Jackass Frigate

by Alaric Bond

“Richard, is it not?” The Canadian accent was unmistakable as a beefy senior captain stepped into their path just outside the entrance to the admiral’s quarters.

  “Ben!” Banks had not expected to see Hallowell, an old shipmate from several commissions past. He winced at the well-remembered handshake and grinned eagerly into the open and honest face of the massive part man, part bear.

  “Saw you had Pandora, lithe little thing, ain’t she?”

  Hallowell had lost his ship Courageux in a storm a few months back, and was serving in Victory as a volunteer. Banks was quick to change the subject.

  “You’re dining with us?”

  “Indeed,” he rubbed his abdomen with pride, “though I dare say this will be more in the nature of a scratch meal.”

  A commotion from behind signalled the arrival of the commodore’s party, and Grey gratefully handed Banks over to Hallowell to show him into the admiral’s presence.

  Jervis was equally brisk; enquired of his fortune with the prize and congratulated him on his repairs, but a faraway look in his eye told Banks that there were others he wished to speak with.

  He turned away and looked at the party that had entered behind him. A rotund man in a colonel’s uniform, flanked by a far older gentleman, whom Banks took to be Elliot. There were two rather stiff lieutenants and a pompous civilian wearing a horsehair wig roughly ten years out of date. But it was the commodore that followed them who drew his attention.

  The face was sharp, angular almost, with just a hint of sensitivity about the lower lip and he carried himself with the assurance of one who knows he has done well and expects praise. He wore a full dress uniform on which an unfamiliar and rather ostentatious award was pinned; something that gave the initial impression of a coxcomb. When he spoke it was with an unpleasant, high-pitched, nasal voice that sat on the very edge of being a whine. Banks was prepared to be unimpressed and had already written the commodore off as one to be tolerated until their eyes met, and he caught a flash of brilliance, one that could only come from a man born to be different from his fellows.

  Jervis was greeting him now in a warm, yet reserved manner that betrayed the deep affection he held for the young officer. Turning to one side he naturally picked on Banks.

  “Do you know Sir Richard?”

  Nelson turned to Banks and again those eyes penetrated his.

  “Only by reputation, but it is a fine one, sir, and I am proud to meet the man behind it.”

  Banks shook his hand, feeling a thrill that was very nearly electric. “You are too kind, Commodore.”

  “I mean every word.” The voice was suddenly lower, and there was no taint of insincerity in the expression.

  Banks nodded and mumbled something in reply. He felt quite overwhelmed and was almost relieved when the attention turned to Colonel Drinkwater, who seemed to be some kind of a celebrity.

  “One of the Navy’s finest,” Hallowell whispered to him as they made for their seats. “The commodore is brilliant commander and an inspired leader; the people love him.”

  Banks nodded; it was easy to see why.

  At just past two in the afternoon the spring sunshine flowed in through the stern windows and yet there were candles alight in heavy silver candlesticks that sat at precisely measured intervals along the great table. As junior captain present, Banks found himself seated between Hallowell and a tall but slightly blockish lieutenant who gave his name as Hardy. The meal was served with commendable speed, but was not one of the best Banks had eaten. The few days he had spent on Gibraltar had robbed all novelty from the fresh vegetables and when it came to the pork, he found his to be tough, fat and hardly the ideal meat for a warm spring day. His opinion was not shared by the other guests, however, and the conversation all but died as the men delved into their heavily laden plates and ate with the relish and manners of lads. By the time the first of the desserts was served, and the port had begun to circulate, the talk became more general and Banks was interested to note how Nelson naturally became the centre of it.

  “Sir Gilbert was telling me of your passage, Commodore. Quite eventful, by the sound?”

  Nelson abandoned his full glass to the table and swept the room in one all embracing glance. “Yes, Sir John, we had a high time of it.”

  “Did you call on Mahon?”

  “Indeed no, sir. The winds were contrary. We did take a look at Carthagena though, to no avail.”

  “The Dons had fled?” This was Calder, asking the question with a lack of enthusiasm. Presumably he and Jervis were well acquainted with the news Nelson brought and this little conversation was intended as an unofficial briefing for those present.

  “Aye, fled they had; every one that could carry a sail. Though quite how they manned them, only the future will tell.”

  “Maybe they did not man them at all.” This was Drinkwater who, despite his name, had clearly been indulging and was now in high spirits. “Belike we fight with women tomorrow!”

  “Then no need to call for volunteers when boarding, what!” One of Elliot’s staff had clearly been following Drinkwater in more than his train of thought. The laughter was general but light, as most of the naval officers present were well aware that many of the British ships were also carrying women.

  “We called at Gibraltar to collect Culverhouse and Hardy.” Bank’s neighbour bowed slightly at the mention of his name. “Who had been carrying prizes...”

  “Then damn me if we didn’t try and hand them over to the Spanish!” Drinkwater again, clearly enjoying himself as only one in his state could.

  “The colonel refers to an unhappy incident.” Elliot was a little more controlled and spoke in a clear, authoritative voice. “As we left harbour we were followed by two Spanish line of battle ships and a frigate.”

  Drinkwater burst in. “I said to the commodore, shall we see action? And he replies, cool as you like, ‘Very possible, but before the Dons get a hold of that…’ an’ he points to his flag, ‘…I’ll have a struggle with them, and rather than give up the ship, will run her ashore!’”

  The company beamed with pleasure at the words, although they struck Banks as being somewhat theatrical.

  “Then the next we knows of it we’re sitting down to dine, and they calls out ‘Man overboard’.” The viceroy had the bug now and was speaking with almost as much enthusiasm as Drinkwater. “Hardy here springs up and before you can say knife, he’s in a cutter heading back for the man.”

  “Did you find him?” asked Hallowell.

  “Sadly not, sir.”

  “No, but we damned nearly lost Hardy and the boat’s crew into the bargain!” Drinkwater again. He finished his sentence by draining his glass to give him energy for the next.

  “The commodore was good enough to back sails and pick the cutter up,” the lieutenant said without enthusiasm. “Otherwise I would be in a Spanish gaol b’now.”

  “‘By God, I’ll not lose Hardy!’ he says.” Drinkwater had charged his glass from the circulating decanter and was ready to continue, but Miller spoke first.

  “And what of the Dons, when they saw you turn back for them?”

  “That is the strangest thing,” Elliot shook his head in disbelief. “They only had to hold their course and we’d have been under their guns.”

  “And we’d all be in a Spanish gaol!” Drinkwater laughed, although this time no one joined him.

  “But instead they luffed up and waited while we plucked Mr Hardy and his companions from the briny,” Elliot finished with a puzzled smile.

  Nelson moved slightly and instantly had the attention of the entire table. “I think they were under the impression we had joined with the fleet.” His words were greeted with the wise nodding of heads.

  “Well, I believe you will agree that it augurs well for the morrow.” Jervis spoke with the air of one who wished to end the proceedings, and the company responded by clearing throats and wiping their mouths. “May I say that I have received two signals during the course of this pleasant mea
l. Blenheim and Britannia have both reported strange sail on the horizon, so let us raise our glasses. Gentlemen, the toast is victory over the Dons in the battle they cannot escape tomorrow!”

  *****

  The hands had eaten at twelve, but Cobb’s meal had not been pleasant. In the early hours of the morning he had been allocated to the mess that numbered the least men, and little other attention had been given him. He awoke at four, the beginning of the morning watch, when the reason for his only having four messmates became obvious.

  Each was a malcontent, each bore a grudge against the ship, and more principally, her officers, and each viewed the prospect of sharing their mess with a boy who had been an officer with appetite and hoarded spite. He endured two meals, four hours of drill and four hours of duty before cautiously approaching the first lieutenant and applying for a change of mess.

  Caulfield eyed him gravely. News of the lad’s adventures had circulated about the ship like any piece of gossip and it was quite clear by the look in his eye that Cobb’s punishment had begun.

  “Mess changes only come about at the end of a month,” he said. “You’ve another two weeks to go, but take comfort that it’s February.”

  Cobb’s face dropped, and his head bowed slightly. “I’m sharing with Dickinson’s lot, sir. They’re spitting in my food, and...”

  “All right, spare me the details. Maybe that wasn’t the wisest move, considering their record, though you’re not going to be popular wherever you go.”

  “I realise that, sir. And if it makes any difference, I’m sorry for what I did. It were only a prank.”

  “What you did disrupted the efficiency of this ship, that’s a contradiction of the duty of any officer and I personally think you got off lightly.” He paused to let his words sink in. “Still, let’s see if we can’t find a few more favourable messmates for you.” He considered the watch bill for a second. “Flint’s just taken one of the new men, Calver, so he’s pretty well full. Mind, most of the others are also, we’re uncommonly well set as far as people go.”

  “Flint would be fine, sir,” Cobb said. He knew the men well, and trusted them to be fair. Caulfield had looked at the list again, and eventually agreed.

  And so Cobb made his cautious approach as the men were sitting down to supper. Flint glanced up from the pease pudding he was eating and the easy atmosphere of friendly chat was suddenly suspended.

  “Mr Cobb, what brings you to us?” The lad had his ditty bag slung over his shoulder, and all knew that he had been allocated a particularly hard mess, so the question was unnecessary.

  “I come to join you, that’s if you’ll take me.”

  Despite Caulfield’s words, the final decision lay with the men, who had the absolute right to bar any man from their mess, and expel those they found disagreeable. Flint looked about the faces of the other men, all of whom appeared as nonplussed as he felt.

  “Well, what do you say? Anyone here fancy sharing with a failed reefer?”

  Cobb stiffened slightly at the words, although the idea of returning to Dickenson’s mess appalled him.

  Wright shrugged. “I’ve no objection; the lad might even make a reasonable seaman, and I don’t doubt he’ll be back in the cockpit afore we knows it.”

  His words brought forward a series of nods and pursed lips, although no one seemed especially enthusiastic.

  “Let’s put it another way,” Flint said. “Anyone not want Mr Cobb in?”

  “I’ll not call him mister,” Dobson said defiantly.

  “No, that you won’t,” Flint agreed. “I was awry. Cobb here wants to join us, any complaints?” The men seemed compliant enough and he turned to the lad. “All right, you’re in for the month, but take it on trial, eh?”

  Cobb nodded eagerly, and seated himself next to Bennet at the foot of the table. Wright slammed the pewter dish that held cold pease pudding in front of him, and the boy, Billy, knocked a square wooden platter clean, polished it on the seat of his trousers, and handed it across.

  “You won’t find no cockpit niceties in here, Cobb,” Dobson told him, not unkindly. “Cold pease pudding, that’s what the Man in the Moon burnt his mouth on.”

  “Yeah, but we got some fruit duff over from dinner,” Billy reminded them.

  “Dinner?” Bennet exclaimed. “He weren’t in our mess at dinner!”

  “Aye, but he is now,” Wright said with certainty. “And we looks after each other, ain’t that the case?”

  *****

  Later, when they were making their way back to the entry port, Banks and Hallowell found themselves next to Nelson once more. They stood waiting as Drinkwater and Elliot were saying their extended goodbyes to Jervis, while the latter tried to rid them of his ship. The viceroy, it appeared, was keen to remain on board Victory in order to witness the battle; Jervis was equally adamant that a frigate would serve as a far better and safer vantage point.

  “Sir John is looking for a frigate,” Hallowell whispered as they waited. “Sure your little Pandora would be ripe for the job.”

  Banks rolled his eyes; the last thing he wanted was a collection of stuffed shirts blocking his quarterdeck. Nelson smiled.

  “I shall be shifting my flag back to Captain or, of course, I should volunteer.” His expression was set, and his eyes appeared focused on the far distance. “Although I have benefited from the viceroy’s company for some while now, and I would not have it said I was keeping him for myself.”

  Hallowell’s laughter was loud enough to disturb Sir John as he was all but forcing Elliot out of the entry port. “Worry not, Dick, Jervie’s made prior plans; Lord Garlies who has the Lively drew the short straw. See even now he’s leading his merry men into her cutter.”

  “One simply hopes a cutter has been provided,” Nelson added dryly, as the consular officials followed their master out of the entry port. The commodore turned to Banks. “By the way, I haven’t wished you joy of your prize, sir. You seemed to have had an eventful voyage down here.”

  Nelson would have seen the Aiguille in the harbour at Gibraltar, but it was flattering that he should remember, not only the ship, but the circumstances in which she had been taken.

  “Thank you, sir, but it seemed your trip was not without interest.”

  Nelson smiled. “What you have heard is only the half,” he said.

  “The commodore was in touch with the enemy only last evening,” Hallowell added, his voice, for once, lowered.

  Banks stared at him in disbelief; this was surely the wine speaking, although both Hallowell and Nelson seemed unusually sober.

  “We met them in the fog, several leagues back and making for Cadiz,” Nelson confided. “It were only providence and a good foremast lookout that saved us from running on board one of their liners.”

  “But you were sighted surely, did they not offer action?”

  “Sailed right through the middle, didn’t you, sir?”

  Nelson nodded. “Aye, we managed to avoid any unpleasantness, and it did give us a chance to gauge their mettle. There should be few surprises on the morrow.”

  Such a feat was not unheard of, but Banks wondered slightly at the man. “Forgive me, sir but why did you say nothing of this just now?”

  “As I have said, we learnt their strength, and Sir John was concerned that it may upset the people were they to know what they will be against.”

  “The fleet is large then?”

  “Aye, upwards of twenty-five sail of the line, and a four-decker amongst them.”

  Banks swallowed dryly. At least ten more ships of the line than the British possessed. If there was action tomorrow, as seemed likely, they would be out-numbered by almost two to one.

  “Never mind, friend.” Nelson’s voice had dropped and sounded almost confidential. “Spanish may build fine ships, but they cannot man them. When I was in Cadiz, during the peace, I was hardly impressed.”

  “Sure, but twenty-five to fifteen.” Hallowell shook his head in wonder. “Those odds are mig
hty high to be reduced for want of men.”

  “The thicker the hay, the easier it is mown.” Nelson’s expression was intense. “Fear not, tomorrow will bring us a glorious victory, and I pray that we shall all be spared to see it.”

  *****

  As soon as the guests had left Victory, Jervis signalled for the fleet to make their final preparations for battle. In each ship the various heads of department went through the prepared routine that would ensure they were as ready as they could be for the following day. In Pandora Manning, whose access to Stuart’s medical equipment had been granted through laziness on his superior’s part, rather than any confidence in his assistant’s skills, set about sharpening knives, saws and scalpels; laying them out with the probes, retractors and tourniquets for Nairn and the other loblolly boys to wash down with vinegar, then polish with spit and brick dust. Later they would cut and roll fresh bandages, and unravel lengths of horsehair and gut for sutures. Nairn had applied to the cooper for an empty barrel for “legs and wings”, the surgeon’s off cuts that were as inevitable as death itself, while clean canvas was lying ready to spread over the decking of the cockpit.

  Everit and the rest of his crew were busy stacking lead plates and wooden plugs into the wings of the ship, the narrow corridors that ran level with the waterline where the most important damage would be taken to the hull. It would be their job to block any holes as fast and efficiently as possible, in order that Pandora remained afloat and the wounded on the lower deck stayed dry.

  The boatswain and his men were setting preventer stays to each mast and had already brought out the metal chain slings that would be rigged to the yards, while the cook emptied the steep bins, and roused out the several crates of oranges and lemons they had taken on board at Gibraltar. These would be handed out to anyone who needed them as soon as the battle began.

  Boarding cutlasses, pikes and axes were sharpened. Powder, for the great guns and side arms, was mixed afresh, before being ladled into the new flannel cartridges that the gunner and his crew were now sewing, and the sand boxes between every other gun were filled.

  The officers ate a light supper, with only Martin, the surgeon and the purser indulging in more than a single glass of wine. Caulfield retired early, and spent several hours in the cable tier, playing soft, meditative pieces on his ’cello, while in his mind he readied himself for action. King read his copy of Norrie’s Navigation, his eyes running over the words without absorbing any meaning. Crowley had prepared a warm drink for him of goat’s milk with rum in it, which now sat by his elbow, destined to grow cold and a skin. Stuart was deep in a laudanum-induced torpor, a card game ran for impossible stakes in the cockpit, and Fraiser was reading his well-thumbed bible.