by Alaric Bond
Jenkins attended to his hammock. He supposed they were right, but he had far more than the prospect of a couple of drunken nights waiting for him at Portsmouth.
"Never mind," Cribbins, an ordinary seaman, patted him on the shoulder. "Even if we are bound for England, even if we land at Pompey, and even if you get a spot of shore leave, it won’t do you no good."
Jenkins eyed him warily. "Why’s that then?"
"Cause you ain’t got no money!" Cribbins roared delightedly. "An even what they owes you, you owes me!"
The other men laughed good-heartedly, although it was clear that Jenkins did not find the situation amusing. He had been transferred to Pandora in a draft of twenty men from the Channel Fleet. They had been sent to make up her numbers just after the recent battle off Cape St Vincent. At first he had thought it a good move, as quite a few of his old shipmates from Vigilant were aboard but both Scales and Cribbins, nasty pieces of work in Jenkins’ mind, had more than redressed the balance.
"What ails thee, Clem?" the latter was asking him now with elaborate concern. "I won that money fair an’ square, you cannot question."
"Aye, you won it, an’ you’ll get it, but I still yearns for England, an’ knowing I’m skint don’t change that."
"Yearn for home, or someone at home?" Cribbins asked, a little more softly.
"Ain’t no shame in that." Jenkins replied defiantly.
"I should say not," Scales spoke with quiet authority. "Why, it is feelings such as that which separate us from the animals."
"Old Clem’s got a fancy piece on the quay, ain’t that the truth?" Jehue, a forecastleman, laughed as he pushed his way past.
"That right?" Cribbins beamed. "Doxie, is she?"
Jenkins shook his head. "Not no more, she ain’t."
"What’s her name?"
"Rosie," Jenkins admitted, smiling slightly. "Rosie Wells, though we’re makin’ it Rosie Jenkins, soon as I gets my way."
"Rosie Wells?" Cribbins pondered elaborately. "Why she still be a workin’ girl. Or was, last times I hears."
Jenkins swung round. "Not my Rosie," he said.
"Is that right?" Cribbins grinned maliciously looking about for support "Well, one thing’s for certain; you’ll gets your way, an’ no mistake. Mind, you might have to wait your turn, an’ make sure you have your money ready!" His eyes flashed about, eager for laughter from the other men, but finding only an iron hard fist that landed square upon his jaw and sent him spinning to the deck.
"What’s going on here?" A boatswain’s mate pushed through the tight body of seamen, and stood over Cribbins’ recumbent figure. "This would be a fight then?"
"No fightin’," Jenkins said firmly. "We was just having a talk, and Cribbins here falls from ‘is ‘ammock."
The petty officer eyed the two, he had served with Jenkins on previous commissions and knew he could be trusted whereas Cribbins was known for three things: skiving, gambling and causing trouble; all of which were likely to make him unpopular with a boatswain’s mate.
"Well, take more care in future," he said to Cribbins, who was now clambering up on to all fours.
"You might watch your words, as well," Flint added as the boatswain’s mate departed. "Folk round here don’t take kindly to blabs and pickthanks speakin’ ’bout their women."
Cribbins slowly rose to his feet, pressed his bruising face with care, and examined his hand for blood. "Well if it ain’t her," he said doubtfully, looking across at Jenkins with renewed respect. "Then it must be another with the same name."
Jenkins nodded and moved on.
"And in a similar line of business," Cribbins added in a much lower tone.
* * * * *
King looked about as Manning was led away. There was a sharp clattering noise from the foremast that repeated each time the brig rolled with the swell. He looked up to the mast, then across to Pandora. The convoy had almost caught up; it would be wise not to delay too long inspecting the brig, although there were more than a few things about her that disturbed him.
"Ford, Wright and Thompson," He said suddenly, turning to three of his men and pointing up to the foremast. "Get aloft and see if you can take care of that." The three topmen made for the shrouds as he switched his attention to the canvas package. He untied the cord and pulled out a sheath of documents. Most referred to the cargo, a mixed lot of rice, spices and fabric, but he could follow the ship’s progress by the ports she had visited. The mate had gone, but the two seamen remained.
"Why did you not wait for a convoy?"
One of the men shook his head. "Not down to us, that sort of thing. Master said it weren’t worth the trouble, so we didn’t."
"In a rush to get back, were you?" King addressed his question to the other seaman, who showed no change of expression as he shook his head.
King turned to Jarvis, the corporal of marines. "Search the ship, and be quick about it. You men," he nodded at the remaining seamen. "You can help, but I want a thorough inspection."
The first merchant seaman started. "We ain’t got nothing hidden."
"I am very glad to hear it," King smiled at him. "So you will have nothing to worry about."
* * * * *
There was no light in the master’s cabin apart from that which filtered through the shutters blocking the stern casements and skylight. A body lay in a half-curtained cot that swung from the low deckhead. Two sailors stood to either side, neither spoke, although Manning noted that one was carrying a small pistol in his waistband.
"Expecting trouble?" he asked as he entered the room.
"Can’t be too careful," the mate replied for him. "We’re sailing independently, and these are hostile waters."
"Well you may dispense with that, if you please." He pointed at the pistol. The seaman said nothing, but slowly drew the gun from his belt, placing it on the table next to him. The two men eyed each other for a moment, then Manning broke away and, turning to the cot, swept the curtains to one side and regarded the patient.
"I’ll need a light," he said. A candle in a sconce was found and lit for him. He held the amber flame over the man’s face, moving it from side to side, the shadows playing strange tricks across the cold, still face.
He was heavily comatose, his breathing shallow and irregular with no sign of dialectic movement, although one eye was heavily bloodshot. Manning found only a feeble pulse and the body was clammy and quite without life.
"At the onset of the illness, what symptoms were exhibited?" he asked. The mate stepped forward, looking uncomfortably about him.
"He was groggy, slurring his speech like. And he seemed to faint," he replied, uncertainly. "Bashed ‘is head when he did. We took him down here to rest, and he is as you see him now."
"How long ago was this?"
"Couple of days," the mate answered more positively.
"And the other patients?" Manning had pulled back the blankets and was examining the man’s body.
"’bout same time."
"And the symptoms?"
"Pretty much as the captain." There was an air of awkwardness about the conversation that was not lost on the surgeon.
"I’ll need to see the others of course, and the body of the man who died."
"He’s over the side," the mate replied. "It’s the fever, we didn’t want to take no chances."
"If it is the fever you would have done better to keep all in one place, rather than spreading them about the ship."
The mate nodded but said nothing.
"Conversely, with this particular case, I don’t think you need worry." Manning replaced the blanket over the master and stepped back. "He has no fever."
Even in the poor light the mate’s look of surprise appeared forced.
"There are no symptoms of known maladies," Manning continued. "But what he does have is a wound, probably caused by a severe blow to the head; certainly far harder than would be expected had he simply fainted. That is what knocked him senseless, and might well still account for him." The mate looked aw
ay as Manning turned to face him. "Now I suggest you explain exactly what is going on here, and believe me, I do not have the time nor energy for any further japes."
* * * * *
The convoy was now passing Pandora; King could see the officers on the frigate’s quarterdeck pacing back and forth. They had spent longer than a routine inspection would warrant, and found nothing. He was still not happy, and yet had no solid ground on which to base his suspicions. So far all the cargo inspected had proved to be completely legitimate, and noises from the foremast told how the topmast was being secured and would soon be solid and functional once more. The marines had rousted out the rest of the crew, who now sat gossiping in an untidy group on the brig’s tiny forecastle. All was completely as he would have expected it, but the feeling remained that there was something missing, or rather something that he had missed.
Ford, one of the topmen, approached him now, knuckling his forehead. "All set to rights, sir," he said. "Topmast had sprung and the housing was strained, sure enough. Maybe too much sail, maybe something else, but we’ve partially struck her and secured to the lower mast; she’ll take a reefed tops’l and see them back to port."
King nodded. "Very well," Ford went to turn away when he stopped him. "And if it hadn’t been stressed through wind and sail, what else would have accounted for the damage?"
Ford paused and sucked at his teeth. "That’s the funny thing, sir. Thompson found some fresh marks further up, just below the crosstrees. It was as if it had been struck, like. A glancing blow."
"Round shot?" King asked.
Ford considered this. "Aye, I reckons; certainly weren’t chain, an’, as I says, not a direct hit."
King nodded; it was all falling into place. He turned back to face the two seaman who had first greeted him, and was about to speak when an instantly recognisable sound cut through, silencing all around and chilling the very air.
CHAPTER TWO
THE noise of the scream reached Manning in the cabin; instinctively he grabbed at the pistol that lay on the table. He was beaten by a fraction of a second, and found the weapon turned on him by its original owner.
"What goes here?" he asked, of no one in particular.
The seaman with the gun brought the hammer back to full cock with a deliberate double click, then waved for him to move towards the far bulkhead.
Manning took two steps back and away from the mate and the other seaman. "Cat got your tongue?" He peered at the man in the half-light.
"He’s French," the mate replied softly. "Can’t speak a word of our lingo." A stream of shouted instructions cut off further explanation from the seaman.
"And I can’t speak a word of his," Manning said shrugging, and holding his hands palm upwards in incomprehension. The Frenchman looked from one to the other, clearly undecided.
"You might have spoken earlier," Manning all but whispered. "Given a sign or a signal; we’re both on the same side, don’t you know?"
"They’re holding the master’s daughter." The mate said crisply. "That would have been her what screamed. We couldn’t take no chances, we just wanted you on your way..."
The Frenchman shouted once more, clearly calling up to his colleagues, although no sound came from the deck. It was a classic stand off, but with a single barrelled pistol, the gunman had limited options. Manning shuffled slightly further to his left, stopping as soon as the muzzle swung round to point directly at him. He looked across to the other British seaman, expecting to see a similar move, but the man was either too dense or frightened, and remained where he was.
"This cannot last forever," Manning spoke directly at the Frenchman, who stared back. "You only have one shot," he held up a finger. "Can’t kill three men with a single round."
Something of the surgeon’s meaning must have got through. The Frenchman’s expression changed, his eyes rolled from one to the other and the hand that held the pistol wavered. Again he shouted for assistance, and again the call went unanswered. Manning held out his hand and nodded. The barrel was raised uncertainly until it was aiming directly at his face. Then the Frenchman suddenly turned his head, as if frightened of the explosion, but rather than squeeze the trigger he let the weapon fall away, until it pointed directly at the deck.
A sigh was breathed as one by the three men watching. Manning stepped forward and reached for the pistol, which was given up without protest. Gently easing the hammer back, he nodded at the Frenchman, who had visibly shrunken in the last few seconds.
"Right," he said, the relief obvious in his voice. "Now that’s in order, we’d better see how Lieutenant King is faring on deck."
But at that moment the cabin door was kicked violently open and two marines with fixed bayonets thundered in. They were followed by King, a little more sedately, who beamed readily at Manning in the gloom of the cabin.
"Ah, Robert; no trouble here, I see?"
Manning smiled in reply and shook his head. "No trouble at all. Why, ’tis fortunate you came in the nick of time."
* * * * *
On deck the scene had changed dramatically. Momentarily blinded by the strong light, Manning could just about make out the group standing in line facing Corporal Jarvis and four of his marines. The red coats and white pipe-clayed webbing stood out in contrast to the shabby clothes of the men, and as the early sun glinted off the steel of the bayonets, it was clear that there was no fight left in the French.
"Prize crew," King informed him, as the last prisoner was pushed forward to join the rest. "Fellow here’s in charge, he’s got a bit of English," he indicated a rather sorry specimen who was dressed no differently to his companions. "Found them in the cable tier; took four to hold a young girl hostage – fancy that?" The prize officer raised his top lip in a sneer as King continued. "Seems there’s a frigate in the area, snapped up this brig yesterday morning, an’ it don’t sound like the first. They would be well on the way to France were it not for the damage aloft. With a rig like this, the fore topmast is pretty essential when carrying any sort of sail; they must have been crazy thinking..."
"Excuse me, gentlemen," a feminine voice cut in. "But who is seeing to my father?" They turned, and Manning was struck by the delicate face and penetrating green eyes of the girl who addressed them. Perhaps woman would have been a better description: she appeared in her early twenties, slightly below average height, with long, jet black hair tied loosely back, and a poise and confidence well beyond her years. There was also an intensity in her gaze that both men found quite disconcerting.
"Your father, m’am?" Manning asked awkwardly.
"He’s below," the woman persisted. "I had assumed you were looking after him."
"Yes, of course; you will excuse me, sir?" Manning flashed a look at King.
"Carry on, Mr Manning; I’ll be in touch with Pandora directly; let me know if there is anything you require."
* * * * *
It was a shallow, ovoid wound, not more that three inches across, although the bone felt tender and weak under Manning’s gently probing fingers.
"One of them hit him with the butt of a musket," the girl explained. "They shot another man dead, and wounded two others."
Manning looked up.
"They’re below; cutlass wounds, but nothing too bad. I have attended to them."
"You?"
"That’s right; before I ventured to sea, I spent some time as a midwife, and have also worked as a physician’s orderly. Cuts and abrasions I can handle, but I fear my father’s condition is far more serious."
Manning returned to examining the master’s skull.
"Well, I believe this to be badly fractured and possibly depressed," he said finally. "There are methods of dealing with such a condition, but beyond me, I’m afraid."
"You are not a doctor?"
He shook his head. "No, I too am only an assistant, but Mr Doust the surgeon might have more idea."
"If there is a doctor on your ship my father must be taken there," she said simply.
&nbs
p; Manning smiled. "He will, be sure of that. But first we must secure him. Really a man with such a head wound should not be left to swing in a bed; if you will help me release the stays, we will settle him on the deck."
"Of course." She broke away from Manning’s gaze and examined the lines that held the cot. He watched as her long, capable fingers began to unravel the knots.
"We’ll let this end down first," he said, moving past her. "You undo the lines, and I’ll take the weight." Together they lowered the foot of the cot to the deck, both strangely conscious of the other’s proximity. The opposite end was dealt with in a similar manner, and as soon as the job was done, and the cot laid safely on the deck, the two moved quickly apart.
"You have been caring for your father?" he asked.
"As much as I can," she was looking at the patient as she spoke and Manning took the chance to study her face more closely. They were of a similar age, he guessed, and probably not from vastly differing backgrounds, although she had a natural grace that was certainly lacking in him. "The Frenchmen gave me full access and anything I needed, but he has not stirred nor spoken since he was struck."
Manning reluctantly returned to the figure in the cot. The surgeon might do something with a depressed fracture, but he doubted that much could be achieved in a ship on a rolling sea. "We’ll get him back to Pandora," he said finally. "I’m sure Mr Doust will do all he can..."
She turned to look at him, and Manning felt the breath catch in his throat as those eyes sought his. "Thank you," she said, and a faint smile lit up her face. "I would be so grateful."
* * * * *
The prisoners were secured below, Midshipman Dorsey had been transferred to the brig, with five topmen to assist him, and the injured master was safely in the clutches of the surgeon. Mr Doust had examined him briefly, before rousting out his trepanning equipment, although he was clearly in no rush to put it to use.
Apparently it was quite a bad depression. The bone was badly crumbled and a build up of fluid was putting pressure on the brain, but with the ship rolling and pitching there was no hope of carrying out a successful operation. Banks had returned to his quarters and now considered the matter again. Being brutally blunt, one merchant captain more or less was of little concern; what bothered him, and inevitably the entire ship, was the introduction of a woman.