by Alaric Bond
“You’ll be wondering why I takes the trouble over a King’s man?”
King nodded, and silently reached for a piece of cheese.
“I respect no one who puts himself before others,” he said simply. “You may be a British, and doubtless all manner of bastard by that count, but you’ve looked after the men here as best you can. An’ it’s only now you’re eating, now the others have been well fed.”
“And have you eaten?”
Crowley grinned. “That I haven’t.”
Their eyes met in understanding, and King also broke into a smile. “Then bring yourself a cup and pull up a chair.”
*****
On board Pandora the captain was dining alone. He too had all but missed dinner, usually the main meal of the day, and was making up for it as best he could. In his case this amounted to a generous cut of pork liver paté, which he now spread onto a chunk of warmed soft tack. The bread had been dipped in goat’s milk, before being toasted over Dupont’s pantry stove, a process that had banished almost all the staleness from it. The fact that Dupont had done this, presumably at a time when everyone else was hard at work repairing two badly damaged ships, gave Banks a slight twinge of guilt, but then the bread tasted so good he was inclined to ignore it. The bell rang for the end of the second dogwatch, and he decided to salve his conscience by sharing the coffee, which was hot and plentiful, with the retiring officer and midshipman of the watch. A shout to the sentry (an unarmed landsman detailed to the duty; all the marines were with King in Aiguille) accomplished this, and two minutes later a tap at the door announced the arrival of Lewis and Rose.
Banks shouted for another cup; he had quite forgotten that in their reduced state, Lewis, a master’s mate, and the volunteer Rose, were sharing a watch. Fraiser would have the current watch, and Caulfield would take over at midnight. He wondered briefly who his tired mind had expected to see: King, returning from Aiguille to fulfill his commitments? Or maybe Pigot? The exhausted look on both youngsters’ faces drove the lunatic thoughts from his mind and he called for a further serving of soft tack; there was more than enough paté for all.
The memory of Pigot stayed in his mind as he watched them eat. It seemed such a short time ago that he, Rose and the late first lieutenant had been together at this very table. Since then Pandora had seen action twice, Pigot had died, and Rose here, now laying in to the food with a lad’s appetite, had a glorious blue-black bruise on his forehead. In such a situation it was impossible to maintain the strict discipline usual at a captain’s table.
“Better?” Banks enquired, when they had both finished. He was less than fifteen years older than Rose, and yet it was all too easy to look on him as a father might his son.
“Aye, sir, thank you.” Lewis was older, but no less grateful. “Better than that we’re given in the cockpit.”
“They don’t serve you paté?” he asked, his eyebrow raised slightly.
Lewis laughed, but Rose shook his head in all seriousness. “Nearest we get is toasted miller, sir,” he confided. “Other than that it’s salt horse, Banyan, and pork, with duff on Thursdays and Sundays.
“Miller?” Now both he and Lewis were smiling broadly, but Rose remained as solemn as before.
“Yes, sir. Gunner gives it to us as a treat when he’s a mind.”
There was an awkward pause of no more than a second before Banks asked the inevitable question.
“Are you aware exactly what miller is?”
Rose blinked. It was not a question his young appetite had asked.
Banks sat back in his chair and sipped his coffee. “We have strange habits, calling food by another name, just for the sake of it. Pork for pig, mutton for sheep.”
“Salt horse, sir,” said Lewis.
“Exactly,” he looked at Rose. “Know what that is?”
Rose blinked. “Horse, sir?”
Banks shook his head. “Beef, which in turn is cow.”
The boy was becoming confused. “So what is miller, sir?”
“What does it taste like?” Lewis asked.
He thought. “Chicken.”
“Do you mean hen?” Both Banks and Lewis were smiling broadly now, and he was glad to see that Rose was not in the least intimidated.
“Goat?” Both men shook their heads. “Duck? Goose? Rabbit?”
Now the laughter was general, even Rose was giggling, while part of his mind struggled with the problem.
“Think what else we carry aboard ship,” Lewis prompted. Rose’s eyes grew round.
“Cat?” He hoped not.
Lewis banged the table while Banks rocked contentedly on his chair. Then Rose snapped his fingers and pointed at his captain in a way that some might regard as mutinous.
“I got it!” he shrieked with glee. The other two waited expectantly, their mouths open, ready to laugh once more.
“Rat!”
All three roared as one, while Lewis banged the excited boy on the back in triumph. Summoned by the noise Dupont watched the scene from the pantry, before shaking his head and turning away. He had been in the British Navy long enough to know that rats, often covered in a fine powder of flour from their scavenging, were known as millers, but the idea of eating such rodents was not to the taste of his more refined palate.
*****
The surgeon, Stuart, was already in his cot and sleeping heavily, as was his habit. Pandora’s wounded numbered nineteen, three of whom were in almost as deep a coma as he was, although Stuart had little time for them even when he was awake and sober. A faint knock came at the door that screened off his cabin from the rest of the ship. He did not move. The knock was repeated, and the door pulled open, letting in light from a lantern, and the worried look of Nairn, one of his loblolly boys. Nairn had worked in the sick bay for twelve years and was hoping for a warrant as surgeon’s mate eventually, although at that moment he had little thought for advancement.
“Mr Stuart, wake up, sir.” He touched the sleeping body of his superior cautiously at first, then shook it with increasing strength.
“Carter’s bad, sir. He’s askin’ for somthin’ to kill the pain.”
Carter, the Londoner from Flint’s mess, had been hit in the upper thigh. It was a deep, dirty wound, and one unlikely to heal. Stuart would normally have removed the leg, except that Carter was skinny and there was very little sound flesh to make an agreeable stump. Rather than risk an operation that had a high chance of failure, Stuart had elected to leave the man to his own devices. Should he subsequently die, as he almost certainly would, no blame could then be attached to him.
“Shall I give him another dose of laudanum? He’s ’ad it before, an’ it would serve him to sleep.” Nairn had seen Stuart’s ready prescription for the drug, but was barred from doing the same. He shook the surgeon again to no effect, other than persuading a trickle of thick saliva from his open lips. Nairn considered the sleeping form for a moment, swore silently to himself, and left.
*****
The one, probably the only, good side to Pigot’s tyranny was the fellowship that quickly sprang up between the other youngsters in the berth. Both Cobb and Dorsey were streets ahead of Rose when it came to just about everything, and neither could be accused of the smallest degree of sensitivity. Both had also suffered Pigot’s cruelties, and yet there had been no sign of either of them passing the first lieutenant’s bullying ways onto the younger boy. Now that Pigot was gone there seemed little evidence that things would change, and for the first time since he had left Lincolnshire, Rose was starting to enjoy himself.
This change was revealed in a number of subtle ways. He found that his appetite, even for the startling preserved food, so alien to a farmer’s son, was returning. The hammock that had seemed almost hostile, where he had felt vulnerable and exposed, now became a comfort longed for at the end of a busy watch. And in what free time he was allowed, he found he could think of his family and even begin to write a letter, with no danger of falling into the chasm of misery that had
previously threatened to swallow him whole.
He was writing that very letter when Cobb came into the berth, sat himself down at the table and shouted for one of the servants who looked after the youngsters.
Balaam appeared, a lad of roughly Cobb’s height, but lacking his full frame, who bowed in front of the midshipman in mock deference.
“Did you squeak, sir?”
“Get me some cheese and biscuit, you idle bastard.” The lads were too close in age to allow any difference in status to affect them. “And some coffee, if you haven’t drunk it all, already.”
Balaam rolled his eyes. “Only scotch coffee left, less you wants I borrow some from starboard berth?”
Cobb looked earnestly at the servant. “Think Collins’d notice?”
“Na, not if we don’t make an habit of it.”
“Make it so, do what you can, but don’t drop us in it if you get caught.” Cobb winked. “Beavered coffee always tastes better.”
*****
The next morning saw both ships making reasonable progress. The sea was heavy, forcing Pandora to join her capture in manning both pumps. The wind blew strong but steady, and their jury rigs appeared adequate enough. Flint, who stood the forenoon watch with the rest of the starbolins, was resting himself on the prow of the forecastle; Jameson and Bennet, a landsman of about Jameson’s age they were training up, with him. Since they had come on duty two hours ago surprisingly little had been called from them, and now the wintry watery sun was breaking through the iron clouds with just enough energy to bring them warmth.
“Mr Lewis reckoned we might raise Gib this sennight,” Jameson commented. He, like Flint, had known the master’s mate since he had been a lower deck man, although both accepted his promotion as just.
“Aye, an’ what sight’s we’ll see then.” Flint chewed his tobacco with satisfaction as he rested his back against the foremast. The fresh puddening on their damaged bowsprit was giving out a regular, hypnotic creak and he gladly allowed his mind to fantasise on the impossible prospects of shore leave, ample drink and clean, willing, women.
“Will we be there long?” Jameson asked.
“Long enough,” he answered, although the mood was still with him and his eyes remained fixed somewhere in the middle distance.
“Reckon they’ll have a job to do on us first.” Jameson switched his attention to Bennet who, though not yet a proper sailor, was at least giving him some attention.
Bennet nodded. “Probably put us in dry dock,” he said, using a term he had heard on more than one occasion.
“No dry at Gib,” Flint commented.
The two younger men exchanged glances and raised eyes, but Flint remained in his private world. Then Bennet grew serious and leant forward.
“Tell you a funny thing,” he said, holding Jameson with his expression. “But I sees a sight last night.”
“What was that?” Jameson asked, intrigued despite himself.
“Mr Pigot.” Bennet sat back again, satisfied.
What warmth they were enjoying from the sun suddenly vanished, and Jameson had to resist a shudder that made him draw his elbows in to his sides. Pigot had been dead for quite a time, considering what they had been through since, yet the name still carried power enough to disturb him.
“Pigot, you say?” Even Flint had been pulled from his fantasies, to listen.
“Aye, I know how it sounds, but it were him, sure as a gun.”
“Whereabouts?”
Bennet pointed behind him with his thumb. “Upper deck, outside the galley.” It had been in just that area that Pigot’s lifeless body had been found.
“But the galley were cold,” Jameson mused. Indeed the range, usually quite a convivial place to meet and the only part of the ship where men were allowed to smoke, had remained unlit and empty since the action.
“Aye, cold it were an’ not a man abroad, bar the lieutenant.”
“What was you doin’ on the upper deck?” Flint asked.
“On my way to the heads.”
“What time was this?” Matthew had now grown quite chilled.
“Jus’ afore two bells, mornin’ watch. Thought I’d take my ease ’for the idlers gets about.” Bennet might not have been at sea for long, but he had slotted into shipboard routine very quickly.
“An’ what did you see?”
“Pigot, least it looked like him. Wearin’ his coat, an’ standin’ jus’ outside the galley, as if he were warmin’ his bum to the fire. Then he turned an started walkin’ back past the manger.”
“You sure it were?” There was no trace of teasing in Flint’s voice; Bennet’s story, however incredible, had the ring of truth about it.
“Sure as I could be in that light. I ducked down, like, thinkin’ he’d see me.”
“Well you would,” Flint commented, dryly.
“Anyone else see him?”
“Oh yes. I gave it a while an’ he didn’t come back, so I crept after him.” He broke his spell for a second. “I still needed the heads, after all.” Both men nodded. “Then I comes up to the manger and no sign of him. So I looks about and sees Sammy.” Flint and Jameson rolled their eyes; there could be little corroboration from that quarter. Sammy, the middle aged man who looked after the animals, was well known for being as daft as a brush.
“‘You see anyone go past?’ I asks him, and he says, ‘Yes, Mr Pigot went by five minutes ago’, an’ he points to the officers’ roundhouse.”
“Lieutenants don’t use the roundhouse,” Jameson interrupted. “They got their own jakes in the quarter-galleries. Besides, the warrant officers’ roundhouse got knocked to splinters.”
“I seen a captain use the roundhouse when there was a need,” Flint confirmed with satisfaction.
Bennet closed his eyes briefly. “An’ so they’re using the larboard now, an’ that’s where Sammy was pointin’,” he said.
Flint shook his head almost sadly. “Can’t hold for it m’self.”
“Neither would I… I mean, neither would I if I hadn’t been there, and if I hadn’t seen it with me own two eyes.”
“Yeah, an’ you also saw him buried,” Jameson pointed out. “Shot over the side like a good ’un, he did.” It was one of his happier memories of the lieutenant.
“Aye, I saw that, an’ I saw him again last night.” There was no shaking the man, and despite themselves Flint and Jameson felt disinclined to argue further.
Cobb, the midshipman, spoke suddenly, appearing from behind, making Jameson and Bennet start.
“If you’ve no better there’s a mile of splicin’ the bosun wants doin’,” he told them.
“Very good, Mr Cobb.” Despite his size the lad was almost ten years younger than Flint although the novelty of calling any boy mister had worn thin long ago. All three rose up and brushed the dust from their trousers.
“Either that or cook’s overhauling galley stove; you can help him if you’ve a mind,” he added casually. “Makes no odds.”
Flint caught the eye of his two messmates and grinned slightly. “We’ll take the splicin’ thank you, Mr Cobb.” Tattletale or not, neither of them had a mind to spend any time near the galley, if they could help it.
*****
Carter was buried later that morning. Nairn stood next to the groggy Stuart as Banks read the well-worn words of the service. There was little emotion on the captain’s face and even less on Stuart’s, which was still bloated with the effects of his nightly draught. But Nairn found it unusually hard to contain his feelings and was in very real danger of breaking down in front of the assembly.
He had watched Carter die, and it had been a relatively peaceful death, thanks to the laudanum that he himself had eventually been forced to administer. The final, generous, dose that hardly made up for the hours of agony the man had undergone before. And all because the surgeon cared more for his own comfort than that of his charges. Nairn contained a wave of revulsion as the canvas bundle was launched from the upturned grating, hitting the wat
er with barely a splash.
His eyes moved about, catching those of Wright, who had a fixed, wooden expression that spoke volumes. Nairn considered him for a moment. Wright had been Carter’s messmate. They had tied each other’s queues on many occasions, and as such it had fallen to him to set him in his hammock, place the two round shot, and sewn him in (all bar the last “snitch” stitch, which, by right, was the job of the sail maker). Wright had also been there towards the end, when it was clear that Carter was not going to make it, and Stuart could not give a damn either way. He didn’t know about the laudanum, no one did, not even the surgeon had noticed the reduction in the jar. And he didn’t know about Stuart being absent when he was most needed. Nairn fixed Wright with his eyes, deciding that he should, and would, be fully informed as soon as possible. Wright was straight, a popular seaman and very capable. He’d listen to Nairn, and know exactly what to do. After all, he’d been right on the ball when it had come to accounting for Pigot. Everyone knew that.
CHAPTER NINE
They sighted land on the morning of the fifth day, their progress having been steady and uneventful. King, standing on the quarterdeck of Aiguille, set his glass on the misty haze that marked nearby Cape Finisterre, a near perfect landfall, although he could take little credit for that. Despite the fact that she was the leading ship, Aiguille sailed under the eye of Pandora and it had been Fraiser’s sightings and navigation that had brought them to this point. A further signal from the British frigate dictated a change of course and King shut his glass and returned it to the binnacle, while he ordered the ship round. The men strained at the braces as she took up her fresh heading. Behind him Pandora was just starting to press her helm, and before long both ships were set for Portugal. The wind, which remained strong and reasonably constant, now came across the beam, slowing their progress slightly and making the ships list to larboard. The bell summoned the men to breakfast. They would have burgoo and small beer, with a draught of hot tea for the boys and anyone else who wanted it. King felt mildly guilty over the last point. Several cases of tea had been discovered amongst the French military stores; presumably these were intended to help their officers through the bite of an Irish winter. Officially he had no right to touch it, being provisions stored below deck, but his men were working under extreme pressure and appreciated the novelty of the drink, almost as much as the warmth it gave them.