by Alaric Bond
“Stand aside there,” Banks barked. “And open up those doors.”
Dutifully Flint’s mess separated, while Collins opened the double doors that made the coach and great cabin into one room. From there it could be seen there were upwards of thirty men crammed into the benches.
Andrews snorted and regarded Flint’s mess. “Very good, you may go now, and please close those doors.”
The seamen turned and swaggered from the room, leaving behind an air of wonder. When they had gone Andrews helped himself to more snuff.
“Well, I must congratulate you, Captain. You certainly have a tight set of people.”
“Sir, you must not think this was any of my doing.”
“No, no, my dear sir. The very opposite. However, that little demonstration has told me more about our late lamented Mr Pigot than any number of reports and opinions could ever.”
He reached forward and idly picked up the ball that lay on the table. He held it to the light, and passed it from hand to hand.
“There are many things that we are discovering in this war.” His voice was slow and meditative, and Davies, the secretary, seemed unsure whether or not he should be taking notes. “Some fellow keeps pestering the Admiralty with an idea for rockets, and another who wants to send dolphins into battle with charges attached to theirselves. I know the French have been experimenting with balloons, and there was that time they tried to mount a furnace inside a brig to fire red-hot shot; infernal thing burnt to a cinder, as I collect. Tell me gentlemen, is it so ridiculous that they should be using rifles, of a power and range unknown until now?”
There was no answer, and for several seconds Andrews continued playing with the ball. It dropped onto the desk, and he snapped back almost at the same instance. He drew his chair back and turned to Banks.
“Captain, it was conscientious of you to invite me here, but I see no further reason to remain.”
He picked up the reports in front of him and knocked them together. Then, with a swift but firm hand, ripped them in two.
“Gentleman, it is my opinion that Lieutenant Pigot died as the result of enemy action. His death is most lamentable and naturally his family will be provided for in the usual manner.”
Andrews turned to go, his movements were brisk and businesslike, and Banks had to fairly run to catch up with him as he left the cabin.
Outside the coach was still filled with muttering seamen, one leant forward and dragged Billy out of the way as the two captains swept out and along to the main companionway.
The sun was out to meet them as they emerged onto the quarterdeck. Andrews turned to Banks and smiled. “You have a fine ship; one that will be ready for sea before long, I believe.”
“Yes, sir, three days at the most.”
“Then I wish you joy of her, and a safe passage.” He held out his hand, which Banks accepted gratefully.
“Thank you, sir, thank you for all you have done.”
“I have only done my duty, sir. As you have, as many of your people have. One in particular…”
For a moment Banks was taken aback. “Forgive me, sir, I...”
Andrews barked out a quick laugh. “The fellow who settled that evil blighter Pigot’s hash, what?” He slapped Banks hard on the shoulder, before turning and backing out of the entry port.
Three sidesboys rushed to the spot and hastily stood in line while a boatswain’s mate appeared looking a little disappointed at not being able to pay compliments.
“Begging your pardon, sir. We had no idea the captain was leaving, not so soon, like.”
“That’s all right, Croxley.” Banks raised his hat to the corpulent and somewhat antiquated sea officer who was now taking his place in the sternsheets of his gig. “I think Captain Andrews really rather surprised us all.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
On the evening of the 9th of February, after a frantic day of replacing stores and taking on water, Pandora had been warped into the harbour and was now ready to set sail once more. The repairs were to a good standard and she now boasted a bow as strong and as watertight as any, with the minor point that the paint supplied at Gibraltar was of a slightly different hue to that of the rest of her hull. She also had several fresh sails, as well as new standing and running rigging where necessary. Banks looked at his watch; the wind was ideal for finding Jervis’s fleet and he wanted to make the best of it, although it seemed Martin, the lieutenant of marines, had other ideas.
“No sight nor sound, sir,” Caulfield said glumly. “Peter’s been flying for nigh on two hour, and he was well aware of the circumstances.”
There had been limited leave for all of the officers and most of the lower deck had spent at least one evening ashore, their conduct and return guaranteed by bondmen. Martin, it seemed, had abused the privilege; as a marine there was little required of him other than to arrange the piquet and he had hardly been seen on board Pandora throughout their stay. Now he was stretching the leniency still further by delaying the progress of his ship, a disciplinary offence in itself and especially annoying when they had all worked so hard to get back to sea.
“Wait, I see him!” Cobb was standing next to the taffrail with Woolsey, the new midshipman they had been given from Liverpool. “He’s heading down main street with a package under his arm, reckon he’s been visiting Lady Howe.”
Banks looked at Caulfield. “Lady Howe? I had no idea she was ashore?”
Caulfield shook his head. “It’s not her ladyship, sir. The men have a name for a particular woman.”
“Oh.” Banks started to say more, then decided against it; should Martin have delayed his ship for some immoral purpose it would not help his case one bit.
“It’s not like that, sir.” Caulfield was clearly reading his mind. “She runs a laundry, we get all ours done there when there’s a chance. Good fresh water, she uses, and proper soap.”
“Lady Howe’s laundry stays cleaner for longer than anyone else’s, sir,” Cobb added in a confidential voice.
Martin was on the front now and gesturing to a skiff to carry him out to where Pandora was swinging to her single cable.
“Very good, Mr Caulfield, you may make sail.”
Caulfield touched his hat and began to bellow orders. On the forecastle Rose supervised the raising of the anchor. It went without a hitch with the quartermaster shouting “up and down” just as the topsails were unbent. Pandora was under way when Martin’s skiff bumped against the side, and he clambered up the entry port with a brown paper parcel under one arm straining to be free of its string.
“You are late aboard, Mr Martin.” There was no point in disciplining the man in private when the entire ship was aware of his offence.
“I do beg your pardon, sir. I was delayed.”
“We were all delayed, Mr Martin, on account of your washing!”
The marine looked abashed, and Banks wondered if the universal derision of the ship was possibly punishment enough. Disciplining a senior officer was a delicate matter at the best of times.
“Take it below, I will speak with you later.”
Martin touched his hat and went toward the main companionway just as the heavens intervened, and his parcel burst open.
The laughter that accompanied his misfortune started on the quarterdeck, but quickly spread to the entire ship as the parcel’s contents were revealed. Martin reached down in disgust, and picked up one of a series of women’s petticoats that lay, perfectly starched and pressed, on the white strakes of the quarterdeck.
“Damn the woman!” he shouted, more red-faced than ever. “She’s beavered my bloody shirts!”
“Looks like you’ve got the wrong parcel there,” King informed him seriously.
“Bloody thief, now I haven’t got a dress shirt in the ship, nor no stocks, nor handkerchiefs!”
“That’s pretty fair lace, Mr Martin,” Fraiser said, examining one of the petticoats. “Reckon you’re the right side of the bargain. Turn any woman’s head, these would.
“Right side of the bargain, be damned!” The marine stomped off the deck with the laundry under his arm. The hoots and laughter that followed might have been condemned by some as poor discipline, although Banks felt that Pandora had already reached a high level of efficiency, and the men could be allowed a fair joke. Besides, he had been searching for a just punishment for Martin and when one so perfectly apt was provided for him, it seemed churlish to refuse it.
Pandora sailed swiftly out of the harbour under topsails alone, then added forecourse jib and staysails until she was cutting through the water at a good nine knots, with the wind blowing crisp and steady on her quarter.
Banks stood on the quarterdeck enjoying the chill of the evening. If the previous nights were anything to go by, the fog would soon come down, and he wanted to make as much progress as possible before then. A fleet of Spanish ships had passed Gibraltar some eight days ago and the Levanter had blown almost continuously ever since. Should they be heading across the Atlantic they would be a good way off by now. But if their intention was further north, a French base, Ireland or even the Channel, they would have been taken further into the Atlantic than they would have wished. They might miss Jervis’s fleet, currently cruising off Cape St Vincent, and with barely a handful of frigates available to him, Jervis would need Pandora to help search for them.
*****
By four bells in the first watch, ten o’clock, ‘down hammocks’ had been piped and the watch below was mostly asleep. The fog had come down earlier, and now the ship rode through the mist under topsails, with topmast lookouts on the main as well as the fore. Below, the ship was thick with sleep and as Manning made his way back from the repaired warrant officers’ roundhouse, his mind was hardly alert. Queenie, the newly acquired goat, bought to replace the much-lamented Charlotte, was snoring deeply in her manger. The rest of the livestock; the hens, geese and piglets, were also silent, as was Sammy, their devoted keeper who shared their lives, along with their bedding and most of their food. Manning crept past and on toward the galley, where the gentle rumble of night-time conversation could be heard. From out of the darkness a figure loomed, silhouetted against the lanthorns that swung by the galley. It was wearing a commissioned officer’s hat and the heavy watch coat suggested he was on duty, except Fraiser had the watch and was of a far slighter build. Manning stood to one side, blending into the shadows, as the figure passed. He watched as he stopped, and bent over the sleeping figure of Sammy. The man turned in his sleep, then opened his eyes, muttered some nonsense and reached for the warmth of one of the pigs for reassurance. Seconds later he was wide-awake and staring at the mystery figure. Sammy’s eyes grew round and white in the dim light, and his mouth opened in a soundless scream. Satisfied, the figure turned and swept aft, disappearing behind the galley, leaving the simpleton mumbling in terror.
Manning stepped forward, and knelt down, taking Sammy’s shoulders in his hands.
“Steady there, steady, you’re safe now.” The man was on the verge of shouting; just one scream would be enough to call for all hands; Pandora would have sufficient excitement in the next few days without half her people being roused from their sleep unnecessarily.
“Steady there!” Sammy was focusing on Manning’s eyes, and gradually began to calm down and breathe normally.
“It were Mr Pigot,” he said finally in a voice unnaturally loud, yet not as much as to raise the alarm. “He comes and sees me when I’m abed.”
Manning continued to speak soft calming words to the man, and gradually his panic subsided. “Has he been before, Sammy?”
The man nodded. “Regular.”
Manning gave a grim smile. “Well don’t worry,” he said. “He won’t be coming again.”
*****
By morning they were off Cape Trafalgar, with the wind constant, though less strong. Caulfield had added extra sail during his watch, but even with courses and topgallants, they were barely making four knots. King had the watch, and Manning approached him diffidently. He was now a full lieutenant, and had every right to be aloof to one barely of warrant rank. But the smile was the same and as soon as they began to talk it was just like when they had shared the same berth, less than three weeks before.
“You’ve yet to fix yourself with a uniform, then?” Manning asked. It was quite customary for lieutenants and even captains to appear on duty in slop clothing, although Manning was well aware of King’s financial state, and guessed that he had nothing in reserve other than his midshipman’s jacket.
“No, somehow I didn’t get the time to kit out at Gib. Maybe there’ll be a chance later, once we’ve dealt with the Dons.”
“Pigot was about your size,” Manning mused. “Why not take a look through his stock. Snips could alter anything for you, if there’s a need.”
Their late first lieutenant’s clothes had been moved into the officers’ storeroom when Caulfield had taken over his cabin. Usually the possessions of deceased officers were passed about amongst their fellows, almost as a form of tribute, although no one had felt the desire in Pigot’s case.
“Watch her head, there!” King’s attention was taken away as the helmsman allowed the ship to fall off slightly. Manning waited until the ship was back to her normal course before continuing.
“It’s a strange thought; he was on board this ship treading this very deck not more than a month back. Sometimes it seems as if he was never there, and other times…” he paused, “well, like he hasn’t really gone.”
King eyed him cautiously. Did he know about Stuart’s grisly trophy? Probably - they both worked in the same department, after all. And what else? The mystery figure on the beakhead; he was almost certain it had been Pigot, and yet the enquires he had made amongst the men had proved fruitless. It had been a delicate operation, to ask if anything untoward had been noticed in the privacy of the men’s heads; some strange and rather worrying responses had been offered up, but none that shone any light on the subject. Only Sammy in the manger seemed to know what he was talking about and enthusiastically identified Pigot as being alive and well and roaming about the ship. But Sammy was a simpleton, and King had come to the conclusion that he was fast becoming like him.
“The fact is,” said Manning, finally taking the plunge, “I saw him last night. Saw him, or someone who appeared mighty similar.” Manning had been aimlessly watching a hand as he secured a wayward part of the Burton tackle, but turned now and studied his friend’s face. He was watching for some sign of pity or contempt, the understanding look for a naive fool and the indulging of his fancies. But there was none of this in King’s expression; instead he saw only relief.
*****
That night, the night of the 10th of February, the fine weather broke and a storm blew up. Below, in the homely damp warmth of the lower deck, Flint and his men had just come off watch and were rubbing themselves dry before they could clamber into their hammocks for four hours’ blessed peace.
“They’ll be calling for us before two bells,” Calver, the topman who had replaced Carter, muttered as he untied the tight, hard parcel that was his hammock. Calver was part of the fresh draft of twenty men they had been granted at Gibraltar. His last ship had been Liverpool; a stately three-decker laid down nearly sixty years ago. Liverpool had survived numerous small encounters and one full-blown fleet action, but time and thirty years spent in the Mediterranean sun, had finally accounted for her. Calver made no secret of the contrast he felt from his old ship, with her heavy, if rotten, stanchings and flagship standard of bull, to this greenwood gunboat that he had yet to love.
“Aye,” Wright agreed readily. “Were we in Liverpool now, we shouldn’t be wet. No, we wouldn’t even have need to go aloft. Ships like Liverpool does all their reefing theirselves.”
“I’ve had no one like you, Sam,” she tells me. “Not never.” Lawlor had been regaling them with tales of his shore leave ever since his return. Most had
been pleased to listen, although now the stories were getting somewhat beyond the pale.
“And were we in Liverpool now, I dare say the stoves would be aglow below deck.” Dobson had caught the drift. “And each of us would be stepping into our nice warm bed gowns, all hot from the irons which our nice warm chamber maids ha’been using on them.”
“Ah, scoff your fill, I tell you: crank she may have been, but you could hoist this little pisspot aboard the old Liver, an’ hardly notice she were there.”
The sight of King, a commissioned officer, together with the surgeon’s mate, passing along the berth deck caused hushed comments from each mess. King was well liked and respected by all, but it was rare to see any officer above the rank of midshipman in a space and at a time that was almost sacrosanct as their own.
“Something afoot?” Flint looked enquiringly at Wright, who shook his head.
“Blowed if I knows; been no murmurings.” The two had passed out of the berthing area now, and were climbing up the companionway. Flint stood up and walked to the centre of the deck, his exaggerated nonchalant manner attracting attention all round. Whistling noiselessly, he glanced forward, before taking a few steps up the companionway, stopping just where his head was level with the main deck. He watched as the two officers disappeared into the darkness next to the manger. One moment they were there, the next they were gone, in just the same way that Bennet had described seeing Pigot that night. Intrigued, he continued up the companionway and on towards the galley, where a gentle wisp of tobacco smoke marked three of the men who were having a night-time pipe. He moved forward; both roundhouses were open and empty, only Sammy was about, laying out the straw that would be bedding for the animals and himself. There was no sign of officers. He was starting to think he must have missed them completely, when a movement in the shadows opposite the manger caught his attention. He stepped forward; his eyes were now fully adjusted to the gloom, and could just about make out the shapes of two men as they sat hunched up against a broad oak knee.