The Torrid Zone (The Fighting Sail Series)

by Alaric Bond

  “All present, Mr Jarvis?” King asked the corporal who accompanied them.

  “Aye, sir,” the man answered, saluting smartly. “I've men detailed to the fo'c'sle and half deck, and will retain four here for the quarterdeck. Bayonets will be fixed and muskets loaded,” he said, as if reciting. “We'll not 'ave no trouble.”

  King was glad to hear it, but still felt vaguely uncomfortable about the whole procedure. It had already been agreed that no other officer would be witnessing and all women should stay below. This was partly, King assumed, to play down the event, but it did mean that he would be in sole charge, and that was not a prospect he particularly relished.

  The ship's bell rang; it was time for all to begin, and King was wondering if he should make some sort of announcement when a cheer, followed by the sound of running feet, came up from the deck below.

  “Lordy, will you look at that!” Cahill was staring down, and King followed his gaze. Mitchell, the half-man half-bear who all but ran the ship's bilges, was being carried on a lighter made from two sweeps connected by canvas. He was clad in a woman's floral robe-de-chambre that was open to the waist and waved an iron loggerhead in his right hand as if it weighed no more than a child's toy. There was some sort of crown on his head, and his black mane, for once untied, had been dusted white with flour and flowed down the sides of his bovine face. Both shoulders were partially bare and the mighty beard, also dusted, filled the open neck in the gown, finally disappearing into the garment, or merging with the thick shag of his chest fur.

  “It's something to frighten the children,” King agreed. Four men carried the bier, and they manoeuvred Mitchell, not too delicately, up the forecastle ladder, before dumping their load next to the gun carriage with a thump that echoed about the ship.

  Mitchell bellowed, but it was a good-natured roar, and he eased himself up, and onto the throne with remarkable dignity. Someone else, with a lavishly painted face and adorned in a decorated woman's gown, seated themselves on a bench alongside while Hind, carrying a barrel hoop that had been twisted into the shape of a razor, placed himself more awkwardly to Mitchell's left. Other seamen swarmed up the gangway and onto the forecastle, pressing themselves into place, and nudging each other for the best view. Corporal Jarvis ordered his men back to create more space, although King was pleased to note the marines remained alert and stiff-faced, despite the jovial spirit that seemed to permeate the hands.

  A boatswain's mate that King knew to be illiterate stepped forward with an ornate scroll and began to apparently read. “Hear ye, pray silence for his most glorious oceanic majesty, Neptunus Rex, ruler of the seas and all who sail upon them!”

  There were more yells of delight and Mitchell looked about with a generous beam upon his face. “Let the proceedings commence!” he boomed, his voice filling the space better than any warrant officer's, and generating a further cheer from those assembled. On the deck below a dismal band of seamen, who had been identified as first timers, were marched out and made to stand under the filled sail. On being shaken by those above, this deposited a stream of water over them, to the accompaniment of screams of utter delight from the onlookers. The first, Matthew Jameson, was hauled from their midst, and dragged up to stand in front of Mitchell.

  King watched with interest. He remembered Jameson well; they had served together in two previous ships, and he was pleased to note that the lad, who was no more than a boy when they first met, had progressed. Jameson was no stranger to action and, despite the fact that he had not been with Scylla long, was fast becoming one of her prime topmen. Within a year or so he might be considered for further promotion, and was potential junior officer material: it would be interesting to see how he fared over the next five minutes.

  Jameson stood, dripping in front of the royal group.

  Mitchell leaned forward with elaborate interest. “And what is this dismal specimen that has been brought before me?”

  “Able seaman Jameson, your highness,” the boatswain's mate informed all. “Guilty of disregarding the traditions of the sea, and taking piscatorial liberties with the subjects of your Majesty.”

  “Taking the what?” Mitchell boomed, and there were shrieks of laughter which, King noted, were generally good-natured. “Then he shall be punished – but first we must make him more presentable. Clean him up, and give him a shave!”

  More laughter, and groans of anticipation as Jameson was dragged nearer to the wooden kid and it was then that King realised that Amphitrite, Neptune's Queen, was the late governor's manservant. Presumably he had ingratiated himself sufficiently, although from what King had seen of the valet, he was not the type to be overly popular with the lower deck. Hind was being passed an impossibly large hand brush, which looked to have been made from a length of twelve-inch cable. He dipped the frayed rope into the muck, before holding it up in front of the seaman.

  “State your name!” the valet shouted, in a curiously strangled voice that was clearly intended to carry but came out thin and reedy compared with those that had been before. Jameson opened his mouth to reply, but the brush was plunged into his mouth, and there were yells of delight from all.

  The prisoner shook his head, and spat to one side, but seemed to be taking everything in good heart, a fact that was noticed and given due respect by the crowd. He even accepted being covered with slime and Hind's mock scraping with the razor without flinching, and by the time he was thrown backwards to land in the waterlogged sail there was a smattering of applause.

  Three more followed, and were duly tried, punished and despatched without extreme comment, then King's attention was drawn to the next man. It was Timmons, part of the draught taken on at Spithead hardly longer than a month ago. Consequently he was likely to have either been pressed, or be a product of the Quota Act and it may well have been this newcomer status that was to blame, for he also showed none of Jameson's composure, and was not greeted well. King had already noticed Timmons, primarily because he was part of Flint's mess, another hand he knew of old. Flint he liked, but there was something cold and even sinister about Timmons; such things had alerted his senses in the past and did so again now as he considered him.

  Ostensibly he was just another seaman; Timmons might carry an oddly superior air, but then none of the lower deck were models of normality. No, there was something else, something difficult to define but serious enough to cause concern. King watched as those restraining the seaman struggled to keep hold; Timmons was definitely fighting far more than was usual to avoid what was really nothing more than a minor indignity. And King was not the only one to pick up on the newcomer's behaviour; reaction from the crowd was even more boisterous, with an undercurrent of venom that was subtle, but defined. When, after a particularly brutal shaving, he was finally plunged into the water no one clapped and there were several open jeers of derision. An unpopular hand was also nothing unusual, but King felt it would be wise to keep an eye on this particular one for a while to come.

  The sixth was being delivered just as King heard five bells striking. There was still quite a crowd below; it would be impossible to see to them all and finish by the end of the watch. This could mean trouble, especially as 'Up Spirits' was due at that time. Even if the captain granted an extension, to continue when the men had grog inside them could only lead to disaster. King was considering intervening when the noise of someone approaching from behind startled him. He turned to see Lady Hatcher crossing the quarterdeck followed, somewhat apologetically by Jackson, one of the junior midshipmen.

  “What the devil is about?” she asked, her eyes blazing at King as if he had personally insulted her. “I can accept a degree of discourtesy – this is not a John Company ship, after all, but apparently my husband's death means nothing? Where is the captain, and why is he allowing such pantomime on a ship that should surely be in mourning?”

  King was reasonably certain that Banks was in his sleeping quarters, quite close to where Lady Hatcher must have emanated from, although it would ha
rdly have been diplomatic to say so. But how exactly was he to reply? Tell her that the men's traditions were more important than the death of a minor politician? Agree, and say that none of the officers were particularly in favour of what was about? But then why was she making a fuss in the first place? It had been clear to everyone aboard that there was no actual love between the two; the governor was little more than a means to an end, as far as Lady Hatcher was concerned. And there was a final, wicked, inner voice that wanted to ask what exactly would be achieved if they were all to go about with long faces. Just because Sir Terrance had managed to get himself killed, did that mean everyone else had to stay miserable?

  “Who goes there?” Mitchell's roar took them all by surprise, but Lady Hatcher had joined King and Cahill at the fife rail, and was now in full sight of the assembly.

  “Another pollywog for trial?” the man asked with glee. “Bring the wench forth!”

  “Wench?” she hissed, and King noticed the woman's face had grown deeper than its customary afternoon glow. Mitchell's soubriquet appeared to have angered her more than might be expected, and King could not deny feelings of both respect and pity for the man. But before she could take action, Lady Hatcher's attention switched from King Neptune to Davy Jones, and she extended her arm and pointed at the unfortunate Hind.

  “My shift!” Her scream was every bit as penetrating as Mitchell's voice, and may even have carried more authority. Men, who had mounted the gangway, clearly intending on invading the holy quarterdeck to seize her, stopped, and some looked uncertainly back at their elected leader as she continued. “Why is that man wearing my shift? And you, sir,” she said now pointing directly at Mitchell. “That is my robe – what do you mean by dressing so?” She swung round and glared at King. “What manner of men are these?”

  King opened his mouth, but said nothing while, for probably the first time in his life, Mitchell actually blushed, and there was a slight ripple of anonymous laughter.

  “And what is this performance, anyways?” Lady Hatcher now had her hands on her hips as she addressed the crowd with obvious disgust. “Is this the way of the Royal Navy? The service we are so proud of? The men what protects us against the Corsican tyrant – see how they behave!”

  The laughter was repeated, and King realised with surprise that it came not from seamen, but the marine guard. Jarvis growled a warning but it was clear that the bounds of military discipline were being stretched, and several normally neutral faces grinned openly beneath their leather shakos.

  All knew the two forces made notoriously bad shipmates: both were subject to harsh discipline but the snap commands and rigid drill of a marine would be of little use when reefing topsails during a squall or standing a trick at the wheel. The bootnecks' stiff and ungainly bearing also made them an easy target for humour; it was something every marine learned to take in his precisely measured stride although the seamen, it seemed, were not quite as phlegmatic and disliked the situation being reversed. King swallowed dryly: this was starting to turn ugly.

  “Malcolm, is that you?” Lady Hatcher unintentionally broke the spell, and pointed at her late husband's manservant who was still holding the now drooping shaving brush. “Why you are wearing one of my gowns as well? Whatever do you mean by it?”

  “Oh, 'e does it all the time, mum,” Mitchell roared back, delighted. “It's fortunate you are both of the same size – you gets twice the use!”

  The manservant turned from his mistress in shame, but the renewed laughter had empowered the seamen, and the group were once more advancing along the starboard gangway.

  “I see: you think you're going to include me in your childish games, do you?” Lady Hatcher roared. “And I expect you're just going to stand and watch?” she added, turning to King.

  A gruff command from Jarvis, and the four marines on the quarterdeck raised their muskets with a solid click. Seeing the line of shining bayonets the leaders stopped, but more were piling up behind, and one of them over balanced and fell into the nearby sail with a hearty splash.

  No one laughed: there was no longer any humour in the situation. The marines might put up a bold display, but they were heavily outnumbered. Every officer knew there was a good deal of suppressed anger in the crew, and King guessed that it was coming to the fore and about to be released.

  “Elizabeth, whatever is going on?” They turned to see the captain's wife, advancing up the deck from the companionway, and King cursed silently to himself. Now things had definitely gone too far.

  “Send for the captain,” he hissed at Jackson. “And raise Lieutenant Cherry; tell him to turn out the rest of his force.”

  But before the junior midshipman could respond a call – hurried and urgent – came from the masthead.

  “Sail ho! Three to the north!”

  Surely it could get no worse? King spun round and instinctively looked aft. It was foolish, of course; any sighting the main lookout had spotted would be well beyond that of the deck. But no, the man must have been more intent on the proceedings below than his duty and a cold chill ran down King's spine.

  All ideas of confrontations and foolish ceremonies were instantly forgotten; there was indeed canvas to be seen: lots of it, right down to the milk-white topsails and chequered hulls that showed, all too frequently, when the oncoming ships lifted to a wave. The French were back; worse, all were under heavy canvas and making for them. Because of the absurd celebrations Scylla was all but drifting under topsails alone; she would have to show a fair turn of speed, and even then it might not be enough.

  Chapter Six

  Behind him, King knew that chaos was erupting. Boatswain's pipes screamed, orders were shouted, and there was the thunder of feet as men made for the shrouds but, now that he had put the train in motion, all he could do was stare silently at the oncoming squadron; the enemy that he had allowed to come so close. Stiles, the lookout at the main, and even Reidy at the fore were equally culpable of course, and Cahill officially had the watch, but none bore the ultimate responsibility, which was his and his alone.

  “Heavens, Tom; whatever were you thinking of?” Caulfield's voice came from behind, but still King did not look round.

  “I missed them,” he said, pathetically, before finally turning to meet the older man's worried expression.

  “Well that's as maybe,” the first lieutenant said after a moment. “You were doubtless distracted, but we can speak of that later. Be ready at your guns, the captain's bound to be clearing for action presently.”

  It was good advice and would give him reason to quit the quarterdeck, which was probably prudent in the circumstances. King exchanged a final glance with his friend; the two had served and fought together for many years, and he had the sudden premonition that now it was all going to end.

  * * *

  At Flint's cannon both Jameson and Timmons were still moist from their ducking, but the former was at least clean: being the first man in what had been relatively fresh water had shown some advantage. Timmons' turn had not come until later; he was not so savoury, and still bore the marks and smell of the manger.

  “Well that was quite an end to the proceedings,” Flint said, joining them, and ruffling Jameson's damp mop with rough affection.

  “We clearin' for action?” Dixon asked.

  “Not heard nuffin'.” Flint glanced about. “An' we're several short.”

  “Some are more'n likely still wearin' their dresses,” Timmons said deliberately, and indeed both Hind and Mitchell were not to be seen.

  “It were just a bit of fun,” Flint replied, detecting an underlying meaning in the man's tone. “It don't do to worry over such things.”

  “I ain't worried,” Timmons told them with strange, and somewhat cold, certainty. “It's Hind and Mitchell what wants to do the worrying.”

  * * *

  Banks mounted the quarterdeck still buttoning his jacket. He had been asleep, fast asleep. The fact that half of the previous four nights had been spent awake and on deck mea
nt nothing; he was a naval officer, and should have been able to cope with such a regular occurrence. He glared back at the French ships; they were sailing in a ragged line with the uncommonly mild, westerly wind abeam. And, at little more than six miles distance, they were much too close.

  “Forecourse, jib and stays'ls have been ordered,” Caulfield told him.

  Banks nodded, and returned his premier's salute. “Very good, Mr Caulfield; take her three points to larboard.”

  Scylla began to pick up speed when the extra canvas took effect, then proceeded to heel slightly as her prow came round, and the full force of the wind pressed the masts down. They would stay like this for at least half an hour, Banks decided; if the wind veered he would ease her back. It was not the ideal course: every mile they made south was another east, and further from their planned destination. But it was a long time until evening, and the only way he could keep the French off their backs until then was to extract the maximum from his ship.

  “Captain, I would have words with you!”

  The sudden appearance of Lady Hatcher should not have surprised him; she was used to taking her exercise on the quarterdeck during the afternoon which, he had to admit, was the main reason for his own absence and even partially to blame for his being asleep.

  “Madam, you cannot stay here,” he snapped. “Leave the deck at once.”