushant b’now,” King said.
Lewis pointed back over his shoulder with his thumb.
“A few leagues astern. Plenty of room if the wind shifts.”
“You think it will?”
“That or die completely. Glass is playin’ strange japes.”
Pandora had been making steady progress for the last few days although all on board sensed she could have done better; certainly she had shown little of the dash expected of a frigate fresh from the dockyard. No single reason could be found for this; no fluke of wind had carried away a vital piece of equipment, no error of navigation set them dramatically off course. Any delay was subtle, and possibly more a question of not being fully up to scratch; the men, though experienced in the main, had yet to shake down together and learn to work as a team. The officers were equally uncertain how to get the best from her rig, and even the master was still deciding on the optimum layout of stores; one that allowed everything to be within reach, yet left a tidy ship with a serviceable trim. Pigot made his way on deck, barely acknowledging the pair. Of course there may have been other reasons for Pandora’s lacklustre performance.
“Deck there. Sail ho. Sail on the starboard bow!”