by Alaric Bond
At first light the boatswain had reported their tophamper to be in reasonable order; the running rigging was already serviceable and all the damaged stays and shrouds were now replaced, even if the entire lot was really due for replacement with fresh cordage. He supposed they might attend to some while at St Helena, but really the prospect of returning to England and delivering his ship into the safe hands of his 'affectionate friends' as the dockyard commissioners quaintly termed themselves in correspondence, was far more attractive.
Then another noise, no softer but different from that usually heard on a warship, attracted his attention and he turned to see Sarah approach. She was raising the skirts of her long light-grey cotton gown slightly as the patterns that clad her feet clumped clumsily on the wet deck. Her face was as pale as the white over-bodice, but she was smiling with evident pleasure and her eyes seemed unusually alight.
“You have been up for some while,” she said, releasing her skirts and taking his hands in hers.
“Indeed...” Banks always found that the innate tenderness he held for his wife did not reveal itself easily on the quarterdeck. “I felt you should be allowed time to wake,” he continued awkwardly. “You are better now, I trust?”
“Very much so; thank you.” Her smile deepened. “And you are as understanding as usual; indeed I think you to be the most perceptive of husbands.” Their eyes met. “In which case you should have little trouble in guessing why I have been so unwell of late.”
“It is something I have pondered over,” he replied temporising. “But thought it better to wait until things were more certain...”
“Well, they are certain now,” she said firmly. “I have been speaking with Kate Manning: we compared notes and dates and think it fair to say there will be a baby born within seven months.”
His set look and silence worried her, and she continued hastily.
“Nothing is ever truly certain of course.” She had dropped his hands and was trying to become far more commonplace. “Much can go wrong: it is my – our – first child after all. Kate, as you know, was due to deliver, and...”
She stopped abruptly and for a moment they simply stared at each other. Many men had little time for children and for all she knew sailors, with the life they led, might be more prone to such an attitude. Even on land the majority of husbands rejected anything even loosely connected to childbirth and families, consigning all to their wives who they regarded as being entirely responsible. And in her own particular case, so much of their married life had been spent apart that it was not a subject they had even discussed beyond vague references to possibly needing a larger house in time. She might have misunderstood, or perhaps telling him now, here, and in public, was a mistake. Her eyes fell and she felt a flush appear on her face as the world that had suddenly been so bright and wonderful now seemed doomed to endless black. Then she gave a small cry of surprise as he pulled her close and, quarterdeck protocol or not, wrapped his arms about her.
* * *
“So there you have it,” Kate stated with her usual directness. “Sarah is pregnant, sure as eggs is eggs.”
Manning had suspected something was amiss when Kate asked for private use of the surgery and, now that the captain's wife had left and he was once more admitted to the small room, he was not unduly surprised. “How long does she have?” he asked.
Kate sent a hard look his way. “You should know better than to ask,” she told him. “Her and Sir Richard have hardly been together more'n a couple of months; I'd say it will pop in eight although she seems set on seven.”
The surgeon trusted his wife's diagnosis totally; she being a former midwife after all, but still the news worried him far more than was reasonable. Sarah was a happy, healthy woman, and they should be safely back in England long before her confinement: it was Kate, and the way the news might effect her, that was his principle concern.
“And how do you feel about this?” he asked, cautiously. Again that dangerous look, although this time there was an additional element: it was as if she suspected him of trying to catch her out, and he knew he had made a mistake.
“How do I feel?” she repeated. “Why Robert, am I the patient here? It is wonderful news to be sure: it will give me something to do during the day, and must bless their marriage in the best of ways.” She stopped, realising what she had said, and gave a slight choke, but carried on far too quickly for Manning to pass remark or contribute. “We must make sure she has first peck at any milk Lizzy produces, and as soon as we get to St Helena there are various things she will need. I shall make notes, many notes; the poor girl will not want for anything,” Kate added with a tight smile.
“She will be lucky to have you by her,” Manning said. “Both as a professional, and a friend.”
“Why yes,” Kate agreed readily. “As a Mother Midnight I have delivered a thousand babies in my time, and got so very close to having one of my own – really it could not be more fortunate!”
Even from across the room Manning could feel his wife's pain, but her attitude prevented him from saying anything that would either be misinterpreted or ignored. He knew this was the time when the subject could, and should, be addressed, but with such a display of pleasure and professional competence, Kate was all but impregnable.
Since they had lost their own child nothing had been said, and the subject remained steadfastly closed. Their eyes met and for a second his spirits lifted as the realisation came that this might finally be the point where some progress could be made. Then a loud tap came at the door, and they both instantly reverted to more routine matters.
“Surgery does not begin for another fifteen minutes,” Kate snapped instinctively as the door began to open, finally revealing the washed-out face of Lady Hatcher.
“Never mind that,” she told them thickly. “I have such a headache that my skull is fit to burst. If you refuse to treat a truly sick person I shall see you both removed at the earliest opportunity.”
* * *
The captain and his missus were on deck, and the stuffed-up tart who called herself a lady was with the sawbones and had taken her maid with her, so Timmons reckoned he might have the opportunity he had been waiting for. Getting past the marine guard was simple; everyone knew that jollys had limited brains and not much better memories: his excuse of having been sent to attend to a faulty head would have been long forgotten even before the end of the sentry's trick. But, now that he was actually inside the hallowed great cabin, the stakes had risen, and he felt his heart race in a way that was oddly pleasurable. He removed the kerseymere hat that had been pulled well down over his brow and stepped quietly across the painted canvas flooring. Beneath his feet he could hear the murmur of conversation: Hatcher's cronies were accustomed to monopolising the gunroom in the late morning, and usually turned the officers' accommodation into something that closely emulated a coffee house. But Timmons had the more rarefied space above apparently to himself, and moved about in unaccustomed silence.
He knew the late governor's personal servant who had played Neptune's Queen would be there or thereabouts. The man had barely left the captain's quarters in the last week and Timmons had long since decided that he would be the first to be killed.
Healey had few friends and his working environment was also the most private, so covering up the crime should be equally simple. And if it all went horribly wrong and the deed could not be concluded, there was still little risk: Timmons was quietly confident that the word of a regular foremast jack would be believed over a glorified passenger who not only was an active pederast, but also indulged other rare and even more unusual practices.
In fact Healey had hardly been the most popular of shipmates from the start. By nature seamen were a pretty broad-minded bunch and, however much the Articles of War might seek to restrict it, a proportion of homosexual behaviour was tolerated in most ships. There were lines that could not be crossed, however, and those indulging themselves so were always in danger of a severe flogging, if not t
he noose, so such activity was likely to be kept private.
But Healey was different: distinctly so, and a man of his type stretched even the lower deck's boundaries of acceptance to the limit. He was also a passenger and, by his position as part of the governor's entourage, an important one. Consequently the ship's corporals were doubtful of their authority and, as many of his actions did not actually break a law, were inclined not to interfere. His habit of pressing affection on those not of his calling contravened the seamen's unwritten code though, and the frequent occasions when he paraded about the berth deck with painted face and in full feminine attire upset far more than they pleased.
In fact it had been his access to women's clothes and cosmetics that had secured him the position of Amphitrite at the crossing ceremony: that and the lower deck's innate sense of humour. Now that such usefulness was expended though, Timmons knew that everyone would be content to leave him be. Everyone but him: he had a score to settle and Timmons always made sure that any debt was paid in full.
He stopped: there was movement in the new cabin that had been erected opposite the captain's sleeping quarters. Someone was shifting things about inside and singing softly in a light, falsetto voice. For a moment Timmons wondered if one of the other women was about; possibly Lady Hatcher's maid had been sent back, or maybe the surgeon's wife was not in the sickbay. That would certainly complicate matters, but not unduly so; he had killed several women in the past and they were actually his preferred prey. But no, whoever it was broke their song to curse roundly when something fell to the deck, and Timmons knew that he had his man. More than that, his man was just where he wanted him.
The thin deal door made a high-pitched squeak when he opened it, and the sound was almost exactly emulated by Healey as he swung round to meet the intruder. He was dressed in ordinary slop chest trousers but wore a light, floral bodice above, while his face bore the marks of fresh, and inexpertly applied, rouge. He treated Timmons to a smile, one born more from fear than pleasure, and the result was truly ghastly.
“You miserable little molly,” Timmons stated, not unkindly, as he advanced. The Hatcher's oversized bed was set against the bulwark and blocked any retreat: Healey fell back, almost willingly, onto it. He made a small whimpering sound as the seaman came further, and did nothing when those strong hands closed expertly about his neck.
Timmons felt the long-remembered thrill pass through his fingers; it was the killing time, the brief period of madness that kept him otherwise sane, and made the rest of his life worthwhile. Then, in a few dreadful seconds, it was done; the empty body fell limp from his grasp, and he knew there would be no further noise from that particular source.
* * *
Lady Hatcher was expected to remain with the surgeon for the remainder of the day, and the late governor's manservant could not be raised, so Banks had no compunction in holding the unofficial enquiry in the great cabin. His mind was still filled with thoughts of fatherhood, but when the masthead lookouts were dragged in under the somewhat embarrassed eyes of King, who, as luck would have it, was the divisional lieutenant for both, he found his thoughts more easy to focus.
“What the devil were you thinking of, Stiles?” Banks asked, after both men had mumbled out vague and disjointed explanations for their inattention. Reidy, at the fore, might have more excuse in that the main mast, and its associated spars, was between him and the sighting, but there surely could be no valid reason why Stiles, at the main, had said nothing. The room was almost full, in addition to King and the two seamen he had the master at arms, two ships corporals, and four uniformed marines – the latter being purely for ornamentation as the ship was currently in the middle of the Atlantic, and there was little chance of either prisoner making a successful escape. But all were silent, even Stiles, who seemed not to understand the question, and remained mute, despite the fact that his mouth had been left half open. Then finally he seemed to find inspiration, and pressed his chest forward in defiance.
“Don't know what came over me, sir,” he confessed. “Must have been the distraction from the deck but one moment they weren't there, and the next they was.”
“They just appeared?” Banks asked, apparently sympathetic.
“Yes, sir,” Stiles agreed.
No one said anything for a moment, although Banks was reasonably certain that one of the corporals was trying to suppress some involuntary laughter. He could well understand how both men could have been distracted; ignoring what might have been going on during the ceremony, the governor's widow in a rage would have been a fascinating sight in itself, but that could be no excuse. Enemy shipping had been allowed to approach beyond the extent of the horizon and Stiles specifically had endangered his ship: it was a simple case of inattention to duty, and could not be ignored.
But how could he drum up a suitable penalty? Both men were experienced hands and had never done such a thing before. Besides, a moment's inattention was hardly a capital offence, and certainly not on a par with Banks' own thoughts when he had decided the enemy to be too strong for him to fight.
The captain's gaze naturally swept about the room. King was looking disconcerted, as well he might. In addition to being the prisoners' representative, he was very much implicated himself, and stood to lose far more than the two men that stood before them. The ship's corporal seemed to have suppressed the laughter for now, although Banks could tell by the look in his eye that it would not take much to start him off once more. It was a natural reaction in such a situation, as natural as being distracted by seamen cavorting on deck, or the widow of a government official in a frenzy, but that did not mean such action should go unpunished.
Stiles was staying stock still and saying nothing, although inside his head was whirring like a broken clock. The captain was trying him on quite unfair grounds, yet he was equally aware that, were he to say something now it would probably not be believed, and might get him into further trouble. On the afternoon in question he had been conscious of much that was going on below, and had even indulged himself by watching quite a bit, but that was not the whole story. As far as he was concerned he had been paying attention, besides having a laugh when Timmons had been held under water, and marvelling at the old bitch as she went off on one He had also swept the horizon on a regular basis, just as he had been taught. And as far as he was concerned his eyes were still the best in the ship; certainly at night there was no one to beat them, but of late he had to admit they were playing strange games.
Since the incident a few weeks back there had been several occasions when he had missed the seemingly obvious and, even when something had been pointed out to him, had found difficulty in actually locating it. And it was in daylight when the situation was most noticeable, that or sudden and extreme light. It wasn't a permanent thing however and, as the instances had been getting less frequent, he had hoped they would go completely, given time.
Banks was at a loss; both men could be disrated, and might even be given a touch of the cat, if only to serve as an example to the others. But he could not in all honesty sentence men to such a punishment, especially as the resultant action had not been as disastrous as it might have turned out. Besides, there was always the fact that a heavy penalty would only draw attention to the incident, and, glancing at King's worried face reminded him that he had his own reasons for not making more of the situation.
“Twenty eight day's suspension of grog,” he said finally, taking them all by surprise. “And double that for anyone who attempts to help them. Dismiss!”
The silence was broken by a roar from the master at arms, followed by the stamp, stamp, stamp of marine boots as Stiles and Reidy were marched out of the cabin and onwards towards a month of sobriety. King was the last to leave, but Banks called him back as he turned to do so.
“I have complete jurisdiction over the people,” he said softly as the room was finally emptied. “But less so over my officers.”
“Yes, sir,” King replied, in a voice that was little m
ore than a whisper.
“This incident will have to be included in my report,” he said. “Though I shall do my utmost not to give too much emphasis; you will understand, I am certain.”
“Yes sir,” King repeated. “Thank you, sir.”
* * *
The new watch had been set less than ten minutes earlier, and those on deck had not even acclimatised themselves to the fresh air when there came a penetrating scream. Caulfield, who had been relieved as officer of the watch, and was about to go below to a long-awaited dinner, caught King's eye, and both men shrugged. The sound had come from directly below: the great cabin, and was far too raucous a noise to have been made by the captain's wife. A man working at a nearby carronade made some remark that caused his mates to laugh; Lady Hatcher had hardly endeared herself to the crew from the start, but after the incident at the equator she was universally and openly disliked.
“Shall I attend to that?” King asked, and the first lieutenant nodded.
“If you would be so kind, Thomas; I shall retain the watch until your return. It is probably nothing – perchance her Ladyship has come upon a spider, and at this latitude it may be poisonous.”
“Then I shall see that it comes to no harm,” King muttered, before setting off for the companionway.
On the deck below there was a further surprise: at the entrance to the great cabin the marine sentry had been joined by corporal Jarvis and two further privates as well as three members of the late governor's entourage.
“Follow me,” King snapped at Jarvis, before thrusting the doors open in front of him and grunting “Not you,” back at the civilians.
As he entered there was a further scream, softer this time, and more refined. King bounded forward, almost colliding with the captain and his lady as they emerged from the Hatcher's private quarters. Banks was stony faced, and his wife appeared in an advanced state of shock. He caught King's eye and indicated the room behind him with a tilt of his head.